Paul Curtin - Gray Snow

He threw the door to the garage open. A cold, bitter wind wafted toward him. He walked through the breezeway and onto the concrete floor of the garage. The backdoor was wide open. He crept toward it.

He shoved his upper arm against his lips.

The air stunk like sulfur and smoke. It couldn’t be wildfire. Too much snow. Yet, out of the sky white snow floated with what appeared to be gray ash and spent embers, the tones intermingled and contrasting. He stepped closer.

A gust kicked up, Sean shielding his face. He bent down toward the settled snow, careful not to step into it. Grabbed a handful. The white and gray juxtaposed with one another in his hand, the white fading as it melted leaving a wet, black residue in his palm. He rubbed his fingers together and smelled them. Burnt wood. Even as he pulled his hand away, the odor lingered in his nose.

His eyes widened, and he wiped his hand on his pants. Whatever was happening was something he didn’t understand. Something the wind had brought in.

Something monstrous.

WHEN MICHAEL CAME out, Kelly was holding Aidan and Elise was looking toward the garage at something he couldn’t see. Sean was nowhere in sight. Elise might snap at him for coming out of the bedroom—she had been firm about not wanting to see his face again—but all the racket sounded like the world might be ending. If he didn’t show concern, he might be accused of being heartless. Yet, if he did, he might be accused of trying to instigate conflict. A no-win situation, so he went to investigate.

“What’s going on?”

No answer. Aidan was caked in something. The room smelled like the bonfires he had attended during law school, minus the odor of cheap beer. “What happened?” he asked Kelly.

She shook her head. His nephew’s sobs permeated the room and assaulted his ears. The air hung in tension like it was saturated with aerosolized gunpowder and someone was seconds away from jumping inside with a torch. He edged around the coffee table, closer to his sister, as if any sudden movement would cause an explosion. “What happened?” he whispered.

Elise didn’t look at him. “Nothing that concerns you.”

“Why’s Aidan crying?”

“My son is not your business right now, Michael. Get out of here before Sean sees you.”

“He’s crying like somebody died.”

She put a hand in his face. “Stop.”

“Stop what?”

“You know what. Trying to play some moral superiority card. Out of my face.”

The heat of his temper flared in his chest, Aidan’s sobs chipping at the last bit of restraint he had. He expanded his chest and put his tongue between his teeth. He started to backpedal toward the guest room.

Elise walked past the fireplace toward the window, took the cord for the blinds, and yanked them up. She clasped her hand over her mouth and yelped. He stopped, their eyes meeting, Elise’s eyes wide, her arms shaking. He hurried toward her.

It looked like ash. Ash and snow. Everything outside was coated in a thin layer of gray, more drifting down to join the pile. “Holy shit,” he said.

Elise looked over at him, the hand over her mouth lifted, her lips moving but no sound coming out. He looked back at his wife, Aidan still strapped to her like Velcro on felt. They conversed without words. She asked what was happening, and he saw the panic rise within her. He had nothing to say, no plan to execute. For the first time he could remember, he had no response.

“Elise,” Sean yelled from the other room.

She snapped out of her daze. He yelled her name again before barreling into the living room. “Babe, the snow,” she said.

Gasping like he’d just finished sprinting, he straightened his back. A raw determination reflected in his eyes. “My emergency radio should have gone off.”

“The weather one?”

“The one in the bedside table drawer.”

Elise drew back, like she expected Sean to punch her in the mouth. “I took the batteries out.”

Sean stared her down. “You did what?” he said through his teeth.

“I needed batteries for the clock in the kitchen. Oh, God. I’m sorry.”

He wiped his face with his hand and smeared ash across his skin. He shut his eyelids. “Just—can you get Molly? Grab some blankets. Meet us in the reserves.” He pointed to Kelly. “Take Aidan to the basement.”

As Elise charged up the stairs, Kelly picked up her nephew and saddled him in her arms. “Where’s the basement?”

Sean told her and wiped his brow with his shirt. Michael couldn’t hold his tongue anymore. “Sean, what’s going on?”

“I don’t know.” No animosity, like yesterday was forgotten.

“Is that ash outside?”

“It smells like—sulfur or something. Burning. Like there’s a forest fire.”

“Then we need to get out of here.”

Elise yelled upstairs, pounding on Molly’s door without ceasing. The hair on Michael’s arms stood. Sean said, “We can’t go out there.”

“Well if there’s a goddamn forest fire coming toward us—”

“It’s the middle of winter. The entire woods are covered in snow. This isn’t a forest fire.”

Elise hurried down the stairs, pulling Molly along by the hand. Molly, hair a mess of bedhead, dazed but in control—more than he would be if someone had ripped him out of bed—blinked a few times when they came to a stop.

Sean asked Elise, “Did you grab the emergency radio?”

She froze, frustration in her face like she was kicking herself. They stared at each other, anger growing on Sean’s face. “I’ll get it,” Michael finally said. “Bedside table, right?”

Michael couldn’t pinpoint what was happening behind Sean’s eyes, the thought process there. Sean said, “Be quick. Meet us in the reserves.”

As Michael sprinted up the stairs, he watched in his peripheral as Molly wrapped her arms around her dad. Sean yelled for everyone to hurry. Michael wasn’t sure why everyone was panicking when they didn’t have all the facts yet. But everyone was spooked, and now he was running for reasons he couldn’t explain.

He ran to the bedroom, almost slipping when he maneuvered around the banister at the top of the stairs, and pushed the door open. He scurried to the nightstand and pulled the drawer open, nearly tipping the whole thing, the lamp and the clock on top wobbling forward, Michael catching them before they fell. The whole table had a poor center of gravity, he guessed. He rummaged through the first drawer. Nothing except towels and lube. He grimaced and pushed it closed. He pulled the second one open and rustled around inside until he found the radio buried under some socks.

Radio in hand, he pushed off the bedside table, once again rocking it back and forth, and ran out of the room. He bounded down the steps three at a time. Near the bottom, his foot slipped, and he landed on his rear and skidded five steps before coming to a stop. Pain shot up through his tailbone and radiated into his torso. He seethed and limped toward the kitchen.

Before he descended, he grabbed the clock Elise had mentioned earlier. The emergency radio was no use without batteries. Someone had closed the door to the reserves, so he threw it open and descended.

The basement was like a scene out of a cold war bunker. The women stood huddled together, shaking, black and gray gas masks secured on their faces, their eyes peering out through goggles. Little Aidan, hands gripped around Kelly’s leg, had a small, clear mask attached to an oxygen tank around his nose and mouth, his ashen clothes removed and wrapped in a blanket. Michael’s feet settled against the concrete at the base of the stairs. “What’s going on?”