Eric Dimbleby - White Out

One foot in front of the other and her mind kept quiet, no longer inciting her with rhyming limericks about her wretched previous evening, nor her horrible brand of motherliness. She tried to recall the sound of Paulie’s voice, hoping she could recreate it and light her internal fire. She couldn’t remember his voice and Annie nearly fell to her knees in tears. Her baby was a fading memory inside of her, and she’d only just been separated from him. What if he died? Would she ever remember anything about him? Annie bit the thought in her throat and shoved it deep down inside.

The snow had drifted considerably in the ten minutes since she’d went back inside to retrieve the key, and already the snowmobile was covered in a thin layer of white. Climbing on to the snowmobile, she ran through her father’s lessons about proper snowmobile riding. It was pretty easy, from what she recalled, but Annie had not been on a snowmobile in at least ten years, not since she was in high school. She hoped it was like riding a bike, in that you never forgot once you learned. She’d never been an expert, nor would she ever become one, but she was going to try for Paulie’s sake.

She could remember just what her father said, almost verbatim, as if he was whispering in her ear. Just remember that you’re in control of the rig. Don’t let it control you or it’ll fling you off and crack your neck before you even know what’s happened. Speed isn’t your friend on these bad boys, keep your head low and maneuver strategically. You get going too fast and you’re liable to—

A sound in the distance. A terrible sound. The worst sound imaginable.

It was unmistakable—a snowmobile approaching slowly. It was working through the snow at a diminished rate, probably from the depth of the snow. But it was coming, all the same. Fast or slow, it was coming, and in her exact direction.

Annie turned the key and the snowmobile started on the first try. It wasn’t like in the horror movies where it took five or six tries before it finally clicked over. Finally, thought Annie, fate was working for her and not against her. “Thank God.” She reminded herself that if she was spared from another— moment —with the slimy bastards and their slimier members that she would go to church every Sunday for as long as she lived. She’d make Christian and Paulie come with her as well. They’d sing the damn songs. They’d read the damn verses. They would cheer, shout, and jump up and down, Halle-freakin’-llujah.

She turned back towards the sharp curve of the road, where the awful sound was coming from. Now she could see the snowmobile, tiny and growing larger as it approached. She had at least a couple of minutes before it arrived. Could the rider see her by now? The only hope was in the fact that there was only one snowmobile and not three of them.

Don’t run, Annie. It’s only one of them.

Annie revved the engine with the handle grip, pushing forward a few feet. She had her bearings. She could do this whole snowmobile thing, no sweat.

Annie, stop. Stop. Don’t act like a coward or you’ll regret it for the rest of your life. The others aren’t coming yet. Listen close—you can only hear one engine so he must be way ahead of the other two. Take this motherfucker out. Grab that gun. Annie, get your gun. Annie, get-your-gun. Annie, get your fucking gun!

Annie froze, pondering all the instincts that were telling her to flee, while simultaneously weighing those against that terrible, monstrous mother-slash-whore-slash-semen-dumpster that lived inside of her, those brutal pulses that told her to kill-kill-kill , to make up for what they’d done to her, though that could never be fully healed. Annie was sure that she would die with thoughts of it.

Turning the ignition off on the snowmobile, she braced herself.

She palmed the gun that was tucked into her jacket pocket. She’d never shot one before, but she’d seen it plenty of times in the movies. Charles Bronson. Clint Eastwood. Steven Seagal. She pictured all of them from her memories, taking stances and positioning their arms nice and stiff, coolly wrapping their fingers around the trigger. There would only be one chance, as the approaching snowmobiler would be off and shooting with return fire only seconds after the first bullet hit (or more likely, missed ) him.

A voice came from afar, from the approaching snowmobiler. The tone of that voice didn’t seem alarmed at all, and in fact, it had a pitch to it that almost implied a sense of whimsy or joking.

That’s because he doesn’t know it’s you. He thinks you’re Midget Man. Crouch low, just like when you were looking for those keys. Crouch low and teach this creep a lesson once he gets close enough. Act like that short stack, and let him get nice and close, and then you shoot his fucking face off. Do it, Annie. Do it.

She drew the insulated hood tight on her jacket, pulling the drawstring, hoping to conceal her face for the most part. Crouching on the opposite side of the snowmobile, trying her best to look comfortable and short and breast-less, she felt partially shielded by the drifts of snow that her enemy combatant was toiling through. Now she could hear his voice more clearly, “Where’s the bitch? Didn’t kill her did ya’?”

Annie contemplated responding for a moment, but resisted that urge. Even if she masked her voice, it would not buy her much time. The snowmobiler would be close enough to shoot at… any second now. Playing quiet was a smarter move than exposing herself as a fraud.

You’ve always been a fraud, though, haven’t you? As a wife. As a mother.

“Shut the fuck up,” she whispered to herself.

“You hear me?” his voice echoed. It wasn’t The Shiny Bald One and it wasn’t The Yeti, based on the general shape and size of the body and the sound of the voice. It was The Chuckle Machine, who she had only heard disturbed cackles from thus far. Unless it was somebody else altogether, which might be a blessing.

No. It was The Chuckle Machine. No such luck for another wayward, terrified stranger in the cold.

On the back of his snowmobile, it looked like he had large cardboard boxes strapped into place, most likely filled with groceries or supplies of some sort. Or maybe guns. They had said something the night before about Pepper’s purported arsenal, which would only make them more dangerous to her and to the world in general.

And all Annie had at her side was a dinky six-shooter that made her feel like an ill-equipped cowboy. It was small and silver. She always expected her first gun to be bigger than this one, to be something closer to what Dirty Harry might have brandished. She wasn’t even entirely sure that this one was real. Maybe The Midget Man couldn’t be trusted with a real weapon, so Mister Shiny had given him a beginner pellet gun or even a child’s toy. Annie pictured herself pulling the trigger and just like with the Wiley Coyote, a little white flag would come out the barrel, unfurling to reveal the word BANG!

She used her left hand to pull back on the little nub at the top, like they did in the movies. The hammer ? Was it called the hammer? She seemed to remember Christian calling it that once, like it was the thing that clubbed the bullet and sent it flying.

Speaking of bullets… she wasn’t even sure that the thing was loaded, and in fact, had no clue how to verify it one way or another. The only true test for whether it was loaded was to cock back the hammer-thingy and pull the trigger. If it made a bang and the bastard’s head exploded, then it was loaded. If it didn’t, then—Annie chose not to think about that scenario. Instead, she reached the gun out in his direction, narrowing her left eye as she aimed it at the approaching chuckler.