Freeze

the key. She had attached it to her wrist with some kind of safety strap. More than likely, she’d pulled it loose when they crashed (that was its exact purpose, after all, and the reason the snowmobile hadn’t ended up lost in the woods half a mile away). Which meant before he could go anywhere, he was going to have to go sift through her body parts.

If you’re going to go over there, better bring another bottle.

He took one of them out of the box and slipped it into his hip pocket. Then he found the torch in the snow and wrapped his finger around the trigger. He wasn’t sure how much fuel the thing held or how much Mr. and Mrs. Young might have used already, but he felt better having it. It was no flamethrower (and oh what he would have given for one of those), but it was better than his bare hands.

Hand.

Right. Just the one.

He shuffled toward the pile of ice that had been the creature, trying not to look at the other mess, the colorful bits in the snow. His broken arm had started to ache again, and he thought every last bit of warmth he might once have had had seeped out. Without shoes, his layers of clothing seemed useless; he might as well have been walking through the storm naked.

When he got within reach of the tentacles, he hefted the torch and eyed the creature. The snow continued falling as hard as ever, but nothing else seemed to move.

Maybe that’s what it wants you to think. Maybe it’s just waiting until you get closer before it grabs your leg, pulls you in, and rips you into a dozen gooey pieces.

Didn’t matter. Without the snowmobile, he’d never get away from any other monsters that might be out there. He needed that key.

Shivering, teeth clattering, he turned away from the creature and looked for Jan’s arms.

He found the first one half-buried under one of the monster’s outstretched limbs. He propped the torch up in the snow and dropped to his knees. He had to dig the ice out from around the arm to pull it free, and he hated being so close to the creature’s tentacle. The thing had proved what it could do with those appendages (as biologically impossible as it seemed), and every time Warren thought he saw the thing twitch, he just about screamed.

But he did get the arm free, and although he was sure he saw the creature’s tentacle move at least twice, it didn’t attack. Jan’s arm was covered in icy blood and bent ninety degrees the wrong way at the elbow. He gripped it with his knees, grimacing and holding back the urge to barf, and pulled down the sleeve to check for the strap.

Nothing.

He dropped the arm. Before he hunted down the second one, he buried the first in the snow. It was probably a stupid thing to do, a waste of time—the falling snow would cover it before long anyway—but he didn’t feel right just leaving it there.

He found the second arm not far away. He pulled back the sleeve, sure the key wouldn’t be there, that it was buried in the snow somewhere and he’d never find it.

But it was there, wrapped around her forearm halfway between her wrist and her elbow. He’d barely been able to pull the sleeve back far enough to reveal it.

Okay, you found it. Great job. Now get the hell out of here.

He buried the arm first. As he was patting the last bit of snow in place, something wiggled out from under the creature’s remains.

It was a tendril of ice, about as thick as a thumb. It slithered out of the rubble, raised its head like a cobra, and then slid toward him.

Warren reached for the torch and realized he’d left it near where he’d found the first arm.

Never mind that. It’s just a little wisp of a thing. You don’t need anything more than the heel of your boot.

Except he wasn’t wearing boots, and he didn’t think he could get his foot far enough out of the snow to stomp on the thing anyway. He decided to grab it and break it apart in his hand instead.

When it got close enough, he spread the fingers of his glove and reached for it. Instead of slithering into his hand, it leapt out of the snow and hit him in the chest.

Warren fell back and grappled for it. He got his fingers around the thing’s tail (or maybe it was its head; it looked the same on both ends), but it was too slippery to hold on to.

It jerked out of his grasp and slid toward his neck.

It’s going to choke you.

But it didn’t. Instead, it slithered into his mouth.

And so Warren did the only thing he could think to do: he bit down.

The length of ice in his mouth wriggled around, clacking against his teeth and trying to wrap itself around his tongue. The remainder of the tendril curled up, sprang off his face, and slipped away.

Warren chewed the ice, breaking it in half and then breaking each of the halves in half. He crushed it, liquified it, and spat out the mouthful before he swallowed any. He didn’t think swallowing would have hurt him, turned him into some kind of monster like in a bad science fiction movie, but he wasn’t taking any chances.

Before any more bits of the creature could come back to life—if that was in fact what had happened—he retrieved the butane torch, and shuffled through the snow toward Rick’s body. He doubted his feet had much chance of surviving any of this, but he didn’t think it would hurt to put on the other man’s boots.

If he could find them.

One of them was easy enough to see; it was right in the middle of the whole mess. He managed to pull the foot out of it and fumbled it onto his own with his one hand.

It took him a few minutes to find the other one, but he eventually saw it poking out of a snow-covered evergreen bush. It was torn and covered in blood, but he put it on anyway. And then he shuffled back to the snowmobile, feeling like a thief and a scavenger.

He slid the box with the remaining Molotov cocktails across the snow and managed to strap it back in place with his good arm and a series of careful, almost acrobatic moves.

He thought he heard a distant, ringing roar and told himself to ignore it, to concentrate on getting the snowmobile started.

He strapped the key to his wrist, stuck it into the ignition, and turned the snowmobile on. He dropped onto the seat and grabbed the starter cord.

It won’t start. The engine will be flooded and you’ll have to hoof it.

But it did start. And on the first try. When the motor turned over and kept turning, he pumped his fist and grabbed the throttle. He wouldn’t be able to control the brake (it was on the left handlebar, on his broken-arm side), but he didn’t think that would be a problem. As deep as the snow was, if he wanted to stop moving, he’d need only to let go of the throttle and let the snowmobile coast to a stop. If he’d been headed downhill, toward town, running the thing at full speed, he guessed it would have been another story.

He turned the snowmobile back onto its own tracks, hoping he’d be able to follow them back to the road, hoping he’d know the road when he saw it, and gave the machine some gas. It didn’t move for a second, but then the treads caught and he slid through the falling snow.

He thought of Tess and Bub, hoped they were okay, hoped he’d get to them in time if they weren’t.

The snowmobile bumped over a drift, and his broken arm slapped against his belly. He shut his eyes against the pain and forced himself to reopen them immediately.

Don’t you dare crash. No matter how much it hurts. Don’t you dare let it end like that.

Something moved ahead. Not a monster, just a tree swaying in the wind.

Snow and sleet blew into his face, and he wished he hadn’t lost his scarf. He’d be lucky if he didn’t lose most of his face to frostbite.

When he found what he thought was the road, he gave the snowmobile more gas, and headed up the mountain.

20

The cold was unbelievable. She’d never felt anything like it. She was surprised she wasn’t freezing solid right