The City of Light
Whiteout #4
Flint Maxwell
Copyright © 2020 by Flint Maxwell
Cover Design © 2020 by Carmen DeVeau
Edited by Sonya Bateman
Special thanks to Sabrina Roote
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permissions email: [email protected]
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The author greatly appreciates you taking the time to read his work.
For Jake Clarkston,
who’s always been apart of the family
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Too much mystery is merely an annoyance. Too much adventure is exhausting. And a little terror goes a long way.
― Dean Koontz, Odd Thomas
1
Grief
The moon was dead.
So were the stars.
I hadn’t seen a hint of either since the blizzards began. And I missed them, but I especially missed them during the cold, dark hours of the night, when the sky became a solid black wall of nothingness and the monsters called our names.
I missed them the way I missed Jonas, that rambunctious family man who had lived at the gym, and who would stay on his feet after downing enough booze to knock an elephant on its ass. I missed them the way I missed Helga, the kind woman who had taken us in after we fled our rented house on the opposite side of Prism Lake (even after I busted one of her windows). I missed them the way I missed Mikey Hark, Ell’s little brother, who had proven himself to be a fun, loving, and hilarious young man, and who was brutally murdered at the hands of the insane human monster of Woodhaven, Ohio.
Speaking of Woodhaven, we left that dreaded town the first chance we got. As soon as a sliver of light burned through the clouds, we packed up and drove our snowmobiles through the fresh powder, pushing their engines to the limit and putting Woodhaven far behind us. I kept thinking how if I turned around, I’d see a dark figure standing in the snow. That figure would be Bob Ballard. I’d see how his head was only attached to his neck by a few red strands, how his mouth was full of blood, and how his eyes were full of murder.
I don’t know if you remember, but I mentioned my vision going dark when I did what I did to Ballard, and how I only recalled the aftermath. But as miles and more time separated us from the events at that house in Woodhaven, my mind decided to start filling in the blanks, showing me snippets of what happened. Most of these snippets came in the form of nightmares. In them, I saw myself thrusting the shovel’s blade through his throat. I saw the blood, so much of it. I saw how it pooled in the curves and indents of the metal. I saw the flashes of white that were his spine, the glistening cords that were his tendons, and the life slowly fading from his eyes.
But instead of dying in these dreams, Bob rips the shovel from his throat and laughs. The wheezy cackle escapes from the gash in his neck more so than from his mouth. A red mist sprays over my face, and then he turns the shovel and thrusts it through my throat. I feel my head detach, and as it rolls from my severed neck and hits the basement floor, a cloud of dust blooms, blinding me. Somehow, I’m still cognizant, conscious, alive. The dust clears. Bob shambles like a zombie and, smiling, his own head barely attached and bobbling, he yells, “You should’ve cooperated, Grady, my pal! Should’ve let me do what I had to do, and maybe it wouldn’t be this bad!”
His boot rises and comes down like a falling anvil—and then I wake up screaming.
Yes, these images had become a nightly occurrence after what we went through. I couldn’t shake them, and although they’ve lessened in frequency, I don’t think I ever will.
For three days we stayed in Woodhaven, and like I said, we moved on at first light, traveling for the better part of a day before seeking shelter in another small town called Tallmadge Falls. Unlike Woodhaven, though, this place was deserted—as far as we knew, at least. No survivors, no crazies, and no wraiths. Just snow, a sea of white as far as the eye could see, broken up by trees whose trunks were mostly buried.
We wouldn’t have stopped there if not for Ell.
I was driving the snowmobile. She was riding passenger next to our measly possessions—lots of Off! bug spray, lighters, and a few flashlights—and Mikey’s body lay on her lap. He was still wrapped in the sheet. Ell held him, clutching her little brother to her chest. She spoke no words for the duration of our journey, but sobbed softly to herself every so often.
Stone drove the other snowmobile, following closely behind Ell and I. Mia and Chewy were his passengers, along with the rest of our possessions—these consisted of spare coats, blankets, socks, shoes, and what was left of the food we took from the gas station near Avery’s Mills.
We were coming upon a town when Ell whispered. I barely heard her over the sled’s droning engine and the constant battering of the wind. I glanced her way, saw she was pointing out of the cracked windshield to the right, and turned my eyes in that direction. Here I noticed something
