Sheriff Mobley walked to the hospital to give himself an opportunity to process the weather anomaly that had swept across his county overnight. He’d had several conversations with other ham radio operators in the region about what they’d experienced.
Some explanations were more dramatic than others. Reports of everything freezing instantaneously. Comparisons to space travelers in a cryogenic state. Descriptions of animals instantly frozen, still standing on their legs as if they were an animatronic creation at an amusement park.
There were also the descriptions of the weather event itself. Godly people described it as the Grim Reaper flowing across their fields in the form of a black, shadowy cloud of death. The collector of souls was accompanied by a frigid wind unlike any other they’d ever experienced. During any winter, Otero County was susceptible to icy, subzero temperatures as Canadian air swept down the eastern slopes of the Rocky Mountains, but longtime residents said nothing they’d seen in their lifetimes compared to this.
The sheriff entered the hospital through the emergency room entrance and was not all that surprised to find it bustling with activity. Although most people had been inside during the flash freeze, some had been caught outside checking on their animals or retrieving firewood for their woodstoves.
It was all hands on deck as medical personnel from all parts of the hospital were in the emergency room, treating people for breathing difficulties resulting from taking in the frigid air. Others had suffered frostbite and severe burns to their exposed skin.
One man was suffering a mental breakdown. He’d heard his beloved horse become agitated as his barn was struck with an enormous gust of wind. He ran out to the stable in his nightclothes without a jacket. Within a minute, he realized he was in trouble, and when his horse fell over dead, he did the only thing he could do to survive.
He grabbed a razor-sharp sickle hanging from a support post. He cut open the belly of his horse and removed her intestines. The small-framed man forced himself into his horse’s body cavity and then pulled straw up against himself. He’d lain there for hours, sobbing, but somewhat warm. At least enough not to freeze. He survived physically. Mentally, he’d never be the same.
Sheriff Mobley convinced the emergency room staff to have a treatment room reserved for the incoming patient. They shuffled some of the already-treated patients to other parts of the hospital after he convinced them there might be more exposure victims inbound that morning.
When Hostetler’s Jeep roared into the covered entrance to the ER, Sheriff Mobley rushed outside with the nurses pushing the gurney. He wanted to do all he could to keep anyone in his county from dying on his watch.
The medical team quickly moved the man into the ER treatment room. They began their work on the patient but not before they had to encourage remove Sheriff Mobley and his two deputies to leave the room. The three law enforcement officers looked upon the man they knew nothing about with concern and sadness. None of them expected the man to live.
A nurse handed Ochoa two bags containing the man’s belongings as she closed the curtain to block their view. The three law enforcement officers walked outside with the bags and laid them on the hood of the idling Jeep.
“We need to go back and fetch Ochoa’s Jeep,” said Hostetler in a somber tone of voice.
“Let me get the rest of the victim’s things,” she added as she opened the passenger door and reached into the back seat of the Jeep. She returned with the man’s thawed jacket and pants. She was also holding something that puzzled Sheriff Mobley.
“What’s with the car parts?” he asked.
“Strange, right?” replied Ochoa. She held them up for Sheriff Mobley and Hostetler to examine. “The vic had the radiator hose stuffed inside his jacket, and his arm was wrapped through the air filter.”
“Broken-down car?” asked the sheriff.
“Not that I recall seeing,” replied Ochoa. “You know, vis is limited. Plus, once I found the body, I focused on getting him here.”
Sheriff Mobley took the parts from her and set them on the still-warm hood of Hostetler’s Jeep. He dumped the contents of the man’s property bag on the hood and spread everything out.
“Let’s look for some sort of identification.”
The three of them rustled through the pockets of his clothing until Ochoa found something. “Hey, it’s a business card. I don’t know if this is the guy or not, but it makes sense.” She handed it to Sheriff Mobley, who studied it.
“Owen McDowell. Senior VP with Yahoo in Sunnyvale.”
“Should we let the docs know?” asked Hostetler.
Sheriff Mobley handed the card to him and nodded. “Take his things and tell them what you know. Ochoa, you’re with me. Let’s head up the highway and find this gentleman’s car.”
Chapter Eight
Thursday, October 31
U.S. Highway 50
Near Fowler, Colorado
“Sheriff, um, that was County Road 1,” said Deputy Ochoa hesitantly. “We’re in Pueblo’s jurisdiction now.” She kept her eyes forward, mostly, with only the occasional side glance at her boss as he continued up Highway 50.
“I’m sure they won’t mind. I wanna see where this McDowell fella came from.”
Sheriff Mobley relaxed his death grip on the Jeep’s steering wheel momentarily and adjusted his stout frame in the seat. He set his jaw and leaned forward, unconsciously causing him to propel the vehicle a little faster on the slick, snow-covered highway.
Despite the darkened daytime conditions, he wore his sunglasses to shield the glare produced by the white cloud cover. What little sunlight found its way to Earth’s surface reflected in all directions off the snow and the grayish atmosphere.
“Sheriff, up ahead. Bright blue. Looks like a classic Bronco or Blazer.”
“I see it!”
