Dark Inside (28 page)

The Bagger grabbed his arm. “What’s your hurry?” he snapped.

Clementine darted in from the right, kicking the man hard, and he fell, loosening his grip on Michael enough for him to pull free. Too much time was wasted. The other Baggers
emerged from the woods. There were at least five of them, each as poorly dressed and unprepared for the cold as them.

“Come on,” Michael said. Reaching out for Clementine, he realized he couldn’t see her anymore. She’d simply disappeared into the whirling snow. He backed up several feet, losing track of the Baggers and stepping unexpectedly off the road. Falling, he stumbled into the bushes and tripped over a root, his already numb hands plunging into half a foot of icy snow.

He wanted to scream out for her, but he knew it would only alert the Baggers to his location.

From a distance he could make out the shapes of people moving in more than one direction. But which one was Clementine? It reminded him of one of those game shows where you had to pick the right box in order to win the million dollars. Moving toward the closest shadow, he hesitated.

Even if he found her now they couldn’t run. There was nowhere left to run to. One couldn’t outrun a blizzard. They’d only get lost in the woods and freeze to death.

Changing his mind, he started walking in one direction, hoping that might work, but he was all turned around and pretty sure he was only going in circles no matter how straight he tried to travel. He came across footprints in the snow, quickly being filled by the falling flakes. He couldn’t tell if they were his own or someone else’s.

He didn’t even see the cabin until he stepped right into the stairs, smashing his leg on the wooden railing.

Scrambling up on all fours, he yanked open the screen door and checked the dead bolt. Locked. Without even pausing, he glanced around until he spotted the woodpile in the corner. Picking up the biggest log, he hurled it into the door’s small window. Reaching his hand through the hole, he unlocked the door and stepped into the living room.

She’s still out there.

He didn’t care if the house was empty or not—he’d worry about that later. Running straight through to the kitchen, he pulled the drawers out, scattering kitchen supplies until his numb fingers closed over a sharp paring knife. His knuckles were bleeding; he must have cut them on the glass, but it didn’t matter.

He returned to the front door and paused. If he went back out into the blizzard, he might not be able to find the house again. It was sheer dumb luck he’d found it in the first place.

He needed help.

Back in the kitchen, he tore through the cupboards again, fully aware that every single second counted. The longer he waited, the farther away Clementine could be. Had the Baggers found her yet? He didn’t want to think about it. Finally he came across the ball of twine. This would work. Grabbing it, he didn’t even hesitate. Ran straight back out into the cold.

If he could get this one thing right, he might be able to put his guilt behind him.

The storm seemed to have worsened in the few precious minutes wasted indoors. He took the twine and fastened one end to the stairwell. Clenching the rest of the ball tightly, he ventured back out into the whiteness.

He unraveled the string as he moved along, his fingers progressively freezing with each step. Twice he dropped the roll in the snow, and the second time he was forced down on knees to search the growing drifts.

The wind whipped his hair around, catching it on branches and in his mouth. His eyes watered, teardrops crawling and freezing on his cheeks. He thought he spotted a moving shadow but it turned out to be nothing but a tree.

Running out of time. If he didn’t find her soon he’d have to retreat back to the house.

Run away all over again.

Run, you coward.

Something reached out and pulled on his jacket.

Screaming, he spun around, numb fingers clutching the knife, ready to stab the Bagger.

“Michael.”

He threw his arms around her, dropping both the knife and the string, and pulled her into an awkward hug. She returned the favor, crying and laughing at the same time.

“Come on,” he said. “I’ve found shelter.”

Grabbing the twine once more, he got her to take hold of his arm and he began the daunting task of reeling them both back to the cabin.

“I thought I lost you,” she said.

“You found me.”

“I was so scared. I didn’t want to die that way. One of the Baggers attacked me. Tried to claw my eyes out. I hit her in the head with a rock. I think I killed her.”

“Good for you.”

“She wasn’t the first.”

They found the steps and he led her up into the cabin. Once inside, he locked the door, but that wouldn’t be enough.

In the living room, thankfully only about five feet from the entrance, was an antique china cabinet filled with wineglasses and fancy-looking dinnerware.

“Come on, help me,” he said.

They pushed the heavy furniture, dishes and glasses spilling out and breaking on the floor. It took several minutes, but eventually they got it into place. No one would be coming through the door anytime soon. Together they went around
to the kitchen and checked the back door. It was locked.

“Should we put something in front of it?” Clementine asked.

“No, we might need it for a quick exit.”

“Good point.”

Back to the living room they went, and Michael saw the fireplace. Beside it was a neat stack of logs and kindling. Kneeling down in front of the hearth, he began to stack the wood to make a fire. He’d had a lot of experience from camping with his dad, and it didn’t take long before the flames caught and a little bit of heat spread throughout the room.

Clementine peeled off her wet jacket and sat in the middle of the floor, shivering while she tried to untie the laces on her shoes.

“I can’t feel my toes,” she said.

Michael went over to join her. He removed her socks and examined her feet. They were solid white, but at least there were no signs of frostbite. Taking hold of her left foot, he placed a hand on each side and started rubbing it furiously.

“My father used to do this to me after hockey practice,” he said. “It works really well. You’ll be warm in no time.” When he finished with her first foot, he started in on the second. The color began to return to her chilled skin.

“What if they see the fire?” she asked. “Shouldn’t we draw the blinds?”

“Yeah, probably a good idea.”

They got up and went over to the windows. Peering out into the blizzard, Michael could see only snow. Even the trees were hard to spot. He shut the blinds just in case.

“Will they notice the smoke from the chimney?”

He shook his head. “I doubt it. Not in this storm. We’ll have to be more careful once it lets up.”

She moved back over toward the fireplace and he noticed she was limping. He wasn’t surprised. Her sneakers were of the summer variety, and her wet socks were as thin as nylons. Ignoring his own pain, he headed to the closet by the front door. Inside he found a big woolly scarf and matching hat.

“Here,” he said. Taking the hat, he pulled it down over her head. It was too big, but it would keep her warm. Next he wrapped the scarf around her neck.

“I’m gonna go upstairs and take a look,” he said. “Maybe I can find some sweaters.”

“Okay.”

Trying to ignore the feeling of déjà vu, he wandered off, fully aware of what happened the last time he went upstairs to take a look. The last thing he wanted to find again was death.

In the second bedroom he found some winter sweaters and socks. Piling them in his arms, he hurried back to find her wrapped up in a thick blanket.

“It was behind the couch,” she said.

They changed into the warmer clothes and sat down next to the fire. There was nothing to do now but wait.

“Are you hungry?” he asked.

She shook her head. “My stomach’s too freaked out to eat. You?”

“Yeah, me too.”

They sat together for a while, the fire crackling and spitting sparks.

“Last time I had a fire was Christmas,” she said. “It was our first holiday without Heath.”

Michael went over to the fire and threw another log onto the pile. “You’re very close with your brother. You’re lucky. I have a sister somewhere, but I never see her. She’s with my mom, or she used to be with her.”

“Don’t talk like that. You don’t know for sure.”

“You’re right.”

“Yeah, Heath and I are close,” Clementine said. “We used to hang out lots. It sucked when he went to Seattle. I wanted to go and visit, but you get busy with things? School. Cheerleading practice. Craig Strathmore. Now all those things seem unimportant. I can’t remember why I cared so much about them.”

“I played football and I was also in a band,” Michael said. “We were terrible. Our singer always sang off-key. But I agree with you. It seemed so important. Now I don’t really care if I never pick up a guitar again.”

Clementine shook her head. “Don’t say that. We should find you a guitar. Music is one of those things we’re going to need. I think that’s wonderful.”

There was a lag in the conversation while the two of them stared distractedly into the fire. Finally Clementine laughed. “This is so weird.”

“What? The conversation?”

“Yeah. We’re trapped in this house and those monsters might break down the door any second, but we’re talking about cheerleading and guitars.”

Michael nodded. “Maybe it’s good for us, though. Helps get our minds off stuff.”

“I wish I could shut my brain down for a bit. Some days I’d give anything to stop thinking.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“Why?” Clementine asked after another long silence.

“I don’t know.”

“Do you think we deserved it? Humans aren’t exactly the best things for the planet. Maybe we went too far. Did too much damage.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“Do you believe in God?”

“No. You?”

She paused. “I’m not sure. Maybe. If there is a God, I don’t think He’s the one doing this.”

“Could be a disease.”

“Maybe.”

“Which means anyone could catch it.”

“That would make us immune,” she said. “If we were infected, we’d surely be Baggers by now.”

“Thinking about it makes my head hurt,” he said. “Some things you’re just better off accepting. I don’t understand, but I know I want to survive. That’s all I need, I guess.”

She nodded, dropping back into silence.

It was the longest night of his life. Every time the house creaked, his heart pounded at his rib cage. When the wind slammed against the windows, it took all his strength not to jump up and run. He imagined he could hear the Baggers climbing up the steps to the door. He visualized them breaking the windows and climbing in to get them, their eyes distorted in rage.

But nothing happened.

Around two, Clementine drifted off, curled up on the couch closest to the fireplace. Michael grew tired, but he forced himself to stay awake. He kept busy stirring the fire around with a poker for a while. He tried reading one of the books he found on the shelf, but he couldn’t concentrate. After reading the same paragraph five times he gave up and put it back. He looked through the DVD collection by the flat screen and decided the owner had terrible taste in movies.

Eventually he sat down in one of the chairs and closed his eyes.

It didn’t take long till he fell asleep.

He awoke with a start several hours later. The fire was nothing but a mess of burning embers. Clementine was still on the couch, curled up into a tiny ball, only half her face showing under the winter hat.

He got up and threw a few logs on the fire, coaxing it back to life. The living room was toasty. Once the flames were active again, he looked out the window. The blizzard had ended during the night and the morning sun was beginning to rise over the treetops. The ground was a blanket of rich snow.

He couldn’t see any footprints. A good sign.

He’d give the fire ten minutes or so before extinguishing it. The smoke was still too risky, even more so now.

Leaving Clementine to sleep, he wandered over to the kitchen and poked through the cupboards and studied the fancy espresso machine. He missed coffee. The way it used to be so convenient. All he had to do was go into a shop and order up a large or venti or jumbo or whatever fancy word was being used and receive a steaming hot beverage of his choice. Latte. Mocha. Caramel macchiato.

Now coffee was pretty much impossible unless they had the option of fire. Luckily for him that morning, they did. In the bottom cupboard he found a big pot, and he filled it with bottled water found in the pantry. Using the fireplace poker, he held the water over the fire until it boiled. Pouring a generous amount of coffee into the water, he stirred it around with a spoon until it looked good enough to drink.

The coffee was bitter, and the grounds got in his mouth when he reached the bottom of the cup, but it still tasted wonderful. He poured a second and then a third. By then Clementine had started to stir.

“Is it over?” she asked, stretching out on the couch and knocking half the blanket onto the floor. “Has it stopped snowing?”