Snowblind Read Online Free Page B

listened, but he couldn’t hear a blasted thing over the wind. He glanced back at Baumann, who gave him a reassuring nod over the barrel of his rifle.
    When he rounded the corner, the wind would be at his back, giving him an advantage in visibility over whoever or whatever was at the front door. If anything was there at all. Of course, his scent would also carry downwind…
    He focused on his breathing to keep from hyperventilating.
    In one swift motion, he swung around the side of the building and leveled his rifle at the area in front of the door.
    Nothing or no one there.
    He started forward. Slowly. Cautiously. One careful step at a time. He scanned the ring of forest to his left and directly ahead of him past the house. No movement. At least none that he could discern. The motion of the snow seemed to animate everything, lending life to the inanimate.
    He heard the scratching sound as he neared the front door, but still couldn’t see anything. Maybe a hint of motion from beyond the wooden frame. A shifting of shadows within shadows. The door was recessed deeply enough to hide a man, especially if he pressed his back to the door. There was only one way for him to find out for sure what was back there in the darkness.
    He held his breath and listened for the sound of breathing.
    Again, nothing but that monotonous scratching.
    He peeked around the corner and then ducked back.
    No one there.
    A sense of relief washed over him like a physical wave.
    Thank God. It had to just be a branch.
    Coburn crept closer, prepared to grab the branch, toss it away from the house, and sprint back toward the open window. He had already loosened his grip on the rifle when his brain caught up with his eyes.
    It wasn’t a branch.
    It was a hand.
    A human hand at the end of a severed forearm.
    Tied to a bent, rusted nail in the door by a tendon.
    Swinging gently back and forth at the behest of the wind.
    The curled fingers raking the wood.
    Scratch .
    Scratch .
    Scratch .
    * * *
    Coburn whirled around and sighted down the forest along the length of his trembling barrel. He was breathing too fast to catch his breath. His pulse was pounding so hard in his ears that it was all he could hear. The hackles on his neck prickled under the weight of unseen eyes. It was snowing so hard that he could barely see the outlines of the trees forty feet away. How hard was the wind blowing? Even at such a short distance it would alter the trajectory of his bullet. He might have the opportunity to chamber another if he missed.
    Might.
    Movement from the corner of his eye to the right. No. To the left. To the right again. No. Straight ahead.
    By the time he aligned his rifle, nothing was there.
    Snow and shadows.
    Shadows and snow.
    Coburn kept his rifle trained on the forest as he moved to his left. One sidestep at a time. Careful not to stumble in the deep snow. Using his own footprints as a guide.
    Footprints.
    There was only a clear sheet of white leading to the forest. Not even the dimple of a track between the tree line and the front door. The wind had completely erased them. Whoever was out there knew exactly what they were doing.
    Because they had done this before.
    Coburn rounded the corner of the homestead and broke into a sprint. Stumbling and flailing, barely able to maintain his balance as he charged toward Baumann’s silhouette against the wavering firelight.
    “Move! Move! Move!” he shouted.
    Baumann barely stepped aside in time to avoid being knocked to the ground when Coburn hauled himself up and over the sill and crashed to the floor.
    “What did you see?” Baumann called back over his shoulder.
    Coburn was panting too hard to reply.
    “We aren’t getting out of here, are we?” Shore whispered from the doorway.
    Coburn didn’t know what to say. All he could focus on was the scratch-scratch-scratching of his friend’s severed arm on the door.

 
     
     
    November 19th: Mt. Isolation
     
     
    Two Days Ago
    Time passed in minuscule