Snowblind

November 21st: Pine Springs, Colorado

Today

The man staggers through knee-deep snow, buffeted by the furious wind and a battery of ceaseless snowflakes. He can no longer feel his feet, which snag on buried vegetation and slip on hidden rocks. He falls, but manages to push himself upright with the knowledge that the next time he falls might be the last. His hands ache from the bitter cold and frostbite has already begun to erode the flesh on his nose and cheeks. The blood from his chapped lips has frozen to his teeth, and despite the snow that blows into his open mouth, his throat is bone-dry. His beard is white with ice and so many crystals have crusted in his eyelashes that he can no longer force them closed. His vision is burned red, save for the myriad white shapes that race past him, making the ground seem to tilt and the buried pine trees lean.

He repeats three words over and over in his mind.

Forward.

Down.

Help.

They are the only conscious thoughts he’s capable of forming, the residue of the plan he formed when he set out. He had known at the time that it really wasn’t much of a plan, but its simplicity was what had allowed him to survive beyond the point when his faculties abandoned him. As long as he continued to move forward and follow the mountainous topography ever downward, he would eventually find a cabin or a town or someplace where he would be able to find help. And they would definitely help him…especially when he showed them what he had tucked under his jacket, against his chest.

They would have to believe him then.

He is on his face in the snow before he realizes he’s going to fall. He coughs out a mouthful of snow and pushes himself up to all fours-

— only to find the world black again. He can’t breathe. He panics and pushes himself up again on trembling arms. It takes all of his strength to rise to his knees so that he can claw the snow out of his eyes and mouth.

A light.

A distant golden aura through the shifting branches and blowing flakes.

He bellows in triumph. It is an animal sound that summons a warm trickle of blood from his trachea.

He manages to create momentum and wills his legs to carry him onward.

Forward.

Down.

Help.

The light grows brighter and brighter until he bursts from the thicket and stumbles into the tire ruts on an icy road. There are silhouettes in the light, vague outlines that he recognizes only as help.

He doesn’t recognize the words painted on the plate glass window or the tables at which he and his friends had dined only five days prior, in a purple vinyl booth beneath mounted jackalope heads and framed yellow newspaper clippings featuring colorful local stories about notorious cannibals like Alferd Packer and George Donner and various Bigfoot hoaxes. He doesn’t comprehend the startled expressions on the faces of the patrons who witness his approach. He is focused solely on the door and somehow making his useless hand open it.

The warmth assaults him. The intensity of the light blinds him.

Shadows race toward him. He hears the clatter of plates and the thunder of footsteps on his way down. Voices everywhere-loud, penetrating-but he doesn’t understand the words.

Forward has served him well and fades from the repetition.

Down vanishes when he hits the tiled floor.

He is left with help and he knows how to receive it.

He opens his jacket and his proof falls to the floor with a thud.

There is a long moment of silence.

And then the screaming begins.