Page 92 of Mazywood

Despite the cold, new perspiration sprang to Johnny’s forehead and dripped into his good eye. Blurry whiteness again.

As soon as his sight faltered, a wall of whiteness brushed across Johnny’s face, striking at him hard enough to sting. He cried out and swung his ski pole to bat away at what had felt like a tentacle and long snout. The ski pole caught on something, and yanked from his hand. Johnny raised his arms to protect his face and neck from teeth.

He couldn’t run, and he didn’t have time to grab and unsheathe the knife. Adrenaline surged through him, and he stumbled backward, nearly leaping despite his snowshoes. But the monster moved so fast—

When no pain came, Johnny realized the monster had never been there. A branch must have struck his face, and the rest had been his imagination. He wiped his vision clear—carefully, so, so carefully—and sure enough, he was near the base of a large pine tree with long lower branches like reaching arms. His ski pole was caught on a branch close to him.

Johnny tried to stop breathing in gulps that made him see spots again. He tugged his ski pole clear of the branch and steadied himself on it.

“It was just a tree,” he said to himself, because he needed to hear it. “You’re okay.”

As he assured himself, he noticed ruts in the snow curving not far right of him, just beyond the tree. The trail! He lunged toward it, ducking under the branch he’d tussled with in order to reach it in fewer steps. “Thank fucking God—”

The blasphemy had barely left Johnny’s lips before the world fell away.

Johnny yelled as the snow churned at his legs, yanking him, flailing, down into an icy maw. He kicked and wheeled his arms, fighting to free himself from the monster, expecting those colossal teeth to snap his bones. The more he moved, the more he was mired in snow. His lifelong fear of blindness was fulfilled, but in white instead of dark. Snow crammed his mouth, muffling his scream.

Then he was choking.

Johnny’s panic was a storm inside of him, blotting out his thoughts. He coughed and spat, his body remembering late to seal his lips to keep more snow out of his mouth. He struggled to orient himself, but he had been dragged into an ice tunnel, barely aware of his awkwardly twisted limbs. Only muted gray light a foot above him told him which way to find air and sky. He craned his neck upward, stretching past the clumps of falling snow trying to bury him. The light was fading fast. Was the monster toying with him? When would the real pain begin? Thunder shook the universe, but it was only his heart’s frantic beating in this frigid tomb.

“Look what you’ve gone and done now,” Uncle Ricky’s voice said above him.

Johnny tried to call to him, but more frost slipped into his throat. He coughed it free, writhing to try to ease a terrible cramp in his side. His body was contorted in a painful pose.

“Quit moving,” Uncle Ricky said. “Plenty of air pockets, boy. But moving around like that’s only gonna make it worse. You’re in a tree well.”

Uncle Ricky’s old warning flooded Johnny’s memory. Sometimes deep pockets of soft snow formed under the trees’ lower branches, creating traps. And he had just stumbled into one. Despite the claustrophobic embrace of the snow, Johnny tremored with relief. The monster didn’t have him. He still had a chance to save his children.

Johnny blinked snow from his eyes, staring up toward the light, and saw a shadow move above him. Uncle Ricky’s hand reached down. “Grab on,” he said.

Johnny’s right arm was pinned beneath his weight, but he strained to free his left arm from the folds of soft frost. Uncle Ricky’s hand was too far to reach. His fingers were short by six inches.

“Dig yourself out some,” Uncle Ricky said. “Not straight up. Dig at an angle.”

“How am I supposed to dig?” Johnny asked, muffled in snow.

“Well, boy, you better figure it out.”

With his one free arm, Johnny tried to sweep the snow away at a slight right angle, mostly using his elbow to dig. More snow fell from above, but he had air if he could see light, he reminded himself. And he was making progress—the snow was soft enough for him to plow a path to try to raise himself a bit higher.

Johnny risked more snow in his mouth to martial his strength with a strangled shout. His arm punched out above the surface. He grabbed Uncle Ricky’s hand.

Even through Johnny’s glove, it felt as rough as tree bark.

With the leverage from his sturdy anchor above, Johnny shifted enough to free his right arm. He couldn’t reach Uncle Ricky with both hands—or was that just a branch?—but his searching fingers wrapped around something thinner that must have been his ski pole, laid out above him. With more confidence now, Johnny levered himself up higher on the small slope he’d dug. He hooked his left elbow around the branch—he was sure it was only a branch now—and grabbed the ski pole with his right hand to stab it farther away from the well. It pierced a sturdier chunk of snow nearby and held fast.

Johnny pulled himself out of the tree well. Left arm, right arm.

The branch issued a muffled cracking sound under his fuller weight, but not before Johnny pulled his left leg free, dragging the oversized snowshoe with it. Then his left knee hit a foundation solid enough for him to grab a higher branch, which rained more snow in his face. But he was pulling himself out.

He crawled the rest of the way clear on all fours, panting from effort and fright as he distanced himself from the deadly well. The mangled pile of snow marked where he had nearly buried himself. If Johnny had been capable of joy, he would have screamed with triumph. His bandage had slipped off in his fall, but his good eye compensated for his missing contact lens. Occasional blurry edges were better than being buried alive.

But now the aftermath. Snow had seeped everywhere: his ears, inside his jacket and boots. He was free, but he was shivering in a way he hadn’t been before. His exertion from trying to climb out of the tree well had covered him in sweat, and now his sweat and the frost were a cold layer across his skin. His puffer jacket hadn’t kept snow out of his collar, so it had crawled down his back.

The boots had done better—at least his toes still felt dry. But that was all.

Johnny’s sob surprised him because he’d thought he was too weary to grieve. He was exhausted, and he had nearly killed himself. This was no kind of rescue. As Uncle Ricky’s phantom had told him back at the lodge, Sharise and Imani would have to rescue him. Fright had sucked his mouth and throat dry despite the snow he had spat out.