Dead Of Winter (The Rift Book II) Read Free Page A

beard and snot froze in his nostrils. He waddled deeper in the now thigh-deep heaps of white, headed for an abandoned strip mall. The howling storm roared in his ears, threatening him with its baritone wails. The abandoned cars on the side of the road had become mountains of frosty powder. There were no signs of life to be seen. He was completely isolated.
    At a large storefront display he stopped and considered the mannequins positioned inside, still dressed in the newest fall clothes and frozen forever in blithe poses. This particular store seemed to have been abandoned in a hurry, which offered him a sliver of hope, as the others he passed had long ago dropped their protective steel gates, leaving them inaccessible. He wiped frost off the window and peered into the darkness beyond. There was no movement, at least none he could see. He waddled his way to the front door and pulled on the handle. It rattled against its deadbolt, locked tight. Billy sighed, swung his bag from behind his back, and withdrew the pistol. He lifted his elbow to shield his face and swung the weapon’s butt in a strong downward motion. The glass, weakened by the cold, shattered upon impact. Huge chunks rained down from the frame. A large shard ripped through his jacket and slightly gouged the flesh on his forearm. He winced in pain, bit his lip, and clutched the wound with his off hand. It stung to high heavens. He hoped it didn’t bleed too much.
    The air inside the shop reeked of must and decaying textiles. It was only a few degrees warmer than outside, but at least he’d be shielded from the wind and wetness. He stepped forward. Glass crunched under his booted feet. A breeze struck him from the left and he turned towards it. The window beside the display that had first caught his eye had been smashed in. A six-foot-high snowdrift tumbled inside. He glanced at his injured arm and shook his head. So much for my thoroughness , he thought.
    “Hello? Is anyone here?” he yelled as he came upon the shop’s center aisle. He cupped his ear and waited for a response. None came. Racks of clothing flanked him on either side. He snatched a scarf from one of them, peeled the sleeve from his right arm, and wrapped the gash. The bleeding had already begun to slow. A relieved whistle escaped his lips. The wound wasn’t too deep, and would heal on its own. He tied a knot in the scarf, removed the flashlight from his pack, and delved in deeper.
    “Nobody home,” he sang as he pushed through the swinging doors at the rear of the shop and entered the stockroom. He shivered. He needed to get warm. Scanning the racks of dust-covered, left-behind inventory, he found something that would suffice; a propane-powered space heater. He checked the fuel gauge. It was half-full. He scooped the device into the crook of his arm and went in search of a reasonably comfortable place to lay his head.
    Through the next set of doors he found what appeared to be the manager’s office. A diaphanous green carpet covered the floor. Motivational posters were tacked to the walls. In the center of the room was a desk. Paperwork littered its surface. An instant of sadness surged through him. This desk shall never be used again , he thought. These posters now serve as inspiration for ghosts. Billy shook his head and forced away these musings. There would be no hopelessness for him, at least not now. He had better things to do.
    He proceeded to the other side of the desk, found something there, jumped back, and yelped. It was a body, sprawled out on the floor, covered with tattered blankets. He placed the heater on the ground, grabbed his firearm as a safeguard, and approached it. He pulled back the blanket, revealing the one hidden beneath. It was a boy, and though he couldn’t come to an exact estimate given the dirt and grime that covered his face, he guessed his new bunkmate couldn’t be much more than a teenager. The boy’s chest rose and fell with regularity. He smelled like a