She had to find shelter. Tim lay in a heap on the ground, snow already drifting on and around his body. Sara had her doubts he would live through the hour, let alone the night. She guessed the temperature at twenty below zero, far beyond that with the windchill.
Rapleje Bay was close to Sven Ballantine’s place. If she could find Sven’s house, she could save Tim. But which way? Visibility was less than twenty feet. No moon. No stars. The only chance was to strike out on her own, find Sven’s place, then come back for Tim.
Sara found a huge pine tree with boughs so laden down by snow they created a small cave underneath. Ice-cold hands reached in and broke off dry, dead branches, clearing out a space. It wasn’t much, but it blocked the wind. She dragged Tim inside.
She felt an overwhelming urge to lie down next to him and just sleep. Exhaustion filled her body, as did pulsing pain from running amid the stampede and suffering the explosion’s concussion wave. On top of the physical fatigue, her mind nearly choked at the anguish of losing her friends. Had they died quickly in the blast? Had they burned to death?
She’d avoided any serious burns herself, which was the only good news. She ached, she throbbed, she wanted to collapse.
She looked at Tim Feely lying prone amid the pine needles, broken branches and dead twigs. If she didn’t find him real shelter, he would die. She started to cry… she didn’t want to go back out there. No more. She couldn’t take any more.
But she had to.
Her frigid hands wiped away the tears. Sara breathed deeply through her nose, mustering her resolve. She pulled her parka sleeves over her brittle hands, then gently pushed back through the limbs so as not to disturb the snow walls.
NOVEMBER 30: 9:38 P.M.
EVERY FIVE MINUTES or so the hurricane winds died down briefly, only to pick right back up again. In those seconds-long breaks, the blowing snow seemed to relax, improving visibility from about twenty feet to around a hundred—and in those gaps, the small light stood out like a beacon of hope.
Sara leaned on a tree at the edge of the woods, eyes peering across an open field at the flickering glow. She didn’t have much strength left. If this light turned out to be nothing, she’d have no choice but to walk back to Tim’s tree, crawl under, and let nature decide their fate.
She walked out into the field. Unencumbered by trees, the wind blew far stronger, driving stinging sheets into her face and eyes. She leaned into the wind and fought through the waist-deep snow. With each clumsy step, the light became a little brighter, a little steadier.
A few steps more, another lull in the wind, and she took in a sight more beautiful than anything she’d ever seen.
The light was mounted on a barn.
Sven’s barn.
She turned and trudged back through her own waist-deep trail.
FIVE FEET FROM the barn door, Sara’s legs finally gave out. After a half mile of carrying a deadweight, 145-pound man through the waist-deep snow, her body couldn’t do it anymore. She fell face-first into a fluffy eight-foot bank that had been sculpted by wind whipping off the red barn. Tim all but disappeared, powder puffing up and around and on him until only his feet stuck out.
She couldn’t get up. She didn’t want to get up. Fuck it. So she’d freeze to death, so what? It was only a matter of time before Magnus came for her. Why not get it over with now, just be dead like the friends she’d failed to help?
Alonzo.
Cappy.
Miller.
Why not just give up?
Because she wanted to see Magnus Paglione dead. And that was more than enough reason to fight on.
Sara picked herself up. Not even bothering to brush the snow off her face, she stumbled to the barn’s big sliding door. Her numb hands gripped the black handle. Failing muscles pushed, and with a rattle of metal wheels the door opened a couple of feet.
She stepped inside, leaving the storm behind as she entered an oasis of calm.
How did THEY get in here?
Through watering eyes, she saw perhaps two dozen cows lying peacefully in hay-filled stalls. She shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts. Sven’s cows… not the cows from the plane.
Sara willed herself back into the storm and grabbed Tim’s feet. She pulled the man free of the bank. His face slid across the snow-covered ground, but it was the best Sara could manage. Finally, after all that cold and pain and fatigue, she dragged Tim Feely into shelter.
Sara stumbled to the sliding barn door and put her weight against its black handle. The wind blew snow inside, almost as if it were some supernatural hand making one last grab for the meal that got away. Wheels creaked as the door shut, reducing the wind to nothing more than an exterior howl.
The barn wasn’t warm, but it was well above freezing. Sara heard the hum of a gas-powered generator. She looked around the huge barn and saw the orange glow of several portable heaters.
Safety.
She’d done it. With her last ounce of strength, Sara dragged Tim in front of one of the big electric heaters, then collapsed.
Sleep came almost instantly.
BOOK FIVE
The Newborns
DECEMBER 1: 7:15 A.M.
THE STORM’S FURY had passed, but winds continued to whip powdery snow across the island and drive five-foot waves onto the ice-covered rocks. Colding stood on the sprawling rear porch, staring out across the water. Clayton was hard at work shoveling snow off the porch and salting the half inch of ice that had accumulated during the night.
Colding hadn’t slept much. He’d stayed in his room, still dirty from burying Jian in a shallow grave. He had sat on the floor’s thick carpet, staring at a window that showed the night’s blackness, that rattled with the storm’s wind. Sat and thought of his failures. Of Clarissa. Erika. Jian. And if the C-5 hadn’t made it, Sara. Next thing he knew, he woke up on the floor, still dressed. He hadn’t bothered showering or changing, just put on his coat, boots and hat and walked to the porch.
Each thrust of Clayton’s shovel sounded like a gong dragged across broken glass. The old man worked away, his eyes bright and clear, cones of vapor billowing out of his stubbled mouth. He stopped and leaned on the shovel, his chest heaving a little. “Rough night, eh?”
“Yeah,” Colding said. “Life really took a dump on us.”
“Hell, should have been here in ’68, eh? So damn cold da mouth of da harbor froze over. We had to plant dynamite to break up da ice to get boats in. That was da year Paul Newman fell in while we were ice fishing. Me and Charlie Heston had to drag him back to shore.”
Clayton paused for a moment. “You’re really worried about Sara, eh?”
“Yeah,” Colding said. “I am.”
“Pretty fuckin’ stupid to send them out in that storm.” Typical words from the old man, but not a typical tone. He didn’t sound insulting, he sounded… regretful.
Clayton picked up the shovel again and got back to work, the gong-on-glass sound ripping the air. “When do you expect to hear back from them?”
Colding shrugged. “They should be back in Manitoba already.” Should be back, but no word yet, at least not that Magnus had shared.
Clayton scraped snow two more times, then he rested the shovel against the mansion wall. He picked up the salt jug and tossed granules down on the freshly cleared ice. He opened the French doors to the lounge, then stopped, turned, and gave Colding a hard, cautious look.