Estimated reading time — 9 minutes

The truck’s heater blasted hot air. Wipers squeaked across the windshield, clearing away the snow that melted on contact.

The Deputy hummed along with the radio as it blared a familiar tune. Wind whistled beneath the radio’s drone. The desolate road before him was covered with several inches of snow with only a lone vehicle’s tracks running through them. He tried his best to stay in line with the previously trekked path, but the snow had already begun to redust over them. His headlights guided him through the dark night and blinding snow.

“Early…round…dogies…Wyoming…” The radio cut in and out before it gave way to static. The Deputy turned the dial but only found more static. He sighed, turned it off, and chewed on his lip a bit.

The drive to Laramie was an isolated one. Not many folk would brave these conditions, especially the locals. They knew only trouble would meet them out in the mountains. Well, most of them. Had that been the case, the Deputy would not have to find old Mr. Begley. His wife reported him missing after he hadn’t returned home from the lumber store in Cheyenne. Should’ve been a quick two hour trip, but it had been nearly five hours, grown dark, and the blizzard had only grown stronger.

“He’s wearing a red flannel and his cattleman’s hat!” He could hear her say. “He drives a 1953 Chevy, baby blue! Oh, please find him!”

As the Deputy continued to drive, red blinking lights emerged through the thick flurries, like flames dancing behind a plume of smoke. The deputy coasted closer, squinting his eyes. He stopped another vehicle’s length behind the stationary truck and put his own in park. He grabbed the CB radio and cleared his throat before beginning.

“Dispatch, this is Charlie 23. Reporting a stopped automobile on Happy Jack Road. I am going to initiate contact. Over.” The Deputy sat for a few moments in silence awaiting an answer.

“Dispatch, do you copy? Over.” Nothing. He huffed through his nose and grabbed his hat from the passenger seat and securely placed it on his head.

He switched his emergency lights on before he jumped out of the old truck, creaking as he got out. His boots sank as the snow covered the top of his foot. He stuffed his hands in his coat pockets and trudged forward, head down. As he got closer, he could hear the low rumble of the truck’s engine still combusting. The potent smell of exhaust filled his nose. He lifted his head as he approached the baby blue truck; the driver door was ajar.

“Mr. Begley?” He shouted, stopping before the opened door, “This is Deputy Spina, Sheriff Department. Are you in there?” He waited a moment in silence before peeking his head around. An empty truck cab greeted him. Spina raised his eyebrow before backing up a bit. He closed the truck door. It shook the cab enough to cause some snow to fall onto him.

“Goddamn it.” He cursed, looking at his pants now covered. He brushed the snow off his clothes when he noticed them. Boot prints. He propped his hand next to his holster and followed them. Turning the corner, he could see the carnage now. Blood splattered out from the epicenter of impact and onto the snow. The front bumper dented-in. No carcass. Whatever he hit didn’t die. Spina tried to follow blood to the treeline but it was hardly visible.

A loud snap echoed off in the distance. Spina drew his revolver and glared towards the direction of the sound. A soft glow off to the side of the road caught his eye, which became evermore apparent as the snow flurries began to slow. He treaded cautiously through the snow, attempting to make the crunch beneath his boots as soft as possible.

As he got closer to the glow, it became obvious that it was a flashlight. He reached down and pulled it from the ground. Spina brushed the snow off and used his new tool to investigate the road verge. There had been a struggle. Various bits of red fabric were strewn about. More blood. And an unknown set of prints.

“What the fuck…” he whispered to himself. Spina crouched and brought the light closer.

The tracks were wrong. Three impressions sank into the snow where four should have been. Two sat forward, long and narrow, pressed deep as if whatever made them carried most of its weight there. A third mark trailed behind. Wider, heavier, gouged straight down the center. He set his boot beside one. The print stretched past the toe. Spina straightened slowly. The beam of the flashlight swept the clearing again, but the tracks did not lead away. They simply ended.

Loud, high pitched chirping followed by several ‘clacks’ rang from the trees. Spina swung the flashlight towards the woodline. At the base of one of the trees, he could see someone sitting down, back against the tree, slumped over. They wore a tattered red flannel and a tan cattleman hat.

“Mr. Begley! Is that you?” He shouted. He froze and held his breath, awaiting a response, but only the wind whispered back. “Stay there! I’m coming to get you!” Spina yelled, taking a few steps forward.

Liquid from up above dripped near Mr. Begley and fell into the direct beam of light. Spina froze and guided the flashlight up, hands trembling.

A large, white mass was curled and remained stationary on a thick branch. The ball of fur began to unfurl. A long, narrow snout broke free. It held an arm in its mouth. Blood matted its fur as it gnawed on its feast.

It stopped.

The creature dropped the arm into the snow. It flicked its tongue several times, then sniffed. Its head turned towards Spina and exposed its fangs. The thing snarled and clacked its incisors together before screeching.

Spina dropped the flash light and turned to run. The beast leapt from the branch and landed nearly on top of him, knocking him down face first. Spina turned his body around as the creature drew its hand back to strike. He quickly drew his revolver and unloaded two rounds into it. Blood sprayed over him as the creature fell over. He stumbled back up in a hurry and holstered the gun. The creature’s body twitched and convulsed. Small whimpers escaped between its coughing fits. Its yips and yelps echoed. Spina wiped the blood off of his face and spit on the ground.

Dozens of screeches pierced the air. His head spun. He continued his dash back to the truck, but not before tripping over himself. The still running truck’s warmth radiated outwards as he opened the door. He jumped in the seat, tossed his hat, and shifted in reverse, swinging back towards Cheyenne. As the truck’s tail end swung right, the lights revealed the creatures to the left.

Three. No, four of the beasts stood in the light of the headlights. Their chests rose and fell, tongues flicking the air like whips, fangs bared. Spina turned his high beams on and now saw the trees behind them. Several others littered the treeline, making incredible leaps to and from.

“Dispatch, this is Spina! Do you copy?” Static filled the airwaves. “Fuck!” He shouted, slamming his fist on the steering wheel. He ran his hand through his hair. The creatures crept forward. Spina gritted his teeth and slammed the truck into gear and gassed it. All the creatures but one moved out of the way of the truck, jumping. The lone beast arched its back and screeched. The truck barreled over it as if it was just a speed bump.

A loud thud hit the roof as one landed on top. Claws ripped through the roof of the vehicle and pried it open. An arm dropped through and wildly waved its paw around until it found flesh and pulled.

“Goddamn it!” Spina let go of the steering wheel and unholstered his revolver, firing another barrage of bullets through up above. The truck swerved off the side of the road, launching the wailing creature. He dropped his gun and shot his hand back to the steering wheel, regaining control and got the truck back on the road. In the rear view mirror, he could see them galloping towards him. It wasn’t until he reached fourth gear that he put distance between them.

Spina grabbed the radio once again. “Dispatch, this is Spina! Do you read me? Over!” No answer. Only the blazing heater and cold winds responded “Come on, answer me!” Tears welled in his eyes. Spina smacked the steering wheel several times and bit his lip, holding his breath. He wiped his tears and applied pressure to his shoulder, then exhaled.

‘RANGER STATION WHISKEY 0.3 MILES’ read on a sign as he passed. A faint glimmer of hope sparked. He began to down shift as he got closer and eventually turned onto the service road. Thick snow covered the ‘path.’ The only thing guiding Spina was reflecting markers that barely illuminated his way. Thick forest surrounded the road, blocking out all light. The truck’s tires sank into the virgin snow and began to become bogged down as the snow got deeper. He punched the gas, sending his truck swerving down the road. Several bumps threw him from side to side. He tried to wrestle back control but lost. The front end jumped into the air as it struck an unseen object under the snow. The high beams hit something a few dozen yards back, sending a glint back. The truck slammed back down and so did Spina.

His head collided with the dash and—Spina opened his eyes. A warm liquid dribbled down from his forehead. His vision went in and out of focus. The sound of faint shrieking snapped his eyes open, jolting him awake. He swiped his hand around the cab and searched for his revolver. His hand met the cold steel and gripped it.

Spina tore open the glove compartment and grabbed the box of rounds in there, stuffing it in his jacket. He tried opening the driver door but was met with equal resistance. He wiped the condensation from the window and could now see the snow nearly touching the base of it. Spina grabbed the handle and rolled the window down. He slithered out onto the snow and continued to fall deeper into it.

Spina put himself upright and got his bearings. A large, triangular silhouette was barely highlighted from the faint glow of the sun’s first light. He picked his legs up as much as he could and trudged through towards the structure. He would pause periodically when a caterwaul would break the silence. Slowly, he would rise above the snow and have his feet meet a firm surface. His pace increased as he high-kneed out of the snow and fell forward onto the wooden porch of the Rangers station.

Spina got up and jiggled the door knob but it didn’t budge. “Of course it’s fucking locked.” He thought.

He frantically looked around the porch for the key. Under the rug, the gnome next to the door, and behind the welcome sign. Nothing. Branches cracked up above and sent snow falling to the ground. Spina froze and held his breath. A few yips and teeth clacking echoed before the scout jumped to another tree and left. He exhaled. He continued his search and felt around the door frame. Right in the middle, on the top, was a key. He slipped in and—Click.

The door swung open. Small swoops of snow entered as if they were invited. Spina jumped through the doorway and locked the door behind him. He blindly swiped around the wall for a light switch until he found one and flicked it on.

A hard thud hit the porch, followed by wood creaking. Spina crept towards the covered window. His shaky hand pulled the curtain back. The sliver of light slashed the dark. Snow continued to fall gently. A tongue flicked in and out of sight. Spina snapped the curtains closed. Several high pitched yips rang out.

Spina began dragging furniturethem towards every window and door. Cupboards, couches, chairs, coffee tables all lined windows, barricading any possible entry. The yipping from the front soon was joined by yips coming from the rear and sides. Thuds thundered from the roof. Glass shattered and dressers scraped across the floor as they pushed to get in. Paws with elongated claws pried their way though. Spina stumbled into the dark bathroom. He closed the door and twisted the lock.

Spina flicked the switch on. He took the gun and box of ammo out of his coat pocket and dumped them into the sink. He picked up the revolver and snapped it open then dumped the shells out. Only one unfired. His fingers malfunctioned and lost grip several times as he grabbed the lip of the box. The remaining ammunition tumbled out. Six rounds. Seven total. He packed the revolver full and tucked the last bullet in his coat pocket.

A barrage of crashes and stomping filled the house beyond the door. Spina shut the light off and kept his revolver fixed towards the door as he drew the hammer back. He backed into the furthest corner and squatted. A few sniffs at the bottom of the door snuck in followed by a few flicks of a tongue. Spina fired a shot.

THUD.

Blood seeped under the door like molasses. Through the bullet hole, light spilled in. Spina watched as flashes of white raced around the house. The light was taken over by darkness as a creature eclipsed the bullet hole. It stopped as its eyes peered through it. Its black, sunken eyes widened and bulged as it became aware of the human inside. Its maw opened and let out a deafening wail, only to be interrupted with a bullet to the skull. What sounded like a flood of monsters crashed against the door.

BANG.

The muzzle flashed.

BANG.

BANG.

Light from the bullet holes strobed as the beasts crawled over each other. Claws tore the door apart and created gashes in it.

BANG.

CLICK.

“FUCK!” Spina opened the revolver and emptied the shells on the floor. He grabbed the last bullet from his pocket and loaded it. Tears streamed from his eyes. He raised his revolver one last time and pointed it at the door. It shook with unsteadiness. A creature broke through and managed to get its torso halfway through the door. It snapped its jaws. Its claws swiped at Spina, narrowly missing him.

Spina retracted the revolver to avoid being slashed. Behind the creature, he could see more spilling through the windows and doors. He cocked the hammer back and placed it against his temple.

BANG.

Credit: Jordan T Catalano

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