Baby, It's Cold Outside

Chapter 2-2

“You should get on the road, man. This storm is just gonna get worse.”

Following Porter’s gaze, Harrison looked out the window of Elvira’s Tavern and had to agree. The thickening flakes had begun to coat the sidewalks of downtown Eden’s Ridge. Tipping back the last of his drink, he shoved away from the table and offered his hand. “I really appreciate this.”

Porter took his hand and pulled him in for a thumping hug. “Any time. And if you decide you wanna stay longer, you just say the word. The tourist rentals dry up to next to nothing this time of year, and I’m just as happy it’s not sitting empty.”

“Thanks. I’ll let you know.” At the rate he was going, he just might burrow in until spring. The real world held that little appeal.

“There’s some stuff out there. Coffee, basic spices, some other non-perishables I keep on-hand for guests. But not enough to get you through the next few days if the weather turns like they’re saying.”

“I’ll go by Garden of Eden before I get out of town.”

“You need anything, you just holler. And that includes a friendly ear.” Porter shot him a meaningful look.

He’d had a few years and more than a few offers of the same since he got out of the Army. But talking it out hadn’t been his preferred form of processing the s**t he brought back to civilian life. Not then and not now. “Understood. I’ll give you a call on the flip side. Maybe we can get another beer and a pizza before I head back home.”

Porter dipped his head in a nod. “That’d be good. Enjoy your quiet.”

“It was good to see you, brother.” And now, God willing, he wouldn’t see another human being for the next six days.

After loading up on supplies, Harrison stopped, out of long-ingrained habit, to gas up the Jeep before he left town. Even in that little span of time, the snowfall seemed to have more than doubled. The cold front that had come through earlier in the week had primed the ground for actual accumulation, and it looked like they were gonna be in for a doozy.

The drive that, on a good day, should’ve taken a mere twenty minutes, stretched out near to an hour. Harrison practically crawled up the mountain in his Jeep. When he’d accepted Porter’s offer to use his cabin for the week, he’d had no idea he’d need to put snow chains on. It was Tennessee for Chrissakes. It had been years since he’d driven in any real snow. At least while stateside and not driving a Hummer. The last thing he needed was to go sliding off the slick roads this far out from town.

On the radio, the song broke and the local DJ came on. “They’re calling it Stormageddon, folks. It’s getting ugly out there. Snow’s coming thicker and faster and temps are dropping fast. The roads are getting dangerous. The Stone County Sheriff’s Office is asking everybody to get where they’re going and stay there until the storm passes. The kiddos will be thrilled because school is officially cancelled.”

Heat pumped out of the vents, but it wasn’t quite enough to cut the chill inside the Jeep now that the sun was down. If he’d known he’d be coming into this kind of weather, he’d have switched to the hard top. But hell, it was sixty degrees at home last week. The cold didn’t really phase Harrison. Nothing much did. Still, he’d get a fire going when he made it to the cabin and put together some kind of stew for dinner. The kind that stuck to your ribs and warmed you from the inside out. With that happy thought in mind, he rounded the switchback and began the final climb. Just another mile or so.

His headlights swept over the guardrail. Or what used to be the guardrail. What remained was a mangled twist of metal. New or old? He slowed. The ground was already coated in snow, but he could tell it was churned up beneath. His body coiled with tension as he stopped and put on his flashers. For a few long seconds, he sat in the driver’s seat, hands tight around the steering wheel as he stared at that gap in the rail.

Memory crept in of another snowy mountain road. Of gunfire and blood. He’d made the wrong call and three of his men had paid the price.

Harrison shook his head to clear it. This wasn’t Afghanistan. Not an ambush. Somebody had gone over the side.

Hand on the Glock 19 at his hip, he climbed out of the Jeep and trudged carefully through the accumulating snow to the edge of the road. Some forty or fifty feet down the slope, an older model Chevy SUV was nose down, taillights on. No smoke plumed from the exhaust. Was the driver injured? He checked his phone. No bars to call 911. Looked like he was on rescue duty. At least if everything went to s**t, nobody would be impacted but him this time.

Returning to the Jeep, he popped the liftgate, shifting supplies around until he could get to the coil of climbing rope. He’d need more than that to get somebody else back up. Surveying his options, he added a couple of locking carabiners and some para-cord to his pockets and shut the Jeep. Working fast, he anchored the center of the rope to a tree and tossed both ends over before running the length through his legs, around his hip, and over his shoulder for an emergency rappel. Positioning himself at the edge, he slowly let out slack and made his way down the slope. It wasn’t as steep as what he was accustomed to climbing, but he was grateful for the rope. The ground was slick as hell, and the snow was getting deeper by the minute. The trip down took longer than he liked. As he neared the Blazer, he heard faint sounds of music. Singing? Ears straining against the strange muffling silence of the snow, Harrison listened.

Was that...Whitney Houston?

“I wanna feel the heat with somebody before I freeze to death, please God.”

Not Whitney. The driver was apparently conscious and had some pipes. Was she delirious? Did she have a head injury?

This close to the vehicle, he could see that she’d been saved by the trees. Wedged between two stands, they were the only thing that had kept the SUV from hurtling into a boulder fifteen feet below. But while they’d slowed the momentum, they’d also blocked all four doors.

Harrison worked his way around the trees to the front of the vehicle. He could just make out a woman in the driver’s seat—still singing. No blood that he could see, but who knew what was going on below the dash or behind the spiderwebbed windshield. He reached out and rapped on the hood and the singing turned into a scream.