Early Thaw Read Online Free PDF Page B

cabin— why wouldn’t he have inside info on all the other tasty spots?
     
    Leslie sat daintily in his chair— couldn’t really help it, with his build— though she knew he was trying for the brooding, mystery-man look. His eyes darted up every now and then to see if she would take the bait. His stick fingers encircled the mug, their stems socketing into tiny, hairless hands and wrists. He wore an 80’s-styled, white Yellowstone sweatshirt she was pretty sure he’d grabbed out of a ladies’ discount bin by mistake.
     
    Jeesus he’s a weird little fucker , she thought.
     
    They left early the next morning, earlier than she’d woken in months. Bitch-mood early. Plunging knee-deep into piles of snow, the milky sun not much more than a joke in the sky, Val sorted through a dozen sadistic fantasies that all concluded with her foot in Leslie’s ass.
     
    “Pretty morning,” he said, in his wussy whisper voice. She kept quiet.
     
    “Some of the snow’s melted,” he said, more sheepishly. She seethed.
     
    When he tried a third time to get the chit chat going— some inane thing about south-facing rocks and radiant heat— she’d stopped him cold.
     
    “Leslie, I’m fucking freezing. And I’m fucking tired. Freezing and tired, walking around this goddamn park looking for a fucking ranger station I don’t even know exists. Let’s just both enjoy some fucking quiet time, ok?”
     
    He shrunk in on himself like he’d been popped. For a silent moment, he stood completely still, staring at his feet. Then he turned and started walking.
     
    “It exists,” he squeaked, keeping his knobby little head forward.
     
    And it did exist, but she figured that was beside the point. Hours later, after an eight-mile slog through snowy hell, an apology seemed unnecessary. Besides, she could tell from 200 feet away that this “station,” an 8’X8’ shack with one (smashed) window, had seen some rough action: scraped siding, ripped shingles, scorch marks where the wooden exterior had burned. Most damning, the door was wide open— never a good sign. She doubted they’d find anything useful inside.
     
    The shack sat in a man-made clearing near the trail they’d been following, engulfed on all sides by lodge-pole pines. What looked like a streambed— hard to tell with everything covered in snow— curved past the far side. It was beautiful, she had to admit. In another life, this was exactly the sort of rustic setting she’d envisioned for herself: birds, deer, wood fires.
     
    “At least they knew where to plant the shithole,” Val mumbled to the air.
     
    Leslie, apparently envisioning himself as some kind of tactical genius, motioned for her to slow as they approached. His elaborate hand signals—Who the hell was this weirdo?— were so ridiculous and distracting, she was ready to erupt in another tirade when she finally spotted the source of his caution: a jellied streak of red extending out from the door jamb and disappearing under the snow.
     
    Leslie signaled for her to stay put, but she had the gun and more balls than he’d ever known. She rolled her eyes and marched into the shack. The semi-frozen plasma sucked at her boot soles.
     
    “Val!” Leslie whisper-yelled. When she pretended not to hear, he made a quick scan of the area and scurried in behind her.
     
    Inside, everywhere was blood. On the walls. On the floor. On the tiny mattress that’d been wedged against the window. Streaks of deep red framing the room in grotesquerie, pooling on the fir floorboards. She’d seen gallons of the stuff since TSHtF, but something about the bare reality of the scene— the record of violence painted right onto the walls— made her stop and take note.
     
    Leslie was already squirreling around the shack, but there wasn’t much else to see. A green metal cabinet stood in one corner of the tiny room, the only real piece of furniture besides the mattress and part of an overturned chair; she recognized chunks of