2:21 a.m

.
The woman waited for death on that winter’s night, standing alone in a snowstorm so loud and violent that it seemed capable of swallowing the earth in a matter of minutes. Her left arm was broken in two places, and her right hand drizzled blood from the stumps of two severed fingers. On her face were several inflamed, red rashes.

The train’s approach was marked by the ground-rattling thunder of its engines, a low whine of metal wheels against metal rails, and a spotlight that carved ahead into a vortex of snow. This was a cargo train, and without internal lights, it was possible to imagine that it had long ago lost its conductor and would steam ahead until it crashed or ran out of fuel.

The woman on the tracks felt a shiver of anticipation. She had been waiting over ten minutes. Despite the bitter cold and the storm’s relentless drive, she wore only a thin pair of white shorts and a white, long-sleeved shirt, although both were so stained with blood that even the snow could not wash it away.

A warning blast of the train's horn indicated that there was

still someone in control, and he had only now seen this frail lady standing in the way.

As the train loomed in front of her, closer, closer, there arose a tortured shriek as the driver applied the brakes in a futile effort to stop before impact. Sparks showered up from the wheels and were quickly swept away on the winds.

The woman on the tracks raised both arms over her head. Shifted her heels to ensure a secure stance.

The blinding light found her—

—a howl of wind and horns and metal assaulted her—

—and then the train slammed through her. For an instant, the snow turned red, and splattered chunks of flesh coated a wide circle around the tracks.

The storm raged on.


2:00 a.m.

Stumbling through knee-high, dead weeds, the woman in white began to feel the effects of her blood loss. Everything around her seemed wavy, shimmering, and it was becoming difficult to stay upright. The only good thing was that her wounds had stopped hurting, and that wasn’t really good at all, because some part of her understood that not

feeling a broken arm and severed fingers was much worse than gritting through the pain. But she was half-numb from the snow and wind anyway, and at this point it didn’t matter much if she retained the use of her limbs or not.

She was crying, though she could not remember why. It was difficult to remember anything: she didn’t know her name, how she got out here in the borrow ditch, or why there was a part of her that wanted to scream in anguish. There seemed to be a black hole in her thoughts that suctioned away all of who she was and all she knew. Worse, there were scenes of murder in her mind. Images of corpses, eviscerated bodies, and blood. So much blood.

The woman didn’t know she had been walking with a destination in mind until she saw the humping gravel of the train tracks ahead. Squinting against the flurries, holding the dripping half-stump of her right hand up to shield her face, she let out a cry of satisfaction.

She was here—wherever here

was.

The countryside was an abyss, every snowflake a falling star, and the black hole in her mind was what drove her to the tracks, as if by losing her memories she had gained a sixth sense that tugged her along with all the force of gravity. Here at the train tracks she would fulfill a task that she must complete, even though she couldn’t remember why it was so important.

She stumbled up the gravel embankment.


1:14 a.m.

Courtnie Eller had only been hiding in the dark closet for five minutes, but it felt like hours. Her heart was pounding hard, fast, and the resultant throbbing in her neck was a constant reminder of the danger waiting beyond the closet doors.

She was being hunted.

The snow outside, which had been falling all night, made no noise against the roof or windows, but she knew it was still out there: it had to be, or else the threat would be gone.

She heard footsteps above, descending the staircase. Because the closet in which she hunkered was embedded below the stairwell, it sounded eerily like a man walking across her grave. Biting her lip, she clutched the doorknob and prayed that he wouldn’t search the house further.

Even as she struggled to keep quiet, Courtnie had to blink rapidly and bite her lip harder to concentrate. The effect of the snow had begun to reach her, and every few seconds her mind would go blank. So far, a quick shake of her head was enough to clear the confusion, but her condition would deteriorate long before she was safe.

She couldn’t hear footsteps anymore, but she was not so stupid as to believe the man had left. His noisy boots would have echoed far into the house had he continued across the hardwood.

He was standing still. Waiting for her to make a mistake.

She shook her head again and breathed as shallowly as possible.

The snow, in addition to being the instrument of death, seemed to cloak the night with its peaceful fall, as if the tainted flakes cast every insect and animal into hypnosis. Such a profound silence should have served Courtnie well, because it would amplify every move the man made and give her plenty of time to react; but instead, it alarmed her. Without any background noise, she would be given no chance to take the initiative. She was stuck in the closet, helpless.

Suddenly, the man’s boots were clanging on the floor, rattling the flimsy walls around her. She almost gasped before realizing that she couldn’t tell what direction he was running. The closet took the sounds and whirled them around her, disguising intent.

The closet door was thrown out of her hands. It exploded inward, catching her off guard, slamming her back against the wall.

He stood just outside. His long hair was as greasy as ever, and the rashes on the underside of his eyes had grown worse just in the short time she’d been hiding.

She was only five-three, a petite twenty-six year old, and this man was at least six-three. Although he wore a white T-shirt and boxer shorts—his sleepwear—he could not look more menacing if he’d grown fangs and started howling at the moon.

Then he was coming for her, his big hands slapping into the darkness. Courtnie hunkered back, trying to dodge his blows, but then he lunged forward, blocking her escape.

No time for thinking. Act. Now.

She leapt forward, screaming, and jumped onto his chest like a rabid dog—and, like a dog, she bit and clawed and tore, hoping to startle him into making a mistake or at least tripping over his feet. But he was too large, too infected, and he calmly reached up and seized the back of her neck. Jerked.

The next thing she knew, she was lying on the ground, sparkling white dots implanted in her vision.

The man was turned. Searching for something.

She tried to breathe, but he’d knocked the air from her.

He turned around and the sneer on his face was as feral as that of a lion. He held a golf club in his right hand, and without hesitating, slammed it down on Courtnie’s outstretched left arm.

The sounds of her screams were as painful as the blow itself, but the man wasn’t done. With both hands on the club, he hit her arm again, this time just above her wrist, and the crack

of bone made her screams disappear: she was still screaming, but her vocal chords had either burst or she had entered a realm of pain so intense that no human could hear her cries.

The man went for a third blow. Out of instinct, Courtnie rolled to one side. The golf club bounced off the hardwood inches away.

Her left arm twisted across her back, and she could feel

the broken bone cutting through her flesh. She had to close her eyes to fight delirium. She didn’t dare look at the wound.

The infected man threw the golf club aside. Courtnie felt his sweaty hands on her legs, and then she was being dragged through her own house. Her left arm bounced over the floor, and each jolt was like fire underneath her skin.

There was a time when she must have blacked out, because when she came to she was lying atop the dining room table, staring at the ceiling. For a time, her name eluded her. The storm was affecting her now, and shaking her head didn’t help this time. Her name...her name...it was...

She couldn’t remember. It was blacked out in her mind.

The man came from the kitchen with a butcher’s knife in his hand. He intended to either kill her or eat her.

The pain from her broken arm was still there, but it was overshadowed now by an urge to make this man pay for all he’d done. A hundred pictures of his body in various stages of mutilation flowed from a dark river in her mind, and each one sparked within her a pleasure most akin to sexual climax. The knife in his eye sockets, in his ears, slicing off his genitals, cutting each of his toes one at a time. A bottle of Clorox bleach stuffed down his throat. Shards of glass scalping that greasy hair away. Hot needles jammed up his nose, into his brain, burning away whatever intelligence was not already taken by the storm.

She gasped, heaved, overcome by the immediacy of her emotions. The storm was reaching her now, turning her into one of the mindless killing machines she’d hoped to never become. And her name. Damn it, it still eluded her!

She was so lost in her thoughts, torn between the rational and the murderous, that she didn’t pay attention to the intruder until she felt a grinding sensation in her right hand. She opened her eyes, glanced over, and saw the man hunkered over, sawing away at her fingers with the serrated knife.

“Courtnie

!” she screamed, and with the recollection of her name came the pain. Mind-altering, numbing pain. She tore her hand away and vomited when she saw that two fingers were left behind. Blood poured in horrible amounts from stumps that were like incessant lightning strikes to her flesh.

She fell off the table, hit her broken arm, but strangely didn’t feel the blow.

Without looking behind her, she crawled to the kitchen with a trail of blood and tears streaking behind her. The man was close. He wasn’t injured, and would catch her soon.

Her knee scraped over something hard. Looking down, she saw that in his haste, the man had let the wooden rack of knives fall to the floor.

He was behind her. No time to think.

She clutched the handle of a random knife with the remaining digits of her right hand, and when the man grabbed her shoulder, flipped her over, she jabbed up and stabbed him in the crotch.

His eyes widened. He screamed. But she was overcome with that primal rage again, and without conscious effort, she started stabbing again and again, into his crotch and thigh and stomach, twisting and slicing with the blade to ensure he could never survive. He must have fallen sometime, because she was straddling him, gouging his eyes and slitting his throat and screaming all the while.

When she finished, she somehow crawled to the front porch, stood, and opened the door.

Her name was lost again. She opened her mouth to say it, but all that came out was blood-streaked spittle. She had remembered her name once, but it was replaced now by an urge to kill, kill, kill. Anything. Anyone. Kill

.

She was walking through the snow without knowing why.

There was a part of her—a nameless, quickly-fading part—that knew her murderous thoughts were caused by the storm. She didn’t want to kill anyone, certainly not in the throes of madness like that man...or had it been a man? She couldn’t remember anymore, but she knew that somehow she must stop before she found someone else alive. If she saw anyone, her rage would not be containable. There was no way she would become one of those things. No way in hell.

When the wind picked up, the woman without a name trudged onward.


1:01 a.m.

It was getting worse outside.

Courtnie Eller huddled in a warm blanket, peeking out the window of her second-story bedroom and trying to tell herself that it wouldn’t happen to her. This infection wouldn’t find her.

A dented red truck came driving into view, faster than the icy dirt road permitted. The driver saw the sharp left turn too late, slammed on the brakes, twisted the wheel, and lost control. Courtnie watched as the truck skidded sideways, sliding as if on a smooth sheet of ice. Then it hit a fencepost and ricocheted off with a bang

that she could hear all the way up in her room, rolled twice, and came to rest on its side, the tires spinning in the air. And then came the infected. They must have been hiding in the bushes, hoping for someone to show up, because Courtnie counted four of them, all wearing skimpy sleepwear. They approached the truck from all sides, jerking and dodging like apes, wary of any hidden dangers. One of them climbed the overturned pickup, crawled to the driver’s door, and reached in. Soon he was dragging a limp form out of the shattered window hole. Courtnie watched, terrified yet awestruck, as the other three surrounded the driver as he toppled to the snow-covered ground. She knew what was coming, yet it still made her gasp when the four infected started kicking, hitting, and mutilating the driver. They became entangled within one another, and soon she couldn’t make out any specific person: just a large mass of devilish, mindless humans tearing apart one of their own.

Shivering, Courtnie slumped away from the window. It was really happening. Dear God, it really was, and still there was no help. The phones were down. Whatever assistance had been promised to those inside the storm was not quick in coming. The storm could span miles, and the infected area could be even larger. She had to face the fact that help wouldn’t come for some time. Until then, she was on her own.

Downstairs, a window shattered.


11:32 p.m.

The TV kept flickering, but sound was steady for the moment. Dressed in sleepwear—a white, long-sleeved shirt and shorts—Courtnie Eller sat on her couch and hoped to find an explanation for the unusual sounds and events she’d been seeing outside.

Ten minutes ago, she’d been awakened by a woman screaming. Alarmed, Courtnie came downstairs, looked out her window, and saw a man break the woman’s neck not a hundred yards away from her country house. It happened so fast that she couldn’t understand what it was, but luckily the murderer ran in the opposite direction, into a copse of trees. Since then, she’d heard screams and yells, blaring horns and soft explosions, as if her peaceful neighborhood was being transformed into a warzone.

Now to the TV, wondering if the events would have made news. She was rewarded: on every local station, an emergency broadcast was playing.

“We are advising everyone to stay indoors at this time,” a man’s deep voice was saying. “If at all possible, seek shelter underground or in a well-defensible area. Do not go outside—I repeat do not

go outside—unless it is absolutely vital. The less exposure to the air you have, the better your chances will be of staying free of the contagion. We are sending men in now to correct the problem, but we cannot guarantee your safety if you choose to exit your houses. Do not let anyone inside your house for any reason. I say again, do not

give anyone from outside shelter. If they have been in the snow, they are infected. Try and stay safe until our men can come to you. If you hear this message, take comfort. We are on the way.”

The message stopped, and a few prolonged beeps accompanied the static image on the screen. Courtnie had a hand over her mouth. The hand holding the remote was shaking. That couldn’t be the whole warning, could it?

Just then, another long beep preceded the man’s voice. Apparently, this message was on a repeating schedule.

“To anyone within Harrin County,” the voice began, “It is important for your survival that you heed this message. There has been an accident at the scientific research facility several miles away, on the state line. Contaminated particles of a classified nature escaped and were dispersed into the air. We have reason to believe that those particles have laced themselves within the stormclouds now over Harrington County, and they are being released in the snowfall. The snow is tainted, people. I say again: the snow is tainted

. The air is no longer safe to breathe. These particles have a very specific effect on the human population. Symptoms include memory loss, irrational urges, hallucinations, and very noticeable rashes. Put in layman’s terms, anyone infected is likely to be very aggressive. They may try and attack anyone, even people they know. We are advising everyone to stay indoors at this time. If at all possible, seek shelter underground or—”

Courtnie shut off the television.

Outside, distant, a man howled in rage. Car tires squealed on a far-off highway.

Like always, the televised warning downplayed the danger. Likely to be aggressive

? Courtnie had already seen a man snap a woman’s neck. That qualified as a bit more than aggressive. That was barbaric.

She didn’t have a basement in this house. There was a storm cellar, but to get in she would have to go outside.

The snow is tainted

.

So she would wait. The message had said that men were on their way. Her house was secluded, and if she turned off all the lights, it would likely not draw anyone’s attention. As for the infected air...well, this was a new house. Her bedroom could be sealed off enough to hopefully trap the air outside. She could put a few shirts over her nose and mouth as well.

She would survive this night. She was a fighter, after all, and at twenty-six, was not ready to die.

Trying to hold down her fear, she took the steps three at a time to her bedroom.


9:34 p.m.

Sipping a mug of warm milk, Courtnie Eller went to the window. She had finished reading her current novel and was having trouble shutting off her mind after a stressful day at the office.

The grey stormclouds overhead, visible by only a few lingering strands of sunlight, might have discouraged others, but not her. She had always loved the snow. In fact, it felt nice to know that she would fall asleep and wake in the morning to a world transformed by nature’s power.

She smiled as the first flakes drifted to the ground.

Impressum

Bildmaterialien: Cover Image Taken From http://www.betterphoto.com/uploads/processed/1051/1012130139201snowfall.jpg
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 29.05.2012

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