Page 4 of Winter Longing
Tank laughed. “You’ve got your little side gig, MVP. I can have plans as well.”
“You sure can,” was all Cole said, unconvinced that anything would ever come of it. Last spring, Tank had been all gung-ho about opening an ax-throwing bar, from which he’d quickly been dissuaded when the cost of insurance was projected to be more than the monthly lease on the property he’d had in mind. Before that, Tank had talked nonstop about buying a used cube van and turning it into a mobile pet grooming business, though he hadn’t a minute’s worth of experience with either pets or their grooming. During Covid, curious about places he was unable to visit, Tank had bought half a dozen drones, determined to start a drone photography business. He’d crashed four of them before scrapping those plans.
“Actually, the juice bar was Doreen’s idea,” Tank admitted, “but she’ll never do anything with it. And I still think it’s a great investment. There’s only one other one in all—”
Tank went suddenly silent as a strange wind rose from behind them, cutting his words short. It wasn’t a typical gust but felt instantly unnatural, carrying with it a faint, otherworldly hum that Cole felt more than heard. It prickled at his skin, like static electricity crawling along his arms and neck.
Cole stopped dead in his tracks and exchanged a sharp glance with Tank, whose usual lively expression had dimmed into wary confusion.
“Wind’s been coming straight at us all day,” Cole muttered, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the darkened peaks surrounding them. “Why’s it blowing backward now?”
Tank didn’t answer immediately. His lips pressed into a tight line as his gaze swept the trail they’d just climbed.
The air had shifted, growing heavier with each passing second, pressing down on them. It wasn’t just heavy—it felt alive, charged, like the moments before a thunderstorm, but magnified a hundredfold.
“You feel that?” Cole asked, his voice low and tight.
Tank met his gaze again, his frown deepening. “Yeah,” he admitted, his usual confidence replaced with something closer to unease. “What the hell is—”
The words died in his throat as something rippled through the air. Cole felt it first—a faint vibration beneath his boots, like the earth itself had taken a shallow breath.
Then, Tank blurred. Not gradually, not subtly, but as if someone had dropped a gauzy material between them. His form wavered, distorting in and out of focus, while the world around them seemed to ripple, like heat waves rising off sunbaked asphalt.
“Tank?” Cole’s voice cracked, the single syllable betraying the fear clawing its way up his throat.
Tank was only a few feet away, close enough that Cole could have reached out to grab his arm, except now, it felt impossible. An invisible barrier seemed to rise between them, a thin, vibrating wall of pressure that pushed back against every instinct Cole had to lunge forward.
The air buzzed, filling his ears with a low, eerie drone. Cole's stomach twisted as the feeling intensified, his pulse hammering in his temples. The mountains around them seemed to grow darker, ominously so.
“Tank!” Cole tried again, louder this time, but the word seemed to dissolve in the dense, oppressive air.
Tank turned his head toward him, his blurred features contorted in confusion and alarm. “Cole—” he started, but his voice warped, stretching and distorting, sounding like he was underwater. His figure flickered, one second solid, the next translucent, as if he were being pulled apart by unseen hands.
A thin, hair-raising breeze whipped past Cole, carrying with it a faint metallic tang that made his stomach churn even more.
This wasn’t normal. This wasn’t nature.
Something wasn’t right.
Panic gripped Cole as his vision wavered. He tried to move, to reach for Tank, but his limbs felt weighted, unresponsive. The last thing he saw before the world went black was Tank’s distorted figure reaching toward him.
And then—nothing.
***
Cole awoke to a biting cold that seemed to cut through his clothing and sink directly into his bones. Snow covered him in a thin, icy layer, dampening his jacket and soaking into his jeans. His breath misted in the frigid air, the sharp inhalation burning his lungs. He groaned as he tried to sit up, his muscles stiff and unresponsive, as though he’d been lying there for hours. Disoriented, he blinked against the dim light of dusk—or was it dawn? He wasn’t sure.
The world around him was eerily silent, save for the occasional whisper of wind. Sitting up now, he paused and tried to orient himself.
He squinted, his heart thudding against his ribs as the realization struck him: the ground beneath him was covered in snow. Not just a dusting or a patch here and there, but a thick layer, at least half a foot deep. How? When they’d started their hike, the mountains had been bare except for snowy caps on the highest peaks and a few wind-swept pockets.
What the hell had happened?
"Tank?" he croaked, his voice raspy and weak. No answer. He twisted his head, scanning his surroundings. His gloves were missing, leaving his fingers red and burning from the cold. “Tank!” he called again, stronger this time which resulted in a bout of coughing, but no response came.
He coughed again, louder, and struggled to get to his feet, his hands plunging into the snow as he braced himself.
He turned his head, his pulse quickening as he took in his surroundings. The winding trail they’d been climbing was gone. In its place was a dense grove of trees, their branches burdened with snow. Shadows crept along the forest floor, and the faint light above cast the entire scene in a surreal, bluish hue. The ground was without any marks, save for his own imprint. No trail. No footprints. No sign of life.
