Fossil Lake: An Anthology of the Aberrant

Fossil Lake: An Anthology of the Aberrant by Ramsey Campbell, Peter Rawlik, Mary Pletsch, Jerrod Balzer, John Goodrich, Scott Colbert, John Claude Smith, Ken Goldman, Doug Blakeslee

Book: Fossil Lake: An Anthology of the Aberrant by Ramsey Campbell, Peter Rawlik, Mary Pletsch, Jerrod Balzer, John Goodrich, Scott Colbert, John Claude Smith, Ken Goldman, Doug Blakeslee Read Free Book Online
Authors: Ramsey Campbell, Peter Rawlik, Mary Pletsch, Jerrod Balzer, John Goodrich, Scott Colbert, John Claude Smith, Ken Goldman, Doug Blakeslee
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arms flailed and her legs kicked, but she proved no match for this thing. She had fallen into some mutating frozen pond that kept reshaping and moving around her, swallowing her whole. In the wash of light, Matthew saw Sharon’s flesh go blue, as if she had been refrigerated inside her own casket. Masticated in thick blood-drenched clumps, her flesh shredded like slabs of raw meat inside a blender.
    Matthew fled. His lungs felt about to blow a hole through his chest, but he would not stop until he found a way out of here or until he was dead. If the road had not become completely hidden beneath the snow he knew it lay somewhere ahead. He slogged through the freezing drifts for what seemed hours, but it could have been only minutes. Matthew no longer could tell.
    He heard the familiar sound before he noticed the lights. There was no mistaking the thick growl of that machine. A Snowcat was plowing its way just up the ridge from where he stood. He climbed towards the road and snapped on the high beam of his lamp, swinging it wildly over his head. The bright lamps of the Snowcat illuminated the landscape like a Christmas tree, and the tank-like behemoth came to a squealing stop.
    “Had an accident?” the bearded man shouted from behind the large wheel. “You’re not the first tonight. Been picking up stranded folks all around here the past twelve hours.”
    A man half conscious, Matthew climbed on board. He pulled off his wet gloves, wiped thick chunks of ice from his face. He warmed his hands near the blowing defroster.
    “People, they get lost in these parts every winter,” the driver said. “Blizzards, they just sneak up on folks all the time. Hell, you’re one of the lucky ones. Sometimes we never find ‘em.”
    “Thank Christ you’re here. I thought I was a dead man for sure.”
    “Anyone else in your party?”
    The question came like a sucker punch. Matthew managed to feign a momentary disorientation that fortunately required little acting.
    “No . . . Just me. I was headed home to my wife. My SUV ran off the road.”
    The bearded man started the Snowcat moving. “Here’s not a real good place to be wandering alone at this hour in this mess, let me tell you. I’ll get you to the lodge at Hagerman Pass. In the morning, if this bastard storm lets up, you can call for a tow for your car. It’s maybe an hour down the ridge.”
    The driver’s attention remained focused on the road.
    That was good.
     
    *     *     *
     
    Later, in a room at the lodge, Matthew lit a fire and sat by it, his mind racing. Then he made the call.
    “Andrea? Sorry, honey, I didn’t mean to wake you. Listen, I had a little accident coming back. No, nothing serious, but I have to be here in the morning to find a tow and I may have to stay a few days. I’ll call tomorrow when everything’s a little more settled, okay? No, I’m not hurt, just tired. Go back to bed. Love you.”
    He did love Andrea, he loved her very much, and Sharon must have known that. But he always tried to be fair with Sharon, had even tried loving her. What happened tonight was terrible, but it was over. Now he needed to get a grip, he had to think. There was Andrea to consider now.
    Tomorrow, he would retrieve Sharon’s bag from the SUV, then burn everything. It might be touch and go for a while, a hairy situation when Sharon did not show up and the media posted her photo everywhere. If he were somehow linked to her, people would have questions. But they had covered their tracks for months, telling nobody about their stolen weekends.
    In a few days, he would go to his office at the Denver Post. He would pour himself a hot cup of coffee, then phone to arrange the Carmelo Anthony interview, ask the Nuggets’ offensive how Rick Camela managed to wipe the court with him for 33 points when his team played Minnesota. Business as usual, no hurt, no foul.
    He could get through this because he loved Andrea, beautiful, loving Andrea, the mother of his

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