Moist Breath of a Cold Stranger

Neve’s breath billows white. Two miles back, the heater in the borrowed pickup truck rattled and died. She thrums her fingers against the steering wheel. It’s the shortest day of the year, and the sun won’t rise for another three hours. The narrow country road is claustrophobic at five in the morning.

The only working headlight illuminates a fog of swirling ice crystals. A week earlier, while chasing a story lead, she drove this route to a remote ice fishing camp and ended up accepting a cook’s assistant job instead. She needs the money.

The ditches on either side of the asphalt loom large in her memory. Innocuous in daylight, but invisible pitfalls in the dark.

Neve was born with a hardy constitution her adoptive mother claims. A strong, north country girl. Not strong, weird, the neighbours whisper. She’s seldom bothered by cold, but the truck windows are fogging up. Annoying.

Two years past, she escaped to the south but didn’t fit in there either. The heat made her lethargic, but at least people didn’t make warding signs when they thought she wasn’t looking.

Glancing at the dashboard clock, she swears. Damn. Late for her first kitchen shift. No lights ahead or in the rear-view mirror. The rest of the staff will already be there. She’ll be lucky to keep the job. How else will she finance the production of her videos debunking urban legends and myths?

Research will be tough this winter given few in the valley town will talk to her. After all, it was the irrational nature of the locals that drove her to leave. Frost giants descending from the hills to eat babies and replace them with their own? What nonsense. She laid their ignorance bare to the world—or at least her few dozen subscribers. Subpar parenting and a high rate of birth defects contributed to above average infant mortality. The town never forgave her.

Thump. The truck veers, floats, weightless. Heart pounding, she steers toward the center while gently pumping the brakes. Did she hit an animal?

The wheels continue to skid. Her stomach curdles and drops. No, no, no. A part of her brain remains calm, detached. Once set in motion, some things are inevitable.

The truck grumbles to a stop. The lone headlight shines into scrubby bush on the far side of the ditch. She rests her head on the steering wheel until her breathing slows, then reaches to release her seatbelt.

At the corner of her vision, movement. Neve startles, then barks a laugh. She doesn’t spook. Ever. Sceptic is her middle name.

She refuses to allow death to trap her in this northern armpit. Hell would be an eternity buried in the frozen dirt of this backwater. Rejection defined her life here—from the unknown mother who abandoned newborn Neve at the freight entrance to the supermarket in December, to the kids at school who relentlessly bullied her for speaking the truth, to her adoptive family where she never really fit in.

It was a mistake to return. Her adoptive mother lured her home with an offer of free room and board, but also this loathsome place has pulled at Neve for months.

Likely, she simply needs to exorcise childhood demons. The locals have warned about the same monsters and legends her entire life. The cold has frozen their common sense. She needs to set things right. Open their eyes to the truth. Banish the superstitions.

Neve yanks the sleeves of her cardigan over her hands. She can almost hear her mother’s lecturing voice, “Not feeling the cold doesn’t mean you’re impervious to it.” With her first cheque, Neve should purchase a winter coat instead of a new microphone. Or at least borrow a jacket from her mother.

She reaches for her backpack and pulls out her phone. No cell service. So much for calling a tow truck. Hopefully, someone will drive by soon.

In the meantime, she’ll record a message for her followers about the perils she’s currently exposed to. There’s no real danger, but it will be a dramatic intro for her next reel. She searches for the perfect phrase to begin the narrative. In a land where people believe in frost giants, anything can happen…

Movement again. This time in the corner of her other eye. Most likely eye strain.

A humid breath whispers along the back of her neck. Needles of hoarfrost paint feathers on the driver side window, opaquing the glass. She rubs her eyes and is struck by the odd blue-grey pallor of her hands. A trick of the predawn light.

Neve slaps the door locks and hugs herself. Frost nips her nose. Move. Return to us. Outside the wind picks up, humming, moaning, and buffeting the truck. The vehicle shudders, and slips. Squeezing her eyes shut, she murmurs an entreaty to an entity she’s never believed in. Until now.

Thump. Thump. Thump. The truck’s in motion. It sways and shakes. She grabs her seatbelt with one hand and shields her head with her other arm. Boom.

Neve trembles uncontrollably. The truck’s still again. Cold silence cocoons her, pressing in. The air is moist.

Finally, she relaxes and opens her eyes. Light sparkles through the frosted windshield. Cracking the side window, she squints into the gap. The cracking of dawn paints the scrub landscape in shades of indigo and silver. The air’s crisp. Frosty.

Neve climbs out of the truck. Unfolds her limbs. The truck’s tires are flat. Her boots are too small. Constrictive. She steps out of them, kicks them away, curls her toes into the snow. Her breath no longer creates clouds. She barely glances in the direction of the ice fishing camp. Humans are beneath her notice now. Perhaps they always were.

Turning toward the hills she starts walking. Her cell phone lies, abandoned, on the front seat of the truck, the record button blinking.

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Ⓒ KT Wagner