Winter Moon

The thumb-turn twisted slowly, as if the lock mechanism was rusted.

Slowly.

Slowly. Then: clack.

But the bolt snapped into the jamb again before she could pull open the

door.

Toby was murmuring something. Talking. But not to her.

"No!" she shouted. "No, no! Tell it no!"

Grunting with the effort, Heather twisted the bolt open again and held

tightly to the thumb-turn. But she felt the lock being reengaged

against her will, the shiny brass slipping inexorably between her thumb

and forefinger. The Giver.

This was the same power that could switch on the radio. Or animate a

corpse.

She tried to turn the knob with her other hand, before the bolt slammed

into the striker plate again, but now the knob was frozen. She gave

up.

Pushing Toby behind her, putting her back to the door, she faced the

two creatures. Weaponless.

The road grader was painted yellow from end to end. Most of the

massive steel frame was exposed, with only the powerful diesel engine

and the operator's cab enclosed. This no-frills worker drone looked

like a big exotic insect.

The grader slowed when the driver realized that a man was standing in

the middle of the road, but Jack figured the guy might speed up again

at first sight of the shotgun. He was prepared to run alongside the

machine and board it while it was on the move.

But the driver brought it to a full stop in spite of the gun. Jack ran

around to the side where he could see a door on the cab about ten feet

off the ground.

The grader sat high on five-foot-tall tires with rubber that looked

heavier and tougher than tank tread, and the guy up there was not

likely to open his door and come down for a chat. He would probably

just roll down his : window, keep some distance between them, have a

shouted conversation above the shrieking wind--and if he heard

something he didn't like, he'd tramp the accelerator and haul ass out

of there. In the event that the driver wouldn't listen to reason, or

wanted to waste too much time with questions, Jack was ready to climb

up to the door and do whatever he had to do to get control of the

grader, short of killing someone.

To his surprise, the driver opened his door all the way, leaned out,

and looked down. He was a chubby guy with a full beard and longish

hair sprouting under a John Deere cap. He shouted over the combined

roar of the engine and the storm: "You got trouble?"

"My family needs help!"

"What kind of help?"

Jack wasn't even going to try to explain an extraterrestrial encounter

in ten words or less. "They could die, for God's sake!"

"Die? Where?"

"Quartermass Ranch!"

"You the new fella?"

"Yeah!"

"Climb on up!"

The guy hadn't even asked him why he was carrying a shotgun, as if

everyone in Montana went nearly everywhere with a pistol-grip,

pump-action twelve-gauge.

Hell, maybe everyone did.

Holding the shotgun in one hand, Jack hauled himself up to the cab,

careful where he placed his feet, not foolish enough to try to leap up

like a monkey.

Dirty ice was crusted on parts of the frame. He slipped a couple of

times but didn't fall.

When Jack arrived at the open door, the driver reached for the shotgun

to stow it inside. He gave it to the guy, even though for a moment he

worried that, relieved of the Mossberg, he would get a boot in the

chest and be knocked back to the roadway.

The driver was a good Samaritan to the end. He stowed the gun and

said, "This isn't a limousine, only one seat, kinda cramped. You'll

have to swing in here behind me."

The niche between the driver's seat and the back wall of the cab was

less than two feet deep and five feet wide. The ceiling was low. A

couple of rectangular toolboxes were on the floor, and he had to share

the space with them. While the driver leaned forward, Jack squirmed

headfirst into that narrow storage area and pulled his legs in after

himself, sort of half lying on his side and half sitting.

The driver shut the door. The rumble of the engine was still loud, and

so was the whistling wind.

Jack's bent knees were behind the driver, and his body was in line with

the gearshift and other controls to the right of the man. If he leaned

forward only inches, he could speak directly into his rescuer's ear.

"You okay?" the driver asked.

"Yeah."

They didn't have to shout inside the cab, but they did have to raise

their voices.

"So tight in here," the driver said, "we may be strangers now, but by

the time we get there, we'll be ready for marriage." He put the grader

in gear.

"Quartermass Ranch, all the way up at the main house?"

"That's right."

The grader lurched, then rolled smoothly forward. The plow made a cold

scraping sound as it skimmed the blacktop. The vibrations passed

through the frame of the grader, up through the floor, and deep into

Jack's bones.

Weaponless. Her back to the stairhead door.

Fire was visible through the smoke at the hall doorway.

Snow at the windows. Cool snow. A way out. Safety. Crash through

the window, no time to open it, straight , through, onto the porch

roof, roll to the lawn. Dangerous. Might work.

Except they wouldn't make it that far without being dragged down.