
15 Jan White Out
âWhite Outâ
Written by Shannon Higdon Edited by N/A Thumbnail Art by Craig Groshek Narrated by N/ACopyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on CreepypastaStories.com are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed, adapted to film, television or audio mediums, republished in a print or electronic book, reposted on any other website, blog, or online platform, or otherwise monetized without the express written consent of its author(s).
đ§ Available Audio Adaptations: None Available
â° ESTIMATED READING TIME â 30 minutes
It was cold. Morgan woke up shivering, his breath coiling in the air before him.  Why was it so damn cold? Key West was known for a lot of things but its frigid mornings werenât one of them. Quickly pulling himself from the sheets and throwing on his robe, which did nothing to impede the chill, he hustled to the digital thermostat in the hall; the wood floor like ice against his bare feet. Thirty-two degreesâŚthat couldnât be right, could it? TrueâŚit did feel accurate, but when had the tip of Florida ever been thirty-two degrees in August?
Morgan clicked on the heat and the little, old house groaned its disapproval, the furnace sputtering its way to life. It had been, whatâŚat least a decade since he had last turned it on? It was remarkable that it worked at all. He placed his hand over the vent to verify that a feeble stream of heat was actually coming out and then hustled back to the bedroom closet for something warmer to wear. Much to his chagrin, and as he expected, there was very little to choose from by way of warmth.
Tropically flowered silk shirts and a varying array of cargo shorts and bathing suits pretty much made up his wardrobe. He had exactly two pairs of pants: a pair of paper-thin, linen slacks he wore when he was going âfancyâ and a pair of painterâs coveralls. Morgan settled on both and a seldom used blanket from the linen closet as a coat. The sun was blaring through every window at the same time and he wondered just how in the heck it could be so sunny and bright out and still so cold at the same time.
Curious to inspect the afternoon, he opened the front door to a blinding, white light which he had to shield his eyes from until they could adjust to the difference. What he saw on the other side of the second, glass door welded him to the floor, unable to move and shocked beyond the ability to comprehend. The vibrant green paradise he left outside when he went to bed the night before was no longer. It was replaced by a clean, white nothingnessâŚit was snow; and not just a little bit. It came to the middle of the door, easily four or five feet in depth and had completely buried everything.
âWhat theâŚâ was all he could gasp as he desperately tried to wrap his mind around what he was actually seeing. Slowly returning to mobility, Morgan pulled the glass door open. He had to seeâŚhad to know that this wasnât some type of hallucination. Thick, white, fluffy snow came spilling into the house covering the sand he tracked in the day before. It was real, alright. The air was piercing and furious, a blizzard still in progress and he closed the door, shivering all over again.
His mind was racingâŚbut to no helpful ends. It just made no sense. Eleven years ago he had gone to Ann Arbor to watch his sisterâs oldest son graduate a Wolverine from the University of Michigan. In the days following, the entire dysfunctional family went to north to Mt Holly to do some skiing. Morgan remembered thinking that he would never see that much snow again for the rest of his lifeâŚhe was wrong.
He then ran to the kitchen window to see what the ocean-side view consisted of but not before, cursing to himself, he put on the one set of clothing that he hated to wear the most: socks. The sight was normally his favorite as his little piece of retirement heaven sat directly on the beach, but today it was the most disturbing thing he had ever laid his eyes on. Green palm trees, golden sand and brilliant blue waters were replaced by a clean sheet of white. The snow that continued to fall did nothing to improve the view, but he was acutely aware of where the island ended and the Atlantic began and that line could no longer be seen. There was nothing on the other side of that window that would have indicated that he was anywhere near a body of water; no waves or rockingâŚjust a smooth layer of omission.  It shook him.
Grapping the remote from the kitchen counter, Morgan flipped on the outdated, thirteen-inch television that sat next to the coffee maker.
ââŚwhich officials have called a âbomb-cycloneâ. Again, officials are warning all residents to stay inside andâŚwait, ok weâre going to Sam now with the latest updateâŚSam?  Thanks Jane, this is definitely unprecedented. This storm is the first of its kind in recorded history and the combination of conditions that needed to come together to produce this âstorm of the centuryâ are seldom seen inâŚâ The signal cut out and the high pitched tone of the Emergency Broadcast System filled the room, bouncing off the linoleum floor and wicker cabinets. Morgan had been half expecting it to kick on at any minute anyway.
âThis is the Emergency Alert System,â the familiar, robo-toned voice informed. âThis is not a test. We repeat, this is not a test. FEMA and the National Weather Service have issued a severe weather storm warning for the Florida Keys region. All citizens are encouraged toâŚâ The screen went black and the lights followed. Morgan could hear the furnace clicking its way to a stop.  The power was out. Everything else about this freaky storm was foreign to him but thisâŚthis he could handle.
On Stock Island, Florida, at the very tip of the Keys, they werenât unfamiliar with inclement weather. In the last decade alone, hurricanes had become something of an ever-present threat; a new moniker always just waiting in the deep of the Atlantic to come say âhiâ. The population of Stock Island included just a little over twelve-hundred residents and it was fair to say that at least two-thirds of them had become was the media like to call âpreppersâ. Hardly any of those were like what you might see on a reality show with bunkers and arsenals, but after getting your butt handed to you storm after stormâŚyou learn to prepare the basics.
The emergency generator had been installed nearly twenty years ago after Hurricane Georges decimated the area and, while a little outdated, stayed perfectly dry in its concrete hovel connected to the kitchen by a tiny, half-door in the wall behind the refrigerator. Morgan had the spot created so that he would be able to access it from inside the house while the fumes it produced stayed outside; all while staying nice and dry from potential torrential waters. It took a moment to roll the fridge out of the way and even longer for the machine to come to life but eventually he could hear the furnace grumbling again and he breathed a small sigh of relief. Never in his wildest dreams would he have considered the possibility of freezing to death in this house.
Morgan flipped the TV back on but there was no longer a signal coming in on any channel; just static snow.  Just like outside. It was the same on the good television on the living room. He fell onto his couch and sighed. It was still cold, but at least he couldnât see his breath anymore.  He needed to take inventory. The majority of the supplies he had managed to collect were outside in the metal shed he shared with his neighbor, Frank, so at some point he would have to venture out there.
Morgan wondered for a moment if Frank was okay but really only so much as to hope that he had been able to restock his supply before this freak storm came along. Frank was not only his neighbor, but his weed dealer as well, and maybeâŚmaybeâŚhis friend, although he didnât really care for the guy most days. It was a small community, however, and Frank was the closest thing he had to a buddy. PlusâŚhe needed more pot. There was no way he was going to suffer through this thing sober. He had just about decided to pick up his cell and call when the act was interrupted by a pounding on the exterior front door; hard enough to rattle the glass in its frame.
The urgency in the knock brought him to his feet quickly but whoever was at the door was already working the glass door, which swung both ways, open into the matted snow. It didnât matter as the main door was deadlocked but that didnât stop them from rattling the handle before Morgan could get to it.
âMorgan!â they screamed at the top of their lungs. It was FrankâŚhe sounded freaked. Morgan flipped the lock and Frank, in his chinos and golf shirt, nearly fell on top of him trying to get through the door. Morgan fell back against a wall and Frank slammed the door shut, locked it and then threw his back against it, panting. Eyes, wild and darting, he looked like a feral animal.
âWhat the hell Frank?â Frank didnât say a word and, after a moment, hurried to the bottle of Jim Beam he knew would be tucked away on the book shelf and threw back two large gulps. âFrank?â Morgan asked again, following the other man into the living room and then the kitchen as he paced with the bottle of bourbon in hand. âFrank!â he finally demanded after several minutes of his semi-psychotic behavior.
âHave you been outside?â he said finally turning his attention to his neighbor. Morgan just kind of shrugged.
âNoâŚI mean, I opened the door. This is crazyâŚright?â Frank looked at him like he was speaking gibberish and knocked back another swig, easily his sixth or seventh shot in the last few minutes before emitting a sarcastic chuckle, devoid of any real happiness.
âCrazyâŚ?â Frank shook his head. âMan youâve got no idea whatâs going on out there.â That was all Morgan could get out of him though as Frank slowly slid into a dining room chair, clutching his bottle of whiskey and lost in his own thoughts. The guy must have gotten really messed up last night; that and the combination of waking to the storm probably fried his circuits.  He was pretty close to a burn-out as it was. Morgan wrapped his neighbor in a couple blankets from the closet and set himself to the task of forming the warmest outfit possible. He was going to need to hike out to the shed, no matter how bad it was out there. It was where all the food, water and supplies he was going to need were located.
With the use of some towels, belts, socks and almost all his shirts, Morgan was able to cobble together an outfit that, while looking like a deranged, Arab clown, felt like it should have been warm enough. It wasnât terribly accommodating as he waddled himself back into the living room and took a look over his shoulder at Frank who still staring off into the unknown and muttering about the snow. A few laborious steps later and he was unlocking the door and pulling open both doors at the same time as they had frozen together.  The cutting wind that came through immediately pointed out the defects in his snowsuit design and bit at areas he didnât even know were exposed.  He needed to be quick or he wouldnât make it at all.
The door never made it all the way open, however, because Frank, with a speed Morgan didnât know the bigger man was capable of, had run across the room and lunged at the door; ripping the handle from his hand and slamming it shut. No longer in his state of catatonic nerurosis, Frank had returned to the wild-eyed and frantic person that first came in and used his body to block Morganâs access to the door.
âJesus Frank!â Morgan screamed with more than a little surprise. âWhat the hell, man?â
âYou canât go out there.â Frankâs voice was hushed, barely above a whisper and not at all in line with his current demeanor. âThereâsâŚthingsâŚout there.â Morgan could only shake his head with frustration. The world was going to frozen shit outside and he had to deal with this? Frank had obviously gotten a hold of some bad shitâŚit wouldnât have been the first time he had said âokayâ to joint laced with PCP, but could there possibly be a worse time for Morgan to have to babysit his neighborâs bad trip?
âFrankâŚâ Morgan tried to keep his voice as even and calm as possible, despite his desire to smack the other man senseless. âYou need to come sit down.â Gently, he led Frank by the arm to the aging couch. Taking a seat across from him, Morgan did his best to keep eye contact between them. âFrankâŚthere are always things out there. I know it looks a little freaky.â Morgan had no idea if Frank had even seen snow before. âBut itâs just a crazy storm. They said itâs a âstorm of the centuryâ.â  He didnât appear to be getting through. Frank shook his head venemantly.
âNo. No. No. I canât let you go out there.â He seemed adamant and Morgan pulled out his last joint from the drawer in the coffee table where he kept his paraphernalia and lit it. The familiar odor of marijuana seemed to draw Frank back to reality a bit and after a few hits he was somewhat calmer so Morgan tried to readdress the issue.
âFrankâŚwe can make it through this. Itâs just a storm. We have all the supplies we need in the shed; somebody has to go out there and get them though. Do you understand?â  Frankly, he didnât give a damn if Frank understood or not, he just wanted the fool to stay out of his way long enough to actually get things done. At the rate the snow was coming down, every second they waited added to the difficulty of the thirty-yard trek. Sure it would be great to have his help, but at this point Morgan would settle for his just not being a detriment. Frank inhaled half the joint while considering his words before finally responding.
âIf you go out thereâŚyou wonât come back.â Morgan could hear the sincerity in his voice and sighed. He went to the kitchen before returning with a pair of all-weather walkie-talkies that they sometimes used when they went kayaking together.
âFrank,â he said as he handed one of the radios to his neighbor. âYouâre having a bad trip man. Look at me.â  He did. âYou know I wouldnât lie to you about that. Thereâs nothing out there but shitty weather and thereâs nothing in here but Fritos and Corn Flakes. If we want to eat more than one crappy meal and keep the generator running more than twelve hoursâŚit has to be done. I have to walk out to the shed. Do you understand?â Morgan thought maybe he was beginning to. He was going to try to be sympathetic either way as Frank had once talked him down from the roof of a house party many years ago when Morgan was convinced he could fly.  Weâve all been there.
Finally, after several more wasted minutes and the remainder of the joint, Frank agreed to let Morgan go out to the shed. The big guy promised to monitor his progress from the house as best he could. Morgan considered asking about getting more weed from Frankâs place but it had taken long enough to progress to this point, so he let it go for the time being and made his way into the snow. Frank shut and locked the door behind him.
Morgan instantly regretted his decision to go out. It was like trying to walk in cold, wet quicksand and every step was as much of a workout as he had done in years. His âsnowsuitâ became wet after a couple of feet and began to harden and freeze a few feet after that; digging into his skin like frozen glass. His entire body was aching and numb and he realized very quickly that he needed to pick up the pace; if for no other reason than to not freeze to death in his driveway.
Morgan had walked every inch of that yard at least a thousand times; he could make his way to the shed blindfolded if he chose to do so. Today was different, however. The wind and snow was blinding and he found himself becoming turned around several times. He might as well have been in Antarctica. When he finally settled on what he thought was right direction Frank piped in over the walkie to say he could barely see him but he thought Morgan was going the wrong way. What should have been a twenty second walk was pushing twenty minutes and Morgan would have turned back had his tracks not been already covered. Every step was a battle to keep momentum with the cutting wind and snow drifts working against him; every foot sinking a little bit further than the one before.
Desperate and terrified, his muscles beginning to refuse their commands, Morgan picked up the radio to let Frank know that he wasnât going to make it when the saw the hazy silhouette of the shed coming up before him and cast out a small prayer of thanks. His fingers struggled to move as he navigated the combination lock on the door and the irony wasnât lost on him that he might die having made it to, but not into, his destination. He did finally get the combination in but the lock still took a couple additional smacks against the door to shatter the ice holding it shut.
The temperature was barely any different inside the metal shed, but Morgan knew exactly what he needed the second he saw the box labeled âMichiganâ. As quickly as he could with massive, cold-induced delirium tremors, Morgan peeled out of his ice-cubed clothes and squeezed into insulated ski suit he wore on that trip so long ago. It wasnât as easy as he had hoped. While the TV commercials made sitting on the beach with a Corona Light in your hands look relaxingâŚand it was, they never really advertised the body type that activity would give you. After so many sunsets and so many beers, the portion of the ski-suit around his belly was more akin a girdle. It was uncomfortable as hell trying to get it zipped up but at least it was warm and Morgan could feel his body temperature returning to a less critical level.
âMorganâŚare you okay?â Frank broke in on the radio.
âYea man,â he answered, âI made it. I had to change clothes. I thought I was going to freeze to death.â
There was a long pause and then, âMorganâŚI think theyâre out there again.â  Oh hellâŚnot this again.
âFrank thereâs nothing out there, man. ListenâŚIâm going to gather what I can carry and Iâll be back in a little bit.â Frank didnât reply and Morgan set himself to gathering what he could into a laundry basket that wasnât already in the large âbug-outâ bag he could throw over his shoulder. Mostly it was MREs, water, a couple tanks of fuel, and a few of the outfits and coats he wore on the trip. It was highly unlikely that anything would fit Frankâs larger frame, but considering he was wearing a blanket as a dress, maybe they could make something work. Deciding that he had just about all he could carry, Morgan was stopped from opening the shed door by a noise.
With a resounding thud which vibrated down the walls, something fell onto the roof; at least thatâs what he thought at first.  Perhaps a chunk of ice from the coconut trees? Maybe a frozen coconut, itself? Whatever it was it had some mass to it. Letting the initial spook subside, Morgan was ready to open the door again when it began to moveâŚto walk? There were a series of loud clicks like screwdrivers tapping against the corrugated metal roof as it moved around. As insane as the thought wasâŚit sounded like a giant insect. Morganâs gloved hand froze just shy of the handle; he didnât move a muscleâŚjust listened.
A second thud as something else hit the roofâŚlanded?  And then there were two of them clicking their way in circles a few feet above his head. So many disturbing thoughts and images came flooding into his mind it was impossible to organize them; a cavalcade of every monster movie he had seen since the third grade combined with the newsman saying, âstorm of the centuryâ andâŚoh geez, worst of allâŚfriggin Frank. Frank really did see somethingâŚand then that son-of-a-bitch let him go outside?  Heâll say he tried to warn you. NoâŚthat wasnât a warning. He said âthingsâ âŚhe didnât say âflying monstersâ.
âMorgan?â Frank broke through on the walkie-talkie and suddenly it was way too loud. The clicking came to an instant stop and Morgan fumbled with the radio in his gloved hands, desperately trying to turn it off before he could say another word. âMorgan?â  He was too late. Both of theâŚthingsâŚon the roof quickly clicked their way to the point directly above him and Morgan tore off his glove with his teeth to turn down the volume before it could happen again.
âFrankâŚâ Morgan hissed into the radio. âThereâs something out here.â
âShit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. I told you.â
Morgan was suddenly enraged with his friend but the fear still won out and he kept his voice at a whisper. âNoâŚFrankâŚyou did not tell me this. You fucking said that there were âthingsâ out here. You didnât say shit about monsters.â
âMonsters?â Frank sounded frantic. âYouâve seen them? You know what they are? Theyâre monsters? Jesus MorgâŚâ Morgan turned off the radioâŚthey were moving again, walking around with what sounded like many legs. Next to the door hung a machete, which Morgan hadnât planned on taking but was now lashing to his waist. After several agonizing minutes of praying, whatever had been on top of the shed apparently grew bored and just disappeared; either jumping off the tiny building or flying away. Morgan switched the radio back on.
âFrank?â
âOh Jesus MorganâŚI thought something happened to you. You scared the crap out of me. LiterallyâŚIâm taking a dump right now.â  He didnât want to hear that.
âGeez FrankâŚTMI man. TMI.â Morgan took out a head lamp and strapped it to his hood. âIâm going to try and come back in a second. I need for you to keep a watch out and help direct me. Iâve put a light on my head so hopefully youâll be able to see it.â Morgan then grabbed a couple of tennis rackets and strapped one to each foot with a bungie cable. It wasnât pretty but it would have made MacGyver proud.
The wind smacked him in the face again but with significantly less bitter intensity this time; the ski-suit made a world of difference temperature wise. However, being squeezed into it like a sausage and having a hefty bundle to carry, the progress wasnât a lot better once he got outside again. If it werenât for the home-made snowshoes it might have been worse. Frank was able to make visual contact with the head lamp and did an adequate job giving him directions, although it could have been better since he kept mixing up his left and right with Morganâs.
Morgan had just about reached the half way point between the shed and the driveway when something caught his eye just off to his right; which was surprising since he could barely see anything at all, even with the ski-goggles on. It was something in the snow and, after putting the basket and duffle bag on a drift, he decided to investigate. It had only caught his eye for a split-second and he couldnât even be sure that he saw it, but it made enough of an impact on his psyche that he felt compelled to check it out. Unfortunately, it was what he originally suspected and hoped he had been wrong aboutâŚit was blood.
Bright red against the spotless array of white, there was a lot of it beginning to freeze on top of the snow; and it led off in a trail away from his property and towards the Ashburnâs, an elderly couple that lived catty-corner to him. Morgan followed the trail for a few feet before realizing that he was going to have to decide just how far he was going to go here. It didnât look like it was ending any time soon. Should he go all the way to the old peopleâs house to check on them?  Probably notâŚprobably best to get the supplies in the house and make a plan from there.
Morgan went a few more feet but, remembering how quickly he lost his own trail before, decided to turn back for now. He would have too if something else hadnât stood out to him next to the trail of blood. Getting down on his knees as best he could, Morgan tried to get a better look at what looked like a little, white bean or something poking out from the snow. Brushing some snow away it became clearâŚit was a finger. Morgan brushed more snow away to reveal the hand it was attached to. Sheathing the machete, he grabbed it with both of his to pull free the poor soul who had become buried in the cold and pulled with all his might.
The hand, which was severed from its owner at the wrist, easily came free sending Morgan sprawling backwards and onto his ass, half buried in snow himself and screaming in repulsed horror. He flung the frozen appendage and scrambled to his feet with as much speed as the environment would permit. His heart pounded against his ribcage as he hustled back to his provisions. Every moment of this day had upped the ante. It went from strange to scary to what in the holy hell was going on here; and escalating by the second.
Morgan found his way back to his supplies and was working to wedge them free from their frozen mold when something buzzed past his head. Initially he thought it was just the wind but when it happened the second time he realized it wasnât. It sounded like a giant waspâŚgiant as in, the size of a dog or cat. For a split-second he considered the possibility of drones; it was about the right size of some of the ones he had seen flying around the island butâŚwho in their right mind would be out flying drones right now? That and those damn things he heard in the shed quickly convinced him otherwise.
Brandishing the long blade again, Morgan kept his head on a swivel desperately trying to make out anything in the hazy, winter fog swirling around him. Any noise, any shape, anyâŚthing, and he was ready to split it from head to toe. Hell would freeze over before he ended up like âHandyâ back thereâŚif it hadnât already. A couple of times he thought he heard something and he thought he saw something, slicing the air both times, but nothing came at him and so he grabbed the radio.
âFrank?â
âYea man?â  Thank God he was still there.
âCan you see me?â Morgan shook his head a little to emphasize the light.
âYea manâŚbarely.â
âDo you see anything else out here?â
âShit manâŚlike what? Monsters? Are there more monsters?â Frank was getting himself worked up again.
âWill you just stop with the âmonstersâ already? Itâs not helping. JustâŚdo you see anything at all?â
âNo,â the fear was still in his voice. âI just see you. I think you need to hurry up.â  At least they agreed on that.
âYeaâŚI know. Listen man, Iâm gonna make for the back door; I think itâll be quicker. So be ready to let me in.â
âRoger that.â Morgan threw the bag back over his shoulder, grabbed the laundry basket and tried to balance all of it with the machete still in hand. At this point it seemed like the most valuable asset he was carrying and the last thing he would ditch if he had to. The backyard which was usually just a small patch of grass surrounded by beach sand, was deeper, if that were possible, than the front had been. The snow he used as the ground kept going up and up until he was eye level with the gutters and tiles on his roof by the time he reached the house.
âFrank,â he sighed, âwe got another problem. The back door is buried. Iâm going to have to go around front afterâŚâ something heavy flew by him, a blinding flash of white, and knocked the communication device from his hand sending it spilling onto the roof; his sentence left unfinished. With the weapon still firmly grasped, Morgan began slicing wildly at the air around him. There was something thereâŚseveral somethingsâŚflying through the air around him, just beyond the point of revealing any detail. Occasionally he thought he saw a wing or something white whipping past him. Something white that looked kind of likeâŚfur? It had to be an optical illusion. Whatever the things were, they were big and they were many and if he didnât get the hell out of there, they were seemingly partial to all body parts but hands.  Screw the walkie-talkie.
He could hear Frank calling out his name as he did his best to drag the basket and bag while still remaining defensively ready. Using the upper portion of his house as a brace and something to keep at his back, Morgan carefully made his way around, sporadically dropping everything to take a few swings at the eddying air. The fear kept him anxious and ready but he had to admit one thing, he wasnât cold anymore; a thin layer of sweat was building between him and his thermal suit.
Sliding over the corner of the house and down a straight slope, getting to the front door was the easiest part and Frank was there waiting for him, having correctly anticipated that the back door was out of question. Morgan slid the basket and bag across the frosty walkway into Frankâs waiting hands and had nearly crossed the threshold himself when something icy and sharp, like talons, tore through the back of his suit and jerked him back into the winter abyss, actually lifting him several feet from the ground in the process. Despite the snow, the fall was hard and it knocked the breath from his lungs.
Keenly aware that he no longer had his blade in hand and with his lungs desperately gasping for any bit of air, Morganâs panic reached a crescendoâŚor so he thought. That would, of course, be the moment one of them would land on his chest and stare him straight in the eye. The moment played out in surreal slow-motion, like time out of time, and felt like he was watching it happen from outside his own body. The insect was like nothing he had ever known and yesâŚhis first instinct was that it was an insect of some type.
It had strong arachnid qualities but not like any spider he had seen on National Geographic. It did have eight legs and an array of black, lifeless eyes, but it was easily the size of Mrs. Matthewâs beagle and was the adorned with the same white hair. Brittle and sharp, the hairs were long and brilliant white and did an outstanding job at concealing the thing within its snowy environment. The absolute topper, however, had to be the wings. Silver and white, two wings resembling what one might see on a dragon-fly, protruded from its back and flittered in the air as it cocked its head from left to right, surveying its prey.
Morgan knew, with complete certainty, that this was it.  This was how he would die. When the creature unhinged its mandibles revealing rows of spiked teeth it did nothing to dissuade the thought. He watched as it lunged for his throat and wondered how quickly he would die.  Would it remove his head with one swift bite or would he have to endure some degree ofâŚbeing eaten?   It was a question he was happy to have not needed the answer to as Frank, from out of nowhere, cleaved the dog-sized bug into two pieces with the machete he had dropped.
Drops of thick, blue blood sprayed out as the creature unleashed a deafening shrill of anguish before its two parts stopped twitching. The blood, if thatâs what it was, froze the second it touched his ski-suit and the small drop that hit his cheek burned intensely as it immediately froze the skin beneath it. Seemingly similar to hydrochloric acid, Morgan could only imagine what type of damage any more than a drop would have caused. Frank grabbed his arm and began to drag him into the house and, although his breath had yet to return, Morgan did his best to help him. Lying in the foyer panting, the two men stared at each other wordlessly after finally getting the door closed and locked.
They spent the next two hours unhinging cabinets and doors, salvaging as much wood as they could use to properly seal all the windows with hammer and nails. Since there wasnât enough wood to go all the way around Morgan had to get creative in the living room with his bookshelves and entertainment system. All in all, it was as secure as it could be, but at the same time they appeared to be getting buried beneath a mountain of snow so if those things could only stay airborne they were probably okay. If they were burrowers also, wellâŚthat was a different story.
It was around six in the evening when they got around to eating anything and, although there should have been daylight for another two or three hours at least, it appeared to be night time. It only took a little investigating to realize that they were completely buried, even the front door. Sunlight couldnât have gotten through if it wanted to. They ate their freeze-dried meals in glum silence and when they were done, Frank set about messing with the hand-crank radio while Morgan tried to treat the aching blackened spot on his check with some aloe. From in front of the bathroom mirror, Morgan heard the shortwave crackle to life as Frank apparently found a channel.
ââŚI donât know. Nobody knows.â It was a manâs voice, gravely and deep. âBut theyâre everywhere. All I can say right now is: stay out of the snow! I repeat: stay out of the snow! US Interstate One is unpassable at all bridges, not just the Key West connector; so donât even try it people. Weâve been receiving sporadic reports which weâll try to relay but the information is scarce at the moment. Some people on the northern keys are reporting cell service returning butâŚâ The radio went dead and Frank set to frantically cranking the handle again while Morgan retrieved his last bottle of whiskeyâŚthe good stuff. It had been tucked away for a special occasion and he couldnât foresee a better opportunity arising any time soonâŚif ever.
ââŚdonât let it touch you.â The radio came back to life. âAgainâŚthey are highly susceptible to heat. If you can make fire then you can kill the bastards; they will burn right up, but do not let their blood touch you. It has highly toxic properties and can cause instant damage or even death so donât let it touch you. There are a group of us gathered at the Boot Key High School gymnasium on Boot Key just north of the Seven Mile Bridge. If you can make it here safely, there is room butâŚâ It died again and this time Frank didnât bother to re-crank the battery.
âWhat the hell are we going to do man?â he finally asked after a few minutes of silence. Morgan, who found himself involuntarily picking at the new wound on his face, could only shake his head.  This wasnât exactly in the emergency preparedness manual he had ordered online. The damn thing even had a section on a zombie apocalypse, albeit tongue in cheek, but there was nothing about massive, flying snow-bugs provided by Emergency Press and Publishing.
âI guess we justâŚI donât knowâŚsurvive.â Morgan did his best. âI meanâŚits friggin Florida man; itâs got to warm back upâŚright?â Frank didnât seem so sure. âItâs not like the Earth tilted on its axis or anythingâŚotherwise weâd be dead. Itâs like they said on tee-vee before the power went down, itâs the âstorm of the centuryââŚyou knowâŚa freak occurance. It canât last forever.â Morgan wasnât sure if he was trying to convince Frank or himself. Either way, the words were making him feel a little better, even if he were the one saying them.
The moment was fleeting, however, when the sound of glass breaking in the kitchen sent a chill down both their spines. They knew immediately it was the back door. Since it had already been well beneath the snow, it was the one place they hadnât boarded up. That and they wanted a spot where they could make a hasty exit if it became necessary. They figured they could just break the glass upper portion of the door and tunnel their way out of the island igloo. Most likely the snowâs pressure had broken the glass on its own but they took no chances. Morgan grabbed his machete and Frank his homemade blowtorch cobbled together with a lighter and aerosol can of paint.
Morgan turned the corner seeing, first snow and broken glass then the snow-bug writhing in pain on the floor, the house obviously too warm for its survival. Frank followed right behind and they watched in horror as the thing would try to get up and walk or fly only a release a trill series of shrieks before falling on its back or side again. This went on for several mind-numbing seconds before the thing self-combusted into a ball of wriggling flame and, before too long, a pile of ash. It was terrifying to behold, yes; but it was also very educational with several important points jumping out at them. They were, much as the man on the hand-crank said, highly susceptible to heat; it couldnât have been any warmer than fifty-five or sixty degrees in the house, despite the furnaceâs best efforts.
The second, and probably most important to their current situation, was that the snow-bug had somehow dug its way in. They examined the tunnel it had made to reach the glass. It was crudely dug and only wide enough for a raccoon to squeeze through, but it was there none the less. The little bastards were hungry and, as it seemed now, aware of Morgan and Frankâs presence beneath them. The dining room table from Ikea became the barrier they used over the back door. It didnât even need to be nailed because once they wedged it into place, neither of them could move it again. It seemed they had just eliminated their only easy exit.
Around nine-thirty they fell asleep together, back to back, on the couch. They had both fought it as long as they could but this had been perhaps the most physically and emotionally draining day that either of them had ever experienced. The original plan had been to take turns keeping watch while sleeping in increments but Morganâs legs had been aching and cramping from his hike earlier in the day and that combined with Frankâs hangover from the whiskey and his scarred psyche and neither of them stood a chance for long.
Morgan woke several hours later to Frankâs vibrating shuddering but it was impossible to tell what time it was. It was pitch black and ice cold; the power was out.
âFrank,â Morgan whispered to the man shaking next to him. A couple seconds later he repeated himself, only slightly louder. âFrank!â It took a third attempt at the manâs name for him to bolt upright and awake.
âSammy!â Frank screamed into the darkness. Sammy was Frankâs son a lifetime agoâŚlong before Tawney left him for a bartender from Jacksonville and during a period in which he happily filled the role of husband and father. He had died in a car accident when he was three years oldâŚFrank was driving. It was the first time Morgan had heard Frank say the boyâs name since a drunken night on the beach many, many years agoâŚand that had been after a funeral.
âFrank,â Morganâs voice was gentle; Frankâs mind-set was not good right now. Calling out his dead sonâs name was proof enough of that. âFrank.â Morgan put his hand out into the darkness, reaching for his friends arm. He was shaking with violent sobs and Morgan put his arm around the man to console him while reaching for the flashlight on the table with his other. By the time his got the light on, Frank was back to just shivering again.
âIâm okay,â he assured Morgan.
âWe gotta fuel the jenny. Weâre gonna freeze to death if we donât.â Frank nodded in agreement but before they had a chance to move they heard the noises and realized that they were not alone in the dark. It was difficult to describe, a combination of clicks and chitters and rustling about; they knew exactly what it was. Frank was the first to spring into action, surprising Morgan with his rapid ability to break through the fear that held him in place.
The paint-can blow torch was in Frankâs hands in a split-second and suddenly a six foot blaze of raging flames rocketed across the room, illuminating the mass of snow-bugs that were gathering around them. It was a mental image that Morgan would never outlive. At least a half dozen of them were immediately burned to ashy crisps while the rest climbed over each other to escape the heat. Their screamsâŚoh Dear LordâŚtheir screams; they filled the room, vibrating off the walls and stabbing into their eardrums.
They were trapped, the snow-bugs were in every corner and on every wall, buzzing through the air. The fire was the only thing keeping them and bay and both men knew that would only last so long. Frank, who apparently could keep a cool head when he needed to, was able to figure out their best odds and called out to Morgan cowering behind him with the flashlight and machete.
âThe generator! We gotta get the heat going in here.â Morganâs mind raced. His tiny house seemed so large and foreign in the pitch blackness; he couldnât remember, for the life of him, where he had sat the fuel can earlier in the day. âKitchen!â Frank screamed, remembering that as well.  He was right.  It was in the kitchen next to the generator door. Morgan was starting to become really impressed with Frank all of the sudden. There was a very real possibility he had just saved both their lives with his quick thinking.
Morgan did his best to light the way as Frank shot out short bursts of fire, clearing as much space as he could with each blast. It was obvious that he was trying to conserve his âfuelâ. Just as they were crossing from one room to the next something sharp sliced out from above them, buzzing Morganâs ear before cutting it into two dangling pieces. He screamed involuntarily and cut upward with his own blade. The only thing it made contact with was the door frame but the rapid movement combined with the scream jolted Frank into a misfire.
The flame shot out and immediately ignited the kitchen window drapes which had been thrown onto the floor next to the two small canisters of diesel. The cloth pile went up quick and, between the screaming snow-bugs and nightmare blackness, somehow both men came to the same mental conclusion at the same time. There just enough time to share a knowing glance before they both leapt and then were concussed into the living room by the violent explosion which rocked the house on its foundation.
Large chunks of drywall and the plywood wall that separated the kitchen and living room piled on top of them, acting as a shield from the chain reaction of detonating snow-bugs; each alighting the next as the fire combusted its way around the house in a series of loud, wet explosive pops, like the worldâs biggest popcorn maker. It might have been their saving grace too had the main gas line not somehow ignited from either the fire or poorly located âbug-bombâ, but when it did three quarters of the house was blown away in an instant.
The second, larger explosion was deafening, much louder than the first, drowning out the last of the screaming snow-bugs trying to drag their burning bodies away from ground zero. It rocked the very earth beneath them before a tidal wave of brick, mortar, wood, steel and flaming embers of debris rained down on the already substantial pile that buried the two shell-shocked men. Neither of them could move for several minutes, both diving in an out of consciousness.
Frank was the first to come fully aware, brought to lucidity by the half-inch piece of steel rebar penetrating his calf like a giant punk-rock piercing. His moans brought about Morgan who wasnât much better with a couple cracked ribs and a left shoulder dislocated out its socket. It took an effort neither man would have ever dreamed they still had in them in order to crawl their way from beneath the pile of Morganâs fragmented homeâŚbut they did itâŚout of one hell straight into another.
Morgan looked at the broken and burning pieces of his lifeâŚhis memoriesâŚblown to hell all around him; it was in incomprehensible sight.  This wasnât really his home. In the morning he would wake up, start the coffee maker and have a good laugh at the completely messed up dream he will have woken from.  Flying snow spidersâŚa blizzard in Key WestâŚit was so laughable Morgan was starting to wonder why he was taking it all so seriously anyway. Frank, with clarity Morgan had yet to achieve, somehow kept his head in the moment and, through his urging, the two men assisted each other as much as possible and retreated to the only room left standing in the entire house: the bedroom.
By whatever twist of fate dictated such things, Morganâs tiny bedroom was the relatively undamaged. At very least, it was the only part standing with four walls, a roof and most importantlyâŚa door. Despite the fires burning just outside the room, the cold was closing in quickly and the they could already feel the first signs of hypothermia setting in. The avalanche of snow that continued to pour into the blackened ditch of his house was quickly dousing the remaining flames; it wouldnât be long before they were gone as well.  They needed to make a fire.
Morgan had no problem sacrificing the pile of his âbeach-readsâ paperbacks and his bedsheets; and he did his best to fashion a tee-shirt sling for his aching arm while Frank worked on starting a fire. He needed to pop it back into the socket but the only time he had seen that done was in âLethal Weaponâ and even then Riggâs technique didnât seem medically sound. If he somehow lived through the night, then maybe he would find a corner to smack it against in the morning. For now, it would just have to hurt.
Frank got a small fire started in the center of the room.  How did that man always have a lighter on him? The burning books produced thick, black smoke than began to gather quickly; choking them in the process. It became quite clear that the set-up wouldnât work and, again at Frankâs suggestion, they made a change to the scenario that neither of them were thrilled with. They moved the fire next to the bedroom door and opened the door a few inches.  It worked. The smoke furled out while the heat stayed in; the fire acting as a barrier between them and the clicking snow-bugs that could be seen flittering about in the dancing shadows.
They were so tiredâŚso soreâŚand, despite the pitiful fire, so cold it was impossible for either of them to stay awake and, after throwing the last flammable materials onto the fire, they didnât try to fight it any longer.  Holding hands on the floor together, Morgan and Frank, neighbors of twenty years, dealer and customer, and sometimes friends succumbed to the sweet release of sleep. It was a relaxing moment really, with the fire crackling in their ears, and Morganâs last lucid thought was I wonder if Iâll freeze to death or get eaten? That andâŚI wish I had a gun.
Morganâs dreams were violent images of splattering, blue blood and flying monstrosities and when he woke and indeterminable amount of time later, he was happy to have it end.  Except it wasnât really the endâŚwas it? He was still in the bedroom with Frank and everything hurt; his left shoulder feeling like it had been stabbed while his arm was going numb with pins and needles. The thing that actually woke him was the thin stream of sunlight coming through the still-cracked bedroom door warming his face.  Not just his face. It was warmerâŚmaybe sixty degrees in the room; while still cool for the Keys in August, it nothing compared to the artic temperature they had fallen asleep to. Morgan had apparently fallen asleep using Frankâs lap as a pillow while the big guy kind of slouched off to the side, still out cold.
Using his good arm, Morgan eased himself upright and gently shook Frankâs arm to wake him. âFrankâŚwake up.â Waking Frank could be like waking the dead anyway. Morgan knew that from any number of times he tried to get weed off him before noon, so he shook him a little harder. It took a half a minute of this for Morgan to realize that he really was trying to wake the dead. A check of the pulse verified it.  Frank was gone. Praying he was wrong and checking again, this time on a different wrist, tears began blurring his vision.  Oh Dear GodâŚFrank really was gone.
Morgan couldnât tell how his neighbor passed away but his best guesses were that Frank either froze to death or bled to death or a combination of the two; the less blood in his system, the quicker they hypothermia would have become critical. That being saidâŚwho the hell knew? Frank could have had a massive head trauma or internal bleeding or any number of things. For that matter, now that Morgan was thinking about it, so could he.
Gingerly, he made his way to his feet, over the charred spot on the floor and through the bedroom door which, being wedged with debris, took no small effort to open wide enough for him to squeeze through. Once he was in what used to be the hall, and with no walls to impede his view, Morgan eyes took in a sight that was balm for his soul. There were still some drifts and plenty of patches of snow, but the vibrant greens, lush browns and brilliant blue spots outnumbered them by a large margin.
Snow was melting into streams of water running in all directions and the ocean was much further up the beach butâŚat least it was there. The crashing waves were like music to his ears and without even knowing he was doing so, Morgan made his way to the shore; stumbling and climbing over rubble to get there. At the waterâs edge, he fell to his knees and ran his good hand through the sand.  There were large chunks of ice floating away to deeper water.  It was over. The tears came in a flood now and Morgan threw his head into his lap. There was no restraining the lurching sobs anymore. Now that the mind-numbing terror was gone and replaced with an overwhelming sense of loss crying was the only sensible thing to do.  Itâs all he could do.
The tears seemed endlessâŚand perhaps they might have been were it not for the sudden blast of frigid wind that smacked against him, nearly rolling him onto his side. Cursing his arm, Morgan regained his balance and cleared the moisture from his visionâŚinstantly wishing he hadnât. He didnât want to see what his skin could already feel. It was snowing again. From out of nowhereâŚit was snowing again; and this timeâŚit was coming down hard.
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