Snowblind by Christopher Golden Read Free Book Online Page A

and Federal Colonials. Old-growth trees, weighted with snow, hung their branches over the road to form a surreal white tunnel. One of those old oaks had come down and taken the power line with it. Keenan rolled up in his patrol car, headlights washing over the figures in orange jackets, swaddled in hats and scarves and stomping their feet to keep warm as they cut into the splintered tree while others were dealing with the fallen power lines.
    Thirteen lines down so far, Keenan thought. Gonna be a long night.
    Tens of thousands were without power in Coventry alone, and these poor bastards were going to be working around the clock out here in the storm until every bulb was burning again. Right now they would be focused on cutting off power to the fallen lines—most of the cleanup and repair would have to wait until morning—so it surprised him to see them taking apart the massive fallen oak.
    Keenan put on his blues, the lights dancing around the car, mixing with the red and orange emergency lights of the workers’ vehicles and making strange, unnatural colors. One of the workers approached the car. Keenan figured him for a foreman, considering that he seemed focused mostly on drinking from a huge thermos while the others tried not to electrocute themselves.
    “How’s it going?” Keenan asked.
    “Slow as molasses.” The tall man took a sip from his thermos and then wiped the back of his glove across his thick, white mustache. “No easy way to do this even in the best conditions. But this is just nuts.”
    “Why not wait till morning?”
    The foreman shrugged. “Guess they figure it’s gonna snow half the day tomorrow anyway, so we might as well get started.”
    “I don’t know how you guys are keeping up with the downed lines,” Keenan said. “I’ve responded to calls about three of ’em already. They’ve all had the juice cut off pretty damn quick after we locate them, but just getting to them must a bitch, considering what a bang-up job Public Works is doing with the plowing.”
    The foreman laughed, rolling his head back with a snort of disdain. “Those fucking guys. Don’t get me started. You know they’re all somewhere drinking whiskey and laying bets on who’ll take down the most mailboxes.”
    Keenan chuckled. “You’re not kidding. I saw three of the trucks in the BJ’s parking lot.”
    He didn’t begrudge the plow drivers their breaks. They would be cleaning up after the storm for a long time. And he understood the temptation to take it easy, knowing how few people would be out on the road tonight. But I’m out here, Officer Keenan thought. And I’m not the only one.
    “You getting a lot of calls tonight?” the foreman asked.
    “Enough,” Keenan said. It had been quiet at first, but in the past two hours the calls had come more frequently, all of them concerning downed power lines.
    “Well, stay safe.”
    Officer Keenan wished the man the same and rolled up his window, tapping the accelerator. He felt the tires spin for a second, kicking up snow before they found purchase. His fingers ached just from the grip he had been keeping on the wheel since he’d started his shift and he wanted his soft, warm bed. More than that, he wanted this night to be over.
    A burst of static came over the radio and the dispatcher’s voice filled the car. “Coventry Control to Car Four.”
    Keenan picked up the radio. “Car Four, Winchester Street.”
    “Car Four, we have a call from a Jill Wexler, Seventy-five Kestrel Drive. Her fifteen-year-old-son, Gavin, went sledding with two others. The boys were sleeping over the Wexlers’ and snuck out. The woman thinks they went out to the viaduct behind Whittier Elementary. The father—Mr. Wexler—is out looking for them.”
    “Car Four responding,” Keenan said.
    He hit the pedal and the car slewed a bit until he righted it, keeping the nose straight ahead. If the kids and Mr. Wexler were out behind the Whittier school, all would be well, but if they