The invasion of snow came fast. It was like a switch had been turned, shutting off the world’s thermostat and opening up the clouds. There was no wind, only a downward tirade of flakes.
However much the gondola weighed was too much. Martin and Lane couldn’t move it an inch. Even with a lever, fashioned from some two-by-fours, they couldn’t begin to lift it off Chet. They couldn’t get access to his hands or feet. They could touch only his face.
“Hang in there,” Lane said as she ran her hand across his cheek. The snow was piling up, and Lane was doing her best to keep Chet from getting covered. He was still conscious, but only barely. His lips were a straight line. His eyes were struggling to stay open.
“I found these shovels and a tarp,” Martin said. “But there’s nothing to warm him up quickly. We already used all the propane.”
“Darla should be here any minute,” Lane said, checking her watch.
“Right, good,” Martin said, and he busied himself with clearing all the snow that had collected on the ground around them.
“He’s so cold, Martin,” Lane whispered, as if Chet couldn’t hear her. Both of her hands were now petting his cheeks.
“Keep doing what you’re doing,” Martin said as he shoveled. It was the best advice he could give. After all, what he was doing certainly wasn’t making much of a difference. Each time he turned around, the spot he had just shoveled was already covered in a skin of snow.
The snow was at least two feet high on the gondola, and every so often a hunk would slide down and land on Lane’s back or, worse, Chet’s face. Martin was tempted to knock some of it off the other side, but it had the potential to cause an avalanche and only make matters worse. He contemplated building some sort of a shelter around them, but the snow was coming fast and he didn’t want to leave Lane and Chet alone while he was collecting supplies.
Instead, he set the shovel down. He sat next to Lane. He took the blue plastic tarp he had found and pulled it over them.
“I’m here,” he said, placing his hand on Chet’s forehead. Chet’s eyes had finally closed. Lane waved her palm in front of his nose.
“He’s still breathing,” she said.
“Huddle in close,” Martin said.
The two curled up shoulder to shoulder to create more shelter with their bodies. They switched back and forth: one would rub both hands together while the other placed warm fingers on Chet’s face.
“We should keep talking. Give him something to listen to,” Martin suggested.
“What do you want to talk about?” Lane asked.
“I don’t know,” Martin said. “Books. Do you read books?”
“I’ve read books.”
“What type do you like? Mystery? Comedy? Sometimes I can’t tell the difference,” Martin said.
“Is that supposed to be a joke?”
“I guess so.”
“You’re not funny, Martin,” Lane said delicately. “That’s one thing about you. You’ve never been funny.”
“Oh.”
“It’s not your fault. Being funny takes experience.”
“I’ve read a lot of books.”
“And you’ve built a lot of machines, evidently,” Lane said. “Not the same as living.”
“Just one other,” Martin admitted.
“What?”
“I’ve only built one other machine.”
“Okay,” Lane said. “And did that one work?”
Martin didn’t answer.
Lane filled in the blank by saying, “And this one won’t either.”
Until that point, Martin had only been annoyed by Lane’s cynicism. Now he found himself legitimately angry.
“Then why are you helping me?” he asked.
“Have you ever wondered why we’re the only ones left?” she responded.
“But you haven’t figured it out?”
“ ’Cause we’re lucky?”
“No. ’Cause we’re awful,” Lane said plainly. “None of us really care that everyone is gone. We only care about ourselves.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Martin said, though he did understand her point.
“And you’re different,” Lane said. “That’s why I’m helping. You’re the only kid in the world who wants to do something big. There must be a reason why that is. If I hitch myself to your post, things will happen to me. Things I can’t do for myself. Even when this machine doesn’t work.”
Martin blew into his hands and rubbed them together. As he placed them on Chet’s face, Lane took her hands away. Their eyes met for a moment. Over the last couple of months, Martin had gotten better at reading people. While he couldn’t tell for sure if Lane was lying, he could see in those brilliant silver eyes that she wasn’t telling him everything.
“I had one friend on the island,” Martin said. “His name was George. And I had my father. All I want to do is see them again. Maybe I’m as selfish as everyone else.”
“Maybe,” she said.
The tarp began to sag under the weight of the snow, so the two huddled even closer.
Chet died sometime around five a.m. His breathing slowed, then stopped, and no matter how much they rubbed their hands, they couldn’t bring the warmth back to his face. A couple more feet of snow had collected on the tarp and the gondola. From the outside, they must have seemed like nothing but a few bumps along the wintery landscape. Lane and Martin didn’t say anything to each other. They just took their hands off Chet’s face and stood up. The cocoon of white broke open.
Silently, they trudged through the snow as best they could, but they were wearing only sneakers, jeans, and thin jackets. The going was tough, and the sensation in their hands and feet was starting to shift from pinpricks to numbness. What should have been a five-minute walk back to the machine stretched out to over half an hour. When they finally reached it, they knocked snow from the door and tumbled inside.
They lay down on their backs next to each other. It was cold in there, but not nearly as cold as it was outside. Martin turned his head to look up at the empty spot near the control panel where the glass door was to have been mounted, where it was to have divided the machine into its two chambers. Then he turned back and looked at Lane. Her face was damp and red.
“It shouldn’t have been Chet. It should’ve been me,” she said.
Martin didn’t respond.
“This is when people say, ‘Don’t talk like that.’ This is when people cry, Martin.”
“I know,” he said, but he really didn’t. He had no idea what a person did with death, and he didn’t feel like crying. His mind buzzed with images of himself, alone in the world once again.
“This is also when people hold each other.”
Before he could respond, Lane was pushing her hand underneath Martin’s back and reaching around to his side. As she pulled herself closer to him, he felt her cold fingers on his ribs. He shivered.
“Sorry,” she said, snaking her head under his arm and onto his chest.
“It’s okay.”
Her long black hair spread over him like oil. He leaned his head forward until his nose was touching her scalp. It smelled vaguely smoky and rusty, but in an appealing way. His mind wandered to passages in books about first kisses. They always described how a girl’s hair smelled. Like dew, like heather, like the ocean, like nutmeg. Like clouds, like childhood, like dreams. Like all sorts of things, but never like this.
He kissed a spot on her scalp where the hair sprouted in different directions.
“Thank you,” Lane said, not moving.
Then Martin closed his eyes. The sun would be up soon. He was hungry. He was cold. He wanted to sleep. More than anything, he wanted to sleep.
The growl of Kid Godzilla woke him. Lane stood at the exterior door of the machine. As she pushed it open, sunlight raced in. Martin pulled himself up and followed her outside.
The snow had stopped falling, but it was piled nearly four feet high in some places. It wasn’t enough to deter Kid Godzilla, though. The truck was cutting through the snow slowly, but easily. It came to a stop a few yards from the machine. The door opened and down hopped Darla, fully outfitted in a brand-new lavender snowmobile suit.
“Check it out, squares,” she chirped. “Ready for a new winter.”
Before Darla could take a step, Lane chucked a snowball at her. Darla dodged and stumbled backward, as it barely missed her shoulder. From the other side of the truck, Henry hopped down. He was wearing a white camouflage jumpsuit. He didn’t appear to notice the snowball assault. His face was uncharacteristically cheery.
“What the what?” Darla said, checking herself to see if she had been hit.
“Where were you?” Lane screamed.
“Settle down, you spaz,” Darla said. “We got distracted. Don’t worry, when the snow started, we went on a shopping spree. Got everyone new scarves and cute mittens and everything. People’s outfits from last winter are so … last winter.”
“It started snowing hours ago,” Martin said.
“Figured you’d be laughing it up by the fire, roasting marshmallows,” Darla said.
“Making s’mores,” Henry added.
“Speaking of marshmallows,” Darla said, chuckling, “where’s Chet?”
No one answered.
“Chet?” Darla pressed. “You know? Tons o’ fun?”
Lane formed another snowball as if she were crushing the life out of it. This one hit Darla square in the nose.