Although he had owned two in the last twenty years, Mark had not driven a snowmobile in the last nine, and never a scrapheap like the one he was riding. Top-heavy, the old Elan cornered poorly, and more than once it nearly tipped over. He drove for twenty minutes, a good five miles, and pulled up in a clearing. The woodsman had told him to keep the old beast running, but as he worked the throttle, it stalled.
“Damnit—”
The sheer silence struck him. The place was creeping with eyes.
Mark took stock of the clearing. He had been looking for a place just like this. Plenty of trees all around. Thick underbrush. All of it lost in the middle of nowhere.
What if some hunter stumbles across this place? What if they find this thing?
Then God help them.
He stepped through the snow to reach the trailer. As he reached for the tarp, he snapped his hand back. He whirled about.
It was there, that shapeless entity, skulking among the birch and the poplar. It had whispered his name.
Fear stuck in his throat. He had never felt so alone.
He held the Beretta at arm’s length; he had drawn it instinctively. He made a complete three-sixty where he stood, turning slowly with each step.
Show yourself … just give me the chance.
Something whipped past him, swift and determined. The skin on his face burned cold as it touched him, and in one quick motion he swung his arm left and fired. The report slew the silence, the bullet blasting through the windshield. He took two steps back and toppled into the snow.
Mark got to his feet, trembling. He had to let up on the trigger.
Do it now. Before it’s too late—before it gets dark.
He pulled back the tarp.
The cheese box was gone.