MINUS FOUR
By
J.T. Cummins
Smashwords Edition
Published by PopPix Press
Los Angeles, California
COPYRIGHT
Minus Four Copyright © 2010 James Thomas Cummins. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
LICENSE NOTICE
This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to www.smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
CONTACT
E-mail J.T. at: jt@jtcummins.com or visit him online at: jtcummins.com
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
J.T. Cummins is a thriller author and screenwriter. He writes e-fiction exclusively for the digital market. His e-fiction includes Cobblestones, The Jitters, and Weaker Sex (co-written with Douglas Nabors a producer of the Emmy winning TV series Monk). J.T. is also the screenwriter-director of the horror movie classic The Boneyard. A former Hollywood FX artist, J.T.’s work appears in The Thing, House, Strange Invaders, Enemy Mine, and many others.
As a writer, J.T.’s diverse creative background manifests itself in an aggressive narrative style that merges the immediacy of the screenplay and the intimacy of the novel. Utilizing an active voice and minimal exposition, J.T. creates lean, mean, mind’s eye movies geared to a busy, modern audience that enjoys reading smart, fast paced, exciting fiction — all in about the time it takes to watch a feature length motion picture.
ONE
Clad in jackets and winter gear, three twentysomething men and one woman sprawl unconscious inside a canted, cavernous 1977 Cadillac Sedan Deville. Oddly, outside the windows, the world is a white, sterile void.
Behind the wheel, grunge snowboarder, Ryan McCall is the first to come around. He checks the knot on his head and reorients himself. “Guys,” he whispers hoarsely, but no one answers. On auto-pilot, Ryan tries to open his door, but he can’t manage it. He tries to crank down the window, but it is frozen shut. “Christ,” he curses in the frosty air, and elbows the ruggedly handsome figure beside him. “Conover? Wake up.”
“Wassup?” Conover asks groggily.
“We’re in trouble.” Ryan cranes his neck and looks into the vast backseat. “Gwen? Curtis? Are you two alive back there?”
Ominously, no one answers.
“Hey!” Ryan shouts.
Instantly, mod, strung-out Gwyneth Popkie and porky black-hipster Curtis Dell snap awake.
“What…what happened?” Gwen asks no one in particular.
“Last thing I remember,” Ryan offers. “We were comin’ up on the pass. There was a bump, and we started to skid...”
Stiff, Curtis struggles to an elbow. “We rolled too, I think — maybe twice?”
Nervous, Ryan begins to pop his knuckles. “Try your doors. Mine’s stuck.”
Curtis shoulders his door. “I think she’s frozen shut.”
“What about a window?” Conover says with a groan. “See if we can jet through a window.”
Curtis cranks down his passenger window and discovers a wall of dense snow. Tentatively, he pushes against it, but it is rock solid. “Brutal. We must’ve wiped out in an avalanche. We’ll have to tunnel out.”
“There’s no sunlight through the snow.” Conover says sagely. “Diggin’ down isn’t gonna cut it.” He looks to Gwen’s window and the faint glow of light that shines through. “Gwen, what about your door?”
Gwen pulls the handle and pushes, but she’s not strong enough. “Curtis, give me a hand.”
“Here’s two,” he jokes inappropriately and leans against the door.
“Ready?” Gwen asks Curtis.
He nods.
“Go,” she says.
Together, the pair push and strain, but the door won’t budge.
“Fuck,” Gwen blurts in frustration and falls back against the seat. “There’s gotta be a ton of snow out there.”
“It’s okay,” Ryan says, in a faux-calm voice that doesn’t fool anyone. “Everything’s just diggity-dank. It’s just diggity —”
“Gwen,” Conover interjects. “Try your window.”
Gwen reaches above her and manages to crank the window half way down before snow tumbles in and dowses poor Curtis.
“What the fuck! Close it! Close it!”
Quickly, Gwen rolls the window shut.
“This is whacked,” Curtis says as he spits snow. “We get together for a weekend ski, and we end up buried alive. And here I hate boardin’!” Curtis lashes out and kicks the door. “The next time you guys wanna be snow bunnies, just leave me be, okay? If I wanna freeze, I’ll stay home and stick my ass in my mom’s Frigidaire.”
“Oh, Curtis,” Conover says in a motherly falsetto. “Leftovers again?"
“Step off, fool. If I wanted your garbage, I’d squeeze your head.”
“Hey,” Conover retorts with false bravado. “You bust a move on me, I’ll roll your face in dough and make gorilla cookies.”
Momentarily taken aback by the comment, Curtis scowls, but when he sees Conover’s wry smile, he bursts into laughter.
Greeeonk!
Everyone stiffens as the right side of the Cadillac drops a full foot and its angle steepens considerably.
“What was that?” Curtis asks, his eyes wide and fearful.
“Settling,” Conover says, not at all sure. “Just settling.”
Distressed, Ryan begins to gulp air. “Ugh-huh, ugh-huh,” he gasps.
“Don’t tweak out on us, Ryan.” Gwen fumbles in her pocket and lifts out her cellular phone. “Look, we’re going to be okay.” She flips open her phone and reveals a split in the body. “Fuck!” Gwen tries to activate the phone anyway, but it’s no use. She looks to her comrades and they each pull out cell phones and attempt to dial out. One by one, they return looks of defeat. “Okay, okay,” Gwen says in an effort to regroup mentally. “We can still manage. For all we know, help is already on the way. Right, Ry?”
Ryan chugs the cold air even faster.
“Ryan?”
Chug, chug, chug...
“Ryan!” Conover barks.
Startled by Conover’s authoritative voice, Ryan hiccups and chokes on his own gasp.
“Calm down,” Conover says softly. “Just slow it down a bit, okay?”
“He’s right,” Gwen soothes. “You’re hyperventilating. Take slow breaths...” She demonstrates and Ryan follows her lead. “Sloowww...”
Ryan begins to calm.
“Better?” Gwen asks.
“‘Diggity-dank.’”
“Yeah,” Curtis grumbles. “And if it ain’t?”
“Help will be here,” Gwen says confidently.
“Shit. Say that enough times Popkie, and even I might start to believe you.”
Crea-onk! The car shifts again and its angle steepens.
Fear in his eyes, Ryan’s hands fly to the car horn in the hope that someone outside might hear. Honk! Hooonk!
“Ryan,” Conover winces. “C’mon, man.”
Honk! Honk!
“We were on a major road. Someone’s gonna come. Just be cool.”
Honk! Honk!
“Ryan,” Gwen says firmly. “Listen to Conover. We may be in the mountains, but road crews work this grade all the time. When a snow-cat shows, we’re home free."
“Damn,” Curtis snorts and pats himself down. “And here I left my snow plow at home.”
Honk! Honk!
Gwen turns on Curtis, anger in her green eyes. “News Flash, Curtis. If you hadn’t hemmed and hawed over what coat to wear, maybe we’d have gotten where we’re supposed to be.”
“Oh, you’re so fierce! What makes you think this ain’t it, Poptart?”
Honk! Honk!
“God damn it, Ryan! Stop!” Conover lunges and sandwiches Ryan’s hands between his and the steering wheel. In the act, his legs shift, he cries out in pain and collapses against Ryan.
His focus redirected, Ryan lays off the horn. “G…Gwen,” Ryan stammers, “Gwen!”
Gwen bolts forward and leans over the front seat. “What’s wrong, what hap—” Immediately, Gwen sees that spots of blood have soaked through both of Conover’s lower pant legs. “Easy, Conover. Try not to move.”
“My legs…” Conover growls through his clenched teeth. “They hurt like hell.”
“Tell me where?” Gently, Gwen feels the bloodiest of Conover’s legs.
“Lower.”
“Here?”
“No.”
“Here?”
“Uh, uh.”
“What about —”
“Agggh!”
“Sorry, sorry. I can’t tell squat through your pants. You’ll have to take them off.”
“Never on the first date — and especially not for some doctress in training.”
“Do what she says, Conover. You may be hurt bad.”
“You’re trippin’, Ryan.” Conover leans close and whispers into Ryan’s ear. “I’m bare assed under here!”
Gwen overhears and rolls her eyes.” Give me some credit, will you? I may be an intern, but you’ve seen one weasel, you’ve seen ‘em all. No offense, Ryan.”
Ryan demurs.
“Drop ‘em, Conover. I need to check you out.”
Curtis sniggers.
“Oh grow up, Curtis. You know what I meant.”
“How ‘bout covering yourself up?” Ryan pulls out his red paisley hanky. “You can use this.”
“Your snot rags filthy, man! Best buds, or not, I ain’t coverin’ my junk with your boogers!”
“Hey, try this,” Curtis offers and flips a thin dime to Conover. “There should be plenty of room to spare.”
“Fuck it,” Conover growls and undoes his belt buckle. “It’s not like I have anything to be ashamed of, right?”
“‘Riiight,’” Curtis mocks.
“Fuck you, Curtis.” Conover wiggles down his pants and exposes his plump penis. “Are you bitch’s happy now?”
“It’s a horse’s wank!” Curtis brays, wide-eyed. “He’s got a friggin’ horse’s wank!”
Self-conscious, Conover covers his genitals with his mittens. “All right, all right, show’s over. Whatever you’re gonna do Gwen, do it fast. This seat is friggin’ ice!”
Gwen leans further over the seat and examines Conover’s injuries. “The shins are contused and swollen — most likely from an impact with the dash. My dad told me he sees a lot of this in the ER. It’s pretty common after a vehicular collision. But it looks like you’re one of the lucky ones. I don’t think either of your legs are broken.”
“Is there any blood,” Conover says quietly. “I hate blood.”
“Especially when it’s his own,” Curtis adds.
“There’s just a little,” Gwen lies. “Nothing to worry about.”
“No wonder,” Curtis sniggers. “His wank’s probably using it all.”
“Get bent,” Conover snaps.
“Hang tough, guy.” Gwen grabs her backpack. “I’ll make you a compress.”
“Oh man,” Conover groans and lets his head fall back against the seat’s headrest. “This is the suckiest suckfest that ever sucked a suck!”
“You know, Connie,” Curtis says wistfully. “While I can’t speak for Ryan, I think you really missed the boat when you started workin’ for Phillip’s Custodial. Your true callin’ wasn’t baggin’ medical waste — it was the porn industry!”
“Shut it, Curtis.” From inside her backpack, Gwen pulls out a sandwhich-size baggy of prescription pills, and she empties the sundry narcotics into her coat pocket. “At least some of us are gainfully employed.”
“Bite me, Grrl. My horror novel’s makin’ the rounds. When it hits, it’s gonna be phat!”
“Now, wait a second?” Conover asks. “Are we talkin’ about you or your fuckin’ book?”
“‘Wank, wank, wank,’ Mr. Ribs n’ Dick.”
Gwen scoops snow inside the baggy, and then zip-locks it shut. “Here,” she says and hands the makeshift compress to Conover. “Alternate this between your shins. It should take the swelling down.”
Curtis stifles a laugh.
“And, this. . .” She hands Conover a joint from her breast pocket. “This should help ease the pain.”
“Outstanding!” Conover runs the doobie under his nose and inhales its fragrance like it’s the finest of cigars. “Gwen, I take it back; you can be my doctress anytime.” Grateful, Conover clenches the joint between his lips and grimaces as he wiggles up his pants.
“Is anyone else hurt?” Gwen asks her erstwhile companions. “My pop didn’t bankroll an education I can’t use.”
Sheepish, Ryan raises a hand.
“Where?”
“Here,” Ryan says and points to the top of his head.
Gently, Gwen pushes back Ryan’s baseball cap and hair and exposes a small contusion on his scalp. “Nothing to worry about — just a moose-egg.”
A ‘moose-egg,’ eh?” Ryan pulls Gwen close. “They teach you that dumb ass yokel term in pre-med?”
“First thing,” Gwen replies and shrugs out of Ryan’s clutches. “‘Always speak the language of your patient.’”
“Ooo,” Curtis exclaims. “That’s harsh, Gwen.”
“No, Curtis, ‘harsh’ is a urinalysis after you’ve been caught fucking in Western General’s pharmacy. Literally.”
“I thought the door was locked,” Ryan offers sheepishly.
“You ‘thought?’ Now there’s a first.”
Like a scolded puppy, Ryan looks away.
“Hey, take it easy on my boy,” Conover says and puts a reassuring arm around Ryan’s shoulders. “We’ve been buds since our first snowboardin’ tournament, and I’ve gotta tell ya, this ain’t his first head injury.”
Unamused, Ryan shoves Conover away and fixes his gaze on Gwen. “Let’s not time warp, okay? Test results won’t be back until Monday. Let’s just wait and see what —“
“Hello? Was I the only one sketchin’ that day? Unless you somehow know somethin’ I don’t, that urine sample is going to come back as loaded as I was.” She snorts at the irony. “‘Loaded.’ Yeah, that’s what I’ll have to be when my father finds out. Not to mention the college review board.”
Unable to disagree with the likely outcome of Gwen’s predicament, Ryan falls silent and the others look away.
Abruptly conscious of the awkward silence, Gwen shakes herself from her funk. “But that’s Monday, right? Right now we need to start prairie doggin’ our way out of here, eh? High times on the slopes are a wastin’. Right?”
‘‘Right,’” Curtis parrots brightly. “Roll out the plan, Craniac. We’ll see what we can do?”
“Well, we haven’t tried driving out.”
The men look dumbfounded.
“Shit,” Gwen sighs, leans forward and wedges herself between Ryan and Conover. "I’m glad one of us has some higher education.” She reaches out, grabs hold of the key that still juts from the ignition, and turns. Astoundingly, the engine starts right up.
“‘D-oh!’” Conover exclaims in Homerese.
Excitedly, Ryan shifts the sedan into “reverse” and gently applies his foot to the gas pedal. The car races, shudders, but doesn’t move. He tries again, but his second attempt is no more successful than the first.
“Put her in drive,” Conover suggests.
Ryan does, but the engine just continues to race.
“The wheels are spinning,” Conover surmises. “There’s nothing to catch.”
Frustrated, Ryan guns the caddy. Amidst the whine of the spinning tires, a dull blue haze begins to fill the backseat. Choked by the fumes, Gwen and Curtis begin to cough.
“Alright," Curtis shouts. “Enough! You’re gassing us back here!”
Fearful, Ryan shuts off the engine. “Fuck. The tailpipe must be clogged.”
“Or it’s buried deep,” Conover adds. “God only knows how much freakin’ snow we’re under.”
Aware of a sudden tightness in his lungs, Ryan concentrates and forces himself to slow down his breathing.
Conover notices. “Take it easy, bud. Just vent her. Death by asphyxiation is not on this weekend’s agenda.”
Ryan gives the ignition key half a turn, and then flips the vent switch to “exhaust.”
“Is it working?” Conover asks.
“Yeah,” Ryan says with more than just a tinge of relief. “I think so.”
“Wait a second,” Conover says hopefully. “If the vent works…” Enthused, Conover switches on the dash radio and scans. After a tense moment, the radio locks onto a signal and the static laden, indecipherable words of a fire and brimstone preacher fills the air.
“Nice,” Curtis says. “At least we’ll have a peppy eulogy.”
Conover scans for another station. Zzzt!
“Wait,” Gwen blurts. “Go back, go back!”
Conover backtracks and the needle runs headlong into a weather report.
“…from the north. Blizzard conditions are expected to continue throughout the night with an expected accumulation of an additional twenty eight inches of snow. This just in; along with the aforementioned business and school closings, Colorado Highway Patrol has announced that all mountain passes leading to Glacier, McKenzie, and Solomon ski resorts have been closed.”
“Solomon. That’s us,” Curtis says flatly.
“Great. There goes baggin’ my first fourteneer.”
“Shhh,” Gwen scolds. “Listen!”
“...passes are expected to stay closed until further notice. However, Highway Patrol assures all travelers and ski enthusiasts that snow plows are expected on site by morning.”
“‘Morning?’” Curtis swallows nervously. “We’ll be Otter Pops by morning!”
“Quiet! There’s more.”
“…and will be working around the clock until all passes are cleared. In further weather related news, power outages continue to plague the Four Corners and surrounding area.”
“They aren’t coming,” Ryan says softly.
“Not tonight," Conover sighs. "Save the battery.”
Ryan stares out the front windshield at the predatory snow, and gives voice to his comrade’s unspoken fear. “Maybe we’re buried so deep, they won’t even know we’re here.”
“Save the damn battery,” Conover bristles, and despite his injuries, leans forward and turns the key himself.
The engine killed, an uncomfortable pall descends on the four friends.
“Hey,” Curtis softly queries the others. “Did anyone tell someone where they were going?”
No one says a word.
“Oh crap,” Curtis whispers in the gloom. "No one’s gonna miss us."
Ryan looks at Gwen. “Not until Monday.”
Gwen shivers involuntarily — and not from the cold. “Well, I can’t say it hasn’t been fun kickin’ with you guys, but since Moose and Squirrel aren’t coming to our rescue, what do you say we dig ourselves out of this meat-locker?”
“Personally,” Curtis sighs. “I’m all for sitting here and watching your nipples perk.”
Gwen punches Curtis’ shoulder.
“Ow!”
Gwen turns toward Conover. “Okay, you’re the supposed snow-puppy, what do you think?”
“Snow-dogs dig,” Conover says with a shrug. “But I’m down.” He looks at Ryan. “How about it, bud? Make me proud?”
Ryan looks unsure.
“But if you don’t have the huevos, Gwen can strap my legs and I’ll dig. It’ll be hell, but —”
“Cut the crap,” Curtis interrupts. “I’ve got hands. I’ll sub.”
“No,” Ryan says, and then takes a deep, fortifying breath. “I’m smaller. I’ll do it.”
Concern ripples Gwen’s brow. “Ryan, are you sure?”
“Leave him be, girl. Of course he’s sure. Give it up, bud.”
Conover and Ryan exchange a tortuously contrived snowboard fraternity hand shake.
“I knew you’d step up," Conover grins. "You always do.” He looks into the backseat. “What about you two?”
“Sure,” Gwen sighs. “Whatever. Let’s just get to it.”
“Well then, here we go — both of you, four on the floor.”
“Ooo, you freak,” Curtis squeals in mock delight.
“Don’t get too excited. We’re going to need a few things from the trunk. To access ‘em, you’ll have to take off the backrest. Ry?”
“There’s a hook on the backside of each corner of the backrest,” Ryan informs Gwen and Curtis. “Unlatch it.”
In the dregs of the waning half-light, Curtis and Gwen’s gloved hands fumble about for the mechanism.
“Got it,” Gwen says, a bit surprised.
“Ditto.”
“Push down on the release, lift up the backrest, and pull it toward you,” Conover instructs.
Gwen and Curtis do as asked, and the backrest separates from the backseat.
“That’s it,” Conover encourages. “Pass it up here. You’ll need the extra space.”
Awkwardly, Ryan helps Gwen and Curtis thread the padded, oblong backrest into the front passenger seat.
“Now make room for Ry.”
Obediently, Gwen and Curtis scooch over.
“You’ll need something for digging.” Conover tells Ryan. “Use the tire iron.”
“Gotcha,” Ryan says and begins to clamber over the seat. In the process, his foot accidentally nails Conover’s leg.
“Aaahhh! You, stupid little fuck!” Angry, Conover shoves Ryan over the seat. “Get the fuck back there!”
Off balance, Ryan falls and crashes against Gwen and Curtis.
“Hey!” Curtis snarls. “Watch it!”
“Sorry, sorry,” Ryan simpers apologetically.
“What about me?” Conover queries.
“Sure, of course. I’m sorry. Sorry I —”
“Just get inside the trunk,” Conover says dismissively and rubs his sore leg.
Eager to make amends, Ryan uses his bare hands and quickly rips through the padded insulation that separates the cab from the trunk. “Good?”
“‘Good’ for you,” Conover says with a threatening tone.
Gwen and Curtis exchange uncomfortable glances.
“While you’re in there, hook our overnight bags too. We’ll need extra clothing to keep warm.”
Ryan reaches through the bulkhead strut, gropes blindly for a moment and then pulls an overnight bag from the trunk. “Here’s mine. Inside there’s a couple of heavy sweaters, some pants, socks.”
“Curtis,” Conover commands. “Divvy ‘em up.”
“Oh, yes sir, Masser Conover. Right away, sir!”
“Ryan?” Gwen asks. “Can you reach my bag? I brought an extra set of thermals.”
Ryan strains, snags, and drags out Gwen’s overnight bag.
“Thanks,” she says gratefully.
“I’ve got an old packing blanket back here too, if I can just…” Ryan groans as his hand fumbles about the trunk’s interior darkness. “Got it!” Winded by the effort, Ryan threads the moth-eaten blanket from the trunk into the backseat.
Gwen instantly recognizes the blanket’s warmth potential, and she presses it against her cheek. “‘Oh, Calgon, take me away!’”
“Don’t get attached,” Ryan warns. “Pass it to Conover.”
“You croak,” Gwen informs Conover. “That blanket’s mine.”
“What?” Conover shoots back. “You’d deprive me of a burial shroud?”
“Shit,” Curtis grumbles. “Use your fuckin’ foreskin, you freak.”
“That’s it,” Ryan grunts as his arm retreats from the trunk with a rusted tire iron in his hand. “Everything’s out — unless anyone has a hankerin’ for a spare radial?”
“So, what’s the plan?” Curtis asks Conover.
“Open Gwen’s window, and then hand Ryan your gloves. He’s leadin’ a prison break.”