The Winter Ride

25 Nov, 2015

The following is a work of fiction.

Frost caked the plastic of the headlights, and the jagged beams cut through the static of the night.

It was winter, the deepest of it, and the two of them entered into the heart of the north, the bleeding sun behind them now, as they moved on the salt-laden road.

“What in the hell are you doing?”

This from Arthur Snow, at the wheel, coffee in left hand, still hot in the thermos, which surprised him. The label on it said Hot Up to 9 Hrs. It made true on its word.

“What?”

This from Derek, the younger one by three years. No coffee for him, only the fizzling head of a fresh-cracked can.

“The fuck, man. Can’t you just leave it be until we get there?”

“Easy. It’s just a beer. No cops on the road in this weather anyway. And besides, I think there’s a Roadie law in this state.”

“What?”

“Roadie law. You know, passengers allowed one beverage at a time.”

“No there isn’t.”

“Well, should be.”

“Jesus.”

Arthur looked at his brother and, hiding in the shadow of the car, smiled, nearly laughing. The situation was ridiculous. Four hours already on the road, the fatigue showing in his eyes, but the coffee was warm and flowing through him now. He felt it sprout a warmth of life, turning the blood on in the core and moving about. He gazed at the night -- it felt blessed, poetic. Pines towered on either side of them, their shadows visible against the black of the sky, which was becoming more tangled in the static of snowfall by the minute.

“How bad is this supposed to get?” Arthur asked.

Derek belched. “About six inches by midnight, I think. Tomorrow we’re supposed to get nailed. About another foot I think.”

“Are we going out in that?”

“No, I don’t think we should if it’s gonna get that bad. That’s why I’m drinking. We’re on a bender the next 12 hours, man! HA!”

“Jesus.”

The roads still clear, the tires of the truck in check, he felt no fear in driving. The road was theirs.

“Hey,” he said, looking at Derek. The glow of his brother’s phone lit the inside of the truck with blue. He wasn’t listening.

“Hey!”

“What, what, WHAT?”

“You been readin’?”

“What? Oh, no. Not really, that wasn’t my thing, don’t get all philosophical on me. I dig the tunes. Six strings, man. Six.”

“I know that, and you know you’re good at it, I’m not denying you that, but will you shut up a minute and listen. You ever read any Kerouac? You should. Great stuff, there.”

“Okay, listen. I need you to just shut up, okay?”

“What? Why? I’m serious! We talk music all the fucking time, why can’t I just talk about a few goddamn books?”

“Because music we have in common. Books we don’t. Get that through, man, get it through! I got nothing against books, but I don’t have to talk about them. Eh? You wanna talk sports? Fuck it, let’s talk sports. You see that bullshit Monday night?”

Derek had him. Arthur was undoubtedly the worst sports fan in the northeast, always enjoying a game here and there, but never paying attention to the politics of the culture, never absorbing the player stats the way his friends or their father had.

“Fair, okay, shut up.”

“Bueno,” Derek said, going back to his phone.

“Okay at least put the phone away.”

“I’m looking up the weather because you asked, you piece of shit.”

Silence. They rode that way for what felt like an hour before Arthur pressed the eject button. The disc stopped, and the car spit it out like a glowing rainbow-reflective tongue. Derek looked at him but remained quiet. He waited. What was the next move? Probably slow, knowing Arthur. A slow-jam of sorts, be it some crazy abstract jazz or funk-fusion mix.

“This is going to suck, isn’t it?”

Arthur smiled as he fished into the center console bin, in which he kept stray discs of sorts, a mix of homemade compilations and full albums. He found what he’d wanted, knew which case it was in by the feel of it, by the position of it.

Derek laughed when it began playing. But not out of mockery. Arthur laughed, too; they’d found their common ground for the night.

“Wait,” Derek said, pausing. “This is live?”

“Fuck yes it’s live. I actually don’t think I have their studio stuff with us.”

“I’ve never heard this. This is not a bootleg? Is this even legit? Marshall Tucker never released this!”

“Will you relax, it’s real. Based in England.”

“Jesus Christ!”

They fell back into silence in the truck. It was a 2001 Chevy Silverado Derek insisted on. Five songs came and went, then their staple came on, a version of “Can’t You See” Derek had never heard.

“This,” he said. “This is real.”

“Yes. Yes it is.”

Their heads began to bob in synchronicity, and the flakes began to move heavier now. Thick and white and visible; an occasional commercial truck or car passed them. Here and there a gas stop or grocery store popped up on the side of the road.

“We gonna stop for food and beer?”

“No,” Derek said. “We’re stocked for the night, don’t worry about it.”

“Okay then.”

Arthur felt pride looking at his brother. Something was happening to him, something new. The adolescence was gone, had been for years, but upon shedding that skin something new was appearing. Here was a man in his emerging prime, and for the first time in their lives, Arthur realized this, that their bond had taken nearly thirty years to solidify and smooth out.

The night rolled onto them, over them, streetlights flickered, alternating between white and orange. Arthur remembered the orange glow, the way it flooded the inside of the car as they passed. The shadows moving in rhythm each time. He’d seen it all before, a long time past, as a child, when his head would rest against the vinyl door of their parents car.

The music and the weather were intensifying, and the visibility was turning against them. Derek could feel the brakes.

“Hey, what are you doing?”

“This weather, man. Don’t want to wreck this thing.”

“Will you cut the shit? This is a Silverado, okay? We piss on other cars right now.”

“This car is almost 10 years old, first of all. And what is it about the Silverado?”

“Just shut up and get us there. We have about 45 to go.”

“Miles?”

“Minutes.”

The collision happened 10 minutes later. Arthur could not have reacted if he wanted to. It came out of nowhere, not even seeming to emerge from the woods, which, he had no doubt, was where it originated. It had been cloaked in night and snow. No headlights nor high beams would have caught it.

The antlers turned toward the truck as the beast stood in the road’s center, and the front of the truck collided into its hide and buckled like foil as a result. Smoke and chemicals spewed from inside the truck’s gut. Derek felt immediate tension in his body as his arms, thick and solid as they were, pressed against the dash, and they shot back into his face as the airbag exploded.

The music continued to play, but all else fell silent. The music seemed to heighten the silence, that something had happened, that wrong was in the air.

Arthur coughed, and looked upward. The windshield was cracked and the view blocked by the antlers.

“Derek,” he winced. “You okay?”

He looked at his brother, who proceeded to punch the airbag until it popped. He was panting.

“What in the hell was that? Look at the fucking truck! I just punched myself in the fucking face! Jesus!”

He had; blackness was already forming around his eyes. Arthur could see a visible liquid in the reflecting light that dripped over Derek's face and on the windows.

“There’s airbag fluid everywhere.”

Derek sneezed. “I thought airbags had powder.”

“They used to.”

“What did we just hit?”

“Not sure, I think it’s a moose.”

Arthur glared at his brother and the look on his face had changed. When Arthur saw it, his heart sank into a pit of fear.

“Hey,” Derek said. “Remember when Dad bought us those stickers?”

He did. They were flat, large, yellow. Like caution tape, and in a way, that was the point. Brake for Moose: It Could Save Your Life, they said.

“Yeah, he put one over his desk."

“Do you still have yours?”

“No,” Arthur could tell Derek was fighting off the fear and shock off what happened with this talk. “Can you get out?”

“Yeah, you?”

“Yeah, let’s check it.”

They exited the car. Arthur stood beside it, the door open, and looked up. The snow was hammering them now. Six inches was a false assumption. The storm was close.

They walked to the front of the car. The size of the animal was haunting. It lay there flat and solid, its antlers spanning the entire front of the car, overpowering it, fanning out into what looked like massive wooden wings.

“Jesus,” Arthur said. He bent toward it. The face was calm, serene, the eyes closed, the snout long and motionless. He looked to the left. “Amazing, I don’t think we even punctured the skin.”

“What! No way that’s possible.”

“We weren’t going that fast.”

Derek thought on this, then went to the front of the scene, stepping over metal and plastic debris from the car. He stopped in the center the road.

“Art,” he said. “Come here. I think this thing’s still breathing.”

Before he could move, the moose scrambled, its legs slipping underneath its hide. The erratic movements gave Arthur such a jolt that he stepped back and slipped himself, terrified.

Derek froze in his position; the light from the street lamp above seemed to turn him into a ghost, a shadow in the snow of the night. The moose continued to slip, flapping and flailing sideways for several minutes before sighing and panting.

Derek breathed deep, collected himself and walked toward his brother. The two met and looked at one another. Derek’s expression was one Arthur had never seen before. A look of serenity, of confidence and power.

“Go to the side of the car.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re too jolted,” Derek said. “And so is that thing. Get behind and push when I say.”

No response, Arthur hustled around the back of the truck, which, at a pause, looked devastating. Arthur cringed at the damage.

“Art don’t do anything, don’t even approach it close. Not yet, this thing will kick you right to hell, so stay the fuck still.”

Arthur obeyed, still shaken with fear. Uncertain, unaware. He felt himself lose control of the situation, and as the older brother, this was disconcerting. He watched as his brother bent to eye level with the animal. He watched as they made eye contact, and, like an owner to his dog, Derek leaned in and began to pet the animal’s snout. It snorted, a heap of steam blasting from its massive nostrils, and the antlers scraped against the metal of the truck’s hood, catching Derek’s attention.

He looked at Art. “The antlers are stuck. Get over there, I’ll keep him calm.”

“How the hell . . .”

“Art, just fucking do it!” He said this in a low voice with clenched teeth. The rings around his eyes and the sound of his voice gave him the look of a mad man. Arthur climbed onto the hood of the car, pushing in the windshield to the seats, and saw that the left peak of the antler was stuck in the steering wheel, grinding against the leather and the vinyl dash.

“Shit,” he said, wincing as he reached in and around the far side of the wheel, pulling up the adjustment bar and then the wheel as high as it could go. The antler loosened, and he reached down with hesitation, touching the thick horn of it, amazed at its texture, like a mix of bone and smooth wood.

“Keep him calm,” Arthur shouted.

Derek did not respond; Arthur watched him pet the moose on the snout and stare at it. He’d never seen Derek do anything like this before, not even with their dog growing up. Derek was not one to show tenderness and vulnerability. His thick, rock-like exterior was evidence of this, but occasionally the tenderness would shine through, though none like this before.

Arthur, standing on the broken, battered hood of the truck, held onto the roof and pulled at the antler down. The moose struggled.

“Hold him, damn you!” Derek reached in and held the moose by its neck, almost in a choke hold, but instead of tightening his grip, he held the animal steady.

Arthur grabbed two prongs protruding from the antler. It felt like the wheel of a massive ship, and he pivoted left, then right, and back again before dislodging it from the steering wheel. He scattered to the right and off the hood, standing next to Derek.

“Okay,” Arthur said. “Let him go.”

Derek did, and stepped back slowly.

“How in the hell did you know to try that?”

“I didn’t. But freaking out in front of it wasn’t going to help. And it’s not dead, doesn’t seem to be hurt that bad. You see any blood on its head?”

“No.”

The moose lay there, blinking.

“I don’t think it knows its free,” Arthur said.

Derek stepped forward and juked at the animal, then stepped back. He did this three times, trying to scare it, and on the third try it jolted backward. Then scrambled to its side.

“Shit, Derek it can’t stand up. It’s like a cow.”

“Ok grab the back end.”

“What? WHy do I get the ass?”

“Because you’re freaking the fuck out and we need this thing calm before it tramples us into a pool of shit.”

Arthur sighed. He moved back toward the rear of the animal.

“Okay, I’ve got it under the neck,” Derek said. “Count of three, push up.”

The weight of it was overwhelming, and even with all their force, the animal did not budge. They stopped, panting. Arthur stood straight.

“Wait,” he said. “Hold up.”

Derek watched his brother move to the driver’s seat.

“What? Don’t try it, man, that thing’s shot.”

Arthur turned the ignition, which to their surprise kicked immediately. THe moose began to squirm again, but Derek remained to the side of the road. The snow was covering much of the animal, a soft white blanket over its hide, melting and emitting a steam. Arthur put the car into drive and pushed forward slowly. The animal began to lift to its left. Derek ran over to help hold its head as Arthur hit the gas. The sound of the antlers scratching on the hood was menacing, and Arthur winced.

The animal was upright, though squatting on the ground, like a dog. It’s head, clearly the size of the truck’s hood, shook, and its antlers swayed like a small plane in the snow and wind.

“Holy shit,” Arthur said, taken back by the shadow of the beast in the winter night. Chills ran through him the way the coffee had before it splattered across the interior during the crash.

But the animal was alive. Arthur turned the car off; Derek stared at the moose.

“Do we try to lift it?”

“No,” Derek said. “Look at the thing, Art. It’s bigger than the truck. How the hell are we going to lift it?”

“Okay. So what now. I mean --”

Then it rose. It towered upward into the night, over them, its antlers dominating the space, it’s nostrils flaring and breathing out smoke, a fur-covered dragon of the winter north.

“Jesus Christ,” Derek said. Arthur was frozen with fear.

The moose stepped forward, toward them, its snout lowering down to their faces. They stared as it moved its nose down, the snout twitching, the antlers covering the sky above them and shielding them now from the pummeling snow that was clearly the snow of an impending blizzard. Even if they hadn’t hit the thing, getting to their lodge before the worst of it was unlikely.

The moose moved in closer now, and with one massive puff, its breath billowed out over them, and its nose, wet and large, touched Derek on the forehead. It then moved to Arthur and repeated the gesture. It backed up and trotted into the woods.

The brothers stood motionless as they heard its hoofs crack branches in its path and disappear into the trees. Within a few minutes, the night was still and silent, the snow falling soft and swift.

Without speaking, the two walked toward the Silverado. Derek panned the car before walking to the cab. Arthur watched him as he stopped.

“Art, where the hell are the snowshoes?”

“What? What do you mean?”

“The snow shoes, where are they?”

Silence from Arthur.

“Are you shitting me? We come up here for that very purpose and you forget to pack the goddamn equipment?”

“Shit,” Arthur said. He felt the pangs of embarrassment, but it drifted within seconds. “Well, whatever. Doesn’t matter, we need to figure out what to do about the truck and we need to report the accident anyway.”

“Okay, fine. But you’re buying food and beer the whole trip. We can try to get some hiking in before the weekend’s over.” He paused. “Now what?”

“Now make the call, get the police on the phone and tell them what happened. I’ll file a report with the rental agency. Thank Christ we paid for insurance.”

Derek nodded. They made their calls, then opened the cab gate and sat in the back of the truck. They watched the snow collect on the road, no cars in sight. And in the middle was a heaping pile of metal.

“This,” Derek said.

“What?”

“This,” he said. “All of this, what just happened.”

“What about it?”

“Life. Remember this night.”

Arthur paused, smiling. “That’s pretty deep for you. I thought you said you didn’t read?”

“I don’t,” his brother said. “I just know it when I see it. Now shut up and hand me a beer.”