Snowstorm of Our Past novel · Chapter 19 of 32

Chapter 19: The Same Snow

He didn't stop.

He was ten steps up into the deep snow, then fifteen, plowing toward the taillights with his arms.

"Clint!" Gabe roared.

I heard it before I saw it.

A sound like a huge sheet of paper tearing, somewhere above us in the dark.

Then a deep, soft whump that I felt in my chest more than heard.

"Slide!" the kid screamed. "Slide! Slide!"

The slope above Clint broke loose all at once.

In my headlamp, the whole white surface started sliding, slow and then fast, like a tablecloth being pulled off a table.

Clint looked up.

He had time to throw one arm over his face.

Then the snow took him.

It poured down across the toe of the slope in a hissing gray river, and it hit the side of the SUV and piled up against the doors, and it spilled out across the road twenty feet in front of my boots.

Then it stopped.

Everything stopped.

The wind. The hiss. The world.

Amber was screaming.

I didn't hear it. I just saw her mouth open.

"Transceivers to search!" I yelled. "Everybody! Now!"

My hands did it without me.

Switch to search. Eyes on the debris. Last seen point, right there, ten feet left of the rear bumper.

"Gabe, the car," I said.

"Mal..."

"I've got Clint. Go get his son."

He went.

Low and fast along the road edge, around the bottom of the debris, toward the buried driver's side.

I walked onto the slide.

The snow was set up like concrete already. My boots barely sank.

The beacon picked up a signal at thirty yards.

Twelve meters.

Eight.

I followed the arrow.

Four. Three.

I dropped to my knees and swept the beacon in a cross over the snow.

One point one.

"Probe!"

The kid was beside me, already pulling his out.

I struck. Nothing.

Struck again, a foot to the left.

The probe stopped at four feet against something that gave a little.

"Strike," I said. "Shovels. Dig."

The kid and the dog handler hit the snow beside me.

We dug the way I'd been taught at eighteen.

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