Short Story: An Ill Wind

Short Story: An Ill Wind

Paul had always thought ‘bone-chilling’ was just a figure of speech. Now he thought different. He was wiser now than he had been three hours ago. Now he knew that he should have taken a coat when he left the house. Now he knew he should have topped up the tank when he had stopped at the service station. Now he knew he should have heeded the weather forecasters when they urged the public not to drive unless their journey was absolutely necessary. That last one brought a wry smile to his face. Did the warning imply that your chances of completing your journey through the snow were better if your journey was necessary? Or merely that being stranded in your vehicle would be more acceptable on a necessary journey?

And now he realised that he should always check that his mobile was charged before he left home. Too late. And the wind – his respect for that had mushroomed in those same three hours. When he’d left the service station it had seemed a mere whisper. Surely the forecasters had been wrong about gale-force winds. They often were. He was still largely unconcerned when the snow had begun to fall in earnest. He knew the 4 x 4 could cope. But when the wind, as if choreographed, began to whistle and whine and howl. When he was five miles from anywhere, Paul finally realised the seriousness of his predicament.

Gazing now through the windscreen at the near horizontal blast of snow, he thought of the old Tory election slogan. Something about a double whammy, wasn’t it? Well, he’d been hit by a double whammy. First he’d got into difficulties with the ever deepening snow and then he’d run out of petrol trying to escape from its icy grip. And then - he’d made a very bad decision. He had stayed with the car. If, at that stage, he’d taken a chance and tried to reach the main road on foot before dark, he might have been picked up; he might have been safe and warm at home by now. But with no coat and no means of running the car heater, he was soon shivering and chattering like a jack-hammer. Well, no point in reproaching himself; it would be more helpful to figure out how to avoid perishing from hypothermia before the sun came up.

He’d felt a bit happier when he remembered the old travel rug he kept in the boot – in the event he might ever have to ‘get-out-and-get-under’. He also had a two-litre bottle of water in there, intended for refilling the radiator or windscreen washers but acceptable enough to drink in his present situation. He’d wrapped the blanket around himself and clambered back into the driving seat, sliding and adjusting it into a reclining position so that he would be as comfortable as possible overnight. And that was when it struck him. He had been thinking of an early morning rescue; a snowplow or a tractor, maybe. But out here on the moor, would be a low priority for a snowplough and, in this snow, a tractor would be even less likely. Well, that would be a problem for tomorrow. First he had to survive tonight. He took a long swallow from his bottle, pulled the blanket tight around him and tried to sleep.

Scraping and scuffing noises jolted Paul out of his slumber. He pressed the glolite button on his wristwatch. Twelve-thirty. He looked out at the deep snow, glistening in the moonlight. The blizzard had stopped but the drifting snow was now almost up to window level in some places. He cast his eyes around the car. The scraping seemed to be coming from the nearside back door. The scene darkened as the moon went behind a cloud. He closed his eyes and strained his ears, focusing his concentration. Was it his imagination? Was there a long mournful wailing sound superimposed over the howl of the wind? The scraping stopped. Five minutes on and still no more scraping or scuffing. Could the drifting snow have caused the noises? Had he just dreamed it all? He pulled the blanket tighter around himself and in a few minutes he was sound asleep.

When he woke again, his bladder was near bursting. There would be no more sleep until he could relieve himself of the nagging discomfort. The question was – where? Outside the bitter wind was still howling and the snow was piled up against his door. A few moments checking revealed no suitable container – apart from his water bottle. He pondered this but decided he didn’t want to sacrifice it – not just yet. Outside it was then! Lowering his window a few inches to test the conditions, he immediately slammed his eyelids shut as a bitter blast smacked his face. He quickly closed the window. Windward. Even if he could force the door open his activity was going to be most unpleasant and the car, already cold, would become a virtual ice-box. Unwrapping himself from the blanket, he scrambled over to the passenger side and gingerly wound down the window. It was as he’d hoped - much quieter, and less wind on the lee side. He tried the door. It moved quite easily and, as it opened, he could see that the snow on this side was only a few inches above the door sill. Swinging his legs out, he used chilled fingers to open his trousers and pull his boxer shorts aside but before he’d completed this operation the hot discharge gushed over his legs. “Shit,” he swore – then laughed at the incongruity. He leaned his arm on the door, adopting as comfortable a position as possible while his bladder poured out its contents. A strange sensation coursed through him as the chilled air and hot piss sent different messages to his brain. And then it happened. Just as he moved his left hand to tuck himself back into his shorts a sudden movement in his vision was accompanied by a searing pain in his hand. “Bastard!” he yelled, swatting in the direction of the pain with his right arm. No longer supported against the door, he tumbled headlong into the freezing snow while something dark and hairy flashed past him. Scrambling onto all fours Paul looked up for signs of his attacker. Even by the combination of moonlight and courtesy light, he couldn’t see anything untoward. He looked down at his left hand, now beginning to throb. Four deep gashes ran diagonally across the back of his hand. He brushed dribbling blood away from the wounds and gasped at the pain this action caused. And then he shuddered. What would have been damaged, had his hand not been in the way?

Getting to his feet, he rearranged his clothing and leaned into the car. Suddenly, he heard a strange noise - steam escaping? He looked over into the backseat. Staring back at him were the golden eyes of the biggest tabby cat he had ever seen. “Daft bugger,” he swore, “what did you do that for? There’s plenty room in here for both of us. I don’t mind sharing – for one night!”

The cat continued to hiss and growl in his direction. Paul kneeled on the passenger seat. He reached across for the travel rug on the back of the driver’s seat and the cat flew at him, raking its claws down the back of his right arm before sinking its teeth into his hand. As he tried to remove the creature from his right hand, it suddenly released its grip and struck at his left, sinking all four canines deep into his chilled flesh. “Ahhh!” he screamed, and grabbed the beast by the back of its neck, squeezing as hard as he could. He felt the powerful neck muscles straining under his hand. The animal tore great bloody wounds down the front of his left forearm with its hind claws, before lashing its body back and forth, madly gyrating in its attempts to break free. Paul howled in pain as the cat screeched and squealed and thrashed. But neither would release their grip.

The cat sank both sets of front claws into Paul’s right hand and dug in. Paul gasped and grunted as the two thrashed back and forth across the front seats. His shoulders ached, and both hands and arms were wracked with crackling jagged pain from his wounds. It was hell. Now he knew what to expect in the afterlife if he followed his ex-wife’s advice. Screeching, spitting, tearing, the cat raked his forearms again and again with razor claws. Paul could hear his own screams, somewhere far away. How could he end this madness? Only one possibility occurred to him. He released the cat and hammered his fist into its ribs. The cat gasped and howled - and released his left hand. Instantly Paul twisted his body. With another furious swing of his right arm, he belted the winded animal straight out the gaping door. Maybe this would be the first time the cat wouldn’t land on its feet. Paul didn’t wait to see. With pounding hands, he slammed the door shut. By the time he looked out of the window, he just managed to see the cat’s shaggy black and brown tail disappearing under the door sill.

He settled down in the driving seat, resting his arms on his legs. His watch was missing; blood was pouring from his hands and arms, and bruises were already beginning to coalesce on both hands. A sudden nausea swept through him. He slumped forward and spewed violently. Outside, the biting wind continued to howl. The car lurched and creaked. Somewhere beneath him, a biting cat was settling down to lick its wounds. It was going to be a long night on Bodmin Moor.