They called it the "Blizzard of the Century," which most people ignored because it had been the third one that decade. But afterwards, they stopped using the phrase for a good twenty years. It wasn't that big a deal to Michael, except that now he had to clear off the solar panels on his roof. Nobody was around to help him, but that was the point of his winter retreats to this house. And maybe "had to" was too strong a sentiment. The generator would last, but he'd prefer to rely on the solar panels as much as possible. And now, if he didn't want to abandon that goal, he'd have to climb onto the roof and clear them.
Underlayer for warmth? Check. Pants, shirt, socks? Check. Coat, boots, hat, gloves, scarf? Check. Harness and rope? Check. Broom? Check. All set.
His bedroom, the master suite, had the balcony he used for rooftop climbs with the hook protruding from the overhang. The balcony was clear of most snow, thanks to the direction the storm was blowing. He rigged up the rope to the railing as well, and raised himself using the setup. People would ask Michael how he managed it, but halfway through the talk of why it was called a slipknot, or maybe about how pulleys reduce workloads, their eyes would glaze over. He'd then say the rest was magical elves and watch them nod. Twits.
Getting up was the hard part. Once on the roof, it was fairly easy. The accumulated feet of snow needed only a sufficient nudge to get the whole rooftop slab to slide down with a cotton crash on each side. The broom swept away the rest, and didn't scrape the panels like a snow shovel would. Michael wanted this over with quickly for a few reasons. Firstly and most obviously, it was really, really cold. Secondly, the weatherman had predicted the storm very well so far: eighteen hours of heavy snowfall dropping a few feet, about an hour or so of light snow, and then wintery Hell was going to break loose on the area for the next twenty-four solid hours. The first part of the storm produced white-out conditions, but the second half was going to take civilization to the cleaners. Until the storm passed, this was his last chance to clear the solar panels, and if he waited until the storm was over, there may have been too much to get rid of all at once. Besides, he'd invested the money in the snow boots and hadn't had a chance to use them yet.
He'd gotten the panels clear, and resisted the urge to stay and keep clearing them. He dropped back down onto the balcony, easier said than done, and dismantled his rope and pulleys. Once everything was stowed inside, he came back out to appreciate the scene before him. He'd paid a pretty premium to live here, so isolated from everyone else, in the house he'd helped design. The woodland surrounding his property was gorgeous, even bare-branched as it was in the dead of winter. The only tree in his actual front yard, though, was Old Greybeard, an oak tree he just didn't have the heart to cut down, it had so much character. Michael picked up his binoculars to see if the snow was doing any major damage to the crotchety old man.
He didn't bother looking at the branches- the only thing he could tell is if they were snapping off under the weight of the snow. So he scanned the snow around the tree for bits of grey bark.
"What the..." Michael refocused. It was a small, yellow smiley face, like the topper some people have on their car antennas... which might explain the large hill in the snow underneath.
"Oh,
shit.
" Michael dropped the binoculars and raced inside, down the stairs to the foyer, where he had a snow shovel, rock salt, and the front door, the quickest way to the car outside. He was about to start, but then turned back and retrieved a hammer from his toolbox under the kitchen sink. Working furiously, he shoveled snow to the sides of the front door, where the porch had kept the snow from piling up against the walls. Every now and then, he salted behind himself. If his math was right, he could have as little as forty minutes before the second wave of the storm hit. Forty minutes to shovel three thick feet of snow in a path wide enough to move quickly and surely, get into the car, and help whoever was inside, after already being worn out by his exertions on the roof. If his math was correct again, the amount of snow on the car meant whoever was in it could have been there for hours, and if they weren't dead, they could be any second.
It seemed like a lot longer than it probably was before he reached the car. After clearing the window of the nearest door, the driver's, he looked inside. Three passengers, all unmoving, with their eyes closed. Michael frantically cleared the door. Was it locked? No. Good. The hammer wasn't needed. He opened it, first checking the woman in the driver's seat for a pulse and breathing. Slow, but steady on both counts. Hypothermic? Suffocated? Not that he could tell. He silently apologized as he reached over to check the woman in shotgun, then the woman in the back seat. The same.
What to do next. He thought for a second, then shut the door and ran back into the house, grabbing a coat from its closet. He unbuckled the driver, then wrapped her as best he could in the coat. Once she was clear, his hands were full, so he kicked the door of the car shut. Swiftly as he could without dropping her, and there were a couple close calls, he got her inside and laid her on the floor of his living room, just inside the front door on the right. Grabbing another coat, he repeated the ordeal for the shotgun passenger, and then the backseat passenger, checking their vitals as soon as he was done with each one. He grabbed the first-aid kit and the accompanying manual next to it. After running down the checks for hypothermia, he determined that the three women had escaped it by minutes if not miracles. He finally caught his breath. And then thought some more.
He looked at the clock, decided he had enough time, and then went back outside.
*****
Some time later, he woke up when a hand shook his shoulder.
"AHH!" he screamed, jerking back in surprise so hard he fell off his bed. He looked up at the person waking him. "Who are you?" he demanded.
"What?" said the woman, confused, "You don't... you aren't..." She started looking panicked.
"Wait, wait," Michael said, "I'm sorry. I just... didn't remember yet. It's been a long day. It's still today, isn't it?"
"You tell me."
Michael stood up and got his bearings. Right. He had finished up some details after saving the women, then came upstairs to sleep. Was he... no, he hadn't stripped nude, which was his usual for sleeping. His boots were still on, even. Himself sorted out, he looked at the woman.
She still had on her clothes from the car, ill-fitted to the weather, and her hair was a mess. She was shaking probably as much from lingering cold as from fear of her unknown surroundings. Michael saw it in her eyes.
"Am I safe?"
they asked. He took a breath.
"Let's try this again: Hello. My name is Michael. Your car stopped in my front yard. I noticed you after some time and got you out. You and your... friends?" She nodded. "You and your friends were close to hypothermic, but are fine. I used a little hot water on a few hands and ears, overall, but nothing major. After I got you in and made sure you weren't in medical danger, I put each of you into a guest bedroom, got as much of your stuff out of your car as I could, then came back inside. I then came up here, fell asleep, got woken up and made a perfect ass out of myself scaring someone who's already quite frightened. You know the rest."
"Look, I'd like to believe you. Really," she started, "But how do I know you're not some kind of psychotic sociopath?"
"For starters, if you thought I actually might be, would you really be stupid enough to ask me that question? Besides, how do I know
you
aren't? And psychotics are psychopaths, not sociopaths. Common mistake."
"Oh. Are you going to keep us here long?"
"No. The snow is. There's nothing but... hang on." Michael went over and looked out the glass balcony door. "There's nothing but four-foot-deep snow in every direction for at least twenty miles, and getting deeper. Even if you could handle the snow, the wind would sharpen an axe it's so strong. If you want to leave, I won't stop you."
"You're not going to try anything funny with us?"
"I'm assuming you mean 'funny' ironically if you're referring to rape, and no, I'm not. If you're not going to believe me when I tell you, you'll just have to see for yourself. You'll probably be stuck here for at least a week and a half. And may I point out that once your friends wake up, you'll have me outnumbered three to one? And would a psychotic sociopath of a raping axe murderer remind you that I mentioned both the accessibility of
hot
running water and that I got your stuff, including a change of clothes, out of your car and the bags are sitting downstairs?"
He was starting to get worked up. He could have killed himself, saving them. If he'd slipped and not been able to get up, he'd have been dead, and them. Some gratitude. he was trying to be a good host, but this woman's paranoia was starting to get on his nerves.
"I'm sorry," she said quietly, "I'm so sorry. It's not your fault, I... I appreciate everything. I, We... we'd be dead if not for you. Thank you." Her face had fallen, threatening tears, but now she looked him in the eye, and her voice strengthened. "My name's Jennifer. Nice to meet you, Michael." She appeared to consider this for a moment. "Only my friends can call me Jenny."
"Nice to meet you, Jennifer."
"And you can call me Jenny, too." She smiled inwardly at the surprise on Michael's face.
"Uh, wow. Thanks. Call me Mike."
"Mike." She smiled. Mike couldn't quite place how that smile made him feel. It was like all of those 'thank-yous' you hope for when you do a good deed, but never get, were rolled into one and came out in that smile. "I'm going to check on Cassie and Ronni, then get that shower you talked about."
"I never mentioned a shower."
"I never said axe murderer."
"Fair enough. Down the stairs, on the left."
"Hmm?"
"Your bags."
"Oh. Right."
Wondering just what the blazes he'd gotten himself into, he went into his walk-in closet to change.
