The Shuddering

a chance to speak. Ryan stepped through the kitchen to the door, unlocked it without a word of warning, and ducked into the snow. Moving back into view with Jane’s board sliding behind him, he stuck the burning end of the torch into the snow just beyond the door, extinguishing it, and stepped inside.
    She watched him in silence as he crouched in the hallway, removing the board bindings with a multitool he had stashed in his backpack. Then he lashed both boards together with a menagerie of power cords the five of them had brought with them; cords for computers and iPods, cell phones and cameras. Perhaps their love of the digital age would save them in the end.
    “You can start securing that basket to your board,” he told her, tossing her a cable. “Just make sure it’s tight. We can’t lose it.”
    Jane caught the wicker basket by its handle and jabbed the end of the cord between the wicker weaving.
    “What are we going to do?” she asked meekly. Her tone gave her away. She knew their chances were slim to none now, but Ryan wasn’t about to acknowledge her suspicion.
    “What we were always going to do. We’re leaving in ten minutes.”
    Jane felt her face flush as she worked, clumsily tangling the cord around the front binding before triple knotting the end, trying not to cry.
    “He could die,” Ryan said under his breath, hoping that that sobering reminder would snap her out of her fear. This was no longer about should they or shouldn’t they. This was now all down to a simple question of when, and when had to be now.
    Ryan didn’t wait for her reaction. He climbed the stairs to the center landing and plucked a picture off the wall. Their mother had bought it on a whim in an antique shop in Durango when they were kids—an artist’s rendition of the teddy bears’ picnic, except the bears weren’t stuffed animals—they were real bears, some of them looking bizarrely vicious as they danced, hand in hand, around a campfire with their kin. There was something malign about that picture, like a serial killer painting clowns or twisting balloon animals at a kid’s birthday party. Bringing the painting down into the hall, Ryan lashed it on top of both boards.
    He stood, examining their handiwork, and nodded in satisfaction.
    “Let’s gather up the stuff,” he said, motioning for her to follow him into the living room. There, they picked up the two remaining table leg torches that had yet to be lit, the collection of knives, and the pool cues Sawyer had sharpened to a point. The ax was in Ryan’s backpack, ready to go.
    “We’re going to need to walk Sawyer down into the garage,” he explained. “We’ll put him on this.” He motioned to the makeshift gurney he’d fashioned out of two boards and their mother’s weird art. He had no idea whether it would work, if the snow would even hold Sawyer’s weight or if they’d end up getting stuck, but it didn’t matter anymore.
    “What about Oona?” Jane asked.
    “She’ll have to ride with him.”
    Jane looked startled by his answer. It was an insane plan.
    “We’re out of options,” he told her. “I’ll get all this stuff down there. You dress him in everything we’ve got. Grab a spare blanket to wrap him in and then dress yourself.”
    She nodded, trying to look brave, but her bottom lip quaked with emotion.
    “Hey.” He caught her by the shoulders, giving her a steady look. “I need you, okay? I can’t do this alone.”
    She nodded again, then turned to do what he’d asked of her, and Ryan was left staring at the teddy bears’ picnic, wondering whether the artist had been trying to say something through his sinister art, like the fact that there was something in the woods, something that should have been a fantasy but was dangerously real.
    Jane swallowed against the lump in her throat. She had forgotten all about the pot of blood until Ryan grabbed it from the sink and walked it out into the garage.
    “Are you sure this is absolutely necessary?” she asked, her voice echoing against the cold cinderblock walls, but it had been her idea in the first place—an idea that had worked.
    “It’s absolutely necessary,” he told her, blocking Oona from scrambling back up the stairs. Sawyer sat against the wall, bundled up from head to toe, wrapped in the thick quilt Jane had found in the armoire upstairs. He looked terrible, but at least he was awake.
    She squeezed her eyes shut as tightly as she could, steadying her nerves.