The Shuddering

and out of responsiveness, balancing on the knife’s edge of consciousness and catatonia. The nausea that roiled in the pit of his stomach was unbearable, but the cold that whipped across his face helped ease the discomfort.
    At least until a haunting wail echoed off the trees around them.
    It sounded almost human, like a valley of people moaning before death. Sawyer connected with something in that mournful chorus. At that very moment, it became undeniably clear—whatever these creatures were, they were in pain, more than likely racked with starvation, forced into a slow and bitter end. Somehow, on some primal level, he could relate to their plight. He swallowed against the lump in his throat, every breath harderthan the last, his guilt over April subsiding enough to let a wave of calm drift over him. He had been so sure that he had lost her, but he’d been wrong.
    He hadn’t lost anything. They’d be together soon.
    The creatures were mercifully keeping their distance—a blessing, since the group had to stop every few minutes to catch their breath, pausing every hour for an even longer break. Maybe those things had been spooked enough to search for alternative prey. Maybe it was the blood that had frozen to their faces like war paint, stained their clothes, and clumped and matted in their hair. Ryan didn’t know exactly why they were being given this opportunity to make headway, but he also couldn’t be bothered to care. Both he and Jane were exhausted. Sawyer didn’t look good, hardly able to keep his eyes open for longer than a few minutes at a time. They were losing daylight with each pause, and all Ryan could hope for was that they’d hit the highway before nightfall. If they didn’t, they’d have to make camp, and he wasn’t convinced any of them would survive the night. Their stash of food was meager, their energy was low, and despite the lack of snowfall, the wind was relentless, biting at any exposed bit of skin. The chill would only grow more bitter with the onset of darkness. The windchill alone would be enough to end them.
    But after hours of trudging forward at a snail’s pace, there was no denying that they weren’t going to make it in a single day. The five miles from the driveway to the highway suddenly seemed like five hundred. They were drained, and if they pushed themselves too hard, they wouldn’t have the energy to defend themselves if they were attacked.
    Ryan shot a look over his shoulder at the tree line a hundred yards away. They were there, lurking in the shadows, watching theirkill move farther and farther away as they moaned and growled within their throats; what Ryan had expected to be welcome distance made his nerves buzz with trepidation. Perhaps he had been wrong. Maybe they weren’t afraid. Perhaps they were simply waiting for the light of day to burn away before making their final move. He shoved his sleeve upward with his glove, exposing the watch that was wrapped around his wrist. It was a few minutes shy of four in the afternoon. The sun would be gone in an hour. If they were going to make camp, they had to start now.
    “We should stop here,” he announced. Jane’s expression immediately shifted from pained to anxious.
    “What? Why? I thought we were going to the highway.”
    “We are. But we’re only about halfway.”
    Jane shook her head in disbelief. “That’s impossible,” she insisted. “We’ve been out here for hours.”
    “Believe it,” Ryan told her. “We’ve gone two miles, three if we’re lucky. Sunset is in an hour. If we keep going, we’ll get a quarter of a mile farther. We need to set up camp or we’ll freeze.”
    Jane’s gaze flitted to Sawyer, her face twisting with dread. Ryan knew what she was thinking—they didn’t have much time. Sawyer was weak, and without moving around like they were, he would be cold. If he didn’t make it through the night, the blame would be on Ryan. But he had expected this. He knew the trek was going to be hard and, with Sawyer incapacitated, even longer than it would have been if the three of them were able-bodied. They could continue through the night, but there was no doubt in his mind they’d collapse only hours after nightfall—spent, freezing. Sawyer wouldn’t survive it. But there was a possibility he’d survive the night tucked into a snow shelter away from the wind.
    “I knew this would take longer than a day,” he confessed, hoping that his admission would somehow soothe her