Supernatural Fresh Meat - By Alice Henderson Page 0,76
as he could, his fingers going numb in the howling wind. When he unearthed a crown of brown hair in the snow, he planted the shovel to his side. He dug down in front of the face with his hands, his fingers reaching past the forehead and freeing up some space in front of the nose and mouth. He was rewarded with a loud gasp of air. The man looked up, and Dean instantly recognized him as Hank, the ski patrol guy who’d suffered from exposure.
“Thank you,” Hank croaked. “Get my arms free. I’ll dig myself the rest of the way out while you help others.”
Dean nodded, grabbing the shovel again and digging out Hank’s arms and torso.
“You sure about this?” he asked, handing over the shovel. “You can get out?”
“Positive.”
Dean stood up. Near the lodge door, Susan still worked to free the man who belonged to the boot. Dean ran over to help. She’d gotten his face free. It was Steven, the snow ranger. He was still breathing.
She reached up, slapping a handheld electronic device in Dean’s freezing hand. “You know how to use one of these?”
Dean studied the red plastic case and the small LCD screen. “What the heck is it?”
“It’s an avalanche beacon transceiver. Switch it to receive mode and cover the slide area. It should respond if you come close to anyone buried who’s wearing a beacon.”
Dean grabbed another shovel from a fallen pack and took the transceiver. Switching it to receive mode, he read the display, which showed directionality and distance to any beacon signals. He walked around first in front of the lodge, thinking that if he and Hank got swept that way, others might have, too. It picked up a signal about twenty feet to the left of where Hank was furiously digging himself out. Dean watched the LCD screen, closing in on the location.
“Got one!” Dean yelled.
He started digging with the shovel, acutely aware of how much time had passed since people got buried. Too much time. If this person didn’t have an air pocket, they were probably already dead.
“I’m coming!” Hank shouted. He was still working to dig out his thighs.
Dean dug in with the shovel, eyes starting to hurt in the brilliant white of the snow. The wind whipped around the sides of the lodge, bringing with it biting cold. Dean found the sleeve of a jacket, with no arm inside. He pulled it aside, looking beneath. He followed the sleeve to the body of the jacket and felt something hard inside. He cleared snow around it, realizing it was a man’s rib cage. “Hold on!” Dean yelled. He worked sideways, toward the head, and cleared enough snow from the person’s face for him to breathe. But he wasn’t breathing.
“Hey,” Dean shouted. His eyes were closed. Dean recognized him as one of the ski patrol guys who’d helped Hank drag the howitzer out of the drift. He shoveled around the man’s chest to give his lungs room to expand.
Suddenly, Hank was beside him. “It’s Bill,” he said. “Watch out.” He bent down, clearing Bill’s airway of a chunk of ice. Then he performed C.P.R. for two minutes. Dean was impressed. Hank seemed to be indestructible. Bill coughed, spewing water all over Hank. Hank slapped him on the arm. “Right on! You made it!”
Bill laughed weakly. “What a ride! All I needed were my skis.”
Hank stood up. Someone shouted from the lodge. It was Don, the mountain manager, emerging from the one remaining door. Don’s words were being whipped away by the wind, but Dean managed to make out that he was saying two of the ski patrol team were safe inside: “Scott” and a name Dean didn’t catch.
“Ambrose!” shouted Hank, noticing the overly protective ski patroller’s absence. They scanned the disturbed patch of snow.
With Don’s help, Susan finished digging Steven out. Then they rushed over and started clearing compacted snow away from Bill.
Dean stared around, and then he saw Ambrose. Or what was left of him. The avalanche had carried him into a security light pole in the parking lot. From what Dean could see, a four-by-four truck had smashed into him after that and then been scraped away, taking half of Ambrose’s body with it. His top half lay on the snow, sightless eyes staring up into the grey sky, his bottom half lay bleeding, half buried in front of the demolished truck.
“I think I found Ambrose,” Dean said flatly, pointing him out to Hank.