Kelly knew what was happening. She had been watching for the warning signs for a while, ever since she had seen Dale not quite let his emotions flood through him when he realized that Glenda had died. It was his sense of duty that had gotten him back on the snowmobile after they had made the terrible discovery. She hadn't known the man long, but enough to know that this was his primary driving force. He had told everyone that he would get them down the mountain, and that was what he had focused on, not allowing his mind to fully accept what he had just lost.
Being around athletes as much as she had been in her life, she had seen the scenario played out many times, in many permutations. Everyone went through the traditional five stages -- denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance -- but she also knew that for each individual there were little epicycles of emotion contained within them. In the sports world it paid to know the various ways these could play out. Loss was utterly visceral out on the field, often accompanied by physical jolts of one kind or another, and there was often little time to react before you had to go back out and deliver a better performance. The paths through grief were varied and rapid. And right now, with her arms looped around Dale, she imagined she could feel everything he was going through. And the outlook wasn't good.
After the strange white-out and the realization that he might not be able to fulfill his primary directive of saving them all, she had felt the change in the muscles of his midriff. When he saw the Deertail Lodge come back into view after thinking they had finally left it behind, he had tensed in panic, but then relaxed. This humiliation, piled on top of loss -- and yes, she could tell that the security guard was taking his inability to deliver them all to safety as humiliation -- dealt him a second blow that closely matched the pain of the first. It was like a ball player who breaks their leg near the tail end of a clearly losing match... It seemed unnecessary and vindictive, even if there was no source to point blame toward.
Kelly hadn't started to get scared until she felt resolve flooding back into Dale's muscles. This kind of tension felt different from effort, and she recognized it quickly. It was the kind a batter who's been brushed back too many times and is about to storm the pitcher's mound gets, or the footballer who is about to double down on the behavior that has gotten her a yellow card *because* she has gotten a yellow card. With a sudden pickup in the snowmobile's speed, and the failure to change direction, she still didn't know exactly what Dale was intending, but she knew that any decision he made at that point would likely be impulsive and self-destructive.
Pain of this sort, more specifically internalized pain, was the only thing that would make a man like Dale forget about the others his decisions were going to affect. And so, with the treads of the snowmobile churning up the roof tiles, the whole vehicle feeling like it was going to shake itself to pieces, and the leading edge of the hotel roof approaching, she did the only thing she could. Kelly's arms, already wrapped around Dale a few inches above his utility belt, lifted. She turned her head, laying her ear and cheek flat against the broad expanse of his back.
Her left hand slid up his chest, to just over the place his heart must be, and lightly pressed there. Then she clenched her thighs around the seat of the snowmobile and forced herself to be conscious of Manoj's arms, which were in turn wrapped around her, savoring the warmth and reassurance of them. She hoped that Dale could feel that warmth as well, the warmth of all of them, passing through her and into his broken heart.
She waited. Seconds streamed past like the wind, and since she had no idea how much runway they had before the roof ended in empty air, there was nothing else for her to do but wait, and hope that it was enough. Please, Dale, she thought, hoping that he could somehow feel her thoughts, think of us. We all have homes to return to, like Glenda. We she have wanted her death to be the thing that doomed us all?
For a long moment, Dale's body did not change, as if he had turned into stone, bent on taking all six of them to oblivion. Then, beneath the palm of the hand she had placed on Dale's heart, Kelly felt him exhale, in one long, shuddering sigh of resignation, defeat and acceptance. Then she felt herself being pressed closer against his back, just as much because his muscles were loosening as that the snowmobile was beginning to slow.
Kelly heard a distant yelp from Sheryl, guessing that the sudden pressure she was feeling on her legs was unexpected. It didn't matter, because it wasn't until the combination vehicle had almost come to a stop that the sledge it was towing began to slew a little to the side. Then they were no longer moving.
The engine cut out, and a stunning silence descended. Kelly remained where she was, her hand over Dale's heart, her other arm around his waist, feeling the coiled tension in his muscles. She waited patiently, and the ultimate release finally came. She felt the big man start to curl around her palm, closing in himself like a flower being crushed. He hunched down over the handlebars, and Kelly continued to hold on. She knew the second part of what was coming. She had seen a smaller version of it so many times, in locker rooms and the quiet spaces of empty stadiums after everyone had left, the inevitable result that comes with the knowledge that a possible future, one that could have been so beautiful and triumphant, is now closed off forever.
She remained pressed close to Dale's back as his spine arched, his head tipped back, and he released a cry of anguish so visceral that tears squeezed out of the corners of Kelly's eyes. She could actually feel his release of energy, the way his very frame shook with his explosion of grief and regret. His voice tapered off into a long, pained whimper, and although she expected it to devolve into sobbing, it didn't. By the end, it seemed like he had nothing else to let loose. His body, deflated, lowered down over the handlebars again. She kept her hand pressed against his chest the whole time, wondering if maybe it was the pressure of her arms around him that had kept him from literally flying apart with sorrow.
Dale drew in a long, deep breath, replacing all that he had lost in his protracted cry. The rise-and-fall flow of it returned, and it wasn't until she felt it that Kelly was reassured that they were all not about to go over the edge. The man had given voice to his hurt, and now he could move forward. She opened her eyes, lifted her head, and took a look around.
They had come closer to the forward edge of the roof than she felt comfortable admitting; only about four feet of shingles remained in front of them before the drop-off. They were close to one of the front corners of the Lodge, marked by a small cupola, about the size of a large tool shed, a smaller version of the lobby facade that reared higher into the black sky a good two hundred feet away. They had come down the avalanche slope right onto the roof of the half-enveloped lodge, which must have looked to the bereaved driver of the snowmobile like a custom-made ski jump to nowhere.
She still didn't move, because Dale didn't either. She would stay there as long as he wanted her to, but so far there was no resistance, no subtle shrug that told her he didn't need her anymore. For a long time they just sat there, waiting for the last of it to pass.
-12.4-
He really would have done it. The solution was right in front of him, as clearly as if the avalanche had laid out a destined path, one that he only had to follow. And Dale had had every intention of doing just that, until he had been stopped by a hand.
On a very conscious level, he knew that the palm that had laid itself so gently across his aching heart was Kelly's. With that knowledge alone, it wouldn't have been enough to put the brakes on. With the wind increasing in his face, with the edge of the world coming on ever faster, his mind chose to conjure something decidedly unreal, but sharper and more real than anything else he had experienced that interminable, horrible night.
What if, his thoughts unspooled, that hand were Glenda's? He imagined that if she had ever placed her hand directly in the center of his chest, that's exactly what it would have felt like. He knew it wasn't hers, and understood that on every level, but his mind wouldn't quit imagining it as something else. It was some extension of her, telling him not to give up, to keep fighting even though she was no longer there to help and inspire him. It was this thought -- which he heard clearly in her voice, even though he knew it was really his own mind -- that convinced him to bring the snowmobile under control, and to finally let it stop.
Even then, it wasn't over. He still felt the urge to punch the throttle, to finish the job. It seemed preferable to a life of years stretching out before him without Glenda in them. All that time, every morning waking up and remembering what had happened. Could he really face that? This is what prompted his howl, all the rage of a beautiful life destroyed being thrown up into the indifferent sky.
And all the while, that pressure remained on his sternum, never changing. When he finally slumped forward, every last ounce of energy seemingly expended, it stayed there, a gentle reminder of how he was not alone. Not on this snow-covered roof, or in this crazy looping nighttime world. There were still others.
For the moment, at least, that was enough.
He straightened, pulled back his shoulders to their natural position. He felt his chest expand, cool air flow back into his depleted lungs. And still the hand remained. He took his hand -- the one formerly poised over the throttle -- and covered the hand with his own. He knew it wasn't Glenda's, and he knew that it wasn't going to be there forever, an eternal reminder of her, but for that moment, he allowed himself to believe that both those things were true. For the first time, he felt a twinge of relief that he had not sent them all plunging over the edge of the roof, to slam into the snow-covered garden that ran the length of the front of the lodge, far below.
He took another deep breath, patted Kelly's hand twice, and pulled it away from his chest. He focused on keeping the feeling of its pressure in place, though. He hoped it would last. "Thank you," he whispered, not knowing if Kelly heard him. She gave no overt sign that she had, but he did feel her arm on his waist squeezing him slightly before releasing its hold.
He heard Manoj's voice, unsteady. "How do we get down from here?"
Finally, a question Dale knew the answer to. Moving slowly enough to make sure that Kelly wasn't going to get kicked, Dale lifted himself up off the snowmobile and dismounted. "Over here," he said, and walked toward the cupola at the corner of the building. He stepped up the side of it that faced the rear of the building, and threw open a latch that was all but hidden in the multiple layers of woodwork that gave the structure an ornamental feel. The entire back wall of the cupola swung out, revealing it to be entirely hollow inside.
Kelly and Manoj followed, fascinated by the revelation. "What is this?" Manoj asked.
"Roof access. For repairs," Dale said, his throat scratched by the first words he had spoken since his desperate cry. "It was part of the original design, but it's been modified since then. We should be able to get everyone back down this way."
The young man continued, "And we... want to go back down?"
Dale paused from his survey of the cupola's interior. His back still turned to the couple, he muttered, "What other choice is there?"
He heard a sound that might have been Kelly swatting her boyfriend's sleeve, silently imploring him not to answer that question. It was okay; he knew enough about Manoj now to take his concern at face value. Of course he was going to look for alternatives; it was in his nature.
Dale continued to survey the inside of the small shed. It was still as he remembered from three years ago, when he had accompanied the maintenance crew in the pre-season inspection, just to see the mountain from a new vantage point. The long trapdoor in the floor seemed untwisted, just as the cupola's exterior was... the avalanche's damage didn't seem to have affected this forward corner of the building as much as elsewhere. He took just a moment to look out of the downslope window, silently cursing the devious mirage of the town that still hung there, glowing warmly far below. They had been so close to escaping...
He turned, walked right past the young couple hovering at the doorway and headed for the sledge. He threw a "Would you mind opening the trap, please?" over his shoulder to them as he steeled his nerves for picking Glenda's body up off the spot where she still lay reclined against the storage bags. Four expectant eyes -- Kerren and Sheryl -- looked up at him from their places next to her.
"We can get back inside through the trapdoor in there," he said simply.
Sheryl had sat up, no longer bracing her feet against the back of the snowmobile. "A trapdoor?" she asked. "How are we going to--"
"You'll see. It won't be too hard." Dale said, his voice tired beyond measure. He was looking down at Glenda, who lay as if sleeping. The light from the blind moon overhead, shining on the bits of unmelted snow that had settled on her face, gave some semblance of life to her skin, but Dale knew it was an illusion, like so much else in this new world.
The two women watched as he bent down to the desk clerk and peeled away the bags he had laid across her, sticky and heavy with blood. Underneath, he clothes were in the same blackened condition. It physically hurt to look at her, the obscene knife handle sticking out of her chest. He wanted to wrench it out, throw it over the edge of the roof (just as he had almost thrown all these people off), but couldn't. He couldn't shake the feeling that to do so would hurt her, and he couldn't bear to take even that small a part in the terrible act that had destroyed her.
He picked her up, supporting her shoulders and knees, never taking his eyes off her face as he hoisted her tenderly. Without watching his feet at all, he carried her steadily across the slightly-angled roof to the cupola. Kelly and Manoj were just finishing his struggle with the oversized trapdoor, swinging it up to release a draft of significantly-warmer air out of the five-by-ten gap they had just created in the cupola's floor.
Underneath, a shallow set of wooden stairs led down into darkness, and alongside it was an equally shallow-graded ramp, really just an extra-wide, flat rail, built of apparently the same wood as everything else. It had been designed for equipment to be slid up or down as maintenance workers went up and down the stairs. Dale walked around to the far side of the trapdoor, past Manoj and Kelly where they stood solemnly, and reached the top of the stairs. He only looked away from Glenda's cool, relaxed face long enough to watch his foot take the first step, and then he began to descend, carrying her as, in a different universe, he might have carried her over a threshold, making sure that her head and feet cleared the sides of the roof. They disappeared together down into the dark.
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