Snowed In

A short story of bad people, murder, mystery, and horror.

Hank stared through the windshield at the snow. His wipers shoved fat clumps. Where they didn’t reach, the slush piled two inches thick. Hank squinted and leaned forward over the steering wheel. The light from the bar’s sign barely came through.

He checked the clock. He didn’t know why. It didn’t matter what time it was. It did matter that he hadn’t driven far enough. Even with this storm, they could still be following him. If they were following him. He looked into the backseat at the duffel. Three-hundred grand. Not bad.

Hank popped the driver’s side door and climbed out. Cold cut through his jacket and snow stuck to his face. He brushed it away and opened the back, pulled out the duffel, and slung it over his shoulder. Fuck it. If he had to wait this thing out, at least he could do it with a roof over his head and a beer in his hands.

He trudged the thirty feet to the bar’s front door. Only one other car in the parking lot: a station wagon some distance away, obscured by snow. At the bar’s entrance, Hank stopped. Was there someone in that other car? He glanced back. Too much goddamn snow. But he didn’t think so. No, only shadows.

He had a gun in the duffel. He thought about taking it out, but didn’t. Jumpy. You’re just jumpy…