Excerpts from the novel, JACK FROST...
11
The large ebony bird cast a watchful eye on the man as
he restlessly slept. Its brain pan was picking up the
man's fear, radiating off him in big burly waves. It
did not understand why he was lying on the
snow-covered ridge line-nor did it care. It did
however pick up the signals of this intruder's
struggle for survival. It saw him as a hunk of
defenseless prey, shivering in the icy darkness. The
bird did not know what to make of these strange
feelings, for it had always kept clear of most humans.
Their rage and utter hatred could be felt like the
strongest of winds. However, the bird was not afraid
like smaller creatures, in fact it was quite bold. It
did not hesitate to fly around man dwellings while
they slept, searching for scraps of food. Humans were
wasteful all of the time and it would usually find
something tasty to eat.
This pitiful man that lay before his sharp keen eyes
was hurt. He sensed the man's pain and saw the dark
pool of his lifeblood trailing behind the man's leg.
Its razor-sharp talons clenched the branch it was
perched upon in anticipation. Raw meat! It had not
tasted such a salty delicacy for a long time past. Its
beak parted the slightest bit, as if the stately bird
were about to speak. Instead, it fluttered its wings
and let go of the branch.
The raven swooped down effortlessly, its giant wings
extended and buffeted by the wind. It touched down
about three feet from the man's scrunched-up body, its
claws balancing on the mounds of snow and ice. It
stared at its prey with its piercing black eyes,
cocking its head in a mixture of curious inquisition
and amusement. As it stepped gingerly towards the
man's ruined leg, the man moaned aloud. The raven
stopped moving-it looked as though it was playing that
old children's game, "Red Light-Green Light."
It stood
perfectly rigid, not moving a feather, waiting for the
man to relax once more. It sensed the man's fear even
stronger now-it could hardly contain itself. Its
hunger was growing, pulsating inside its body with the
rhythm of its tiny heartbeat. Minutes ticked achingly
by, and the raven waited.
When the man finally settled back down into his
restless dreams, the raven inched a bit closer. The
wind wisped through its feathers, while rattling the
bony, fingerlike branches in the night. It was bitter,
numbing wind, and the man's body started shaking in
the cold rawness of its might. The ebony bird inched
apprehensively closer still, barely able to control
its raging appetite. If the man mumbled or even moved
the slightest bit, then it would spring back quickly.
Its muscles were coiled tight and ready to pounce. Its
beak opened and closed reflexively as it edged nearer
to its prey. It understood that it would have little
time to savor its meal before taking flight to safety.
It hopped a little closer, until finally it was upon
him. The man's swollen, twisted leg lay before it like
a sprawling feast. The raven cast one furtive glance
to make sure all was well, and then it dipped its
beak-and began to feed...
12
Jack was having a nightmare unmatched by any other he
had ever had before. It was obviously after his
accident on the ski slope-he was in a wheelchair with
his paralyzed leg jutting out stiffly. He noticed that
his hands were bandaged as well, and a voice whispered
out of the darkness,
"Frostbite..."
This made him shudder uncontrollably as the events
unfolded with horrifying clarity before his eyes.
The wheelchair sat immobile in a park somewhere. A red
plaid blanket was draped across his lap like a bloody
rag. Lying in the blanket, in a crumpled piece of tin
foil, was a mound of birdseed. His awkward, stumpy
hands were throwing it out to a rather large assembly
of pigeons. They scampered madly about, bobbing and
weaving in and out like they'd never eaten before. He
was tossing out large clumps of seeds in an
ever-widening spray. As he threw out the last of the
birdseed to the starving birds, he had uncovered a
rather unpleasant surprise lying at the bottom of the
foil: pieces of his frostbitten fingers! Some were a
waxy color; some were a blackish purple where gangrene
had set in. Jack noticed with dawning horror that he
could still see the jagged, serrated edges where the
surgeon's saw had sliced through. Before he had a
chance to knock the grisly prize from off his lap, the
pigeons converged on him. They pecked at his amputated
fingers in a maddening frenzy that made his stomach
lurch. He tried swatting them away, but there were
just too many of them. They pulled at the gauze around
his deformed hands, causing it to unravel wildly. Then
they began pecking at him. He felt a hundred painful
pinpricks from their razor-sharp beaks simultaneously.
They squawked with delight as he screamed-that is,
until one of them ripped out his tongue. They dipped
and dived at his writhing, flailing body-and when one
of them punctured his eyeball into a deflating sack of
yellowish puss, he awoke screaming his head off. That
was when he spotted the raven; chewing on a large
piece of muscle from his now freshly bloodied leg. It
looked more like a vampire bat than a bird. He jerked
the leg upward-purely a protective reflex, and bit
down hard as the pain and tremendous pressure ripped
up through his thighs.
"Aaaaargh!" He cried, as the mighty black bird
took
flight-the chunk of meat from his shredded leg
dripping blood from its powerful beak.
Jack Dobson was losing his sanity.
13
The raven slurped the tasty meat down its gullet,
hearing the man's sharp cries of anguish as it perched
on a rotted pine tree that had fallen drunkenly
against another. It squatted and turned around to face
the screaming man-who lay only a few yards away. It
was still picking up the man's fear; only now it was
mixed with pain and hate. The man was awake and alert
now-the raven understood that it would not be so easy
to feed the next time. It sat there, motionless in the
wan glow of the crescent moonlight-undecided about
what to do next. Its brain pan was a cacophony of
mixed signals: wariness of the man's alert anger, and
yet overwhelmed by hunger. The meat it had just tasted
had merely sparked it. Now it wanted more-and it did
not wish to wait to get it. Sensing the wounded man's
hatred was the deciding factor and the giant bird
hesitated, waiting as patiently as it could for the
right moment to attack.
14
Jack bit down on his lower lip as he pressed the scarf
he had turned into a dressing against his freshly
gushing wound.
Rabies! Do birds carry rabies? Oh, no no no no! Please
this isn't happening...please?
He rocked slowly back and forth, nursing his leg in
the gelid frosty night. He absolutely could not
believe what had just happened to him. Nature had just
raped him, and he was helpless to defend himself.
Forget it! Just forget it...
But his mind would not let him. He kept seeing that
fucking monster ripping away a chunk of his calf, the
blood shooting out into the milky white snow as black
as oil. He shut his eyes and kept rocking in a slow
steady rhythm.
"Ten...nine...eight...seven...ssshhh..."
The wind rustled through the pines, making an eerie
whooshing noise. He looked up in fright, trying to see
everything at once. He saw a thousand ravens swarming
down on him.
"NO! Get away!"
The apparitions disappeared. His lip curled back into
a snarl; his teeth were bared like a wild animal. He
decided that if that fucking bird wanted to dance with
him, then it was gonna have to pay the fiddler.
Finishing his countdown to one, he opened his eyes and
gingerly unwrapped his crude splint. His fingers
lightly brushed over the protruding bone and a wave of
nausea swept over him. He grabbed a fistful of snow,
and rubbed it against the back of his neck until the
feeling subsided.
After he had pulled apart the splint, he picked up the
ski pole and hefted it like a Billy club, smacking the
palm of his open hand with it. The warrior's booming
voice echoed through his mind.
It's about time you got tough! Christ, I thought you
were gonna wimp out for sure!
"Nope, uh-uh-not me, pal!" Jack confidently
stated as
he licked his lips. They were chapped from windburn.
His eyes darted all around, scanning the trees and the
sky for the raven. It was too dark; however, to see
anything but shadows. He swatted the snow impatiently
with his ski pole.
You've been naughty little bird! Now Big Bird's gonna
give you the strap!
The image of that giant, goofy bird from Sesame
Street-whacking the shit out of the raven with his ski
pole was simply too much, and Jack giggled.
The raven watched this odd behavior carefully, unsure
now about whether or not to attack its prey. He still
sensed the man's fear, only now it was masked by this
outburst of false bravado. It rotated its head all the
way to the right and listened. It would have to be
patient. The man would grow tired again, and then it
would strike. The bird sensed the man's weakness. If
it could just contain its growing hunger for a little
while, then it would be victorious. So it watched. And
waited.
15
Jack wanted a drink more than anything-he needed to
feel that glowing sense of warmth spread out from his
belly as the liquor splashed down his throat. He
licked his dry lips once again, and rubbed the
spattering of beard stubble that was now growing like
wildfire along his jaw line. He was so cold, just one
shot of whiskey or tequila would do...
He flushed with guilt, cursing himself. Anytime he
thought about having a drink, he felt ashamed. It made
him feel too much like his old man. The comic took
this thought and ran with it.
That's right, Jacky Boy! You could use a drink right
about now... take the chill right out, wouldn't it?
Too bad your dad's not around, he could have given you
a little nip from the old flask he always carried-of
course, he'd beat the tar out of you with that
wonderful invention-the strap! But what the hell, it'd
be worth it right? If you were shitfaced right about
now, at least you wouldn't feel anything...
"Yeah, and I wouldn't have to listen to your shit
anymore!"
No snappy comeback-the comic seemed to be losing his
flair for humor. All was quiet on the frozen front. He
looked down at his throbbing leg, and he realized that
he could see it a little bit better all of a sudden.
He looked up at the grainy sky and was relieved to see
that daybreak was on its way. He was grateful; it had
felt as if he had spent the night in somebody's
freezer.
Now I know what a TV dinner feels like!
He stretched as best he could, without trying to
aggravate his swollen appendage and he saw that the
bleeding had stopped. He lifted the bloody scarf away
from where the raven had bit him, and then he covered
it back up right away. It was too gruesome to look at
so early in the morning.
He looked around for the little bugger, but nothing
moved around him. His butt felt like it was frozen
solid to the ground. He stuck the ski pole into the
snow beside him. Using his hands for leverage, he
pushed up with his arms to raise his sore buttocks off
the ground for a moment. He held it up until the pain
became too much to bear, and then he carefully set
himself down.
"I'm glad I used the gym five days a week," he
snorted.
Daylight broke over the tree line, and Jack felt the
horrors of the night gone by fade into the back of his
mind. He was almost able to convince himself that it
was all a dream, except for one small problem-he could
not feel his feet!
That's right, Jacky Boy! The fun never stops here at
Winter Wonderland! We're here to see that you get your
money's worth!
His breath came out in raspy little sobs. He was
trying to stay calm, but he was not succeeding at all.
If he didn't actually see his feet encased inside a
pair of Yamaha insulated ski boots, then he would have
believed they were gone. That whispery, paper-thin
voice echoed through his mind. It said only one word,
but that word was enough to skewer his heart.
"Frostbite..."
In a haze of mesmerizing and steadily growing panic,
Jack reached over to his good leg, and pulled off his
boot. He yanked off the thermal sock he had bought at
Herman's...
When you could walk Jack... when you could walk. But
you'll never walk again...
And began massaging his bare foot with his bare hands.
"C'mon! C'mon goddammit! You're gonna be fine, do
you
hear me? Fine fine fine!"
After a few seconds, he felt the familiar pang of pins
and needles kicking in. His heart leapt with a warm
rush of relief...
And the raven pushed off the pine tree and swooped
down on its unsuspecting prey.
16
Perhaps a man's fate is preordained. It simply may be
that man cannot control what will ultimately happen to
him as he travels down the arduous path of his life.
Perhaps the Lord up above is cruel-or simply just.
Whatever the case may be, Jack Dobson's life was about
to take a turn for the worse. After this very simple
but immensely unpleasant turn had occurred, he thought
back on it again and again. He thought about how
stupid he had been at the critical moment, and he
cursed God for being so merciless in his actions. In
fact, afterwards he actually believed that God did not
exist-only the devil in the form of a midnight
coal-colored raven.
It all happened in a space of seconds, as most vitally
important matters in life often do. Jack had been
massaging his foot-the realization that he didn't have
frostbite still rang through his heart like a warm
comforting fire. He reached over to undo the ski boot
on his wounded leg, when suddenly the raven attacked
him with a vengeance. He never really saw the heinous
monster as much as he felt it. Its black feathers
ruffled and fluttered as it went for his vulnerable
leg once again. Jack had screamed, and grabbed the ski
pole in a blind effort to beat its brains in. The
black creature squawked once, grabbed his ski boot
(the sock was stuffed inside), and flew awkwardly away
with its cumbersome load.
"No! No! No!" Jack cried out, his arm waving
madly in
the air. His naked foot was already feeling cold.
His Uncle Robbie had explained to him about the
raven's brute strength, but to see one take flight
with a ski boot and a sock in its powerful clamping
talons? It was absolutely unbelievable!
Deep down inside, he was hoping that the fucking thing
choked on his boot, but something even deeper told him
that the bird meant to take it from him. That way, his
foot would surely freeze solid. What made it even
worse was the fact that it was the foot on his good
leg-now both of his legs were useless. He pounded his
naked fist in the snow and watched as the raven dipped
below the tree line. Its black silhouette was a mere
speck now, fading into the clear cloudless sky. He
cursed the bird into the pits of hell, and he cursed
the clear sky as well. With no cloud cover, the
temperature was only going to be that much colder-and
there wasn't much that he could do to save his exposed
foot.
17
The raven dropped the heavy and completely inedible
ski boot into a snowdrift; the sock poked out like a
flat tongue. The exhausted bird fluttered down to
inspect this, but when it realized that it was no more
edible than the boot, it flew away in disgust. It
began its methodical search for the tiny tracks of a
field mouse or a small rabbit to satisfy its voracious
appetite, but the search proved fruitless. It was as
quiet as death this morning. The raven circled back.
It seemed like the man was his only source of food
today.
Meanwhile, Jack was wrapping his poor foot with the
bloody scarf he had used as a field dressing. He
silently wished he had worn a hat-a nice warm woolen
one, but he always thought they looked ridiculous.
Well now, that's a brilliant observation, Jacky Boy.
Don't you think you're gonna look pretty ridiculous
without the old foot there?
The comic's voice was really beginning to grate on his
nerves. He hated the way it called him Jacky Boy all
the time, but then again, he hated the comic-period.
His foot was a little warmer, but not much. He
contemplated taking off his other sock and using it to
cover his exposed foot, but he rejected the idea for
two reasons. First, he didn't want to go through the
pain and insufferable agony of trying to take the ski
boot off his injured leg. Second, he was afraid to
look at the foot on that leg-it might be in worse
shape than he thought. It might have...
Frostbite...
...Swollen or broken or something. He was tired of
checking out his wounds; they weren't the things to
look at if you wanted to stay in a positive frame of
mind. Right now, that was all he had to hold on to.
The knapsack up the swollen crest of this monstrous
hill that he was stuck on did not seem like it was
within his reach at this point. Food was not a high
priority anymore-staying warm topped the list. If he
was going to get out of this...this...jam, as the
warrior liked to call it...
But you've got to admit, pal-it's one humdinger of a
jam.
He was going to have to build a fire. The voice of his
father returned, slurred and syrupy.
Okay Little Jack; empty your pockets there. If my
flask is in there you little shitheel, I'll beat you
with the strap so hard you won't sit down for a
week... lesss go little man...empty 'em now!
Jack pulled everything out of his bright blue ski
parka, and although there wasn't much, there was one
item that turned out to be a gold mine. There was a
pack of Kleenex, the sightseeing brochure he and Lisa
had picked up at the airport, a Vicks vapor-inhaler
for those stuffed up noses, and-the creme de la creme:
his lighter! He had smoked his last cigarette before
plummeting pell-mell down the slope, but he still had
the old silver lighter that Sandy had given him three
or four Christmases ago.
Of course, he knew that he had it all along-he had
last thought about melting some snow to drink. It was
funny how the mind worked during a crisis. Time was
dragging out before him; he had plenty of time to
think. He had been stranded out here on this fucking
ice cube for almost a full day now, and not once did
he even pull the lighter out of his pocket.
It's strange, but if I were hearing about this whole
ordeal on the news, I sure as hell wouldn't believe
that the guy didn't try to light a fire first thing...
"Well," he smirked. "I've been busy
freezing to
death."
He laughed a little. When he had first thought about
making a fire, he had rejected it because there wasn't
enough dry wood around at his height level. Now, after
he had crawled a bit, he noticed that he wasn't very
far away from a cluster of pine trees. He may not be
able to crawl back up to his knapsack, but he sure as
hell could make it over to those pines. If he used the
package of tissues sparingly, then he might be able to
start a decent enough fire.
And just think. Fires attract attention. Maybe someone
will see it-shit, maybe we'll get lucky and burn down
a tree or something.
He shivered as he looked around at the thickening wood
line. The idea of starting an uncontrollable forest
fire scared the living shit out of him. How would he
get away if the whole goddamn slope caught fire? He
could see himself, all too vividly; crawling around
like a madman as the flames engulfed him...
"Okay, okay! I'll just have to be careful goddammit."
He started to crawl once again, using the ski pole to
help him along.
All Rights Reserved © 2000 by Darren Franz
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