The Drift

The Drift



The snow moved.

Jon peeked through the dirty window of the cabin, watching it and considering its strange behavior with a tightening in his throat. He had seen it move before while gathering wood: large mounds of it, sliding a couple of feet at a time, and closing in like a pack of hungry wolves. It was slower then, almost indiscernible, but now that it knew he was trapped, it moved much quicker. Several large piles had already accumulated against the entrance of the cabin blocking any hope of escape. He pressed his ear against the door and heard the soft swish and rustle of it, probing and pushing at the entry, studying the cabin’s weaknesses. The sheer weight of it made the door creak and pop upon its hinges.

He was running out of time.

Desperately, he kept the fireplace roaring, throwing into it anything that would burn: splintered chairs, tables, cupboard doors, and floorboards. The cabin was like a furnace, but it slowed the advance of the menacing snow. When it piled high around the windows, he boiled pots of water and dumped it upon the snow like the lone defender of a castle pouring hot oil down upon its besiegers. The snow cracked and moaned under the onslaught.

Exhausted, Jon slept.

He awoke to freezing cold. The snow had overrun the entire cabin, dropped down through the chimney, and piled high in the fireplace. Lighting his oil lamp, he surveyed the damage.

He was in the belly of the beast, and he could feel the weight of it crushing down upon him like a mountain. There was only one thing left to do. Rearing back, he smashed the lantern upon the floor. The oil splashed all around him, and then caught fire.

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