Snow Blind - Lori G. Armstrong [121]
Maybe I could reach it with my feet. I swung around and crawled into the back of the pickup. Lying on my back, my body stayed at a funky angle since my right wrist was attached to the ball hitch outside the truck bed. But I was goddamn glad I’d opted for a cargo net instead of the traditional tailgate. My breath came hard and fast. Forcing myself to go slow, I swept my legs from side to side to clear away 430
the crusted snow. Clunk. I made the same movement again. Clunk. Metal striking metal. Bingo. I’d found it.
I felt the lump beneath the toe of my right boot. I slid up and dropped my boot heel down, using it to drag the long wooden handle close enough to grasp it. My fingers were stiff and practically useless, but somehow I managed to wrap them around the handle. I dragged it closer only to realize I’d grabbed the shovel. I tried again. Three attempts later and I had the smooth handles in my icy hand. Immediately I burst into a mix of laughter and tears.
Don’t get cocky. Your hand is still cuffed and you’ve lost fine motor skills.
I forced three more deep breaths into my lungs, never letting go of my precious tool as I stared up at the white sky. Then I scooted back to the tailgate. Snow went down my pants and up my shirt but I didn’t care. Putting the sharp tip of the bolt cutters around the chain links one-handed was like threading a needle. My strength was totally zapped. I’d already used every drop of adrenaline.
Wind stung my cheeks. I licked my lips, tasting salt and blood but feeling nothing because my face was encased in ice.
After two misses, I decided to use my upper body for balance and momentum. I braced the handle against the bottom of the tailgate and rocked into it. Nothing.
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I didn’t have voice enough to swear.
Deep breaths. In. Out. Patience.
Seemed a hundred pushes before the link gave way, separating me from the hitch. Half of the set of handcuffs circled my wrist like the world’s ugliest bracelet. Weird. Even though the silver ring hadn’t been tight, I couldn’t feel my hand. I tried to squeeze the fingers of my right hand into a fist. Even weirder. The bolt cutters in my left hand crashed to the ground. Everything swirled in slow, dense fog. Snow eddied around me and I was mesmerized by the shifting and floating white forms. Shapes like ghostly fingers beckoned, sibilant whispers taunted, a hiss of temptation—no words—existing only as pure sound. The high tinkling tones of The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy trilled on the wind.
Ooh. Pretty. I loved that song. I swayed back and forth, humming along.
Get out of the fucking cold, you idiot.
The voice of reason snapped me to attention. I backed up and fell right on top of Trina. Her rib cage cracked beneath my weight and blood or something wet and sticky soaked into the seat of my pants. Eww. A hoarse squeak burst from my mouth. I attempted to scramble away, but the grommet on my boot hooked Trina’s coat, dragging her bloody bag of skin and bones along as I literally tried to escape her deadweight.
Reach down and unhook it.
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I shook my head.
Don’t be stupid. Unhook it.
No. Shut up. I’ll do it my own way.
My heart rate remained sluggish as I kicked, flailing my leg without touching Trina. Finally the metal tab ripped free on its own. I crawled the last few feet to the driver’s side door, opened it, and climbed inside. Needed to get warm. Needed keys.
Where were my keys? Not in the ignition where I’d left them because I’d left my truck running when I’d initially jumped out. Had Jackal stolen them when he’d turned it off?
Frustrated, I whimpered. So close. So goddamn close, just to fail at the final buzzer. I was so tired. So fucking cold. So tired of being so fucking cold all the time. Maybe if I lay down I’d warm up. Body shaking, I flopped sideways on the bench seat. Something sharp jabbed me in the cheek.
Slowly I turned my head. My keys. Lodged