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Here’s a sample of my short thriller entitled “Cold.” You can find the full version in Sorrow: A Horror Anthology on Amazon. Check out the link to consider buying a copy.
Cold. There was no other way to describe it. No matter what word you would choose, you were left with one lingering word. Cold. So damn cold. Your mind couldn’t describe it any other way because it took your capacity to think clearly. It’s not like there aren’t other words you’re just so damn numb you can’t articulate anything else. Just cold. Your feet, hands, ears, nose, the cheeks of your ass, everything fucking bitten and aching.
But that was the job. The job was cold. Snow as far as the eyes could see. Not that you could see far. The conditions were always just on the verge of whiteout. So much fucking snow, you weren’t sure the time of day. It could get downright black sometimes. But that was the job. Clear the snow, fight the never ending uphill battle of shoveling snow, just to have it fill in right behind you. Just needed to keep it shallow enough to get the trucks through. The only reason you know you’re digging in the right direction are the markers on the side of the road.
Dig as hard and as fast as your body can carry you. Gotta keep up. If the snow gets too high for too long, a truck could get hung up, and then you start over on the whole patch behind you. Yes, the job was cold and hard. It took a hard man. There wasn’t a man on the line that wasn’t hard as nails. Dig. Dig until the arms were pulling themselves out of the joint, till the back was twisted, till the legs burned, till the knees were shot, till your bit hands and feet cramped into solid blocks.
Cold. Hard. Dig. Pain.
“When’s the next damn break?” Darrel grumbled to Rich. He kept his voice low. Even with the howling winds, the foreman might hear them.
“Break is when break is. We get it when we get it. Now shut up and dig,” Rich grumbled back. He seemed like he was in no mood today.
“I’m fucking tired of this shit. I just need ten damn minutes,” Darrel hissed.
“You stop for ten minutes now and we’ll have to fall back almost ten feet to keep the trucks from getting hung up,” Rich shook his head. “Look, just dig through it. Trust me, if you stop, you’re not gonna wanna get back in the cut.”
“We could take five minute shifts, Rich,” Darrel picked at the snow with his shovel. He’d hit a hard spot where the snow had settled enough to become solid.
“Oh, and I bet you get to stop first? And then what? When you start to cramp up, we all gotta wait for you to pick up the pace? Then we fall behind. Just wait til break. We get a 15, then a lunch,” Rich was beginning to lose his patients.
“Shit, I don’t even remember the last time we had lunch. We ain’t mutha fucken convicts. I ain’t gonna dig till I fall over and die. What’s the worst that could happen.
“They fire you,” Ben, further down the line now spoke up. “And I need this damn job. I was a convict once, and I ain’t going back to that life.”
“There a problem gentlemen?” Mr. Roberts, the foreman stuck his head out the window of the lead truck. “Things seem to be slowing down up there.”
“No problem Mr. Roberts,” Ben stood up only long enough to make eye contact and smile at the foreman. Ben had become the de facto spokesperson of the dig crew over the years. He was the softest spoken and diplomatic in the group of twelve ruffians that headed the line of trucks. Ben had to keep up the pleasantries. Every now and then, someone had to sweet talk the foreman.