Frozen Urethane

Chad lay flat on his back. The concrete was freezing. It pulled the heat directly out of his spine through the thin cotton of his faded black hoodie. A piece of safety glass, perfectly cubed and sharp on one edge, was stuck to his left cheek. He did not brush it off. He just stared up at the sky.

The clouds were the color of dirty dishwater. They hung low over the tall bank buildings of Main Street, dumping massive, wet flakes of snow straight down. The wind was completely dead. There was no sound. The city was a vacuum.

His lungs burned. Every breath felt like he was inhaling crushed ice. His jaw ached from clenching it too hard when they hit the glass doors. He moved his tongue around his mouth. He tasted copper and salt. He swallowed hard. His stomach did a slow, heavy roll.

"Get up," Bri said.

Her voice was flat. It did not echo. The heavy snowfall swallowed the sound instantly.

Chad rolled onto his side. The movement sent a sharp, hot spike of pain through his right shoulder. He ignored it. He pushed himself up onto his knees. The slush on the sidewalk soaked instantly through the worn knees of his baggy denim. The fabric clung to his skin, wet and freezing.

He looked at his hands. His palms were scraped raw, embedded with tiny, glittering fragments of safety glass. He wiped them on his thighs, leaving streaks of watery blood on the blue denim.

Dave was sitting on the curb ten feet away. He had his heavy canvas camera bag in his lap. He was staring at his hands. They were shaking. Not a minor tremble. A violent, uncontrolled shaking that rattled the heavy metal buckles on his bag.

"Dave," Chad said.

Dave didn't look up. He just stared at his hands.

Chad stood. His wet Vans slipped on the slush. He caught his balance, shifting his weight. His toes were already completely numb. The cold water had flooded his socks the moment he stepped out of the tunnel.

He looked back at the shattered glass doors leading down into the underground concourse. The square opening was pitch black. Nothing moved in the dark. There was no sound of clicking plastic joints. There was no wet tearing of meat. The cultists were gone.

Bri was standing near a gray parking meter. She was using the heavy steel crowbar to scrape the wet snow off the top of the meter. It was a repetitive, mindless action. Metal scraping metal. Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.

"They aren't coming up," Chad said.

"Too cold," Bri said. She didn't stop scraping. "They're meat. Meat freezes."

Chad looked down Main Street. It was a wide, six-lane avenue dividing the downtown core. It was completely abandoned. Cars were parked haphazardly. A white delivery van was stopped diagonally across the middle two lanes, its driver-side door hanging wide open. A city bus was idled against the far curb, its digital destination sign dark.

The traffic lights hanging over the massive intersection were dead. Black squares against the gray sky.

Chad walked over to where he had dropped the borrowed cruiser board. The wooden deck was cracked down the middle from the impact with the glass. The frozen urethane wheels were packed with wet snow. He picked it up anyway. It was a habit. A physical anchor. He tucked it under his right arm, the broken wood scraping against his wet sleeve.

"We need a car," Bri said. She finally stopped scraping the meter. She turned to look at Chad. Her sharp features were pale. Her lips were taking on a faint blue tint. "We can't walk to my apartment in this. We'll freeze to death in thirty minutes."

"Keys," Dave said. His voice cracked. He finally looked up. His bottom lip was split open, a thick line of half-frozen blood tracking down his chin into his graying beard. "Nobody leaves keys in their car."

"People panic," Bri said. "They leave things running. We check the abandoned ones. The ones in the street."

Chad looked at the white delivery van. It was fifty yards away. The snow was coming down harder now, thick white sheets obscuring the tall glass towers of the Richardson Building further down the road.

"Okay," Chad said.

He started walking. The physical mechanics of walking were suddenly very complicated. His joints felt stiff. His wet jeans dragged at his ankles. Every step was a calculated effort not to slip on the accumulating slush.

Dave stood up slowly. He slung the camera bag over his shoulder. The heavy canvas hit his hip with a dull thud. He wiped the blood off his chin with the back of his flannel sleeve.

They moved out into the street.

The silence was the worst part. Winnipeg was never silent. Even at three in the morning, there was the hum of the transit buses, the distant wail of a siren, the rumble of freight trains crossing the rail yards. Now, there was nothing. Just the wet crunch of their own shoes on the snow.

They reached the white delivery van. It was a Ford Transit. The sides were blank. The engine was completely dead.

Chad stepped up to the open driver's door. The interior smelled aggressively like stale french fries and cheap vanilla air freshener. The keys were not in the ignition. The steering column was intact.

"Empty," Chad said.

He slammed the door shut. The loud metal crack echoed down the empty avenue, bouncing off the concrete facades of the bank buildings.

Dave winced. "Don't do that."

"Nothing's out here, man," Chad said.

"We don't know that," Dave said. He pulled his flannel collar up around his neck. "Those things... they were fast. Down there."

"Down there is warm," Bri said. She walked past the van, her boots leaving deep, dark tracks in the white snow. "Up here is below freezing. Look at the slush. It's turning to ice. If they come up here, the water in their exposed muscle tissue will freeze. They won't be able to bend their joints. Basic physics."

"They're plastic mannequins full of raw beef," Dave said. "Don't talk to me about physics."

Chad looked at a dark blue Honda Civic parked against the curb. The engine was off. He walked over and peered through the driver's side window. The glass was heavily tinted. He cupped his hands around his eyes and pressed his face to the cold glass.

Empty. No keys.

He stepped back. The cold was seeping deep into his core now. His chest felt tight. He was shivering uncontrollably. He gripped the broken cruiser board tighter, trying to channel the nervous energy into his hands.

"There's a truck," Bri said. She pointed down the block.

It was a massive, black Dodge Ram. It was parked halfway on the sidewalk outside a closed bank branch. The engine was running. They could see a thick plume of white exhaust rising from the tailpipe, dissipating quickly into the falling snow.

They walked faster. Chad's breath came in short, jagged bursts. The cold air stung the back of his throat.

As they got closer, Chad heard the low, steady rumble of the V8 engine. It was a beautiful sound. It meant heat. It meant a heater blasting hot air onto his freezing feet.

They reached the truck. The windows were rolled up. The dark tint made it impossible to see inside.

Chad grabbed the heavy chrome door handle on the driver's side. He pulled.

Locked.

"Shit," Chad said. He pulled it again, harder. The metal handle barely moved.

Bri stepped up. She tapped the heavy steel crowbar against the glass of the window. The metal clinked sharply.

"Stand back," Bri said.

Chad took a step back.

Bri swung the crowbar. She didn't hesitate. She didn't check for an alarm. She just brought the heavy flat end of the steel bar crashing into the center of the driver's side window.

The glass didn't shatter inward. It webbed instantly, a thousand tiny white cracks spidering out from the point of impact. It held together, held by the dark tint film.

Bri cursed. She swung again. Harder.

The window caved in with a loud, wet crunch. Shards of dark glass spilled out onto the snow and inward onto the driver's seat.

Chad leaned in. The blast of hot air from the truck's vents hit his face. It smelled like black ice air freshener and wet dog. It was the best thing he had ever smelled.

He reached through the broken window, avoiding the jagged teeth of glass still clinging to the frame. His fingers brushed the door lock. He flipped it up.

He pulled the handle. The door swung open.

He climbed in. The seat was covered in broken glass, but he didn't care. He sat down. The heat from the vents blasted against his wet jeans. He let out a long, shaky breath.

"Get in," Chad said.

Dave scrambled around the front of the truck and yanked the passenger door open. He climbed in, pulling his heavy camera bag onto his lap. He slammed the door shut.

Bri climbed into the back seat behind Chad. She pulled the door shut.

The interior of the truck was a sanctuary. The sound of the wind was instantly muted. The engine idled smoothly. The digital clock on the dashboard read 2:14 PM.

Chad put his hands in front of the center vents. The hot air burned his raw, freezing skin. It was a good pain. He rubbed his hands together.

"Okay," Chad said. He looked at the steering column. The key was in the ignition. It was attached to a heavy metal carabiner with a few keys and a red plastic gym tag.

He grabbed the gear shift. He pulled it down into Drive.

The truck lurched forward.

Chad pressed the accelerator. The heavy tires spun for a second on the wet slush, then caught. The truck rolled off the sidewalk and onto the empty avenue.

"Where to?" Chad asked.

"My place," Bri said from the back seat. "Osborne Village. We take Main down to the bridge, cross the river. It's a fortified building. Concrete walls. Steel doors."

"Okay," Chad said.

He drove slowly. The street was treacherous. The snow was accumulating fast, hiding patches of black ice. He kept the truck in the center of the road, avoiding the scattered, abandoned cars.

Dave leaned forward. He reached out and turned the radio on.

Static. Loud, hissing static filled the cabin.

Dave hit the seek button. The digital tuner jumped from station to station. 92.1. Static. 97.5. Static. 102.3. Static.

He turned the dial manually. Nothing. Not a single voice. Not a single song. Just the flat, dead hiss of empty airwaves.

Dave turned the radio off. He leaned back in his seat. He stared out the windshield at the falling snow.

"It's the whole city," Dave said.

Chad gripped the steering wheel. The leather cover was worn smooth. He didn't say anything. He just watched the road.

They passed Portage Avenue. The massive intersection, usually the busiest in the city, was completely empty. The towering glass facade of the Richardson Building disappeared upward into the gray clouds.

They drove south on Main Street. The buildings began to change. The tall glass bank towers gave way to older, brick buildings. Pawn shops. Check cashing places. Boarded-up storefronts.

"Stop," Dave said.

Chad hit the brakes. The heavy truck slid forward a few feet before the anti-lock brakes kicked in, vibrating the pedal under his wet shoe. The truck came to a halt in the middle of the street.

"What?" Chad asked.

Dave pointed through the windshield.

Fifty yards ahead, at the intersection of Main and Broadway, something was in the street.

Chad squinted through the falling snow. The windshield wipers dragged heavily across the glass, clearing a wide arc of visibility.

It was a mannequin.

It was standing in the middle of the intersection. It was wearing a pair of dark blue jeans and a gray wool sweater. The plastic of its face was completely smooth, featureless beige.

It was not moving.

Chad kept his foot firmly on the brake. The engine idled loudly.

"Is it dead?" Dave asked. His voice was a tight whisper.

"They aren't alive in the first place," Bri said. She leaned forward between the front seats.

They watched it.

For a full minute, the mannequin stood perfectly still. The snow accumulated on its plastic shoulders and the top of its featureless head.

Then, it moved.

It was a slow, jerky motion. It lifted its right leg. The movement was incredibly stiff. They heard a loud, sharp crack carry across the empty street. The plastic shell of its knee shattered, exposing the wet, red meat underneath.

But the meat was not red anymore.

It was a deep, bruised purple. It looked rigid. Frozen solid.

The mannequin planted its foot back down. It dragged its left leg forward. Another sharp crack. Another stiff, agonizing movement.

"The cold," Bri said. "It's freezing the muscle tissue. The water in the meat is expanding. It's locking up their joints."

"It's going somewhere," Chad said.

The mannequin wasn't moving toward the truck. It hadn't even turned its blank face toward the loud idling engine. It was moving east. Down Broadway.

"Where is it going?" Dave asked.

"East," Chad said. "Toward the river."

Chad let off the brake. The truck rolled forward slowly. He steered the heavy vehicle around the slow-moving, freezing monster. The mannequin ignored them completely. It just kept dragging its stiff legs through the snow, heading east.

Chad checked the rearview mirror. The thing was getting smaller in the falling snow.

"There's another one," Bri said. She pointed out the back window.

Chad looked. A second mannequin had emerged from an alleyway. It was wearing a brightly colored summer dress. It was moving just as slowly, dragging a frozen, purple leg behind it. It turned east onto Broadway, following the first one.

Chad looked at the fuel gauge. Half a tank.

"We need to see where they're going," Chad said.

"Are you out of your mind?" Dave said. He turned to look at Chad. "We need to go to Osborne. To the concrete walls. We don't follow the meat monsters."

"If they're all going somewhere, we need to know where," Chad said. "What if they're going to Osborne? What if they're gathering?"

Bri didn't say anything. She just stared out the window.

Chad turned the steering wheel. The truck lumbered into a slow right turn, heading east on Broadway.

"This is stupid," Dave said. He gripped the camera bag tight against his chest.

They drove slowly. The street was wide and lined with massive, old elm trees. The bare branches were heavy with wet snow.

They saw more of them.

They were coming out of the office buildings. Out of the coffee shops. Out of the underground parking garages.

Dozens of them.

They were all moving east. They were all moving agonizingly slow. The freezing temperature was destroying their fleshy interiors. Plastic shells were cracking and shattering with every step, exposing dark, frozen muscle to the brutal air.

Chad kept the truck at a crawl. He weaved between the slow-moving shapes. None of them looked at the truck. None of them lunged. They were completely fixated on their destination.

"It's a migration," Bri said quietly.

They reached the end of Broadway. The street terminated at the massive concrete retaining wall of the Red River.

The river itself was a wide, flat expanse of white. It was frozen solid. The late spring storm had dropped a fresh layer of snow over the thick ice. The far bank was obscured by the heavy snowfall, but the dark shapes of the trees in St. Boniface were barely visible through the gray.

Chad stopped the truck at the edge of the street, fifty feet from the retaining wall.

He put the truck in Park. He left the engine running.

"Look," Chad said.

He pointed through the windshield.

The wide expanse of the frozen river was not empty.

There were hundreds of them.

Maybe thousands.

The mannequins were pouring out of the city streets, cresting the concrete retaining walls, and tumbling down the steep, snowy banks onto the frozen ice.

They were a massive, silent horde. They were dressed in every conceivable outfit. Winter coats, summer dresses, business suits, athletic wear.

They hit the ice and began to walk.

They were moving in a straight line. Straight down the center of the frozen river, heading north.

The cold was taking a massive toll. The ice was littered with the shattered remains of those who had frozen completely solid. Broken plastic limbs and chunks of rigid, purple meat lay scattered across the white snow. The ones still moving just stepped over the broken pieces of their own kind, dragging their stiff joints forward.

"Where does the river go?" Dave asked. His voice was completely hollow.

"North," Bri said. "Up to Lake Winnipeg. Into the wilderness."

Chad watched them. The sheer scale of it was impossible to comprehend. It was an army of plastic and meat, marching silently into the frozen north.

The heater blasted hot air onto his face. The truck engine idled perfectly.

He looked at his hands. The bleeding had stopped. The tiny cuts on his palms were raw and red.

He looked back out at the river. A mannequin wearing a bright red ski jacket tumbled down the bank. It hit the ice hard. The impact shattered its entire torso. A massive chunk of dark, frozen lung slid across the smooth ice. The thing didn't try to get up. The rest of the horde just stepped over it.

"We can't stay here," Dave said. "Chad. We need to go."

Chad didn't move. He watched the endless stream of beige plastic faces moving silently onto the ice.

They weren't hunting anymore. They were retreating. The cold had broken them. The city had frozen them out.

Chad grabbed the gear shift. He pulled it down into Drive.

He turned the steering wheel hard to the left, pointing the heavy truck back toward Main Street.

"Osborne," Chad said.

He pressed the accelerator. The truck turned its back on the river, leaving the silent, frozen march behind.

The heavy tires caught the slush, and the truck pushed forward into the empty, white city.