The Blanket of White

Frankie kept his eyes glued to the windshield, the wipers grunting a losing battle against the heavy, wet snow. It came down in thick, relentless sheets, coating the world in a blinding, suffocating white. Every few seconds, the beam of an oncoming headlight would cut through the storm, a fleeting ghost, before disappearing back into the swirling void. His knuckles ached, white against the steering wheel, and his stomach churned, a cold, hard knot tightening with every mile. The old van, a rusted-out Ford Econoline, rattled and groaned, its heater barely spitting lukewarm air, doing nothing to thaw the chill that had settled deep in Frankie's bones.

Sal sat beside him, a hulking shadow, silent as a tombstone. He hadn’t said much since they’d picked up the package. Just a gruff, 'Drive,' and then nothing. The air inside the van was thick with diesel fumes and the faint, metallic scent that Frankie tried not to identify. It was a smell that seemed to cling to the upholstery, to their coats, to the very lining of his stomach. In the back, under a faded blue tarp, was the reason for the silence, the reason for the snow, the reason for the cold, dead weight in his gut.

They turned off the main road, the tires crunching through untouched powder. The old quarry road, barely more than a gravel track, was a forgotten vein in the earth, now buried under a foot of fresh snow. Trees, skeletal in the headlights, loomed close, their branches heavy with the burden of white. Sal pointed, a thick finger jabbing at the windshield. 'There. Pull over.' Frankie eased the van to the side, the tires sinking, the engine groaning one last time before he cut it. The sudden, absolute quiet that followed was a physical blow, heavy and immense. Only the faint hiss of the falling snow remained, a thousand tiny whispers against the windowpane.

Stepping out, the cold hit Frankie like a fist. It sucked the air from his lungs, burned the inside of his nose. The crunch of his boots on the packed snow sounded deafening in the profound stillness. He glanced at Sal, whose breath plumed in thick clouds. Sal didn't meet his gaze, just walked to the back of the van, pulled a heavy-duty flashlight from his coat, and clicked it on. The beam, a stark yellow against the white, danced across the faded tarp. Frankie swallowed, his throat tight, and fumbled with the latch on the rear door. His fingers felt clumsy, numb with cold.

The tarp was stiff, frozen almost solid. When they finally wrestled it back, the shape beneath was clear, unyielding. Not quite human anymore, just a lump, a thing. The cold had done its work, keeping the worst of the smell at bay, but a faint, cloying sweetness still hung in the air. Sal grunted. 'Alright, kid. Your side.' They each took an end. The weight was immense, dead weight, heavier than anything Frankie had ever lifted. His back screamed, muscles straining, and he felt the icy sweat prickle on his neck. The snow began to accumulate on his jacket shoulders, turning him into a hunched, moving snowman.

Dragging it through the deep snow was a nightmare. Each step was a battle, a desperate lurch forward. The snow got into his boots, soaked his gloves. Sal pulled a coil of thick rope from the van, the nylon stiff with frost. They reached the edge of the quarry, a black void that dropped away into nothingness. The flashlight beam got swallowed whole. Frankie felt a surge of vertigo, a sudden fear of the empty space. He almost slipped on a patch of ice, the heavy load nearly tearing from his grasp. Sal barked a low, guttural curse. 'Watch it, you idiot! Get a grip!'

They secured the rope, one end wrapped around the thing's ankles, the other held by Sal. 'Ready?' Sal asked, his voice rough, flat. Frankie just nodded, unable to speak, his throat constricted. Sal pushed, a grunt of effort, and the shape tipped, sliding over the edge. Frankie watched, mesmerized, as it fell, shrinking, consumed by the darkness. There was no splash, no loud impact. Just a dull, distant thud, swallowed by the sheer depth and the relentless, silent snowfall. The world seemed to hold its breath.

The empty space felt colder now, more vast. The silence that had been so oppressive was suddenly, horrifyingly, empty. The weight was gone from his arms, but a different kind of weight settled, heavier, colder, into his chest. He stood there for a moment, just breathing, the steam from his mouth instantly freezing on his mustache. Sal was already coiling the rope, his face grim, eyes fixed on nothing.

They walked back to the van, their boots leaving fresh, dark tracks in the pristine white. Frankie wiped his hands on his pants, trying to rub away the phantom stickiness. The snow was still coming down, a relentless, silent curtain, already starting to erase their path, covering the ugly indentations in the fresh powder. It was a good thing, he thought, a cold, empty thought. No tracks, no evidence. Just a fresh, clean blanket of white over everything.

Back in the van, the engine coughed to life. Frankie put it in reverse, carefully backing out onto the quarry road, then turning towards the main artery. He kept checking the rearview mirror, but there was nothing there, just the endless, swirling white. Sal stared straight ahead, his eyes fixed on the narrow tunnel of light their headlights carved in the storm. The silence in the cab was different now. Not just the quiet of the snow, but a deeper, heavier quiet, a thing shared, a burden between them. No words were needed. Nothing needed to be said. The snow kept falling, falling, erasing everything in its path.

Frankie just drove, the cold seeping into his bones, knowing the snow would just keep coming, a clean, white shroud over the world, over everything they'd touched.