The White Inferno

The man half-buried in the snowbank awoke to a sickening smell.

As he shook off the thick white powder, he craned up his neck. The sky was a muddied, grungy grey, making it impossible for the man to tell what time of day it was—or if another storm was barreling around the bend.

Where … the hell … am I?

Then the man’s jaw went slack, and his eyes widened.

Directly in front of him was a raging inferno swallowing a log cabin—an ouroboros-like storm of flames that would rival anything the Devil could have conjured.

Get. Up. Now!

The man brought himself to his knees and tried to hack out the soupy tang of smoke from his lungs as he wiped his eyes to get a closer look. The blaze was a hypnotically terrifying Jackson Pollack of orange, yellow, and blue. And yet, he knew it wasn’t the source of the sulfuric stench stinging his nostrils.

Why do I know that?

The man also knew that the time to rush inside and attempt to extinguish the fire had long passed—that entering the house now would be nothing short of a suicide mission.

A suicide mission.

Kaleidoscopic memory flashes exploded through his mind like shrapnel:

Obscured figures outlined in an otherworldly green glow.

Sweaty palms slicking the grip handles of a M4.

Anguished screaming, piercing his eardrums.

Then the source of the smell hit him, and the man vomited.

Why do I know what a person burning alive smells like?

And who was the poor bastard cooking inside that cabin?

And why can’t I remember who I am—or how I got here?

The man wiped his mouth then rubbernecked his surroundings. Nothing to the left or right except for arctic-like tundra. And judging from the undisturbed layers of snow as far as he could see, it had stormed recently—maybe while he was unconscious. The flames were so tempestuous that it was impossible to see what—if anything—lay behind the home. And the man clocked that the immediate area around the cabin had been cleared of any brush or trees—which made the chances of the fire spreading to the dense forest 100 yards behind him slim to none.

Was this a tragic accident?

Or something more sinister?

Then another realization as he automatically crouched into a combat stance:

If this fire was intentional—and the perpetrator was nearby—I’m in imminent danger.

Observe and report. Stat!

The man’s adrenaline-soaked instincts overrode every other primal urge in his body—like his subconscious had been trained for this very scenario.

If I was truly in immediate danger—and the enemy was lying in wait—I would have been shot on sight the second I came to. Breathe.

Even so, this lack of control—or any knowledge at all about his predicament—was deeply infuriating. The man could practically feel his blood cooking inside him. Someone needed to be blamed. Someone needed to be held accountable. Someone needed to be punished.

DRIP.

Something was spilling off his forehead in a slow yet insistent gush—accentuating his pile of yellow-green puke with crimson spots.

Blood.

The man unclenched his fists and brought his nearly frozen-solid fingertips to his temple—and immediately winced with pain as he located his wound. While he had no way to truly examine himself without a mirror, judging from the jaggedness of the cut, he reasoned that he had been slashed with some sort of knife. Probably an Ontario or miniature Bowie.

And how the hell do I know that?

The howling wind sliced a chill down the man’s back. He shivered violently as he looked down at what he was wearing—a well-worn flannel, a pair of stained Dickies, and a pair of laced-to-the-top work boots. He felt the unmistakable swampiness of sweat lining the creases of his underwear and undershirt.

No matter what may or may not have happened here—I don’t have long to get to some sort of warmth and shelter. Otherwise, I’ll die.

And as the smell worsened, graduating from sulfuric to a metallic, coppery stench—

WHOOSH.

The flames shot up to the roof of the cabin, wrapping the chimney in its greedy hunger.

Think!

Breath steaming out of his nostrils hot like a dragon, the man furiously patted himself down, searching for some sort of clue to his identity—or anything that would be even remotely helpful for the current situation.

Then he felt metal in the cargo pocket of his Dickies.

A set of keys.

On the silver ring were three keys of varying sizes and shapes—one silver, one gold, and one black. As the man did a bewildered double take between the keys and the fiery carnage, a new set of thoughts dawned on him:

Was this … his house?

Was he … responsible for all this?

Was he … a murderer?

The man’s instincts compelled him to investigate the one area he still couldn’t see—behind the cabin.

Move!

The man waded through the shin-high snow towards the cabin. As he got closer, he covered his nose and mouth with one sleeve of his flannel while blocking his averted, downwards gaze with the other. He sputtered and coughed as he swam through the white around the left flank of the home, shutting his eyes against the blinding waves of smoke.

Finally, when the deafening roar of the flames had slightly subsided—and the stink of decaying human flesh was not quite as potent—the man removed his sleeves and opened his eyes. He saw that he was on the edge of a towering cliff—and that one more step would send him plunging to his death, impaled on the talon-like rocks below.

The man catapulted himself back from the precipice and dared to look behind him. He saw the burning cabin about 50 yards back from the edge.

If this was my house … I had clearly gone to great lengths to make it as remote and isolated as humanely possible.

Why?

And then the man saw the shed just in front of the back end of the cabin.

Underneath its sloped roof, the man could just about make out its paint job peeking out above the snow—a wondrous purple and yellow.

Like it had been painted for a child.

Small feet pounding through a grassy meadow.

The unmistakable chortle of a child laughing.

The smell of talcum powder and sunscreen.

It wouldn’t be long before the fire spread its jaws and consumed the shed, too. The man knew that he had to move if he wanted to know what was inside—and why it had triggered in him the memories of a child.

Now!

Fighting off the deathly claws of hypothermia that were ripping him, the man picked himself up and trooped towards the shed, rubbing his arms vigorously to futilely conduct some sort of warmth into his body. Chained to the front of the shed’s double doors was an industrial-sized, silver padlock.

How do I get—?

The keys.

With a Herculean effort, the man pried open his frigidly stiff hands and slid the silver key into the padlock.

A perfect fit.

The man flung aside the padlock and heaved open the barn-style doors. Darkness immediately enveloped him. He didn’t go two steps before—

SMACK!

A rough braid of rope dangling from above slapped him across the face. Muscle memory compelled him to reach up and pull down on it. A single overhead illuminated the environment. Inside the threadbare space was a survivalist’s wet dream: folded on a floating shelf next to a jet-black snowmobile were two complete sets of clean—and more importantly, dry—insulated winter clothes, along with a pair of ski goggles, gloves, and fleece hat.

And there was an electric radiator.

Thank God.

Needing no further encouragement, the man plugged in the heater to the dust-smeared outlet, stripped naked, and hunched himself as close to the source of heat as possible without singeing off his skin. He saw that on his arms were two tattoos—one on each bicep.

On the left—a fiery skull wearing a green beret. Underneath the skull was the phrase “de oppresso liber,’ followed by the insignia for the U.S. Army Special Forces.

On the right—a name, written in curling, intricate cursive font:

Laila.

A name.

A woman’s name.

A woman who I know well enough to tattoo her name on my body.

Furrowing his brow, the man pulled himself up and reached for the two sets of clothes. As he unfolded them, he realized that the two sets were of opposite sizes—one was for a full-grown adult, and the other a small child. They were also very different colors—black for the former, purple for the latter.

The same shade of purple that the shed was painted.

The man ran his thumb across the fabric of the purple snowpants.

Cradling a newborn with jade-green eyes, wrapped in starchy, hospital whites.

Helping a small girl with fire-engine red hair step into those purple snow pants.

Helping her write out her name in crayon on a piece of cardboard: L-A-I-L-A.

Laila.

The man did a double take between his right bicep tattoo and the snow pants, as—

Laila is my daughter.

The moment of eureka-laced euphoria, though, was short-lived, as—

Wait. The person that burned alive in the house. Was it …?

No.

NO-NO-NO!

Pulse kicking into overdrive as the worst thoughts imaginable screeched through his head, the man hurled on the black set of clothes and snapped on the goggles. Then, he straddled the driver’s seat of the snowmobile, stuck the black key into the ignition, and blasted out of the shed back towards the front entrance of the burning cabin.

The man barely stopped to park the snowmobile before dashing to the door and—

SLAM!

He kicked down the nearly burnt-to-a-crisp door.

I have to know if my daughter is inside—it doesn’t matter if I don’t get out alive.

The flames and smoke were so impenetrable by this point that the man couldn’t see more than a foot in front of him. The polarized red tint of the ski goggles made it seem like he was on Mars. The putrid smell grew in intensity as it dueled with his increasingly loud coughing.

Then—

THUNK!

The man hit the deck as he tripped over something—

The leg of a smoldering corpse.

Or what was left of one.

The screech of a smoke detector puncturing a silent winter’s day.

Kicking open the front door with fury-filled vengeance.

Sprinting after someone with murderous intent.

The man felt the residual wrath from these memories coursing through his entire being.

Who had I been chasing after?

Stop it. Stay on the task at hand. Focus!

Best he could amidst the hell-fires, the man inspected the charred remains of the person he just stumbled over. There was just barely enough left to ascertain that the person was an adult—not a child.

Not Laila.

Thank God.

But the relief was short-lived—because the man started seeing spots.

And he knew that he only had seconds before he suffocated to death.

The man, coughing so much he thought he might hack up a rib, streaked full steam out of the house, threw himself into the snow, and dry heaved onto the ground next to the snowmobile.

Right next to the patch of blood-tinged vomit.

Where this nightmare began.

The man coughed and coughed and coughed, trying to drain his lungs of all the smoke, fluid, and phlegm possible.

Laila’s room—painted in the same purple and yellow color scheme as the shed—empty.

I chase after the mystery person, and I glimpse Laila slung over the person’s shoulder, crying out towards me.

I’m about to catch her.

Then a fast flash of steel across my temple—and searing pain.

And then I hit the ground.

And then the world goes black.

The man bolted to his feet, the pistons of adrenaline once again firing in his head like the well-oiled engine of a Cadillac.

I’m going to find who took Laila from me.

And I’m going to end them.

Turning away from the house, the man scanned the horizon. The only direction that offered any sort of conceivable hope forward was directly north—through the towering, ominously skeleton-like forest of oak trees.

I’m coming, Laila!

The man vaulted onto the snowmobile and pushed it full throttle.

50 MPH.

55 MPH.

60 MPH.

He carved through the snow towards the forest at breakneck pace, spraying powder all around him in a chaotic symphony of thrumming motor and shotgunning ice.

65 MPH.

70 MPH.

75 MPH.

The man was zooming along beneath the trees now. The snow wasn’t as heavy under the densely knotty canopy of branches. The first hints of life the man had encountered since he woke up—squirrels, scurrying up trees and the occasionally flutter of birds overhead—flashed by him as he tore through the terrain.

80 MPH.

85 MPH.

90 MPH.

The man could feel his teeth almost crack as they ground together.

C’mon! Give me a sign. Point me in the direction of my baby girl—

Tire tracks.

He pulled up to them and stopped.

Judging by the deep indentation of them, they probably belonged to a pickup truck or some other type of 4x4, off-road vehicle. And given that they had been only partially obscured by the snowstorm? They were fresh. They had been here in the past few hours.

Was this the kidnapper’s car?

Only one way to find out.

The man revved the engine and plummeted onwards.

WHACK!

The man weaved through hanging foliage, ducking just in time so the branches whipped him across his chest instead of his jawline.

The tree line was getting thinner—and the tire tracks were scarcer.

But it didn’t matter—because as the man zigzagged out of the forest into the open once more, he saw salvation in the distance:

A farmhouse.

As he beelined towards the property, details came into focus. A single-level, ranch-style farmhouse with a wraparound porch. A six-by-six-foot American flag proudly mounted on the siding in between two, curtained bay windows. A rust-encrusted pickup truck parked under a homemade wooden carport.

And smoke tumbled benevolently out of the brick-laid chimney.

Laila, I’m coming!

The man screeched his snowmobile to a halt and bounded off the vehicle towards the rustic, white oak front door.

He was so close to getting his daughter—and making this fucker pay.

And closer.

Just as he reached the stoop, the door slowly swung open. An elderly woman dressed head-to-toe in camouflage, winter gear appeared.

And she was holding a 12-gauge.

And now I remember everything.

BLAM!

The elderly woman unloaded into the man’s head—and blew it clean off.

The elderly woman squinted at what was left of the man’s corpse as she slowly approached. The man’s brain littered her lawn, smearing the snow red.

After a long, silent beat—

“It’s done,” the elderly woman called over her shoulder, her hardened, unflinching gaze still locked onto the man.

A figure emerged in the doorway behind the elderly woman: a younger woman dressed in a tattered wool sweater, whose face resembled a tenderized piece of meat more than human flesh—obviously from a recent savage beating.

And in her arms was a fast-asleep toddler with jade green eyes and fire-engine red hair.

“That pissant and his brother can’t hurt you and Laila anymore,” the elderly woman whispered as the younger woman and her daughter joined her side.

And as the two women looked down at the man, it started to snow.

And the ethereal white began to obliterate the sight of him.

For good.

*Feature image by railwayfx (Adobe)