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Winter had come on fast--as it usually does in northern Minnesota--chasing away autumn in a cruel and careless fashion. The town of Hollister was cloaked in a dense layer of unforgiving white, the wind chill a nip below zero. It was only November and already I knew we were in for a gruesome winter.
The bar windows rattled. Its patrons—for the most part—had left shortly before 11:00 p.m. Most had exited with the same mundane excuse (“Gotta get home to the family” or “Gotta let out the dog.”). Me? I had no family and no dog. I did have an ex-wife: a classless woman who left me her father’s vintage Zippo lighter and a pair of ice cube trays in the divorce. Since then, my nights were empty remembrances of too many whiskeys.
There are many secrets in a bar. But there are also many lies...
I had been occupying the stool farthest from the door for the better part of the day, my only entertainment coming when I’d flick the Zippo and extinguish the flame.
Mickey Riley, the owner, was a good enough bloke who never seemed to pay me much bother. Typically, I was quiet, watching the tube with little interest, happy to drown whatever sorrows my 40% could handle. I caused very little trouble, never raised my voice, and always paid my tab.
In the far corner were Julie and Mike Daggert, drinking from the same bottle of red wine and staring at each other with the same love lost expression they undoubtedly shared on their wedding day.
At the other end of the bar was Donald Morse. He, too, was quiet, much quieter than me. He would always nurse the same beer for hours on end and pay wordlessly before going home to the same nothingness I, too, was bound to meet.
Hollister, itself, is beyond quaint: the population is just shy of 300 (and I would wholeheartedly challenge that census). There is a post office, a city hall, two bars, a school, and a few offices occupying a dilapidated strip mall on the edge of town. Mickey’s Bar is on the main drag. Not much happens in Hollister and most of us like it that way
“Can you turn the game on?” Donald Morse called to Mickey.
Mickey switched to the Twins/Angels game. Twins were down 4-0. I watched a four-pitch walk then returned my attention to my Scotch. I twirled the glass in my palm, considered taking a sip, then pushed it to the side.
“Done?” Mickey asked.
“No.”
Mike Daggert walked drunkenly to the bar. I had lost count, but I believe he and Julie had polished off three bottles of Merlot. “Colorrrr me upppp,” he said, slapping a wad of bills on the counter.
“You all right, Mike?” Mickey asked.
“Right as r-r-rain.” Mike motioned to the wad of bills. Mickey scooped them up, returned with a few singles (to which Mike waved them off), and returned to his table to claim his wife. “Well, my dear...” Mike extended an arm, which Julie took graciously, and he led her toward the exit. “Mickey, my good man, thank you for a lovely evening.” Mike gave him a tip of the cap and they disappeared out the door.
I would see Mike Daggert only once after that. His skin would be very pallid—almost fragile—and there would be a rich panic in his eyes. Maybe it would be because of all the blood. He would surrender to his injuries and die in the back of Mickey’s pickup truck.
“Drink, Donald?” I called to the end of the bar.
He nodded.
“Couple of whiskeys.”
Mickey grabbed a bottle of Dewar’s and poured two glasses.
“Really coming down out there,” Mickey mumbled.
I glanced out one of the windows and saw a sheet of white snow.
“Yeah,” I affirmed. I finished the Dewar’s.
For anyone who has ever lived in a snowy environment, they know how it sounds when the driver lays on the brakes. You can hear the struggle of the car rather than the tires. It lurches through the snow and ice, the engine emitting a sad sort of grunt. Then there’s the sound snow spewing up from the spinning tires. And on this particular night, I heard these sounds followed by a deafening crash, a cacophony of broken glass and twisted metal. Whoever was in that vehicle had been taken by the blind and unjust force of Minnesota Winter.
We all shared the same worrisome glance before rushing out the door to Main Street.
I saw a cloud of smoke and a small fire, but the damage to the Ford F-150 hadn’t been as great as the sound implied. The truck was wrapped around one of the streetlights, but only the tail-bed. The cabin of the truck was intact with only a few superficial damages.
“Call 911!” Mickey shouted to Donald.
Donald retreated inside.
“C’mon.” Mickey was already across the street.
I followed him wordlessly, feeling the callous winter cold against my ears.
The side-window was cracked, the driver’s head slumped against it.
Mickey tapped on the glass. “You all right in there?”
No response.
“Hey!”
Silence.
“Let me.” I stepped forward and pulled open the door. The man fell out, dumping himself into my arms, 260-pounds of pure muscle. An absolute beast. The top half of him nearly sent me flat on my ass.
“Let’s get him inside.” I pulled him from the vehicle and Mickey grabbed hold of his legs. We trudged back to the bar through the unplowed snow. I felt the thickness of it soaking through my shoes and regretted leaving my snow boots at home.
We crashed through the front door. The man was still limp, lying in our arms like a bale of hay.
“Put him up here.” Mickey led the body to the bar and with a couple of giant heaves we managed to set him on the bar top. The man’s head lolled to the side and the tip of his tongue flopped out of his mouth like a sleeping dog.
“Is he dead?” I asked.
“No.”
“Is he bleeding?”
Mickey looked him over, shook his head. “No.”
“So he’s just knocked out?”
“Maybe.” But there was skepticism in his voice. I could tell the man troubled Mickey, but I don’t think either of us knew why.
“Ya ever seen this guy before?” Mickey asked.
“No. You?”
“No.”
We heard an incessant beeping and turned toward the end of the bar. The rotary’s receiver was off the hook.
“Where the hell is Donald?”
I shrugged. “Call the police.”
Mickey rounded the bar and dialed. “Nobody’s answering,” he said after a while.
“How is that possible?”
Mickey shook his head solemnly. There was graveness to his expression and his skin had suddenly turned a nasty shade of grey.
“You all right, Mickey?”
“Yes,” he said quietly.
What happened next I’ve run over in my mind several times since, but it’s difficult to decipher much beyond a blur of panic and pulsing adrenaline. It would be several minutes before clarity would return, but it would be clarity achieved in a world that had suddenly gone mad. I believe I heard the screaming first. It was a woman’s scream, high-pitched and brittle. But that’s about all I remember of the scream.
I glanced up at the front door, the screams growing more amplified. The door burst open and I saw Julie and Mike Daggert. They were scared, their last bits of drunkenness gone.
“Help!” Julie screamed. “Help us!”
Julie had an arm under Mike’s armpit, but was struggling under his weight. Mike’s skin was ghastly white. His entire right side was bathed in a thick layer of red. His hand was clasped around his throat, blood seeping between clutched fingers.
Mickey and I grabbed hold of him. We laid him on the floor and he let out a soft groan; a small spurt of blood shot out from between his index and middle fingers catching me in the chest.
“Do something!” Julie screamed.
My legs wobbled and my tongue went dry. I squashed the urge to vomit, but only just. I pulled Mike’s hand away from his neck and saw a large gash running from his jaw-line to his clavicle. It was fantastically deep.
“Towels!”
Mickey reached over the bar and threw me a handful of tea towels. I clasped them against Mike’s neck. It helped, but only barely.
“Call the police!” Julie screamed.
“There was no answer,” said Mickey.
“That can’t be.”
“We’ve tried twice.”
“There out there!” Julie cried, on the verge of hysterics.
I looked up and saw the horror lining her eyes. “Who’s out there?”
“We were walking to the car...and then they came out of nowhere.”
“Who?”
“These people...they were...wearing masks.”
“What kind of masks?”
“I don’t know...like pillowcases. They had them wrapped around their heads. And they...were all wearing flannel. There were three of them...” Her voice trailed away. She started to cry. “They had these tools...like modified knives or something. And they...stabbed Mike. They just stabbed him...” Her sobs were heaving; these little obnoxious grunts, and I felt silly for being annoyed.
“And then what?”
“One of the men told me to run,” she said. “And then he laughed...they all laughed. I got Mike to his feet...I could hear them following us. Oh, Jesus! Oh, Christ!”
“Mickey, check outside.”
Mickey ran to the windows. He cocked his head from side to side, peering through the thick snowfall. “I don’t see anything.”
“Are you sure?”
He gazed around again. “There’s nobody out there.”
“We need to get him to the hospital.”
“We can’t go out there!” Julie insisted.
“It’s going to be all right,” I told her, though I did a terrible job at being convincing.
“They’re gonna kill us.”
“My truck is out front,” said Mickey. “No more than twenty steps. We can throw him in the back and be at the hospital in five.”
Julie nodded, tears streaming down her cheeks in long rivers of salt.
“Help me get him up.”
Mickey grabbed Mike’s ankles. “What about him?” he asked.
Julie looked at the man on the bar top, noticing him for the first time, but she asked no questions, and I was thankful for that.
“We’ll send an ambulance once we get to the hospital,” I said. “Julie, when we get outside, open the back of the cab and help us get him in; Mickey and I will sit up front.”
She nodded, but her eyes never left the floor.
We unlatched the front door and pushed outside…
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