Devil's Run by Frank Hughes

the
tightly covered pool and headed towards a path into the forest that was wider
than the average hiking trail. From the churned snow and chunks of dark earth,
it was also well-travelled. I ventured into the woods about twenty feet, far
enough to hide me from view, and waited by a wooden bridge over a small brook.
Beyond it the trail split off in opposite directions.
    The snow in the
surrounding woods was virgin and untouched. Blue shadows cast by the afternoon
sun gave it that Whitman Sampler look that delights the tourists. It was also
deathly quiet. When, after five minutes of waiting, a chunk of snow fell off a
branch, the plop seemed as loud as a pistol shot.
    Then the distant buzzing
of a powerful motor broke the silence. It grew steadily closer until a Polaris
snowmobile skidded to a halt just the other side of the bridge. The rider got
off, leaving the motor idling. He wore a black snowsuit and a helmet whose
visor obscured his face.
    He motioned me forward
and indicated I should raise my hands. Once I reached him, he quickly and
professionally searched me, going through every pocket and patting down every
inch. When he was satisfied I hadn't hidden a cell phone or pistol up my ass,
he pulled a helmet off the gear rack and handed it to me. While I put it on, he
remounted the sled and gunned the engine. I climbed on board behind him.
    My butt had barely
touched leather when he accelerated, spraying snow and mud behind us. The
sudden lurch tossed me against the rear pad. I grabbed the holy shit handles
and hung on for dear life.
    The Polaris was a
powerful touring model and he was an accomplished driver. I'd driven
snowmobiles, but his skill, coupled with intimate knowledge of the trail, was
uncanny. We whipped through turns and roared up inclines with barely any
reduction in speed. At a straightaway, I stole a look over his shoulder. It was
hard to tell with the vibration, but I thought the digital speedometer
displayed eighty. I chose to not look again. Instead, I concentrated on the
very civilized heated handgrips.
    Our route was part of a
larger network of trails. At one point we exited the forest and rode on the
shoulder of a public road. A quarter mile later the trail veered back into the
hills, skirting a farmhouse and barn before crossing an earthen bridge just
wide enough for the sled. Below us an ice choked creek spilled out of a metal
pipe. Then we were across and into a clearing so quickly we frightened a herd
of deer.
    Despite the uncertainty
of my situation, and the fact that I was freezing to death, I was quickly
caught up in the exhilaration of the ride. The bounding deer were a thrilling sight,
and, in the angled light of a winter afternoon, every vista was worthy of its
own Christmas card.
    A short while later
civilization reared its ugly head. We flew out of the woods into a power line
right of way. The trail became a tortured track of muddy snow snaking around
the metal towers. A half mile below a single set of train tracks gleamed in the
sunlight. Just beyond the tracks was a metal warehouse, its steeply pitched
roof covered with snow. Forty feet away from its open door was a trailer of the
sort used as a job site office by construction companies. The remains of a few
trucks and cars, in varying states of decay sat nearby. On the far side of the
warehouse was a cyclone fence topped with razor wire. From the closed gate, a
single lane road stretched past empty fields and bits of forest.
    We flew down the
remainder of the trail and bumped across the train tracks with no change in
speed. The driver navigated past an old trackside loading ramp that looked as
if it hadn't been used in a century. When we reached the warehouse, he parked
next to five other sleds of various makes and models and switched off the
motor.
    I got off and removed
the helmet. “Thank you, Jeeves,” I said, “I shan't need you the rest of the
evening.”
    He dismounted without a
word or a backward glance, and strode into the