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  Snowed In: Andrew and Art

  By Emery C. Walters

  Published by JMS Books LLC

  Visit jms-books.com for more information.

  Copyright 2019 Emery C. Walters

  ISBN 9781634867887

  Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com

  Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.

  All rights reserved.

  WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

  No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

  This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It may contain sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which might be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published in the United States of America.

  * * * *

  Snowed In: Andrew and Art

  By Emery C. Walters

  I was lost. I didn’t want to admit it earlier, but I fucking had no clue where I was, or where anyone else was either. The day was fading fast, and it was my own fault. I’m a photographer, and I kept following a trail, following the light, finding view after view that I just had to capture. Nature shots are my specialty.

  I wasn’t very successful—I was far too interested in experimenting and finding new places nobody had ever been, than in marketing and selling myself and my art. Sure I had photos in various small tourist traps and fairs, places like that, and you could buy them online, of course, but that was all. I was never going to be the next Ansel Adams by any means.

  But, just the same, here I was, thirty-five years old, brown hair that needed to be cut soon, or several months ago, brown eyes. I’m told I had a cute smile, and at least I was in great shape from walking and hiking and climbing around outdoors all the time. Too much of the time, today anyhow, because now I was lost. The light was fading, and the sky was darkening with clouds. The trees weren’t quite whipping in the wind, but they were moving too much to make good pictures now.

  And it was cold. I did have my jacket, and a beret my niece had sent me for Christmas; it was stuffed in my pocket here somewhere. I zipped up my jacket and found the beret and crammed it on my head. Then I had to pull it up in front so I could see; it was just a tad too big.

  This was Montana, and it was only the first week in October. I hadn’t paid any attention to the elevation, which I should have, because, obviously, snow falls sooner when you’re higher. I wished I was high, ha-ha. Not really. But a good martini might be nice; in a cabin, with the others, and a fire in the fireplace. Hell, might as well go for broke, a nice chef fixing me dinner with perhaps a sly wink for afterwards, you know, coffee, tea, or me? Dessert.

  But here I was, on the edge of a thicket of trees, looking out over some vast flat mountain, with more tall pine trees across the way and nothing, almost nothing that is, in between. I think I saw a building almost up to the tree line on the other side of this decline, valley, glen, or whatever the hell it was called.

  Just because I took pictures of it didn’t mean I knew what it was called. I hadn’t been the star pupil in any of my classes except photography, certainly not geography, that’s for sure.

  I had three choices: turn back, if I could figure out which way was back; stay where I was, though looking around me, the trees here were young and healthy and there wasn’t any ground fall to make a shelter out of; or start across toward whatever building I may or may not have actually seen way over there. Whichever one was stupidest is the one I’d probably pick.

  I hesitated; this wasn’t exactly fun anymore. This could be serious. I wasn’t packing a tent or sleeping bag or anything sensible except one water bottle, my camera equipment, and a couple of candy bars, my one weakness. Other than men, of course.

  Our tour guide roused us early this morning back in some small burg just west of Helena. I forget the name; I don’t do details. All I knew of where we were was it was in the Garnet Mountain Range, about fifty miles from the Helena area, and ten or twenty miles north of some highway.

  I had, in my egotism, outwalked everyone else, going farther to get better shots, because I was better than the hoi polloi and amateurs who were just out to have fun. They didn’t love it and breathe it like I did. All this beauty! And thus, here I was, probably the only one who had not returned to the group. They had warned us to be back at the bus stop, or meeting area, by five P.M. and no later. Sunset was not until around 8:30, and it, to be honest, pissed me off to have to be back so early. I probably should have come by myself, or paid for a more expensive, move inclusive, tour.

  I also hate being so honest about my faults, but here we are. Looking around me instead of at the faraway mountain peaks and sinking sun, I saw what might be yet another trail, smaller than some of the others, too small to be a lumber wagon trail, but distinct enough and going in the direction of whatever shelter that might be across the way. I started walking.

  I knew vaguely it was probably the wrong direction, but to go back was impossible. I’d made so many twists and turns, I’d never to be able to find my way. I’d been about as dumb as a bag of rocks. This wasn’t the first time, either.

  Some of the other photographers had been taking pictures with cell phones. I could hardly stand them. I was a Canon man myself and tolerated people who preferred Nikons, but that was about it. Except for the people with really expensive shit, who still took lousy shots, because they weren’t very good photographers. So, yes, I’m stuck up. At least with a cell phone, you could use it to light your way. The sun was long gone by now, hidden by the gathering clouds, which went from gray to dark gray to black and inky black to nightmare blue-black. Grayscale my ass, this was much grander, but it was cold, getting moist like it was going to rain, or sleet, and I still had a long way to go. I put my cameras in their bag and trudged on while I could still see the dimmer trail between the fields and the trees.

  It took a couple of hours, most of it in rain and sleet and finally snow and even some hail and thunder. I’m telling you, this place was the Hell of the Arctic, if there would be such a place. Or the Arctic of Hell maybe. By the time it was pitch black above, the ground was white with snow and hail, so I could still see where I was going, even though the path was now lost. I could barely make out the shadow of the building ahead, hiding in the edge of the forest, looking more and more like a mistake as I got closer.

  I was almost upon it when there was a loud bang, a blast of light, and someone yelled, “Goddamn belly-crawling, sludge-sucking piece of shit!” in a deep, masculine voice.

  I was startled and bumped head first into what was probably a door frame. I reached out, found a knob, turned it, and stepped inside. I saw another blast of light across from me as someone else came in a door over there. He was still swearing, and I had to stop for a minute to enjoy the creativity of his cursing. Then he lit a lamp and set it on the table, and we stood there staring at each other. If I looked like he did, he was seeing a man made of snow, shiny in the lamplight, scary, dark eyes just above a red nose with icicles hanging off it.

  At the same time, we both said, “Who the Hell are you?”

  The wind slammed the door shut behind
him, and I turned and shut mine like a gentleman. I have to admit, it was so good to be out of the wind and cold shit falling out of the sky that, for the moment, I didn’t care how uncouth the guy was. If he didn’t like it, he could leave. I sure as hell couldn’t, and I’d gotten here first. Sure, only by a few seconds, but still.

  I fumbled like an idiot for a light switch that wasn’t there. There was a well-timed strike of snow lightning, however, and I saw a lantern on a counter to my left. And matches. I didn’t smoke, of course, so didn’t have any, but I put my camera bag down on the counter, struck the match, which went out immediately, probably because my hands were shaking, and I heard a muffled laugh come from across the room. What an asshole. What rotten luck to finally find a safe place, and I have to share it with this uncouth bear or whatever he was. Not that I had anything against bears, if you know what I mean. Anyhow, I got the lantern lit and set it back down on the counter.

  When I turned around, he shone a flashlight in my face, chuckled, and then set it down, aimed at the ceiling. Not a bad idea, I suppose, if you’re a redneck pain in the ass.

  Outside, thunder rumbled, and the wind howled as it blew around the cabin.

  “Well, how do you do,” the man said. “My name is Arthus, but if you call me that, I’ll have to kill you. I go by Art. Last name is Evans. Very Welsh.”

  “Welsh, huh? Sure. I’m Andras, which means warrior, so I outrank you, Mr. Bear Hero. I go by Andrew. I can shoot you, ha-ha, but not to kill. I don’t kill annoying animals, or people. Is there a fireplace in here? I’m freezing my tits off.”

  “Oh, you have tits? When did you transition?”

  Oh, my God, what a jerk! At least I didn’t tell him my last name is also Evans. That would be just too fucking much. What an asshole! A Welsh asshole at that. Gee, maybe we could sing together. At least I took the time to study up on Welsh and names and meanings and history.

  Well, he got a nice fire going in the fireplace, I’ll give him that. I wanted to say, “Come here often?” but I’ve bitched enough. I’m cold; I’m tired; I’m lost, hungry, and I need a bathroom.

  “You’ve been here before?” I asked, as nicely as I could manage while my teeth were chattering.

  He grunted. I assumed it meant yes.

  “Could you point me to the bathroom?”

  A grunt and a point.

  “Are there bedrooms? Which one should I take?”

  This time, he pointed at the opposite wall. I saw the door that must lead to the bathroom, but next to it weren’t any doors for bedrooms, just one big sprawling mattress on some boxes. Oh. Shit. Well, off to the…I opened the door to the bathroom, and it was basically an outhouse. At least you didn’t have to go outside to get to it, that was a nice touch. I had not used an outhouse since we had visited my grandparents in Wales when I was six years old. I sighed, entered, and shut the door. There was no light; not even a half moon on the door.

  I went back into the main room, still dripping wet. Art was by the sink, rattling pots or something. There was no stove.

  At least with his back turned, I could get out of these wet clothes, and…I had nothing to change into. “I have to get these things off me. I’m soaked. I hope you don’t mind. Maybe you could just keep your back turned?”

  Art said, and I quote, “I do have rather a nice ass, don’t I? I’m glad you like it.” He had the nerve to follow that with a grinning leer over his shoulder!

  Like that, is it then, I thought and stripped off, draping my clothes over various items of furniture. I picked up my camera bag and made sure its contents were still dry. The fireplace would make a beautiful picture, except, while I was composing a shot, he walked into the picture and mooned me. He bent over and placed something on a hook in the fireplace itself.

  “Supper is cooking,” he said, standing up. “Still admiring my ass, huh?”

  “Bear hero. Bear fur,” more likely, I said.

  “Some people like that.” He smiled. And his eyes went wide, looking right at me. Then he blinked. “Um, hey, you see that rope thing hanging down just beyond the table?”

  First I’d even noticed the table, to be honest.

  “Pull it. It pulls down a ladder that leads to the attic. A lot of these old cabins have stuff stored up there, either just left over or from people who have stayed here before, or come back every year for the hunting or camping.”

  “So you’ll climb up there and look?”

  “No, you will. If you’re able. I dunno, can’t tell in the dark, are you in shape? Or fat, like guys your age get?”

  Well, I never! So, of course, I had to go up there now!

  “Check the drawers in the kitchen for a flashlight. Hunters leave all kinds of shit here.”

  I hadn’t noticed the drawers, either, in the dark. But I checked, and there was an assortment of the usual kitchen junk drawer junk, including a small flashlight. It actually worked, and I took it, went back to the ladder, thought, oh, swell, I’m climbing up what’s practically a rope ladder in the nude…and started up.

  For some reason, if felt important to me to look strong and brave in front of this man. I didn’t like anything about him, and if he found out I was gay and a relative sissy, he wouldn’t like me either. Not that it mattered, we’d probably only have to spend a day or two in each other’s company and never see each other again. Thinking that made me relax, and as I rose above the attic floor to shine the light around, something moved. It darted right at me and leapt at my head, and I swung the flashlight at it and missed and screamed like a little girl! Then the ladder began to shake and move, and suddenly I felt his solid form behind me. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see a gun waving around.

  “What! Where is it? What is it? Are you all right?” he shouted in my ear, making me jump. Well, that wasn’t all that made me jump. I could feel his hairy chest and dick rubbing on my ass and back.

  Then I could feel him shaking. My heart was pounding, and my eyes squeezed shut. I was gripping the attic floor so hard, my knuckles were probably glowing neon. His shaking turned to sputters, and then he was roaring with laughter. He didn’t even try to hide it.

  “Yep, they’re demons all right! Evil demons! Well, not as bad as cats, though. Guess, go on guess!”

  “Bats?” I whispered fearfully.

  “Chickens!” he shouted. “Dinner! Come here, dinner!”

  That bastard. Innocent little chickens, and already he wanted to kill them?

  “No!” I shouted and elbowed him in the stomach, being satisfied to hear his loud oof behind me. He oofed so loud, my hair blew. Then I realized that I could have knocked him to the floor. I didn’t want to kill the man; well, I didn’t want to be guilty of murder, let’s put it that way. At that moment, yes, yes, I did want to kill him.

  “I’m sorry,” I gasped, reaching behind me to grab him, and, of course, you know what I grabbed.

  I froze in horror. I was absolutely petrified. Mortified. Dead. I let it go without even an affectional final squeeze. “You know what?” I said. “I really, really need a drink. Can we go down now?”

  The pinch on my ass was pretty damn painful. He said he was sorry and that it was just an accident, but I didn’t believe him.

  A while later, he had located a bottle half full of whiskey. Or rum, or something, I sure didn’t care. He also served up some stew, which was very good, and went back into the attic and threw down blankets and pillows and even some clothes. They looked like old-fashioned nightshirts, but there was also hunting garb, you know, camo things. Ugly, rough-textured, mismatched, off-colored ugly. Did I say ugly? Hunting pants and shirts. No underwear. Just the same, I slipped some of the disgusting, mildew- and mothball-smelling garments on. As did he, thank God.

  And the chickens. He brought those down, too, and played with them and cooed at them as if they were kittens or puppies. A big, smelly, hairy man holding those baby chicks like they were, I dunno, boobs maybe. I have no idea how a man holds boobs, or even why. I shuddered. Th
ings couldn’t get much worse, could they?

  I watched as he put the fire guard in front of the fireplace (no dinner there, keep those chickens safe, He-Man!) and made some cozy spots for them to lie in or whatever they do. Do they sleep? Do they crow?

  I yawned and watched dully as He-Man banked the coals, and I yearned toward the bed, which he had made up…and, of course, I remembered, the bed. One. One bed. Maybe if I got in first, I could scoot way over by the wall.

  I wasted all that time worrying, because I fell asleep right in the chair I was sitting on. I didn’t wake up until dawn the next day to find I was cuddled up under two blankets. He’d moved a footstool over under my feet, and two chickens were asleep on my belly.

  * * * *

  Obviously, I’m not the kind of farm boy or redneck who, well, I’m not any kind of farm boy or redneck. I didn’t know anything about chickens or why camo clothes worked when they were just big blotchy, scratchy things, or even how to light a fire, which crossed my mind because it was freezing in there. The chickens at least helped keep me warm, and these two, at least, were very pretty. I didn’t know a cock from a hen…

  I couldn’t believe I had thought that.

  I heard a loud yawn followed by a rumbling fart and the squeaks of bed springs.

  “Get off me!” came out from the bed, and chickens flew everywhere, except for my two, who behaved rather well.

  I presumed all that racket was from Art. I mean, who else? I heard thuds and some mumbled cursing, then the indoor outhouse door slam. Minutes later, it opened, and with a very satisfied sigh, Art asked cheerfully, “Eggs for breakfast! Let me get this fire relit. You might as well say warm.”

  How do you fix eggs over an open fire? At least, I knew how he got the eggs; chickens laid them, right? But would they be offended that their eggs were stolen and cooked, right in front of them?

  “Well, shit, I better check the attic for chicken feed first. And this afternoon, we’ll have to go out and fell a tree for firewood, unless there’s a stash of it on the porch.