“We’ll just have to go slower and try harder,” Stu said, not mentioning what would probably happen to them if it did happen again… and there was no shelter within walking distance.

“When do you think we’ll be there, Stu?”

“It’ll be a while yet, old hoss. But we’re gettin there. And I think what we better do right now is get some sleep, don’t you?”

“I guess.”

Stu turned out the light.

That night he dreamed that both Frannie and her terrible wolf-child had died in childbirth. He heard George Richardson saying from a great distance: It’s the flu. No more babies because of the flu. Pregnancy is death because of the flu. A chicken in every pot and a wolf in every womb. Because of the flu. We’re all done. Mankind is done. Because of the flu.

And from somewhere nearer, closing in, came the dark man’s howling laughter.

On Christmas Eve they began a run of good traveling that would last almost until the New Year. The surface of the snow had crusted up in the cold. The wind blew swirling clouds of ice-crystals over it to pile up in powdery herring-bone dunes that the John Deere snowmobile cut through easily. They wore sunglasses to guard against snow blindness.

They camped, that Christmas Eve, on top of the crust twenty-four miles east of Avon, not far from Silverthorne. They were in the throat of Loveland Pass now, the choked and buried Eisenhower Tunnel somewhere below and to the east of them. While they were waiting for dinner to warm up, Stu discovered an amazing thing. Idly using an axe to chop through the crust and his hand to dig out the loose powder beneath, he had discovered blue metal only an arm’s length below where they sat. He almost called Tom’s attention to his find, and then thought better of it. The thought that they were sitting less than two feet above a traffic jam, less than two feet above God only knew how many dead bodies, was an unsettling one.

When Tom woke up on the morning of the twenty-fifth at quarter of seven, he found Stu already up and cooking breakfast, which was something of an oddity; Tom was almost always up before Stu. There was a pot of Campbell’s vegetable soup hanging over the fire, just coming to a simmer. Kojak was watching it with great enthusiasm.

“Morning, Stu,” Tom said, zipping his jacket and crawling out of his sleeping bag and his shelter half. He had to whiz something terrible.

“Morning,” Stu answered casually. “And a merry Christmas.”

“Christmas?” Tom looked at him and forgot all about how badly he had to whiz. “Christmas? ” he said again.

“Christmas morning.” He hooked a thumb to Tom’s left. “Best I could do.”

Stuck into the snowcrust was a spruce-top about two feet high. It was decorated with a package of silver icicles Stu had found in the back room of the Avon Five-and-Ten.

“A tree,” Tom whispered, awed. “And presents. Those are presents, aren’t they, Stu?”

There were three packages on the snow under the tree, all of them wrapped in light blue tissue paper with silver wedding bells on it—there had been no Christmas paper at the five-and-ten, not even in the back room.

“They’re presents, all right,” Stu said. “For you. From Santa Claus, I guess.”

Tom looked indignantly at Stu. “Tom Cullen knows there’s no Santa Claus! Laws, no! They’re from you!” He began to look distressed. “And I never got you one thing! I forgot… I didn’t know it was Christmas… I’m stupid! Stupid!” He balled up his fist and struck himself in the center of the forehead. He was on the verge of tears.

Stu squatted on the snowcrust beside him. “Tom,” he said. “You gave me my Christmas present early.”

“No, sir, I never did. I forgot. Tom Cullen’s nothing but a dummy, M-O-O-N, that spells dummy.”

“But you did, you know. The best one of all. I’m still alive. I wouldn’t be, if it wasn’t for you.”

Tom looked at him uncomprehendingly.

“If you hadn’t come along when you did, I would have died in that washout west of Green River. And if it hadn’t been for you, Tom, I would have died of pneumonia or the flu or whatever it was back there in the Utah Hotel. I don’t know how you picked the right pills… if it was Nick or God of just plain old luck, but you did it. You got no sense, calling yourself a dummy. If it hadn’t been for you, I never would have seen this Christmas. I’m in your debt.”

Tom said, “Aw, that ain’t the same,” but he was glowing with pleasure.

“It is the same,” Stu said seriously.

“Well—”

“Go on, open your presents. See what he brung you. I heard his sleigh in the middle of the night for sure. Guess the flu didn’t get up to the North Pole.”

“You heard him?” Tom was looking at Stu carefully, to see if he was being ribbed.

“Heard something.”

Tom took the first package and unwrapped it carefully—a pinball machine encased in Lucite, a new gadget all the kids had been yelling for the Christmas before, complete with two-year coin batteries. Tom’s eyes lit up when he saw it. “Turn it on,” Stu said.

“Naw, I want to see what else I got.”

There was a sweatshirt with a winded skier on it, resting on crooked skis and propping himself up with his ski poles.

“It says: I CLIMBED LOVELAND PASS,” Stu told him. “We haven’t yet, but I guess we’re gettin there.”

Tom promptly stripped off his parka, put the sweatshirt on, and then replaced his parka.

“Great! Great, Stu!”

The last package, the smallest, contained a simple silver medallion on a fine-link silver chain. To Tom it looked like the number 8 lying on its side. He held it up in puzzlement and wonder.

“What is it, Stu?”

“It’s a Greek symbol. I remember it from a long time ago, on a doctor program called ‘Ben Casey.’ It means infinity, Tom. Forever.” He reached across to Tom and held the hand that held the medallion. “I think maybe we’re going to get to Boulder, Tommy. I think we were meant to get there from the first. I’d like you to wear that, if you don’t mind. And if you ever need a favor and wonder who to ask, you look at that and remember Stuart Redman. All right?”

“Infinity,” Tom said, turning it over in his hand. “Forever.”

He slipped the medallion over his neck.

“I’ll remember that,” he said. “Tom Cullen’s gonna remember that.”

“Shit! I almost forgot!” Stu reached back into his shelter half and brought out another package. “Merry Christmas, Kojak! Just let me open this for you.” He took off the wrappings and produced a box of Hartz Mountain Dog Yummies. He scattered a handful on the snow, and Kojak gobbled them up quickly. He came back to Stu, wagging his tail hopefully.

“More later,” Stu told him, pocketing the box. “Make manners your watchword in everything you do, as old baldy would… would say.” He heard his voice grow hoarse and felt tears sting his eyes. He suddenly missed Glen, missed Larry, missed Ralph with his cocked-back hat. Suddenly he missed them all, the ones who were gone, missed them terribly. Mother Abagail had said they would wade in blood before it was over, and she had been right. In his heart, Stu Redman cursed her and blessed her at the same time.

“Stu? Are you okay?”

“Yeah, Tommy, fine.” He suddenly hugged Tom fiercely, and Tom hugged him back. “Merry Christmas, old hoss.”

Tom said hesitantly: “Can I sing a song before we go?”

“Sure, if you want.”

Stu rather expected “Jingle Bells” or “Frosty the Snowman” sung in the off-key and rather toneless voice of a child. But what came out was a fragment of “The First Noel,” sung in a surprisingly pleasant tenor voice.

“The first Noel,” Tom’s voice drifted across the white wastes, echoing back with faint sweetness, “the angels did say… was to certain poor shepherds in fields as they lay… In fields… as they… lay keeping their sheep… on a cold winter’s night that was so deep…”

Stu joined in on the chorus, his voice not as good as Tom’s but mixing well enough to suit the two of them, and the old sweet hymn drifted back and forth in the deep cathedral silence of Christmas morning: