Icebox

Chapter 2

Hypothermia

A steel door colored like it just came out a pit of tar. Just like the train, only with a golden, decorative line streaking around the edges. It flew open by command of a stallion’s furry, mitten-wearing hoof.

“Y’all ready to git-a-going? We got us a longgggg trip ahead.” He asked us in his country accent, sounding as though he were an Appleloosan native--holding the stagecoach door open with a giddy smile--unshaken by the the dabs of snow falling down from the sky and the fearsome wind which cut through us normal folk like an obsidian razor.

I gave him a nod and stepped inside, offering a hoof to my “majestic mistress”--hoping to score points on the “proper gentlepony” and “good husband” charts. The gesture seemed welcoming, but the running board sure didn’t.

Masquerade slipped and nearly hit her face on the cabin’s flooring. Both myself and our snow-hardened compatriot leapt to her aid, but she assured us all was ‘well’, then took her place beside me in the stagecoach as the door slammed shut with the sharp, metallic click of the handle. Seems it wasn’t only the tired fathers of three small foals who were qualified to exhibit “stallion’s pride” syndrome--even if the somepony in question was a mare.

The interior wanted dearly to make a good first impression on me--probably trying to compete with the train car we’d gotten off of a short while ago. Same standard of cushy seats, insulation, and nice, toasty warmth--just throw in peaceful seclusion and a velvet everything. Velvet seats. Velvet floor. Velvet ceiling. If only there was a carpet to guide my maiden up into the cockpit. But knowing my luck, it’d probably resign itself to an ugly shade of green.

Oh, and there was a radio just across from us.

When the stagecoach started hauling itself forward, I didn’t feel like engaging in any sort of conversation. I kicked my hooves back and let my head lean against the corona-colored padding behind me and faced outward. Out to the window. Just like on the train.

Snow. Everywhere. It was both a wonderland and a hellhole all the same. My eye caught a falling snowflake in the distance as it touched down and become uniform with the rest of the ground.

Is it REALLY true that no two snowflakes are the same? Is it not maybe, just maybe possible that there’s the chance for an identical pairing? I suppose that, even if it were, it’d be quite difficult to encounter--let alone document for the rest of the world to see.

A laboratory might be able to replicate the process, but then the results would be artificial and thus invalid. Maybe if-

The static click of a switch or a knob buzzed in. The faded voice of a mare, sounding as though she were on channel coming at us live with the latest breaking news chimed in.

“...couple…just recently married...trapped inside a hotel by snow…” Masq seemed to telepathically agree that the hissing was too much to bear and turned it off. I let myself slide back into my thoughts--wondering at all the scientific probabilities and improbabilities of flakes born of frost.

The static click returned.

An ironically chill, but nonetheless annoying track of smooth jazz forced its way out of the radio, letting me know loud and clear that it was not going to end anytime soon.

I backed my head into the corner, trying to seal my ears away within the intersection of the interior, hoping to catch a glimpse of whatever lay outside Masq’s window. Muffled, but ineffective.

I stared on outside, but saw nothing but shrubbery. Shrubbery and the top of a road moving like it were the rolling surface of some miserable treadmill.

I reached a hoof over to the radio and switched it off. My head instantly turned to my window, looking again at the snowflakes as they whirled around in the air.

An artificially-made twin set of matching snowflakes may not be as valued as a pair of natural ones, but they’d still prove the concept, wouldn’t they? Perhaps that wouldn’t be necessary. It certainly wouldn’t be good to have some frilly, magic spells get involved in the experimentation process--which they most certainly would, knowing this world. It might be best if a pony were to lay up in a field like this with some sort of device to capture various specimens, and then-

Masquerade turned the radio back on.

I settled for the shrubbery and the icy ground.

Masq made a careful, firm step over the running board as she got out. I followed shortly after, suitcases in-tow. A thread on my winter jacket caught onto the hook of the door’s locking mechanism--for which I had to set free before taking my place beside her.

Masq approached our driver with a proper exchange of well-earned bits. His Appleloosan face signified that he was more than happy to receive payment.

“Y’all take care now!” He said before jutting off, the stagecoach whooshing around and charging away from us. I turned my gaze to Masq, to which she turned to our destination.

Faded paint on the walls. Single-story rooms, of which there were roughly 16 with bright orange entryways and gilded knobs--presumably made from some foreign material shipped in cheap from the zebra or griffin domains respectively. Windows with bars on them. Surrounded by nothing but an endless, icy, dead tree-filled wilderness. A big, bright, light-green sign. “The 6 o’ Clock Stop! Catering to every need a pony could ask for!”

A poor excuse for a living space, but a doable one nonetheless. Masq turned her head back to me.

“Well, this is almost expected of you.” She snarked.

I adjusted my glasses, feeling a tinge of the cold on the frame. “Yes, yes--I’m sure you could have done much better my dear. Much.” I turned back to face her. “I will again remind you we have a budget to manage. Funds need to be allocated where they belong or we will go broke.”

“Broke?” She scoffed.

“Broke indeed.” I pushed my glasses up again. Seemed they didn’t want to behave at the moment.

“Tinker, we don’t have a lot of money, but I assure you we’re not going to be living in boxes anytime soon. We could have afforded better. Is it so much to ask for something a little more expensive for stuff like this? For what we’re trying to achieve?”

I turned and, with the motion of my hoof, displayed all the forestry around us to her.

“Look.” I beckoned her. She tried to find the hidden beach resort stuck out in the distance.

“And I’m looking at…?”

“Nature. Nature everywhere.” I continued, waving my hoof around like a mad scientist. “Think about it!”

She looked puzzled. “Think about what?”

“Well, everypony’s always talking about seeing it, right? Returning to the ways of old and all and getting back to their roots?” She was already shaking her head. “What is this if not an opportunity, Masq?” I got closer to her, looking in her eyes. “Why don’t we capitalize on it?” The twinkle in the corner of her eye pierced through me like did the howling breeze through our fuzzy winter coats.

“Tinker… I’m not here for some half-baked camping trip.” She took a step forward, staring right up from under me. “I’m trying to do something more.” It was enough to give me pause--just before I shook my head and regained my senses.

“Right. Well, let’s head inside, negotiate pricing. We came all this way, after all--so it’s worth a shot.” I equipped myself with our bags and turned around, giving the sigh I heard from behind me very little thought as I proceeded towards the gateway of our soon-to-be vacation paradise.

Another step in the snow revealed a strange texture. It was wet. And it was soft. But it didn’t feel like snow. It felt plush. Plush, but frozen.

Lifting up my hoof, I saw the sewed-on button eyes of a stuffed animal mare gaze back to me. Long mane. Cute wings. She must have been some foal’s dearest friend before succumbing to the elements.

The ding of a doorbell struck me. The headlights flicked on as I followed Masquerade inside, very quick to seal out the chill behind me and close the door.

The interior was just as dingy as the exterior--just less snow. White wallpaper that was so faded it looked it was on the verge of death. A bulletin board stamped with papers with dates for events that had transpired half a decade or so ago. A shelf stocked with enough dust-collecting knowledge to make any able-bodied bookworm scream. And a lovely, dead houseplant by my hooves near the door. Splendid.
A green flannel-wearing stallion in an ushanka hat sat in a chair behind the front desk, hind hooves kicked up, reading from some old catalogue with bent corners--sipping from a sour apple-flavored bottle of soda. The top of the desk bore a series of tally marks. Six to be specific.

Masq took a step in his direction, but I was intent upon things being handled properly.

“Hello there! You’re the…” Words. Words. Think of the words. “Owner? Curator! You’re the proprietor of this motel, yes?

The desk keeper cocked an eyebrow, sitting up and smiling. “Yes I am! I’m the owner, the curator, AND the proprietor.” His accent was cooky. Corny. It was welcoming, but corny. Definitely a northerner’s if I’ve ever heard one (and probably a hockey addict’s, too). He leaned forward, resting his chin on his hooves. “What can I do for you, sir?”

I dropped my suitcases to the floor. Clunk! They went--just like that stallion’s back at the station. “Well, it’s a long story. See, my wife and I here wanted to go on a vacation. Ya know, kindle some old flames in the relationship and all? But wadda ya know, reality came calling and, well, ding! We had to work within our means. So, coming all the way by train-”

Masquerade stepped in front of me, cutting me off. “We’d like to purchase a room please.” She said. I couldn’t see her face, but I swear I could sense that smile she liked to use. Sense it from where I was standing by the other side of her head.

“Sure thing. Nopony else’s here, so you get to pick which room ya want. Anything in particular ya had in mind?”

“Oh, you’re too kind. Any ole room will do, but thank you.”

Listening in, I opted not to cause a scene. To the left, there lie a helpful haven of literature just waiting to be explored. Looked like an itch in need of scratching. The virgin of 40 years. I glanced it over for a closer inspection.

“Mors de Inventore” one title read in some strange language I did not understand. “The Pony and the Princess” read another--probably fiction. “Bushcraft 101” read a third.

I pulled out the third. Dust flew out everywhere, causing me to sneeze, but the cover was enough to drown out the noise behind me. Seemed to be some kind of survival manual. Just more of a focus on tools from the stone age and… primitive innovation?

I flopped the pages open--one of them a bit sticky. The opening really established the narrator’s matter-of-fact-ness. Almost like he had his own cheesy survival show.

“Introduction”

Your body is like a house. When you pay your bills, go to work, and do everything you’re supposed to like a good little pup, the boat stays afloat. The water continues to flow. The electricity continues to spark. And, you guessed it, the heater keeps you nice and warm at night.

In a survival scenario, things won’t always be going in your favor. In fact, the majority of the time, they won’t. Ponies are social creatures. Social animals. The only reason civilization ever rose and came to be what it is today is because we decided to collectively put aside our differences and embrace the magic of friendship so very long ago.

But you’re not in civilization. You’re not in a town. In a group. In the smallest possible sociological labeling: a diad. No--you’re alone. You have only yourself, your clothes, what you have in your pockets, and whatever’s nearby. Everything is a tool so long as you think creatively, and...

I skipped through a few dozen pages, wanting to get to the parts that I felt had some semblance of actual importance. The center of the book had a section on hypothermia.

“On Cold Weather Exposure”

One of the first things you need to watch for--out in the cold weather--is hypothermia. I don’t think I need to explain what that is, so all I’ll say is that your house needs a working heater. Nopony wants to live in a freezer, after all. Check for the following symptoms listed below:

1) Cold skin and a prickling feeling.
2) Numbness of the hooves.
3) Shivering.
4) Hard or waxy skin.
5) Clumsiness due to joint and muscle stiffness.
6) Shallow breath or slurred speech.

Again, I don’t really need to explain; this is no bueno. I don’t think anypony reading wants a bad case of stage 4 seeping down into their sub-cutaneous tissue that leads to either a wheelchair or set of bionic hooves, so if you are experiencing any of the symptoms mentioned above, I’m going to recommend the following:

1) Assuming you’re in a toasty house, a gentle soaking in some warm water--perhaps coupled with a moist cloth. If outside, please note that getting wet is one of the WORST things you can do.
2) Trapping heat. Also known as getting warmed-up. The body is a furnace that generates heat on its own. If you cover yourself in enough dry cloth and seal out any stray air from outside your pocket of heat, you’ll heat up in no time. The effect can be maximized by sitting in shelter, standing by a heat source (like a fire), and huddling with your fellow…

A mare’s hoof tapped on my shoulder. The book slammed shut. I turned around, seeing Masq’s face, and blinked.

“Still up for a week like you said?” She asked me.

Took me a moment to come back to reality. “Yeah, yeah--a week sounds fine.” I nodded.

“Good!” She said with a gleeful smile. “I’m sure the nature trails’ll be quite pretty this time of year.” She turned around and took one of the suitcases into her hooves before walking out, jingling the keys. “Room 14. Help me out with the other, would ya hun?”

“Sure thing.” I said as she walked out, dinging the high-pitched doorbell which, in an abstract sort of way, sounded like the chirp of a bird. A bird that was probably in hibernation this time of year.

I took hold of my share of the load and proceeded towards the exit. Before leaving, though, I heard a hair-raising scratching sound from behind me, then the springs of an office chair--as if somepony had gotten up.

I turned behind me and saw the proprietor walking into a room in the back. Back behind his desk. Back turned to me. I peaked my little head over the top of his workstation. 8 tally marks there sat--scarred freshly into the wood.