THE SKIER

Winter comes to Glen Hartwell in midsummer, and people start dying.

It was the 22nd of January 2025. The day before, Donald Trump had been sworn in as evil fascist dictator of the United States. He had promised to solve the 'Canadian problem' by welcoming Canada into the Union as the fifty-first state of the United States. A kind offer that the Canadians seemed strangely reluctant to accept.
Sixteen thousand kilometres away in Glen Hartwell, in the Victorian countryside, they had been sweltering beneath one of the hottest summers on record. Sheila Bennett, a thirty-six-year-old Goth chick with orange-and-black striped hair, had left her bedroom window open, sleeping on top of the covers in her room at the Yellow House, in Rochester Road, Merridale. Midway through the night, it unexpectedly turned cold. Waking up, shivering, Sheila got up to slam down the bedroom window, then got under the blankets for the first time in weeks and quickly fell asleep again.
By 6:50 AM, the mounting cold had awakened Sheila again, so, checking the clock, she got up and dressed in her police uniform. As Chief Constable, she was the second-top cop in the BeauLarkin to Willamby area. By seven o'clock, she was downstairs in the yellow-painted dining room of the boarding house, sneezing as she waited for breakfast.
"Mrs. M. can you turn the heating up?" asked the Goth chick.
"It's been on full since 6:15," said Deidre Morton, owner of the Yellow House. A short, sixty-something brunette, Deidre was obsessed with the colour yellow, which proliferated throughout the boarding house.
"Yes, we've both been up since shortly after six," said Natasha Lipzing. The oldest resident of the house at seventy-one, Natasha had never really shown her age ... until now. The Antarctic cold that had mysteriously swept over Glen Hartwell in the night seemed to have aged her twenty years.
"You ought to put on your overcoat," suggested Tommy Turner, a short, dumpy blonde retiree, who was rugged up in a seeming mountain of jumpers and coats.
"Actually, I do have a police overcoat," said Sheila, "but it's tucked away at the back of my closet somewhere. Strangely enough, after seven weeks or so of Hellishly hot weather, it never occurred to me that I might need to wear it." Getting up again, she said, "I'll go hunt it out while you're dishing up the grub, Mrs. M.."
"Grub?" asked Deidre angrily as Sheila departed. "I'll have you know I am a trained chef ... I do not serve grub!"
"I'm sure she didn't mean anything by it, Mrs. M.," said Leo Laxman. A Jamaican by birth, Leo was a nurse at the Glen Hartwell and Daley Community Hospital.
"No doubt about it, you're the best chef this side of Melbourne," mollified Freddy Kingston. Like Tommy, Freddy was a recent retiree; a tall, chubby man, bald except for a Larry Fine-style ruff of curly black hair.
A few minutes later, Sheila returned wearing a thick police-blue overcoat and carrying two more.
"Sheils, it isn't cold enough for three overcoats," said Terri Scott. A beautiful ash blonde, Terri was the top cop of the area, Sheila's boss, and Colin's fiancée.
"No, I stopped into your room to bring down yours and Col's coats too."
"Thank God," said Colin Klein, eagerly snatching his police overcoat from the Goth chick. At forty-nine, Colin was a retired crime reporter from England, now employed by the Glen Hartwell Police Department.
"Thank the Lord for mad Goth chicks," said Terri, quickly climbing into her police overcoat.
"I choose to take that as a compliment," said Sheila, sitting down to start eating a hearty breakfast of porridge and treacle, and two Vegemite crumpets.
Half an hour later, Terri, Colin, and Sheila got up to go to work.
"I've got the latest single by the Devil's Advocates to play while we drive," said Sheila. Opening the front door, she stared out in amazement at the snow-covered street and said, "Although perhaps White Christmas by Bing Crosby would be more appropriate."
"This is the second year running that Glen Hartwell has had a white Christmas," said Colin. "Yet it's not supposed to snow in this country."
"Technically, it's four weeks since Christmas," said Terri.
Shivering, the three cops stepped outside, doing their best not to fall over on the slippery footpath and headed across to Terri's police-blue Lexus.
"Even so, snow in summer?" said Colin as they slipped, slid, walked across to carefully climb into the car.
"The Devil's Advocates have a song called 'Snow in Summer'," said Sheila. "It's about a mate of theirs who stupidly overdosed and died. I wish I'd thought to bring that one with me. So, for now, we can settle for 'How Evil' by the Devil's Advocates.
After starting the car, Sheila clicked play on the CD player, and it started to play the following:
"Just how evil is the Evil Empire?
"Just how sick are Trump's desires?
"Just how evil is the Evil Empire?
"How far will Putin and Trump conspire?

"Just how evil is the Evil Empire?
"Just how low will the U.S. go?
"Just how feral is America?
"Just how foul are Trump's desires?

"Can America beat the commonwealth?
"Just how evil is the United States?
"Will it overthrow all things decent?
"Can we beat Trump's Devils with stealth?

"Just how evil is the Evil Empire?
"Just how sick are Trump's desires?
"Just how evil is the Evil Empire?
"How far will Putin and Trump conspire?

"Just how evil is the Evil Empire?
"Will Trump start World War III?
"Will he put an end to democracy
"Will he set the whole world on fire?

"Just how evil is the Evil Empire?
"Just how sick are Trump's desires?
"Just how evil is the Evil Empire?
"How far will Putin and Trump conspire?"
-- Philip Roberts, April 2025

"Interesting," said Colin as the Lexus struggled to get traction upon the snow, "but since Trump only came to power, isn't it a bit early to talk about his evil desires?"
"Nope," insisted Sheila, then, "what the Hell is wrong with the Lexus?"
"We probably need snow chains to travel through this summer wonderland," said Terri.
"Have we got snow chains?" asked Sheila.
"Strangely enough, no ... since it never snows in Australia."
"Then what is all that white stuff in the street?" teased Colin.
"Anyway, we had a white Christmas in 2023," reminded Sheila. [See my story, 'The Iceman Cometh'.]

Over at neighbouring Bromby, people happily played in the snow that lined Burnley Street. Families built snowmen, a new experience for parents and children alike. Other kids threw snowballs at each other. One or two more adventurous souls attempted to snowboard using dick dragger (short) surfboards. Or clam draggers in the case of women.
The Murphy family had settled in to build a snow castle, complete with turrets and a drawbridge, using a bit of fallen bark discovered amongst the snow.
"So which castle is this, Dad?" demanded young Amy Murphy. At eight years of age, Amy was a ravenette like her mum and promised to be a great beauty when she reached womanhood.
"Yeah, every castle's gotta have a name," said Larry Murphy, a nine-year-old with long blond hair. "Like Windsor Castle, or Castle Dracula."
"We'll call it Castle Bromby, after the town," suggested Austin Murphy, a tall, lanky blond man of thirty-nine.
"That's a great name," said Cecelia Murphy, aged thirty-six, sporting long black hair.
"Yay!" cried young Amy.
So busy were the Murphys building Castle Bromby, that they did not notice the flurry of snowballers, or dick dragger skiers. Until out of nowhere appeared a nearly two-metre-tall skier, dressed in white, who, unlike the others, was using actual skis, with long, sharp ski poles, with snowflake-shaped baskets near the ends.
Narrowly missing Amy and Larry, the Skier whooshed down the slight slope of Burnley Street, heading toward where a small group of people had upended a steel drum and were burning wood in it to toast marshmallows and to warm themselves against the extreme cold.
"Hey, watch the kids!" cried Cecelia.
"Yeah, watch us kids," seconded Amy.
Ignoring mother and daughter, the Skier whooshed down the slopes toward the people grouped around the makeshift brazier.
"Tell me again why we're standing around a brazier freezing our arses off?" insisted Janey Marcough, a tall leggy redheaded thirty-something.
"We're having fun," insisted her husband, Sloan, a tall, heavyset man with almost military short brown hair.
"Freezing my tits off is not my idea of fun."
"Have to ever been out in the snow before, here in Australia?"
"Yes, when I was little, my parents took us to Mount Kosciuszko. I hated the cold then, and I hate it now."
"You'll get used to it, Honey. Remember when we went swimming in mid-winter last year? It was freezing when we went in, then after twenty minutes our bodies adjusted to the cold."
"Yours might have adjusted. But I came out covered in goosebumps larger than my nipples."
"Yes, I remember now. It was quite a turn on, seeing you covered from head to toe in nipples."
"It might have been a turn on to you ... but I almost died of hypothermia!"
"Yes, I remember now ...." was all that Sloan got out before the Skier slid close enough to ain his ski poles at them.
Aiming the poles like rifles, by a concentrated effort of will, the Skier made great streams of clear liquid shoot from the points of the poles. Liquid, which encased the Marcoughs, set like concrete and quickly asphyxiated them to death.
Skiing past the entombed Marcoughs, the Skier continued to shoot out his clear liquid again and again, until he had encased and killed ten or eleven people, without stopping. Then, using his ski poles as they were intended, he swept on down Burnley Street, continuing out into the sweet-smelling pine and eucalyptus forest beyond Bromby township.
Hearing cries from behind them, the Murphys looked around and saw the frozen remains of the Marcoughs and others.
"Hey, where did those ice statues come from?" asked Cecelia. "They're very realistic, you'd almost think they were real people."
"Real people," agreed young Amy.
"They weren't there when we started," said young Larry.
"And we haven't been here long enough for anyone to have carven them so accurately," said Austin. "Well, not so many of them."
Then as people started screaming and running around wildly, the Murphys realised that something was seriously wrong.

Over at Ed Bussy's Auto Repairs in Wentworth Street, Ed had just finished applying homemade snow chains to Terri's Lexus.
"Bonza, Ed," said Sheila. "I've never even seen snow chains before."
"Then how do you know they're bonza?" teased Ed. "But they'll do the job."
"Though with Victoria's goofy weather, we'll probably be back to scorching summer by this time tomorrow," pointed out Colin.
"How much do we owe you, Ed?" asked Terri.
"I'll add it to my police account."
They had climbed into the Lexus and started out into Wentworth Street when Terri's mobile rang. Terri spoke on the phone for a few minutes, then disconnected and said, "That was Suzette. It seems people have been turned into ice statues over at Burnley Street, Bromby."
"Uh-oh, the Iceman's back," said Sheila. [See my story, 'The Iceman Cometh'.]
"I seem to recall we used flamethrowers to kill the Iceman back in December 2023," said Colin.
Oh, yeah."
An hour later, they arrived at Burnley Street, Bromby, which was now swarming with police and medical personnel.
"So is it like with the Iceman?" asked Sheila.
"No," said Tilly Lombstrom. A tall, attractive fifty-something brunette, surgeon, Tilly was the assistant administrator at the Glen Hartwell and Daley Community Hospital. "This time they've been coated in an ice-like substance."
"So they asphyxiated to death," explained Jerry "Elvis" Green, the local coroner, nicknamed due to adoration of the late King or Rock and Roll.
"You said ice-like?" queried Terri.
"We don't think it's just frozen water," said Jesus Costello (pronounced Hee-Zeus), administrator and chief surgeon at the hospital. "According to witnesses, some crazy skier sprayed them with clear liquid, which solidified almost instantly."
"Even in this cold weather, water won't freeze instantly," added Tilly.
"So, first thing is to get the statue-people to G.H.&.D.C.H. and try to break of some of the frozen liquid to find out what the Hell it is," said Jesus.
Rather than using ambulances, the eleven frozen corpses were transported in a removalist van, rented from Oliver Burnside, a tall, burly, grey-haired man who looked a decade older than his fifty years.
Looking at the side of Burnside's van, Sheila read, "Use us, or move it yourself. That's not exactly user-friendly."
"Screw user friendly," said Burnside, "as the only removalist this side of BeauLarkin, they either hire me, or shift it themselves."

Eighty minutes or so later, they were in the morgue in the basement at the Glen Hartwell Hospital, trying to chip off some of the seemingly steel-hard 'ice' for testing.


THE END
© Copyright 2025 Philip Roberts
Melbourne, Victoria, Australia