By J M Heluk

"We're never going to survive this are we?"

I knew that question would remain unanswered.

I suppose I asked just to hear a voice, any voice, even if was only my own.
My words resonated as hollow whispers within the walls of the house. The
furniture was nearly gone now, as were the couch cushions, wallpaper, most of
the carpeting and every scrap of wood and periodical. Paul continued to
gaze a blank eyed stare out of the large picture window in the living room
that faced the West. The early morning snow cast a ghostly glow upon his
ragged face. He pressed it to the windowpane, hopelessly searching for
something amidst the bewitching and incalculable dunes of white.

"The sun may come out today," Paul mumbled as he pressed his palms against
the frigid glass. I knelt in front of the fireplace carefully cutting the
last of the pillowcases into strips and placing them in. The fire left
unattended over night was reduced to a smoldering pile of warm gray ash.
Eventually we would run out of material to burn and inevitably we would
freeze to death, that is, if we didn't starve first.

Eric began to stir gently in his crib with pudgy pink arms fidgeting and stretching and his tiny
fists balled tight. Soon he would be hungry, maybe today would be the day
that Paul would be able to find food. Any food that did remain in the home
was in the pantry and the pantry was now reserved for Eric and Eric alone.

What little food that was left wouldn't last another week, and since Paul had
no luck the last journey to the outside, I wondered just how much longer we
could survive. He had followed the towline that we had set up months earlier
out to Parsonage Road. Not an easy task to say the least, for a fit man would
have had difficulty navigating the terrain. Parsonage road was nearly a
quarter of a mile from our front door and with the snowdrifts being 15 feet
deep months ago, it was astonishing he had made it back to the house at all.

No, going out now would be a suicide mission, venturing outside to search for
food was no longer an option. I blew gently upon the cotton strips of cloth
that lay over the charred legs of the dining room table and ash in the
fireplace and said a silent prayer as I did every morning since the snow
swallowed existence.

It was so unbelievable that this happened and even more disturbing, how
quickly everything had fallen apart. It doesn't take long for society to
unravel. At first came the reports and they were skeptical to say the least.
Newscasters lightheartedly poked fun at how concerned people were. They said
that while it was very unusual that we would be hit by a major snowstorm in
the middle of August, they assured the public that it wouldn't last long.
They claimed it was just a freak of nature, something that would pass within
a few short hours, a day, maybe two at the very worst. The stores had been
obliterated within minutes after the first billowy snowflakes had fallen.

It was the smart ones that bought everything that they could, storing all that
they would need. Gasoline, firewood, canned and jarred foods, matches, water,
milk, wine, cured meats, clothing, candles and flashlights, but those kind
people were far and few between. Most of us, like Paul and I, just bought a
few minor items, picking through the scraps that were left behind. Paul was
convinced that I was using the storm as an excuse for me to buy junk food,
contributing to my unhealthy lifestyle. It was true, I had gained more than I
should have during my pregnancy, and lost less than I would have liked, but I
was not as obese as Paul accused me to be. I didn't have a problem with my
body the way it was back then, my health conscious husband did.

I just thought that rice cakes and wheat germ would not sustain life if the storm
lasted longer than a week and I was correct. Four months into the snow, my
body had become emaciated and shrunken. I was tired all of the time,
emotionally and physically drained. I dropped rapidly from 195 pounds to a
willowy 116, and my husband, well he could barely lift his arms anymore. Paul
was now horribly sick and weighed considerably less than I. His face was so
gaunt that when he slept I constantly mistook him for dead. Now he was a
stick man, bundled tightly in a red and blue checkered wool blanket. His face
looked ancient, mummified, taking on the appearance of the shriveled shell of
a coconut despite his young age. He gazed out of the window from only intact
chair we had left in the house. I thought I heard him crying.

The pine boughs were reduced to frozen white giants and from the window I
could not decipher where the trees had once begun and where the sky had once
met them. Their mighty frames now lay skeletal and buried under huge
glistening mounds of white. From the window, the world had become a
Necropolis of dead giant Gods encased within frozen and snowy tombs.
Everything was just so white, so insanely white. What I would give to feel
the sun once again on my face, to see green grass and powdery blue skies.

My breath hit the icy panes of glass then kaleidoscoped into frigid geometrical
patterns, quickly painting the window in every direction and obscuring my
already limited vision of the outside. I scraped at my frozen breath with
trembling fingers. The window had once been a source of delightful warmth
from the West. The summer sun had always given a scintillating glow through
the thick treetops as it snuggled itself into the distant horizon.

Sunsets had always been a favorite, I loved the way that dusty amber glow would
create a perfect blend of sunlight and shadows that danced and skirted their
way through the wispy green branches of the towering pines and hilly crags of
the far off mountains. But now from the window was this…a bleak and grinning
white witch, her frozen face an endless smear of foreboding cold that
consumed the landscape and threatened cruelly with promises of suffering,
death and starvation. Grim promises I feared that she had every intention to
keep. We would die. My baby would die. It just wasn’t fair.

This infant shouldn’t be made to suffer. If God had wanted to kill off existence as we
knew it, why did I get pregnant when I did, why did Eric have to be born when
he was? I rested my hands on the sill and stared out of the window and cursed
God. Tears born from hopelessness streamed down my face, gave pause by my
lips and froze by the time they reached my chin. I was stirred from my dark
thoughts by the faint sound of a crinkling paper wrapper.

Paul loomed over Eric with his spindly arms barely supporting him. He leaned
on the white rail of our baby boys’ crib peering inside. Eric cooed softly,
his giggles barely masking the sound of Paul’s desperate chewing. Eric cast
his face upwards to his Father and smiled, kicking with his fat and
enthusiastic legs.

The empty wrapper of the last candy bar lay at my husbands’ feet.

I walked away from the picture window and crossed the living
room towards Eric and Paul. The middle of the room was much warmer, almost
hot compared to where I had been kneeling. The pieces from the easy chair
popped and crackled within the fireplace sending a green blue flame sizzling
out from the brightly burning fabric. It rose slowly and rhythmically like a
hissing Genie and then gained in pitch, forcing a monstrous whistling scream.
Small bits of embers whirled high into the air and formed glowing crimson
dust devils that rained smoldering scraps of cinder onto the bare wood floor
in their fiery wake. I placed a gentle hand on my husband's back and could
feel the bony nubs of his spine pressing against my palm. He was trembling.

We stood by the only living child we had left with hearts shriveled in our
frail chests, our distended bellies crying out in anguish, our minds as baron
as the vast wasteland that waited outside. Eric looked so healthy in
comparison to us, so pink, so fat. I caressed Paul’s back lovingly as he
dropped one listless arm to his side reaching his hand for mine, his thin
fingers lacing with my own. I could smell the chocolate thick on his breath
and could almost taste its sweetness smeared all over his shrunken lips. My
stomach clenched into a tight fist at the syrupy aroma that permeated the
living room. I turned my attention downwards at my cooing, fat, pink baby boy.

"We can always have another " Whispered Paul, as if said low enough, our
consciences wouldn’t hear such a sinister thought.

A painful shiver consumed me. After all, wasn’t that what he said about our
second born child, Andrew, not just a month ago? Some unforgivable part of me
grumbled at the thought of meat again. Paul gave a gentle knowing squeeze as
we stood hand in hand, bathed in the fire's glow like two skeletal vultures
leering over our infant's crib.

The smell of hot steaming porridge clung thickly to the air as it bubbled and
popped in the large stew pot that sat boiling on the burning scraps of wood.
I scurried about the kitchen giving it my final touches. Another handful of
snow might water it down, the consistency was a bit like kindergarten paste.
I hovered hungrily over the pot letting the delicious steam lap at my face. A
few more pinches of salt perhaps? I hadn’t cooked in so long and chuckled at
how quickly I had forgotten. The man on the battery-operated radio had a
glimmer of hope in his voice for the first time in a very long while. He said
that while it was too soon to tell, it was never too late to give up hope.

The snow had stopped and had finally begun to thaw, maybe another week, two
at best, the roads might be clear enough for some large, well-equipped
vehicles to pass. Survivors could possibly count on being dug out within the
month. I eagerly dipped my finger into the bubbling pot and sucked off the
warm rich soup, checking to see if I had used too many spices.

Wasn’t this meat salty to begin with?

I caught a glimpse of my reflection on the side of the
pot and for a moment realized how much better I looked these days, how much
better we both did. Storing most of it was easy since the outside was still
fairly cold and frozen. We didn’t need to worry about it being ravished by
animals since most of them never survived the storm. I stepped away from the
stove and made sure once again that Paul’s plate was set up properly.

A stickler for detail, he had always hated when I set the fork to the left. Just then he
came into the kitchen, his gait still a bit wobbly and uncoordinated, but
that would improve with some more hot meals, but most of all...time. I pulled
out the makeshift chair, helped him into it and snatched his empty plate only
to return it piled high with the thick rich stew. He smiled broadly and began
to gobble it up, bits of stringy pinkish brown meat dragging across his chin.

"Now eat up! This will make you feel better," I smiled, shoveling another
heaping spoonful past my lips. It slid down easily, the buttery clumps of hot
meat melting in my mouth. I smacked my lips together savoring every delicious
bite.

"This certainly is very good, this will make Momma strong again. It will make
you grow up big and strong…just like your Daddy!" I pointed my spoon over to
Paul’s empty place setting, his fork neatly set to the right. How I did miss
his company these days.

Eric grinned and swallowed another bite.


The End