Eric Dimbleby

WHITE OUT

A Post Apocalyptic Thriller

Part I- STORMY WEATHER

Somewhere out there—in the distance, on a street, in an alley, in the back of a cab, at the grocer, in a pub, cuddled beneath warm blankets in their beds—the men and women of the world are murmuring something ugly to each other.

Right now, they are tickling each other’s minds, with quiet whispers of the change that is coming, that is happening right now… here, there, and everywhere. They speak of it in dozens of different terms, tones and euphemisms, but they drive at the same wretched thing: mankind is about to be delivered a whole shitload of comeuppance.

The gin-soaked armchair quarterback with the bad hair weave knows that his people are screwed. The greasy-eyed politician realizes the same. No different with the Holocaust-skinny housewife and the bratty teenager texting silly bullshit on a cell phone. The dogs even know that the world we know is about to get pear-shaped, busted, deformed, and twisted until it snaps. This supposedly noble thing we call society—this thing we call sanctity, this thing we call sanity—is spinning around the drain, ready to descend into the pipes of Hell.

The end is delivered by chance. Or delivered by God. Whichever school of thought you subscribe to, it’s all the same damn end game. You know that already, don’t you? Bet your ass you do.

It’s not delivered by bomb, bullet, plague, or monsters crawling from the depths of the sea.

Not by hatred, passion, fear, or maligned decisions.

Not by meteors or meat-eaters. Not by anything that we can touch with our hands or hearts.

Yes sir, it’s coming hard and fast.

They’re talking about this on the street corner right outside your filthy window, saying things like, “Can you believe this snow? Weather forecast says it might last three more days. I find that hard to swallow.” But deep down inside, they are swallowing it just about as hard as they can. They know what we’ve all known; in our genes, in our cells, since the day we were born. They know that there is a time to die for each and every person, and the laws of statistics dictate that eventually, (one of these days, Alice, one of these days) we are all destined to perish at the same time, by the same fate.

Somewhere out there… a daughter is asking her father why she can’t see out the first floor windows anymore. He pretends not to hear her, as he churns through answers that don’t come so easily to his bluish lips. Dr. Spock never wrote a manual on preparing your children for the apocalypse. And there it is. There’s that word that this doomed girl’s father has been avoiding. The apocalypse. The mere proclamation of the word brings a rifling terror to one’s gut. This hypothetical father says to his child, “It’ll melt, darling. The snow always melts. Always has. We’re just getting a lot of it this year.”

Somewhere out there… nestled away in a snowed-in weather station, they are mumbling the unfathomable precipitation accumulations over and over again, unwilling to accept the maddening temperatures that are being recorded on an hourly basis. It is the middle of March outside of Pittsburgh, when it should be thawing, or at least beginning to thaw. Twenty below in the middle of the afternoon. Forty below at night. One fellow notes that these are Siberian temperatures, not Pennsylvanian temperatures. They all laugh nervously, surveying their numbers over and over again, as if their eyeballs will suddenly make the numbers change to something more reasonable.

“I heard it’s snowing in the Bahamas. The fuckin’ Bahamas,” might be heard if you listen close enough to the mumbling citizens that live in your neighborhood. Somebody will call them out as a bullshitter, but something inside of you says that they are right, and that it is most definitely snowing in the Bahamas. You might picture a frightened monkey, hoarding away coconuts, screeching wildly at the strange substance coming from the sky, wondering inside of its primitive brain if it is indeed The End.

The internet is still functional at this point. God bless the internet, but its days are numbered. Phone lines are starting to fail, as are fiber and cable connections from one side of the planet to the other. Soon enough, television and the internet will go the way of the dodo, not without a rapid normalization in temperature and conditions.

The number one search phrase on the biggest search engines is “Ice Age,” followed directly by “Brad Pitt” and “The End Of The World.” Other popular searches: “Arctic Survival”, “Will I Go To Heaven”, “Keeping Warm”, and “Eating The Dead.” The world has obviously watched too many dang movies. A commentator on CNN refers to the current state of panic among these disillusioned masses as, “A whole lot of Hestons, not enough Omega Men.”

The frantic people of Earth speak of something indescribable changing, of something that has been right under their noses all along. They can’t give it a proper label. Even “Ice Age” and “Apocalypse” seem to fall short of what is really transpiring. This fate is not deserved, though many will think it is (for sin, for stupidity, for wastefulness). It is not predicted, or even predictable for that matter.

It’s that trailing speck of dust at the corner of your eye, always in the room though you can never look directly at it. You know it’s there, taunting you, sticking out the tongue and thumbing the nose. It wants to drive you mad, but it is just sneaky enough never to be known.

The earth is covering with snow and ice.

Deeper and deeper, so mankind sinks.

The snow warms enough to turn to ice, and then another arctic blast lands on top of that, and then another, and another, and another, ad infinitum. The electric lines cannot handle the burden, and soon, the phone lines will snap as well, if they haven’t already. Listen close, stand by your window, and you’ll hear them snapping like God’s guitar strings. Snappity-snap-snap-snap. Go forward, brave human, and create fire for the second time, because you’re going to need it.

Shit happens, as a wise man once said. Shit happens, and sometimes it happens over and over again, for days, weeks, months and years, until the eye of the beholder can no longer blink, for all the feces that is trapped beneath the eyelid.

Cue the Bing Crosby.

Well, the weather outside is frightful…

Chapter One

A chill ran through her body, all the way from her numbing toes to her face. She could no longer remember what it felt like to be naked, having worn so many layers of Gortex and wool these past weeks. She dreamed of the day she could take a warm shower, or sip on a cup of scalding tea. Everything was frigid, sinking deep into every surface, so deep that no amount of sun could ever thaw it out. The best she could do was bundle tight and think of her sweet boy.

“We’re leaving tomorrow morning,” she said.

“The hell you are,” her husband replied, grinding his teeth into the phone’s receiver, as he was known to do when confronted with stress.

Here we go, thought Annie, releasing a prolonged breath that had been forming deep inside of her chest. She almost didn’t call him at all, but that would have been unfair. It wasn’t written in the cards that she would make it home safe, so she owed it to him.

No. She owed it to her sweetie pie, Paulie.

The thought of never seeing him again ripped into her quaking guts, but that was unforgivable weakness. This, here and now, staring out the window at the devastation wrought by a pissed off Mother Nature, was a moment of strength. It had to be, if Annie was going to survive this atrocity. The thickening ice on the window obfuscated her view into what was once the company parking lot, where people hustled and bustled to start and end their days. She couldn’t see any of the abandoned vehicles anymore, even if she could have seen out the window clearly. She hadn’t seen the roofs of the cars in more than a week.

Annie was starting to forget what reality even looked like. This icy white winter had overtaken all of her memories as well. Life before the big storm didn’t even exist.

“Can I talk to my Paulie? Please?” Annie asked, unwilling to engage in an argument that Christian couldn’t win. No point in shoving it in his face. She’d made up her mind about venturing out into the wild storm.

“Dammit, Annie, don’t change the subject.” She could hear a hint of rage creeping into his voice. He never felt rage towards anybody, only towards the situation, but it came off as nasty when he spoke in such a manner. He was a gentle man by nature. A caring man. And she hated what had become of them, shitty weather aside. They were poison in each other’s presence. It wasn’t a new thing, but it was in a full on fester nowadays.

Annie could see the frost of her breath. The oil had run out two days earlier, and the remnant heat only survived due to the well-insulated offices in her building. Tony and she huddled for warmth the night before—only once—but it was a sufficient enough sign to Annie that it was time to make their way home, to their respective families.

“It’s unbearable now. I don’t think we’ll last much longer in this building. We’ve been burning old file folders in a pit out by the backdoor, but it burns up quick. Business parks don’t keep stocks of firewood available, unfortunately. Food neither. If I eat one more damn bag of corn chips from the vending machine, I’m going to vomit.” She hated that she sounded like a prissy sorority girl.

“You need to stay put. This’ll all blow over any day now.”

Annie chuckled quietly, and the sensation warmed her for a moment. Body motion kept the blood circulating. Sexual intercourse, she had once read in one of her bored-house-wife magazines, was the best thing a near icicle of a human being could do for themselves. She tried not to think of Tony. They had cuddled once, and she was sure that he got the wrong idea. It was about survival, and nothing more.

She parted her chapped lips, speaking into the receiver with a resolute pace and tone, “You’re not seeing this for what it is, Christian. This isn’t going to end. It’s been four weeks, and I haven’t seen Paulie. I can’t even see out of the first or second floor windows. It’s at least 20 foot drifts pushing up against the side of the building, and we’re only a few days away from freezing or starving to death. Don’t you get it? Can’t you understand the situation I’m in?”

Annie heard him pull away from the phone, trying to mask a disdain that had, as of late, become unbearable to them all. “We’re all in this situation. This hasn’t been a cake walk for me, either. Paulie is fucking terrified,” he said, with an unspoken amendment of I’ll Have You Know. On top of that, Christian never swore. If he dropped a curse, then that meant he was losing his usually well-rounded marbles. The last thing she wanted him to do around their petrified son was to lose his shit.

“You need to let me do this and be okay with it. It’s the only way I’m coming home. It’s only eight miles.”

“Nine miles,” he corrected.

“Eight and a half, actually,” Annie shot back, trying to retain her composure. Compassionate as he was, Christian was also as stubborn as a mule, and in equal proportions.

“You need to think about your son. He told me he’d cry forever if you didn’t come home soon, and I think he meant it. You should have seen his face when he said it. Nearly killed me.” And there it is, thought Annie, the sweet man with the big heart that always made everybody else feel inferior and unworthy of his love. He was so damn perceptive, so damn heartwarming, but he only did it to make everybody else batty.

“My son is the only thing I’m thinking about.”

She could feel the hurt in his extended silence, transporting through the crackly phone lines, weeping through the receiver in utter silence. It was cold of her to imply that she wasn’t thinking of him, but maybe there was some truth to it. Even without the purported end of times, she rarely thought of him. Never did she step away from her computer, draw in a deep breath, and wonder what he was doing. Maybe most couples were that way, when they were so engaged in day-to-day parenting and economic survival. Maybe this unwarranted hatred wasn’t so strange after all.

Hate. Yes. From a certain perspective, she hated his fucking guts.

It came and went; hate then love then love then hate times three.

Two days of hate, one day of love, one day of hate, four days of love. Though she flipped and flopped on an emotional rollercoaster, she couldn’t quite get a handle on what she was really thinking or feeling. The night before, she’d dreamt of pushing Christian into an oncoming train, awaking to feel a painful guilt all through her being, wishing she could take back those subconscious thoughts that plagued her.

He didn’t deserve it. The shithead. The saint.

When the hell had she become such a horrible person? This wasn’t the little girl that kissed her mother on the cheek every morning. This wasn’t the same girl who won the spelling bee in third grade. That girl was dead as a doornail.

“Listen…,” she trailed off, still a bit fazed by how nasty she sounded, though she had no conscious control over that side of herself. “Tony has a really solid plan, so he says. It’s not fool proof, but it’s the best chance I’ve got if I don’t want to die out here.”

“Tony.”

“Yes, Tony.”

“Of course. Is Winnie still there?”

“She left last night, in the middle of the night. We couldn’t stop her. She was losing it, Christian. I doubt she made it far.”

A fabricated image of Winnie paused inside of her mind for a moment, of the chubby woman with the ruddy pink cheeks, trudging along the top layer of soft snow, sinking deep, up to her waistline, moving no more than a few feet per minute. In this mental recreation, the secretary disappeared into a copse of trees, blubbering hysterically. Within the first four hours of her doomed escape, she probably got hungry.

She won’t last long, Tony said, upon discovering the mottled tracks from the third floor window. He crudely guessed out loud that, she’d either die of a heart attack or drive herself mad, whichever came first. Either that, or she’d try to eat her arm, he barbed. Annie hadn’t found that very funny. He was a cold-hearted bastard like that.

They would have tried the best they could to talk her out of it, but she’d left in the middle of the night, inching away. Frosty little lemming, he called her. Tony had called out the window for her, hoping that she was within earshot. Annie wanted to trek out into the blasting snow to find her. It is better to conserve our warmth and survive another day, Tony replied. She was a depressed old spinster, said Tony, staring out the window at the footprints of their former coworker, adding, She was probably two years shy of a heart attack, anyhow.

“Poor Winnie,” mumbled Annie, biting back tears. She couldn’t tell if she wanted to cry because Winnie had most likely died, or because of the terrible things Tony said about the woman behind her back, both pre and post mortem.

“I see,” replied Christian.

Silence.

“So it’s just you and Tony?”

Annie nodded, staring at a patch of carpet on the floor, noting that it was frayed from years of wear and tear. Everything broke down on a long enough time line, carpets and marriages alike. She suppressed the urge to sigh, whispering into the phone, and said, “That’s right. Tony and I.”

He’d never liked Tony. And why would he? The guy was a slithering creep. Christian had once observed the way Tony looked at Annie during an office Christmas party. Ever since then, the mere mention of Tony’s name on Annie’s tongue would turn Christian’s usually pleasant face sour.

If only he knew the half of it, Annie thought to herself, fighting those perpetual guilt pangs that seemed to amplify with every miserable fucking day that passed. If he only knew about the cuddling the night before.

And the fucking. That’s the real reason you won’t scorn your husband’s name, isn’t it? Isn’t it all about the guilt? All about the fucking and sucking and all those other things that you can’t even admit to yourself?

Annie clasped her hands to her mouth, hoping to pin something in place that she wasn’t quite sure was there.

“So I assume Tony has a brilliant fucking plan?” Christian asked, dubiously. His voice was on the verge of crumbling into tiny shards of pain. She felt sorry for him, even though she continued with her nasty demeanor.

She didn’t know his plan at all, but it sounded pretty believable to say it, if only to convince her husband that it was all well in hand. “He does. I think it’ll work. The snow won’t get us, but the cold will. We have a plan for both.” Annie bit her lip so hard that she felt it might burst if she went any harder.

Christian held his silence. She realized that he didn’t even want to hear the plan. “Here,” he said next, tossing the phone about in his hands, “let me put Paulie on for you.”

Paulie’s squeaky voice came to life on the phone, declaring his longing for his mother (in not so many words), and Annie could not help the tears that flowed from her eyes. As the tears started to freeze in place, crystallizing at the curves of her cheeks, she wished that she could listen to his sweet little voice forever, and that she would never have to go out into the Hell that had sprung up all around her.

Chapter Two

The sun shone high in the sky, bombarding the planet with shimmering rays. It wouldn’t last, and Winnie understood that by this point, it was a tease. The sun had come out a day earlier as well, only to scamper back behind the clouds.

It wasn’t snowing at the moment, but the wind continued to whip hard against Winnie’s face. Daggers of pain shot through her cheeks and forehead.

This is the end, isn’t it? Look at all that white, as far as you can see. This might be the last thing you ever see. Don’t you wish you had stayed behind with Tony and Annie?

“I need to feed my cats,” she whispered, though she couldn’t be sure if she said it out loud or simply to herself.

Your cats are dead. It’s been four weeks. Unless they figured out how to use a can opener, all four of them are lined up at the window, frozen on the back of your easy chair, waiting for their mother to come home. You should have stayed behind. They could have saved you, Winnie.

Winnie couldn’t feel anything below her waist.

A phantom numbness exponentially spread through her limbs, buried beneath the snow. With every labored step she took, she sank deeper and deeper, until her entire lower half was compacted in the snow, as if she’d been dropped from an airplane. It was almost an icy quick sand. She didn’t stand a chance of digging herself out, not unless the sun stayed out for several hours.

And just like that, the sun disappeared. A snowflake landed on Winnie’s nose and she clenched her eyes shut, praying for the sun to return. “My blessed Jesus Christ, I’ve always loved you and you’ve always loved me. Please turn on the sun again, make it shine. Make this all melt so I can get home and be warm with my kitties. Please protect them until I can make it there. Oh, Jesus, I beg of you.”

The sky turned dark and the vicious little voice inside of her head started to laugh at this desperation in faith.

Fool.

Now it was time to panic. “Tony! Annie! Help me!” She called out into the gray sky, trying to crane her neck back towards the south where her co-workers might hear her and come to her rescue.

Scream, piggy, scream. Don’t you wish you hadn’t shoved all those double cheeseburgers in your mouth? Don’t you wish you’d eaten a damn salad just once in your life? Now you’re sinking deeper into this God forsaken snow, one inch at a time, drowning in your bad decisions. Dive, piggy, dive! See if you can find the bottom. Maybe there’re some chicken wings down there. You’re sinking like a rock, but you always have been, haven’t you?

“Help me,” she repeated, this time in a scratchy, strangulated voice that she barely recognized as her own. Her energy was dwindling with every pained, frozen breath. She looked down at her chest, realizing that she could no longer feel her pendulous breasts. They’d probably frozen. Maybe they had shattered altogether. Her only real physical asset, and she was certain that her nipples had fallen off from frostbite.

Inhaling deep into her chest, Winnie stared out at the blinding white, grappling for a bit of serenity. She couldn’t move her legs or her hips. If somebody didn’t come along soon (whoever the hell that might be), then this was where her body might remain for all eternity, unless Jesus himself came and dug her up. But Jesus probably had a lot of other dead people to exhume first.

When and if the snow melted, it would expose her corpse to the survivors of this madness.

Stop it. It’s not going to end. Tony’s an idiot, but he was right. This is the beginning of the end—the next Ice Age. It has begun, this apocalypse. Aren’t you sad you’re going to miss all the fireworks? Didn’t you always secretly dream about this day? All those lonely nights, and those never-ending weekends where nobody would know if you were dead or alive, except your mangy kittens? You craved this day, and here it is. Sitting in a big pile of snow, looking like a dolt to God above, and wishing you had a cheeseburger more than a helicopter to pull you out of this quicksand.

Winnie always assumed, even from a young age that her obesity would claim her by the age of forty. The idea that she’d made it all the way to fifty-five years old was a miracle in and of itself. The years had been unreasonably cruel to her, but not as cruel as she’d been to herself. Her mother warned her of the path she was taking, and here it was in full fruition. Death by sinking.

A drift of white blasted across the surface of her snowy grave, catching her on the chin, stinging like a bee. She could feel her bottom lip starting to crystallize and snap. The snow wasn’t even the worst part. The bitter cold was deadly. Before she’d left, stealing away in the middle of the night like a teenage runaway, the thermometer outside her office window had registered at twenty-six degrees below zero. Not exactly an uncommon temperature for New England, but not in March.

It’s going to stop soon, she coached herself, fighting back against the nastier half of her unraveling brain. And when it stops, they’ll come find me. And this will end. And I’ll get warm. And they’ll bring me home. We’ll eat soup and watch old black and white movies while we recover.

The other half giggled.

Soup? You thick-headed piggy. You’ll be dead in an hour. Deader than disco, bitch.

Winnie clenched her eyelids shut; exhaling, though it pained her to do so. She approached a false serenity, hoping it would release her from this hell. She tried to open her eyes again, to stare at that pristine snow and ponder God, the universe, and everything in between.

But now she couldn’t open her eyes. They’d frozen shut. She tried to lift her arms, to pry them open, but found that they too were unresponsive.

“Peepers, Jingles, Bobo, Margie,” she mumbled her cats’ names off one by one, starting to drift into some childish fantasy of walking through her grandfather’s garden, where the zucchini was always a foot long and the basil was aromatic, drifting through the late spring breeze. These warm images darted through her head, just like when she went to sleep at night. Her grandfather spoke in soft whispers. He always knew the right things to say, to make her feel not so scared, to make her feel not so unworthy of kindness.

Her physical being struggled for a moment longer, trying to pry her eyelids open by sheer will power. When she gave up that struggle, she felt much better, from frozen toe to frozen eyes.

Night night, piggy. Night night.

Her grandfather still smelled like crushed mint leaves when he gave her the warmest hug she’d felt in a long time.

* * *

“Daddah?” Paulie asked, looking up at his father with glassy eyes, looking like he might burst into tears at any moment. “When’s Mama coming home?” he asked.

Christian forced a smile. “Mommy will be home soon, I promise. She’s still stuck at work.”

Still stuck at work. Now isn’t that amusing, thought Christian. The word “convenient” also drifted through his thoughts, but he tamped it down, wishing he could crush that nasty word into a fine powder and flush it down the toilet.

She stayed late on the night that the storm started, claiming car problems. By midnight, she declared herself trapped until the morning came. By the next afternoon, the tone in her voice had shifted, and Christian could detect it immediately. A worm had turned inside of her, and it had nothing to do with the weather.

And on the second day, it got worse, and on the third, even worse still. Inch by inch, her excuses piled up like crystal snowflakes, burying the woman he once loved. He could picture her, nuzzling with Tony in the mailroom, or sitting on the Big Boss Man’s desk, hand delivering each other naughty memos.

It was all in Christian’s head, of course. She wouldn’t dare do that to their family, no matter how much they bickered about how they defined their family now. She wouldn’t ever harm her son, even if harming her husband came very easily to her when the opportunity arose. They’d “stay together for the kids,” no matter what happened between them. It was an unspoken mandate, something that could not be broken, not even by Tony, with his smooth jaw and six-figure salary.

The heating vents ticked their warming sound, something Christian had grown incredibly attuned to since the storm began. That tick-tick-tick continued to keep Paulie and him alive for one more day. There was two more weeks’ worth of oil by Christian’s estimate, judging by the position of the little red indicator on the tank. They’d just received a delivery of heating fuel right before the storm. The oil was delivered on Annie’s day off from work, when she’d taken Paulie to his yearly checkup. They usually topped off the tank, so it was actually a bit odd that there wasn’t more in the tank. They weren’t penny-pinching these days, so it never hurt to have a full tank of heating oil.

“Daddah, I’s cold,” said Paulie, rubbing his tiny hands together.

For a four year old, he was a tough cookie. This was the first time the kid had complained about the plummeting temperatures. The typically curious boy couldn’t see out any of the windows, blocked by piles of compacted white, and he hadn’t seen his mother in several weeks… but he just kept on keeping on, tough as nails. Christian remembered a flashback from his childhood, of being denied an icy pop by the ice cream truck man, because he’d been short a nickel. He could remember, in his vivid mind’s eye, rolling around on the sidewalk, thumping his fist against the cement, begging for the icy pop, as the tinkling bells of the truck drifted deep into his neighborhood.

Paulie was cut from an altogether different cloth. If anybody could survive the storm of the century, it was he. “We’ll warm up and bundle together in a little bit, right after lunch. I’ve got some nice black beans for you.”

His son made a face, expressing his concern with eating black beans for the tenth lunch in a row, but it was the only staple that they had an overabundance of. Still, Paulie didn’t complain. He wanted to, but he understood the shit show that his father was dealing with. Paulie was perceptive, and that instinct would serve him well in adulthood.

Christian promised himself that the first thing he’d do when the snow let up, was to buy Paulie a Happy Meal. And they’d probably never eat black beans again. They’d eaten so many that they would probably never even go down the aisle in the grocery store that had black beans again, not unless they really needed something.

Leaning over close to his father, Paulie kicked his legs off the edge of the couch, staring down at his feet. “My toes,” he said.

“They’re feeling sorta funny?”

Paulie nodded.

“Like numb?”

Paulie looked up at his father, unsure of what the word numb meant.

“Let me turn the heat up a notch,” Christian said, walking across the living room, adjusting the thermostat a single degree, from fifty five to fifty six. He kept the thermostat at seventy usually, but once they entered the second week of limited electricity, he turned it way down. He could hear the vents kicking into high gear, blowing that lovely warm air into their home. As long as the tank stayed full, and as long as the electricity stayed on, they’d be just fine. “That oughta do it.”

The vents kicked louder now, sputtered, and died. Silence filled the house.

“Dammit,” said Christian, looking over at Paulie. He hoped he hadn’t heard the cuss.

Now that Christian thought hard about it, he didn’t remember seeing any new bills from the oil company. They typically received a bill within a week or so, although that was around the time that the storm first started. The mail deliveries were admittedly becoming more and more sporadic, but thanks to Skipper (their faithful mailman for more than three years), it was still coming. No way could he have missed it.

He told Paulie to hold tight while he went downstairs and checked on the tank.

Upon arrival, he found that the red indicator was still in the same position, hovering around the half tank ticker. Unscrewing the plastic covering, he leaned in closer to look at the bobber. He twisted it with his fingers and then it bobbed up and down again. A bit of rusty dust came off the neck of the bobber when he did this.

It settled at the bottom of the gauge. The bastard thing had been rusted in position.

Annie hadn’t called in the delivery. Annie had screwed them.

“Remember when you went to the doctor a few weeks back?” he asked his son once he was back upstairs. Paulie nodded, smiling. For some reason, the kid loved going to the doctor. The only child Christian had ever known like that. “And do you remember if the big oil truck came that day? The silver and red one with the big hose that they hook up to the house?”

“No, Daddah.”

“You sure?”

“I love the big trucks!” his son replied, not quite perceiving what he was asking of him. It was true, the boy reveled in cars, trucks, diggers, and bulldozers. If there had been an oil delivery, he would have surely recollected it. He caught a glinting smile from Paulie. The kid’s brain was all caught up in trucks now. Christian couldn’t help but smile back at the boy, but behind that smile, he couldn’t help but think about how royally fucked they were.

Chapter Three

“Dan’s on the fritz. He’s wigging out, just admit it.”

“There isn’t a damn thing wrong with Dan. He’s just as accurate as ever. This has nothing to do with Dan. Just give me some time to figure it out, see what’s ailing him.”

“Protective, are we? Like it’s your kid or something.”

“This station pays good money for Doppler Dan. He saw the Hurricane of Oh-Seven way before Channel 8. Channel 6 didn’t even pick up on the storm patterns even when we were in the middle of it. Doppler Dan is the best in the business. You hear that, Tammy? The best.”

“Jack… please listen to me. Don’t worry if Dan is a little off his game today. He hasn’t been upgraded in four years, for Christ’s sake.”

“We can’t afford the upgrade. It’ll double the monthly lease. We can barely keep our jobs lately, let alone, cutting edge shit like Doppler Dan.”

“Isn’t that the station’s problem? Not yours. You should have just upgraded it when we had the chance. Doppler Dan can’t see two inches in front of his face.”

“Stop that. Stop that talk right now.”

“Have you ever tried to make love to Doppler Dan? Have you ever pleasured yourself while sitting in front of Dan? Jack, you’re a naughty boy, aren’t you?”

“I think you’re having a laugh at my expense and I don’t appreciate it… Dammit, Dan, you hear me? Give me the scoop on this storm. All this fuzz, all over the screen. It doesn’t make sense. It’s like the signals are being scrambled. Everything is on the fritz, not just Dan. I tried to call Channel 6—the rotten bastards—and I could barely hear them on the other end. The phone lines aren’t too far away from shutting down. The ice is snapping the lines, I heard it out the window.”

“I’m scared, Jack.”

“Same here.”

“You think we’re going to lose power?”

“I can almost guarantee it. I’d say it’s going to shut off any time now. The patterns of moisture are like a law of nature—the ocean evaporates into the clouds or something like that, and then the clouds move around and then they get over land and drop the moisture as precipitation. There’s only so much of that stuff. Eventually, it has to stop, right?”

“You’re an awful weather man, you know that? Listen to yourself. You sound like a middle-schooler describing weather patterns. You’d be screwed without Doppler Dan, wouldn’t you?”

“Bet your ass I would. I don’t pretend to be something I’m not.”

“Jack, sweetie, I think you’ve made a career of just that.”

“Come on, Danny Boy. Show papa what’s happenin’ out there.”

Doppler Dan chirped, its fans whirring in delight, though its display gave nothing but garbled green and black geometric shapes, intermingling like an Impressionist painting. Tammy couldn’t remember it ever looking so damned confused, so worn, and purely blitzed. Had one of the maintenance men or cleanup crews been fucking around with Doppler Dan? Was it possible that somebody was sabotaging Jack, messing with his career?

“I’ll look like an idiot if I don’t have Dan fully functional again. I’m not sure I—,” said Jack, pausing and moaning, staring down at Tammy, “what are you doing?”

“What do you think I’m doing?”

Jack let out a long exhalation, then said, “Can we go into the other room? I don’t feel right, having you do that to me… in here.”

Tammy rolled her eyes.

“I know what this is really about. Are you afraid Dan might see?”

Tammy went back to work. It wasn’t so bad, being Jack Helford’s assistant. The pay was okay, the perks were rudimentary, and it was easy work. Sure, he didn’t possess an iota of knowledge about the world of meteorology, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t a damn fine weatherman. All the ladies out there thought of Jack when they hugged their pillows at night.

Tammy thought very little about The Rules. It was obvious that The Rules were going to mean less and less in the coming days. The population was getting stupid, so she planned to go right along on that ride. The Rules were bending—breaking, really—and she wasn’t the only one engaging in behavior that she normally wouldn’t have.

Like Doppler Dan, she felt a frizzy tick in the back of her processing unit, something that she couldn’t put her finger on. It wasn’t just a weather event that they were experiencing. She was certain. The snow was just a catalyst to something bigger. Tammy couldn’t recollect the last time she’d been in a church, or had even cast a second thought in the purported God’s direction, but she could sense something bigger at work. Not necessarily bad, but different from anything she’d experienced before.

Jack was married. That was a Rule. Jack was her boss. That was another Rule.

“Fuck the rules,” she said, as Jack tucked himself back into his pants and led her away from Doppler Dan’s prying eyes.

* * *

“It’s all about distribution of weight. Winnie didn’t understand that, and that’s why I bet she’s dead by now. Usually, the snow gets compacted by cars and footsteps. The only thing compacting the snow is the sheer mass of itself, as it gets deeper and deeper. The upper four or five feet worth will be loose enough to sink into if we’re not careful about it. We’ll sink into it like a stone if we don’t distribute our weight evenly. Simple physics.”

Tony’s plan seemed ridiculous, especially as he amassed the materials to construct what he referred to as a “bitchin’ snow raft.” She’d chuckled at the idea, more out of a nervous sensation that they should stay put and wait a little longer to see if help would come. Tony was hard at work formulating the plan all week, searching through the supply rooms for items to build his “bitchin’ snow raft.”

Annie stared at the contraption he’d created. She tried not to laugh, for it might very well be the thing that stood between her and death, if he was on point about its integrity. Tony, during one of his quiet stretches where he wandered off into the lower levels of the building, had put together a pair of skis and the hull of a wheelbarrow. He managed to remove the undercarriage and wheel from the bottom of the wheelbarrow, bolting wooden blocks into place beneath. Then he’d secured the device deeper still, into a pair of red, white, and blue skis. It looked as if he’d removed the bindings from the skis, to create a flat surface to append his raft-slash-sled to. A long piece of plywood was screwed into the skis as well, to help support the weight of the wheelbarrow’s hull, as well as their collected body weights.

“I found some industrial strength bolts in the supply room. Just about ripped my palm open cranking them in by hand though. After I drilled the holes into the skis, the power drill was pretty drained. All the backup batteries were already dead, too. Next time we see Harry, remind me to flick him in the nose for not keeping those charged,” said Tony. Harry was the maintenance man for the building, who was more often found snoozing with a newspaper spread across his lap than repairing the perpetually leaky toilets.

She studied the cart. The bright yellow wheelbarrow wasn’t metal, so it wouldn’t hold in the cold as much, something she’d be grateful for. Instead, it was some sort of lightweight plastic polymer. She still didn’t understand how they were going to transport themselves eight miles in this hodgepodge carriage, but she assumed Tony was one step ahead of her.

Smirking at the sight of the thing, she asked, “Where the hell did you get a pair of skis?”

“Eddie from accounting. He keeps them in his office, tucked in the corner. I think he does cross country skiing during lunch or something. I’ve never seen him actually do it, so maybe he only intends to. Lucky for us, right?”

Speaking of lunch, thought Annie. Her stomach grumbled at her. If her stomach had lips, it would have been pouting since Saturday. They wholly raided the vending machine during the first week, and then they started scrambling through people’s desks, pulling out anything edible. Most people kept at least a candy bar in their work areas. Winnie had an entire case of peanut-butter filled pretzels in her office. She reluctantly shared them with Annie and Tony, but they ran out the day before. The bizarre thought that Winnie had given up on life because she ran out of snacks suddenly torqued inside of Annie. She wasn’t sure if she was about to laugh or cry.

Tony kept talking, as if he couldn’t keep a lid on his mouth. This whole experience was actually thrilling to him. Annie was starting to wonder if he was worrying about his wife and children at all. In fact, she couldn’t recall him making a single cell phone call home. He said, “I watched this thing on Siberian fur traders a couple months ago. Do you know they live out in the woods, in fifty below weather for about four months straight? They trek through the woods in snow as deep as their waistline. Skis help to distribute the weight for anything that hasn’t been packed down by something like a snowmobile. If we get on my raft here, it’ll distribute the weight enough to keep us on the surface. We’ll sink if we stay still, but I don’t plan on stopping for anything at all.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not a Siberian fur trapper,” observed Annie. It was true; she was the furthest thing from tough, and she loathed the bitter cold. She often regretted choosing to live in New England because of that. But there wasn’t really a choice in the matter at this point. Her livelihood was on the line.

“We’ll be fine. The first stretch I’ve got planned for us is only a couple of miles. If we can make it to The Purple Cat without incident, then we’ll be all good. They’ll have all kinds of supplies there and a big old fireplace. We can wait it out through the rest of this storm.”

The Purple Cat was an atrocious idea, especially for the sake of her teetering marriage, and it wasn’t the first time Tony had surfaced it. She pictured that roaring hearth in the bar, with Tony spreading out a thick blanket, raiding the wine cellar. It was not something that Annie wanted even to think about. The bastard was always on the hunt, only thinking with his engorged phallus.

She didn’t want to go to The Purple Cat, not to rest or get warm or to raid their food supplies, although a warm meal might calm her nerves. Annie just wanted to be home, with her baby boy, warm and cuddling him close to her. The idea of hanging around an abandoned restaurant didn’t settle right with her, especially assuming other people hadn’t gotten the same simple idea, that being, “go where the food is.” Tony wasn’t the only one to think that way. A typical restaurant had enough food to feed an army. It was quite possible that they would encounter an actual army.

That aside, she couldn’t help but air her skepticism about the mode of transportation. “Are we going to test this thing out first? What if it doesn’t work?” She asked, squirming for a way to get out of leaving behind a relatively safe environment. In reality, she was terrified of what was left of the world, of what lurked beyond the iced over windows. Her eyes couldn’t bear to look at the ice-laden mess that her planet had become since last she was outdoors.

An air of confidence overtook Tony’s facial features, almost to the threshold of cockiness. It reminded her of her father for a moment, and the comparison nearly made her squirm. “I guarantee this will work. It warmed up a bit this morning, not enough to melt it, but enough to harden the surface just a tad,” Tony said. “That might be our saving grace. If we’re going to leave, it should be today.” He tapped his hand on his jury-rigged snow sled. “It’s sort of like a pontoon boat. You’ll sit in the carriage like a pretty princess (Annie resisted the urge to make a gagging noise), and I’ll stand on the back, right behind you, and shove us around with the ski poles. I’ll be right behind you.”

Putting my crotch in your face. He hadn’t said those words, but Annie imagined the tableau: the heroic stagecoach driver with the gargantuan bulge in his knickers, pushing the pair through treacherous, ungodly conditions, saving her life and brain-washing her with his proud codpiece staring her in the eye the whole damn way. She promised herself only to look ahead of them, to keep her eyes on the road. That is, if she decided to go with him at all.

“I don’t see it happening. How are we better off than Winnie was when she went traipsing out into hell?”

“Because you’ve got Tony on your side.” Annie loathed when people referred to themselves in the third person. “I won’t let anything bad happen to you. And hell, if the sled thing doesn’t work, I’ll put you up on my shoulders and march you all the way to The Purple Cat. And I’ll even cook you a nice dinner when we get there. I make a kick-ass chicken parmesan. Or eggplant parmesan, if they have any eggplant on hand.”

There it was again. He did not intend to bring her home. Of course he didn’t. That was where he would lose her forever, once she was near Christian’s sphere of influence again, trying to make everything better the way Christian always did. If this was indeed the end of the world (as many of the pundits were preaching before the cable lines went out), then this was Tony’s last opportunity to secure Annie as his end-of-the-world plaything. Annie wished that she was just being paranoid, like a petite teenage girl walking alone in an unlit parking lot, but she knew that there was something seedy about Tony’s intentions. There always had been; it was all spoken through his sharking eyes, caressing every inch of her body whenever he felt the urge, standing over the top of her cubicle (look how tall I am!), smiling and asking her how her weekend was (I went bungee jumping!), slurping on a cup of cold coffee out of his kitschy “Hang In There” mug (I can slurp on your desperate little kitty, too!).

Tony cleared his throat, seemingly frazzled by her silence. Something inside of her loved to watch him squirm a bit, to make him suffer for his unwelcome approaches. “Listen to me, Annie.” Yes, she thought as she raised her eyebrows, she was listening. “I’m one hundred percent confident of this. I’ve skied in much worse conditions than this. I got stuck in a blizzard on Sugarloaf one year. I almost died out there, but I kept my head on straight.” His face contorted, as if he was trying to convince himself that it was all true.

Of course, it was a blatant lie, and wasn’t he always one hundred percent confident in their dealings? Annie could recall dozens of occasions where he’d profess a similar cocksure declaration, where he convinced the higher-ups to pursue something fruitless and wasteful. He had an audience with some of the key players in the business, and they trusted him in all the wrong ways. He pissed away several major accounts by his boldly naïve initiatives, and he paid no repercussions for his botching measures. Men rarely paid for mistakes in the business world, or so Annie had noticed pretty early on, whereas, women would be thrown under the bus for even minor transgressions.

The overhead lights flickered on and off. The electricity was still hanging on, but just by a thread. It would give out any day now. When the electric went, they were better off hitting the road. Annie realized that and stared down at the cart. Her options were slowly evaporating.

He reached across the oddball sled, touching Annie’s cheek with his index finger. Though he had a leather glove on, she could still feel his warmth through the material. In fact, his entire body seemed to emanate consistent warmth, and for a moment, Annie wanted to nestle inside of that warmth, but the image of Paulie and Christian kept dancing on the back of her consciousness. How did Tony manage to stay so contently warm? She concluded that he kept himself warm with his unsteady optimism; mind over matter, Tony was just that kind of prick.

“Trust me, babe.”

She pulled away from his hand, securing the zipper on her parka. “Don’t call me that.”

“You didn’t mind a few nights ago, did you?”

It hadn’t happened. She was sure of it.

It was only in her imagination, that moment of weakness and terror. How had he reached into her mind like that? Was he some sort of goddamned psychic? It hadn’t happened. It hadn’t happened. Not in this world. Not ever. She whispered, barely audible to the asshole across from her, pinching her eyes shut as not to look at him directly, “It was a lapse in my usually good judgment. Rest assured, it won’t happen again, whether we get out of this mess or not. Please forget it ever happened. I beg of you.” She regretted using the word “beg.” Tony was the kind of guy who took cues from misused verbiage.

He flipped one of the ski poles over in his hands, studying it as he spoke. “Hell of a way to treat somebody that’s trying to save your life, isn’t it?”

“Enough of this. Let’s get home to our families and forget any of this ever happened.”

Tony was jammed up in an unhappy marriage. So he said.

He claimed that it had been that way since the day they exchanged vows. He once admitted to Annie that he only married Amber, seven years his junior, because she got knocked up, as he so eloquently phrased it. He’d have never married her otherwise.

So he said.

They’d only gone on three or four dates before his happy accident (now in the form of a seven-year-old named Todd and a six-year-old named Amanda) had changed his life forever.

So he said.

He spoke of Amber as if she had a terminal disease, as though she was clutching the sheets on her deathbed. When he mentioned her name, deadness filled his eyes and mouth. Annie couldn’t relate to the feeling, not with Christian. Her husband was a genuinely good man, and she was quite undeserving of his ways. She’d made that one mistake only a few nights ago, but it felt like it happened another lifetime ago. And now she felt like things would never be the same with Christian, not without a lot of work on both their parts.

Behind seeing Paulie and hugging him to death, that was what drove her mounting desire to get back home most of all. To look into his eyes, to tell him what she’d done, to declare her horrible nature for him to judge, and to beg that they would make things work again, if they had ever worked in the first place. He might not forgive her, but that was a chance she was willing to take. All the snow and ice in the world couldn’t keep her from returning to her baby, and from pulling out her heart and handing it over to Christian. It would be his decision when all was said and done, but she trusted he would be compassionate with her. She didn’t deserve it, but she would take it if she could get it.

Annie’s stomach felt like it was full of cold spaghetti whenever she thought of his face, and the way Christian’s features would melt into nothing when he found out what she’d done with Tony. Even though it was a single lapse in judgment, it was enough to break his damn heart. It might be easier, she realized, just to be a viper towards him once she saw him again, to drive him away by any means necessary. Much easier than telling the truth and exposing her weakness. But she couldn’t do that to Paulie; he loved his father too much. She’d never live with herself if she ruined the kid’s life. Truth be told, she also loved Christian too damn much. Eventually, it would break all of their hearts, one by one.

Tony brought her out of a woozy daze as he slammed his hand against the side of his contraption. “Let’s not just go back to the way things were. I know you’re thinking that, but you can’t. I love you, Annie. Can’t you see that?”

The way he smiled at her when he said that—the L word, dripping with sticky rot—made her skin prickle. The guy was slime, and that was something she’d known from the moment they met each other in the lunchroom room three years previous. He was classically handsome and an up-and-coming ladder climber on their staff, but he didn’t have half the heart that Christian did. If Christian was a lion, then Tony was a slug.

“You don’t love anything.”

“Of course I do,” he replied, looking a little hurt. His hurt, like his proclamation of true love, was ninety percent feigned. There was a nugget of truth in every lie he told himself and others, just enough to be convincing. He loved himself, but little else. The way he stared at himself in the mirror said all that needed saying about Tony.

“Just get me home to my son.”

* * *

Paulie and Christian found normalcy where they could. The electric was flickering on and off now, so they were happy with popping a DVD into the player when they had an hour or two of electricity. It was staying dark for longer and longer. Christian was sure that it would give out for good—or at least until the storm ceased—any day now. He was getting pretty sick of watching the damn puppet movie that Paulie was so infatuated with.

And when the electric returned, Christian would blast all four burners on the stovetop and get the stove’s temperature blasting up to five hundred degrees, both for warming a meal, even if they weren’t hungry for one, and to give them a place to sit, huddled around the stove, Paulie sitting comfortably on Christian’s lap. They would tell stories to each other, basking in the fleeting heat. Almost all of Paulie’s stories began and ended with a monster that was either very happy or not happy at all. They didn’t have the most intricate plots, but the boy worked at it.

Christian’s stories always had the same formula: a little boy gets lost in some place scary, and then he meets something or somebody magical (a fairy, a troll, a unicorn, a wizard), and the boy eventually finds his way home to his Mommy and Daddy. Christian had a very explainable urge to leave the Mommy out of the story, to have the little boy return only to his father. It was petty, but he couldn’t help but feel that she had purposefully stranded herself with Tony, no matter what her real story was.

Life was about as normal as it was going to be in their home, given the circumstances.

Normal, except for the layers of frost, building up on the walls like plaque. The house had descended into a deep freeze since the oil tank gave its last spurt, but the well-insulated house was retaining its inner warmth. In the last few hours, the icy death grip of the outdoors was reaching into the walls. The thermometer in the porch window was reading negative forty-five degrees.

A thickening frost had developed on the downstairs bedroom’s walls. That was where Paulie’s bedroom was, but they weren’t using that room anymore. Instead, Paulie slept in Christian’s bed with him, conserving warmth beneath a bevy of blankets and afghans, so Christian had cordoned off Paulie’s room. They slept in the upstairs bedroom, in his and Annie’s bed, where they had once conceived the child. Logic told Christian that heat rises, so the upstairs would be most ideal. That same rule didn’t really apply when there was no heat to be found, but he figured it was as warm a bed as they were going to find.

One thing he’d noticed, was that the basement wasn’t nearly as cold as the first floor. When he’d been retrieving canned goods earlier in the day, he was surprised by the relative warmth of the basement, being below ground level. In all likelihood, he’d move his mattress and all their blankets down to the basement if the temperature didn’t let up soon.

Christian rubbed his hands together, looking over a drawing that Paulie had finished off earlier in the day. It was a picture of their house, with crooked walls and an obtuse roof. Inside, he drew Christian and Paulie. They were both smiling, though it was hard to decipher with the childish interpretation. Underneath it, he wrote his name, but he gave it double A’s accidentally: PAAULIE.

“My silly Picasso,” he said to himself, weakly. His vision had been starry all morning, since their earlier meal (which he refused to call “breakfast”, for fear of ruining his favorite word forever). He was starting to ration their food supplies more carefully, being quite mindful of an uncertain future, so he’d held back on his own consumption for the kid’s sake. No one could say how long it would be until the snow melted enough at least to let him get out of the house, even if it was to hunt down the neighbor’s dog and kill it.

The neighbor’s dog had become sort of an internal joke that he kept repeating to himself, but it seemed more and more plausible every time he thought it. The neighbor’s dog was named Bucky, and he was one of many options. If the neighbors didn’t chow down on Bucky first, of course. Sometimes, Christian would think about Bucky, picturing him running around the yard, fetching a bone. And in the next thought, he would picture Bucky on a wooden spit, charring over a fire. His daydreams about eating Bucky were getting more fanatical with his growing hunger. It wasn’t that they were starving. He had plenty of canned goods, enough to last them a very long time. They never kept much meat in the house, so they had burned through some bacon and frozen hamburgers during the first few days.

Christian tried to laugh at his own silliness, but found he didn’t have it in him. Soon enough, he and Paulie would go back to bed again, to cuddle under the covers and conserve their body heat until dinnertime, if they bothered with dinner at all. They would eat lunch first, though. He’d mash up some canned carrots and corn. Paulie didn’t like canned carrots (raw were fine, as long as he had some onion dip), but he was starting to understand that he didn’t really have a choice in the matter anymore.

Paulie got it, even without Christian explaining it at all.

The kid understood the dire situation they were in, though he couldn’t formulate it into his own words, not as an adult could. He could see the heavy look in Christian’s eyes when his father fretted over their situation. The child knew little of pain and suffering in his limited life span, but he detected, at least on a subconscious level that it existed, and that it was closer to their doorstep than his father would have liked, and it would return again and again if things didn’t shape up soon.

He could hear Paulie, talking to himself and clattering plastic bits together in frolic. The sound overjoyed Christian. At least we’re still acting human.

Upstairs in the bedroom, Paulie was playing with his train set. Christian noticed that when his son played, he was staying closer and closer to the warm bed, knowing that it was a good place to be and a good place to survive. Yesterday afternoon, Christian had even found him in the bed, playing with pieces of his train beneath the covers, even though the kid couldn’t see what he was doing. Some survival mechanism in Paulie’s head was telling him that he needed to conserve his body heat, so venturing about the house the way he once did was avoided.

“Hey, Paulie?” Christian called out. His voice sounded terrible, as if he’d been swallowing nails and tacks. Sort of like Tom Waits, but without the smoky-room vibes.

“Yeah, Daddah?” his son replied, his feet clomping towards the top of the stairs. Christian couldn’t see him, but he could hear that he was getting closer. “Lunch time?” Paulie asked, already knowing the new routine that they had fallen into since his mother’s absence.

“You got it, kiddo.”

Christian stood up, feeling the cold ache in the small of his back. He’d pulled a muscle trying to shovel the driveway on day two of the storm. He almost laughed thinking about that now, how fruitless that activity ended up being in the long run. Nobody could have kept up with the total accumulation, even with a snow blower running twenty-four hours a day. It came down too fast, and it was still coming down faster still, inches and inches with every hour, around the clock, unrelenting.

He popped open a can of carrots and poured some apple juice into a cup. He kept the bottles of juice wrapped in thick blankets, so that they would not freeze. They had a huge supply in the basement, but even that was starting to dwindle. He’d have to start melting and sterilizing snow, soon enough.

Nothing from Paulie. No excited footsteps. Although, how often did one get excited over canned carrots and corn? Very rarely, especially in the four year old demographic.

“You coming?” he called up the stairs again, once he had their lunches ready. He walked to the bottom of the stairs, looking up at his boy.

Paulie looked as if he’d seen something he wasn’t supposed to see—troubled by something that he couldn’t quite put into words, not with his limited vocabulary. Christian sensed some strange hesitance in his son, something he had never displayed before. Suddenly, his stomach soured. What the hell had the kid seen?

“What is it, Paulie? Are you okay?”

“Guy look sick.”

“What guy?”

“Guy outside. He look sick, so, so sick,” Paulie said. He was always worried whenever Mommy or Daddy caught a cold, perpetually asking them if they were sick or not. He still equated sickness with death. Sick animals died, and so did sick people, the boy presumed.

Christian could hardly perceive the floating, tingling feeling in his stomach as he ran up the stairs, as if in a dream, into the bedroom. He stared at his second floor window, where a man with jet-black hair had crammed his face against the icy window. He couldn’t make out his identity and didn’t recognize the man at all.

He looked as if he’d been dead awhile.

Why hadn’t they heard him? Had he banged on the window? Had he cried out for somebody to let him in? Perhaps he hadn’t the strength to do that, perishing only inches away from salvation. Christian rewound his memory through the day, wondering if he’d heard a strange noise that he’d given no credence to. Nothing came to mind. They would have heard something for sure, especially with no electricity creating noise through the house. The only sounds that filled their house were he and Paulie’s voices.

“Daddah?” Paulie asked vaguely, grabbing tight to his father’s hand. They stood in silence for several minutes, staring at the rigid shape of the dead man against the window, obscured by the frost both inside and outside the window pane. Christian had no idea what to say, and even less what to do.

Christian felt his whole body surge as the man’s left eye opened with a pop, vacant and lifeless and peering into their home from the white abyss.

Chapter Four

They settled on embarking from the third floor window, like two burglars escaping after a big heist. Two days earlier, when Tony first spoke of leaving, they would have left from the second floor window, but that option was no longer viable. A raging easterly wind had pushed all the snow up against the building, creating a snowy slide that dipped deep down into the parking lot where the cars were wholly covered. It tapered off after the lot, and that was where Tony would put his muscle into propelling them, if they didn’t sink to their deaths immediately. Annie wasn’t sure which way it would go, even still.

Tony insisted upon starting off with a bang, propelling himself and Annie (not to mention their homemade sled-slash-raft) off the edge of the wide steel sill of the pried open window. Instantaneously, they gathered momentum, though he gave an extra push as they transferred into the chowdery white abyss.

Annie gasped as they hit the outside air, not from the shock of their descent from the snowy incline, but from the icy chill of forty below zero temperatures, as indicated in their final temperature reading before their exit. The wind had let up some earlier in the morning, but it returned gust by gust, minute by minute.

Throughout the morning, while they fed themselves the remaining bits of food they could uncover in coworkers’ desks, Annie tried to talk Tony out of leaving. She thought they could wait one more day, but he wasn’t having it, not with the heat and food supplies fully cashed out. There was an underlying excitement in his actions—in his every gesture and sweeping declaration of their game plan—that came from this deadly challenge. Annie wasn’t sure if it was the element of protection he was providing her, or if it was the perilous nature of their oncoming journey. She suspected it might be a little bit of both.

Annie clutched the edges of the wheelbarrow’s plasticized hull, trying to look straight ahead. As they slid down the hill, she prayed that the contraption would stay together. She kept picturing Charlie Brown inside of her mind’s eye; putting together a go-cart and having it break down into rubble on its maiden voyage. It was unfair to Tony, but it made her feel better privately to deprecate him in that way. When all was said and done, he turned out to be handier than he looked. As the incline leveled off and their transportation remained intact, Annie felt a new comfort settle into her gut. Maybe Tony had some value after all, slimy intentions aside.

She cursed the unrelenting cold that crept through the scarf she’d wrapped around her face and neck. Only her eyes were exposed to the cold, and even that was enough to terrify the hell out of her, feeling a glassiness pervading her sensitive eyeballs. Tony warned her to keep her eyes pinched together as much as possible, to avoid any damage. He’d brought along a pair of goggles from Eddie’s office, but he needed those so that he could see where to steer their ship. Annie had the luxury of closing her eyes, though part of her wondered if she’d ever open them again if something awful happened to them. It was better that way, she decided. If you can’t see death coming, then there’s no time to worry about it… it just takes you when it’s damn well ready.

As their momentum diminished to null, she turned to look back at the steep grade of the snow drift that had plastered itself up against their building. Now Tony was chugging along, putting all of his upper body strength into the ski poles, bending his knees to reduce any resistance from the wind. Almost right away, he was working his ass off, and for that, Annie appreciated him, no matter what their history looked like—both personally and intimately.

They couldn’t have been moving more than one quarter a mile an hour, but they weren’t sinking in and drowning in the icy tomb either. She tried not to think of Winnie. Annie clenched her eyes shut again. Better that way. Much better.

Tony shouted something as they lunged, inch by inch, through the snowy deep of the parking lot. She couldn’t make out his voice, for all the blasting wind that was attacking their front side, but she caught the word “cars” somewhere in that distant mumble. She presumed that he was observing the fact that all the cars were buried right beneath them, completely useless to them.

Annie pictured her vehicle, buried far below her.

She still had an iced coffee sitting in the cup holder, and the irony of that seemed to tickle her for a moment. Closing her eyes tightly, she could envision all the trash on the floor of her little hatchback—fast food wrappers, unread mail, a magazine or two, stained coffee mugs, and cough drop wrappers. This winter had brought her the nastiest chest cold she could ever remember experiencing, and she still hadn’t cleaned up the remnants of that delirious spell. In fact, her breath still tasted like cough medicine, even after more than four weeks’ abstaining from the bloody rotten stuff.

She hated the car, and so she showed it as little respect as possible. In fact, the damn car had caused all these issues for her. Not the storm. Not Tony. Not Christian. Not herself. She’d be home with Christian and Paulie if it wasn’t for the car completely screwing her over.

Annie couldn’t help but relive that first day, wishing she had picked out a different path. That wouldn’t help her, obviously, but she could still replay it, if only to learn something for next time. Assuming that is, if there was a next time.

* * *

It started snowing on a Monday morning, right after Annie arrived for the day. It was a typical Monday morning, wintry and bleak. But this was northern New England, so snow was just a part of everyday life during the winter. On that particular morning, she went about her usual routine; running weekly numbers for the sales staff, checking in on some of the larger clients with her charming demeanor, and brewing coffee in the kitchenette. She did a little of everything on Monday mornings. By Wednesday afternoon, she usually attained more clearly defined tasks that would spring up during the first half of the week. Every week started with a whimper and ended with a bang.

By noon, Annie noticed that most of the staff had slithered out for an early lunch. Many of them didn’t bother returning, as a couple additional inches accumulated in the next hour. If their supervisors were okay with them sneaking out on a regular work day, regardless of the weather, she wasn’t going to stop them. It wasn’t her place, anyway. Someday, it would be, but not on that day.

Annie had bigger fish to fry, so she’d wait right up until the last minute to escape the storm. She’d secured a meeting with the Chief Financial Officer for four o’clock. He was a difficult man to pin down, and when you did achieve that success, one had to make the best of it. Annie had been working on a side project with her cube-neighbor, Freddie Hanson, since early July. The project had all but fallen apart after some early hurdles in their data collection (mostly due to some technical issues at one of the associate firms on the west coast), but Annie adeptly figured out a way to right the ship and keep the project in motion.

Garrett, the CFO since the Reagan administration, was willing to hear her out, to observe her findings and act if necessary. Annie was secretly certain that this would be the notch she needed, to propel herself to a new position. If she could show old Garrett Johnson the very “creative” and perfectly legal accounting she’d contrived, it might just be her ticket to ride. It was all based on a legal loophole that the tricky brains at the IRS had failed to close. It was clearly stated and well documented, completely on the up-and-up, and if it was as solid as she believed it to be, it could save the company a hundred thousand dollars in the first year alone, with even larger windfalls in later years.

Two o’clock came, and she stared out the window, chatting briefly with Tony about how she needed to get some better snow tires over the weekend. They observed the grim parking lot, growing anxious with every flake that descended. There were only a handful of cars remaining. One of them belonged to Garrett, so her meeting wasn’t canceled just yet. She emailed him, asking for an earlier audience due the inclement weather, but he hadn’t responded.

Three o’clock came and Annie was pretty sure she wasn’t going to make it home without a lift from somebody. Tony offered to stay behind in case she needed him, but she was averse to that scenario, as she was aware of the way he looked at her when she passed by. He was most certainly an “ass man,” tried and true. Something in that was flattering.

Winnie was still in the office. Her station wagon parked right next to Annie’s car. Good old Winnie was always good for a favor. That is, if Winnie’s car was any better at traversing the snow. She’d been bragging about her new snow tires recently, something that Annie took note of. Always take note of any and all options, her father used to say.

As she approached Garrett’s office, ready to fire financial theories on all cylinders, she saw a scrawled note pinned to the door: All meetings cancelled for today. Head home and drive safe! –Garrett.

The bastard. His goddamned car was still in the parking lot!

How could the weasel pull such unprofessional bullshit on her?

Didn’t he check his fucking schedule? Didn’t he have any couth about him?

Annie was on fire, fully ready to eviscerate anybody that came near her. She could feel her face flushing with an unpleasant warmth, as if she’d been drinking too much wine, but was absent of that type of euphoric feeling. When Tony approached her, he asked if everything was all right, and she laid it all out with such rapid fire that she couldn’t keep up with her own words: “That cocksucker left me hanging here all day, thinking we had a meeting. This is what happens to me. This is what happens to women in this company. I go above and beyond to protect us (listen to me saying us, like they care about my ass) from a serious monetary loss and this is how he repays me? I swear the men in this company treat us like doormats.” She scowled at Tony, but he wasn’t shaken by her comment as she expected him to be, probably because he was just like the rest of them.

She bit at her lip, staring at Tony’s mug, and then dug in deeper, “He can’t give me the courtesy of a cancellation? Even my four-year-old son would know it’s not nice to cancel on somebody without telling them in person. Jesus Christ… I emailed him twice today. You know he saw that damn email, right? I bet you he read it and didn’t feel like he needed to reply. You know why? Because I don’t matter, that’s why. I’m a peon. I’m a cog. I’m a fucking puppet. This is what I get for being a loyal servant to this place, to this goddamned boy’s club. I get stuck in a snow storm, that’s what I get.”

“Come on now, it’s not so bad here is it? At least we’re warm. Sleep it off before you go storming into his office tomorrow morning. You don’t want to piss Garrett off. Bad idea for your career.” Tony hadn’t seemed too interested in fueling her well-justified anger. Instead, he changed the subject as she glowered at him, as though he was the reason for all her problems, even though she very well knew he wasn’t. “Do you want me to walk you to your car?” Tony asked.

“Yeah, thanks,” she said, grateful that he was at least attempting to be a gentleman amongst pigs. She was careful to walk behind him, instead of in front of him. She loathed the thought of his eyeballs on her backside. Why, she wondered, were all men pigs? What was it in their brains that made them strive for the bottom of the barrel?

So they had trudged through the first layers of snow, Annie fretting the whole way that it was unsafe to drive. Tony agreed with her in an almost unconvincing manner. She wondered why he hadn’t escaped yet, and he offered up an explanation that his car was currently in the shop. Tony intended to call a cab once the snow let up a bit.

“I’d be glad to drop you off at your house,” Annie offered (hoping he would not accept, for several reasons) as they brushed the thickening layer of snow off her windshield. She only had one brush, so Tony used his forearm to brush away the opposite side. Maybe he wasn’t such a pig after all. But still, she couldn’t forget the way his eyes regularly surveyed the crack of her ass.

“No way. My house is out of the way for you. You get home safe and I’ll be just fine. The taxis will be running again once the storm eases up. I’m fine.” Annie didn’t argue with him, though she was sure he wanted her to. When somebody denied help, Annie had always found that usually they were just being polite.

Once they had the bulk of the snow off, Annie opened up the driver’s side door, slipped into the seat, and turned the key. Nothing. She felt an immediate rage welling inside of her, seeping out of her through steamy breath. Of course, her car was dead. She was ready to blame everything on Garrett again, the bastard bean counter without any respect for his peers. The discourteous cunt. It was all his fault, every last bit of it.

She looked up at the interior light, which she now realized she had left on. When she first arrived in the morning, it was dark outside. She was looking for a bit of peppermint gum in her purse, which she found. The traitorous nub of gum had lasted about a half an hour in terms of flavor, but the light had stayed on all damn day. If she had stolen away in the afternoon, like the rest of her presumably warm co-workers, she’d be home. After a ten-hour day, there was little hope for even a twinge of battery power.

Tony leaned in towards Annie, which was way too close for her comfort. She could see the plumes of her breath, encircling her head as he spoke. “I can stay with you. We’ll call a tow truck and see if we can get you a jump.”

“They’ll have bigger things to take care of in weather like this,” Annie replied.

“Well, then I guess we’ll just have to camp out overnight, you and I. We can have a pajama party,” stated Tony. She could feel him leering at her. There was that piggish demeanor again, that rapist wit.

* * *

Annie snapped out of her deep daze, bringing her mind back to the here and now, feeling the nastiness of the wind ripping into her from what seemed like all directions. She couldn’t feel her face, even with several layers of fabric covering her. It was starting to feel more and more like The Purple Cat would be a good stopping point after all.

She turned a bit, looking back towards the building they came from. It was much smaller now, barely visible through the churning tornadoes of snow that covered the distance. Tony made significant progress while she was daydreaming.

A hopefulness sprung up in her at the thought that they hadn’t sunk. Yet. They hadn’t died. Yet.

Annie started to think about Paulie again, about how nice it would be to cuddle him close, both for the physical warmth and affection he could provide her. The image felt like an ungraspable dream. It seemed like—

She nearly choked on the air escaping her throat.

A dirty blonde tangle of hair, unwrapped from its ponytail, poked up through the fluffy, swirling snow. The wind caught up the stiffened locks, whirling them wildly. The long strands reached towards the sky like thin fingers, separating and rejoining, finally lying flat on the surface, then whipping again. It reminded Annie of those inflatable characters that used car lots always put out front, filling with air when a gust of wind caught it, then sputtering and deflating when the air released.

“Oh, my God,” Annie said, clutching her eyes shut again. Maybe this was the real reason he warned her to close her eyes.

She knew that Tony could see the hair as well, as he eased off on the ski poles for a moment, then started in again, this time with a more forceful stroke, presumably to distance them from the sight.

He shoved them by at only a three or four-foot distance from Winnie’s only uncovered body part.

She heard a muffled sound from above and behind her. She turned to look up at Tony, up his stomach and at his bemused mouth. This time, the wind seceded enough so she could decipher exactly what he was saying about Winnie: “What a fucking twit. I guess there’s something to be said for survival of the fittest.”

Annie suddenly felt a degree or two colder.

Part II- STRANGERS IN THE COLD

Chapter One

Paulie wasn’t sure what to think of the unconscious man on their couch. All through the morning, Paulie kept circling him, looking at the man’s serene face, where he scrutinized every pore. The stranger had lurched back to life enough to open his eyes, to peer into their house, but he hadn’t shown a sign of life since. Christian wondered if that was what they called the “death lurch,” like when the villain pops back to life at the end of a horror movie, just to deliver the audience one more scare before the credits roll.

Soon after they dragged him through the window, Christian commanded Paulie to go into the living room and play with his toys. The last thing he needed was for his son to see a dead man.

Thankfully, the stranger had a pulse, but just barely. Christian hadn’t taken a proper pulse in a decade or more, but he still had the general gist of it. Beyond the pulse, there was a slow, laborious breathing that slipped free of the man’s chest. He was alive, but he might not last much longer. The chill of the man’s bones could be felt all the way through his layers of iced over garments. Christian went right to work pulling off the outer layer, worried that he might thaw out a bit and then catch pneumonia from the dampness. He almost laughed at this idea—pneumonia was the least of this poor bastard’s problems.

The man’s shoulder appeared to be bleeding. A red, crystallized patch on his undershirt indicated something had stabbed him. He cleaned up the wound the best he could, his hands shivering the whole time as he examined it. Christian put a thick gauze pad over the wound. It looked awful, but it certainly wasn’t fatal, as long as it didn’t get infected. Once he had the wound temporarily addressed, he bundled the man in a heavy sweatshirt from his closet, as well as a pair of gray sweatpants.

After he found some more auxiliary blankets in the closet, he wrapped the man up tight. He looked like an Arctic mummy. There was little more Christian could do than thaw the fellow out, which was a difficult enough task in a heatless house. The morning had warmed up just a bit, to about ten degrees outside, but that was considered a warm spell these days.

He had dragged the man down the stairs, one step at a time, hoping not to bump his head hard enough to give a concussion on top of his other ailments. With a bit of muscle that Christian didn’t even realize he possessed, he leveraged the man up on to the longer of their two couches.

Christian now observed the shallow breathing, tightened up the blanket, and took a step back, studying their unexpected houseguest. The man had thinning black hair, swirling about the top of his head like a raging tornado, frozen in place by the deep freeze. He wasn’t wearing a hat or gloves, which seemed odd enough considering all the layers of clothing he had. How did one go about bundling up so much, but forgetting to find a hat or gloves? There was something off about that, but Christian displaced it from his mind.

His nose looked like it had been broken once or twice in his life. Maybe a former boxer or an angry drunk. It was a bit crooked, but rugged, with a bit of that ruddy Irish tone. Christian would have put his age somewhere around his mid-fifties. The man was certainly quite a bit older than he, but not a senior citizen by any means. There were streaks of gray in his dark swirls of hair, but not enough to warrant an AARP card.

And the boots. The man was wearing brown leather cowboy boots, emblazoned with a bucking bronco and a western sunset on the sides. Even with all the icy frost that covered them, Christian could smell the pungent aroma of the boots; they were well oiled and taken care of, probably a point of pride with this man. They looked authentic enough that Christian was surprised they didn’t have spurs on them.

The couch rustled as the man turned over a bit, seemingly of his own free will. Not dead yet, are you? Thought Christian.

“He cold,” said Paulie.

Christian nodded. “He is. But it’s warmer in here than out there, right?”

Paulie looked up to his father. The boy was shivering, clutching his arms close to his body. He nodded in response, though the child’s telling eyes completely disagreed with the sentiment.

“Like S.A.?” asked Paulie, a twang of distress creeping into his voice.

S.A. stood for Spirited Apparition, and he was a chinchilla that Annie had acquired in her college years. The strange little buggers tended to live upwards of twenty years. Part squirrel, part rabbit, part guinea pig. Christian didn’t know what to think of the animal when they had first started dating, especially when Annie would dump a mineral dust inside of S.A.’s cage; the critter would spin in circles, coating his soft fur in it. One of the oddest things Christian could ever remember seeing, even odder than air-conditioned doghouses.

In October, S.A. had died after fifteen years of life. Christian came home to find that Annie had moved the cage out into the garage, so that Paulie wouldn’t see it. She wasn’t sure what to tell their son, being that it was the first time she ever had to tell her child that something he loved was D-E-A-D. So she let Christian ease into it with the old he-was-sick, he’s-in-a-better-place, he’s-gone-but-he-loved-you routine. Confused by the conversation, Paulie had sprinted for the basement steps, where they kept S.A. in his perpetually rattling cage. Finding that the cage was gone, he turned to look at his mother, and then his father, and then back at his mother. “He died, honey,” Annie had said.

Paulie had lost it.

Christian could still remember the feeling of seeing his boy in pain for the first time, of knowing that none of this world is permanent. That truth is a terrible one, no matter what the age. It was as if somebody had ripped Christian’s heart out and fed it to him.

And after the initial shock that he would never see his furry pet again, Paulie started asking questions like, “S.A. at grandma’s house?” or “S.A. in space?” The responses became more and more difficult to formulate. Christian wanted to give his son an ounce of hope, but also a sense of reality.

Before bed that evening, Christian had explained that even though S.A. was gone, he’d always be able to think about him, that Paulie’s furry comrade would always be in his heart.

At this, Paulie furrowed his brow, looking down at himself. “S.A.’s in my chest?”

“No,” said Christian. He couldn’t help but laugh at this recollection in this strange moment, even with the half-dead, half frozen guy sprawled out on his couch.

The man stirred again, coughing a raspy mist into the air. He sounded like his lungs were crystallizing, which in all likelihood, they were. “Gonna die, Daddah? Like S.A.?” Paulie asked, tears welling up in his eyes. Christian was just grateful that it wasn’t cold enough to freeze those tears.

“Not if I can help it,” said Christian, knowing that if the weather didn’t break soon, Paulie would be witnessing a lot more dead bodies before he eventually lost his own life. Christian’s stomach wrenched at the thought, throwing out a silent prayer that this insanity would end soon. “Let’s leave him be,” he said, patting his son on the shoulder.

He wondered where Annie was, and if she was making any progress like she’d hoped. She could be dead by now, he thought, picturing himself dragging her body in through the upstairs window as his next trick. Stretching her out on the carpet while he begged her corpse to awaken, all while Paulie screamed bloody hell in the background, watching his father pump on her chest in an attempt at resuscitation, cursing this cock-sucking Ice Age and all the hell that it brought to their doorstep.

Christian shook his head from side to side. The arctic air was getting to him, making him think frenetic thoughts, ones that didn’t belong inside his head.

Chapter Two

The man sat up straight, gasping for air as if he hadn’t taken a breath in years. His lungs fought for air inside of his chest. Christian thought he might wheeze his way to the pearly gates right then and there, judging by the sound of those painful gulps. “Daddy,” Paulie said, gasping at the sight of the man coming back to life, resurrecting himself on their hideous brown couch.

The man turned his head, carefully studying the room around him, and looked at Christian. The fellow’s eyeballs were huge inside of his head, bigger than cantaloupes. “Howdy,” said Christian, kicking himself for sounding so awkward. Howdy? Who the hell says howdy to somebody who just came back from the dead on their living room furniture? The guy was going to think Christian was a moron.

With a slow nod, the icy traveler placed both booted feet on the floor, now sitting in the upright position. He looked back and forth between Paulie and Christian, exhaling a long plume of more normal sounding breath. The stranger on their couch wiped away some icy snot from beneath his nostrils, shaking his head from side to side, as if to shake the death away from his body, which had been clinging to the tendrils of his soul only moments earlier. Christian wasn’t a church-going type, though people always assumed that, because of his given name, but he swore that this was the closest thing to the whole Jesus-slash-Lazarus story he’d ever witnessed. He initially gave the guy’s odds at two or three days at the most, and here he was—living and breathing and readying himself to stand up.

Introductions were in order.

“I’m Christian. This is my son Paulie. We found you outside the window. I think you were just about on death’s door. Not sure if you remember anything at all.”

The man nodded, almost testing his neck muscles as he did so, unsure if they still operated as they once did. A vacant look filled his eyes. For all this man on their couch knew, he was certifiably dead. Maybe he thought this was heaven. Maybe he thought it was hell. If Christian had to label it one or the other, he would have picked hell.

“Are you hungry?” Christian asked.

The man shook his head while he rubbed his lips with the back of his hand. They were so chapped that they bled a bit when he did this. Christian was pretty sure that a hefty tug would have pulled them right off his face, if given enough oomph.

“You probably need to use the bathroom.”

“He did pee-pee in his pants,” Paulie (a blush creeping into his cheeks) commentated to his father. That observation was true, but Christian didn’t want to embarrass the frozen fellow. During his seven hours of unconsciousness (or death? Hadn’t the poor schmuck died?), their visitor had urinated in his pants. It wasn’t much more than a small dark spot on his crotch, but it was enough to be noticed. He wouldn’t bring it up to the man, even if his son didn’t have an appropriate filter not to.

Christian kept his distance from the blank-faced wanderer, pointing towards the kitchen. “Bathroom is through there. I put some fresh clothes in there for you, too. You’re a bit bigger than me… hell, a whole lot bigger than me… but I think they ought to fit you. They’re from my college years, when I drank way too much beer.” Christian chuckled to himself, hoping that the man on his couch would respond with some free-hearted banter of his own, but he said nothing. Expressed nothing. Their wordless guest was just a blank shell of a man, with nothing to say.

Standing up from the couch, the man teetered back and forth for a moment. Christian lunged forward at first, hoping he could catch him if he fell, but the man steadied himself on his own. “Easy there, fella,” Christian said, speaking to his houseguest like one would a horse.

The silent stranger put up his hands, gesturing to keep a distance. He closed his eyes, breathing slowly. It almost sounded like he was counting beneath his breath. “One, two, three…,” but then the man fell quiet again, taking his first step towards Christian, then changing direction towards the kitchen, as Christian indicated a moment earlier.

“We’ll stoke a fire in a few so we can get you warmed up. We’ve been conserving the firewood, but we can make an exception for a weary traveler,” Christian said, trying very much to sound folksy. In reality, he ended up sounding more like a desperate asshole. It had been several weeks since he had any adult contact, save for the window-to-window conversations between the neighbor, Marianne, who lived next door. It would be nice to sit down with another adult, to talk about this ridiculous shit-storm that the planet was thrown into.

The man nodded, walking through the kitchen. His legs wobbled as he walked.

When the bathroom door closed, Christian said to his son, “Go down in the basement and get one of those logs in the red and white packages. We’ll get a fire going for our guest.”

Paulie’s eyes lit up. They’d been rationing logs to an extreme. Christian hadn’t broken out any of the logs yet, still unsure of how long the storm would last. It’ll last forever; he kept thinking, whenever he considered how goddamned cold he was. It might just last forever.

While the boy was downstairs fetching the log, Christian opened up a can of minestrone soup, dumping it into a steel pot. Once they had the fire going, he could heat the soup up over the flames, just to take the cold edge off it, at the very least. It was cold enough that any heated food went icy cold on its own in less than a few minutes. Warm was the new hot.

The bathroom door opened and the stranger walked out, offering his hand to Christian.

“Thank you, sir. Name’s Edgar. You saved my life.”

“Well, I didn’t really…,” he started to reply, shaking Edgar’s frigid hand gladly.

“No. Listen here, friend. You saved my life. I owe you one. How can I help out?”

His eyes dug right through Christian, as if they were laser beams with a trajectory for his brain. An unbridled intensity radiated from Edgar, as if he was about to plop down on the floor and do one hundred pushups. He was a bit of a portly man, but not entirely out of shape. He had strong hands, as Christian discovered in Edgar’s overly masculine handshake, but there was also a quiet softness to him. There was something welcoming about that mixture.

“Maybe you can help Paulie get a fire going?” Christian pointed towards the cabinet directly across from the kitchen table. “Middle drawer, there’s a grill lighter. It’s one of those fake logs, so all you have to do is torch the bag and it’ll catch.”

Edgar gave a furtive nod, staring longingly at the soup can that Christian threw in the garbage bin. “You gonna tell me your name?” he asked, and Christian felt his stomach plummet. The tone that Edgar asked it in was particular nasty; battery acid dripping from his tongue. When the silence became uncomfortable, Edgar started to laugh heartily, in a way that only a man who came back from the dead on a shit-brown couch could laugh in the moments following resurrection. He clapped his hands on Christian’s shoulder. “Christian, right?”

Once again, Christian’s stomach plummeted another couple of inches inside of him, if that was even possible. Paulie was coming up the stairs now, clutching the phony-baloney log to his chest, smirking at the heavy man standing in his kitchen. Edgar was clutching his bearish claw on Christian’s shoulder.

“Don’t worry, my friend. Your name’s on your bathroom towel,” noted Edgar, laughing even deeper, his raspy chest still chiming in to remind Christian of the man’s return from the dead.

That was when Christian relinquished the stick up his ass and joined in with the laughter. Soon, Paulie was laughing along with them both.

“Come on baby, light my fire,” Edgar said to Paulie, patting him on the head. “Little man, how about you show Big Edgar how to light a fire properly? I’m fixin’ to learn something new.”

Chapter Three

The meal was satisfying, mostly because of the ambience of the quietly popping fire. After they ate, licking their plates clean, Paulie cuddled close to Christian and dug his head into the crook of his father’s arm, a sure sign that the boy was about ready to snooze. Christian suggested that Paulie go up to bed, bundle up, and catch a little shut-eye. After some short-lived negotiation, he agreed to let Paulie bring some blankets downstairs, so he could sleep in front of the warmth of the fire, even though the fake logs barely put off any significant BTUs.

In subzero weather, any warmth was a blessing, especially to a four year old with erratic sleep patterns. If it helped him recharge a bit better, then so be it.

Within moments of placing his blond head on his racecar-themed pillow, Paulie was snoozing, basking in the glow of the fire. The boy’s snores were loud enough that Edgar and Christian shared another chuckle.

“I’ve got to ask,” said Christian.

“Yeah?”

“About that wound. I cleaned it up while you were out cold. It looks like you got stabbed. Does it hurt? Looks pretty fresh.”

“Yeah. Real fresh. A little ways down the road, I fell off that little overpass. You know the one… with the tall fence right near the highway. Off of Jordan Avenue.”

“I know it. How the hell did you manage that?”

“Was trying to get a squirrel. Thought it might keep my belly full if I could get it, so I started scaling that fence. Didn’t take much, with the snow being so high. When I got up near the top, I got a little tipsy. I fell and landed on the highway. Road marker that got bent by a truck or something. It had this sharp tip to it, went right through me.”

“Ouch,” said Christian, shaking his head. The man had been through hell and back. “How did you manage to… what’s the word for it… dis-impale yourself?”

“Reckon I had God on my side. I landed just the right way, so it missed my heart. I used my other arm to pull myself up the stake. Only about a foot or two, one of those little markers with them shiny reflectors on it. Lucky I didn’t get it through my eye or something.”

“Well, you’re safe now. Don’t you worry. Just let me know when you need new bandages. We’ve got quite an emergency supply. I used to be a bit of a conspiracy theorist, so I have all kinds of strange but useful stuff stockpiled. What’s mine is yours.”

Edgar smiled, apparently pleased at the sentiment. “You’re too kind, Christian. Too kind. I’m much obliged for the save—I could have died out there.”

“Please, stop thanking me. You’d have done the same,” Christian said. Why is it, he wondered, that people always felt obligated to say that? “And for the record, I’m pretty sure you were dead when I found you. I’m not sure how you pulled it off, but you came back from the dead as far as I’m concerned.”

Edgar snickered, rubbing his temples with his double-gloved hand. “Something to tell m’ grandkids someday, I reckon.” Christian wondered if Edgar would ever live long enough to become a granddad. The same went for him. Would Paulie survive long enough to procreate? Only time would tell. If the storm let up, anything was possible. If it didn’t, then nothing was possible.

“So where are you from?” asked Christian. “If you don’t mind me prying.”

“I don’t mind,” said Edgar, slurping on a mug of icy water. Christian could see a bit of food clinging to one of his teeth, but he didn’t want to offend his guest by pointing it out. “But here’s the thing about me that I’m always explaining: I don’t really have much of a story to tell. Nothing worth blabbin’ about. It would probably bore you to tears.”

Christian batted at the fire with the poker, turning to look back at the man. He studied him, but not for too long. There was something warm about his demeanor (sort of like the faux-logs), like he was what Christian’s hippie aunt might have called an old soul. Edgar seemed to possess a decent head on his shoulders and Christian was glad for rescuing him. It was nice to have a friend, even if he was just passing through on the way to some other destination.

“I’ll tell you my story first, if that makes you feel any better about telling yours. I can guarantee that yours is more riveting than mine,” Christian said, to which Edgar assented with a nod, and so Christian laid it out the best he could. “My wife and I have been together for about six years, married for about five of them. That’s her over there.” He pointed at the family portrait on the far wall, just at the edge of the kitchen nook, though it was hard to make out the details of their faces with the icy layer of frost creeping across the glass frame.

“I saw that earlier when I walked by. She’s a peach, I can just tell from the picture.”

“She is. Best thing that ever happened to me,” he said, adding, “for the most part.” He cleared his throat as Edgar adjusted his grin, seeming to understand the unspoken sentiment that lived in those words. “We had Paulie about four years ago. I’m out of work at the moment, what with all the layoffs. But Annie—that’s my wife—works at this reseller firm. I don’t know much about what they do… I don’t even think they know, but isn’t that American all the way?” Edgar nodded fervently. “But she makes good money at it. Enough to pay the bills and sock away something for a rainy day.”

An awkward silence filled the room at that moment. Edgar looked at him with a hint of judgment. Perhaps Edgar was of an old school mentality, perturbed by the concept of Christian staying home while his wife worked. A lot of men were like that, and Christian couldn’t help but feel embarrassed whenever the subject was broached.

Christian felt a sudden chill circulating through his body.

The temperature outside was dropping again, as Christian was becoming more and more attuned to the terrifying fluctuations. And when the later afternoon’s darkness came, as it always seemed to, so did the most unbearable conditions. He’d have to find Edgar somewhere warm to sleep, assuming he wanted to stay at through the night.

“What do you do for work?”

“You know… a little of this, a little of that.”

“Handyman? Jack of all trades?” Christian asked.

Edgar shook his head, clicking his cowboy boots together as he righted himself, stretching out his arms toward the ceiling, looking quite pained as he did so. Christian noticed that Edgar had been favoring his shoulder since he awoke, wincing every now and then when he readjusted his sitting position or got up to use the bathroom. His wound would take a long time to heal, if it ever fully healed at all.

“Not a handyman, although I’m pretty good with a hammer. I guess you could say I’m more of a wandering man than anything.”

“Really?”

“Really. I like the good old days, ya’ know? When a man could take what he wanted, without worrying about hurting anybody’s feelings. Living on the open road, without anybody holding him back. Riding the rails, sluggin’ some moonshine, trampin’ through hobo jungles, all that fun stuff,” Edgar said, proudly puffing his chest out, and Christian couldn’t help the feeling that this declaration was somewhat rehearsed. Not so much that Edgar was lying, but that he’d spoken this way about himself on many occasions. It was probably a pretty common question for somebody that deemed themselves a “wandering man.”

“Not too shabby,” said Christian, immediately appalled at his choice of words. Edgar was going to think that he was a fool. Not too shabby. He had never in his life used that phrase, and vowed never to use it again. Something about Edgar made him nervous, like the older kid on the block that everybody wanted to impress.

“I like it on the open road. Every day is a new chapter, ya’ know? Keeps the blood flowing I reckon. Keeps the brain fresh.”

“I reckon it does.”

Stop it, thought Christian as he parroted back a phrase Edgar had used several times, or you’re going to insult him! He could hear Annie saying this in the back of his head, as though she was right beside him. If she was here, he wondered, would she approve of Edgar? He wasn’t sure. It was a litmus test that he often used when pondering these types of situations, one that he suspected most married men referenced from time to time: What would my wife say if I did this, or said that?

“He’s a good boy,” Edgar said, gesturing with his mug of water towards the sleeping child. When he said this, a plume of frosty breath came from his mouth, lingering in the air for a long moment.

“He’s great, too. I couldn’t have asked for a better son. Wouldn’t trade him for anything. You have any kids yourself, Edgar?”

“Nope. But I’d like some, one of these days. My last lady friend called me a hopeless man-child, can you believe that?” He started to laugh, sipping on his water. “She said I was too interested in wandering to be dragged down. So I cut her head off and thumbed my way across the Midwest.”

Christian felt himself shudder inside, glancing quickly at Paulie, then at the warm poker still clutched in his hand. He turned towards Edgar to find a hearty grin painted across the man’s typically stoic face.

He was kidding with him again.

Edgar launched into a coughing fit of chuckles, complete with the half-hearted knee slap.

“You got me again, didn’t you?” asked Christian, not finding the violent wisecrack to be the least bit amusing, especially with his son in the room, whether he was sleeping or not. If Paulie heard that statement, it would have prompted a whole string of uncomfortable questions: Daddy, why would Edgar cut somebody’s head off? Do you think they can put it back on? What happens if my head falls off?

“Come on now, Chris,” Edgar said. Nobody ever called him Chris, not even Annie. Not even his mother. Something about that irked him a bit, but he didn’t say anything. “If you can’t enjoy a little joke every now and then, then the apocalypse wins.”

That word.

That word triggered something in Christian and he suddenly wanted Annie by his side. He reached down by the fireplace, touching his son’s hair. He looked back to Edgar, who was still roaring with unhinged laughter, and Christian asked, “Do you really think this is the apocalypse?”

Edgar got quiet, pondering this for a moment. His eyes moved around as if he was weighing out the options carefully. “No, sir. I don’t reckon it is. But on a serious note—it might take some lives before it’s done. This storm’s the nastiest I’ve ever seen. Nastiest anybody has ever seen, for that matter,” said Edgar, his facing stretching into a saddened grin. The man looked like he was about to cry. Christian felt a sudden regret that he had thought ill of the man only a moment earlier.

Edgar was just as frightened as he was. We all have different mechanisms in a time of fright, thought Christian, and Edgar’s was joking, laughing, and making merry. Nothing wrong with that.

“I don’t know,” Christian said, “something tells me things are going to get a lot worse before they get better. We’ve got plenty of food, and enough of these logs to last us a few months, but that doesn’t mean anything if we freeze to death. I’m starting to feel I might go crazy long before I freeze or starve.” He paused, staring into the undulating flame of the fireplace. “Know what I mean?”

“I do. I’ve been feeling a little off my rocker sometimes too, ever since this dang snow started. It gets to you, and that’s only human. It wears away at you. Like cabin fever, but way more intense.”

Another silence filled the room. Only the occasional faux-crackle of the faux-log could be heard, accompanied by Paulie’s gentle snooze and the whistling howl of the wind outside. Christian stared at the window on the east side of the house, wondering if his neighbor was doing okay. Every couple of days, he and Marianne would chat through the windows, checking in with each other as the snow intensified, though it was almost impossible to have the window open for even a minute or two, not without feeling like death was pulling at your coat tails. Four days earlier, they had switched over to the upstairs windows, because the downstairs ones were buried and they could no longer see each other. Earlier in the morning, and the afternoon before, he had thrown snowballs (gathered from the windowsill) at her window, to which she always responded. But she wasn’t responding anymore. If she didn’t show any sign by tomorrow, he’d propose to Edgar that they go investigate his neighbor.

“So, let me ask you a really important question,” said Edgar, leaning in closer, almost too close for comfort, just a few feet away from Christian. A grin sliced across the man’s face. “How is your booze supply lookin’?”

Christian smiled so hard that his cheeks hurt.

Edgar returned that smile with one of his own.

Time to feel like men again, thought Christian.

Chapter Four

“You ever hear about all those bodies on Mount Everest?” asked Edgar.

Paulie would be waking up any minute now. He’d been asleep for more than two hours. Christian couldn’t remember the last time that Paulie had slept more than that. Of course, they were fully burnt out by the day’s, hell, the week’s, activities.

Christian needed to sober up a bit, but so did Edgar, judging by the cock-eyed sway that he gave when he spoke. He still clutched the bottle, handing it off to Christian every few swigs. The man was letting loose, but it was a little too loose for comfort. “Maybe you should take a little nap. It would do you some good after all you’ve been through.”

Edgar looked right through Christian, as if he was transparent and speaking a foreign language. “I asked a question, my friend. You ever heard about all them bodies on Everest?”

“Sure,” Christian replied, giving in a bit more than he would have liked. In the spring, there was a feature on National Public Radio about the camps around the base of Mount Everest. Quite often, those of a privileged background would show up, buying up sherpas and equipment, but once they got a bit higher than Camp Two, they’d disintegrate into madness. Some would retreat, but once in a while, they would press on, convinced that they were omnipotent. One famous corpse went by the name of “Greenboots” and was considered a living landmark, not to mention a reminder of how nasty the mountain can be in the dead of winter. Funny, thought Christian, that the entire world felt like it had turned to Everest now. It used to be that thrill hunters would go scouting for such dangers, and now those dangers were kicking in Middle Class America’s back door, asking for a hug and a kiss.

“They got bodies everywhere. A lot of ’em are covered in snow, but some of them bastards are just right there, right out in the open. Can you imagine that?” asked Edgar. Christian detected a hint of change in Edgar’s voice, though that was pretty typical with somebody when they drank a full pint of bourbon. He didn’t think that his strange visitor had a drinking problem—not in the least—but a brush with death did that to a man, made him loosen his mind a bit as he sought to get a grip on reality. He resigned to giving Edgar his moment of shit-show, as long as he didn’t bother Paulie when he woke up.

“That’s crazy,” Christian said flatly.

Edgar’s eyes got big. “Bet your ass it is. You think things are gonna get like that out there?” he asked now, pointing towards the lightless, buried window.

“I don’t think so,” Christian said, not fully convinced by his own tone.

“I reckon it will, Chrissy boy!”

The stare that Edgar delivered next was unprecedented. In all his life, Christian could never remember feeling so damned uncomfortable, shifting back in his chair as though he might fall out of it at any moment.

Christian’s eyes remained fixed on the fire, and on Paulie. When the stare coming from Edgar became unbearable, that was when the snoring kicked into high gear and the bottle of booze dropped to the floor.

The Poor guy was hammered off his ass and ready to sleep a spell, and who could blame him?

Edgar’s snore was something of a roar, echoing through the living room.

Christian breathed deeply, relieved.

“Daddah?” Paulie asked. Christian looked down at him, smiling at the beautiful boy that was warming himself by the fire. “Eggah sleepin’?”

“Yeah, kid. He’s sleeping pretty good. What do you say we let him rest? He’s had a rough day.” With that, they scurried upstairs, curled up under the blankets with one of their flashlights, and read a book called “The Cranky Bear.” Paulie laughed at the story every time, especially when the aforementioned cranky bear woke up, angered to find that he’d been messed with.

* * *

Edgar yawned. He’d taken quite a nap, for almost three full hours.

Now that he’d removed his outer layers, Paulie could see a lot of blood seeping through his undershirt. “You huwt?” he asked Edgar.

“Don’t mind that. I spilled some jelly on me before I came to stay with you and your pop.”

“Stawbewwy?”

“Nope,” Edgar replied, “Raspberry. That sound good?” Paulie nodded. Yes, that sounded fantastic. He hadn’t eaten any peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in a long time, not since his Mama was still at home.

His stomach growled at the thought of a sandwich like his mother used to make, with the crust cut off and everything.

Paulie led him into the basement, keeping one step ahead of the man. He seemed like a tough sort of fellow, much more so than his Daddy. Paulie couldn’t remember ever meeting anybody like Edgar. He only knew friends of his parents and family members, but none of them was anything like Edgar. That wasn’t such a bad thing, so Paulie decided.

Edgar wore cool looking cowboy boots, so Paulie couldn’t help but ask a hundred questions about them. His father always said that it was rude to ask a lot of questions when you’re talking to adults, but Edgar seemed pretty excited about his boots. He said they were his special boots, and that he couldn’t ever think of being without them.

When they reached the bottom of the staircase, Paulie put up his hand to Edgar, indicating that he should stop where he was, just a couple of steps higher on the filthy old staircase. That way he could get a good look at the boots. There was a fancy design on the sides of them, with a horse and a guy riding that horse. It was hard to see it without squinting his eyes, but Paulie could make out the shape enough to know it was definitely a horse. He’d never been on a horse, but his father promised to take him riding one day. That day might never happen if it didn’t stop snowing.

“You takin’ a shine to my boots. That there’s a stallion, little man. In the old days, a stallion meant something important to the men of the world. It was a symbol. You know what a symbol is?” Edgar asked, looking down at the boy. When Edgar smiled, his teeth looked like they didn’t really line up right, like he had too many of them.

Paulie shook his head, still scrutinizing the design on Edgar’s boots, trying to imagine what kind of place would sell boots like that. They definitely couldn’t be found in the stores that Mama and Daddah went to. The clothes they sold at those places were boring. Edgar was probably the least boring person Paulie had ever encountered.

“A symbol is something that means something else. Like a stallion is a symbol for a tough guy, like me. There’s lots ‘a other symbols in the world. Like a rainbow means gay folks.” Paulie had no idea what gay-faulks were. “The cross,” he said, pulling a thin brown necklace from inside of his shirt. It had two wooden sticks that were crossed in the middle, “The cross stands for Jesus Christ, and how he died for us. There be symbols like these everywhere, kid. You just gotta look real fuckin’ close.”

Paulie knew that word.

Daddah used it once when he slammed the big hammer against his thumb, while he was fixing his mother’s wobbly dresser drawers. That wasn’t a good word, but it was okay because Edgar was a nice guy. His father said that sometimes adults used that word, even though it was bad, and it didn’t necessarily make them bad guys.

“Are you a scallion?” Paulie asked, knowing that he messed up the word. Edgar half grinned at this, once again showing his silly looking teeth. The big man in the big boots knew that Paulie had messed up the word as well.

“You bet I’m a stallion. Stallion is a kind of horse, but much tougher. A stallion can survive, no matter what the hell happens around him. A stallion stomps hard and runs harder. Shit, kid, a stallion is standin’ right in front of you. Hells bells.”

Those sounded like more words that his mother had warned him about. Paulie asked, “Daddah a scallion?”

Edgar exhaled through his nose, looking past Paulie. “Where did you say your pop kept those fancy rich-boy logs at, anyway? It’s getting mighty nippy in here. I already froze to death once out there.” He came down from the stairs, passed Paulie, and patted him on the head. Edgar smelled just like his boots. Or maybe the boots just smelled like him.

“In here,” Paulie said, leading Edgar across the messy basement. He’d been really bad about leaving his toys out since his mother was away. She was always on his back about putting everything in its proper place when the day was through (she would sing this song called “Clean Up, Clean Up, Everybody Do Your Share”), but his father didn’t follow that rule the same as she did. That was okay, because putting stuff away at the end of the day didn’t make a whole of sense, especially if Paulie was going to pull it all out again after breakfast the next day.

Paulie reached the door, turning the knob and looking back at Edgar. Edgar looked very happy when the door opened. He looked like he might start laughing at any second, and that would be okay because Paulie hadn’t laughed in a long time. Paulie loved to laugh.

“Wouldn’t ya’ look at that shit? He must have a couple hundred logs in here,” Edgar said, rubbing his hands together, sort of hopping from toe to toe like he was standing on hot coals.

“Daddah says be puhpart.”

“I think you mean prepared,” Edgar corrected him. He looked at Paulie like his eyeballs might pop right out of his head, like he was some kind of crazy cartoon character.

Paulie repeated after Edgar, focusing on the way he said the word, “Puh-parrred.”

“Your Daddy ain’t prepared for me,” Edgar said.

“Food too,” said Paulie.

Edgar looked down at him again, his eyes turning bigger than the moon. Now that Paulie thought about it more, it reminded him of the wolf in Little Red Riding Hood. That was the way the wolf looked when it was waiting for Riding Hood, sitting in her grandma’s bed dressed in a nightgown, licking his chops as he waited for his trick to pay off. Paulie never looked at that storybook because it scared him too much. That and the one with the little kids lost in the woods by themselves, the ones that are taken by a witch until they throw her in the fire. Paulie couldn’t help thinking about those mean stories lately.

“Yes, m’boy. Show me that food. If it’s half as impressive as that there stack of logs, I’ll be sticking around here awhile. I reckon you and I will get to know each other real good.”

Paulie liked the sound of that. Edgar was a really nice guy, and he talked real interesting too. Not to mention those fancy boots he wore.

Edgar, after all, was a scallion.

Chapter Five

Paulie looked out the window, longing for the wonderful springtime his father had promised him. He could remember what it was like… only a few months ago before the cold had invaded. There was an absence in his life, of being outside, taking in fresh air and enjoying the warmth of the sun. He would always wake up on sunny days, working in the garden with his father, digging for worms, and he would tell his mother, “It’s bee-ute-tee-ful outside, Mammah!” She would laugh when he said that. He missed his mother’s infectious laugh, even more than the way she tickled him and nuzzled him when the scary monsters crept around the world of his dreams.

The world seemed different in those days. The world was changing, no matter what his father would admit.

It’s just a little snow, kiddo. It’ll let up any day now. Once it starts to melt, you’ll forget all about this. Once your mom gets back, it’ll be like none of this ever happened. The world isn’t ending, no matter what those cuckoo birds said on the radio.

The man on the radio said something about the a-pok-a-lips. Paulie still couldn’t decipher what that actually meant, but it seemed pretty bad. The guy’s voice was all shaky and gravelly, like he was scared of some kind of ghoul that lived in the closet. He said that all the people were going crazy, fighting over heating oil and food and all the things that people needed to survive. The guy on the radio had scared the heck out of him, even more than the dream-monsters.

When his father found him listening to the radio, he snatched it away, unplugging it and hiding it away at the top of the bathroom closet. Paulie loved to listen to the radio, so he was pretty cross at the time, but now that their electricity was gone, it didn’t matter much anymore. They had plenty of batteries stashed in the basement, but his father said they needed to conserve those in case things got worse.

Paulie had asked what worse meant.

Don’t worry about it. I didn’t mean that. Things won’t get worse. I promise you.

His father never answered questions like Paulie hoped he would.

What’s worse? Paulie asked a second time.

Daddies were always full of promises, but Paulie supposed that went with the job. Not everybody had good fathers, and his mom had assured him that his father was better than most.

As he stared at the pretty crystals hanging from the roof, Paulie wondered where all the mailmen had gone. It was bad enough outside that even the mailmen were scared to go out now. Paulie imagined their mailman (a chuckling man with a long black mustache who called himself Skipper) walking around with their letters, chasing them down as they blew out of his hands from the wind. And when the letters were scattered on the ground, he’d have to go after them in snow that went all the way up to his tummy, not to mention that the letters were mostly white, so they would blend in with the snow. Like those silly lizards called kuh-mee-lee-ons. Poor Skipper, he might catch a cold hunting down all those letters. Paulie laughed out loud at this image. His imagination was pretty goofy at times.

Paulie gathered up some of his action figures and his bright red fire truck, and then walked to the stairs to visit Eggah and his father. He really wanted to get a better look at Edgar’s boots again. He wondered if his father would wear boots like that if he got his mother to buy him some for Christmas next year. It would be an amazing Christmas present, if his mother helped him find some. Or maybe, if he had enough money in his piggy bank, Eggah would sell them to Paulie. He seemed like a nice guy who might do something like that, but he was also pretty in love with those cool boots.

Placing his truck on the floor at the top of the stairs, Paulie turned back towards his bedroom, ready to pop open the little plastic piece on the bottom of his red, white, and blue piggy bank. There probably wasn’t enough money in there, not enough to buy the boots from Eggah. After all, they seemed to be Eggah’s favorite thing. They were worth far more than the change he had. He didn’t know much about money, but he knew things like boots required the green pieces of paper, not just the shiny ones.

Chapter Six

Paulie could barely keep his eyes open. The day seemed a distant memory to them both. Even though he’d napped by the fire earlier in the day, his energy was dwindling. The chilled air was getting the best of Christian’s son.

“You like Eggah, Daddah?”

“Edgar. Yeah, he seems all right,” Christian answered his son, thinking back on the oddities of the day. Only thirteen hours earlier, the stranger had showed up at their window. And in record time, the man settled in as a regular in their household. Something in that fact disturbed Christian. Some people were just comfortable no matter the situation. Given that Edgar was a self-purported rambling man, perhaps that was his unique way of living.

“He’s a scallium,” said Paulie, but Christian couldn’t understand the word. “He said so.”

“Stalin?”

“No,” Paulie replied, his eyes drooping as he shook his head from side to side. “Scallion.”

Christian nodded, pulling up the blankets close to Paulie’s chin. “A stallam,” he said as if it was a common enough phrase, admitting defeat in deciphering the word. Annie was great at translating for Paulie’s sometimes jumbled up four-year-old speech.

Annie kept drifting in and out of his thoughts, especially as he watched Paulie slipping into the tranquility of sleep. Once upon a time, Annie would have been by his side, assisting in the transition to bedtime. Not now, and not recently. They separated in their parenting duties more and more, opting to be two separate entities raising a child on shifts. He wondered if Paulie ever suspected that they were the same person (two wardrobes, two masks) playing two roles in the theater that was their life.

What would Annie think if she returned before Edgar was on his way again? Sure, he was a wanderer, but that didn’t mean he didn’t grow roots every now and then. In fact, Christian was more than happy to have another adult by his side, even if it wasn’t his wife. Edgar could bring value to their survival. He would be a drain on their resources, but he could also procure further resources, if things got really desperate. They’d guzzled down a half pint of bourbon during Paulie’s naptime, reminiscing on their very different lives—Christian as a domesticated house cat, Edgar as a free spirited drifter without a place to lay his head. They’d had a damn good time, even with Edgar’s peculiar sense of humor and distractingly bizarre comments (“You ever smell yourself smile?” or “Sometimes I feel like Jesus is living in my mouth.”)

Annie would flip her lid if Edgar was staying in their home.

All the more reason to invite Edgar to stay on as a long-term guest. Maybe it would piss Annie off enough to make her think twice about abandoning her family for pretty-boy coworkers in the future. She would continue to deny that it was on purpose, but Christian was never one to underestimate the power of the unconsciously self-destructive being. Annie had too good of a life to be faithful, to stick by the people that loved her. Instead, she was probably out there, dead in the snow and ice, perhaps sexually satisfied as she greets the afterlife.

“I miss Mammah,” said Paulie, looking up to his father with eyes that reminded Christian of Annie’s—pulsing and deep, drilling deep into his being. “She okay?”

“Your mother’s fine, I’m sure. She’s with her friend Tony. He promised to take care of her and get her back to use safely.”

“Eggah friends with Mammah too?” the boy asked next, prying his eyes open with his tiny fingers, in an attempt to regain focus as sleepiness overwhelmed him.

“I don’t think they know each other. Edgar came here because he was sick. Because he needed somebody to help him.”

“We hep?”

“Yep, we certainly did. We saved his life, Paulie. It was a good thing we did,” said Christian, rubbing Paulie’s cheek as the boy let out a nearly infinite yawn. Paulie smiled at this statement. He clutched his tan teddy bear close to his chest. “You’re a brave boy, you know that?”

Paulie nodded.

“And when your mom gets home, I’m going to tell her how brave you are. She’ll be so proud. Just like your dad,” Christian whispered, leaning across the bed, putting out the candle with the tips of his fingers (something that Paulie usually enjoyed, for its daring nature, though he was too tired to respond at this moment). Now Christian could only see the outline of his boy’s face, beneath the moonlight that snuck in through the skylight of his and Annie’s bedroom.

A quiet snooze escaped from Paulie as he settled into sleep and drifted away.

“Love you, kid.”

Christian sat on the edge of the bed far longer than he expected he would, something tugging at him to stay a little longer, something he could not explain. He didn’t plan on climbing in just yet, but there was something soothing about listening to Paulie’s steady, rhythmic breathing. The boy was a survivor, and he would continue to be one for as long as he lived. There was no doubt in Christian’s mind that Paulie would survive this ordeal.

Why, then, did it feel less certain for Christian himself? And for Annie? Was that why he really wanted Edgar to stick around, so that he could take over if Christian didn’t make it?

It was silly. Of course, Christian would make it, if for no other reason than to assist his son in survival. There was no other option.

Christian stood up from the bed, still staring at his son’s moonlit outline, squirming in the icy air, but cuddled beneath the heavy covers. He stared at his son even as he backed out the door, quietly navigating the maw of darkness, feeling as if he might slip away forever if he ever took his eyes off the sweetest face he’d ever known.

* * *

Christian sat up by the fire for an hour or so, wondering where Edgar went while he was putting Paulie down for the night. For a moment, he thought the man had slipped out of the house, off on his way again to his next unknown destination. It was to be expected, sooner or later.

With a reflexive jolt in his knees, Christian stood up suddenly, feeling as if eyes were watching him from the darkness of the kitchen. “Edgar?” he asked, and almost on cue, the stranger stepped from the maw of blackness, holding a second bottle of bourbon in his hand. They’d finished the first one during their afternoon pow-wow. Christian almost chuckled at the sight, adding, “I see you found my stash.” He hadn’t drank this much since college, but he couldn’t glean whether that was a good thing or a bad thing. It felt good to let loose and that was enough for him, for now. Edgar’s affinity to the bottle concerned him, especially with Paulie in the house, but hell… this was the apocalypse after all.

And there was that word again.

“You don’t mind, do you?” Edgar replied, pulling back his lips to reveal shiny white teeth that seemed to glow in the faux-fire’s light. His ruddy, chubby face danced in a way that told Christian he’d already taken a few slugs from the bottom-shelf bourbon.

“Not at all. I’ll join you, in fact. No need to twist my arm,” said Christian. For the second time in the same day, they drank together, speaking in murmurs while Paulie slept, enjoying the creep and snap of the fire, each reflecting on the state of the world as much as they reflected on the oaky (yet sort of putrid) taste of their drinks.

“He’s a good boy,” said Edgar, somewhere deep into the second glass of liquor.

“You bet he is. I’d die for him.”

“As you should,” replied Edgar. Christian heard the statement, but it took a moment to absorb the odd wording of it. Such was the way of Edgar-speak.

Chapter Seven

The wind ceased for an hour or two after they first embarked. They were quite thankful for that reprieve, albeit temporary. Then the bastard wind returned, more bitter cold than before, almost as if it was saving itself up for a really nasty bout. The afternoon was wearing on with a monotonous swooshing sound of ski poles and humming gales.

They still hadn’t arrived at The Purple Cat, and Annie didn’t expect to any time soon. Two miles was just short of a marathon in such heinous conditions, made worse by having a lump of a woman sitting on her butt, doing a whole lot of nothing. Annie wished she could do more to help, but at the same time, she didn’t think she’d be much help anyway.

At one point, they paused to discuss their route and sanity-check each other. The last thing they needed to do was go in the wrong direction, blinded by the snow, or veer off into the abyss. With the infinite whiteness, it was very much like being lost at sea—no matter which direction you looked, it all appeared to be basically the same big blue ocean. Tony was carefully following the tree lines to be sure he was staying on the main road, though it was buried more than a dozen feet beneath them. Thus far, Annie had no question that he was going the right way down route 201. Eventually, that road went all the way to her home, but not today. She may not make it back by tomorrow either, depending how bad it snowed overnight.

Tony’s snow chariot was working out well.

Annie was ashamed to admit it, and she didn’t dare say it out loud and inflate his adventurous ego. But it was a sturdy craft. For once in Tony’s life, his words amounted to more than hot air. During a couple of breathers, they could feel the skis sinking into the slushy surface, so instead of fully halting, he would just slow their continual pace to a near crawl when he needed a timeout. His stamina surprised Annie, as well. Again, she didn’t dare tell him that, thinking it might encourage his sexual advances.

With each lunge of the ski poles, they only covered about three feet. The sheer weight of their makeshift sled was nearly insurmountable. A couple of feet’s progress was better than nothing at all. During her sheer boredom, (Tony refused to let her have a go, stating that her arms were too skinny and she wouldn’t be able to push them) Annie calculated the time it would take to arrive at The Purple Cat.

Five thousand two hundred eighty feet in a mile. With the restaurant being about two miles away, that means Tony would have to push approximately ten thousand and five hundred feet. Each shove moved them an estimated three feet, so it would take thirty five hundred motions. He did one every ten seconds, so that was about three hundred and sixty per hour.

Ten hours.

It would take them ten hours, assuming they didn’t stop. Annie bit her numbing lip, trying to recalculate the number, hoping the number would work out better on the second try. It did not.

“How long have we been out here?” she asked, turning back towards Tony. His face was bright red from exertion. She hoped he wouldn’t have a heart attack. He wasn’t out of shape. In fact, he was quite the opposite. He looked like he worked out on a regular basis, not one of those fair-weather weight lifting types. Even still, you had your Jim Fixes of the world, dropping dead of heart conditions in tip-top health. She’d be on her own if this trek killed him.

“I’m not looking at my watch,” said Tony, his words raspy and filtered through the whipping wind. He disappeared and reappeared again, a magic act afforded by the treacherous weather. “But I’d hazard a guess that we’re going on four hours. I’d say we’re halfway there. That sign back there said that Rotterdam is another mile. I feel like The Purple Cat is right over the Rotterdam line, right?”

She nodded. He didn’t drive home this way, but she did. Typically, Tony would have veered off onto route 7 after turning onto the first stretch of Route 201. Not that Annie ever followed him home or anything, but she knew that he lived a couple towns over from her, in the quiet berg of Franklin. Suddenly, Annie pictured his wife and children, sitting quietly by the door, waiting for their Daddy to come home. And what was Daddy doing? He was playing Sir Galahad with another man’s wife, moving northwest when he should have been heading straight north. Sure, he’d have only a quick trek once he got her home, but it would veer him out of the way for at least a day’s worth of travel, given the current speed their sled was moving. That was another day without his family, without supporting them. For that, Annie felt a sharp guilt in her gut.

It was six more hours until The Purple Cat, unless her math was askew. Six more hours of hoping that there would be some food and warmth there, or at the very least, some blankets, or tablecloths to bundle up in. Even though she wasn’t doing the physical labor, she was exhausted, enough so that she nodded off a couple of times. She awoke with a snap, worried that Tony would see her napping and take offense to it, as though he was some kind of unwilling slave.

Quite unexpectedly, Tony occasionally sang while he worked. Slushing sounds, violent wind gusts, and Tony’s voice filled Annie’s ears: “Hi Ho, Hi Ho, it’s off to work we go!” He accompanied the repetition of that single line (she wondered: weren’t there any other words to that damn song?) with a series of painful whistles. She could barely hear the whistling, but it sounded like he had a knack for it. They were high pitched and crisp, as if delivered by a pro.

At first, she chuckled at his terrible singing voice. She was just loud enough so that he wouldn’t hear her amusement. Perhaps that was his intention, to get a laugh out of her, to force a bit of charm down her throat. His voice eventually lulled her, even though the words would surely drive her crazy soon enough. The song reminded her of Paulie, who had recently emerged himself in classic Disney movies. Snow White and The Seven Dwarves was probably his favorite, right next to Bambi.

She pictured Paulie, cuddled up next to her in the wheelbarrow hull.

Annie could practically smell his breath, slightly sweet from the orange sherbet that he loved to snack on before bedtime. She usually frowned on that kind of snack, but Christian loved to sneak it to him, as the child was mildly addicted to it. It was their little private thing, eating sherbet together at the kitchen table after a long, hard day, so Annie never got on Christian’s back about it, even though she was worried Paulie’s teeth might soon rot out of his precious head.

“Hi Ho! Hi Ho!” yelped Tony, now sounding like he was trying to project his voice in an amphitheater. She could hear Tony laughing to himself and she suddenly worried that he might go crazy if they were stuck out here long enough. If he went crazy, she had no idea what she’d do to protect herself. Annie couldn’t deal with crazy, especially when crazy had romantic intentions towards her. “Hiiiiiiiii Ho! Hiiiiiiiii Ho!”

Serenity filled her as she continued to picture her baby boy.

She remembered the first time she held him, right after Paulie was born. Though she fought through a prolonged labor, she ended up having a C-section, mostly due to pain and impatience. She labored for more than twenty hours before they took Paulie out the new-fashioned way, as Doctor Deacon called it. There was a delay in giving the pinkish little fellow over to her, as she had to recover from the surgery for at least a half an hour, so that there was enough time for the drugs to wear off.

Bring me my son. Right now.

Ma’am, you need to get a little more clear-headed first. We wouldn’t want you dropping that little guy on his head, would we? That would be a terrible way to start things off.

Bring me my son. Christian, tell them. Tell them I need to see my son right now. It’s been a half an hour and I still haven’t breast fed him. Don’t let them give him any of that formula crap… I need to give him his first milk. Go tell them that, Christian.

Ma’am, please calm down. We won’t give him any formula, I assure you. You’ll have him within the next fifteen minutes, I assure you.

You said that, fifteen minutes ago, too. I don’t believe you anymore (looks at nametag), MARY.

And that moment, which felt like it would never come, finally came.

She held Paulie close to her, looking into his tiny blue eyes, surprised that he was opening them so soon. It wasn’t typical from what she had read. She couldn’t even formulate words, for all the joy swelling inside of her, and she could see it in Christian’s dreamy expression as well. He was a proud papa, and he’d be a wonderful father. They’d both be wonderful parents, in fact. Paulie, in that single instant, became the sole reason for breathing, for existing, for surviving. He was everything that she had ever hoped for and she would die for him. And for Christian, as well. They’d die for each other, if it ever came to it.

Hey there, little guy. Your papa and I are so proud of you. You’re the sweetest little thing I’ve ever held. All the other mommies out there are gonna be jealous of you and me. We’ve got something special, don’t we?

Annie sobbed, trying to hide her face from Tony.

He didn’t notice, and he continued to sing, “Hi Ho! Hi Ho! To The Purple Cat we go!”

Annie fell asleep to the soothing swoosh of the sled, with vivid images of an innocent prince with radiant blue eyes, looking up at his mother for the very first time.

Chapter Eight

The Purple Cat came at them out of nowhere, awash in blinding white. Annie drove by it so often that she couldn’t recall the way it snuck up on you when you came around the steep curve before Lower Eastman Road. It wasn’t there, and suddenly you were in The Purple Cat’s parking lot, taking in the smell of greasy fries and burgers, except on Fridays when they had their prime rib and broiled chicken specials on the menu.

The last time Annie and Christian had dined at The Purple Cat, Christian swore that he was a victim of food poisoning. Given that he had a pretty ironclad stomach, Annie swore off the place from that moment forward. And here she was again, trudging through waist deep snow as they neared the path, ready to kick in the front door, which looked like it had been recently shoveled or cleared out with a snow blower. Somebody had been here recently, but Tony continued, unflinching against obstacles.

The heavy oak door seemed unmovable at first, wedged in place by an icy accumulation of snow. The path from the road led directly to the front door and was well manicured, to an almost fastidious degree. Despite Annie’s protests, Tony pushed ahead, leaving their “sled” behind, marching right up to the door, and pounding his fist once, twice, then three times. He didn’t wait long for a response, instead opting to kick away at the buildup of ice along the threshold, freeing up the swing of the door enough to pry it open a few inches. “What do you think you’re doing?” Annie asked, looking around at the scurrying drifts of snow that seemed like they might sneak up and strangle them at any moment. Tony inserted himself through the door’s crack. He didn’t naturally fit, but he contorted himself enough to force his way through.

In the last hour, Tony started panting, nearing the end of his useful internal battery, and so the sight of The Purple Cat was a blessing for them both. All the way through their trek, he had tried his damnedest to hide the fatigue that was overwhelming his every thrust, but Annie could see right through it. She could feel it in the movements of their sled—the once sturdy engine was now diminished to a wobbly surge, sputtering by on energy-deprived fumes. Tony needed to rest if he was going to get her home safely. She didn’t stand a chance of moving the sled herself, and that still shamed her to no end. Tony was nearly twice her size, so the engine in their rig could not be easily replaced.

And this, she thought to herself, was why women always got the shit end of the stick. She knew it wasn’t true, that a woman could overpower brawn with brains, but in this particular situation, she fell short on both. Her womanly nature was in jeopardy. You’re just like one of those limp fairy princesses from the animated movies, waiting in your tower for a man to save you. Isn’t that disgusting, that you’re nothing more than a Walt Disney cliché?

Annie scowled now, pushing herself through the door crack after Tony. Regardless of the conditions of the world, this was still considered breaking and entering as far as Annie was concerned. She couldn’t help the thoughts that came with ease: Shut your mouth. You know as well as anybody that this is survival of the fittest.And that shit just got real.

Annie couldn’t filter the joyous giggle in her throat, as the warm air caressed their bodies upon entering The Purple Cat’s inner sanctuary. For an instant, it reminded her of that tingling feeling that one felt when they jumped in a pool, after being in a hot tub; a euphoric sense of inexplicable bliss in every nerve of the body. It was nearly orgasmic.

“How nice does that feel?” Tony asked, releasing a series of harsh sneezes. Annie noticed that he was getting sick, probably from exerting himself so much during their trip.

Darkness filled the void of the tavern’s high-ceilinged hall. Long oak rafters reached from one end of the formerly prosperous establishment to the other. Dangling from those beams was an array of animal heads such as elk, deer, and even a black bear. Annie experienced a strange tinge in her gut, as if the animals were watching her, ready to pass some sort of moral judgment on her insurmountable weaknesses.

Tony flicked on the light switch, but there was no response, which was to be expected. “Candlelight it is,” said Tony. Annie detected a pleasure in that statement. The cretin never stopped thinking about his sick internal fantasies.

Igniting a long grill lighter, Tony held it up near his face, then swept it towards Annie, asking, “You okay?”

“No,” she said, “I’m not okay, actually. We shouldn’t be in here. It’s not our place. We weren’t given permission.”

Tony chuckled, holding the phallic lighter near his own face once again, leering at Annie. “Who are you, Miss Manners? I think politeness and etiquette kind of goes out the window when the shit hits the fan. In case you haven’t noticed,” he said, gesturing towards the lengthy bay windows along the front side of The Purple Cat, completely obfuscated by snow, “the shit has officially hit the fan, and its spraying all over the joint. It’s every man for himself.” He reconsidered that statement, smirking. “And every woman for herself, too.”

“That’s what scares me,” she whispered, but not loud enough for Tony to hear her. He was busy surveying their new digs, as he had an air about him that he did not intend to leave anytime soon.

The Purple Cat was devoid of life, but it still felt lived in. Auras and personalities clung to every surface, though those beings could not be seen. It hummed with recent activity, though Annie could not pinpoint what that evidence looked like. Tony touched the rim of the fireplace, looking over at Annie. The bricks encircling the fireplace were apparently still warm, which was a dead giveaway. “They haven’t been here all day, but they were here this morning I’d bet.”

“It’s getting dark so they’ll be coming back. Wouldn’t you, if you were them?”

“They may not come back at all,” Tony said, plopping himself down in a faux-leather easy chair that was directly across from the fireplace. He looked as if he was born there, as if it was designed to support his exact specifications. He couldn’t hold back on the grin that slid on to his face.

Annie wasn’t so sure about that theory. If somebody had a place like this, they would not abandon it, not in these times.

“Why don’t you throw a log on the fire and get it stoked up again?” Tony asked, really sort of telling, looking to Annie with an expression that was just a hair short of disrespectful. Maybe this, thought Annie, was why he was on the rocks with his darling wife.

Annie grunted. “We should at least wait outside, until it gets a little darker. I know that I’d be pretty pissed off if I came back and found somebody squatting in my spot.”

The calm expression on his face told her that he wasn’t listening to her, that her words held no credence. Why would he? She was a lowly woman after all, the sissy who was being driven around in a snow sled like an invalid, unable to help them with her dainty arms and puny back muscles.

So came a new request, this time louder and more insistent: “Why don’t you go back in the kitchen, see what’s still good to eat. See if they have any steaks. We can put them right on the fire.” He paused, staring at the fireless hearth, and then looked back at Annie, then at the hearth again. “And some whiskey. Or rum. Whatever they got, just no wine or anything like that. None of that sissy stuff. Beer would be perfect.”

Annie couldn’t deny that he deserved to be waited on hand and foot, as he’d taken on all the brunt of their day’s arduous task. And sure, he was worn out and broken down, just about ready to pass out from exhaustion… so why the hell did she feel so violated when he demanded things of her, as inconsequential as they were in the grand scheme of things?

“Yes, master,” she said, approaching the hearth, pulling a cracked log off the neat pile to the side. She tossed a couple of logs in, adding some scrunched newspaper from beneath the pile. He didn’t seem to pick up on her mocking tone, which troubled her even more.

At the end of the day, men were all the same.

Pigs, every last one of them.

* * *

It was all a muddy blur and Annie decided just to leave it at that. No need to explore the intricate details and fully form those thoughts, as she would never be able to relinquish them again, once they rooted deep inside of her. Annie couldn’t remember more than glimpses since they had seared a steak on a grill built into the fireplace. While they watched their dinner cook, she kept looking towards the windows, as darkness overtook the entire world, even more so than the bloody snow. They sipped on cheap gin, chilled and frosty, directly from the bottle. By the time the steak was done, fuzziness was all that she could piece together. He hadn’t drugged her, but he might as well have. She only blamed herself. It wasn’t like the first time with Tony, but it would certainly be the last.

Annie promised.

She promised herself that it would be the last.

The fire crackled and she jumped at the intrusive sound. The thought of being walked in on still loomed in her mind, though it was quite late in the evening now. If the current squatters of The Purple Cat planned on returning, then it would most likely be tomorrow morning, if at all. Maybe, thought Annie, they were all dead or back home with their significant others. Or maybe they didn’t even exist.

That was a lie. She thought of the warm bricks and she couldn’t buy the lie, no matter how hard she tried.

Tony rolled over, coughing into his forearm. A sheen of sweat still clung to his forehead, reflecting the dull orange flicker of the fire. Annie tensed at the sight of his face, as their noses were now only inches apart. She hated to look at his face. He was the ugliest stud she’d ever seen. Something about him made her quake when he was near, but for the most part, he served to disgust all of her senses simultaneously.

With weakened arms, she shoved him away from her, turning herself towards the roaring fire.

She needed to get dressed again, if only to mask her failure.

The fire wasn’t all that warm, though she wanted to convince herself that it was. The flames were a bastard, convincing her that she would always be safe, but in the end, she knew that to be another lie. All fires died down into only embers, on a long enough time line.

Annie stood up, pulling on her panties and stiffened, icy sweatpants that she had found in the trunk of her car, before it was buried by the snow. Her bra was basically an icicle, causing her nipples to stand at attention as she clipped the frosty clasps behind her. Outside of the thin blanket (some sort of Native American wall art that Christian—no, Tony—had ripped down during their early fugue of—stop stop stop thinking about it!), it was another world altogether. Annie wondered if she would grow accustomed to these temperatures eventually. Anything became bearable once you were fully submerged, or so she had found on many occasions.

“Where are you going?” Tony mumbled, his voice a slushy rasp, just barely audible above the hissing, cracking fire. He had taken down about half the bottle, whereas Annie was flummoxed by only a couple sips of the juniper-laced gag-juice. She was surprised he was even able to formulate words after what he’d consumed. Even more so, she hoped that nobody came back to claim their end-of-time fort of comfort.

“I’m cold,” she said, though she really wanted to say: I’m going far, far away from you, that’s where I’m going. To which he might reply; don’t pretend you didn’t love that romp, sweetness. To which she might reply; I’m a married woman. At which point, he’d laugh at her naivety.

But he didn’t respond to her, slipping into his comfort zone that came so easy in the man-cave that was this folksy, yet greasy, restaurant. Instead, a wheezy, sickly snore filled the grand hall of The Purple Cat. Only a few weeks ago, there would have been cheerful people dining, laughing, and sipping on craft beers. Those faceless patrons were all so happy back then. Now they were huddled together in their respective homes, struggling to stay warm, praying that the government would come save them. One day, these folks were eating sweet potato fries and crunching on garlic bread, enjoying the cozy snuggle that The Purple Cat provided to its diners, and now some of them were most likely deader than disco. If they weren’t dead, then they would be on their way to dying soon enough. Some of them still probably had moldy Purple Cat leftovers in their fridge, as they too molded only a few feet away, frozen to death on their living room sofas.

It all came rushing back.

Paulie.

Paulie might be sitting on the sofa, just like those folks. By himself, if his Daddy had perished. Christian was always a girly man when it came to the cold, so this was the worst-case scenario for her husband—if he was still her husband. There were no papers saying otherwise, but it felt like it was over. Sometimes, reality spoke louder than formalities.

She looked down at Tony, scowling at him.

No. No. It wasn’t over yet. Not by a longshot.

She pulled on her sweater, though it was colder than the air near the fireplace, and then she recovered the second sweater that went on top of that. Annie reached for her wool hat, which had ended up near the easy chair. Pulling it on to her head, she adjusted herself, breathing deeply and watching the flames.

That was when she heard a click sound off, reverberating off the walls and cavernous ceiling of The Purple Cat. The click was familiar. She’d heard it before, mostly in movies.

“Hey there,” a gravelly voice said. It reminded her of that guy Tom Waits, whom Christian affectionately called “The Boozy Cookie Monster.” Several other voices chimed in right after, with tiny splices of laughter and broken snorting. “I don’t care how pretty you are… don’t move a fucking inch or I’ll paint the walls with you.”

Annie’s throat tightened until she was sure she’d pass out. She studied the perimeter of the flickering firelight, looking for the source of that voice. When she found that source, she encountered only rictus grins.

No eyes. No noses. Just contented smiles, teetering on the cusp of rapture.

Chapter Nine

Without warning, the men engaged them with an animalistic lurch that caught them completely off guard. She and Tony didn’t stand a chance, especially with Tony being so physically exhausted from the day’s long haul. If he had any energy left in him at all, it was nothing that would aid them in resisting the shadowy men that slithered around them in the darkness.

Why the hell hadn’t they just stayed in the one place they were certain was safe? Why had Tony been so damned pig-headed about traveling? It was his fault. Everything was his fault.

The one she immediately labelled The Midget Man had her by the wrist, bending Annie’s arm back behind her as he squeezed. The little shit was pinching her elbow enough that it sent a shooting pain through her whole arm, triggering a quiet whimper. He was a good six inches shorter than she was, but his strength dwarfed hers considerably. “Don’t move an inch or you’ll regret it,” said the Midget Man.

Annie cried out in pain, glowering at the other three men in the group. They were on top of Tony right off the bat, he being the biggest threat to their assault. Was this really an assault, or just a terrible prank, pinning him to the floor. One of the gleeful men got to work tying up Tony’s ankles while the other two took turns pounding him on the jaw with their balled up fists. They looked like cavemen learning to fight for the first time. “You shouldn’t have come here,” the Shiny Bald One said, leaning down close to Tony, baring his teeth and growling.

The Shiny Bald One looked like a wolf, with a perpetual deadness in his eyes that spoke of an instinct he could not control. As the wind howled outside, Annie couldn’t help but wonder if The Shiny Bald One would howl in call-and-response.

Ever since she was little, Annie gave fake names to people she didn’t know personally. It was a tactic that a psychiatrist once told her is very common in young children to easily associate people and to recognize them by definitive physical attributes. It was also a way to find quick comfort around total strangers, if one was inclined towards shyness, as Annie once was. She knew none of these men, but she had no interest in growing comfortable with them. They’d stormed the Purple Cat and attacked them, completely unprovoked. Still, she gave them names because it was the only thing that seemed normal to her.

The Shiny Bald One. The Midget Man. The Yeti. She hadn’t named the fourth one yet.

This, thought Annie, is what happens when the world ends. People like this come out of the woodwork, ready for such terrible deeds, ready and waiting since the day, they were born. The rules go out the window and the craving for blood increases. Men (including women) would quickly revert back to an animal state when backed into a corner. They probably weren’t evil people before the storm started, though it felt silly to give them the benefit of that doubt. Maybe they were just okay people, with tendencies towards bad deeds on rare occasions, only when opportunity presented itself.

Now they were beasts, still able to walk around on two legs, living in a world full of opportunity and dread and meat and the weakest animals imaginable.

“Please don’t hurt him,” Annie begged, just as The Midget Man tightened his grip on her elbow again. She could feel something prodding against the lower side of her buttocks. The Midget Man’s penis was stiffening, probably turned on by her half naked state, or perhaps even turned on by the spontaneous violence they were asserting against their captives. Men got off on all kinds of different things and The Midget Man seemed a bit more subhuman than most. Though it had nothing to do with his size.

“I advise you to shut your mouth,” said The Midget Man. His nasal passage was congested, judging by the sound of his voice.

They went at Tony hard, swinging, batting, and kicking him into submission.

He hadn’t stood a chance, just based on numbers alone.

Tony’s face looked like it might pop at any moment. Though the room was murky with darkness, save for the fire light, she could see that his face was mashed and covered with splotches of shiny blood. His nose was already crooked to the left, tilted on one side as if he’d fallen flat on his face from a three story building. The Shiny Bald One eased off his barrage for a moment, leaning back. His glistening head caught the glint of the fire, and for a moment, it almost looked like his shiny scalp was covered in roaring flames; an optical illusion mixed with Annie’s own wishful thinking. He shifted aside, allowing an opportunity for The Yeti to drop his boot on to Tony’s throat. The strangling noise that came from her traveling companion (and nearly her savior, once upon a time) was ghastly and unwelcome in her ears.

If The Yeti hadn’t crushed Tony’s windpipe with his boot, then the next dropkick would most definitely achieve that end. Though Annie didn’t believe in God, not since she was a child, she couldn’t help but say a silent prayer for the mangled mess on the floor, squirming with hope of a mercy that would not come—not from above, and not from below.

The Yeti brought his massive boot down on Tony’s throat again, this time with a slow, methodic crunch that seemed to last an eternity. The giant of a man wrung his meaty paws together, delighted by his destruction. His bearded face looked like that of one of those dog-faced boys that Annie remembered seeing in old carnie photos from the twenties and thirties. His eyes were sunken deep into his skull, the only sign of humanity that existed on his furry face. The hair all over his head, cheeks, chin, and jaw was curled in little ringlets. She couldn’t be sure, but it looked like his overgrown beard was peppered with gray hair.

“Tony?” Annie asked, holding back on a whimpering sound that hung at the back of her throat. It would not escape, but she wasn’t sure she wanted it to. “Tony—are you okay?”

It was a moronic question, really. If he wasn’t already dead, he would be so soon enough.

The Yeti looked over at Annie, grinning as he pressed his boot into Tony’s throat a third time. A raspy, rattling breath choked inside of Tony’s throat. He was still breathing and Annie considered that a miracle, though she wondered how long the misery would last.

“Your boyfriend won’t be okay, prissy pants. He won’t be okay ever again. And I’ll make sure of that,” said The Yeti. His voice was high-pitched. The typical big-man-little-voice syndrome, Annie thought to herself, trying not to laugh as the man that would be her lover grappled at his decimated windpipe, struggling for a wheezy bit of air.

The man kneeling at Tony’s feet cackled and hooted at The Yeti’s devious comment. In that moment, though she should have been thinking about escape, Annie labeled him as The Chuckle Machine.

“I promise we’ll leave this place and never say a word about this,” she begged.

“I said shut your mouth, bitch,” The Midget Man whispered, right in her ear. She could smell that he was wearing a pungent aftershave, something cheap and offensive. It seemed odd to be so focused on hygiene at a time like this. Tony hadn’t even shaved in the three weeks since the storm started, let alone applying after-shave. The Midget Man surely had a screw loose, or he didn’t quite understand the gravity of the storm outside. “Your boy toy don’t sound so good,” he added, giggling at the terrible sound coming from Tony’s mouth. It was the most painful sound Annie could ever remember hearing.

Outside The Purple Cat, the wind whipped hard now, howling against the roof and the eaves. It was well after midnight now, and Annie suspected that it would be a long time until sunrise, if she even survived that long. Stop thinking like that, she kept telling herself, but it didn’t do much good.

“Ease back a bit,” advised The Shiny Bald One, looking up at The Yeti with dead-serious eyes, that wolfish expression returning in spades. Shiny’s whole facial expression was something stony and unflinching, as if he was unable to emotionally respond to anything in one way or another. He might have been a cowboy in an old spaghetti western—all business, very little talk, ready to brandish his six-shooter when the shit hit the fan. Annie was confident that he was the de facto leader, and so she pleaded with him directly. In movies, you always begged the leader for mercy.

“I know it wasn’t right, coming in here without asking. We were going to die out there.”

“You bet your ass it wasn’t right. Shit’s changed, in case you haven’t noticed,” said The Shiny Bald One, who now stood up from Tony’s crumpled body. She could see Tony’s left hand fingers spasming now, as if they were trying to resuscitate his entire being. Annie heard another rattled breath come from Tony’s mouth.

Still alive. Barely alive, but still alive all the same.

“We staked a claim here about a week ago. You’re not the first bozo to come through, and you won’t be the last. Shit hits the fan and everybody goes flocking to the food. We figured that out ourselves, but we figured it out first, you see? That’s the difference between men like us and spoiled brats like you and Handsome Dan over here. We’re smarter than you, and that’s why we survive.”

“Help us survive, too. I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”

The Chuckle Machine erupted again, still not saying anything but letting his pleasure loose into the air. His hair flew about his head wildly, thin black strands that looked like they’d been dipped in grease. He reminded her of a drug-addled gangster from a classic Hollywood movie, as there was something fully off kilter about him. A real cuckoo bird, somebody like Humphrey Bogart or Greta Garbo might have called him.

“You’ll make it worth our while?” asked The Shiny Bald One, repeating it back to her in a mocking, girly voice, even batting his eyes as if he was some sort of six foot tall doll in a pink dress. His lips pulled back to reveal a perfect set of teeth, radiating in the fire light.

Any minute now, she was sure that The Shiny Bald One would howl.

The Midget Man was breathing heavily against the back of her neck. His aftershave violated her nostrils as he started to rub up against her, getting bolder with each thrust. It made the hairs on her arms stand up on their ends. “You fellas mind if she makes it worth my while first?”

The Yeti and The Chuckle Machine remained silent, looking over at their leader for approval, but The Shiny Bald One gave the verbal go-ahead, finally confirming himself to Annie as their true figurehead. “Have fun, but clean her up when you’re done. Don’t leave it messy for the rest of us.”

So the three monsters watched Annie and The Midget Man. Their bulbous eyes were the most horrible part of all; vapid stares and licking lips, sipping on booze and smoking unfiltered cigarettes while The Midget Man went to the moon and back again.

Chapter Ten

Pain.

The uneasy terror of an all-encompassing pain that would not go away surged through Annie, sending shudders up her spine and into her neck. She could barely remember what happened to her, but her body was well aware. Throbs and yelps from every muscle, from every cell in her body. She felt ruined, left out on the floor’s slab like a hunter’s slain conquest.

Through a swollen eye, she craned her neck up at the roaring fire. The Shiny Bald One kept The Yeti on fire patrol, commanding him to stoke and feed the fire regularly with a seemingly endless supply of wood. It licked at the edges of the hearth and something deep inside of Annie wished those flames would reach out and swallow her whole. She wished it would burn her until the pain went away. She didn’t want to know the feeling of being alive anymore.

Her body was no longer her own.

It belonged to them.

All her life, she was told by her hippie-lovin’ liberal parents that her body was a temple, never to be sacrificed to any whim or bad judgment. It was to be honored and kept well if she were to avoid the rigors of aging. Her parents voices’ felt like they were screaming in pain now, drifting through her memories in a more vivid light than she could remember the past hour, though she was glad she couldn’t remember any of it.

The smell of urine kept wafting in and out of her busted nose. One of them, presumably the monstrous Yeti, had finished his rendezvous by pissing all over her backside. The smell of his bitter urine now mixed with the salty, coppery smell of blood that was clotting around her face. She wished she had the strength to cry out to them, to beg that they at least let her put her underwear back on, to give her back an ounce of dignity before they fully destroyed her.

She could hear them speaking at the other side of the room. It sounded like they were relaxed, most likely sitting at one of The Purple Cat’s many varnished wood dining tables. Their garbled voices indicated that they were eating, chewing on something tough like a raw, bloody steak. Cavemen to the bone—gnashing their teeth and grunting joyously.

Nothing gets a man hungry like a good old-fashioned gang rape.

That hideous word (raperaperapeyougotfuckingrapedAnnieyougotfuckingraped) gnarled her senses, once again forcing her to beg the God of Fire to consume her broken vessel and send her to that faraway place that everybody must know sooner or later.

No.

No, that wouldn’t do. Stop being weak, Annie. They’ll smell it on you and this whole thing will only end one way.

It was Paulie. It had always been Paulie. The reason for everything, the answer to every question: Paulie. She needed to get back to him even if it killed her. He was safe at home, but he wouldn’t survive without his Mommy, not without her to guide him into manhood. For that single thought, Annie summoned the strength to roll over on to her side, with new darts of pain activating inside of her, reminding her how badly they’d fucked her up. She could feel the intrusion all the way into the lower regions of her stomach, simmering butterfly wings flapping at the bottom of her womb.

A voice came drifting through the wooden rafters, bouncing and reverberating, “Fine night for a fire, isn’t it?” The voice sounded like The Shiny Bald One, but she couldn’t be sure. The Yeti and The Chuckle Machine had hardly spoken at all. The Midget Man’s voice was something of a Munchkinland reject, so the voice she heard now had to be their ringleader.

She listened intently to the sounds: more chewing and slurping on some beverage, certainly alcoholic, and then a raging fit of laughter. The Chuckle Machine found the entire evening to be beyond delight.

“When the sun comes up, we’ll head to ol’ Sanford Pepper’s house. Heard from a guy down at the grange that he was decked out with all kinds of heavy artillery, some real World War Three shit.” The Shiny Bald One planned aloud, adding, “Our only problem may be Pepper himself, but that’s why we roll in there with gifts in hand. Some steaks, some booze, and some firewood. Of course, once we makum’ peace pipeum’, then we’ll take care of that old coot properly.”

The Chuckle Machine erupted, apparently playing the part of mischievous super-villain in this vicious squad, as the Midget Man asked, “He’ll have his guns blazing if we roll up on him. My aunt Betty went out with him way back in high school and my pop said she was always comin’ home with black eyes.” There was a kind of ironic pity in the little shit’s voice, as though his aunt’s physical abuse was far removed from the treatment he and his trio of monster pals had just dealt out to Annie. The hypocrite couldn’t see what he’d been a party to. Maybe Annie was just a piece of meat to them, just like the wild animals that they’d soon be hunting when the Purple Cat’s food stash ran out.

“He won’t be a problem,” their leader replied, sounding resolute enough that Annie quite believed him. The Shiny Bald One was the type that always had a plan in motion. Tony had been like that, before they’d stomped the life out of him.

They kept on chewing, occasionally releasing a hearty burp to attest their pleasure.

“Stop hoggin’ that hooch, Dan. And stop getting your shit-lips all over it,” a new voice called out. Annie assumed it was The Yeti. He spoke like a high-pitched galoot, just like he looked. Annie couldn’t help but think of Lenny from Of Mice and Men. She wondered if The Yeti would start petting her after his next go-‘round her vagina, maybe break her neck by accident.

“Don’t use my name, Mikey!” The Midget Man shouted back at him.

Annie reached down around her ankles; though it felt like the lower half of her body was no longer attached to the rest of her. Her fingers touched a soft but muddy mess that felt very much like they were once her panties. With a lurch in her spine, biting her tongue so hard that she felt she might bite it right off, she pulled them up her shins and up around her waist. Her arms slumped to the floor again, fingernails digging into the wooden planks from the pain she could not escape.

“Use names if you want to,” said The Shiny Bald One, chirping giddily to himself. “She won’t know our names long enough to tell anybody… won’t know anything about anything longer than tomorrow. Our fun won’t hold out; maybe three or four more whirls and then we’ll have to throw her out with the rest of the trash. She’ll start stinking up the joint, like that other one.”

Her stomach soured. They seemed pretty nonchalant about the fact that she’d soon be dead. Dead, just like…

Tony.

She forgot all about Tony in her private bursts of pain and wishing that she would die. Poor Tony was beaten to within an inch of his life, and then an inch and a half beyond that. Annie couldn’t see him, as they’d dragged him away. Or was there a him anymore? Wasn’t it just a body now? Yes—she’d heard his last breath while they violated her.

Getting rid of Tony was understandable, thought Annie with a sick laugh that existed only inside her head. Who the hell could get a hard-on with a dead guy on the floor?

Annie couldn’t help thinking about his wife, Vickie maybe, why couldn’t she remember his wife’s name now, and kids, waiting and wishing, thinking that Daddy would be home any minute now, no different from Paulie wondering if his own mother would return to him in one piece. Tony had been a shit, but he’d saved her.

No, she thought. Don’t be naive. He brought you here, looking to score. Tony was looking to get some action and a full belly, no different from the rest of these cretins sitting around the post-rape-party dinner table, shoveling more protein into their bodies so that they could go at her again in short order. Tony was only slightly different from them. He tried to do the right thing, no matter his ulterior motives, and still, look what it brought her.

Had the whole damn world gone mad? She was almost convinced.

Annie curled up into the fetal position, trying to picture Paulie in her mind’s eye, hoping that it would lull her into a calm long enough to do what she had to do. She had trouble picturing his face, terrified that her more recent snapshots of memory might intermingle with her images of him. The thought occurred to her that she might never see him again, so she cast him out of her mind, though it pained her to do so.

She wasn’t sure how it happened, or when it happened, but she fell back asleep. And somewhere, nestled amidst her dreams, she found herself running through the splattered red snow, buck naked except for her snow boots, bleeding out of nearly every orifice, crying out for Christian to save her from the starving wolves, crying out for Paulie to avert his eyes. Raging monsters—hairy, howling, and clawing at the insufferable snow – bounded at her and dug into her flesh, eating until they were full. They ate her again and again, over and over, until she finally woke up.

* * *

Annie woke with a startle, looking up to the left, where the early morning sun was poking through the drawn shades the best it could. It was still dark, mostly from the unabating storm. But there was a warm orange glow to that light, as if the lightness of the planet was starting to win again. Annie steadied her chin on the floor, feeling around her body.

She’d been forcibly dressed while she slept. Thank God, she thought, feeling her dignity creeping back into her one breath at a time.

“Good morning, sweetie pie.”

Sitting in the easy chair that, Tony had once lounged on as he commanded her around, was the little imp she’d come to think of as The Midget Man. He had been the first to put his evil inside of her, where it did not belong, and so there was a particularly nasty voltage inside of her vocal cords. She wanted to holler at him, to tell him what a shit heel he was and how he was destined for hell, but as she opened her mouth she felt that pain resume, all the way from her privates up to her eyes.

“The boys stepped out for a bit. Just a little supply run at the Pepper place,” he said, his face glowing in the tiny fire that still survived inside the fireplace. He looked devilish sitting there, and now she could see that one of his eyes was lazy, drifting off to his right as if he was a hunting dog getting ready to hop on a squirrel.

She could no longer smell his repugnant aftershave, but her nasal memory would always be there, ready for her whenever she thought about what he did to her. His penetration was the moment where her entire being had shut down altogether, when she went into a distant barn of her mind, pulling the lofty doors closed behind her. The last thing she could remember was his lowly stench, of cheap aftershave that smelled like something a ten year old might wear to his first school dance.

“When is it?”

“Morning.”

“No. The date.” It was an odd request, but she couldn’t get control of her mind. Not yet.

The Midget Man couldn’t contain the snarky giggle that escaped him. He said, “The date? Fuck if I know. What the hell does that matter anyway? Dates don’t mean shit anymore, case you haven’t noticed.”

Annie groaned, reaching out her hand to push herself up.

“Hey now,” said The Midget Man, fidgeting in his chair just enough to show he’d make a move if she tried to run, and with that Annie flopped back to the chilly floor. The fire was just about extinguished, so the euphoric warmth that once blanketed her ravaged body was pulling back into its shell.

“Rapist,” she managed to say, though it hurt to say anything at all.

A switch inside of him flipped. His giddy persona was replaced by a virulent man, one with a scowling face and blazing eyes.

“Sure enough. Say what you will, but I’m not the one bleeding out my shoo-shoo. You go back to sleep,” he said. “You’re going to need to save up your energy for when the boys get back. For the time bein’, I’m all tapped out,” he said, grabbing his crotch and snarling comically.

He was the most evil thing she’d ever encountered, right behind The Shiny Bald One.

She pressed her eyelids together, listening to his breathing. He said something quiet, but she didn’t acknowledge it.

Annie snored, but she didn’t sleep. Ever since she was a child, she had been a true night owl, so the feigned snore and sleepy eyes (to trick her parents) was no stranger to her. There was a theory that went like this: when you yawn, everybody else around you yawns by proxy. When you snore, so happens the same. Annie was banking on that, combined with the fact that The Midget Man had been up all night with his deviant cronies, plotting the next day’s apocalyptic ventures, furthering their plot to turn the world into their own form of hell.

Sinking deep into a fake snore, Annie realized that she hadn’t lost that skill.

She had an advantage over them.

Though broken and torn, Annie was well rested.

Chapter Eleven

Sanford Pepper slammed his liver-spotted hands against the closet door, wincing with pain as he pushed forward, praying to an invisible God that they wouldn’t breach the door, but knowing deep down inside that they would. They were brutish monsters, every last one of them. He didn’t have much fight in him, but Sanford promised himself that he’d give them whatever he had left.

The biggest of the bunch had cracked him in the jaw with the butt of a rifle, knocking a few teeth loose. That was the last thing on Sanford’s mind. He wouldn’t even bother replacing them if he survived the morning.

He’d awoken only twenty minutes earlier to the sound of gunshots in his yard. By the time he’d grabbed his shotgun and made his way to the front door, they were already in his house, scampering about in circular motions, surrounding him. There were three of them. He didn’t recognize the one that kept laughing like a drug-addled hyena, and the big goofy looking one was recognizable from Tootsie’s corner store. He’d seen the man in there on a few occasions, always buying the greasy foods from the rotating “Grub On The Go” display case.

The third one, though—the third one he recognized.

Marcus Davis.

Rumor had it that during Marcus’ sister’s funeral (she had died three years ago, thereabouts, from a horrific head on collision) he demanded the funeral home director to remove the stitching that held his sister’s lips together. He had refused, stating that it was unorthodox and there was no reason to leave her for all to see, with her mouth hanging open. By the end of the week, all of the director’s tires had been slashed, though he didn’t dare to call the police, for fear of what the chaotic and angry Marcus might do. He was well known in the Saint Mary’s Hospital drunk tank to be discharged with bloody fists and liquor on his breath, even on a Monday night.

While Marcus was giving his final goodbye to his older sister, it soon became clear to the funeral director why he’d asked for the stitches to be removed. Marcus had—according to local legend—bent over into the coffin, cuddling his dead sister’s body. Soon after, he proceeded to kiss her on the mouth in the most inappropriate way, something that none of the other mourners had ever seen, and would never see again.

The slimy bastard had tried to cram his tongue down her throat, to give her one final French-style kiss. The onlookers also swore (rather, those who dared to speak his name in an ill tone publicly) that he would have gone much further with the post-mortem rendezvous if he was allowed to. Freddie Williams, who worked at the local post office, told Sanford that, “He would have fucked her if nobody else was there. That’s just the kind of look he had in his eyes.”

Now this man—this monster—was inside of Sanford’s house, looking for something to quench that same sickly set of desires. “Tell me where they are and we’ll get out of your hair, Mr. Pepper. We won’t ask twice.”

“What are you talking about?” Pepper asked, feeling that his mouth was in far worse shape than he originally thought. Aside from his dismantled teeth, he’d need further surgery to correct the damage that had been done. It felt like his lower lip had detached from his face, right by the corner of his mouth.

“The guns, Pepper. We’re looking for the guns.”

“I don’t have any guns.”

Marcus laughed from the other side of the door, pounding his fist three times in repetition. “Kinda looked like you were holding a gun when we first came into the house. You know what they say about men with guns… that they hardly ever have just one of ’em. Where are they, Pepper?” Sanford noticed that he had dropped the “Mister” from his addressing. The politeness, just as quickly as it had come, was gone.

“That was my only gun.”

“Not what I hear, Pepper. I hear you got enough weapons to fend off the whole damn Army. I hear you’re a real paranoid fuck in your old age.”

It was true. His paranoia amplified with every year that passed, especially since his house had been robbed a year ago. They’d only taken his gold watch and his television set, but he vowed never to feel so violated ever again. Lot of good that did. He never took into account the fact that he was a deep sleeper, even though he kept his shotgun right by his bedside. It hadn’t done a lick of good. He was only glad that all his kids were fully grown, with kids of their own, and that his wife had died in the late nineties, of breast cancer. At least they wouldn’t be here to see what happened to their home, and what was surely about to happen to their father.

“Get the fuck out of my house. I know who you are. I know your face,” Sanford said, putting his face close to the door, squinting his eyes as he expected a gunshot blast to come through at any moment. “I know your reputation.”

Silence. Men like Marcus got overly silent when they were about to do something rash. Sanford kneeled in the corner of the closet, taking in the whiff of his old work boots, still covered in mud from the muddy treks around the property, looking for deer to gun down.

“Mr. Pepper,” said Marcus, serene in tone and suddenly polite once again. “Don’t make me kill you and then go looking for the guns. I know you’ve got them. We brought you steaks and booze, as a trade.”

Bullshit, thought Sanford. They wouldn’t trade anything. Men like this only knew how to take.

“We’ll even grill ’em up for you,” one of the other men said. It sounded like he was standing right behind Marcus, probably his number one henchman. “Honest Injun.”

Bullshit.

Marcus spoke again, and Sanford couldn’t help but notice the click of the gun. It spoke much more truth than any of the invaders’ mouths dared to speak. “Listen to me, Mr. Pepper. We’re not here to do you harm. You know that. You old coot, tell us where the guns are. I already said I wouldn’t ask twice, so it looks a lot like you’ve gone and made me a liar. I don’t like to feel like that, you know, like a liar.”

Another click, this one coming from behind Marcus, and then a third click.

Sanford closed his eyes, trying to imagine his life. People always said that a dying person would see their life flash before their eyes right before they passed into the Great Unknown, but it wasn’t happening that way. Try as he might, he could only picture the horrible men on the other side of the door, glaring and plotting. He couldn’t picture his dead wife. He couldn’t picture his kids or grandkids. But he could picture the pain that awaited him, and he could only pray that it would be quick. Painless wasn’t to be expected, but quick would be a blessing.

“Pepperrrrrrrrrr,” Marcus called out now, his voice low and dismal.

“Go fuck yourself,” Sanford Pepper announced, trying to hold his head high even though he was cowering inside of his broom closet.

“Pepperrrrrr,” Marcus repeated, as Sanford heard the door rattle.

A blast of sound crashed in Sanford’s ears. They’d blown out the doorknob, leaving a gaping hole of light spilling on to his face. An eyeball appeared in that hole. Though he couldn’t see anything more than the eye, he knew that the face Marcus made was wholly devious.

“Pepperrrrrrrr.”

The door swung open and Sanford was blinded for a moment. Then came the loud crashing, like thunder inside of a metal box, and Sanford Pepper was no more.

Chapter Twelve

It took longer than expected, but soon enough sleep overtook The Midget Man. His subtle snore was as diminutive as his whole being, just barely a whisper in a world of loud-mouthed men. As she looked up at him, she couldn’t help but think that he was kind of cute when he slept, sort of like a teddy bear nestled inside of a child’s warm bed. Paulie had cuddled many a teddy bear in much the same way that The Midget Man curled up his knees and dozed. He had let his guard down the moment that Annie fell asleep, staring at the dying fire, slumped in his warm chair, probably drunk as a skunk and well fed.

Annie counted to a thousand. As she counted, she kept a monitor on his snore. If it was interrupted before she made it to one thousand, she’d start over again. She wanted to be damn sure he was deep into R.E.M style sleep.

The Midget Man was left as the solitary guard of their piece-of-unwilling-ass trophy, and he was anything but vigilant. It didn’t really matter whether she escaped or not, because what the hell could she do? Report it to the police? No. She had bigger fish to fry, as did they all. It was safe to assume that the world of law and order would not return for some time and when it did, the whole debacle would be wiped away from the slate, as if it never happened. People get crazy in crazy times, the Mayor might say. Or the Governor would pardon all crimes during the storm as being “acts of pure survival.” Both would be applauded for their open mindedness, but neither would have a target on bullish thugs like The Shiny Bald One and his pack of frothy-mouthed wolves. Even if law and order returned in full force, it would be years until these mongrels saw a trial, given the circumstances of processing crimes that happened during the time that God took a snowy white shit on all of mankind.

Annie gathered her strength, pushing her body off the floor. Her muscles cried for relief, but it wouldn’t come. She had to push through. In a way, it felt like being in labor, readying her body to let loose a screaming pink baby out of her birth canal. Even though she’d ended up with a C-Section, she went through enough contractions to know the feeling of a purist test of endurance.

A sticky suction sound made her cringe as she pushed herself into an elevated pushup position. She didn’t dare to assess the damage for fear that it would take away the gusto inside of her.

An echo released inside of her: Paulie.

Paulie.

Paulie was that gusto, riveting her into action.

The Midget Man still snored as Annie came up on to her knees, staring him down. If looks could kill, he might have spontaneously incinerated right then and there. And that thought gave Annie what she needed to attack.

Reaching next to the fire, huddled over like a shell that had just learned to walk, Annie picked up the fire poker and then stuck it into the fire, slowly so as not to stir up the quietude. They always said that the embers and coals at the bottom of a fire pit were the hottest part of the fire, so Annie heeded that advice and jammed the curved tip into it directly, holding it in place for more than a minute. She still stared at her hateful Rapist Number One, pondering where she would stick the hot poker when it was ready.

The poker soon gave off a pulsing glow and Annie knew that the time had come.

She turned towards The Midget Man, careful of her silent footsteps. He still snoozed, deeper than ever. He surely dreamed of something inanely macho; high-fiving his sports heroes or eating a bloody steak off the barbecue, but soon he would be dreaming of something different.

Soon he’d be dreaming of whatever heathen god he worshipped.

Before she could gather her consciousness, to understand the gravity of what she was about to do, she lunged forward with the poker, sinking it deep into The Midget Man’s tender throat. It gave a hot sizzle as it punctured right beneath his Adam’s apple, sinking deeper and reaching the back of his neck. She could feel it push against the top of his backbone. His eyes popped open. His jaw widened as big as an unhinged snake and the tendons in his neck stretched long and tight. The Midget Man tried to say something, but the sound was drowned out by the violent simmer of the skin and tendons on his neck.

“How does it feel?” she asked, nonplussed by the instantaneous feeling of bliss that the kill gave her. It was something she had yearned for all her life, though she knew not the words to express it until now. It was better than sex, remorselessly to exterminate this Lilliputian bug without any remorse. He had taken something pleasant and dreamy away from her. The Midget Man had turned her into a twisted witch, but part of her sort of liked it. Sure, she’d judge herself when the time was right and tranquility overtook her again, when the shit stopped hitting the fan, but in the here and now… she felt like a fucking vamp, like a goddamned rock star.

She asked, “How does it feel to get something nasty stuck inside of you?”

His only response was a gasp, as his head hung low, staring down at the crotch that had invaded her only a few hours earlier. His wheeze made way for a silence that felt golden, like the lull that came over her house when Paulie finally went down for his afternoon nap after a morning of tantrums.

She snapped out of her short-lived euphoria and searched his body. Annie found a revolver stuck inside of his grimy sweatpants, right near his butt crack. Annie wasn’t sure how to shoot the bloody thing, but she’d learn if she had to.

With a long string of moments that seemed like a writhing eternity, Annie stood from her prone position, shifting her weight around as she managed to regain a balance she lost back when Tony was still breathing and plotting, before they’d dragged his empty vessel off to his final resting place.

The front door that they had once pushed through seemed a mile away, but she made it there, one foot in front of the other, stopping along the way to grab a half-eaten plate of steak and potatoes from their slovenly dining table, shoving it into the pocket of Tony’s down jacket that he’d draped near the entrance. Putting the jacket on, she forced herself through the door.

The blindness of the snow overwhelmed her. It was even worse than when they had stopped a day earlier. She could barely lift her legs above the snowdrifts, to position herself for a better view. In all likelihood, she was trapped, even though she’d thwarted her guardian, The Midget Man.

Something caught her eye, just beyond the snowy bluffs that had built up around The Purple Cat. Two rubbery handles stuck out of the snow, like Groucho Marx’s eyebrows, unhindered by the insanity of the icy grip of the world.

It was a snowmobile.

Most likely The Midget Man’s snowmobile and it was the most beautiful, hopeful thing she’d ever seen. Suddenly, she didn’t feel quite so raped and broken. Suddenly, she knew she’d survive.

God… please protect me if you’re listening, thought Annie, as she summoned all of her strength, fighting back on the rifling pains and blood that circled around her lacerated womanhood.

As she trudged through the waist deep snow, she could only think of Paulie.

Paulie. Paulie. Mommy’s coming home.

Part III- EDGAR

Snow’s picking up. Ain’t it a bitch? I don’t mind the snow so much… I don’t gripe about the weather like most people do, but I’ve gotta admit that I’m freezing my balls off. They feel like they’re smaller than snow peas right about now.

Fuckin’ aye, it’s cold.

I came into town the same way I left the last one; five sheets to the wind and looking for something fun to poke at with my Matterhorn. If there’s some fun to be had, I’ll sniff it out. I don’t mind being crude about it either. The nastier, the better. Warm vodka and a sleepy hooker, that’ll get my love-motor runnin’ as much as any pretty cheerleader and a wine cooler. Perky tits, saggy tits. Tight puss, loose puss, it all feels the same when you’ve got a nice buzz going.

I need a break from movin’ and groovin’. Time to settle in and settle up, that’s what my dear old Daddy used to tell me when he came back from one of his nasty benders where we wouldn’t see him for weeks at a time. It’s been a pretty shitty week on the mean ol’ road, I’ve gotta say.

Time to settle in and settle up.

My shit luck started out when I hitched a ride from some hippy looking motherfucker with bad breath and a lazy eye. Wouldn’t you know it—smelled like he’d been suckin’ on garlic cloves all morning, and I told him so, with my meanest look. I asked him if he usually ate dick with his eyes open or closed. I’m not the type of fellow to pussy foot around people when they offend me. I’m sure I offend plenty of folks myself, so I don’t mind it, tit for tat and all that noise. Of course, if you do go too far and end up offending me, I’ll pull your testicles out through your nostrils.

I kid. I kid.

But not really. I left that garlic-chompin’ son of a cunt on the side of the road. I didn’t kill him, but I put the hurt on. My fists got a mind of their own when I get all worked up, and that odor of his did the trick. Don’t get me wrong, I could have killed him, and probably should have. But I didn’t. I haven’t had any cops on my ass for some time, and I’d like to keep it that way. When the chance presents itself, I’ll take care of that messy business the right way, but not with this dude.

So it started snowing pretty hard this morning, just when I crossed off of Route 201.

Found a dead deer out in the woods a bit earlier. Some asshole just left it behind. Believe that? I snipped off some of the meat with my pocketknife and stowed it in an old tee-shirt for later, but I’m not so great at making fires so I may not be able to cook it up proper. The truth is, I’m a pretty awful outdoorsman, ya’ know? Fucking boy scouts never looked so great to me, even if my Daddy was around long enough to sign me up. I never liked making baskets and go-carts and all that silly shit. I was more into spending my free time sneaking my Daddy’s porn mags and cutting out pictures of the biggest titties, gluing them on people’s faces in the tabloids. My mom would get pretty pissed off at me for that (“Why the shit does Joan Rivers have boobs on her head, ya’ little shit?”) but I told her that’s what those fancy rich guys and all them fake-ass movie stars deserved. They deserved to get titties pasted on their heads. What did they do to deserve anything else they got? Fuck if I know.

So here’s the deal: it’s cold as a dead man’s cock and I don’t have anywhere to go. A few hours back, I got the waitress (who had a big Jew nose) at the Starlight Diner to give me a day old biscuit and twenty minutes in a booth, just to warm my bones, but that was after a lot of begging. I don’t like begging ‘cause it makes me feel like a mooch, like a leech, like the kind of fella my Uncle Charlie was before they stuck him in the can for twenty five years. Uncle Charlie died in the clink, so fuck that noise. Moochin’ doesn’t get you anywhere. I’ll take what I earn. Sometimes you gotta earn the things you take before you get to takin’ them.

I’ve been here before. I know the game. Hell, I invented the game.

When I’m not sure where to go, I start following the train tracks. This town doesn’t have any train tracks, so that isn’t really an option. There’s something special about walking down the tracks, like something out of the old days, before men became walkin’, talkin’ pussies. Real men… they called ’em hobos. Yeah, that right there is the life for me. I don’t know much that amounts to much at all, but I know I was born a wanderin’ man, just like my pa. And a wanderin’ man can’t pretend to be anything else or he’ll look like a chump. Nothing I hate more than looking like a chump. Hear me knockin’?

No railroads, so the next best thing is to follow the cars. You see ten cars heading north and two cars heading south, and then you head north. Simple enough, right? That rule always served me proper. Wherever the cars go, so do the people. Wherever the people go… they got food, they got clothes, they got warm beds and pretty wives and cable television and the internets and air conditionin’ when it’s hot as sin. I like the finer things just the same as the rest… Don’t act like you don’t. Damned if I don’t deserve a little taste every now and then, too. I work my ass off, even though I got no paycheck to show for it.

Welcome to my peaceful little kingdom: standing on the side of this here snowy road, staring at a sign that says “Moose Crossing.” I wish I’d see a moose so I could check it off my bucket list. Never saw a moose, but I heard they’re as big as dinosaurs sometimes. If it let me get close enough, I’d jam one of my knives in its neck, let that shit spray all over the snow. Just so I can say I killed one and ate it. I’m big into always a’changin’ my bucket list. Never ate a Reuben sandwich. Never killed a kid, but that’s cause I got morals. Never had sex with a darkie, never voted for one neither. Never been to Disneyland. Never jumped out a plane. Never did a lot of things, but I reckon I’ve got a long way to go.

Fuckin’ righteous.

I count a string of three cars; one motherfucker, two motherfuckers, three motherfuckers that just missed getting all wrapped up in my world. There’s a blue Dodge caravan, a rusted out Cadillac, and a fancy lookin’ four-wheel drive Jeep. In the opposite direction, one car shoots by. It looks like it’s a mile or two away from totally shitting the bed. Probably belongs to somebody who lives on the bad side of the tracks and can’t afford to fix it.

In the same direction the three previous cars went, two more come rip-roarin’ down the road. One of them is a slick looking ride; a white Camaro with a vanity plate that I can’t catch with my eye because he’s burnin’ ass like a real tough guy. The next one is brand new and looks like it just pulled off the car lot. I don’t recognize the model, but it looks Japanese… the headlights are slanted.

Zing.

That there is one of my things. Every now and then, I’ll zing you, just so you don’t get sleepy on me. Look out for the zing, ya hear?

Another car comes by, haulin’ ass. Yep, the jury is in on which way I’m prancing my handsome ass next—towards the nicer cars, away from the shit boxes.

I listen to the click of my leather boots as I get movin’ again. They’re nice boots, probably the best I’ve ever had. Found these boots in a house a few towns over. They were some old folks, didn’t even have to be quiet when I climbed through the window. They didn’t hear me for nothin’. I probably could have walked right behind them, shouted boo, and they wouldn’t have blinked. Nothing like robbing old folks. They’re easy to spot; just look for cars in the driveway that look like they are driven once a week. Big, wide cars that look brandy-spankin’-new.

The boots were a bonus prize. I was only looking for some warm grub and I found a whole lot more.

Old fellow keeled over right off the bat. Didn’t even have to pull out my steel and show it to him like I usually do when somebody catches me in their crib. He was wearing this funny hat, looked a bit like a golfing hat of some sort, with a big pom-pom on top. Maybe it was some sort of kinky old fogey sex parade I walked in on, or maybe he just dressed like an asshole every dang day. Probably figured he was well retired, wringing his wrinkly ol’ hands while he watched television, thinking he had it all figured out.

Fuck that noise. He settled in and settled up, but he didn’t look like he deserved it just yet.

Mister-Wizard-lookin’ dude didn’t see me coming into his life. Remember that show? With the fella always making experiments in his garage? Then he’d bring the kids in and show them his experiments. I bet that wasn’t all he showed them (ZING!), if you know what I mean. Anyway, this old fellow—the one I stole the boots from—was wearing this dark blue sweater with a weird triangle shapes on it, kind of like something Mr. Wizard would have worn.

Holy shit, I thought. Did I kill Mr. Wizard when I tapped him on the shoulder? He looked dead. I’m not sure he actually died (who dies from getting tapped on the shoulder anyway?) but he wasn’t looking too hot when I moseyed on out the front door wearing his tan leather boots, a clippin’ and a cloppin’ up and down the street.

I bet you’re wondering about his old lady, aren’t you?

A gentleman never tells, and I’ll leave it at that. Zing.

I said that I’ll leave it at that, ya’ hear?

A fella like me says something borderin’ on mysterious like that, and your brain gets to churning real fast, don’t it? Well, let me tell you this… whatever it is you’re picturing inside your sick little head, it was a whole lot worse than that. Not the kind of thing I’d ever tell my Mama about, God rest her precious soul.

All I can rightly say is this: DAMN, THESE BOOTS LOOK GOOD ON ME.

Here I am, tossing my thumb out to passing traffic, hoping somebody will pick me up and bring a poor bugger into town, and I can’t stop staring at these kick-ass boots. It’s like they’re a part of me, sort of like I was born wearing them. There’s some saying I heard about tough guys who “died with their boots on,” something that gets bandied about when a man becomes a little bigger than just a man. I hope that I die with my boots on, and I don’t mean a met-a-for (or whatever it is those fancy college-thinkin’ boys call it). I mean that I want to die with my actual boots on. What I mean to say, is that these boots are something special and I plan to be buried in them. I don’t care if anybody comes to my funeral. I don’t really know anybody, anyhow. Mama is dead, Daddy is dead, and my uncle is dead.

Just let me keep my boots and my soul will drift all the way to that brotherly fellow named Jesus H. Christ to the tune of Led Zeppelin and Van Halen. One thing you ought to know about me: Jesus and me are right as rain. We got a special kind of thing going on. I got my boots, I got Jesus, and I got a whole lot of love to give to some lucky lady one of these days. All I want is a warm place to live my days, settling in and settling up, to rest my boots and rub my aching toes (these boots are snazzy as hell… I won’t take them off cause they look so fuckin’ spiffy).

Hey now, I mouth towards a Dodge that is drifting by, appearing and disappearing through the blindin’ snow. Cars look like ghosts when you see them comin’ on quick in strange weather like this. I don’t believe much in ghosts, but I think the human eyeball is a tricky bitch when it wants to be. This car comes by, and the next one will come by, just the same, sneaking up on me, pinching my ass, and running away without offering any help. Selfish.

It’s almost zero goddamned degrees, and nobody wants to help this well-booted man out. Ain’t that a bitch and a half? Maybe they’re intimidated by my boots. Maybe they’re—

This son of a bitch in a brown pickup truck just stopped. Right on.

I lean forward, put on my smiling lips, squinting one eye so that I seem a little bit unsure about what I’m about to get doin’. The guy behind the wheel rolls down his window, spying out at me. He doesn’t say anything at first. Sort of like sharks and snakes, how people always say that they’re just as scared of you as you are of them; that’s what hitchhiking feels like every now and then. I’ve been doing it all my life, and it never gets easier. It’s a crapshoot.

“Afternoon,” says the man, leaning his head out the window. He’s balder than a ten-year-old tire, and his eyes are red and stingy looking. He probably has some ripe weed, or he hasn’t slept in a few days. From the smell that drifts out of the cab of his clean as a whistle truck, I am sure that the smell is can-uh-bis, as them college boys call it. Yep, this guy might be a good bet for a home visit, to see what other kind of goodies he has. “You need a lift?” he asks. All too easy.

“I reckon I’d be much obliged,” I say. They love it when you use old-fashioned words like “obliged” or “reckon,” and it’s a homerun when you mash them together in one sentence I find. Makes them feel like they’re in some sort of freakin’ cowboy movie from the good old days, when everybody was nice to each other, not knowing that it’s a big ol’ lie. They usually don’t realize that people have always been horrible to each other, ever since the first caveman fucked up his neighbor’s pretty face with a dinosaur bone. I say, “Just a lift into town would make my day.”

“Hop in,” he says. This isn’t a typical hitchhiking palaver, not by any stretch. Normally, he’d hem and haw for a few minutes, debatin’ whether he should do it or not, wondering what his friends would say, what his wife would say, bugging out over myths about hitchhikers murdering their drivers. But not this fella. “You hungry?” he asks, as I open the door and slide into the passenger street.

“I’d be much obliged to join you for some supper,” I say. Two obliges already. I might seem uhhhhhhh… over-zell-us. I gotta pull back a bit. Yep, yep.

He nods, smirking. This guy’s one of those rare hitchhiking jackpots. He shifts his car into gear, smiling from ear to ear as he introduces himself as Teddy. I introduce myself as Edgar. My name isn’t Edgar, but I tell everybody that. “My mother named me Edgar, after the writer.”

“Poe?” asks Teddy.

I always throw them off with my response. “Nope. Burroughs.” This always gets a nod, even if they’re not sure who I’m talking about. I saw the name in a bookstore once. I don’t know what the fellow wrote, but I like his name: Edgar Rice Burroughs. A real nice name, wouldn’t ya say? If I could have picked my own name, I would have picked that one. So I guess I sort of ended up doing that, didn’t I?

“You like chicken stew? I’ve had it going in the crock pot all day,” says Teddy. Look at Martha Stewart over here. This is the first time I detect a bit of the whispy poofy-poo in this guy’s lurking smile, as if he’s sizing me up for a roll in the sack, and suddenly it all comes together.

He thinks I’m a prostitute.

It must be the boots. Maybe that’s one of those sneaky little calling cards, like tapping your foot on the floor in a bathroom stall or sticking your rod through a greased up glory hole.

Poor Teddy. He doesn’t smell it coming. I can’t wait to cut Teddy’s throat open with the first sharp thing I find in his kitchen. I can picture myself sitting at his kitchen table, drinking a light beer out of a can, watching him bleed out on to the linoleum while I eat his chicken stew with a big old spoon. I envision myself pouring salt and pepper all over the stew, because I love me some seasonings, and I don’t believe much in moderation. And I can hear a sound clicking inside my imagination; the sound of me tapping my boot heels on the floor, finding that rhythm that I’ve got screamin’ and howlin’ deep inside of me.

Chapter One

This is how it went down:

“So you’re from out of town?”

They always ask that question. There’s something romantic—not just that hop-bang-boom in the back of a Camaro kind of thing—about a shit-stain like me. Fun to look at, but they don’t like to keep it ‘round too long, scared it might make them get to thumbin’ just like this here fellow. They always ask that, and I always reply the same way.

“Yes, sir. Thing of it is… I’m a wandering man. I’ve been wandering ever since I was old enough to do so in the legal sense. Nothing like the open road. Know what I mean?” I said to Teddy. He smiled at me. I didn’t like the way he smiled. Like he was hiding something. Shit, ain’t we all hiding something?

“I went backpacking in Brazil once. It was so hot, I could have died right there on the road,” Teddy said, looking as if he wanted to make some additional statement on the matter, but instead, he changed the subject on me cause he seemed like a snaky cunt. “Where are you heading next?”

“Wherever the road takes me. I don’t walk the road. The road walks me.” They always love it when I say that. I’ve used that one at least a hundred times. Folksy sayings work ’em over real nice. It’s what them smarter fellas might call the icing on the cake.

“That’s refreshing, Edgar. Really refreshing. I envy you so much; you have no idea.”

“No need to envy. Doesn’t serve y’ any. Just get out there on the road like me. Don’t make excuses like most folks. Just say you’re gonna do it, and then ya’ do it,” I said to Teddy.

That was when Teddy really got inspired by me, his face lighting up like a fuckin’ slot machine that’s spilling coins on the floor, and I suddenly regretted the fuck out of my whole wise-and-humble act that I put on for folks. Sometimes, just once in a while, they get like this.

“I always say I’m going to do things like that, and I never do. I used to be so daring… when I was a little kid I mean. But then all this unexpected fear kept welling up inside of me. Every day it grew and grew, and I couldn’t keep a hold on it. It’s like… like I had something important to do. Something important to say. But the words never formed properly in my mouth. The thoughts in my head were just sort of swimming around and around and around, never going anywhere, and…”

Never going anywhere? Yep… I hear that shit, hombre. Yadda yadda zing.

Needless to say, Teddy didn’t last too long. Fella ran his mouth a lot, as ya’ can tell. We started out with some garlic bread, which he said was for dipping in the chicken stew. Whatever. I dip my shit where I like, no recommendations needin’. He said it in a way that I didn’t much like, something I can’t even put my finger on.

Since I couldn’t put my finger on it, I put my knife on it instead.

He bled out pretty fast—sort of pretty, like fireworks blastin’ off on New Year’s Eve. I like when they go out quick like that, so I can move on to other things. Nothin’ like somebody looking like they’re dead and then they start crawling for the door, or for the phone. They reach for it, like they’re actually gonna put my ass in them handcuffs, and that’s when I stomp it out of them. That’s when I take what’s mine.

I got that freewill comin’ out my ass.

So here I am, getting’ my grub on; Hungry Hungry Hippo that I am.

As I slurp on my chicken stew, steppin’ over his body, clutching a ceramic bowl to my chest for warmth. I wander around Teddy’s house, takin’ in the sights. The dude loves paintings (or should I say, he loved paintings, I reminded myself to put that fucker in the past tense already), so much so that every last wall in his house is covered in them. They’re all different styles, different colors, and different levels of silly bullshit. Bright greens, yellows, and pinks. Every last painting sort of reminds me of a fuckin’ Trapper Keeper on the outside. Remember them things? I used to keep lil’ bags of pot in my Trapper Keeper. I’d sell it to all the other kids in the seventh grade, ‘fore I dropped out. I knew how to make a buck.

I take my knife to a couple of the ugliest paintings. Rather than give some fancy-mouthed review on them paintings, I do things the old-fashioned way. One crappy painting really gets me fired up and pissy. It’s a picture of two angels, hugging each other in these neon green clouds. They’re smiling, patting each other on the ass it appears. Can you believe that shit? Jesus would be super angry if he knew two boy-angels was pattin’ each other near the brownie holes. I know they’re boys because they have these eensie-weensie dicks, lookin’ a whole lot like little baby dicks. Not only do I slash that paintin’ down the middle, but I put it on Teddy’s fluffy blue carpets and I piss all over it.

A man of boundless free will gotta make a point sometimes.

I refill my stew (damn tasty, almost as slick as m’boots), grabbing some more of the garlic bread. Gonna make my breath stink, but I ain’t going out anywhere, not anytime soon. Once I take care of all the paintings, the joint might be livable.

I start rummaging through the cabinets looking for something manly to drink. I find some red and white wine, which I’ll drink but only on rare occasions, like if it’s the end of the night and I’m not completely shit-canned yet.

There is one beer in the fridge, but it looks like one of those beers that fancy college boys drink. No thanks, I like my beer to look a little bit of red, white, and blue.

I check the basement, where I find more of those God-awful paintings. One of them looks like that guy from The Doors, all blues and whites and oranges and hippy-ness. Another one is more of that baby angel noise, except this one is smoking a cigarette and watching television. It actually isn’t so bad. I can get behind that kind of angel, as long as he’s not touching other angel’s asses.

I find a liquor cabinet and a pool table. The pool table is pretty fuckin’ B-O-S-S. Looks like it’s brand new, or at least like it was never used much. I turn on the overhead lights so I can jimmy open the liquor cabinet with my knife. It takes a few minutes, but finally, I get into that bitch.

Schnapps. Bloody fuckin’ hell.

Fifteen different kinds of schnapps. Not a drop of whiskey. Not a drop of vodka. Not a drop of gin. Fucking schnapps—peach, peppermint, and root beer. A sugary waste of alcohol. With that, I know I can’t possibly stay here, not with this kind of selection. Sure, Teddy kept good grub in the pantry (lots of Pop Tarts—boy oh boy do I love me some Pop Tarts) and had a pretty swanky looking bed, but I can’t support this bitchy cabinet of schnapps.

I go back upstairs, picking the watermelon schnapps as I walk away, just about to cry like a baby, though part of me wants to smash the bottle on the ground. Come on, Teddy! He seemed better than this nasty swill, but I guess not. I hope Teddy is in hell.

I turn on the television and they are talking about a big old storm that they are seein’, but ain’t exactly believin’, and it’s coming all over, as in every inch of the dang country. Fuckin’ hell, I think. I guess I might have to hunker down after all. I slug on the schnapps and I bite back the urge to vomit. If I drink enough of it, I’ll feel all right. Even though Teddy had terrible taste in his drinkies, the fucker knew how to keep an ample supply. I decide I’ll drink it until I puke, need be.

I look out the window. I can see one of the neighbors shoveling. She looks like she’s about to keel over from workin’ so damn hard. Stupid suburban assholes—always trimming their lawns and shoveling their driveways, and for what? So they can do it all again the next time? Just let it be, I say. Toss your kick-ass boots off (have I mentioned my boots yet?), watch some television ‘bout some ridiculous bullshit that makes you feel like you live on Mars, and drink some… well, don’t drink watermelon schnapps. Drink something better than that, ‘cause you only got so long before you go to meet Jesus, standin’ on his pedestal, tossing all them sinners off the clouds, throwing them back down to Earth to drown in the snow.

The snow is comin’ down hard.

“Hey, Teddy,” I call out. He doesn’t respond. “Hey, Teddy, where you keep the stogies and matches? I could use a smoke. If I go rootin’ around and find one of those goddamned electronic cigarettes or a big fuckin’ dildo, I’m gonna stomp it out in your eye, right after I shove this watermelon schnapps bottle up your ass,” I shout. I snicker to myself, addin’, “But I bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Teddy just got zinged.

Chapter Two

Dear fuckin’ diary: I’m bored as all hell.

This is what happens to wanderin’ men. This is why we take to wanderin’. What did you think would happen, huh? You think I’d just get all-cozy and shit—make a home here? You think I’m gonna start goin’ to the gym, trying to make myself look like some fuckin’ model? Think I’m gonna start buying some ass-grabbing angel paintings and drinking schnapps? You think I’m gonna start shopping for minivans with low interest rates? Open a bank account? Get a cell phone? Play in a softball league with my best buds?

Fuck that noise.

This is what I do. I take what’s rightly mine and then I enjoy it for a spell. You know what I mean… I get my eat on. I get my drink on. I enjoy the fruits of my labor and then I hit the gravel. I never know just where I’m goin’ next, cause I hafta wait for it to show itself to me. Jesus puts a little bug in my brain, ya’ see here, and then I know where I’m supposed to head next. Real simple.

I just don’t know where that place is yet, cause Jesus been quiet lately. Much obliged, and I reckon, and all that fancy talk aside, Jesus gonna be here real soon. He already knows m’plan, he just ain’t shared it with me yet. He’s got a plan for all of us I think, and it’s all got to do with this damn snow pilin’ up all around me. It’s a shitty plan, not his best work. My way’ll show itself when the time is right. This snow ain’t no accident. When Jesus is at the wheel, ain’t nothin’ an accident.

The television is out now, which is a real pain in the dick. I think it’s on account of the wind outside… and the snow. Everything is icin’ over real nasty. The power lines out in the street look like they about to snap in half! Wish I was back in Florida or something. It’s only been a few days, but I’m pretty sure that this storm is just getting started with kickin’ our asses. Somebody on that weather television station was talking about how this sucker is setting records left and right, and they was talkin’ about somethin’ real strange-like, somethin’ that they still can’t explain.

According to all them Doppler radars and shit, there’s no signs of a storm. All their instruments aren’t detecting shit, like they’re all on the fritz or somethin’, like they all got broken at the same time. One weather fella was spoutin’ on some theory that the weather patterns don’t even exist, that we’ve all just gone crazy and that our eyes are trickin’ us. They took him off the air when he started saying that—they cut away to one of them car commercials, the one with the candy-ass action star from Europe standing on top of a couple of trucks like some sort of cunty show-off.

They sayin’ they can’t say for sure when the snow is gonna stop. Mostly because they can’t even see it, ‘cept when they look out the window. I guess seein’ is believin’.

Ain’t that a bitch and a half?

They can’t predict nothing. I think Jesus is pullin’ the wool over our eyes, so I’m mighty glad that I’m on the right side with him, ya’ know? I heard somebody on one of them morning talk shows (before the fuckin’ television went out) say some things about God and how this is his reckonin’. They didn’t cut away from that like they did with the kooky weatherman, but she got into a real toss-up with the guy that sits next to her. They was really rippin’ into each other’s asses. She was saying that this is for all the sin that we done created; all the hate and abortions and all the pollution and all the evil people doing evil things to each other. I can’t speak much on that noise, but I think this is something a whole lot nastier than just a storm.

It’s makin’ people crazy.

Like there’s a drug in the snow and we all breathin’ it in, gettin’ batty as all shit.

I can feel it inside me, I swears it. I feel different, like something mean is comin’ alive inside my belly. I ain’t felt like this since I was real little, before I started wanderin’ and all that. Always been a mean son of a bitch but never all that crazy.

Hell, who am I fooling? I’ve always been crazy, so maybe the world is just bending in my direction now. Halle-freakin’-lujah. My uncle once told me that a man with one eye is a king in a world of blind assholes. Maybe I can be a king. The King of the Snowmen, right? Can’t you see me like that? Old Edgar, the king with the bad-boy cowboy boots and the ten-inch dick, standing on a mountain of snow, waiting for all the dumb cunts to come worship me.

I drank all the schnapps and I ate all the food. What’s His Name kept mostly frozen meals in the freezer, which was all a-okay by me, but when the electric started getting funky—flickerin’ on and off like it couldn’t make up its fuckin’ mind—I couldn’t figure for sure when I could use the microwave next. So I cooked them all at once and left them all over the countertops. Whenever I got hungry, I’d go pickin’ at one. Now, those are all gone, so I’m eating fruit snacks and potato chips. I found a nice stash in the basement, in the boiler room of all places. They were those hippie kind of potato chips, the ones that are actually good for you, but they tasted alright. A hungry man can’t go off complaining too much or Jesus’ll start tossin’ lightning bolts at his ass. Don’t want none of that.

The snow is halfway up the first floor windows now. I kinda feel like I’m gonna get buried alive in this shitty house, with all these ass-grabbin’ angels staring at me while I freeze to death, so that’s why I’m thinking about wandering again. If I wander, then I won’t get stuck nowhere. I need to find another place to keep warm for a spell, to wait this crazy thing out. Need me some place with real food and entertainment so I don’t get bored and thinking about wandering again.

Settle up. Settle in.

That’s what they always told me, but I wasn’t too good at listening. I always blamed it on my ears being so full of wax. I was always picking the wax out and flicking it at kids when I was in elementary school. I think that’s why I wouldn’t never clean it out. My secret weapon, not listenin’ none.

Something happened this morning though. Something special. A sign, maybe.

There I was, you see, taking a shit on the toilet. Those frozen meals smell even worse on the way out the back end, so I flush every couple squirts or so. Case of the wet and sticky chocolate thunder. I hope I’m not offending you, and by that, I means to say suck it up and stop being a whiny bitch.

You want to hear the goddamned story or not?

OK.

I’m on the shitter, doin’ what folks do on the shitter, fiddling around with the toilet paper on the spinner cause there ain’t shit else to do in there. Sometimes I look at pictures in magazines when I’m in the bathroom, but all the magazines that What’s His Nuts kept are all political ones and art magazines. Bullshit.

There I am, in my glory, taking care of business, hollerin’ every time I pushed because of the hot lava that is coming out, and suddenly I hear something tap at the window. A few seconds go by, and there’s another tap. This ain’t no coincidence, but I know that nothing is. Another tap, and then another. Fuckin’ aye, can’t a man take a shit in peace?

I pull back the shade, looking out the icy-ass window, and I see the neighbor leaning out her window, waving her hands at me. I’m not sure what she was throwing at the window. Maybe jelly beans or some shit like that. Pebbles? Icicles? Anyway, she got my attention. If only she knew that sometimes, I’m not the kinda guy that you want to get the attention of.

The window’s a little bit stuck in place, I’m reckonin’ from the weather, but I manage to budge open the window just enough to stick my head and neck out, so I crane my neck and look across the way. The upstairs windows are directly across from each other. It’s hard to tell, but I’m pretty sure she is standing in a bathroom just like me. They probably built all the houses in the neighborhood just the same. How fucking fucked is that shit? That, my friend, is why I wander. In case you needed another reason.

“Howdy!” she calls out. She’s got a lot of energy, just blasting off her like sunshine beams. I hate that. Right off the bat, I’m annoyed. I’ve always kept away from people like this, but I also don’t turn my back on signs when they show themselves to me. I’m not stupid, even if you think maybe I am cause of the way I talk, and cause I ain’t ever been to college. Go fuck yourself if you think it.

“Howdy,” I say back to her, leaving all that sickenin’ pep out of my voice. No time for that. I can’t pretend to be somethin’ I ain’t.

I can see that there’re two cats perched up in the window next to her. They sit on either side of her like prison guards walking a ravin’ lunatic to a padded room. Kitties even look like twins. “Nice to meet you. I’m Marianne! Are you staying with Teddy?”

Ah, yep. That was his name. Forget it for a spell. Teddy. I gotta remember it this time or it might bungle things up. People start to doubt you’re meant to be someplace if you don’t know the names of the people that are actually meant to be there. If that makes any fuckin’ sense at all.

“Yes, ma’am. I’m just staying for a few days, though. Crazy weather we’re having, isn’t it?” I reply. People love to talk about the weather, that’s one of the first things you learn when you go wanderin’. Actually, you can learn that just sittin’ still, too. Just turn on the Weather Channel. Those chumps make a living out of it.

A bitchy gust o’ wind blows past Marianne’s face and she pulls into her house for a few seconds, then pokes her head back out, still smiling. Nothin’ breaks this bitch’s stride. She’s cheery as all get-out. She says to me then, “Storm of the century I’d say. I’ve been cooped up in this house for a week now. I swear to God I’d go crazy if I didn’t have all my cats.” She speaks as though she had hundreds of cats, which I reckon might be the case.

She doesn’t look too bad. Not top notch, but nothing to sneeze at either. A little older than I like, a little scabby looking, but she might do, especially if she has a lot of grub stashed in her house. I’m not so sure about the cats. I hate cats. Like hate as in—I would send all the cats in the world to them ovens they had in that Holocaust if I could. If I settle in and settle up with this broad, we’ll have to do something about them cats. Maybe I’ll just bury them all in this goddamned snow.

Meow, motherfuckers! Meow!

Then Marianne says, “How are you gentlemen for supplies? Food? Heat?”

“We’re okay for the time bein’, ma’am. I reckon we have enough to last a few more days at least. And how are you faring, if you don’t mind my asking? Anything I can assist with?” People like the word “assist” better than the word “help.” If you say, “help”, then people feel like they’re not involved. If you “assist”, then it’s a team effort. They’re a shitload more likely to respond. Tips from the road. Zing, zing, zing.

She doesn’t mind me asking apparently, cause she replies, “I just went food shopping right before the storm got too nasty. Lucky I guess, since they didn’t even predict this thing. I could last a couple more weeks. If you fine fellows get hungry, just come on over, you hear me?”

Yeah, I hear her.

You bet your ass I hear her. I won’t go over there right away, ‘cause that will look a little fishy and sorta desperate. Might get her askin’ questions she best not be askin’. I’ll wait until tomorrow, work up some kind of sob story about What’s His Nuts, and then I’ll move on in, kick my feet back and enjoy the storm from a new perspective. I don’t know how long I’ll keep her heart thumpin’ after I become the king of that place over yonder, but if she’s a nasty kind of lover that lets me do what I want (and when I want; that’s important too), then I’ll keep her as long as she keeps me smirkin’.

“How long have you two been together?” she asks now, getting real fuckin’ nosy if you ask me. I assume she’s talking about the dude that lived in the house, that one that picked me up on the side of the road. Polly Prissy Pants With The Shitty Paintings is what I think his boyfriends called him. Zing.

Nah, it’s Teddy. Like the graham crackers. I knew that. I put that in m’memory bank now. His name was Teddy and he made some killer stew. He’s dead now, and I’m glad for it.

“We just met, not too long ago,” I say, working together a story that I will have to stick to when I eventually go over there and take what’s mine from the crazy cat lady. “He’s a great guy,” I say. Sometimes bein’ so sweet makes my stomach slick with goo, like the time I ate a whole dozen glazed doughnuts on a dare. And for the record, Teddy wasn’t a great guy—in fact, he seemed like a real dickwad if you ask me. Anybody with such shitty paintings on the wall can’t be worth much to the world. I did the planet a favor. “I think I’m in love,” I say now, kind of acting like I’m embarrassed, which I sort of am. Oh man, am I selling the shit out of this one or what?

Even with a twenty-foot gap between the two windows, I can see her blushing. She is impressed by how sweet I am. Ain’t that precious? This is why I’m a good wanderer, because I know how to put on the charm when the time is right. I wander because people love my shit, no matter where I go. Even though she thinks I’m a little light in the loafers, that don’t mean I won’t be deliverin’ her the meat-man in record time, know what a’mean?

“Aren’t you a sweet dear?” she asks. I don’t know if I’m supposed to answer that question. That’s what they call re-tor-ikal. And yes, I am. I’m a sweet, sweet dear. I’m a peach. I’m a prince. Look at me, makin’ the world a better place. Punky Fuckin’ Brewster over here.

Another cat comes up to Marianne, rubbing against her arm, showing its ass in my direction. She looks at it, smiling and nuzzling her face against its fur. You have no idea how bad I want to tell her that I want to come over and touch her pussies. Zing. I don’t go saying that like I want to, since that will really fuck things up if I do. But a man can think whatever he wants, right? I’ve got a whole garage full of pussy jokes, just waitin’ on her to give me the opportunity. Life is grand sometimes.

Chapter Three

Marianne keeps trying to push these nasty hotdogs on me. The bull of it is—and man oh man am I biting my tongue as I explain this shit to her like a proper gentleman—they ain’t hotdogs at all. They ain’t even meat. She keeps hemmin’ and hawin’ about how delicious they are, and how healthy they are for my colon, and how they’ll spoil if we don’t eat all fifteen packages of them soon. I tell her there’s no worry in that, since it ain’t meat, so it has almost no chance of spoiling. She doesn’t believe me, but I know they won’t spoil. Them silly shits are made of plastic, I swear it.

They taste like a little baby’s mashed up fingers, and they kinda look like ’em too. I never eaten a baby’s mashed up fingers, but I bet they would taste better than her endless supply of “Happy Pups” hotdogs. They’re some fake-ass shit and Marianne’s a damn faker for eating them. I almost tell her that it’s been a long time since she had a real hot dog in her mouth and she might’n change her mind if I stuck my commander-in-beef in there and wiggled my hips around, just for a few minutes. I can make this shit-for-brains a meat eater again, and you just watch me. And there’s a big ol’ zing for ya’. Zing a ling.

This morning she keeps feeding them baby fingers to her cats. They chomp on ’em like they was made outta mouse meat or somethin’. Marianne keeps dippin’ them tasteless nubs in some sort of barbecue sauce, and that just about turns my stomach inside out. I love me some barbecue sauce, especially on a hot rack o’ ribs, but this hippie bitch has ruined that right there for me.

I force one of them into my throat, mostly because my stomach is growling like it’s pissed off at me and there’s not much else to eat in her fridge. Everything else is just as fucked up—some shit called Kim-Chee (I once banged a Korean tramp named Kim Chee, bet your buttons I did, zing zing zing), pickled cabbage that looks like it was dragged out some sewer grate, and some weird ass rubbery stuff called “temper.” I wanna tell her that my temper is risin’, especially if she tries to get me munchin’ on that deathly lookin’ shit. The temper (she keeps correctin’ me with temp-UH, temp-UH) has this bluish and gray tint to it. It’s more of that fake-ass meat she says. Ain’t nothin’ that’s pretending to be meat should be blue. Maybe brown, maybe red, but not blue. That’s some twisted shit right there.

Jesus Christ, oh Lord on high, oh King of Kings, spare me this woman before I smite her ass. Spare me her shitty taste in food, if you even wanna call it that.

While I chew on the little baby fingers, I close my eyes and try to remember the last time I had a juicy hot dog that didn’t make me want to vomit. I keep thinkin’ that maybe I can trick myself (all of it up inside my mind) into thinking that this is a real tasty hot dog, and that I don’t want to cut this chick’s head off real slowly, and with a toenail clipper.

Yep, I remember my last hot dog. It’s been awhile.

I remember Kyle, wearing his stupid red and white paper hat, fishin’ out chili on to a dog.

Frannie’s Franks.

That’s what he called his hot dog cart. I never knew where he got the name, but he gave me a job when I was first tryin’ hard to settle in and settle up. Matter a’ fact, it was the last time I had me a job. Was about two years back, maybe three, when I took to roamin’ in Massachusetts and Rhode Island, more in the south than I am these days. I was pickin’ cans at the landfill when I seen this fella rooting around for scrap metal. He’s dressed in a striped up suit, whistlin’ to himself like he’s one of those seven fuckin’ elves that lives with that pale princess bitch in the woods.

We get to talkin’ and I find out he’s real excited about hot dogs. “Christ on a bike… who the hell isn’t?” I said to him. So Kyle said that he just opened up a hot dog stand and he needs somebody to watch it for him, just for four or five hours a day while he’s at his day job. I didn’t have much else going on—the cheap fucks at the State Offices in Rhode Island wouldn’t give me any money for my horrible affliction from the big War. They kept askin’ me which war it was, and I said that I fought in the greatest war of all—the battle between the wanderin’ man and the suburban suck-rod. They didn’t find much of a laugh in that, so I left brown logs all over the employee parking lot. It was only like three or four of them, but I’d been holding them in my gut for a few days. I can be a real spiteful shit like that. We wanderin’ men get constipated from not havin’ much fresh water to drink. When we get backed up, and it finally comes out… well… cover your eyes, cover your ears, cover your mouth.

So Kyle… the freakin’ king of the frankfurter…said if I guarded his cart every night, (since he left it out on a main avenue in Providence, so that nobody would ever take his spot) I could get four dollars an hour plus all the hot dogs I could eat. I didn’t mind the gig much, because I was livin’ in the outdoors anyway. Being able to sleep underneath a hot dog cart was a-okay by me. Better than snoozin’ in a dried out drain pipe, which is what I was doing up until the hot dog gig.

M’job lasted about three weeks and let me be clear: I enjoyed those steamy little fuckers to the full extent of my pleasure-buttons.

I even invented a couple hot dogs myself.

Yep, you heard right. Edgar is an inventive son of a bitch.

The Brain Licker. Half a bottle of ketchup, jalapeno peppers, heavy on the onions. Somebody actually threw one at me because they thought it tasted like shit, but I picked it up and ate it, showed them I ain’t a wasteful cunt like they were. I didn’t give ’em their money back either.

Texas Pete. I’d chop up the hot dog into tiny little pieces, almost like it got mashed on accident. Then I would swirl it all up with some barbecue sauce and mustard, and then I’d sprinkle celery salt all over it. Those didn’t make people as mad as The Brain Licker, so Kyle actually gave me a fifty-cent raise for inventin’ a top seller.

I was well on my way to freedom.

And my favorite hot dog creation—The Wanderer. Named it after myself ‘cause the meat was mighty tasty on the lips, just like your old friend here. Zing. Chopped onions, ground beef, spicy mustard, sour-krout (however the fuck you spell it), and diced chili peppers. The chili peppers were a whole new thing on his cart, on account of me buying them at the dollar store on my own dime. Like I said to him, “You’re welcome, Kyle. You unappreciative cocksucker.”

Hell, by the end of the month, I planned on ownin’ Frannie’s Franks outright. Kyle wouldn’t even see it coming. I’m a shark like that, ya’ hear? I had the American Dream goin’ on, inventing hot dogs and eating like a king, sleepin’ through the night with the smell of hotdogs making me have some fucked up hot-dog-related dreams.

I wondered: why should he get all the profits? I take what’s mine, case you ain’t noticed none.

It was a winnin’ sitch-ee-aye-shun. I still got to do my regular wandering-man thing, mostly roundabout Providence. I got to wander, but for the first time, I had a damn fine reason that most people could understand; I was makin’ that green stuff hand over fist, eating hot dogs all day, pocketing my own percentage like I saw fit. Kyle was paying me to gorge on them sweet dogs, and I must have eaten my weight (not even includin’ the buns) five times over. My shits smelled like dirty hot dog water, and I kept droppin’ them off at the unemployment offices on a daily routine, until security started chasin’ me away every morning. The cops got to know my face so I stopped hangin’ around that place. Not like they were gonna give me nothing anyway.

Hot dogs, I reckon, are full of fat and all kinds of bad stuff that ain’t too healthy. I ate ’em since I was a kid, probably three or four times a week, and I never got fat. That wasn’t the way things were no more though. I was fucked mostly because I was gettin’ on my years. I’m no spring chicken. I went climbing “over the hill” a couple years back and it ain’t been the same since. Like my body ain’t my own. Sometimes, I look in the mirror and I’m not sure who I am. I’m not a fatty, but I’m leanin’ in that direction.

So here I am, pushing a cart around all day, getting good exercise all the same, but I started to get fat for the first time in my whole goddamned life, which is the last thing a wanderin’ man like me needs to do. Gettin’ fat is what makes people give up on everything. I seen it on television before.

My extra pounds were hard to hide. Even though he didn’t suspect anything, he suspected my double chin. Kyle called me out, sayin’ I was eating all his profits or some crazy theory like that. Didn’t respect his workers none. Typical. “You know what you are? A capitalist pig-fucker.” I called him that to his face and he fired me right there on the spot, just like any real capitalist pig-fucker would do.

You’re screwing me. You know that? I’ve got a wife and kids to take care of, Eddie. You get that through your skull? You’re fucking fired, he said.

In case you’re wondering who Eddie is, I told Kyle that my name was Eddie. Sometimes I come up with new names (like Duke Suckwell or Rocky Ricardo), or I make ones that sound like other names I use, but just a little bit different. Keeps a wanderin’ man on his toes.

I reckon you better mind your manners, I said back at him. Before I knew what I was doing, I’d wrapped my meaty (pudgy? Were my hands getting pudgy?) hands around one of the topping tins and tossed some shredded cheddar in that fucker’s face. He glared at me like he was a big man or somethin’, like he wasn’t wearing a stupid paper hat with a crude magic marker drawing of a hot dog on it.

You have some balls on you, huh? Mr. Big Balls, tossing cheese at the boss.

He’d already fired me by then, so I didn’t give a shit what he said. I threw onions at him next and he comes barrelin’ at me, angry as a viper on a hot day, wrapping his sweaty, hot-doggy hands ‘round my throat. I only laughed, starin’ him down. I got the eyes of a bull when you try to hurt me. Hell, I did that bull face in a mirror once and I even scared the shit out of myself. If old Edgar is dropping them bull-eyes on you, best get in your car and drive home, hombre.

And what happened next… well, this is the reason why I took to wanderin’ again.

A wandering man gets himself in a heap of trouble, from time to time, which is to be expected, and then he gets his cowboy boots clippin’ and a’cloppin’ before The Man with the star on his chest comes and sticks his finger up that ass. Sometimes, a sign shows itself and, sometimes, you just know when your time is up. Sometimes it’s a mix of both and I think this was one of those times.

I took to stranglin’ him back, only a whole lot harder than he did me, more like I mean to kill him and then I see his face realizin’ that. Kyle thinks he’s gonna die and I can’t help but feel excited about that. I love when they realize that I’m not just playin’ tough. His face went all eggplant-purple and veiny. I’d been strangled plenty of times, so I could take the punishment a lot longer than he could. I had callouses the shape of man-hands all around my neck, what with people always trying to strangle my ass for one dang thing or another. Him and me were stranglin’ each other hard, getting harder every second, but he didn’t have the strength in his forearms like I did. Like I still do. I could have snapped his neck with one flex of my arms.

Instead, I asked him: You hungry?

His eyes bulged out of his head like he was a cartoon character that just saw a pretty lady struttin’ by with her skirt hiked up to her pinkish lady zone. That happens when you’re stranglin’ on somebody real hard. You kinda think that maybe—just maybe—one of them big steel anvils is gonna fall on their head. If one of ’em ever actually does, I swear I’ll stop strangling them because I’ll be laughing so hard.

You look mighty hungry. So here y’go, I said.

I shoved one of the buns into his mouth. When I put it in, he tried to bite down on my fingers, but I pulled ’em out right quick. He wasn’t too quick, ‘cause he was probably seeing all them pretty stars in his eyes, trying to stay awake. Kyle knew if he passed out that I would kill him and piss on his corpse. The bull-eyes… they tell you that once you see ’em on my face. This wasn’t peddlin’ hot dogs. No, this was some real warrior shit goin’ down.

A couple people stopped on the sidewalk, gawkin’ at the two of us, dressed up like assholes, strangling on each other and gagging on hot dog buns (well, one of us was gagging on a hot dog bun). One of the bastards in the growing crowd took a picture.

I shoved a cold hot dog in Kyle’s mouth next, and then another. He started gaggin’ like he was gonna lose it, so I put two more in. Then I started thinkin’ to myself about how many hot dogs I can fit inside before he dies. Sort of like a game, but instead of screamin’ “BINGO!” at the end, he’d fall down and die on that there street, lookin’ like a street vendin’ asshole for his trip to Jesus’ side. Although, I bet if you die with a hot dog in your mouth, you go to Satan instead. Zing.

The guy with the camera on his phone took another picture, so I turned and looked at him. I smiled. I ain’t smiled like that since I took school pictures when I was a kid. I picked the laser background. It was cool as hell.

Truth is, I shouldn’t a’been smiling and drawing all that attention on my ass, but I couldn’t help it none. I wondered if the picture taker (a blond guy in his twenties with a baseball cap on his head) would put it on that place where people put funny pictures up. I wasn’t allowed on those websites no more, mostly because they always kicked me out of the libraries for lookin’ at fake boobs online. I don’t even bother with computers anymore—never liked ’em anyhow—but maybe this fella will put me out there and I’ll be famous.

I smiled again, this time showing my teeth. I always had me some nice teeth.

I crammed one more hot dog into Kyle’s mouth but I wasn’t sure any more would fit. His eyes were bulging out so far now that he didn’t even look like the real Kyle anymore. He looked like one of those paintings they do where they make your nose super big, and your ears, and sometimes your lips. Carric-chures I think they’re called.

The camera kept flashing. It wasn’t too wise, in case you’re wondering why I’m such a fuckin’ idiot in this story. People start taking pics of you, and then the police know who to look at after they find this fuckhead’s body on the curb, right next to his hot dog cart with my fingerprints all over it, all over him. That’s all some bad news for a wanderin’ man, but I wanted to give this guy the funniest picture he ever did see. The world is cured by laughter. I believe that. So true.

I set my mind back on my unofficial world record. It was tough, but I got one more hot dog past his teeth, probably because he had one slidin’ all the way down his throat, makin’ some extra room now. He slumped down by my feet, grasping at his neck. He let go of me completely, staring at the ground. His fingers twitched. Somebody help him, a lady with a pig-face and three chins cried out.

Another asked, Anybody know the Hym-lick? Whatever the fuck that is.

Kyle fell on the ground, six or seven hot dogs peeking out of his mouth from all the way down that motherfucker’s gullet. I gave him a good kick in the ribs, and then I loaded up my gunny pack with all the fixings and dogs from his cart. I took to leavin’ but on the way by, I smiled for the camera again. Them people were terrified of me, but I still posed for them proper. I would have signed my autograph if somebody asked me.

Hell, I was bound to be famous. Back then, I was. Not so much today.

So here I am, eating fake-ass hot dogs with Marianne.

What a road I done travelled. I can’t help calculatin’, I can get eight or nine of these rotten baby fingers in her mouth before she croaks. They’re smaller than regular hot dogs, so maybe I can even get ten of them in. If there’s a will, then there’s a way, ya’ hear?

“Hey, Marianne?” I ask.

She looks at me, licking away barbecue sauce from her finger while one of her cats licks the thumb on her opposite hand. She’s really gross with them there cats, like I told ya’. “Yes, dear?” she asks. I ain’t known her long, but I already hate it when she calls me stuff like that. Jesus Christ, spare me from this woman. Can you hear me Jesus? I swear I’ll kill her if you don’t change up her ways real soon.

“How many hot dogs you reckon you can fit in your mouth?”

She laughs at the question, thinkin’ me kinda silly. I don’t laugh. I like to laugh, for sure, but it don’t come easy. “You’re such a card,” she says to me.

* * *

Her house smells awful. I’ve made a big honker of a mistake coming here.

There’s cats everywhere, pissing on every bit of the rug, climbing on all the cabinets and furniture, making the whole joint smell like a litter box that ain’t been cleaned in three years. I don’t even think these mangy little shits even have litter boxes. I think they just piss in Marianne’s bathtub. Or maybe they just piss in her mouth. She’s nasty like that.

When I first saw Marianne in that window, I thought I might be obliged to give her the old in-and-out like I’m known to do, and I thought I might even get some kicks out of it. But I gotta say: the smell of this shithole makes my soldier go all soft. I couldn’t get hard in here if I had ten porno tapes blasting at the same time and I was being rubbed down by big-boobied Swedish girls with wet mouths and no Daddy-issues. It’s hard to deliver the goods when the smell of piss is so strong.

All kinds of smell, and they’re not all from cat piss. She keeps making me these pukish green shakes that smell like the devil’s dick, sayin’ it’s some kind of special grass. Marianne says it will cleanse me and make my spirit sing. Can you believe that shit? My spirit sings plenty, thank ya’ much Jesus Christ our Lord and Savior, no thanks to you Marianne, of the Jingle Bell Sweater Tribe. This bozo thinks that there’s some sort of power in being kind to people. She said that shit—not in those words but that was what she meant.

“I don’t follow traditional religions. My God is the propagation of absolute, unflinching kindness, and loving one’s neighbor as one hopes to be loved themselves,” she said to me yesterday. I was trying to eat some sweet potato crackers but having a hard time with it, what with them being hard as rocks.

“Yeah. Me too, I reckon.”

And Marianne keeps asking about What’s His Name. Every time she starts running her mouth about it, I tell her that he’s out tryin’ to get help for us. I explain that he said he’ll be back in a few days with fresh supplies. When I say that, she makes this scrunched up fucking face that makes it look like she’s sucking on a lemon, kinda lookin’ like she don’t believe me. This cat-hoarding ninny won’t take me at my word and that sort of hurts me in a way that stings like a summummabitch.

I don’t let people hurt me for long. I get to hurtin’ em back.

I woke up this morning and I said to myself, “Self, you’ve gotta just tell her what happened. Tell her that you cut her neighbor real deep and he bled out all over the place. Tell her that you’ll do the same to her if she doesn’t get rid of the cats and clean herself real proper-like. Tell her that you’ll do the same to her if she doesn’t scrub all the cat piss out of this house, cause I’ll be damned if I’m going to stay in a place that won’t let me get a proper, manly stiffy-in-a-jiffy in m’pants.”

The worst thing of all about her: she keeps cuddling up next to me when I take naps.

I push her away, because every inch of her smells like cat piss. I’m pretty sure they piss all over her when she’s sleeping. Or maybe she just lets them piss on her all through the day, no matter what’s going on. Maybe she just plops her sweater-wearin’ ass down on the carpet and calls them over to gang-piss on her. Anyway, she wants my Roman warrior pretty bad, but that ain’t happening. I’m saving myself for somebody who doesn’t smell like Nermal’s cunt, thank ya very much. Zing.

I sleep in her guest room, which has all these Polaroid pictures of her cats on the walls, licking themselves, strutting around with their backs arched up, eating cat food, or just cuddling up close to her face. How the broad doesn’t sneeze twenty-four hours a day, I’ll never know.

Me, I’m allergic.

I ain’t stopped sneezing since I came into this shithole.

This afternoon, I let three of the cats out the window, since I can’t get the front door open. She didn’t see me do it. They kept trying to crawl back in, while I hunted through the mess of Marianne’s hovel, looking for another meowin’ bastard to rid the house of. I kept pushing them out again, and then one of the brats scratched me real nasty-like. Fuck that noise, I said. So I grabbed it by the scruff on its neck and I buried its face in the snow. It fought for a few, but I think it sent a pretty nice message to the other kitties, cause they all went a’scamperin’ in every direction. They had no interest in coming back to Marianne’s piss-bucket-house after that… or should I start calling it my house? Bet your ass, partner, it’s my house now, and it’s time to clean all this shit up.

I’d guess she’s got about twenty cats. They all look the same. Not just that they’re cats, but that they all have the same color, that bein’ jet-black. She must have some kind of weird tick that makes her only buy black cats. Or maybe she don’t even buy them. Maybe they just come to her because they follow the piss smell from miles and miles away.

Just a little while ago, she gets all worked up about somethin’: “Have you seen Cherry Pie?” she asks me.

“Who’s Cherry Pie?”

“He’s my chummy little foo-foo with the black face and the long whiskers.” Yeah, that’s what they all look like. And them shits ain’t chummy. “He looks like Clark Gable,” she adds, but that don’t help me much. Never heard that name before.

“I haven’t seen it. But you best believe I’ll keep my eye out. I love these kitties as much as you do.” Once I turn on that charming motherfucker I keep buried deep inside me, sometimes I can’t turn it off. What I really want to tell her is that she and her cats are going to be dead soon, unless they shape up and get in line with my new vision for this here world we created around us. I’m looking to settle in and settle up, like I said a million times before.

“My sweet, sweet Cherry Pie,” she sort of moans beneath her breath, wringing her tiny hands together. Marianne is probably in her early forties. She looks like she’d be hot as hell, if she didn’t live in Piss Plaza and if she stopped wearing those stupid sweaters (the last one had the whole fuckin’ alphabet on it, like she was seven years old or somethin’).

“Where oh where is my sweet Cherry Pie?” she calls out, sort of mewing like one of her cats now. People always say that folks start to act like their pets after being around them long enough. Truer than true, I say. In fact, I bet she licks herself when it’s time for a bath, probably starts with her bushy crotch. Zing.

She’s up and moving again, still mourning, making another one of those awful fuckin’ shakes for me, so I tell her that I am already well fed and I don’t need any more. She insists on it though, as she wades through the cluttered kitchen, rinsing out the blender and sobbing over her kitten. I can see cat hairs clinging to the mouth of the blender, but those don’t seem to bother her. I found a furball in the vegetable drawer the other day. Big old clump of hair, right next to the carrots and cabbages, sorta like it belonged there.

“Cherry Pie, where oh where have you gone?” she mumbles to herself as the sound of the blender drowns out her despair. Good Lord, I can’t take it anymore.

It never gets any better than this. I’ve seen it before and I’ll see it again. This is as good as people get. This is why I’m a wanderin’ man. One joker after another in this world, the way I see it. They all act the same when it comes right down to it.

“Fuck your Cherry Pie,” I say. Them there words escape my mouth so quick that I can’t snatch them back. I didn’t want it to go down this way, but shit happens when shit is ready to happen, that’s what I say. The dam is broken, so I hurl another cuss at her, “You make me sick, you fuckin’ twit.”

“Oh dear,” she says, stopping the blender, turning to look at me with big moony eyes, unsure of how to respond to what I said. “That vile language. My kitties don’t like swearing. Please don’t do that around them.”

“Your kitties are fuckin’ worthless. They should be drowned in the bathtub, every last one of ’em. I’ll do it for ya’, just say the word and I’ll make them screech and scratch til they sink to the bottom of your tub.”

“Oh dear,” she repeats, wiping her hands on a dishrag. Looks a bit like she’s shakin’ now, sort of tremblin’ all over. She keeps cleaning her hands cause she’s so nervous. This gesture is the closest thing I have seen to her bathing herself like a proper human being. “Oh dear, you’re horrible.” She don’t sound like she’s all that convinced of that. Wishy washy as all hell.

“Wanna know where Cherry Pie is? I buried her in the snow. I drowned her in it, actually, right outside your bedroom window. She fought like a fuckin’ tiger and now she’s dead.” I’m not sure that the one I killed was actually Cherry Pie, it’s not like I checked her nametag, but it felt good to make Marianne upset, to break her down, just ‘cause I could.

“My precious kitties,” she says. I ain’t sure she actually even believes me. Maybe she’s in shock.

“Here’s the plan, Silly Sweaters. I’m gonna kill all these here cats, and if you get in my way, I’m gonna kill you too. Got that?” I pause, waitin’ on a response to the question but she don’t give one. “And while I’m puttin’ my boot to these here cats, I want you to clean this house up like you ought to have done a long time ago, if you even know how to do it. I want you to scrub out all the cat piss, from top to bottom. If I can smell one hint of it, I’ll cut you up into tiny pieces and flush you down the toilet. You hear me?”

“Oh dear. Oh dear. Oh dear. My precious babies.”

And that’s it. The tippin’ point.

That’s where I lose control. Sometimes it wells up inside of me, like I can kinda keep it in its place. I know I’m gonna do it even before I do it, but it still feels like a surprise when it happens. Ka-bang. My Mama said I had the Devil inside me.

I once told her I don’t have the Devil inside me. I got Jesus inside me, but sometimes he gets actin’ like the Devil. My God is a God that gives out justice when justice needs givin’. My God don’t like flippy-floppy dummies like this one. I get to thinkin’ that she is wearing a sweater with a Christmas tree on it, and it’s got big silver, jingly bells hanging off it. I get to thinkin’ that she’s gonna die in that fucking sweater and it seems real fittin’.

“My Cherry Pie!” she wails now, falling to her knees. I’m not even sure she’s thinking on what I just told her, about how she needs to clean up all the cat piss. She’s still just whining over Cherry Pie.

She doesn’t resist when I get closer to her, because she’s so damn shocked by the Devil that jus’popped out of my skin. I wonder if I look different when I get like this. I wonder if Jesus can see me when I turn into this new thing. I can barely remember what happens after I’m done with the deed. It must be pretty bad, because when my brain comes back to planet Earth, there’s blood everywhere. It’s kinda always like this for me, not just with Marianne, but with all of them I killed before. I shake my head back and forth, trying to dig up the last thing I can remember.

Somebody on television once said there’s this thing called am-neesh-uh. Which means you forget things sometimes. Like big things, like when you kill somebody who’s wearing an idiotic sweater.

I look at the mess all around me. Must have been some serious am-neesh-uh.

Marianne’s head is detached from her neck, and it doesn’t look like the Devil in me did it very cleanly. I think he used a dull knife—maybe a butter knife. Her head isn’t completely detached though. One little strand of meat still connects it to the rest of her, which is sort of pushed over to the side of the kitchen. The meat coming out the top of her neck sort of has the color of a real hotdog, pinkish and juicy.

Her face is stuck in this crazy grin. I wonder if she enjoyed it (whatever it is I did) in some way. Some people welcome death. Marianne was probably lonely as all hell… I think most chicks are when they don’t have a proper man in their life, so maybe I did the crazy bitch a favor.

I wonder how the Stupid Fucking Sweater industry will do now. They might go out of business, I think, and that makes me laugh a little.

All the cats come running into the kitchen, climbing all over Marianne’s body. What’s left of her body is slumped against the kitchen cabinets. They start licking the blood and I laugh at that too. I shouldn’t be enjoying this as much as I am, but it’s fuckin’ priceless.

They never gave a shit about her. I bet they hated her as much as I did. I’m thinkin’ they just wanted food. She controlled the food, so they played their little game, kissing her ass and such. Sort of like me, when I tell people what they want to hear instead of what I’m really thinkin’ inside my sick head. These cats are nothing but schemin’ Devils, just looking for a bloody neck to lick on.

Suddenly, I feel real close to the cats.

I kind of respect them, even though I hate their fucking guts.

I go into the bedroom so I can take a nap.

The cats don’t follow me, cause they’re too busy nibblin’ on Marianne.

As I try to fall asleep, I keep going back and forth about the cats, wondering whether I’m going to exterminate ’em or not. I need to sleep on it. They don’t seem too rotten now that I seen the Devil inside them. I might even get used to the pissy smell if I stick around long enough.

Chapter Four

The snoopy bastard has been coming around for a couple of days now, but I think the snow is getting too deep for him. I watch him struggle, trying to force his way up to the mail slot, tossing some inconsequential bullshit in—ads for supermarkets that nobody could even get to anymore, coupons for one-toppin’ pizzas, and bills from the state or the city or whoever the hell else wants to ram something painful up my asshole.

It would cause some suspicion if the mailman disappeared, but maybe not much longer. The world is going to shit, one squeeze at a time, and a mailman could go missing anywhere in the goddamned arctic tundra outside. If there is one thing I’m sure of, it’s this right here: when the shit really hits the fan, people stop pretending to care about each other.

Sure, they put on a nice front. They smile and offer help. Oh boo fuckin’ hoo for you… let me lend you a hand. They just wanna go the fuck home though, ya hear? They wanna watch TV, see what their sports team is up to. They wanna play violent video games and bitch about the government. They wanna eat a hamburger, then jerk off into a sock or maybe even their wife’s tuna can, if they’re lucky enough to be married to a woman who puts out. Zing.

Nobody wants to help you.

Got it?

Nobody’s going to help you except your own damn self. Yep, if you got a family they’ll stick up for you real nice, but even they’ll screw you over the first chance they get. You’re all alone, buddy, just like me. Except that I have the balls to admit it.

He’s knocking at the door now. The motherfucker wants something. I wait for a short while, hoping that he’ll go away but he keeps on knocking, louder and louder each time. Cocksucker! The United States Postal service can lick my taint.

“Good afternoon, sir,” I say, smiling at the man that stands before me. Gusts of wind push some flurries of snow through the door, makin’ me shiver a little.

The mailman nods, looking cold and a little pissed off. He’s got a mustache, a thick black one that looks like he takes good care of it. I can respect a clean lookin’ mustache, but it doesn’t quite work on this dope’s face. His big round eyeballs look like he’s got about four workin’ brain cells, and the fourth one is just about to sizzle out of business for good.

“Good afternoon. Didn’t you hear me knocking?” the man asks. The balls on him!

“Sorry, I had m’television turned up kinda loud cause my hearin’ isn’t so good these days. I was watching an action movie, a real fun flick with that Bruce Willis fella.” A fun flick. You hear me talkin’ like this? Your old pal Edgar is the best liar who ever lived.

The man looks shocked at this revelation, and then I realize why. Stupid me.

“You have electricity in there?”

“Generator.” Smooth as silk, motherfucker.

His face gets all twisty-like as he hands over a stack of envelopes. “Funny, Marianne never mentioned having a generator.”

Because Marianne is a goddamned twit, that’s why, Mr. Postal Dude. This shit better stop asking so many questions. That’s a dangerous thing to do, whether he knows it or not.

“Well, that’s cause its brand new. Just put it in after the storm started up, before it got too nasty to drive. It’s hummin’ around the back.”

He puts his finger to his ear, as if he is listening for it. The bastard doesn’t believe me. Sure, I’m a liar, but I’m a damned good one. I try not to look offended, even though I am.

“Can’t hear it, what with all the wind,” I say. He smiles at me, finally giving up on his interrogation. For now, at least.

“The name’s Skipper,” he says, reaching his hand out to shake mine. I take it. His hand feels like a wet fish, all floppy and slick and cold as hell. The snow is still gusting in from outside, and I begin to wonder how long all these fuckin’ formalities will take. It’s blinding out there. I hope he doesn’t plan on staying, cause he certainly ain’t invited to.

Skipper. What the hell kind of name is that? Obviously a nickname, but who the fuck would pick that for a nickname? If I knew a kid named Skipper when I was a kid, I probably would have put snakes in his locker. Probably would have ripped him a new one.

“They call me Edgar,” I say as I pull my hand away from the flippy-floppy mackerel. “Much obliged,” I say, holding up the mail he is delivered to me and pretending to look through it as if it is very important to me. It’s all about living the lie.

Skipper says, “I came knocking because I just wanted to let you all know that we won’t be delivering any more mail until after the storm ends. It’s going on a couple weeks now. We just can’t do it any longer.”

“No problem. It must be a pretty rough job with all this weather.”

Skipper nods, grinning as he says, “You don’t know the half of it. I used to do my route in about five hours. Now it takes me eleven. Only reason you all are still getting mail is because we got ourselves a couple of snowmobiles.”

“I’m surprised anybody is even sending mail anymore.” Suburbia, I think to myself, is the only place in the world where anybody actually gives a shit about the mail. There ain’t nothin’ good about the mail. It’s another trap we set for ourselves, makin’ it so we can’t leave. Gotta check the mail. Gotta check the mail. Gotta check the mail. Fuck that noise.

“I expect it to stop altogether pretty soon. Storm’s gonna end eventually, like all these storms do, but it’s coming in at a slow trickle now. Marianne used to get twenty or so things a day, mostly those cat magazines and advertisements, but now she’s only getting like two or three.”

Oh, what a loyal fucking mailman. He even knows all his customers by name, even knows how much mail they get. He’s a creep, that’s what he is. He’s a creep and he’s probably got the hots for Marianne. I sort of want to tell him what I did to her, to see if he starts cryin’ like a little girl.

“Speaking of,” he says, and I already know what he’s gonna drop on me next, “is Marianne home? If you don’t mind, I’d like to tell her in person that we won’t be delivering for a bit. I know she’ll be really upset about it, what with all the stuff she gets. She gets real excited when her magazines come, I know she looks forward to them all month.”

“Marianne’s in the shower.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck. I bite my tongue. I swear to my savior the lord Jesus Christ that I’m a way better liar than this. I’m just having an off day. All these mangy cats are gettin’ my allergies in a tizzy and makin’ me think funny thoughts. This ain’t typical, ya’ hear?

Then he asks the question that I know is coming next. “You guys have hot water still?”

“No.” But really, I should have said yes. “Yes,” I say. He’s got me scramblin’ and I hate that feeling.

Skipper looks mighty confused. “All the pipes in my house are frozen. It must be the electric you get from the generator, right? Shouldn’t you be conserving though?”

“I need to—,” I start to say, but then the Skipper interrupts me.

His moustache sort of dances as he makes a mean looking face. “Let me talk to Marianne,” he says, “right now.”

He fancies himself a tough guy. Isn’t that special?

“Go away before this gets ugly,” I say.

Skipper takes a step forward, getting in my face. “Where is it you come from? Marianne never mentioned having a boyfriend. I would know. I come to this house every day, so I would know if she had a boyfriend.” The tone in Skipper’s voice makes it sound like he may be a bit on the jealous side, like he wants to be pokin’ on Marianne’s tuna can. He’s a suspicious little shit, but he also hates my guts for gettin’ so close to Marianne.

“Back up, little fella,” I say. He’s not really little. In fact, he’s a few inches taller than yours truly. That don’t mean I can’t talk to him like a little man. A fella with a moustache doesn’t stand a chance against a wanderin’ man, unless he is a wanderin’ man himself. Most wanderin’ men don’t wear moustaches anyway. Cause people are less likely to pick you up if you’re not clean shaven.

“Marianne?” Skipper calls out now, pushing past me into the mud room. “You in there, Marianne?” I gotta admit, I’m pretty shocked at how bold this shit-for-brains is.

I grab him by the color of his dark blue parka, pushin’ him up against the wall. “I told you to get the fuck out of my house.”

“It isn’t your house. It’s Marianne’s.”

“It used to be Marianne’s, but now it belongs to me. Ya’ hear?”

“You’re a liar,” he says, bearing his teeth at me. He looks like he wants to take a swing at me. I sort of hope he does, cause I’ve been bored as all hell since Marianne got her head lopped off. I’ve been itchin’ for something to break up the day. “Where is she?” he asks again, way more insistent.

The little fucker is asking, so I’m much obliged.

“Follow me,” I say, walking through the door, waving for him to join me. He rights himself, pulling on his clothes as I take my hands off him. He readjusts himself, hopin’ he can get back some of his dignity. When he sees what I’m about to show him, he’ll know that he’s done messed with the wrong motherfucker. “I’ll show you her. You’ll love this, Skippy.”

He follows behind me and I can tell he’s hesitatin’, real slow like.

I can almost hear his expression. I’ve seen this kind of expression before. He isn’t believin’ this shit, not at all. In all his life, he ain’t never thought he’d see something like this. Marianne—all strewn about like confetti after a Fourth of July parade. What’s left of her is only the bits and pieces that the kitty cat’s ain’t lapped up. Her sweater is still there, but the cats have been pawing at it, untangling the threads. They’re usin’ her body like a scratchin’ board when we come into the kitchen.

I can hear him gasp. I can hear him thinking terrible thoughts about me. I can hear his heart deflating because he definitely had a crush on this old broad. I can hear him falling to pieces. I can hear him wondering to himself how he can go on. I can hear him pulling something out of his jacket, almost instinctively. I can hear him fidgeting with the device—probably some pepper spray. Mailmen always carry pepper spray, so they can defend themselves from wild dogs when they’re out on their route.

In response, I turn and I bark at him. I sound just like a German Shepherd, mostly cause I used to have one when I was little, and I learned from listenin’ to it all the time. I used to get it riled up by whippin’ on it with my uncle’s belt, and it would snap at me like it was fixin’ to destroy little Edgar. That dog took hell from me, but he gave it right back. Nearly took off my finger one time, just about ripped me in half if the neighbor hadn’t put him down with a shotgun shell to the back of the scalp.

Skipper jumps (or should I say: skips? Zing.) right out of his shaky skin, pushing himself back against the kitchen cabinets as if he’s falling to pieces right in front of me. He’s holding up the pepper spray (in a teenie weenie pink can) at me, mumbling something about how I better leave him alone.

“You never had your chance, did you?” I ask him. I hunch down low so that I look like some sort of ghoulie motherfucker. If you get your shoulders hunched just right and get that spacey look in your eyes, you can make just about anybody shit their pants. I’ve seen plenty of ankle-splatter in my days, just by putting on a creep show for them. Wish you could see the face that Skipper is making at me, lookin’ like he’s staring down the thing from his closet from back when he was a little boy, way before he wore that stupid fuckin’ mustache he’s got now.

“Get away,” he says, his voice so shaky it could carve a Thanksgivin’ turkey.

“Never had your chance to fuck her, did ya’? I bet she was real good, too. Or maybe I know firsthand?” I ask him. Of course, I wouldn’t have touched The Sweater Queen with a ten-foot pole, no matter how hard she tried, or how drunk I got. But he don’t know that. He don’t know much other than what he sees in Marianne’s kitchen, that bein’ her body all slathered all over the place like she got eaten by wolves. “Maybe I know. Maybe I know what those sweet titties smelled like. Maybe I even sniffed her bush. You want the details, Skipper-oo? You wanna know what you missed out on?”

I can smell his piss. He’s wettin’ himself. I can’t help but laugh at this, and I throw my back and shoulders into the laugh as well, writhin’ around like a goddamned demon. Gonna make him piss himself all the way to his grave. Gonna make him—

FUCK! FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK!

“You cocksucker!” I shout, grabbing at my eyeballs, trying to dig into them with my fingernails, wishing I could get the hot pain out of them. I didn’t think the shithead would actually use the mace. He looked like the type that was all threats, no follow-up. How wrong I was about Skipper-oo and his pretty mustache. Maybe he had a little ball sack after all. When you get them pissin’ their pants, then you usually have them by the short and curlies. “I’m gonna kill you, cocksucker!”

I can’t see him, what with Satan rubbing his fiery genitals into my eyes, but I can sure hear him. He moves across the kitchen. If he escapes, then my whole settlin’ in and settlin’ up plan might get botched. “Stay still,” I warn, rubbing at my eyes. I can feel drool coming from the pockets of my lips, pooling on my chin and chest. Long snots dangle from my nose, ropy and thick. I wipe all of this mess away, wondering how crazy I must look. Sure, I was puttin’ on the crazy-pants act for the mailman, but now, it’s not an act. “Don’t move an inch, mailman. Skipper. Skippy. Skipper-oo.”

I lunge in the direction that I last hear him, grabbing on to the countertop instead. I hear a small clatter from my left and when I swing my arms out in that direction, I am greeted by one of Marianne’s cats. It scratches at me. I take a swing at it, boxing style, but I miss. It clips me with its claw again and I let loose a girly scream. “Fuckin’ cats. I’ll kill every last one of you fuckers once I can see again.”

Another noise, this one from right behind me. I spin, ready to beat the shit out of the mailman. That bastard sprayed me with a pink can of pepper spray. Ain’t nothin’ like feeling like a dainty little girl. I’m gonna kill this fucker, just like I shoulda the second he came into Marianne’s house. (myhousemyhousemyhouse!)

“I hear ya’,” I threaten, trying to smirk.

That’s when I feel it sink into me.

Motherfucker stabs me. Stabs me deep, too.

The howl that comes out my mouth is—well, it’s like nothin’ you ever heard before. I guarantee that shit. It’s like I was savin’ up my best scream for years and years, bottling it all up inside. And here it comes, a’roarin’ and a’rippin’ through the air. And you know what the real kicker is?

The fuckin’ mailman is laughing at me.

He has a mustache, he calls himself Skipper, and he delivers coupons to housewives.

And he’s laughing. At me.

Cocksucker.

I feel around for the knife. He left it behind when he made his move, which is probably just about the stupidest thing he could have done. It’s in all the way through my shoulder. I can feel it poking through the back of my jacket. “You should have gone for the heart or the throat, Skippy. Or even the balls,” I say, as I pull it free. It makes a strange noise that is almost like a pop. I’ve been stabbed before, but never like this. It hurts like a son of a bitch once the knife is free. I can feel pressure releasing from the seeping wound, but I don’t have time to cry over spilled blood. I got me a mailman to kill.

I hand the knife back and forth between my hands. It’s slick with my blood, but that only thrills me more and more. Jesus, baby, let me feel your love all over me. “Gonna kill me a mailman. Momma used to fuck the mailman, so I gots me a lotta issues to work through, ya’ heard?” At this statement, I hear the whoosh of the back door opening, and then shutting again.

He’s running. Coward just dealt me a blow to the eyes, and then stabbed me. Had me against the ropes—one more lethal shot and I’d be a dead man. Even with all them advantages, he gets to runnin’ just like a chicken-shit.

Feeling my way through the kitchen and then down the hallway, I open the door to the mudroom, stepping down carefully. I can remember where the door is, but it doesn’t come out real obvious to me. I feel along the wall (hooks, some hanging jackets, and some annoying fuckin’ windchime) until I finally find the doorknob. I open it on up. I feel the wind blasting through. I zip up my jacket nice and tight.

Some light is starting to force its way through my shut eyes. They are still burnin’ like you wouldn’t believe, but I can sort of see shadows through my eyelids now. It’s bright as hell outside, what with all the sun reflectin’ off the snow.

I go tromping out into the cold. I ain’t been outside in a few days, not since I first came to Marianne’s house. It’s colder than I remember. “Come on, Skippy!” I shout. I’m freezing my ass off, but it’s worth it to chase the pesky shit down.

He mentioned that he had a snowmobile, so if he gets on that thing I’m screwed. Royally screwed. I’ll never catch him on that, so I’ll have to be movin’ on again. A wanderin’ man knows when it’s time to turn tail and run off. If Skipper-oo gets away from me, then I don’t need any more sign than that. Sure, it’ll take a while for him to bring back somebody that gives a shit either way (those types of folks are in short supply I’m bettin’!), but I don’t take chances. The second ya’ stop takin’ chances, that’s when they nab you. Not that I ever been nabbed, but I’m not gonna get into the habit.

An engine rattling. A quiet curse in the distance, “Drat. Drat. Drat.” Who the fuck says drat? Skippy the mailman, that’s who. Come on, Skippy, stay still. Smile for the camera. Edgar’s comin’ for you.

“Drat!” I parrot back at him, laughing loud enough that he can hear me. “Drat! My snowmobile won’t start! Drat!”

He’s sobbing. The sissy doesn’t have enough in him to get off that damn snowmobile, walk up to me, and finish the job. I’m blind and stabbed but he’s still afraid of me. Time to put on the crazy-pants again.

He’s really sobbing now, so loud that it reminds me of the lion from that movie with the chick goin’ down that yellow road, you know… the one with the witch and the scarecrow. Ain’t seen that movie since before my balls dropped, but I remember the way that lion cried. Skipper sounds just like that. Blubberin’. I think that’s the word. Skippy Zippy is blubberin’.

Skip-To-My-Loo keeps tryin’ to turn the ignition over. I can tell from the sound the engine is making that he’s flooded it. If he had five minutes (he’s lucky if he’s got one minute) then he could wait it out and try again. Instead, he’s panickin’ cause old Edgar is coming.

“Drat!” I scream. I sound like a devil on crystal meth. I wish I could see the mailman’s face.

He turns the ignition again. Skipper is only about ten feet away now.

I tighten up the knife in my hand.

Spluk. Spluk. Spluk.

That’s the sound the kitchen knife makes as I return the favor. He got me once in the shoulder, just above my titty. I gave it back to him in the throat (I think), and then followed that one with one in the chest, and then another that was probably on the back of his skull. The third one felt hard, like I was goin’ up against some steel or some shit like that.

I hear him gurgle and cry out. He says something like, “Comma comma lama domma.”

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talkin’ about, Skippy.”

He tries again now that he’s dumped off the snowmobile, face first in the snow. He says, “Breck a leck. Jabby. Jabby.” I’m guessin’ that when you die sometimes you say stupid shit. Sort of like you’re talking some other language. Maybe dead folks have their own language, so when you’re halfway between worlds, you sort of start learning the new one and forgettin’ the old one. Sometimes I come up with silly theories, but try to disprove ’em motherfucker.

“Shut up,” I say, feeling around for his body. My eyesight is startin’ to come back. I manage to get my left lid open. There’s no more snot coming out of my nose, but everything still hurts, still screams, like I just got sprayed by that shit. I still can’t believe I got my shit fucked up by a goddamned mailman. “Now where we gon’ bury your body? Huh, Skippy?”

He groans and then he shuts up for good. Pretty sure that the S.O.B. is dead now.

“Good idea,” I say. “We’ll bury ya’ in the snow. Brilliant. Woulda never thought of that myself.”

Before I get to giving Skippy a final burial, I pull off his jacket. It’s cold out, and a man needs a warm jacket. I put on his hat and his gloves too. I was a dang fool, coming out here like this. Gonna catch a death of cold out here.

Once I got all the good stuff off his body and I have it on myself, I start to drag his dead weight away from the snowmobile. The blinding gusts of wind mask me from any nosy onlookers. Cause that’s all I need, for somebody else to check me out and get into my business. Then I have to kill them. And then somebody else sees me killin’ on that person, and then I have to kill that next one. And so on. And so on. You get to a point where you just get tired of killin’ motherfuckers and you just wanna take a goddamned nap.

“Head first?” I ask. Truth is, I don’t have to really bury him at all. Just get him out of the way. The snow will do the rest. This shit ain’t stoppin’. Not anytime soon.

It’s like Jesus is listenin’, cause the snow picks up just as I’m finding a sweet spot for the mailman. The snow is comin’ down so hard that I swear the whole cocksuckin’ world will be buried by the end of the week.

I crawl back to the snowmobile, leaning up against it. I stare up at the sky as a sudden wooziness overtakes my ass. I’m seeing all kinds of weird shit in my eyes—stars mixed with titties mixed with leprechauns mixed with snow-snow-snow. It’s like I’m on some kind of drugs but then I think again. Maybe it’s just a mix of being tired as hell and losing a lot of blood.

The wound looks pretty bad. Worse than it feels. There’s blood all over the snow.

As much as it pains old Edgar to admit it, I need help. I need to get patched up.

Fuck it all, I need help.

I don’t want to die. Not yet. Too much fun to be havin’.

Marianne won’t be able to help. Cause I ripped her in half.

Skipper can’t help. Cause I skewered ’em like a pig.

There’s another house, just across the way. One, two, three, I move down the line. Pickin’ one place after another, wishin’ on those dreams that only a wanderin’ man can grow inside him. Marianne had mentioned the other people, the neighbors next door, and she said that they were still home, waitin’ out the storm like everybody else.

I think about movin’ the snowmobile, but it’ll be buried by the snow in no time. Just like everything else. Just like the whole damn world, sinkin’ deeper and deeper. The mailman and the snowmobile won’t be much of a problem.

Ding dong. Ding dong. Just a friendly neighbor, lookin’ for some sugar.

Chapter Five

Here comes the pity parade, so everybody get them binoculars out. Light your sparklers. Poor ol’ Edgar is all ripped up n’ broken. I’m damaged goods, but I can play it up to my advantage, do my little possum act for the people. I been practicin’ all my life and it’s my favorite move. Somebody once called me the world’s slickest con man, but that person don’t say nothin’ anymore, mostly cause I snipped out his throat with a pair o’ rusty hedge clippers.

I’m crawlin’ across the snow, dragging my body towards the next house in the line, hoping that somebody is home. I keep on movin’ from one house to another. Reminds me of that game where you buy up all them little red houses and then you start buyin’ up them big green hotels. Or is it the other way around? Either way, I hated that there game. Too much countin’.

I’m feelin’ my way through the snow. Can’t see shit. The wind is whipping like a son of a bitch. I’m feelin’ mighty tired, like I need a nap.

Dammit all to hell, I need a break from all this drama. Marianne’s house is tainted and I can’t go back there. Skipper ruined it, even more so than the pissy cats and that stench of Marianne’s perfume, clingin’ to everything like an STD. Fuck that place. Not a good place to settle in and definitely not one you want to settle up in either.

Skipper put a hurtin’ on me. Pretty bad one. I can feel the blood oozin’ out of me.

I wish I hadn’t been so loosey-goosey with him. You see a dope like Skipper, wearing some asshole’s mustache and putting himself out there like the world’s biggest doormat, well, you can’t help but let your guard down a little. I’ve run into a lotta fellas like Skipper in my day, and that son of a bitch won’t be the last. In the end, I always take what I got comin’ to me. I never been bested and I never will. Skipper mighta had some tricks up his sleeves, or maybe I was just bein’ sloppy, but I got that beast still lurkin’ inside me, sittin’ pretty right next to Jesus Christ.

Thems a dangerous combination.

It’s snowed a lot since I settled in and settled up at Marianne’s house. A few days ago, I might have been able to sneak in through the first floor windows, but they are gone, gone, gone. Doors ain’t available, buried deep in the icy shit, but the top floor windows of this new house are reachable. On the front of this house, there’s a drift of snow that done made me a nice ramp all the way up to the top. Might even be able to climb on the roof if I get a good boost, not that I want to.

I came to a conclusion, ya know, that this snow is testin’ us all. We’re drownin’ in it. If I had to guess, it’s cause of all the sin that we done created. Commie presidents, abortion clinics, vegetarians; all that stuff adds up, and one day God says, through some big fuckin’ megaphone so all us dummies can hear it: “Y’all are sooooo fucked.”

If I go too slow, the snow’s fit to bury me, so I pull myself along my belly like the clock is tickin’ faster and faster. I can remember back when I could see the lawns, when What’s His Face (the one with all the painted angels pattin’ each other of the keister) first picked me up on the side of the road. Now I don’t even know where the damn grass is. It’s down there somewhere, but I bet my momma’s headstone that I won’t be lookin’ at it for a long, long time. Reckon I might never see it again.

I can’t hear nothin’ inside, what with all the wind blasting around out here, but I did see a little bit of smoke comin’ out through the chimney. That gives me some hope, and I start to pull myself up the snowy banks a touch harder, digging my nails into that crunchy shit, hollering out loud. I’m a fucking animal when I get backed into a corner, ya’ hear?

It don’t feel much like I’m bleeding (not too bad, anyway) from what that cunt Skipper did to me, but it’s gonna be awhile before I’m healed and feelin’ good again. That’s why I hope this is one of those settle-in-settle-up kinda lily pads.

I make it to the top of the snowdrift and I tap at the window with my finger. It’s so iced over that I doubt anybody could even see me from inside there. And I can feel my face icing over, just like the window. Sure, I could crash my head through, crack it open and take care of business the old-fashioned way. But if I pull that move and I might just get a shotgun in my face. I don’t know who lives in this here house, so I gotta play it cool like cucumbers, make my move when the time is right.

I tap on the window again, resting my numb mug in the snow, hoping to build up some redness to my face, get that pity party-parade moving in the right direction. If I’m out here too long, I’ll get that motherfucker they call frostbite all over my face, and Jesus knows that’ll end it quick. I once saw a man that had to have his nose removed cause he climbed all the way to the top of Everest and then he fell into some ditch. He looked like a fuckin’ twit, with a little black nub where his nose used to be. I’d rather die than lose my nose, cause I wouldn’t be able to smell all that sweet pussy anymore. Zing at nobody in particular.

There’s something on the other side of the window. I can make out a small form through the ice crystals. It looks like a little boy, but he ain’t moving much. He comes closer for a second, and then backs the fuck up again. He ain’t sure what to think of this silly fella that dragged his frozen body over to the window. Don’t blame him, neither. I’d be scared of me too.

I push my face against the window, trying to get a good look at the boy, but he’s gone now. A few seconds later, a man follows the boy into the room. I know it’s a guy because he’s a whole lot fuckin’ taller, but I can’t make out either of their faces, just their shapes.

The taller one gets closer to the window.

And here I am, just waitin’ for them to open the window for me; the world’s meanest fucking possum.

* * *

This place is comfy!

Holy shit. This is the place that a wanderin’ man like me (yeah, I know I said that about the last two places at first, but you gotta keep trying til you find the slipper that fits I say) wants to settle in and settle up with. Makes a man almost want to put away his boots for the rest of his days. That sounds a little crazy, what with how special these boots are, but I might just trade the boots for a warm pillow.

They got food. They got warmth.

The guy keeps yappin’ on about his son and how smart he is. Good for him, I want to say, but I hold on to my tongue so I can figure out a proper plan. Kid ain’t all that smart, actually. Dumb little shit, he keeps staring at my boots like I’m some sort of circus freak or something. I’m gonna stick my boot up the kid’s ass.

They got booze, too. The real nice stuff, that top shelf crap that fellas like me aren’t even supposed to know about. Kinda stuff they drink at the White House and golf courses. It don’t even taste like booze cause it’s so dang smooth. Guy keeps giving it to me by the glassful, but he’s mighty skimpy about the fake-ass fire logs and the beans.

He’s shook.

Shook because he thinks the world’s comin’ to a nasty end. I don’t argue with him on that. Tries to keep his voice real quiet-like, sort of like he’s out huntin’ wabbit, but it’s cause his son is sleeping on the floor, snoring like you wouldn’t believe. He says his kid is scared shitless what with not seeing his momma in so long. I know that feeling all too well. Not havin’ a momma is a terrible thing, same for not havin’ a Daddy. It’s been a long time since I had those.

On a side note… oh Momma, look at that Momma!

Every time I walk to the bathroom, I go right by a picture of the whole family. Mommy’s wearin’ something tight and black. Her boobies are pokin’ out just enough to get the mind reelin’, and I swear to Jesus H. Christ and all his disciples that I can see the shape of a nipple beneath that shirt, just trying to sneak out to say hello pardner, care for a lick?

She’s a looker, not like the usual barnacles that I get stuck to my zipper in gas stations, supermarkets, all those places you pick up easy broads with no morals. This girl here—this Momma—she’s grade A. Prime stuff, sort of like Christian’s whiskey supply. The shook-up twit don’t deserve her.

I’m a charmin’ motherfucker, in case you haven’t figured that much out yet.

I can’t wait to charm his wife. Chris says that the Momma’s gonna be home real soon, that she’s on her way. I can’t wait to meet her.

* * *

Kid showed me the stashes in the basement.

Christian is a dolt for letting me see this, and his son ain’t much brighter. He is one of those fellas that automatically trusts you. Those are the best kind of cons for wanderin’ men, because we don’t have to work too hard to get that golden goose egg when we want it.

The kid’s named Paulie and he don’t know shit about wanderin’ men. Don’t know shit about stallions. Mostly cause his father ain’t nothin’ more than a wet rag, hangin’ out to dry. This boy needs a role model and I won’t mind bein’ that, as long as his Mommy shows me proper respect when she gets home.

It’s time to settle in.

It’s time to settle up.

Chapter Six

The kid’s sleepin’ for the night. Ol’ Chris Kringle and me are back in the bottle again, but he’s trying to take it easy. Funny thing, is that I’m trying to take it easy too. Need to keep my head straight tonight. We’re racing to see who can be the soberest for longest.

He keeps lookin’ at my shoulder, keeps askin’ about my wound. I can’t do this shit much longer. Somebody needs to shut his mouth up. Little while ago, he asked if I had seen Marianne from next door when I was out travellin’. Said he ain’t seen her in days. I know why, and I feel like if he keeps nagging me I might just tell him what I did to her.

I hand him back the bottle and I see he’s pretendin’ to swig. That ain’t working for Edgar, no fucking way.

“What do you say we find some shot glasses? Really make this cold go away, keep us warm.”

He says to me, “They say that’s just an urban legend. Alcohol just messes with your bloodstream and it doesn’t do anything to help you keep warm. It’s deceptive. That’s why people are always dying in hot tubs, because it throws off your blood, throws off your heart.” I heard that one before, but I still don’t believe it. This guy thinks he’s some kind of cocksuckin’ scientist and here I am, trying to do him a favor… trying to take away his pain. Ain’t that a bitch?

“I reckon. But it would feel nice. Sort of like we’re still human bein’s, you know?” I say, putting a sorry whine into my voice as I say this. Like I’m about to cry, but really I’m about to laugh because he’s falling for it.

“I know. I haven’t felt all that human in a while, not without Annie by my side.” His eyes get all big like he’s about to cry. What a loser. What a sap. I can’t bear to watch this madness, so I walk to the kitchen and fetch shot glasses from the cupboard. I already scoped out the place pretty good, which should make people on Chris’ end of the stick worried, but he doesn’t even notice, so wrapped up in his own shit. Maybe his ass is drunker than I expect. I sit back down with the shot glasses, placing them in front of us on the coffee table, filling mine halfway and Chris’ all the way to the tippety top. It’s too dark for him to tell the difference.

“You must love her lots,” I say. Listen to me. Love. That’s a riot and a half. Love is the biggest fraud anybody ever done created.

Love ain’t nothin’ more than two sets of genitals slamming together like a drum beat.

Love is a hot meal and total silence.

“I do,” he says and my heart just about explodes with rainbows and unicorns.

I change the subject because I don’t want to know too much about that pretty princess. She’s gonna be just like Christmas mornin’. I wanna leave some of it as a surprise. I can’t wait to see her come through that door. I’ll be so damned rock hard; I might not be able to contain myself. I almost make an excuse to take the lantern and walk to the bathroom, so I can have another gander at that sweet candy in the picture on the wall.

“Let me ask you something. You ever killed a man, Christian?”

He looks at me like I just told him I’m about to corn-hole his wife, which ain’t so far from the truth, mind ya’.

“I mean to ask because this thing is getting pretty far out, you know? What if somebody came into your house and attacked your family? You think you could defend yourself? I know you love your family, but how far would you go to protect them?”

I pour another shot for him, and he takes it. Maybe I’m getting at his nerves, making him think about all the bad shit that may happen. We take three shots in a row. I skip one altogether but he doesn’t notice. I guess my question really rattled his birdcage, cause he’s taking shots on his own now, no need for Edgar to push too hard on it.

“Yes, I guess I could kill if I had to. I’d do whatever it takes.”

“Good man,” I say.

“My family means everything to me.”

“Again, good man. Wish I had a pop like you growin’ up. Somebody to protect me from all the crazies out there,” I say, pointing at the window. Even though we can’t see through it for all the snow, he looks at the window, nodding. He knows about the crazies. He just don’t know how fuckin’ close he is to The Crazy Train itself. The poor sucker.

“So where did you grow up?” he asks me, wanting to change the subject again himself. I feel like he already asked me this, so maybe he’s trying to wear me down, trying to get me to slip up. I pour another shot and he takes it real fast. Motherfucker is on autopilot now, hip-hip-hooray. I pretend to take a shot, but he don’t notice. He’s too wrapped up in his own damn head.

“Here and there. Grew up on the road mostly, like I said. Started drinkin’ and acting a fool when I was real young.” I pause, looking at the fire.

Here I go. Ready?

“And in case you’re wondering why I asked, yeah, I killed a man once.” Once. Can you believe that? Sometimes, the best lies have an ounce of truth in them. This is sorta like the total freakin’ opposite of that I guess. Or should I say, I reckon. Christian trusts me when I get to reckonin’.

Another shot, down the hatch. I take one this time, since he’s way ahead of me. I need to feel loose, just the same as anybody else in this here situation that can become quite troublin’.

“Really?” he asks, his jaw opening to reveal a set of pretty white teeth, shining in the lukewarm fake-ass fire.

“Yep. Man in a bar, he came at me with a knife. I was minding my own business but I took a bet against him that night, that I could whoop him in a game of pool. He lost pretty bad. I took my winnings and he was mighty gracious about it, but I guess he got to stewin’ a bit, cause out of nowhere, he comes at me with the biggest dang knife I ever did see.”

“Jesus.”

“Fuckin’ aye,” I say, suddenly realizing that I’ve slipped from my Precious Gentleman routine. A bit early for that, but he’s flapping in the boozy wind anyhow. He’s losing his shit.

“Did you go to jail?”

“For a spell, just ‘cause I couldn’t make bail. But the bartender said it was self-defense. That was true, though. I was only protecting myself,” I say. None of this is true, but you probably already figured that out, didn’t you? You’re awful smart, ain’t ya’?

“I can’t imagine.”

I get real serious and my jaw gets all tight, flexing hard as hell, and leaning in closer to him as I pour another shot. We’re gonna need another bottle soon. “Listen to me,” I say to him, my voice dropping low, then lower still. “When you gotta do it, you’ll do it without thinking. So you say you can’t imagine, but it’ll happen when you least expect it. Somebody will come at you, and you’ll snap into action.”

He is scared shitless, looking into my eyes, thinking about what I’ve dug up inside him, hoping to summon that kinda courage that I’m jawwin’ about. He don’t got it, cause he’s a spineless jellyfish. He wouldn’t even have the balls to buy what I got inside me—all this devilin’ fire to take what’s mine-mine-mine—even if they sold it at the department store. He don’t stand a chance, not in this world.

I feel like I’m doing him a favor, ain’t that strange?

I pull out my knife, the one Skippy stuck me with. “This is the knife I used on that guy when he came rompin’ at me. My friend Bobby gave it to me for my birthday the day before. Ain’t that lucky on me?” I lie to him again. I’m sure that he’s hearing my real voice now, not that dog-and-pony show that I’m used to puttin’ on with strangers.

“I don’t know if I can do it, Edgar. I’m not like you,” he says, belching between words, and I can’t but help feeling kind of offended. “I can’t kill.”

His head lolls to the side like I almost laugh when I think to myself that it’s about to roll off his neck. This fairy gets drunker than an anorexic teenage girl. Too fuckin’ easy.

“You’ll have to. It’s gonna happen real soon, you best believe me. And you’ll have to defend your family.” Does he even hear what I’m saying? He’s got a thick skull, this one. Thick and drunk.

“This is hell,” says Chrissy The Sissy, looking at the fire like it did something bad to him. What a drama queen. I don’t feel so bad about what I gotta do. “This whole world is turning into a living hell.”

“You’re not listening to me, Christian,” I say, and he turns to look at me again. I ain’t givin’ his ass any more shots. I need to save the rest of this fancy-boy booze for myself now.

“I don’t follow,” he starts to say, but he slurs a bit so it’s hard to make out what he’s saying. Who the hell gets drunk this fast? Jesus H. Christ, he should be ashamed of himself.

“I’m saying that it’s gonna happen real soon,” I say, and I watch as his eyes shift and he’s looking down at my knife, which I got pressing up against his throat as quick as grease lightnin’. Suddenly, the dumb shit gets what I been saying to him. He’s catching on.

“Please,” he says, tears welling in his eyes, “please don’t.”

“This is it, Chris. This is that moment I was just talkin’ about. So what you gonna do? Your boy’s sleepin’ upstairs. Crazy feller down here, got a knife to your throat. What you gonna do, poppa?”

“I—,” he starts to say, but he’s sobbing now. It makes my eyes hurt to see a man like this, all pathetic and squishy like a piece of gum on a hot sidewalk. Fuckin’ disgrace.

“Whatcha gonna do? Defend your home? Defend your supplies? Defend your family? What you gonna do?”

I’m a man that wears cowboy boots, lest you forgot.

Chrissy boy closes his eyes, and I set to doin’ what I do best.

He doesn’t even put up his hands, doesn’t make a fight, doesn’t even make a sound. He always wanted to be a cowboy, just like me. Thought he could be a stallion, but here I am, layin’ it out in front of him, asking him what he’ll do to take what’s his and he’s got no spine. It musta fell out his asshole when he was born.

If I had asked, I think he might have handed me his soul, wrapped up nice with a bow.

He’s pretty wasted, so he doesn’t really feel the things I do to him. He doesn’t feel the hatred that I drive into him. Lucky for him. I work away at him for a good while, sort of enjoying myself as I cut deeper and deeper into them hard neck muscles, and I can’t help thinking about the kid in bed upstairs. And his pretty Mommy (I swear I can see a nipple in that family photo!). I pause in my work, wanderin’ over to the bathroom, stopping to kiss Mommy on the lips, wondering what she looks like when she wakes up in the morning. Wondering what she sounds like when she moans. Wondering how I got to be such a lucky man—a family man, really.

Look at me Jesus. Look at me. For fuck’s sake, I’m proud of myself. Can’t remember ever feelin’ so much dang pride—not from pussy, not from booze, not from killin’, not from anything.

I’m a family man now.

Before I tuck myself away to sleep for the night, I leave my boots by the foot of Paulie’s bed. He’s all tucked away like a little fuckin’ mummy, so I don’t bother none with wakin’ him. I got me more important things to do tonight.

The kid’s gonna be surprised as all shit when he wakes up, like it’s Christmas morn’ or something like that. I don’t need them boots no longer. No need to wander. Family men gotta take care of their kids and stick close by the roost. Give them what they call family air-loons. My boy gon’ remember me. He gonna remember his pop as a good man. A caring man. A man that wouldn’t take no shit from anybody.

Wish my pop had left me some boots. All he left behind when he snuck out (fuckin’ shit heel, that’s what he was) on me was a bad attitude and a tiny dick. Self-zing. But not really. I’m just playing with ya’, it’s plenty good sized. My new old lady is gon’ love it when I show it to her. Oh boy oh boy this is what bein’ a family man is all about. Getting’ love and givin’ it back.

Talk about settlin’ in and settling’ up… I’m one hundred percent family man and it feels damn fine, yessirreebob.

Part IV- ANNIE

The keys.

Of all the bone-headed moves she could have pulled…Annie had forgotten the keys.

It had taken nearly twenty minutes to wade through forty yards worth of snow banks, feeling a silent, icy death clenching at her lower half. When she finally managed to toss her body’s weight on to the handlebars of the snowmobile, she nearly cried in happiness, wiping away as much snow as she could, her breathing slower from the raspy wheeze that had overtaken her.

Her initial fear was that the vehicle would be ruined by the weather, but at the same time, she was confident that they were designed specifically for such conditions. The Midget Man (not to mention his band of perverts) returned to The Purple Cat late the evening before, but even still the snow had accumulated more than three additional feet, nearly covering the snowmobile completely, with bits and pieces barely visible in the drifts.

When she had it mostly excavated—clawing at the snow around the snowmobile like a dog trying to bury a bone—a nasty feeling inched into her chest, one that she’d seriously miscalculated something in her escape plan.

She looked at the steely cold ignition, wondering how she could have been such a dolt.

Because she hadn’t known that Midget Man had a snowmobile. The knee-jerk reaction was to run away from the lodge, to get as far away as she could. She hadn’t thought about keys, or anything of the sort, only to remove herself from the dead man’s presence, as she would have done near any dead man.

They were probably tucked away in his pocket.

Why hadn’t she searched him? At least to pull his identification so she could know the real name of the man she’d killed, of the man who had raped her. Something to bring to the authorities. None of that, though, had gone through her head. “Dummy,” Annie said to herself, breathing with a shaky wheeze, looking back at the front door of The Purple Cat. It was only about half the distance of a football field from her, but it had taken every inch of strength to travel that distance once, let alone there and back again. The ever-deepening snow was an exhausting bugger. Suddenly, she missed the luxury of Tony’s sled, which was nowhere to be found (most likely buried much deeper than the Midget Man’s snowmobile).

Summoning her strength, she trudged ahead, pausing every few steps to catch her breath.

One step, two step, three step, four. Five step, six step, raped like a whore.

Not funny, thought the other side of Annie’s brain. Not funny at all. She was right. It wasn’t funny, but still she snickered madly, as though she’d never properly laughed previous to that moment.

She kept her ears attuned to the sound of approaching snowmobiles (for when the other monsters were done with whatever terrible thing they were doing to the man they called Pepper), but still she laughed, louder than the whipping wind, louder than the all the screaming children (all of whom sounded just like Paulie) inside of her head.

Chapter One

No keys. No keys. No keys. No-fucking-keys!

She could feel her body warming again and something deep inside her told her ravaged body to stay put, hunker down, and to fight back against her tormentors when they returned and show them the bloody hell that they had unknowingly released. Running away would only make things worse, because they would surely find her. If she ran away, they would treat it like a game. Wolves don’t know how to act like anything but wolves. There is a modicum of pride in the hunt of an innocent jackrabbit.

They’ll follow your snowmobile tracks. These guys are hunting types, probably killed their first buck by the age of ten. You think they’re going to let a pretty little thing like you escape? You think they don’t want to go for seconds and thirds and fourths, like you’re a ten-dollar breakfast buffet, digging themselves and their filthy little nubs deep down inside of your panties? You think they won’t want to decimate anybody that can speak ill will of them to the police? They’re going to kill you, Annie. K-I-L-L… only one way to spell it, baby cakes. They’re going to rape you again and again, maybe even ten times for good measure, and then they’re going to kill you. They’re going to kill you HARD. You killed one of theirs, Annie. You know what that means, right? You killed one of their brood, and there is no greater sin to a pack of beasts.

“Where are they?” she asked The Midget Man’s corpse (which was warm, but getting colder with every passing second), half expecting him to open his eyes and answer her. If he did, it wouldn’t surprise her. A lot weirder things had happened in the past month. “Where are the keys, you little shit stain?”

She pushed his body over with her numb foot, feeling in his back pockets.

Nothing there, either.

Tick tock, tick tock. Here comes the Bald One’s cock.

She wished that nasty side of her mind would curl up and die. It was the same voice that she heard when she’d cheated on Christian, the same side that came to life that time she had slashed her ex-boyfriend’s tires in college, the same voice that had plagiarized her final thesis paper in Business Management class, the same voice that once told her she should run away from her family, to get on a bus and never look back. It’s okay, you’ll do just fine when you don’t have to take care of that little brat and that man-child with the Buddha-belly gut and the charming smile. Yeah, Annie, get on that bus and suck the first dick you sit next to and see how much cash you can get for that little treat, and keep going until you’re in the penthouse and equipped with fake boobies and champagne and bunch of friends with similar habits.

The voice came and went, but it always spoke the same language.

Annie looked towards the window. There was still no sign of The Shiny Bald One and his entourage, but she had a digging instinct in her stomach that they would be back within the hour. She didn’t know how she knew this. Mother’s instinct, perhaps… knowing when your child was about to take a nasty spill on the floor or bump their head on the corner of the cabinet, even well before they made the doomed movement.

The Midget Man didn’t have the keys, so Annie moved on to the kitchen and the cluttered bar area, scanning every surface and nook for the keys. Had The Shiny Bald One taken the keys so that this wouldn’t happen? It seemed quite possible that he didn’t trust The Midget Man… who would, in fact? The Shiny Bald One was smart. Smarter than the rest of them, at the very least.

She pushed through the silver swinging doors of the kitchen galley, scanning the short hallway between the bathroom and the dining area. Nothing here, nothing there, nothing anywhere. Returning to the bar, she first considered grabbing a bottle of something hard and going to town, waiting for them to return, but then she changed it up and started to think like a small person. Midget Man was easily nine inches shorter than she was, so she hunched herself over, looking around at what would have been his eye level, feeling completely ridiculous, though nobody—she hoped—was watching her.

Underneath the bar, she discovered a transparent bin full of dried out limes. She rooted around in there, desperate to leave no stone unturned. Nothing, still. Behind the bar, she shifted the bottles around, looking between them. She wouldn’t drink them, though it seemed like an easier option to the current predicament.

Returning to the fire’s side, Annie caught herself staring at the tiny blue flames that still hung on for dear life, transfixed by the sight. She next looked to The Midget Man’s corpse again, thinking she might give him another search, when she saw the key on the floor, catching a faint glint of the dying flames. It must have fallen out of his pocket when she’d speared him. It landed somewhere between his body and the fireplace during their struggle, waiting for her to come along and get free.

Annie couldn’t be sure that it was the key, but she had no other option at this point. She looked at the writing on the key, but it only gave the name of the key manufacturer: SECURIFLEX, and beneath that a serial number. It was her best bet. It was her only bet. Snatching the key from the floor, she headed directly for the front door, pulling her jacket zipped again and bracing herself for the interminable cold.

She had a new perk in her painful trudging.

Annie kept her eyes glued to the snowmobile, just beyond her reach. Clutching the key tight in her hand, she started to pray to her suddenly revived concept of God that the gas tank would be full. That was all she needed now, to get the son of a bitch started and find it sputter out after a few hundred yards—assuming that she now possessed the correct key.

One foot in front of the other and her mind kept quiet, no longer inciting her with rhyming limericks about her wretched previous evening, nor her horrible brand of motherliness. She tried to recall the sound of Paulie’s voice, hoping she could recreate it and light her internal fire. She couldn’t remember his voice and Annie nearly fell to her knees in tears. Her baby was a fading memory inside of her, and she’d only just been separated from him. What if he died? Would she ever remember anything about him? Annie bit the thought in her throat and shoved it deep down inside.

The snow had drifted considerably in the ten minutes since she’d went back inside to retrieve the key, and already the snowmobile was covered in a thin layer of white. Climbing on to the snowmobile, she ran through her father’s lessons about proper snowmobile riding. It was pretty easy, from what she recalled, but Annie had not been on a snowmobile in at least ten years, not since she was in high school. She hoped it was like riding a bike, in that you never forgot once you learned. She’d never been an expert, nor would she ever become one, but she was going to try for Paulie’s sake.

She could remember just what her father said, almost verbatim, as if he was whispering in her ear. Just remember that you’re in control of the rig. Don’t let it control you or it’ll fling you off and crack your neck before you even know what’s happened. Speed isn’t your friend on these bad boys, keep your head low and maneuver strategically. You get going too fast and you’re liable to—

A sound in the distance. A terrible sound. The worst sound imaginable.

It was unmistakable—a snowmobile approaching slowly. It was working through the snow at a diminished rate, probably from the depth of the snow. But it was coming, all the same. Fast or slow, it was coming, and in her exact direction.

Annie turned the key and the snowmobile started on the first try. It wasn’t like in the horror movies where it took five or six tries before it finally clicked over. Finally, thought Annie, fate was working for her and not against her. “Thank God.” She reminded herself that if she was spared from another—moment—with the slimy bastards and their slimier members that she would go to church every Sunday for as long as she lived. She’d make Christian and Paulie come with her as well. They’d sing the damn songs. They’d read the damn verses. They would cheer, shout, and jump up and down, Halle-freakin’-llujah.

She turned back towards the sharp curve of the road, where the awful sound was coming from. Now she could see the snowmobile, tiny and growing larger as it approached. She had at least a couple of minutes before it arrived. Could the rider see her by now? The only hope was in the fact that there was only one snowmobile and not three of them.

Don’t run, Annie. It’s only one of them.

Annie revved the engine with the handle grip, pushing forward a few feet. She had her bearings. She could do this whole snowmobile thing, no sweat.

Annie, stop. Stop. Don’t act like a coward or you’ll regret it for the rest of your life. The others aren’t coming yet. Listen close—you can only hear one engine so he must be way ahead of the other two. Take this motherfucker out. Grab that gun. Annie, get your gun. Annie, get-your-gun. Annie, get your fucking gun!

Annie froze, pondering all the instincts that were telling her to flee, while simultaneously weighing those against that terrible, monstrous mother-slash-whore-slash-semen-dumpster that lived inside of her, those brutal pulses that told her to kill-kill-kill, to make up for what they’d done to her, though that could never be fully healed. Annie was sure that she would die with thoughts of it.

Turning the ignition off on the snowmobile, she braced herself.

She palmed the gun that was tucked into her jacket pocket. She’d never shot one before, but she’d seen it plenty of times in the movies. Charles Bronson. Clint Eastwood. Steven Seagal. She pictured all of them from her memories, taking stances and positioning their arms nice and stiff, coolly wrapping their fingers around the trigger. There would only be one chance, as the approaching snowmobiler would be off and shooting with return fire only seconds after the first bullet hit (or more likely, missed) him.

A voice came from afar, from the approaching snowmobiler. The tone of that voice didn’t seem alarmed at all, and in fact, it had a pitch to it that almost implied a sense of whimsy or joking.

That’s because he doesn’t know it’s you. He thinks you’re Midget Man. Crouch low, just like when you were looking for those keys. Crouch low and teach this creep a lesson once he gets close enough. Act like that short stack, and let him get nice and close, and then you shoot his fucking face off. Do it, Annie. Do it.

She drew the insulated hood tight on her jacket, pulling the drawstring, hoping to conceal her face for the most part. Crouching on the opposite side of the snowmobile, trying her best to look comfortable and short and breast-less, she felt partially shielded by the drifts of snow that her enemy combatant was toiling through. Now she could hear his voice more clearly, “Where’s the bitch? Didn’t kill her did ya’?”

Annie contemplated responding for a moment, but resisted that urge. Even if she masked her voice, it would not buy her much time. The snowmobiler would be close enough to shoot at… any second now. Playing quiet was a smarter move than exposing herself as a fraud.

You’ve always been a fraud, though, haven’t you? As a wife. As a mother.

“Shut the fuck up,” she whispered to herself.

“You hear me?” his voice echoed. It wasn’t The Shiny Bald One and it wasn’t The Yeti, based on the general shape and size of the body and the sound of the voice. It was The Chuckle Machine, who she had only heard disturbed cackles from thus far. Unless it was somebody else altogether, which might be a blessing.

No. It was The Chuckle Machine. No such luck for another wayward, terrified stranger in the cold.

On the back of his snowmobile, it looked like he had large cardboard boxes strapped into place, most likely filled with groceries or supplies of some sort. Or maybe guns. They had said something the night before about Pepper’s purported arsenal, which would only make them more dangerous to her and to the world in general.

And all Annie had at her side was a dinky six-shooter that made her feel like an ill-equipped cowboy. It was small and silver. She always expected her first gun to be bigger than this one, to be something closer to what Dirty Harry might have brandished. She wasn’t even entirely sure that this one was real. Maybe The Midget Man couldn’t be trusted with a real weapon, so Mister Shiny had given him a beginner pellet gun or even a child’s toy. Annie pictured herself pulling the trigger and just like with the Wiley Coyote, a little white flag would come out the barrel, unfurling to reveal the word BANG!

She used her left hand to pull back on the little nub at the top, like they did in the movies. The hammer? Was it called the hammer? She seemed to remember Christian calling it that once, like it was the thing that clubbed the bullet and sent it flying.

Speaking of bullets… she wasn’t even sure that the thing was loaded, and in fact, had no clue how to verify it one way or another. The only true test for whether it was loaded was to cock back the hammer-thingy and pull the trigger. If it made a bang and the bastard’s head exploded, then it was loaded. If it didn’t, then—Annie chose not to think about that scenario. Instead, she reached the gun out in his direction, narrowing her left eye as she aimed it at the approaching chuckler.

He was less than twenty feet away, with no other snowmobilers in sight yet. “Put that away!” he shouted, still not putting together that it was somebody besides The Midget Man crouched beside his snowmobile.

She made eye contact with him in the next breath, and she held herself still, training the weapon on his chest. A head shot had too many chances of missing. If she went for the midsection, and if she was off by a hair or two, it would still do some damage. The chest, she remembered hearing in a movie, was the strategically smart move.

It felt empowering to train her weapon on him and she suddenly understood the macho surge of it all.

The Chuckle Machine put it all together just as Annie pulled the trigger. “Fuck!” he cried out, jerking the handles of his snowmobile away from her, towards The Purple Cat. Her bullet whizzed by him, but she hadn’t missed by much. And in one moment, she turned from John Wayne back into the scared wife-and-mother who had just held a gun for the first time. She’d missed him, and there most likely wouldn’t be a second chance. “Shit, shit, shit,” she said, looking down at the weapon, pulling back the hammer a second time. There had been a bullet in the chamber, but there might not be another one if The Midget Man only loaded one bullet at a time.

She aimed at The Chuckle Machine, who was cursing and moving farther and farther away from her on his gas-powered chariot. He’d maneuvered on pure gut instinct, seeing that he’d been duped by her pretending to be somebody she wasn’t, and he wouldn’t be duped again.

Her thoughts moved in slow motion, just like her hands and fingers: This is really your last chance, sweetie. He gets off that snowmobile and you’re a dead woman.

She pulled the trigger a second time, wincing as the blast pierced her ears and made her jolt in terror. The Chuckle Machine dropped from his snowmobile with a powdery thud, sending a spray of fluffy white snow into the air around him. His snowmobile continued on, slowing down as it drifted towards the side door of The Purple Cat, where a wall of snow and ice had abutted up against the building.

She couldn’t tell if she’d killed him, but he wasn’t moving. He was either playing possum, or he was dead. If he had simply been injured, he would have been howling in pain. Annie was sure that the bullet had clipped him near the shoulder, but it could have very well got him in the back of the neck or the heart. The moment of impact had been a blur, though it was a moment she was sure she’d never forget.

Regardless of whether he was alive or not, Annie felt like a certified bad-ass.

She spun the chamber, taking note that there were still four bullets left. Annie sent a silent thank you into the air, in the general direction of The Purple Cat, thankful that the Midget Man had fully loaded the revolver.

Annie was so proud of herself, wishing Paulie and Christian could see her.

Exhaling a breath that she felt like she’d been holding for nearly an hour, Annie couldn’t help but smile. “Got you, didn’t I?” she called out, pointing her weapon towards the snowy bank that The Chuckle Machine’s body landed in, right next to the revving snowmobile that continued to run though it had nowhere else to go. She kept the weapon pointed, just in case he lurched and came back to life again. “Who’s laughing now?”

She pulled herself up on to the snowmobile again, turning the ignition.

As she started to push her way through the cumbersome snow, she calculated how long it would take her to get back home. It would take at least a few hours at the current rate. With Tony’s “manual” rig, it would have taken at least three more days, but the snowmobile was a vast improvement, as long as the gas didn’t run out on her… and as long as it didn’t sink into the fluffy upper layers and get stuck, which it begged to do with every inch it traversed.

The low hum of her snowmobile was soon accompanied by another one, that of two more chugging machines far off in the distance, barely audible but coming-coming-coming towards her all the same. Soon enough, they’d find the body of their two companions, and soon after that, they would begin the hunt.

They would find her tracks and they would follow them to the ends of the earth, because that was the kind of men they were. Vicious scoundrels never let anybody harm them, not without serious repercussions.

“Come and get it,” Annie whispered, twisting the throttle on her snowmobile. The fervent gusto inside of her felt feigned and a bit uneasy on her, but the two previous kills had enlivened her into some new frame of mind that she had never known before. There was something addicting about it—killing was easy when you had somebody special (two special somebodies, in fact) to get home to.

Chapter Two

The snowmobile wasn’t as big of a pain in the ass as she thought it would be. It seemed to clamber through the snow as if it wasn’t bothered by the heavy drifts at all, though it occasionally churned when she passed over a particularly nasty lump. After pulling into a straightaway towards the center of town, she felt herself settle into the rhythm, becoming one with the machine that she could never have imagined herself riding on. Only a couple weeks earlier, she’d been complaining about the lukewarm nature of her café mocha. Now she was running for her life, driving an alien vehicle through the hellish tundra that was her hometown, hoping that her pursuers would kill her before they raped her, and not the other way around.

She tried to imagine what their reaction would be when they came to the bodies, disbelieving that she had killed not just one, but two of their deviant cronies, leaving them to waste away in the frost.

It might have been something like this, she imagined:

“That bitch,” The Shiny Bald One might have shouted, and so he might have kicked his snowmobile and bent down next to The Chuckle Machine to get a closer look, finding that he was dead.

“You don’t wanna see what she did in here,” The Yeti might say next, standing in the doorway of The Purple Cat, his face going ghost-white at the discovery of his vertically challenged comrade’s body. Or more likely, The Yeti might just growl, showing his teeth and stomping his massive bear claws on the snow, gnashing his teeth and praying for blood. His speaking seemed to be something closer to a guttural animal sound, at least inside of Annie’s head.

“She won’t get away with this,” he might say, sounding like a borderline clichéd villain from a cartoon. The Yeti would come stomping through the snow, crying and throwing his big, hairy arms around in the air. He might not even get on his snowmobile to pursue. He might get more pleasure in stalking his prey by foot, trudging through the snow like his hunch-backed ancestors.

The Shiny Bald One would probably light up a cigarette. Annie had seen him smoke one after their “rendezvous,” but he didn’t seem like the type that smoked regularly. It was a treat to him and not an addiction. As he pulled on his smoke, he would say something like this to The Yeti: “Bitches like this, ruining the world for the rest of us. I bet she was a cheating whore. We didn’t do anything to her that she didn’t want. Looking like that, coming into our house like she owned it. She might as well have just gone along with it. Ain’t that right, my friend?”

The Yeti would have surely grunted in satisfaction, going right along with whatever was said. He might have thumped his hairy paws against his broad chest.

“You want a second slice of that peachy pie, big guy?” The Shiny Bald One would ask next. “Maybe you can even rip her in half when we’re done, like you did with that phonebook that time.”

The Yeti would smile.

“Whores get treated as such. Always been that way, always will be.”

Annie almost burst into tears at this false tableau that her over-tired mind had constructed. She twisted on the throttle a bit harder, though the machine would not respond in equal measures.

Far behind her, she could still hear them approaching, getting a bit closer with every listen. They might not have said those things, or even surfaced those terrible thoughts about her (did they know what she and Tony had been doing just before they arrived? Had the bastards watched their sins?), but one thing was for sure: they wouldn’t let her go.

Annie hummed to herself, trying to remember an old Pretenders song that she kept hearing on the radio, the one about using her hands and her fingers, and using her something else altogether, but that she was going to get her way and make some random fella hers. The song only served to distract her as she pushed past the sign that she recognized at once, which indicated it was one point three miles until Town Hall.

She was thankful that she was lighter than they were. Her pursuers were larger guys, both in the muscular and structural sense. The only place that her smaller frame would benefit her was in a chase situation. Her snowmobile hopped along the surface of the snow once she had a decent amount of momentum. She could feel it grinding beneath her, digging into the fluffier snow and then sliding along the top of the crusty snow.

She couldn’t really tell where she was going. The afternoon darkened after a temporary burst of sunlight that managed to push through the grey clouds that loomed overhead. She continued in the direction that Tony had described, towards the patchier tree lines of Route Fifty-Five, where she usually had her major shopping ventures for home goods, bulk groceries, and household repair projects. They had all the “big box” stores on one main drag, but that didn’t mean there was any reason to stop there. Those places were pointless in this new world. She wasn’t all that sad that they would be out of business forevermore.

The wind gusted, obfuscating the view in front of her, though she knew that she was still on Route Fifty-Five for the time being. In about ten minutes, she’d be turning onto Valley Road, or so she presumed. Up seemed down and down seemed up, but she felt confident that she was moving in the right direction.

The only path she was sure of was the one that took her away from The Shiny Bald One and The Yeti. They hadn’t seen her eyeball to eyeball, but they surely heard her snowmobile racing away. Annie still wasn’t sure she’d killed The Chuckle Machine—so she didn’t fully exclude him from the chasing posse—but she kept it as a high probability in the back of her mind. Sometimes there was something to be said for wishful thinking.

When they found the body of The Chuckle Machine, they would have checked in with The Midget Man before taking to the snowmobiles, so that might have dragged their pursuit out a bit, but only by minutes. Maybe a quick discussion on what they planned to do to her when they caught up to her, and maybe a quick scan around The Purple Cat to make sure she hadn’t set a trap, hiding in the shadows, waiting to kill off the rest of them. It wasn’t the worst idea in the world, but Annie hadn’t the time or confidence to consider such a bold option.

She decreased the throttle so that she could better survey the sound patterns from behind her. The moment the humming din stopped, she heard the sound of two engines. Definitely two—no more, no less. It was barely audible, but they were still in motion for sure. They had hopped back on to their snowmobiles and now they planned to kill her, both for revenge and for sheer delight. They wouldn’t go as easy as they had the night before.

Easy.

That was funny, thought Annie. They hadn’t gone easy at all, but they probably hadn’t gone as far as they could have. She thought they might seek to rectify that if they ever caught up to her.

You know they’re gonna catch you. And even worse, Annie, they might get close to you and then hold back for the right moment, for that golden kill. Then you’ll lead them home, and they’ll get back at all three of you. They’ll want to even out the numbers, kill for kill. They’ll take you in exchange for The Chuckle Machine. And for The Midget Man… who? Christian? Paulie? Or maybe one of them will be the principal and the other will be interest.

Annie pursed her iced-over lips, scraping away the layer of frost that had overtaken her goggles. In the first struggles of getting through the bloated snow, she came across a pair of shiny pink goggles hanging on the steel neck of the handlebars, right above the front headlight. If she didn’t wear it, she’d most likely be blinded by the onslaughts of wind and snow. She was only going five more miles or so, until she was finally home, but a lot of damage could be done in a short window of time. The wind alone was treacherous.

Don’t go home, she told herself again. Keep the fight away from your house, away from Paulie. Turn around, Annie. Confront them. Confront the shit out of them.

She revved on the throttle harder again, putting all of her effort into her cold wrists, taking care not to garner so much velocity that she’d careen out of control and plant her face on the spiky branch of a tree, just like her father had warned her as a child. She could only see the tops of the trees, as most of the trunks were buried deep beneath the accumulation, so she’d thankfully hit the bushy parts near the top. Still, it would probably break every bone in her body or spear her like a bluefish tuna.

Don’t go home, Annie. Take them out before they chase you to the ends of the earth. You know they will. Dogs like these don’t loosen up their jaws so easily.

Chapter Three

Mikey’s chest heaved in and out. Even though the machine beneath him was doing all the work, his pinpointed concentration on the bitch’s snowmobile markings was taking all the energy out of him. Marcus told him they’d both need to keep their eyes on the path. If they lost track of her, they might never catch her again, and truth be told, that wouldn’t bother Mikey all that much, as he just wanted to get warm again. It would drive Marcus absolutely bananas though. He might do something crazy if they let the broad get away from them.

It turned out to be an exhausting day over at the Pepper homestead. They’d hauled back a considerable load, cheerfully rejoicing all the way back, feeling like modern day pirates, but without the stumpy wooden legs. But when they found the bodies back at the restaurant, they dropped their load off as quickly as they could manage and took to chasing the lady they’d captured. They couldn’t hear each other over the thrumming grinding of their motors, but every now and then, Mikey could hear Marcus cursing loudly. He couldn’t see his partner’s eyes through the tinted snow goggles, but Mikey pictured the face Marcus was making. Mikey had been the recipient of that timeless expression on countless occasions through the years. The last time had been at the casino for Marcus’ fiftieth birthday party, something that had already irked his punchy side, not wanting to admit how old he was. “Your brain’s nothing more than a shit bucket, throwing cards down like that. You make us look stupid,” Marcus had informed Mikey (always the brunt of their foursome’s scorn) during a seemingly quiet blackjack game, in reference to his inability to count the values of his cards quick enough. Soon after, Marcus’ eyes got wild, like they were known to do by the whole crew… most of whom were dead now, Mikey considered, feeling his heart sink in an inexplicable sadness.

Marcus eyes weren’t “wild” in the sense that they would dart all over the place, like he was nervous about something that nobody else could see. No, that was strictly for movies and mental wards. On the contrary, there was a calmness that overtook his burning eyes. Those feisty retinas calculated everything around him, taking in the world with a different filter than the rest of humanity. His eyes were wild in that they looked like they might explode. Mikey’s brother, Binky, once referred to Marcus as having “supernova eyes.” Mikey wasn’t all that sure what he meant by that, but it seemed a fitting enough description.

They’d come to a full stop.

“You hear anything?” Mikey asked, looking over at Marcus, who stood up on the snowmobile, staring off into the distance. That wildness was there, lurking behind Marcus’ demeanor, just about ready to make an appearance and burn the whole damn town down.

“Yeah. I can hear it. She’s way ahead of us, but I think we can get her if we keep a move on. Fucking bitch,” Marcus said, staring over at Mikey. A fake smile filled Marcus’ face. “We’re gonna crack her skull in, Mikey. You and me, we’re gonna piss inside her brain and see how smart she is then. You hear me, Mikey?”

Mikey thought that sounded a little bit harsh, but he’d go along. Mikey was insufferable like that, sadly enough. He always went along and always would. There wasn’t really any other option with guys like Marcus. If you went along for the ride, then you really went along for the ride. No half commitments. No half measures. All in, or get the fuck out, Marcus was known to say before something unsavory popped up on their itinerary.

“She messed with the wrong guys,” Mikey said, trying to put an edge on his voice, failing miserably. Marcus nodded at this sentiment, pulling his goggles back over his eyes and adjusting his gloves, as well as the hood on his down jacket. Marcus lit up his rig again, revving on the throttle. His pearly white teeth glowed in Mikey’s direction as he did so. Marcus adjusted the choke and revved again. His bright green Arctic Cat chewed through gasoline like a hog, so he was always fidgeting and complaining about it, but never really doing anything about the situation, as was Marcus’ manner. He’d offered Mikey a trade up—snowmobile for snowmobile, no backsies—last fall, but Mikey refused because his own vehicle had belonged to his father before he died. Marcus didn’t push as Mikey expected him to, but the guy had a sentimental streak in him, albeit small and thin like a piece of floss.

“You bet your ass. If she thought we were nasty to her last night, she’s got a whole new game coming her way when we catch that sweet ass this time around. Lessons gotta be learned for what she did,” Marcus shouted over the sound of his motor, smirking as he took off into the white abyss, slowly at first, and then cruising with ease.

Mikey started up his Arctic Cat (two years old, but infinitely more reliable) as well. It seemed that Marcus planned to walk them straight to the gates of hell. Mikey always knew that would be the case. He knew since they were little sprouts that he’d eventually get into some serious law-bending shit for his associations with the hottest hothead in the whole dang county.

The chick from last night had killed Mikey’s cousin. Dan had been the only family Mikey had. Now it was just Marcus, though they had no common blood running through their veins.

Dan was gone from the world forever, with his throat stabbed by the woman they were now chasing. She’d have to pay, that was for sure. Mikey wasn’t all that interested in being the one to do it, but that didn’t mean that a debt was rightly due. Ever since they were kids, he kept a fair distance from Dan, as his cousin always lived up to the cliché of a tiny dog that projected the false sense that he was much larger.

In a way, he was glad that Dan was dead. He didn’t dare say that to Marcus who had been closer to Dan than any of them, but he was just a bit glad, all the same. Dan was an angry little shit and finally—for the first time in his life perhaps—his short man’s anger had finally subsided. When they had gone inside The Purple Cat, only taking enough time to look at his mother’s sister’s baby boy, Mikey stared at the body and took in the sight, thinking to himself that he could never recall such a look of peace on his vertically challenged cousin’s face.

Marcus, on the other hand, considered Dan (Dinky Dan, as somebody once called him at the bar—that person was quickly dispatched with a serious ass-kicking on Dan’s part) his best friend. Ever since they were children, they were inseparable. Mutual friends would come and go, depending on the weather and the state of the family, but Marcus and Dan always stuck close. They possessed a similar kind of sickness, equally twisted in their own special ways. Marcus wasn’t blood, but he might as well have been for all the good times they’d had together. In reality, Mikey might have never become friends with Marcus (might have been for the best, he now thought) if it hadn’t been for his cousin Dan.

As they’d stood over Dan’s rigid body, Marcus had wept. Mikey turned away out of fear that Marcus would lambast him for noting his unexpected weakness. The man had sobbed deep and long, letting loose that solitary sentimental streak, and then he pushed it aside just as quickly, that vapid fire burning behind his eyeballs.

A few yards ahead of him, Mikey noticed that Marcus started to scream. It was so shrill that it could be easily heard over the loudness of the snowmobiles.

Marcus was ready to rip her into shreds.

* * *

Annie couldn’t help but smile.

There it was, in all its glory.

Dreams of Bangkok.

It was their favorite restaurant, from way back before everything had gone to shit with Christian. They couldn’t ever dine on premises (which saved them tip money and made up for a shortage on diaper money) due to a lack of babysitter, but they ordered takeout from Dreams of Bangkok at least once a month. Since they’d started their “separate lives” under the same roof, they’d been fending for themselves at dinner time each and every evening, offering each other bits of their own specially prepared meals, though neither ever gave in to that extended olive branch.

Annie could practically taste the pineapple rice on her lips as she thought back to their first “date night” after Paulie’s birth. Annie’s mother was in town, visiting for a long three-day weekend, and so she insisted that they go out on the town. Once Paulie was in bed for the night, they escaped and the feeling was profound for both of them. It almost felt as if they’d never get out in public again. Togetherness was a strange sort of brew, so they’d both found, for a newly christened parent.

Christian was especially romantic that night, something he struggled with on most occasions. Annie was lucky to get flowers and a box of chocolates from the grocery store on Valentine’s Day. He never engaged in elaborate gestures, mostly because he was one of those guys who just didn’t “get it” like others did. In fact, Christian had once said, “If you want a cooing dove and flower petals all over the bed, you should have married a gay guy or an eighties music video.” Annie had laughed at the joke, mostly because there was a shred of truth in it.

“Remember our wedding night?” He had asked her, once upon a time, spooning a load of Pad Thai noodles into his mouth. “Remember the guy that gave you the flower?”

She had smiled at the quickly retrieved memory, which reawakened after lying dormant in her mind for several years. “I do,” she had said. “The homeless guy, right?”

“Yeah. You were in your wedding dress, but I had already changed into a sweat suit. We must have looked like we just escaped from an institution. We were at that bar,” he said, pausing to consider all the names of all the bars he had ever been to.

She had responded without a moment’s hesitation, “Luke’s Tavern. Janice and Bill wanted to meet us there after the wedding, for a toast.”

Christian had laughed. Annie loved his laugh; it made her feel comforted, reminding her that the world wasn’t always full of such sourness. “That’s right, some toast we had. Bill puked all over his tuxedo and Janice got a bloody nose from somebody opening the bathroom door too fast. I don’t think we ever got a proper toast in.”

“And the homeless guy,” she started to say, narrowing her eyes at him across the table. “He was…”

“He was handing out roses to all the ladies. He was just standing outside the bar. I’m not sure where he got all the flowers from, but he was one of the dirtiest looking guy’s I’ve ever seen.”

“He was smiling at me, as soon as I walked outside. I remember that much. He kept telling everybody something when he gave them the roses.” Annie had stared at her tropical drink, churning through her memory, one bit at a time. “What was it he said?”

Christian nodded, clearing his throat, “He said something like: Don’t look so sad, the night ain’t over yet, day ain’t over yet. The world ain’t over yet. Love yourself and someone else.”

“That’s right,” she had replied, an embarrassing excitement slipping into her voice. Christian had a great memory, something just short of an elephant’s. He had said, “All those drunk girls kept coming out, keeping their distance from him. He smelled pretty bad, looked like he was living in a sewer pipe, and he probably was. But you were different. I think he noticed it, too. You went right up to him, still wearing your wedding dress, holding up the frilly parts so you wouldn’t step on them, and you started talking to him, asking him where he lived, what he did. He didn’t say much, but that look on his face was something else—probably the first time anybody treated him like more than some worthless hobo in a long time. I knew right then…” Christian trailed off, his eyes turning a little wet around the edges. “I knew right then that I had made the right choice. That we’d stay married forever. You were so sweet to that guy, and it made me think that no matter what happened to me, you’d still love me.”

Annie hadn’t been able to help herself. She felt some moisture near the corners of her eyes as well. Annie hated to cry, especially in front of Christian, but when she did, it always felt good. Always felt cathartic.

“Jobless, toothless, hairless, you’d still love me. Even if you treated me like that homeless guy, then that alone would be enough to keep me happy for the rest of my life.”

In the here and now, though, Annie’s heart felt out of place in her chest.

She wanted one more night like their wedding, another night like their first “parent date” at the Thai restaurant. Annie wanted all of that back, to feel those moments once again. Memories alone would not be enough, not with everything that was happening.

She pushed forward on the throttle, averting her eyes away from the sign, focusing on the other businesses’ signs a bit further down the road (a Toyota dealership, a veterinary clinic, and a used furniture store called Mac’s), directing herself towards that fantasy of returning to the good times.

The best part about seeing that blue and green sign—scripted fancily with the words DREAMS OF BANGKOK—was that it represented a marker that she was desperate to see. She was going in the right direction, no doubt about it. Even better than that, she was less than a mile from home now.

This is the time, Annie. This is the stopping point. This is where you pull off the road and face those bastards, one on one.

She couldn’t help but stare at the sign, wishing for a bowl of spicy coconut soup, fantasizing that things would be okay with Christian again, that he would reach across the table, grab her hand, and squeeze it so tight that it hurt. She wanted him back. The way things used to be, before everything had gone to hell.

That won’t happen if you don’t face what’s coming.

“Shut your mouth,” she said, unsure of who she was actually talking to. She was going crazy and it was easy enough to blame the storm.

Face the music, Annie. Face it!

The motor halted, releasing oily fumes into the air as the skids on the bottom of the snowmobile slushed through a frosty bank of snow.

“No. No.”

You don’t have much time. Face them or you’ll never face anybody ever again.

Annie tried to turn the engine back on, but it refused.

That isn’t going to work. You’re out of gas, dumbbell.

She cursed beneath her breath, lifting her leg over the seat. She leaned in closer to the gas gauge to find that it was true. Her inner voice wasn’t just blowing smoke up her ass. It had some salient points.

Annie was out of gas.

And in the distance, the hum of two engines slowly came into earshot.

The Shiny Bald One and The Yeti were coming to eat her.

Annie decided that she wouldn’t let them.

Chapter Four

It looked pretty convincing—not the most craftily formulated deception she’d ever created (likethosetimesyoufuckedTonyyouslut), but it might work.

She didn’t have much time to spare, moving frantically between sobs of fear that they would be coming around the bend at any moment. Something frenetic was rising in her chest… something she couldn’t get a grip on.

Her snowcrow (as she decided it would forever be called, whether it saved her ass or not) was composed of her jacket, zipped and stuffed with a burly block of snow. It was hunched over the handles of the snowmobile. From a distance, it could have easily been a woman to any onlooker. It would be more obvious to the approaching marauders that she wasn’t reacting to the sound of their approach. They didn’t come off as the brightest pair of dunces, but surely, they wouldn’t fall for an immobile snowcrow. By the time they realized that it wasn’t her, she’d have to take her first shot at them. She only had four bullets left, so they’d have to be true and straight.

Annie couldn’t help but recall the old “trickster” tales that the slaves used—their way of undermining their white superiors, in telling tales that would sink deep into the conscience, fueling eventual rebellion. Or at the very least, it might break their power in a way that felt good enough to allow the slave a warm night’s sleep. Here she was, trying to play the role of trickster, no different than the Tar Baby and the Br’er Rabbit, hoping to catch a couple of nasty monsters.

She couldn’t see The Shiny Bald One’s face, but she could feel electricity in the air, preceding him on his path to destroy her. He was on his way.

With a huff of cold air, she planted her knees in the snow, clutching herself tight to repel the cold. The nearly useless sun was just beginning its descent. The world was covered in shadows from the trees on either side of what was once a major thoroughfare.

Annie steadied herself, staring at the darkening horizon.

Something inside of her told her to act just like the ice, to be like the snow, to emulate the whole damn world. It was the only way she’d survive—through pure coldness.

The copse of trees sheltered her, providing a clear line of sight to her snowmobile. The moment they stopped, she’d unload on them. Any hesitation and she’d be dead, same for if she jumped the gun. Timing, more so than ever before, was the essence of her survival.

A buzz filled her ears as the snowmobiles came closer, side by side, scooting along the surface of the snow, fighting to avoid what she now called “The Sink.” Annie had less of a problem with the sinking, mostly due to her light-as-a-feather frame and she considered that it may have saved her on this occasion, giving her enough of a leg up in the race so that she could prepare herself.

“Come on, you bastards,” she said, eyeing the horizon as the two tiny dots became bigger, now about the size of a nickel, and then about the size of a quarter, and then they stopped. They turned their engines off, almost in unison.

This was it.

Any moment they would figure out that huddled mass on the seat was a snowcrow; a dummy to attract a couple of even bigger dummies. Annie smiled as she honed the revolver on the pair. She squinted one eye tightly, aligning the notches at the opposing ends of the barrel, breathing in slowly in an attempt to keep her hands steady.

Her hands, gripped tight to the weapon, wouldn’t stay still, like she had drank several cups of coffee. No, no, no, that sickly voice, refusing to go the hell away, said inside of her head. You’re scared shitless because this might be the last moment of your life if you miss them.

The Shiny Bald One and The Yeti trudged away from their transports, calling out, “Get off that thing before we mow ya’ down.” They both held weapons in their hands, ready to react if she took off again, but it was too far away for Annie to be sure. She wasn’t exactly an aficionado on modern weaponry, but Shiny had a shotgun and she was pretty certain that Yeti was carrying something smaller, like a police officer’s service weapon. One thing she could see for certain was that Yeti didn’t look as comfortable with the weapon as his partner in crime.

Get Shiny. Get Shiny because the other one isn’t nearly as crazed. He’s just going along for the ride. Yes, he raped you just the same, but that is pack-animal behavior. He might be the biggest in size, but he’s the smallest in power. Kill the leader. They were always trying to assassinate Hitler. Know why? Not because of scope, but because of influence. Because of the meaning in the effort. Because a bit of crazy makes everybody else around them crazy.

Narrowing her focus on The Shiny Bald One (who looked less shiny than ever, more bleak and gray in the stormy clouds and flutters of snow), Annie pulled the trigger.

It was a direct hit, but not on the one she was aiming for. In the last nanosecond before the bullet flew, Annie eased to the right with her weaker, numb elbow. The trajectory found The Yeti’s chest, right between the pectoral muscles.

The harsh sound of the gun firing hurt Annie’s ears, but she was still able to decipher the popping sound of Yeti’s chest. Even from afar, she could see the tiny spray that soaked the snow, as if her eyes had zoomed in (as an eagle would) on the destruction she wrought, wanting to bask in it for a blink of the eye. When the big lug fell to his knees, she couldn’t help but smile. It was a beautiful shot, albeit unintended. Annie would have much rather taken down Shiny, but this takedown was still progress.

There was only one more remaining between her and her freedom.

And with that thought, she trained the weapon on Shiny. She pulled the trigger. She missed by a mile. Then came another popping sound—just like Yeti’s chest—reverberating in her ear. It seemed to be a bullet passing by, followed by a second pop that she was sure had burst her eardrum.

The Shiny Bald One was shooting back at her. He’d quickly calculated the source of the attack after his partner was hit, abandoning the snowcrow that Annie had positioned as a trap. His reaction was quicker than she would have expected, with all the snow and wind clouding his view.

The sound in her ear buzzed louder now, growing in intensity as she realized the fact that he had returned fire.

Annie dropped to the ground, losing her gun in the process, though for a moment, it sounded like another shot had rang out of it, with what may have very well been her last or next to last bullet (she’d lost count). The weapon itself sunk into a deep bank of snow, just out of her reach. As she rolled on to her side, the ringing sound in her ear would not leave her as she hoped it would. The cruel sound tormented her, like somebody banging a steel pot in her ear over and over again, with unrelenting intentions. She was nearly certain that she was deaf. Her thoughts drifted back to someplace that they didn’t belong in this moment, back to an old war movie that her father used to watch, where a gaggle of American troops struggled along the beaches of Normandy. In a moment of first-person perspective, they recreated the sound of the buzzing and ringing shrieks that filled a soldier’s ears after a mortar shell landed only a few feet away. The sound, Annie now realized, was spot on.

A third bullet hit the tree. He was toying with her. He could have taken what hunter’s called “the kill shot” already, with her wallowing about the icy trees only a few dozen yards away, begging for her hearing to return so that she could fully realize the sound of her demise.

Get up. Get up. He won’t toy with you for long!

* * *

The bitch was getting lucky, plain and simple. There was no way she could have taken any of his men out. No way on earth, no matter what or who she had on her side. She was either really lucky, or she had a secret stashed up her sleeve. A secret agent in hiding, perhaps? A retired green beret with breasts? No, none of the above. This wasn’t a fucking television show. This here was real life, which meant she was just plain lucky. Lottery lucky. Stock market lucky. Luckier than a goddamned leprechaun.

Luck scared Marcus, more so than anything else. Luck, at its root, was unpredictable. If he ever believed in God, he might have thought that luck was God and God was luck, but he wasn’t so silly as to subscribe to bullshit like that.

Luck was luck… sometimes it showed you a head, others, it showed you tails.

And he thought that Sanford Pepper was going to be a pain in his ass. How wrong he’d been. The old man shriveled up and died like a slug with salt poured on its back. But this one—this one was a cunt of a different color. A surprise, and not the good kind like an unexpected blowjob. This was more like a “surprise, you’ve got gonorrhea” sort of surprise.

“Come on back to the cabin, sweetie pie. It’s just you and me now,” he said, staring down at her, closing in step by grueling step. The snow was mostly packed hard beneath his feet, but the upper crust was loose and heavy, causing resistance in every footfall. He’d noticed a considerable change in the texture of the snow during the last stint of his rabbit chase, but on foot, it was an entirely different kind of hurdle.

She didn’t say anything, not a damn word, and Marcus wondered for a moment if he’d actually hit her with one of the bullets. He hadn’t tried to snipe her directly, afraid that he might spoil her pretty face or pierce one of her perfect breasts. That would ruin the whole damn day. If he was going to be a solo act from here on out, (a man without a gang is no man at all, some drunk had once told him) then he’d be damned if he didn’t at least score an old lady out of the debacle. He could break her if he didn’t decide to eradicate her first. That remained to be seen. Any woman, as Marcus had found time and time again, was fragile when you applied enough pressure. Marcus’ mother had been no different, broken by pop at a tender young age, so much so that she never formulated a thought or personality of her own.

Marcus stood only a few feet away from her now. It felt good to know she hadn’t gotten away. She clutched her purplish hands to her ears, squinting her eyes. She was in pain, or so it seemed at first. Had the impact of the bullets against the tree been enough to damage her ears? It seemed silly to think that. She’d already played the scarecrow once, so it was possible she might play possum just as well.

The tears in her eyes, though, told another story.

He’d fucked her hearing up good. It was an extreme sort of pain and he was glad he’d served it up for her. She deserved it for what she’d done to his men.

“Ears hurt? I wasn’t even that close to you. Geezus H. Christ, I guess that’s why they call you the weaker sex, right? Get the fuck up.”

She said nothing, but she opened her eyes enough to look at him, gazing at him intently. While her lower face was held in something of a tight rictus, her eyes were smiling. Marcus felt an alarm rising in his chest for a moment, because of those eyes. Bitch was smiling with her eyes.

“Fuck are you smiling at?” he asked. He looked around him, expecting something to pop out of nowhere, like a jack-in-the-box or one of those whack-a-moles you hit in the head at the arcade. She was up to something. Marcus had seen that kind of smile on dozens of occasions, usually right before something went all unhinged. When somebody started smiling like that, it meant that they were privy to something that nobody else knew. It meant that the game was up.

Marcus inched backward, just a step or two, almost unconsciously. He looked down at his feet, disbelieving the strange fear that she created in him. Was there a deadfall beneath his feet? Had she planted a trap? He couldn’t be sure how long she’d been here, plotting to take them out. Why in the hell was she smiling?

Fuck that, he thought. Kill her kill her kill her kill her. For them, for you, for all the sons of bitches that have ever been wronged by chicks like this, for all the guys who can’t get ahead in the world because of this women’s lib bullshit, fuck it fuck fuck fuck it and kill her.

Marcus growled, shifting all of his weight in her direction, diving at her and wrapping his hands around her throat. He didn’t squeeze, but he stared right through her. “What the fuck are you smiling at? You hear me? Tell me!”

Kill her kill her kill her.

Still, no answer.

He tightened his hands now, pulling back his lips so that she could see his teeth. She smiled broader in response to this gesture, and a low giggle escaped her chest. Now she was laughing. For Chrissakes, she was laughing in his face. He spat on her cheek, just to see if it had any effect on that unnerving look.

“Stop laughing!” he blurted.

Killherkillherkillherkillherkillherkillherkillherkillherkillherkillherkillher.

Now he was fully choking her. She’d destroyed his crew, one by one, and now she was taunting him. He’d killed plenty of times before, so this was no different, but still it felt like he was losing a part of himself. The bitch had gotten the best of him, something that was traumatic in its own special way. If Dan was still alive, he would have used his favorite phrase, echoing inside of Marcus’ head like the little imp was still alive: she got yer goat, didn’t she Marcus? Got yer goat real good.

As he tightened his knuckles up around the snickering bitch’s throat, Marcus thought of the first time he killed an animal, choking the family Labrador until it sunk its baby teeth into his palm. The mutt resisted, delivering the best fight it could manage, but gave in rather quickly. Humans had a much larger fight in them Marcus found, but this tart didn’t have an iota of that. She seemed to be enjoying her death. Or enjoying something.

He loosened his hands. The grin would not leave her face.

“Gotcha,” she said, gasping for breath, still clutching her ears. “I gotcha. You don’t even know it, but I gotcha.”

“What do you—”

And then an eerie wooziness, and then a sticky red, plopping in the snow, and then the darkness.

Chapter Five

He hadn’t realized that he was already dead by the time he’d reached her. A dead man walking, but consumed by viciousness.

She had taken another shot. She wasn’t sure how, but she’d taken another shot, and it was a perfect hit. For all she could remember between the shock of her ears ringing (ringing, hell, they were screeching) and the moment she struck the ground, she might have dropped the gun and pulled the trigger by accident. Or maybe it was blind luck. Or maybe it was a higher power. It was a stray shot, either way, and it had plugged him right in the chest.

Bang.

Baldy was dead.

It was the cold that had puzzled him so. It was so damn frigid that he hadn’t a clue that there was a bullet lodged in his chest, his body numb and in shock. Psychos like The Shiny Bald One were so out of touch with the real world that they couldn’t grasp simple concepts like “I’m hot” or “I’m cold” or “I’ve got a bullet in my chest.” So filled with rage was he that he couldn’t see anything but Annie’s face, smirking at him from the distance, goading him to finish her off.

His body slumped to the ground as a pulse of blood flowered inside of his jacket, dripping down his front side into the pristine, but well trampled on, snow.

“Good night, asshole,” she whispered, wishing her ears would stop ringing soon.

* * *

Annie stepped past The Shiny Bald One’s body. Part of her wanted to spit on his corpse for all he had done, but she retained her civility long enough to get past him, to leave him behind to rot, as he damn well deserved.

A wave of philosophical puttering drifted through her head. What made a person turn to such vulgar actions? What made a person so innately horrible? Were they born that way or did the environment (be it snow, or bad parenting, or economics) trigger it? It was an age-old question and one that Annie hadn’t the heart to consider any deeper. Regardless of how Shiny started out, she knew one thing for certain…

He was dead.

She was free.

Not just escaped, but free. Free of all the lunatics who sought to do her harm.

“I survived,” she whispered to nobody in particular, realizing that she was probably approaching the corner of Crazy and Cuckoo, slowly but surely. “I survived,” she said again, putting one foot in front of the other as she guided herself towards The Yeti and Shiny’s snowmobiles. She could only hope that there was enough gas to stretch the last mile or so to her house.

She thought: I beat those fuckers. This is the part where the cops show up and put one of those warm blankets around me. This is the part where they put me in a helicopter and fly me to safety. This is the part where the credits roll.

Annie couldn’t help the smile that kept surfacing on her face. She couldn’t be sure that Paulie and Christian were okay, but she was almost certain that they were. She’d defeated the evil-doers, and so the reward awaited her.

A gust of wind picked up, driving her backwards with a chilly blast of snow. Just enough to remind her optimism that she wasn’t quite through the ordeal yet. Still one more mile to go and anything could happen in that mile.

She looked to the milky sky, praying for that cinematic helicopter to take her this last stretch.

No luck. The usually helpful cops were in their houses, abandoning the duty to protect and serve. The police department in her town probably had one or two snowmobiles and they were most likely being put to use with selfish purposes. The world’s rescuers had all run away, tucking their tails between their legs and thinking only about number one. They couldn’t be blamed though—this storm spelled out the end of the world, after all. And if the world was ending, then why bother with hired duties or careers? Annie would have done the same thing.

As if on cue, the snow got heavier once again, blasting through the trees as if it was being created by a huge machine. Though the temperatures had warmed a few degrees, the storm itself kept battling.

It’s the damn aliens. They’ve got a huge freakin’ snow machine. They just want to go skiing, she thought. Annie accused extraterrestrials of the storm on more than one occasion. Tony had laughed at the notion, but there was something in his eyes that said he might have believed it, if given some time for it to settle in. There was no other explanation, even still, it was as good as any other.

When would it stop? She was sick of asking herself that.

Never, that’s when. Never. Annie knew that now. It would never stop. Not in her lifetime. Maybe in Paulie’s, but not in hers. She would die in the snow. They’d all die in the snow, every last human being.

The Yeti’s (or maybe it was Shiny’s, she could not recall) snowmobile started right up. It hummed better than the other one, so she took that as a good sign. Perhaps it was more fuel efficient than the first one. The key had a little chain hanging off it, and it said “OUTTA MY WAY, PUSSIES!” Fitting. Very fitting, thought Annie.

“Outta my way,” she said to herself, revving the motor and pushing herself through the steadily accumulating snow, looking in the direction of Main Street, and beyond that, her home, and towards her family.

Part V- HOMECOMING

When Paulie woke up, he found the boots. He put them on immediately, marching around the room in them. He couldn’t resist looking at himself in the mirror to see how much he looked like a cowboy. He was freezing his patootie (as his mother would have said) off, but the boots made him feel warm. Such a nice gift. Eggah was the best! And even better, he didn’t have to pay for them like he thought he’d have to. He could pass them on to his daddy for a gift, to make him more like a scallion. Just like Eggah. He couldn’t wait to see his father’s face. For Christmas, Paulie and his mother had picked out a bright red power saw for a gift, but his father didn’t seem too thrilled about it. He’d seemed mad about the gift, actually. Paulie wasn’t sure why. They were always fighting lately, even about gifts, which seemed just plain crazy.

But these boots… if they didn’t make his father smile, then nothing would.

Paulie took off the boots and got on his knees. He sniffed inside the boots. They smelled just like Eggah; like a big, sweaty scallion.

When he came down the stairs, Eggah didn’t even mention the boots. Like he forgot all about it already. Eggah said that his daddy was sick and that he needed his rest. The night before, he hadn’t looked all that sick to Paulie. Maybe a little tired, but not sick. In fact, Paulie couldn’t remember his father ever being sick, even the time he ate a whole platter of deviled eggs at a family cookout and his face turned purple.

Paulie asked for breakfast, but Eggah only growled at him. Very cranky! Very rude! This made Paulie cry, so much so that he couldn’t even see straight, his eyes all blurry from the tears. Eggah was being a meanie and Paulie didn’t like it one bit.

He thanked Eggah for the boots, but Eggah only yelled louder after that. His new friend calmed down some, once he started taking more drinks from the big bottle that daddy usually kept hidden.

Eggah drank a lot of the bottle and burped. He said that, “It’s time you start callin’ me your Dad.” Paulie had stopped crying by this point, but something in the way Eggah said those words made him want to cry again. But he didn’t. He felt like it would make Eggah mad again.

Maybe, thought Paulie, he was angry because he wanted his boots back. Maybe he changed his mind. Suddenly, the boots made him feel really guilty.

“When a big person talks at ya’, then you gotta talk back, ya’ hear?”

Paulie nodded, but he wasn’t sure why. He felt like he shouldn’t have given in with a nod. “Can’t hear you?”

“Yes, Eggah.”

“Not Edgar. Not anymore. Dad. You’re going to call me Dad, just like I called my own pop. You got it?”

“Daddah’s my daddah,” Paulie protested, causing Eggah’s face to turn bright red. He looked like he was eating spicy peppers, like the time his grandparents took Paulie out for Mezzican food. “Daddah’s sick? Daddah’s in the hospital?” Changing the subject never hurt things too much, especially when an adult was sore at you.

“I’m your Dad now. Don’t act like a retard.”

“Not,” Paulie started to say, a new set of tears bursting out of the corners of his eyes. “My Daddah.”

Eggah snapped, “Your Daddah’s dead. You know what that means, ya’ little shit? You know what dead means? D-E-D, he’s dead as all get-out.”

Yes.

Paulie knew what dead was. Just like S.A., the chinchilla. Just like his mom’s great aunt Trudy. Just like the caterpillar he found in the driveway that time, all squished, sticky, and messy. Dead meant it wouldn’t ever play again. Wouldn’t talk. Wouldn’t eat. Wouldn’t take naps. Wouldn’t do anything fun. Dead was dead, and nothing else happened after something was dead.

No, his daddy wasn’t dead. People died when they got really old and gray and have wrinkles all over their bodies. That’s what his daddy had told him. His mother had said the same thing. The thing that Eggah was saying was a big lie.

“Got a thick skull on you. Now that I’m bein’ a’charged with learnin’ you something, I’ll get that skull fixed up just right, you bet.”

Paulie went into a full eruption of tears now.

That was when Eggah got super-mad. He said something about his own daddy again (heleftmeyoushitheleftmeandnowyoursleftyoutoobutyouluckedthefuckoutwithme!!!), and that’s when he started to hurt Paulie. It didn’t hurt too badly at first, when he whacked him in the arm with a wooden spoon from on top of the stove. Then he picked up a metal thingy, something that looked flat and square. It was the thing his mommy made peanut butter and jelly pancakes with.

The flat thing for making pancakes hurt a lot. Eggah hit Paulie in the back of his legs and he fell down on his knees, crying out for his real daddy (not this mean, mean man that wanted Paulie to call him something he wasn’t). The meanie hit him three more times, each time a little harder than the last. Paulie wanted to be dead, just like Eggah said his father was. It hurt so bad that Paulie closed his eyes, sobbing into the iced over floor tiles. His tears froze and stuck to his cheeks. That hurt almost as bad as the pancake-thing.

“What are you gonna call me, son?” Eggah asked, pacing around the kitchen, practicing swings with the metal flipper. “Gonna call me your pop?”

Before Paulie could respond, he started to see stars in his eyes. His chest was going up and down, like he couldn’t breathe at all. He couldn’t speak because he couldn’t get any air in his lungs.

This only made Eggah madder.

When he hit Paulie the next time, on the back of the head, everything went dark.

Paulie slept.

Chapter One

Annie parked the snowmobile on what once was the throughway of her street, directly in front of their house. Her home was almost unrecognizable. In another week or so, she’d be able to climb on the second floor’s roof without much of a boost.

Only four months earlier, she’d been out at the very same curb, gathering up leaves from the oak trees peppered about their property. It seemed like another lifetime, another world, another person. But hadn’t she been just that—another person? The woman that she was back then was dead and buried, presumably beneath a dwarfing drift of snow, somewhere near the bodies of her captors, somewhere near Tony’s body.

She paused long enough to soak in the upper half of the house. The lower half was invisible now, awash in piling drifts. A steep incline led up to the second floor window, to their bedroom. That would be the best bet if she was even able to take those final steps. Her energy was depleted to the point that her vision was wavering in and out. She’d once read about Mount Everest climbers, each claiming that the final steps to the summit were the most difficult, when it was easy to claim victory even though it hadn’t been actually achieved. She felt the same on the occasions she went jogging around the neighborhood, cutting off the last few steps at her turnaround point, pronouncing to herself, “Close enough.”

But this wasn’t close enough.

Not until she had her baby in her arms again. In fact, she wanted both of her babies, if the older one would still have her. She felt she’d paid for her sins, tenfold, but that wouldn’t mean much to Christian. He was better than that. And for that, she admired him. She didn’t deserve him.

Lifting her aching legs over the hull of the snowmobile, her body screamed for respite, to rest for only an hour if the world would allow it. The storm had eased off during the last stretch but it was picking up momentum again. With every ebb, there were two bouts of flow, composed of snow, ice, wind, blustery madness. Such was this new world that they lived in.

Once she had her family by her side, how long would they survive? A month? Two months? Maybe longer, if the temperature rose even ten degrees. Her mind drifted, though she just wanted to forge ahead: How long did the original Ice Age last? A million years? She wasn’t sure, but it certainly wasn’t a blink of the eye.

Every torment she’d endured sang inside of her bones as she trudged through the snow, her eyes fixated on the window to their bedroom. The climb was steep, but doable.

She dug her fingers deep into the frosted surface of the incline, feeling the horrid chill through the gloves. It felt more and more like the gloves held little consequence against the subzero temperatures. If she survived, they (whoever the hell they were) might have to amputate some of her fingers from the frostbite. It seemed dramatic to give in to such worries, but it was still a possibility. Anything was a possibility at this point.

Impossibilities, in fact, were no longer impossible. And they never would be again.

Impossibilities were everywhere, living and breathing and reminding the world of their existence—like when the window opened and an unexpected man hung his head out. His ruddy cheeks were covered with dark stubble and his mouth was held agape. It wasn’t Christian—that was her first and most obvious instinct. It was a man she’d never seen before, and so her stomach sunk deep into her bowels.

“Well, well, well. Ain’t this a blessin’ from the Lord? Come on in here and let me warm ya’ up.”

With the last bit of energy that remained, she reached out her hand.

Chapter Two

She had a hard time understanding what the man was saying. It sounded like he was speaking from underwater. A brash ring still hummed out in her ears, driving her brain into a frenzy. This, added to the sheer exhaustion, made this all seem like some kind of odd dream. For a moment, she considered the fact that she had passed out beside her snowmobile and that she was just imagining that she was at home. A bit of wishful thinking could go a long way inside the world of dreams.

It wasn’t possible though. This was her kitchen that she was standing in. The man was sitting across from her, on a stool, chewing on some beefy looking hunk of meat from their food stash. Had Christian given him the food? He chewed it in such an obnoxious way that she knew that wasn’t true. He’d gone down into the basement and retrieved it himself, without even asking.

“You must be hungry,” he said, in that swimmy, distant voice that seemed to bounce off of every inch of her eardrum, confused as to how it was supposed to be interpreted. She hoped her hearing would return to her, and soon. It was frustrating, even more frustrating than finding an intruder in one’s house.

He introduced himself as Edgar, but she didn’t feel any requirement to tell him her name. It seemed likely that the ruddy-faced man (with the vapid eyes that reminded her of a baby doll’s) already knew her name. She didn’t trust his face, right from the get-go. There wasn’t anything outwardly alarming about the man, other than his unexpected presence. He presented himself with a warm smile and a calm tone. Polite, almost to a fault.

What bothered her was the manner in which he carried himself, as though he’d always lived here. As if he owned the place.

When she asked where Christian and Paulie were, “Paulie’s downstairs, taking a nap. He’ll be so dang happy to see you. Been talking about you all day. Misses ya’ lots.”

Her heart leaped inside of her chest.

Paulie was okay.

“And Christian?”

The man carefully considered his words. His response was curiously slow. “He left for supplies just the other day. He’s not back yet. Expectin’ him any time now, though.”

She shook her head, unable to hide her doubt from this man who called himself Edgar.

None of that sounded right, completely unlike Christian. He wouldn’t have been so irresponsible, no matter how dire the circumstance. To leave Paulie behind with a total stranger… no, she would not accept that. It was an outright lie. “I’m sorry, but that doesn’t sound like him at all,” she said now, suddenly aware of how ridiculous she must have looked to this man. Her face was coated in streaks of blood, from her run-in with the merry band of rapist vagrants, and her clothes were torn to shreds. Her three layers of pants were frozen solid, clinging to her body, and her face must have looked like a bright pink pimple from the icy cold she’d endured.

“He said he’d be back in less than an hour, so I didn’t think it was a big deal.”

Annie refused to believe this. “And so, he just left my kid with you?”

“I reckon.” He grinned now, with something just short of amusement.

“You reckon. I see. And how long have you been here? In my house?” she asked. His face transformed, looking quite hurt by the insinuation in her tone and the cold stare that she couldn’t keep at bay. She’d been through enough bullshit the past few days and she wasn’t ready to listen to any more of it. She’d dealt with a pack of two-legged wild animals, so Edgar was nothing in comparison.

He cleared his throat, staring at the fog that came out of his mouth as he breathed. “Only been here a few days. Came in from the road cause your husband is a kind fella.” He paused, taking a tug from a bottle he retrieved from the countertop. That liquor belonged to her husband. “Listen up, sweetheart…”

“Don’t call me sweetheart,” she shot back, wondering who this person was, contemplating whether she would ever trust another adult male again, after the hell they’d put her through at The Purple Cat. Maybe—just maybe—Edgar was a completely harmless person, just trying to survive like everybody else. Maybe she was just being a royal bitch to him. It wouldn’t have been the first time in her life.

“Sorry, ma’am.”

“Where did you come from?”

“Here and there,” he said, snickering as he spoke.

She inched a bit closer to him, touching at the gun tucked into her pants. The look of the thing would be enough to send him scampering off into the subzero evening air. She had one bullet left, judging by her count. Two were used on The Chuckle Machine, two were used on Shiny and Yeti, and then the accidental kill shot on Shiny. That left one bullet. And if she needed to use it, she wouldn’t think twice. The Annie that would have hesitated was gone now. Gone forever.

“You seem a little upset, ma’am. Are you okay? You look like you’ve been through hell and back, if ya’ don’t mind my saying.”

She nodded. “I have been. And I survived, but that’s beside the point, Edgar. I want to know where you came from, and why you’re in my house, and when you’re leaving. I suggest you say something along the lines of: as soon as possible.”

“Hold up there,” he said, putting up the palm of his left hand towards her in the universal gesture to back up a step. “I don’t mean no harm here, Annie.”

“My name is Anabel. You don’t know me well enough to call me Annie.”

“Fair enough, but I intend to get knowin’ on you better. I intend a whole lot of that,” he replied. Annie could see that he was tightening his jaw. He was holding back an abnormal instinct; one that he knew would scare the shit out of her if he let it loose. She’d witnessed that same look in The Shiny Bald One’s eyes when he first saw her and Tony (half naked, trying to hide their shame) but he had quickly let that facade crumble. Edgar was doing a better job of it, keeping the glue of his mask intact, but the results would end up the same. Something inside Annie’s gut screamed to every inch of her body, telling her that she was in danger. And even worse than that, Paulie was in danger.

“I’d like you to leave. Christian may have invited you in, but I’m vetoing that decision.” The confused expression on his face made Annie wonder if he knew what the word veto meant. “I won’t ask again.”

“I don’t think you understand, Annie.” His eyes got big and wide when he said her name, which she’d corrected him on only a few seconds earlier. He didn’t heed her advice as she’d hoped, not in any way. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m settled in and settled up. Ever heard that term? People in my family used to say it. I got a new family now, though. So this family gonna say that shit too, ya’ hear? We’re gon’ be a happy little family, you and me. Gonna make some memories. Some real nice ones like Disney Land and shit.”

And there it was.

He was as crazy as a bed bug. This stranger considered her his new “family” though they’d met only minutes earlier. So continued the long line of cuckoo birds, coming at her from every direction.

“If you hurt my son,” she started to say, pursing her lips and touching the revolver. She unconsciously pulled it out, holding it in Edgar’s direction. “Get the fuck out of my house. I don’t care where you go, but you can’t stay here.”

Her head felt like a block on her shoulders. Her exhaustion was overtaking her. Annie’s equilibrium was all over the place from the loss of hearing in her ear. She couldn’t keep the gun steady because of this. With every bit of strength, she fought against the wobbliness in her hands, fearful that it might neuter the threatening gesture.

She said, “Take the snowmobile if you want, I left the keys. I don’t need it anymore.”

His silence pervaded the room. The invader only smiled, his lips pulling back in a disgusting manner that looked like a lizard. He advanced a step closer to Annie, staring at the gun in her hand. It was evident that it wasn’t the first time the man had a gun pointed at him; most people would have flinched at the sight of it, but he acted as though it was par for the course. Edgar was what her deceased grandfather might have called, “a natural born rough rider.”

“Get out,” she said, holding the gun firm now, trying to hide that unending shakiness in her hands. Even with all that she’d gone through with the other whackos, she still didn’t feel right taking somebody’s life.

Count to three, she told herself. If he hasn’t left by three, shoot him in the face. Don’t even tell him you’re counting, cause that’ll make him move first.

One…

“I said get out!” she shouted. Edgar started to laugh at this, followed by a throaty cough.

Two…

She thought of Paulie. It always came back to Paulie—every thought, every word, every breath. Edgar had said that he was in the basement, sleeping. But what if he was dead? What if she went down those stairs and found that her baby was no more? The thought revolted her so she pushed it away. This wasn’t the time for that consideration. Not yet. “Last chance,” she warned, trying to sound a whole lot tougher than she felt.

Three…

The gun clicked. The sound deflated her entire being, almost instantly. She pulled the trigger a second time. It was out of bullets or jammed. Either way, she was in trouble. Had she miscounted her bullets? When she collapsed earlier, had another round gone off? Had two bullets struck The Shiny Bald One instead of just the one? This is the part where you throw the gun at somebody, Annie thought to herself. If there were no bullets, then the next best thing was to hurl the weapon.

When she threw it, the revolver missed his head by a good foot.

This made the devilish stranger smile.

Edgar lunged toward her, grabbing her by the meat of the throat. Stars filled her eyes within seconds, swimming around her already disconnected consciousness. He shook her so hard that Annie felt her bones rattling inside of her. Her ears started to ring louder than ever, presumably from the panic that was invading her being. A thought came to her that this might be the last moment she ever remembered, but her whole damn life refused to flash in front of her eyes like it was supposed to, according to the saying.

Annie dug her claws into Edgar’s wrists, pushing her fingernails until she felt them starting to break, but Edgar didn’t hold back on his assault. In fact, her defense maneuver only made him fortify his grip, tightening up enough to make his hands go pale and white.

“Pull a gun on me like some kinda animal? Fuckin’ cunt. Tryin’ t’make a better life for us here,” he snarled, spittle falling from his lips. If he wasn’t choking her to death and tossing her about the kitchen like a rag doll, she might have laughed at that notion. His corny sentiment was laughable, as compared to his violent outburst. “The boy wants me for his pop, ya’ hear? And if you don’t want to be part of the family, well… fuck ya’.”

His voice trailed off inside her head, just as the starry shapes in her eyes got so big that they might have been blazing suns, right on the brink of supernovas.

* * *

She shook loose of her unexpected blackout, reaching up to touch her throat. It felt like her windpipe had been crushed, so she tested her voice with a cuss word, “Fuck.” It didn’t quite sound like her, but she could still speak. Her voice was gone, just as the hearing in her left ear.

The sound of a hammer thudding against nails echoed through the pitch-black room.

Sitting up with a jolt, she realized that she was at the bottom of the stairs, and that her arms and legs screamed in pain. The monster (the newest monster, she corrected herself) had tossed her down the stairs, and now he was barricading her in.

She scrambled to get herself up off the ground, rolling over on to her side as she reached for the lowest steps. She wasn’t going to let this invader lock her away in the basement, like some deformed sibling from a gothic horror novel.

“Hey!” she shouted, her voice barely above a whisper. He’d screwed her throat up pretty bad with his meaty paws.

Then she heard the voice—a sound so sweet that it made her heart rate double and then triple. She could hardly remember what happened next, both from escaping her woozy prison of stars and being without sleep since her brutal attack in The Purple Cat.

“Mammah?” the voice asked weakly, barely audible in the mush of her ear canal.

“Baby,” she said, nearly bursting into tears. Forgetting all about the maniac boarding up the basement door, Annie walked towards a tiny night light, shining near the futon-bed at the other side of the basement.

She moved towards the light, feeling as if invisible hands were transporting her.

When she got close enough to Paulie, she could see his face, barely illuminated by the dull night-light. She curled her arms around him, nuzzling her face into his tiny shoulder, and she started to weep. It felt good to weep like this. Paulie did the same, but he was so feeble that it came out like little whines.

“My baby,” she said, feeling a rush of energy return to her, and then that rush exited just as quickly. Though they were in danger, she held her baby tight and drifted into a bizarre, worrisome (yet pleasant, in some way) sleep. When he started to snore, pressing his body up against her as she contorted into a fetal position around him, she felt an infectious serenity wash over her body.

Annie and her baby boy slept.

Chapter Three

The people in Paulie’s dream were eating each other. There were chocolate stains all over their faces and clothing. Streaks of brown led from their neighbors’ houses, out into the street where the people melted, falling all over each other, chewing each other’s heads just like he did with that big chocolate Easter bunny that grandma sent him.

It was just like his Daddah’s joke: the one about eating people made of chocolate. After Easter, Paulie asked his Daddah nearly single day, “We eat big bunny, yah?” The convincing didn’t work and Paulie would get upset. Until one day, his pop gave in and said they could eat the giant bunny.

The bunny was almost as tall as Paulie and his Daddah had hidden it away in the bedroom closet. Paulie wasn’t allowed in there, but he snuck in a couple times so he could get a good look at the super-huge gigantic chocolate bunny, if only to fantasize.

As his father broke off the long brown ears, handing one to Paulie and keeping the other for himself, he had said, “This poor bunny. We’re eating him and there’s nothing he can do.”

So Paulie replied, “Not reah, Daddah! Not reah.”

“I see. And are you a regular, Paulie, or are you a chocolate Paulie?” his father asked next, licking his lips like the silly-pants that he was.

What a goober his father was. “No, I a boy. I a boy n’ my name is Pawwwlie.”

Daddah shook his head. “No, I think you’re a chocolate Paulie, and I’m gonna eat you up.” After this, his father went mega-silly, running after Paulie, chasing him around the living room, tickling him in the armpits as he pretended to chew on his head, making snorty piggie noises while he did it.

Paulie couldn’t remember ever laughing so hard—he almost peed his pants. Almost.

But this dream about the chocolate people wasn’t funny at all.

Paulie knew he was dreaming. Mama once said dreams were kind of like watching a movie. It’s not real, but sometimes it looks so real that it gets scary.

The guy from across the street, a round man named Mister Pete, was eating his own dog. His dog was named Jake, and Paulie made sure he waved to Jake every time Mr. Pete took the golden-tan Corgi for a walk.

Jake was made of chocolate, but so was Mr. Pete. They rolled around on the ground, biting into each other. It wasn’t playing, like when he and his Daddah pretended they were made of chocolate. It was scary. Scarier than dinosaurs. Scarier than monsters. Scarier than bugs. So scary that it made Paulie want to wake up and never have any dreams again.

The chocolate people were all tangled up, just like Daddah’s garden hose that he could never get straightened out right. Their chocolate was all over the place, covering the streets. Paulie looked up and down the road and found more and more chocolate people, chocolate animals, and chocolate houses. They were all eating each other. They had forgotten all about the deep, deep snow, cause now, they were worried about something else. They were worried about their tummies.

The chocolate people were hungry. They seemed real sad, like somebody had just died, but their faces got bright again once they started eating each other. Nobody said any words. All that Paulie could hear was the sound of slurping and chewing.

That was when Eggah’s hand popped out of the snow. He was holding the pancake-flipper, holding it like he was about to swing it at him. It would hurt, but not as much as being eaten by the chocolate people or the chocolate dogs. Eggah had been hiding beneath the snow all along, waiting for his moment to come out and eat his share of chocolate.

Paulie knew deep inside of him that it wouldn’t be as fun as the time his Daddah tried to eat him. Daddah had only been playing. Eggah looked like he was serious.

Eggah looked like he was awful hungry.

Once he was out of the snow bank, he tossed his pancake-flipper aside, then he grabbed at Paulie’s feet, pulling off the cowboy boots that he’d given him. Paulie was mad that he would do that, taking back his gift that way, and so he tried to kick Eggah in the mouth. He missed. Eggah started to scream after that, angrier than the time he’d hurt Paulie.

Eggah bit into Paulie’s leg. It didn’t hurt like the pancake-flipper did, but it looked mighty scary to see that happening to his leg. Chocolate was coming out of the spot that Eggah had bit him, oozing and dripping into the snow. Eggah licked at it with his tongue and then he started to laugh. He bit into Paulie’s other leg next.

From there it only got worse. For the first time in his life, Paulie knew what it felt like to no longer be a boy, but to be a chocolate Paulie, just like his father had kidded him about.

Paulie screamed for his mother, and for his father, while the strange man (who he thought was his friend but was really just a big meanie) ate him up, bit by bit, lick by lick.

* * *

Paulie woke up, gasping for air, feeling around in the dark, hoping that his legs were still there and not all melted and chocolaty like in his horrible dream.

They were there. Eggah hadn’t eaten him, after all. He had hurt him plenty (in real life, not like in the dreams) but he hadn’t eaten him. Not yet.

That was when Paulie realized that his Mama had just returned to him and that she could protect him now. She could protect him from Eggah if he ever got mean—

that flippah’s for pancakes, Eggah!

—again.

“I not chocolate. I a boy. I a boy named Pawwwwlie,” he whispered.

Paulie cuddled close to his mother and fell back asleep. This time the dreams were happy. The first dream was about a pony and the next one was about a picnic with his parents. He wouldn’t remember any others after that, because sometimes dreams stayed hidden deep inside you.

He slept so deep that he didn’t hear the watery noises. He didn’t hear the drips.

* * *

Annie snapped awake, fully confused by her location, unsure of how she’d arrived. She smelled Paulie’s breathing against her chin, though she could not see him in the basement’s darkness. She was home again. It all returned to her and she assured herself that she hadn’t been dreaming. Annie was back with Paulie again. Christian was still missing, though.

A faint recollection of the nails pounding returned to her, but that sound was absent now. Edgar had finished his deed, sealing her into a prison. She wondered if Edgar was even his real name. The man in their house was a certifiable snake in the grass, though she had only just met him. She could say that much for certain.

Should have fought a little harder. That might have been your last chance, sweetie.

Annie stared up at the black ceiling, glad that she hadn’t been dreaming after all. If she wasn’t dreaming, then she still had a chance. She wasn’t sure what her chances were, but a single chance was better than no chance at all.

Chapter Four

Drip—drip.

That was the sound of the new morning.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

So began the end of one nightmare and the start of another.

Annie couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it. In her wildest nooks of imagination, she’d imagined something like this. It wasn’t obvious, but something had nagged at her ever since she started on her journey with Tony. This was natural cause, and then effect; what freezes must one day melt, be it in a day or a century.

Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.

The ice outside was letting go, dripping beneath the basement door at first, and then the water started to flow heavier, pulsing almost like a heartbeat. The soft sound of water filled her aching ears.

In less than ten minutes time, the floor of the basement was covered with a half an inch of icy water. The brown floor paint bubbled from the moisture seeping through its pores. The steady rhythm of water entering the basement echoed against the soundproofed walls.

It was melting. Annie couldn’t quite believe her eyes, but it was melting.

And it was melting fast.

DRIP. DRIP. DRIP.

It felt like God (there he was again, that silly phantom that kept reminding her of what she once believed when she was a little girl) had flipped a switch on the whole universe, resetting an electrical breaker that he had forgotten all about in the cellar that was Earth. The frigid world was exiting, gathering up its belongings and running for the exit at top speed.

Since the global warming craze started in the 1970’s, there was never a shortage of people commenting on how hot it was or how cold. One side would purport that the entire concept was a myth, plain and simple. And the other side was also split into two camps—those that believed in global warming and the rest of them who believed in global dimming, never agreeing that they were actually talking about the same thing. Still, the observers of the universe would point out thirty degree temperature shifts from one day to the next, speaking as though it was utter madness. Those days were gone. This new shift was more than seventy degrees, or so Annie estimated, feeling a calm warmth returning to her bones that she hadn’t known for a long, long time. The sun had finally come out, allowing the planet to heal from the destruction it wrought in its hiding.

DRIPDRIPDRIPDRIPDRIP.

“Paulie. Paulie, can you hear me?” she asked, shaking her son. He was awake, but still pulling himself from the depths of sleep. They’d cuddled on the futon all through the night.

After he’d pushed his “family” out of the way, Edgar—or whatever the hell his name was—had secured boards over the basement door. His fury had overtaken every logical path, pounding the nails in, not even taking a moment to think it through; all the food and logs were in the basement. If he locked them down there, it wouldn’t be long until he was forced to return, cursing to himself as he pried the nails loose. The image almost made Annie laugh out loud.

Their captor didn’t seem very bright. Sick in the head, and monstrous, but a simple-minded dolt all the same.

“Mammah,” whispered Paulie, parting his sticky lips and looking up to her lethargically. He needed medical assistance and if he didn’t receive it soon, she wasn’t sure what long lasting effects it might have. Were there internal injuries to pair with his external ones? His left eye was still swollen and half shut, looking very much like Rocky Balboa at the end of the first movie. She wasn’t sure what Edgar had done to her son. She didn’t dare to speculate for the wrenching feeling it would give her on the inside. She’d been a terrible mother, allowing this to happen to her innocent little man.

“Hey, baby,” she said, trying to bite back the fright that she experienced when she looked at his broken face. The bastard would pay for what he did. Who in their right mind could harm a child like this? She’d been through worse with the men, if one was delusional enough to call them that, from The Purple Cat.

DRIPDRIPDRIPDRIPDRIP. DRIPDRIPDRIPDRIPDRIP.

Edgar was a bully, a psychopath, but he didn’t stand a chance against Annie. Not the New Annie. Not the woman who’d been ravaged, ripped, and stalked through the snow. This new woman wasn’t to be fucked with.

As Annie looked over at the door to the bulkhead, she suddenly recalled the previous spring, when the snow had also melted, albeit in smaller measures. Last winter was less than two feet of accumulated snow. This was closer to twenty feet in some areas, depending on the wind and drifts. But still, she almost had a chuckle as she pictured Christian, scrambling with buckets and a wet-dry vacuum, cussing beneath every strained breath. Every year he forgot to seal the bulkhead edging with foam insulator, and every year this happened. Poor Christian. He didn’t stand a chance as a homeowner. Annie had giggled at the sight of him, tossing old blankets in front of the door, thinking he could stop the water with a centimeter worth of fabric. It was sort of cute, in a way.

With this new storm (apocalypse, Annie, it’s the damn apocalypse, just say it and be done with it…stop pussy-footing), the bulkhead was surely covered with snow, but would it still be, with all of this rapid melting? She had to give it a try. Edgar wouldn’t have bothered sealing up the outside of the bulkhead, as he couldn’t have predicted this rapid flip-flop of temperatures.

“Wait here a second, baby,” she said to Paulie. He attempted a nod, but he was back asleep—more unconscious than asleep, really—in less than a few seconds.

She grabbed a miniature flashlight that Paulie kept under his pillow, muscling it out of his clutches. She wasn’t sure where he got it from, but Christian was always hiding survival tools around the place, always ready for just such situations. Christian had always been good like that, expecting the worst.

Annie approached the door that led to the bulkhead, turning the knob. As she pulled the door towards her, a wave of chilly water swept over her boots, splashing up against her ankles.

“Oh, my God,” she said, looking down at her boots and then staring at the cement steps for what felt like an hour, though it might have been a minute.

Clicking on the flashlight, she scanned the bulkhead’s steps.

And there he was.

She’d found her husband. His body was lightly jostling as water rushed over him.

Christian looked up at her, his face transfixed in a permanent look of shock. His body had stiffened so much that his arms and legs reminded her of The Tin Man from The Wizard of Oz, frozen in place, desperate for a can of oil to move freely once again. There was no oil that could bring him back though.

“Christian,” she said out loud, a rattle inside of her chest trying to escape, something just short of a scream. She couldn’t even manage a scream if she wanted to, though that was for the best. That would alert Paulie to what had happened, if the poor kid didn’t already know. Far worse than that, it would alert Edgar to what she had uncovered.

Get hopping, Annie. Step over your husband’s corpse so you can get that bulkhead door open. It’s still gonna be loaded down with some mighty heavy snow, and it’ll take everything you got, but it’s the only way you’re getting out of here. Try not to look at him. Try not to think about the times you fooled around on him.

It seemed like a cruel nightmare, something she could have never fathomed before this moment, but Annie reached down, biting back the bile that tried to eek its way up her esophagus. She grabbed him by the bloated, icy ankles, looking at his purple face, studying the nasty wound on his neck. Most of his head was detached, but not quite all of it. The son of a bitch had nearly decapitated his head, but had given up before completion. The sight made her go numb. She would never forget this image, no matter how long she lived.

You don’t get moving, then that won’t be very long.

“I’m so sorry,” she said to him, though she knew he couldn’t hear it. She wasn’t sure what she was apologizing for—for his dying, for her not coming home when she should have, for being a cheater—but it felt good to say those words to him one last time. “I’m so sorry,” she repeated, increasingly conscious of how pathetic she sounded now.

His head clunked against the cement steps and Annie could not recall a more hideous sound in her life.

Annie’s discovery explained the pungent, unnerving smell that she’d awoken to during the night. She cast it away, assuming it was rotting food, never imagining (stupid, stupid girl) that Edgar was lying about what happened to Christian. The look in Edgar’s lying eyes should have told the whole story, but she was a goddamned fool. Not to mention the fact that nothing could have pried her away from cuddling with her son throughout the night.

When she had Christian fully removed from the darkened bulkhead, exposed to the tiny bits of morning light that snuck in through the solitary window on the other side of the basement, he looked even worse than her first glimpse, through the stygian dark. Natural light always made things look worse.

He didn’t look like the man she had married. He looked like a deformed ghoul.

Annie grabbed a sheet from the closet. It was dripping wet because it had dropped off the shelf at some point, uselessly soaking up water that would not cease. It would still serve its purpose. She covered her husband’s body, whispering something that may or may not have been an insane person’s prayer, and wished with all her might that Paulie would not discover this terrible sight. It would ruin what remained of his life if he found his father’s body like this. Her boy would be screwed up for the rest of his life regardless of what happened (but wouldn’t all the world’s children be in the same boat, if any of them actually survived?). She wasn’t a fan of adding insult to injury.

She returned to the bulkhead. Since she had crossed the room with Christian’s body and covered him up, the torrent of water increased several times over, exponentially gushing and splashing against the hard steps. It sounded like a waterfall. The rushing sound actually hurt her aching, muddied ears, trapped within the tightly bound confines of the bulkhead.

With a deep breath inside her chest, Annie stepped up, and then reached up to the slanted bulkhead door, turning the latch that held it sealed. She tried once and then twice, to push using just her arms, but the thing didn’t move a centimeter. There was still a ton of snow on the other side of it. She might have to wait.

Wait? Wait for what? Wait to drown? Wait so that creep can come down here and finish what he started on Paulie? So he can give you a taste of that same pain, that same purposeless violence? That sicko’s got nothing to lose.

She shook the thought away, pushing once again with all her might, this time throwing her right shoulder and the side of her head into the effort. The rush of water got heavier. Gone were the drip-drips, replaced by a screaming banshee of echoing water, hollow and innocent sounding, but deadly all the same.

Annie looked back down the stairs. Paulie was stirring again. “Mammah? Too much watah?” he asked.

“Yes, it’s way too much water,” she said, not at all amused at just how much water it really was. It was more than four inches deep on the floor now, coming up closer and closer to her knees. If it kept up this pace, they’d be drowned in less than an hour, if she didn’t get the blasted bulkhead open.

She screamed out loud, thinking of those stories about women lifting the dead weight of an automobile off their pinned children. Her brain filled with hopeful thoughts of adrenaline, acting like a mother bear protecting her cubs at any cost.

“Push, Mammah,” Paulie’s wavering, miniscule voice rooted her on. The poor kid could barely speak, wincing in pain as he cheered for his mother.

And that was when it overcame her. It was a rush of energy, like nothing she’d ever felt, flooding over her body, warmly euphoric. Her entire body jolted with an incredible strength. This was it. This was that Herculean moment, presenting itself to her. This is what all those old wives’ tales had been talking about—she was certain of it.

With a grunt, she threw everything she had into the door, giving way to a whoosh of frozen air, soon followed by sloppy streams of icy snow and water crashing against her lower body, sending her to topple down the stairs.

Landing in a frigid, but refreshing pool of water, she looked up and saw the sun.

It shined through the remaining clouds. It was going to be a marvelous day.

Annie gathered Paulie into her arms.

With what she thought might be the last of her strength, Annie took one step at a time, climbing towards the glorious, golden sunlight.

Chapter Five

The sounds engulfed him as he slept, intertwining into his occasionally rational thoughts and breaking up the places his mind dared to go. He dreamed of being on a wooden raft, where there was nothing to eat but a little boy with cowboy boots on his feet. Edgar dreamed of eating the boy and throwing his bones over the edge (he’d of course hang on to the boots), into the ocean where the sharks would pick away the last sinews and tendons, getting every last ounce of protein from his tiny corpse. Somebody, off on the ocean’s horizon, kept ringing a strange sounding dinner bell in odd intervals, no so much a ding-dong, but reminding him instead of a rushing river that could not be blockaded by dams or rocks or sandy beaches.

Something was changing. Something was coming for him.

Edgar woke with a splitting headache, as if somebody had taken an axe to the back of his skull while he was sleeping. “Zing-a-ling,” he stammered, folding his legs over the edge of Paulie and Christian’s bed. He couldn’t remember much from the night before, and didn’t really care to. He licked his parched lips, unbuttoning one eye, slowly, and then opening up the other. There was some alien stickiness clinging to his eyelids, something he usually felt when he drank too much. The next thought seemed vaguely familiar: the dead fellow had a liquor cabinet that would make an Irishman weep.

He supposed that was what happened. Seemed likely. Sounded just like an Edgar kind of evening. He’d had a lot of those lately, especially since the snow first came.

A hazy fog thinned out, with sporadic recollections returning to him, broken and shattered, but real all the same. A woman. She’d come through the door, asking about his boy, talking about a whole lot of bullsh—

His wife. It was the sexy broad from the pictures on the wall, the one with the pretty cans and the white teeth. He’d met her last night. He’d met his wife and now he wasn’t quite sure where she was. Shouldn’t she have been sleeping next to him?

“Christ on a bike,” he said to himself.

There was never a second chance to make a first impression. What had he said to her? What had he done? That was his new wife. The mother of his child. The matron of his heart. The reason for the season. She was a pretty one and he was expected by the Lord Almighty to treat her that way.

He was a motherfuckin’ family man now.

The pride was almost unbearable.

Edgar stood up from the bed, walking towards the window, curious about the strange sounds outside, which had leaked into his dream. Pulling back the shades, he peered out into the shiny abyss of the day. Across the street, one of the surviving neighbors was hanging their head out the window, waving a white tee-shirt, cheerfully shouting something that Edgar couldn’t hear through the window pane.

The quiet slug of rushing water filled his head, almost to the point that he thought his ears might start bleeding. The sound was coming from all over, from the top of the street to the bottom, driving him instantly mad.

“It’s meltin’. Jesus H, it’s melting like a motherfucker!” he said, unable to hold back the shout that was welling up in his belly. He’d survived. He’d survived the storm and everything was going to be as right as rain now.

He could hear the sewers gushing, filling and spilling and spewing, unable to keep up with the rapid melt. Edgar pulled up on the window, undoing the safety notches that Yuppie One and Yuppie Two had put in place for the kid (Edgar suddenly couldn’t remember his son’s name—Johnny? Louie?). The bubbling din of melting and water rushing grew louder as the window was opened, although Edgar couldn’t have imagined it being any louder than it already was. From across the road, he could hear the gleeful neighbor shouting out in rejoice, apparently relieved by the temperatures that this morning had delivered unto them.

Better get to freezin’ up again, thought Edgar. Or we all gon’ get drowned like sick fuckin’ rats.

Edgar instinctively quoted an excerpt from The Good Book. Jesus was a magical man, and he executed his plans in ways that man didn’t quite see fit. Everything happened once, and it would always happen again and again, such was the universe. Fuckin’ aye right, that’s how Edgar lived and breathed. Jesus was a bad dude—hell, he IS a bad dude—and he’s comin’ to collect us, thought Edgar, trying to resist the urge to jump up and down like a silly child with too much sugar in his gut.

He said, “By faith, Noah, being warned of God of things not seen as yet, moved with fear, prepared an ark to the saving of his house; by the which he condemned the world, and became heir of the righteousness which is by faith.” Pausing to study the strangely warm air drifting in through the window, Edgar added, “A righteous man runs a righteous house. Settle in. Settle up.”

He was a father.

A caretaker. A carpenter.

A provider. A destroyer.

A lover. Oh, yes, he was a lover.

Edgar looked over at the crumpled sheets and blankets on the bed. After he checked in on his new family, he’d get her to make the bed up proper. It would be their consummation, as soon as she was ready to do that deed. Edgar felt his heart thudding. Ever since he had seen that family photo, he’d fantasized about her. And here he was, waking up with the nastiest of hangovers, and she was waiting for him… in the basement? Yes, the basement. He remembered now. He’d stuck her down in the basement. He tried to picture her sitting on the little couch down there, with no panties or pants on, legs spread, looking at him with simmering eyes.

He looked down at his sweatpants, where a tiny hump protruded, begging to be set free.

Two snakes. Two lizards. Two ducks. Two mosquitos.

Once upon a time, a man named Noah created a boat. He created a boat to save mankind, to save the concept of purity, of living beings that mated in the name of perseverance. Such was the game of survival.

Two tigers. Two whales. Two kittens. Two leeches.

Edgar hung his head out the window, smiling as he stared down the reveling neighbor from across the street, a chubby man with a burly beard. The man pulled his head back inside the window and retreated. He was scared of Edgar for some reason (perhaps because the man didn’t yet know that Edgar belonged in this house), but there was nothing to fret over. Edgar was hoping to make friends with the man soon enough, once all this damn snow melted.

Two lions. Two bears. Two geckos. Two jellyfish.

He looked into the wet snow banks to the left of the house, where the mailman’s head was just emerging. He reconsidered the burly neighbor’s frightful retreat and now it made more sense. He’d seen the mailman. Edgar hadn’t buried the fucker deep enough. If he didn’t take care of that blight on the eye, and then the nosy fucking neighbor as well, then people would start asking questions. His wife might start asking questions. His son (Bobby? Marty?) would start asking questions, the twerp.

“Well isn’t that a shame,” he growled, staring at the mailman’s half-frozen head.

Two mushrooms. Two houseflies. Two sloths. Two humans.

Chapter Six

Using a few pieces of steel lawn furniture that Christian had left outside over the winter, Annie had managed a makeshift ladder on to the shallow, sloping roof of the garage. It was incredibly wobbly, but strong enough to get them some elevation. Getting higher than the water was the only way they would beat this thing.

As soon as Paulie was up on to the roof with her, struggling to keep his footing, the lawn furniture was caught up in the rush, swept back into their fenced in backyard. Chunks of ice careened by, clattering against the eaves of the garage’s roof. Annie wanted to swear at the terror of this alteration in their world, but she needed to spare Paulie of any further frightful thoughts. Her fear would heighten his fear and that could lead to panic. She breathed slowly, calming herself in the only way she knew how, hoping to set an example for her baby boy.

The roof, though, was not high enough. They needed more elevation. They needed to get as high as they could, possibly to the main part of the house’s roof. Or—

Into the trees. She hated climbing trees and was quite terrible at it when she was a child, but it was their best bet. They would need a sturdy tree, and luckily enough there was one only a short distance away from them.

For the past two years, she’d warned Christian about the thick oak tree that was rubbing up against the side of the garage: One day you’re going to walk out there and find that it’s ripping shingles off the roof, or burrowing into the side of the house. It’s too close and it has no signs of rotting. You’ll have to deal with that old tree sooner, rather than later. Knock it down Christian. Knock it down!

He had protested, then dragged his feet, protested some more, and then forgot about the proposed venture altogether. When she reminded him of the tree on one occasion, the scene had escalated into a full-on war, digging up every chore he had ever failed to complete, as he dug his nails into her as well, coaching her on her lack of tact and appreciation. They’d nearly exploded, each in their own way, so Annie hadn’t brought up the damn tree again.

Now, that tree was their only chance to escape drowning in an icy grave. Annie felt a pang of guilt. She couldn’t have known. This was just how things happened… she couldn’t have ever known.

“Stay here, baby. Don’t move your feet. If you lose your footing, I can’t help you. You understand?” she asked Paulie. He nodded, looking as if he might start to cry at any moment. “Bend down and put your butt against the roof until I’m ready for you. I’m going across.” He nodded again, hunching himself down into a tight package, putting his weight back against the roof. He had better instincts than she would have expected. Paulie was a natural survivor, just like her. This thought dawned on her and it gave her heart warmth and the power to go on.

Annie reached one hand out, for the closest limb (which also happened to look sturdier than all the rest), wrapping her fingers around it and inching her body forward. She hesitated to look down at the flotsam of icy melt that was swirling about her side yard now, certain that the sight of it would make her vomit or at the very least make her lose all her nerve. Without thinking it over much, Annie thrust her upper body forward, putting all of her weight on to the branch that she was gripping. She swung her legs and feet out, begging the tree branch not to snap on her. Before she could realize what she’d done, her feet were wedged between two of the large offshoots of the oak’s sturdy trunk.

She pulled her feet out of the wedge. Her left foot almost didn’t budge, but with the final tug, it came loose. Annie looked up at the expanse of the tree branches above her, scanning the branches in case they needed to go higher. Something inside of her said that they would, insisted that the water was only going to get deeper. Judging by the amount of snow that had accumulated (she’d lost count- twenty-five feet? thirty?), the water level would be something shorter than that height, but perhaps not by much.

Sweat trickled down Annie’s forehead. Up until she woke up with a flood outside their door, she was convinced that she would never sweat like this again. She missed the sticky, moist sweat that now clung to her armpits. The warm air felt good on her body.

“Come on. Your turn,” she said, reaching out her hand to Paulie. He grabbed her hand, his feet shuffling to keep steady on the steep roof. The kid was four years old. He could barely put his pants on without assistance, and now she was challenging him to sling himself across a rushing gap of icy water, on to a tree. He hadn’t even attempted tree climbing at the most rudimentary level yet, so she’d have to climb for the both of them. But they wouldn’t be climbing anywhere if he didn’t make his move soon.

“I’s scared,” he said and a truer sentiment Annie could not recall.

“I know you are, honey. But I have your hand. I’m going to hold on tight and you’re going to swing over to me. I won’t drop you, baby. I would never drop you, not in a million years.”

He couldn’t look up at her because he was transfixed by the vertigo-inducing water below. It was getting closer to the edge of the roof. A clunky mass of ice drifted by just then, creating a terrible shriek against the metal gutter. If it got high enough that it started pulling at his feet, her baby might be lost.

“Now, Paulie. Do it right now. Then we’re going to climb, you and me. You remember how Daddy used to talk about climbing trees when he was a little boy?”

Paulie nodded, tears welling up in his eyes. He shuffled a little closer to the edge, centimeter by centimeter. If he went one more inch, Annie might be able to reach his other hand. If she could get that hand, then she would pull him across whether he wanted to go or not.

“It was his favorite thing. You want to climb the tree like your Daddy when he was a little boy?”

Paulie nodded again. Annie wasn’t sure if he knew what had happened to his father. That was a discussion for another day—if there was another day to be had, of course—when their lives were not in peril. His father was dead, so she might have been better off not mentioning it, just in case. Paulie didn’t seem to react though, so she assumed he had no idea what had transpired between Christian and Edgar.

“I’m going to take you on your first climb. Your father will be so proud of you.”

Paulie moved right to the edge and Annie snatched at his opposite hand before he could second-guess himself and back up again. She had both of his tiny mitts now, but she didn’t need to tug against his will. With careful precision, he put one foot out, in the direction of the tree’s trunk. Her brave little boy was a marvel to her.

He dangled for only a millisecond, Annie putting all of her strength into her back and arms, refusing to lose her grip on his trembling, wet hands. He swung across, so monkey-like and desperate that she almost laughed at the silly sight.

And then she had him, clutched at her side. He was heavier than he looked. The boy had grown a bit before she’d returned to him, if that was even possible. Other parents had always told her, “they grow up so fast,” but she never truly realized it until this moment. He wasn’t a four-year-old boy. In fact, he was now what some might label a “young man.” Annie almost burst into tears, but resisted the urge. There would be time for soppy motherly moments later on.

Paulie struggled to get his footing on the wet tree trunk, a nervous worry overtaking his face. Annie would not let his miniscule hand go, not for anything. If she let him go, then she’d let herself go just as well. There was no reason to go on if something happened to him.

The water was rushing up against the side of the house now, rising higher and higher with every minute, now overtaking the roof of the garage. Flashbacks to the flooding from Hurricane Katrina surfaced in Annie’s mind, but that was nothing compared to this. That was devastating, but it moved slow, undulating through the parishes of Louisiana. This was a different kind of beast; violent, quaking, apocalyptic (there it is, just admit it, thank you much), and reckless in nature.

The shingles on the side of their house were ripping off from the sheer force of the water.

“I won’t let you go,” she said to her son, staring into his face, trying to dictate the severity of their situation without scaring him.

“We need to go higher. Are you ready for your first tree-climbing lesson?” she asked, trying to feign a smile.

It must have worked because her son glowed back at her. Perhaps, she thought, he was thinking of his father. Perhaps he was happy to be here, with her, climbing the hell out of this oak tree. Perhaps he was even braver than she thought.

“Climba tree, mammah. Climb all the way!”

With the sound of rushing water beneath her, growing louder by the minute, Annie reached for the next branch above them, wrestling Paulie near the crook of her arm. Hoisting herself, she found an unimaginable strength inside of her, like when she’d forced her way through the bulkhead, like when she’d killed off the posse of carnivorous pursuers.

Annie climbed like an expert, though she’d never gone any higher than the first branch on her granddad’s old sycamore tree.

She’d climb all the way to heaven if she had to.

Chapter Seven

The mailman’s bloated corpse, purple and swollen like a tick that had gorged on too much blood, floated by the window casually, butting up against the windowpane. The water line was up above the window now, so it looked like the mailman was a fish in an aquarium. The image made Edgar chuckle. He’d looked after a goldfish when he was a little boy. Who would have ever thought that the whole world would turn into a fish tank? The best part about seeing Skipperoo, was that now, he hadn’t any need to retrieve the corpse and hide it away from the judging eyes of his neighbors. The water was rising. The son of a bitch would be gone in the torrent of water, and in no time at all.

None of that mattered.

Jesus was coming.

He’d been waiting for, ever since his mother had dropped him out her lady-hole this moment. Edgar couldn’t resist smiling, tapping at the leaking window, goading the mailman’s cadaver through the glass, ignoring the water that was spilling into the house through the edges of the swelling window frame. “See there. Time for a reck-a-nin! Fuckin’ aye right!”

Ever since he was a boy and discovered the love and power of Jesus H. Christ, he’d been awaiting his second coming. His days of wanderin’ from one part of the world to the next, like the great carpenter himself, was nothing more than a waiting game. Life, he had always believed, was nothing but a precursor to the next world. “Heaven’s Waitin’ Room” like his mother called it. It was every reason to be good, and at the same time, every reason to be bad to the bone. Edgar had tasted a bit of both, but mostly the latter.

“I hear you, Jesus. I hear you loud and clear,” he said.

When he met Jesus, would he dare to zing him? No. That would be wrong. With time, after he built up a relationship with the old boy, he might try to test the waters a bit, but not right away.

The windows were airtight, but they wouldn’t hold for long, not with the immense pressure of the water outside. The water frantically wanted to push through the front door. The frame looked as if it was bulging, being pushed on by the growing pool outside. The water was certainly over his head by now, so when the house’s tight seal gave out, he’d be swimming for his life, though he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been swimming. Here he was, all settled in and settled up, a family man, and he was about to be washed away. No no no, that wouldn’t do. He’d have to take the other two with him as well, his two babies. The little man (Jimmy? Tommy?) and the sweet tramp… what was her name? He couldn’t recall. Jezebel? Yeah, it at least rhymed with Jezebel. If that wasn’t her name, then he’d make her change it. He liked the name Jezebel. In fact, if he had settled in and settled up a lot younger in the game, he might have named his daughter that.

His beautiful wife. His muse. Jezebel. Retreating back through the living room, Edgar found the basement door was nailed shut with a series of planks. “Fuck!” he shouted. He didn’t remember boarding them in like that, but it certainly looked like his handiwork. It would explain the lump on his thumb, as he’d never been too crafty with a hammer and nails. “Fuckin’ hell!” Edgar opened up the toolbox that he’d left by the kitchen sink, searching through Christian’s clutter for something to pry the boards out with.

At the bottom of the toolbox, he found a short crowbar with a hooked head, perfect for pulling out nails. There was no time to pull out nails though, nor was there time to remove the screws, which he could also see peppered the board-up job he’d done in his drunken idiocy.

As he tried to focus on the basement door, he could hear more water coming in over the front door’s threshold. It wasn’t going to get any better, so he needed to move fast. He hoped they hadn’t already drowned. He quietly begged Jesus to let his family survive this reckoning.

He went to work on the boards, sweating, (sweating? He was actually sweating.) and toiling with the edges of the door frame. Luckily, he hadn’t done a very good job of it. The boards came off with ease. He was suddenly thankful for his over consumption of liquor the night before. If he’d done it sober, he might never have gotten the boards off.

Edgar kicked at the door and it swung open, with one board still dangling from the frame. He called down to his family, but found his voice echoing back to him from the completely submerged basement. “Come on up, you two, and stop foolin’ around like a buncha fuckin’ idiots. Somethin’ done changed. I think Jesus gon’ be here. He gon’ be here real soon!”

Silence.

“Get off yer asses!”

Maybe they were dead. Maybe they were sleeping. Several feet of water filled the bottom of the stairwell. He certainly hoped they weren’t drowning down there, as that would spell doom for settling in and settling up. Scampering down the wet stairs, he continued to call out to them, “Get up, get up, get the fuck up!” He went sloshing around the corner of the stairwell, the water looming near his perspiring chin. Light. Across the basement’s flooded expanse, he found daylight poking through. The bulkhead door was flung open. Water was flushing down the cement steps. The floodgates had been opened. Within minutes, the water would be up to the ceiling. The only reason it wasn’t already completely submerged was because of the restrictive bottleneck of the bulkhead’s width.

Shit on a stick.

It was the bitch. Craftier than she looked. Jezebel had opened the door and tried to escape. This was a family, goddammit. Families stuck together. Didn’t they know that? Jezebel was out of her freakin’ mind. Jezebel needed to be taught a lesson, just like he’d done with the kid.

Edgar ran back up the stairs, careful not to slip. He wasn’t accustomed to the sneakers he’d taken from Christian’s closet. He needed those boots back from Jimmy. More so than getting his family back, he needed those fancy wanderin’ boots. If he was gonna meet Jesus in person, then he intended to dress to impress. Only the boots would suffice. He regretted the moment of weakness, wherein, he put the boots by the kid’s bed. How could he have been so limp in the head?

“You fuckers,” he mumbled, sloshing into the living room where the water was entering as a matter of its own will power now—through the edges around the windows, beneath the cracks of the front and back doors, and any other nook or cranny it managed to come through. It was up to his waist now, and even higher outside the house. Looking to the window, out into the “aquarium,” he found that the dead-as-a-doornail mailman was gone now. Good riddance, he thought.

Jesus had flipped the switch and things would never be the same again.

The water was a mean son of bitch. Noah wouldn’t have put up with this shit. His animals stayed where they were supposed to, in the fuckin’ boat. Edgar’s animals had escaped out the back door, as if they didn’t love him. As if they didn’t even like him.

As he pulled open the front door once again, he felt his lower half fighting back against the flowing torrent that encircled him.

Edgar pondered: if Jesus was indeed coming, the fellow best bring a flotation device.

Edgar wasn’t the best swimmer. No swimmer at all, in reality. More of a sinker than a swimmer. The last time he’d been in the water, he nearly drowned. His uncle tried to teach some silly shit called the breaststroke during the summer after his pop left home, but it hadn’t stuck. It hadn’t made any sense. What was the point of swimming, anyway? It was for morons.

Edgar opened the front door and accepted the whooshing flood that came into the house, and that moment, the rear sliding glass doors popped open, almost like a gunshot ringing through his ears, rushing the water at him from both sides simultaneously. Before the water overtook him, crushing him like a bug, he begged, “Jesus, help me. Jesus, help me float to my family.”

And Jesus answered, with a flopping, sloshy wave that hurtled him through the front door, violently spinning his body in a cyclone of icy confusion. As he swept by, he held on to the steel light post just beyond the front steps, digging his fingers into it the best he could, crying out for mercy to anybody that might hear it. “Where you at, Jesus? Where the hell you at?”

Chapter Eight

The screeching sound came from the front of the house, the unmistakable sound of pure terror elevating above the sloshy din of the world melting all about them. The voice was unrecognizable to Annie, but she could see Paulie’s face change at the sound. “Eggah,” the boy said, half-smiling.

Even with all that Edgar had put the kid through, he still looked up to him. The boy hadn’t witnessed Edgar’s attack on Annie, nor had he witnessed his father’s demise. When they’d first escaped the house, the first thing that Annie noticed was the oversized boots on Paulie’s feet. She hadn’t time to pull them off, nor did she have any alternative for his feet, so she left the subject unaddressed. The boots hadn’t belonged to Christian, so she could only assume that they were Edgar’s. The fact that Paulie still wore them made her stomach numb.

What had happened between them? The thought made her want to scream. She could only imagine. Someday, when the end of the world was in their rearview mirror, if ever, they would discuss his time with Edgar. Probably with a therapist in the room.

Paulie reached out, away from the steady branches of the tree, reaching out as they watched Edgar drift on down the driveway, emitting a terrible cry. Not only was the water washing him away, but the dummy hadn’t a clue how to swim. Annie knew this by the desperate flailing of his arms. She’d worked two summers as a lifeguard during college, so she could pinpoint that desperate brand of fear from a mile away.

Good, she thought. She hoped the delusional madman was in for a boatload of suffering.

Now he was gripping to a smaller tree on the side of the garage, just beneath them. He called up to them, his eyes growing large and moony, “Help me, Timmy! Don’t let Daddy die!”

The psychotic monster didn’t even know the kid’s name.

“Eggah,” Paulie said again, fighting against his mother, pushing away from her.

“Stop it,” she said, clutching tight to her son’s forearm. What the hell was he thinking? She knew that he was in pain, presumably from something Edgar had done to him, but still he had some connection to the man that wouldn’t allow him to sit still. Paulie hadn’t a clue about the evils of the world, rife with innocence and seeing only the best in people. After all, he was only four years old, so he wasn’t capable of the hate that Edgar so deserved.

“Eggah, swim, swim!” the boy cried. Paulie was motivating the murderer, who would surely kill them both if he had another chance. And as the sicko grabbed on to the trunk of their safe haven of a tree, she realized that was a possibility that may come to fruition.

“Please… no,” she said, looking down at the desperate man with the wild grin, pulling himself up the tree, grappling his legs and digging his fingers into the knots of the oak. He’d nearly drowned, but now he was saved by some higher form of fate. He couldn’t swim, but he’d been spared drowning for a bit longer.

“Climb, Eggah, climb!” Paulie shouted, wiggling in excitement.

* * *

Paulie wished he’d given Eggah back his cool boots. They would have helped him climb up the tree. Instead, Eggah was wearing his pop’s sneakers, which were all worn out and stinky and falling apart. Poor Eggah. He’d tried to get him inside of his dream, when everybody had turned to chocolate, but that didn’t change the fact that Eggah was a scallion.

It wasn’t too late though. He could still give Eggah back his boots.

It only seemed fair.

* * *

Edgar could not recall a more perfect sight. His loving family was perched above him, looking down, waiting for him to ascend and claim his spot at Jesus’ side. As the morning sun’s glorious rays (thank ya, Jesus, thank ya much) poked through the tree’s limbs, he could only see the outline of Tommy, the outline of… Jezebel. Oh, so sexy. Oh, so Jezebel. It was like his lovelies were ghosts, drifting just above him, waiting to touch his cheek and make all the bad parts of his brain go away like he’d always prayed.

He could feel tears on his cheeks, salty and foreign. Edgar couldn’t remember the last time he had cried, not since he’d cut the shit out of himself real bad last fall. This was a day of days, one that would forever define his soul, no matter if it existed in heaven or on earth. The King of Kings was just above, using his heavenly brood as bait. The world was being clobbered by a holy flood, one that would make Noah’s look like a pink pussy parade.

The world was getting’ clean again.

Cleanliness; it sung from every rooftop and cloud and everything in between. The world was being purged of all the sinners, of all the dummies with terribly knit sweaters and cat piss on their pillows. Of all the spineless fathers and weak-kneed freaks, of all the people who made the world a place of wasted days, a place where the only way to survive was to keep on the move, to travel with an eye on nothing and everything at the very same time.

There it was, just above him, only two branches higher, wishing that it would come closer to him. His legs were giving out and the sound of the rushing water beneath his feet was throwing off his concentration.

A long rope of drool dripped from Edgar’s lips. He screeched up at the warm silhouettes of his family, “Help me, boy! Help your Daddy.”

When the hard object hit his face, he lost his grip. Then a second one came, making his eyes and head spin in confusion. It felt like he’d been hit with a hammer—stars filling his eyes and a rush of pain jettisoned through every inch of his face. He couldn’t tell which way was up and which was down.

As he landed in the water again, he felt the rush of a higher power pulling him away from his home. He couldn’t be sure what had struck him in the face, twice in the face, but as he choked on water, he recollected the musty, oily smell. Something in that smell made him smile one last time.

* * *

The boots. Paulie had thrown the bastard his boots. He’d returned them at just the right time.

“My baby,” she said, unsure if she was supposed to congratulate him for saving their lives or scold him for killing somebody.

They were both shivering. Paulie started to cry and then so did his mother.

“Eggah,” he said over and over again.

Epilogue

The water would not cease for the first few hours, but then it eased up. It had found the paths that it would find through gutters and rivers and streams and valleys and seeping into the ground. By the time night fell, it was mostly gone. Annie couldn’t be sure where it had gone off to—perhaps hell, right along with Edgar—but it was a blessing.

They’d been spared, though their trouble was far from over.

The sun blazed all the way through the afternoon. Annie loved the feeling of it, sobbing at how wonderful it felt, basking her body and reminding her that all was not completely lost, not while there was a sun in the sky and air in her lungs.

Paulie slept against her chest as she kept a tight grip on the tree. It was the longest day of her life, but she couldn’t ever recall feeling such love, having her offspring so close, relatively unharmed and ready to fight a new day with her.

As they descended the tree, they sloshed through the water. The whole world was ruined, but it could be rebuilt. Annie had rebuilt herself already, to some extent. The world was always ready to move on, to try again, over and over, ad infinitum.

The people in their neighborhood wandered the streets, in a daze, counting and hiding the bodies that they found. Some had been taken by the madness that had pervaded their world, in the form of Edgars and Shiny Bald Ones and Yetis and Chuckle Machines and Midget Men. There were countless more to be found, victims of a frightened rage that came when hope seemed forever lost.

Annie thanked God for sparing her. For sparing Paulie.

But Christian. What of Christian?

No matter what happened next, she would never live down the feelings that still surfaced when she pictured his face. He’d loved her so damn much, but she’d never reciprocated enough for his deserving. For this, she was certain that she’d feel a perpetual guilt that she would very well be buried with.

“We’re going to be okay,” she said to Paulie, but even still, it sounded like a lie.

They were okay, for the time being.

The freak storm was gone, but its effects would be felt for decades.

Paulie smiled at her. No matter what happened next, everything would be okay.

“You guys all right?” a man asked, looking very much like he’d just been hit by a Mack truck. “Everybody okay?”

“We’re fine, thank you.”

Darkness had overtaken the world once again, but the warm air of the daytime was reassuring. Annie thought that it might very well be the finest night of their lives, knowing that they had survived and would continue to survive. The temperature had dropped considerably, as was to be expected with the overnight hours, but knowing that the morning would bring back fresh sunrays was all that Annie needed to know.

A neighbor from down the road, a man who called himself Jack, offered them a spot around a campfire he had constructed. Even with all the wetness, he had kept a stash of firewood in the upper levels of his barn. The idea of standing by a fire, hoping to dry off a bit by the time the sun came up, was more than delightful, so Annie accepted his offer without hesitation.

“Mammah?” Paulie asked, as they made their way down their street, one sloshy step at a time.

“Yes?”

“My daddah is gone,” he said.

Annie’s heart nearly collapsed in on itself. She only nodded absently, stopping and leaning down next to her son, enveloping him in her arms, wishing that nothing bad would ever happen to him again, wishing that she could take away all the terrible thoughts that were running rampant inside of his brain. Her baby was too sensitive for this. He was brave, yes, but still he didn’t deserve this madness. Nobody did.

“Your Daddy loved you so much, Paulie. He would have done anything for you.”

Paulie broke into a fit of wrenching sobs. Annie hugged him harder.

An icy wind caught the back of Annie’s neck and her eyes popped open. The tears that were coming down her cheeks slowed their descent, sticking to her face. An inexplicable chill overtook her body and she was no longer paying attention to the broken boy that stood before her. Something evil torqued at the back of her mind, something she couldn’t quite identify. She knew that it was naughty—that it was full of nastiness and hatred—though she had no weapon to fight it off. “I love you, baby,” she said, clenching her eyes again, crying harder now along with her son.

A snowflake landed on her nose. It was chilly, crystallized, and mean.

Another snowflake.

And another. And another. And another.

THE END

Read on for a free sample of Santuary: A post-apocalyptic thriller.

Chapter 1

“You look tired,” Janelle said, smelling the coffee in the center divider.

“I am,” Deeta answered.

“What’s going on?”

“Patient in the unit, septic.”

“Ooooh, tell me.” Janelle was intrigued; she loved going over complex patients with Deeta. Even though she wasn’t in the medical field, when the doctor went over difficult cases, it was as good as a documentary.

“A guy came in, older guy, with a hot abdomen. Surgery was consulted but he didn’t show up for more than twenty-four hours. He needed surgery but the “CT didn’t show a definitive source of the ailment” was his excuse. Now, he’s getting sicker: fevers, positive blood cultures, LFT’s and renal function getting worse. So we repeat the CT. We can’t use contrast now with his renal failure, and that one doesn’t show an abscess or stranding, so he holds off surgery again. So last night, he tanks and I put him on norepinephrine, he’s got an anaerobe growing in his blood on top of the gram negative that was already there. I was up all night stabilizing this guy and talking to the surgeon and anesthesia.”

“He’s going to surgery?” Janelle asked.

“Yeah, surgeon said he’d take him this morning.”

“That’s good.”

Deeta took a sip of coffee as she drove through the winter landscape. It was a bright day and not too cold. Janelle was glad she wouldn’t be getting off the plane in Florida in a lot of heavy clothes, hot and uncomfortable. Traffic was starting to pick up and she watched the cars around her, wondering when she would be able to upgrade her car for a newer one. After a while, she grew bored looking out the window and turned on the radio.

“So, did you hear about this bank executive,” the voice on the radio said, “This CEO of a large bank goes missing. There’s this huge search for him.”

“Looking for a girlfriend,” the cohost says.

“Right, skipped out of town with some young hottie and gonna mail the wife divorce papers. They track this guy down to a Manhattan apartment, which is some sort of sex club. He’s been there for like, three weeks. I guess you pay a fee and can stay there as long as you want. The DA is looking into bringing charges, but everyone there pays a fee and goes in, but it’s voluntary for everyone there, so it’s not really prostitution.”

“Is it a monthly charge or like a buffet, one price and all you can eat,” both hosts laugh.

“It doesn’t say, but it sounds like the buffet. But get this, there’s a mother of four that was there for six weeks.”

“So the women have to pay too. Do they at least get a discount?”

“Yeah, by the pound,” the host laughs. “Let’s see, you’re one twenty-five, that’s five bucks. Two fifty, twenty grand.” Both laugh. “Yeah, so they got like four missing persons cases solved with this one bust. People had…uh… been in there from 3 days to six weeks. Can you believe that?”

“How’d they get busted, did the pizza delivery guy report strange smells?” The cohost asked.

“Oh, that’s just nasty. Yeah, who’s doing the laundry in that place, Augh?”

“Can I change this?” Janelle asked.

“Please,” Deeta answered.

“What you listening to?” Janelle picked up the doctor’s phone and plugged it into the auxiliary jack. Distorted guitar blasted out of the speakers. It sounded somewhat familiar to her. When she heard the lyrics, she remembered. “It’s just one of those days when you don’t wanna wake up, everything is fucked, everybody sucks.”

“Agh, how can you listen to this early in the morning?”

“I wasn’t, you turned it on,” Deeta answered. “I was listening to it last night. Remember, you were gonna meet me at the gym?”

“I wish I did. I’m sorry; the interview ran late. Shoulda worked out. It was a waste of time.”

Deeta patted her leg.

The second verse started, and Janelle found herself singing along, “First one to complain leaves with a blood stain!”

“Can I change?” She asked.

“You turned it on!”

Janelle scrolled through her selections. “Don’t you listen to anything new?”

“Sorry, Beyoncé just doesn’t cut it for me when I’m working out.”

“The Goo Goo Dolls?” Janelle questioned.

“Yeah,” Deeta said, “play that.”

“Which one?”

“Any, they’re all good.”

Janelle listened to the sweet guitar and mandolin, and listened to the first verse of the song Iris. “White people can be so romantic,” she mused. Deeta rolled her eyes.

The traffic became heavier as more people poured onto the highway. “Did you hear that?” Janelle asked.

“No, what?” Deeta answered, as a series of loud pops sounded off behind them.

“That!” Janelle turned around. “That sounds like a gun.”

The doctor looked in her rearview mirror, “Yeah, it is.”

The volume of the music dropped, and as the phone rang over the speakers, Deeta answered.

“Dr. Nakshband? This is the answering service. I have a Doctor Slagle on the line from the ICU. Can I put him through?”

“Yes, please,” Deeta said. Janelle squirmed in anticipation.

“Doctor Nakshband, Dr. Slagle would like to speak with you.”

“Okay, put him on,” Deeta said. “God, what now?” She thought, as she heard Slagle come to the phone.

“This patient is unstable. How am I supposed to take him to the OR?” He shouted.

“Pardon?” She said somewhat confused and taken aback.

“This patient is septic. He’s too unstable,” he said curtly.

Taking a deep breath to calm herself, she answered,“Yes he’s septic and unstable. The abscess must be located and drained or he will continue to deteriorate,” she answered calmly.

“You need to stabilize him before I can take him!” He was shouting again.

She hoped she could keep the contempt out of her voice. “He has been on Imipenem and Vanc since he’s been in. I added metronidazole last night. I cannot expand coverage any more than that. I can’t put him on an antifungal without evidence with his kidneys and liver failing. He has Kleb growing in the blood and they called me last night with an anaerobe that turned up in his blood. That is two bugs in the bloodstream. That is evidence of a communication between the gut and the vascular system. I cannot help him with antibiotics, so you need to open him up, find the abscess and drain it.”

“Is it KPC?” He was accusatory again.

“No.”

“How do you know?” Now he was mocking her.

“The C&S is in the chart,” Dr. Nakshband answered, “it’s pan-sensitive.”

“So you’re telling me that now I have to worry about this guy bleeding on the table with an entero-vascular fistula? If I drain that abscess and there’s an artery in there, he’s gonna spew.” Slagle was getting angrier.

“It looks that way,” she said.

“I don’t need this guy dying on the table! I don’t need an inquiry!” Now he was screaming. “He’s too unstable! Anesthesia won’t do it!”

“I spoke with Heidelberg, he’ll do it,” Nakshband answered calmly.

She could tell the surgeon was furious. “Oh, I see you covered your bases, leaving me with MY balls on the table. You need to stabilize him!” Slagle ordered.

“I can’t,” she responded calmly, “the source of infection has to be removed.”

“Thought you were some Ivy League whiz kid?” Slagle taunted.

Deeta really had the mind just to lay into him. It was Slagle’s hesitance that caused the patient to deteriorate. His insistence they find the abscess before he went to surgery, and that delay in surgery is what is killing this patient. “If he doesn’t go to surgery,” she thought, “this guy will die, and you, Slagle, are the largest liability on this case. And when we get sued, I will paint a huge fucking target on your forehead. This guy needed to go to surgery the day he was admitted. I said so, the pulmonologist said so, the cardiologist said so, and the nephrologist said so. Even the fucking ER physician said so. Three days of notes, saying this guy needs surgery before he tanks, and you’re holding out because you wanted him more stable. That’s five against one, all with better minds than you, and you’ll not find any credible expert witnesses that will justify your temporization. Oh, yeah, open up your checkbook, motherfucker, this one is going to cost you. Your balls on the table? What balls? You don’t have any balls to put on the table.”

However, Nakshband knew she couldn’t say it. Countless other physicians had pissed him off before, and he would sign off the case and she could not risk that now. No other surgeon would accept a patient in an emergency like this, not with a greater than 50% risk of mortality in the OR. Administration would have to assign another surgeon or force Slagle to stay on. More than likely the latter. If Slagle remained on the case, he’d hold his ground, and delay surgery until the patient died. If they forced another surgeon to take this case, the patient would die before one was assigned.

“Look,” she said in her best understanding voice, “we tried stabilizing before surgery, this was the risk. We cannot delay it further. Without this surgery, he dies TODAY. Is the wife there?” Deeta asked.

“Yes,” he answered.

“If I explain to her that he will more than likely die in surgery, and she accepts this risk, will you take him to surgery?”

“What about my numbers?” he asked.

“I can’t do anything about that,” Nakshband replied.

“No you can’t, can you?” He paused. “Get the wife,” he said to the nurse.

She half expected him to hang up the phone. A female voice came on the phone. “Mrs. Callenetti, this is Dr. Nakshband.”

“Who?” The woman answered.

“Deeta,” Dr. Nakshband clarified.

“Oh, oh, I’m so sorry. I only know you as Dr. Deeta. I have a bad problem with foreign names, I’m so sorry, I know it’s improper,” Mrs. Callenetti said trailing off.

“No, no, it’s okay,” Deeta replied, “everyone calls me that. Listen, your husband is very sick. He has an infection in his abdomen and we need to get it out. We tried to get him healthier before the surgery with antibiotics, but the infection was too far advanced when we started. If he doesn’t have surgery, he will die.”

“Dr. Slagle says he’s too sick to take to surgery,” Mrs. Callenetti answered.

“Well, he is,” Deeta answered. “Usually, someone this sick, we wouldn’t take to surgery. We would try to get him more stable. However, we are already doing all that we can and he is getting worse. I can’t give him any more drugs and turn him around. What I need you to understand is that there is a very good chance he will die in surgery, but it is our only chance to save him. He WILL die if he doesn’t have surgery.”

“Oh, I see,” after a long pause, “I need to call my daughter.”

“Mrs. Callenetti,” Deeta started, “what are you going to tell her? I need to know you fully understand what is happening with your husband. Tell me exactly what you are going to say to her.”

Mrs. Callenetti paused, “Daddy is really sick.” Then she began to cry. Through the sobs, she continued, “He will die if he doesn’t have surgery, and he might die during the surgery, but it’s the only chance we have to save him.”

Deeta was tearing. “Yeah, that’s it,” she whispered. It was as strong as her voice could get, “you got it.”

“Okay, I’ll call her,” Mrs. Callenetti said.

The next voice she heard was Slagle. “We should just put this guy on comfort measures.” There wasn’t enough time for his wife to be out of earshot when he said it.

Deeta came unglued. “He’s 56 years old! Younger than you! His youngest kid is in High School! Do your fucking JOB! You should have done it three fucking days ago, you stupid, prickless son of a BITCH!”

“HEY…” The doctor shouted as she turned off the cell phone.

“That was probably a mistake,” she thought.

Janelle sat quietly, listening.

“Fucking asshole,” Deeta responded.

“You know it’s conversations like that, which have all those cell phone/driving laws in place,” Janelle chirped.

“Just another day at the office,” Deeta sighed. Janelle wanted the details but it could wait. Eventually, she would find out if this guy made it, what happened. They’d talk about it over dinner when she got back.

“American,” Janelle said referring to the airline.

“I’d walk you to security, but I need to get back there,” Deeta said as she was pulling to the drop off.

“I’m a big girl. I can get there myself.” Janelle got out of the car and walked to the rear.  Deeta popped the trunk and yelled, “Be safe,” through the open passenger window.  Janelle turned and waved with a smile. Deeta pulled back into traffic and drove away from the airport.

Deeta Nakshband moved to Connecticut from India when she was eight. Her parents were not doctors. They owned franchised doughnut stores, six of them. She was able to attend Yale as expected, and her parents footed the bill. She was accepted at UCONN for medical school, but she was also accepted at Yale. Although she was more than happy to go to public school, her parents preferred prestige over economy. Deeta, the practical one, could not put this kind of burden on her parents. She still had a brother in his sophomore year at MIT and a sister in law school when she was accepted. Deeta joined the United States Navy and served eight years in order to finance her own education. After the Navy, she did her Infectious Disease fellowship at Columbia in New York, and then returned to Connecticut to be near family and build her practice.

Deeta’s parents were livid when she joined the Navy. They still get excited when Deeta (deliberately) brings up the subject. They were terribly worried about her wellbeing and were for some reason, unknown to Deeta, embarrassed by her being in the military. Deeta took pride in taking the responsibility to finance her own education and take the burden off her parents, and eventually, they forgave her. She had always been too independent and American for her parent’s liking. (Her younger brother was worse, but he was also better at hiding his activities from them.) Over the years, she was able to find herself and realize how much they meant to her. Her homecoming was warm and familiar, and she enjoyed being back at home and close to her family, despite how much she argued with her mother. She had become more confident in the Navy, which strengthened her independence. However, this increase in confidence also allowed her to embrace her family without wondering how much influence they were exerting on her. In her mother’s eyes, she was outright defiant, but this is truly not the case. Deeta loved them dearly, and was greatly appreciative for all they had done for her. Joining the Navy really put their sacrifice in perspective for her. Since she had gotten older, she had become more understanding of their way of thinking, and frequently thanked them for all they had done for her. She had also gotten better at declining their advice with reason. Although, they still had a tendency to say, “I don’t know where you come from,” when their wishes were not carried out. And sometimes, just for fun, Deeta would dig it in.

It was in the Navy that Deeta was able to shed expectations and discover and nurture her unique talents and habits, and learned of course, to curse like a sailor. What took her by surprise was that she had an affinity for exercise and athletics. Never encouraged to engage in physical activity or sports when growing up, she was weak as a kitten during Officer Candidate School and struggled. Deeta not only loved the challenge, she enjoyed stressing the body to reach some physical goal. After OCS, she found she had a lot of free time. Aside from studying for the boards, she had the time to pursue her new hobby. Before her duty hours, she was in the gym. After duty hours, she studied. After she had taken the internal medicine boards, she was in the gym before and after work. Running, swimming, weight training and Martial Arts. She studied several arts, but liked Kenpo the best, and worked to a blue belt before getting out of the service. There was a school in Torrington and she had just started taking instruction again to earn her next level and eventually get her black belt.

Deeta liked to lift weights and used bodybuilding practices to gain strength and mass, but when she started with martial arts, she changed to strength and conditioning. It was about efficiency, the most strength at the lowest mass. She dated a SEAL for a while and he was quite impressed by her strength and stamina. He would push her to her absolute limits and have her puking and cramping by the end of those sessions. She felt proud when, at the end of the workouts, he was winded and sore. Deeta still did those sorts of workouts when she could. Although she would have liked to do them once a week, once a month was about all she could manage with her work schedule. Her workouts were now mostly at home, close to the phone so she could respond to calls. Her routines were fast, hard, intense, and rarely over an hour, but she could still, absolutely, wipe herself out.

That’s how Deeta met Janelle, in the gym. Janelle was an amateur bodybuilder that was trying to cut weight for a contest. She had approached her and asked her for tips on staying and getting lean. Deeta was small but her muscles looked as if they belonged on an anatomy chart, and she had no fat on her that anyone could detect. Deeta led Janelle through one of her SEAL workouts; taking her to Sleeping Giant State Park. They started by running up the head of the giant on the west side, about 450 feet straight up, and then continued to run up and down the trails for another 2 hours. When that was done, it was calisthenics: burpees, pushups, squats, jumping jacks and sit-ups. When they got back home, nauseated and wobbly, Deeta made some amazing curry vegetables. Deeta told Janelle she was vegetarian and that she should try the diet. Janelle was now 85% vegan. She would eat lean meats if she felt she needed to gain weight, but she stayed on this diet most of the time.

JJ was very lighthearted, good humored, and kept her laughing the entire time they were together. Her easygoing manner let Deeta relax and be herself without advice or criticism, and she had become the closest friend Deeta had ever had. Right now, her life was about as complete and comfortable as it had ever been. She had a job she loved, she was able to pursue her hobbies, she was healthy, and had family and a very close friend.

It was more than an hour before she got back to the hospital and she was still angry. Dr. Patel, the internist on the case, often consulted Dr. Slagle. Charles Slagle was an old, crusty, marginal surgeon, and a full-fledged, blustering, member of The Old Boy’s Network who wanted to be an administrator. He had been at Torrington Regional since he graduated from his UCONN surgery residency and he had been Chief of Staff and Chief of Surgery so many times, he had lost count. Over the last twenty years, a contingent of Indian physicians had gotten sufficient numbers to vie for political power. Racial lines had been drawn, and the competing cliques influenced even those who didn’t want to play the political games. It reminded Deeta of junior high and she and a few others referred to those jostling for power the Cowboys against the Indians. Dr. Patel tried to placate both sides by consulting both the old and new guard. He consulted Deeta frequently. She took excellent care of his patients and he was able to appease the Indian crowd by having her on the case. If any of his patients had any infectious process, or hint of an infectious process, she was on the case. And he used her exclusively for intensive care. When she was assigned, Patel stopped writing orders. “You do what you want,” he would say to her, “I trust you.” Deeta believed he was just covering for his laziness that was evidenced, as he would get upset whenever she would sign off on a patient before discharge. He would most often talk her into staying, “In case something happens,” he reasoned. Now she was going to have to deal with Slagle and somehow put this behind her. On top of that, Dr. Patel was going be upset with her for putting him in the middle of a conflict.

Lori, one of the ICU nurses, had relayed that Mr. Callenetti had gone into surgery about twenty 20 minutes prior to her arrival, so she began rounding on her other five patients in the unit. Deeta was one of the intensivists at Torrington Regional. The other intensivists belonged to a pulmonology group and they were trying hard to recruit her. So far, she had resisted the urge to join them. Deeta was calm and pleasant. Patients, doctors, and nurses liked her, she was an excellent physician and a favorite among staff, and getting more popular. She would be too busy to be independent if the other group wasn’t taking the lion’s share of consults due to their political clout. But, as for now, between the ICU and her ID consults, Deeta kept her census between twelve and twenty, a busy but tolerable load. It was ideal for her.

She had been in the ICU about an hour, working with the usual commotion of people going to and from X-Ray, the lab, and patients working with physical therapy when she heard the overhead announcement, “CODE ORANGE, SURGERY. CODE ORANGE, SURGERY, SECOND FLOOR. CODE ORANGE, SURGERY, SECOND FLOOR.”

“What’s a code orange?” Deeta asked the unit clerk.

“Violence, Violent disturb…” the clerk was cut off.

“CODE ORANGE, MAIN HALLWAY, SECOND FLOOR. CODE ORANGE, MAIN HALLWAY, SECOND FLOOR. CODE ORANGE, MAIN HALLWAY, SECOND FLOOR.”

“You fucking BITCH!” It was Slagle, still in his OR gown. His surgical mask was around his neck. The gown was bloody, very bloody, and he was holding a surgical Liston knife. “I knew this would happen! I told you he would die! Now I’m gonna have my cases pulled. They’re gonna be up my ass, pulling my charts and running my numbers because of this! You got your way, YOU HAPPY NOW?” The staff stood frozen looking at him. Slagle was walking toward Deeta with absolute rage in his eyes. He was short and pudgy with thick, naturally strong arms. His right hand held the large knife at his side and his knuckles were white from his grip.

Everyone in the room froze, except Deeta. She was slowly walking backward, fixated on the knife. “Why did he have a Liston knife?” she thought. “What the hell kind of OR kit did he open? I don’t think I’ve even seen them when I was in training. What the fuck is he doing with THAT?” Then she thought, “What happened in the OR?” She had no idea where he got it or what had happened in the operating room. All she knew was that he was dangerous.

“Dr. Slagle?” Lori said. He looked at the nurse and brought the knife up with a backhand motion. She instinctively leaned backward, avoiding the weapon, then turned and ran. The surgeon was after her. The rest of the staff was scattering to get away, while Deeta ducked behind a counter. After Lori ran past, Deeta kicked out and tripped the surgeon. He fell hard, hitting the tile floor with a sharp crack. The knife was still in his hand as he started to get up. Before he could get his balance and bearings, Deeta kicked his left knee from the outside. She felt it give inward and something snapped. He crumpled and fell with a scream. Rolling on his back, he slashed wildly with the knife, coming nowhere near her. He swung again as he tried to get up, but his left leg would not support his weight. He stumbled and put his right hand, the one with the knife, on the ground to support his weight. Deeta kicked him as hard as she could and caught him right in the middle of the throat. The tissue of his neck could be felt against the top of her shoe about half way up her foot. She felt her toe hit something solid.

That stopped him. He choked and tried to cough but couldn’t. Then he dropped the knife and grabbed his throat with both hands. Everyone stood still with their backs against the walls, watching. Deeta kicked him over and grabbed the knife by the handle. Slagle’s face was already turning red, then bluish purple from the lack of oxygen. He was trying to inhale between the reflexive attempts to cough, but absolutely no air was getting through that crushed airway in either direction. She turned around and looked. Everyone was staring at her. She walked over to and put the scalpel on the counter. “Call the ER and get them up here. Call the fucking police.” Then she sat down and cried.

Sanctuary is available from Amazon here

Content

Eric Dimbleby
WHITE OUT
A Post Apocalyptic Thriller

Part I- STORMY WEATHER

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Part II- STRANGERS IN THE COLD

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Part III- EDGAR

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Part IV- ANNIE

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Part V- HOMECOMING

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Epilogue

Read on for a free sample of Santuary: A post-apocalyptic thriller.

Chapter 1