Why Is The Snow So Strange

“Estelle, why is the snow so strange?”

I bent down and picked my little brother up, holding him to my chest like a baby monkey.

“I've told you not to play with it, Alfie.”'

“But why? I like snow.”

I inwardly sighed. “We had this conversation last week, it's not snow, remember.”

In Alfie's defence, it did look like snow, fluttering down through the empty woods. It was certainly cold enough, and bare enough. And to a seven year old, snow and ash probably seem the same.

“Can't we make a snowman? Remember Bobby made snowmen with me and Grandpa last Christmas. Let's go to Bobby's house.”

I bit my tongue. “Bobby doesn't live at his house any more, Alf. No-one does.”

“Oh.” Alfie made a deep, exasperated sigh and buried his head in my shoulder.

It was very bleak today, I hadn't seen a single creature, no birds, no insects, nothing. You normally saw a dead one at least.

I glanced down at my leather satchel, two tins of beans clanging together inside as I walked. They were all we had now, food wise. Oh, and a bottle of water that we tried to refill wherever possible. The beans had come from an old house a few miles back where we'd spent the last three nights, but had had to leave as there was no way of keeping out anything, and I had a nasty feeling some dogs were tailing us. There were lots, mostly descendants of former pets and their puppies, roaming around in packs; we'd seen paw prints and heard the odd bark or howl for the past few days.

A year ago, I hated living in the country, it was boring,and I'd had to travel for my final year at Uni.

Now I was glad, the cities were death traps. There were a few radio frequencies still broadcasting, and London seemed the worst area. People were advised to avoid it, but many went in the hopes of finding food and medication. And there were the government camps; but they weren't much, and if you caused a scene, you'd likely end up shot.

“Where are we going?”

I shifted Alfie. “Somewhere out of the snow.”

Actually I had no idea where we were heading, we'd had to leave home – or the remains of home - as supplies had become too scarce. I had an old pop-up tent from our summer holidays and we'd been staying inside that, in houses we came across to try and keep out the cold.

We hadn't really come across many other people apart from a few stragglers heading past us to London, and I was glad, other people meant risk to our supplies, even our clothes.

Occasionally you might see something sad, like a photograph sticking out of the snow-like sediment, or tied to a tree; people were searching for loved ones, even now. Or the odd bone, animal or human. Either way, I tried to make sure Alfie didn't see.

I had sort of made some plan to head to Scotland. I had heard that there might be less devastation up there, as London had taken most of the brunt.

I listened for radio flashes at first on a little portable unit we'd had, but gradually it had turned to static and the batteries had died some time ago.

There wasn't really any wind, and so the falling ash fluttered in a straight, morose descent. Some days I found it hard not to cry, in some odd way, I think Alfie kept me going.

In the first few weeks, our neighbour, Molly, had stayed with us, in our basement. But she'd eventually made off. I know she was pretty messed up at not finding her family after the event. She'd just left us a sad face on a piece of paper one day.

A low wail rang out in the distance.

“Estelle, there's dogs.”

“They're a long way off.” I shifted Alfies position, my arms were really beginning to ache now. He looked up at me. “Do you think Clyde is like them?”

Clyde was our spaniel, and I'd actually found him a few weeks after the event by the front door. But he'd been too badly injured to save, and I'd taken some of my dad's syringes and put him to sleep. But I hadn't told Alfie, he'd had enough to contend with.

My dad had been the local vet and that was what I'd been studying for at University. I was grateful for the medical supplies we'd had; as the hospitals had all been looted - and the chemists, and supermarkets. We had been new to the area, and few people really knew much about us so we'd been left alone.

I shivered, the trees were barren, a dark, dead shade, there were no plants, not even weeds.

Another howl, this time close.

“Estelle! They're coming!”

I broke into a run, we were in the middle of nowhere. I had no idea where the next house was, or if it was even still standing.

My shoes made no sound on the off-white deposit, and it somehow made the whole experience eerier.

“Estelle, hurry!”

I had to stop after a while, due to cramp in my side, and Alfie's weight. I set him down in the dusty snow and doubled over, breathing heavily. What were we going to do? Maybe we should have gone to London after all.

“Estelle.”

Alfie was pulling on my sleeve and I looked up. “

“There's a house.”

What? I thought he must be imagining things as the trees seemed so empty, but on following his outstretched finger, I indeed saw the faint dash of brickwork through the branches.

I was too achy to carry him any longer, and I led Alfie towards the house apprehensively. I wasn't sure if it would be occupied, guarded, or just a section of wall; but I wasn't taking any chances.

I had a small pen-knife and gripped it firmly as we approached a small, half demolished two story dwelling.

I warily peered through the windows, but they were so dirty I couldn't see inside anyway. The front door was leaning at an angle, and leaving Alfie a few feet behind with the satchel, I jimmied it open.

Inside, the hall was barely passable , as the stairs and a section of the landing had fallen down into itself. Grey, dusky light did little to illuminate the place, but it did reveal a small crawl way.

I couldn't leave Alfie outside, and I called him in, and carefully made my way, on hands and knees, under the broken wood. The house was thankfully deserted, and I found myself in a kitchen, one door leading off to a small sitting room, both relatively undamaged, somewhat miraculously.

I retrieved Alfie, and we made ourselves at home on the grimy kitchen floor.

We sat there in silence for a long while, Alfie burying his head in my side. There was no glass in the windows, and a little of the ashy snow fluttered in.

I reached into my fleece and pulled a small pendant out from around my neck. It was the shape of a heart and had my name inscribed on the back.

Inside was a tiny picture of Alfie, myself, and my parents. It had been taken on a skiing trip in Switzerland.

I didn't cry, for Alfie, but I couldn't stop the tears that splattered onto the image, and I snapped it shut and tucked it away again before the ink run.

“Estelle, I’m hungry, and cold.”

I took off my coat and draped it over us like a blanket and went about opening a can of beans with my pen-knife.

A howl carried on the wind, and I wondered how I would barricade us in. The ramshackle house wasn’t much to keep out the dogs, or the elements, which would drop well below freezing again tonight. But for now, for tonight, it was something.

One more lifeline maybe.

We ate the beans and then I got up, another howl floating in through the window, and I began to grab anything I could to barricade the entrance.

As I did, the lazily drifting ash caught my attention through the open window, and I gazed at it.

And I thought how strange the snow was.