It's Cold

It’s cold. Bitter. The kind of cold that, no matter how many cigarettes you smoke, shots of whiskey you down, or logs you burn on the fire, everything still hurts. It's always cold. My fingertips lost all feeling a long while ago. I’m well acquainted with how my breath looks before my nose, how it escapes my lungs when I step outside like a punch to the gut. I don’t know how long it’s been like this, how long the winds have carried the snow. How long ago the world simply stopped. When the sun went away. You lose sense of time after the sun stops showing up. The clouds are too thick. I pretend every day is Saturday. Just to keep a smile on my face.

I’m not quite sure where I ended up, if I'm being honest. I didn't have a goal or location in mind, either. My father died, he left me a boat. I was bored, needed a change. Typical of a millennial, no? Bored with an office job that I slaved over to pay off the student loans I received for a piece of paper I’ve never used. I took some of my inheritance and bought a DSLR camera, some backpacking gear, all of it fashionable and pricy. Then I left Kennenbunkport, Maine in early autumn and let the winds take me up the coast. I wanted to see some trees, some bears, go fishing. Reassess my life.

I was out for a week or so, bouncing between coastal towns, meeting new people, eating local cuisine. That's when I noticed the navigation equipment started going haywire. Then the fluff of white cascaded down onto the waters and the breeze turned brutal. I was lost. I still am. I think I may be in Canada, judging by the maple leaves on the mailboxes, the stickers in the fish factory windows that I can no longer reach because the snowbanks are too high. I don’t suppose it matters. Not anymore. The snow is too thick, the air too brutal. Humanity would never last, not in conditions like this. It's only a matter of time before the human race just ceased. We're overdue, anyway.

The old man who lived in the lighthouse I stumbled across when I crashed upon the rocky shores seemed to have drank himself to death. Skeletal hands clutching a bottle of bourbon in a rocking chair by the fireplace. What a way to go. I dumped him off the edge of the cliff, into the cold waters, and made myself at home. I rarely see other people. Not living, at least. I can’t imagine that many survived. Once the chaos started, once the frigid air swept in, it would be inevitable that the masses flocked to stores, murdered each other over toilet paper and bread that would rot much quicker than they realized it would. At this point the snow hasn’t stopped for weeks. Months? It’s probably been months.

I like my isolated patch of solace. The fireplace is lovely. There's a typewriter I use to let my thoughts flow freely but the paper stock is low. I was a rock climber in college. The slick, cruel terrain that leads to the lighthouse is hard to navigate so those looking for safety stay away. The bridge to the mainland collapsed from the mounds of powder piling up atop it. I don’t leave the lighthouse often.

I try to only go out if I see sunlight. Sunlight means animals stir, means the blizzard has let up enough to safely walk. It never lasts for long, but it lasts long enough to take the old axe by the door and fell some trees for firewood. The rusted old thing is hardly usable. The blade isn’t very sharp. It's chipped. There’s a cord of leather wrapped around the handle, an old heart-shaped locket of dulled silver hangs from the material. The latch doesn't work, it swings open as if beckoning me to look inside. The woman in the photo has long since lost her features to time. She keeps me company. I call her Judith. She looks like a Judith. I ask her spirit questions like a magic eight-ball and listen to the whistle of the wind for an answer. Have I lost my mind?

Probably.

It’s hard to find resources. The snow is so thick, so hard to traverse. I’ve seen many a doe watch their young fawns get lost in the mounds of chilled white. Freezing to death and unable to pry themselves free. A frolicking jump that ends in death. It's poetic, I suppose. At this point I just appreciate the easy food. I can’t imagine many animals are even alive at this point, not with this chill. Not with the desperation, the feeble hope to survive, that keeps the remaining few humans going. The soles of my boots are worn from the constant saturation, my socks all have holes. I ripped my gloves open yesterday, my fingertips are so numb I can’t feel the hypothermia threatening to break the digits off. My boat was capsized against the rocky coast, I lost most of my luggage. I didn’t prepare for a post-apocalyptic ice age, either, so I suppose it would’t matter if I had salvaged it.

I need to find food. There’s a town about a mile away from the lighthouse. It’s becoming harder to get to, the snow just keeps piling up. The few living souls are always armed and more than happy to shoot anyone who may threaten what they have. The utter quiet of this eternal winter makes the gunshots sound like cannon fire. The gas station has been picked over. Same with the convenience store. The walls lined with bullet holes, blood coagulated and frozen to the floors and counters. It looks like a warzone. I've taken pictures of all of these locations. Of some birds, the snow falling on the ocean. My memory card is getting fuller by the day, the pantry is getting emptier.

The lighthouse keeper had a decent stock of liquor, most of the food had gone bad by the time I had arrived. I spend my nights drinking, sitting at the top of the lighthouse while the bulb spins slowly behind me. I grew bored, I learned how to run it. It kept me busy. If someone is out on those waters, lost and scared, maybe I can call them to me. That was what I had thought. It’s too late at this point. If anyone were to come ashore they would simply be remains, lost to the tides of time and cruelty. Their vessels most likely emptied of supplies. It would be pointless. It didn’t stop me from trying, though.

Axe in hand, I decide to head into town. I stumble across an abandoned truck on my way that had not been here last I visited. The chains around the tires showcase a feeble attempt at escaping, the bumper stickers suggest they liked to hunt. They probably thought they had a chance. Get closer to civilization, to technology, heat and food. There were a few granola bars tucked into the passenger seat back pocket, a can of Diet Coke beneath a trucker’s hat on the floor. It would be delicious once it thawed. I miss caffeine.

The man in the driver’s seat had a bullet hole in his chest. He was so frozen it was hard to tell how long he has been here. Someone saw an opportunity and took it with remorseless precision. I can’t say I blame either of them. I see my reflection in the side mirror and feel defeated. I need a shave, my dark hair has gotten long, my cheeks look gaunt, skin sallow. I look like a psycho. I look scared. I am scared.

I quietly thank the man for his granola and continue onward. There’s a house I’ve had my eyes on for a while. It’s small, inconspicuous, I rarely see movement inside. I’m desperate. The front door is unlocked. I let myself in. I don't feel guilty that I didn't knock. I don't feel remorse that I've come to steal what they have. Humanity is a destructive species. Cruel. Selfish. We have a simple list of needs and we often do whatever we must to ensure those things are available. Water. Sleep. Companionship. Food.

You don’t realize how precious that last one is until it becomes scarce. You learn to manage, but you harbor anger for it. You learn to savor the crushed up saltines that someone forgot about in the back of their pantry, the slightly moldy yogurt that fell to the bottom of the store freezer. Your pride goes out the window. Anything can become food if you’re desperate enough. It’s a concept. We give a name to something to justify the consumption of it. Weeds from the ground become a salad. Grain becomes beer. A cow becomes a burger. I’d kill for a burger.

The dulled side of my axe catches the terrified reflection of panicked eyes underneath the bed. The room is cold. The haze from my mouth as I exhale hides my face. Good. Disassociate. I need food. I’m desperate for food. For something real, with protein and flavor.

My mouth is watering, my gums feel frozen. The bright blue lettering on the bedroom wall beside me lays out the name given to my meal today. Today's featured item on the menu is Jake.

And he looks delicious.