Ice Storm

by Cadle, Lou

  Again, he ate supper alone, the pork chop meal this time, and he gamed some more. Before bed, he made another Thermos of hot chocolate, just in case the power went out, and he talked to his mom one last time. Outside, the freezing rain was still coming down as he crawled under the blankets. And he still heard branches and trees falling, but he’d gotten so used to it, it had become part of the background noise. Only the occasional loud snap, close by, could make him notice. Now that he was in bed, he attended to it again.

  When next he got out of bed, he shivered, and walked into the hall, intending to go to the bathroom. The hall light didn’t go on when he flipped the switch. Nor did the bathroom light. For a moment, he was confused. Then his foggy brain cleared, and he understood.

  They’d lost power. And it was noticeably colder inside than when he’d gone to bed. After he washed his hands, he went to read the thermostat. He couldn’t see it. So he got his phone, shone the light on the thermostat, and read it. Fifty-four degrees.

  His mom had it set so that it went down to fifty-eight at night while they slept, then back up to sixty-eight at 6:00 a.m., back down to fifty-eight when they were both away at work and school. So it had probably gone down to fifty-eight as he slept and then electricity must have gone off sometime in the middle of the night. They hadn’t lost a lot of heat yet, only a few degrees. But he could feel the difference between now and when he’d fallen asleep. His phone told him it was 5:32 a.m.

  He went into the kitchen, the phone lighting his way, and found the Thermos. He opened it and took a tentative sip. Still warm. There was no reason to save it and let it get cooler. He took the hot chocolate and grabbed an apple from the fridge and brought them back to his bedroom. He sat up in bed, the covers over his lap, and had a breakfast of warm chocolate and apple.

  He had the urge to play his game, reached for his remote, and it took him a second to remember he couldn’t. And his computer had a charge but he wouldn’t have internet, right? He put down the game remote, got out of bed, checked the computer and no, he didn’t have internet. He climbed back into bed, trying to figure out how he’d know what the weather was going to be without TV or the internet. The phone would tell him the basics.

  A loud pop made him jump enough that he sloshed chocolate over his hand. Another tree breaking nearby. Inside the house, he couldn’t hear the softer sound of the ice falling off the branches. He had to be outside to hear that. He focused on listening and could hear more pops and cracks, distant ones. Must be a lot of branches coming down. He wondered if the bigger trees in the backyard were okay.

  He knew it’d be cold out there, and he knew there was nothing he could do about trees falling, or about anything else, but he needed to go look and make sure their trees were okay.

  Chapter 6

  Ray screwed the lid back on the chocolate and put on a sweatshirt. Then he went into the dining room, put his jacket on, and zipped it up. He put on his shoes and his gloves. He slipped out the back door, making sure first that it wouldn’t lock him outside.

  It was still dark, so he couldn’t see if the trees were damaged. He went back in and flipped on the outdoor light switch. When it didn’t come on, he banged his hand on his forehead. You just got so used to electricity, to it obeying your commands, it was hard to remember that it wasn’t working. Your hand went for the switch out of habit.

  He could use his phone as a flashlight to shine up into the trees, but what if the power didn’t come on all day? The phone charge wouldn’t last forever. He wanted to be able to call his mother. Or the fire department if the house was burning down. He knew there was a flashlight around the house, maybe even more than one, but he needed a flashlight to hunt for it. He’d have to wait until bright daylight to do that. And this time of year, the sun wasn’t up until almost 7:00.

  He heard a noise. A human noise, or maybe a huge raccoon. Or a yeti, maybe. It was the right weather for one. His mind slipped again to Slenderman, to horror films where you turn to see what that sound was, and then the thing jumps out of the dark and eats you.

  “Damn it,” a voice said, low but frustrated.

  Okay, the horror movie monster never said that. His fear ebbed. Also, the voice was female. And it was two doors over, he thought. Definitely not next door. So the weird old lady. “Ma’am, is that you?” he said. “It’s Ray.”

  “Ray? What are you doing out at this hour?”

  “What are you doing out?”

  “Getting firewood. The electricity is out.”

  “I know. I mean, mine is too.”

  “So why are you outside?”

  “I wanted to see if one of our trees was about to fall on my head. But I can’t see a thing.”

  “Neither can I. I can’t carry firewood in and hold the flashlight at the same time.”

  “I can come over and help.”

  There was silence, except for the periodic sounds of branches cracking and falling around the neighborhood.

  “Ma’am?”

  “Okay, I’ll take you up on the offer. Come around the left side of my house to get back here. There’s a gate, but it’s unlocked.”

  “I’ll be right over.” Great. He could start his day with doing something good—helping a neighbor—and he’d be ahead for the day, even before the sun came up. He went inside, made sure to lock the back door, and stopped only to grab his house key. He wanted to lock the house this time so he wouldn’t have to check the closets again for Slenderman or yeti or Slenderyeti, some terrible hybrid of the two. He made sure the door would lock behind him and went out front, expecting to see streetlights, but they were off too. The whole world was dark, darker than he’d ever seen it.

  He made his way by feel across the lawns to the woman’s house, figuring out where he was in the dark only by counting the slick patches of front walkways and by remembering what the neighborhood should look like. He passed over two walks, walked another dozen steps until the next driveway, and turned right until he ran into her house, then groped his way along the side of her house, keeping his gloved fingertips trailing alongside the outer wall. When he ran out of house, he found a short chain link fence and said, “Ma’am?”

  “Call me Eve. Please.”

  “Eve. Where are you?”

  A flashlight beam flashed on. She shone it at her feet, and then at a pile of stacked firewood. There was a pile about knee-high, and a smaller pile of split logs scattered around her that she must have dropped. She shone her light toward the fence to the left of him, and he saw the gate. He found the gate latch and opened it, then joined her.

  “Why don’t you hold the flashlight and I’ll carry the logs,” he said.

  “Okay. Be careful. It’s slippery out here, especially on the patio.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I know. I’ve been walking in the grass to get anywhere.” The sleet was still falling, though lightly, hitting his head, glazing the newly uncovered woodpile, and adding to the ice underfoot, which felt and looked thick. It didn’t give or crack under his weight at all.

  She said, “I have a patch of older concrete by the door that’s really slick. I should put salt on it but I hate doing that to the plants. So be especially careful there, please.”

  She stacked firewood into his waiting arms until it was nearly at his shoulders.

  “Take little steps and don’t fall,” she said. “I’ll open the door, and you just drop it inside. I can move it around inside on my own. It’s the footing out here that’s giving me trouble. And having no light.”

  “Okay,” he said, and he moved in short steps to the back door. The door was up two steps from the yard level, so it would be easy to drop the wood on the landing. While he was paying attention to the door, which was faintly lit from inside, his right foot lost traction and slid forward. He barely stopped himself from shouting a bad word as he lost his balance and fell. The logs went tumbling. It took three tries before he made it to his feet again. “It really is slick. I’ll have to kind of shuffle over. Or skate.”
>
  She helped him get the pile of logs into his arms again and kept his way lit, and he made it to the door without falling a second time. But he could feel the ice under his shoes, almost a living thing, an enemy wanting him to fall. When he made it to the house, she opened the door, and he let the logs tumble down onto a painted wood floor. She shut the door fast. “Do you mind doing it again?” she asked. “Another load?”

  “I’m not busy with anything else,” he said. “Without electricity, there’s nothing to do.”

  “I appreciate your help. I should have done this last night and then we wouldn’t be out here sliding around like drunken figure skaters, but they changed the forecast on me. Wait for a second. I’ll pull those logs into the kitchen first and get them out of our way.” She handed him the flashlight.

  Alone, he returned to her woodpile. It wasn’t big, side to side. When she came back, he said, “How long will this last? How many days?”

  “Not enough, I’m afraid. I thought winter was nearly over, so I didn’t order another load. This is enough for two days. But I’ll stretch it to three.”

  “It’s a late storm, the TV said. Historically late.” He gave her the flashlight and picked up two lengths of wood.

  “Here, let me get that last bunch stacked in your arms again.”

  Two more times they did it, her loading his arms up and then lighting his way. They moved to a symphony of breaking branches, near and far. Hardly ten seconds went by before they heard a pop or crack as a branch gave way somewhere from the weight of the ice. Luckily, none fell on them. Finally, she said it was enough wood. She dragged a dark tarp over the woodpile and weighed it down with four wet pieces of wood. “Would you like to come in? I could make you breakfast as a thank-you.”

  “I already ate,” he said, “but I appreciate the offer.”

  “Do you have a way to stay warm?”

  “Plenty of blankets. And the house isn’t that cold yet.”

  “Well, you should get on back before your mother starts to worry. Did you tell her you were coming over here?”

  “She’s not home yet. She got stuck at work.”

  “I imagine a lot of people did.” She frowned. “Maybe you should come over and stay with me until she gets home.”

  “Oh no, ma’am. I’m fine. I’m not a little kid. I can cook—well, I could cook when the oven and microwave worked. But there’s food and blankets and bread and peanut butter and apples. I’ll be fine until she comes home.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “If your mom doesn’t make it home by tonight, you get on over here, okay?”

  “Okay,” he said, not intending to keep that promise.

  She must have detected his lack of sincerity. “I’m serious,” she said. “It’ll be no trouble for me, and I’d hate to think of you being alone over there. If the power stays off, you’ll be cold by tonight. And I’ll need more wood by nightfall and I’d really appreciate your help again with that.”

  “I’ll come over to do that no matter what,” he said.

  “You’re a good boy. Or young man, I should say.”

  “Thanks,” he said. “I’m getting cold, so if you’re okay, I’ll go home.”

  “Stay bundled up,” she said.

  “You too.”

  He went home. It was way warmer inside than it was outside, that was for sure, even without the furnace running. He locked the door and took his shoes off. His socks were wet. Next time he’d stick old bread wrappers over his socks to keep them dry. He didn’t have any boots that fit anymore. His feet had grown two sizes this school year, and it hadn’t snowed much all year, so there hadn’t been any need to buy new boots. He left his wet coat and shoes on the rug just inside the door, took off his socks and dumped them there, and headed straight for his room. He padded barefoot to his dresser. There were another three clean pairs of socks, but that was all, and one of those were black dress socks that he hardly ever wore. Sunday was the household laundry day, twice a month, his mom’s organized schedule of chores putting it there. And while he could do his own laundry outside of his mother’s schedule—and sometimes did when he wanted to wear a favorite shirt that was dirty—he couldn’t do that without electricity, could he? Clad in dry socks again, he returned to the front door, grabbed his wet socks, and hung them up over the shower curtain. Without heat, he wondered when they’d dry. Probably would take a full day. Maybe two. He hung his jacket over a chair.

  Man, you never think about these things, do you? Needing dry socks, and not having a dryer to get them that way. Or about how boring life is when there’s no electricity and no light. He checked his phone. No messages or calls. He texted his mom: Where is a flashlight? I hope you slept okay on the floor or furniture. Do you have power? We don’t, but I’m fine. He wanted her home, but if she had heat where she was, she should stay there. It’d be stupid of her to leave a warm place for a cold one, even if he wished she were home. But he remembered slipping on that ice at Eve’s, and how thick it felt, how it hadn’t cracked when he fell on it, and he wanted her to stay where she was and not risk her life driving over roads coated in it.

  Out of the blue, he remembered the news saying how people should report outages of power. He got online on his phone and looked up the power company’s name and website. There was a phone number to report power being out, but nothing on the website to do so. That was a dumb design. They should have had a form to fill out. He called the number, but it was busy. He tried every five minutes, but it kept being busy, and finally he gave up. He shouldn’t waste his limited phone charge on idiots who didn’t know how to design a website. Someone colder than him in his neighborhood would keep calling until they got through.

  Though he was getting pretty cold again himself. After being outside, the house had felt warm. But just sitting here doing nothing, his body was recognizing that it wasn’t all that warm in here either.

  Was there anything to do to warm himself up? He thought it through. If the stove was working, he’d bake a meal and leave the door open afterwards—at least the kitchen would be warm. But that wasn’t possible with an electric stove and no power. If the sun were shining, he might open the drapes where it was shining in and it might give him a degree or two of warmth if he sat right in the sunlight. But the sleet was still coming down out there, the clouds that brought it blocking out sunbeams.

  He thought about how, when he woke up in the winter, under the covers there was always a pocket of warmth from his own body heat. So he could stay in his bedroom all the time, and keep the door shut, and maybe his body heat would keep that room a degree or two above the rest of the house.

  He thought and thought, taking on the problem as if it were a puzzle in a survival game. In a game, you’d find a pile of sticks and light them on fire with a click. But that would be outside. He wasn’t going to do that on the kitchen floor. A burned-down house would definitely be colder than one that had walls to keep the wind out and a roof to keep the sleet from falling on his head.

  Look, it shouldn’t be so hard to live through one day without electricity. People evolved when it was cold. They kept warm somehow during the last ice age. Hides, fires, sleeping with a bunch of domesticated dogs piled around them. He’d wished many times that he had a dog, but never before had he wanted one as a space heater. The more he thought about the history of people, the more he realized that primitive people probably had felt cold a lot. They just dealt with it. Or died of it, in some cases.

  The only thing he could come up with to keep himself warmer was to stay in his room with the door shut. He also grabbed a plush throw off his mother’s chair where she watched TV and did crossword puzzles some nights. He’d put that in his room too as an extra blanket. He checked the linen closet. There was an old comforter there, folded up, so he took that too. More blankets would keep him warmer.

  Next, he gathered food and water to take to his room so he wouldn’t be opening and closing the door and letting
out any built-up heat. Peanut butter, the block of cheese, a knife, the rest of the bag of apples, and a bottle of his mom’s disgusting fizzy water. That’d see him through supper. By then, the power would probably be back on.

  By the time he was done building himself a survival cave in his room, the sun was starting to come up. The light wasn’t a lot—definitely not enough to warm a house. He checked the trees in the backyard not by going out—that’d just lose him more heat—but by looking through the windows on that side of the house. The trees were definitely coated with ice. A few branches had fallen off, but nothing big that he could see. There might be more snapped-off branches on the roof for all he knew, but he wouldn’t go out to check. Not yet. This afternoon, he’d go back over to help the weird—no, Eve. Call her Eve. To help Eve with her wood, and he’d look at his house’s roof then.

  Not that he could do anything about it if there were branches up there on the roof. That’d have to wait for better weather, and for his mother to get home, and he’d hold the ladder while she pulled them off, or vice versa. He could see the front yard from a window in the third bedroom, an office and storage room. The little tree out front was bent almost over. It didn’t look broken, but was bent in an arc, and the tip just about touched the ground. It looked like it was doing some weird form of tree yoga. Another four inches and it would touch the ground. Or it’d break.

  Sitting up back in bed, the covers piled on top of him, he checked his phone again. Nothing from his mother yet. He checked the weather forecast. Sleet turning to snow later. So it wouldn’t go on forever. Not that he’d thought it would. That’d be just stupid, though it was easy to have stupid thoughts when you were stuck inside alone and the world outside was doing strange things.