The Snow (A Post-Apocalyptic Story)

by Joseph Turkot

  Instead of waking him up I look out at the sky through the window, waiting for signs of morning light. Nothing comes forever. I listen for crunches, the sounds of someone walking around somewhere in the long apartment complex roads. I hear only the wind. I think of Russell and Ernest, and what they’re going through right now as if there’s no chance they’re dead. The thought that they’re dead has become pointless to me, as if everything is now a matter of action, and that they’re alive, they have to be, because our action to save them requires it. We have no other options now but to try to find them. There’s no going back to the Resilience without a stove. That would mean dying the same as Clemmy did. Maybe throwing our own clothes in a pile and running naked until we iced over like him. Ice statues no one will ever see. There has to be fuel leftover from the evacuation in one of the buildings, I tell myself. I think about how many apartments we’ve seen. I think of the number on the evacuation flyers. Forty pounds per person. Forty pounds of anything worth anything, gone. Long gone. But maybe that meant leaving some supplies behind. Some that even the snow walkers haven’t found yet.

  But who are the snow walkers? Did they stay behind when the evacuation happened? They shot Ernest and dragged him off is all I know for sure. And they don’t fear the radiation because they went right down the street toward the tower. Right to the heart of the invisible death. My gut tells me that something else is going on in this place. Something dark and secret like what was happening in Blue City, and on the carrier. Like what seems to happen everywhere I end up.

  The long struggle with things in my head ends, and what gets me to fall asleep isn’t the warmth of the fire or how tired I am. It’s the gentle breathing of Dusty and Voley next to me, assuring me that somehow, despite all this bullshit, I’m still not alone. They’re here with me.

  Dusty raises me when the sky is white. I feel as if I’ve never seen it so bright, uniform in every direction, no smear of the sun, or streak of clear sky, but just bright glare, like the snow itself. The first thing I realize is the noise—it’s tremendous, and it’s coming from every direction it seems. I don’t ask Dusty what it is because it’s clear—I feel it rip through me immediately. Through the window wild snaps of wind barrel in at us, and the walls of the building are whining in protest at the force. I almost ask what Beaufort it is, and then I remember Ernest’s gone. Outside, the snow is swirling, mixing in the air, a hell of dancing powder. It rises back upward, as if being recalled to the sky, and then falls again, before whipping sideways at great speed. The pattern repeats and transforms, like the snow can’t even reach the ground anymore. The wind won’t let it. I can’t imagine going out there. How cold it must be. I watch tiny cyclones that form and dissolve before they really get going—miniature waterspouts of snow. But then Dusty tells me we have to move. Have to leave right now or else. And I see with a pain in my gut that he’s right.

  The fire is smoldering, but it’s still keeping us warm. Dusty hasn’t let it go out. But the dark smoke is flying quickly out the window, like the great monsters of wind out there are sucking it out for all to see. It wants to expose us, to draw us into the cutting winds of death. A blast rides in and slits into my face, a purer kind of pain than the rain ever was. It’s immediate and I tremble for a moment, but then I ignore my body again like I’m used to doing and throw on the rest of my clothes. Where can we go? I ask, because it looks like every white road out there leads to Clemmy. The sad thought hits me that last night was the last moment of peace we’ll ever know. A last clarity, one night of imaginary security. And now, the only thing I can see is death, from one cause or another. But I’m sure there’s no way to win anymore. No way to find a home. A warm piece of the veneer where the struggle of moving and hiding and surviving the exposure will end.

  “I don’t know,” says Dusty. He’s as worried as I am. I want to tell Voley to lead us out, show us the way, take us back to the Resilience in one long hike. We can make it there without sleep or rest. Find the ship, and all the fuel that we know is aboard it. And then my mind follows the thought to its conclusion—swimming back out through the sea, against the current, to grab the rope ladder. Without Ernest to help. Voley on his own without Poseidon. And then, even if we made it back to the ship, getting there would mean abandoning all hope that Russell is alive. Or Ernest. That I’ll ever see either of them again. A numb, cold part of me accepts this, and wants to push out to the ship anyway. To even sacrifice Voley if it keeps me alive. To take Clemmy’s body for its flesh along the way if we have to. To do anything it takes to survive. Because I can’t see surviving in this town. I look out the window where Dusty is staring and see men on the street. There are two of them again, four apartments down. They look as if they’re walking aimlessly, but then it’s clear—they’re coming down the street toward our building. They see the smoke, but Dusty and I don’t have to say it out loud. We know what leaving the fire means. We have no means of a spark, no way to get another one going. But to stay here is certain death too. Even if we kill them both, more will come looking for them. But then again, we’ve only seen three of them. And maybe that’s all the snow walkers that there are. I tell Dusty all of this in fast, manic speech. He likes the idea of bunkering down and defending ourselves from inside the building, and he agrees maybe we should do that instead of running out into the snow. Then we notice the men are only two buildings away now. They’ve picked up their speed.

  We duck out of view of the window. They have pistols, he says. He tells me he saw them in their hands. I tell him I saw them too, and then I give him my idea. We can hide, wait for them to walk by, and then jump on them. It’s our best chance. Let them come in, I say. He starts to think it over, and then says we can at least get into the building with the broken brick wall if we run now, and there might be supplies there. Maybe there will be fuel to use, he argues. The thought of fighting without real weapons has him scared. I feel it. I think of what Russell would do. He would know that everything we have is here—the tent, the supplies—everything out there is unknown. Don’t gamble on the unknown when two choices seems just as bad as each other, he used to tell me. We stay and we surprise them, I say firmly. I look at Voley, wondering if he can stay quiet when the time comes. Or if Dusty will have to lock him in a room to keep him from giving us away. But then he couldn’t help us either. I remember how Voley saved my life, and how I don’t want him anywhere far when this all goes down.

  I say we run to the building, Dusty finally says when we can’t stall any longer. What if there are a bunch of them? We don’t know how many there are. If we do kill these ones, won’t that just make the rest come? he asks. And I say, What if there are just three? Is running still better? I talk Russell’s logic: Which choice makes more sense—one we know. The other is a guess. He says it’s not a guess, he knows the face eaters. I tell him we don’t know if that’s what they are. Suddenly, to let us know we’ve wasted all our decision-making time, we hear voices shouting. One says something about going around, and the other to meet in the middle. Dusty pokes his head out the window and looks down. Fuck, he says. I tell him there’s no running now. It’s too late. I grab the chair spear and Dusty goes to the window. What are you doing? I ask him, because he’s wasting time examining the window, and I think he might jump out. Hold on, he says. Then I hear the loud pop of shattering glass. Dusty slams in again on the window, and long shards fall into us and onto the floor. He takes two of the longest and sharpest pieces into his hands and wraps the bottom of them in shirts from one of the duffel bags. Handles. Here, he says, and hands one of them to me. This will work better than the chair. I take it and feel the sharpness even through the cloth, letting me know that if I grip it too tightly, then the thing will carve right into my hand. I take it anyway over the chair leg and together we get into the hallway and away from the stairwell. Underneath of us I hear them walking already. At first I think it’s coming from the area where we’ve barricaded the door, but then I realize it’s coming from both sides. They�
�re coming in through windows on both ends, I say. Dusty nods. We need to stick together, Dusty says. I’m relieved he doesn’t want separate hiding places. We open an apartment door and go in. It’s on the other side of the hall from our fire, and we close the door behind us and huddle against the part of the wall that the door opens into. A small pocket for us to hide in if they swing it open and come inside. Voley doesn’t miss a step, and he sits down by us at Dusty’s touch. Good boy, Dusty whispers.

  The worst wait of my life begins. The silence is unbearable, mostly because I know it’s going to end any second with footsteps coming from the stairwell. But it’s a voice that breaks the silence. Who’s there? shouts one of them, and then the footsteps start in the stairwell. Do you need help? Let us know who you are, a different voice from the first says. And then I hear them talking about the fire pit they’ve found in our room. Look, one of them calls out. And I know they’re going through all of our stuff. I can picture it with my ear pressed to the wall. Half of me wants to sneak up on them right now, spring while they’re distracted, while they’re investigating the tent. I even motion to Dusty, waving my hand, asking him if he’s ready to go in. He shakes his head firmly no. He doesn’t want to. He thinks we can still avoid an encounter altogether. Voley is patient, but his head is cocked, and his ears are high, and his fur starts to rise along his back. I say over and over in my head, Please don’t bark, please don’t bark, please don’t bark. And he doesn’t. Dusty points his glass down like a dagger, and his other hand rubs Voley’s neck, up and down, keeping him calm and quiet. Finally, the voices return and the steps start down the hallway in our direction.

  They must have left last night, one of them says. I don’t think so, says the other. You remember what the man said, don’t you? And we saw the tracks, leading back to the mountains. We listen in paralysis to their argument from behind the door. One of them starts up again: Those blankets were warm. They’re hiding in here, he says. We hear them walking carefully, their feet hitting the rug so softly we almost can’t hear how close they’re getting. I hear them push open a door on the same side as the tent. And then, in just another moment, they’re opening the apartment directly across from us. But the footsteps are still going, and then I realize it: they’re checking rooms on both sides at the same time. And then our door slowly starts to open.

  The door knobs turns and the door pushes in. Without even pressing the door in far enough to hit us and know we’re hiding behind it, the snow walker enters and spins to check just where we’re hiding, like it’s what he expected. His face lights up in surprise that he’s found us. We jump at him. I run in low. He points out and fires his gun right away. It goes off and I don’t know if he’s hit anything—I don’t even know if I’m hit because I’m so full of adrenaline. I dig my spike of glass straight into his stomach, just like I did to the face eater in Wyoming that fought Russell. The man falls and screams and grabs at his gut. My own hand is on fire and I look at it and see two red lines where my hand slipped up the glass’s edges. The snow walker breaks the glass off but most of it stays jammed in his gut, and he gives up on pulling it out and just screams for help. Suddenly there are more gunshots—I hear a pop hit the door, and then another. It’s the other guy from the hall—he’s firing in blindly, punching holes in the door and the walls. Then Voley jumps forward and sinks his jaws into the neck of the man on the ground. He shakes his head furiously without losing his bite, side to side, wetting the carpet with spitting blood until the man’s cries empty out of him and his arms stop struggling. I turn and fall to the ground because the gun starts firing again. Smoke and gunpowder smell and my face in the rug. The door rattles back and forth, opening enough that I’m visible on the ground to the hallway. I hear the clicking of an empty clip. The man in the hall calls out: Preston! He’s hoping for a sign that his friend’s okay. Voley’s bark is the only reply, and I look at him: he’s released his hold on the man’s neck and is watching the door furiously with all his hair spiking along his back. The recoil has nearly shut the door again. Then, on the floor next to me, I see salvation in a reflection of light. It’s the pistol, still in the dead man’s hands. It’s lying there, right next to me. It’s when the door starts to open again that I pry the gun free and get it into my own hand. I look up and see the man entering. He’s dark, bundled in brown coats so that I can only see his eyes. They’re dark too, but they’re not directed at me, and neither is his gun. He aims his pistol somewhere else and fires. I use the second of not being noticed on the floor to pull the trigger. The blast deafens me and tears into the man’s thigh. I shoot again, right into his crotch. His gun drops and then so does he. He’s alive and moaning, and right away Voley jumps again, biting the man on his neck. The man reaches down, like he’s going for a knife to stab Voley. I crawl over and push the nozzle of the pistol into his leg and shoot again. He stops dead. Voley growls and tears and twists the neck flesh off. On the ground, I’m washed in the warmth of the blood of both men. It runs out from them, wetting my hair and my arms and my face. Some of it reaches my mouth and I sit up with the taste of it—where’s Dusty?

  I see him crumpled against the wall near the door, his hand covering something on his stomach. From under it red has started to saturate all his layers. His fingers are soaked in it, and his eyes are opening and closing, and his mouth is moving silently. He’s mouthing words but nothing is coming out. Trying to talk, trying to tell me to help him. I know without hearing his words he’s trying to scream at me. I drop everything, hoping neither of the two men are still alive somehow, even with Voley grinding them apart, and rush up to Dusty. I kneel next to him and ask him where he’s hurt, even though I see it right in front of me. It’s right under his ribs, in the center of his gut. He looks at me with tears in his eyes, still trying to make words. Then I see the other shot. It’s lower, near his hip. He’s bleeding from there too, down into the rug, but he doesn’t have the strength to hold that spot. I push my own fingers into it. I scream for help in panic, not thinking about the danger of drawing attention and that no one is here that would help us anyway. I do it again out of the belief that somehow Russell might hear me, that he’s that near us this whole time, and he’ll appear and help us now that we really need him. It’s a delusion, but I slap away my knowledge of that and scream again and then I pray to each god I’ve ever heard of all at once to intervene and help and take care of Dusty because he’s dying.

  And there is nothing but his eyes and his moving lips, but the eyes close and open more softly now, slowly. Then I realize in the emptiness and horror that I have to do it myself. There is no god who is going to help me. Russell will not help me. No one is here to help. I have to save him all by myself.

  I lift up his layers and look at his stomach and it repulses me so I move them back down to cover it up again. The hole is round and broken and liquefied with red that keeps pumping up and out like a river. Finally I raise my courage and lift it again. I take off my shirts and use one of them like a cork, pressing it in where his hand has been. I press it in the wound, even as it soaks and slips back out, useless to plug the hole. Then I push it in farther than I think I should, and move to the wound on his hip. I look at his face and he’s looking back at me, his eyes wide, watching everything I’m doing. When we look at each other his eyes go in and out, eyelids up and down, and his mouth moves again, like he’s trying to say something, but still nothing comes out but air. I pull down his pants and try to plug his other shot with another one of my shirts. I push the fabric in like a cork again and try to get it so deep that the blood stops coming up to the surface. When I’m convinced I can’t do anything more to the wounds, I start to drag him back to the fire.

  Come on! I yell at him. For a moment, I think he’s not cooperating on purpose. I look at him and ask him to help me because I can’t drag him on my own. But he’s barely keeping his eyes open now, and his lips aren’t going as much. You’ve got to get up, come on! I yell. Voley dances by both of us, sensing the urgency,
wondering if there is anything at all he can do to help. He barks, runs up to Dusty, licks his face, and then jumps back and barks again. He does it again, and I have to shoo him off. It’s like he’s angry too about how Dusty is acting, because it’s not like his master to do this, and he should stop the game all at once. But Dusty can’t change his expression, and he can’t help me move him. I feel my stomach start to drop but I don’t want to acknowledge what’s happening yet. I keep going. I try to pull him, so that I can get him warm by the fire, because I can’t think of anything else to do but get him warm. Ernest must have brought supplies that could help. But I have to get him to the fire. I pull with my legs and every muscle in my back. He finally slides a little along the floor, and I get him about three feet, but we slide into the bodies of the snow walkers, into their blood and their blockade of the door. I slip and fall on my butt. And then Dusty looks at me. Somehow he summons the energy to turn his head. He shakes it no. His eyes are wide. He’s one hundred percent there. Even though he can’t speak anymore. He looks right into my soul. And he shakes his head again. And his face goes soft, like the fight he’s been putting up, that he’s made up his mind he is going to fight no matter what, is slipping out of him. He keeps his eyes on me, and then he looks for a long time at Voley, and then back at me.