firewood was left over? He thought they had burnt two thirds of the five meters of wood, but he knew that they had used up more. Once upon a time, five meters of wood would have been enough to last them the entire winter, with leftovers for the following winter. They would wear short sleeves around the apartment and walk around barefoot.
The hard and frozen snow that shaped the path towards the building resembled a bobsled trail. He climbed up the round embossed steps onto the street, which was asleep under a thick white blanket. It was quiet. No movement. He breathed in the cold and set off. His large heavy boots led the way.
The axe on his shoulder shone, as it was brand new, since he only used it to chop up the five meters of wood they received. He never used it to cut down trees. When parks and tree-lined streets were being butchered, he stood aside and watched. Groups of people would alternate in beating the old poplars with their axes. At first, they would all talk amongst each other and joke around, even sing, but as the trees began to run low the atmosphere would become more and more excruciating. They increasingly reminded him of their hairy ancestors. When the one-hundred-year-old giant would succumb and hit the ground much like a mammoth, they would jump on it, tear it apart, divide it up, and drag it to their caves. Splinters would remain in place of blood.
He was disgusted by such scenes.
When the last caveman would leave, he would approach the place of massacre and collect any twigs that had been left behind.
He was disgusted with himself.
He looked around searching for splinters of wood or any forgotten branch or log, but he knew he wouldn’t find anything. This was a city without any tress, much like most cities today. He called them cold concrete graveyards. This made him happy because his brain hadn’t rusted over the past few months of chaos. When it first started to snow, he considered this a good opportunity to finally get some rest during the days that followed, or perhaps the entire week! He just wanted to read next to the warm fireplace.
Passers-by with greenish plastic bags clutched to their chests led the way to delivery point 17 in slavic quarter. He came across a long line of silent people, introverted much like oysters, who were hopping and shivering, their hands tucked deep inside their pockets. There was only the sound of the cold metal speaker on the roof of the armored personnel carrier that called out names in alphabetical order, "Cucic!" "Cukovic!" "Delbianko!"
As their names were being called out, the people approached the carrier, grabbed their bags and quickly left, without a sound.
"Dragozetic!"
"Dragozetic!"
"Is Dragozetic here? Dragozetic? Next! Dukic!"
From day to day, the list of people grew shorter.
A soldier in a combat suit lazily signaled with his head for him to come around. He walked around delivery point 17 while the pipe of the heavy machinegun followed him from the dome of the APC.
He aimlessly dragged his feet as his agape stare into the past finally began to make out familiar images in front of his frostbitten nose. Memories of the sunny park, the slide, the swings, the teeter-totter, and the dusty brown sand where he played with his toy soldiers had a hard time making their way through the snowdrifts. The old five-storey building seemed abandoned. There was no doorway. A few of the windows were broken.
He entered the gate that was buried in snow, and climbed up to the first floor. Both of the apartments had been abandoned, robbed and destroyed. He sped up, grabbing onto the barren metal handrail from which the wooden railing had been removed. Apartment number 5 gaped open. The hallway was dark and scattered with glass splinters and broken ceramic tiles that crunched beneath the feet like cockroaches. The lack of doors and sills made it clear as to what had happened here. The dead, toppled over television floated on its turgid belly in a sea of splinters, leftovers and dust. A few centimeters of snow managed to find its way in through the drawn blinds. The kitchen tiles were covered in metal. Pots, lids. Blankets, sheets and out-of-fashion clothing were spread all around. Torn up mattresses and pillows. The pillow down and the snowflakes fused together. Piles of documents, letters, postcards, books, old magazines and newspapers were scattered and frozen.
Photographs.
He knelt down among them, put down his axe and took off his thick gloves. The first photo he picked up made his throat clench and the salty liquid spilled down his frostbitten cheeks. The tears flowed as he thought about the family trip they all went on a long time ago.
He allowed the streams of tears to wash away the sediment of fatigue, tension and uncertainty, disguising them with the loss that was nothing more than the reason for his initial departure. He had left never to come back.
The sound of the lock clicking in the apartment above made him jerk.
He quickly stood up and yelled, "Hey!"
"Hey!" replied the empty stairwell. He heard quick little steps.
"Stop!"
The echo was overcome by the slamming and the quick locking of the door.
He fled up the stairs and banged on the first door, yelling, "Hey! Open up! I have to ask you something!"
No response.
He went on to the next door, "Hey! Open up!" he yelled, banging on the door.
"Go home, there’s too many of us here already!"
He paused.
"Did you hear me? Go away! Go home!"
"Are the Lowell’s with you?" his voice quivered with hope.
"They are, they are! They’re all here!
"Tell them their son’s looking for them!" a smile spread across his damp face. "Tell them I’ve come back!"
"Go home!"
"Tell them their son is back!"
"Go home!" screeched the voice. "We know your kind! Go home!"
"Tell them I’m here!"
"They don’t want to se you! Go away! Get lost!"
"Mom!" he yelled through the crack that had been sealed with silicone between the edge of the door and the sill. "Mom, it’s me! Come out! I’ve come to get you!"
"Go home or I’m gonna shoot! You hear me?! I’m gonna shoot!"
"Let me see the Lowell’s! I’m their son, Humphrey Lowell. Let me see them!"
"There are no Lowell’s here! Get lost or I’m gonna shoot! I have a rifle!"
"But you just said…"
"I’m gonna shoot!! You hear me? GO HOME! GET LOST!"
He withdrew from the crazy screeching behind the thick doors. He stood on the landing and stared bluntly at the door, his mouth gaping open in silence. His eyelids suddenly seemed to be covered in coarse wool that scratched his dry eyes. The void in place of his heart could not be filled. He left the building. After wandering the empty streets for half and hour he began to feel the harsh bites of the cold on his bare hands. His shoulders and head slouched, he went back to get his gloves and axe. The walk back and nightfall chopped up his foggy thoughts into strands. He realized that he wouldn’t be back at his apartment until later in the night. The irrational feeling of terror forced him to hurry up.
The rhythmical sound of axes on a quiet street caused him to go off course. Two bundled up men were trying to cut down the hard, frozen wooden telephone pole. Splinters flew everywhere with every swing of the axe. He stopped and watched them. Vultures. The chopping suddenly came to a stop. The two men exchanged looks. Discomfort crawled up his back leaving chills up his spine. The man on the left signaled with his head and both of the axe men headed towards him.
He took a step back and put his hand up in the air, "Wait…" but words became a commodity that no one wanted anymore.
He turned around, tripped, and dropped his axe. He tried to regain his balance.
His lungs frozen and his stare watery, he came across an APC and the patrol. His exhausted sweaty body desperately stumbled, mimicking running.
"Help!" he managed to shout.
The soldiers stopped next to the APC and pointed their machineguns at the stammering image.
"Stop!" echoed the PA system.
"Help me!" he gasped, stumbling
towards them.
"Stop!"
He stumbled.
Pressure in his ears.
Needles in his lungs.
Shaky legs.
"STOP!"
The enormous machinegun spat out warnings of lead almonds.
His knees gave out and he fell flat to the ground like a blanket.
"Spread your arms and legs! Don’t get up! No sudden movements!" echoed the voice through the megaphone on the empty avenue that was covered in a frozen milk-like carpet.
The boots walked over to him.
"Don’t budge!" he heard the distorted voice behind the helmet say.
The cold pipe made a round mark on his hot, glowing cheek. He was being frisked by the palms of the soldiers’ hands. They turned him over onto his back roughly. His eyes were firmly shut.
"He’s clean!" The words were robotic.
He sat up, crying.
"We apologize, sir, but you didn’t stop when we warned you. What seems to be the problem?"
"My axe was stolen."
Silence.
The dark visors exchanged glances.
"Sir, we can’t do anything about that. Get up and go home," they lifted him to his feet by his armpits.
"My axe…"
"We can’t help you. Go home. We’re sorry. That’s all we can do. Can you walk?"
"Y-yes…"
The armored gloves were already pushing him on his way.
"The sooner you get home, the better you’ll feel. Hurry up, it’s almost curfew!"
"What about my axe?"
Their backs were already turned to him and they were walking away.
* * *
The view of his building was salvation to him.
He fell down the frozen slope and slid into the building entrance on his back, bruising his tailbone
The Axe Page 2
