“What would?”
“I thought it would be the economy crashing. If anything. Money would become worthless. People would panic. I never expected nature to wipe us out.”
“God has His reasons for things.”
He wanted to laugh. If God had any sense, this wouldn’t be happening. A lot of things wouldn’t have happened, for damn sure.
They didn’t talk. The clock was no longer there to occupy him. So, he stared at the blinds through the gaps between the lumber, imagining he could see out beyond them, beyond the hills and valleys and into the outside world—into the hearts of the people suffering and starving. He held her a little closer and hoped the figments of his imagination would never find their way to his home.
AFTER AN HOUR, he pulled his arm out from under his wife and reached for the nightstand. He clicked three buttons on his faux alarm clock, and the little compartment popped out. He grabbed his pistol, wrapped a belt around his pajama pants, and clipped the holster onto it. Grabbed his LED flashlight, slipped on his suede loafers, and tiptoed out of the bedroom.
The slow march downstairs took twice as long as normal, Sean cringing every time the wood boards beneath him creaked. It felt like the whole house would wake up. He looked around the dark living room. A soft light glowed from between the boards nailed to the window. A dull red smoldered from the fireplace. Cold seeped into his clothes. He pulled aside the chain mail and placed a log on the coals. As the flames licked the edges of the log, he looked back toward the sealed guest bedroom.
He warmed himself at the fire before walking into the kitchen and turning the knob to the reserves. He clicked on his flashlight, the beam shining as bright as car headlights. He descended the stairs. A chill radiated off the foundation. A hint of fog from his breath rose into the flashlight’s beam.
He reached the bottom and swept the light over the goods. His father used to tell him that a rich man’s wealth was his strong city. He eyed the hundreds of cans and jars of food, medicine, vitamins, batteries, cleaning supplies, and soaps. Relief settled into his soul, the secure feeling of being protected. His strong city.
Yet, the feeling turned sour. The supply would run out. Nobody to trade and barter with for goods and services. And if the sun never came out from behind the clouds, they couldn’t grow more food. Everything in front of him. That was it.
He shone the light over one shelf and something in the middle caught his eye. Every night after dinner, if Elise had used something, he would enter the reserves and front and face everything on the shelves. Then, he would mark it in the ledger. Yet this morning, a single can was pushed back from the others—black beans. He approached the small, empty pocket and pulled the cans to the front. After he faced the label, he stepped back and looked around the shelf. Another hole. A can of corn.
He snarled and set it back into place. Black beans and corn were in the dinner the night before, but Molly was supposed to have fronted and faced for him. She had neglected that responsibility too. He shook his head. It was like she didn’t care.
After organizing the other shelves, he walked back up the stairs to relative warmth. He wouldn’t sleep, but at least he had his strong city.
THE COLD AIR penetrated his clothing, sinking into his skin, reaching for his bones. The fibers of his clothes became crusted with ice. His eyes were the only flesh exposed.
It was the worst day since the disaster. He tried to chop wood every day—sometimes with the wood-cutting machine, sometimes by hand, sometimes felling a tree every few days with the chainsaw—so he would never run out. But the cold was breaking his will. Each gust of wind shook trees and branches and threatened to knock him over. White powder and gray flakes emptied off the branches and roof. The ash was only a smattering now, just bits releasing from the upper atmosphere, but enough to darken the snow.
He planted the axe into the ground, the handle like an ice block. Looked up at his chimney. The smoke drifted upward. A gust of wind flattened it and pushed it away from the house. Thirty-five mile-per-hour winds, he guessed. Brutal.
He collected as much chopped wood as he could, trudging from the tarp to the garage door, tossing each piece in before repeating the process. When he threw the final piece inside, he glanced at the mercury hanging on the garage’s siding. Negative fifteen degrees Fahrenheit. He blew into the cloth covering his mouth to warm his lips, stepped inside, and closed the door.
Then came the worst of it. His clothes were caked in ash from weeks of chopping wood, and he insisted on keeping as much grime out of the house as possible. So, he stripped down in the enclosed, unheated breezeway between the garage and home. He peeled the layers off slowly, wanting to go faster, but the cold seeming to have invaded his joints, thwarting his movements. When he came to a garment that needed even a little force to remove, his fingers burned. When he removed one of his gloves, pain emanated from his index finger like he was being stuck with a needle. He sucked in air and pulled the glove off, throwing it away from himself. The skin underneath was the color of hot flames, and a strip was missing from his middle knuckle. A bead of blood sat upon the wound. “Damn it,” he said, sucking on it.
He checked his jeans and sweatshirt for any ash, put the outdoor clothes into a large trash bag, and threw it over his shoulder. He grabbed his axe, so cold he thought his hand might stick to it, and headed inside. No more cold handles. It was coming in.
He entered the living room to find Aidan reading a thin paperback aloud with Kelly listening next to him. He leaned the axe against the wall and knelt near the fire, extending his hands toward the heat, letting it flow over him.
“Were you chopping wood, Dad?”
He turned his head to them. “Yeah. Sure is cold out there.”
“Maybe I can help tomorrow?”
He smiled and rubbed his hands. The wound on his finger itched. “Not sure that’s a good idea. Might turn into a popsicle.”
“I could help.”
“Maybe if it’s warmer tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
It would not get warmer. Not tomorrow and not anytime soon.
He faced the fire and absorbed the heat before planting his hands on the ground, springing up from the fireplace, and walking into the den between the living room and garage. He grabbed the farmer’s almanac off a bookshelf and perused the historical temperature for that day. Twenty degrees. He sighed. Thirty-five degrees below average. It was the trend. Each day the temperature sank further below the average since the eruption. Each day the sun seemed less and less likely to come out. He closed the book.
“Hey Sean,” Kelly said from the doorway.
They had never spoken much over the years. Not much to say to one another. They would nod and speak pleasantries during visits, but not more. He had a hard time relating to a twenty-seven-year-old fashionista.
“I just wanted to thank you.”
“Thank me?”
“For letting us stay here.”
“You don’t have to.”
“No, we do. I don’t know where we would be if we had left the day after all this started.”
Dead. You would be dead. “You guys are family.”
“We want to help more. With things.”
“Like what?”
“I thought maybe Michael could chop the wood sometimes. For starters.”
A month and a half into this thing, and he wanted to offer help. And it wasn’t even him offering. He wanted to help, he could say it himself. The useless sack of crap. At least Kelly would watch the kids. She did something. “That’s not necessary.”