The Cold

by Rich Hawkins

  *

  Seth settled into a routine. Meals were eaten. The daily shower stopped being a novelty. He started to become accustomed to the safety of the bunker, but his nerves were still frayed and he was easily startled by loud noises and raised voices.

  When he slept, he suffered bad dreams and nightmares born of survivor’s guilt. And he woke feeling lonely. It stayed with him throughout the days and only worsened at night.

  *

  Each day, he visited the chapel. It was a small, plain room. Rows of wooden chairs and prayer cushions faced a lectern, beyond which was a simple altar. Above the altar, a three-foot high cross hung from the wall. Seth sat on a chair, his hands worrying at each other. He bowed his head because it always felt like the correct thing to do.

  He was usually alone in the chapel when he visited, and if someone else did enter the room and sat down, he would always leave. His seclusion in the chapel gave him a small measure of peace amidst the desperation and loneliness. A place to contemplate and remember.

  He missed the old world: Facebook, Burger King, Game of Thrones. The possibility that the bunker was the last bastion of humanity gnawed at him with blunt teeth. It might be the last outpost. He thought about it, shaking his head, seriously considering the notion of extinction.

  The weight of all that death upon his shoulders, the debt he owed; it was a burden on his mind, a cancerous knot within him.

  There had to be others out there, hiding and waiting. They couldn’t be the last people. This was not the swansong of the human race. But he failed to convince himself and just slumped in the chair with his dismal thoughts.

  The door opened at the back of the room, and Seth glanced back to see who had entered.

  Sergeant Hanso walked down the aisle and sat on a chair in the row opposite. Hanso looked at him then towards the front, his hands held together, but not in prayer. He sighed, cracked his knuckles.

  “Strange, isn’t it?” the sergeant said.

  “What is?”

  “People come here to worship, even after everything that’s happened. People still looking for help from God, when they’ve already lost everything. I don’t see any sense in it.”

  “It gives them comfort,” said Seth, gazing at the floor between his feet. “Comfort is a rare thing. Let them do what they want with the time they have left.”

  “God doesn’t give a fuck about us. I don’t think He’s evil, just beyond caring. Maybe we just pissed him off too much over the years and he finally got sick of us.”

  “Do you think God is responsible for the snow and the monsters?”

  “This is just…life, I think.”

  Seth swallowed to clear the thickness in his throat. His mouth tasted dirty. He looked towards the cross upon the wall. He thought it might have given him some comfort, but there was nothing. Nothing to help or give him guidance. “It seems hopeless, doesn’t it?”

  Hanso leaned forward in his seat and eyed Seth. “We received a radio transmission last night.”

  Seth stared at the sergeant. He blinked. His stomach fluttered. “What? A transmission? From where?”

  “Somewhere east of here, a fair distance away. Someone reaching out to us. It was weak, but it was a signal.”

  “Did you talk to them?”

  “It was a woman’s voice. The transmission cut out soon after we spoke to her. But not before she told us her coordinates. She said they’re some kind of gated community. A place called Moresby.”

  “I can’t believe it.”

  “We’re not alone,” said Hanso.

  “And you came here just to tell me this…?”

  Hanso shook his head. His eyes were grave. “I came here to ask you to be part of the team we’re sending.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Captain Miller doesn’t want to risk too many soldiers on the mission – there aren’t many of us left, and most are needed to defend the bunker if it’s attacked.”

  “You mean I’m just more expendable than your squaddie mates?”

  “Miller thinks you’ll be useful out there, as you’ve spent a lot of time in the wastelands. He told me to say this is your chance to repay the people who died for you. It’s not wise to disagree with Captain Miller when it comes to notions of honour and such. He believes you have a moral duty. From his point of view, this is for your own good.”

  Seth rubbed his eyes with his knuckles, his blood quickening with low anxiety. Yet the thought of staying within the confines of the bunker filled him with a quiet dread. Like it was some kind of purgatory within the earth. A grave for them all.

  “Who’s going on the mission?” he asked.

  “Me, Private Dahl and Private Beckwith. We’ll be well armed and equipped. We’ll protect you out there.”

  Seth grunted. “Guns won’t do any good against the big ones.”

  “In that case, we’ll just have to stay out of their way.”

  “Easier said than done. You haven’t seen some of the shit I’ve seen.”

  “I’ve seen plenty of bad shit,” the sergeant said. “I saw a huge worm swallow a broken-down bus that was being used as a shelter by several families. I was supposed to get them out of there, get them to safety, but I was too late. I had to watch as that fucking worm opened its mouth and…” He broke off and coughed harshly to mask his broken composure.

  “I’m sorry,” Seth said. “I didn’t mean to…”

  The edges of Hanso’s mouth twitched. His throat worked. “No matter. It’s done.”

  A few moments passed before Seth spoke again. “How long will it take to walk to Moresby?”

  “Depending on the conditions, two days or so. It’ll be a struggle, Seth. I won’t lie to you about it.”

  Seth shivered and tried to ignore the niggling feeling in his chest. His hands worried at each other, and he winced at the soreness of his knuckles.

  Hanso stood, flattening the creases in the front of his fatigues with his palms. “We’re leaving in a few days, so you’ve got a bit of time to prepare yourself. I’ll give you some weapons training.”

  “Okay, I’m in.”

  “I’ll be in touch. Thank you, Seth.” Hanso turned away to leave.

  “Did I really have a choice?” asked Seth.

  The sergeant didn’t look back as he walked away. “Not really, but it’s polite to ask, isn’t it?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN

  The next day Hanso took Seth through some basic weapons training with a Glock 17. When he first held the pistol in both hands it felt lighter than expected.

  They spent a couple of hours at the small shooting range near the soldiers’ barracks, Hanso watching while Seth fired at targets. His aim was poor at first, but with practice and a bit of shrewd advice he started to become halfway competent. And by the end of those two hours Seth’s arms were aching.

  “What do you think?” Seth asked.

  “Not bad,” said Hanso. “At least those big monsters are hard to miss.”

  *

  The days before leaving passed slowly, with many games of Monopoly played between Seth, Ruby and Andy. They tried to talk him out of going on the mission. Andy even pleaded at one point, but Seth said he’d already promised Hanso, and the sergeant wasn’t the kind of man you broke a promise to.

  On the night before the day of the mission, Seth lay in bed, away from the others in the dormitory, swamped in darkness, his heart crashing within the wet chamber of his chest. He thought of monsters and death, and the world fading away to be lost in ice and snow. And when he slept eventually, he dreamed of the countless bones of extinct species, bleached white and cold. And atop the pile, a human skull, hollow and grinning.

  *

  In the morning he was woken by Hanso at his bedside. It was still dark in the dormitory. The only light was from the sergeant’s torch, shining towards the floor.

  Seth winced, dry-mouthed, and looked up at Hanso. “Is it time?”

 
; “Get dressed and have something to eat. We leave in one hour.”

  *

  It saddened Seth to have no chance to say goodbye to Andy, Ruby, Delia, and baby Jack. He met Hanso and a couple more soldiers near the barracks, where the sergeant gave him a rucksack of equipment and supplies: flares, rope, batteries, bottled water, protein bars. No pistol, but Hanso handed him a long-handled axe with an immaculately sharp edge. It was some consolation.

  They all wore heavy winter clothes, boots, and snow goggles. Dark colours. Woollen hats and gloves. Enough layers to keep out the cold.

  Hanso pulled on his balaclava and adjusted it for comfort. The sergeant showed no sign of nerves; but when Seth looked at Privates Dahl and Beckwith, their anxiety was clear as they performed their last-minute equipment checks. Dahl was tall and wiry, with red hair and a scar on the left side of his chin, whilst Beckwith was of average height and wide-shouldered, his eyes bloodshot from nerves or lack of sleep. Hanso hefted his own rifle and nodded at the men. They returned the gesture to signal they were ready. Then the sergeant turned to Seth, who was gripping the axe tightly, staring at the steel ladder they’d have to climb.

  “You OK, Seth?”

  Seth meant to nod, but the muscles in his neck seemed too stiff. He exhaled and gave Hanso a weak half-smile that the sergeant took as an affirmative.

  “Let’s go, lads,” Hanso said. “Sooner we get to Moresby and see what’s going on, the sooner we can get back here in the warm.”

  “Yes, Sarge,” Dahl replied.

  “On it, Sarge,” Beckwith said, and started up the ladder. Dahl followed.

  Hanso looked back at Seth. “You’re up. Stay close to my lads when you reach ground level. I’ll be right behind you.”

  Seth swallowed, grimacing at the sourness inside his chest and stomach. “Okay. Okay.”

  “You ready?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Let’s go, then.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT

  The silence hit Seth like something physical. He looked around but couldn’t see further than forty yards because everything was lost to falling snow and white fog. It was the wasteland in all its terrible glory. Cold and death in the void.

  The air was sharp in his nose and mouth. His breath was like smoke, drifting away from him. “Fuck!” It was about all he could say. Icy air cut through his lungs. A gust of wind swept past him.

  The soldiers stood nearby, scanning around, their rifles ready. Seth flexed the fingers of one hand on the axe handle. He ran his tongue over his cold teeth. The straps of the rucksack strained on his shoulders.

  Sergeant Hanso looked at his men then Seth. “Let’s get going, lads. We can’t waste daylight.”

  “I wish we had a snowcat,” said Dahl, with a dismal tone.

  “Yeah,” Beckwith said, sniffling. “Save the effort of walking and there’d be less chance of being eaten.”

  Hanso shook his head and regarded Seth. “Moaning little bastards, aren’t they?”

  Seth gave something like a shrug, but said nothing. He shivered, trying to ignore the shrill voice of the wind inside his head.

  *

  They walked for hours, slogging through the snow on the road, nothing but silence beyond them. Beckwith and Dahl alternated between taking point and bringing up the rear, keeping watch with their rifles half-raised. Neither of them spoke. Seth noticed that Beckwith’s rifle was equipped with an under-slung grenade launcher, and he hoped it would do some good against the monsters they would surely encounter. But it didn’t make him feel any safer.

  Hanso walked beside Seth, checking his map and compass, muttering to himself.

  Seth gripped his axe in one hand, eyes flitting about, mouth twitching. The snow crackling under their boots seemed shockingly loud to Seth. It reached past their ankles and, in places where the surface of the road dipped, halfway up their shins.

  Seth struggled to keep pace with the soldiers. Dahl urged him onwards from behind.

  “You OK, Seth?” Hanso asked him, looking up from the map for a short moment.

  Adjusting his goggles against the falling snow, Seth replied, “Yeah, just fine.” He kept his voice quiet, as if speaking any louder might summon the monsters. He felt clumsy, awkward and vulnerable, and it was an effort to slow his breathing.

  Hanso put away the map and the compass then unslung his rifle, keeping the barrel pointed towards the ground. “I never liked snow that much,” he muttered. “Even when I was a kid. Never saw the appeal of it.”“I thought all kids liked snow?” said Seth

  “I must have been the exception.”

  “Fair enough.” Seth considered asking if Hanso had children, but thought it best not to; the sergeant might be suppressing his own grief and pain. Most people were, he reckoned.

  No one spoke for a long while, following the road as it curved eastward. They trudged in slow steps, watchful for threats. The silence was oppressive, full of portent and danger, and not to be trusted.

  “I haven’t heard any monsters,” Beckwith muttered. “I thought they would have come at us by now. Maybe they’ve fucked off back to wherever they came from.”

  “I doubt it,” said Hanso. “Eyes open, lads.”

  Beckwith held up one hand and the group stopped. Hanso tensed, raised his rifle. Seth tried to look beyond Beckwith, but he could only see the muddled shapes of cars upon the road.

  “What is it?” Hanso asked, and stepped forward.

  “Something ahead,” said Beckwith.

  “Monsters?”

  “Something in one of the cars. The one where some of the snow has fallen from its windows. You see it?”

  “I see it,” Hanso said.

  Seth walked with the soldiers as they moved forward, not really wanting to look any closer. But there was no choice, and they stopped next to the car.

  “Maybe something shook the snow loose,” said Dahl. “Maybe something heavy passed nearby.”

  The men peered through the nearest window.

  A family had taken shelter inside the car, huddling together against the cold on the back seat. A mum and dad, with two children – twin girls no older than ten – wrapped up in their thin coats. Their faces were bone-white. Their eyes were closed, as though they’d simply fallen asleep. The girls wore pink coats with flower patterns, and their blonde hair, glistening with frost, hung rigidly from beneath woollen hats.

  Seth tried to imagine their last thoughts as they slipped away into the darkness. His mouth trembled and he stepped back, swallowing the hard clot in his throat. The world went away for a moment.

  Beckwith edged his face closer to the window. “Poor bastards. They never had a chance. Still, better this than being eaten alive.”

  Dahl turned away, shaking his head.

  “At least they were together at the end,” Hanso said heavily.

  CHAPTER THIRTY NINE

  They walked another ten miles before the daylight faded and sent them looking for shelter. Kicking through thick snow, Private Dahl led them towards a house away from the road.

  Seth couldn’t shake the image of the dead family from his mind, no matter how hard he tried. He kept seeing the girls’ faces whenever he closed his eyes.

  Dahl and Beckwith unfolded small metal spades from their packs and cleared the snow from the front door. There were no signs of movement within the house, but that didn’t mean it was empty. Beckwith opened the front door and went in, his rifle pointed ahead. Dahl followed while Hanso and Seth waited outside on the snow-covered lawn. The tops of dead flowers, pale with frost, poked above the snow. Frozen clothes and thin fingers of ice hung from a washing line.

  Seth looked at the upstairs windows. The curtains were drawn. Part of the drainpipe on the front of the house had come loose from its fittings, and now leaned to one side.

  Hanso cast about, watching the perimeter. His face set in a frown.

  “All clear,” Dahl said from inside.

  Hanso nodded at Seth and they entered the house. It wa
s a relief when the sergeant closed the door behind them.

  *

  They stood around the corpse of a man who’d slit his own wrists at his desk in the study. Shelves of old volumes crowded the walls. Model aeroplanes were mounted upon stands. Framed certificates. Hanso snatched the bottle of whiskey from the desk, unscrewed the cap, took a swig. Then, when he noticed Dahl and Beckwith looking at him expectantly, passed the bottle to them. When Beckwith offered Seth the bottle, he drank deeply until the creeping cold was burned from his chest and stomach.

  “Secure the house,” Hanso said. “This is home for the night.”

  Beckwith gestured at the dead man. “What about him?”

  “Leave him. He’s not hurting anyone.”

  *

  Night fell quickly and the wind rose to wailing beyond the walls. They set up camp in the living room at the back of the house, swaddled in their gear and blankets. The soldiers kept their rifles within reach. The battery-powered lantern in the middle of the floor gave a low light, just enough to manifest their shadows.

  For dinner they ate MREs – ‘Meals Ready to Eat’ according to Hanso – followed by protein bars and water from their canteens. The sergeant passed around the whiskey once more. Seth lay his head against the wall and felt the anxiety of the day’s journey leak out of him.

  He closed his eyes. The family in the car rose from his memories to ask why he hadn’t saved them.

  *

  “I thought Afghanistan was bad,” said Beckwith as he picked at his fingernails. “I’d give anything to go back in time, when most of the lads were still alive.”

  “Amen to that,” said Dahl. He ate sparingly from a packet of wine gums while thumbing through a book about the history of Great Britain. “This cold makes Camp Bastion seem like paradise.”