Fragile Haven
Flash (post-apoc) fiction
The cold was in his bones.
Franklin just sat and waited as the last engine noises faded away. The engine was ticking under the hood within moments as the cold crept in. The fuel gauge blinked one last time, and shut down too.
“Fuck we do now?” Josh sat behind the wheel, eyes blank on the road ahead. His fingers were grimy sticks poking from his tattered gloves.
“I’ll walk out. You get a fire going.”
“Gonna be night soon.”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah.”
Franklin sighed, pulled the door handle down, slid down into the snow outside. The jeep was a blocky thing, with snow chains on the back wheels and bald spots on the front ones. The old army paint job was showing in scabbing green and khaki patches through the white lime overcoat they had given it three outposts ago.
“Hey.” Josh was calling him from inside the vehicle.
“What?”
“See if you can find something to eat.”
Franklin sighed again, shook his head.
“The fuck does it look like there’s anything to eat here?”
“I dunno. Maybe you find like a vending machine or something.”
The rifle strap dug into his shoulder when he slung the weapon onto his back. Even through the layers of parka and woollen sweater and sewn-on poncho patches, the cold steel of the weapon reached out to touch him.
“Get that fire going. I’ll bring you a whole pig.”
Snow crunching on the road as he walked away, putting the jeep behind him. White fields ahead, white fields behind. The jeep was a hump of clutter and fading heat that melted away behind him.
White landscape.
No wind - small mercies.
Franklin walked, arms tucked under his armpits. The sky was a white haze overhead. The sun was not the sun any more. It was a whiter-than-average dot in the sky somewhere over his left shoulder. Yellow sun was a myth, now.
House on the left. It sat back from the road, surrounded by trees. Just pillars of snow and ice now. Green disappeared years ago.
There was a fence line that led towards it. Only the tops were visible through the snow banks.
Franklin felt his left hip pocket.
Good. The fruit bar was still there. The last of their matches next to it in an old plastic bankie so old that the logo on the front had faded.
The front door opened, spilling snow in along with Franklin. Place smelled cold and dry. No mould or bodies, surprisingly.
Random furniture scattered around. Things crunched underfoot - glass, bones, who knew. The fireplace was full of ash, the wood bin next to it half-full. Glass clinked when he drew a log out.
Something in the dark. A bottle - also half-full, with a red label and some words he could not read. Probably vodka.
Definitely vodka. The metal cap was stiff, and burned his fingers.
Franklin got the fire going, eventually, and settled on the remnants of a couch next to it.
Fruit bar in one hand, vodka in the other.
Rifle on his lap.
What a fucking time to be alive.
Tomorrow morning, he’d walk back to the jeep and get himself a whole pig.
Happy New Year, 2030.
Now I'm wondering if Josh got that fire going.