White Out: A Post Apocalyptic Thriller (7 page)

Chapter
Three

The meal was satisfying, mostly because of the ambience of the quietly popping fire. After they ate, licking their plates clean, Paulie cuddled close to Christian and dug his head into the crook of his father’s arm, a sure sign that the boy was about ready to snooze. Christian suggested that Paulie go up to bed, bundle up, and catch a little shut-eye. After some short-lived negotiation, he agreed to let Paulie bring some blankets downstairs, so he could sleep in front of the warmth of the fire, even though the fake logs barely put off any significant BTUs.

In subzero weather, any warmth was a blessing, especially to a four year old with erratic sleep patterns. If it helped him recharge a bit better, then so be it.

Within moments of placing his blond head on his racecar-themed pillow, Paulie was snoozing, basking in the glow of the fire. The boy’s snores were loud enough that Edgar and Christian shared another chuckle. 

“I’ve got to ask,” said Christian.

“Yeah?”

“About that wound.
I cleaned it up while you were out cold. It looks like you got stabbed. Does it hurt? Looks pretty fresh.”

“Yeah.
Real fresh. A little ways down the road, I fell off that little overpass. You know the one… with the tall fence right near the highway. Off of Jordan Avenue.”

“I know it. How the hell did you manage that?”

“Was trying to get a squirrel. Thought it might keep my belly full if I could get it, so I started scaling that fence. Didn’t take much, with the snow being so high. When I got up near the top, I got a little tipsy. I fell and landed on the highway. Road marker that got bent by a truck or something. It had this sharp tip to it, went right through me.”

“Ouch,” said Christian, shaking his head. The man had been through hell and back. “How did you manage to… what’s the word for it… dis-impale yourself?”

“Reckon I had God on my side. I landed just the right way, so it missed my heart. I used my other arm to pull myself up the stake. Only about a foot or two, one of those little markers with them shiny reflectors on it. Lucky I didn’t get it through my eye or something.”

“Well, you’re safe now. Don’t you
worry. Just let me know when you need new bandages. We’ve got quite an emergency supply. I used to be a bit of a conspiracy theorist, so I have all kinds of strange but useful stuff stockpiled. What’s mine is yours.”

Edgar smiled, apparently pleased at the sentiment.
"You're too kind, Christian.
Too kind.
I'm much obliged for the save-- I could have died out there."

“
Please, stop thanking me. You’d have done the same,” Christian said. Why is it, he wondered, that people always felt obligated to say that? “And for the record, I'm pretty sure you
were
dead when I found you. I'm not sure how you pulled it off, but you came back from the dead as far as I’m concerned.”

Edgar snickered, rubbing his temples with his double-gloved hand. "Something to tell m'
grandkids someday, I reckon." Christian wondered if Edgar would ever live long enough to become a granddad. The same went for him. Would Paulie survive long enough to procreate? Only time would tell. If the storm let up, anything was possible. If it didn’t, then
nothing
was possible. 

"So where are you from?" asked Christian.
"If you don't mind me prying."

"I don't mind," said Edgar, slurping on a mug of icy water. Christian could see a bit of food clinging to one of his teeth, but he didn't want to offend his guest
by pointing it out. "But here's the thing about me that I’m always explaining: I don't really have much of a story to tell. Nothing worth blabbin’ about. It would probably bore you to tears."

Christian batted at the fire with the poker, turning to look back at the man. He studied him, but not for too long. There was so
mething warm about his demeanor (sort of like the faux-logs), like he was what Christian’s hippie aunt might have called
an old soul
. Edgar seemed to possess a decent head on his shoulders and Christian was glad for rescuing him. It was nice to have a friend, even if he was just passing through on the way to some other destination. 

"I'll tell you my story first, if
that makes you feel any better about telling yours. I can guarantee that yours is more riveting than mine," Christian said, to which Edgar assented with a nod, and so Christian laid it out the best he could. "My wife and I have been together for about six years, married for about five of them. That's her over there." He pointed at the family portrait on the far wall, just at the edge of the kitchen nook, though it was hard to make out the details of their faces with the icy layer of frost creeping across the glass frame. 

"I saw that
earlier when I walked by. She's a peach, I can just tell from the picture."

“
She is. Best thing that ever happened to me,” he said, adding, “for the most part.” He cleared his throat as Edgar adjusted his grin, seeming to understand the unspoken sentiment that lived in those words. “We had Paulie about four years ago. I'm out of work at the moment, what with all the layoffs. But Annie--that's my wife-- works at this reseller firm. I don't know much about what they do... I don't even think
they
know, but isn’t that American all the way?” Edgar nodded fervently. “But she makes good money at it. Enough to pay the bills and sock away something for a rainy day.” 

An
awkward silence filled the room at that moment. Edgar looked at him with a hint of judgment. Perhaps Edgar was of an old school mentality, perturbed by the concept of Christian staying home while his wife worked. A lot of men were like that, and Christian couldn’t help but feel embarrassed whenever the subject was broached.

Christian felt a
sudden chill circulating through his body.

The temperature
outside was dropping again, as Christian was becoming more and more attuned to the terrifying fluctuations. And when the later afternoon’s darkness came, as it always seemed to, so did the most unbearable conditions. He'd have to find Edgar somewhere warm to sleep, assuming he wanted to stay at through the night. 

"What do you do for work?"

"You know… a little of this, a little of that."

"Handyman?
Jack of all trades?" Christian asked.

Edgar shook his head, clicking his cowboy boots together as he righted himself, stretchi
ng out his arms toward the ceiling, looking quite pained as he did so. Christian noticed that Edgar had been favoring his shoulder since he awoke, wincing every now and then when he readjusted his sitting position or got up to use the bathroom. His wound would take a long time to heal, if it ever fully healed at all.

"Not a handyman
, although I’m pretty good with a hammer. I guess you could say I’m more of a wandering man than anything."

"Really?"

"Really. I like the good old days, ya’ know? When a man could take what he wanted, without worrying about hurting anybody's feelings. Living on the open road, without anybody holding him back. Riding the rails, sluggin’ some moonshine, trampin’ through hobo jungles, all that fun stuff," Edgar said, proudly puffing his chest out, and Christian couldn't help the feeling that this declaration was somewhat rehearsed. Not so much that Edgar was lying, but that he'd spoken this way about himself on many occasions. It was probably a pretty common question for somebody that deemed themselves a "wandering man."

"Not too shabby," said Christian, immediately appalled at his choice of words. Edgar was going to think that he was a fool.
Not too shabby.
He had never in his life used that phrase, and vowed never to use it again. Something about Edgar made him nervous, like the older kid on the block that everybody wanted to impress.
 

"I like it
on the open road. Every day is a new chapter, ya’ know? Keeps the blood flowing I reckon. Keeps the brain fresh."

"I reckon it does."

Stop it,
thought Christian as he parroted back a phrase Edgar had used several times,
or you're going to insult him!
He could hear Annie saying this in the back of his head, as though she was right beside him. If she was here, he wondered, would she approve of Edgar? He wasn't sure. It was a litmus test that he often used when pondering these types of situations, one that he suspected most married men referenced from time to time: What would my wife say if I did this, or said that? 

"He's a good boy," Edgar said, gesturing
with his mug of water towards the sleeping child. When he said this, a plume of frosty breath came from his mouth, lingering in the air for a long moment. 

"
He’s great, too. I couldn’t have asked for a better son. Wouldn't trade him for anything. You have any kids yourself, Edgar?"

“
Nope. But I'd like some, one of these days. My last lady friend called me a hopeless
man-child
, can you believe that?” He started to laugh, sipping on his water. “She said I was too interested in wandering to be dragged down. So I cut her head off and thumbed my way across the Midwest.”

Christian felt
himself shudder inside, glancing quickly at Paulie, then at the warm poker still clutched in his hand. He turned towards Edgar to find a hearty grin painted across the man's typically stoic face.

He was kidding
with him again.

Edgar launched into a coughing fit of chuckles, complete w
ith the half-hearted knee slap.

"You got me again, didn't you?" asked Christian, not finding the violent wisecrack to be the least bit amusing, especially with his son in the room, whether he was sleeping or not.
If Paulie heard that statement, it would have prompted a whole string of uncomfortable questions:
Daddy, why would Edgar cut somebody’s head off? Do you think they can put it back on? What happens if my head falls off?
 

"
Come on now, Chris," Edgar said. Nobody ever called him Chris, not even Annie. Not even his mother. Something about that irked him a bit, but he didn’t say anything. "If you can't enjoy a little joke every now and then, then the apocalypse wins."

That word.

That word triggered something in Christian and he suddenly wanted Annie by his side. He reached down by the fireplace, touching his son's hair. He looked back to Edgar, who was still roaring with unhinged laughter, and Christian asked, "Do you really think this is the apocalypse?"

Edgar got quiet, pondering this for a moment. His eyes moved around as if he was weighing out the options carefully.
“No, sir. I don't reckon it is. But on a serious note--it might take some lives before it's done. This storm’s the nastiest I’ve ever seen. Nastiest anybody has ever seen, for that matter,” said Edgar, his facing stretching into a saddened grin. The man looked like he was about to cry. Christian felt a sudden regret that he had thought ill of the man only a moment earlier. 
             

Edgar was just as
frightened as he was. We all have different mechanisms in a time of fright, thought Christian, and Edgar’s was joking, laughing, and making merry. Nothing wrong with that. 

“
I don't know,” Christian said, “something tells me things are going to get a lot worse before they get better. We've got plenty of food, and enough of these logs to last us a few months, but that doesn't mean anything if we freeze to death. I'm starting to feel I might go crazy long before I freeze or starve.” He paused, staring into the undulating flame of the fireplace. "Know what I mean?"

"I do. I've
been feeling a little off my rocker sometimes too, ever since this dang snow started. It gets to you, and that's only human. It wears away at you. Like cabin fever, but way more intense."

Another silence filled the room. Only the
occasional faux-crackle of the faux-log could be heard, accompanied by Paulie's gentle snooze and the whistling howl of the wind outside. Christian stared at the window on the east side of the house, wondering if his neighbor was doing okay. Every couple of days, he and Marianne would chat through the windows, checking in with each other as the snow intensified, though it was almost impossible to have the window open for even a minute or two, not without feeling like death was pulling at your coat tails. Four days earlier, they had switched over to the upstairs windows, because the downstairs ones were buried and they could no longer see each other. Earlier in the morning, and the afternoon before, he had thrown snowballs (gathered from the windowsill) at her window, to which she always responded. But she wasn’t responding anymore. If she didn’t show any sign by tomorrow, he’d propose to Edgar that they go investigate his neighbor.

"So
, let me ask you a really important question," said Edgar, leaning in closer, almost too close for comfort, just a few feet away from Christian. A grin sliced across the man's face. "How is your booze supply lookin’?"

Christian smiled so hard that his cheeks hurt.