A Memory of Zero Degrees

The wind did not howl; it screamed. It carried with it a fusillade of ice crystals, not the gentle flakes of a Christmas card, but hard, jagged shrapnel the size of gravel that scoured the skin from bone.

It was Day 47 of The Great Freeze.

The world hadn't ended with a bang or a nuclear firestorm. It had ended with a whisper of dropping temperatures and the silent, relentless creep of white death. Minus forty five degrees Celsius. A temperature so profound, so absolute, that the moisture in Arthur’s exhaled breath crystallized mid air with a faint, brittle tinkle before hitting the ground. The city was a mausoleum of concrete and frozen flesh, the silence broken only by the groan of glaciers forming where streets used to be.

Arthur lay face down in a drift of snow that had once been the parking lot of a derelict supermarket. The snow beneath him was no longer white; it was a deep, arterial crimson, steaming faintly as the last dregs of his body heat melted the top layer of frost. His body was a cartography of agony a dozen shallow cuts blazed across his ribs, and frostbite had already turned the tips of his fingers a mottled, dead black.

Standing over him, silhouetted against the pale, dying light of a sun that seemed to have forgotten how to warm the Earth, were the two people he had trusted with his life. More than his life his soul.

Rivan and Sera.

Rivan, his best friend since the cramped, hopeful days of their shared university dorm. The man he had carried through flu seasons and failed exams. Sera, the woman with the auburn hair and the soft smile, who had worn his ring on her finger for three years. The woman for whom he had just walked six miles through a blizzard with a collapsed lung to retrieve this very coat she was now snuggling into.

"Still breathing?" Rivan’s voice was flat, clinical. It was the voice of a surgeon deciding which limb to saw off, not the voice of a friend checking on the wounded.

Arthur tried to push himself up, but his arms were leaden pipes filled with frozen mercury. The left side of his body screamed as the improvised knife wound in his back pulled against the torn muscle. He managed to roll onto his side, his vision swimming. "Why...?" The word came out as a croak, more steam than sound. "The food... I gave you both my portion..."

Rivan squatted down, the thick fur of his stolen parka brushing the bloody snow. He smiled. It was a terrible thing, that smile. It held no warmth, only the cold satisfaction of a predator watching prey struggle its last. "You still don't get it, do you, Arthur? This isn't just about the food today."

Two Hours Earlier

They had found a cache. A miracle in the frozen hell. A buried storeroom of a convenience store with a few cans of beans, some desiccated jerky, and holy grail a single, frost bitten MRE packet of "Beef Stroganoff."

Arthur's stomach had been a clenched fist for three days. His gums were bleeding. He had watched Rivan and Sera grow gaunt, their eyes sinking into bruised sockets. When he pried open the MRE, the chemical heater puffing warm steam into the frozen air, his mouth flooded with saliva so sharp it hurt.

He divided it into three perfect portions.

"I'm not hungry," Arthur lied, pushing his portion toward Sera. "I found some old crackers in the back. I'm full."

Rivan had watched him say that. Watched Arthur's hand tremble with hunger as he handed over the only warm, edible meal any of them had seen in a week. And in Rivan's eyes, something had curdled. It wasn't gratitude. It was resentment.

"You think you're better than us, don't you?" Rivan had said, his voice low as he chewed.

"What? No, I just want you two to stay strong "

"You're always the hero," Sera whispered, but her tone wasn't admiring. It was disgusted. "Always the one sacrificing. It makes me sick, Arthur. You're like a martyr begging for a cross."

Arthur had just stared, a piece of frozen cracker crumbling in his mouth. He didn't understand. He was trying to keep them alive.

Then Rivan picked up the empty MRE bag, walked over to a corner where a frozen pile of old human excrement sat from the building's previous inhabitants, and scraped the inside of the bag against it. He brought it back, the brown smudge distinct on the silver lining.

"Eat this," Rivan said calmly.

Arthur flinched. "What the hell, Riv?"

"You want to be our savior? Our provider? Fine. Eat." Rivan’s voice rose, hard and commanding. "You gave us the good stuff. Now you get what you really deserve. You're not a hero. You're just shit. Eat the shit, Arthur."

Sera giggled. It was a high, tinkling sound that shattered something fundamental inside Arthur's chest. "Come on, baby. Show us how much you love us."

When Arthur refused, shaking his head in revulsion, Rivan sighed. "I was hoping you'd make this easy."

He nodded at Sera.

She walked up to Arthur, her hips swaying in that way he used to find alluring. Now it looked like the slither of a snake. She grabbed the collar of his tattered coat and pulled him into a deep, passionate kiss. But her eyes were wide open, locked on Rivan's face over Arthur's shoulder. Arthur felt her tongue, still warm from the food he had given her, slide against his lips. It tasted like beef and betrayal.