But once the dead were frozen, how were you going to survive the winter?
Good question. I don’t think most people thought that far ahead. Maybe they figured that the “authorities” would come rescue us or that they could just pack up and head home. I’m sure a lot of people didn’t think about anything except the day in front of them, just grateful that they were finally safe and confident that things would work themselves out. “We’ll all be home before you know it,” people would say. “It’ll all be over by Christmas.”
[She draws my attention to another object in the ice, a Sponge-Bob SquarePants sleeping bag. It is small, and stained brown.]
What do you think this is rated to, a heated bedroom at a sleepover party? Okay, maybe they couldn’t get a proper bag—camping stores were always the first bought out or knocked off—but you can’t believe how ignorant some of these people were. A lot of them were from Sunbelt states, some as far away as southern Mexico. You’d see people getting into their sleeping bags with their boots on, not realizing that it was cutting off their circulation. You’d see them drinking to get warm, not realizing it was actually lowering their temperature by releasing more body heat. You’d see them wearing these big heavy coats with nothing but a T-shirt underneath. They’d do something physical, overheat, take off the coat. Their bodies’d be coated in sweat, a lot of cotton cloth holding in the moisture. The breeze’d come up…a lot of people got sick that first September. Cold and flu. They gave it to the rest of us.
In the beginning everyone was friendly. We cooperated. We traded or even bought what we needed from other families. Money was still worth something. Everyone thought the banks would be reopening soon. Whenever Mom and Dad would go looking for food, they’d always leave me with a neighbor. I had this little survival radio, the kind you cranked for power, so we could listen to the news every night. It was all stories of the pullout, army units leaving people stranded. We’d listen with our road map of the United States, pointing to the cities and towns where the reports were coming from. I’d sit on Dad’s lap. “See,” he’d say, “they didn’t get out in time. They weren’t smart like us.” He’d try to force a smile. For a little while, I thought he was right.
But after the first month, when the food started running out, and the days got colder and darker, people started getting mean. There were no more communal fires, no more cookouts or singing. The camp became a mess, nobody picking up their trash anymore. A couple times I stepped in human shit. Nobody was even bothering to bury it.
I wasn’t left alone with neighbors anymore, my parents didn’t trust anyone. Things got dangerous, you’d see a lot of fights. I saw two women wrestling over a fur coat, tore it right down the middle. I saw one guy catching another guy trying to steal some stuff out of his car and beat his head in with a tire iron. A lot of it took place at night, scuffling and shouts. Every now and then you’d hear a gunshot, and somebody crying. One time we heard someone moving outside the makeshift tent we’d draped over the minivan. Mom told me to put my head down and cover my ears. Dad went outside. Through my hands I heard shouts. Dad’s gun went off. Someone screamed. Dad came back in, his face was white. I never asked him what happened.
The only time anyone ever came together was when one of the dead showed up. These were the ones who’d followed the third wave, coming alone or in small packs. It happened every couple of days. Someone would sound an alarm and everyone would rally to take them out. And then, as soon as it was over, we’d all turn on each other again.
When it got cold enough to freeze the lake, when the last of the dead stopped showing up, a lot of people thought it was safe enough to try to walk home.
Walk? Not drive?
No more gas. They’d used it all up for cooking fuel or just to keep their car heaters running. Every day there’d be these groups of half-starved, ragged wretches, all loaded down with all this useless stuff they’d brought with them, all with this look of desperate hope on their faces.
“Where do they think they’re going?” Dad would say. “Don’t they know that it hasn’t gotten cold enough farther south? Don’t they know what’s still waiting for them back there?” He was convinced that if we just held out long enough, sooner or later things would get better. That was in October, when I still looked like a human being.
[We come upon a collection of bones, too many to count. They lie in a pit, half covered in ice.]
I was a pretty heavy kid. I never played sports, I lived on fast food and snacks. I was only a little bit thinner when we arrived in August. By November, I was like a skeleton. Mom and Dad didn’t look much better. Dad’s tummy was gone, Mom had these narrow cheekbones. They were fighting a lot, fighting about everything. That scared me more than anything. They’d never raised their voices at home. They were schoolteachers, “progressives.” There might have been a tense, quiet dinner every now and then, but nothing like this. They went for each other every chance they had. One time, around Thanksgiving…I couldn’t get out of my sleeping bag. My belly was swollen and I had these sores on my mouth and nose. There was this smell coming from the neighbor’s RV. They were cooking something, meat, it smelled really good. Mom and Dad were outside arguing. Mom said “it” was the only way. I didn’t know what “it” was. She said “it” wasn’t “that bad” because the neighbors, not us, had been the ones to actually “do it.” Dad said that we weren’t going to stoop to that level and that Mom should be ashamed of herself. Mom really laid into Dad, screeching that it was all his fault that we were here, that I was dying. Mom told him that a real man would know what to do. She called him a wimp and said he wanted us to die so then he could run away and live like the “faggot” she always knew he was. Dad told her to shut the fuck up. Dad never swore. I heard something, a crack from outside. Mom came back in, holding a clump of snow over her right eye. Dad followed her. He didn’t say anything. He had this look on his face I’d never seen before, like he was a different person. He grabbed my survival radio, the one people’d try to buy…or steal, for a long time, and went back out toward the RV. He came back ten minutes later, without the radio but with a big bucket of this steaming hot stew. It was so good! Mom told me not to eat too fast. She fed me in little spoonfuls. She looked relieved. She was crying a little. Dad still had that look. The look I had myself in a few months, when Mom and Dad both got sick and I had to feed them.