Paul Curtin - Gray Snow

“Sean—”

“Sometimes we need to make the hard decisions. Do hard things.”

He marched toward the garage where he dressed in his outdoor gear until his body was covered except a small slit for his eyes. He grabbed his rifle from just inside the door. Elise stood nearby with her sweater pulled tightly over herself. “Sean, you don’t have to do this.”

Her expression told him otherwise. He said, “I did it. And I’ll finish it.”

He exited and sealed the door behind him. He pressed the stock of his gun into his shoulder and wrapped his finger into the trigger guard. Used his other hand to unlock the latch for the huge garage door and pull it upward, the sound of the wheels scraping the track like a cry from hell until the door came to rest in its upward position.

The cry was replaced by a rush of wind blowing against his clothing. Not a fast wind, but every gust seemed to bring the temperature down twenty degrees. He breathed into the cloth covering his mouth to warm his lips and took the first few steps out into the snow and ash. The vast land surrounding him looked like the remnants from a snowplow pushing slush to the side of the road. Grimy, ugly, black. The air smelled charred and sulfuric. The snow was up to his knees. He wobbled in the muck, his eyes set on the place where he knew the woman lay.

The breeze kicked up ash and snow across his field of vision, sometimes blinding him for a second or two. He watched for any movement in the distance and step by laboring step approached the snowbank.

The snow crunched under his feet like stepping on dried leaves. He pointed his rifle forward at the snowbank. When he was five feet from the edge, he heard the woman shift around and moan. He stopped, aimed his weapon up toward the sound. “Why don’t you come over here?” the woman called out. He didn’t move. Calmed his breathing. She called out again, “I could hear you coming. Come on over here.”

His mind was telling him to walk away, but his gut told him otherwise. And his gut hadn’t been wrong yet. He sidestepped, aiming down the sights of his rifle, and the woman came into view. First, he saw her feet buried in the snow. Then, her legs. A chunk of flesh was missing from her thigh. The snow around it was partially melted and stained a deep red that mixed with the soot.

She didn’t move a twitch when he came full into view and aimed his rifle at her chest. The dead man lay next to her, a splatter of blood curled around him where he had twisted and fallen after being shot. The woman was dressed in a thick jacket and her face was exposed, showing her blackened, frost-bitten skin. Her nose was the color of coal and her forehead was peeling. And Sean knew her.

“That you, Sean? It is, isn’t it?” she said, wincing. “You shot me.”

“Lilly,” he said. His neighbor from down the road. Sean and Elise had never gotten to know the older couple. He wasn’t sure why. They seemed friendly, but life always got in the way.

“You’re still alive,” she said.

He swiped his hand against his lips.

“Was it you who shot me?”

“I thought you were trying to get into my house.”

“Well, we were. Me and Tom,” she said, motioning to the dead body.

His throat filled with phlegm. He killed Tom. Old Man Tom. “The hell were you doing out here?”

“What everyone’s trying to do,” she said as if it were a dumb question. “We ran out of food two weeks ago. We thought we would forage around.”

“You ran out of food?”

“It runs out, eventually. Tom didn’t have much longer. His lungs—” Her voice grew tight. A tear froze on the corner of her eyes. “I’m actually glad he’s not suffering anymore.” She coughed. “We had two options: stay and die or try to find some food people may have left behind. Didn’t think we’d see the chimney smoking at your house.”

“We prepared well.”

“So did we,” she said with a weak smile, “but it’s almost April, Sean. April. This winter isn’t going to stop any time soon, and we’ll still need food.” She chuckled, but it sank into a round of awful, painful-sounding coughs. He looked away. She said, “Nothing’s right anymore. I never thought anyone’d shoot Tom. How’d we get to that?”

He opened his mouth and closed it.

Pointing at his weapon, she said, “Can you point that away from me?”

“When did you know you wouldn’t be able to make it anymore? In your home?”

She looked down the barrel then back to him. “It’s simple math. We rationed first, eating less than we needed, but enough to keep us alive. But it caught up to us.” She winced and reached out her hand. “I’m tired, Sean. Help me up.”

He kept the barrel trained on her. She exerted herself to extend her hand an extra inch. “Sean, come on. I can’t move on my own.” He stepped back. She rested her shoulders back against the snowbank. “Sean.”

“I’m sorry, Lilly.”

She put her hands up, fingers splayed. “No. Please. Come on. I know you have food in there. Just one meal.”

He took another step back. She yelled, “Please, don’t. Please. Just let me warm up in front of your fire. Just for a few minutes.”

“Look at your leg.”

“We can patch it up.”

“Look at it, Lilly.”

“Sean, I just want to get warm. One more time, okay?”

He raised his rifle. “We can’t help you.”

“Sean, stop.”

He hesitated.

“You killed my husband, all right? You owe me. You owe me.”

“I’m sorry, Lilly.”

“Sean, no. Please. Sean, for the love of God just stop—”

He squeezed the trigger and shot her in the chest. Her life was over just like that. He stared for a minute at the dead woman before him, her mouth twisted, eyes rolled back into her head, eyelids frozen in a wide expression of terror, her chest wound oozing out the last warmth from her body. He moved his finger off the trigger guard. When he thought about it, it almost seemed easy; he relieved her suffering. Most people had to keep going, without hope of anything better. With no relief.

HE JUMPED WHEN he heard the shot. The scene in his imagination played out: the woman shouting at Sean, scared, her contorted face begging before being blown to hell.

Sean shouldn’t have shot the woman in the first place. Bad people had invaded their home. It didn’t mean everyone else would try the same thing. Just because one group of men had reverted to the blackest depths of human nature, it didn’t mean everyone would be the same way. He had to believe that.

He wished he believed that.

The door to the garage creaked, and Sean walked in. He set his rifle down. Elise, who had been biting her nails since Sean had gone outside, stood up from her chair in front of him. She was about to say something when Sean pulled down his mask below his chin. “Let’s not talk about it.”

“She shouted your name.”

“She’s dead.”

“Who was it, Sean?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Her face scrunched. “Was it someone we knew?”

“ What difference does it make now ?” He sighed. “I’m going to chop wood,” he said and turned back toward the garage door, slamming it behind him.

Elise turned around, staring past Michael. She shook her head and passed him without saying a word. “Elise,” he said to stop her, but she didn’t listen.

She disappeared into the living room. He put his hands on his hips. Michael just wanted to hear Sean’s thoughts, to be assured that he wasn’t sharing the home with a budding psychopath who would snap one day. That assurance shouldn’t have to be bargained for. It shouldn’t have to be discussed.