Eric Dimbleby - White Out

“Where are you going?” Tony mumbled, his voice a slushy rasp, just barely audible above the hissing, cracking fire. He had taken down about half the bottle, whereas Annie was flummoxed by only a couple sips of the juniper-laced gag-juice. She was surprised he was even able to formulate words after what he’d consumed. Even more so, she hoped that nobody came back to claim their end-of-time fort of comfort.

“I’m cold,” she said, though she really wanted to say: I’m going far, far away from you, that’s where I’m going . To which he might reply; don’t pretend you didn’t love that romp, sweetness . To which she might reply; I’m a married woman. At which point, he’d laugh at her naivety.

But he didn’t respond to her, slipping into his comfort zone that came so easy in the man-cave that was this folksy, yet greasy, restaurant. Instead, a wheezy, sickly snore filled the grand hall of The Purple Cat. Only a few weeks ago, there would have been cheerful people dining, laughing, and sipping on craft beers. Those faceless patrons were all so happy back then. Now they were huddled together in their respective homes, struggling to stay warm, praying that the government would come save them. One day, these folks were eating sweet potato fries and crunching on garlic bread, enjoying the cozy snuggle that The Purple Cat provided to its diners, and now some of them were most likely deader than disco. If they weren’t dead, then they would be on their way to dying soon enough. Some of them still probably had moldy Purple Cat leftovers in their fridge, as they too molded only a few feet away, frozen to death on their living room sofas.

It all came rushing back.

Paulie.

Paulie might be sitting on the sofa, just like those folks. By himself, if his Daddy had perished. Christian was always a girly man when it came to the cold, so this was the worst-case scenario for her husband—if he was still her husband. There were no papers saying otherwise, but it felt like it was over. Sometimes, reality spoke louder than formalities.

She looked down at Tony, scowling at him.

No. No. It wasn’t over yet. Not by a longshot.

She pulled on her sweater, though it was colder than the air near the fireplace, and then she recovered the second sweater that went on top of that. Annie reached for her wool hat, which had ended up near the easy chair. Pulling it on to her head, she adjusted herself, breathing deeply and watching the flames.

That was when she heard a click sound off, reverberating off the walls and cavernous ceiling of The Purple Cat. The click was familiar. She’d heard it before, mostly in movies.

“Hey there,” a gravelly voice said. It reminded her of that guy Tom Waits, whom Christian affectionately called “The Boozy Cookie Monster.” Several other voices chimed in right after, with tiny splices of laughter and broken snorting. “I don’t care how pretty you are… don’t move a fucking inch or I’ll paint the walls with you.”

Annie’s throat tightened until she was sure she’d pass out. She studied the perimeter of the flickering firelight, looking for the source of that voice. When she found that source, she encountered only rictus grins.

No eyes. No noses. Just contented smiles, teetering on the cusp of rapture.

Without warning, the men engaged them with an animalistic lurch that caught them completely off guard. She and Tony didn’t stand a chance, especially with Tony being so physically exhausted from the day’s long haul. If he had any energy left in him at all, it was nothing that would aid them in resisting the shadowy men that slithered around them in the darkness.

Why the hell hadn’t they just stayed in the one place they were certain was safe? Why had Tony been so damned pig-headed about traveling? It was his fault. Everything was his fault.

The one she immediately labelled The Midget Man had her by the wrist, bending Annie’s arm back behind her as he squeezed. The little shit was pinching her elbow enough that it sent a shooting pain through her whole arm, triggering a quiet whimper. He was a good six inches shorter than she was, but his strength dwarfed hers considerably. “Don’t move an inch or you’ll regret it,” said the Midget Man.

Annie cried out in pain, glowering at the other three men in the group. They were on top of Tony right off the bat, he being the biggest threat to their assault. Was this really an assault, or just a terrible prank, pinning him to the floor. One of the gleeful men got to work tying up Tony’s ankles while the other two took turns pounding him on the jaw with their balled up fists. They looked like cavemen learning to fight for the first time. “You shouldn’t have come here,” the Shiny Bald One said, leaning down close to Tony, baring his teeth and growling.

The Shiny Bald One looked like a wolf, with a perpetual deadness in his eyes that spoke of an instinct he could not control. As the wind howled outside, Annie couldn’t help but wonder if The Shiny Bald One would howl in call-and-response.

Ever since she was little, Annie gave fake names to people she didn’t know personally. It was a tactic that a psychiatrist once told her is very common in young children to easily associate people and to recognize them by definitive physical attributes. It was also a way to find quick comfort around total strangers, if one was inclined towards shyness, as Annie once was. She knew none of these men, but she had no interest in growing comfortable with them. They’d stormed the Purple Cat and attacked them, completely unprovoked. Still, she gave them names because it was the only thing that seemed normal to her.

The Shiny Bald One. The Midget Man. The Yeti. She hadn’t named the fourth one yet.

This, thought Annie, is what happens when the world ends. People like this come out of the woodwork, ready for such terrible deeds, ready and waiting since the day, they were born. The rules go out the window and the craving for blood increases. Men (including women) would quickly revert back to an animal state when backed into a corner. They probably weren’t evil people before the storm started, though it felt silly to give them the benefit of that doubt. Maybe they were just okay people, with tendencies towards bad deeds on rare occasions, only when opportunity presented itself.

Now they were beasts, still able to walk around on two legs, living in a world full of opportunity and dread and meat and the weakest animals imaginable.

“Please don’t hurt him,” Annie begged, just as The Midget Man tightened his grip on her elbow again. She could feel something prodding against the lower side of her buttocks. The Midget Man’s penis was stiffening, probably turned on by her half naked state, or perhaps even turned on by the spontaneous violence they were asserting against their captives. Men got off on all kinds of different things and The Midget Man seemed a bit more subhuman than most. Though it had nothing to do with his size.

“I advise you to shut your mouth,” said The Midget Man. His nasal passage was congested, judging by the sound of his voice.

They went at Tony hard, swinging, batting, and kicking him into submission.

He hadn’t stood a chance, just based on numbers alone.

Tony’s face looked like it might pop at any moment. Though the room was murky with darkness, save for the fire light, she could see that his face was mashed and covered with splotches of shiny blood. His nose was already crooked to the left, tilted on one side as if he’d fallen flat on his face from a three story building. The Shiny Bald One eased off his barrage for a moment, leaning back. His glistening head caught the glint of the fire, and for a moment, it almost looked like his shiny scalp was covered in roaring flames; an optical illusion mixed with Annie’s own wishful thinking. He shifted aside, allowing an opportunity for The Yeti to drop his boot on to Tony’s throat. The strangling noise that came from her traveling companion (and nearly her savior, once upon a time) was ghastly and unwelcome in her ears.