Nathan Jones - Shortage

On the eighth day, still several miles from home, their good luck ended and the snowstorm that had been dumping in the mountains looming to the west for the last few days finally made it down to where they were in the foothills. They kept going through the heavily flying snow for as long as they could, as wet slush caked on the tires of their wagons and forced frequent stops to knock it off. But finally near sundown they gave up on reaching the town that day, if it was even possible, and decided they’d finish the trip in the morning.

The first snow of winter had arrived, giving them a taste of what they could expect in the coming weeks. Matt was just grateful it had waited until they were almost home.

Just before noon they reached the shelter trudging through almost a foot of wet snow that clung to the wagon wheels, their feet, and the trees on the slopes behind them and the houses in the distance in front of them.

When they arrived they were pleased to discover that Matt’s dad had brought down a deer after all, not while waiting in the observation post while it wandered within range but by sighting it in the hills and going after it, a chase that lasted almost two hours. He’d had his own adventure getting the animal cleaned and quartered and the meat brought home with only a passing knowledge of how it was done.

Still, they had venison to go with other food at the celebration dinner that evening, almost as joyous as Thanksgiving had been. While it was cooking Matt had sought out the Mayor and Chauncey, who’d taken over for him while he was gone, about resuming his duties and offering whatever other aid he could. Terry came as well to do what he could for anyone who’d fallen sick or been injured in his absence. They spent the afternoon in town pitching in, coming back to the shelter for dinner chilled and with the snow still falling thickly.

The next day Matt returned to work, almost surprised at how quickly the duties that he’d held for only a week, most of it while off his feet, became routine and things got back to normal. Or at least as normal as possible after the attack. Which wasn’t to say they were good, at least not for the town.

But for Matt it meant no more journeys. No walking to Antelope Island and back for April’s family, no skulking along backroads with wagonloads of food hoping not to be attacked. Just patrols and more to look forward to in the coming days, weeks, and months, as winter gripped the town and the suffering of its people became more and more real.

The only thing he really had to look forward to was his wedding.

The days-long snowstorm about a week and a half after Thanksgiving marked the end of any real adventuring for Trev and Lewis. At least any that didn’t involve slogging through snow that ranged from knee to hip deep, with only the faint hope that you might not sink all the way through the crust unless you could make your way through the densest clumps of trees where it was a bit better. Although even there you had to be careful not to brush a branch or you might end up buried in a mini avalanche.

Lewis had two pairs of snowshoes for when they really needed to get around, but after trying them Trev quickly learned that using them was as tiring as wading through deep sand. Something to avoid unless he was taking a long trip and really needed them. For slogging to the outhouse and back they were more effort than they were worth, especially once they’d stomped out a trail.

His cousin stopped the patrols, since at this point the winter would do a better job of hiding them if they weren’t making tracks everywhere in a half mile radius. They didn’t go up to the logging road at all, since that was the most likely place where unfriendly eyes might discover tracks. Instead they’d periodically slog down to the cliffs and from there scope out the mountainsides around them and the road below for any sign of people.

They never saw any.

Beyond that there wasn’t much they did outdoors besides visit the woodpile, the icebox, and the outhouse. On warmer days they tried their hands at snares and Trev even braved the climb down to the river for fishing now and again. The catches were few and far between, mostly not worth the effort, but during daylight hours they went out anyway, as much to escape the cramped but warm confines of their hideout as anything.

Days passed to weeks, then months, as their food supply slowly but inexorably dwindled. They started a routine inside the shelter of exercising and doing dry fire training drills with their firearms, lifting the cots off to one side to give them at least a bit of room. It got tedious beyond all belief after a while, but they stayed in good shape and as active as they could.

And nobody could say Trev wasn’t quick on the draw and good at swiftly lining up a shot on any random knothole or woodgrain, with arms that didn’t waver in the slightest. He was also more than prepared to clear any malfunction that didn’t involve his familiar Mini-14 or new Glock literally falling to pieces in his hands.

Every week on a day when the weather was decent they checked along the cliffs for interlopers, then hiked a short distance to a spot where hills surrounded them on three sides, most importantly in the direction of the road to block the sound. There they spent a few precious rounds keeping their aim solid with both pistol and rifle, repeating the familiar drills they practiced in their hideout with live ammo.

Trev finally mastered the recoil on his .45 to his satisfaction, and with extended practice with his rifle he got to the point where he could reliably hit targets far enough away that he had trouble seeing them through the scope, as well as multiple closer targets in a quick sequence of shots. He still felt like he had a lot to learn every time he watched his cousin’s practice, but time was on his side when it came to catching up.

As the winter months passed they remained in isolation, not even seeing signs of neighbors or travelers passing through, and Lewis was quick to insist that he was more than happy with that. For his part Trev wouldn’t have minded a bit of company now and again to relieve the monotony, and especially missed his college days that seemed a lifetime ago, where he’d been able to interact with people his own age.

Thousands of people his own age, often doing things he had no interest in doing. Then, that is: activities that had at the time seemed almost too boring to bother going to now filled his fondest memories, and he even missed the quiet focus and occasional laughing conversations of study groups. And dates. He really missed going on dates and other opportunities to spend time with members of the opposite sex.

He’d always enjoyed spending time with Lewis, and on those long winter nights they found plenty of topics of conversation to talk about. But with nothing new happening and no news coming in you could only say so much to the same person about the same things.

Luckily with his forward thinking Lewis had included some musical instruments with his other things, a few harmonicas and light plastic recorder, so they had something besides conversation to divert them. They spent many an hour clumsily learning to play all the songs they knew, and while at first the sound was worse than silence, or for that matter worse than cats yowling, eventually they improved enough to be enjoyable. Although after most sessions Lewis would end up grumbling about his left behind hard drives and the prospect of listening to real music.

It was his cousins’s second favorite topic, behind reminiscing about Aspen Hill and speculating on how their friends and neighbors were doing. Especially during the coldest nights of late December and January, with the wind howling outside and little light except what they could get from the stove, Trev thought he heard a bit of regret in his cousin’s voice, especially when his speculation started turning to how things would’ve been if they’d tried to stay in town for the winter, even with Ferris and everything else.