Chapter 7: Over the River and Through the Woods
The snow had fallen all night, and it wasn't until the letters of the note were barely visible that Mort had gone inside to warm up. He spent that night eating the rest of his oatmeal. Tomorrow he was going to go to the compound and demand to be let in. He couldn't afford to be getting tired out there, among the dead. That wouldn't do.
He had made it halfway through the store of wood that had been left outside when they found the house. He had gotten pretty damn good at starting fires. Luckily, the old woman that lived there had kept a solid stock of lighter guns in the house, handheld lighters shaped like pistols that he could use to light the pages he tore out of the books inside. At first, he had tried to read the books to take his mind off his situation, but in the end, that had only earned him a headache.
The woman had a nice collection of books, but he still felt bad every time he ripped the pages out. Someone else could have read them, but he was the only person around at the moment, so he grabbed a copy of Moby Dick and ripped out twenty or so pages, balling them up and placing them underneath the dried and split logs that he pulled from the storage overhang underneath the house. The logs caught fire quickly, and his hands were the first thing to start tingling as the fire chased away the chill.
He pulled the old lady socks he had been using as gloves off his hands and held his hands out to the warming fire. When his hands were nice and warm, he pulled his boots off and did the same for his feet, putting his socks near the fire. The left one had a hole in it where his big toe poked through. None of the old woman's socks would fit his feet.
He put a kettle filled with snow in the fire. He watched the snow transform from white powder to liquid and then into a boiling lake. When it was nice and hot, he poured the boiling water over the oatmeal, stirring it and letting it sit. The first time he had made oatmeal this way, he had burned the taste out of his mouth. When the oatmeal stopped steaming, that's when he would take a bite, but only after he had covered the concoction in his last bit of ketchup.
He looked at the pile of condiments. He was not looking forward to mustard-flavored oatmeal, but that's what he would be doing if they didn't let him inside the compound. But that wasn't going to happen. He couldn't think that way. Everything was going to work out. He had the luck of the hobo with him. He smiled at that. Shit, everyone was a hobo these days.
When he was done eating, he wrapped himself in a blanket and sat in front of the fire with his eyes closed. He didn't want to look at the flames. They reminded him of too much. They took his mind to places he didn't want to go–– back to the city, back to where everything had all gone to hell. He remembered seeing cops burning in a police car, their skin charring in front of his eyes as they tried to come after him.
Mort shook his head, trying to focus on something more positive. Katie and Joan were still alive. That fact combined with the oatmeal in his belly to make him feel warm inside, but one thing was still bothering him. They hadn't mentioned Clara's name. The omission dampened his spirits only slightly. Maybe whoever wrote the note just forgot to put her name there. Or maybe Clara was dead. He didn't like that thought.
Clara had always been nice to him, for no reason other than that's the type of person she was. She was funny and kind and tougher than she looked. He spread out on the floor, wrapped in blankets. He closed his eyes and tried not to think of Clara's face.
But sleep came hard that night, like grabbing a handful of water. He got a little, but every time he tried to squeeze that small bit of sleep to make it last, it would escape from him, and he would wake up wondering if Clara was alive or dead.
Mort's only company was the sound of the wind and the wood crackling in the fireplace. But they made poor compatriots. The wind whispered of the dead, making the tree branches rattle in the darkness, like bones crashing into each other. The pop of the fire, chunks of wood exploding and bouncing off the screen made him jump occasionally. But worse company than those two dubious companions were his own thoughts.
He began to imagine how Clara had died, and somehow, he had jumped to the conclusion that she was, in fact, dead. Why else wouldn't they have written Clara's name in the snow? There was plenty of room in the snow. Death was the only answer. Had she been eaten? Had the other people in that camp killed her? Maybe the lady with the big mole on her face? None of the answers were satisfactory, and he rolled over on his side to stare at the flames of the fire.
He let the flames dance in front of his eyes, focusing on them until his own thoughts went away. They told their own tale, using the wood as fuel. The coals flickered gray and orange at the bottom of the logs. He could hear the whisper of their burning in his ears, and he let the coals tell him a story. They lulled him to sleep, where he dreamed of cold hands clawing at his
