BT was briskly rubbing his hands together. 'I'll get it going Mike,' he volunteered.
'Dad, what about the smoke? Won't somebody see it?' Nicole asked as she clutched her arms over her chest.
I went over to her and rubbed her shoulders in a vain attempt to generate some heat. 'More concerned with freezing to death at this point. We'll deal with each life threatening event as it happens.' My words did little to ease her tension. It was just the truth, really, we weren't going to have to defend ourselves if we ended up frozen to death.
I nodded to BT to get that fire going. 'Alright Trace, Nicole, I hate to be sexist...'
'No, you don't, but go on,' Tracy said patting my head.
'Okay smart ass, could you please check the kitchen and hopefully the pantry and see what we've got for grub. The boys and I are going to check upstairs for whatever seems useful, especially blankets,' I said, as I looked over to a shivering Carol. Henry had clambered up onto the couch with her and made sure as much of his body was making contact with her as was doggily possible. She seemed to appreciate the gesture as she affectionately rubbed his back.
The house was huge with high, hard-to-heat ceilings. Never could figure out why they made such tall ceilings when people were shorter back then. The contents of the abode were Spartan to put it gently. Had the place not looked so neat, I would have thought the place had been cleaned out by raiders. Listen, we both know I'm cynical, but I really felt like the Powells had attempted to buy their way into Heaven. The clues were the bare minimum of furnishings and the multitude of crosses and pictures of Our Father Who Art in Heaven that lined almost every available space on the walls. It took closer inspection to realize that the pictures were indeed that and not some Divine Wallpaper. Yes, I know I'm going to Hell. Feel free to cut in front if it makes you feel any better.
They at least had a myriad of blankets. Apparently, God liked his children to be warm. The upstairs also yielded two flashlights and the Holy Grail, or at least a breech loading over under barrel 10-gauge shotgun with a whopping seventeen shells. I really hoped nobody came a-visitin' as I'd never shot a 10-gauge before, but with its stout wooden no-give stock, I was pretty sure it was not going to be a pleasant experience.
I sent the boys downstairs to hand out blankets to an adoring crowd. I stayed upstairs, having found old farmer Powell's closet. We were nowhere near a match, size wise, as he seemed to have been enjoying the fruits of his labors maybe a tad too much. However, his clothes weren't covered in human remains and that was good enough for me. I checked the tap hoping that the water might still be running, but no such luck. My next option was the water in the toilet bowl. Given my aversion to germs this might not seem a wise course of action, but it was still light years ahead of what was clinging to my skin. The water was frozen solid. I would have to stay a little while longer in this condition as my only other option was to find a container, get some snow and melt it.
I plodded downstairs, not happy at all. Have you ever had a runny nose and the snot gets right to the edge of your nostril and you get this insanely tickling, itching sensation that you can not immediately take care of, because maybe you're in public, possibly talking to a bank teller? Take that feeling, amp it up maybe ten or eleven times, and that's what I felt like. Every time I took a step, the drying remains of that poor soul rubbed on my legs, thighs and ass, up my butt crack and, oh fuck, on my NUTS! I wanted the feeling of how when you finally step away from the teller's window, you take the sleeve of your jacket and just go to town on that itch. That satisfying 'Ah I win' sensation and for just a few moments in time all seems right in the world. Side note, if you're female, replace sleeve with tissue.
The beginnings of a fire were being well tended by BT. Henry and Carol were swallowed up in a huge plaid comforter; both looked on the verge of a serious nap. Good for them. Tracy and Nicole were taking stuff out of a pantry that looked stocked enough to take on a complete cold Pennsylvania winter.
Tracy wiped a strand of hair out of her face. 'Stuff in the fridge has mostly gone over, nothing really worth salvaging. Smells better than Henry's butt in there but not by much.'
Oh, my stomach almost got queasy. The fridge was definitely off limits.
'Got a big pot in there or something?' I asked, not really all that interested in checking out the menu just yet.
'No water?' Tracy asked getting right to the root of the matter.
I shook my head as she handed me a good size container.
I went outside and stuffed that thing full. BT looked like he wanted to hit me as I started to crowd out his burgeoning fire with my giant snow-filled pot. I think the only thing that held him up was the miserable expression on my face. The snow took somewhere in the neighborhood of a half-hour to melt. I know this because I did one Mississippi, two Mississippi etc for the whole time. It was this monotonous obsessive compulsive counting that let me stay sane those last few agonizing moments.
The water had barely let go of its previous frozen state when I grabbed the pot and headed back upstairs. As it was there were still chunks of ice floating around, but it didn't matter at this point. I found what looked like lumpy homemade soap up in the master bathroom. I was so distressed I didn't even think about whose body this may have last touched. Oh, I didn't mention that small tidbit? I used to have to have my own dedicated soap bar or I'd rather forego cleansing. The motel had those small individual ones so I had been alright. Didn't matter a lick this time though. I grabbed a small towel out of the closet, soaked it in ice water, lathered it up with soap and proceeded to rub my skin to a nice shiny red rawness.
Three blood soaked towels later, I felt better, not clean mind you, but better. The bathroom floor looked like Lizzie Borden had lived here. If someone stumbled across this place after us they would have grim visions of what must have happened here. I found a belt, drilled a new fastening hole into it and cinched up my pants. I would have to go commando from here on out, I would never be 'cured' enough to put on someone else's briefs. There was a nice warm red wool plaid shirt to go along with my country-faded blue jeans, I was even able to snag a nice comfortable pair of socks. No fashion show trophies for me, but I was warm and functionality is the cornerstone of survivalism.
When I came back downstairs, BT was melting another big pot of snow, some for drinking and cooking with and some if folks wanted to clean up a bit. It must have been sometime around noon judging by the sun. BT's fire had the room not balmy but homey. Almost everyone had eaten at least one or two cans of fruit. Nearly sated belly, a warm fire and a place to rest my ass, it all spelled a recipe for some much needed shut-eye. The finished can of sweetened pears fell out of my hand as I nodded off into the netherworld.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT - JOURNAL ENTRY 22 - 
The fire was a glowing ember when I awoke. The room was near to stifling, at some point I had pushed the blanket completely off of me and onto Carol. Night had descended and poetically I'd like to say so had my spirits, but in actuality they had been rising since I had been able to scrape myself clean. We were close to Maine. I could almost taste it. My previous dire predictions of what remained there now seemed ill conceived. My family was there, they were a huge factor in my Armageddon paranoia. Compared to them I was the sane one. (I know, scary thought, right!?) We would get there, bloody, beaten and bruised, but not defeated.
I headed into the kitchen to look out the window, not much good that did me. A zombie could have been on the other side of the glass looking in and I wouldn't have been able to see it on this cloudy moonless night. I shuddered and stepped back, pissed off that I was giving myself the frights. 'Shits not bad enough, Talbot, you have to go and make stuff up?' My self-chastisement over, I opened the fridge, forgetting my wife's earlier warning. The waft of stale moldy food almost knocked me on my ass. That was, of course, until I saw the telltale glint of fire embers bouncing off the glistening bottle of Pabst Blue Ribbon. Farmer Powell may have been a religious man; thank God he wasn't abstemious too. I joyfully wrapped my hand around the cold bottle, trying to figure out why the makers of PBR wasted glass on the internal contents. I didn't waste another moment dwelling on PBR's manufacturing idiosyncrasies as I twisted the cap off and drank greedily.
I could tell BT was shuffling around in the other room by his grunting and groaning. He was stoking the dying fire. A minute or two later the living room began to dance in the light of the reinvigorated blaze.
BT came into the kitchen shortly thereafter. 'You found beer?' he asked, looking longingly at my bottle of beer.
'Barely.' I motioned to the fridge. A good friend would have got up and got his buddy with the healing broken leg a brew, but I wanted him to experience the wonderful odor that came from the tainted appliance much like I had.
