Winter is cold. Never before, was this more apparent. James lifted his heavy parka, shoving it onto himself and zipping it up, feigning nonchalance. The thing felt like it was trapping him. Stopping his breathing. He hated it, but it was certainly better than freezing in an uncaring Arctic winter.
"How pointless." He thought to himself, a singsong burst of cynicism jammed into him from his subconscious mind. He had dwelled in this frigid hole for weeks now, a freezing abomination called a "Quinsy".
Despite this quaint, pleasant sounding name, it was hell on Earth. Every night, he would bury himself in, hoping that the spring thaw wouldn't come while he slept, burying him. It was wet inside, as it was impossible to dig all the way down to grass. Every night, he would curse that he was stuck in a miserable hole, with nobody to dig him out.
He fished the river every morning, spearing a few nimble fish, not enough to fill him, but enough to last him until he fished again. The fish was disgusting, as fire was a rare liberty. He tore it open, greedily sucking at the guts inside. Eating was a dangerous game of Russian Roulette, he had been given explosive diarrhea one too many times.
This had been his life since the Decline, a major socio-economic collapse, practically ending civilization as he knew it. He had been a lad of fourteen years, on that fateful night. It had been two years. He would never forget, the growing unrest that settled over his home country of Canada, as the government struggled to regain control over a reeling population. Once rationing had failed, riots had broken out.
The last he had heard, the Prime Minister was in a bunker, sitting on a hoard of freeze dried food. What James wouldn't give for some of that food. Although his current dwelling wasn't ideal, it was certainly better than his old home.
He had taken shelter in a small cabin, along with his family. This had been a mistake. When law and order failed, it was a mistake to rely on the decency of other people. His mother and father's butchered carcasses were theoretically there, still lying with their guts painted around them. The only mistake they had made, was having food.
James lay pondering this, as he lay awake in his packed-away shelter, trying to forget the horror. Trying to forget the fact that he had to live in a hole, while the raiders who killed his family were living like kings. Trying to forget that he had run.
It was then, that a shrill female scream interrupted his thoughts.
