15. On the First Pull

Absent any more plots or protocols, autumn ended and winter began. Thanksgiving was observed, but mournfully without Walter and his homemade strawberry wine. Christmas happened. In the week before the New Year, my son and I both celebrated birthdays. Liam turned 11 and added to his catalog of profanities: cocksucker, motherfucker, et al. I crossed into the latter half of my forties.

Huzzah.

In Northeastern Pennsylvania, the real cold waits until January. Before the zombies, we would curse it. But now? Well, the rivers freeze.

Kyle and I were lounging near the crackling fire pit in my back yard, sipping brandy and smoking cigars. The overcast sky dimmed with the encroaching evening. Per their own declarations, it was officially too frigid for Liam and Betty to hang outdoors. Mina also stayed inside, being a pit bull and all. But Marcus the mutt joined us. He stared at the fire and panted the word “hot” every minute or so.

“Winter during the apocalypse is like shaving your balls,” Kyle said. “It can be challenging, but it has its benefits.”

I could smell the coming snow.

“Did you know,” I asked, “that the smell of rain has a name? When rain falls on dry ground, that odor has a name. Petrichor. That’s what it’s called. But I don’t think anyone has ever named the smell of snow. That’s unfortunate.”

“So,” Kyle shrugged, “dig into your memories of Greek or Latin roots and give it a name.”

“No,” I shook my head, “that doesn’t feel right.”

Marcus barked and shouted, “Dad! Fire is hot. I am a dog.”

“Yes,” I agreed.

He scratched his ear with his hind leg and said, “Hot. Dog. Hot dog. I like hot dogs. I am a dog.”

“Or forget Greek and Latin,” Kyle raised his snifter, “just stick with English. Snow plus odor. Snodor! There, we fixed it. We can call the smell of snow snodor. S-N-O-D-O-R. Snodor! Sounds a bit trashy, but I like it.”

I deemed my cigar finished and threw the stub into the fire. That alarmed Marcus for some reason. With his tail between his legs, he slunk to the door and pawed at it. I stood and let him inside. Away from the fire, the cold wrapped itself around me. It filled my chest and my gut and it stiffened my beard. On my patio I had anchored a DIY snow stick, and to the top of that I had fastened an analog thermometer. The dial proclaimed it was three degrees. Flakes drifted in on a gentle but threatening northeast wind. I returned to the fire.

“It’s starting,” I said.

“Yeah,” Kyle said, “I see you have the plow ready on your pickup. Did your snow blower fire up okay?”

“It started on the first pull.”

“Yeah, man! Fucking awesome!”

I nodded.

“You know,” Kyle sighed, “the fall prep went well for the whole neighborhood. We have enough food. The water and gas are still flowing after all these years. There’s enough fuel for everyone’s generators. The solar panels we rigged for the furnace igniters are working. The rivers are frozen or freezing. So what’s got you so… I don’t know. You seem off.”

“I’m just tired,” I said.

“Nah,” Kyle scoffed, “something else is going on under that bald dome of yours.”

I poured a fresh brandy, took a sip, and sat back in my chair.

“A long time ago,” I said, “this guy came into my auction house to get a book appraised. It was a collection of poems and short stories by Edgar Allan Poe, and he claimed that it was autographed by the author. He was giddy with anticipation. He couldn’t wait for me to tell him that he had hit the jackpot. Inside the cover, there was a signature that sort of looked like Edgar Allan Poe. It also could’ve read Eat Apple Pie. The handwriting was awful. Anyway, when I turned to the title page, I saw a publication date of 1905. So I explained to this guy that since Poe had died in 1849, it was impossible for him to have signed a book that was published in 1905. Instead of nodding his head and acknowledging that no one can posthumously autograph something, he snatched the book out of my hands and told me that I didn’t know what the fuck I was talking about.”

“So?” Kyle furrowed his brow.

“So,” I yelled, “stop being so fucking excited that my snow blower started with one pull!”

“Dude,” Kyle gasped, “how am I the guy with the Poe book?”

“Because you’re convinced of your own fairytales and delusions,” I pointed at him. “You sit here and applaud our doomsday winter prepping like everything is fine. Everything is not fine. Everything is fucked. It’s been fucked and you refuse to see it no matter how many times I point it out to you.”

“Everything is as good as it can be right now,” Kyle argued, “and your allegory is off.”

“How?”

“How?” Kyle jumped from his chair. “How? First, a snow blower starting with only one pull is the tits, whether it’s the zombie apocalypse or not.”

“Okay,” I stood and growled. “That’s true!”

“Second,” Kyle continued, “I’m willing to recognize new facts and evidence and admit when I’m wrong. Like right now.”

“Really?” I faced off with him.

“Yeah,” Kyle grumbled. “I thought sitting out here with some brandy and my best friend was going to be a nice afternoon. But I was wrong because you’re being a cunt.”

I laughed, “How much of that brandy did we drink?”

Kyle picked up the empty bottle and threw it in the fire. “The whole thing,” he guffawed. “The whole thing. You cunt.”

We lost control and plopped back into our chairs. I couldn’t stop laughing. The winter air burned my lungs and my tears froze on my cheeks.

“Hey, assholes!”

Our mirth and merriment quieted. Betty was standing in the doorway with her arms folded.

“Yes, wife?” I giggled.

“Would you drunken morons like some turkey stew and fresh bread?” she asked.

Kyle and I helped each other out of our chairs and stumbled toward the door.

Kyle tripped into the house and fell flat on his face. “Ah, yes,” he said from the floor, “I can smell the stew now. It mixes well with the snodor.”