Icecapade
If winter is a villain, Yaz thought to herself, then I might as well change my name to Batman.
Icy wind snatched the breath from her mouth, leaving her gasping. Slowly, she forced her teeth to touch, then her lips; it just wouldn't do for her to suffocate on cold air. Inhaling sharply through her nose, she wound the bright orange scarf thrice around the lower half of her face, and knotted it underneath her chin. She stroked the fibers lovingly; the scarf had been in the last care package she’d received from her Zizi Mycah before the postal service had shut down, and stopped delivering mail. “Until the cold snap passes,” they’d said, only months, then years had passed, and the cold showed no signs of abating.
Yazmean trudged along the cleared path, her ten pounds of protective gear making her boot clad feet clomp heavily. The path curved through miles of packed and shaped snow and ice walls; there were forks and branches that lead to other settlements, and Yaz was headed to the farthest one, dragging her cart of tradeables behind her.
When the cold came, people first moved indoors, then deeper underground, looking to the old ways to keep warm. Indoor gardens were just the first step. When mail stopped arriving, people realized the situation was serious, and began to make plans. Whole towns moved themselves into central locations--schools and hospitals and shopping malls--and began true communal living. Once or twice a month, a few brave souls would don the heaviest gear available, and make the trek to other settlements to trade news and goods. Yaz, it just so happened, was the fastest runner, and the youngest surviving member of her settlement. The long winter had not been kind.
Yaz didn’t feel the cold anymore. She’d made the run so many times over the years that she could have done it blindfolded and naked, not that she’d risk it. She had a system in place, one the elders laughed about, but no one dared to tell her to stop. Smiling, she knocked some ice from her goggles, pulled her head gear further down on her brow, and trudged on, humming old TV show theme songs under her breath to measure her pace.
Sumayyah Talibah © 17 January 2018
