Janna left the house about an hour ago, based on the pressure gauge at the end of her oxygen pump. She wondered what her footsteps must sound like out here, on the frozen ground. She thought it would sound musical, stepping over and over, boot over boot. But the old, broken helmet made her deaf.
The nighttime was bearable, thanks to the moon. Though she hated how it stared at her wherever she walked. But the pale light hopped around on the thousands of nascent ice crystals that coated most of the surfaces around her, and she had to admit it was enthralling. The infinity of old, broken buildings and streets looked like the inside of a snow globe that no one had shaken for a million years. Whatever she was looking for, she figured she ought to find it before the deep freeze set in. She marched on, the silent crunching of ice unsatisfying beneath her step.
Janna remembered what her grandfather had said. The outside was created by God to test us, to tempt us. The things that transpired there were his signs. Only a few of us understood that.
She came to a hollow-looking edifice with a wall partially missing and made her way inside, careful not to snag her suit on any sharp edges. There were a myriad of half-good goods strewn about. Aluminum packages of biscuits, cans of vitamin soup and water capsules. Most of the goods were punctured, but a few were salvageable. She gathered them up in her suit pack and sealed them away. When they defrosted, they would be enough for tomorrow at least. Just enough for tomorrow.
She started on her way back. In the emptiness of the helmet, she recalled the storms and those terrible things that lived in the sky. Her grandfather had always told her that God had sent them. But they were gone now.
A familiar fog began to slither over the ground. Soon it would be too thick to see in, and the wispy tendrils would flash freeze whatever they touched. Janna remembered one night, when she looked outside. She thought it must be magic, the way the ice bloomed out of thin air onto everything that stood outside, the winds shattering anything that became too fragile.
Janna is back at her house now, sleeping in the confines of a tenuous oxygen supply and leaden walls. She’ll go out again tomorrow, but for now she’ll dream of what she always dreams of. Of the hideous things that put holes in the clouds. Of birthdays spent away from the world. Of the silence after it all and of her grandfather, standing outside under the moon, his suit sitting in the house. Everyone in the family said no one had seen it. But Janna had.
“The sky is gone,” said her grandfather. And he walked outside. And Janna missed him. And Janna thought of tomorrow.
Graphic by Patrick Higgens | The Oswegonian
