The Cold City.

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The city is cold, it is waiting under deep snow for the spring that is sure to come but the people of the city are inpatient. The foolish amongst them leave the safety of their dwellings and venture out never to return. Their lifeless bodies will be found when the thaw begins.

Jack is not one of them. He sits in his kitchen, bored and restless but wise enough, or scared enough, to wait. His windows are covered in blankets to retain as much heat as possible so he will not see when the thaw arrives; he will know it’s coming by other signs; the water that runs once more in the sink as long as the pipes have not burst, the sounds of footsteps once more on solid ground outside his door and the flickering of the electric lights as the solar panels once more respond to sunlight. For now he sees only by candlelight, thankful for the extra heat of the flame.

He has enough to last him beyond the thaw; his preparations during autumn were meticulous and efficient and although these are not his natural character traits he has learnt their necessity. He also has enough books to read in the waxy light; he collected everything he could scavenge knowing it would be the only way to stop himself going insane.

But today he was tired of reading.

Or maybe it was night.

The hours had long since ceased to be any different and though at first he had carefully disciplined his time and divided the time into two- awake and asleep in two equal portions – this attention to detail had long since wavered and now he dozed intermittingly. But still he exercised.

The kitchen was small, a matter of paces only but each ‘day’ he would walk for three miles – half in one direction and half in the other.

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