Desperate Fools
His eyes stung, but if he wished to see the path ahead of him, he must suffer the thin slit between his scarf and hat. He had not yet found goggles in any of the snow-swept houses he had come across; neither on the pitiful, frozen bodies of the unfortunate. For now, the thin slit which allowed him to see was a constate sight of unavoidable irritation. Goggles would greatly increase his comfortableness, although they would not greatly increase his ken. The ever-present, freezing wind thrust streams of snow haphazardly about and the air was thick with ice crystals which made forward movement feel as though you were passing through most frigid milk.
Except for the thin vision slit, he waded his way through the wintry soup with relative comfort. Before he left, he had amassed enough “warm” essentials, to where he could safely (as he thought) make his way to his destination and pick up more or even better equipment along the way. So far, he had not even found worse equipment. Though at the moment, this was not a major cause for concern. The key to winter survival (in respects to choice of clothing) was to dress in layers. This allows one to better moderate body heat. As his base layer, he wore a set of thermal shirt and ‘long-Johns’. Over this layer he wore a cotton, long-sleeved shirt and sweatpants. The final layer of his inner shell consisted of a thick but form fitting parka and a pair of jeans. The final, and perhaps most important layer, was his outer shell. This was comprised of hand-me-down snow-pants, a ‘shopka-ushanka’ (under which he wore a balaclava), thick, fur-lined boots with his pants tucked into and around his hand-knit socks, and a worn, woolen U.S. Airforceman’s overcoat. The symbols on its sleeve denoted the rank of ‘Master Sergeant’ or so he believed. There had been warmer coats which he could have brought instead, but this had been the one instance of “fashion over function” which he had allowed himself. Lastly, he had a scarf, made by his wife, which wrapped around his face and neck; only allowing a small slit for sight below the brim of the ushanka. He had set out with enough provisions in a back-pack to last him the expected duration of the journey there, poetically, he did not bother with provisions for a ‘return journey’ in true, adventurer fashion.
In this wintry armor he had set out. In and of itself, it would still be insufficient to protect against the hellish cold if not for his constant movement while in the open. Keeping his body temperature high, but not so high as to cause perspiration, was the real key in reaching his destination. But a decent pair of goggles would definitely have been appreciated.
His pace was steady; his eyes low to the ground to reduce exposure to the biting wind. The cold was an ever-present reality, but if you fixated on this inescapable fact, you would succumb all the quicker to its effects. It was important that he remain distracted from his physical situation, not only to block out the mental winter, but also to prevent the boredom which is brought about by the tedium of any constant action. His mind wandered about freely. His favorite pass-time while wool-gathering was pondering ‘what-ifs’ although this held the risk of getting caught in the quagmires of reminiscence and regret. All too easily his mind would wander to the questions of “what if this storm had never started?” “What if the office of ‘Chief Weather Magnate’ had never been established?” “What if the ability to control the weather had never been discovered?” “What if Bartholomew Rosa had never established a power monopoly and started making demands of the UN?” “What if the UN had not angered ol’ Bart and he hadn’t unleashed this hell!?”. After this question crossed his mind, it echoed itself many times. He shook himself back to the cold reality in which his body was still moving forward on ‘auto-pilot’. Asking questions like that robbed one of the will to change one’s present situation. “Maybe I should find a safer pass-time than wool-gathering?” He asked himself quietly. Wool gathering. The term struck him as oddly ironic; it was wool, the greasy fleece of the magnificent sheep, which kept him alive now. He owed a debt to wool; the least he could do was spend some time collecting more of it.
“After all, if one does not shear sheep...” His thought was broken off by an alarming sound: footsteps running through the snow! He turned around just in time to see a man raise a small hatchet and begin to bring it down. He threw himself back onto the ground just in time for the hatchet to swing viciously, but clear of its target. The man rushed forward but was met by a stiff boot to the gut, from which he recoiled back several steps. With the distance between them increased, he quickly scrambled to his feet, drawing the knife he kept tucked in his breast pocket.
Now, the two men faced each other. The man was hard of breath and stood there measuring his would-be prey. He had not expected his blow to miss and was cursing himself for now needing to expend more energy. He seemed to wobble slightly as he took a step forward with the hatchet held out in front of him. “G-g-give m-m-me the c-c-c-coat!” the man demanded pitifully. Desperation glowed in his eyes, though his voice and body spoke of a man having long since begun the descent to hypothermia. The man’s coat was thin, so thin that he had obviously been trapped out in the storm having not expected to be out longer than a brief stint. This could not be the case though, as he sported a pair of skiing goggles. Perhaps he was robbed of his coat and later found the goggles? Surely a thief would not have simply spared the man so valuable a piece of survival equipment? “How about you give me the goggles and I forget that you tried to introduce my head to that hatchet of yours? He asked the man diplomatically. “J-j-just g-g-give m-me the c-c-coat!” The man said almost pleadingly. He was prepared to do what some other bastard had done to him, although what shreds of humanity he had left begged him not to.
Raising his knife, held overhand, to about the height of his shoulder, he took a careful step back and positioned himself as no to fall so easily. “I’m afraid I can’t do th…” before he could finish his statement, the man rushed forward, hatchet held high. The man’s movement was sluggish due to the hypothermia beginning to grip him. With fluidity of motion, which was an impressive feat taking into account the multiple layers of clothing, he stepped back with his right foot, pivoting his body out of the way of the strike. As the hatchet came down he grabbed the wrist attached to it, and guided the weapon into the forward thrust leg of his attacker. The man cried in agony before his neck became a temporary sheath for a knife.
The man slunked to the ground; red, hot blood gushing from the wound, turning the virgin snow scarlet. “Heat” he said to himself as he watched the steam rise from the pooling life-force of his would be killer. After a short moment of reverie, he shook himself back to the here-and-now. “Better not fixate on deeds done out of need.” He told himself as he carefully removed the skiing goggles from the man. He fixed the goggles on his face and bent to grab the hatchet of the fallen wretch, but decided against taking it, being superstitious of bearing a weapon that had been meant to kill him.
Now, comfortably fitted with his newest, most-comfortable piece of winter equipment, he set out once again towards his goal. He had aways to go yet before reaching the island of Bartholomew Rosa. He was still only a few days' walk from the coast, yet he was troubled by the day's encounter; how many more desperate fools would he meet out there on the ice-hardened ocean?
