The End - Visions of Apocalypse

He had his blankets and clothes, but didn’t think burning either of them was such a good idea. The sun was going down but out the window everything was white, everything hidden under a record breaking snow fall. Any amount of snow in June would break records for Virginia, but Irwin was pretty sure the near five feet of white stuff outside was a record for any time of year. The snow was so high it covered the lower part of the window, making it look like an Eskimo’s ant farm. In the neighborhood where Irwin lived there had never been many trees and the houses were built of brick and aluminum siding. The best he could hope to find would be a picnic table, a rake or shovel handle, but those would be in garages, behind doors he had no chance of opening, and likely made of plastic. Come to think of it, his own door would be buried beneath a glacier size drift. At that moment he couldn’t even see his front door. He hadn’t been out of his house since the crisis began and he had needed the wall space to stack books out of his way.

Irwin’s eyes returned to the pot and the dying fire. He’d only had the one cotton ball and just a dribble of alcohol. He’d never had matches in the house and if he let it go out, he’d never start one again. With the now broken window, Irwin would freeze in the coming night. As if to emphasis this, he noticed how long the shadows had grown. He could feel the cold creeping up his body, sinking ice claws into his flesh. All the James Patterson and Michael Connelly in the world wouldn’t be enough to save him if things got colder than the night before.

He felt it unfair that he should die for lack of burnable fuel in a home filled with paper. He noticed a trade paperback sitting absently on top of the foremost tower, its title screaming out at him in three huge, condescending words: Overcoming Compulsive Hoarding. A Christmas gift from Jimmy. His brother thought that giving him a book would be like slipping a pill in a terrier’s hotdog. As much as his skin crawled at the thought of damaging any book, he could burn that.

Irwin tore pages out, crumpled them up and fed them to Audrey II, whose name he mentally changed to Audrey III for originality’s sake. The fire reawakened to its bright self once more spreading warmth and happiness in its glow. Feeding a page at a time, the book was not consumed nearly as fast as the junk mail. He was only up to chapter five, “Applying the Cognitive Strategies,” by the time the sun began to set. If he could make a short book last, how long could he survive on David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest? Not that he would burn that, but there had to be others he could sacrifice. In the immortal words of Spock, “The needs of the many out-weigh the needs of the few.”

He had another gift book. Bill Faber, his next door neighbor had once handed him a self-help publication, apparently not understanding the nature of his situation. Irwin had laughed when he read the title, The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People. Irwin had always thought he was extremely effective at what he did—that was the problem. Jimmy could have told him that. So Irwin had two books then that he could sacrifice painlessly. The question was how many would he have to burn to survive?

With paper from books to use as kindling, he could let the fire die and reignite it whenever needed, so long as he had the sun and his magnifying glass. That meant he could let it go out after sunrise and rely on natural radiation to keep him alive. Sunlight passing through the window would greenhouse the place enough to keep him from freezing. He’d need to do something about the broken window. Irwin had some Ziplocks and duct tape. Breaking the glass was a good thing really. It would allow him to pack the toilet with snow, so when it melted he could flush. With his diet he wasn’t using it as often, but the accumulation was another reason why he didn’t regret the smoke and the open window. He could also sleep during the day so he didn’t need to worry about feeding Audrey III, and he could use her to heat meals. That brought a smile. He hadn’t had a hot meal in two weeks. His pot fire and shattered window was really a huge step forward. He might be able to ration his burning and get by with just a couple books a night. Only how long would the winter last?

It couldn’t stay this cold for too long. Not in Virginia. Not in June.