Dark of Winter: Prepper Book Two

Chapter I: Survival of the Fattest

The apocalypse happened on a Tuesday. And every Tuesday since—I know this because I was there, and I am still there, bearing witness to the consequent unravelling of humanity. An asteroid would have been far kinder—quick and definitive—a sonic boom, a fiery flash and death. Instead we get a multitude of competing calamities each cruel and tragic in its own way. By comparison, my insomnia is only annoying.

The travel alarm clock rings angrily from the nightstand; I've been staring at its spindly tritium-illuminated arms for the past forty-five minutes. Sleep is elusive. The fire downstairs has burnt low over the course of the night and the house has grown steadily colder as a result. I reckon it's down to fourteen or fifteen Celcius. It makes no sense to lie here any longer.

"Jesus Christ!" I curse as my bare feet touch the frigid hardwood. I fumble in the dark for my slippers. It would be too easy to grab a flashlight, but batteries are becoming a rare commodity. Fucking bats, they make echo-location look so damn easy.

Back in January the brownouts began in earnest, followed soon thereafter by rolling blackouts. On Valentine's Day the lights went out for good, the natural gas kept pumping for another week after that, then nothing. I should have marked it on the calendar, today civilization ground to a halt. It was probably a Tuesday, I hate Tuesdays.

Then everything got darker, colder and for many people who were living in a rose-tinted reality of denial—a hell of a lot more real. I knew it was coming, like I know the Sun will rise and set, and even then, I didn't feel ready for it. I spent that entire day by candlelight in the utility room, checking and re-checking all my stored up goods, trying to do the math. Just how long can we survive now that the lights have gone out?

I calculated rationed portions of everything. With the Canada Food Guide in hand I designed a meal plan for Heath and myself to ensure we could meet our basic nutritional requirements, if only just. I could augment the rations with additional protein from game meat, when my hunting forays proved successful. If my math was correct, we wouldn't be hard-pressed for food until June. I just won't be holding any dinner parties.

As a community, our little neighbourhood here drew together, the change of events, however inevitable, bringing us closer into an even tighter knit group. We evolved into some kind of a herd, dependent on one another, a family of unrelated people. Maybe a bit dysfunctional, like many a modern family, but family still. Our nightly security patrols became something much more, as we now regularly check-in with everyone, always making sure folks are warm and fed. We also keep everyone updated on the local news, as we know it—who was well, who was not, what is happening in the area and around town. Brenda Rhodes started a lending library, we all chipped in. I gave up my thrillers and Kate's smutty beach reading (which turned out to be far more popular) and Heath even donated some of his bedtime favourites. I clung tight to my small library of homesteading and bush craft paperbacks as well as an old set of cookbooks that had heaps of details on preparing game meat.

Fortunately, it was a fairly mild winter; we still had to shovel a path door to door at times so people could get out, but it could have been much worse. We tried to make sure everyone had some source of heat, we had one retired couple, the Kim's, that tragically succumbed to what we think was carbon monoxide poisoning, late in February. They were using a kerosene space heater. After that, we begged, borrowed and stole—literally—until we managed to either billet people in houses with wood stoves, or get them wood fuelled stoves of their own. We ransacked numerous seasonal properties in the process, but I doubt any of those people are ever coming to visit again. Most of the cottages belong to Americans and presently what is left of that nation is embroiled in their second civil war. We're faring only slightly better.