Below Zero
flash fiction | purpose
The sun rose meekly above the winter horizon into the overcast sky and light snowfall. A dim, gray lantern, apologetic, once again, that today’s highs would not exceed zero. Any real warmth would need to be generated by imagination. At least until sunset and the next campfire.
But he wasn’t using his imagination for warmth. He would need it for a more fundamental purpose.
As for the cold, he kept it at bay by continuously walking. Mostly on the unused highway. The only danger was stopping for more than a few minutes.
With a final snack-bar bite, he adjusted his pack, kicked snow over last night’s embers and started back toward the road. Even in winter, when others were rare, he camped far enough away to avoid being noticed.
Only the forest observed his movement. Without interest.
The earliest steps of the day were his favorite. The next one wasn’t.
Instantly, the world spun for a moment and he couldn’t tell up from down. After a breath, he laughed quietly while righting himself, and then kept walking. With each step, he assessed every muscle for damage. He was pleased that nothing hurt. Even the pack felt lighter.
His crunching boots found their usual rhythm. Movement meant life. He imagined the road ahead bending gently. Safe. He imagined the reassurance of knowing where he was.
Snowy guardrails came into view. He recalled driving along the road when he was younger. That past was now a memory as distant as what used to pass as normal living. Although the road had not seen vehicles since then, it was still a predictable path, particularly appreciated for a long journey.
Back on the pavement, walking was easier. Even if the asphalt was buried under a foot of snow, the solidity was bolstering.
He imagined that summer trip with his family. Driving was as pleasant as the destination. He imagined other vacationers stopping to take family photos against the mountains, streams, historical points of interest, or any place they could park.
Back then he didn’t pay much attention to the mile markers. Now they were milestones of certainty, confirming where he was.
He imagined the smell of coffee so vividly he could taste it. Black, but not too hot. All good. Detail meant focus. Focus meant he was still moving, even if he was already thinking he was ready for a break. But it was too early for that.
Yet, the crunch of his boots seemed farther away, as if someone else were making the sound. And his motions had become...too easy.
He even felt taller.
Except, far below, half-hidden in the snow, a body lay twisted where it had fallen. A boot was missing. The pack lay open, its contents scattered.
Breath became shallow.
But in his mind, he walked on.
by George Alger
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