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It struck Omar as wildly unfair that even as humanity struggled to survive one apocalypse of its own making, the weaponized influenza pandemic that had killed nearly 80% of the population worldwide in just over 30 months, it still had to deal with the slower apocalypse of climate change.
They got the warning over the radio, from one of the towns upstate. Extreme cold conditions, temperatures reaching -20 degrees Fahrenheit with windchills even lower. Most likely another polar vortex event. Amira and Maggie were out on a supply run, so Omar made the rounds of the neighborhood, warning their little community to gather up clothes, bedding, food, and whatever fuel they had hoarded, then meet in the library before nightfall.
They’d weathered vortexes before, but each time took more out of their dwindling resources. It had made sense to stay in the city — Manhattan hadn’t been spared the pandemic, but the inhabitants of the island had had enough money to mitigate its effects. If nothing else, they had had the money to see that their dead were cremated safely rather than being left to rot in their homes, and as the population dwindled the machinery of the city was shut down in some facsimile of order.
(The fact that the bridges had been closed early on in an effort to quarantine the island helped reduce the chaos as well.)
Still, a little less than five years since the pandemic was recognized as man-made, resources were getting scarcer. So while most of the time their little community was spread out, couples and nuclear families and roommate groups and the odd loner each in their own brownstones, when a storm approached they gathered together to make sure they all made it through.
Omar checked that all the windows in the library were still solidly boarded, then he started hauling in their communal wood stores. They chose the library because of its massive double-sided fireplace, and the large open space and extra insulation provided once they had moved all the bookshelves back against the walls. The bathrooms still worked, and there was a workable (if small) kitchen in the old cafe that had a gas stove Kristen had rigged to run off a propane tank.
People started trickling in. Mom was one of the first, bundled up in at least three layers of coat and pushing a cart that was piled high with blankets and water jugs but which likely also held her beloved spice tins. If they were going to be hunkered down together for the next few days hiding from the freeze, she would make sure they had filling, warming food. He had no doubt she’d soon have giant pots of fūl and bamia bubbling away on the stove.
Mark and David and their daughter Paige arrived with their air mattresses — one that they would share and three more that were up for grabs by anyone who had trouble sleeping on the floor. Old Mr. Wang, their only community member over sixty, set to work immediately prepping the fireplace, checking the flue and stacking the wood and kindling. He had a knack for building fires that caught quickly and seemed to burn hotter on less fuel, somehow.
Kristen and Ray ushered in a rush of people: the trio of Mari and Annie and Esmeralda, setting up a screened area in a back corner for privacy; Ayo and Aisha setting up the folding tables and chairs along the wall by the kitchen; Cisco and Luis with a propane space heater and a couple tanks of fuel for it, to set up in the bathroom.
By the time Amira and Maggie got there, laden with canned goods, it was nearly dark and everyone else was inside.
It was a quiet night. It shouldn’t have been possible, nearly forty people in one room, but there was something in gathering like this that highlighted all the people missing, how empty the world outside felt compared to before. Omar didn’t think he’d ever get used to how quiet New York was now.
After dinner and cleanup, everyone settled into smaller groups, playing games or just talking by the fire and lamp light. Amira was full of details from her scavenging trip; she loved the trips she and Maggie took to help provide for the community, blossoming in this new world where every action she took helped ensure their very survival.
But Omar knew they were lucky, his family, Maggie — their major losses predated the pandemic, so they were better equipped to keep fighting on in the wake of it. Their griefs were older, more worn down; not the fresh grief of those around them, whose families were so recently torn asunder.
Groups started splitting up and bedding down, and when Amira started yawning through her chatter Omar began making moves that way as well. One of the rules of these nights was that no one slept alone — pooled blankets and shared body heat were far safer than solo sleeping bags. So after he saw his mom and Amira settled together, he turned to the little bed nest on the outer ring, furthest from the fire and already being warmed by Maggie in her worn flannel pajamas.
“Gotta say, Quantico did not prepare me for this.”
Maggie snorted. “Maybe not Quantico, but surely your SERE training covered body to body heat transfer?”
“Hey, what happens at Ft. Bragg stays at Ft. Bragg. . .”
“Whatever. Get in here.”
Omar folded himself to the ground, and they began the push-pull, grunt and giggle of making all their limbs fit comfortably. Omar ended up with a mouthful of Maggie’s hair at one point, and even though he was watching for it, she got him good in the side with a pointy elbow. For someone barely half his size, she managed to take up a lot of space.
Eventually they worked it out, Omar on his side facing the fire and Maggie curled into his chest. They breathed together for a few minutes, settling. Then Maggie spoke again.
“Fuel’s starting to get scarce. McKinney’s is completely out, and the Home Depot is nearly done too.”
“Any sign of trouble from the other territories?”
“Some shooting in the north. Automatic, so not hunting, but too far to tell anything else.”
“Amira handle herself well?”
Maggie poked him in the rib. Hard.
“OA. Seriously. It’s the end of the world. Maybe it’s time to loosen those apron strings a bit. Extend some trust.”
Omar poked her back, but his heart wasn’t in it. “I know. It’s just habit.”
“Bad habit.”
“Yeah.”
They settled back into silence. Maggie’s foot twitched against Omar’s shin, and her ribcage rose and fell in a deep breath under his arm. He could see the firelight glinting off the few strands of silver that had appeared in her hair.
“I trust you.”
Maggie didn’t respond, and Omar thought she must have dropped off. But after a moment she lifted her head.
Her eyes were clear and dark, questioning. Omar tried to turn his impulse around in his head, figure out the shape of it, why he had needed to say that to Maggie now.
She just waited. So patient, when it was needed. As he had been so many times over the years, Omar was grateful.
Finally, he spoke again.
“I trust you. With everything that matters to me. I have since the beginning.”
Still she waited. A log fell in the fireplace, sending up a flurry of sparks. Omar wondered idly when they would have to switch from cutting down street trees for firewood to burning the books that surrounded them. Paper burned fast — the library likely wouldn’t sustain them for a frosty week.
That would be a bad week. But they’d find their way through that too.
And that. . . That was what he needed to say. His arms tightened, pulling Maggie closer still.
“There isn’t anyone I’d rather have as a partner here at the end of the world.”