The persistent wind presses at my face as I watch wisps of snow circle and dance around the skeletons of last years crops. I reach under my coat to inspect the belt that secures the dead cat to my body, and then I lower my head and walk toward home.

During the journey my mind drifts and replays the events of the past couple of years: soldiers entering the hamlet, farms taken, grain stolen, animals slaughtered, houses burned.

As I crest the hill, a group of soldiers come into view. Circled around a fire, they pass around a metal cup, each taking a drink. A soldier no older than my nephew takes a drink and winces as he swallows.

White smoke rises from the burning logs, the flowery-acidic odor of pine fills my nose. The soldiers are dressed in thick, grey wool uniforms and look strong and well fed. Their jovial attitudes smack of disrespect, considering their surroundings.

I try to remain focused on the road, so as not to draw attention from the soldiers but as I pass I see them turn their heads my way; the laughter stops. The young soldier points in my direction and says something but the wind quickly whisks his words away.

I look down toward my feet and maintain my pace. Within seconds, five soldiers surround me like a pack of wild dogs. The sour smell of alcohol floats on the air around them.

"What is your name?" one of the soldiers asks.

"Petro," I say, as I hand him my passport. The soldier's name is Ivan. He is well known in my village. He is thick and heavy with muscles and has the temper of a rabid animal.

"My aunt is sick. I wanted to visit," I say.

"Don't you have enough to worry about in your own home without searching for more?"

"I'm aware of what is happening in my town. I needed to see my aunt. I've given you my paperwork. I need to go."

Ivan steps closer. He shoves his finger into my chest. "I'll tell you when you need to go, you piece of shit."

"Is he the farmer that cooked and ate his wife?" asks one soldier.

"No. They caught him last week running around naked in the woods behind his house,“ Ivan says as he reviews my paperwork. “The guy ran right after Olaf; scared the shit outta him. They had to shoot the bastard. “

"If you have nothing on me, you need to let me go. I have done nothing wrong."

Ivan raises his eyes to meet mine. "What the fuck you say?"

"I need to go."

Ivan straightens tall, smiling at the group. Before I can say another word, he slams his meaty fist into the side of my head. I stumble back into the soldiers who push me forward into Ivan. He grabs me by the throat and says, "Watch your tongue."

My vision begins to fade as he releases his grip. My legs struggle to keep me upright.

"Stop shitting with me. Why are you really here? If you say your aunt I'll beat you dead."

My mind is fatigued with hunger and my head throbs with each pump of my heart. I can't think of anything to say.

Ivan hits me squarely in the mouth with the butt of his rifle and I fall to my knees.

The sharp wind cuts into my split lip, running hot needles of pain up my face. The copper taste of blood coats my tongue.

"Anything to say?" Ivan continues.

I look up, but only see his silhouette against the noonday sky. My mind races to find the words that will stop the beating - nothing.

He lands the butt of his rifle directly behind my ear.



---



“Mister? You okay?“ The voice swims in my head.

“Hey, Mister. “ The voice persists. “You okay? Wake up. “

An unseen hand lifts me to the surface of consciousness. The world around me looks brushed with oil and out of focus. The voice is coming from a blurred shadow that stands over me.

“They beat you pretty good, “ the shadow says.

I get to my knees. White flashes of pain burn my face and neck. Fingers of nausea caress my stomach and my mouth waters in anticipation.

“Who... “ The fingers suddenly squeeze and the meager contents of my stomach splash onto the frozen ground. The pain in my face pulses and grows. I wipe the vomit off my chin with the sleeve of my coat being careful not to touch the gash on my lip.

“Who are you? “ I finally get out. My vision clears and the shadow takes on the form of a boy. His skin is squash-yellow and his eyes look crazed. His few remaining teeth are black with rot and the smell of death envelops him.

“Do you have any food? “ he asks.

“The cat. Shit, did they find the cat?” I grab at my stomach and feel the dead cargo still fastened tightly to my body. “Thank God.”

“No I don’t,” I say. “You need to go home before they come back.”

He bends down and drags his fingers longingly across the puddle of chilled vomit.

“I’m so hungry,” he says. “So hungry.”

“Go. Get away from here.” I pull myself to a squat, holding my thighs for support. “Please leave.” I try to yell this, but the words come out sounding like a plea.

I stand straight and slowly test my legs, after which I start my journey home again. After a few minutes I look back to the boy, expecting him to be gone. His body lies motionless on the road.



---



The town is a twisted memory of its old self. The backdrop is the same, but the streets are now littered with frozen bodies stacked like cords of wood. Orphaned children run wild, while once productive fields now serve as graveyards for rusting farm equipment.

The rumors passing from farmer to farmer paint an even more desperate landscape; parents crazed with hunger eat their children; farmers dig through piles of horse manure, searching for undigested grain; families bloat with starvation as the warehouses guarded by the soldiers brim with last year’s grain harvest.

I walk into my house and head directly to the fireplace and touch the blackened and charred logs; dead cold.

“Anna,” I say. “You let the fire go out.” My mind jumps from thought to thought, and then I notice an odd shape on the floor.

In the corner of the kitchen is a pile of blankets. I approach with caution, thinking that they might somehow come alive. I start peeling them away. Anna’s black hair is what I see first. Her head rests on her chest.

“No, no, no.”

The rise of her breasts appears next. I sit down and take her in my arms and start rocking her back and forth.

“I’m sorry.”

I kiss her cheek.

“I’m so sorry.”

A deep, thick, burning pain rises from my chest and flows through my body, overtaking any pain that existed a few moments before. Too weak to carry Anna to our bed, I lay her down and cover her with the blankets giving the illusion that she is just sleeping.

I unfasten the belt around my stomach and place the cat on the cutting block.

Impatient for a fire I pour lamp oil on the cold logs. The match I apply brings the flames to life with a “foomp” sound and soon the small house becomes warm.

I gut, skin, and clean the cat and throw the meat in a large cast iron pot filled with water. I kneel and pull up a wood plank from the kitchen floor to expose the hole we dug to hide some potatoes and beets. They are now shriveled and feel like leather in my hand. Without cleaning them, I toss them in the pot with the cat, and then place the pot directly on the fire.

The frostbite ignites my fingers and toes. I stand and allow the pain to grow and intensify, hoping somehow it will overtake the pain of my grief.

The cabin fills with the smell of cooking meat and burning lamp oil. I walk over to my bed and lie down, waiting for the soldiers who will surely come to see who has built the fire.

I fall into a dreamless sleep.



I’m awakened by the sounds of splitting wood. As I turn towards the direction of the noise, the door slams open to reveal a group of soldiers standing at the threshold.

“What the fuck you cooking? Have you been hiding food from the state?”

Ivan strides over to the fire and looks into the pot. “Looks like a bloody mess. What’s in there? Meat?”

“Cat. “ I say.

“Cat? Thought there weren’t anymore left. Pretty lucky. “ Ivan walks over to Anna. “What’s wrong with her? “

“She’s dead. “ My mind turns these words over and over, trying to make sense of them; trying to explain it away. She’s dead.

Ivan turns to me and says, “I thought you were dead. You should be dead. “

He knocks over the boiling stew with his foot partially extinguishing the fire. “You may leave, “ he says to the other soldiers. “I’ll take care of this from here. “

Without question, they leave my house.



Ivan walks over and grabs me by my shirt and throws me face first into the wall. My wound reopens and blood runs down my chin. The grit of broken teeth coats my mouth. His movements are methodical, rehearsed, like he’s done this many times before. He turns me around so that my back is to him, and then he moves me, almost gently, to the fire place. I’m too weak to try to stop him. I feel like a feather being carried off by an ocean gale.

I extend my arms in the futile hope that the fire won’t touch my face directly. When I land, orange sparks spray out from beneath me. I almost black out from the pain of my burning hands but before I can react, Ivan lifts me out of the fire and throws me against the kitchen table, knocking the contents to the floor: a knife, the skin of the cat, the bottle of lamp oil.

He brushes his hands together like he has just finished bailing hay and has decided to call it a day. I take this moment to slip the lamp oil underneath my shirt. Ivan looks around the house.

He walks over to Anna and pokes her with his boot.

“Why don’t you put her on the street “ Don’t you have any decency? “

“Don’t touch my wife. “

“Now, now little man. You’re in no real position to make demands. “

“Rot in hell. “

He smiles. “You’re funny. Too bad I have to kill you. “

He lifts me to my feet. “Time to go see your wife on the other side. “ He pushes me toward the fire again. I reach into my shirt and pull out the lamp oil and uncap the bottle. My shirt tears away from his grip and I fall to the floor spilling some of the oil.

“Dammit! Why are you making this harder than it needs to be? “ He picks up the oil. “What are you trying to do? Burn your place down? “

“No, “ I say as I reach into the fireplace and grab a burning log. White flashes of pain shoot up my arm. I hit the bottle of oil that breaks and ignites in his hand. He shakes his hands, splattering the oil on his neck and face. His efforts to wipe the burning oil off his hands and face are pointless; this only spreads the fire. The fire rises from his shoulders, momentarily framing his head in orange light. His eyes are wide with terror.

He runs across the room, fanning the flames. He slams against the far wall in full stride knocking him unconscious. I grab a blanket and try to soak up the oil that I have spilled. I take the blanket over to Ivan and light it with the flames dancing on his head. I throw the blanket on the bed and then stagger out of the house.

I collapse in a snow bank. The skin on my hands and arms is black and peeling. I try to focus my eyes on the house but my mind wants to shut down to avoid the pain flowing through my veins.

The fire grows. A flickering orange reflection can be seen on the windows and smoke starts to waft through the eaves.

My mind shuts down.

---

When I wake, the flames pour out the windows licking the roof. The heat has melted all the snow within six feet of the house. It looks like summer.

“I'm sorry, “ I say.

My body shuts down.