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.

Adding my clothes in layers, I grab my Maglite and proceed to the garage. The empty bay that the car used to occupy is now partially filled with several cords of firewood in various stages of seasoning. Every time I get firewood I notice the missing car, and I'm unwillingly transported back to the night Kate was shot and my subsequent mad dash to the hospital that was cut short when I ran headlong into an Abrams M1A main battle tank. Regretfully, that's not the worst of my memories. It's no mystery why I spend so much time staring at that fucking alarm clock rather than sleeping.

I take an armful of seasoned hardwood downstairs and coax the smouldering fire back to life. At least Heath will wake up to a warm house. Merida also sleeps on his bed now, every night, without fail. She keeps him warm and safe, she reminds him that not everything has gone to shit and she won't stir until he gets up. I also have the sense that if push came to shove, she'd tear the throat out of anyone who tried to harm him. That, at the very least, gives me a little piece of mind.

In the kitchen I ignite a pair of spirit burners, while I wait for the water to boil I set out Heath's bowl and fill it with instant oatmeal along with some dried fruit. Next I get his powdered milk measured out in a small glass and set that next to his bowl. Transitioning to powdered milk was easier than I expected, I think he gets a kick out of mixing it himself.

The water boils and I split it between three Thermoses. Into one I add instant soup, the other instant coffee and the last is for Heath to add to his oatmeal. He's quite self-sufficient once I get things laid out for him. Once he's done breakfast, he will feed Merida and take her out with him to check the chickens. Around that time one of the current teams on patrol will check in on him.

If I remember correctly, Raven and Freya are on shift this morning—we now run patrols twenty-four hours a day. Freya will undoubtedly sit down with Heath and read him whatever book he pushes in front of her and Raven will continue on patrol solo for a while. Freya has become a big sister over the winter months, frequently going above and beyond when it comes to spending time with him.

I stuff my hot breakfast along with some other foodstuffs into my rucksack, and throw on my jacket, hat and gloves. Shouldering my pack, I grab my bow step into my boots and I am out the door. It's ten minutes to five in the morning, March 20. A light snow is falling and the mercury in the thermometer reads minus nine. It was clear last night when I went to bed, but is has clouded over since. Benefit of the light snow being I can make out fresh tracks on my way to the hunting grounds.

"Happy Equinox." I say to myself as I tread down the snow covered steps.

* * * * *

The snow is crusted over and for the most part I can walk on top and make good time, but occasionally I come across a soft section where I break through and have to slog my way along. Snowshoes would be handy. I am usually able to make the tree-stand in forty minutes mostly under the cover of darkness. I munch on a protein bar as I plod along, it leaves a distasteful residue in my mouth that forces me to take frequent hits from my canteen.

I make it to the stand on time and pull off my pack. Nearby, a tendril of nylon cordage is affixed to a stainless steel eyelet screwed to the tree. Affixed to one end is an aluminum carabiner, the other end of the is knotted to the eyelet. The cord runs up ten meters to a small pulley lashed to a branch. I remove the carabiner from the tree and make a bight in the cord that I quickly form into a hasty loop. Securing the loop around a limb of the bow then clipping the carabiner to my pack allows me to haul my gear up once I get secured in the stand. Once I'm seated and buckled in, I nock an arrow, hang my bow and take a deep breath of the crisp pre-dawn air. Nothing left to do but wait.

The trick for me these days is to daydream without bringing up the vivid, painful and often terrifying memories of the Battle of NorthWynd, which is what the horrific events that occurred at the mall are now colloquially known as. When light permits, I have a Hemingway novel I can read to pass the time but it is still too dim to do so. I could use my headlamp with a red LED lamp, but I avoid that, not so much for fear of scaring off my quarry, but rather attracting any humans. I know for a fact that there has been at least one incident of hunter-on-hunter fratricide over the course of the winter. I like to avoid anyone I don't explicitly trust—which is nearly everyone.

In December we saw the first of the food riots in Grey Harbour, they ransacked the FreshMax which lead to a clash with what was left of the local authorities. Several shootings occurred that night, before it was all over a dozen people were dead and the FreshMax burnt to the ground along with a dozen other buildings. Hart and I watched the conflagration unfold from a distance, safely tucked away inside the TAPV. Several times Hartt wanted to intervene, but I held him back, I'm just not willing to sacrifice things I hold dear anymore. Hartt is the closest thing I have to a little brother and to be honest, Heath, Jake and I are all the family Hartt has.

Time slips by as I lose myself in the recollection of better days and dawn breaks lacing the sullen cumulus to the east in a warm tangerine glow. I get the binoculars from my pack and start glassing over the fields. To my left, over the road and across another field probably a thousand meters out I watch a lone coyote skulk along. We're in the same boat really, out early looking for something to eat. I watch him a while before he flushes a rabbit, gives chase and secures a lucky kill when the hare flounders in soft snow. I envy him. His world is unchanged, or perhaps improved and he has a nice, warm breakfast.

The sun breaks over the clouds and I feel the warmth of its rays on my cheek, a sign that winter is being gently ushered out and none too soon. I pour the coffee into the Thermos lid and swallow gulps of the bitter beverage. I'm rationing everything and sugar is a precious commodity these days. I finish the cup and cap the Thermos, stuffing it back in my ruck, I'll hold off on the soup a little longer, despite my grumbling belly.

I hear squirrels in the woods behind me chattering as they scamper up and down the trees and in the distance crows caw as they rise up from their murderous roost and take flight. I glass over to where I last saw the coyote, he's disappeared with his kill, I feel a bit lonely with my fellow hunter gone, but I wish him well.

It's hard to stay warm just sitting in a stand, yet I want to avoid excessive movement; still and silent is the name of the game. At the edge of a woodlot two-hundred-and-fifty meters dead ahead I catch a glimpse of movement. Again, I bring the glasses up, sure enough a good size whitetail deer emerges into the field and begins to browse. With the rifle I might have a chance, but I only have the bow and that limits me to forty meters on the best of days. I can only watch and wait.

I see the deer flinch and bolt a fraction of a second before I am startled at the report of a rifle, almost dropping the binoculars as the boom echoes over the fields. I get the glasses back on target just in time to see the deer pile up in a heap only making it a few dozen meters. Someone has made a clean kill and for a second time this morning, someone has secured a meal and it's not me.

My heart races when I see off to my right a pair of figures clad completely in winter-white camouflage stand up from their hiding spot and march toward their kill. Suddenly I want to get out of this damn tree, I must have walked within thirty meters of where they lay in wait. Were they there the entire time? Did they see me pass? I don't know if I should remain still and hope I remain undetected, or if I should bug out. I hold off until I notice the two figures are quartering away from me, their long stick-legged shadows cast across the snowy field. I decide to bolt.

Ever so slowly I lower all my gear to the ground, pausing often to glass the figures across the snow. When my feet touch the ground I collect my items and slip into the woods far enough to obscure myself from casual observation. Deciding not to head directly home, I zigzag and backtrack and circle before taking a long, circuitous route back to our little safe zone. Whether it's misplaced paranoia or not, I wish to make it as difficult as possible to track me.

As I warily cross a small creek the ice creaks in protest of my weight, though I don't expect it to be overly deep, I would prefer to stay dry and I chose my path carefully. Near the far side I come across numerous large tracks, canine and not coyote. Over the lean winter months many dogs have been left to their own devices, some of which have begun to form packs. Judging by the fresh prints, I reckon at least of half-dozen dogs have passed by not too long ago, at least one of them is very large. Something else to avoid.

Altering my route again, I cut through a hole in the fence surrounding the dormant water treatment plant. I skirt the buildings and exit through a culvert that runs beneath the roadway. It is approaching mid-morning but I have yet to see anyone else moving about, save the hunters that scared me shitless earlier. Everyone is buttoned up trying to stay warm, but it gives Grey Harbour a disquieting feeling of desolation.

In another twenty minutes I'm back to the old neighbourhood. Exhausted, frozen, afraid and empty-handed, I march up to the house and enter the garage through the side door.

I bang the snow off my boots and enter the house. Sure enough, Freya is in the great room with Heath, they are playing Old Maid. Merida wanders over wagging her entire body, she licks my cold-stiffened hands as I try to undo my frozen laces.

"Hi Daddy, whatchya get?" Heath asks.

"Not much, a pair of rabbits, a bit skinny I'm afraid." I answer.

"Good morning Mr. Killoren," Freya says.

"Connor will do," I correct her. "Mister makes me feel old. How was patrol?"

"Cold and quiet. The Henneman's had hot oatmeal for us, with cinnamon and sugar. I ate two bowls; I couldn't stop myself."

"Sounds good. Does Mark still have the flu?"

"He doesn't sound so good, but he said he's feeling a lot better."

"Good to hear."

"We checked on the Kim residence, still locked up tight. Makes me so sad every time I walk past. Such a tragedy."

"Yeah, I know what you mean. Still, I keep thinking we should go in and divvy up the supplies. It's cold-hearted I guess, but they don't need that stuff now and we have plenty of living people who do."

"It's not cold-hearted, it's smart and I agree, but we should probably talk it over with the group at the next meeting. Can't think of anyone who would openly object."

"Doesn't feel right though," I reply, although I'm glad someone else can appreciate my pragmatism.

"A lot of things don't feel right these days."

"Any sign of the phantom sledder?"

"Nope, not last night. It's been six days since anyone last saw him."

"Sounds like we're due another visit soon."

"If we had a snowmobile of our own, we could give chase. Find out who it is," she says.

"I dunno, that might not be a great idea. Waste of gas. As long as he keeps his distance I'm not too concerned. I already have a pretty good idea who it might be."

"I bet when the roads clear we'll be seeing that white van again."

"I think you may be right."

The clock chimes in the other room, I check my watch as a matter of habit. It looks like the clock is running slow and I'm running late. "Can you watch Heath a while longer? Looks like it's time for training."

"Yeah, no problem, we're not doing any scavenging today."

"Oh? So Raven will be training too then?"

"Yeah, he'll be there."

"Great." I say, but there is little real joy inflected in my voice. Raven at training means only one thing. A new and interesting source of pain and embarrassment. "Be good for Freya Heath." I call out on the way out the door.

"Don't get kilt." Heath calls back.

My bruised forearm begins to throb before I even reach the end of the driveway. Anticipation of the punishment to come.