The Subzero

Nine

THE AIR IS STATIC the time I go outside. My elevating anxiety lodges in my throat, causing my ragged breathing. The what-ifs list extends at my wake of walking, another what-if adding the list every step.

What if the house is nowhere?

What if I eventually get lost?

What if the blizzard interfere my trek?

Halley, what if if you try to be optimistic even just for once?

The frigid breath of the recent apocalypse frosts my rounded helmet, an entirely made of translucent glass gear. The blurred glass makes my vision nebulous. My gloved right hand that holds my rifle removes that blur.

If a stylish person witnesses what I am wearing, that person might consider me as unchic. Overweighed-looking due to the superimposed clothing, an irony to my scrawny figure, hands gloved, one holding a rifle, the other my oxygen tank, brown bear trousers, combat shoes, rounded helmet topping my primal yet modern profile; I look like an astronaut and hunter combined. Well, in this apocalyptic Earth, I would rather look like a mutated deer than to freeze to death by wearing anything stylish.

Primitive: the new fashion.

Since I plan to return to my house after the raid, I only take some of my things, just the necessaries, all in my rucksack on my back. Well, if there's anywhere to raid. And if I manage to return.

Let's make a things-that-may-kill-Halley list. First off, the blizzard. That's a no-brainer here in the Subzero apocalypse. Second, the coldness. Another no-brainer. What will kill you in the midst of Subzero apocalypse? Third, myself. I don't trust myself, you know. Back then, I almost killed myself by tripping on the escalator. Give my clumsiness a credit. That earned me three weeks in the hospital. Fourth, polar bears. Oh, the bears. Those friggin' cute bears! Don't. You won't able be to say they are cute when they shred you to bits. I bet their number is much bigger than humans now. I hate bears. But not as much as I hated the monster with sinister name mosquitoes. I loathed mosquitoes. I didn't before the Upheaval. If ever mosqiutoes understand the meaning of vulgar of middle finger, I would give them one.

Mosquitoes suck.

At eleventh day at Camp Green, my hatred to mosquitoes took octaves. They were carriers of death. They carried the plague that killed almost the half of our camp population. They made the infected hell.

Dwight, the boy with the teddy bear, and I headed the Camp Green after we snuck to go to the lake. He loved the lavanders there. It's his favorite color, too. It was afternoon and heat pulsed to the max in our skin. There, as we walked to Camp Green, a soldier took us, but not to reprimand us for sneaking out, but to take us in a camp house where others were.

You know dengue fever, right? Transmitted by aedes mosquitoes, characterized by headache, severe joint pain, rashes. It struck our camps. But the plague that struck the camps wasn't just the typical one. It's evolved: headache that seemed like tidal waves crushing against your cranium, severe joint pains, and skin lessions. You would wish having an insta-death virus than be damned by the evolved dengue. The carrier bites your skin. The virus spreads through your bloodstream. You get the normal dengue symptoms: headache, joint pain, rashes. First, you'll not be able to walk. Then your rashes will severe. Your epidermis will breaks down and will cause large open wounds. You scratch your skin especially when you're asleep. You get that semiplesant pain when scratching, which will encourage you to scratch more. Little did you know, the more you scratch, the further the wounds open and bleed. The rashes will spread around your body—to your legs, chest, neck, face—then it will morphs into lessions soon. You go bald when the lession reaches your head. That stage, you're already considered as a 'zombie'. You won't able to sleep from intense itchyness. You scratch your skin raw. If someone—besides the doctors and nurses—see you, they will certainly get terrified. Don't get me started at how bad you will look like.