It started snowing and never stopped. Fat and beautiful, the flakes came from the grey skies and covered our cars, our houses, our cities.
We dug in like rats in warrens. We crawled in tunnels of packed snow between buildings where the pale blue of the distant sun’s light filtered through the miles of snow. We built hasty, pathetic fires that burned just long enough to melt our meagre supply of frozen canned food, extinguished before the carbon monoxide could kill us.
In the moments between searching for food and fighting the cold, we sat huddled in groups, wrapped in rags, never talking, always watching the light drift to night and back. Soon enough, even that was gone, that slightly reassuring frost of pale blue. Then it was always night. Who knew how high the snow went? How deep we were?
There was a creaking sound. It was not that it was a single sound, but a symphony of structural readjustments, of the very ice shifting. I imagined the hand of God pressing upon us, as if raising himself up from a slumber. There was a tremendous groan, with a crushing thunder of finality about it. Now cold, cold, our world bleeds away with our breath, and the end comes, not with a bang, but the stillness of flies in amber.