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Winter Watch

"A Post-Apocalyptic Romance"-BeaverReturn

A single paw moves across an exposed and nude chest gliding down a field of soft fur. Everything is in silhouette. It is night time, dark. What little light provided comes through a far window, a dim streak of moon beam that becomes mostly filtered by the obstructive frost frozen over the window's surface. Two canine males share a bed locked in a passionate kiss. In one of the canine's paws is the hard erection of the other canine. The other canine, the one receiving the paw, has his arms wrapped around his lover's neck. The kiss is broken. Glistening eyes shimmer within the meagre light and look towards the other pair tightly closed. The canine with eyes closed is panting. He is trembling as his partner paws him. The two share tongues again. A voice narrates,

"The night was particularly frigid and chilling, shaking our spines as though it was some kind of bad omen coming to haunt us. We needed to warm each other up, rub some friction between us, we needed to spark some heat, to fight that bitterly icy night air. We needed to keep that omen away."

They are both holding each other tight. One canine lets go a slight moan, "Ah-!" into the ear of the other canine and then falls onto his shoulder closing his eyes. The canine still awake speaks,

"Know that no matter what happens I will always love you."

**

The Dog lies in a double bed which he shares with his wolf partner. The Dog having just woken up does so without an alarm clock. His sense of time seems is instinctual. Beside him his partner is asleep soundly on the other side of the bed. The Dog is wearing pyjama's: a patchwork flannel outfit. There's envy in his eyes as he looks over at his not-to-be-disturbed bedmate. He eyes the tempting and exposed rump of his partner, raising a paw to rouse him, but then decides against it. The morning is still young; the sun has yet to be seen, the frost of the window particularly white against the black sky of the late coming dawn.

The fur of the dog's coat matches that of the bed-sheets, a white, grey, and blackish spread. The decor of the space surrounding the tight one room household is made out of despondency and a sense of primitive necessity. It's a log cabin and yet noticeably it seems to be made out of salvage. It is a desperate household put together in a desolate time. Desperation inspiring ingenuity, a broken flat screen T.V. becomes refashioned into a tabletop, a broken set of hydroponic shelves becomes used for storage and a collection of what-would-be-collectable literature becomes fuel for a woodstove which burns brightly in the cabin's corner. Remnants of a much more privileged past exist in relics all around the household, and yet it becomes obvious that in this new world any ideas of privilege has subsided. In this world there is only one concern now, and that is survival.

The dog rises out of bed and navigates the space with a kind of conscientiousness, as to prove that he is both mindful of his sleeping partner but also because the home, despite being desolate, seems so comfortable to him. From within a shoddy cabinet he grabs a rifle which he slings around his shoulder, a kettle, and a box of cartridges. He opens a window only slightly and reaches his paws out to grab a clump of snow. The cold air makes him shiver. He throws the clump of snow into the kettle, leaves it on the woodstove, sits down at the flat screen dining table and begins to check his gun. His gun is a bolt-action hunting rifle kept together by strands of tape, glue and make-fast repairs. Atop the gun is a more impressive looking scope, its technology seemingly more recent. Along the fore-stock of the rifle the words, "The Good Ole' Reliable" can be seen written. Checking his bullet supply next, the dog grumbles in a low voice,

"30 bullets for one day. Shit!"

Upset, he leaves his gun and bullets on the table and fixes himself a cup of tea. The tea is removed out of a tightly sealed tin that is hidden away in the back of his cupboards; it's evident that in this society it is a kind of luxury. Despite his carefulness, his partner rises from his sleep. Noticing the stirring bed-sheets the Dog is quick to apologize,

"I'm sorry did I wake you?"

"Shit, this rigid bed isn't good for sleeping much anyways." The partner says feeling stiff, "Are you sure you have to work today? It seems like it's going to be mighty cold out today. We COULD just spend the day in bed." The partner plays with his now evident morning wood, paw under the blanket. His hidden erection tents the shoddy bed-quilt; it is tempting for the dog to look at. The wolf grins slyly, "Maybe you're not feeling so well today? Maybe it's time for last night parts two?"

The dog looks away, back towards his rifle, "Yea, don't figure we will get much trouble today. Good thing too, I only got 30 bullets left for the day it seems." The dog sighs and sips his tea savouring both its flavour and warmth. "Did you fix my gun up just like I asked you too?"

The partner looks over to a workbench: there is an assortment of nails, screws, glue and tape. The partner shrugs, "Best I could," as the wolf gets out of bed naked. His arousal is now exposed and noticeable, a hard erection extending forward. He gives himself a few strokes and then decides to leave it. The exposed body of the wolf evidently needs no pyjamas to keep warm; "I won't be able to join you for lunch. We've got a scavenging party planned for today. A traveller said something about a big cache of provisions just up north. Gotta go check it out." The wolf walks over to the Dog and pecks him on the forehead, "I 'suppose you'll be keeping an eye for me when you're up in that tower?"

"Yea-Suppose I will." The dog replies. With the wolf beside him, the dog grabs his partner's morning wood and gives it a few playful strokes. The partner closes his eyes and huffs out a deep breath, but before the dog can start orally pleasing his lover, his lover stops him,

"Now, now I don't want you late for work. Lets save it for tonight, yeh?"

The Dog's cabin resides in a small barricaded village consisting of a few more households much like his own. Squeezed tightly behind a circular log-made fortification, damages amongst the defending walls suggest that the village has been assaulted on before. At the village's entrance there is a large log-gate, a standing watch tower, and another tower parallel to it which appears to have collapsed. Despite the worn appearance of the village, it still appears isolated enough. This sleepy village is hidden deep away within the embrace of a mountainous range. A single path leads down the mountain into the forest below.

As he exits his house the Dog is now wearing a thick coat. Fur, much like his own, is stitched along his hood giving him the appearance of having a mane. He breathes into a pair of hide mitts and then rubs them over his arm as a distant wolf approaches him.

"If it ain't the bastard Snow-Lion up before I even get to the door. What a' Watchman you are!"

"Come off it pal, I couldn't sleep well--that's all. It's this darned chill. It just doesn't seem to want to leave me..."

"Ha! We're Northerners pup-blood. Ya' should have had yourself born a wolf. Got us nice thick coats we do. Course not something you could help being a pup-blood yourself."

"It's always first thing in the morning with you isn't it?" The dog acts irritated, "If you keep it up, I might be so inclined to skin that fur right off of you and try on your thick-coat for myself."

"Good luck pup-blood. I've seen ya skinning jobs before. Let's just say there's a reason why this village has you working as a watcher."

The wolf wraps his arm around the dog and they walk towards a watchtower near the gate, "Yea? You won't think this job so meager when I snipe that smile right off your face." replies the dog.

The two approach a cage door at the base of the tower. From under his coat the wolf grabs a ring of keys and unlocks the padlock. The door opens and the dog to go in. The dog pauses before wandering up the staircase,

"Anything I need to know about?"

"Yea, should be a quiet day for you so try an' hold up on using tha thermal scope. We only got so much power left in the generator and we're trying to ration what we've got until we find more fuel. Same goes with using that heated blanket of yours. Sorry but with the way things have been you're going to have to shiver this one out. Rick's left you a couple of nice blankets up there for what it's worth. We'll bring you lunch round noon as always. Martha's rabbit stew from yesterday. I'm thinkin' it should be even better now that it's had a day to sit in the pot."

"No heated blanket? You want to see me with icicles at the end of my nose is that it?"

The wolf snarls at the dog's response, "Well, ya either have the luxury of that electric blanket of yours or ya have enough power to use the radio if trouble starts. We all gotta' make sacrifices, 'specially during times like this, and for the sake of the greater good I think we can spare your comforts." The wolf smiles, "Besides, aint my fault you weren't born a wolf."

The dog sits up alone in his tower. The tight log space is closed save for an open window that faces outside the village. Inside accompanying the dog is a small table where a radio sits with a collection of maps and papers beside it. Twirling down the side of the window log-frame is an orange extension cord. The dog plugs the cord into the rifle's scope and turns it on. He peers inside the view of the thermal scope but only sees dark blues and purples. "Thermal Scope seems to be working." he comments unplugging the scope. Pulling the rifle upright, he curls into the layers of various blankets around him. He huffs out a puff of visible breath. He shivers thinking, 'it's going to be a long shift.'

Lonesome he internally monologues as time passes,

"Perpetual winter: the curse of this northern climate. Summer is chilly, fall is cold, winter is frigid, and spring is slightly less so. Yea, that's perpetual winter, but I guess it could be worse. I've heard rumours about the southern-lands, where up here it may be all tundra and snow, apparently down there it's all desert, sand, and ruin. I've heard rumours, that where the bombs hit, that is to say in the south, that's where the water is unsafe to drink; most of the land is irradiated, and there's even talk of mutants roaming free. I guess we got the Snow-Folk but they are nothing compared to the stories I've heard. They say the summer heat makes you hot, makes you mad, they say that when the sun gets you it'll make sure you'll be completely insane before you die. They say that people will kill for even the slightest drip of clean drinking water down in the south. Actually, sometimes people just kill. Sure, the south sounds like hell inferno, but the north, well its hell frozen over."

The orange glow of a rising sun splashes on the dog's face. He is worrisome as he watches his wolf partner leave the village gates and make his way down the single path amongst his scavenging pack.

He has a brief flashback from the night before. He and the wolf are making love. Flash images stretch across his mind. They share tongues open mouth, the wolf laps at the dog's hole, The dog bends over and presents himself to the wolf, the wolf pushes himself into the dog, and finally the two stare into each other, their fur stained by each other's seed.

"Please be safe." He says before continuing his monologue,

"These lands of perpetual winter got a funny rule about them: sometimes it gives, but mostly it takes. And where the sun's unforgiving heat may make you mad before you die, the winter's persistent chill is much worse. Winter sort of lull's you away, puts you to sleep, it makes the sound of your own rattling bones a kind of lullaby, and before you know it you realize that you are just fighting against an inevitable dozing off; that really you're just waiting to die. The sun makes your feet hot; it makes you want to dance. But the chill? It's lethally lethargic.

"Sitting in this tower I learned a few things about life. Yea- it's a regular classroom out here. I learned that snowfall is a lot like history. Sometimes its sticks around, but mostly it's just waiting for the next layer to come overtop and replace it. I'm wondering if the cubs around here will even remember the fall of the bombs by the time they get around to being adults. Heck, can I even say I remember it? The first bomb fall was way before my time. Who am I to even talk about it?

"That's the other thing about snow, eventually every time snow falls it starts looking about the same. First there is snow fall, things happen, but it all gets forgotten when a new blanket of snow comes over to replace it. It makes me feel like everything is so damn cyclical. It's like that expression people say..."

A group of large polar bears arrive at the gates of the village. They are decorated in various scrap-yard armours made out of strips of leather, bones, nails, and other materials. Behind the group are packed wagons covered by canopies. Each canopy is specifically marked with a special kind of seal, a kind of imperial brand with the words N.R.M.S written across it. The weapons of the bears range from rifles, to bow and arrows, to planks of two-by for. The leader of the makeshift militia stands forward speaking out,

"We, of the Northern Republic Merchant Syndicate, have come seeking trade."

The dog finishes his monologue, "That history is doomed to repeat itself," lifts his rifle, cocks the bolt back and readies himself to fire. He shouts down at the group of bears below,

"You all can just come back the way you came. You think us daft? We haven't forgotten the last raid you damn bears pulled on us!"

"Raid? What raid? We come here with supplies that we are willing to trade! We are merchants not raiders."

"Yea? You don't look like merchants to me."

"Oh, do you judge us because we walk with a bit of added protection? Walking with the appearance of raiders helps us get through the more tighter territories we assure you. Look at our wagons. Look and see our branded caravan. What we speak is true!"

"Looks stolen to me!" The dog lets off a warning shot that lands at the leader's feet, "Now walk unless you want a bullet right between your eyes.

"Fine...Fine! We get it. Come on, if these kind yet isolated folk can't see past their ignorance then we'll just take our business elsewhere. I mean what kind of day and age do we live in that a person is profiled just based on the actions of his less civilized ancestors. Good day to you! I'll certainly be reporting this to the syndicate board."

"Not falling for it. You just walk right out of here."

Another bear comes up to join the leader. The leader speaks to him privately, "I guess I just am not going to make it as an actor am I?" The bear turns his posse and shouts, "Well. You heard the man in the tower. ATTACK!"

The raiders open fire at the tower and the dog dives down as the radio behind him gets chewed up by stray bullets. Crawling as bits of wood fly off the walls he moves to ring a bell, an alarm for the city. However another stray bullet hits the bell and it falls on the floor.

"Seize fire! Explosives get on that gate!" orders the leader and two bears from his posse move forward.

The dog notices the raiders setting a line of explosives onto the entrance gate. He stands up and takes a few quick shots at the demolition bears, hitting one the raiders who drops immediately. The raiders return their sights towards the tower opening fire once again. The dog dives down once more, only this time he is grabbing his side. He was not quick enough, he has been hit.

"Get those explosives set-up! Let's go!" The dog hears from outside the tower as he removes his paw from his wound and sees himself bleeding.

There is a grand explosion and the gates fall as the raiders charge into the village. The dog, with weak knees, still manages to descend the watchtower staircase with rifle over his shoulder. As he stumbles his way down the rickety staircase, the air is filled with gunshots, screams, and the maniacal laughter of raiders.

When the dog returns to the bottom of the watch-tower he faintly opens the cage door by leaning against it. The village is erupted in chaos; the raiders quickly chew through whoever is inside. Those whose stand, only get a few shots off before falling like the rest of the villages. The dog, breathing heavy and trying to muster whatever strength he has left, lifts the rifle slowly, shaking under its weight.

He lines up his shot towards the leader of the raiding party just as the leader turns around and notices him. He internally monologues,

"Sometimes winter gives..."

And then the dog drops the rifle, collapsing into the snow beneath him. The leader of the raiders grins.

"But mostly she takes."

**

The dog's partner's hunting party excitedly climbs up the single path on their way back home. The bounty collected after their travel is hefty. Not a single one is frowning amongst the group. They chatter as they walk back towards their home. It is now dusk and it is now snowing:

"I bet we'll celebrate after this find!"

"Shit and I thought we'd never hit it big after last time."

"I can't wait to refuel the generator. It'll be nice to have a supply of electricity for once."

The cheeriness drops when they see their village in shambles. The dog's partner looks first towards the tower and sees that it has been shot up. The pack falls off the wolf's shoulders. A paw-print trail leads from where the wolf once stood rushing fast towards the fallen gates.

The wolf finds the face-down dog already half buried by the snow that had been falling. Tears well under his eyes as montage images begin to play in his mind. They are making love again. The wolf kisses the dog, in his paw are both their erections being rubbed together. Next image: the wolf is leaning down, the dog on his lap. He is holding the dog across the chest with a strong arm. His other arm is feeding fingers in the dog's mouth. They are both panting heavy as the dog rides the wolf. The wolf pushes forward, his position now mounting the dog from behind. The dog is pawing himself off as his partner dominates him. The dog howls, a stream of white shoots out from him and then he collapses. The wolf then lets out a shiver as well, releasing his seed, the load dripping out of his lover's tailhole. Third image, the dog is asleep; the wolf stays awake to watch him.

The wolf pulls the dog up from the snow and internally monologues,

"My lover once believed that watching snow fall from the tower could teach him a lot about life. He used to philosophize about history repeating itself and how everything is just layer above layer to him. Each layer was new, and yet each layer was somehow always the same. He would say that if life's a big circle, then our life seems to be caught in a cycle of give and take where this idea of give holds a larger part of the circuit."

"And I can agree in believing that our history most certainly is a cycle of give and take. But this is not true for snow. Snow gives, but it never really takes. What it gives is a gift from the clouds, a fall of snow to blanket the chaos. So that each new fallen flake comes to bring us a new chance to start again. Snow gives us redemption, and we take it all in, and then wait for when we need it again. This is our life out here in the wastes. Sometimes winter gives, but mostly it takes. This is true. But when it does give, we ourselves know how to take. Because we know how to scrounge, we know how to rebuild from devastation, and sure as shit, as each bit of snow comes to give us a clear slate to walk again, we know how to be thankful for the gifts given to us. The persistent winter is cold, but this only encourages our spirits to burn brighter. It's like that expression people use to say..."

The dog awakens, his eyes slowly opening weakly to see his partner holding him. He smiles warmly before closing his eyes again.

"Count your blessings."