The arctic squall passed.
Many died, locked in their homes by the pressure of the snow against doors and windows, unable to escape. Others battled fiercely to keep air flow open, and were living off the meltwater until rescue came. Some passed quietly in their sleep from carbon monoxide poisoning. A death sentence for burning their possessions.
Izzy dug out apartments. Sometimes she rescued people, which she let them think was her intention. She got trinkets for her troubles, but the best hauls were from the tombs.
She loaded up on what she could carry because others were scavenging too. She estimated worth per ounce. Jewelry stashes were good, but so was packaged food. She’d been eating well this week, a first for her skinny frame.
The apartment people had the distinction of dying with their loved ones. At least, Izzy liked to think that was true. She found them huddled together. Probably for warmth, but what was love but warmth?
She remembered her lessons. People lied. She never told them who she was when she cracked open a live apartment. They were grateful, and pressed food on her. They never asked her to stay.
Izzy didn’t lie to the survivors. She told them gray truths and thanked them for the food.
The last apartment’s survivor had welcomed Izzy wholeheartedly. He hadn’t asked her to stay, but he followed her when she left.
“C’mon, Alfie,” she said, shouldering a pack. “Gots what we came for.”
The puppy looked up from a hole he was digging in the snow. A pile of white balanced on his black nose, and he sneezed, scattering the white powder into the air to fall silently once again.
“Good boy.” She said when he raced over to her, dancing around her ankles. “I found meat this haul. You’re going to be eatin’ well too.”