The sky is orange and it’s not from the setting sun. The sun ceased to set several months ago.

I have to deliver the letter. But my lips are cracked. My heels are peeling. And the last onslaught of fire balls left my clothes unwearable. But I have to deliver the letter. A message. A warning.

It’s a warning of a new war. One of winter and broken fingers.

The broken land crunches under my calloused feet and it burns the exposed skin. I stumble forward. The camp tents come into view. I have to deliver the letter.

A rock pops out of nowhere and I stub my toe. I trip, breaking the fall with my knees.

I push myself up. Blood flows down my legs, but it soon dries.

I fall into camp and hold the letter up. The message. The warning.

My lips crack. “Gen,” I say.

There’s no wind to carry my voice but she hears me nonetheless. She runs to me with a blanket and water. I push the letter into her hand and pull the water closer. It dribbles down my chin and neck.

I pick up the discarded blanket and cover my body from the boiling sun.

Gen, wearing her cloak and robes, finishes reading the letter and she looks up at me. The hilt of her sword shines in my eyes. “Winter?” I nod. “How will they do that?”

“I have no idea but I imagine whatever the other side of the planet has been enduring, will endure what we’ve had. And vice versa.”

“A land covered with a blanket is on it’s way,” she repeats from the letter. “How can we be sure its winter?”

“We can’t. But we must prepare. We may not survive this one.”

Our tent flap blows in the wind. We stare at the brown, dusty fabric. We haven’t had wind for days.

Gen places her hand on her hilt. “What if we end it now?”

I eye her sword. It’s killed many things. Like the komodo dragon last week. Or the soldier’s weeks ago. I stare at her. “We can’t give up like that. If we can survive what they can, they may show us mercy.”

“Roaches know no mercy.” She unsheathes her sword.

I back away with my hands raised. “Gen.”

The wind grows stronger. My blanket rips away in the wind.      Her robes ripple. She drops her hood. Her skin blisters and is pink. “I will not cook any longer, and I sure as hell will not freeze.” She presses the blade to her neck. I step forward. “No,” she says.

She pulls the blade across her throat and drops.

There’s no enough water in my body to cry tears. But my heart cries. I kneel next to her body and start stripping her of her robes. I pull them over my own naked body and sheathe the sword.

I grab her wrists and drag her toward the tent. The roaches can smell for miles.

The wind threatens to rip the tent away but it holds. I use the sword and cut the flesh off of Gen’s body. She doesn’t need it anymore. I do.

The meat slaps against each other as I drop it into a makeshift bag from one of Gen’s blankets.

I then pack up the tent before the wind can steal it from me and I wait. The wind grows stronger and colder. The sun dims. And winter comes.