Winter Supplies

The wind bit with the teeth of a hungry wolf, a cruel promise of the winter that was fast descending upon Black Creek. Each gust tore through the threadbare blankets and thin coats of the survivors huddled within the church walls, a constant, chilling reminder of their precarious existence. The air inside Saint Michael’s was thick with the smell of woodsmoke, stale sweat, and a gnawing anxiety that had settled deep in their bones. Bubba watched Sarah meticulously measure out a dollop of antiseptic onto a clean rag, her brow furrowed with concentration. Her hands, usually so steady, trembled slightly as she tended to a young boy with a fever that refused to break.

“Anything?” Bubba asked, his voice a low rumble in the relative quiet.

Sarah looked up, her eyes shadowed with exhaustion. “Just the fever, Bubba. It’s stubborn. We’re running low on fever reducers, though. And the antibiotics…” She trailed off, shaking her head. “It’s not good. We’ve got maybe a week’s worth of the strong stuff left, if we ration like crazy.”