Temperatures plummeted to minus forty degrees. In Madrid. In Rome. In Athens. Cities never built for the cold froze solid. Water pipes burst. People without stoves froze to death in their apartments.
The snow arrived three days after the blackout. It fell for weeks.
Anna was lucky. She hadn't had the old tiled stove torn down when the other tenants had. She had stored firewood in the cellar. She had canned goods. She had candles.
She also had Mrs. Lehmann's hunting rifle.
Mrs. Lehmann had died last summer. Heart failure. She had no heirs. Anna had cleared out the apartment and kept the rifle. She didn't know why. Perhaps she had sensed it.
The first few weeks were the worst. The roads were impassable. The helicopters couldn't fly. The government still existed, but it was powerless. It had no energy. It had no communication. It had no control.
Millions of people died.
In the hospitals, the emergency generators failed after three days. People froze to death in the nursing homes. People starved to death in the high-rises. The supermarkets had been looted on the first night. After that, there was nothing left to loot.
Anna survived.
She survived because she remembered her husband's stories. The week with the wolves. Heinrich Bergmann, who had died because no one had checked on him. She went from door to door. She knocked. She helped.
She found twelve people still alive in her house. She brought them to her apartment. She shared her firewood. She shared her canned goods. She kept watch with her shotgun.
The wolves came again. This time there were more of them. This time they were bolder. This time there were bodies in the streets.
In February, the first news reached the survivors. An amateur radio operator had powered his equipment with a car battery. He was sending and receiving.
The news wasn't good.
Paris had been evacuated. London was burning. Gangs had taken control in New York. The military had staged a coup in Moscow. There was radio silence in Beijing.
The world's population had fallen from eight billion to an estimated three billion. In six weeks.
Anna listened to the news and didn't cry. She had no tears left. She only had tasks.
Gathering wood. Melting snow. Keeping watch. Keeping people alive.
In March, the survivors of the neighborhood banded together. There were sixty-three of them. They elected a council. Anna was elected chairwoman. She didn't want to. She did it anyway.
They organized hunting parties. They organized expeditions to gather supplies. They organized defenses against the wolves and against other people who came to take.
In April, the snow began to melt. The temperatures rose to minus ten degrees Celsius. It felt like spring.
In May, a convoy of the German army arrived. Twelve vehicles. Sixty soldiers. They brought generators, fuel, and medicine. They also brought messages.
The government still existed. It had retreated to a bunker. It was trying to rebuild the country. It would take years. Perhaps decades.
The officer leading the convoy was a young major. His name was Weber. He looked tired. He looked old.
"You've done a good job here," he told Anna. "Sixty-three survivors. That's more than in most neighborhoods."
"We stuck together," Anna said.
The major nodded. "That's become rare."
Summer came. It was short and cool. People planted vegetables in the parks. They repaired the roofs. They cleared away the dead.
The power came back in August. Only for a few hours at a time. Only in some neighborhoods. But it came back.
People wept when the lights came on. They had forgotten how bright electric light was. They had forgotten how loud a refrigerator hummed. They had forgotten what the world had sounded like before the great silence.
Anna stood at the window and looked out at the street. Children played among the ruins. Men repaired a car. Women carried buckets of water.
A new world emerged. A smaller world. A harsher world.
But also a world where people knew each other.
In September, a young man came to Anna. He was the son of a neighbor who hadn't survived. His name was Bergmann. He was Heinrich's grandson.
"My grandfather lived here," he said. "On the fourth floor. He died alone."
Anna nodded. "I know. My husband knew him. They fought the wolves together. Back then, four years ago."
"And then they forgot him," the young man said. His voice wasn't bitter. Just sad.
“Yes,” said Anna. “They forgot him.”
They were silent for a while. Then the young miner said:
“Not this time.”
“No,” said Anna. “Not this time.”
The young man stayed. He became part of the community. He helped with the rebuilding. He learned to chop wood, set traps, and bandage wounds.
One day he asked Anna why she had persevered. Why she hadn't given up like so many others.
Anna thought for a long time. Then she said:
“Because I remembered your grandfather. What happened to him. What we did to him. I didn't want it to happen again.”
The young miner was silent.
“Five billion people had to die,” Anna said softly, “for us to learn what he already knew: that we only survive if we are there for each other. Not just in the crisis. But afterward, too. Especially afterward.”
Winter came again. It snowed. The temperatures dropped.
But this time, people were prepared. This time, they had stored wood, laid in supplies, and made plans. This time, they knew their neighbors’ names.
A light was on in Henry’s old apartment on the fourth floor. His grandson had taken it over. He had placed his grandfather’s photograph on the mantelpiece.
The wolves howled in the distance. They no longer came into the city. There was nothing left for them to take there.
People had learned.
It had only taken the end of the world to remind them that they were human.
S.
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