Sherman trudged through the iced over snow. The thin film crackled as his feet broke through it and sank beneath. He climbed over makeshift barricades and wound his way through the cluttered mess of slowly rotting vehicles. He wandered down the road careful not to tread on large lumps in the snow here and there.

The bodies.

Everywhere Sherman went, they were there. They lay where they fell, covered in ice, covered from the sun, sleeping beneath the cold.

Sherman placed his steps watchfully and made sure not to disturb them. He knew they would not wake. He knew that they weren’t sleeping.

He knew, but it was less for them than for himself. Call it what you will.

Past the abandoned ramparts he came to a Chinese restaurant. Its windows were dark and still laced with dead neon tubes. He pushed the door open and heard a sweet bell tinkle from above and the snapping of chopsticks from underfoot.

Sherman walked over to the dust-covered counter and found a single fortune cookie wrapped in plastic.
He cracked it open and pulled out the strip of paper. He examined it in the light and stared at the slowly melting icicles that hung before his eyes.

The red calligraphy read: “Wise man say, ‘Worry not, it will not snow every day.’ 6 26 67 33”