A Flicker in the Crystalline Wastes

Jesse’s boots skidded on the slick, frozen rubble, sending a spray of crystalline dust into the air. He didn't look back, couldn't. The groaning behind them, that deep, resonant thrum, meant the old office block was finally giving way. The Scourge had been eating at its foundations for weeks, turning steel and concrete into fragile, glowing filaments of alien ice.

“Keep moving, Jesse!” Annie’s voice, sharp and breathy, cut through the wind. She was already ahead, a small, quick silhouette against the backdrop of the perpetually twilight sky. Her own footing was surer, lighter, like she was made for this landscape of broken glass and shattered dreams. He admired that, even if it sometimes made his own sluggishness feel like a weight.

He pushed, muscles burning. The cold wasn't just on the outside; it felt like it had settled deep in his chest, an ache that mirrored the emptiness. He gripped the strap of his pack, the worn canvas digging into his shoulder. Another tremor, stronger this time, vibrated up through the ground, rattling his teeth. A sheet of ice, shimmering with an unnerving internal blue, peeled off the tower's upper floors and disintegrated into a million glittering shards before it even hit the street below. He flinched, a stupid, useless reflex.

They rounded a bent, skeletal bus, its windows long gone, replaced by thick, opaque ice. Annie waited, her hand outstretched, not quite touching him but offering the silent promise of support. Her breath plumed in the frigid air, her eyes, dark and watchful, scanned the frozen canyon of buildings. They didn't speak the easy language of friends; it was the terse, observational patter of two people who understood the unspoken threat lurking in every shadow.

“That was… close,” he managed, the words catching in his throat, tasting of stale fear and desperation.

She simply nodded, a tight, thin line for a mouth. “Too close. The shard-kin are getting bolder, or faster. They'll be drawn to the collapse.”

The shard-kin. Sentient ice constructs, birthed by the Scourge itself, that hunted heat, hunted life. They were beautiful, in a terrifying way, like living fractals of lethal glass. And they were fast. Too fast. He shivered, despite his layers of scavenged thermal gear, and not just from the cold. He remembered the last time they'd seen one up close, the way it moved, a silent, predatory glide through the ice-choked alley, its internal blue light pulsing with hunger. The memory made his stomach clench.

They had to find new shelter, and quickly. This district was becoming too unstable, too active. He squinted into the swirling snow, trying to discern a path through the glittering, deadly labyrinth. Every street looked the same, a tunnel of frozen monuments, each one a monument to a world lost.

His gaze caught on something. A flicker. Not the predatory pulse of a shard-kin, but a different kind of light. Faint. Distant. Embedded within a wall of ancient ice, half-covered by fresh snow. He stopped, his boots grinding against the pavement.

“What is it?” Annie asked, her voice low, alert.

He pointed. “There. See it?”

She followed his gaze, her brow furrowed. “Just… ice. Too much ice.”

But it wasn’t. Not entirely. It was a string of lights, frozen solid into a slab of the Scourge's crystalline growth, impossibly preserved. Red, green, yellow, blue, faded and dull beneath the thick ice, but still there. A ghost of a memory, a phantom glow in the perpetual twilight.

He remembered the first time he'd helped his dad set up the Christmas tree. He must've been, what, five? The smell of it, that sharp, earthy pine and something else, something like the dust from a warm attic. His dad, a smudge of dirt on his nose from hauling the box down, grumbling good-naturedly about untangling the fairy lights. Jesse, small and eager, had been given the easiest job: handing his dad the ornaments, one by one. The heavy glass baubles, reflecting the ceiling lights, the delicate wooden angels. He remembered the anticipation, the almost unbearable excitement as the tree slowly came to life, branch by branch, light by light.

His mother, humming off-key, would bring hot chocolate, steaming and thick with whipped cream. The lights would glow, soft and warm, making the living room feel like a different world, separate from the biting December air outside. It wasn't just the colours; it was the *feeling* those lights gave. A shield against the dark, a promise of warmth and good things. A simple, profound joy.

He closed his eyes for a second, just a second, letting the memory wash over him, a warmth so sudden it almost hurt. The sheer, vibrant colour of it all. Not the predatory blue of the Scourge, but the gentle, comforting spectrum of human celebration. He could almost feel the rough texture of the pine needles against his fingers, hear the faint, crackling hum of the transformer.

“Jesse,” Annie said, her voice firmer this time, pulling him back. Her hand, gloved, rested briefly on his arm. “We need to go. That's… just old stuff. Distractions.”

He opened his eyes, the frozen string of lights still there, mocking him with its faded beauty. “It’s not just old stuff,” he murmured, more to himself than to her. He pulled his hood tighter, shielding his face from the biting wind, from the reality of the dead city. The memory, however painful, had left a faint, lingering warmth in his chest, a tiny ember against the vast cold. It was something, anyway.

They pressed on, navigating the treacherous terrain. Annie found a path that snaked through the lower levels of a collapsed shopping complex, a labyrinth of tilting support beams and shattered display cases. The air here was still, thick with the scent of damp concrete and something else, a faint, metallic tang. He kept his senses sharp, every instinct screaming caution.

The shard-kin were clever. They used the structures, the natural ice formations, to ambush. Their crystalline bodies could mimic the environment perfectly, until they moved. And then it was a flash of predatory blue, a soundless rush, and then… nothing. He'd seen enough, heard enough, to know what 'nothing' meant.

“Up ahead,” Annie whispered, pointing to a gap in the rubble where a flight of escalators, now frozen solid, spiralled upwards into absolute darkness. “Might be a way through the upper floor. Less exposure than the streets.”

He nodded, his breath a ragged cloud. The thought of climbing those icy, unstable steps filled him with dread, but she was right. They couldn't stay on the open streets, not with the Scourge activity increasing. He fumbled with the worn straps of his heavy pack, adjusting the weight. His leg, still stiff from that fall last week, ached with every step. He didn’t complain. Complaining was useless.

As they climbed, the ice on the handrails felt strangely smooth, almost polished. Jesse reached out, his gloved fingers brushing against the cold, unyielding surface. He imagined children sliding down them, laughing, their small hands gripping the rubber. He shook his head, pushing the image away. The past was a luxury they couldn't afford.

They reached a landing, where a massive, frozen banner still hung, advertising a sale from years ago. A woman with a beaming, impossibly perfect smile clutched a brightly wrapped gift. Her teeth, frozen in time, seemed to mock their desperation. He looked away, his gaze falling instead on a small pile of debris in a nearby corner. A flash of familiar colour. Red.

He moved towards it, drawn by an invisible thread. Annie watched him, her hand on the hilt of her ice-pick. “What is it now, Jesse? We don't have time for souvenirs.” Her voice was tight, a hint of steel in it.

He ignored her, kneeling. Beneath a splintered piece of particle board, half-buried in crystalline dust, was a small, plastic Christmas ornament. A tiny, red-nosed reindeer, chipped and faded, but unmistakable. He picked it up, feeling the light, hollow weight in his palm. It was cheap, mass-produced, probably bought from one of the shops here. But for a second, it felt like the most precious thing in the world.

The Reindeer's Glow

He remembered this exact kind of reindeer. His youngest cousin, a whirlwind of boundless energy and sticky fingers, had always insisted on hanging this one on the lowest branch, right next to the twinkling lights. "So Santa can see it best!" she'd declared, her voice high and clear. He’d helped her, steadying the wobbly branch, making sure the hook was secure. The whole family would gather, a cacophony of cheerful chatter, paper rustling, the clinking of glasses. The tree, always a little too big for the corner, would stand sentinel, its lights a riot of cheerful blinking. He recalled the warmth from the fireplace, the slightly-too-sweet smell of his aunt’s baking, the way his grandfather would pretend to fall asleep on the sofa, only to startle awake and demand another mince pie. It was a symphony of small, perfect moments, each one illuminated by the soft glow of the fairy lights. The collective sigh of contentment when the final ornament was placed, the house bathed in the multicoloured shimmer.

He traced the reindeer's faded red nose with his thumb. It felt so real, so tangible, that memory. The sheer, overwhelming warmth of it. It made the bitter cold of their present reality feel even colder, a sharper, more penetrating agony. He wanted to shout, to rail against the injustice of it all, but the words died in his throat, replaced by a dull ache.

Annie knelt beside him, a beat-up energy bar in her hand, still wrapped. She didn't look at the reindeer, but her gaze was soft, distant. “My mum,” she said, her voice barely a whisper, “used to make these paper stars. For the windows. Tiny ones. Each one folded just so. Said they’d guide Santa. She said… they kept the dark out.” She didn’t look at him, her eyes fixed on some point beyond the frozen banner. Her fingers absently toyed with the corner of the energy bar wrapper.

He looked at her, truly looked at her. Her face, usually so guarded, held a flicker of something raw, something he recognised in himself. The shared ghosts. The knowledge that they were both carrying the weight of a lost world, that the light of those memories was both a comfort and a torment. He didn’t say anything. There was no need. The silence between them, for once, wasn't heavy with unspoken fear but with a fragile, shared understanding. It was two solitudes, briefly, tentatively, overlapping.

He gripped the reindeer tighter, then tucked it carefully into an inner pocket of his jacket, close to his chest. A small, foolish gesture, perhaps. But it felt important. Like carrying a piece of the world that was, a tiny spark of warmth against the encroaching frost.

“We should rest here for a bit,” Annie said, her voice returning to its usual pragmatic tone, though softer now. She pointed to a relatively clear alcove, shielded by some collapsed shelving. “Looks like the Scourge hasn’t gotten to this part yet. We can check our comms, eat.”

He nodded, grateful for the pause. His body screamed for it. As he slumped against a cold, metal shelf, he pulled out his comms unit. Dead. Again. He swore under his breath, a tired, defeated sound. The Scourge emitted some kind of interference, a constant, low-level static that made long-range communication impossible. The short-range burst he used to talk to Annie was the best they could do. It was another layer of isolation, another way the world had been carved into smaller, lonelier pieces.

He watched Annie methodically check her own equipment, her movements efficient and precise. She was strong, stronger than him in many ways. But he knew, in the quiet moments, that the past haunted her too. Maybe that was why they stuck together, two fractured halves seeking a semblance of wholeness in the ruins. Two people who didn't need to say much, because their shared terror and their shared memories spoke volumes.

He ate his ration bar slowly, the synthetic taste bland and unfilling, but necessary. The cold inside the makeshift shelter was still profound, but it lacked the biting, aggressive edge of the outside. He could hear the faint, distant groaning of the Scourge, the shifting of the crystalline growths, like a living, breathing entity settling deeper into its frozen conquest. Every sound was magnified in the silence, every creak and groan a potential harbinger of doom.

He found himself looking at the faint, internal glow of the ice outside the shattered windows. The same unsettling blue, but here, in the relative safety, it felt almost… beautiful. A terrible beauty. It consumed everything, yet it also created new forms, new landscapes of light and shadow. A strange, alien Christmas, he thought, a grim smile touching his lips. One without warmth, without joy, only the silent, glittering spread of an unstoppable cold.

He closed his eyes again, trying to conjure the memory of the real lights, the red, green, and gold. The reindeer in his pocket felt like a small, hot coal against his skin, a tiny protest against the encroaching desolation. It was a desperate kind of hope, this clinging to a memory, to a faded, plastic ornament. But what else was there?

He pictured his family, gathered around that impossibly huge tree, their faces lit by the multi-coloured glow. The feeling of belonging, of being safe. It was a powerful image, so vivid it felt like a hallucination in the silent, frozen ruins. He felt a tear track a cold path down his cheek, a traitorous betrayal of the hardened shell he tried to maintain.

He didn't know if this was supposed to feel… anything. Warm? Comforting? He just… didn’t feel alone, not for a second. Even with Annie sitting silently across from him, the weight of the universe pressing down, that small red reindeer, that vivid memory of lights, held the bleak, frozen world at bay, just for a moment. He breathed out slowly, the white plume dissolving into the chill air. They would keep moving. They had to. Tomorrow, maybe they would find a power cell, or a sign of other survivors. Or maybe they would just find more ice. But for now, he had the reindeer. And the memory.

Annie stirred, a soft rustle of her jacket. She cleared her throat. “Sunrise soon,” she murmured, though the sky outside would never lighten, only shift from perpetual twilight to a slightly less oppressive grey. “Best to move before the larger clusters become active.”

He nodded, the simple action a testament to their routine, their grim reality. He stood, his muscles stiff, and stretched, listening to the soft clicks and pops of his joints. The reindeer in his pocket felt real, a comforting weight. He glanced at Annie, who was already packing up, her face a mask of determined practicality. He saw the faint tremor in her hands, though, the barely perceptible tension in her jaw. They were both holding on, barely.

He took one last look out the shattered window, at the endless, frozen city. The bioluminescent ice spires pulsed with their alien blue, an ocean of light in the unending winter night. He almost missed it, a tiny, almost imperceptible flicker in the extreme distance, a dot of colour against the blue. A faint orange. Red, perhaps.