A brutal, ceaseless wind scours the icy cobblestones. It carries grit and snow that moves horizontally.
CALEB (17), face obscured by goggles and a brass-rimmed respirator, runs. He’s thin, wrapped in layers of worn canvas and wool. A clunky, hydraulic KNEE-BRACE on his left leg whirs and leaks a thin trail of black fluid onto his pants.
His breath snap-freezes on the respirator’s rim like sugar glass. He tastes cold copper.
He sprints, boots with crude spikes slipping and catching on the ice. He’s running for his life.
Around the corner, an 11-B STEAM-TRAM, a two-story behemoth of riveted iron and frosted glass, screeches to a stop. It hisses steam from a dozen vents, throwing sparks from its steel wheels like angry fireflies.
A cluster of men in top hats and greatcoats huddle under a heat-lamp awning, their breath puffing in synchronized bursts. They ignore Caleb.
The tram’s CONDUCTOR leans out, slamming a wrench against a jammed door mechanism.
The warning is thin, nearly swallowed by the wind and the roar of the tram’s boiler.
Caleb pushes harder. He leaps.
His knee-brace screams a metallic protest. He grabs a freezing iron handrail, the cold burning through his leather glove. He hauls himself up the steps.
The pneumatic doors behind him HISS shut, slicing off the wind like a guillotine.
Sudden, relative silence. The thrum of the engine. The wet-wool smell of fifty bodies. Coal dust. Burnt sugar.
Caleb shoves his way through the packed crowd.
The GRIM MAN has a cracked mechanical eye-piece.
Caleb finds a corner to lean in. A hot flash of panic. He pats the heavy canvas of his coat. Feels a hard lump. Relief washes over his face. The regulator valve.
The tram LURCHES forward, gears grinding like gnashing teeth.
Caleb leans his forehead against the cold glass. Frost ferns creep across the inside of the pane. His gaze drifts across the car, landing on SASHA (17), a girl from his class. She clutches an old wooden violin case like a life raft. He looks away quickly.
The heater vent at his feet blows lukewarm air that smells of old socks. He can’t feel his toes.
His refurbished, brick-sized COMMUNICATOR buzzes in his pocket. He fumbles it out with gloved hands. A message from JULES.
`U on the 11?`
Caleb types back, clumsy.
`Yeah. Back corner. Smells like feet.`
`Coming.`
A loud THUMP from the roof of the tram. A few passengers look up, startled. Caleb just sighs.
The rear emergency hatch pops open. JULES (17) drops inside, grinning, a cloud of steam billowing in with him. He wears a pilot’s cap with ear flaps and a clunky, worn-down hydraulic exosuit. He slams the hatch shut.
The Conductor yells something unintelligible from the front.
Jules squeezes in next to him, smelling of grease and cinnamon. He pulls a squashed, lint-covered pastry from his pocket.
Caleb pats his pocket.
Caleb looks out the window. Grey buildings crusted with ice. External steam pipes pulse like veins. In the distance, the Golden Boy statue on the legislative building spins wildly in the wind.
They pass a homeless shelter. A line of people huddle over a steam grate, wrapped in grey blankets. A man tries to light a cigarette, the wind killing the flame again and again. Caleb looks away.
Jules points toward the front of the car. At Sasha.
Caleb regrets it instantly. Jules gets a wolfish grin.
A deafening SCREECH of tearing metal. The tram lurches violently. Passengers stumble and fall. Caleb slams into the Grim Man.
The lights flicker. Die. The engine hum cuts out. Silence, except for the HOWL of the wind outside.
A collective GROAN fills the car. The temperature is already dropping. Breath fogs in the air.
Jules gestures to the window. The snow is a horizontal blur.
They push to the doors. The Conductor has manually cranked them open a few feet.
A blast of cold hits them like a physical blow. Tears freeze in the corners of Caleb’s eyes.
They step out into drifting snow. Caleb’s knee-brace whirs and locks, stabilizing him. They hunch their shoulders and start walking, heads down against the screaming wind.
They trudge past an antique shop. Inside, golden light illuminates a cat sleeping on a velvet chair. A different universe.
Ahead, a dark lump in the snow.
Caleb stops. Jules bumps into him.
Caleb hurries forward. An OLD WOMAN (70s) is on her knees, trying to gather spilled apples from the grey slush with BARE HANDS.
Her fingers are waxy and white.
Caleb grabs her arm. She looks up, face pale, eyes milky. Her teeth are chattering violently.
Jules is there now.
They haul the bird-light woman to her feet. She weakly reaches for the apples.
Caleb half-drags, half-carries the woman toward the bank, fighting the wind every step.
Caleb kicks the door open. The warmth inside is a shock. It smells of dust and receipt paper. He guides the Old Woman to a corner, where she slides down the wall.
She stares at her rigid, white fingers. Caleb rips his own gloves off and begins rubbing her hands, trying to create friction.
The door opens and Jules stumbles in, carrying a handful of bruised, wet apples. He dumps them in her lap.
A streak of snot is frozen on his lip. The Old Woman looks at the apples, then at the boys. Tears leak from her eyes.
They wait. The pink slowly, painfully returns to her fingers. She winces. Pain means she’s alive.
Caleb and Jules hurry down a narrow street. Miller’s shop is ahead, a storefront with a sign made of gears. The sign is flipped to read: CLOSED.
Caleb stops dead.
He runs to the door, rattles the handle. Locked. He cups his hands to the glass. Dark inside.
Caleb hammers on the glass with his fist.
Nothing. Just the wind whistling through the brickwork.
Caleb slumps against the door, defeated. He slides down to sit on the step, the cold seeping through his pants. He pulls the brass regulator valve from his pocket. It glints, beautiful and useless.
Caleb looks up. It’s Sasha. The violin case is strapped to her back. She’s wrapped in a coat too big for her.
Caleb scrambles to his feet.
Sasha nods, then looks at the valve in Caleb’s hand.
Caleb blinks.
A small smile cracks the cold from her face.
A week of credit. A lifeline.
She digs into her pocket and hands him a blue plastic card. It’s warm from her body. He hands her the valve. Their fingers brush. A tiny spark of heat in the frozen world.
She turns and walks away, boots crunching in the snow. Caleb watches her go.
Jules punches his arm. Hard.
Caleb looks at the transit card. Salvation. He grins.
They start walking. The streetlights flicker on, amber globes buzzing against the early twilight. Little suns on a wire.
The wind still howls, but it doesn’t feel so bad anymore.
Jules laughs and takes off, metal legs clanking.
Caleb runs after him. His knee-brace clicks. His lungs burn. The cold air tastes like iron and victory.
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