We stopped at an opening in the woods. I knelt down and cleared a circle in the thin layer of snow. The others went to work collecting and piling branches high on the exposed earth. With a few scrapes of the steel striker, we had a growing fire. We gathered around silently, holding our chapped hands towards the flames.
I closed my eyes and breathed in as the fire slowly warmed feeling back into my face. This was the first feeling of comfort we had shared in nearly two weeks. The sweet smell of hickory swirled around us as we stood motionless washed out in the snow covered landscape. I wanted nothing but to stand there for eternity, shutting out the world.
Without a word we turned and walked back to the edge of the woods. We each grabbed at legs and arms of the horrid bodies and dragged them to the fire. Heaving the frozen figures onto the flames, wisps of white smoke turned to plumes of black. The smell was atrocious and familiar.
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