Free White Out: A Post Apocalyptic Thriller by Eric Dimbleby

perturbed by the concept of Christian staying home while his wife worked. A lot of men were like that, and Christian couldn’t help but feel embarrassed whenever the subject was broached.
    Christian felt a sudden chill circulating through his body.
    The temperature outside was dropping again, as Christian was becoming more and more attuned to the terrifying fluctuations. And when the later afternoon’s darkness came, as it always seemed to, so did the most unbearable conditions. He'd have to find Edgar somewhere warm to sleep, assuming he wanted to stay at through the night. 
    "What do you do for work?"
    "You know… a little of this, a little of that."
    "Handyman? Jack of all trades?" Christian asked.
    Edgar shook his head, clicking his cowboy boots together as he righted himself, stretchi ng out his arms toward the ceiling, looking quite pained as he did so. Christian noticed that Edgar had been favoring his shoulder since he awoke, wincing every now and then when he readjusted his sitting position or got up to use the bathroom. His wound would take a long time to heal, if it ever fully healed at all.
    "Not a handyman , although I’m pretty good with a hammer. I guess you could say I’m more of a wandering man than anything."
    "Really?"
    "Really. I like the good old days, ya’ know? When a man could take what he wanted, without worrying about hurting anybody's feelings. Living on the open road, without anybody holding him back. Riding the rails, sluggin’ some moonshine, trampin’ through hobo jungles, all that fun stuff," Edgar said, proudly puffing his chest out, and Christian couldn't help the feeling that this declaration was somewhat rehearsed. Not so much that Edgar was lying, but that he'd spoken this way about himself on many occasions. It was probably a pretty common question for somebody that deemed themselves a "wandering man."
    "Not too shabby," said Christian, immediately appalled at his choice of words. Edgar was going to think that he was a fool. Not too shabby. He had never in his life used that phrase, and vowed never to use it again. Something about Edgar made him nervous, like the older kid on the block that everybody wanted to impress.  
    "I like it on the open road. Every day is a new chapter, ya’ know? Keeps the blood flowing I reckon. Keeps the brain fresh."
    "I reckon it does."
    Stop it, thought Christian as he parroted back a phrase Edgar had used several times, or you're going to insult him! He could hear Annie saying this in the back of his head, as though she was right beside him. If she was here, he wondered, would she approve of Edgar? He wasn't sure. It was a litmus test that he often used when pondering these types of situations, one that he suspected most married men referenced from time to time: What would my wife say if I did this, or said that? 
    "He's a good boy," Edgar said, gesturing with his mug of water towards the sleeping child. When he said this, a plume of frosty breath came from his mouth, lingering in the air for a long moment. 
    " He’s great, too. I couldn’t have asked for a better son. Wouldn't trade him for anything. You have any kids yourself, Edgar?"
    “ Nope. But I'd like some, one of these days. My last lady friend called me a hopeless man-child , can you believe that?” He started to laugh, sipping on his water. “She said I was too interested in wandering to be dragged down. So I cut her head off and thumbed my way across the Midwest.”
    Christian felt himself shudder inside, glancing quickly at Paulie, then at the warm poker still clutched in his hand. He turned towards Edgar to find a hearty grin painted across the man's typically stoic face.
    He was kidding with him again.
    Edgar launched into a coughing fit of chuckles, complete w ith the half-hearted knee slap.
    "You got me again, didn't you?" asked Christian, not finding the violent wisecrack to be the least bit amusing, especially with his son in the room, whether he was sleeping or not. If