“Sometimes even to live is an act of courage.”—Lucius Annaeus Seneca, 1st millennium philosopher

“The citizens of Metaluna are doomed. Their world has plunged into darkness. There is no help coming. There is no food to keep alive those still hanging onto life. The wisest will walk out into the snow, lie down, and surrender themselves to the cold. To do otherwise is to suffer.”—Ignatius Aethas, news commentator, Imperial Voxcast Channel 1725

* * *

A Small Shelter
Nightfall
Metaluna

Even with a blazing fire before him, Caleb Boddall was chilled to the bone.

Outside his well-insulated hut, the evening wind howled like a ravenous wolf. Despite the plasteel walls and the meter of dirt that covered the walls and roof of his home, everything within shuddered under the onslaught of the tempest that swirled around him.

“Soup?”

His wife, Helga, stood before him, holding a steaming bowl—all that was left of their food stores.

“Aye,” he said, taking the bowl from her.

They ate in silence. The soup was hot, and it warmed him somewhat, although his toes felt numb. He would need to check them. Frostbite was a constant threat, a possible death sentence if not addressed immediately.

The storm outside grew in intensity. The sound of the wind became a deep, growling roar, and the ground began to shake. Helga began to whimper.

“It’s just air-fall,” he reminded her. “The winds are clashing, forcing air downward at great speed. It can kill if you’re outside, but we’re safe in here.”

“I’d just as soon it struck us down,” she said. “We’re going to die anyway. Best be over this horror.”

Caleb growled. His two grown children were likely dead, as were most of the residents of Manufactorum No. 184. But he’d prevailed. As a construction menial, he’d had the skills to build his hut to survive Metaluna’s entry into the gas nebula that had blotted out the sun.

And it was sheer determination that had allowed him to fight off the manufactorum’s few, desperate survivors who attempted to take his shelter by force.

“We’re not going to die,” he said, gulping down the last of his soup. He reached down and began removing his boots.

“It’s been more than two months since I’ve seen any footprints in the snow. Everyone in this area is dead.”

When he took off his right boot, he felt a stab of pain. It irritated him. “It’s true we’ve stripped the immediate neighborhood of food, but I’ll just explore deeper into the city.”

Helga shook her head. “Everyone looted the stores and warehouses long ago. There’s nothing left.”

Her pessimism only added to his irritation. “If that were true, we would have starved long ago.”

His voice rose, both in anger and to be heard above the roaring wind.

“Some food was overlooked. Some people died by accident or illness, killed by the cold, died at the hands of scavengers. Their stores were never found. There’s food out there.”

He began to pull off his sock, but he went slowly, as every movement of the cloth on skin was painful.

“Once we’ve more food, I’ll build a greenhouse next door. There’s a geothermal heat pump nearby. We can use that to warm both the greenhouse and our home. We can grow our own food.”

The sock came free of his foot, and he grimaced in pain. Looking down, his optimism collapsed. His big toe was black. Frostbite. If untreated, gangrene would set in. He looked at the blackened skin in momentary despair, then a wave of stubbornness flared hotly.

“Helga, get me the big kitchen knife. You’re going to perform a small amputation.”

Click here to learn about Metaluna’s fate.

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The Corvus Cluster is a Warhammer 40K blog documenting our hobby adventures in the fantastical sci-fi universe of Games Workshop.