Igloo Amnesia

  Truth be told, the first graspable thought that emerged from the haze was conch chowder. Perhaps one of the most unique takes on conch chowder I have ever experienced. I was seven-eight, and filled to the brim with the elaborate, ebullient hubris of the young and privileged. Nettie, ancient to my eyes, comfortably large, and dark like Godiva, was new to our kitchen and soon to be the angel and joy of my youth. I first came upon her as she leaned over a large copper soup pot, stirring slowly, smiling, humming to herself. She winked at me and moments later, I was sitting at the cook's table experiencing my first culinary epiphany.
  I know, instinctively, that I've had other culinary epiphanies that have been startling, but they have never been as shocking, as revolutionary, and none have been as filled with that first feeling of "family".
  I say I know "instinctively", because, since that one memory, I'm empty. The time between that bowl of soup to this aching grey cold is a dusty blackboard wiped clean.
  It's brutally cold and I can't move my legs.
  The light is dim and a dirty slate color and I seem to be in a small dome of some sort. Igloo maybe. I can just make out my outfit. Combat boots, black cargo pants, and a thick, black shirt with some sort of insignia on the sleeves. Military?
  "Baby."
  Cold pain, cold fire burns my body inside and out and I shake hard enough that parts could fall off. Maybe they already have. Hours pass, I think, and I manage to sit up. The wind outside moans like a ghost.
  I have a sheathed knife strapped to my leg and a holstered handgun on my left hip. Slowly, it all goes black and I hear the crunch of snow under small feet outside (the igloo?). I sleep and dream of a wolf, flashes of fire, the growing smell of decay. I dream aurora dreams of snow, wolves, Nettie, snow, dreams, orange flashes, the sky I dream.
  “Baby, it's almost time.”
  An orange light, the color of sherbet, paints the outside of my eyelids a shade warmer. I wake to see the suggestion of an arctic sunrise through a small opening in the dome. Opposite me, a man lying on his side, is staring at me. We are dressed alike. His hair is cut short and is the color of soiled snow, his face the color of clown-skin. He doesn't move or blink and his belly has been savaged open by the wolf lying dead at his side. The wolf has holes in his pelt and is  frozen to the ground in a pool of black blood. Between the wolf and myself, spent bullet shells.
  I ache. If I don't warm up soon, I will die.
  My hands work just enough to reach into my pockets to check for resources and the smell of Nettie's kitchen suddenly rushes down on me like a torrent. Out of my right pocket, I pull a toothbrush, unused, apparently. My breathing is becoming raspy and painful. I try to catch my breath and thumb the bristles. The toothbrush lurches gently in my hand and thin blade pops out of the end and catches the sleeve of my shirt. I drop it. Why would I need a switchblade toothbrush?
  In another pocket, four silver dollars and...a rock?
  “Do you know anything about this?” I ask my friend. He doesn't answer.
  Rubbing the cold stone, I feel a ridge and it clamshells open. Inside is a blank electronic screen. On the back, a circular opening the size and shape of the silver dollars. A teeth-rattling shudder wracks my body but I think the igloo is a fraction warmer. And brighter.
  The silver dollars fit perfectly in the stone's opening and the screen on the other side blinks to life.
  It hurts to keep my eyes open but the light seems to be taking on a silver quality, the color of the sound of a bell. And the smell...there it is again...Nettie's conch chowder in a copper pot.
  My body shutters again, harder and longer, but feels lighter somehow, as if on the verge of floating.
  The stone's face went through a start up sequence, linking, it seems to a communication network of some sort.  A graphic bar filled up left to right as it ticked off a percentage, then -  “1 MESSAGE PENDING. OPEN OK?”.
    A slow pool is forming in the bottom of my lungs and I inhale in gasps. Footsteps outside, heavier this time, and moving toward the entrance. The wind seems to have settled, and it's steadily warmer. It's harder to focus my eyes as I push “OK”.
    “It's cold in here, baby.”
  The stone screen went blank a moment, then -”EYES ONLY - MISSION ABORTED. DIRECTIVE AL-9 ACTIVATED. DISPERSE. OUT. - DMA-HQ.”
  The stone-screen fell to the ground next to the toothbrush-knife. The wind outside positively stopped, the bodies opposite me iced over and turned black, I stopped shaking and Nettie, younger, thinner, dressed in a flowing white gown, and looking for all the world like a coffee-skinned goddess, walked through the entrance and knelt next to me.
  She smiled at me and her eyes shined, her hand caressed my cheek. “You're a mess, baby.”
  “Nettie?” I rasped. “Who am I? Where am I? What's going on?”
  Nettie laughed- a rich, rolling laugh that flowed from her like a warm, spring brook. “So many questions. Just like always.”
  My body warmed, lightened, and the igloo walls began to glow silver-white. 
  “Nettie...”
  “Sean.” She nodded. “Yes, that's your name, baby. Or, it was. You'll get a new one where we're going. And as far as all this...” she gestured to my uniform, the stone, the toothbrush-knife, the body, the wolf,”...This is done.”
  The blood warmed in my veins, arteries, and in my heart, rushed through me, intoxicating like strong wine.
  “Stand up, baby.”
  Nettie helped me up and I felt stronger, healthier than I ever thought possible. And the smell! There was Nettie beside me, holding my arm and smiling, smelling of frankincense, earth, and cinnamon, but beyond that, beyond here, the rich daughts of conch chowder...
  “...cooking in a copper pot.” Nettie finished my thought. “I have a fresh batch waiting for you.”
  “Where are we going?”
  Nettie patted my hand. “You're going to love it, baby.”
  And we walked outside the igloo.