The Frozen Jungle

My brother Jim placed this story in 1963 in a literary chapbook called Touchstone, published by the Abraham Lincoln High School. It was one of 29 stories and poems featured in that issue. I have reproduced it here in verbatim, with no editorial changes.

THE FROZEN JUNGLE

     The day was bright and warm. It was the type of day in which traveling salesman, Peter Kirk, often made sales of clothing and supplies to the Indian brujo villages scattered throughout the high jungle country of Brazil. However, Kirk would not be making sales today for he had left the villagers of his last stop happy and contented with their newly purchased treasures and had set a course, the shortest he knew, through the uninhabited regions of the Brazilian jungles in hopes of reaching his final resting place, Brasilia, early the following day.
     The small, mud-splattered Volkswagon faithfully rumbled and jolted down the narrow dirt road that would lead to a central highway. There would be many weary miles before he would reach the open plateau and civilization. He had traveled this road only once before and had not seen a living soul in all those miles. He looked through the dusty windsheld at the lush growth characteristic of a South American rain forest. The thick undergrowth was beginning its slow strangulation of the rutted road.
     Kirk dodged a twisted tree trunk lying across the road and after steadying the nose of the car, glanced upwards over the towering tree tops and saw the big yellow sun begin its dip toward the horizon. Something seemed peculiar about the sun today, but he was unable to tell what it was.
     Suddenly, a bang issued from the front of the car, and Peter Kirk lost control of his vehicle. It swerved into a grassy embankment. Kirk peered out the window and saw the left front wheel, flat from a blowout. He started the engine and spun his wheels against the matted floor, but the little car would not budge.
     Kirk grew impatient and crawled out of the car. He frowned at the flattened tire, dusty brown from its covering of caked mud. The bordering edges of jungle had widened, forming a small clearing. Kirk could see the crown of the sky above, brilliant turquoise from the afternoon sun. He opened the trunk of the car and lifted out a suitcase and a small box of clothes used in trading with the Indians. He laid the cardboard box and suitcase on the damp ferns covering the ground and pulled out the shiny spare tire. He rolled it into the grass and squatted down to remove the blown tire from the axle.
     A breeze started swaying the jungle plants and played with the flaps of the cardboard box. A piece of clothing whipped out of the top, and Kirk jumped to retrieve it as it fluttered over the quivering grass blades. The shadow of his broad frame covered the garment, and as he stooped to pick it up, he noticed his shadow growing dimmer as if the light of the sun were slowling being extinguised.
     He abruptly turned and faced the western sky. He drew in his breath as he saw the sun being blotted out by a dark grey cloud billowing over the jungle. He looked but could not see the obliterated sun. Never had Kirk seen a cloud of such proportions advance so quickly, and it worried him. He walked briskly to the car and resumed work. He could not concentrate. His eyes kept wandering to the strange cloud. It tumbled and crawled over the jungle. It brought cold winds and hugged his shoulders to keep warm. He noticed that the chatter of monkeys had ceased and the inner recesses of the green forest were now as still as a tomb. The wind grew stronger. The ferns and grasses danced crazily.
     Kirk looked up at the sweeping grey cloud now covering half of the sky. It was like a giant preparing to crush the earth. The last areas of blue disappeared; the temperature dropped sharply. He could see his breath, frozen before him. He jumped up in his sudded chill and looked anxiously about. Everything had taken on a distant, unreal appearance. He noticed the trees, bending low under the icy wind. The tempest increased to the wrath of a gale. The boxes of clothing tumbled over the road, scattering garments into the moving, blowing jungle.
     The screaming wind was now deafening, and his head spinned in confusion. Shivering from the cold, Kirk jumped into his car.
     As watched, the churning clouds began spewing huge snow flakes which were caught in the fierce wind and thrown upon the jungle. Kirk gasped and clutched the steering wheel hard as the gigantic flakes splattered against the little car. He watched ice form on the wind-tossed plants. His car became covered with several inches of ice and snow. He saw the plants and trees cracking from the extreme cold, covering the jungle floor with debris and ice.
     The winds rocked the car. The cold was unbearable, and it was impossible to see but a few inches. He grew panicky wondering what to do. In desperation, he searched the back seat for an animal hide an old Indian had traded him. Wrapping the skin around him, Kirk pushed against the door opposite the advancing gale. With effort, he pushed the hard-packed snow away and crawled out.
     He stumbled in the deep snow and glanced about, shielding the bitter snow from his eyes. He wanted to stay in the car but knew that was impossible. He fought to keep himself righted in the driving wind and clung to the car to keep from tumbling across the road. He could not walk against the driving northern gale but decided upon following the road to the nearest settlement, if there were one. It was the only thing to do. Soon the snow would be impenetrable.
     Kirk set out into the snow-filled beyond. When he tried to keep to the barely distinguishable road, the gale toppled and threw him. In desperation, he plunged through the snow to the edge of the jungle. He dodged wildly on, whimpering hysterically as fought the blinding sheet of white. Kirk's legs, weak and numb, would not respond to his commands. He stumbled many times, floundering in the deep snow, only to pick himself up and battle on. He felt so minute and helpless in the fury of the storm. His gasping lungs ached with bitter pain. He feared collapsing on the snow, forever held in its icy grip.
     As he neared a clearing, he found himself falling, and he landed hard in a snow drift. He had dropped ten feet. As his tortured eyes scanned the steep slope he found it to be an ice fall, a frozen cascade of water.
     The snow fall was immense with drifts over his head. He kept to the low places where the drifts were only knee-deep. His face was badly frostbitten. He pulled the frozen hide tighter around his shoulders.
     He went of for what seemed hours and countless miles. Sometimes he stopped and tried to reason. He was elated at the thought of building a fire with a dead and frozen bush but found that his numbed fingers could not manipulate the book of matches in his pocket. It tumbled into the snow. He consoled himself with the knowledge that the bush would not have burned anyway.
     Dizzy and nauseous, about to collapse for the last time, he saw through the now subsiding blizzard a dark, unnatural shape against the white of a hill. He ventured closer and saw it to be a small hut.
     He struck off through the towering snowdrifts which sometimes avalanched and threatened to bury him.
    Kirk scrambled up the frozen slope, pulling himself along by means of protruding tree limbs. His limbs throbbed with cold. He crawled through the snow until, his heart pounding, he reached the snow-caked shack. He tumbled through the stiff door and fell to the floor. Peter Kirk's weary eyes searched but found not a single human.
     Kirk painfully rose to his feet and leaned against the frame of the door. His eyes strained as he looked into the dying blizzard and at the snow covered hills beyond. The vegetation was slowing being enveloped by the harsh, deep snow. The sky above was white and lifeless, and he gazed at the snowy expanse before him. He thought that tomorrow he would scale the bleak horizon with resolute determination to find human companionship and civilization.
     But there would be no dawning for Peter Kirk, nor for the world. Tomorrow would be an icy shroud.