Fractured: Tales of the Canadian Post-Apocalypse(24)

—Your eggs are getting cold.

—Blast it!

I slammed the receiver down with enough force to send a spike through my knuckles, a pain that felt like a nail driven into my fingers, sparing only the thumb, like the thumb was special, like the thumb had a plan, an idea, like the thumb was, the thumb was, like the thumb was?

And then I was back at the table staring at my plate.

—What the hell are these?

—Blueberries.

—Where’s my toast?

—We’re out of toast. Maybe tomorrow. Now eat.

Good advice, yes, excellent. I took a forkful of the scrambled-up eggs. They were dry, I could tell from the way they hung dully on my fork. Not a hint of glisten. Not a trace of shine. Would it kill her to add a little butter, I thought, and my eyes drifted to the fridge. The fridge, yes. There it was, most certainly a fridge, sitting where a fridge should sit, next to the stove and a little further on, the sink. Nothing but the floor in between to keep me from walking right over to it and getting myself some butter – a little glisten, a taste of shine – but still I sat, staring, the eggs growing cold on the plate in front of me, the smell of something dead in my nose. Something dead. A body. A dead body.

—When was the last time Chris visited?

—Chris?

—Our son, damn it. The boy.

A momentary waver. A quiver to her hand. So, I was getting somewhere. After long last. Here it was. I was on the verge of it now.

—I don’t?

—Was it a week ago?

—It’s hard?

—A month?

—I?

—Was it Christmas, for Christ’s sake? Was that when he came? Damn it, woman, speak!

—Yes. It was Christmas.

—And now the first week of August. Shameful, it’s shameful.

With new resolve I pitched my fork into the yellow cloud of eggs. I crammed them into my mouth, thinking about toast and coffee, and bacon, and not looking at the fridge, most definitely not looking?

—Where are you going?

For she was going somewhere, was at the back door, her hand turning, turning, her hand on the knob, turning?

—I’m going to feed the chickens.

I couldn’t think of anything to say to that so I harrumphed, harrumphed hard, with no regard for the eggs mashing against my teeth so that little bits flew out. There was one on my sleeve so I flicked at it. It made the most unbelievable sound as it hit the floor – a clattering – so out of place for a fleck of eggs, not at all like an egg should sound, especially a fleck so small, and then it occurred to me that it must have been the door and not the egg at all. Which made sense. Sure, in a world such as this?

At the window over the sink: The plate was in my hand, worried maybe about something in the sink so it clung to my fingers, trying to act all casual so my hand wouldn’t notice it still hanging there, the same way my hand was trying to avoid my eyes because my eyes were onto something, on the verge, distinctly and definitely on the verge of the thing. And my hands wanted no part of it, my hands had enough to worry about. My hands were already thinking about the paper sitting on the table. Thumbing through it, thumbing, yes thumbing, all the way through, a test of their mettle and merit, a true test of their moxie, and me along for the?

—They burnt down the Parliament Building. The prime minister set the first torch, it says. He said we’re on our own now. Say, what happened to you?

She was at the sink. Dirt covered in dirt. Hands, I could see, like they’d been dipped in it, her hair wild like straw, and a smell, something familiar, a smell I couldn’t place but even now (nine, 10 days later) I can’t get rid of. Most definitely the smell of something, of something, the smell of… something.





D-DAY


T.S. Bazelli

Seven days after D-Day

That’s what we’ve taken to calling it: D-Day, the day everybody disappeared. One minute cars zipped past the bus stop, the next, they just stopped. Oh, they’re still there, parked in the middle of the road. It’s like their drivers cut the engines and just walked away. Only no one ever came back, and it all happened in the time it took to glance at my watch and back up again.

It’s eerie walking around Vancouver these days. No women in tight yoga pants walking small yappy dogs, no kids running around the yard at the high school down Cambie Street, no early morning joggers.

But you should see the house. It hasn’t been this full since the last time the grandkids came over for Christmas. There were five of us waiting at the bus stop on D-Day, and for some reason, whatever took the rest, just passed us by.

They’re all staying at our house until we figure out what’s going on. It made sense to invite them over, since we lived the closest, and I know you’d have done the same.

You’d be proud! I’ve been feeding our guests, and cleaning up around the house so that everything’s in good order for when you come back. I know you will. It all happened so suddenly that it stands to reason things will go back to normal just as fast. We’ve even got a board up in the living room with bets on how long it will take, and you know I’m a gambling man.

It’s been all right so far. There’s a middle-aged couple from the Island, the Snows; a young kid, Ying; and this quiet banker, Tom.

We’ve been trying to get in touch with everyone’s families but the phones just ring and ring. I drove Ying and Tom over to their houses but their families are gone too. No one’s answering emails. For now, it seems safer if we stick together, just in case.