Fractured: Tales of the Canadian Post-Apocalypse(59)

The Programmer sighs and walks away, toward the Mother Mother. From where he stands with his feet in the pool, the Apothecary watches, watches.

? ?

The next morning there are two Followers dead: KateMother and a two-year-old child, Rufus. Rufus had been sick since the day he was born, but KateMother’s death is a shock. We bury them and sprinkle mushrooms in their grave. The Composer leads us in a song and then we climb, climb. Rose does not laugh the whole day. She does not cough or urinate. She does not complain. She climbs, climbs, when she can, and the rest of the time I carry her. The Programmer watches Rose, and the Apothecary watches the Programmer. With every step the world gets warmer and wetter. So wet and so warm. But the cave seems brighter now, and there are fewer bats. We are eating blindfish and dried mushrooms for lunch when Rose asks me again. “Mother, what is it like, to be dry?”

I do not call her “Sally Salamander.” I look at the Apothecary and remember the feel of his chin hair on my neck. “It is like fire,” I say. “Fire that doesn’t burn.”

That night, the Apothecary comes to me as I sleep. He sneaks up behind, stroking my hair, whispering for me to stay quiet. He has brought two full rations of water, and one of the Mother Mother’s sweet sticks, for Rose.

“But it is not our turn,” I say. “The Programmer’s offering still swims inside me.”

The Apothecary puts a thumb on my lips. “No one will know. It’s harder to keep track here.” Beside us, Rose begins to stir. “I will leave before the rising hour.”

He moves closer and I wriggle around him, breathing the leathery hum of his flesh. I peel off my Mentholsuit and climb on top, keeping my head low, low. As always, our bodies come together amidst the flapping of bats. Rose wakes and looks at me and I motion for her to be quiet. The Apothecary, still inside me, smiles at Rose and hands her the sweet stick. He whispers, telling her that everything will be all right. Rose rolls over, turning her eyes away from us, and puts the sweet stick in her mouth.

? ?

I awake to grunts and shouts. The Father Fathers encircle me. Two of them grab my arms and the other reaches into a sack and begins to tie my wrists together. The Programmer is stooping over Rose, picking the sweet stick up from the earth. The Apothecary is on his knees behind the Father Fathers, his hands bound. The Mother Mother is watching, watching, rubbing her belly and squinting. She looks like she is in pain.

There is an abrupt trial, led by the Programmer. The Mother Mother is very quiet. She keeps sneaking furtive glances in my direction. The Grandmother grows heated, waving her arms in the air, but the Programmer keeps shaking his head. The Father Fathers nod solemnly and the Grandmother storms away.

The Programmer announces the final decision: the crime is Violation of the Glorious Rotating Monogamy Programme and the sentence is Reintegration. The pale Apprentice cries out, asking whether we can afford the sacrifice. “We are dying,” he pleads. “There are only nine Gestating Followers left. To reintegrate RoseMother is to contaminate our Lifewater at the source.”

The Programmer assures everyone that it will be all right. He says the Server has declared that we will survive as long as we abide the Glorious Rotating Monogamy Programme. The Followers grunt and nod. The Apothecary does not resist as the Programmer takes the First Aid Kit from his neck. He looks into the distance, his eyes poised, as when he hunts the blindfish.

The Father Fathers dig two holes in the earth, side by side. At least they are side by side. They lay us down in the holes and pick up their shovels. The Programmer looms behind them, with Rose at his side. He has his hand on her shoulder and I can see his index finger running back and forth along her collarbone. She is tense, tense, biting her soft little lip.

The first shovelful of dirt falls over me, thudding, thudding, on my chest. A few grains scatter across my face. I look at Rose. Her mouth is moving and there is fear in her eyes. I want to hold her in our little tent in the Mentholcove, listening to her breath as she settles into sleep. I want to see her feeding the salamanders, her eyes bright as the creatures curl their tails and flick their tongues. I want to listen to her laughing as she runs through the mushroom forest, looking over to make sure I am watching, her eyes sparking with love and glee.

Another shovelful hits me, this one falling across my thighs. For a moment, I think about calling out. I could accuse the Programmer of glowing like the cave insect. But who among us has not become like the cave insect?

My eyes fall on the Mother Mother and I imagine the Future that will emerge from her womb. I see it as a magnificent creature with red, red eyes and the wings of a bat. I see it taking flight across the sky above the Plains of Benevolence, hovering, hovering, among the things they call clouds. I see it trailing a mane of golden hair and laughing as it scoops Rose up and takes her in its arms. I see them laughing together, flying far into the North. They will find Technology. They will find Know-How. They will cross the Neverending Pipeline and ride together on the backs of the gigantic carnivorous moose. They will be glorious, glorious, and free, free.

I feel the Apothecary looking at me and I glance over and nod. I am not sure what my eyes say but I want them to say that everything is all right. We are here, together, in the damp, damp earth. Together, together. I look at Rose, but a clump of dirt falls across my eyes.





CITY NOISE


Morgan M. Page

Two cans of beans and an eggplant, a big one like you used to get at a supermarket before everything went for-real organic. Pretty good haul from a half hour with this client, and he was sweet, too. It’s enough to eat for a couple of days. And a Rolex – doesn’t work but looks like the day it was made. Sarah puts them into her satchel, stained and patched a hundred times over, different colour leathers, holding together all these years later.