Fractured: Tales of the Canadian Post-Apocalypse(63)



“No more tricks,” she chimes in.

“No more tricks! And it’ll be so quiet out there.”

They stay up there, future-dreaming together until it starts to get too cold and too dark out, and they have to retreat to their basement hideout.

? ?

The darkness is complete. Without streetlights, the headlights of passing cars, the tiny glow of digital alarm clocks, and the reassurance of a smartphone lighting up periodically to let you know who’s liked something on Instagram, it is total. And on a cloudy night, there isn’t even the light of the moon and stars. So, when Sarah opens her eyes there is no meaningful difference besides the feeling of air on her exposed eyes.

The dark used to terrify her, even into her young adulthood, even before it became so thick after The Crash. Now, just a mild sense of unease creeps through her body. It’s just the night. And she puts one arm around the warm body beside hers, around her Johnny, the muscles on his body feeling as tightly coiled as ever.

She makes a list in her head as she waits to fall back asleep. They’ve spent two weeks pulling it all together – the tins of food and bottles of water from her eight regulars, a compass and sleeping bag Johnny bartered some books for, and the not too beat-up backpacks Jetta gave her as a goingaway present at her last pumping session.

Beneath her arm, Johnny’s chest rises and falls. She can’t see it, but she can feel it.

This city has been everything to her. This city gave her life, an escape from the terrors of small-town queerdom. Access to doctors who took her seriously, or seriously enough that she could get what she needed. A chance at something like happiness. Shelter through the whole ordeal of The Crash, and enough work to keep her alive and well. And this beautiful boy under her arm.

And for him, for his madness or his gift, however you want to frame it, but for him regardless, she will give up this city.

Tomorrow, they leave.





BROWN WAVE


Christine Ottoni

The dark stink of brownwater rises up off the river. It settles around the buildings at the edge of the lake. Light glows in the east, hanging low beyond the clouds in the sky.

The slumtop smells the river first. The concrete lodging towers sit at the edge of town where there is a bend in the river. The stink hits the windows and fills the empty halls. It presses up against doors, pries at cracks in the walls.

Richard and Eli live on the top floor in a corner room. Richard sits on their bed and rests his hand on his brother’s sleeping shoulder.

Brownwater is muck today, Richard says. Eli opens his eyes.

C’mon, Richard says. Breakfast and school.

They have always lived in the slumtop. Or at least since Eli was very young. He can’t remember being anywhere else. Eli sits up in bed, stretches his arms over his head and yawns. He looks out the window toward the factory where Richard works. The great black building is farther down the river at the opposite end of town. Smokestacks reach up into the mist.

Richard puts on his blue jumpsuit and rubber boots. A pot of beans is cooking on the stovetop, rattling, uneven on the element. Steam rises into the damp air. Eli is hungry.

He kicks off the thin blanket and moves to the foot of the bed, reaching for the chest of clothes. The floor is too cold for sockless feet. Eli stays on the bed while he gets dressed. A pair of pants and a sweatshirt. He puts on thick socks and tucks his pants into them. He swings his feet onto the floor.

They eat quickly and take their backpacks down from the row of hooks by the door. Richard helps the boy into his slip jacket and boots. He locks the room and they leave the slumtop. Eli runs ahead down the open concrete stairwell, the slap of his boots echoing to the floors below. Outside, the grey mist falls around them. Richard pulls Eli’s hood tight over his head. When the hood slips back, the wet air stings at his eyes. Eli tucks his face down into his collar. They walk.

The school is at the centre of town. Eli and Richard follow the main road and pass by the ground houses. They have high concrete walls and gravel lawns sprayed with bright green paint. The kids from the ground houses walk to school on their own. Their slip jackets shine blue and yellow, slick with wet. Richard straightens his back and leads Eli by the hand.

At school, kids run across the compound out of the rain. They duck into the class buildings, metal cubicles arranged by form across the pavement.

Bye, Eli, Richard says.

Bye, Richard, Eli says. He hikes his backpack up higher on his shoulders and heads toward his class with the others. Eli is the only one in his class building who lives in the slumtop. He sits at the front of the class by Miss Riley’s desk. The other kids leave him alone, mostly.

Once, at lunch, a girl named Violet gave him some of her chocolate milk.

You’ve never had it? she said.

Eli shook his head.

She pushed the little plastic package toward him and he took a sip. It was too rich. The dark brown liquid coated his throat and tongue. It left his mouth thick.

Everyone says your parents died in the flood, Violet said. She took a gulp of the chocolate milk. She smiled at the boy.

In the class building the students sit at their desks, face the front of the room. Miss Riley pulls a stack of coloured paper out of the supply closet. Usually, the students are allowed one piece each a week. They use the paper right down to the little strips. But today Miss Riley puts all the coloured paper on her desk and then turns to the chalkboard. She draws a shape, a long oval with a triangle on top and two bits splitting on the end.

Silvia Moreno-Garcia's Books