Fractured: Tales of the Canadian Post-Apocalypse(88)

He then notices that the two older women are looming only a metre away, sternly glaring at him. He leaves without another word, without another glance at Perla. As he climbs the stairs up to his floor, he overhears the family of women yell at each other.

Maxim does not sleep that night. He sits on his balcony until sunrise, keeping an eye on the front door. No one comes in, but neither does he see the women leave. Have they changed their mind? No – before the dawn mist has fully lifted, just as he gets up to step inside, he spots the three of them exiting the building. Each of them is carrying a large rolling suitcase and a big handbag strapped around their shoulder. He watches them walk south; he stares at Perla, expecting her to look back at him. She never does, and soon the trio is out of his sight.

? ?

A sharp noise in the night awakens Maxim. Alert, he listens carefully, but all seems still.

Twenty days later, and there have been no further incidents in the building. Sleep comes less easily to him now. The feeling of loneliness that welled up in him in the aftermath of finding the Chinese man’s dead body continues to overwhelm him when he lies down in bed at night, and, even once he does succeed in falling asleep, his slumber is much lighter than it was before. The slightest noise wakes him up, feeding a gnawing worry that Perla’s family was right. Is it no longer safe to stay here? Is it safe anywhere anymore?

Routine affords Maxim some comfort and sense of security, so he continues to update his survey. He has witnessed no trace of his former neighbours in the last few weeks anywhere in the city, and he presumes they have migrated southward. Out of the 1,376 different people observed in Vancouver since he started his survey, he currently estimates an urban population of 602; another 340, provisionally listed as “transient or deceased,” have been observed no more than three times in a short span and not more recently than 60 days ago; another 148 were only spotted for the first time in the past eight weeks, so their status is still “indeterminate”; the 170 “deceased or emigrated” whom he observed regularly for the first few months but then disappeared is so far a steady sum; finally, he has so far identified 116 corpses as “newly deceased” since his awakening.

As Maxim drowses back to sleep, another noise shocks him to full wakefulness. There’s no mistaking the sound: a door being slammed. And now: the sounds of multiple people running, multiple hands pounding walls. There are people inside the building.

Maxim gets dressed quickly. He hesitates, pondering whether and if he should bring anything: his notes, some food, knives, extra clothes…

There’s a loud bang at the door. Maxim freezes, unprepared, unsure what to do, unsure that there’s anything he can do…

The door bursts open. A fetid stench fills the apartment. Maxim can barely see the outline of the intruder: of average height but uncommonly bulky.

Maxim bolts for the open door. Something sharp cuts his cheek. He yells from the pain, and at the same time the intruder crashes into something in the dark and stumbles onto the floor. Maxim escapes down the stairs. On most storeys he can hear people beyond the stairwell, in the condo units: objects being thrown around, the burst of things shattering on the floor, various bangs and crashes. It sounds like random destruction to Maxim’s ears; why are these people doing this? Maxim makes it outside without further incident.

Standing on the moist, feral lawn – it rained earlier this evening – he touches the cheek where he was cut, and his hand comes back dripping. Now that his adrenaline rush has subsided, the pain in his cheek gets sharper. Outside, it’s cool, only a few degrees above freezing, and Maxim is underdressed. He starts shivering. He tries to concentrate, to come to a decision, but he’s getting dizzier, his mind cloudier. The wound on his cheek is still open, the blood loss weakening him.

He’s barely conscious when the female Rottweiler from Granville Island comes up to him, barking.

And that’s when Maxim succumbs to the night’s ordeal and faints.

? ?

The dog’s tongue leaves a trail of saliva on Maxim’s lips as he emerges from unconsciousness. The Rottweiler is being gentle as she licks the wound on his cheek, but her aim is broad. One of the pups whimpers, so she stops tending to Maxim to see to her offspring; immediately, five of the other pups swarm him, sniffing him all over and licking his hands. They try to get to the wound, but by now he thinks it’s best to leave it alone; he shields it with one of his hands, careful not to touch it as his fingers are filthy with mud and grime.

Judging from the state of his clothes and the aches and bruises his back is suffering from, the Rottweiler dragged him all the way here – across the grounds of his building, across the remains of the pedestrian path that lines the shore of the False Creek inlet, and across the small pedestrian bridge – to the playground on Granville Island.

The Labrador male stands guard near the mouth of the bridge. His body is rigid, alert. It’s dawn; usually the dogs would go on a scavenging run. But they show no sign of budging, of wanting to leave the security of their home. Are they worried about the same group who invaded his building?

But there are many bridges that lead to Granville Island, many paths that lead into the playground they’ve made their home, and it’s impossible for the dogs to guard them all and stay together at the same time.

The day goes by without further incident. At dusk, Maxim and the Rottweiler leave the playground together, in search of food.