There were puddles of what looked like puke impeding every second or third step and other, darker stains that looked like dried-up blood, most congealed with chunks of some indeterminate organic matter so that on second look they didn’t seem much like blood at all. Gerald wove onwards through these until at last he came to within view of a sign on the side of the road, a solar-powered beacon of sorts, flashing a message in orange pixels: Destruction Ahead Expect Dismay. At first, Gerald took it to be somebody’s idea of a joke, a not-so-subtle manipulation of the old standard, Construction Ahead Expect Delays — a bit of gallows humour to pass the time while waiting on some undisclosed and long-past day for the promise of help that might never come. But as he drew closer, he wasn’t entirely sure it was that. Venturing into its bleating light, he paused, scouring ahead and finding the highway’s interminable dismay stretching to the limits of his view, wondering if maybe the sign wasn’t meant to be some kind of a warning.
Clayton had fallen behind. He could hear him hastening to catch up, his walking stick knocking along to his irregular shuffle.
Looky what I found, he said as Gerald turned back.
Clayton was pointing at himself, showing off the brand-new shirt for which he’d exchanged his prison jumper. It was of a breed that might have been called “Hawaiian” — it was garish enough for that. But in place of the requisite palm trees there was a less tangible design, splashes of colour in a vertical flow like someone had emptied several fifty-gallon drums of neon paint into a waterfall. It was three sizes too big, and owing to that and the baggy jean shorts Clayton had found to go along with it, and the ever-present rabbit-eared hat and stubble of straw-like whiskers on his chin, he’d never looked more like a scarecrow than he did right then.
Pretty sweet, huh? he said. It’s silk.
It suits you, Gerald lied.
Sure beats that old prison jumper.
It’s nice.
There’s a whole suitcase full of ’em back there. I could get you one.
He was already turning around.
That’s okay.
You sure? he asked turning back. Ain’t never worn a more comfortable shirt.
His expression had taken on a delicate pleading, as if Gerald wearing the shirt would have meant the world to him.
All right, Gerald relented.
Yeah?
No harm in trying one on, I suppose.
You won’t be sorry. You’ll see. It’s like wearing a shirt made out of a cool summer’s breeze!
* * *
Gerald had taken to rooting through glove boxes and side compartments and under front seats. What he was looking for was a map and he’d already gone through a dozen cars. All he’d found of worth so far was a couple of lighters — no small thing — and a Car Buddy multi-tool. The latter had a small LED light and he’d been using it to expedite his search but had still come up empty.
Clayton had brought back to him a pair of green cargo shorts and a shirt identical in design to his own except that in place of a neon waterfall it did in fact have on it a grove of palm trees, their trunks all blurring together so that it looked like the artist had poured turpentine over the rendering of a tropical beach. It was comfortable enough all right and Gerald left it unbuttoned so as to further allow whatever breeze there was to cool the sweat glistening in the coarse curls plastered to his chest, a welcome balm against the night’s stifling heat.
He took the northbound lane, weaving back and forth among the vehicles, and directed Clayton to do the same in the southbound. The scarecrow had barely managed six cars, tirelessly amused as he was by the innumerable trinkets he’d found, appraising each with the care of a diamond cutter and if they passed his muster collecting them in a scavenged backpack. He’d come upon a pair of scissors somewhere and carried these to where Gerald was rummaging through a storage box in the back of a battered old Silverado. It held little except a collection of empty oil jugs and others that had once contained windshield wiper fluid and engine coolant, the all of them floating in three inches of water along with a four-foot span of elastic cord, the kind used for bungees.
Can I borrow that light of yours? Clayton asked as Gerald fed the cord through his belt loops to keep his shorts from slipping.
He passed the Car Buddy down and was just tying off the cord when he heard the faint murmur of an engine. Scanning ahead down the road he could see two spots of light on the southbound lane’s shoulder, too close together for it to be a car or a truck, could have been a quad or a side-by-side. It was maybe a kilometre away and drawing nearer. Crouching low, he climbed over the truck’s side and dropped to the ground. Clayton was standing at the truck’s side mirror, using the penlight and scissors to trim the straggles of his beard.
God, he said not looking back, I look like a damn hillbilly.
Shhh, Gerald hushed him. There’s someone coming!
Clayton froze mid-snip and both of them listened. The engine murmur was getting louder.
We got to get off the road, Gerald whispered.
Just give me one second.
Clayton took two more quick snips and stood a moment eyeballing himself in the mirror with brazen satisfaction.
Now!
Gerald had crept to the edge of the truck’s bed. He peered around its side, getting set to make a run for the steep slope beyond the shoulder. He was stalled in this by a sharp yip yip!
What in the hell was that?
Clayton was crouched beside Gerald, zipping his knapsack.
Sounds like a dog. Give me the flashlight.
Clayton handed it over and Gerald lanced its beam towards the shoulder. It was a dog, all right, of the toy variety. No more really than a bristling ball of white fur, with two black eyes peering above a conical snout. It snarled once and barked twice again. Gerald fished his knife from his sock, not thinking of the dog — he’d hardly need it for that — but of its owner, if it had one.
He took one crouched step closer and a voice rose in a harsh whisper, Mia, get back here!
The dog turned tail, slinking away.
Gerald followed after it with the flashlight beam and struck upon a face suspended above the guard rail. The face belonged to a man who was old, into his seventies at least. He had a bushy beard of white curls stained with the yellow taint of nicotine and was wearing a toque in defiance of the night’s heat. It had once been blue but was now greyed with grime and bore the outline of a maple leaf.
Pssst! he said, though both Gerald and Clayton were looking straight at him.
Before they could say anything, Mia yipped another staccato burst and the old man turned around, flailing his hand at her in a dismissive wave.
I’m getting to it! he snapped. Then turning back to the road: I just thought you should know, them soldiers catch you looting, it’ll be your ass.
Soldiers? This from Clayton.
You hear them coming, don’t ya?
The grind of the approaching engine was hard to ignore.
Those are soldiers? Clayton asked.
Half the damn army’s down the road a stretch. They’d shoot you as soon as say boo, they catch you looting.
Oh, we weren’t looting, Clayton protested.
What do you call what you got in the pack?
Ain’t nothing but a few clothes, a pair of scissors, a bunch of junk.
I seen a man shot for less.
For less than a bunch of junk?
The light hadn’t wavered from the old man’s face and in its dim glow there was no mistaking the incredulity writ large in his eyes, darting from Clayton to Gerald and then back to Clayton again. And when their dumbfounded yawps didn’t reveal much except that he must have been dealing with a couple of simpletons, he said, You two boys been living under a rock or something?
No we’s— Clayton started only to be cut off by Gerald grabbing his arm. He wa
sn’t so much worried about what he might say as the sudden shower of bright shining off the windshields at their back and the engine’s rumble drawing ever nigh.
We really need to get off the road, he said.
The old man was gaping at him much as he might have if his dog had suddenly started speaking Chinese.
That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you!
18
They hunkered on the downslope, lying prone on their chests, Mia bundled in the old man’s ski parka with his hand clamped tight over her snout, and all of them listening with stifled breaths as the engine’s grumble faded towards the south.
They’ll be coming back this side, the old man said when it had. We can wait them out in the tunnel.
He led them along the foot of the embankment until they’d reached a narrow strip of asphalt dotted with a white line down the middle, one side bearing the outline of a bicycle and the other a pedestrian. This led them into a tunnel under the highway, eight feet high, as dark as a bottomless pit and soured with the odour of piss. Mia growled at its threshold and her owner picked her up again, bundling her within the seam of his jacket.
Hush now, he cautioned when she growled again as he stepped into the tunnel.
She’s giving fair warning to the bear, he said by way of explanation.
Gerald and Clayton were following him in, the former probing ahead with the Car Buddy’s light.
Bear? Clayton asked, nervous.
Run into him one time we was passing through. He’d stolen someone’s garbage pail and was rooting through it right about where we are now. I was inclined to let him go about his business but Mia, well she had other ideas. She let out a growl and set off after it. I just barely managed to grab her by the tail, hold her back. She was none too happy, let me tellya. And the bear was none too happy neither. He’d rolled onto his feet. He let out a huff, stomped at the ground. I was sure he was about to charge.
What’dya do?
Not much I could. I apologized for the intrusion. Backed away as slow and quiet as I could. Of course, Mia was yapping and growling the whole damn time, the little idiot. She’s been looking for him ever since. I guess they got some unfinished business.
They’d come about halfway through before the old man stopped. He cocked one ear listening and then sat down with his back against the wall, Mia cuddling into his lap. Clayton and Gerald sat down beside him, sliding their backs along the tunnel’s wall, its cement as flat and cold as a prison cell’s.
You can turn that light off now, the old man said.
Gerald complied and they sat in the dark, listening for a while and hearing nothing but a cricket’s chirp echoing about the walls.
Gerald, you fought a bear one time, Clayton finally said. Ain’t that right?
And when Gerald didn’t answer he added, All he had was a knife. And he killed it too, with but one stab.
You say your friend’s name is Gerald? the old man asked with more than a passing interest.
Yeah, and I’m Clayton.
And where was it you say he killed that bear?
I don’t know. In the woods somewhere. Hey Gerald, tell him where it was that you killed that bear.
Clayton was nudging him with his elbow like maybe Gerald had simply fallen asleep and wasn’t then locked in a losing battle to keep his hand from lashing out, smacking Clayton upside the head. His arm had stiffened so Clayton might as well have been knocking against a tree and he seemed to get the point from that. He kept quiet for a few moments and then:
So what’s with all them buses and cars anyway?
What do you mean? the old man asked.
Why— I mean, where’d they all come from?
Down south.
Things must have got pretty bad down there.
You could say that.
We under attack?
Attack?
By the Americans.
The Americans? Where’d you hear that?
I don’t know. Around. Are we under attack or not?
Not that I heard.
So what’s with all the cars?
They’re on a cause of the pickerel plant.
The pickerel plant?
It done went up. Radiated the whole damn city.
What city?
Toronto, what’dya think?
The pickerel— You mean Pickerin’?
Is that what it’s called?
If you’re talking about the Pickering nuclear power plant, it is.
I guess that’s the one.
And you’re saying it went up?
That’s what one of the soldiers told me anyway.
The same one killed someone over less than junk?
No, that was a young fellow. This one was older.
And what’d he say?
Only what I told you. He wasn’t much in the mood for talking. Can’t say as I blame him. It was a real shit-show there for a while. I guess it probably still is, somewhere.
And when was this?
When the plant went up.
Yeah?
Oh, four, five weeks ago now. You never heard about it? You really must have been living under a rock not to hear about that.
No, we—
Clayton had the good sense to stop there. Then after a moment:
You hear anything about Marmora?
What’s that?
It’s a town. Where I come from.
Never heard of it.
It’s just outside of Peterborough. You heard of Peterborough?
Course I heard of Peterborough.
It’s only an hour drive from Pickering.
Then I expect it’s been evacuated too.
Clayton was quiet a moment, must have been thinking on that.
Is that why the power went out? he said after a few breaths.
What?
On account of the plant going up?
No, the power’d been out for days by then.
And you ain’t never heard wh—
Clayton felt Gerald’s hand clamp on his leg and if that wasn’t enough to shut him up, the faint groan of an engine surely was. It rose as a sudden swell, like a gust of wind carrying a hint of thunder, fading just as quickly as it had arisen and then rumbling forth again.
* * *
They waited until the engine had passed overhead and then they emerged from the tunnel, Mia leading the way, Gerald following after her, and Clayton and the old man behind him. After the tunnel’s cloying heat the open air felt coolish, though it couldn’t have been much less than thirty degrees.
You live around here? Clayton asked as he stretched his neck against a cramp.
The old man eyed him with a wary look.
Not far, he said.
You got any food?
The old man averted his gaze, looking at the dog by his feet, and then bending and picking her up, cradling her to his chest.
Food’s pretty scarce these days.
What about a map? This from Gerald.
A map? Of what?
Ontario.
No, I ain’t got a map. Where you looking to be?
Capreol.
Capreol? That where you from?
You know it?
Heard tell. Then shooting Gerald a quick glance: And you said your name was Gerald?
Not me—
But your friend did.
You must have misheard.
Gerald was looking at him with a hardened glare and the old man didn’t seem inclined to press the point.
Capreol, he said after a moment. That’s just north of Sudbury, ain’t it?
Gerald nodded.
Quickest way would’ve been to take the highway. But you don’t want to do that.
Thinking for a moment, chewing on his lip.
You could take the tracks.
The train tracks?
They’ll lead you right there, last I heard. Mind you, it’d be a fair slog through the bush to get to them.
I never much minded a slog through the bush.
In the dim light Gerald could just make out the old man nodding his head.
No, he said, I wouldn’t expect you would.
19
The sudden flutter came out of the trees with the bluster of a moose’s stampede, peppering them with a shower of broken twigs and startling Clayton into a gallop like he thought he was about to be trampled. He’d only made it a few steps before he saw that it was a grouse, itself startled by their trespass and now in frantic flight for the safety of some higher perch. It was fattened from its summer forage and hardly seemed like it should be able to fly at all. But somehow it made it onto the branch of a fledgling elm tree, a meagre seven or eight feet off the ground, not ten paces from where Clayton stood gazing after it with laboured breaths.
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