by J L Forrest
To the southeast squatted the forested mountains of North Cascades National Park. Blotching smoke plumed from their slopes, filling that quadrant of the sky, and angry flames followed the ridges. From our vantage, those fires appeared tiny, but they must have been fifty meters high. Nearer the lower drainages, half the trees were pale gray and dead, grave markers for ecosystems killed by two hundred years of bad forest management, runaway beetle kill, and climate change.
More forest fires waiting to happen.
They railway split from the road, and by the time I recognized the highway blockade, we were several hundred meters from it. Someone had stacked three levels of cars, three layers deep, on Highway 1 into Abbotsford. Whichever way Robert and his crew went, it wasn’t through there, though they could have cut cross-country from Old Yale Road.
An overland route might have cost them serious time but, let’s be clear, I hope we never see them again. Cuth’s last words to us sounded something like COME NEAR ME AND I’LL KILL YOU.
Before the Third Pulse, we would have driven Interstate 5 through Bellingham, but most of 5 lies underwater with damn near every town along the coastal Pacific Northwest. Until Blight, new routes followed Highway 9, but it didn’t take long before more blockades appeared along the smaller roads.
“Someone doesn’t want people driving to the coast,” Cailín said.
I pointed out that we were out of food and we might need to barter.
“Don’t worry about the food,” she said.
We paralleled the Valley Highway, farther from the coast, which brought us through treed foothills into a basin. On either side of an agricultural valley, rolling hills sprouted with luscious green copses and brittle, dry stands. This was a land clinging to life, failing.
At the valley’s southern edge, black swathes of burnt woodland crossed west to east, climbing into the Cascades. A recent fire, already passed. Soot drew a line across the rails and highway, horizontal and absolute, like a Rothko painting. The sticks of burnt farmhouses jutted from the denuded ground.
To avoid burning to death, the safest ground in wildfire country is the ground already charred. At least we had that going for us.
We followed the blackened railroad line. Beside it, black tree trunks quilled the black earth, reeking of white ash. Smoke curled from hotspots which awaited winter or an unlikely rain to quench them. For stretches, the fire had grown so hot that it gutted the railroad ties and warped the steel. As the route ascended, the line once more paralleled the road, and here Cailín and I stopped.
Truck one, truck two, truck three.
As black as everything else, melted to their rims, nothing but husks. The fuel drums had exploded.
We approached slowly, crossing glassy, smooth, cool asphalt. Cailín neared the cavalcade from the left. I covered the right. Upholstery scorched from the seats, plastic melted from the dashboards and puddled on the floor, glass shattered. In three seats slouched the cracked, skeletal remains of former travelling companions. One retained only a single recognizable object—a warped cross on a metallic chain, shockingly clean and shiny.
Faith.
So much for faith.
In the seat beside her, I assumed, had been Robert. At least they died together. In the truck behind them, Frank’s remains had fused with the steering wheel.
If we’d stayed with these people, would we have died too? My guess is Cuth or Frank would’ve killed us long before the fire did.
We didn’t take long to ponder this before putting our feet back in motion.
XVII. Infection
Day 186—
Cailín wasn’t kidding about food, which is good, because we have no guns, and I can’t exactly throw a spear. Not well. We’re weaponless, and not for lack of trying, since we searched three gun shops in Sedro-Woolley.
Sometime since the start of Blight, someone rounded up all the rifles and pistols in every town along Highway 9. No one needs that many guns, but it was a smart move—the guns you have are the guns others can’t use against you.
More power to ‘em.
On the topic of food, this is what Cailín does—
Rabbits are easiest. She calls them to her the same way she calls the ravens or the dog, and she’s sweet to them, like a brunette Sleeping Beauty but without that stupid dances-with-the-animals scene. I’ve watched Cailín pat them on the top of the head before she breaks their necks.
Not any grimmer than shooting. Cleaner, too. It puts food in our stomachs, and it keeps us moving, saves hunting time, makes us nimble. I don’t bother asking how she does it.
I already know.
Whatever it is that’s in her, it’s in me too, probably since our first kiss. After Blight, without question I accept the idea of new, strange, communicable diseases, this one included. The queer violet of her lips and tongue has appeared at the edges of mine, at the flesh on the floor of my mouth, and in more private places, spreading by the day. If it is something fatal, well, I guess we’ll die. Six months on, though, and she’s still breathing.
Each night, my dreams resonate more strongly. By day, the ground speaks more clearly beneath my feet. The sounds of animals do not translate into language—that isn’t it, nothing Disney about it—but into a music whose chords and keys I interpret, which communicate patterns. On our first night together, I know why Cailín did not fear the fire, how the land whispered to her of its intentions.
What we feel isn’t omniscience—Nature decides what She will decide—
It is insight.
A trimming of all possible futures.
This afternoon I called my first rabbit and broke its neck. How many deer have I shot? Shooting is less intimate, and the immediacy of those slight, breaking vertebrae and the last quiver of life shook me. I’m still trembling.
Why does the rabbit give up its life?
Why have I?
The sex tonight was fantastic. Every night, it gets better. Afterward, I lay with my head against her shoulder, my hand on her belly, and her body spoke to me the way the earth had been speaking to me.
ME: You’re pregnant.
CAILÍN: I’m surprised you didn’t already notice. There’s a noticeable bump.
ME: Whose is it?
CAILÍN: Does that question make sense anymore?
She was right. Like hell am I dragging the patriarchy with me into the future, even if it isn’t much of a future, even if everyone’s dead in a few years anyway.
She’s sleeping now. I’m sitting on a boulder overlooking the deadwood valleys of Colton. The moon is new, the night is black, and every tree on this mountainside is dead. To the southwest, there’re streetlights in Salem. Tomorrow, we might try Salem, see if we can barter for a few helpful items.
Since civilization ended, the stars are much brighter. With relative ease, I spot several satellites and one of the orbital Stations, new moons going round and round and round the globe. Far away, loud but invisible to me, a StratoJumper rips into the upper atmosphere.
XVIII. Preacher
Day 187—
Do you know about the Salem Witch Trials?
Apropos of this shitty day—
Moribund. Do you know the word?
It means something like “on the verge of death.” It can also mean “stagnant” or “stuck.”
During the Third Pulse, much of Salem, Oregon flooded, but people still live on its high ground. Before the Pulses, the city’s population was maybe half a million. We never got close enough to count heads, but before descending to the flats, we studied Salem through my binoculars. Maybe three thousand people dwell there now, packed west of the Willamette River, which is no longer a river but a brackish inlet of the Pacific. The water and a partial barrier, similar to Prince George’s, protect Salem from any overland attack. Built on pylons, a wooden bridge crosses the river, and active farmland radiates from both banks. The Pulses washed out much of Interstate 5 and the 99, but a newer dirt highway cuts north-south.
Every few meters, cr
ucifixes stake the highway. They extend kilometers in either direction, more than a thousand crosses, each with its own Christ-like figure—like the Via Appia after Crassus defeated Spartacus, when moribund men lined the road from Rome to Capua.
If the dead weren’t enough to intimidate—
While we watched, an explosion blossomed on the other side of the river. A magnificent blue flash hyper-lit the landscape, making even daylight dull, like an overexposed photograph. A repulsive brown plume peaked above the blast site, and a shockwave rippled across open ground. Five seconds later, a series of thunderous booms crashed past us.
“I suppose we can avoid Salem,” Cailín said.
Rather than bearing due south, the rail bent southwest, too near the city, and so we bushwhacked. This veered us closer to the hills and their patchy stands of green, brown, and dead gray, then finally into cornfields. Taller than us, the corn blocked our view in every direction, but my compass kept us southward.
The afternoon brought with it a humid, pasty air. The corn stilled the breezes. Adding a wall of sound, cicadas croaked ceaselessly. No sight lines, the bugs masking any footfalls, a perfect setup for ambush.
Long before they reached us, though, we knew the Preacher’s men were closing from the west. We knew this because the soil told us, because the corn muttered of them, and finally because the dog barked a warning. Let’s be real—burgeoning supernatural abilities do not suck. We also knew that running for the hills would be the death of us, that like coyotes after frightened cats, they’d hunt us down.
We stayed, raising our arms in surrender.
Farmers by the look of them, a dozen emerged from the corn. Armed with rifles, shotguns, pistols.
The Preacher wore black, cleaned and pressed but sweat-soaked. His collar shone, pristine and white. This horn-rimmed glasses reflected the afternoon sunlight.
“Greetings,” he said.
PREACHER: You two fine ladies got something against roads?
ME: I’ve had some terrible experiences on roads. We try to avoid them.
PREACHER: Nothing to fear near Salem. We have no murderers here. No rapists neither.
ME: That who we see hanging up on all those crosses? Murderers and rapists?
PREACHER: Some of ‘em. Mostly, though, those are Ditchers.
CAILÍN: What exactly are Ditchers?
PREACHER: Ah! An Irish beauty! Lovely lilt you have there, my dear.
He waited for her responses. None came, and his men shared uncomfortable glances. The Preacher smiled.
PREACHER: A Ditcher is someone intent on abandoning Earth, on tossing aside their personal responsibility for everything which has happened to the world, to their brothers and sisters. God created the Earth for mankind, and mankind has shit on God’s creation since the invention of the steam engine. The Good Book makes it clear—you leave this world by going to Heaven or by going to Hell—ain’t no other ways.
ME: And all those people you’ve nailed up, they were Ditchers?
PREACHER: Most of ‘em. We don’t put ‘em on the cross without great deliberation, please understand. We have the rule of law. The Salem Ditch Trials, if you will.
ME: I see.
PREACHER: Most of ‘em heading to San Francisco Island, have dreams of taking that so-called space elevator, the Corkscrew, to ride the abomination into the skies.
ME: And you stop them?
PREACHER: We’ll stop ‘em all soon. Have brave men down there already—the Moribund—heroes and revolutionaries. Men to bring down the false gods, to melt down the golden calf.
ME: Something to do with that explosion we saw?
PREACHER: As it happens, yes. A blessing from God.
ME: Was that a test?
PREACHER: A successful one.
ME: Hellelujah.
PREACHER: That’s “hallelujah.”
ME: Right.
PREACHER: A few others coming through have been Richies, stuck going overland, heading to Nevada. Less we can do about them, armed as they, but we catch ‘em as we can.
CAILÍN: What’s in Nevada?
PREACHER: Rumour is they’re launching StratoJumpers from flats outside Reno.
ME: Well I’ll be.
PREACHER: So what about you? Tell me. Where you ladies headin’?
Ever since Winnipeg, I have been studying maps of North America. I could remember markers for the plentiful military bases which dot Oregon, east of the highway—no doubt the source of the Preacher’s blessing from God.
But at that moment, with the Preacher staring at me, with his men tapping their triggers, my mind blanked of everything else. For seconds, I couldn’t remember a single town near Salem, anywhere I could name as a destination other than San Francisco. The only sound was the cicadas.
Finally I blurted, “Down to Albany, then to Sweet Home. I’ve got a sister there I lost contact with.” I became conscious of my accent, wondered if I sounded too Canadian.
More cicadas.
PREACHER: That’s a shame.
ME: Why?
PREACHER: Last we heard, Sweet Home was lost. Nobody left.
ME: I see. Maybe you can understand that me and my friend have got to try?
PREACHER: You’d be safer in Salem.
ME: Tell you what. We’ll check out Sweet Home. If we don’t find my sister, we’ll come back.
PREACHER: I’ll do you one better.
Cicadas loud like a 1970s rock band. Cicadas at one hundred thirty decibels.
“I’ll send Jack with you,” said the Preacher, gesturing to a chunky man. “He’s got a truck. He’ll escort you down the highway to Sweet Home all the quicker, then bring you back, your sister too if she’s still alive.”
Jack is almost two meters of buzzcut, square-jawed, raw muscle. Jack carries a giant shotgun. Jack would be an asset if he’d join our side—which he will never do.
Hearing the Preacher, Cailín pursed her lips, prepared a refusal.
I stepped forward. “Sounds wonderful, padre. It’s about time we got a break.”
The Preacher and his men escorted us southwest to the highway. Men and women hang on every cross out there, some barely bones, some rotting, some freshly dead. The smell made me gag.
Jack brought us to his oversized baby-blue pickup truck, and Cailín and I slid into the seat beside him. The dog rode in the bed. The ravens have dispersed, but Nevermore is never far away. I don’t know how that bird keeps up with a vehicle, but as often as not, when I look out the window, there he is. Circling the sky. Sitting on a telephone pole. Plucking the eyes from the skulls of the crucified.
Jack noticed the bird too, and I’m afraid he might stop to take a potshot.
JACK: What’re you writing in that book of yours?
ME: Nothing.
JACK: Oh, don’t give me that.
ME: It’s my diary.
JACK: Bet there’s some fun readin’ in there.
Jerk.
For the first time since coming together, Cailín and I are careful to act like anything but a couple. Are the good people of Salem, Oregon the kind to stone a couple of queer girls to death?
I find it more than likely.
XIX. Corkscrew
Day 189—
Jack carried his shotgun, a Glock, and a Bowie knife.
He drove an old Ford with a bench seat. I sat in the middle with the stick shift between my knees, and this often put Jack’s hand uncomfortably near my crotch. Cailín rode in the passenger seat.
By the kilometer, the horror of Salem’s power over the northwestern coast grew clearer. Cailín and I badly underestimated the breadth of their slaughter—the parade of the Jesusified extended the length of highway between Salem and Albany.
Signs between the crosses read:
THE LORD GIVETH, AND THE LORD TAKETH AWAY
WE DIE ON EARTH
WHEN THE WORLD ENDS
THE WORLD ENDS WHEN WE END
REJOICE FOR THE END
THE GOOD LORD COMES AT THE END
ONE WORLD ENDS, ANOTHER BEGINS
MEET THE END WITH PRAYER
WE’RE ALREADY DEAD, WE JUST DON’T KNOW IT YET
DITCHERS DESERVE TO DIE
In passing, we recognized Garret. Nailed up. Vulture meat. Cailín and I had the sense not to stare, letting the body pass.
“I know it’s overwhelming,” said Jack.
“Shocking, how so many would want to abandon their world,” said Jack. “Give up on the rest of us. ”
“Just remember,” said Jack. “Their deaths are righteous.”
Work crews and armed patrols saluted Jack’s truck, which flew the Salem flag—a field of black, the green-blue orb of the Earth, and a golden cross jutting from the North Pole. Old FEMA trailers and mobile homes, spaced at half-mile intervals, gave these men shelter. At key locations, abandoned cars had been piled as defensive barriers.
No women in the crews. All at home, I suppose, barefoot and pregnant.
Pregnant made me think of Cailín, and I wanted to hold her hand. Jack might have perceived such a gesture as friendly. Might have taken it as romantic. Discretion is the better part of valor.
“Interesting color of lipstick you ladies wear,” Jack said.
The highway curved east of Albany, intersecting with 20. We couldn’t fly down the roads like we would have before Blight, but the entire drive to Sweet Home didn’t amount to three hours. Along the way, I imagined grabbing the steering wheel and spinning us off the road, but a move like that was as likely to kill us and leave Jack alive. If we rolled, the dog would assuredly die.
But I knew Jack’s job, and it wasn’t to keep us safe. By the look in her eyes, Cailín understood it too.
As soon as we entered the ghost-town of Sweet Home, he asked, “Which way?”