by Trevor Zaple
“The person who isn’t pushing will be carrying their gun out openly,” Emily concluded, touching her rifle. “It might serve to ward off people from a distance”. She seemed insistent on this point, and Mark made sure to check the straps on his holster, letting his fingers drift over the stock of the .357 Barry had given him.
There was little time given over to goodbyes. Barry and Amber wished them luck, their faces drawn and worried. They invited Olivia, Mark, and their new child to come back to live there, although there was an awkward look shared amongst them. Emily’s prediction with regards to the food supply seemed to hang over their heads like a pall. Above their heads, Carlos continued to snore on, oblivious.
They left the Cadillac Lounge in the late afternoon as the clouds were beginning to gather ominously overhead. There was a chill to the air and Mark wondered if there might not be snow lurking in the dark grey blanketing the sky. He prayed to any deity that might be listening that this would not be the case. They began by walking down Queen Street, Mark pushing the wheelchair and Emily walking through the street beside him, brandishing her rifle professionally and keeping an eye on both the street ahead and the rooftops. The sun was hidden and a long shadow lay upon the street. Mark’s eyes continually flitted to some perceived movement in the broken remains of the shops; when he turned to look, of course, there was nothing to be seen there. Yet he still felt a sensation in his spine, an itch between his shoulder blades. He felt eyes on him from every window, from every decaying black hole that they passed. He thought he was being paranoid until he realized that Emily was doing the same thing. After this realization, he slowly became frightened. By the time they reached the train bridge that marked the boundary between Parkdale and the proper downtown, he was close to terror.
After they passed the silent, yawning Gladstone Hotel, Emily stopped them to consult the map. After a moment she nodded and then stowed the map back into Mark’s knapsack. She pointed ahead, east down Queen Street.
“We’ll have to take Northcote up,” she said, “and I hope that there’s less people that way”.
Mark looked around skeptically, although he still felt that crawling sensation in the middle of his back.
“I haven’t seen anybody yet,” he said boldly, and Emily smiled coldly.
“You haven’t been paying much attention, then,” she said grimly. “I spotted at least three people in the Gladstone alone. Now let’s go before they get any ideas”.
That was enough to get Mark to pick up the pace. He wheeled Olivia at a rapid clip up the street and then left on the street that Emily indicated. For her part, Olivia seemed to have fallen asleep. Even on the residential street Emily did not relax. She still kept point in an ultra-alert manner, her rifle pointing to every house that they passed, covering and peering. The houses stood watch on either side of them, watching them pass and keeping time with slow, creeping decay. The wet autumn weather seemed to have caused a fair amount of damage on many of the old wooden housefronts; porches had become unstable, windows had broken, leaves choked the gutters. Mark wondered what they would look like after a long siege by the winter season, and the thought of winter brought his thoughts back to the food supply. He thought about Barry, Carlos, and Amber, and wondered how long they could last at the Lounge, even with Emily procuring supplies for them.
He was brought out of this bleak reverie by Emily, who was indicating that they were going to make another turn. The street sign labeled this stretch as Argyle Street, and it seemed to be another street full of apartments—those carved out of old houses and blocky buildings specifically made for that purpose. The feeling of being watched did not dissipate. The grime-covered windows still seemed like sly, cunning eyes patrolling the street, marking their positions and identities. The porches and front windows still seemed like jumbled chaos, the kind that could be concealing anything behind their simplistic mess. Emily brought them to a halt after two blocks. She withdrew a water bottle from Mark’s knapsack, took a swig, and handed it to him.
“Your turn to keep watch,” she informed him as he drank. He nodded, wiping at his mouth. As he unholstered his gun she pointed down the way they had come with her chin.
“There’s someone following us,” she murmured, and Mark froze. “Act naturally!” she hissed. “I don’t know how many of them there are,” she continued at her original level of volume, “but they’re definitely back there. They’ve been following us since we turned off of Queen, so I suspect that they came from the Gladstone. If they’re following us then I doubt that their intentions are good, but whether they’re independents hoping we have food in our packs or men from Taggert I don’t know”.
Mark nodded and hefted his gun. There seemed to be little else to say.
They continued down Argyle with Emily pushing the wheelchair. She kept the same pace that Mark had set, and despite the frigid wind pushing down on them they made good time. Mark kept his watch as they went and after another pair of blocks he spotted them. He could see two, vague shapes shadowed against the houses a fair ways back. At first he wasn’t sure if he was seeing them, and then after a time he became certain. There were at least two people behind them, keeping a block or so distant, and definitely trying to hide. Mark thought about how he would not have seen them had it not been for Emily, and shivered.
They came to what would have once been a fairly busy street, Dovercourt Avenue, and paused outside the ruins of what a sign proclaimed as the Luna Café. Whatever sort of eatery it had once been was obscured now; the interior was dark and looked ransacked. Emily went around to the front of the wheelchair to check on Olivia while Mark kept his nervous watch.
“How far back are they?” she asked without looking up from her task. Mark started.
“I, uh…about a block and a half, or so?” he stammered. Emily nodded as though this were completely expected.
“There’s a school coming up in about half a block or so. I think we should try to lose them in the schoolyard”.
Mark nodded, his lips and tongue dry. He thought about the bottle of water in his knapsack and put it out of his mind. He didn’t want to stay here in the open for any longer than he absolutely had to.
They came to the edge of the schoolyard, as Emily had predicted, and skirted along the edge of it for a moment. Then, with little warning, Emily gripped the handles of the wheelchair tightly and broke onto a path that lead into a copse of trees. Mark stumbled slightly but followed her at a near-run. They made their way into the little grove and kept up the pace, letting the shadows close over them. There was a long, rustling sigh as the wind picked up and blew through their cover. In between gusts, Mark thought he heard a faint shout from far back.
They emerged from the trees alongside a brick wall spotted through with windows. As they ran by Mark saw chalkboards, brightly lettered signs, overturned desks, and a lot of paper litter. Emily swerved suddenly and Mark nearly tripped over a corpse that was lying sprawled out beside the building. A broken bottle lay next to it, the countless shards of glass glittering cruelly as they passed. After they left it, Mark felt his gorge rise, but managed to keep it under control.
They came out to a laneway and Emily took a hard right. Mark spun and ran backward for a few yards, trying to gauge if their followers had kept up with them. The school (Senhor Santo Cristo, the fading sign proclaimed) kept its own silent vigil, however, and there was no sign if they were still being tracked through the streets. Emily gave him no time for further examination. She was nearing to a sprint by this point.
They ran a block and came to a strange sight. The intersection here was strewn with paintings, their frames bent and the glass that once protected them from gallery patrons smashed and thrown about the street. Many of the actual pieces of art were torn, and mingled with the other litter that covered the ground. As they ran through, rolling over this blanket of glass, brass, and paper, Mark saw strange scraps and sigils from the corner of his eye. Sailboats, napkins, a pyramid of hands, eyes facing inwards;
he had no idea what to make of it. He had no time for further contemplation, as Emily again made a hard right turn without any prior indication, and he was forced to spin and sprint to keep up. His breath was starting to come ragged and hot through his lungs, and there was a dull pain itching its way into his side. He wondered blackly if, were he to fall, Emily would stop.
They came to another short street (Bruce, this one seemed to be called) next to the burned-out shell of what had once been a restaurant of some kind. A sign lay broken in the street before it, although “pho” was the only word Mark could read on it. The fire seemed to have scorched through the entire restaurant and on into the block beyond it. Not waiting around to find out if life remained there, Emily pushed on. Five minutes later, however, she slowed her pace, and eventually came to a stop at the edge of a parking lot filled with cars, all of which had broken windows and dented hoods. It looked to Mark as though someone (or several someones, likely) had taken out their anger problems on them. Despite the widespread damage, the lot looked deserted. After Emily stared into it for several minutes, she seemed to relax.
“Energy,” she said, and Mark realized that she was breathing heavily. She went into his knapsack and retrieved a couple of chocolate bars and the bottle of water. She handed one to Mark and kept the other. They unwrapped and ate, munching quickly and silently, keeping a paranoid eye on their surroundings. At the end of the street was another thin line of trees, and beyond that was what looked like another schoolyard bordering a large school building with darkened, grimy windows. Mark stared into that darkness nervously as he ate, but could not penetrate anything within. He listened, but the only thing to be heard was the wind whistling through the lot of destroyed cars.
Emily crumpled up the wrapper of her chocolate bar and threw it to the ground carelessly. Without waiting to see if Mark was finished she grabbed the handles of the wheelchair and continued onward. Mark wolfed down the rest of his bar and the wrapper fluttered through the air to join with Emily’s. As Emily entered the tree line he turned back to stare down the street. The only movement that appeared, however, was the rippling of the garbage at the edge of his vision.
Through the tree line was a beaten baseball diamond followed by a long soccer pitch, offering no cover from any nearby observers. As Emily dug in and pushed harder to get the wheelchair through the field, Mark stole glances at the school. There were two stories, both with blind idiot windows. About halfway across the field, Mark saw something twitch and move in one of them. He gripped the stock of his .357 until it became painful.
“We may have company,” he said, trying to remain quiet but needing to reach Emily’s ears. Emily threw a quick glance back and kept going forward. As they reached the end of the field Mark saw that there was a low fence erected to border it.
“We’re going to have to lift it over,” Emily said through what sounded like gritted teeth. Mark huffed and nodded, and then realized that the gesture was wasted on the back of Emily’s head. As they reached the low, charming picket fence, Mark heard a door slam open from nearby, followed by an inarticulate shout. He was forcibly reminded of that cry of utter rage that he had first heard on the day of the disappearance. He forced himself to keep moving, and to not look back. Emily skidded the wheelchair to a stop and leaped over the fence. Once on the other side, she turned and gestured frantically, staring wide-eyed behind him.
Mark grabbed underneath the seat where Olivia dozed and lifted; at the same time, Emily grabbed the arm-rests and did the same. Mark put all of his strength into it and they managed to get the wheelchair jerkily over the fence without dropping it. Mark jumped over the fence and finally allowed himself a look back. He saw six people running towards them and froze. At least two of them seemed to be carrying guns and the others were all wielding weapons of a more intimate sort—bats, piping, irregular clubs. Emily punched him in the bicep, with no small force.
“RUN!” she screamed, and Mark, jolted into action, took the handles of the wheelchair and began running south without thinking. After several strides he heard the sharp, cracking report of Emily’s rifle, breaking the silence of the oncoming night like a fist through glass.
Mark took the first street he found and turned onto it; he knew that if he went any further south he would find himself back on Queen Street, at the mercy of not only random assailants but also any of Paul Taggert’s agents. Mark had heard enough rumors about Taggert to build up a healthy desire to avoid anyone who associated with him. At first he ran, as fast as his feet and the wide wheels on Olivia’s chair would take him. Then, as he found himself approaching another grove of trees directly ahead, he began to slow down, and listen. There were no footsteps behind him, no cries of anger or fear. This he deemed well, but there were also no further instances of Emily’s rifle fire, and this was bad. The terror that gripped his heart was entrenching itself even further, and he caught himself whispering gibberish to the gathering darkness. He stopped and slapped himself sharply, paused, and then did it again. His cheeks stung heavily but he felt the panic begin to recede, an evil tide going out with the force of the moon.
“Mark?” Olivia asked sleepily, and all at once Mark was kneeling in front of her, checking her over with an overbearing solicitude.
“Olivia, Olivia hon,” he panted, “Are you alright? How do you feel?”
Olivia eyed him warily in the deepening shadows.
“Why were you slapping yourself?” she asked, confused. Mark let out a weak chuckle.
“Just, uh, clearing my head,” he replied, the words sounding pathetic to his ears as soon as they cleared his lips. “We have to keep moving, though. We’ll be there soon”.
“OK,” she agreed, her voice very small. Mark rose to his feet, and then she asked “Where is Emily?”
Mark made himself situated behind the wheelchair with the handles gripped in his sweating palms before he allowed himself to reply.
“She’s behind us, hon,” he said quietly. “She’ll try to catch up if she can, I’m sure”.
He began wheeling her again, passing into the trees of what he fervently hoped was Trinity-Bellwoods Park.
“What is she doing behind us?” Olivia asked. Mark heard an audible click as he swallowed. Tears welled up in his eyes and he forced himself to blink them away.
“Cleaning up,” he said, and refused to say any more.
They passed into the park and Mark breathed a slight sigh of relief. They were on course, at least, and there was something to be said for that. There was a small path that lead off into the interior of the parkland and Mark took it, rationalizing that it would likely give him the clearest path to the other side. Once he found himself in the cityscape again, he would have to find his bearings and navigate their way to the hospital, if he could. He put the “if” out of his mind; for now there was only the park, and getting through it safely. At first this seemed simple. They passed silently by a sprawling building that looked like a community center, the kind that hid squash courts and swimming pools inside its utilitarian walls. The building made Mark wish that he was able to push the wheelchair one-handed, to free up a hand to carry his gun, but they went along the path uncontested. The community center was dark and doubtlessly held mysteries, but they avoided whatever eyes might be present in such a place.
They were presented with a choice in paths and Mark chose the route that kept them in the trees, which in his mind made them safe from observers. They had passed by a wading pool and another intersection of paths before Mark realized that the crawling sensation on his spine had returned. He picked up the pace in increments, not wanting to break into a run and give up the game in its early stages. The sky had gone nearly completely dark and his field of vision was shrinking by the minute. His thigh muscles ached with being overexercised and his back was beginning to complain as well.
“Mark, I’m scared,” Olivia whispered, and Mark nearly laughed out loud.
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you admit that before,” he said, t
rying to keep his spirits light. He could feel eyes boring into the back of his head. Were they in the trees? Further down the path? Had they been hiding at the tumbled-down playground near the wading pool? He couldn’t be sure.
“Well, now seems like a pretty good time to be scared,” she replied, her voice sharp. It sobered Mark up.
“Honey, I have to agree,” he replied, “but we’re going to make it ok, right? We’re going to make it to the hospital, we’ll get our baby delivered, and we’ll figure out what to do from there, ok?” He amazed himself at how level he was able to keep his voice.
She said nothing for a moment, and Mark pushed on. Finally, she said “I’m glad you’re here, for what it’s worth”. Mark smiled, but couldn’t find the right words to respond with. The silence seemed loud enough.
There was a path that branched off to the right and they took it; Mark knew from the map that they would have to travel in a diagonal fashion across the park, and they had gone north far enough, in his estimation. He hoped that he was right, but there was really no help for it. He could definitely feel someone watching them now, and although he tried to tell himself that it was just audio hallucinations when he heard sticks breaking inside the dark confines of the trees, he knew deeply that it wasn’t. The path exited out of the trees on the fat arc of a bend, and in the very edges of his field of vision he could see the vague outlines of small, cramped houses.
“That’s it,” he said excitedly, and began pushing for all he was worth towards it. He was in open observation but he had moved past caring; let them come after him, he would be hidden amongst those far-off houses soon enough. The wheelchair bumped and jiggered over uneven patches of earth and Olivia looked around wildly.
“Be careful Mark!” she admonished him, and he felt like laughing in response. He had never felt so carefree before. They crossed over another path but kept wheeling through the grass. The houses were so close he could almost taste them. They would just have to go around the skating rink, dry and empty without a winter to fulfill it, and they would be homefree, or at least close to it.