by Trevor Zaple
As they approached the fence ringing the rink he saw the little hut that had been built as a changing station for it. He gave it a once-over and then plotted exactly where to push through out of the park and into the houses beyond, with their concealing back alleys and pathways. When he turned his eyes back he saw that the door was open, and that the thin man with the filthy blonde dreadlocks running towards him was holding what looked like a samurai sword over his head. The only feature he could really make out was the man’s mouth, his flared-back lips and his clenched teeth. Mark dug in and drew in on whatever energy he had left; he felt that he had one good sprint in him and the houses were close enough to taste. He looked behind himself and realized that the man was running faster than he was, and that he had halved the distance within seconds. He was close enough to see the yellow teeth being clenched, protruding too far out of heavily receded gums.
All thought drained out of him. He reared back and heaved the wheelchair forward. It went wobbling ahead at a high speed, with Olivia yelling “Mark, fuck!” as the wheelchair hit a divot and nearly went over. Mark was beyond it now, however; he had already turned and was trying to draw his gun from the holster. It wouldn’t come, though. Time had narrowed to a very thin band, whose focus was solely on bringing the .357 out of its sheath, and it was stuck. After the first tug he felt mortality barrelling towards him, ready to cleave deeply into his unprotected skull. Each subsequent tug confirmed this for him. He looked up; he could at least watch as he died, the universe owed him that. The filthy dreadlocked man screamed at the top of his lungs, beginning his final run at his victim, and his head was suddenly blown apart as a sharp crack shocked the stillness of the young night.
Mark wheeled, stumbled, and finally pulled the pistol from its holster. He managed to keep himself from falling and accidentally discharging it, and he pointed it in the direction of the gunshot. His fingers twitched agonizingly quickly, but he saw Emily striding towards him with her rifle pointed low and in front. She walked up to him calmly and put one hand on the barrel of his pistol, which he could not seem to lower.
“Don’t ever let the muzzle cover anything you care about, Mark,” she said gently, and the tension went out of his muscles. “You do care about me, yes?”
Mark nodded, and then broke away to where the wheelchair had settled. Olivia was struggling at her bindings and swearing sulphurously. He knelt in front of her.
“Are you ok?” he asked, and panic finally broke through into his voice. Olivia ceased her vile output and glared at him. She watched his near-sobbing expression, angry at first, and then began to giggle. It sounded good, but there was an element of hysteria to it for which Mark didn’t care. He put his hands over her hands, and began to massage them slowly.
“We’re almost there,” he whispered. She nodded, continuing to giggle, and then blurted “Mark, I’m so scared right now, just get me to the hospital”. She began to laugh harder, and that hard, cold ring of hysteria emerged further. “Get me a taxi, and get me to the hospital! It’s time to give birth!”. Her laugh grew harsher, more cackling. Emily knelt down and nudged Mark out of the way.
“It’s alright to be scared,” she said gently, and her hands repeated the massaging gesture that Mark had started. “It’s alright to be scared and I’d be worried about you if weren’t. You’re almost going to give birth, the situation isn’t really normal, and there are people roaming around here that would kill you just for the things you might have. We’re going to get you to the hospital, though, and you’re going to give birth. Now,” she pointed at the houses, the line of perceived safety that Mark had been counting on, “once we get past there, anyone we meet will probably not try to kill us. Alright?”
Olivia giggled once more and then stopped, nodding to show Emily that she understood. Emily cracked a smile.
“It’s kind of funny, isn’t it?” she said, with good humor. Olivia nodded, her smile more confident.
“What is funny about any of this?” Mark inquired, and Emily shrugged.
“It’s an existential thing, if you don’t get it then don’t waste time trying to figure it out”. She took the handles of Emily’s wheelchair like the hands of an old friend and resumed pushing it. Mark stood where he was, startled, and then ran to keep up.
They came to the houses and Emily pushed Olivia down the widest of the alleys that they could find. The passage was a tight squeeze, and the walls seemed to be coming in towards Mark. Fine time to develop claustrophobia he thought bitterly, but then they were out into the backyards, where they stopped for a moment. Emily got into the knapsack and reloaded her rifle, the cartridges clicking into place louder than Mark would have liked. She checked his holster and made a slight adjustment, and loosened the bonds on Olivia’s hands. Olivia rubbed at her wrists and then put her hands to her belly. Her breath was beginning to roll faster out of her lungs, and she seemed to be in pain. Emily looked at her sharply.
“Contractions?” she asked intently, and Olivia nodded, gasping. Emily swore under her breath and then looked to be deep in concentration. Then she nodded, seemingly to herself.
“Come on,” she said, and grabbed the handles of the wheelchair.
She lead them out onto a residential side street; they headed south and then Emily lead them down the first turn on their left. They continued in this direction for blocks, passing more interchangeable, decaying houses, and then they came to a T-junction. Emily turned left without even pausing, and Mark found it difficult to keep the pace. His legs were on fire, nearly numb, and his breath was coming only with effort. There was a pounding headache forming over his right eye, and he felt wearier than he could ever consciously remember feeling. He began walking with his head watching his feet, making sure he wasn’t going to stumble, and ignoring their surroundings. The gun in his hand kept getting heavier; his fingers were beginning to slip on the grip.
Then, seemingly ages later, they emerged onto a wide street cut through with steel streetcar tracks.
“Dundas,” Emily proclaimed, and waved them eastward. Her pace slowed once they turned onto the street, and Mark found it easy to keep up. He looked at her in askance, and she grinned.
“This is the Mayor’s domain, now,” she said, and Mark realized that there was no real humor in that grin. “His police will at least ask you questions before they blow your head off”.
The slower pace, while nice at first, soon became a source of even more agony. As he was able to relax, he began feeling every sore, burning area in his legs and back. They seemed to drag him down even further. He looked around and saw candles burning in the window of what appeared to be a small bar. The light startled him; it had been some time since he had seen lights from a window.
“The Press Club,” Emily remarked when she saw his interest. “Even at the end of all things, you can find a couple of people there. Now, it’s a pair of the Mayor’s police, but regardless. I’ve stopped in there before, not long ago. They’ve secreted a stash of batteries for their music, and they still keep a good stock of tea to replace the beer taps”. She smiled wistfully, and some of that previous dreaminess seemed to be creeping back into her manner. “They like good jazz there, and they keep an open mind to go with their tea. I may stop in there on my way back”. She shook her head. “No time for that now, though. How are you, Olivia?”
“I’m alright,” Olivia replied, although her voice was faint. “Let’s just get there”.
They rolled down the sidewalk on the south side of Dundas, past grimy, broken storefronts and the blackened apartments that existed above them. They were unmolested until they came to the intersection of Bathurst Street. They were passing by a grouping of computer stores, their contents smashed into kipple and littering the street. Across the street was the shattered remains of the coffee shop that Mark had remembered hazily when the plan had first been brought up. A pair of men exited the coffee shop and walked briskly across the street towards them. Mark felt himself immediately and painfully tense up but E
mily remained relaxed.
“Gentlemen,” she greeted them, and they stopped in front of them. They were both dressed completely differently, although they both wore an old Toronto Police badge around their necks.
“What’s your business in this area after dusk, folks?” one of them asked. He was wearing a grey tweed overcoat and looked like he was consciously trying to impersonate an old-style TV detective. The other, a much larger and more sculpted man wearing a grey MMA t-shirt and filthy jeans, piped up. “This area is off-limits to regular citizens after dark,” he supplied firmly. Emily smiled at them both, and spread her hands warmly.
“We’re bringing a pregnant woman to the hospital,” she said easily. “You can see that she’s going into labor. There are doctors at the Mayor’s hospital, aren’t there?”
The policemen looked at each other awkwardly, and then the man in the grey overcoat nodded.
“Alright, fair enough,” he allowed, but the larger policeman glared at them sharply.
“Where are you from, anyway?” he demanded.
“We have a house closer to College Street,” Emily lied smoothly. The TV-detective snorted.
“The roundup squads must have missed you,” he said. “The Mayor wants everyone in the city to live in specific buildings near to City Hall, so that it’s easier to help them until the problems with the power are finally solved”.
“Well,” Emily replied sweetly, “I guess they’ll be able to help us with that after we get to the hospital”.
The TV-detective smiled, although it never touched his eyes.
“I suppose they will, Miss,” he replied. “On your way, then”.
Emily pushed Olivia past them and cut across the street towards the sprawling, sleeping giant that was Toronto Western Hospital. It seemed impossibly massive from Mark’s tired perspective, although he imagined that whoever was inside of it would stick to one area now that the power was out. They made it across the street and Emily parked the wheelchair in front of the hospital’s emergency admittance entrance. The doors were chocked open and there were candles burning dimly at the triage desk. Emily turned to Mark.
“I won’t be able to go in with you,” she said quickly, and continued before Mark could react strongly. “If I go in with you they’ll send me over to the Mayor’s new housing, I think, and I don’t really want to go”.
“What about us?” Mark hissed. Emily stared at him flatly.
“What about you?” she asked. “You don’t have much of a choice, and I’m sure that the Mayor’s housing can’t be all bad”. She waited a moment, looking around nervously. “I just personally object to being made to go there. You’ll have a baby, I’m sure you’ll turn out just fine”. She smiled briefly and spun away.
“Wait, that’s it?” Mark demanded. “I’m sure you’ll turn out fine?”. Emily turned around once, to shrug, and then she was gone, ducking down a side-passage and vanishing. Mark stood where he was, shaking his head, and then he gripped the handles on Olivia’s wheelchair.
“Ready?” he asked, although he wasn’t sure if he was. Olivia nodded vigorously.
“Yes, Jesus, Mark, this hurts! We need to get in there now!”
Mark pushed her into the hospital, towards the candlelit triage desk. As he entered the doorway he saw that there was a woman sitting behind the desk, hidden in the flickering shadows. She stood up as they approached.
“She’s giving birth,” the woman said, her voice flat and nasal. “Jesus, she’s like, giving birth right now”.
“Get me a doctor!” Olivia screamed, and the woman jumped.
“Hold on!” she exclaimed, and ran off into the darkened hallway running left off of the triage area with a candle held before her. Mark knelt in front of the wheelchair and began taking all of the binding gear off of Olivia. He could see now that her face was very pale, her lips shaking.
“Hey,” he whispered, “we’re going to get through this, right?”
“Right,” Olivia replied, her voice struggling for calm. They waited for several minutes in the warm, guttering candlelight, and Mark felt a queer fatalism bubble up from within him. Whatever else happened, they had made it here. It was in the hands of the random, now.
He began to hear footsteps from down the corridor; they grew louder and the bob of the triage nurse’s candle became apparent. She approached the mouth of the corridor and beckoned to them.
“Come along!” she insisted, her motions frantic. “You have to come along now!”
Mark pushed the wheelchair, Olivia now gripping on to the armrests with ferocious force. Her breath was coming in fast. The nurse was practically running, and he felt a sense of déjà vu. He wondered if he would ever have to stop running.
They stopped in an interior waiting room; there was a glass-wall office in one corner with a hurricane lamp hanging inside. Mark saw two men in green scrubs conferring within. They seemed agitated, and fond of gesturing wildly as they spoke. After a brief, tense moment, they emerged and headed directly for Mark and Olivia.
“This the girl?” one of the doctors asked, and Mark felt his stomach drop. The ‘doctor’ was all of 21. The other man seemed more likely; there was grey in his hair, strength in his capable-looking hands, and a set to his jaw. There was also a rind of white powder around his nostrils, and his eyes were bleary and bloodshot. After a second glance, he noticed that this description was also apt of the much younger man. His bowels loosened and his thighs gave out. He stumbled backward and fell into one of the uncomfortable waiting seats.
The two doctors regarded him for the barest instant.
“We’ve got this covered, sir,” the older one assured him. Mark did not like the dismissive tone he was offered, but was too exhausted to put up a defense. He grinned weakly and gave a thumbs-up.
“We’re going to need a few things, Janice,” the older doctor said to the nurse.
“I know, I’ve already got Varada hunting them down,” the nurse, Janice, replied smoothly. The younger doctor laughed raucously.
“Round me up Varda for after we’re done,” he leered, “I’ll show her how we celebrate a good birth in Ireland”. He thrust his pelvis lasciviously several times. Janice’s face screwed up as though she had just bitten into a lemon. The older doctor expressed his disgust in a much simpler manner, by leaning forward and slapping the younger doctor broadly across the face with severe force.
“Fuck off, we have work to do,” he admonished the younger doctor. “Think about your dick afterward”.
“I’ll think about my dick anytime I want,” the younger doctor muttered childishly, but didn’t offer up any further attitude. Janice grabbed the wheelchair and lead the way; the two doctors followed amiably afterward. A moment later and Mark was alone, with only the light of the hurricane lamp in the office to keep him company.
He sat in the waiting room for an epoch. Time had slowed until he could imagine it going in reverse. At first, he tried to keep a count running in his head, but that had proved useless and impossible after only a few minutes. He tried to distract himself mentally but it was no good; his mind kept returning to Olivia, who was now giving birth amongst strangers—coked-up strangers, at that. Doctors, but doctors whose judgment was probably heavily compromised. He brooded on it until it tasted like long-soured soup on his taste buds. He thought about trying to find her, but he had no idea where they might have gone, and it would likely be extremely easy to become hopelessly lost. Eventually his exhaustion got the better of him, and he passed out sitting up in the chair, his head lolling at a painful angle.
As he slept he dreamed of a taxi. He was in the back seat of it, looking out of the window with boredom. The city, which was no city he had ever really seen before, appeared as it must have before the disappearance. People walked on the sidewalks, going in and out of the stores like nothing had ever happened. Cars clogged the street, and the taxi driver took some rather interesting risks to get around them, like city cabbies the world over. He grabbed on to the door handl
e to steady himself and realized that he had no idea where he was going; the cabbie could be taking him anywhere. He looked out the window and saw that the city vistas had changed quite a bit. Before it had been a bustling street full of interesting-looking shops and patrons. Now, the storefronts were boarded up, with many of them looking as though they had been boarded up for a long time, decades perhaps. Where there were no boards, the uncovered windows were broken mouths ringed with jagged shards of glass. The shops were dark within, and so nothing could be seen beyond the broken entrances. It was in front of one such shop that the cabbie pulled over.
“Fifteen-fifty,” the cabbie said without turning around to look. The money appeared in Mark’s hand and he left it wordlessly on the cab’s center console. The next thing he knew he was exiting the cab and it pulled away, leaving him alone on a deserted street.
Not quite alone—there were a few people gathered half a block down the street, standing in front of a weather-stained storefront that looked as though it had been prepared for a hurricane. He started off down the street towards them, hoping in a vague, dreaming way to get some directions. He made it a quarter of the way towards them before they turned towards him.
He felt himself grimace and could not help it. They were slow, shuffling mutants whose faces looked as though they had been melted in a strong fire. Their eyes ran like jelly down their faces, their foreheads melded into their cheeks. Their jowls drooped like a dog’s ears. Mark wanted to scream, but his throat felt like it had been stuffed with cotton. They stumbled towards him, their arms outstretched, their bony fingers tipped with ragged, blackened nails. They were close enough for Mark to count their black, rotted teeth when he felt the world shake.
“Sir,” he heard a voice say, and the world shook again. He opened his eyes and found himself looking into Janice’s tired, haggard face.