by Trevor Zaple
Some few days before the winter solstice, Paul Taggert sat in his opulently appointed bedroom, leaning back in a softly cushioned rocking chair and kicking the wall with frustration. He had believed that he had the city in his hand back in August, when the power had gone out fortuitously as his snipers drove back the fat bastard who called himself a mayor’s police force. Everything had been primed to fall into place; he had driven the police back and would advance upon them, seizing their assets and raiding their storage. Everything had fallen apart shortly thereafter, however. The groups of agents that he had sent out to probe the mayor’s defenses had failed to return; eventually he had been forced to face up to the possibility that the mayor’s police force was larger than he’d ever considered. Since then he had withdrawn his control to a tight circle whose diameter ran from Parkdale to the ruins of the old punk club at Queen and Bathurst, the one that they’d wanted to turn into an Ikea or some such nonsense before the disappearance. He paid loners to lurk in buildings and watch, paid patrols to act as his own private police force. He’d paid them in food, but that was beginning to present its own special problem.
His food supplies were running out. He kicked the wall again, harder this time. It wasn’t fair. He’d one-upped that fat fuck and gathered what seemed to be an endless vault of canned goods and other non-perishables. At the time it had seemed like a bounty that he could wield like a club over the people that lived in his territory, something he could guarantee their fealty and support with.
Time had proven that this was a false assumption. He hadn’t realized that canned goods had expiration dates; some were far off, years really, but there was a disconcerting percentage that had expiration dates that were going to be running up in the not-too-distant future. A lot of the soups were going to expire before the new year was fairly begun, and the possibility of a food shortage was weighing on his mind. In the spring they would have to seriously invest in some sort of agriculture but they would have to survive the winter first, and if he kept giving out food at the rate that he was then they would all be starving by the middle of January.
There had been cases of scurvy appearing in his territory after a while, and he had instituted a mandatory intake of Vitamin C-enriched substances with the rations he gave out as pay. There was a lot to choose from—a lot of drink powders had come salted with Vitamin C, and there were tons of pill bottles containing Vitamin C tablets that smelled like dusty doctors offices, but there wasn’t an infinite supply. It would run out eventually, and Taggert had been trying to figure out a way to replenish the supply. He had commissioned people to find out a way to grow lemons or oranges within the city, maybe in greenhouses, but so far their plans were only theoretical. He kicked the wall again, hard, and left a cracked, crumbling crater in the drywall. He regarded it with scant satisfaction.
There was a knock at the door and the dark visage of Michael Therin entered without waiting for a response. Taggert looked up at him and then returned to staring at and kicking his wall. Therin watched him calmly for several minutes as Taggert went about this. After Taggert managed to put his foot completely through the wall, he took a seat atop the desk next to the chair that Taggert sat in.
“We’re going to need more food, Paul,” he said, as though this were something that Taggert might not have considered. It was too much. Taggert exploded.
“YOU DON’T THINK I KNOW THAT?” he screamed, and then managed to keep himself under control. “You’re very lucky that I respect you, Michael, you truly are. If you were anyone else I’d blow your fucking head off for that”.
Michael nodded sagely but said nothing. Eventually Taggert leaped out of his chair in disgust.
“Well, what of it then?” he asked violently, throwing his arms in the air. “Do you have ideas, or are you just going to sit there like some kind of stupid child while you tell me the obvious?”
Michael smiled indulgently. “I have someone you may want to meet,” he said mysteriously. Taggert’s face flushed menacingly.
“Say what you mean, Michael, or get out. I don’t have the time or patience for this”.
“He says that his name is Terence Jones,” Michael murmured, “and that he has news of doctors”. Taggert froze. He leaped forward and grabbed Michael’s ragged collar with both hands. He felt delirious.
“Terence Jones?” he whispered. Michael nodded. He gripped the man’s collar even tighter. “Listen to me closely, you fucking nigger,” he hissed, “if this is some kind of joke…”
Michael’s face hardened, the racial slur making his eyes narrow with barely concealed anger.
“No joke,” he growled. “I’ve got him in the manager’s office downstairs ready to talk to you”. Paul let go of Michael’s collar and smoothed his hands on his rough blue jeans.
“Well, that’s a different kettle of fish, isn’t it?” he asked, sounding suddenly very pleased with himself. Michael nodded sourly, not looking him in the eye. Paul thought about apologizing for his language and then dismissed it. If Michael couldn’t fucking well take a joke, then what concern was it of his?
“Wants to talk, does he?” he asked, half to himself. “I’ll bet he does. Probably isn’t too happy under that walking greaseburger that thinks he’s mayor. I’ll bet he has just the thing for me”. He looked at Michael. “Fucking snap out of it already,” he spat, and Michael looked at him finally. There was a hurt in his eyes that made Taggert want to curl a fist and put them out. He flapped his hand at the man instead.
“Ah, whatever,” he dismissed. “You can’t take a joke, I’m not going to stand around while you cry. Let’s go talk to this Terence Jones fellow, find out what sort of things he can tell us. This might be a very interesting conversation”. He chuckled, and this developed quickly into a full-bodied laugh. He left the room, still laughing. Michael Therin followed momentarily, his hands clenching in and out of fists. There’ll be a reckoning, he thought, Paul, there’ll be a reckoning and you’d best believe that you’ll be caught in the storm if you stick your neck out. Even you can catch it in the end, king of the shit-heap or not. You’d best believe.
Six
Mark dozed in silent contentment and it was wonderful. His hands rested atop the warm, curved back of his newborn daughter. She was lying on her stomach atop his chest, a snoozy little heat-box that seemed to radiate love and good cheer. Olivia nestled beside him, her face burrowed into the side of his ribcage, his right arm curled around the hollow of her soft neck. It was as domestic a scene as Mark could have ever imagined. He found himself going in and out of a very light sleep, existing more on waves of feeling than on any conscious sense.
They named her Victoria so that the sun would never set on her and Elizabeth to give her the steel to fight against the day that it would try. They loved her from the moment they laid eyes on her and both agreed that they would do anything to ensure that no harm would befall her. As Mark lay in a sort of dozy wonderland, he wondered how he had ever gotten along without her. There was a peace to his being that had never really existed before. He had always been the restless sort, never really settled on any one thing and always questioning that validity and worth of what he had in life. It was what had led him through a series of sales jobs and put him towards cheating on Olivia. Now however, he seemed to have found the missing key in the briefcase, and he found himself settling into his role. He held her, changed her, soothed her, loved her. Olivia would feed her, that tiny mouth clutched around her nipple and working it for all it was worth. Olivia’s hand would pet that head of fine hair, reveling in the moment. Mark would take her afterward and burp her; after, he would pace back and forth with her until she nodded off to sleep, her little head nestling against his shoulder, her breathing deep and even. He would continue to walk her for long stretches after she fell asleep, unwilling to move her enough to possibly wake her up. They would take turns going to her when she did wake up in the night, soothing her, rocking her, and pacing her back to sleep. They were both tired quite a bit of th
e time, but neither of them would have traded it for anything that had ever come before.
From down the hallway he heard the sound of a heavy fist knocking on doors. The pounding gradually made it’s way closer, and Mark began to drift out of sleep. His turn would be coming up soon, and he would have to move quickly. Groaning, he nudged Olivia awake.
“Hon,” he whispered, “they’re calling for duty. I’m going have to get up”.
“No,” she complained sleepily. He smiled warmly.
“Sorry hon,” he apologized, and she turned over onto her back.
“Fine,” she conceded, not upset in the slightest. “Give our evil disgusting daughter over and I guess I’ll somehow have to find a way to live with snuggles and warmth”.
Mark laughed and wiggled Victoria off of his chest and onto Olivia’s. He very slowly slipped out of bed and began finding his clothing. He pulled on a pair of boxers that seemed less dirty than others and then his battered but unbroken blue jeans went on overtop. He threw a white undershirt on and then put a heavy cotton blue uniform shirt on it. He went to the storage closet by the door and put on his Kevlar vest and strapped on his .357 Magnum, that old friend of what seemed like a long-gone time. He stopped once more, to pick up the lethal-looking McMillan Tac-50 rifle up from the corner next to the chemical-scented bathroom; then, he was out the door, trying to open and egress as quietly as he possibly could.
He came out of the room just as Conley was coming to knock on his door. Conley was a beefy, stout man with a luxuriantly long, curled chin beard and hard, laughing eyes. He was the man who more or less acted as the sergeant for the guard duties; he was the one who would pull you out of your room and throw you on your naked ass if you weren’t ready shortly after he pounded on your door. It had happened to Mark once and since then he had developed a habit of trying to be out of his door before Conley had a chance to knock. This time, as Mark stood at rough attention in front of his door, Conley grinned widely.
“A man on time, I like that a lot, Mr. Taylor,” he said. “That reflects well on you”.
“Thank you, sir,” he replied, and actually felt a swelling of pride about it. He stifled a smile, remarking to himself about how quickly one's goals could change. It was more than that, though. He liked Conley; he was the sort of man who, had by his own admission, never really been more than a trusted lead hand in his job before the disappearance. He had known how to build a top-notch, elegant sort of cabinet but had never been given the opportunity to lead. Now the situation demanded it and he stepped up with aplomb. He was earthy and could be quite garrulous at the right times, always choosing the right time to open up on a personal level to his men and women.
“You’re on the Bathurst roof post tonight,” Conley told him and Mark nodded reluctantly. The temperature had really dropped over the last few weeks and the outdoors postings were always the worst of the bunch. It was a rotating schedule, though, so there was no favoritism, and there was no one to really get angry with. He hefted his rifle.
“I’ll have to stop by the nurses’ station and pick up a coat on the way,” he cautioned. Conley nodded impatiently and motioned him onward.
He stopped to get his thick, goose-down winter coat and made his way through the dimly lit corridors to the roof access. When the got the heavy steel hatch open and lifted his head through the hole the stinging winter wind hit him across the face like the icy slap of a jealous lover. He winced and scrambled out of the hatch. He shielded his face with his hand and peered into the moonlit darkness. He made out a tall figure in a bulky coat near the edge of the roof, lying down on his stomach and aiming his long, scoped rifle off of the edge on a downward angle. He walked toward the area, pushing his shoulder into the wind to buffer against the gusts that blew through this high up. He hunkered down beside the other man and took up the same position.
The man was Albert Northdancer and he turned to silently regard Mark as he leveled his rifle and aimed out into the opposite arc to Northdancer’s own. He then turned back to his own spectrum of territory without saying anything. Mark snorted in response to this but did not push the issue. He was used to this sort of thing by now. Mark got along with most of the guards that had been more or less pressed into service by the Mayor and his so-called Emergency Duty Act, but Northdancer was a tough nut to crack. They had exchanged a few words in the weeks that they’d known each other but had never had an actual conversation. In a way, Mark was glad. He’d heard Northdancer talk to others, and he’d always been willing to display a sarcastic mouth and a penchant for not-so-gentle mockery.
Mark ignored him and looked out over the edge of the hospital onto Bathurst Street. It was, as it usually was, deserted. The thick layer of packing snow that blanketed it was untouched by human or animal feet. The sprawling corporate coffee shop that lay in it’s own snowy shroud across the street was also barren. It was that building that Mark would usually keep the closest eye on; its dark interior could potentially hide any number of creeping individuals and Mark would twitch and focus on any sudden movements that could be perceived there, regardless of how minor they would turn out to be. There was nothing moving there tonight, though, and Mark settled himself in for several hours of miserable boredom. There was no fear of falling asleep on duty, even though that crime bore the punishment of a lingering death; the cold blasts would serve as a wake-up call before sleep could ever manage to take hold. It would be six hours of watch and shiver instead. He thought back to the warmth and serenity of his family and steeled himself. There would be time for rest and love soon enough.
“Quiet night,” Northdancer said, and Mark was too shocked to say anything for a moment.
“Sure is,” he replied finally. “Let me guess, still nothing moving across the street”.
He heard a soft chuckle float over from Northdancer.
“Not a goddamn thing. Thought I might have actually seen a squirrel, but it turned out to be a ripped-up plastic bag”.
“I can’t remember the last time I even saw a squirrel”.
“Long time for me. I think the independents have eaten up all the wildlife out there that was left”.
“Better than starving”.
“True enough”.
There was a moment of silence during which Mark was amazed at the conversation that had just taken place. He thought about it and realized that it might be the longest exchange they had ever had. As he was mulling this over, the normally reticent Northdancer began speaking again.
“So, are you and your young lady married? I mean, were you married before everyone up and vanished?”
Mark hesitated. “No, we were…that is to say, we didn’t expect to get pregnant”.
Northdancer laughed. “No one ever does, even people who’ve been married for a long time. You stayed by her, though, and that’s the main thing”.
Mark chuckled. “Not exactly,” he admitted ruefully. “We had a, uh, complication a few months after we found out she was pregnant. We broke up for quite some time, actually”.
“Sorry to hear that,” Northdancer replied. Then, “Do you see that, near the corner of the building?”
Mark peered through his scope. “Just some trash,” he confirmed after a moment. Northdancer nodded, just barely moving his head. A cold blast of Arctic air blew over the roof, causing them both to shiver. After the wind gust subsided, Mark thought he saw shadows moving in the windows but after staring into them with deep concentration for some time he decided that it was just an optical illusion.
“You’re lucky that you both survived whatever happened,” Northdancer murmured several minutes later. “Lord knows I came home to find my wife had disappeared”. He paused a moment, and then; “not that I’m complaining, mind you”.
Mark smiled in the darkness. “To each their own, I suppose”. Northdancer laughed.
“Did you know that Conley’s wife survived as well?”
Mark thought about this for a moment.
“No,” he replied, “I didn�
��t. I know that there were enough surviving pairs that it wasn’t a one-in-a-million shot, but it was still damn rare. Almost random, in a way”.
“Totally random,” Northdancer replied. “No rhyme or reason at all. It’s like we all drew a lottery and the winners stayed alive”.
“The winners, eh?” Mark asked sardonically. Northdancer snorted.
“What are you complaining about?” he asked, a trace of bitterness in his voice. “You’ve got the equivalent of a wife and kid in there. You’re on top of the world”.
Mark nodded slowly, huddling down from another gust of wind. “Yeah, I am lucky,” he said defiantly. He didn’t feel as though he had to be apologetic about it. There was another moment of silence.
“Don’t ask him about it, though. Ok?” His voice was strict here. This was an honest warning.
“How come?”
“She didn’t make it too long after, is all. She had a health problem, bad reaction to her medication or something. It’s the kind of thing that would normally be pretty easy to treat if you can get to the hospital quick enough, but it killed her. So, just don’t ask him, alright?”
“Alright”.
The rest of their lonely guard shift on the roof was spent in watchful silence. The cold wind chilled them through the scavenged winter coats but six hours later, in the deepest part of the night, their relief came and Mark shortly found himself warm and together with his sleeping family. His sleep was profoundly deep and dreamless. It went like this in cycles for weeks. The winter howled and clutched at the city like a miser to his clothes, but Mark found himself adapting well to the groove that his life had fit into. He was a soldier for the city, now, answerable ultimately to the Mayor himself. Whatever his private opinions of the man, Mark put himself in the chain of command and accepted it.