Routine affords Maxim some comfort and sense of security, so he continues to update his survey. He has witnessed no trace of his former neighbours in the last few weeks anywhere in the city, and he presumes they have migrated southward. Out of the 1,376 different people observed in Vancouver since he started his survey, he currently estimates an urban population of 602; another 340, provisionally listed as “transient or deceased,” have been observed no more than three times in a short span and not more recently than 60 days ago; another 148 were only spotted for the first time in the past eight weeks, so their status is still “indeterminate”; the 170 “deceased or emigrated” whom he observed regularly for the first few months but then disappeared is so far a steady sum; finally, he has so far identified 116 corpses as “newly deceased” since his awakening.
As Maxim drowses back to sleep, another noise shocks him to full wakefulness. There’s no mistaking the sound: a door being slammed. And now: the sounds of multiple people running, multiple hands pounding walls. There are people inside the building.
Maxim gets dressed quickly. He hesitates, pondering whether and if he should bring anything: his notes, some food, knives, extra clothes…
There’s a loud bang at the door. Maxim freezes, unprepared, unsure what to do, unsure that there’s anything he can do…
The door bursts open. A fetid stench fills the apartment. Maxim can barely see the outline of the intruder: of average height but uncommonly bulky.
Maxim bolts for the open door. Something sharp cuts his cheek. He yells from the pain, and at the same time the intruder crashes into something in the dark and stumbles onto the floor. Maxim escapes down the stairs. On most storeys he can hear people beyond the stairwell, in the condo units: objects being thrown around, the burst of things shattering on the floor, various bangs and crashes. It sounds like random destruction to Maxim’s ears; why are these people doing this? Maxim makes it outside without further incident.
Standing on the moist, feral lawn – it rained earlier this evening – he touches the cheek where he was cut, and his hand comes back dripping. Now that his adrenaline rush has subsided, the pain in his cheek gets sharper. Outside, it’s cool, only a few degrees above freezing, and Maxim is underdressed. He starts shivering. He tries to concentrate, to come to a decision, but he’s getting dizzier, his mind cloudier. The wound on his cheek is still open, the blood loss weakening him.
He’s barely conscious when the female Rottweiler from Granville Island comes up to him, barking.
And that’s when Maxim succumbs to the night’s ordeal and faints.
◄ ►
The dog’s tongue leaves a trail of saliva on Maxim’s lips as he emerges from unconsciousness. The Rottweiler is being gentle as she licks the wound on his cheek, but her aim is broad. One of the pups whimpers, so she stops tending to Maxim to see to her offspring; immediately, five of the other pups swarm him, sniffing him all over and licking his hands. They try to get to the wound, but by now he thinks it’s best to leave it alone; he shields it with one of his hands, careful not to touch it as his fingers are filthy with mud and grime.
Judging from the state of his clothes and the aches and bruises his back is suffering from, the Rottweiler dragged him all the way here – across the grounds of his building, across the remains of the pedestrian path that lines the shore of the False Creek inlet, and across the small pedestrian bridge – to the playground on Granville Island.
The Labrador male stands guard near the mouth of the bridge. His body is rigid, alert. It’s dawn; usually the dogs would go on a scavenging run. But they show no sign of budging, of wanting to leave the security of their home. Are they worried about the same group who invaded his building?
But there are many bridges that lead to Granville Island, many paths that lead into the playground they’ve made their home, and it’s impossible for the dogs to guard them all and stay together at the same time.
The day goes by without further incident. At dusk, Maxim and the Rottweiler leave the playground together, in search of food.
Maxim considers investigating if his building is safe now, but he decides to steer clear of it.
◄ ►
Maxim makes no special effort to keep up with or follow the dog, and soon they’re no longer wandering together. He’s grateful to her, and he knows where to find her if he wants to see her again, but for now he concentrates on finding lodging for the evening. He settles on a one-level rowhouse that’s been completely trashed, but has plenty of bulky furniture, which makes it easy to barricade the doors and windows.
He sleeps deeply, through the night and well past sunrise. His slumber is haunted by vivid dreams: surrealistic montages of physical violence, sexual fantasies and fears, cannibalistic orgies, cities being run over by swarms of invading monsters.
◄ ►
The three big scabs on Maxim’s cheek indicate his wound is healing. It’s still a little sensitive, but no apparent infection. He settles into his new home and his new routine, which is not that different from his old routine – scavenge for food, clothing, and supplies; explore the remains of the city – except that he has abandoned his survey, having lost his notes when he was forced out of his previous lodgings, and that now he makes a point of spending part of every day with the dog family in the Granville Island playground. The pups love to play with him, and he has developed a strong bond with the mother. The father, the Labrador, accepts him passively, neither encouraging nor discouraging his presence within the pack.
With increasing frequency, Maxim feels as if he is being followed. He vacillates between being worried about his safety and dismissing the sensation as paranoia.
When he returns home from today’s visit with the dogs, he finds his door open. Warily, he goes in anyway. There’s no one else in the house, but there’s food left on his table: apples, berries, lettuce, other leafy greens he can’t identity, and some dead fish – a better haul than he usually manages these days. He eats everything.
The next day, he again finds food on his table. And the next. And the next…
◄ ►
Maxim decides to stake out his old apartment building. It’s easy enough for him to hide unseen among the trees and keep a vigilant watch on the front door. Although Maxim has abandoned his formal survey, to satisfy his curiosity he still observes and surreptitiously follows the people he encounters in the course of his daily wanderings, but no one has ever led him back here. Are the invaders still here? How many of them are there? Who are they?
The instant he sees the first one of them emerge from the building, Maxim realizes that he already knew, that there had been just enough light to dimly make out the one who had raided his former apartment. But it had been easier to pretend not to have seen, to pretend not to know.
Like most mammals, they come out at dusk. There are nine of them. Are there more who stay behind while the others go hunt and forage?
Mammals. Yes, they are mammals. They are primates. Perhaps they are even human. But are they persons? Are there more groups of them elsewhere in Vancouver?
They wear no clothes. They’re furry, like monkeys or apes. But they walk fully erect on their hind legs, like humans. Some of them carry sticks, which they partially use as canes. Their fingers end in sharp claw-like nails, the sight of which makes him touch the scabs on his cheek. None of them are very tall; in fact, Maxim, himself of less than average height, is taller than any of them. Their frames are broad and muscular, though. Their heads, feet, and hands all seem disproportionately large. Big. Maxim snickers silently to himself: The Bigfoot people really do have big feet. Maxim thinks that Bigfoot is a stupid name, though. Sasquatch is better, and that’s what he’ll call them.
The question reverberates in his mind: Are they persons?
Cro-Magnon DNA dominates the stew of primate genes that make up Maxim Fujiyama. He wonders how close or how far to his own genetic makeup these Sasquatches are. Maxim is convinced that, yes, they are human, but they are differ
ently human than he is, more differently human, more alien than any human he has ever seen before.
There’s a gust of wind, and the odour hits him; a stench similar to the one when his previous apartment was broken into. Maxim’s senses become hyper-alert to his surroundings. He turns his head toward the source of the wind: there’s a Sasquatch standing at an angle behind him, approximately a metre to his left.
Maxim yelps in surprise and fear. He runs away as fast as he can, but he’s distracted and careless; he trips on a loose paving stone. He skids on his scabbed cheek, and it starts bleeding again. It’s only a superficial scrape, but it stings sharply. He picks himself up, his heart beating furiously. He looks back. The Sasquatch has made no move to chase him. It’s a female and particularly small. Their eyes meet, and she darts away, vanishing from Maxim’s view before he can figure out in which direction she has fled.
◄ ►
The next morning, the Rottweiler is waiting for Maxim outside his door. She accompanies him around the city. Since he gave up on the survey, Maxim’s explorations of the city have been more playful, more random, more fun. Yet a part of him feels restless and rudderless, as if he were waiting for something, some change. But he knows there is nothing to wait for.
Today, the Sasquatch makes no effort to hide herself. She follows the two of them from a safe distance. Maxim sees her on rooftops; across the street, crouched on the hood of derelict automobiles; watching them from ahead, then running away as he and the dog approach.
The Rottweiler sees the Sasquatch, too. The dog tenses every time she sees or smells her. Maxim pets her when he notices her change in attitude; the Rottweiler never barks at the Sasquatch, but occasionally she does emit a low grumble that doesn’t quite reach the level of a growl.
When Maxim returns home, the dog licks his hand then trots away toward Granville Island. For the first time since the bounty started, there’s no food waiting for him inside. He chides himself for not having made any effort to forage for anything today. Today’s expedition was longer than usual – the presence of both the dog and the Sasquatch made it more exciting – so now he’s both hungry and too tired to go out and find food.
There’s a bang at the door, which reminds Maxim that he hasn’t yet barricaded the entrance for the night. Maxim sits motionless, not sure what to do. Then, there’s another bang. Maxim gets up and opens the door a crack. Nothing happens. He opens it a bit wider and finds three apples and a fish have been left for him on the ground. There are two rocks next to the threshold. He notices the corresponding dents on the door.
As he collects the food, he sees the Sasquatch approximately four metres away, staring at him. Again, when he catches her eye, she darts away.
◄ ►
As Maxim play-wrestles with three of the pups, he wonders if he should give the dogs names. He has discovered that, because he has no name for any of them, he doesn’t distinguish between the various puppies, even though none of them look the same and they all have different personalities. In his mind, they have remained “the pups” – a collective rather than a group of individuals. The parents are clearly individualized in his mind because he refers to them as “the Rottweiler and the Labrador,” “the female and the male,” or “the mother and the father” – all of which have taken on the weight of names. But he has so far resisted applying human names to his canine family.
His family. It’s the first time he’s consciously thought of the dogs this way. Soon the family will grow: the Rottweiler is pregnant again.
Maxim scrutinizes the shore to the south of Granville Island. Yes. She’s there again. For the past five days, the Sasquatch girl has been watching Maxim play with the dogs. Since their initial encounter, Maxim has been observing her as much as she lets him. He has come to the conclusion that she’s in her mid- or late teens, no more than a few years younger than himself.
Family, Maxim thinks again. Yes, he will give all the dogs names. And the new pups, too, after they’re born.
Maxim gets up and walks toward the small pedestrian bridge. At first the pups follow him, but he motions them away and they start playing with each other. He turns back toward the shore. The Sasquatch is still there, carefully observing his interaction with the dogs.
He walks toward her – slowly, calmly, halting every few steps, gauging her reaction to his approach. He looks back toward the dogs. The Rottweiler and the Labrador are watching his every move, occasionally glancing at the Sasquatch. They’re getting used to her, he thinks, so they don’t bark or growl. They’re waiting to see what Maxim will do.
Maxim crosses the bridge. The Sasquatch hasn’t moved, as if she were waiting for him. They lock eyes. For once, she does not dart away. He steps within reach of her. He puts a hand to his chest and says, softly, “My name is Maxim Fujiyama.”
He extends his other hand toward her, palm upward. She looks at it but doesn’t move. Maxim stays still, his hand still offered. He closes his eyes.
He waits. Is she still here? He doesn’t want to startle her, so he keeps his eyes closed. He waits.
When the moment of contact comes, it startles him, but he remains immobile.
Her palm is roughened with calluses. Her fingernails are hard and sharp. Exploring the skin of his forearm, she draws blood. Maxim’s eyes pop open as she lets go of him. She’s poised to run away, but she hesitates, closely observing Maxim. He smiles at her.
She changes postures and takes his hand, frowning at the fresh cut on his flesh. It’s only a little scratch; still, he’ll have to wash it to make sure it doesn’t get infected. She kisses the wound; her mouth is surprisingly soft.
Maxim laughs. She laughs, too.
He reaches out and takes her hand in his. Their palms press tight against each other.
Together, they both laugh harder.
AUTHORS’ BIOGRAPHIES
T.S. Bazelli writes software manuals by day and novels by night. When not at a computer, you can find her making a mess in the kitchen, building things, or travelling the world in search of stories. She currently lives in Vancouver. She blogs about writing and folklore at www.tsbazelli.com.
GMB Chomichuk is a writer, teacher, mixed media artist, graphic novelist and proud Winnipegger. He won the Manitoba Young Writers Award when he was 15. He won the Manitoba Book Award for Best Illustrated Book in 2011 for his graphic novel serial The Imagination Manifesto. He has been nominated for the Michael Van Rooy Award for Genre Fiction and nominated for Canada’s Best Graphic Novel by the Canadian Science Fiction & Fantasy Association. He is the founder of Alchemical Press and is always on the lookout for literary oddities. He puts words and pictures together. Some people call that alchemy. He calls that comics. twitter.com/gmbchomichuk and his works-in-progress are at www.comicalchemy.blogspot.com.
A.M. Dellamonica has recently moved to Toronto after 22 years in Vancouver. She is a graduate of Clarion West and teaches writing through the UCLA Extension Writers’ Program. Dellamonica’s first novel, Indigo Springs (Tor, 2009), won the Sunburst Award for Canadian Literature of the Fantastic. Her most recent book is Child of a Hidden Sea (Tor, 2014). She is the author of over 30 short stories in a variety of genres: they can be found on Tor.com, Strange Horizons, Lightspeed and in numerous print magazines and anthologies. She is online at www.alyxdellamonica.com, facebook.com/AlyxDellamonica, instagram.com/alyxdellamonica, twitter.com/alyxdellamonica and www.pinterest.com/alyxdellamonica.
dvsduncan was born in Vancouver, and now lives in New Westminster, B.C. with his wife and a generously proportioned cat. He holds degrees in English and Landscape Architecture but it is life that has taught him the most. His stories are all true, though not factual. Make of that what you will. www.dvsduncan.com
Geoff Gander is part of the authors’ group East Block Irregulars, and prior to taking up writing was heavily involved in the roleplaying community. His stories have appeared in Heroes of Mars (Meta-human Press, 2012), AE SciFi (2012) and Imaginarium (ChiZine Publications, 2013), he has twice
contributed to the “retro-gaming” Advanced Adventures Line, and his first novel was The Tunnelers (Solstice Publishing, 2011). He primarily writes horror, but is willing to give anything a whirl. When he isn’t writing or toiling away in a cube farm, Geoff likes to read, watch British comedies, roleplay, and entertain his two boys. This story first appeared in AE – The Canadian Science Fiction Review (2013).
Orrin Grey is a writer, editor, amateur film scholar, and monster expert who was born on the night before Halloween. He’s the author of Never Bet the Devil & Other Warnings (Evileye Books, 2012) and co-editor of Fungi (Innsmouth Free Press, 2012), an anthology of weird fungal fiction. When not hiding out in his red room, he’s found at twitter.com/orringrey and www.orringrey.com.
David Huebert of Halifax is a PhD student at Western University. His poetry and fiction have appeared in journals such as Grain, Event, Matrix, Vallum, Dalhousie Review, and Antigonish Review. A first book of poetry, We Are No Longer the Smart Kids in Class, will be published by Guernica Editions in the spring of 2015. “@shalestate” is an excerpt from a novel-in-progress. twitter.com/davidbhuebert
John Jantunen moved to Guysborough County, NS, in 1999 – to wait out the apocalypse. When it didn’t happen he relocated to Guelph, Ontario, where he now lives with his wife and two children. He has written two dozen screenplays, 20 or so children’s books and as many short stories. He is currently writing his fourth novel, a sci-fi/horror/romance called A Many Splendour’d Thing. His first, fallingoverstandingstill, is available through Vocamus Press (www.vocamus.net) and his second, Cipher, is forthcoming from ECW Press on October 1st, 2014.
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