by Rio Youers
I gazed into the darkness at the far end of the factory, where the insect had disappeared. Had it come to show me the way out? A hole in the wall or ceiling, butterfly-sized, that would give me another shot at life, however frail?
It was my only hope.
I grasped the catwalk’s rails and pushed on.
That’s it, Westlake, Dr. Quietus said. He swooped and perched on the catwalk ahead of me. Head low, oozing smoke. Keep pushing. Keep fighting, Oh, my bleeding heart! He took wing again, through a curtain of steam, out of sight. I heard him laughing. Wild sound that wanted to break me.
There was still so far to go, and Dr. Quietus was playing with me—drawing out his pleasure, my pain. The urge to concede was consuming, but I didn’t. I worked harder, through the suffering, one agonizing step at a time.
The end of the world, Westlake. He swept beneath the catwalk, his wings tight and muscular, then up and out of sight again.
Sweat boiled from my body. My pyjamas clung to my skin, heavy and smeared with oil. I licked my lips, taking moisture that rolled down my throat like ice (and back in the groovy room I groaned, devoid of moisture for so long). I pressed on—could now see the factory’s back wall. No sign of any frailties, but there was the butterfly, as bright as a flame, tacked to the underside of a rafter.
Get me out of here, I said, and it fluttered, orange wings ticking, to another rafter closer to the corner.
I gathered strength from somewhere and shuffled faster—hell, it was almost a run. The catwalk was coming to an end, though, and I still had at least thirty feet to go. Below me: conveyors and pistons, clouds of steams, cogs turning. It was a loud world, everything grinding, wheezing. I looked for Dr. Quietus and saw him crouched on an oversized engine that coughed toxins. He pointed at me, wreathed in smoke.
What are you going to do, surfer boy?
I looked at the distance between the end of the catwalk and the butterfly. Pipes hissing. Chains hanging. A conveyor loaded with scrap metal, chugging toward a crusher with a throat like a black hole.
It’s over, Dr. Quietus said. He leapt from the engine and spread his wings. I lost him for a second as he meshed with the darkness, then he was on me, striking hard and fast. No time to react. His boot connected with my chest and lifted me clear off the walkway.
KA-WHUNK!
I spilled over the edge and fell to the conveyor below, so close to being impaled on an ugly jag of steel. I screamed and puked blood. Tried to move but the pain was unimaginable. The conveyor rumbled and through the tears in my eyes I saw the crusher, less than twenty feet away, swallowing snarls of metal and spitting out perfect cubes.
Dr. Quietus whirled above me, howling triumphantly, then touched down on the conveyor and planted his boot on my chest.
And in the end, he said, you die, just like the rest of them—the millions of heroes who have come before. You’re not so special.
I screamed again, spraying blood from the back of my throat, teeth stained red. With huge effort, I grabbed Dr. Quietus’s boot and tried to lift it from my chest. He shook his head and tensed the muscles in his leg, exerting more pressure.
I don’t think so, he said.
The conveyor rumbled on. I heard the crusher sucking in ugly chunks of metal, smashing its jaws. Twelve feet away. Eleven.
Your final seconds, Dr. Quietus growled. His smile was a blackened grille, too wide, too hungry. And you get to spend them with me. How delightful.
He threw back his head and laughed in true supervillain style.
A bead of orange in the corner of my eye. The butterfly, still on the rafter. I was moving toward it. A flicker of hope . . .
The end, Dr. Quietus said.
Not yet, I said. I reached behind me and grabbed the first thing my hand happened upon: a stone-sized lump of iron. I curled my fingers around it, twisted my body, and threw with insane sidearm precision. It hurtled toward Dr. Quietus like a tiny asteroid, disappeared inside his cowl, and bounced hard off that black-grille mouth.
PWAAANNG!
He cried out and spilled backward, arms pinwheeling. I didn’t waste a second in following up. I sprang to my feet in one lithe movement, strutted forward, then dropkicked the son of a bitch.
KAROOOMPHH!
He crashed into the scrap pile on the belt behind him, scattering it all before falling to the ground ten feet below. I knew he’d be back on his feet in no time. I had to move, and quickly. One shot at escape, to buy—maybe—one more day. I spat yet more blood and looked at the crusher. So close now.
Dr. Quietus roared. He worked his wings and sent chunks of scrap metal spinning in all directions. Fists clenched, bleeding oil and anger, he came at me again.
I lurched, not away from, but toward the crusher. I planted the sole of my foot on a tangle of junk and used it to launch myself—flew through the air for a heartbeat before starting to descend. Below me, the junk I had launched from toppled into the machine and I heard the jaws do their thing.
You resilient little cocksucker! Dr. Quietus screamed.
I swallowed blood and wept—reached out, and managed to grab one of the chains hanging from the ceiling. It jerked in my hand but I held on, kicked my legs and swung high. Over the crusher. Through a screen of blue sparks. I let go of the chain and grabbed another, like Tarzan swinging on vines, and took this one all the way to the rafters.
Okay, I said to the butterfly. I’m here. Let’s book it.
The butterfly opened its wings, fluttered to the exit (the thinnest seam between the wall and ceiling), and disappeared. I imagined it suddenly rising into the clean sky outside my bedroom window, above a world turning gold. I lunged after it, crying out . . . almost reached the gap when I felt Dr. Quietus’s hand curl around my ankle. He pulled hard—jerked me back.
Not so fast, pretty boy.
I clung to the rafter with everything I had, fingernails scraping along the cold metal. I was so close to the gap that I could see a thread of Surf City Blue. Smell coffee and waffles. Hear the radio playing. Dr. Quietus’s hand tightened on my ankle. I twisted around and kicked with my other foot. It connected with the dark oval of his face. It felt like stomping on a bed of cockroaches that clicked and scratched against my skin. I kicked him again . . . again. He roared, lost his grip, slumped back.
I hit that seam of light like a dart.
My eyes snapped open.
The groovy room was cool and bright. Altogether beautiful. My dry body trembled and I exhaled air that I was sure would smell of sulphur and sweat.
Jesus, I gasped. Jesus Christ.
That was it. I had nothing—nothing—left. The next fight would be my last. Judging from the way I’d pissed off Dr. Quietus (I’d dropkicked him, for the love of God), I had a feeling he’d be returning soon. Probably before the end of the day.
It’s over, I said.
Yeah, a sad voice agreed, so soft I barely heard.
My gaze rolled by chance to the doorway, and there was Hub. My dog. My best friend. He tried to smile, but I could see that his eyes were big and moist.
Hey, I said weakly.
He closed his eyes and his mouth trembled as he whined.
Dude had finally come to say goodbye.
24. Downward Dog.
So much sadness, huh? And so many tears. I’ve tried to keep things upbeat here. Not exactly easy. Believe me, it would rock my socks to be able to tell you how goddamn happy everybody is. Just singing and dancing, like the Ewoks at the end of Jedi. Can’t do it, though. I have to tell it like it is.
My tragic life.
Here’s the thing: roll back the clock to any time before my accident, and there wouldn’t be tears. Or so few as not to matter. We were always laughing, goofing off. Sure, we had our ups and downs, like any family. Arguments and slammed doors. Then there was Mom’s postpartum depression (which I didn’t even know about until Dad told me). But the rough times didn’t last, and for the most part ours was a household of smiles. Those days are history. The stuff of
memories and old home movies.
It’s crazy how one moment—one decision—can change so much.
Scary, too.
It’d be cool to fast-forward three or four years. You’d see a family rebuilt and smiling again. Niki with (if she works her ass off) a university degree and a steady boyfriend, planning the rest of her life. The groovy room turned into a mini gym, or maybe a study. Hub still rocking it, but with a little grey in his snout. Dad and Mom dancing most nights. The only reminder of the son and brother they had lost would be an oil painting on the living room wall, a reproduction of one of my surfing photos—tearing through the glasshouse at Banzai Pipeline, perhaps, lovingly recreated with an impressionist’s flare.
Yeah . . . that’d be cool.
I’m a sucker for a happy ending, so let’s just do it now: And they all—except for Westlake, who died—lived Happily Ever After . . . eventually.
There.
But prior to this joyous conclusion . . .
You son of a bitch, Hub said, and I thought that was kind of rich, coming from him. You said you were going to get better. Dude, you promised.
I nodded inside and willed my eyes to roll away from him, and by pure fluke they did. Not completely, but enough that I didn’t have to look at his sad little face. I’d been waiting for him to come speak to me—was pissed that he hadn’t, to be honest, and now that he was here, I couldn’t stand to look him in the eye. My chest hitched. A leaking sound escaped my mouth. Sounds crazy, but I almost wished I could be back in that factory with Dr. Quietus. Saying goodbye to Hub was going to be just as hard.
He came a little farther into the room, stopped short of my bed. I thought of the many times he had dropped into a sun patch or curled next to the Mork chair. Preferred spots for our conversations. Not today, though. This wasn’t going to be a leisurely chinfest. He growled with displeasure and gave his tail an agitated flick. I felt his eyes boring into me.
So, what’s the deal? he asked.
The deal?
Yeah. Are you just giving up? His paws tapped on the hardwood as he stepped closer. The end. Game over. That’s it, huh?
Dude, I said. I’ve tried so hard.
You’ve tried everything?
My eyes rolled back to him. I’ve got nothing left, I said.
Hub lowered his head and was silent for a long time. Then he whined, ears pinned low, and surprised me by jumping onto my bed. He looked at my useless body, skin chafed and pink, hollow stomach fluttering. It looked as if the bedsheets had been laid over a pile of broken sticks. The pressure of his weight on the bed—all of what, twenty-five pounds?—sent pain pulses through my legs and lower back. It hurt so much and I braced inside, but I didn’t want him to jump down. Not for anything.
You can’t give up, Hub said, and his mouth turned a sad smile. There are still waves to surf.
Yeah, bitchin’ waves, I agreed. I’ll surf them in my dreams.
Come on, man. You’re stronger than that.
I’m beat, Hub. It’s over.
He came closer. The movement sent spikes through my pelvis and ribs. My legs flared as if they had been dipped in oil and set to burn. Yet, if I could, I would have pulled Hub closer still, hugged him tight to my chest, buried my face in his golden fur. I think he sensed this, because he—so gently—edged forward, into the gap between my arm and my side, and rested his head on the ridge of my thigh.
This is breaking my heart, Wes.
I know, brother.
Don’t know what I’m going to do without you.
There’s so much love here. You’ll be fine.
Won’t be the same, dude. He closed his moist eyes. That’s all I’m saying.
I had nothing to say to that. We were trying to encourage each other, but it was so hard. The truth—that I probably wouldn’t live to see the sun go down—was too vast a thing to overcome. Encouragement splintered like ice and we fell into our own freezing pools. Hub whimpered. I groaned. He nuzzled against my side and a muscle in my forearm flexed weakly.
I’m going to miss you, he said.
More silence, and I took it—enjoyed Hub’s company while I still could, reflecting on better days. I remembered when we got him from the animal shelter, how he’d been reclining in his cage with one foreleg covering his eyes, little pink belly showing. Countless walks and outings, through meadows and forests, along river banks. Rabbits springing, whitetail bounding through the high grass, and Hub just as chill as can be. Hanging on the patio at Turtle Jack’s, Hub with a bowl of water, me with a bottle of Rickard’s Red, doing our thing and wooing the ladies. And hours spent at the Beaches, listening to The Edge on a retro boom box, watching the sun rip pink patterns on Lake Ontario.
Good times.
I’m going to miss you, too, I said.
I heard my family eating breakfast in the kitchen. The clash of their cutlery. The waffle iron sizzling second and third helpings (the smell of the batter, rich and full of fat, made my empty stomach cry). They ate in silence, the radio playing soft sounds behind them, and I wondered if they sensed—as I did, and Hub—that this was the day. One final round of tears, and then time for healing.
I’m not giving up on you, Hub said. Just so you know.
I appreciate that, I said. Wish to hell I could reward that faith.
My acute canine senses tell me you’ve got one gnarly trick left in you. Hub tried to smile and I wrapped myself around him. So much love. I didn’t ask him where those senses were during the days of tension, when Fat Annie quit and Mom and Dad had deliberated over their decision. “Acute” was not an adjective that sprang to mind. But then, I hadn’t exactly been quick to catch on, either.
There’s a wave coming, Hub continued. A real bomb—
Like the one that got me into this mess?
Bigger, dude. And you’re climbing the face quickly. Looks like you’re going to wipeout, but if you can attack the lip at just the right moment, pull some insane aerial—a rodeo flip, or something—there’s a chance you can gain control and ride it out.
A sweet analogy, but grounded in make-believe. Hub knew it, too. He wouldn’t have spent the last two weeks moping around if he truly believed I had any chance of pulling one last trick. We knew the reality: the bomb had already hit. Smashed my body against the rocks and tossed me to the shore. But Hub was doing his best to encourage me . . . to throw a little light into my final hours.
Love my dog. Yes, I do.
Tell me you’ll try, he said.
But there was nothing to try. Everything had failed on me. I was falling fast, out of control. Still, I couldn’t let Hub shine the light on his own.
Hey, I said. I haven’t backed down from a wave yet.
He gave his tail a loose thump, but it was impossible to read the emotion in it. Settled his chin on my upper leg and closed his eyes. My breath rattled. I rode the pain. Out in the kitchen, Mom, Dad, and Niki packed away their breakfast things, clattering dishes and cutlery, but still not speaking.
You’d better hustle, I said to Hub, if you want to snag some leftover waffles.
Forget that, Hub replied. His lips flapped as he sighed. I’ve been away too long. I’m staying right here with you, brother.
I felt his light. His miniature sun.
You’re the best friend ever, I said.
Always loved you, man, he said. Always will.
I rolled into fragile sleep, but not for long. When I woke, I saw that Hub was sleeping, too, in almost the same position, except he’d flipped onto his side and had one foreleg curiously cocked in the air. I looked at him for a moment, wondering what dreams chased through his mind. Easy to imagine them full of love, set in a world that was bigger from his perspective. Perhaps he ran beside me as I skateboarded the smoothest sidewalk, beneath the bluest sky. Or maybe he was back at the Beaches, paws buried in the sand, feeling the wind in his fur and looking at a lake that stretched as far as he dared to hope.
My arm jerked. Hub snapped awake but my hand, by chance,
came down on his side.
It’s okay, dude, I said. Keep sleeping. It’s cool.
He settled down again, closed his eyes. My fingers flexed against the bow of his ribcage and I felt his heart running like it would never stop.
25. The Beauty and the Bird.
Yeah, they sensed it, all right. Mom and Dad had taken time off work, and Niki hadn’t gone to school. By mid-morning they were taking turns checking on me, which amounted to little more than poking their heads around the door. I was too tired to analyze their expressions. They appeared at once relieved and exasperated that I was still drawing breath. I thought Mom would shoo Hub away, maybe plant her foot in his ass when she saw him snuggled in the crook of my arm. But she didn’t. She merely covered her mouth with one hand and called for Dad and Niki to come see. They all stood in the doorway, looking at us with—you guessed it—tears in their eyes.
“He knows,” Mom said. “Dogs are so sensitive.”
“Psychic, too,” Niki said. “I saw it on TV.”
“It’s true,” Dad confirmed.
Hub and I lay there while the minutes ticked away and the death checks continued, Hub dozing, occasionally waking and snuggling a little closer, and me looking at the ceiling, or at my Wall of Achievement if my head happened to flop that way. I drifted out of body a few times for a change of scenery. Didn’t go far. The living room. The kitchen. Could have released anywhere, of course—perched on the moon, or rode wild horses on Sable Island—but I wanted to spend my final hours at home. Besides, Yvette was due around lunchtime. Probably my last chance to see her. To feel her touch.
Conversation remained strained, although it got a little heated when Dad suggested taking me out for a drive. He reasoned that I shouldn’t spend my last day in a box, and that everybody’s energy would benefit from a more appealing environment.
“Westlake is not aware of his surroundings,” Mom said. “It doesn’t make a difference where he is.”