by Connor Mccoy
Glen listened to stories of people trapped in elevators, on amusement park rides and in planes falling from the sky. Not commercial planes, because every government everywhere grounded the commercial flights. But that didn’t stop private plane owners from taking flight and falling from the sky. Not all of them, because like older cars, older airplanes operated without electronics. There was apparently some spectacular footage filmed with a super eight camera, but there was no way to disseminate it except at a private viewing at the camerawoman’s home using a crank projector. The stories skipped across the country, often becoming so distorted that they were no longer recognizable to the people who had lived the experience.
Glen’s own life was little changed from before the event. Electricity had been a luxury for a cabin originally built off-grid. He had his generator, but rarely used it except for when he felt the need for hot water. He kept food cold in buckets with watertight lids, weighted and sunk to the bottom of the pond. As autumn waned and ice started to form on the surface, he pulled his refrigerator buckets out of the water and kept them in an insulated shed instead. He built a cache on the roof of the shed to keep items that would survive freezing, like the venison he hunted.
As the days grew colder and he had less to keep him occupied outside, his thoughts drifted to his family. He knew Sarah would be disappointed that he wasn’t out in the world, helping people. She would have visited every family within a two-day walk to offer her services to anyone with a need. She would have created community, not isolated herself in this cabin.
Sarah would have gone to town and stayed. Working to build community, to reboot society. She would have been asking questions about what it would take to get the power back on, not taking for granted that it couldn’t be done. He felt vaguely ashamed of himself, hiding out here in his cabin, licking his wounds.
He thought about visiting the town again, but something didn’t feel right. He did not think he’d be welcome. Yes, he was a surgeon, but they had doctors there. Anyone who needed his specialty would not be likely to live anyway. Not without electricity, anesthesia, and antibiotics.
“I’m sorry, Sarah,” he said aloud. “There just isn’t any point in it.”
For a moment he thought he heard her voice. “And what’s the point in living if you aren’t helping others?”
He shook his head. She would never not be with him. He knew exactly what she would say and the tone she would use. A wry smile twisted his mouth. Isolating himself up here only had lodged her more tightly in his mind. He hadn’t forgotten at all. He saw now that if he’d wanted to forget, escaping had been a mistake. It was contact with the living world that would have dulled the pain and faded the memories.
Maybe that was the real reason he’d come up here. To keep his family more firmly with him.
He started talking to Sarah and Clarence more often, explaining to the boy what he was doing as he tracked rabbits in the snow. Teaching him how to set a trap, to bait a hook, to be still and listen. In the evening he would tell Sarah what he’d been doing during the day, the interesting or horrifying things he had seen. What he thought about the world.
When the fox came into his life, he shared her with his wife and son. Explaining to Clarence how he was taming the creature, sharing with Sarah why he bothered.
“Remember how we always said we’d have a dog someday, Sarah? It’s like that, but better. She’s a dog, a companion, but she doesn’t need me. If something happens and I’m not here for a while, she can take care of herself. She’s not reliant on me, but she’s sharing her life with me.”
In his mind, Sarah smiled. She understood how important companionship was.
It was during the first snow after the lights went out, when Glen was showing Clarence his favorite spot for watching the valley, that he made a mistake. He climbed to the high overlook, telling Clarence to watch for the hawk that nested nearby. He stepped up onto the rock ledge where he liked to sit, not realizing the snow was hitting the rock and icing it over. If his first step had slipped, he would have been okay, but that spot must not have iced over, because he didn’t slip. It was the second step, after he was committed to the ledge that did him in.
His left foot slid out from under him. He scrambled to right himself, but he was well and truly on the ice now and he could not regain his balance. He fell, striking his head, and slid over the edge, falling to an outcropping a good fifteen feet below. He was unconscious when he landed.
He woke at dusk, the sharp sound of a high bark pulling him back to consciousness. The world was out of focus when he opened his eyes and it took him a few minutes to understand what he was seeing. On the ledge above him the fox stood looking down. She yipped once more and disappeared.
Glen sat up carefully. He put a hand to the back of his head and it came away warm and sticky with blood. He was dizzy, but light was fading, so he got unsteadily to his feet and examined the rock face. He thought he heard Clarence crying and hastened to reassure him.
“It’s okay, Bud,” he said. “I’ll be fine. This looks worse than it is.” And he meant not only his head but also the rock face, which looked as smooth as glass.
Chapter Four
Glen searched the cliff face for another moment, trying to see a way up, but moving his head made him dizzy. So, he sat back down and closed his eyes, trying to regain his equilibrium. A moment later he slumped over and curled up on the ground in a fetal position.
His thoughts whirled. Would he die of blood loss if he didn’t figure out a way off this ledge? What if he couldn’t? What if he figured out how to get back to the top, but was too weak and dizzy to manage it? Maybe this was it. He would bleed to death here in the wilderness and birds would pick his body clean. Maybe that was what he really wanted.
He wondered idly if there was life after death. Would he join his family or just drift off into nothingness? Did it matter? He mentally bowed to the inevitable and let unconsciousness take him.
Glen did not die. That would have been too easy. He regained consciousness at dawn with the fox staring down at him and vocalizing. When his eyes opened she stopped the low growling yowl and started yipping.
“Okay, already,” he muttered, his voice tight with cold. “I’m getting up.”
But getting up proved to be difficult. He still was dizzy, and his body hurt like a SOB, so he started by sitting. He let the world stop spinning before he attempted to stand. Standing took several tries, and he had to brace himself against the rock wall for what seemed like an eternity with his heart beating in his ears before he was able start thinking about how to get to the top of the cliff.
He slid his hand along the wall, feeling for any irregularity that might give him a handhold or foothold. There was nothing. He tried looking for a way down, but the ledge he was on jutted out and when he looked down he couldn’t even see the cliff immediately below. It was a far drop to an area with vegetation that might break his fall.
He sat on the edge with his legs dangling for a while. His head pounded and he was finding it difficult to motivate himself. He should be panicking, but his give-a-damn appeared to be broken. He stared off into space, letting his mind drift.
It was hunger that brought him back. His stomach grumbled and he felt slightly sick. How long had it been since he’d eaten? He looked around for something to curb the hunger and that’s when he noticed there was a tree growing from the other side of an outcropping. He’d been standing too close to the cliff to notice it before.
He slid back from the edge and got to his feet. The dizziness had abated somewhat. He went to the far edge of the ledge where an outcropping blocked his view to the right and narrowed the ledge to a sliver of just a few inches. He slid down next to the outcropping and slid along the ledge, trying to see around. But his body was too big for the narrow ledge and he had to slide back before he could see what lay beyond.
He stood and, flattening his body against the cliff face, he inched along, sliding his feet along the narrow ledge
while pressing his chest against the stone of the outcropping. His fingers felt along the wall, his arm extended, so when he found the far edge he was able to gain purchase and slide along until he could see around the edge.
There was a tree there, growing out of a crevice.
Later, he wasn’t able to explain how he made it from his perilous perch, his feet barely on the ledge, to hugging the trunk of the tree with his feet scrambling for purchase. He pulled himself with trembling arms into the crook made by the trunk of the tree growing from the cliff. Later he was able to hoist himself up the wall by wedging his legs against the trunk and scraping his back up the rock until he could reach the top and scramble to safety.
There was no sign of the fox on his way back to the cabin, not even a print in the mud near the water. He wondered if he’d been hallucinating when he saw her staring over the cliff, barking at him. That wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility.
It was while he was building a fire to heat the cabin that something he’d seen while staring out over the valley came to mind. He’d seen smoke rising from the forested hills, much closer to his home that it should have been. He’d have to keep an eye out. Maybe chase the interlopers away. Sarah would disapprove, but she’d disapprove more if he died. He must be cautious.
Once the fire was going he went to fetch some water to heat up for washing the injury on the back of his head. He cut the hair from around the wound the best that he could before scrubbing it. It was painful and began bleeding again, but he needed it to be clean. He examined it the best he could using two mirrors. It could use some stitches, but he didn’t think he was up to sewing up the back of his own head and went in search of his surgical glue.
He sat in front of the fire, his head newly bandaged, with whiskey in a glass beside him. He’d downed some painkillers but he was counting on the alcohol to take the edge off. He was fairly sure he’d cleaned the wound sufficiently, so as long as he healed without infection he’d eventually be fine. No doubt he’d suffered a concussion.
He knew he needed to rest, to let his brain recover from the trauma, but the thought of strangers on his doorstep unsettled him. He’d go out tomorrow and see what he could find out. For now he would rest. That was the best he could do.
Glen woke the next morning with a pounding head and aching body. He stripped for a bucket bath and was shocked when caught his reflection in the mirror. He had more bruised skin than not and there were cuts and scratches everywhere.
He washed, dried and then bandaged the cuts that had reopened. Then he sat on the bed and contemplated the wisdom, or lack thereof, of traveling in his condition. The camp was probably ice cold and the people gone. On the other hand, they could be sneaking up on him as he sat there in his boxers.
“Fuck it.”
He began pulling on his clothes.
He took his time, moving quietly and circling the spot from where he’d seen the smoke coming in the opposite direction. He didn’t want to draw attention to his cabin if he could help it. The dizziness left over from his fall still plagued him and he had to be extra careful not to trip on rocks or downed tree limbs. It took a couple of hours to find the spot and he was tired and dizzy when he caught sight of the smoke.
He hunkered down against a tree that he thought was a fifteen-minute walk from the camp. He was too tired to approach silently. He still was dizzy, and he hurt all over. He had to catch his breath at the very least. He let his chin drop to his chest.
He woke with a shotgun barrel resting against his chest. He tracked the shaft of the gun with his eyes, letting the near parts come into focus before moving on. There was a woman on the heel of the stock, her face set into a hard mask. Behind her stood a child of maybe eight years old.
He couldn’t tell at first if the child was a girl or boy. For one thing it was filthy, for another the dirty blonde hair was of that indeterminate length that easily could be worn by either sex. The clothes weren’t any help as they were the unisex uniform of children everywhere, jeans and a T-shirt.
“What are we going to do, Mom?” the child asked.
“Hush, Brian,” she said, her gaze never leaving Glen’s face.
So, it was a boy. Okay, he could work with that.
“It’s okay, Brian,” he said quietly. “I’m not going to hurt your mom.”
The woman poked him with the rifle. “Don’t speak to my son,” she said grimly. “What are you doing here?”
“I saw the smoke from your campfire and came to offer assistance,” Glen said. It only was a partial lie, but it still tweaked his conscience.
“What sort of assistance do you think you could provide?” she asked. “Your head is bleeding and you clearly aren’t in any shape to help with much more than killing ants.”
“Killing ants is important too.” He surprised himself with the joke. He hadn’t realized he had any sense of humor left.
“What are you really doing here?” She poked the gun into his chest again.
He pushed the barrel aside.
“I came to see who was camping on my doorstep and determine if you were a threat or not. Unfortunately, I had a mishap a few days ago and I have a concussion. It’s making staying alive a little more complicated.” He felt the bandage on the back of his head. She was right, it was bleeding again. “What are you doing here?” he asked.
“We are just passing through,” she said. “I heard there was a doctor in this area, a doctor who isn’t affiliated with a community. Would you know anything about that?”
“Why a doctor who isn’t affiliated with a community?” he asked. “Wouldn’t any doctor do?”
She looked at him with open contempt. “Women who need the services of a community doctor are required to perform certain acts as payment. And not just for the doctor, for the leaders of the community and anyone those leaders wish to favor. An unaffiliated doctor may ask for those same services, but at least it’s only with one man.” Her eyes flicked to where her son was standing. “I actually was hoping the doctor was a woman. There might be more payment options available.”
Glen looked at the ground. He’d stayed away from the towns as much as possible and hadn’t dwelled on what life might be like there. Women and children would be especially vulnerable to the kind of brutality that developed under rule by might.
“What do you need a doctor for?” he asked.
“That’s something I’ll discuss when I find one. Do you know where the doctor is?”
“I might,” he said. “What are you going to do after you find your doctor?”
“We are traveling north. There are rumors of a Canadian city that still has power, and the talk is that the Canadian towns without power are much more civil places to be. They don’t have the same need to rule by brutality.” She glanced at the boy again. “So, do you know where to find the doctor?”
“I am the doctor,” he said, tired of the guessing game. “At least I assume I’m the doctor you heard about. I’m the only person I know living outside a community in these parts.”
“So, you are the doctor?” She looked ill at ease. “Brian,” she said, “go up to camp and feed the fire for me, okay?”
“Are you sure, Momma?” he asked. “You said we should never be apart.”
“It’s okay just this once,” she said. “I’ll be with you in just a minute.”
She watched the boy walk away before turning to Glen.
“I need an abortion,” she said, her body language defiant.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“Am I sure I’m pregnant? Yes, I’m sure. Am I sure I want an abortion? Before this, I was a member of a community. Brian needed medical care. I have no way of knowing whose baby I’m carrying, even if I was willing to bring another child into this hellhole.” She looked defiant, almost daring him to comment.
“I’m not that kind of doctor, but I think I can help you,” he said, although privately he had misgivings. So many things could go wrong.
“Can we take care
of payment now, then?” she asked. “No point in getting rid of one baby just to create another.”
“I don’t want to accept sex for payment,” he said, “but you can help me with my head. Does that sound like a fair trade?”
She looked surprised and a little taken aback. “Really? You don’t accept sexual favors as payment? That’s a first. Yes, I’ll help you with your head. I suppose you mean that nasty wound you’ve only got partially covered.”
It was his turn to be surprised. He’d thought he’d done a pretty thorough job of covering the split on his head, but he put his hand up to find the bandage had slipped.
“Yes,” he said. “It looks like I’m not that great at fixing myself up.”
“How did you do that?” she asked. “It’s pretty nasty.”
“Lost my balance on the top of the cliff, spent the night passed out on the ledge. Gave myself a concussion and I’m lucky to be alive.” He flashed her his best sardonic smile. “Not sure if it’s a good thing or bad thing to still be alive. The world’s gone nuts.”
“You can’t be a positive force for change if you’re dead,” she said. “Where do you want to take care of our mutual problems?”
“We should retrieve your son and go back to my cabin. There’s no point in trying to work out here, and I don’t have everything I need for you.” He pushed himself up to his feet. “Come on.” He turned back to face her. “What is your name?” he asked.
“Margaret,” she said. “And yours?”
“Glen.” Telling her his name made him paranoid, which annoyed him. There was no reason for it. But it bothered him that he hadn’t thought to give her a false one.
He took them back to the cabin, taking an even more secure route than the one that had led him to them. It was a long hike. He kept his eyes on the boy, watching for signs of fatigue. He didn’t want to get them to his cabin only to have them be too exhausted to leave again. They were heading north, and while he didn’t believe there was a Canadian city that still had power, the fact that they were going was fine with him.