Ping - From the Apocalypse

by Susan Lowry

  Surprisingly, after four long rings, a perky-voiced woman with a strong Asian accent began to speak. “This is Tracy and I’m probably at the office right now. Guess the rest of us are out too. Don’t forget to leave a message. Bye.”

  Kate redialed.

  “Must be your mother. Shit. Please be okay,” she begged. “You must be too sick to answer… could tell by the way you were breathing. I didn’t even find out if you were a boy or girl.”

  Chapter Seven

  Beside the Fridge

  (January 17th, Year One, PA)

  At sunrise Kate got out of bed, taking her cellphone — which was still by her ear — to the kitchen, where she tried to eat some breakfast. It bothered her to think of Wendy’s cockatiels trapped in a house with their human companion decomposing on the rug. They deserved better.

  After a few bites of dry cereal, she put on her coat and boots, covered her nearly bald head with a hat, and stepped out onto the porch, inhaling the crisp morning air but her returning cough was a woeful reminder of her pathetic health, and as she scanned the neighbourhood from one end of the block to the other, hoping to discover something that had changed, she pulled her coat tighter around her.

  Across the street, where a larger home was barely visible back in the trees, she gazed at a soaring pine wrapped in a spiral of colourful, twinkling, electric lights — the rays of the sun shining through the bulbs in such a way it appeared almost as if they were turned on. But of course she knew better.

  If only she could step back in time — just a month. The holidays, which felt like an eternity away now, had, after years of disappointment, finally been happy: laughter, food and games, shared with Jon’s family. That entire year, in fact, had been truly wonderful and they’d barely even settled back to work before it was all — so abruptly — gone.

  Their small cottage had been a vacation property, built in the late forties, and bought by her parents before her mom passed away. There had only been a few good summers spent there, unfortunately — after losing her sister — it wasn’t used much.

  Shortly after moving in last spring, Kate and Jon had begun to juggle the extensive renovations they had planned, with their careers. Both of them fortunate enough to be able to work from home, their move away from Toronto had worked out well for them and they’d discovered how much they truly preferred their new lifestyle close to the beach. When they craved the city, it was only a few hours away.

  Last summer had been Kate’s best ever, she and Jon playing beach bums when they weren’t running their separate businesses. The warm weather brought hordes of prospective customers to her beach-side art studio where her paintings were sold, along with other artists’ work. Much of her inspiration had been found along the water’s edge, where she’d often walked for miles — at times, reflecting on memories of Sarah, her twin.

  Kate had been so absorbed in her thoughts, she was surprised to find herself already standing on Wendy’s doorstep. She stepped inside, and around the corpse, which — due to the fact that it was freezing inside — did not smell as bad as she’d anticipated. She then realized the gas fire had gone out.

  “Snowy,” she called, suddenly worried, “I said I’d be back. Buddy, where are you?” She went into the spare room and looked inside the cage. “Here birdies,” she called, and then began to whistle. Their food had hardly been touched.

  “I’m sorry, I was sick… and there was a phone call. Where are you? I would have returned right away if I’d known the heat was going to go off. Snowy?!”

  Every time she walked a short distance she seemed to get sicker again. Now she was feeling overwhelmed with thirst and went to the kitchen tap, but the water was no longer flowing. That little slice of reality would have hit her hard — but before she could get too upset about it, she spotted a grey tail-feather on the floor sticking out from the corner of the kitchen counter.

  Going closer, she found Buddy lying on his back. Gently lifting him in her palms, she began to massage his chest. But he was stiff and clearly dead.

  “Oh no… what have I done?” she cried, looking around for Snowy. Between the fridge and the cupboard she noticed a ball of white. She left Buddy on the counter and leaned toward Snowy, but he was too far in to reach. Attempting to ease him out with a broom handle, he was too wedged in; and she couldn’t bear to be rough on him — he was obviously dead too. It was such a shock that she sat down at Wendy’s table in a daze.

  “This can’t be happening,” she mumbled. “What was I thinking? They looked so sick, and yet I left them alone.” Her heart was pounding and she jumped out of the chair enraged at herself. “I can’t do this anymore,” she cried, and suddenly began to hyperventilate. “This is fucking bullshit!!!”

  She rushed outside and down the steps.

  “I’m not doing this anymore!” she screamed. “Do you hear me?! I have had it. You will see.”

  Chapter

  Eight

  Treasures Abound

  (January 27th, Year One, PA)

  It was mildly encouraging to see that the thaw had melted half the snow. It only came up to her knees now, but was wet and heavy with a thick, crunchy crust on top that often made her trip. Snowshoes would have been useful, but she had not come across any so far. At the construction site a few doors down from her house she stopped to rest.

  Since the unhappy discovery of the dead cockatiels, she’d gone on several more excursions trying not to give up hope of finding a survivor — but it had all been fruitless. Discovering the family on the far side of Wendy, and finally, the one across the street just a few days ago, had removed all expectation and sucked out the last of her spirit. Now, she was only going through the motions.

  After a short hike with several rests she stood in the entrance of Madeleine’s sprawling bungalow at the end of the block. A giant chandelier hung above her and the hardwood floors gleamed beneath the skylight. To her surprise, right there on the wall by the front door was one of Kate’s large, abstract paintings, beautifully, expensively framed. She couldn’t help but admire it, looking much better than she’d remembered.

  A person as accomplished as Madeleine had taken pleasure in her work, hanging it right at the entranceway. Her spirits were boosted. Even with zero survivors, it was nice to know she’d given a few people something they valued for a while; her search and rescue efforts were not entirely in vain; she would never have known, otherwise. Besides, it relieved the boredom; there was something entertaining about being able to check out places that had been off limits before.

  Kate couldn’t concentrate on the things she used to love to do anyway. That part of her seemed to have died. This was better than moping and wandering around the house aimlessly.

  “Isn’t this fortunate,” she mumbled through her scarf, pulling a prescription bottle out of Madeleine’s purse. “Guess I don’t have to go the pharmacy after all.” Releasing the lid, she popped a pill, and swallowed, suddenly realizing that Kate had finally disappeared. Peering back at her from the vestibule mirror, was a soulless zombie, walking among the dead.

  At the discovery of Madeleine’s body in the bathroom she began to weep; she had hoped this would become easier but the opposite seemed to be true — the sobbing continued as she checked the other rooms including the large basement. It was part of her routine to be thorough, but as she’d suspected, the woman had died alone.

  Kate soon found herself standing inside Madeleine’s palacious bedroom closet noting how it had been meticulously organized — colour and season, from casual to formal; one wall of shelving devoted to shoes, another to handbags and hats. She respected the woman’s extraordinary success, and pulled a sweater from a hanger, holding it in front of her before the mirror.

  Her looks were ruined. She had been attractive, but now, in the prime of her life, that part of her was gone. And worse — even if the scars were to lighten or magically disappear — there was nobody left to appreciate her again. Otherwise, the army would have been sent in. Or som
ething. That child would have answered his phone. By now, she would have had some clue that there was still life on the planet.

  She noted how that warm shade of mauve complimented the red highlights in her very short hair. Rather amazing. She dropped the sweater into her bag.

  She fastened a gold chain around her neck. “How shallow and materialistic I’m becoming Madeleine. But treasures abound. And, unlike you, I don’t even have to work for them anymore.” She reached into her pocket and took out two more of the woman’s pills. Her stomach was turning. “Problem is… I never cared about things that much,” she continued. “All I wanted was to be happy.”

  She needed to get outside, the smell was getting to her again. There was an abundance of empty homes in which she could amuse herself. Homes that didn’t stink. Many residents of her resort town travelled to southern climates during the winter season — they could be on their vacation properties enjoying the weather, right that very moment… or they could be dead. Probably the latter.

  She was tired of speculating and wished the snow would melt faster. The waiting and anticipation, her obliviousness to the rest of the world, the utter silence — it was no wonder she was losing her mind.

  Chapter Nine

  Blanket of Snow

  (February 2nd, Year One, PA)

  The pink glow vanishing behind the trees brought a deceptive warmth to the melting snow. The evening was as mild as spring, but the planet was cold and dead and nothing could ever change that fact. Kate reeled the window open a crack and lay back down on her chair.

  A gentle wind began to toy with the glass in its frame, moving it back and forth randomly, producing squeaks and swishes. The outside air drifted to her nostrils in comforting wafts; closing her eyes, she was soon on the water, rocking in a boat. A nylon sail puffed out to its full breadth, and then crackled softly as it slowly deflated.

  With enough pills in her, she felt like a babe in a cradle swaying gently from one side to the other, the waves whooshing hypnotically against the hull and the hot, vibrating rays mingled with an unpredictable breeze creating a soothing massage all over her. Then, a sudden gust sent the sail ballooning out with a snap — just as the door to Jon’s office blew shut.

  She abruptly sat up, gazing out into the darkness of the yard; and then, rolling on her side away from the window, she mumbled, “Man, this town is really going to stink when the spring comes.”

  The soothing dream would not come back no matter how hard she tried to relax. Instead, her mind filled with gruesome images of the dozens of dead people she’d discovered, revolving around in her head one after the other — she couldn’t think of one comforting distraction. And, to make matters worse, the images were accompanied by the sobbing gasps of the poor child who had called her cellphone. Surely he was dead now too.

  Added to that came the pitiful, pleading voice that had been begging for help each night as she slept — but now, she was awake — and it would not leave her alone. She grabbed Madeleine’s prescription bottle from the coffee table and stared at it for a moment. The pills she’d already taken hadn’t been nearly enough. Pouring the contents into her palm, then tossing them into her mouth, she washed them down with several gulps of water.

  She’d forgotten to light the fire. The temperature had plummeted to sub-zero and the wind was howling through the open window. She must have passed out on the floor trying to close it; and now, snow was blowing in on her; it had piled along her side and on top of the couch and there was a thin blanket of white forming on top of her.

  She tried to reach for the bottle lying beside her head but her arms and legs were too numb to work. The container was empty — if only she’d made that hike to the pharmacy when it had still been possible, it could have all been over, painlessly.

  Her fingers were like wood but she folded them toward the palm and tensed the muscles in her legs. Still in a drugged haze, as she wriggled over the icy floor to the sofa, there was suddenly a list in her mind of things she still wanted to do.

  She sat up and shook her limbs until a bit of feeling came back, then pulled herself onto the frosty cushions. Eventually — stiff, like an old woman, and woozy — she staggered from room to room, searching for her lighter, knocking the ceramic lid off a bowl, so that it cracked as it hit the table.

  Finally, igniting the paper that she’d stuffed between the logs the night before, she felt the heat spread out all over her. Cold as she was, her body wanted to go to sleep but she resisted — instead, she closed the window, wiped all the melted snow off the floor with a towel, and while blotting the water from the couch cushions, her unfinished painting was staring at her from the dining room. She walked over to it, picked up a tube of paint from her supply box and then flipped through the other canvases leaning against the wall.

  Finally she wandered past the front entrance and around the corner to the den — it hadn’t been entered since her return home. She went inside, sat at her piano and played chords that vibrated through her thawing cells.

  It continued to storm the entire day, the wind shrill, and unfriendly, and the snow piling a foot higher; but she thought about the phone call, and the voice that wouldn’t leave her alone — wondering if that child was still alive. And when she fell asleep finally, the dream returned — and this time, she heard the beat of the boy’s heart.

  Chapter Ten

  The Hole in the Ottoman

  (February 4th, Year One, PA)

  Kate took the blanket from Wendy’s bed, brought it back to the front entranceway and covered the woman’s disintegrating body. “I’m sorry, but I wasn’t myself before,” she said. There was something she’d meant to get last time. And now, she was determined to find it. Peering into the living room, and scanning the shelves, she recalled one of her last conversations with her neighbour, after she had dropped over unexpectedly:

  “Is that a gun?”

  Wendy had gazed at her with a familiar spark in her aging, blue eyes. “It's no toy if that's what you think. I’m a retired cop, what do you expect? Here,” she’d said, picking up the gun and handing it to Kate. “It’s not loaded.”

  “My luck, some burglar would shoot both me and Jon with it,” Kate had said, examining it more closely.

  “Well, the two of you should be able to protect yourselves — even in this country. Everything’s going to hell. You never know what could happen these days.”

  “That’s why I paint for a living,” Kate had chuckled, aiming the gun at an imaginary target across the room. “You sure it’s not loaded?”

  The lines in her face had seemed to deepen. “I’m not trying to scare you. But you shouldn’t have a false sense of security either. Things have changed, and pretending that they haven’t is just dangerous.”

  “And that’s also why we moved up here,” Kate insisted.

  Wendy’s eyes had widened. “That isn’t going to make a bit of difference girl! The shit has only begun to hit the fan.” She had turned, and was motioning Kate to follow her.

  “Come on. I’ll give you some shooting lessons.”

  Now, as she stood over the dead woman, Kate couldn’t be more grateful for Wendy’s mentoring, and her advice on survival tactics — once headed out of town, with no idea what kind of threats she might be facing, a weapon to protect herself was a certain necessity; but, while still trapped in this frozen wasteland, having to wander about to get supplies all by herself, the potential for danger had her imagination spinning with all kinds of potential dangers. And she suddenly couldn’t rest until her hands were on that firearm.

  “I wonder where you’ve hidden it.”

  But after a long and disappointing search, Kate was beginning to feel unwell again. Her brush with death the other night — due to her own stupidity — had taken a lot out of her. She went into Wendy’s den and sat on the couch. Then she stretched out flat with her feet up and her head on a cushion. Closing her eyes, thoughts of the boy immediately flooded into her mind. “God, I’ve lost it completely
,” she muttered.

  As soon as she spoke there was a flutter of wings and before she could move, a bird had landed in the middle of her forehead. She tensed and stared up at it, as it peered down, into her eyes.

  “Snowy?”

  The cockatiel chirped.

  She put her finger out and Snowy hopped onto it.

  “Snowy! I thought you were dead!”

  His claws tightened around her.

  “How on earth did you—” she said, sitting up. The cockatiel lowered his head, spread his wings slightly, and almost tipped over.

  “I don’t know how you did it, but I’m really glad to see you.”

  She recalled glancing at Buddy still on the kitchen counter where she had left him, but it hadn’t occurred to her to check between the fridge and cupboard again.

  “It’s awfully cold in here. I’m surprised you haven’t frozen.”

  She had noticed a bunch of white fluff on the floor by the ottoman earlier, but it hadn’t really registered; now she realized it came from a hole Snowy had dug into the upholstery.

  “Did you make a nest in there?”

  She took a closer look and indeed he had. “Well that was clever of you Snowy.”

  While he was still perched on her finger she began to scan the room, wondering where Wendy could have left her gun. After a moment Snowy flew to the opening he’d made and burrowed inside. Kate gazed over at his yellow crown poking through the cushion. She couldn't get over the fact that he had survived.

  “I’m so glad you found a warm place. Just give me a few minutes to find—”

  Peering down at him a moment longer, she finally sighed, “What am I thinking? It’s freezing in here, poor thing. I’ll come back for that stupid gun later.”