The Longest Night

by K. M. Gibson

  “You have to take it easy,” she said, shaking. “I don’t need medical training to say that.”

  “I know,” he replied. Swallowed. Moaned. “I’m sorry to have worried you.”

  He pulled his shirt down and buttoned up his coat. When he looked over towards the bedroom, he sighed. “I’ll just stay here.”

  “If you need to use the waste pot, I can bring it here for you.” She said it hesitantly, afraid of making him uncomfortable.

  “Oh, thank you. I used it while you were sleeping,” he replied. “It was a lot easier to move around then.” He chuckled lightly, groaning in pain at the same time. After he seemed to relax a little, he looked over at her, his expression shifting to concern. “Are you hungry?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, tonight, we dine,” he said with a crooked smile, light coming to his voice. “You shouldn’t keep yourself in check. At least not tonight. Let’s gorge.”

  The abrupt change in mood was fluid, yet it caught her off guard. She smiled, subtly trying to mask the laughter that prickled at her throat.

  “What’s on the menu?”

  “Well, since you mention it, I have pork and beans with canned fruit for dessert.”

  “Dessert?” she repeated in half bewilderment and half jest.

  “A luxury we can afford.”

  Following his instructions, she pulled a pot from his pack and opened the can of beans with a pull-tab. She held the pot over the fire, and when the aroma wafted in like sweet song on sunrise she melted. “I haven’t had this for a long time.”

  “Beans?”

  “Or meat.”

  “Then tonight really is a celebration.”

  After she deemed the food cooked, she pulled a spoon from his pack and sat next to him on the couch. They ate quickly, taking turns with the spoon, feeding their ravenous hunger. She hadn’t even eaten as much as this when rations were being given in Fort McMurray. After she retrieved a can of fruit from his bag to share, but he insisted on one can each, and they ate in equal fashion, quickly devouring their respective cans, but enjoying each moment of every swallow.

  She took a bottle of water to the sink with the remaining utensils to rinse them off, then left them to dry. He offered her to take some supplements, which she did hungrily. She looked in his direction again, noticing him watching her. He looked too much like a man in turmoil. His hair was starting to mat, his beard was wild and wiry. A past hidden away.

  “Would you like a hair cut?” she offered. “I’m no stylist, but I can make things cleaner for you.”

  He contemplated her for a moment. “It keeps me warm.”

  Why did you even suggest it? “Okay.”

  “But I would like that.”

  She felt abashed for some reason. “Are you sure?”

  “Please.”

  The sweet wave of relief followed. “There are some scissors in here somewhere,” she said as she stood, walking towards the bathroom.

  She searched the cabinets before finding the scissors in the cupboard under the sink. She swept them up and marched back to the living room with them in hand. “Stay put,” she commanded, and pushed the couch forward slightly so she could stand behind it. She moved the broken mirror closer to the couch, then threw a blanket around his shoulders like an apron.

  “Is it too tight around your neck?”

  He laughed. In the shattered mirror her smile refracted over and over.

  She started by combing her fingers through his hair, untangling the clumps. Then she trimmed his hair from the top, starting off small and careful, then building confidence as she went. His hair had more grey in it than she remembered, more than she would think a person would grow in two years’ time. Her smile slowly sloughed away as she fell into her work. His hair was shorter behind the ears than that, higher up the neck as well. On she sculpted.

  When she was finished, she reached for the blanket from either side of his neck and shook it out. Then there he was. How dull the crystal clear images were in comparison. Of course, this hair cut was much shaggier and uneven than it was back then, but it was enough. She studied him in the reflection. He returned her gaze evenly. “Just like new,” she said quietly.

  The corners of his mouth turned upward briefly then softened slowly. “Do you mind if I use your knife to shave? I know a beard helps keep the cold away, but I’m not used to wearing one.”

  I know. She swallowed and nodded, then pulled her knife from her boot. After handing it to him, she tied the blanket around his neck again and collected the pot from the kitchen. Her hand shook as she poured water into it. She tried to steady herself as she handed it over. He took it without saying anything so she retreated to the bathroom. Small, dark confines were helping to keep it in, but she still felt shaken. Calm down, stop it, get it together, lock it away. It took her a while to recollect herself before she went back into the living room.

  The mirror was so shattered that he was forced to lean over and hang precariously over the pot of water, shifting constantly to see his reflection in that shard or this. Catherine watched him from behind the corner, then approached cautiously, giving him pause. Her hand brushed his lightly as she encouraged him to surrender the knife. She considered the angle of the situation, then felt her face flare as she knelt down in front of him. He shifted as she shimmied closer.

  The sun was setting. A golden light was cast through the window. She grabbed his chin hesitantly to tip his head upward, and she pressed the blade against the base of his neck. The trust he had in her. A complete stranger, but one who risked so much just to save his life.

  As she stripped away the beard, more memories floated to the surface. Helping a mother take a stroller down the escalator. Running to catch a train that was about to leave. Seeing him after summer break. Catherine scraped the knife against the side of the pot, dipped her fingers in the water, and gently rubbed them across his face. Then she tilted his head to the other side.

  The time he was closest to her. She was standing at the station, pretending to read the paper. He came down the escalator, and instead of walking towards his usual spot, he headed her way. She forced her eyes to remain on her paper. On the inside she was screaming. When he was within arm’s reach he grabbed a paper from the stand next to her and walked to his spot. She exhaled slow, closing her eyes.

  She scraped off the knife and wet his face again, lowered his head, and traced the knife across his chin. The first day she had ever laid eyes on him, the first time she heard his voice. The day he looked her straight in the eye like he was saying goodbye.

  She made the last stroke across his cheek, then gently scraped off the small patches she had left behind. Shaving with the knife was not perfect: he was left with an uneven layer of stubble, but he still looked fresh and clean in comparison. The world restored.

  She put the knife down on the floor next to her when she had finished, but she did not stand. She was kneading her fists against her knees in order to summon strength enough to look up. His face remained unchanged. She searched, trying to find that one detail that told her something about what he was thinking. Her eyes flickered to his lips, and catching herself, she stood abruptly, half hoping he didn’t notice, half hoping he did. She grabbed the pot which sat on his lap, this time avoiding his eyes, and turned her back to him. The door squeaked as she swung it open harshly, and she dumped the dirtied water to the side. Calm down.

  On impulse, she walked into the night, closing the door behind her. There was no courage to summon, and she could not face him a second time. After everything she had done to get here, the things she had to face, this was what she could not do.

  The snow kicked up around her feet as she walked. She came to a stop at the mouth of the trees, where the ruined road lay in rubble and snow. She could see nothing but looked for an answer nonetheless.

  It was embarrassment she felt when she started to cry. She should not feel like this because he did not remember her. He did not know of the things she thoug
ht. Her desires. Nor would he ever return them, even if he had known, simply on principle. She was a timid pariah. He would not approve, he would not feel the same. There was no doubt, no matter how much she didn’t want to believe it.

  Air started to sting going down. She lifted her head, closed her eyes, and fought. When she was sure no more tears would come, she looked down the road again. Nothing there. Nothing there.

  She made her way back to the house after about an hour, and stepped in quickly, trying to keep the cold out and the heat in. She turned slowly. His head was tilted to the side, breathing deep and even.

  It was better this way, things being left unsaid.

  She tiptoed over and gently lifted his feet onto the couch. She then picked up the blanket and draped it over him. The fire still lived but was flickering in and out. She carefully fed it until it brightened the room again. When she started towards the bedroom she realized she had no blanket and the fire would not keep her warm there. It would be better to rest in the living room, next to the fire, next to him. The thought hurt.

  As she sat on the floor, she let her eyes linger over his sleeping face, letting her thoughts betray her for a moment more before she pushed them down. No, not pushed. She had the distinct feeling of bringing an axe down over and over, brutally destroying whatever fragile thing she had made. Except it was not fragile. There it remained. It would take more strikes. Each day for years. Whittling down a rock with water. It had to be done, as much as she rued to do it.

  For the past two years, even when she let herself think about him for hours on end, a pain still remained, reminding her that they were only thoughts, that she would never get to experience them firsthand. But he was there at that very moment, and he needed her there – maybe he even wanted her there.

  Survival. It was worth it after all. He was alive, and he would be there in the future. She would never get close, but how was that different from her past? She could live knowing that she would have the ability to see him and speak to him every day. He did not die. Perhaps she wouldn’t feel like she was just surviving anymore.

  5: ROAD TO BETHANY

  It was the squeaking springs that broke her sleep.

  She sat up from the floor so quickly she saw stars. His face was contorted and he made a constant low groan, a single tune of pain. She hovered, shaking him. “What’s wrong?”

  He didn’t answer. She pulled the blanket off him and yanked up his shirt. The skin around the stitches had swollen to twice its normal size. Pus leaked from the stitches profusely. More than half of his stomach had turned black.

  She collected their equipment as if the cabin was on fire. She grabbed his bag and her first aid kit, throwing them on the foot of the tarp outside the door. She had reached a bottleneck; what to do, how to be prepared, what else she might need, where to go, why now, why now, why? With shaking hands, she stuffed the last item in her pack. This couldn’t be happening.

  She stomped out the fire as she turned on her flashlight and stuffed it hastily into her pocket. She had no idea how much battery power she had left, or for that matter how much time she had until daylight. Would she be able to get him to stand? Whatever strength she had before had been sapped. She could no sooner carry him than she could move a mountain.

  The tarp scraped on the debris-covered floor. It snapped when she fanned it out beside the couch. She first grabbed his feet, sliding them onto the floor, then she hooked her hands under his armpits and hoisted his upper body up off of the couch (to which drew a loud scream from him) and lowered him onto the tarp. “You’ll be okay,” she repeated to herself in short breaths. “You’ll be okay.”

  Through the darkness, she pulled the tarp across the field towards the highway. At the brink of it she stopped. North to the park was their only option. But she didn’t know where the park was, or how long it would take to get him there, especially with the uncertain trails, or lack thereof, that lay ahead for them. No, she had to find a hospital which may or may not have supplies. She would have to head south. Back to the place she swore never to set foot in again.

  She wasn’t sure if he faded in and out of consciousness, or if he was awake for the entire trek, but his calls of pain were distinct, and they rang out over the tree tops. She travelled south alongside highway 63 until she passed Fort MacKay, then quickly passed over a bridge on the Athabasca. The burning in her hips stretched all the way to her toes. She pulled fiercely, inviting the damage. A blockade of old cars forced her to backtrack and leave the highway but she kept it in sight. It was a sure sign of muggers, but luckily none descended on them. Then she was forced to make a long detour around Mildred Lake, which may or may not have been occupied, and it drained hours from their day. Once she knew they had passed Tar Island just a few kilometres away, she was on the highway again, her speed restored.

  No good guys, no bad guys.

  With each step it grew louder. She hadn’t taken this route since she fled. All it once her memories flashed like lightning. The corner store. The cannibal. Batteries flying everywhere. The forest. The car-ridden road.

  The gas station.

  She walked into them like braving pitch black.

  “Come back HERE!”

  Her chest burned as she ran faster than she thought she could. When she came out of the trees, she found an empty field and ran and ran and ran. She couldn’t feel her legs or see through her tears, but still she fled. Even though she was sure she had left the bulk of the city behind, and the people in it, she could not stop. Had it been hours since the angry mob? Despite her running strong since she began, her knees folded, delivering her on her face.

  It was her chest that gave agony. The burning subsided when again she found her breath. Then the biting on her cheek. When she stood there was blood on the dirt and fallen leaves. It oozed down her face. She touched it and felt nothing.

  Nothing.

  Was it worth it? They were lucky to escape the disaster with their lives, but they were unfortunate enough to survive, isolated in a world that was no longer fit for them. She had watched as slowly, day by day, people fell apart and succumbed in a bottomless, heavy hole, the only thing life had left to offer.

  To end it. It would be hard. It would be painful. It would be fine to cease.

  But she hadn’t died in the earthquake. She didn’t let herself be eaten or beaten. She had escaped. She had survived. She was surviving. But why? Why, in a time of absolute desolation and despair, did her humanity give her preservation, an instinct to fight and live? She would never see anyone who held importance in her life ever again. Gran. Her mother. Dave. She thought of him.

  He was dead. Why wasn’t she?

  The barren forest pressed from all sides until she stood and wandered. Out here she could starve or freeze. It wasn’t death that horrified her so much as dying did. She could not allow it to be slow and unbearable. Nor could she go back the way she came. Something easier. Indirect, instant, painless, weightless, empty.

  It was still gloomily dark and grey when the sun rose. She made her way back onto the highway. She had no idea how far she was from Fort McMurray; she could not hear a thing. All remained still. To the north was a collection of ruined cars blocking passage on the road. She floated between them. The road curved behind some trees, and there she spotted the largest huddle of cars yet, all parked around the entrance to a gas station. It was huge, made for semis and cargo convoys. There was a flaming barrel just outside the door. A beacon. Or a warning.

  It could be here.

  “Hello?” she called weakly as she approached.

  “Don’ move!” a man shouted. She halted in the middle of the pumps. He stepped out of the dark doors, training a shotgun on her.

  He hesitated.

  Her heart fell.

  “Dave?” She stepped forward.

  “Stop!”

  He kept the barrels pointed at her as he approached. When he got closer he lowered it slightly. She realized he wasn’t looking at her; he was looking all
around wildly.

  “You alone?” He sounded like he had a cold. She nodded meekly. As he moved forward, she felt relief, thinking he was coming to embrace her. But then he stopped her with a heavy hand on the shoulder.

  “Have any weapons?” He ran his hands over her methodically. She whispered his name again. He pulled the bag off her shoulders roughly, paying her no heed. He rifled through it. She heard some of the battery packages slap against the ground and her flashlight click on and off. He slapped his hands down her back, down her legs, against her pockets.

  “Dave. I’m scared.”

  His hands stilled. “Catherine.”

  She couldn’t read him. It was not soft or sad, just her name spoken through a cloud of frenzy. Then: “You ain’t a cannibal, are ya?”

  “No,” she choked out. Are you?

  She heard him pick up her bag, then he walked past her slowly, giving her a quick glance. “Come in.”

  She followed him inside. Part of the wall near the back had been torn apart. Pink insulation had been pulled out by the handful; a pile of it lay in the corner, depressed in the centre where he must have slept. An empty C-shaped counter sat at the far wall. Little light reached the inside, and everything was dim and dark, like night had fallen again. The floor was littered with dust, pieces of insulation, laminate boards. He’d been pulling everything apart piece by piece. He dumped her bag on the counter, his hand lingering on it.

  “I used to think those government fuckers were the only evil left in the world,” Dave said so quietly, it was almost a whisper. “All those suits who sopped up all the tax money and charitable donations. We always thought things were stable, that someone else was always taking care of shit, and we hated them all the while. They were all despicable fucks but we always had to rely on them to take care of business.