by K. M. Gibson
She shrieked as he dragged her away, flailing with all her might. When he let go of her she swung her fists wildly. Steel-toed boots stood on either side of her shoulders. The smell. Dirt, death, blood and decay. His strong hands grabbed her small wrists, wrenched them back, then lunged for her throat.
Her hands made fists, and she threw them at his neck and face, trying to hit him hard enough to knock him away. He craned out of her reach and smashed her head into the floor.
Silence, except for the distant, vague ringing, and the world became a kaleidoscope of bleeding colours. This could be it. Please let it be it.
Her eyes were bulging, threatening to pop. She hooked her hands onto the collar of his thin, bloodstained windbreaker. He looked to be in his late twenties or early thirties, with matted blonde curls and round facial features. The face of Death.
Her eyes rolled back into her head and she lost her grip on his collar. Her hips bucked up reflexively, her legs shot straight out, her lungs burned for air, and she battled to die.
She could not hear it, but he could. His grip did not loosen immediately, but his head shot up in the direction of the swinging doors, listening. He let go of her and burst through the doors, whipping down the hallway to the main entrance.
She felt the world slipping away just before he let go. The sudden access to breath caused her to gulp more air than she could take, and she coughed hard. She rolled to her side and stomach acid blasted out of her mouth.
It didn’t work. She was still here.
No. No more.
The knife. She could this time. She propped herself up and turned. There, between her and the blade, was his body. His face had already changed, life long departed. Why was I left behind?
There was a sudden rush in the hallway. Her attacker and the others from the street were coming back for her. So she kept her eyes on him. It had all been for him, after all.
Two men burst through the swinging doors and aimed rifles at her. She did a subtle double take; they looked at her with an expression that she was sure she mirrored. She did not make a move to surrender. Initially, she was too stunned to do so, but she was also thinking that if she did, there would be no chance left for her to die.
One of them glanced over at the man’s body, and without moving his entire stance changed. “Oh, shit,” he whispered.
The second followed his companion’s gaze. “Fuck!” he shouted, lowering his gun. Realization pricked at her spine and made her fingertips tingle.
The first seemed to ignore her as he approached his body. He knelt down beside him, lifting up his weathered shirt where a bloodstain marked it. He looked over the rope and the rag, then moved them aside very gently, as if he were afraid of hurting him. “Looks like a laceration.”
“Recent?” the other asked with a semi-choked voice. He did not turn around to face the room.
“Days, maybe.”
Her ears suddenly caught it. There were voices outside. Many of them.
“Were you helping Jeffries out?” the man kneeling by the body asked.
She did not answer. His name. His name.
“How can we tell she’s not one of those cannibal fuckers from outside?” The other man stepped back into the room and motioned at her.
“It doesn’t matter either way. We’re taking in everyone who comes willingly.”
“I don’t see why.”
“You do too see why, get a grip. You will follow our orders out here to the T. Understood, private?”
“Yes sir,” he replied in a hard and quick voice.
Soldiers.
The first man looked back at her, softening as he met her eyes. “We have a base up north, in the national park. I don’t suppose Jeffries told you that?”
She could not say a word in reply even if she had tried.
Whatever he saw there threw him, and he did not ask twice. His eyes fell on Jeffries’s pack sitting at the foot of the tarp, and he undid the front flap, reaching in and searching through it. His hand rested on something, and he paused briefly before pulling out a vial. “Here they are,” he said. “He actually got samples. He did it.”
“Holy shit,” the private said, breathless.
Too much. She was sinking, her head too heavy to hold. He died for this? This?
Two boots came to a stop in front of her. “Come with us.”
One of them got her to her feet, and she went, passive. At the door she started to resist. She was reaching for his body – Jeffries – but she was a child in the soldier’s arms. “Don’t worry, we won’t leave him here,” he said. He guided her gently through the door and she committed Jeffries’s face to memory before he disappeared.
She cried hard. The officer was forced to carry her along when she went slack in his arms. His grip on her was precarious so he lowered her to the floor where she dissolved into a miserable puddle. “Come on,” he muttered, uneasy. “We have to go.”
When she didn’t move, he fit his arm under her legs and picked her up. She buried her face into his chest and clutched at his jacket. Whenever she squeezed harder, he always muttered halfheartedly, “It’s okay, it’s okay.”
The light of day pierced her eyelids like needles, and she turned her head and opened her eyes to view the scene, her tears ceasing. A pickup truck with Wood Buffalo National Park painted on the side sat rumbling in the parking lot with two large vans. Soldiers were herding thin, ragged derelicts into the back of each vehicle. A few bodies lay scattered on the road, littered with holes, splayed over the red snow. Dead. He is dead.
The private carried her to the nearest van and clambered in the back. “We found her inside,” he said to the nearest soldier as he put her down. “She was with Jeffries.”
“Where’s he?” the other asked. The first shook his head, a grave and detached look on his face.
“Oh, no.” He shifted from foot to foot, folded his arms, dropped them, sighed, swore. “I thought he’d be back within a couple of days. Why would he come this far south?”
“I don’t think Doctor Anderson knew he’d come all the way down here either.”
“Maybe that deer didn’t escape, then?”
She inclined her head, eyes distant. All other sound was silenced.
He continued, “Makes sense, doesn’t it? He was hyped up about that project.”
“Man…we come out here to find a friend and his animal and we find a city full of people. You know what? Fuck the deer, it’s dead. I hope Reid gives the orders to go home, especially after Jeffries.” He looked over the people sitting in the van. For them there would be no starving anymore, there would be no more enemies, there would be no need to fight for a life. The two soldiers left for the hospital, the engine drowning the rest of their conversation.
The deer. It was so vital that they sent a unit of soldiers out to find it and Jeffries. Jeffries. He was looking for it and she killed it and left it on a hill somewhere to rot. The image of his body discarded on the hillside was etched into her eyes and it would not disappear.
Adults and children alike were in the van. Who were the feed and who were the feeders was transparent. All of them had their eyes diverted to the floor, as if they were contemplating all they had done and could not meet each other’s sight with those thoughts in mind. Her eyes fell on the man next to her, who slowly lifted his gaze from the floor to her face when she looked at him. His blonde curls were more golden in the open daylight, and his round features more pale and less threatening without shadows on his face. He was the ghost of a man who had choked her mere minutes before.
He winced, seemingly unsure on how to act or how she would react to him. It was hard for her to discern how she felt. If anything, she was just so tired.
She turned away to lean her head against the wall. There were no more enemies. No good guys, no bad guys.
It was another quiet Christmas Eve with Gran. For the past few years, Catherine and her mother went up to visit her, but this year Gran made the effort to come down to see them. It was nearing midn
ight and all the lights were off except those on the Christmas tree. A movie was on at a low volume; Gran had long fallen asleep on the recliner, snoring softly. The clock on the far wall softly struck twelve, and Catherine’s mother squeezed her daughter’s shoulders.
“Merry Christmas, honey.”
“Merry Christmas, Mom.”
They smiled at each other, then went back to the movie, neither really paying attention to it. It was gently snowing outside, there were gifts under the tree, there was hot chocolate nearby, Gran was there, and both mother and daughter were snuggling under the blanket. It was Catherine’s favourite nostalgic feeling, and she could only ever feel it once every year.
She didn’t know what film was on television, but it looked to be from the late eighties, early nineties, about a Christmas in the future that was sorely outdated. “Mom,” she whispered, “What do you think the world will be like when we get old?”
“When we get old?” she looked her teenage daughter up and down. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m not going to get old. I plan on staying young and exuberant.”
Catherine threw a popcorn kernel at her playfully. “But really, if you think about the fifties, their future just looked like a shiny, metallic…fifties era. And in the movies today, the future looks like it does now, but, like, in ten years, it’ll look ridiculous. So, what do you think? What will the future really be like?”
Her mother tilted her head at the thought, then glanced at her sideways. “I think it’ll be something to look forward to,” she answered serenely, with a broad smile.
It had been an hour. No one moved, looked at each other, or muttered a single word. She cried to herself quietly, her arms wrapped around her shoulders, face pressed into her arms, holding herself in. Someone stepped up to the back doors that stood wide open and stopped in front of her. All eyes were on him as he knelt. He moved slowly, as if quick and sudden movements would offend her. “I’m Corporal Reid. Are you all right?”
She didn’t reply, but she looked up from her corner, her eyes red and puffy. It was the commanding officer from the hospital room, where Jeffries still lay, his cold face free of the hardness that it used to contain.
All right? She would have chosen different words.
“I know this is a hard time for you, but I need you to come with me. Answer some questions.”
It took some time to pull herself together mentally and wipe her face. Reid stood and held out a hand to help her down. She ignored the offer and made her own way off. To his credit he did not let this dissuade him and moved smoothly to lead her away. She kept her eyes downcast, not to avoid the eyes of others, but because she could no longer look forward.
Reid stopped and turned. He had darker skin and hair than the rest of the soldiers but his eyes were a light hazel. The contrast drew her attention. However she looked made him avoid her eyes and clench for a moment.
“The others in the vans,” he said, not looking up. “Are those all of them?”
“I don’t live here.” Her voice was strained and thin; it hurt to speak now that the swelling was kicking in. That man had squeezed her as if his hands were a vise.
Reid looked taken aback. “Oh. I’m sorry, I had just assumed…”
“I came from McClelland Lake.”
He appraised this. “You came a long way.”
“I was trying to save him.”
“You did well.”
Quiet surrounded them.
“I apologize.” Another pause. “What’s your name?”
He knew her name, all along. He knew. “Catherine.”
“Catherine.” he repeated. He looked at something over her head. “My men and I are going to look for more survivors. Are you sure you don’t know of any more?”
“I’m not sure.”
He nodded, grim. “I’ll have private Ackermann keep you company for now, then. If you need anything, he’ll be there for you.” He hesitated before pointing. “That way.”
She did not look at him, but she followed his gesture to one of the vans. She started in the direction, and after a pause she heard Reid’s feet crunch in snow and rubble as he walked away. She caught the eye of the other officer who had carried her from the hospital, and he turned toward her as she approached. Strawberry blonde hair, pointed blue eyes, a long nose and a square jaw. Healthy tint, tall, filled in. Unbroken.
“I’m Ackermann,” he said as kindly as his roughness would allow. “Reid probably figures you’d be more comfortable out here than in the vans, if I were to hazard a guess.”
She didn’t reply. She moved to sit on the ground, leaning against the large tire on the truck. She drew her legs in to her chest, wrapped her arms around them, and rested her forehead on her knees, her lips gently touching her thighs.
No one spoke to her. Ackermann turned towards two other soldiers nearby, then muttered something to them. They turned and left. He stood with his back to her.
She closed her eyes, her breath shuddering from her lips as she fell asleep…
There was no body, no mind; all that was left was her soul. All was so dark, so cold; she could feel a huge and fathomless fear pull her further into the darkness. Alone. Pointless. Terrifying.
Then her feet, planted on a flat and even slate. Legs, body, arms holding a paper, her neck and face, with her eyes on the print, unseeing. She realized where she was, and looked up from her paper to the platform. There he was, in his spot. The look on his face…the last day at the LRT station. But his eyes weren’t on her paper when she looked to him – they were directly on hers.
The mere look was igniting. A joy that went beyond a smile. He approached, she waited. There was no one else on the platform, but even if there was, she would not have taken notice. It was only him for her, for he was all that mattered.
She lowered her arms to her sides, and the paper slipped away – no need for the shield any longer. With her obstacle gone she was unshackled. She took a step toward him, then another.
They stopped within a foot of each other. Their eyes stayed steadfastly connected, and finally he offered a small and sure smile. His hand came up slowly and her eyes fluttered closed when he caressed her face, letting his fingertips trace over her jaw, her cheek, her lips. He brushed her chin, then he rested his hand on the base of her neck and stepped closer to her. The burn spread outward as his lips touched hers just barely, and he parted them as he kissed her. She rested her hands on his chest, that wool coat that smelled of pine. Her breath slipped past her.
“Catherine,” he whispered against her lips, “I remember you, Catherine.”
Her eyes opened when a large hand covered her shoulder and shook her gently. She stared at her lap. “We have to get you in a vehicle,” Ackermann said quietly. “We’re ready to head back.”
She lifted her face. Everything had been so real. A pain throbbed in her chest. She would lose him every day for the rest of her life.
“All right.”
Ackermann offered a hand to lead her but she stood without a second glance. She was rounding the truck bed when Ackermann’s hand came down on her shoulder stiffly. He shook his head.
“That’s full.” He sounded hesitant. “I’ll take you to the van.”
He gripped her shoulders hard as he guided her away. She turned her head towards the open gate but Ackermann said “No” firmly. Breathing became hard. Don’t worry, we won’t leave him here.
It spilled forth all over again. How could she still cry when she had melted her eyes with her tears? Ackermann saw her into the van and droned “It’ll be okay.” The most emotion he had likely ever dealt with was probably doled out by her in the last two hours, or so she thought.
“Ready!” Ackermann called and closed the back doors behind himself. She hugged her shoulders again, trying to keep herself together. The memories she used to sustain herself with had been maimed, fine china dashed upon the floor. There was nothing holding her together any longer. He is gone, he is gone.
The
van began to pull away. Tears would fall down her cheeks like acid occasionally, but no one showed notice. No one said a thing; the air was too thick for anyone to mutter a word.
There were very few people in there. Before she fled the city, there were so many more left: oil workers, residents, families. There were maybe a dozen in the van now and probably less in the next. The thousands that had died…
They had just passed the upper limits of Fort McMurray when she spotted a side road through the passenger window. She stared. It was very brief but she saw all she needed to see. It was Gran’s road. Two years to make it here.
Her hand twitched as a memory very near whispered in her ear. This is for you. I want you to read it when you get to your gran’s. But no peeking.
She slowly reached into her coat pocket, pulling the letter out gently. Never forgotten, rather a constant reminder, a last piece of her mother she could keep. She never did peek, just to keep her last word. The envelope was still sealed, even though it was bent, crinkled, and dirtied with age. She opened it delicately and carefully removed the letter, unfolding it like it was part of a sacred ritual, and began to read.
Dear Catherine,
In all of the twenty-two years that we’ve spent together, we’ve only spoken twice about your father. I realize now that keeping that from you was wrong, but I was not brave enough to tell you. Now I think is the time.
You grew up shy, but after you began to go to college it gradually became worse. I was worried about you. You told me eventually it was because that you had fallen for someone you barely knew.
And so, Catherine, after I read your story of a girl who had caught the exquisiteness of a stranger and became enthralled with him, I was almost certain that somehow you had heard my story. I believed you had found me out, and you knew. But you never approached me. It is strange how a daughter falls in the steps of her mother, even without really knowing.
I was working evenings at a pub while I was in school. There was a particular customer who came every Friday night. Very outgoing, charming. He had this loud, joyful laugh. I loved hearing the sound of his laugh. I would trade shifts with the other girls so I could work Friday nights.