November 3rd, 7:30.
Kitty was asleep, curled up in Mickey’s lap, thumb in her mouth, her head resting in the crook of Mickey’s arm. Listening to her even breathing, Mickey felt a pang of envy, wishing that she could just go to sleep and not have to worry about any of this. Gingerly she refolded the map she was holding, trying not to disturb the sleeping child.
“We’ve still got a fair bit of gas,” Randhir said, his tone carefully controlled. “Any idea where I should be heading from here?”
They had been driving in ever-widening circles for over two hours, and had yet to find a way off the island that didn’t involve hordes of zombies and committing suicide. Kitty had fallen asleep almost immediately, exhausted and terrified, leaving Randhir and Mickey alone with each other and their own thoughts. Neither of them had spoken much since then, the silence hanging heavily between them. They had limited themselves to simple decisions about which direction to take, which streets to follow, neither willing to bring up what had happened.
“I think we can risk taking the 20 now,” Mickey twisted the map in her hands. “If we can get up to Ste. Anne de Bellevue...” she bit her lip, staring dubiously at the blur of coloured lines.
“The bridges are going to be impassable, you know that.”
“I know.”
“We can’t drive off the island. We’re completely cut off.”
“I know.”
Randhir hit the steering steel with the heel of his hand, his face a mask of frustration. “What the hell is your problem? Can you just tell me what the hell you have in mind, or are you just trying to get us killed?”
She jerked away involuntarily, and looked down to see if he had awoken Kitty. The girl was still sound asleep, however. She looked out the window, a lump rising in her throat, and swallowed hard.
Randhir was already regretting his outburst. “Look, I’m sorry, but you have to start talking to me already. Why are we heading to Ste. Anne?”
She leaned her elbow against the windowpane, and wiped her eyes with her fingers. “It’s the closest I can get us to the water. There’s a marina there, and we can take a boat. I don’t think there’s another way off the island. The bridges are bound to be blocked off by wrecked cars and zombies.”
“That’s what I was saying...” he paused. “A boat?”
She glanced at him, and offered a weak smiled. “Think you can hotwire a boat motor?”
He shrugged. “Maybe. Depends on the boat, depends on the motor. Depends on a whole lot of things. Can you steer a boat?”
“More or less.”
“You want us to take a boat to Green Valley? Isn’t that, umm, landlocked?”
She shrugged. “No. There’s a river that goes right past Lancaster, where there’s a marina. But we can’t go that way anyway.”
“Why not?”
“There’s a big dam in the way.”
“That’d be a good enough reason.”
Randhir’s knuckles went white as his fingers tightened on the steering wheel. He was trying to negotiate the car through the winding streets of Lachine, which they’d found to their surprise was mostly deserted. Either the place hadn’t been as hard-hit as the island, which he didn’t think was the case, or else the zombies had migrated away from the area in search of easier targets. Or perhaps the inhabitants had managed to get off the island before things got out of hand.
There were still small groups of zombies shuffling around the deserted streets, moving in roughly the same direction, heedless of each other. Mickey watched through her window as a small boy, perhaps seven or eight years old, pressed his face up against the storefront window of a bicycle repair shop, intent on what was inside. She wondered if there was a part of his ruined mind that still remembered what it was like to ride a bicycle, to pump the pedals until they were rotating too fast for his feet to catch up, to feel the wind in his hair and against his face. She wondered if he remembered the exhilaration and fear of racing down a hill, the moment of heart-stopping terror when he lost control of the bicycle and went careening over the handlebars. She looked at the boy, who was wearing nothing but a pair of dirty jeans and a torn t-shirt, his one remaining foot bare and exposed to the elements, oblivious to pain and to cold and to fear. She turned away abruptly as she saw that he was turning toward her, unwilling to look into his ruined face, into his dead eyes, and see nothing there but ignorance and despair.
“You can take that street on the right,” she said, pointing ahead. “It should take you to the on-ramp.”
Randhir nodded. “It’s easier if you don’t look at them.”
“I know. I just... I don’t know.”
“Yeah.”
He inched the car along, threading it through the maze of parked and abandoned cars. It was slow going, but so far most of the zombies had ignored their passage. At this rate, they’d run out of gas long before they got to Ste. Anne de Bellevue.
“So how are we going to get there, if there’s a dam in the way?”
“We can take the Ottowa river, and then cut across country after that. It’s maybe thirty or forty kilometers.”
“So we’d have to get another car.”
She nodded. “I don’t see that we have much choice.”
“No, I guess not.”
He certainly couldn’t think of a better plan, and maybe that was the problem. He’d been content to let Michaela run the show from the start, and the strain was telling on her now. He could see it in the way she’d chewed her lip until it was raw, in the way her hands shook when she handled the map. He’d lost just as many friends and family as she had, he was certain, but at least he hadn’t had to watch as one of them was torn to pieces by the zombies. He ought to be shouldering more of the burden, he told himself, but he had no idea how to go about doing that. He wasn’t sure Mickey herself knew: she was just accepting it as they went along. He glanced over at her and found her staring out the window again, at the houses going by, and absurdly found himself thinking that she really was very attractive. He dismissed the thought almost as quickly as it had arisen, inappropriate as it was. Here they were, facing probably extinction, and he was going to ask her on a date? He shook his head.
“What?”
He jumped, not realizing she’d turned to look at him. “Nothing. Just thinking about what happens if we get out of this.”
“I haven’t thought that far ahead.”
“Can’t blame you. Maybe I should try and do some of the thinking about that instead, huh?”
“Maybe.” She wasn’t really listening to him. She looked over her shoulder at the back of the van, which was filled with supplies. “Do you suppose Chuck packed scissors in there somewhere?”
He didn’t bother to conceal his surprise. “I don’t know. Probably. Why?”
She pulled at her hair, which she’d twisted into a braid the night before. It was coming apart now, wispy tendrils floating about her face, softening the more angular lines of her jaw and cheekbones. “I’m going to give Kitty and myself a bit of an impromptu haircut before we get out of the van. Give the zombies one less thing to grab if we get surrounded again.”
“I hadn’t even thought of that.”
“I was going to do it this morning. I should have done it yesterday, but I kept getting sidetracked. When we... when we ran to the store, I nearly got caught because one of those things grabbed my hair. That means it needs to come off. I wouldn’t have thought of it otherwise.”
He was silent for a few minutes. “You ever get the impression we’re in way over our heads?” he asked. He could have kicked himself just after the words left his mouth. He’d meant to say something reassuring, but everything was coming out wrong.
She didn’t reproach him for the comment, although part of him wished she would.
“Every waking minute since this all started.”
“We’ve still got a fair bit of gas,” Randhir said, his tone carefully controlled. “Any idea where I should be heading from here?”
They had been driving in ever-widening circles for over two hours, and had yet to find a way off the island that didn’t involve hordes of zombies and committing suicide. Kitty had fallen asleep almost immediately, exhausted and terrified, leaving Randhir and Mickey alone with each other and their own thoughts. Neither of them had spoken much since then, the silence hanging heavily between them. They had limited themselves to simple decisions about which direction to take, which streets to follow, neither willing to bring up what had happened.
“I think we can risk taking the 20 now,” Mickey twisted the map in her hands. “If we can get up to Ste. Anne de Bellevue...” she bit her lip, staring dubiously at the blur of coloured lines.
“The bridges are going to be impassable, you know that.”
“I know.”
“We can’t drive off the island. We’re completely cut off.”
“I know.”
Randhir hit the steering steel with the heel of his hand, his face a mask of frustration. “What the hell is your problem? Can you just tell me what the hell you have in mind, or are you just trying to get us killed?”
She jerked away involuntarily, and looked down to see if he had awoken Kitty. The girl was still sound asleep, however. She looked out the window, a lump rising in her throat, and swallowed hard.
Randhir was already regretting his outburst. “Look, I’m sorry, but you have to start talking to me already. Why are we heading to Ste. Anne?”
She leaned her elbow against the windowpane, and wiped her eyes with her fingers. “It’s the closest I can get us to the water. There’s a marina there, and we can take a boat. I don’t think there’s another way off the island. The bridges are bound to be blocked off by wrecked cars and zombies.”
“That’s what I was saying...” he paused. “A boat?”
She glanced at him, and offered a weak smiled. “Think you can hotwire a boat motor?”
He shrugged. “Maybe. Depends on the boat, depends on the motor. Depends on a whole lot of things. Can you steer a boat?”
“More or less.”
“You want us to take a boat to Green Valley? Isn’t that, umm, landlocked?”
She shrugged. “No. There’s a river that goes right past Lancaster, where there’s a marina. But we can’t go that way anyway.”
“Why not?”
“There’s a big dam in the way.”
“That’d be a good enough reason.”
Randhir’s knuckles went white as his fingers tightened on the steering wheel. He was trying to negotiate the car through the winding streets of Lachine, which they’d found to their surprise was mostly deserted. Either the place hadn’t been as hard-hit as the island, which he didn’t think was the case, or else the zombies had migrated away from the area in search of easier targets. Or perhaps the inhabitants had managed to get off the island before things got out of hand.
There were still small groups of zombies shuffling around the deserted streets, moving in roughly the same direction, heedless of each other. Mickey watched through her window as a small boy, perhaps seven or eight years old, pressed his face up against the storefront window of a bicycle repair shop, intent on what was inside. She wondered if there was a part of his ruined mind that still remembered what it was like to ride a bicycle, to pump the pedals until they were rotating too fast for his feet to catch up, to feel the wind in his hair and against his face. She wondered if he remembered the exhilaration and fear of racing down a hill, the moment of heart-stopping terror when he lost control of the bicycle and went careening over the handlebars. She looked at the boy, who was wearing nothing but a pair of dirty jeans and a torn t-shirt, his one remaining foot bare and exposed to the elements, oblivious to pain and to cold and to fear. She turned away abruptly as she saw that he was turning toward her, unwilling to look into his ruined face, into his dead eyes, and see nothing there but ignorance and despair.
“You can take that street on the right,” she said, pointing ahead. “It should take you to the on-ramp.”
Randhir nodded. “It’s easier if you don’t look at them.”
“I know. I just... I don’t know.”
“Yeah.”
He inched the car along, threading it through the maze of parked and abandoned cars. It was slow going, but so far most of the zombies had ignored their passage. At this rate, they’d run out of gas long before they got to Ste. Anne de Bellevue.
“So how are we going to get there, if there’s a dam in the way?”
“We can take the Ottowa river, and then cut across country after that. It’s maybe thirty or forty kilometers.”
“So we’d have to get another car.”
She nodded. “I don’t see that we have much choice.”
“No, I guess not.”
He certainly couldn’t think of a better plan, and maybe that was the problem. He’d been content to let Michaela run the show from the start, and the strain was telling on her now. He could see it in the way she’d chewed her lip until it was raw, in the way her hands shook when she handled the map. He’d lost just as many friends and family as she had, he was certain, but at least he hadn’t had to watch as one of them was torn to pieces by the zombies. He ought to be shouldering more of the burden, he told himself, but he had no idea how to go about doing that. He wasn’t sure Mickey herself knew: she was just accepting it as they went along. He glanced over at her and found her staring out the window again, at the houses going by, and absurdly found himself thinking that she really was very attractive. He dismissed the thought almost as quickly as it had arisen, inappropriate as it was. Here they were, facing probably extinction, and he was going to ask her on a date? He shook his head.
“What?”
He jumped, not realizing she’d turned to look at him. “Nothing. Just thinking about what happens if we get out of this.”
“I haven’t thought that far ahead.”
“Can’t blame you. Maybe I should try and do some of the thinking about that instead, huh?”
“Maybe.” She wasn’t really listening to him. She looked over her shoulder at the back of the van, which was filled with supplies. “Do you suppose Chuck packed scissors in there somewhere?”
He didn’t bother to conceal his surprise. “I don’t know. Probably. Why?”
She pulled at her hair, which she’d twisted into a braid the night before. It was coming apart now, wispy tendrils floating about her face, softening the more angular lines of her jaw and cheekbones. “I’m going to give Kitty and myself a bit of an impromptu haircut before we get out of the van. Give the zombies one less thing to grab if we get surrounded again.”
“I hadn’t even thought of that.”
“I was going to do it this morning. I should have done it yesterday, but I kept getting sidetracked. When we... when we ran to the store, I nearly got caught because one of those things grabbed my hair. That means it needs to come off. I wouldn’t have thought of it otherwise.”
He was silent for a few minutes. “You ever get the impression we’re in way over our heads?” he asked. He could have kicked himself just after the words left his mouth. He’d meant to say something reassuring, but everything was coming out wrong.
She didn’t reproach him for the comment, although part of him wished she would.
“Every waking minute since this all started.”