Kilmeny MacMichael lives in the Okanagan Valley, Canada.
Last Sunset at the Lake
Three weeks after we fled the city, taking refuge at the lake house up here in the mountains, a man walks out of the lake with a knife in his eye.
Tom and I always try to make time to enjoy the sunset together. This evening we’re both out on the balcony when Tom grunts something, and I look up from my book to see the Diseased. We watch him walk right out of that sunset over the lake, up the beach, dripping blood and water. He doesn’t see us, turns, and walks into the woods.
After a few moments, Tom gets up from his chair, saying, “Well, I think I’ll need a second cup of coffee.”
“While you’re in the kitchen,” I say, “Maybe you should call the police. Perhaps an ambulance.” Sometimes they still respond.
We hadn’t wanted to abandon the city. It was unfair to those who stayed behind, leaving them to deal with the worst of the mess. I still believe most of the Diseased can be helped, at least early on, with enough care and understanding. I volunteered for a time, taking food to the sick in our neighbourhood. But after one of the Diseased set fire to the elevator in our building, we packed up and came here. The airport is closed and the railways are refusing to run trains west of the continental divide, so we’re lucky to have the Prius.
One of Tom’s co-workers wanted a ride with us. He’s a great guy, but we had to say no. We didn’t know if he might be sick or not, and we have children to think of. He tried to stop us leaving without him, kneeling in front of our car, crying and begging. It was embarrassing.
The Disease has been simmering on the edges of society for a few years. It started by killing a hundred people one year, five hundred the next, a thousand. It only attacked the weakest and most vulnerable. Then the plague made the jump, to its current aggressive form, which can eat up most anyone.
The infection takes hold of different people in different ways. Many can go on with their lives with little trouble for a time. Some don’t even realize that they’re infected. Others seem to be gripped quick and hard. They degenerate to half-consciousness and unnatural hungers within hours.
A certain panic set in over the metropolis when the mayor succumbed live on TV.
I’m sure we’ll go back to the city eventually. We love living in Vancouver. Most of the time.
Our neighbours here at the lake are Mormons. We haven’t seen them recently, but hope they’re okay. We replaced the lock we broke through on their door. We’ve been careful not to make a mess, and plan to leave them a cheque for the food we’ve taken. It’s not bad food, a bit bland. Tom misses avocados, and the children are not thrilled with oatmeal for breakfast. I’m running low on almond milk. Yesterday I used up the last of the lip balm. Things are getting tough. I know it’s getting to be time to move on.
Some of the Diseased appear curable. A few manage to take it upon themselves to seek help, although the vast majority are far too crazed. They don’t respect any limits in who they attack, family, children or lovers. You’re safe inside if you don’t let anyone in, but you can’t let anyone in. You can’t even open the door to your closest friends or relatives if you’re not one hundred percent sure they’re okay.
And now the Disease has made its way here to resort country.
If you’re out in the open and the hungriest see you, they will try to destroy you. We’ll become prisoners in our own homes, and even Mormon stockpiles can’t last forever.
On the east side of these mountains, a fence is going up. It’s got drones, guard dogs, and nervous armed people in ugly green uniforms. They’re trying to contain the plague. Of course some people and some of the sick got across the border early, and even now, the fence is long and incomplete. Wire cutters aren’t that expensive.
Tom comes back out onto the balcony.
“What did emergency services say?’ I ask. A Diseased woman appears down the beach, followed by two or three more. They are singing the Beatles’ “I Want to Hold Your Hand.” They are off-key.
“Got a recording that all operators are busy,” Tom says, taking a sip of his Nespresso Carmelito.
I say, “Maybe we can find a new place in Kimberley or Cranbrook to hole up in.”
Tom turns to me. “Honey, I think it’s time to move to Alberta. I’m sorry.”
It’s alright. I’m sure we’ll go on surviving. Somehow. We’ve managed so far. There are quarantine centers at official crossings. I fear there will be no almond milk or avocados for quite some time. The sun is setting.