The Penance of Leather (Book 1): Ain't No Grave

by S. A. Softley

  Other buildings were either plain brick, old and unremarkable, or they were trying hard to evoke visions of the Wild West. A mythology, I knew, that had not existed in the way Hollywood liked to portray it, at least not around here. With the exception of a few minor incidents and a rebellion or two, the Canadian tradition for lawfulness had stretched back to the early days of settlement out here.

  The steak house was down the street to the south, the pavement rising with the low incline of the valley as it moved away from the lake to the north. The road continued only a kilometer or two before the buildings thinned and the town faded. Toward the lakefront, the buildings crowded closer together, clambering for property as close to the tourist-baiting beach as possible. In that direction, the road sloped quickly downward, ending at the shoreline, which was a sudden and stark field of white emptiness that spanned as far as the eye could see without interruption beyond the town. The lake looked to be completely frozen over, the ice unbroken and snow covered.

  The town appeared somewhat desolate with few plants or trees breaking up the buildings and roads. The occasional trees that lined the roads were stunted and twisted from the long winters and hard winds that blew off the lake. Their dead branches were thin and skeletal, the street and sidewalk empty of any other growth. The wind and snow and dust would blow through this town terribly. It would blow off the lake and would pound against walls and windows and scatter up the wide streets in rivulets. Aside from the blocky buildings, there was little to break its path.

  The vehicles that remained parked up and down the main street were decidedly rural. The sight of all that steel and the gasoline sucking engines that propelled them would drive environmentalists into a fit. When snow stuck around for longer than half the year, however, and the spring and fall were characterized by deep, impassable mud as ground frost thawed and melted, eco-cars with their thin tires and lack of torque simply didn’t cut it. Especially when so many of the visitors to town during the non-peak months were farmers, loggers and oil workers who drove in on roads that were dirt and gravel, marginally ploughed if at all. The trucks and four-by-fours were parked neatly up and down the road, apparently abandoned in the sudden disaster that had struck.

  I pressed the red panic button on the key fob I had found in the shop. I jumped as a new olive-green Wrangler started honking hidden just behind a big truck on my right. The horn sounded like a great blast compared to the near total silence that persisted within the town. For some reason, the horn set me on edge; it seemed unwelcome, unnatural and somehow dangerous. I dismissed my concern as the product of my overwound nerves. After all I’d gone through, I figured, I was allowed to be a little tense, a little paranoid.

  “That was easy,” I muttered, hitting the red button again to shut the horn off.

  I slipped in the driver’s side door and smiled at my luck. The Jeep was brand new with soft leather seats, lots of cargo space and only seventeen thousand kilometers on the odometer. It had been outfitted with a decent off-road kit: a rugged bumper with a winch, locking differentials, good tires with deep cut treads, and a roof rack with an extra spare tire, making two spares when you included the usual one mounted to the rear gate. The tires themselves were thick and rugged, clearly designed to cut through snow and mud. I put the key in the ignition and turned, allowing the blowers to turn on and all the gauges to light up. It had a full tank of gas. I smiled again and pulled out the key.

  I looked around the cabin. It was pristine; clearly a new toy, the pride and joy of whoever had owned it. Hanging from the mirror was a plastic silhouette cut out in the shape of a naked woman, her legs taut and lean, toes pointed and her pert breasts thrust out.

  I shook my head in mocking laughter as I noticed that a cross and rosary hung ironically below the curve of the silhouette woman’s buttocks which curved cartoonishly out from an overly slender waist.

  On the passenger seat there sat a flat brimmed cap embroidered with an Edmonton Oilers badge, perfect and untouched like the Jeep itself. On the brim, there remained a shining, holographic NHL sticker assuring the authenticity of the hat. I’d never understood the people who kept their hat-brims uncurved and left the stickers and tags attached, as though they were collector’s items, as though it might somehow be valuable after sitting on the greasy forehead of whoever owned it for any length of time.

  I shook my head in comic disdain. I felt I knew the man who owned this jeep. Not his name or his face, but I knew enough about him based on the information I’d collected from his vehicle. So many like this had worked on the rigs up north, spending their hard earned cash on expensive vehicles and attire. Those men had desired the hottest and most coveted possessions as proof of their own worth but in the end, most of them had seemed to live lives as hollow and empty of value and human companionship as my own. I, at least, had intended my life to be that way; it was what I wanted, what I worked hard to achieve.

  I opened the glove box, shuffling through to find registration and insurance documents. Why I might need them, I had no idea; it was just another automatic, conditioned reaction. A deluge of car wash tickets poured out. The man must have washed his truck twice a week from the day he bought it. Sifting through the receipts, I found the pink documents for registration and insurance. They were made out to a Steven Pont. It was strange to know the name of the man whose vehicle I was commandeering. I felt I could almost picture him, having known so many like him.

  I sighed, feeling strangely abandoned and alone. I would not have liked the man who owned the Jeep, I felt certain, and yet at that moment I probably would have embraced him with tears in my eyes had he come to the door, shouting at me for breaking into his vehicle.

  I opened the door and stepped out of the Jeep. Out of habit, I used the remote to lock the door as I headed back inside to start packing up my supplies and chuckled to myself at the irony as I heard the little chirp of the horn that signalled that the alarm was active. Not only was there no one around to try and steal the truck, but I myself was the thief in this case, although I was sure that Steven, the owner, wouldn’t miss it at the moment. I’d return it to him the first chance I got anyway.

  Within an hour, the Jeep was packed with supplies and gear. Both of the piles I’d made and more supplies that I’d collected on my rounds through the shop were carefully packed and organized. I’d siphoned several jerry cans of extra gas from nearby cars and strapped them to the roof rack as well, just to be safe. I had found paper, a pen and tape and left my name, phone number and an apology note taped to the window of the shop, explaining briefly what had happened and that I’d taken supplies and the jeep and would return them and pay at the first opportunity.

  For the fourth or fifth time, I went through a mental checklist of supplies, getting ready to head south when I realized I’d forgotten a few things that might be important. I’d forgotten breakfast and I was still absolutely famished, not having eaten much the night before. I had no idea how long it had been since I last ate solid food. I might have been unconscious for days for all I knew.

  This thought caused me to remember that I still did not have a clue about the current date. It would be worthwhile, I decided, to look around town for a few more hours and find some answers. I should find the police station, I thought. There might be records there. It would also be worth having a radio.

  I went back into the sporting goods shop that had become my home base and picked up one of the few cans of beef stew I’d left on a shelf and poured it into a tin camping pot. I lit the propane stove that had been set up inside and set the pot down to cook.

  In a few minutes, the stew was steaming and bubbling in the pot. I took it off the burner and let it cool for a while and went to make another check around the shop, looking for anything else I might want or need. I passed the gun counter and stopped. I’d passed by a few times and a debate had been playing out in the back of my mind since the first time.

  On the one hand, if I did get stuck out here, it would be good to have so
mething to hunt with. On the other hand, if I encountered military or law enforcement and they were jumpy, it wouldn’t look good to have a stash of weapons and ammo on me, particularly a stash of stolen weapons and no I.D. to speak of. It was still Canada, after all, and most people took gun control pretty seriously. I did own a gun licence; I often carried a rifle when out making the rounds at the oil fields, just in case I got stranded or ran into bears or cougars, which happened fairly frequently, although I’d never needed to shoot one.

  One guy I’d met up there had ended up with several ribs broken when a moose charged him. He said he was lucky to have gotten out alive. A gun would be handy. The problem was, I had no idea where any of my I.D. had gone. In fact, I didn’t know where any of my possessions were, including my clothes. Some instinctual need to play by society’s rules, even in such abnormal circumstances, caused me to fear carrying a gun without a licence. I had no intention of exploring that dark medical centre looking for my things. I never wanted to see that morgue drawer again.

  In the end, I figured the circumstances were exceptional enough that I could probably talk my way out of any trouble I got into as a result of my looting. Besides, when I reached civilization, I could find a way to prove who I was and then prove that I did have a licence if it came to it. I had already committed a break and enter, theft over five thousand dollars and grand theft auto anyway, so what was one more criminal charge?

  I decided to pick out a good hunting rifle and a good pump shotgun for birding. The big key ring I’d found had dozens of keys to cash registers, cabinets and locks all over the shop and none of them were labelled. It took me ages to unlock the sliding glass cabinet. In hindsight, I suppose no one would have minded if I had just broken the glass, but I already felt guilty about theft, I didn’t want to add more vandalism and property damage to the list of offenses I was compiling in my mind. After finally sliding the glass apart, it took me another fifteen minutes to find the keys to the trigger locks on the guns I had chosen.

  I slipped each into a soft carry case and packed a bag with cases of ammunition for each. It wasn’t overkill, I told myself. I wasn’t strapping pistols to myself or carrying loaded automatic weapons. It was just survival. With these, I felt I could survive whatever was going on for a good long while. I felt certain anyone I found would understand.

  I went back to my pot of stew. It had cooled enough to eat. I ate a few spoonfuls. It tasted better than the trail-mix bars, but the stew still had an ashen taste that caused me to lose my desire to eat. It was an effort to swallow as well, the food sticking in my dry throat. I forced myself to eat half the can before giving up on the rest. I was frustrated to find that the breakfast hadn’t so much as taken the edge off my hunger, but I couldn’t force myself to eat any more.

  I pushed the bowl away and did my best to ignore the hunger. Maybe after some time my stomach would start digesting properly again and I’d feel better. That’s probably it, I thought, My stomach has just been empty too long. I knew that it wasn’t any good forcing it; a person could get seriously sick; even die trying to eat or drink too much after a period of dehydration or starvation.

  I stood and slung the two gun bags over my shoulders, along with the bag full of ammunition boxes. It must have been a reflex; an automatic response; but as I left the shop, I turned and locked the door, flipping through one key after another on the key ring I’d found until I came to a large key that fit the glass door. I chuckled as I looked down and realized that I’d smashed the glass right next to the deadbolt. Still, I left it locked, feeling better somehow, as though someone might appreciate my efforts to minimize the damage to the property.

  As I was fumbling for the Jeep fob, I accidentally hit the red panic button again. I jumped and swore as the horn honked rhythmically and the lights flashed in time. One of the gun cases slung on my shoulder slipped as I tried to push the panic button again to turn off the horn. I caught the case in the crook of my elbow, but swore again as the keys were shaken from my hand, landing in the gutter. With my free hand, I readjusted the case that had fallen and stooped to grab the keys. I was lucky they hadn’t fallen down the nearby storm drain grate.

  I pressed the button and the horn blasts stopped. The silence returned, unfriendly and stifling, as the last reverberations of the horn careened off low square buildings, the echoes calling back to me as though in mockery.

  Down the street to my right came a strange rasping moan. I gasped, nearly dropping the keys again as I looked up. A figure stood there, startling the breath out of me. I closed my eyes and took a moment to calm myself and allow the adrenalin rush to subside. It looked as though another man had been left behind in the evacuation. I wondered if he, too, had been sick when the town had evacuated. He had clearly come searching at the sound of the Jeep’s horn. He was about half a block down the road and walking stiffly, as though he’d just been awakened from sleep. Perhaps he was unwell or recovering. Perhaps he’d even been comatose as I had been.

  Perhaps he’s dying. Infected. Dangerous, the other voice inside me broke in. I silenced the voice in my head, the echoes of it fading from my thoughts as the sound of the Jeep’s alarm had done moments earlier.

  “Hey!” I called. “Are you alright? You know what the hell is going on here?” I got no reply from the man, but remembering how disoriented I’d been myself only the day before, I wasn’t surprised. The man’s shuffling gait filled me with a sense of removed apprehension. It felt like watching a thriller, the soundtrack warning of impending frights. Yet it didn’t feel as though I was involved; not a character, just another viewer. The man didn’t so much as acknowledge me. He just kept scuffing along, kicking dust up with his feet, which never quite left the pavement.

  “Hey…” I called again, my voice seeming to fall dead in the chill air. I watched silently for several minutes as the man shuffled ever closer, apparently unaware of my presence. I watched him in confused silence.

  As he got closer, I saw that his eyes were bloodshot with dark stained pouches of skin beneath them. Around his mouth was a similarly dark stain. It brought to mind memories of the man on the plane with his foaming mouth and scarlet tears. This man’s eyes rolled around aimlessly in their sockets making him look deranged, as though he could see but not comprehend. He wheezed and grunted loudly as he moved, his breathing laboured, as though trying to catch a scent through blocked airways. I was filled with a sense of pity and disgust as I looked at him.

  “Hey…” I said quietly, now unsure whether or not I wanted to attract his attention. His eyes snapped to me for a moment, but still he didn’t seem to see me, he just shambled along, returning his gaze forwards. I can’t be sure how many minutes I silently watched him, unmoving, uncertain about what to do. He went along the main street until he was out of sight and I let him go.

  Six

  I vomited all over the sidewalk. My hands shook so that it was difficult to isolate the key to the Jeep from the other keys on the ring. Something about the state of the man who had just shambled past had unnerved me. Except for the fact that he had ignored me completely, it was like something out of a zombie film. For some reason, I felt I’d have been more comfortable if he’d just attacked me. Then at least I’d know I was in a zombie film.

  I looked down at the vomit on the pavement, mainly to avoid stepping in it. There was something odd about it; some voice in the back of my head that I could not hear had something to say about it. I gazed in revulsion at my own sick for a few seconds, looking for the detail that wanted to be noticed. My mind was blank, shocked.

  It’s just vomit, I thought.

  It ain’t, said the other voice.

  I snapped out of it and jogged back to the Jeep. I’d had enough of this town. It was time to go.

  The Jeep started with a good-natured roar. It was ready to go as well; ready to hit the highways and do what it was made for. I took one last look around the sporting goods shop and glanced up and down the empty street again. There was no one in si
ght: no one dead, no one living. If I hadn’t felt so much pity for the strange man who was clearly suffering from some horrible illness, I might have laughed. It all seemed like a hideous joke. My reaction had been pathetic.

  Some sick man needs help and you let him wander off in the cold. Always knew you was nothin’. It sounded like my father’s voice. Most voices that disapproved of me with such vehemence sounded like his. I was angry with myself, and yet I could not make myself go look for the man.

  I shook it off again, physically shuddering.

  First thing was first: I was going to try and find the RCMP office. If the office was deserted, at least they might have posted some information; a poster, a notice or announcement to tell me what the hell was going on around here. Maybe the office would have something I could use, a phone or radio to contact someone. Maybe they didn’t know they’d left someone… at least two people, it turned out… behind during the evacuation. Maybe they’d send a helicopter or something to rescue me. Maybe I could make it up to the guy who’d shuffled past and have them send a rescue team after him, too.

  I climbed back into the Jeep and backed it out of the parking space. I drove up and down Main Street, assuming that any police station would be located there. It didn’t take long for me to find the RCMP building. It was just a few blocks away from the sporting goods store, though I’d gone the wrong direction to find it the first time. There was a single police van parked beside the government box building in a lot surrounded by chain-link and barbed-wire. A flag was noticeably absent from the flagpole out front.