by Geoff Nelder
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“You’re Jat? My wife?”
“I am Jat, but I have no recollection of marrying you. Don’t get any ideas.”
“Hang on. My head is spinning coping with waking up in Canada with a disease instead of my home in Baltimore. Look at us, Jat. I’m mid-fifties, you’re what, eighteen?”
“Twenty—that’s not the big deal.”
“No? Well, what is?”
“Look at you. You obviously don’t look after yourself, you’ve deserted your other wife because of this memory business and—no, don’t interrupt me—how do I know you don’t have any vile STDs?”
Manuel, glad he received the broadside while sitting down, shook his head. “Jat, as far as I know, I have no diseases except one that’s robbed me of what must have been a helluva courtship and a cracking wedding night. Me wife left me for an insurance salesman. And though I grant you I’m hiding a six-pack stomach under a keg, I have more muscles than I used to.” He did a strongman impression. She turned to face the window so he couldn’t see if she was smiling.
“There’s a load of chopped wood out back, so I guess you might have been working out,” Jat said. He saw her reflection fighting a grin.
Manuel looked at the rough calluses on his palms. “Yep, that’s right. Extraordinary, for a desk man.”
Jat examined her own hands, showing Manuel her wedding ring. “It’s all whacky though, isn’t it? I mean, who brought us here, and why?”
“I suppose we brought us here. I have memories of being up here in Moraine Lake as a kid.”
“I’ve virtually no belongings here. A shoulder bag with some clothes and ID. There’s my insulin in the fridge. Enough for a month, I reckon. Then I need to go find some more.”
“You saw the note about not going into town,” he said, looking worried.
“Sure I did. Lawless gangs. In Lake Louise and probably my home city, Vancouver. But where am I going to get my insulin?”
“I don’t know, Jat. I guess we’ll be risking some forays out there to hospitals and city drugstores, but I have a feeling they’ll be trashed pretty soon if not already. I’m surprised more insulin isn’t here.”
“Which tells us it was a spur-of-the-moment decision, yeah?”
“Like our marriage, you mean?”
“Whatever. Maybe it was for my protection—as if I needed it.”
“Or mine. Don’t look surprised. Two are better than one in a crisis, even if one is a girl.” He had to duck to avoid the plate projectile.
They both sat facing each other across the rustic, long table to savour toast and maple syrup along with the strong coffee for breakfast.
“This syrup would’ve been better on pancakes,” she said.
“Guess so. Found any?”
“I haven’t gone through that huge freezer yet.”
“Can you freeze pancakes?”
“Don’t you know anything about cooking? I suppose that’s another reason you chained me to you.”
“Hey. There’s the door, Jat. And I’ll have you know I was the legend of culinary achievement in my place of work.”
“Which was a den in your house?”
“Sometimes.” He joined in the laugher. “But mostly at NASA’s Washington Media Centre.”
They finished their breakfast, alternating between sitting and walking around the cabin. Outside on a trestle lay wood begging to be chopped. Without a second thought, Manuel levered the axe out of an old stump, and after spitting on his hands, making Jat recoil with a screwed-up face, he swung the axe, neatly starting a V incision.
“Well, you clearly have your future mapped out,” she said. “More therapy than the need for firewood already.”
“I’ve no doubt you’re right. It sure feels good to use muscle in the cause of survival. You could always stack up the pieces against the cabin where I’ve started.”
“I could always not.”
“Whatever.” He could tell that he had an uphill struggle with Jat, and yet, there must have been some endearing quality for them to decide to stay together. He went on a course of reverse-psychological motivation still in his memory. Leaning the axe against the door jamb, he followed her back into the kitchen. He sniffed again at his coffee. “This brew, interesting flavour.”
“Spit it out if you don’t like it.” She’d folded her arms so tight he could see her fingers whitening.
“I’d rather not, thank you. It’s just that it’s rare to find someone who can burn coffee.” He sat, ready to duck again, but she just stood with her back to the window, arms still folded, giving him the evil-eye. After a few seconds he winked at her. She turned to the window again.
“I’m going to leave and get to my folks in Vancouver,” she said, maintaining her stare out of the window, watching a red-headed woodpecker annoy beetles.
Manuel drummed fingers on the pine table. He wondered why she voiced her desire to go home right now. He was sure after the warnings on the NoteCom, she wouldn’t want to risk travelling.
“Jat, maybe we can buy some insulin on the web. DHL could fly it in.”
“My God, I’ve married a comedian. It’s not just about insulin. I can probably live a while without it if I’m careful. But Vancouver’s my home. I want to know what’s happening.”
“I’m not sure it helps to know too much at the moment,” Manuel said, but regretted letting his pessimism out to play.
“Yeah, cheers. You have no family, do you, Gomez?”
“Only one around here, Mrs Gomez.” They gave each other wry smiles. “And a bunch more in Spain.”
“I’m pretty sure you’re not going to like me when I go stir-crazy in this wooden box.” She slammed down the jar of instant coffee she’d just picked up.
“Yeah, well. Shall we go for a stroll and take in our estate?”
“Are we tooled up?”
“I hadn’t thought about it. Who are you expecting to attack us?”
“I dunno. Maybe I have an ex out there objecting to me having a geriatric for a husband.”
“More likely one of my friends trying to protect me from a gold-digging floozy.”
“Touché, but have we a sub-machine gun?”
“I’ve no idea. It would be a good idea.”
“I was thinking in order to get my insulin by force if I have to.”
“Would you kill someone in order to get some, even if you’ve none left?”
Jat let out an exasperated sigh. “I should have two doses of insulin a day now. If it looks like I’m about to kiss you, Manuel, it’s to let you close enough to smell my breath. If you smell pear-drops, and I’m irritable—all right, more irritable than usual—and if I’m eating all your stores, drinking all the water, peeing all the time while being out of breath, then I’m probably—”
“About to go into a coma and within a few days I’ll need to find the shovel. Point taken. But I might have a plan.”
“So have I. Get home.”
Manuel had a turn at exhaling a long sigh. “Why do you think there is no answer when you ring your home in Vancouver or the mobile phones of your folks and friends there? You’ve had the breakfast TV on. No news since I’ve been in here, just repeats, probably on a loop.”
“Not much to go on, is it? Repeats on TV and phones going wrong is hardly news these days.”
“And what are these days, ’cos we don’t remember them, do we? And that is news, Jat. Too many coincidences. Let’s call the police in Vancouver. Hell, anywhere. Call 9-1-1.”
Though reluctant to prove him right, Jat tapped 9-1-1. “Nothing. Not even the usual hold message. All the more reason to find out what’s happened.” She wiped a tear.
Manual gave her a teacloth. “Normally, I’d agree, but what’s the most probable outcome? We’re told we have a vehicle down the lane. We’d need to drive three hundred miles, which means finding a gas station to get all the way there and to get back—all right, don’t look at me as if
that’s not an option. Maybe we’d run into trouble on the way, let alone when we reach the outskirts and centre of Vancouver. A city full of bewildered and hungry people. I’m painting an ugly picture, I know, and I’m sorry, but that’s how I see it.”
“All the more reason to find my folks and get them out of there.”
He stood and wandered to the window. The woodpecker had rested its beak, but a spring shower threw raindrops against the glass so percussion prevailed.
“I understand that, Jat. Suppose we find them. How many are we talking? Half dozen? More? We’d need more vehicles and maybe get followed back here. My bet is that we wouldn’t find them. They might’ve found their own refuge in the valleys, lost their phones or couldn’t keep recharging them. They’d be upset at the thought of you being in danger looking for them when they’re safe.”
“Or dead.”
“We can’t keep on like this. How about e-mail? They might’ve left you a message.”
“Now you’re talking. Hey, Manuel, do you think we’ll have this debate tomorrow?”
“We probably had it yesterday.” He switched on the computer, after reading the instructions on powering up the satellite receiver and checking the battery, whose solar recharging had just taken a dive with the rainy weather. “I knew a Brit, Ryder, he might have information for us.”
They heard a thud at the back door, which sent both into crouch mode to hide beneath window height. Jat, on her way from the kitchen, grabbed a steak knife while Manuel shuffled around to his bedroom to collect a baseball bat he’d noticed under the bed.
“Maybe it was just the wind throwing some firewood at us,” whispered Manuel. “Either way, we’ll nip out the front door. You get behind a big tree while I sneak around the back.”
“No fucking way. Stop treating me like a little girl. You’re so patronising. I’ve probably been in more scrapes than you have.”
“All right, stop going on about me trying to protect my wife. We’ll do a pincer movement, if that’s okay with you.”
She set off before he finished locking the door. He’d already checked the bolt on the back door. Damn the woman. He could hear her running round, just so she could get another score on him, as if all of this was just a game. He had more trouble: holly grew right up to the side of the cabin forcing a time-consuming detour. His right foot disappeared mid-calf in a cold, muddy, leaf-hidden puddle, making him bite his lip to stop swearing out loud. He heard a cry, accelerating his movement.
He rounded the last corner to find Jat on her knees with her back to him. Still a gentle rain falling, she must have wet knees, at the least. Maybe a hole in her chest. Manuel stayed crouched and looked around while moving in on Jat.
“Isn’t he gorgeous?” she said, turning to show him the scraggiest mongrel he’d ever seen.
“Is that our intruder?”
“Say hello to Disco. Don’t you think that’s appropriate for a discovery?”
“I don’t think you should be so close to it. Probably got rabies; looks ill, and judging by its mangy coat, it’s a wolf-cross.”
“He’s just starving and cold. Come on, Disco.”
“You’re not bringing him in the cabin.”
“Disco is wet too. Anyway, he might be our lost mutt. Poor thing having owners who forget about him every day.”
“There’s no mention of a dog in the NoteCom.”
“There isn’t time to read everything. Better make a highlighted note about Disco so we know for sure tomorrow.”
Manuel followed them into the kitchen where Jat wrapped a towel around the animal. He said, “I suppose he could be a guard dog.”
“There, Disco, Manuel is a nice man. Forget what I told you earlier.”
“Nevertheless, I don’t want him in the cabin. Once you’ve dried him and, no doubt, given him a better breakfast than I had, he can stay on the sheltered porch out front. I’m going to have a look around, try and familiarise. Find the vehicle. Check how much fuel it has. Hey, are you listening?”
“What? Oh, go then. Make sure our mobile phones have both numbers in and take yours with you.”
Into his shoulder bag he placed his NoteCom, mobile phone, food, and water. It wasn’t that he didn’t expect to be back but he had to be prepared for anything. One thing was certain, if and when he returned to the cabin: that perishing dog would be on his bed.
Sunday 14 June 2015:
Rosamond, California, two months after the case was opened. Many would have lost eight years of their memory. The wife of Jack Balin, the first to catch ARIA, is in church.
IRENE’S TEARS SPLUTTERED ON THE CANDLE SHE HELD. A dozen other candles held back pitch-blackness in the New Family Community Church. The late evensong service was not listed on the blackboard outside the white-painted stone building, built as a replica of the old Spanish mission churches. Word of down-turned mouths in huddled groups brought Irene and the other women after sundown. Like most downtown buildings these days, no one barred entry through the broken doors. It wasn’t only criminals who seized opportunities to break and enter. Irene knew of decent folk, besides herself, whose jobs didn’t exist anymore—if they remembered what and where their jobs were. They woke up confused, desperate, and hungry. They had little choice but to scavenge and raid. The church had been looted the least. Understandable, since people desperate for food soon left though a few prayer books might find they’ve become soul food.
Irene lifted her head. All she could see through misty eyes was blackness, except for a fluttering moth and motes of dust lit by the candles. She knew all the others in there with her: friends, some of whom had much bigger problems. At least Jack came home most days and her children played with others then came home. Not that all was well. Jack didn’t go to work; no one did. They had quite a lot of money left in their bank accounts. They couldn’t get any of it because the cash machines were empty. It didn’t matter. She had money in her bag but there was nothing to buy. Once the shop shelves echoed empty, local farms became popular.
A glimmer of a smile as she recalled Jack’s account of his involvement with the farm raid.
“We didn’t know. We were all either Edwards men or public service, not farmers.”
“Didn’t know what, Jack? And where’s the food?” Irene asked, arms folded.
“Did you want to eat palm trees or Pampas grass?”
She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “So, the farm only grew trees and ornamental grasses?”
“There was more money in them than in fruit and vegetables. But we found out where a cattle ranch is only twenty miles away. So we should have steak by tomorrow night.” He started to smile but it faltered as if some of the muscles had forgotten how.
“Which cattle ranch is it?” She said, worried because her uncle worked and lived on The Sage Bush Ranch.
“The Six—er—God, I hope Charlie wrote it down.”
“Charlie? That goon. He’ll have lost the paper and so none of you will know which farm. Anyway, you’ll forget all about it by morning.”
“Maybe, till our stomachs growl. I’ll write another note.” He fumbled in his greasy hair above his right ear and pulled out a pencil stub.
“Jack, have you seen all the notes we have in the house? Our kitchen door is covered.”
“Yeah, I’ve not written so much since I forged my tax forms....A joke! Give us a hug.” She opened her arms to him, tears of relief for a touch of marital warmth amidst the desperation.
“Don’t be so soft, woman,” he said, turning to his left, away from her.
“Oh, Jack. Here, just a minute, what’s that on your shirt?”
“Leave it, woman. Best you didn’t know what us men have to do these days.”
“Blood. Come on, out with it. Whose blood?” Tears of anger now.
“We had some trouble with the landowner when we searched his outbuildings.”
“And?”
“I didn’t know Charlie had a gun. He panicked.”
“Oh, the
poor man. You damn fool, Jack. And Charlie.”
“I did what I could—that’s why I’m so bloody.”
“Who else was there? Oh, don’t tell me. As if we haven’t enough to worry about.”
“At least we don’t need to worry about the police calling. We saw the precinct burning on the way back. That’ll keep Duffy busy.”
“Is Duffy the only police left on duty? Jack, he’s been a friend of your family for years.”
“Exactly. He’s been doing the sergeant’s job for so long, it’ll take years for him to forget what to do and where go. Though, with no fire service and no water to speak of, he’ll have to work from home from now on.”
“Jack, farms use a lot of water, don’t they?”
“Sure, so?”
“If there’s no water in our taps, Jack, how can there be water at the farms? Won’t the crops and cattle die?”
“Jeez, I dunno, Irene. You always think the worst. I expect some farms have those wind-pumps or diesel that brings up water, though it’s a hell of a long way deep round here. All the more reason for Charlie and me to go and relieve them before all the stock’s spoiled.”
“Careful then. Another thing, we could do with more water, Jack. Not just for drinking.”
“Yeah, the bathroom is disgusting even for me. Those flies are huge. We should use our washing and dirty water for flushing. I’m going to get changed. You going out? See you later.”
GUNSHOTS COULD BE HEARD BY THE CONGREGATION.
“Did you hear that, Irene?” whispered her young neighbour, Melantha.
“Yes, Mel. Maybe it’s Duffy warning off some looters.”
More shots echoed through the lofty church.
A quivering, old-woman’s voice travelled through the dark to join the conversation. “Don’t think so, Irene. I saw him climb into his Chevy after piling it up with his stuff.”
“That you, Senita? Any word from yours?” asked Irene and then regretted asking.
Sobbing told her the answer.
“Sorry, Senita. Damn this memory loss. I can’t even remember what’s happening to my friends, or my family, for that matter.”
