How the World Ends (3 page)

Once I reach the stair portion of the fire-escape I run, causing the antiquated structure to rattle and twist under my two-hundred pounds. Even though my legs are still warmed up from my earlier run to catch the bus, I can’t seem to make them move fast enough. I wish I had listened to Michael, who must have known the kid was up here – maybe this is his friend who needed saving. The child sounds like he is in serious trouble, and his continuous cries for help are snatched away by the force of the gathering storm.

The top of the building brings me face-to-face with a driving gale that seems to tug and pull at me to go back down the fire-escape, to get away as quickly as possible, to not have to hear this child who seems within my reach, yet so far away that I can’t touch him.

A boy is standing directly opposite me, facing the other direction, practically hanging off the edge, calling down towards the street with violent ferocity. It reminds me of a scene from my early childhood, on my family’s dairy farm, watching eleven puppies attempting to suckle ten teats. The runt of the litter was powerless to dissuade his siblings from their activities, just as this child is unable to draw the attention of those below.

I start to move towards the boy, for I can see now that it is a young boy of about ten years, fair-haired and freckled, wearing tattered clothing, struggling against the force of air resisting him.

“Be careful,” I yell, stretching out my hand as I draw nearer. “Don’t lean too far!”

“It doesn’t matter if I fall,” the boy says in a voice that is loud, but no longer at the top of his lungs. “It won’t make any difference at all. I am powerless. Maybe I
should
jump; someone might take notice of small children lying broken in the street.”

“What are you talking about?” I ask, incredulous at the look of resignation in this boy’s eyes. That kind of expression I am only used to seeing on the faces of those far more aged. In spite of his youthfulness, this boy is, in my eyes, turning from a young pup to an old dog, and I can see now that it is I who is being watched, being appraised, by this person. I ask him, “Why would you think yourself powerless?”

“It’s always been this way, Jonah,” says the boy, his voice now barely more than a whisper. The wind has quieted and the mist seems to have thinned slightly. “We have only ever been messengers in this age of men. I am Gabe,” he finishes, as he extends his small boyish hand towards me with the authority of much older soul.

I am at a loss for words, but as I take the proffered hand and shake it, I feel I must say something in return, as if the telling of a name is an honour that must be returned.

“Michael spoke to me earlier,” I begin, tentatively, meeting this boy’s eye with my own. His gaze is piercing. “He says that someone needed my help. Is that you?”

“Is that what he said? Is that all he told you?” He releases our handshake. “Why did it take you so long to get here? We are on a very tight schedule, and you have missed your appointment.” He turns away. “Come back tomorrow, and don’t be late.”

“Come back tomorrow?” I ask. “What time?”

“Early,” he answers. “We’ll have to adapt the plan to accommodate your tardiness. Certain things need to be done now, and other things can wait until tomorrow,” and he points his finger at me. “But only one day, I’m telling you.” He turns and looks down over the street below, which is quickly clearing of fog and mist, as though the spirit of the moment has passed. “Look to your family’s safety. Without them, you’ll probably fall apart and be completely useless to me.”

A stab of panic streaks through my chest, and I grasp Gabe’s shoulder, pulling him towards me. “Are my family in danger? How do you know this?”

“I don’t know anything. I only know what you are to be told.”

Chapter Four – Rations

Jonah

I practically stagger down the street towards the train station, my hands shaking with the tension of worry for the safety of my family. My fingers fumble over my cellphone, trying to get Rachel’s number keyed in. The call goes through after the third try.

“Jonah? Are you okay?” she asks, the tension and worry obvious in her voice. “Is everything alright?”

“Of course I’m alright,” I say. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Does she already know I’ve lost my job? Can she hear it in my voice?

“Haven’t you seen the news?” she asks, the alarm in her voice alerting me to something beyond the loss of my job. “There’s people going crazy all over the place. They’ve announced a new gas rationing thing for the whole area.”

“Gas rationing? What are they thinking?”

I wait for a few seconds for an answer, but hear no response. Pocketing my cellphone, I turn to look down the street. The wind has died off to something negligible, and the fog has departed with it. A few drops of rain hit the top of my head.

I hear the sound of horns blaring down the street, coupled with the tinkling of broken glass hitting the ground behind me. It causes me to do a complete three-sixty, whirling around in an attempt to get my bearings and figure out what to do.

I have to get home; something is going to happen. I can just feel everything sliding out of place, all of the comfort levels that come with having a fairly routine life now being thrown totally out of whack. I am still standing beside the plain brick building, and I take one last look at its seemingly normal exterior.

Trains. I’ve got to get home. Rachel. The kids. Danger.

I stalk off down the sidewalk – not totally unconscious of the mounting tension in the streets around me. Even though I have walked this route so many times before, its familiarity is stripped from me by the circumstances and the strange weather and its stranger connection to me.

The traffic has halted to a snarl, and people have begun to exit their office buildings in a mass departure. Horns are blaring and many voices are yelling or calling out to each other in anger.

As I hurry towards the train station I look behind me at the rooftop of the old brick building, where I have just been. Gabe is gone, just like Michael this morning. Heavy drops of rain begin to hit my upturned face.

Have to hurry.

Again, I am running. My legs now somewhat tired from all this exertion that I am not used to. The motor traffic in the streets is completely jammed, and even the sidewalks have begun to fill in with unusual crowds. Everywhere there are worried faces, groups of colleagues with heads leaned together in concealed conversation, planning their next move, trying to stay dry under a shared umbrella.

The rain is my friend in my race against time. Checking the time on my cellphone, I see that the train departs in six minutes. I can still make it – probably with lots of time, assuming that the trains tend to run late when there are big crowds and bad weather.

I take to the streets – the cars are no real danger – and I just ignore blare of angry horns behind me as I twist and turn along the lanes of traffic to cross street after street towards the station. I am completely drenched, but that, combined with my growing adrenaline-fed panic, only invigorates me.

Once I arrive, I find the station concourse crowded to capacity. All the doorways into the building are jammed with people, but I know of a way onto the back of the track platforms that most people are not familiar with. I run as fast I can towards that. I feel that I am streak of movement in the storm – a blur unnoticed by the naked eye. The crowds are a blur to me, too, as I run past them.

The doors to the rear platform are partially hidden by a dip in the road under a bridge over which the station platforms are located. Not as many people take that route, especially in bad weather, because it doesn’t link up directly with the subways or the underground walkways. It is fairly crowded now, but not so much that I can’t get through the doors, up the stairs and onto platform without any trouble.

The train has not yet arrived, so I stand on the platform, packed with bodies, where I know a set of doors on the last car of the train normally stop.

I try Rachel on the cellphone again: I still can’t get a signal. I re-dial a few more times and eventually manage to get a ring. Once, twice, three times. Five rings. Ten rings. “
The customer you are calling is not responding
.
Please try again.”
Click.

I begin to wonder, for the first time, what has really transpired this morning.

I have met Michael, lost my job, taken Michael’s advice and gone to the church, which has somehow changed into another building, seen Gabe calling out from the roof, gone up there and been told to go home, and come back tomorrow. “
Look to your family’s safety,”
he told me. He’d looked about ten years old, but sounded more like Michael, who looked about sixty.

You’re losing it, Jonah.
I think in my head.
Totally wacko today, man.

And then the call to Rachel with the strange news that the gasoline had been rationed; what did that mean?

And had the church really been gone? Maybe it was a different street, and I had gotten turned around in the fog and mist?

The train arrives on time a few minutes late. We all cram ourselves in, with only a little more overt pushing and shoving than normal. The amount of underhanded abuse that a person will deliver to another on a train has always amused and disturbed me. After so many years of it, I find myself noticing it only when it has increased to the point of real annoyance by a delay or, as in this case, shocking news.

Everyone is speaking of it as we enter the train.

“Can’t believe they did it.”

“Only 20 litres per day of personal use.”

“What’s that in gallons?”

“Why didn’t they warn us?”

“I wouldn’t have bought the Cadillac, that’s for sure.”

“Damned government. Did you see him standing there? That two-faced bastard mayor telling us there aren’t enough supplies for the city.”

“What do you mean, ‘for the city’?”

“It means this ration scam is limited to only a few designated cities. Part of a rolling scheme they’ve come up with.”

“Wankers. Every last one them.”

I stare out the window at the driving rain as the train winds its way to the suburbs.

To my home – my family.

Damn you, Michael. You knew this was going to happen. You and Gabe both. How did you know?

…

I get off the train and onto the waiting bus just before it departs from the local terminal. The bus driver has the radio on loud with the AM news. They are discussing the gas rationing from every angle: how we should have known it was coming, how all the signs point towards more cities being rationed, how we should stay in the city to avoid being stranded on the highways.

And then the mayor, on the line, live on the air, “
There is nothing to be alarmed about. This is a temporary measure to alleviate foreign pressure on the oil reserves, coupled with a recent fire at the major refineries in the district.

“
I repeat, this is a temporary measure, and there is nothing to be alarmed about.

“
Go home. Be with your families and tomorrow we can all get back to normal.”

Chapter Five – My Family is Safe

Jonah

The door of my house is ajar, and the place is eerily silent. Not what one expects from the home of a two year-old and a five year-old. Still – it could be they’re having a nap, or something.

I push the door aside and step into the hallway, being as silent as possible, I’m not sure why.

Yes I am. Gabe said to look to the safety of my family and that makes me worried.

My mind takes me back seven years to the day we first walked into this house.

The neighbourhood was completely new then, with no other houses around ours at all, only a field in the front and back. But that has completely changed now. Now there is no view from our house to the lake, whereas before we had only a few trees between us and the blue expanse of water. How times change.

The place had been little less than a frame when we first saw it, but we had walked around for a few minutes and come quickly to the conclusion that this was
it.
It was a strange phenomenon in my life since I had met Rachel – decisions have been easy and the
way
has always seemed very clear to us.

The sun that day, when we first came through this place, had been shining through the rafters in the ceiling high above, and even the pigeons roosting there hadn’t bothered us. Something had felt right and good about the place. Something just clicked.

A few months later, after the construction was complete and the carpet flooring newly laid, we had entered again with the knowledge that out first Christmas in this house would be our last without a child; Jewel had arrived via caesarean section the next August. It was like living a dream, where nothing can go wrong and the only bad things that happen seem to happen to someone else. We both knew what it was like to be truly blessed; we had our little family, safe and happy in our house.

When Gwyn came along, it was as if something was tugging at us, something saying
‘you can do more, just a little more.’
And lo and behold, there was Gwyn, as if he had simply appeared from Rachel’s belly. Of course, he was a little boy, and nearly drove us crazy with worry over his antics: nearly being drowned, hit by cars, and falling down the stairs several times.

Time passes by quickly, though, and the neighbourhood has filled out. Now we are surrounded on all sides by the signs of suburbia. There are perfect lawns, cars parked along the road, and domestic violence bringing an ambulance or a police cruiser to the street nearly every week.

Look to the safety of your family.

Indeed.

“Rachel? Are you home?” I call out, poking my head around the staircase.

I wait a few seconds. No answer.

I dash up the stair, the stabs of panic beginning to tear into my chest. I run so fast that I knock little Gwyn flat onto his back, and he lays there staring at me with a sly little smile on his face, despite having been toppled over.