Aftermath, p.18
Aftermath, page 18
What surprises you most is that it’s not only disaster that’s inevitable.
Cities rise and fall and we adapt, friend. Sobering thought, though. Makes you kind of thirsty, hey — have you got any more of that tea? My thermos is completely dry and I'm parched.
Watching the Water
by I. K. Paterson
I’m on water watch today.
From dawn to dusk I scan
left to right, right to left,
midway from horizon to the shore’s edge.
I’ve got this empty oil drum to wallop
and the job ‘cause I’m good at hollering.
There’s a lot of ground to cover
and the water chops.
At least I’m not on night shift when the
strange shapes in the surf look like them,
like just now, the carcass of a cow
wrapped in electrical wires,
the cab of a lorry truck,
the husk of a family’s mobile home.
Someone else can fish them out
and add them to our shelters.
Who knows what the seals and albatrosses
make of it.
Holes and guano fill my shoes.
I try not to wear them much
but I must be ready to leg it quick
over ridges of bristling rock.
Mussels and barnacles turn you to mince.
Of all the places to wash up,
these granite lumps must be the ugliest.
I’d like a word with whoever named them
“Bounty Islands”.
I keep picturing them. Just below the surface.
I can barely sleep at night
and then I have all day
to dream them. They
arise from the waves, all mouth.
Mouths propelled by bodies frothing white with water,
growling, screaming.
Salt streaming from gaping eyes
unseeing, unfeeling. Teeth gnashing, tearing.
They will find us.
They will find us caged upon these crusty stones.
The smell of warm bodies on the wind keeps them going.
We should assemble a boat
from all the rubbish and wreckage,
I keep saying.
Look for others, find a warmer haven,
luck upon an island with pre-existing infrastructure,
— an island with trees —
avoid the mainlands.
There must be somewhere we can go.
We can’t be the only ones.
We witnessed cruise ships, navy ships,
colossal freighters overrun.
Straight after we struck these tiny crags
we worked out the time it would take
to cross the ocean floor, staggering
in a straight line without break:
five days, we figured.
That date passed four months ago.
So, maybe they are actually
trapped in a deep sea trench
marching endlessly, never dormant.
Derelict eyes in deep churning darkness,
unseeing, unfeeling.
They claw their way up the crumbling walls,
but tumble back, always,
while twinkling fish chew their faces,
all mouth, teeth rending, cleaving.
Tugging strips right off.
Gnawing their bodies down to the ragged bone.
The best part about Aotearoa, I reckon, is the coastline. And there’s so much of it, compared to what’s inland. Sure, it’s a slender strip between what lurks in the water and what’s terrorised the land, but it’s a special place to me. An in-between place, and sometimes when I lay back overlooking the waters of the Tasman, I can imagine it’s a slice of heaven itself. Because sometimes heaven on earth is all we can expect. Just ask Frankie.
Best Mates
by Gary M. Nelson
It Begins at the End
It’s hard to get good help these days. Especially when they’re dead.
Now, it may not be politically correct to say such things, but politics went the way of the dodo when the gates of hell closed. Heaven, too, I suppose, after the bombs started falling. Some twitchy politician’s finger on a big red button launched a whole lot of missiles. That, in turn, set off every other automated national defence system, all over the globe, like a whole lot of scary dominoes. No time to get into fallout shelters, most of the politicians probably bought the farm in the first or second wave. It was mostly in the northern hemisphere, sure, but those of us down south suffered too.
Lots of people died that day and in the weeks that followed. Good people, bad people, but mostly just people. Billions of them. Overloaded the system, Frankie said.
When the unlucky survivors of the man-made apocalypse got sick and died from all the stuff that had been released into the air, we buried them properly. Mass graves all over, nice words and all that, spoken by a priest if you could find one. Everybody covered in layers of cloth and plastic to try and fend off the invisible germs, radiation, or whatever had killed them. We wept for the dead, and hoped we weren’t next to go into the hole, buried by our neighbours and friends.
Nobody knew what was in the air or how long it would last. At first we thought we were the lucky ones, while the rest of the world burned. Mostly chemical and biological fallout down south we thought, as most of the nukes were up north. Couldn’t smell, see or taste much of anything, but when the clouds crossed the islands, people died. Days or weeks later, but dead was dead, right?
Aotearoa, land of the long white cloud, isolated by water and distance, we had survived the worst of the initial attacks. No bombs fell here, just the fallout carried on the wind, for days and weeks afterwards. NIWA warned us when the worst of the clouds were heading over the country, or ominously dark patches on the water swept poison past the coast, following the ocean currents. In the end, though, it didn’t make much difference. People still got sick, and then they died, even here along Maukatia Bay.
Frankie knew a lot about all that environmental stuff, weather patterns, how the ocean currents worked. He had theories about all the types of weapons they may have cooked up in those foreign nuthouse countries, what we might expect, why some people died the way they did. He might have been right or wrong but it didn’t really matter. I believed him, and I trusted him. I’ve known him since we were six years old. Best mates forever.
I buried him at ten o’clock in the morning under a grey fallout sky, an umbrella held over my head in a pitiful attempt to keep the invisible stuff off of me. I said a few inadequate words to capture a lifetime of friendship as I faced the mound of earth beneath the Pōhutukawa tree in his back yard. I’d fashioned a little wooden cross with two sticks and a thin wharariki cord that I’d made just for him, green flax juices sticking to my fingers as I tied the sticks together and tucked the end of the longest one into the soft earth.
Figured he’d like that spot, we’d spent enough time there looking out onto the Tasman most nights, drinking beer, shooting the breeze and lying about our scores with women. We’d watched our last sunset from there the night before I dug the hole. I doubt he could actually see very much, his eyes all clouded over like that. But he smiled anyway, the sun warm on his face, surfboard and fishing rod unseen by his side on the coarse grass. But he knew they were there, and that was enough.
As last nights go, I guess it was a good one. I was glad to share it with him. A final, warm memory of a lifelong friendship for me to hold onto, until it was my turn to get sick and stare at the sunset with clouded eyes.
Of course, it didn’t turn out that way. We knew something was wrong when the dead started coming back.
Return to Sender
At eleven forty-five AM Frankie was back on my front porch and mad as hell.
I opened the screen door, the neglected hinges squeaking in protest. Not loud enough to drown out Frankie’s cursing, though. I stepped out onto the porch and pointed to the decades-old sofa fading on the weathered planks.
Frankie ignored me so I sat down on the right side of the sofa and cracked open the can of beer in my hand. He paused long enough to give me a real hard look then continued his tirade while I took a long sip.
“Discrimination, that’s what I say it is! What have they got against us Kiwi? We didn’t drop bombs on anybody. When somebody dies they should be allowed to stay dead. Move on, up or down, it really doesn’t matter. But don’t send them back home.”
I swallowed, nodded. “Life sucks, Frankie.”
“Not funny.” Frankie waved a trembling finger at me. I could see the Pōhutukawa behind him. I tilted my head to look past him to check. Yep, still buried, sticks still in place, as far as I could tell. Nobody had come back as a zombie yet, but you never knew. There might be a first, but I didn’t want it to be Frankie. Hate to have to chop off his head or whatever you needed to do to keep them from eating your brains. Of course if that happened these days, you’d just come back too.
Nope, no zombies yet, just lots and lots of pissed-off ghosts, everywhere. Frankie was still fresh so he almost looked normal, just a little translucent, residual life energy giving him a bit of a boost. He’d settle down to looking more ghost-like in a few weeks, like the rest of them. In the meantime I’d have to remember to not offer Frankie a beer. They hated that.
Most of the ghosts would be up in the northern hemisphere, of course, wandering the nuclear and chemically-neutered wastelands the politicians had inflicted upon them. Hard to imagine, but millions or billions of them wouldn’t take up that much actual space. Plenty of elbow room. No telling who made it through and who was sent back when they closed the gates to Heaven and Hell. Must be hard up there, wandering around with not much to do. A literal hell on Earth, or something like Purgatory.
At least we still had TV in New Zealand. No Netflix, though. Internet was limited to whatever servers we had left here, and a few scattered ones that had survived in Oz. LightBox and Neon got old pretty fast without new content from over the ditch. Not that I watched TV that much but the ghosts did. They didn’t have much else to do. Problem was, it took them weeks to figure out how to operate the remote like a true poltergeist. Until then they were pretty annoying even if they were your best friend, always asking you to change the channel. After that, it wasn’t so bad but the noise kept some of the living from getting a good night’s rest when they cranked the volume too high.
Ghosts never slept, of course. The bloody things watched recorded infomercials at night, even after the end of the world. I hoped Frankie didn’t order anything out of boredom. Already had enough fishing poles and tackle. A jet-ski might be nice, though. On Frankie’s card, of course. Let them try and collect, not that money meant much these days. Probably nobody on the end of the phone to order, anyway, just lights and noise to keep the ghosts occupied so others could try and get some sleep. Nothing as annoying as a bored ghost waking you up to talk at three in the morning.
“Want to watch TV, Frankie?”
“Piss off. You’re just trying to get rid of me.” Frankie signalled his displeasure with two fingers and sat down on the sofa beside me. Well, he sunk half-way into the sofa before he managed to float back up onto the cushions. He had a lot to learn.
“Suit yourself. You could talk to Simon, he could show you the ropes. I hear he managed to figure out the polt thing in four, five days tops. Now he watches whatever he likes.”
Frankie crossed his arms. “I’ll think about it. I’m still pissed.”
“You and me both, Frankie,” I smiled, finishing off the can and crumpling it in my hand. “Fifth since I put down the shovel. I was expecting you.”
“I hope you had one for me,” Frankie’s face showed the first hint of a smile.
“Second one was for you, and the fourth. I’ll get you another,” I pulled on the arm of the sofa as I rose to my feet. A small wobble steadied by a hand against the wall.
Frankie followed me inside to the kitchen. “You going to let me try and smell it, at least?”
I pulled out a cold can and closed the fridge door. “You can try but that takes longer. You should know that.”
Frankie leaned close as I popped the lid of the can, foam escaping with a sharp hiss. He pulled back and shook his head. “Nope, nothing.”
“Give it time. You’ve got lots of it.”
“They might open the gate. You never know. I might not be stuck this way forever.”
I took a sip from the can. “That’s the spirit. Keep positive.”
“Spirit? You telling dead jokes now?”
“Hey, I’m not prejudiced. It just slipped out.”
Frankie crossed his arms. “Uh-huh. Now that I’m technically living impaired, I don’t find that nearly as funny.”
I pointed to a kitchen chair with the beer. “You want to tell me about it?”
“You’re an ass, John.”
I grinned. “I already knew that. I mean, did you want to tell me about … it. See if the stories match, if anything’s changed.”
Frankie sighed. “Let’s go sit on the porch. I don’t want to be inside just yet. Feels a bit like a coffin, all closed in.”
I led the way out to the front porch. Opened the squeaky screen door and settled back down into the cushions. Frankie stood for a bit then decided to perch on the arm of the sofa. I waited for him to get comfortable, then motioned with my beer.
Frankie stared out towards the water, studiously ignoring the fresh mound of dirt beneath the Pōhutukawa tree. His eyes rested briefly on the bright red flowers, now beginning to fall. A few dozen were scattered over his grave. Frankie turned his head and stared at me, a frown creasing his forehead. I could just see the siding of the house next door through his face. Faint, but you could tell.
“I don’t know where to begin.”
I motioned with the beer again. “Most of the stories start the same. Darkness, bright light, and then what?”
Frankie nodded. “Yeah, there was that. A bright light, but kind of filtered. I walked towards it, like everyone said you do, and then I came up to the gate. Huge, taller than your house, but barred shut, looked like wrought iron, thick as your arm. Close together, but moving a bit, twisting, like snakes. There was no way anything could get through.”
I nodded. “Consistent so far. Meet anybody?”
Frankie shook his head. “Nobody I knew. A couple guys turned back from the gate just before I got there. Disappeared after a few steps, back to wherever they died, I guess.”
“See the big guy?”
Frankie leaned over to try and grab my beer. I held my hand still but his hand went right through the can. Can’t blame him for trying, though. This kind of adjustment can’t be easy. I took another sip.
Frankie leaned back, his mouth turned down at the edges. “Yeah, I saw him.”
I nodded encouragement. “What was he like?”
“Apart from being as tall as the gate one moment then the same size as me in the blink of an eye?”
“Yeah, other than that. Did you talk to him?”
Frankie took a deep breath. Or looked like he did. “Tried to.”
“So did you ask him?”
“Of course.”
“He say why?”
Frankie shook his head. “He just put his hand on my right arm, it burned like blazes for a few seconds, left this big black smudge. Said ‘Next!’, then ignored me. A nice couple from Sydney was standing right behind me.”
I nodded. “And then you came back here.”
Frankie shivered. “Yeah, right next to … I didn’t want to look, of course. Couldn’t help it though. Nice job on the wharariki cord, but you left a bit of green.”
I shrugged. “Did my best. Wasn’t easy burying your best friend.”
“But you knew I’d be back, anyway.”
“Yeah, figured you probably would, like all the rest. But then, you might’ve been lucky, got through.”
Frankie lifted a foot, rested it on a cushion. Lifted it back up when it began to sink. Gave up and put his foot back on the floor. Not a problem with dirt or wood, concrete, metals, natural materials for some reason, but fresh ghosts tended to sink into the furniture, foam being artificial. A bit disturbing, at first, but most folk were used to it by now. Frankie wiped his hand across his forehead but ghosts don’t sweat. Habits die hard, though.
“Me, lucky? Never won a thing in my life.”
I grinned at him, exposing a chipped tooth. Not many dentists left around to fix teeth. Not live ones, anyway. “Always a first time, figure you might have been due.”
“Guess not. If life isn’t fair, I guess death wouldn’t be either.”
I took a long sip, swallowed. Nodded, sixth beer humming in my head. “Makes sense, as much as anything these days.”
“Thanks for the beer,” Frankie smiled. “Though I wouldn’t normally have three before lunch.”
I belched, softly. “Special occasion. Anything for my best friend today. Tomorrow, I’m cutting you off.”
“Always could drink you under the table,” Frankie grinned.
“Nice place, under the table. Meet all kinds of people there.”
Frankie slid down onto the cushions beside me, sinking only slightly. We sat there in silence, watching as the tide slowly rolled back in.
Hard Yards
“Bloody useless,” I swore under my breath.
“Heard that,” said Frankie, struggling with a pair of shears. “Easier when you’ve got proper hands, you know.”
