April nods, doubtless doing the same mental arithmetic. “They must have their own bushes.”
“That must be it.”
As a rule, we don’t talk about the possibility that Salt Spring Islandwon’tbe able to help us. For the past eight years, I’ve led us to countless places only to find the things that should have been there were missing. Houses we used to shelter in? Stripped down for firewood by someone else. Spinach patches I planted in the fall would be picked over by the time we returned in spring. But this is more important than having to spend another night under the tarp or miss a meal. For April, it’s life or death, which means it is for me, too.
I pull out the pre-Quake map I use to navigate Vancouver Island and measure our route again. Usually, we spend this time of year living off the salmon run at the Goldstream estuary. It’s the perfect place to gather the fat and protein we need to sustain us through the winter, before hunkering down in an abandoned neighbourhood and praying TNS doesn’t finds us.
But April fell ill at the end of the summer. At first, it didn’t seem like much: headaches, dry mouth, dizziness. I’ve pushed through worse. But April has never had mystamina, so we stopped to rest for a week. I waited for her to get better. And waited. And waited.
Eventually, we had to talk about options. We both knew there was only one.
Back when our mum was alive, we met another group of survivors when we went to fill our water bottles out of the Cowichan River. They didn’t try to shank us right away, so that was a good sign they weren’t TNS. Still, that didn’t guarantee they were safe either. Mum eventually approached and offered to trade for some of their food. We’d grabbed some jewellery and a wind-up watch from an abandoned house earlier that year. We had no use for them, but the people by the river were interested.
“You could come with us,” one of them said, his eyes roving to me and April. I would have been fifteen; she was just five. “It would be a better place to raise your girls. We’ve got a school, a hospital—”
“Thanks, but we’ve taken enough chances with colonies already,” said Mum, and I certainly agreed with that assessment. I started to drag April away, knowing it would be my job to carry her if things turned violent. Most people don’t like it when you refuse to join their cult.
“Suit yourself.” He shrugged and turned back to his companions. “We’re on Salt Spring, if you change your mind.”
“Salt Spring?” Mum’s eyes narrowed.
She didn’t say it, but wehadheard of them before. The leader of our last colony used to tell us harrowing stories of the way the Gulf Islands hunted down anyone who opposed them. They were as bad as TNS. Probably worse, considering they’d been able to fight TNS off. He warned us, if we ever met anyone from Salt Spring Island, to get the hell away while we were still alive.
As we stood there on the riverside, I rememberwondering if we’d already lost our chance to run. Though if we had, why weren’t they shooting yet?
The man from Salt Spring nodded. “You can get to the island from Crofton. Provided you come unarmed, the guards will let you in.”
Mum thanked him, but once her back was to the group, she rolled her eyes.
“Unarmed, myass,” she muttered to me. We both heard the same subtext. Maybe they didn’t want to kill us. But they’d only take us into their colony if we were helpless and easy to control. We’d been down that road before and knew better than to trust strangers to protect us.
Even though it’s been years, his words still haunt me. Ahospital. I’ve got a vague idea of what that is, thanks to the books we find lying around in abandoned houses. In all likelihood, it’s a myth, like Santa Claus and a dozen other things from the pre-Quake days that only exist in picture books now.
But April needs a fairy tale. Nothing else is going to save her.
We finish the last of the blackberries, and I fold up the map. I shutter the memories; bring myself back to the present, so that I can focus on keeping both of us alive.
“We should get going. I think we’ll make it today. I smell the ocean.” I offer her a hand up and she wobbles. I wish I could carry her pack for her, but I’ve already got most of our gear. Pots and pans clatter against the outside of my bag.
I use all the pep I can muster as we strike camp. We can’t hike long distances like we used to when she was healthy, but the few surviving street signs I’ve spotted place us tantalizingly close to the Crofton Ferry Terminal.
The thought makes me more uneasy than I dare admit out loud. The last thing April needs is doubt, but SaltSpring could have been invaded by TNS in the past ten years. TNS gets to everyone eventually, especially decent people. Or the island could be a creepy ass cult like the last colony we sheltered in.
I don’t think I’m a paranoid person by nature, but I know better than to take chances. Yes, there are people out there who claim they want to protect us. But in these population-depressed, fractured remains of the world, any colony’s motive for saving us is pretty obvious. I’m a female of peak breeding age. April isn’t far behind. So yeah, Salt Spring might want us. But what if the cure is worse than the sickness?
I try not to think about that option. This is our only solution, so we’re going for it, and I’m telling myself every lie I need to so I can make peace with the decision. Once we get there, we’ll be safe, April will get better, and life will be all rainbows. The world is a messed-up pile of broken buildings and thorny vines, but that doesn’t mean all the good is gone, right? There are still blackberries growing between the prickles. One small miracle is all we need.
LIKE MOST PLACESthis far north, Crofton is a small town. Or was. Now, it’s nothing but shattered houses. Not every building fell during the mega-quake that levelled the Pacific Northwest thirty-two years ago, though some days, it feels that way. The epicentre hit Seattle, but the Quake was powerful enough to throw unbolted homes off their foundations past the northern tip of Vancouver Island.
More than Crofton’s fair share of buildings were destroyed. That probably happened during the chaotic aftermath. It was everyone for themselves, once people realized no relief was coming. In a better scenario, the Canadian government would have helped. Sadly, a host of foreign powers saw the Quake as the perfect opportunity to strike a weakened USA. Canada got dragged in, like a remora going down with the shark it’s suctioned to.
Before the Quake, my mum wanted to be a high school science teacher, but she joined the Red Cross when images of Vancouver Island’s flattened cities made the news. She flew out of Ontario with one of the only shipments of relief supplies that made it here before everything went to shitand she had no way home. Not that it mattered. She would have died if she’d stayed out East, so I guess her bleeding heart saved her.
Well, she would have diedsooner. The world might not have ended all at once. But end it did.
Since the houses of Crofton have been reduced to frames, there’s little to block my view of the beach. Beyond a stretch of blue Pacific waters rises an island. It looks massive from here, but I know from maps that it’s small compared to Vancouver Island. I can’t imagine it taking more than a couple of days to walk Salt Spring end to end—less, if the roads are in good repair. Most of the shoreline is reinforced by a wooden stockade. The only gaps are at points where the coast is so steep, there’s no chance TNS could scale the cliffs, even if they wanted to. I can’t decide if the sight makes me feel better or worse about our prospects. Fences are great for keeping TNS out—but also for locking people inside.
Finally, we find a fallen metal sign announcing the ferry terminal. The dock is collapsing into the ocean, lack of repair and rising sea levels doing their part to wash this place away. There’s no sign of any boats. I’m starting to wonder if I’ll need to carve a canoe and paddle, when April shouts.
