Chapter 2
TWO
I crouch at the stream’s edge and cup my hands, letting the cold, clear water trickle through them as I take a much-needed sip. I close my eyes and splash my face, as the water spills down my chin and throat and dampens my t-shirt.
We drove for three hours, making just over one hundred miles, before we decided to camp for the night. It was, surprisingly and a little unsettlingly, all so much easier than I’d thought. We stuck to Route28 rather than get mired on some twisting back road, then potentially hijacked by someone with a bigger vehicle than we had, although considering the wheels on this thing I wasn’t even sure that was a possibility.
We’d bumped down the road a good twelve feet off the ground, driving down a straight shot of concrete where we barely saw anyone—a few wood cabins or breeze-block ranch houses in the distance, everything locked up tight. Once I glimpsed someone standing on a front porch, watching us blank-faced and unmoving. We passed a town that had burned down, now no more than a ruined husk of blackened buildings—a roofless church, a lone pump standing like a sentry amid the rubble of a destroyed gas station. Other towns had been abandoned, ghostly and desolate, doors ajar, a suitcase dumped in the street, a shopping cart left on its side.
Bancroft, once a tourist destination in this remote part of the world, had become a quasi-fortress, many of its quaint buildings now encircled by barbed wire, with a sign warning us that intruders would be shot. But they didn’t bother shooting at us as we drove through it, and I wondered if it was the monster truck, on its intimidating sixty-six-inch off-road tires. The few trucks and cars we passed on the road—three in total—sped right by us, like they didn’t want to attract our notice.
Still, I expected some kind of obstacle—a blockade, maybe a military presence, some semblance of threat or danger—but all was emptiness and silence, a stretch of road with trees on either side, punctuated by the occasional town or house. Rural Ontario, as it had once been, but surely no longer existed…except here we were. After a while, it became unnerving. Where had everybody gone ?
Of course I knew the answer to that naive question. As we got closer to Toronto, one of the secondary blast sites, I knew everyone must have either fled or died.
“We don’t want to get too near to Toronto,” Daniel announced after two hours of driving. No one had spoken that entire time, not even Phoebe. “Not if we can help it.”
“Are we going to get radiation poisoning?” Mattie asked abruptly. She sounded matter-of-fact rather than concerned.
“Dude,” Kyle muttered, having come out of his pain-filled stupor about half an hour ago, “that would suck .”
“I don’t think we will,” Daniel replied after a moment, his tone careful and even. “It’s been seven months, after all. Most of the fallout has already dissipated into the atmosphere by now.” He glanced toward all of us, his eyes serious although there was also a flicker of his old wryness at playing the expert. “Of course, the fallout has traveled beyond the bomb sites, depending on the wind, but any radiation has most likely been absorbed into the troposphere at this point, especially with seasonal changes, which could accelerate the process.”
I barely understood what he was saying, but I did grasp one salient fact. “But if there’s less danger of radiation sickness, why is the world still like this?” I asked.
I’d assumed, in my ignorance or maybe my naivete, that a giant radioactive cloud was hovering over the United States like a dark and poisonous vapor, holding us in its pernicious thrall. It seems, according to Daniel’s unexpectedly detailed knowledge, that this might not be the case. It should give me hope, but it doesn’t, because as far as I can see the world is still on fire, metaphorically, anyway, and that is surely terrifying enough.
He let out a small sigh as he rolled his shoulders back. “Because of all the ripple effects of the initial detonations—the contaminated water, the clouds of soot and ash, the fires, the collapse of all infrastructure, and…well, the nature of man.” He paused. “I mean, in an ideal world, people would have rallied together a little more than they have, I guess.”
“In an ideal world,” Mattie replied dryly, “a nuclear holocaust wouldn’t have happened.”
Daniel glanced at her, and that wry flicker of not-quite-a-smile passed over his face again. For a second, it felt almost as if we could have been around the kitchen table, arguing about outrageously hypothetical what-if scenarios. Mattie would be insisting she could survive in someone’s basement on Twinkies and Gatorade for at least a year, and Sam would be telling her, with relish, that her skin would be flaking off and turning black as she crawled on her hands and knees toward a puddle of radioactive water.
Except Sam wasn’t speaking, hadn’t said a word since we got in this truck. I glanced at him, wanting to reach out, but decided it could wait until later. Whatever was bothering him, I had a feeling it had to do with me, and the way I’d wielded that gun.
“So the world is actually safe?” I stated, testing out the idea, the way I would have inched out onto the ice, back at Lost Lake. Lost Lake, my parents’ beloved cottage, now truly lost forever. “I mean, from the actual nuclear stuff.” I sounded like an idiot, but I didn’t care. I just wanted to know.
“The blast sites themselves will be radioactive for another few years, I should think,” Daniel replied. Another pause, this one heavy. “There are a lot of places we need to steer clear of, but really, I think it’s all the other stuff we need to be worried about,” he continued. “Contaminated water, lack of food sources or medical care—and of course the people who have resorted to savagery out of fear or desperation or a power trip, take your pick. As far as I know, the government and military have both more or less packed up, although when Sam and I were on the road we heard the president was still alive, hiding out somewhere, so maybe some kind of law and order is starting to emerge. I hope so.”
We were all silent, as subdued as if we’d been scolded. It all sounded like a lot to worry about. Too much.
“What about the rest of the world?” Mattie finally asked in a small voice. “What are they doing?”
“I don’t even know who sent the first bombs.” Daniel let out a sudden laugh, the sound strange and wild, making everyone jump a little. “Isn’t that crazy?” he exclaimed, hitting the steering wheel for emphasis, his expression hardening into something almost angry. “We don’t even know who, or why this all happened.”
Nobody replied because what was there to say? There were probably half a dozen countries capable—and, it seemed, willing—to blast the U.S. into oblivion. Did it matter now which one it was? And yet, I considered, the attack had clearly been tactical— enough to wipe out the U.S. but not the whole world. Enough to do serious damage, but not forever.
“So what is Asia doing?” I asked Daniel. “Or Russia? Or Africa? Or anywhere?”
He shrugged. “I heard that there had been a couple of humanitarian aid efforts by the international community, in various places, back at the start, but not much. I mean, taking North America out has a knock-on effect on the rest of the world, and I don’t even know how many other places were bombed.” His mouth twisted. “I think it’s safe to say they’re doing better than us, though.”
I was silent, absorbing the insane idea that the rest of the world might be just getting on with things, going to work, buying food, being bored. They might have had electricity. Internet. Hospitals. Fresh water. It was not necessarily a Mad Max landscape of roving gangs and terror. But meanwhile, that was what we had to deal with.
But I don’t have to worry about that now , I tell myself as I ease back onto my heels. The woods are quiet, save for the rustle of a chipmunk, the twitter of a robin or chickadee. We turned off Route28 about a hundred and twenty miles before Toronto, a little while after driving through the fortified town of Bancroft, at Kawartha Highlands Provincial Park, just to be safe. The park is an endless enclave of lakes and woods, a dense sweep of green, its few winding tracks barely penetrating the deep forest. It seemed like a good place to hide, at least for a little while, although I was surprised we didn’t encounter anyone else here, at least not for the few miles we drove into the park, past weathered signs warning us about the dangers of forest fires and quad biking without helmets. Surely this would be a good place to hole up—in the woods, with plenty of game, fresh water, even compost toilets and campsites, although we decided not to venture near any of those, just in case.
Canada is a big country , I reminded myself, with Ontario, outside of Toronto, being a pretty much endless stretch of forest and farm field and lake. And who knew, maybe there were others holed up in this particular stretch of woodland and we just hadn’t seen them. According to the atlas we’d taken from the cottage, the park was nearly two hundred and fifty square miles, with seventeen different lakes. That was a lot of space to get lost in. A lot of places to hide…and we’d just found one.
A sigh escapes me, a slow exhale of weary relief. It’s good to rest, even though I feel as if there’s a darkness hovering over my mind, my heart, like the radioactive cloud I imagined over most of America. There’s too much to process—the loss of the cottage, the death of my friends in the fight, the fact that we have sole responsibility for a four-year-old I barely know…and that I killed a man today, and I’m not sure how I feel about it.
A sudden snap of twigs from behind me has me whirling around, the rifle I’d left by my side in my hands before I even realize I’ve grabbed it. My palms are slick and my heart pounds, but my aim doesn’t waver. Mattie stands there, hands thrown up in the air. A rush of breath escapes me.
“Don’t shoot,” she jokes, but I think I see fear in her eyes.
Slowly I lower the rifle. “I wasn’t going to,” I assure her, trying to smile and not quite managing it. My fingers tremble just a little as I put the gun back on the ground. “But you can’t be too careful.”
“I know.” She drops her hands and comes toward me, and I feel a certain wariness between us that I really wish wasn’t there.
“How is everything up there?” I nod toward the small, wooded hill that leads to the clearing we’d chosen for our campsite. It’s near fresh water, covered by trees, and far from the road. To get to it, we drove across a meadow filled with wildflowers, the huge tires making light work of any rocks or bumps. Afterwards, Daniel and Sam brushed the beaten-down grass back up, doing their best to hide the tracks we’d made .
“It’s all right.” Mattie comes to the water’s edge. “The black flies are kind of killer.”
“Yeah, they’re unfortunate.” All around us the world has burst us into summer, greener and leafier than ever, and with it come the swarms of black flies that hover in thick clouds and will leave us all covered in red, itchy bumps. Camping out here is not for the faint-hearted.
“Phoebe crashed out even before she had any dinner,” Mattie continues. “I put her to bed in a sleeping bag in the back of the truck. I can sleep next to her in case she wakes up.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
“There’s some leftover stew if you want it. It’s just a bunch of dried stuff and some potatoes, but, you know, it’s edible.” She gives me the ghost of a smile before she crouches down at the water’s edge, her hand hovering above the stream’s current. “Are we sure this water isn’t contaminated?”
“Well, I just drank some, so I hope not.” I try to make light of it, even though I know it is a genuine concern. “Dad said it would be okay because the source is further north and any radioactive particles would be diluted now, if there were any at all in the first place. Anyway, if it was contaminated, wouldn’t I be choking and gasping right now?” I try to sound wry, and she glances up, giving me the faintest flicker of a smile.
“I have no idea.”
“No, me neither.”
We fall silent and Mattie trails her fingers through the water. I’m conscious of how much responsibility she bears without complaint or even question—caring for Phoebe, making dinner, organizing everything that I should have. In my previous life, I was the mom who made the class cupcakes, who sent Christmas cards to everyone, even our mailman, who had color-coded to-do lists and listened to podcasts on productivity. Now I just sigh.
“Kyle has a fever,” Mattie tells me as she flicks water from her fingers, creating an arc of shimmering diamond droplets over the burbling stream. “Dad gave him some Tylenol, but he’s worried about infection.”
“We still have some of the antibiotics from Justine.” A few months ago, Ruby developed sepsis and I ended up scouring the countryside for someone with access to antibiotics; this led me to Justine, who gave me the medicine and joined our little tribe, along with her daughter. Now she’s dead, and I grieve more for Phoebe, who lost her mother, than for anyone else; I don’t think any of us really knew her that well.
“Yeah,” Mattie says slowly as she straightens. “I guess we’ll use those if we have to. We’ll keep an eye on him.”
I shake my head, instinctively resisting the idea that Mattie needs to be in charge. “You don’t have to worry about Kyle,” I tell her, and she glances at me sharply, almost a glare.
“What? He’s my friend.”
“I know,” I reply, even though I didn’t really know; Kyle came to us back in December, a weedy little kid whose two interests were cannabis and gaming. He’s grown into himself over the last few months, but I wouldn’t have thought he and Mattie were actually friends . Except, who else was there for her to be friends with?
There had been Kerry, I think, with a grief that runs through me in a deep seam of sorrow. Kerry, whom I disliked at the start, with her gallows humor and sharp-eyed gaze that missed nothing, not even my own selfishness. Kerry, who gave her life to save my daughter. I miss her more than I can articulate, even to myself.
“All I meant,” I tell Mattie, trying to gentle my voice, “is that you don’t have to be responsible for everyone. Or everything. I’m worried about you, Mattie. This is too much for you to take on. You’re only fifteen.” This comes out in fumbling, staccato bursts that sound like accusations rather than empathy.
Mattie narrows her eyes, her lips pursing in disdain. “ Fifteen in Armageddon looks a little different than in the life you remember,” she tells me shortly. “I’m fine, Mom.” It feels like a brush-off. It is one, I realize, as, without a word, Mattie turns around and walks back up to the campsite.
I feel as if I’ve alienated two of my three children today and getting them back is just as important to me as surviving. The trouble is, I have no idea how to do it.