Last Days
Ron Scheer
Word got to him that the old man was sick and maybe dying. Probably dead already, word traveled so slow anymore.
He had to go, Proud Mary told Kenton. Even if the man was a shiftless bastard, he owed him that much.
So it was most of a day by train and another two on horseback to get to this place in the back of beyond, along Lake Winnipeg. His father and a bunch of survivalists had settled there in ’65, when it looked like the show was about over. Fresh water, game, enough ammo, and the Good Book; they’d get through the Last Days.
Wasn’t long before folks had second thoughts and figured Armageddon couldn’t be worse than the winters in Manitoba. By 2085 he was the last holdout, him and his Asian bride. She was the one who’d written Kenton.
“He hoped you would come,” she said, meeting him at the door with a hesitant embrace. Kenton had never known her. She had outlasted the rest of the old man’s wives. Who knew how many there’d been or how many at one time?
Her name was something unpronounceable. She’d signed it to the letter. He had nothing against Asians, just anybody fool enough to get mixed up with his father. She was slender, in a loose-fitting dress, her dark, graying hair in a thick braid.
The old man lay asleep in a back room, his face wasted and pale. He’d had some kind of accident. The woman hadn’t explained.
“What does the doctor say?”
“There is no doctor.”
Right. That was one of the old man’s rules. The one that had almost got Kenton killed when he was a boy, sick with meningitis. No doctors, no hospitals. God’s will be done.
His mother’d had enough of that by then; left and took the kids. Had to get a court order to keep her husband away. Called for the cops when she had to.
So here the man was, the chickens finally come home to roost. A victim of his own bone-head beliefs. And you had to give him credit. The man was no hypocrite. He’d stuck to them.
The Asian woman bent and softly touched his gnarled hand where it lay open on the blanket. “He is dying, you know,” she said.
“Sure as hell looks like it.”
She didn’t seem to hear the scorn in his voice.
“How long’s he been like this?”
“Almost two weeks.”
“What’s he waiting for?”
Her eyes met his for a moment.
“He always liked to say he could beat anything,” she said and looked again at the ravaged face of the man in the bed. “He never knew his weaknesses.”
“You can say that again.”
She went on, making sense one minute and talking what he knew was survivalist mumbo-jumbo the next. Even if you could make it out, it wasn’t worth hearing.
“He was so full of energy,” she was saying. “Always had so much to do. Like now when the days are so long.”
Summer solstice, the weeks when nights were no more than a long, lingering twilight, he never stopped to sleep. Couldn’t sleep. At midnight, she’d find him outside, working in the garden, patching the roof of the barn, pouring concrete for a water cistern.
“I don’t think he’ll let go until the nights get dark again,” she said.
“When’s that gonna be?”
She didn’t answer him, and he began wondering how long it would take before his patience ran out. Given the tone of her letter, he’d been hoping that just showing up would be enough for the old man to cash in his chips.
But hers was a crazy idea that didn’t surprise him. Always preying on the vulnerable, his father seemed to attract the crack-brained and mentally deficient. It was how he kept a following as long as he did. Anyone with an ounce of common sense would eventually see that, and it would be hasta luego.
She went to a cabinet to take out a small cardboard box. The late afternoon light had dimmed in the room, and she held the box close to look inside.
“There’s something here he’d want you to have,” she said. He got a glimpse of a pearl-handled pocket knife, a baseball, a glass jar half-filled with old coins. Then she handed him a small shiny object that he held flat for a moment in the palm of his hand.
“What’s this supposed to be?” he said.
“A telephone.”
And she showed him how it flipped open, to show a keypad and a blank screen. He’d never seen one of these before. It must have been some antique.
“He always called it his direct line to heaven,” she said with a smile. “His little joke.”
“And people believed him?”
“The ones who wanted to.”
“I guess he won’t be needing it anymore.” He handed it back to her.
“No, it’s yours,” she said. “Keep it.”
He didn’t want it and had no use for it. The feel of it, already warm in his hand, was too much like the touch of his father—the father who would have let him die years ago. Well, it was his turn to die now.
“It fits in your pocket,” she said. “A keepsake. Some day you may wish you had one.”
Kenton doubted it. But he slipped it in the front pocket of his jeans. He’d throw it away when he got the chance.
After two nights, and no change in his father, Kenton got to waking after only a few hours of sleep. Wakened by light in the windows, he’d finally rise from his bedroll on the cabin floor, dress and step outside. There in the north, along the distant horizon, came the faint glow of sunlight, from where it shone on the other side of the earth.
The twilit sky over the silent, sleeping land was a mysterious presence. This was nothing Kenton had experienced before, living far to the south in the Sandhills towns he’d always known. There, no matter how long the day, darkness eventually came and brought an end to it.
Sitting silent, smoking the last of his cigarettes, he caught himself—too late maybe—sensing his comatose father’s watching eye. He tried to ignore it. Then the little fold-up phone in his pocket seemed to warm against his leg.
“Go away, dad. Leave me alone,” he finally said. “If I’d known this was going to be the deal, I wouldn’t have come.”
The next night a storm blew up, and he was awakened by the wind around the cabin, sighing in the window screens. Outside it was dark as Egypt, a black hole in space, the sky overcast with thick, roiling clouds. His father’s wife had lighted a lamp and carried it to the back room, where he could hear the sound of labored breathing.
His heart quickened as he followed her. And he watched as his father struggled for each breath, his face flush with fever, the woman at his side caressing his hand and cooing softly to him. Finally, as the storm broke over them, he slipped away and was gone.
The following day, she washed him, talking softly to him. And they buried him in a little cemetery where a country church had once stood in the days before the Last Days.
“Where will you go now?” he asked her when they returned to the cabin.
“Nowhere. I’ll be right here.” She stood by the table where she had washed his father’s body only hours before. “I won’t be alone. He’s really not gone, you know.”
More mumbo-jumbo.
He knew it was no good reasoning with her. He packed up his things and the following morning was on his way again.
He stopped on a bridge crossing a creek that was swollen with rain. He remembered the little phone in his pocket. This would be a good place to get rid of it.
As he reached into his pocket, he felt the thing begin to vibrate in his hand. Opening it, like the Asian woman had shown him, he saw that the screen was glowing. On it some words had appeared:
“It’s beautiful here. You’d love it.”
He flipped it closed, held it in his fist for a moment, then flung it as far as he could, into the water.
Word got to him that the old man was sick and maybe dying. Probably dead already, word traveled so slow anymore.
He had to go, Proud Mary told Kenton. Even if the man was a shiftless bastard, he owed him that much.
So it was most of a day by train and another two on horseback to get to this place in the back of beyond, along Lake Winnipeg. His father and a bunch of survivalists had settled there in ’65, when it looked like the show was about over. Fresh water, game, enough ammo, and the Good Book; they’d get through the Last Days.
Wasn’t long before folks had second thoughts and figured Armageddon couldn’t be worse than the winters in Manitoba. By 2085 he was the last holdout, him and his Asian bride. She was the one who’d written Kenton.
“He hoped you would come,” she said, meeting him at the door with a hesitant embrace. Kenton had never known her. She had outlasted the rest of the old man’s wives. Who knew how many there’d been or how many at one time?
Her name was something unpronounceable. She’d signed it to the letter. He had nothing against Asians, just anybody fool enough to get mixed up with his father. She was slender, in a loose-fitting dress, her dark, graying hair in a thick braid.
The old man lay asleep in a back room, his face wasted and pale. He’d had some kind of accident. The woman hadn’t explained.
“What does the doctor say?”
“There is no doctor.”
Right. That was one of the old man’s rules. The one that had almost got Kenton killed when he was a boy, sick with meningitis. No doctors, no hospitals. God’s will be done.
His mother’d had enough of that by then; left and took the kids. Had to get a court order to keep her husband away. Called for the cops when she had to.
So here the man was, the chickens finally come home to roost. A victim of his own bone-head beliefs. And you had to give him credit. The man was no hypocrite. He’d stuck to them.
The Asian woman bent and softly touched his gnarled hand where it lay open on the blanket. “He is dying, you know,” she said.
“Sure as hell looks like it.”
She didn’t seem to hear the scorn in his voice.
“How long’s he been like this?”
“Almost two weeks.”
“What’s he waiting for?”
Her eyes met his for a moment.
“He always liked to say he could beat anything,” she said and looked again at the ravaged face of the man in the bed. “He never knew his weaknesses.”
“You can say that again.”
She went on, making sense one minute and talking what he knew was survivalist mumbo-jumbo the next. Even if you could make it out, it wasn’t worth hearing.
“He was so full of energy,” she was saying. “Always had so much to do. Like now when the days are so long.”
Summer solstice, the weeks when nights were no more than a long, lingering twilight, he never stopped to sleep. Couldn’t sleep. At midnight, she’d find him outside, working in the garden, patching the roof of the barn, pouring concrete for a water cistern.
“I don’t think he’ll let go until the nights get dark again,” she said.
“When’s that gonna be?”
She didn’t answer him, and he began wondering how long it would take before his patience ran out. Given the tone of her letter, he’d been hoping that just showing up would be enough for the old man to cash in his chips.
But hers was a crazy idea that didn’t surprise him. Always preying on the vulnerable, his father seemed to attract the crack-brained and mentally deficient. It was how he kept a following as long as he did. Anyone with an ounce of common sense would eventually see that, and it would be hasta luego.
She went to a cabinet to take out a small cardboard box. The late afternoon light had dimmed in the room, and she held the box close to look inside.
“There’s something here he’d want you to have,” she said. He got a glimpse of a pearl-handled pocket knife, a baseball, a glass jar half-filled with old coins. Then she handed him a small shiny object that he held flat for a moment in the palm of his hand.
“What’s this supposed to be?” he said.
“A telephone.”
And she showed him how it flipped open, to show a keypad and a blank screen. He’d never seen one of these before. It must have been some antique.
“He always called it his direct line to heaven,” she said with a smile. “His little joke.”
“And people believed him?”
“The ones who wanted to.”
“I guess he won’t be needing it anymore.” He handed it back to her.
“No, it’s yours,” she said. “Keep it.”
He didn’t want it and had no use for it. The feel of it, already warm in his hand, was too much like the touch of his father—the father who would have let him die years ago. Well, it was his turn to die now.
“It fits in your pocket,” she said. “A keepsake. Some day you may wish you had one.”
Kenton doubted it. But he slipped it in the front pocket of his jeans. He’d throw it away when he got the chance.
After two nights, and no change in his father, Kenton got to waking after only a few hours of sleep. Wakened by light in the windows, he’d finally rise from his bedroll on the cabin floor, dress and step outside. There in the north, along the distant horizon, came the faint glow of sunlight, from where it shone on the other side of the earth.
The twilit sky over the silent, sleeping land was a mysterious presence. This was nothing Kenton had experienced before, living far to the south in the Sandhills towns he’d always known. There, no matter how long the day, darkness eventually came and brought an end to it.
Sitting silent, smoking the last of his cigarettes, he caught himself—too late maybe—sensing his comatose father’s watching eye. He tried to ignore it. Then the little fold-up phone in his pocket seemed to warm against his leg.
“Go away, dad. Leave me alone,” he finally said. “If I’d known this was going to be the deal, I wouldn’t have come.”
The next night a storm blew up, and he was awakened by the wind around the cabin, sighing in the window screens. Outside it was dark as Egypt, a black hole in space, the sky overcast with thick, roiling clouds. His father’s wife had lighted a lamp and carried it to the back room, where he could hear the sound of labored breathing.
His heart quickened as he followed her. And he watched as his father struggled for each breath, his face flush with fever, the woman at his side caressing his hand and cooing softly to him. Finally, as the storm broke over them, he slipped away and was gone.
The following day, she washed him, talking softly to him. And they buried him in a little cemetery where a country church had once stood in the days before the Last Days.
“Where will you go now?” he asked her when they returned to the cabin.
“Nowhere. I’ll be right here.” She stood by the table where she had washed his father’s body only hours before. “I won’t be alone. He’s really not gone, you know.”
More mumbo-jumbo.
He knew it was no good reasoning with her. He packed up his things and the following morning was on his way again.
He stopped on a bridge crossing a creek that was swollen with rain. He remembered the little phone in his pocket. This would be a good place to get rid of it.
As he reached into his pocket, he felt the thing begin to vibrate in his hand. Opening it, like the Asian woman had shown him, he saw that the screen was glowing. On it some words had appeared:
“It’s beautiful here. You’d love it.”
He flipped it closed, held it in his fist for a moment, then flung it as far as he could, into the water.