The Last 3 Days (09): Hope Smells Like Bacon

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48:47:18

So far the Cadillac had lived up to the salesman’s promises. It accelerated great, it was a smooth ride and it was luxurious. There wasn’t enough traffic on the highway this early in the day to justify speed traps, so Ryan steered the car through a bend, taking what he called the ‘racing line’ at half again the posted limit.

As he let the car drift across three lanes towards the outside of the turn, the city’s skyline came into view.

“Finally,” Ryan grunted.

Bobby stretched in the seat beside him, yawning. Steve and Dave slept in the back seat, Steve’s head on Dave’s shoulder.

“No kidding,” Bobby answered. “All I want to do is sleep.”

“Sleep? We’re just getting started. I have a score to settle and no time to waste.”

Bobby looked over at Ryan. “Dumping that kid in the middle of nowhere wasn’t enough? Who else?”

“Jay.”

“But he said it wasn’t him.”

“Who else could it be?” Ryan demanded. “None — None of those women would have ratted. Their jobs are their lifelines. Why do you think I hired them?”

48:31:34

Anne could not have counted how many times she had watched the missile launch or heard the same updates repeated on the television screen in her living room and, most likely, would never be able to forget Noah Hoag’s resentful portrait photo.

She was watching a new clip — finally, something positive — as Jack came down the stairs behind her.

“But all is not lost,” the news anchor said. Anne had never liked him, but was now starting to think of him as a friend. “The United States, Russia and China are even now planning humanity’s response to this threat — “

Jack said, “I smell bacon.”

She turned, her smile less forced than it had been. “On the table. And good morning to you too.”

“If Nick left any for me. Morning, mom.”

Anne guided her youngest son to the dining table, calling for her older one.

“Nick!”

“He’s not in his room. Isn’t he down here?”

Anne took the stairs two at a time.

“Nick,” Anne repeated as she burst through the doorway of Nick’s bedroom.

Clothes littered a bed that hadn’t been slept in. Scanning the room, she noticed the empty shelf and loose wires where his game system should have been.

48:29:23

Outside Jay’s apartment block, one of the geranium flower beds flanking the entrance vibrated, followed by a phone ringing — Nick’s phone — that went unanswered.

47:30:56

Barely four hours past dawn and already the heat was oppressive.

Nick staggered to a halt, sweat pouring down his face. Shielding his eyes, he looked up to gauge the sun’s progress then shook his head. Bending over, he loosened his shoelaces, then kicked off his sneakers. He undid his jeans and slid them down his legs.

47:27:43

Sergeant Martin Wright did not watch much television, preferring to read science fiction novels when he wasn’t indulging his unfulfilled dream of writing his own. He was the proud author of a dozen hefty stories that, with the asteroid, would never see a bookshelf.

So he wasn’t sure what station he wanted as he flipped through the channels on the large monitor in his squad room. It seemed there were several channels devoted to advertising only.

Don stood at the counter, trying to explain procedure to Peter Thurro but found himself distracted by the staccato of ads flashing on the screen in the public area that mirrored the one in the Squad Room.

Without looking up, he said, “KQTS. Channel 156.”

Both screens settled on the same station, and the outer room quieted as the screen gathered their attention.

As Thurro read the form before him, Don’s mobile rang — again — and once again he ignored it.

“As much detail as possible, please,” Don told the businessman, “including the names and contact info for those affected.”

Peter Thurro looked around the waiting area, then asked, “Can I at least sit down?”

“Sure. Step over to the metal door,” Don said, and pointed.

The door to the lobby, buzzed, opened and Peter moved through. Don indicated an open desk and Peter settled at it.

On screen was an animation of a missile just after launch, flying into space, colliding with Benevolence B7438 and blowing it up into harmless, though spectacular, daylight fireworks. Dubious cheers answered the animation from the waiting area.

Checking his mobile, Don hit redial.

“It’s me,” he said. “Busy … Only three of us came in … What? You’re kidding … Did you call him? … Of course you did … I can’t, Anne … No — “

47:21:56

Olga Popoff treated her mop like a dance partner as she cleaned up after the previous night’s dance. She had little thought for her daughter’s drinking. In Russia, she would not have had to pretend outrage.

Her mop kept time to Russian pop from her Beats, her feet stepping in tandem. Since she was alone in the school, she even hummed along, unconcerned about how her figure had thickened with age. She felt no different from when she was Becky’s age.

Which only heightened the shock when a hand clamped her shoulder from behind, and for a moment, she needed her mop to stay upright.

Then it got worse. When she turned to see whom the hand belonged to, she saw three young men she didn’t recognize and her fear caught an edge, until Ryan’s sneering scowl came into view. Fear became terror.

Ryan reached out and plucked her headphones from her head, then casually dropping them.

“Hi, Olga. Where’s Jay?”

“Jay not work today,” she answered. “Only me.”

“Why not?”

Olga hesitated. “He get promotion.”

Ryan’s rage exploded. With a roar, he kicked over Olga’s bucket, spreading soapy water across the gym’s floor.

Olga cringed at his violence, which only fed it. Pressing his advantage, he towered over her, arm cocked.

“Who talked to Thurro? Was it Jay?”

A flash of memory reminded Olga she had faced far worse than this boy. A subtle shift washed over her face; a hint of defiance, perhaps. Her posture straightened and her eyes met his.

“All of us,” she said.

“All of you. But whose idea was it? Yours?”

“No.”

Snatching the mop from her hand, Ryan raised it above his head — a movement so fraught with dangerous options that time itself seemed to pause — then he snapped it across his knee and threw the pieces into the thinning puddle on the floor.

“I’m going to kill Jay.”

47:02:13

Wearing his jeans tied like a turban on his head against the sun’s rays, Nick looked up from the tire tracks, searching for any sign of humanity.

Nothing. Or — what was that smudge of shadow in the hazy distance? His pace slowed, his gaze flicking back and forth between the tire tracks leading into the distance and the chance to get out of the sun. He veered away from his path.

The shadow resolved into what appeared to be a short door into a hump in the scrub. A soddy, a shelter ubiquitous across the Canadian prairies as the first homes of Eastern European settlers. Partially excavated into the soil, they featured walls of stacked sod with roofs of narrow tree trunks covered with oiled canvas and more sod.

Though obviously ancient, it was less decrepit than Nick would have expected — if he had given it any thought. It meant shade and rest, and that was enough.

The door opened silently, another sign lost on Nick as he entered. He held the rough wooden door open for light, pausing while his eyes adjusted. More spacious inside than the exterior suggested, he found he was almost able to stand upright.

And it was blessedly cool. He stood in the doorway and removed his makeshift turban, relishing the relief of escaping the sun’s heat, even if he had begun to hallucinate his thirst and hunger manifested on a narrow table against the far wall.

When the vision persisted, he moved towards it, only to lose it in the darkness as the door swung shut behind him. He pressed his wadded jeans into service as doorstop and then crossed to the table. Before him sat a bulging linen bag and a cracked ceramic pitcher. Water. And blueberries.

Without further consideration, he ate and drank until nothing remained. He felt their effect immediately as renewed energy erased his need to rest.

He rewrapped his jeans around his head and let the door close, missing yet another sign. Behind the door was a neatly trussed bedroll tied to an olive drab backpack.

46:40:12

Eileen Taylor stood watch at her living room window, her gun nearby on the coffee table behind her.

She saw her neighbour, Don, pull up in an unmarked police cruiser, climbing out in a hurry. He noticed her at the window and waved as he strode towards his own house but, nearly there, he turned and, jogging up the steps, knocked on her door.

Lacking options, she opened the door enough to be polite yet not enough to suggest a welcome.

“Hi, Eileen. Sorry to bother you, but could I get Jay’s number? Nick’s run off — “

She had seen Don’s son and Jay’s best friend just the day before. “Nick too? Why do they always leave, Don? Why? I admit I was angry in the beginning, but now — now I just want him to come home.”

“I can talk to Jay if you want. Can I get his number?”

Eileen studied her feet for a moment, silent, then met Don’s gaze.

“I don’t have it. I haven’t seen or heard from Jay since just after Phil died.”

“Oh. Eileen, I had no idea. I’ll do everything I can to find him. Both of them.”

“Tell my son to come home, Don. Tell him, please.”

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