Promethean

By the time people realized that it was critical, it was too late. The virus had slipped through our usually zealous defences of overreaction and sensationalism by appearing much less than it was. That, and the world was crisis-weary. Another plague. Another fire. Another hurricane. It was as though the planet were mustering its own manner of counter-offences to answer the unabating insults of human development. The bacterium mobilized voraciously, and to devastating effect.

* * *

I looked out over the North Shore. The electric glow thrummed and sparkled against the late sky, belying the dim hopes of those few survivors that remained to occupy the city. It felt like a vain defiance, and it could not last. Under-monitored power grids were failing spontaneously - with every day, the dark mountains seemed to creep nearer, loom larger. Of course, they actually were; in geologic terms, the Coastal Ranges were in their infancy, still finding their steppes and flexing their crags. But we were not a people of the land, and so most of us did not know even this much; too many who did, did not care.

We were a people who sought dominion over the world’s bounty. The bulls of industry digging ever deeper and seeking further for their gains. We took - more than we needed - more than anyone could ever need. Now we were getting much more than anyone had bargained for, laid low by a long-buried parasite - mined and delivered by its host’s own hand, no less.

I snapped a last photograph to guard against the tricks of memory, and turned away from the cityscape to examine our rummaged apartment; we were taking so little. All around us were abandoned troves of personal wealth; apartments, houses, mansions full of accoutrement. The temptation to stay, to enjoy the collected excesses of the formerly rich, was real, despite the dire consequences. Short and abruptly rocky though it was, many had chosen this path - kings and queens for a day, damned on the morrow.

Many more - unable or unwilling to determine their own course - had enjoined with the poorly coined ‘survival squads’ that had been hastily organized out of civic government efforts. But the expertise that had been recruited to indoctrinate against the harsh realities of the New World was immediately hampered by combative leadership and scant utility; rumours of cultism, misuse and brutality troubled the movements of these now disenfranchised collectives.

Still, the most telling indictment of human fitness was that so few were choosing to broach the wilds. The tree-lines and beaches appeared as perceptible boundaries, past which only the very brave or the desperate dared. We were a little of both.

* * *

Highway 99 - the Sea to Sky, as it was known - running due north from Vancouver to Whistler and beyond. We stayed to the broken yellow lines that divided the road. The threat of lions and tigers and bears loomed in our imagination, but the real dangers were human. The messages were pretty straightforward: “No non-residents allowed”; “If we do not know you, you are not permitted to stop here”; “Move on!”; replete with stark and hostile iconography meant to strike fear and speed your passage.

These were the new signposts of rural isolation, replacing the formerly prolific fruit-stalls and artisanal craft-shacks. Satellite communities that had once welcomed and relied on passerby tourism to buffer local, agrarian economies, now guarded fiercely against urban refugees. There were no provisions for compassion or kindness; confrontations were unceremonious and purposeful - the term road-kill, in this era of detachment and suspicion, had taken on a much more sinister designation, the spectres of which advertised in dark, rusty stain-pools and ruined clothing left along the barren provincial byways.

Since locking the apartment door behind us (strictly a force of habit) with sickening finality, we had walked for 62 hours. We were 11 days removed from the city, and the scope of our decision - and the uncertainties that lay ahead - had lately begun to weigh on our minds. The periods between our travelling banter had become morose; we struggled against the claustrophobic palette of endless forest.

I held the rifle casually; I meant for it to be easily identified as a tool, not a threat. My mind drifted back to one of the many occasions that had seen us motoring out from the city on this same road. Very early on in my career, I had been offered a job teaching at the Community School in Lillooet, and we spent a boozy, humid summer weekend browsing the potential of the local real estate market. There were some lovely, if ramshackle possibilities, and our favourite was not three blocks from where we were now passing. Up the hill, to my left, I could see the roof.

“Do you suppose they’re still hiring?”, I cracked. 

Goldie wouldn’t let her eyes off-duty, but she approved my effort. She cleared her throat. “They might have some trouble digging up your references.”

My gaze fixed on the red shingles. “That plumbing would have been a hell of a job anyway. I reckon we’re more of a turn-key outfit, at this point.”

We mused on the sentimentality of the moment, appreciating the other’s commitment to levity - a brief respite.

Goldie spoke again: “Life would have been different out here.” 

I turned away from the house with the ancient lead pipes, so nearly ours, so many years ago. Nevertheless, I thought. 

The signs posted at the bottom of the pass had read politely enough: “No guests - please keep to the road” - a far cry from the playful message that had greeted passerby in the past: "Lillooet - B.C.’s Little Nugget"; yet it seemed to speak to the hospitality that we had experienced here in the past. It was almost apologetic. And as we crested the plateau at the northern edge of the township, I was sorry that we had not the occasion to share a word or two with anyone on the inside. If the sentries had spotted us, they had not given any indication - live and let live, it seemed.

Below us, the vineyards demonstrated in careful rows to the river bluff. Here and there I could discern a body at work - momentarily stopping, stooping, reaching. Winemaking was a recent venture in the valley, and I wondered what kind of success they were having. The vista that spread out before me seemed to issue hopefully; the world, here, seemed still good.

I turned back to Goldie. I wanted to share this moment - to assuage our shared fears and affirm the wisdom of our emigration.

She had stopped a few yards back and was facing another sign. This one had been erected precisely to serve wayfarers that chose this natural viewpoint for a moment's pause. It was only noticeable once you looked back upon the way you had come. It read: “Woe unto those that linger here.”