After The Fires Went Out: Coyote (Book One of the Post-Apocalyptic Adventure Series) by Regan Wolfrom Page B
Authors: Regan Wolfrom
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when you mix shitting and drinking. We worked together and tried to keep people safe, and for a while it seemed to be working.
But things got worse and people started to die, not character actors and reams of underpaid extras, but real people like Fiona’s father, who used to coach her in hockey and had actually met Don Cherry at a restaurant in Montreal once, and Ant’s older brother who used to drive an old Mustang and taught him everything he knew about being the centre of attention, and Sara’s two little sisters who served as joint maids of honour at her wedding and three years later as joint shoulders to cry on during her divorce.
Those people and a crapload more are dead now, from disease, from The Fires, or by the hands of people who didn’t have their own supplies but did have their very own guns.
But I think it’s worse not knowing what happened to the people you love. Obviously the networks are down. Any phone that isn’t equipped to talk to European or Nigerian sats is a brick as far as calling anyone; my fancy phone’s useless since every satellite system on this side of the Atlantic has gone offline. Justin managed to get his hands on a phone that can reach the Nigerian array for voice-only on a good day, for a few minutes at a time, if he angles it right... but that hasn’t done much to get us out of the dark.
That means that Graham doesn’t know about his parents, or his older brother or baby sister; he hasn’t heard anything about what’s happening in Illinois. And I don’t know what’s happened to Alanna and Cassy, either... but since the AM radio’s full of static and we don’t see planes in the sky anymore, I’ve already made my guess. I don’t need to listen to shortwave signals from New England to tell me that there’s no silver lining out beyond the horizon, no life left for me back home on Sackville Street. All I have left is here.
Ant used to make breakfast every once in awhile. He made the best pancakes and french toast, but he always left the kitchen a mess once he'd finished, flour on every surface and sometimes even a pale yellowy goop dripping from light fixtures and window blinds.
But none of that mattered when it came time to taste what came out of his kitchen explosions; it was always worth the extra clean-up afterwards.
This morning Fiona found me coming out of the bathroom and asked me if I'd play chef for once. I know she'd always enjoyed helping Ant when he was running the kitchen at breakfast time, but I'm not sure I can be the replacement she's looking for.
“I don't know what causes it,” she said. “For some reason most men seem to have a talent for breakfasts and barbecue. I like that you guys are good at a couple of things.”
“I used to be okay at making breakfast,” I said. “But I was never as good as Ant. My specialty was eggs.”
Fiona let out a little giggle. “Like frying eggs? Is that really something you can specialize in? A particular way of cracking the shells?”
“Omelettes, goofball. Sometimes I'd get up early and spend like an hour putting together the world's most perfect set of ingredients: red and yellow bell peppers, fresh spinach, never frozen... portobello mushrooms... some nice chorizo sausage if I'd remembered to pick it up the day before... there was only one problem.”
“What?”
I smiled as I remembered it all. “Cassy hated omelettes. She never actually tried one, but she'd already made up her mind about them. But I wouldn't give up. I'd make those damned things every Saturday, and every Saturday she'd just have a bowl of cereal. I just thought if I kept making them long enough she'd finally feel obligated to at least take one little bite. She never did.”
Fiona put her hand on my shoulder blade and gave me a little squeeze. “Will you make me an omelette?” she asked.
“I can do that.”
“Good. I promise not to eat it. Not even a bite.”
That made me smile.
She came with me into the kitchen,
But things got worse and people started to die, not character actors and reams of underpaid extras, but real people like Fiona’s father, who used to coach her in hockey and had actually met Don Cherry at a restaurant in Montreal once, and Ant’s older brother who used to drive an old Mustang and taught him everything he knew about being the centre of attention, and Sara’s two little sisters who served as joint maids of honour at her wedding and three years later as joint shoulders to cry on during her divorce.
Those people and a crapload more are dead now, from disease, from The Fires, or by the hands of people who didn’t have their own supplies but did have their very own guns.
But I think it’s worse not knowing what happened to the people you love. Obviously the networks are down. Any phone that isn’t equipped to talk to European or Nigerian sats is a brick as far as calling anyone; my fancy phone’s useless since every satellite system on this side of the Atlantic has gone offline. Justin managed to get his hands on a phone that can reach the Nigerian array for voice-only on a good day, for a few minutes at a time, if he angles it right... but that hasn’t done much to get us out of the dark.
That means that Graham doesn’t know about his parents, or his older brother or baby sister; he hasn’t heard anything about what’s happening in Illinois. And I don’t know what’s happened to Alanna and Cassy, either... but since the AM radio’s full of static and we don’t see planes in the sky anymore, I’ve already made my guess. I don’t need to listen to shortwave signals from New England to tell me that there’s no silver lining out beyond the horizon, no life left for me back home on Sackville Street. All I have left is here.
Ant used to make breakfast every once in awhile. He made the best pancakes and french toast, but he always left the kitchen a mess once he'd finished, flour on every surface and sometimes even a pale yellowy goop dripping from light fixtures and window blinds.
But none of that mattered when it came time to taste what came out of his kitchen explosions; it was always worth the extra clean-up afterwards.
This morning Fiona found me coming out of the bathroom and asked me if I'd play chef for once. I know she'd always enjoyed helping Ant when he was running the kitchen at breakfast time, but I'm not sure I can be the replacement she's looking for.
“I don't know what causes it,” she said. “For some reason most men seem to have a talent for breakfasts and barbecue. I like that you guys are good at a couple of things.”
“I used to be okay at making breakfast,” I said. “But I was never as good as Ant. My specialty was eggs.”
Fiona let out a little giggle. “Like frying eggs? Is that really something you can specialize in? A particular way of cracking the shells?”
“Omelettes, goofball. Sometimes I'd get up early and spend like an hour putting together the world's most perfect set of ingredients: red and yellow bell peppers, fresh spinach, never frozen... portobello mushrooms... some nice chorizo sausage if I'd remembered to pick it up the day before... there was only one problem.”
“What?”
I smiled as I remembered it all. “Cassy hated omelettes. She never actually tried one, but she'd already made up her mind about them. But I wouldn't give up. I'd make those damned things every Saturday, and every Saturday she'd just have a bowl of cereal. I just thought if I kept making them long enough she'd finally feel obligated to at least take one little bite. She never did.”
Fiona put her hand on my shoulder blade and gave me a little squeeze. “Will you make me an omelette?” she asked.
“I can do that.”
“Good. I promise not to eat it. Not even a bite.”
That made me smile.
She came with me into the kitchen,
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