been rendered inactive (or transformed), there should have been some sound waves bouncing back and forth.
Meredith was about to remark on the odd silence, when Hjerald held up a hand, quieting her.
Straining, they listened.
Somewhere in the distance, among the streets of the city, was a faint, almost indiscernible sound. Meredith and Hjerald looked at each other quizzically, until, simultaneously, they realized that the noise …
… Sounded like wheezing .
The two journalists hit the doors in the Sun’s lobby like pile-drivers; they were still swinging when Meredith and Hjerald reached the third floor.
O O O
The offices of the most prominent newspaper in Eastern Canada were, to put it gently, a sodding mess.
Desks were stacked like cordwood; electronics of all kinds, adding machines, phones, computers—were broken and scattered. There were oil lamps, burning, casting a wan glow, and thick, billowy smoke which burned the skin and stung the eyes. The windows were broken, but had been covered over with sheets of metal—parts from filing cabinets, Meredith assumed. And there were bones.
Speechless, Hjerald looked around, face a twisted mass of emotions. It hadn’t taken but a few seconds for him to realize that he wasn’t going to find the working phone lines, or modems, or wire service terminals, or anything else he was expecting, or hoping, to find.
As bad as things in Silvertown seemed to be, it had never occurred to them—either of them—that it would be worse— could be worse—anywhere else.
Thus engrossed in their shock, neither of them noticed when the Chief approached, until he was immediately behind them.
“Do you have a story?”
Startled, they both jumped and spun about. The creature that spoke was a man, or at least, had been one, once. He was hunchbacked, and dressed in rags tied around his limbs; he also seemed to be smeared with ink, and with what smelled like excrement. He spoke again, hands wringing.
“Do you have a story?”
Hjerald started to speak, then choked, and looked at Meredith, gripping her hand tightly. “Reedy,” he murmured slowly, “it’s Mr. Janes.”
“Chief!” screamed the grubby spectre, waving his arms madly, “I am Chief! Do you deny it? Do you deny it?”
“No,” said Hjerald placatingly, “Not at all. You’re the Chief—you are the man.”
“I am the man ,” repeated Mr. Janes, stabbing his thumbs at his chest. “I am Chief. Do not deny it. Do not deny it.”
He looked at them again, his expression hopeful once more. “Do you have a story?”
“Ah, actually Chief, we came here looking for one,” said Hjerald.
“Ah,” sighed Mr. Janes, shaking his head sadly. “No stories. No more stories. No presses, no paper, no Sun . The Sun is gone.”
“Darn,” said Hjerald running a hand through his hair and turning to Meredith. “I was hoping to find something here which would connect us to Germany, but I guess Zen inclinations don’t work as well in the middle of an apocalypse.”
Mr. Janes had been listening to this exchange like an anxious rodent, all twitchy hands and darting eyes—but now he looked curiously at Hjerald, and a strange demeanor overcame him.
“Germany?” he asked. “Is this for a story?”
“Yes,” Hjerald said, seizing on the momentary calm he saw in the Chief’s eyes. “It’s for a very important story—the one you assigned us both to, and we’re going to sign all-inclusive vouchers … Ow!”—Meredith elbowed him sharply in the ribs—“… Sorry. Ah, I mean, yes—it’s for a very important story. Do you know something about Germany?”
“Maybe,” Mr. Janes said, rubbing his chin in a gesture which was heartbreakingly familiar. “Not Germany, exactly, but before the feeding yesterday …”—neither one of them was about to interrupt to ask what the feeding was—“… a parcel came in from Austria, and it was addressed to you,” he finished, pointing to Meredith.
“Can we see
Meredith was about to remark on the odd silence, when Hjerald held up a hand, quieting her.
Straining, they listened.
Somewhere in the distance, among the streets of the city, was a faint, almost indiscernible sound. Meredith and Hjerald looked at each other quizzically, until, simultaneously, they realized that the noise …
… Sounded like wheezing .
The two journalists hit the doors in the Sun’s lobby like pile-drivers; they were still swinging when Meredith and Hjerald reached the third floor.
O O O
The offices of the most prominent newspaper in Eastern Canada were, to put it gently, a sodding mess.
Desks were stacked like cordwood; electronics of all kinds, adding machines, phones, computers—were broken and scattered. There were oil lamps, burning, casting a wan glow, and thick, billowy smoke which burned the skin and stung the eyes. The windows were broken, but had been covered over with sheets of metal—parts from filing cabinets, Meredith assumed. And there were bones.
Speechless, Hjerald looked around, face a twisted mass of emotions. It hadn’t taken but a few seconds for him to realize that he wasn’t going to find the working phone lines, or modems, or wire service terminals, or anything else he was expecting, or hoping, to find.
As bad as things in Silvertown seemed to be, it had never occurred to them—either of them—that it would be worse— could be worse—anywhere else.
Thus engrossed in their shock, neither of them noticed when the Chief approached, until he was immediately behind them.
“Do you have a story?”
Startled, they both jumped and spun about. The creature that spoke was a man, or at least, had been one, once. He was hunchbacked, and dressed in rags tied around his limbs; he also seemed to be smeared with ink, and with what smelled like excrement. He spoke again, hands wringing.
“Do you have a story?”
Hjerald started to speak, then choked, and looked at Meredith, gripping her hand tightly. “Reedy,” he murmured slowly, “it’s Mr. Janes.”
“Chief!” screamed the grubby spectre, waving his arms madly, “I am Chief! Do you deny it? Do you deny it?”
“No,” said Hjerald placatingly, “Not at all. You’re the Chief—you are the man.”
“I am the man ,” repeated Mr. Janes, stabbing his thumbs at his chest. “I am Chief. Do not deny it. Do not deny it.”
He looked at them again, his expression hopeful once more. “Do you have a story?”
“Ah, actually Chief, we came here looking for one,” said Hjerald.
“Ah,” sighed Mr. Janes, shaking his head sadly. “No stories. No more stories. No presses, no paper, no Sun . The Sun is gone.”
“Darn,” said Hjerald running a hand through his hair and turning to Meredith. “I was hoping to find something here which would connect us to Germany, but I guess Zen inclinations don’t work as well in the middle of an apocalypse.”
Mr. Janes had been listening to this exchange like an anxious rodent, all twitchy hands and darting eyes—but now he looked curiously at Hjerald, and a strange demeanor overcame him.
“Germany?” he asked. “Is this for a story?”
“Yes,” Hjerald said, seizing on the momentary calm he saw in the Chief’s eyes. “It’s for a very important story—the one you assigned us both to, and we’re going to sign all-inclusive vouchers … Ow!”—Meredith elbowed him sharply in the ribs—“… Sorry. Ah, I mean, yes—it’s for a very important story. Do you know something about Germany?”
“Maybe,” Mr. Janes said, rubbing his chin in a gesture which was heartbreakingly familiar. “Not Germany, exactly, but before the feeding yesterday …”—neither one of them was about to interrupt to ask what the feeding was—“… a parcel came in from Austria, and it was addressed to you,” he finished, pointing to Meredith.
“Can we see
Similar Books
