January 22nd, 2008

As the sun peeks over the top of the city, I scramble down an embankment towards the bridge. My head and shoulder throb like a Gene Krupa drum solo, most likely from my ungraceful exit from that building. As I make my way to a dark, mossy ledge under the bridge I feel a heaviness wash over me that almost brings me to my knees.

Sleep. I just need to get some sleep.

I shrug off my luggage and collapse into a soft clump of mutated vegetation. Immediately I start to drift off to LaLaLand while dreaming of happier times with soft beds, turkey dinners, and old Pauly Shore movies on cable.

---

It's several hours later and I am cooking my breakfast over a makeshift campfire; on today's menu is an unfortunate stray kitty who happened to be within arms reach when I opened my eyes. I'm not too concerned about drawing attention becuase the robots can't smell a fucking thing, and also because I'm a lot closer to water than most of those rust-buckets are comfortable being. They give most waterways a wide berth and tend to make themselves scarce when it rains. Since we're in Vancouver, that would be great news for me except that the robots really did a number on the ecosystem when they set off their little firecracker. Vancouver feels more arid and dry than it should. There's something about those mutant plants that draw the moisture from the air and not the ground.

Looks like Fluffy's ready to eat. Yumm.

As I reach into my bag for a little package of McDonald's salt I found last week, I feel something whiz past my ear and clatter against one of the concrete support beams. I spin around just in time to catch a rock the size of a tangerine right between the eyes. My world goes spin-cycle with the whole spectrum of psychedelic colors and I slump on the ground. I try to reach for my piece my it seems that my hand isn't getting the messages my brain is sending.

A small but insistent foot pins me to the ground and I look up a a kaleidescope image of something holding a big rock over it's head. It would appear that I am fucked.

With what I assume is my dying breath, I will all of the images together. If I'm going to die, I at least want to look the bastard in its cold mechanical eye. However, when the pictures finally align, I find myself looking into the dirty, scraped face of a young girl. I note that she is about my son's age, which would make her around eleven and that there is a look of wildness and rage in her eyes that has no business in a child.

I wait for the rock to squash my head, but it doesn't come. When I look again, I see something else in her eyes: confusion and disbelief. She staggers back a few steps and lets the big rock drop to the ground. My scrambled brains come to the realization that I'm probably the first human she's laid eyes upon since the attack. That is one tough little girl.

I watch woozily as she sits heavily on the ground, still staring at me, and starts to weep. Whatever remnants of a human being there are inside of me want desperately to scoop up that little girl, hug her tight, and tell her that everything is going to be okay. Instead I vomit and black out. So much for surrogate father of the year.