R. Allinson - The Long Road Home

“And they are?” Lisa took a sip of tea.

“Firstly,” Claire held her index finger. “Total annihilation. The earth becomes completely uninhabitable.”

“I don’t like that one much. Second?”

“Partial annihilation. We go the way of the dinosaurs and the cockroaches inherit the earth and some other life form eventually evolves and debates over what caused the extinction of those hairless apes all those millions of years ago.

“Third, it’s bad, but some people survive. Nothing is the same for a long time, but humans are still around. We’re pretty adaptable. We’d rebound eventually.

“Fourth, it’s disastrous for whoever it lands on, and makes for a miserable few years for the rest of us with low crop yields and famine and whatnot, but we bounce back a lot quicker than number three.

“Fifth, the geniuses figure something out. I don’t know what. Somehow divert it off course, blow it up, whatever. Problem averted.

“Sixth, they’re wrong and it’s not actually going to hit us and is all a big beat up for some unknown purpose, like your grandparent’s think.”

Claire stopped. “Am I leaving anything out?”

Lisa looked torn between being stunned and impressed.

“Let’s cross our fingers and toes for options five or six then. Can we vote?”

Claire let out a small laugh that sounded slightly wrong to her ears.

Lisa glanced up at the clock on the wall for perhaps the sixth time that hour.

“I wish you’d get that damn clock fixed,” she sighed. “Where is that brother of mine? He should be home by now.”

Claire checked her phone again, but it was stubbornly silent.

“I’m getting really worried about him. I haven’t heard from him since yesterday afternoon. What if something’s gone wrong? I can’t face this without him.”

“Don’t panic just yet. He’s probably just being an idiot male and let his phone run out of power or something.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“I’m going to go back home again and check on Max,” Lisa said, referring to her dog. “Call me as soon as Tom turns up.”

Claire agreed, and got up to see them off.

After Lisa and Molly left, she sat with the boys and got out a notepad and pen. When Noah saw what she was doing, he wanted some as well, so she found some scrap paper and art supplies for them both. Noah started crying when Tristan tried to eat the crayon he was using. Claire sighed, and gave Noah a new crayon, and Tristan a cookie, but neither was good enough for either boy. She felt guilty that she was frustrated. The boys eventually came to some sort of crayon-cookie truce that was beyond Claire’s understanding, and she was able to get back to her own notepad.

When people found out they only had a limited time left on Earth, they often made bucket lists. Hers would have to be different though. She wouldn’t be able to do anything that relied on society actually functioning normally. No hang-gliding or seeing the auroras or trekking to Machu Picchu or riding a gondola through Venice. She’d always assumed there’d be more time.

Just small, simple, achievable things. Claire didn’t feel like there was much point in finishing her novel. No one would ever read it now. She tapped her pen on the notebook spirals, thinking.

Make the most of every day — stop and smell the proverbial roses.

Don’t get cranky with Noah or Tristan. Or Tom.

Only eat delicious food.

Don’t put things off until ‘tomorrow’.

Claire kept looking at her watch and checking her phone. She tapped her watch again. The hands were moving excruciatingly slowly, and she kept thinking it had stopped working. Her phone remained stubbornly silent and text message free. Tom should have been back by now. Even with a head wind and extra stops, he should be back. But she hadn’t heard anything from him, and at first when she’d tried to call, it rang out, but now it was going straight to voicemail.

She paced up and down the hallway, looking in on the boys. She’d managed to put them down for a nap earlier, but now she wished they’d wake up so she’d have something to distract her.

TOM groaned. He patted his head, his legs, his arms. He suspected he was still alive.

“Tom? Are you okay? Tom?”

He opened his eyes briefly and groaned again. What had happened?

“Tom? Buddy, talk to me.”

“I’m okay,” he eventually managed, resting his head back against the seat. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I think so. Sorry, buddy. That was a bit rougher than I intended.”

“No shit.”

“That storm… fuck. I can’t believe we made it okay.”

Tom didn’t say anything for a while, just sat there with his eyes closed, assessing his body, and listening to the snow fall against the window.

“Where are we?”

“I’m not… I think somewhere in southern Saskatchewan? Maybe. We might have crossed the border, it was getting pretty hard to see up there.”

“Well, shit. We could be miles from anywhere.”

“Yeah… I’m really sorry, Tom.”

Tom opened his eyes again and glanced over at Mike.

“You’re bleeding.”

Mike felt his forehead gingerly. “Yeah, I must have hit my head on something. It doesn’t hurt.”

“We might be in shock.”

Tom realised he was shivering. He looked over his shoulder. The whole back of the plane was gone.

“Well, shit.”

Mike leaned back and closed his eyes. “Yeah. Like I said, I can’t believe we’re okay.”

“How are we going to get home?” Claire and his sons flashed before his eyes. Waiting and waiting for him.

“We’ll figure something out,” Mike said eventually. “Come on, let’s get out of this plane. It’s freezing.”

Tom’s legs felt like jelly when he jumped down to the ground. He sunk into the snow. He could feel the cold seeping into his shoes, and wished he had his snow boots.

“We need to find some shelter!” Tom called out. Mike slogged his way around from the other side of the plane, carrying his bag.

“Did you see anything when we were coming down?” Tom asked.

“I’m not sure. There might have been a barn that way,” he said, pointing. “Or it might have been that way.” Mike pointed in the opposite direction. Tom swallowed a scream. The snow started swirling around them. There must have been a lull in the storm, Tom thought.

“Hold my arm, I don’t want to lose you,” Tom said, reaching out for Mike.

“Which way?” Mike looked around, helplessly. The snow made it hard to see very far, and the light was quickly fading. Tom stamped his feet to try to keep the blood flowing. He pulled his scarf up over his mouth and nose and blinked rapidly to keep the snow out of his eyes, wishing uselessly for some goggles.

Tom had no idea which way to go. He looked wildly around them again, but all he could see was snow. It was starting to gust around them, and the cold air was biting. They needed to find shelter, and soon.

“This way is as good as any,” he said after a moment, and the two men started plodding through the snow. It was slow going, they kept sinking up to their knees or higher in the drifts.

Tom quickly lost track of time and distance. Everything was white and moving. They soon lost sight of the plane. Tom didn’t know which way to go, and fervently hoped that he wasn’t leading them to their deaths.

“What’s that?” Mike yelled over the wind. Tom looked to where his friend was pointing. He glimpsed a flash of red before the snow started falling even heavier.

“Let’s check it out,” Tom said. They slowly made their way to where they thought they’d seen the object.

Tom didn’t know what they would do if it turned out to be nothing useful. Perhaps they could make a snow shelter and wait out the storm and hopefully not freeze to death. He tried to remember back to his boy scout days. They’d done something like that on one of the camps.