These Strange & Magic Things: Short Stories: BJP Short Story Collections, #3

These Strange & Magic Things

Short Stories

Peter M. Ball

For my father, Terrance John Ball.

I couldn’t have done it without you

Love is the Roar of a Chainsaw, Cutting Flesh in the Night

The whole thing kicked off as a joke—you know how these things go.

One of you says, let’s start a zombie survival kit, and the other goes, brilliant, we totally need to do that, and before you notice it six months have flashed by and you’re treating the idea with deadly seriousness. Zombie apocalypse preps this habit now, the beating heart of your relationship. It binds you together in ways far stronger than saying I love you ever will. That’s how everything started between me and Nat, a goofy comment made the first night we moved in together.

And it’s not all bad, having a weird thing as a couple. The kit got us through the messy first weeks as we figured out how to cohabitate. That rough patch when you discover that one partner snores louder than any lumberjack, and the other partner’s okay with accumulating pile of festering dishes by the sink, even though the dishwasher is right there underneath, empty and ready to load.

Cohabitation gets tricky, is what I’m saying. Finding an equilibrium took work in those early days, after Nat and I moved in. But every time we doubted our capacity to go the long haul, we’d remember the kit and the joy of planning and accumulating gear. We’d remember why we loved each other and the doubts faded away.

We kicked our prep off by obtaining the usual basics, right off the CDC website: a few liters of purified water for each of us; sixteen tins of baked beans in ham sauce. Sanitation supplies: bleach and soap. A utility knife and duct tape, spare batteries for the maglite. We stored everything in two plastic crates, stacked beside the garage door. Easily found, in case of emergency. Habit and routine.

The kit became a private in-joke, but we always figured… one day, maybe? Not that we expected the walking dead, you understand, but a fire or an earthquake or something. One day, we’ll be glad we built up our supplies. One day, it would come in handy.

Nat deployed the zombie survival kit as a talking point with strangers. She kept showing it off to visitors, seeing how they’d react. If they started lecturing us, banging on about zombies not being real, Nat took them off the list of friends we hung out with regularly. They were not our kind of people.

Even better, the kit made shopping for presents easy. When Christmas arrived, Nat gave me a vintage Swiss army knife and a twenty-pack of glow sticks. I found her a personal water filter and two packs of weatherproof matches. We did everything as a joke at first, but jokes become tradition faster than you’d imagine. Every holiday became another opportunity. Every birthday, another thing added: signal flares; a repelling kit; four weeks’ training at a wilderness survival camp, preparing for the collapse of civilization and the days when ransacking supermarket aisles were no longer practical.

Then, on the day I turned thirty-six, Nat brought out the chainsaw. Twenty-five CCs of cutting power, a full complement of chipper teeth to help maintain the edge. A magnificent bit of gear, carefully selected and lovingly given.

Naturally, I made a stupid joke. The kit was our thing, and the goofiness of it bound Nat and I together. We didn’t take it seriously, that wasn’t the point. And for all a chainsaw had the weight of tradition, I’d grown used to extrapolating outwards, working through the just-in-cases of each new addition.

So I voiced the first question that popped into my head: What happens when the fuel runs out? You might have gone for something manual, yeah?

We’d fought, me and Nat, but chainsaw debate got ugly. Three days of point, and counter-point, before we hit an impasse. Then I apologized for being a jerk. Nat agreed to quit sleeping on the couch and come back to our bed.

Life returned to normal for a while.

And I figured we’d declared a truce, swear to fucking god. So I bought an axe for Nat’s birthday and wrote no fuel needed on the card. A joke. Just being cute. Laughing about our silly thing.

Nat didn’t see the humour.

It’s been three weeks since Nat walked out. And, wow, you’ve got to admire the timing. The woman you love leaves and the dead rise from their graves. Nothing beats the apocalypse for kicking a man while he’s down, you know?

I broke out the kit the moment I saw the news footage and thought, Fuck me, that’s a zombie. Loaded things into the car and prepared to flee the city. We’d talked about it dozen times when putting together contingency plans. The first step is getting out of urban centers. Put distance between you and the dense population. Cities are full of walking snacks, rapidly becoming walking threats after the dead snack on them. It’s zombie 101, man. Everybody knows it. Haul your ass, find an isolated place to hold up, preferably fortified.

But there’s a difference between the smart thing and making the right choice. Pragmatism’s an ugly way to live, and I figured Nat knows the kit is here. This glorious stash of gear we built together for just this circumstance. Nat’s got to realize I won’t leave without her, even if she’s pissed at me.

So I wait, all kitted up for the end of the world, doing my best to discourage the zombies. Me, the axe, the goddamn chainsaw Nat gifted me on my thirty-sixth birthday. The cutting teeth go through dead flesh and bone so easy, like chewing through soft liquorish.

The chainsaw hasn’t run out of fuel yet. Three weeks, still going strong.

I doubt I’ll get to apologize, but I won’t stop waiting for the chance. Sitting here, praying that I’ll see Nat soon. That we’ll finally use our zombie emergency kit to live happily ever after.

For now, I’ll express my love with the chainsaw’s whine until Nat finds her way home.

One Last First Date Before The End Of The World

When their night started, Logan worked to a simple plan: dinner; coffee; a short drive home. His date acknowledging this whole thing was a mistake, better-if-we-stay-friends, etcetera. Logan retreating to the share house on Talbot Street, settling in for a beer and debrief. His flatmate, Donna, telling Logan, "I told you so." Logan’s date would forget him and go on with her life, and they would never speak again.

Instead, Logan’s escorting Stina Herne along Currumbin Beach. Hitting the estuary and clambering onto the rocks. He figures the night is going well. The beach is a two-hour drive from the Thai restaurant, a fond memory from Logan’s childhood mentioned over tom kha gai. A place Stina Herne suggested they visit right after he paid for the meal.

It’s a long drive, Logan said. We’d arrive back late.

I’ve got time, Stina Herne said. That seemed like a good sign.

Currumbin Beach doesn’t match Logan’s memories. It used to be an open space, an unobstructed walk from car park to sand to water, all lit up by the moon overhead. Now spinifex and banksia smother the dunes, fences obscuring paths and view alike. The beach is brisk and damp and full of murder-alley gloom. Tainted with an undertone that’s more than salt spray and seaweed. Old bait, maybe? Or fish guts, discarded and left to rot after a fisherman sliced and scaled their catch?

Logan keeps returning to the same four words: cold, wet, dark, and frightening. Figures that combination for a fatality on the date front. The dark, alone, could be romantic. The cold and wet, less so. The threat of being murdered kills everything stone done.

Sorry, Logan says.

For what?

For this. Currumbin wasn’t like this, back when I lived here.

It’s fine.

Perhaps. Logan rubs both hands together, glares at the murky waves rolling in. The whole place is more feral than I remembered.

Okay.

I’m… embarrassed. I dragged you down here, promising something…

Stina considers the ocean and the gloomy sky. Relax, she says. This is cool.

Logan doesn’t relax, but he shuts up, at least. Knows it for the right play, despite his gut insisting otherwise. The stories he told over dinner focused on the beach in his memory: lights shining all the way to Surfers Paradise; the pleasure of climbing the Rock as a kid while his father went out to surf; nights spent there with dates throughout his teens, making out in the salt spray.

Now Logan’s facing things forgotten about: the rocks gleam in the moonlight, the wind is cruel as a predator’s tooth. The uneven surface isn’t much fun to walk on and they’re already damp.

He’s weighed down by the sand in his sneakers. Logan can taste the sea on every breath.

Currumbin Rock is a chunk of black argillite. A relic left behind as the waves devoured the shoreline, pushing the cliffs further and further way from the ocean shore. Transformed the towering heights into a stunted hill tucked beyond the parks and resorts and surf clubs, a place to get a decent view if you’ve got the money.

The Rock and the estuary didn’t soften with age. Sharp edges and sharper angles. The Rock like a spear-tip aimed inland. Its slope is steep, but he climbed it as a kid. Went up, quick and easy, and perched on the apex. King of the World, no worries to plague him.

Except that Logan was younger. Lighter and fearless with youth. Now Logan pulls his jacket close, skin tightening as the frigid wind rips past. He looks up the slope, sixteen feet high, and pictures them slipping off.

We’d break our necks getting up there, he says.

His date shrugs. I’m game.

You sure?

Stina Herne puts both hands on the Rock, searching for handholds. You raved about the view, yeah?

I did, Logan says. The beach is just… not how I remembered it.

Stina Herne looks back and flashes a grin that softens the anxiety roiling through Logan’s stomach. He fell hard for that smile before anything, when they first met at the café. His brain linking up the details in the seconds that followed: incredible grin plus silver hair plus raven tattooed on her left shoulder. Tall and pale and dangerously pretty. Logan going from stranger to smitten in record time. His flatmate Donna standing right beside him, putting two and two together. Delivering her immediate warning: Don’t date the goth chicks, buddy. No way you’ll keep up with her.

Logan ignored that advice. Nutted up and asked Stina out cold, before his nerve failed and common sense overruled his desire.

Now, on the beach, Logan figures Donna is right. His fingers are numb, just from walking out across the sand, and he doesn’t want to climb a great chunk of damp argillite in the dark. But she’s already going up, searching for fresh handholds, the toes of her boots digging into the pitted surface.

Come on, Stina says, and Logan follows. The stone is coarse beneath his fingers, like a calcified sponge. The wind slices past them and the sea roars, but the moon is full and bright, and he can identify a route up well enough. His pulse hammers, but they make it up and they huddle just shy of the tip. Young lovers perched side-by-side, exposed to the cruel gusts and bluster coming in across the water. The Surfers Paradise lights are pretty, but the darkness out over the surf is as beautiful.

This isn’t so bad, Stina Herne says, but her shoulders tremble and she’s breathing warmth into numb fingers.

A-huh. Logan’s contemplating the fall again. Or, truth be told, he’s mulling over the landing, and the breaking, and the bleeding, and the pain. Oh god, so much pain before death.

Why did this place matter to you? Stina rubs her hands and breathes on them again. Why here? What’s the attraction?

Logan sucks in a deep breath. Exhales, quietly. We came out here as kids. Me and my parents. They told me the lights were fairy land.

Stina Herne peers into the distance, frowning. Fairies are fond of neon?

I was seven. They were my mum and dad.

Ah, Stina says, and grins. So you were a trusting kid.

I guess.

A trusting adult, too, she says.

How so?

Well… I mean, here we are, Stina says, two hour’s drive from dinner. You’re climbing rocks in the dark beside a woman you don’t know. I could be crazy, up here. I could push you off and roll your corpse into the sea and walk off while you bled and water filled your lungs. Nobody would ever figure what truly happened, would they?

She says it with poise and calm, as if such things were probable. Logan grips the Rock a little tighter, digs his sneakers against the pitted stone. I guess not, he says.

Stina Herne nods once, for emphasis. See, trusting.

Okay. Logan sucks in a short, nervous breath and says, So… are you planning on doing that?

Stina tilts her head back and smiles up at the moon. No more than you are, she says.

Cool.

They settle in there, on the Rock. Listen to each other breathe. It’s so cold, their exhalations plume. Logan’s hands are raw from the climb. They ache beneath their numbness.

Besides, Stina says, breaking the stillness, the same is true for me. This could be the moment you reveal you’re all kinds of homicidal. I’m taking a risk with you, as much as you’re taking one being up here with me.

More, Logan’s subconscious whispers, but he doesn’t say it out loud. It’s a thought inspired by bad assumptions, old gender roles and toxic thinking. You’re not automatically secure just because you’re a dude. Play it careful. Play it safe.

Logan wishes he could kiss her, despite the conversation, but the moment doesn’t seem right yet. Instead, he says, I’ve got no plans to kill you, either.

Stina Herne adopts a smile that would do the Mona Lisa proud. Wouldn’t matter if you did.

It’s not the response Logan expected. No?

Not at all, Stina Herne says, the words so terribly certain. Logan’s guts clench in panic as he wonders if Donna was right.

You want to die or something?

No, Stina says, it’s just—

She reigns in the explanation. Takes a long, slow breath.

Look, Stina says, I know how this sounds, but the world’s destined to end.

No shit?

No shit, she says. It will end real soon.

We talking decades? Years?

Weeks. Maybe even days.

Yeah, Logan says. That’s coming up fast.

He can’t dredge up anything else to say. What’s the play when your date predicts the apocalypse? How do you respond and stay polite? He considers the advice Donna gave him before he left, all the in-case-of-emergency scenarios for when he fucked this up. Her predictions seemed comprehensive, but they did not include doomsday prophecies while freezing to death on a chunk of argillite by the sea.

Well, he says. That sucks. I’d hoped this date was going okay.

It is what it is, Stina says, and she takes Logan’s hand in hers. Leans her shoulder against his side. Her presence warm and exciting against the cold wind. The closeness triggers a fresh jolt of adrenaline, sets Logan’s heart pounding. He’s conscious of every inhalation, senses every panicked heartbeat echoing through his chest.

So how’s it going to happen? This apocalypse coming our way?

My grandfather will eat the moon. Stina closes her eyes, rests her head against his shoulder. Well, not my grandfather, he’s more the great-great-great etcetera etcetera kind of deal. My real grandfather is long dead. Cancer, right before he turned a hundred and twenty-two.

Sounds like he did okay, Logan says.

Yeah. I guess. It’s a good run.

Sounds like great-great-great etcetera etcetera is doing okay as too.

Logan assumes that he’s playing along, being part of the joke. Then Stina says: He is. Comes with the territory, when you’re an immortal wolf.

Donna will piss herself laughing about this. The moment Logan gets home and tells her, Donna will piss her pants. She’ll cackle so loud their neighbours wake up, before she taunts Logan with "I told you so."

Your grandfather’s a wolf?

Stina’s breath catches. "Well, the wolf."

"The wolf," Logan repeats, confused.

You don’t believe me?

No, he says. It’s just—

It’s cool. I wouldn’t accept this the first time, either.

Okay.

But…

But?

But, Stina says the word firmly, so Logan can hear the underline. She lets the pause linger, then carries on, My grandfather really is a wolf. He’s Fenrir, the wolf begat by Loki, Wrecker of Havoc throughout the nine worlds.

Stina’s eyes are still closed and her voice is low, reciting the words as a litany. "Brother of the World Serpent and Hel, Queen of the Underworld. Fettered by chains forged by the dwarves, captured by the gods at the cost of the Tyr’s left hand. Harbinger