THE JOURNAL

Many years had gone by since the world went completely sideways and did two or three summersaults in the process. All the signs of impending doom had been blatantly right in everyone’s faces, no exceptions, but like everything else, unless the big-ugly comes knocking at your door, no one does anything about the problem. And that’s what eventually happened, the big-ugly came knocking at everyone’s door at exactly the same moment, and when they opened their doors, all hell broke loose. Civilization should have paid more attention to irreversible climate changes due to mass deforestation, uncontrolled industrial growth and nonrestrictive mining and fracking procedures. Since the air was polluted, the soil and water poisoned and the massive accumulated ice at the North and South Poles was rapidly melting at an unprecedented pace, the oceans swallowing up entire cities; water, food and land becoming scarcer and a premium commodity, nuclear warfare erupted on a global scale.

How many people had survived the apocalyptic holocaust Sheila Cairns didn’t know? Only knew that she was one of the survivors and her surviving had probably been a fluke. The small Cessna seaplane she had been flying had barely touched down on a lake in northern Alberta, when the H-bomb touched down on Calgary, where she had been living. She of course had no idea about the catastrophic event until she picked up a signal later that night on her ham radio set and was talking to another amateur radio enthusiast in California. Calgary wasn’t the only major city in Canada or the US that was blown to smithereens, the massive mushroom-shaped clouds spreading death and destruction wherever they drifted.

As she looked out the window of the log cabin she and her husband had built for a refuge from their busy city life, the placid lake, the roving forests climbing the distant hills until they disappeared into the snow-capped mountains, it was difficult for her to imagine the devastation that was occurring worldwide. Suddenly, realizing her unbelievable loss, that not only was her recently wed husband dead, so was her entire family, she burst into tears. Being totally alone had yet to invade her thoughts.

In the early morning, the clouds were gun-metal blue and heavy with rain. A wind was funneling down across the inky lake, and whitecaps, like wild stallions, stampeded across its surface. The Cessna and the dock were rocking violently as Sheila checked the mooring lines and the large rubber fenders that the pontoons were rubbing against.

The tail end of summer still felt warm, but Sheila could still feel winter’s bony fingers gripping its edge with every gust of wind. Her husband Jimmy, a CEO for a major corporation, was supposed to have accompanied her but a last-minute change of plans called him into the office. She was going to stay home but he insisted she should take the time off from her demanding job. As the wind whipped her long chestnut hair around her face and she brushed it away from her eyes, the realization that she was on her own weighed as heavy as the clouds crushing the surrounding landscape.

Although the morning wasn’t that cold, she had started a fire in the fireplace and the log cabin was warm and cozy when she returned. As she sipped her coffee, she twisted the dials on the ham radio and wasn’t alarmed that her signal hadn’t been heard because that happened quite often. She didn’t bother trying to reach anyone on the plane’s radio, because there wouldn’t be any reception unless another plane was flying directly overhead, which had never happened.

After a couple of days had slid by and still not able to contact anyone, Sheila began to worry about her situation. If she rationed her food diligently, she figured it would last for about a month. She decided to wait a week and then fly to Edmonton, the nearest major city from the lake. If everything was alright there, she would find an apartment and if not, at least she would be able to pick up enough supplies for the winter and fly back to the cabin.

Sheila worked as a newspaper journalist and she enjoyed getting away from its busyness and often having to write bad-news stories. At the cabin, she shed all the frustrations and stressfulness like a bird molting its feathers, often writing down her own thoughts and ideas for a novel she hoped to create one day. So much for the novel she thought as she opened her blue-lined hardcovered journal and uncapped her fountain pen, which she preferred for her own personal writing rather than her laptop. Something about the feel of a pen in her hand and the words appearing on paper kept her centered and in touch with reality and facing the reality before her was going to take a great deal of effort. She thought for a moment and then began to write:

August 29, 2023 – our log cabin on the lake

I don’t know why I wrote the word “our” since there is no longer an “us”. It’s hard for me to believe that not only my Jimmy has gone forever but my entire family as well.

She quit writing and quietly wept because writing those words was like smacking herself in the face with a bat—the reality of her situation really hitting home. Where do I begin, she thought as she undid the chain’s clasp, which was holding the gold heart-shaped locket around her neck. As she looked at the photos inside the locket, her husband on one side and her on the other, the tears continued to slide down her cheeks and dribble off her chin. She remembered that day vividly, their wedding day, when Jimmy had not only placed a gold wedding band on her finger but also slipped the necklace over her head. After she laid it next to the open journal she began to write:

Not sure why I’m writing anything since it’s not likely anyone will ever read these words. However, perhaps it may help bring me some stability and keep me in touch with my sanity—not sure what will happen—if I lose it. Whatever life I had before has totally vanished, and when I think about my circumstances, it’s probably the same for everybody. But there is no comfort being in the same lifeboat with a lot of other survivors on an endless sea watching your ship sinking beneath the waves and knowing no one is coming to the rescue.

I’m worried about returning from Edmonton empty handed, so I’ve been going through everything inside the cabin and taking inventory. I’m not sure, even though a rifle and a .22 are hanging over the fireplace and a couple of fishing rods are handy, if they will do me much good since I’ve never really been much for fishing or hunting—that was Jimmy’s thing. Actually, as soon as I finish writing, I’m going to try and catch a fish—a fresh rainbow trout would be delicious for dinner.

Although Calgary has been destroyed, perhaps things are not quite as bad as I’m imagining unless Canada is being invaded by Russia or the US—yeah—I mention our neighbor's below because it seems their economy has always been based on war and with resources running drastically low all over the world, this country would be easy pickings for them, especially since we’ve never really had a major military force.

Jimmy had warned me that something like this might happen, but like an ostrich, I put my head in a hole and refused to acknowledge the possibility. Now, as I sit here, I should have listened to him and we could have prepared this place for such an outcome. But who would have thought things would ever get this bad?

I guess in a way, I’m one of the lucky ones. I’m so glad that my dad enjoyed flying and he often took me with him in his Cessna that’s tied to the dock. If it hadn’t been for him, I never would have learned to fly. Jimmy liked flying as well but he had no interest in getting his pilot’s license. God, I sure miss him!

Time to put the journal aside, I can’t afford to feel maudlin and depressed.

After a couple of days passed by without reaching anyone on the ham radio, Sheila decided to fly to Edmonton. As soon as the mooring lines were untied, she pushed the Cessna away from the dock and fired up the engine, the big propellor soon rippling the surface of the lake. When the seaplane was facing into the slight breeze, she opened the throttle, the pontoons soon skimming across the water until the plane lifted like a giant bird into the air. Circling once, she waved at the cabin below, the smoke from its chimney disappearing as soon as the plane banked and then headed in a southerly direction.

Within an hour, Sheila thought she was flying into a dark grey cloud, until the aroma of smoke filled her nostrils. Swooping downwards, a break in the smoke revealed the burning city of Edmonton. Although there were many explosions below and fires were running rampant from one end of the city to the other, she didn’t think a nuclear bomb had destroyed it because as far away as the lake was, she probably would have heard the explosion. In any case, even if the Edmonton airport was still intact, there was no use landing and reluctantly, after trying to reach someone on the radio with no result, she turned the Cessna around and headed back to the lake.

Sheila felt very despondent and disappointed as the Cessna glided down to the lake and she taxied it to the dock. Before shutting the engine off, she checked her gauges, especially the fuel gauge. The tank was a little less than half full, barely enough to reach Prince George. But she wasn’t going there, unless she learned that the city hadn’t been destroyed.

September 17, 2023

I’ve flown the Cessna twice since returning from Edmonton with hopes of contacting someone on the radio that was flying in the nearby vicinity but there was only dead air—as dead as the world is becoming to me. Although I’ve managed to catch a few fish and even shot a rabbit, I’m not sure if I’ll be able to survive here alone for a long time. Loneliness can be a death sentence too.

December 25, 2023

Christmas day, and I can honestly say that I’ve had merrier ones. I’ve adjusted to being solo and am actually surviving—who’d of thought? I have no idea how cold it is outside, only know the snow is very deep and that the Cessna is frozen in the ice and I doubt that it will ever fly again. The solar panels are still working, which is a good thing and I’m surviving mainly on fish. I chopped a hole in the ice and use the plane as an ice hut. However, I’m not well. My head feels as if it’s on fire and there’s a strange red rash all over my body. As a matter of fact, I barely have the strength to pick this pen up and wouldn’t be surprised if this is the last entry in my journal.

Suddenly, the cabin door burst open and a man dressed in furs and armed with a short spear entered, flakes of snow blowing in behind him. When his eyes adjusted to the dimness within, he saw someone slumped at a table. On closer observation, he noticed a bony hand holding an open heart-shaped locket and when he finished reading the last journal entry, just my luck he thought, the first woman I’ve seen in over ten years and she’s been dead for almost fifty.