Borrowed Time
#8 of The Getaway (Thriller)
Borrowed Time
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Another little chapter here. Hope you guys are still intrigued by this story! Leave me comments, if you like!
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The sky was turning dark by the time we finally sighted the house from the lake. We were tired, covering in sweat, cold from any part of our bodies where the chill could touch us. It was obvious that. I was completely spent upon trudging to the yard. It'd become perfectly obvious that any kind of unusual physical exertion was going to take a massive toll on both of us with the kind of food we were eating at the moment. I ached, and I was hungry, even though we'd stopped on the way back to eat some fish I'd cooked last night and wrapped for us. We didn't touch the stuff from the cabin, even though the temptation was great.
We didn't talk much, either. Maybe both of us needed some time to digest the day, the fact we'd actually left the house, the walk, the cabin, the radio broadcast. Ken's initial excitement had only been calmed down by the breathless walk across the ice and snowscape of the lake and the forest. He was too breathless, I guess. I didn't blame him.
"We're home!" I enthused.
"It feels like we've walked all day..." Ken huffed.
"Technically, we have," I said. "Time to rest now, once we've gotten all the stuff in and got a fire going and all the housekeeping done."
Ken's weary sigh was something I empathized with, but there really could not be real rest before we had it all dealt with. Firewood, brushing of snow from fur, shoes and the floor, arranging of new supplies, folding of plastic bags for re-use, tending to the fire in the living room to get some warmth, heating of water, preparation of dinner...it was truly dark before we could finally settle onto our usual places by the fire. Its glow provided both the light and the warmth we needed, along with the blankets and pajamas we wore.
I was simply sitting and enjoying the rest. Ken had the radio over his folded knees and was adjusting the tuning wheel to try and get reception. The constant buzz and hiss of the white noise kept my ears flicking.
"Just remember not to keep doing that for too long," I told him again, "there's no knowing how long those batteries will last."
"You said we should try now because it's 7 pm," he said, "you said that's when the news are broadcast."
"I'm sure they're broadcast at every hour but yes, it makes sense to try when they're most likely to send anything with real information on it. But it's past seven now."
"I guess it is," he replied, squinting as he tried to make the most minute of adjustments, which only produced an annoying scratching noise. Even Ken's ears drooped with displeasure at this.
"We got that signal...heard those news..." he muttered to himself, fingers on the wheel, "we heard things..."
"Maybe we're simply out of range again," I suggested, "maybe a transmitter is down and this area simply isn't covered. Or maybe they aren't transmitting anything at this moment."
"I don't know..." he made a face," maybe the antenna isn't strong enough. Could we make it more powerful somehow?"
I imagined a contraption of coat hangers being held in the air by me while Ken fondled the radio buttons.
"Maybe," I said, "but we have to save those batteries. Maybe you should stop for now."
He made another desperate turn of the wheel, but only managed to produce some high-pitched whines from the speaker. That demoralized him enough to turn the power off and push in the telescopic antenna.
"I was sure we were going to hear something," he shook his head.
"We can try again tomorrow", I said.
Ken put the radio to the side before he sprawled onto his side of the pile of mattresses and pillows and blankets. His tail flopped around restlessly, even while the rest of him was still.
"I really hoped we'd hear something more," he said. "Music, maybe. I miss music."
This was one of his favorite things to complain about, in terms of our isolated existence. All the songs in his phone's memory had been listened over and over again, on his earbuds. Now there was nothing he couldn't hum or sing along to. He craved something new. I knew the feeling myself. I juts didn't speak about it. I just agreed and nodded.
"Maybe we'll get lucky tomorrow, if it's a nice, clear day."
"I hope so," he said.
The fire crackled.
"Do you think they still publish Billboard?"
I chuckled.
"Why not?"
"Well, I don't know, almost everything's been suspended, right?"
"Yeah..."
"So, if music studios are closed, how can they make new music?"
"There's always music waiting to be published, I guess?" I proposed. "So they ought to be fine with a bit of a backlog being pushed out."
"Makes sense," he yawned.
"Perhaps."
"Do you remember that benefit concert?"
"Which one of them?" I asked. "I thought there were several."
"The one with the video link to the President and all...for Bangladesh?"
"Ah, right," I nodded heavily. "Was it before Montreal got infected and Canada went mad?"
"I think so," his tail continued its slow, swaying movements, "it didn't take long before they were reporting cases all over the country."
"Do you remember the first one?"
"Which one do you mean"?
"The one that was in the news," Ken said, "the one who came from...India, was it...somewhere in India, on business, and then got sick a few days later and..."
"Ah, yeah, that one," I said, "back when they'd still put police tape everywhere, and track everyone, and...all the frenzy."
"When it still made news," Ken said. "Wonder if it's changed at all."
"Probably," I said. "They're probably more and more quiet about it, though."
"What do you mean?"
"Do you think they want to hear again and again how many furs have died this time around?" I said. "Do you remember how they reported every rise of a hundred deaths in India? Then it became thousands and suddenly the news just said that the numbers were rising, no hard numbers."
His whiskers shook with his breath.
"There must be so many now," he said. "Even if they said on the radio that there are fewer cases of the fulminant disease."
Such vocabulary, I thought, such big words to put into the minds of small furs like us. We weren't important. We weren't doctors. And we were concerned with such distinctions as 'pulmonary', 'fulminant', and 'mild clinical' , strange incantations like that.
"It's difficult to think about it," I said.
We were quiet for a moment.
"I don't like thinking about it," he said, "but sometimes I do."
We looked at each other.
"Me too," I said.
"But I think it's best we...just think, and not talk about it," he said.
"Maybe for now," I said.
"Time will come," I said, "best not to...waste time doing it now."
"What else do we have but time?"
Whether this was just borrowed time that was staving off the inevitable, was hard to tell.
I smiled and crawled along the mattress until I could curl up next to him and press my nosepad onto his ruffled mane that still smelled a bit of soap from his wash on a shared pail of water.
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Thank you for reading!