What of the Rain
There are Biters in my woods.
I am crouching on a hillock, binoculars in hand and rifle at my side as I watch my uninvited guests. There are five of them, three men and two women, split across a couple of canoes and a kayak. From their large bags and coolers, it looks like they’re here for some back country camping.
I’d groaned when I saw their cars on my remote monitoring camera that morning. Surely it was too early in the season? Thusly had I ended up spending the early hours of the day hiding in the bush and watching the river, swatting mosquitoes and wishing I was still ensconced in bed. But at least now I know where they are.
They don’t look dangerous. They all appear to be in their mid-twenties. Probably young professionals from Vancouver, venturing off the beaten path. And, if they caught a whiff of me, crazed Infected who would not relent until they’d gotten their teeth into my succulent flesh.
They paddle past. Through my binoculars I can see them shouting and laughing, the sound carrying faintly to my hiding place. The kayaker mischievously sends a spray of water over one of the canoes, causing cries of anger and amusement.
They remind me of my friends. One of the guys looks a lot like my brother. One of the girls reminds me of Jeanie. We hadn’t been big campers, but we’d liked to have bonfires in the woods, drinking beers and roasting hotdogs. My brother had died in the outbreak. Jeanie had become a social media influencer after she was bitten – I creep her profile every now and then.
I put the binoculars around my neck and hoist my rifle. It didn’t look like they were going to camp nearby, but it was probably best to avoid any fires for the next couple of weeks.
As I walk home, I zigzag through the familiar forest to check my traps. The first two snares are empty, but, to my delight, I find a fat cony in the third. Whistling tunelessly, I arrive at the chateau.
Finding the chateau had probably been the luckiest break of my life. When I’d been preparing to flee into the wilderness, I had done some quick research on my new home to be. In my googling, I’d come across an old forum post about an abandoned cabin in the woods near the river. Armed only with a grainy photo, I’d miraculously found it. A bit of a fixer-upper, but now it is warm and comfortable. Home sweet home, for all that it looks like a hillbilly murder shack with a satellite dish.
I butcher the rabbit on my workbench. As I prepare the strips of meat I glance longingly at my home-made smoker. A luxury I must forgo for a week or two. Instead, I apply a curing rub and hang the strips under a fly net. I prep some bread dough and then rev up the generator. Fuel is running a bit low. I need to add propane to my order. Tasks complete, I head into my boudoir.
Because of the morning’s distractions, I had yet to earn my daily dollar. Against one wall I had a couple of monitors connected to my old laptop. I boot up and sit down on my hand-crafted stump, flexing my knuckles.
Time to play some poker.
I had only really learned to play after the Biter plague, but from what I’d read, your average low-stakes North American Biter was just as bad as their Unbitten counterparts had been. At $2 tables I maintained a steady 5bb/100 (or about $10/100 games). Given that I played four tables and averaged about three hundred games an hour, my hourly earnings were actually higher than they’d been in my old job as an admin assistant, though I could only maintain focus for two to three hours a day. Not that I had more hours to spare – living off-grid is time consuming.
After wrapping up my final games, I open my shopping list. Fuel, dry foods, soap, a new water filter, candles, a new mystery novel, and beer. Lots of beer. Time to send the order to Carlos.
Carlos is my supply guy, and I would not have survived off-grid these past years without him, for all that I had never met the man. Carlos was one of those Biters who bore little resemblance to his former self. He used to work at a local news station as a sports reporter. After being bitten he’d split with his wife and become a private courier, avoiding human contact almost as much as I did. He had a cult following on the reddit thread where I found his info.
I send him this month’s list. He always sets the date and time; there’s nothing in my schedule that can’t be moved to another day. Then I sit for a quiet moment. “I should really turn the generator off.” I murmur to myself. I am already in rationing territory, especially if Carlos schedules the delivery later than usual.
Instead, I watch streamers on twitch. My favourite is this woman named Lakisha, who mostly does these stream of consciousness chats. I open her page and luxuriate in the sound of her voice. She’s saying something about consumerism and sustainability. My mind wanders, my eyes close.
I’m sitting across from Lakisha. We’re eating cheese and drinking wine. I make a joke; she laughs and touches my shoulder. I stare into her eyes, admiring their deep brown depths. We both lean forward. My pulse quickens.
Then she sniffs the air. Her eyes narrow, her jaw slackens. She draws in a rattling breath. I try to pull away, but her hand has grabbed my wrist. She lunges forward with a snarl, her teeth latching onto my throat….
I startle awake with a gasp.
Lakisha is a Biter, of course. Hardly any non-Biters left. There were a few enclaves, here and there. Some governments had set up reserves and transportation programs. I don’t trust them. Unbitten protection programs are widely viewed as a waste of money by Bitten citizens. Most sites are under-resourced, and there had been more than one reported incident of Biters sneaking onto reserves and causing an outbreak.
So, very little Unbitten content available online. Which was fine. Biters are basically just people, after all.
Probably.
I glance at the clock. Shit! It had been three hours. I rush outside and turn off the generator. It is starting to cool, and dark clouds are sweeping in from the north. I have to hurry and finish my chores. Bag the meat, grab clothes from the line, get new water from the river (cautiously!), top up the water filter, and by the time the first drops are falling I am under the awning stoking a small fire beneath my camp oven to bake bread. It makes a tiny bit of smoke, but not near enough to be visible above the tree line.
I’ve always loved the rain. The quiet percussion on the roof, the feel of drops on my skin. My parents had been fond of telling friends and family about how as a child I would just go out and stand in the downpour, face to the heavens and hands outstretched ‘like Christ on the cross’.
“But don’t you love the sun more?” My brother once asked me, after I came in soaking wet. “Rain makes you damp and cold and sick!”
“And the sun can burn you.” I had rejoindered. “Let me have my rain.”
The memory is like a hot ember in my chest, a burning ache radiating from my heart. And yet, I can’t help cradling the vision of my brother’s face, already studious and stern at the ripe age of ten.
I finish baking the bread and eat it with home-made jerky and garden vegetables. The downpour steadily increases around me, my awning a dim island in the storm. I closed my eyes, savoring the smell and sound. Then I retreat inside, nestling into the mess of pillows and blankets propped up on pallets that I use for a bed.
But, even with the comforting rhythm of the rain, I can’t sleep.
The campers haunt me. The sound of their laughter rings in my ears.
I sometimes forget to be lonely, out in the woods. Just staying afloat takes most of my energy. But, in the dark, I cannot escape my own thoughts.
I remember sitting around the fire with my friends, drinking and singing and laughing together. I remember going on road trips with my parents or going with a date to the movies. I think about how I have not touched another human being in five years.
Researchers say that loneliness is like smoking fifteen cigarettes a day. On nights like this I can feel it. My chest aches. I can hardly breath. I let out a whine, then a wracking sob. I want to scream. I want to scream, and I want someone to come find me.
I try to focus on my breathing, to reign in my wayward mind. But pain begets pain. More memories well up, of the plague. It started in India, but it spread so rapidly the world hardly had time to react. Once bitten, victims would develop a temperature within days, sometimes even hours. Then they would fall into a feverish sleep. When they awoke, they were Biters. Biters were like people, really, except the smell of Unbitten humans sent them into a mad frenzy to place a big juicy bite somewhere on their prey’s body. The disease itself killed remarkably few people. Far more died from military suppression or infected bites.
Or, at least, the disease killed remarkably few bodies.
Biters themselves do not really understand the disease that created them. In fact, most Biters seemed remarkably uninterested in the disease at all, barring select members of the academic community. For whatever reason, though, being bitten changes you. For some, these changes are small. A new favourite food, a new hobby, a new haircut. For others, such as Carlos or Jeanie, the change was more dramatic. Either way, the newly Bitten seemed mostly indifferent about whether these changes constituted any sort of loss.
I had long discarded the idea that the disease was some sort of alien consciousness supplanting the original mind. There had not been any kind of victory lap or grand restructuring of the social order. Hell, many Biters were still nostalgic for the eighties! But still, the idea of being bitten terrified me. To fall asleep as yourself and wake up… different. Was that not a kind of death?
I remember monitoring the spread of the disease on the news. Each country followed the same pattern. First, panic. The military would struggle to contain the infection. Scenes of terrified soldiers shooting at charging hordes of the Bitten. Then silence, followed by a terrible tranquility. Bitten politicians would come on the air, talking about the dead and injured like a party had gotten out of hand, assuring other countries that violently suppressing the plague was unnecessary, that it was easiest to just let the disease run its course.
Astonishingly, this did little to reassure the Unbitten.
The first cases appeared in North America within weeks of the initial outbreak. I saw the future and, after failing to persuade any of my friends and family to accompany me, fled into the forest with a few essentials. I didn’t tell anyone where I was going, because I knew they’d all be Biters within weeks.
Or, as it turned out, within days.
I can’t stem the flow of memories. I’m hyperventilating, lightheaded. I writhe and contort, powerless before my own thoughts.
In those early days I was always cold and hungry, rationing my supply of rice and granola bars while scrambling to set up serviceable shelter. I had no internet access, but every few days I would travel down to the viewing station for cell service.
At first, I was inundated with messages. A brief spat of texts and recordings telling me that I was overreacting. Nervous affirmations that the military would hold the eastern front. Panicked requests to join me in the wilderness.
Then, a text from my brother. Three words.
I love you.
After that message, silence.
Eventually, months later, I received a phone message from my parents. Come home. Things have settled down. The disease is harmless. I never respond. Months later, on Facebook, I saw they’d divorced.
Sleep must have come for me at some point because the next thing I know is the buzzing of my alarm clock. I usually wake before it goes off. Bleary, still rung out from last night’s panic attack, I fumble with it until the noise stops.
It’s Sunday. Sunday is my day off. No poker, minimal chores. A day to rest, to read, to do whatever I feel like. This morning I feel in desperate need of therapy. I rev the generator and turn on my computer.
I use one of those online conversation services. My therapist is named Marta, and I’ve been talking to her for about two years.
“I had a really bad night.” I write.
I am surprised when she immediately responses. “I have some time this morning. Tell me about it.”
I’d communicated with several therapists, before I’d settled for Marta. I had never used therapy, prior to the plague, and I was still not entirely sure what constituted success. But, at the end of the day, it was nice to have someone to talk to.
“I saw some people yesterday. They remind me of friends I lost during the transition.”
“That must have been hard. I know you lost some important friends in that time.”
“Yeah. I couldn’t shut my mind off.”
“It’s important not to beat yourself up. It was a traumatic time for many people. I know sometimes it probably doesn’t feel like it, but you are doing an excellent job maintaining a normal life after what you went through.”
Marta thought I still worked as an executive assistant.
“It doesn’t feel normal. Sometimes it feels like I’m barely holding things together.”
“It’s ok to feel that way. Though I do want you to know, I think you are doing well.”
“Thank you.”
“How can I best help you right now? Do you want to tell me more about your night?”
So, I talk. About the memories of my friends and family, the chaotic ‘transition’, and the intense loneliness that I’d experienced after seeing the campers.
“We’ve previously talked about going out and meeting new people. Have you tried that at all?”
“No. I still find that really difficult to do.”
A long pause.
“I know that you’ve pushed back on this before, but I would still encourage you to explore medication. For many people in your position, it can be quite helpful.”
I close the chat window. It probably isn’t very mature of me to do so, but I can’t help it. I’d been very clear with Marta that I wasn’t interested in medication. Surely it is some kind of medical malfeasance to press patients to take medication they don’t want?
What I really need, I decide, is a drink. And maybe some fishing. I weigh the risk of fishing with campers around and decide it is acceptable. They’d just arrived, and I’d be able to spot them if they came down river.
I had, with a great deal of sweat, blood and tears, dug a root cellar in a small cliff near my home. Here I stored my sundry vegetables, pickling supplies, dried meats, and my large stock of alcohol. I grab a couple of beers and my fishing tack before meandering over to the river.
I have an inflatable dinghy that I use to pick up deliveries. Sometimes I take it out into the river and drop anchor to fish. My favourite spot for fishing, however, is a rocky ledge on the riverbank. It has this perfect sloped seat where I can comfortably rest and while away the hours. Even better, it is obscured by trees on both sides. I can see someone coming from either direction, but it is nearly impossible for them to see me. I set up my tack, crack open one of the beers, and cast out my line.
The cool morning warmed rapidly and soon I shed my coat and boots. The fish aren’t biting but I don’t really care. I cast and retrieve the line meditatively, my mind blessedly silent after a night of ceaseless noise. As the river babbles below me, I drift into a peaceful sleep.
“…hey… Hey!”
I startle upright.
“Nice spot you’ve got there.”
There’s a man in a kayak looking directly at me, yelling and waving. I automatically wave back, and then the bottom drops out of my stomach.
A Biter. I am less than a hundred meters from a Biter.
“You camping out here? You see my friends yesterday?”
For a moment I panic. But he clearly hasn’t caught my scent. We are just two weekend campers saying ‘hi’ in passing. I give him a thumbs up.
“Thanks friend, enjoy your fishing! Maybe we’ll see you round.”
I wave as he continues upstream, heart hammering. Maybe I should stay away from the river for a bit.
I spend the rest of the day outside my cabin, drinking beer and trying to read. I can’t focus, however. That was the first time a Biter had seen me. I’d slipped up, badly. If he’d been closer to the shore, he might have caught my scent. I could even now have been infected with the Biter plague, my mind slowly eroding under the onslaught of the disease.
Damage assessment. I am probably ok. The guy had thought I was just another backcountry camper. He had no reason to report me, or to suspect I was an Unbitten in hiding. I should stay alert for the next few weeks, double-check my emergency supplies, but the biggest risk was probably over-reacting.
My gut, unimpressed with my reasonable assessment, continues to do backflips and cartwheels. It also doesn’t help that both my brain and my stomach are struggling with the five beers I’d consumed.
Shit. That had been too close.
Should I have taken extra precautions that evening? Maybe. But there is only so much you can do to safeguard yourself from misfortune, only so much vigilance and steel a soul can muster.
The next morning, I’m cutting firewood. I chop wood like I used to play tennis, each stroke accompanied by a grunt as I vent the anxiety built up inside of me. Then, I hear sounds. Rustling foliage and cracking branches. Muffled voices, drawing closer. For a moment I freeze. Then I dash to my cabin, maintaining just enough presence of mind to close the door gently behind me.
They arrive moments later. “Woah, man, look at this place!” I recognize the deep voice of yesterday’s kayaker. “I thought they were just camping out like us. Looks like they’re some kind of crazy wood hermit!”
“We should go Dave.” His companion said nervously. “This looks like the set of a horror movie.”
“Come on dude, we came all the way out here. Hey! Is anybody home? We wanted to invite you to join us for dinner, seeing as we’re in the same neck of the woods!”
They must have docked at the inlet where I kept my boat and followed the sound of my chopping. But they hadn’t caught my scent yet. Maybe I can still salvage this. After a moment’s hesitation, I shout “Get off my property!”
“Holy shit!” Dave’s friend exclaims. “Sorry, we’ll leave.”
“Hey, chill Joe. There’s no need to be rude. We just thought you might want some grub.”
It is hard to judge, but it sounds like they are ten to fifteen meters away. I grab my rifle and poke it through the door. “Get out of here or I’ll shoot you!”
They both shout in alarm. “Woah man! Ok, we’re going, what the fuck! We were just… we were just….” Dave’s voice trails off.
“Dave, what are you…”
Then everything goes tits up.
Something rams into the door with a slavering growl. I fall back, pressing myself against the wall of my shallow room.
“Dave! Shit, they’re a Puritan! Dave, snap out of it!”
Dave isn’t in a listening mood. The door shakes as he slams himself into it again and again. It isn’t going to last. I had built it to keep out the cold, not a Biter in heat.
The gun. I fumble with it for a moment, then pull back the bolt, trembling fingers miraculously sliding bullets into place. Bolt forward, pushing the first bullet into the chamber. I take a firing stance, rifle pointing at the door. After a moment’s pause, I click the safety off.
The door, exceeding all expectations, continues to hold as Dave throws himself against it. It is unlocked, but a raging Biter has little concept of such things. Joe continues to shout but it sounds like he’s moved further away.
Another impact. The door, deciding it has had enough, bounces open. I fire, the stock ramming against my shoulder, the sound of the shot echoing in my ear. Joe screams.
I missed. Dave had hit the door so hard that he’d fallen on his back. For a moment he writhes on his back in berserk apoplexy while I gape in terror.
Dave remembers that he has feet at the same moment I remember I have a gun. He rolls forward, momentarily on all fours; eyes locked on me. I pull on the bolt, slotting in the next round. He leaps….
His head snaps back in a spray of blood as my shot takes him between the eyes. I sag in relief.
“Dave!”
But this isn’t over.
I dash outside. Joe is just visible in the bush, staring at his dead friend in horror. “Oh god. You killed him!”
I raise my rifle.
“No! No!” He ducks just as I fire, the bullet flying harmlessly into the bush. Then he’s sprinting towards the river. I give chase, head ringing, rifle against my chest.
I catch up with him at the inlet. He is desperately fumbling their canoe into the water, his breaths rapid and shallow. He sees me. His pupils are so dilated that I can’t see his irises.
“Please let me go.”
I cock the gun. He freezes. We stare at each other, and then he closes his eyes.
“We were just going to invite you for dinner.” He mumbles.
I finger the trigger.
I can’t do it.
The moment stretches out. Joe, realizing he isn’t dead, resumes pulling out the canoe.
But I can’t let him escape.
I jump down onto the rocky beach and walk towards him. He stops at the crunch of gravel.
“No. No, don’t do this, just let me… just let… me…” He trailed off, his face slackening. Then, his entire body tenses. The tendons on his neck bulge. A growl wells up from his chest. He lets go of the canoe and takes a step towards me.
It is an easy shot.
* * *
When society’s desire to consume me was merely a metaphor for capitalism, I was a big list maker. If I was having trouble getting started on something, I would break a task down into all its component parts to make it more manageable.
Hide the two bodies in the root cellar – check.
Collect emergency supplies – check.
Trigger emergency protocols with Carlos – check.
Prepare boat for departure – check.
Abandon my home of five years, alongside most of my possessions – in progress.
I stare at my little cabin, cluttered with all the familiar tools of my life. Now a murder shack in truth. Just two nights ago I had wept with loneliness. How I envied my foolish former self, for at least they had had a roof over their head. Now I had to pay for their indulgent foolishness. Much like my future self would pay for mine if I didn’t get a move on. Shouldering my pack, I walk towards the river.
The emergency protocol is simple. I had paid Carlos $5,000, and he guaranteed that, for another $10,000, he would deliver a car stocked with food and water to the viewing point parking lot within twenty-four hours. Hopefully that is fast enough. It won’t be long before the campers find their friends.
After warily surveying the water, I cast off. The current carries me rapidly downstream. If anyone came up the other way, I’d have little opportunity to avoid them. Fortunately, no new backcountry campers appear as I drift down.
I pull onto shore a few kilometers upstream of the viewing point and pat my trusty boat goodbye. Then I fight my way through the brush until I see the parking lot through the trees. No movement, just the three cars that belong to the campers. I set up a tarp out of sight and settle down to wait.
Hours later, after the sun had set, I awake to the sound of engines. Peeking out at the parking lot, I see the headlights of two cars pulling in. The sound of doors opening and closing, and then one car drives away.
I wait warily for a moment, contemplating the possibility that Carlos might have turned me over to the police. But such worries are foolish. Not because it couldn’t happen, but because I am bereft of other options. Seeing no movement, I ran to the car.
Shining my flashlight on my new steed, I find an old black Subaru. The door is unlocked, the keys are in the glove compartment. In the back seats I find boxes of food and water, just as promised. Carlos: my hero. I throw my bag in the back seat and sit behind the wheel. There is even a map on the dash.
As I start the engine it occurs to me that I haven’t driven a car in five years. Just like riding a bike though, right? After a couple lurching steps on the gas, I’m bumping along the backcountry road.
I am on the highway within half an hour. Having spent the last half-decade away from civilization, the intervening distance had grown in my mind, but the lookout is only about fifteen kilometers off the beaten track.
The closest reserve of Unbitten is in northern Alberta. I could probably make it there within thirty-two hours if I pushed hard. But I won’t. I’ll drive carefully, keep away from cities and towns, and then camp out near the reserve for a few weeks before seeking entry. It won’t take them long to find the bodies, and I don’t want to make it too obvious I am the murderer.
When my eyes began to droop on that empty midnight road, I pull onto a side street and find a small turnpoint in which to park. I sleep, somehow, only to be awoken in short order by the first rays of dawn.
I turn back onto the highway, desperately craving coffee. Even in those early hours I soon share the road with dozens of other cars, a lone Unbitten in a crowd of Biters. I try to focus on my breathing in a desperate bid to control my heart rate.
Eight hours later, as I approach the BC-Alberta boarder, I am spent. So is my gas tank. I find a remote birth to look at my map. There is a small town up ahead. Dawson’s Creek. I quickly formulate a plan. I’ll go in the evening, find a 24/hour gas station. Fortunately, I had instructed Carlos to pack several pre-paid credit cards. In the meantime, I nap.
As soon as the sun has set I am back on the road. It is raining gently, the droplets spattering against the windshield. A boon–it will help mask my scent.
At this late hour the town is all but deserted. It only takes me fifteen minutes to find a 24/hour gas station at the edge of town. It takes an additional thirty minutes of surveillance to work up the nerve to pull in. The light is on inside, and I see the cashier snoozing on the counter. No one else is in sight.
After a few clumsy back and fourths, I align my car next to the gas pump. A final quick scan to confirm no one is around, and I set foot on city soil for the first time in five years.
I lift the gas nozzle. Stare blankly at my filler cap. Then I’m back in the car frantically searching for the release button. Finally, I remember it is beside the seat. I dither a few more seconds over fuel types before settling on regular.
I hear the footsteps too late. Hands grab my shoulder. Teeth sink into my neck.
I gasp. I scream. I elbow my assailant in the stomach. He backs off with a wheeze of pain. But the damage is already done.
He’s an old man, draped in a big baggy coat and sporting a wild unkempt beard. His hands are raised defensively, his expression frightened. “I’m sorry, didn’t mean to! I was just going to ask for some change!”
Before I can respond someone shouts, “Get away from them!” The sound sends the old man scuttling down the sidewalk. The gas station clerk appears at my side. “Are you ok? Did he do something to you?
I tilt the bitten side of my neck away from him. “No. No, he didn’t do anything. He just startled me.”
I wave away his offer to call the police. I pay for my gas. I drive out of the parking lot. The bite throbs malevolently.
Had this always been inevitable? I had fought for so long. Just yesterday I had killed two men. And now… I am Bitten.
My map shows an overlook about an hour out of town. I make my way there and park by the side of the road. Consider scuttling the car to spite my future self, but ultimately refrain. Scramble up the short muddy trail to the lookout, struggling over roots and rocks by the faint glow of my flashlight.
I reach the bluff. The contours of the landscape are all but invisible below. The stars are mostly hidden, though the moon shines faintly through the cloud cover. I sit down on the wet grass and wait for the dawn.
Wait for the end.
I think about my life. About the struggles of the past five years. About happier times when I lived amongst friends and family. I think about my first job, my first kiss. All the places I’d meant to travel. All the things I’d meant to do.
I feel the fever start to creep in, an almost comforting heat in the cold rain. My thoughts drift as the world around me brightens, the first hints of dawn illuminating the landscape. I can see Peace River below me, trees stretching out in all directions. Birds call out, insects buzz.
I’m on my back. The fever has intensified. Now the rain on my skin is my only relief. I’m falling into myself as the world drifts away…
* * *
It’s afternoon. Rain is still falling, though I can see cloud break across the river.
I sit up. I sneeze. I take stock.
The wound on my neck is tender and swollen from where the homeless man had bit me. I should have had the cashier call the cops. Could HIV be transmitted via bite? I should make a doctor’s appointment as soon as possible.
I’m also starving. I should go to a restaurant. Get a big juicy steak. No more living off rabbit food and lean game for me.
Is this what I’ve been running from, all this time? How… foolish. This wasn’t death. This was renewal. I can rejoin society. Get a job. Find a partner. What a waste of five years, living in the forest as I had.
I peel myself off the ground, shivering in the wind. I slip and slide my way down the path to my car, stripping off my soggy layers and putting on new clothes.
Sunlight breaks through the clouds. I bask in the warm rays.
How foolish I had been, to love the rain.