The Grief Team (10 page)

“Call him whatever you like, I guess,” allowed the boy, his blue eyes examining her carefully, “but you can’t have him.”

Cathy’s lips formed a pout. “I don’t want him,” she said petulantly, but she held out her hand anyway and Grey Kitty responded by returning to her. “He is nice. He’s a very pretty Grey Kitty.”  Grey Kitty meowed in complete acceptance of that fact. “What’s your name?”

“Jason.”

“Jason what?”

“No last name.”

Cathy was silent as she assessed this declaration, finally adopting a tentative smile of acceptance. “My name is Cathy Latimer. I’m a Stage Two.” And, as this admission produced no visible reaction from Jason-no-last-name, she continued, “I was stole by Wildkids. There was shooting and my Mother got…dead. My Daddy might have..,” Cathy shook her head furiously. “My Daddy’s alive and he is coming to find me! Slide and Glide made me go with them out of the Mall...and they hurt me too! Only they went for food and they never came back, so I’m going to meet my Daddy because I know he’s searching for me.”

But isn’t my Daddy...no! my Daddy’s coming to find me!

The boy shook his head and began to rub his chest slowly as if to massage away a deep discomfort. “Don’t know Mall people. You’re the first.”

Cathy stopped petting Grey Kitty long enough to wipe fresh tears out of her eyes. It hurt to think about Mummy lying on the floor of the shop in the Mall, her blood leaking onto the cold marble floor in a red puddle. And Daddy had looked all...dead?

“Hungry?” 

Cathy looked at Jason-no-last-name, her eyes bright. “If you give me some food, my Daddy will repay you, I know he will. I’m so hungry and Slide and Glide only gave me a piece of awful fish out of a can they stole. They made me eat it but it was disgusting and oily.”

Jason’s lips wore a glimmer of a smile. “Sardines,” he said, reaching into his backpack.

Cathy, unsure whether she wanted another sar-deen or not, forgot all about them when she saw that what the boy was extending to her was not in a can. Wrapped in plastic, it looked exactly like a sandwich.

“Tuna,” said Jason, by way of explanation. 

Cathy peeled open the wrap and lifted the top slice of fresh white bread. There was a pale, thick mound of what she instantly recognized as tunafish. “I like tunafish!” she said happily, biting into it hungrily and, as she did, remembered her manners and managed a garbled “fank-you”. 

It made him smile a little again and Cathy responded in kind as she ate, pausing several times as she chewed to select a nice chunk of tuna for Grey Kitty, who took it as his just due, politely waiting until she had set it on the ground before him before reaching out and swallowing it in one bite. He followed by cleaning himself as he waited for the two children to make up their minds about what to do next.

When he saw that Cathy had finished the sandwich, Jason stood and extended a thin hand to her. “Have to move. Mulls are hunting out of Square One.”

Cathy frowned. “Mulls?  Mulls won’t hurt us. They have to do what we say.”

“Maybe inside, not here. If the Mulls catch you, they’ll eat you.” 

Again he offered his hand and this time she quickly took it, standing beside him, the top of her head reaching his shoulder. Why were Mulls allowed to eat children?              

“Where... where are they?”

Jason glanced over his shoulder and her eyes followed his, but there were only rows of abandoned houses fallen into decay. “Square One,” he said quietly, raising his right hand and pointing beyond. “Beyond is Oakville Place.”

Cathy nodded. “Mummy and Daddy took me to see Rhonda at the Children’s Mall. That’s where…” Her eyes welled with tears and she fought them back. She looked at her feet, the soft leather buckled shoes had lost their shine. “My feet hurt.”

Jason-no-last-name shrugged thin shoulders and took several deep breaths. Cathy didn’t like the rattling sound which came from deep inside him, but when he was ready, with Grey Kitty in tow, she allowed Jason to lead her out of the rubble, away from the old road and into the weeds and wildgrowth. She followed him for at least a mile, not speaking but feeling a little better about things now that she had made a friend—two friends counting Grey Kitty — and her hunger pangs had subsided for the moment. When she found Daddy, she would ask him to help Jason-no-last-name and make his bad cough better. And she would also ask Daddy why everybody said cats were extinct when it just wasn’t true!

Behind them, twenty minutes later, where Cathy had dropped her sandwich wrapper, two Mulls struggled with each other for the privilege of licking the smell of tuna off plastic film. The winner, who snapped three fingers on his partner’s left hand to gain the trophy, soon tossed it aside and turned back toward Square One. Lashed to his belt, bobbing obscenely against h
is thigh as he walked, were two small heads.

Jason and Cathy walked hand-in-hand, keeping close to the safety of houses where, if need be, they could quickly hide. Grey Kitty kept pace with them, sometimes disappearing from sight for ten minutes at a time, only to turn up ahead of them as if he knew where they were going. In fact, Jason’s destination appeared to be the same as Cathy’s, for he kept the lake on his right, though neither of them could actually see it, and once he said something about being extra careful when they reached the area near SkyDome. 

Hours later, tired and beginning to exhibit a discernible amount of truculence about proceeding further, Cathy was very glad when Jason selected a house from the neighbourhood they were in and led her inside.  Upstairs, they found mouldy blankets in sufficient condition to drag below to use as bedding. Cathy had wanted to sleep on the large bed in the big room upstairs, but Jason had quickly vetoed that, taking more than his usual few words to explain that, if danger came, being upstairs meant being trapped. As it was, he examined every room on the main level before he determined that the kitchen provided, with its two separate exits to the outside, the safest option. There was no sense in looking for canned food, the damaged cupboards and overturned refrigerator spoke of other desperate intruders long before them.  

As Cathy lay down on the mound of smelly blankets, another tuna sandwich in plastic wrapping appeared out of Jason’s pack and she ate it gratefully, remembering to thank Jason this time before she took a bite. The bread was so soft and fresh that the smell of it stayed in her senses long after she had eaten it. She was also careful to offer two large pieces of tuna to Grey Kitty who had staked his claim to the softest area of blanket and was now purring contentedly. Cathy felt a whole lot better, especially because Jason-no-last-name was very nice and didn’t try to boss her. He was smart too about where to go and what to do. Yes, he made her feel a whole lot better and, when the last rays of the red sun filtered through the shadows in the kitchen, Cathy’s eyes closed and she fell into a deep sleep, one arm encircling Grey Kitty who, as it happened, did not mind in the least.

Mutt was what the producers of Countdown to Horror categorized as a terminal Wildkid; completely undisciplined, stupid, and violent. In truth, although only nine-years-old, Mutt had been expressing a natural desire to order his existence for quite some time. There was hap’ness, which meant being on his own and liking it, followed closely by eat  (food), here  (shelter), and onyas  (clothing). Companionship was, as he conceived it, not-alone.  Nastylike  spoke of darker things. For the last three months of his unusual life, he had laid claim to a small section of the old Harbourfront area as his here, discovering as many WK’s had not that the lake provided the only consistently dependable source of food to be found on the Outside. Gollum-like, he excelled at the art of hand-fishing, especially at night under a full red moon.

Mutt, no-last-name, born around the time that the last breath in the body of Dickie Donalato, the Father-of-the-Malls, exhaled in a harsh, abrupt gasp, was the bawling issue of a twelve-year-old girl and a thirteen-year-old boy. Mutt’s parents had long since been removed by the Grief Team and, if they had remained free, no Wildkid ever outlived the radburns so, by his best guess, he knew they had to be dead. He had no idea what they looked like. The oldest WK whom he had ever seen had claimed to be sixteen, but his face had mostly been eaten away. That was only one of the dozens of repugnant sights which little Mutt had viewed, raised as he was by an ever-changing, rag-tag clutch of Kids on the Outside, who had little knowledge of what to do with live babies except to give them food when there was food enough to be spared or to use them as food when there was none. 

Though he should not have survived his first six months, Mutt did, and he continued to thrive despite the best efforts of man and nature to claim him. Passed hand-to-hand, sometimes abandoned for days, Baby Mutt was invincible, escaping death by starvation, death by Grief Team, death by freezing, death by...the catalogue of near-misses was extensive, even though Mutt himself was pleasantly unaware of his uncanny link with survival. 

On occasion, there was violence. Mutt had seen first-hand many times how the Grief Team managed their containment sweeps, arriving lightning-fast in their special buses, cornering the Wildkids before wading in with nets. They caught those they could, and shot those they couldn’t.  Not many Kids got away, but Mutt had. 

Only four months before, he had been surprised by the net which descended on him and which had been impervious to his kicking and biting. Housed in the holding pens in the Dome, he proved to be a quick study. He had been numbered, catalogued, weighed, judged, tested, and otherwise officially dealt with until he had been released to wander through the pens, constantly exploring, always thinking of escape.

His ever-present luck did not fail him. He discovered an escape route through the underground levels, some of  which had been sealed as structurally unsafe after the fall of the C.N. Tower. Wraith-like, Mutt had slipped through cracks and fissures in the concrete, sometimes in total darkness until he emerged scratched, bloody but, most importantly, undetected outside SkyDome. Beholden to no-one, Mutt had not bothered to retrace his difficult route in order to tell the others. He was hap’ness again, that was all that mattered.

In the hot afternoon’s red sun, Mutt’s stringy copper locks were plastered by sweat to his forehead. There was a sleek sheen visible on his dark skin as he crouched silently at the base of a wall of weeds which spanned two chunks of the remains of the collapsed Gardiner Expressway. For many long minutes he had been observing the boy and girl hiding behind the old support column. He had satisfied himself that he need only worry about having to fight the boy, who was taller than Mutt but looked pretty skinny. Mutt had a decent-sized lump of concrete in his left hand and he was 100% effective on a dead aim. The tall boy would get a taste of how dangerous Mutt could be if he was nastylike. 

On the other hand, the two strangers might be willing to share their food if they had any, and Mutt’s nature was not so insular as to assume that ‘lone  was always a pleasant thing to be. Mutt’s eyes widened as the tall boy emerged from the protection of the support column and raised his right hand, pointing directly at... Mutt?

The boy was waving now, signalling that Mutt should come out into the open. In his hand he was holding something...eat?  Not a wet, flapping flapper, not even a dead stiff one. 

Gooder than all!  Sam’wich!

Mutt began to drool, spittle mixing with sweat and snot in a repulsive slime to which he was utterly oblivious. Keeping a tight grip on his chunk of concrete, he slowly rose to his feet, slipping out from behind his ineffectual  cover, and taking tentative steps toward the boy and the little girl who had joined him. Again the sandwich was offered and again Mutt advanced a few steps, now close enough to see that the little girl was holding a big grey cat in her arms. Mutt gawked at it. He had never seen a cat before.

“It’s all right,” said the little girl, breaking the silence. “It’s a good sandwich. Jason gave me one too and I ate it. It’s tunafish!” 

The grey cat meowed in agreement with what the little girl said, and Mutt pulled back, but…tunafish!  Mutt knew that word and loved it dearly.  Two months ago, the last time that Mutt had tasted it, he had stolen a tin from the Rations Centre in Yorkdown Mall, a desperate act that almost cost him his life. The angry red graze that a bullet had burned along the top of his scalp had taken weeks to heal completely. Three bangs of a sharp rock had pierced the tin and Mutt had had his feast, deciding  that tunafish was better than anything he had ever eaten, including buttock. 

The smell was now strong enough in his nostrils to mask his fears but, as he stretched to take the sandwich from the dark-haired, solemn boy, Mutt’s fingers of his other hand were still curling around his chunk of concrete. When the tunafish sandwich was actually in his hand, he immediately retreated ten yards, pushing the sam’wich entirely into his mouth in one piece as he did so.

Cathy couldn’t help gawking at this strange little boy whose ugly radburns stretched vividly on his ballooning cheeks, as yellow teeth laboured hastily, mascerating the food into a manageable paste. His freckles, scattered across his dark features like a handful of old pennies, seemed to dance as he chewed. Moments later, the lump of concrete fell forgotten to the ground.

Jason was standing, thin arms at his sides, patiently waiting; his face calm and composed. Grey Kitty, however, was not of like discipline and he began to squirm in Cathy’s arms as the smell of tunafish became overwhelmingly important. He wriggled from her grasp and approached Mutt directly, no doubt working under the assumption that the generosity of his master and his new little friend would no doubt be repeated by this new arrival. There was also the matter of asserting dominance.

Mutt, who did not like this bizarre, meowling creature, made ready to kick Grey Kitty. His torn running shoe swung back and was already moving forward when Jason spoke.

“Cat is not yours to kick.” Jason’s words, resonating out of his chest with a perceptible wheeze, were enough to cancel Mutt’s intent instantly.  His sharp eyes found Jason’s brighter ones and there was an unspoken message accepted. Mutt shrugged his boney shoulders as if to say that it was a simple mistake, no harm done. He passed a grimy fist across his mouth, removing flecks of tunafish and some of the sticky effluvia of mucous before he turned and scampered away from them. As he reached the wall of weeds, he turned and signalled that they should follow. Then, without looking to see if his invitation had been accepted, Mutt began to wend his way through the detritus, finding openings and passages which to the ordinary eye simply did not exist.

Cathy followed first, her natural, open assumption being that Mutt was now trustworthy and was no danger to Grey Kitty or herself.  With Jason behind her, she squeezed her way through Mutt’s collection of openings, gaps, and hidden entrances.  Grey Kitty, tail high and meowing a futile protest, brought up the rear. 

Jason, Cathy and, finally, an aggrieved Grey Kitty, followed Mutt’s route which took them away from the massive, threatening presence of SkyDome and toward the lake, where they scrambled and scrabbled through the ruins of Harbourfront.  Mutt, who had stayed well ahead of his followers since the beginning, eventually slowed, leading Jason and Cathy and Big Kitty through broken buildings, battered backyards, finally stopping at a weather-worn old boathouse. 

“Homeplace,” Mutt said, pointing proudly, not twenty yards from where the water lapped against the purple loosestrife embedded along the shore of the lake with all manner of infestations of other weeds. Built between two sets of concrete pilings, Mutt’s lair was a nondescript, squalid structure. Mutt was already inside when the others arrived, turning towards them when they entered and greeting them with a wide, gap-toothed grin.

“Fish!” announced Mutt proudly.  “Fish-‘n-spek’n.” Then he abruptly pushed past them and remained absent for quite some time. 

Cathy, whose fascination with this strange little boy with the sweat-soaked red curls, freckles as big as thumbnails, and shining blue eyes, was nearly as intense as her need for sleep, happily sank onto a mound of foul-smelling blankets and was asleep in seconds. Grey Kitty meowed his objections at the entrance several times and then slipped inside as well, curling up in Cathy’s arms, and keeping one eye open. 

Jason remained outside Mutt’s hut, sitting quietly and waiting until  Mutt reappeared, almost an hour later, carrying a large limp object in both hands.

“Sam’on,” crowed Mutt, flashing his yellow teeth. He carried it into the small clearing in front of his home and dropped it beside a blackened, rusted Coleman stove. There he began slipping small twigs and pieces of dry wood under the metal grating which formed the cooking surface. He produced an entire card of matches, lighting the dry bits and pushing them deeper into the grate. With a fire established, Mutt proceeded to cook the salmon as if he knew what he was doing, placing the entire fish on top of the flames and leaving it.

Later, with Cathy and Grey Kitty awake and in attendance in the small clearing, they ate while sitting on flat rocks, balancing hot chunks of salmon on leaves. They ate hastily and with relish, and not without a few yelps when too eager fingers touched too hot salmon. There was enough for all—even Grey Kitty eventually turned away from the tempting remains and set about cleaning himself—and it did well to fill their empty stomachs.

“Eat-nicely!” announced Mutt, obviously pleased with his ability to provide for his guests and feeling a strong sense of not-alone.

“Thank you,” said Cathy, remembering her manners. Then, by way of introduction, “I’m Cathy Latimer and I’m in Stage Two and this is Jason-no-last-name and his Grey Kitty. He’s Jason’s kitty, but I love him too.”

Jason, thus introduced, smiled at his host. “Sharing is good.”

Mutt’s face beamed happiness, his freckles ready to pop into 3D all over his face. He liked these two Kids and, though he didn’t know why, there was a sense of joy in his heart which came out-of-nowhere, fast, and enervating. It was, to be sure, entirely against his nature to be so open and relaxed with strangers, yet he found himself enjoying the experience so much that he leapt up and began speaking rapidly.  Suddenly he spit a rather unhealthy-looking gob of saliva into his palm and then pushed it forward expectantly. He looked at Jason, then Cathy, his bright blue eyes sparkling, gesturing avidly when he finally perceived that his guests were not aware of the correct procedure for sealing friendships. 

Cathy, when she finally understood what Mutt was offering, was delighted to comply and she promptly delivered a healthy shot of spit into her own palm. Jason followed, a wry smile on his otherwise solemn features and, as Mutt directed, each mixed his-her-and-his own expectorant with the others, sliding palms without a glimmer of uneasiness. Mutt then slid his tongue along his palm and licked his lips, a part of the ritual which Jason did also; Cathy following reluctantly with her eyes tightly closed. There was now a palpable, if somewhat disgusting, communal sense that they had sealed the covenant of their friendship.

As darkness fell, the three Outcasts moved into Mutt’s hut where, after some prompting from its owner, Cathy’s story of her tragedy was told, this time telling more than she had remembered or been able to remember through her tears when she had confided in Jason two days before. Even so, it was impossible not to feel her heartache or ignore her tears and Mutt, who understood most of Cathy’s formal Mallspeech but couldn’t (or wouldn’t) speak it himself, was visibly respectful, quietly picking at his radburns as his  eyes scanned the perimeter of his homeplace. Cathy ended her story with a fervent declaration that “My Daddy is Outside right now looking for me with the Grief Team!  When they find us, we’ll all be safe!”

She was not prepared when Mutt suddenly jumped up and began shouting at her. Cathy screamed in fright and Grey Kitty became smoke-in-an-instant. Jason didn’t seem startled, but he slid quickly to Cathy’s side, speaking softly in her ear, calming her and, vicariously, Mutt. While he spoke, Jason looked squarely at their host whose freckles looked like they were about to leap off his face, but Jason’s non-verbal message got through and the freckles appeared to relax. Abruptly Mutt turned and made a show of checking his defences inside and out, listening for the soft whup-whup sound of the engines which always preceded the Grief Team. It was some time before he rather haughtily resumed his place on his stone in his open-air kitchen in his own fuknhomeplace…or so the expression on his face seemed to imply.