My team of three dogs, roped and bonded, ride for speed on the solid block of ice that is now the Atlantic. They haven’t eaten in days, yet, they pull the kicksled across Ocean City, Virginia Beach, and Myrtle Beach, to plant possibilities. We departed my family’s barren farm to not be the end of the line. Although, weeks contemplating humanity’s discarded cigarette packs and frozen plastic bottles make me wonder if it isn’t time to let Mother Nature start anew.
Terry Crews is the lead dog, an eight-year-old Alaskan Malamute bred for paws that grip like chainsaws. He pulls the depleting supplies through tuffets of snow, away from our home in Maine where the wild blueberries ceased growth. I named him after actor Terry Crews because he loves yogurt and flexing.
We slide through vacant towns and glide down highways praying to find the smoke of existence, but humanity has been extinguished. The wind sweeps the frozen ocean like a tidal wave. Winter has found its home. Each snowflake captures the space of what was once living.
Every few hours we stop the kicksled and dig through the snow, into the frozen ground to plant our few remaining seeds. We sow four seeds per hole to increase the specie’s odds, in case some are dead. Among the remaining sprouts, the strongest should be chosen and the others should be killed so they don’t fight for space and weaken the group. We won’t be staying long enough to observe if anything breaks through; we’re merely passing the torch.
Back left dog is Aubrey Plaza, a four-year-old Black Lab. If dogs could smile, she wouldn’t. She tolerates me, understands this is for the future, but she resists digging. Instead, she glares and cracks jokes about the end of the world — at least I think they’re jokes.
Back right dog is Guy Fieri, a seven-year-old papillon with blonde tips and a dark goatee. If I didn’t have him in back, he’d jump in the basket with our supplies, allowing the others to haul him. We left Flavortown when the spices died. Papillons were named after butterflies because of the way their hair wings from their ears. I used to have a Monarch Waystation at the farm. Milkweed, cosmos, and stonecrop would attract them and encourage pollination.
Some nights I’m the last to fall asleep in the caves we discover like tourist traps. I watch the pups battling to keep their eyes open, always on guard. I wrestle with the past, knowing my quest is their burden. I cry for every ball I’ve thrown which they eagerly returned. The pups run in their dreams and I can only imagine what they’re chasing. I used to think humans could do no wrong. It’s laughable, remembering those rescue bumper stickers, Who Saved Who? Now I know that years can translate differently for various life forms. Earth being measured in dog years.
I howl every sad song into the wind as we glide over vacation destinations. I wonder if this is right — this tussle we preserve instead of conceding to the cold. We continue to push, but our strength matches our supply, lessening with each stop. Seeds depended upon wind to scatter across the country and reproduce, like birds migrating. People weren’t prepared to be self-sufficient. The store shelves dwindled like a shattered hourglass. My team carries peas like little planets dried and shriveled, carrots as thin as needles ready to draw blood, and corn kernels that only grow well in groups to help each other germinate. This burlap sack might be the last vegetables left.
Snow hasn’t quit and it’s July in Georgia. The wind is traveling faster than a car, before they became frozen icebergs to dodge. We arrive at a clearing. I untether the dogs and proceed to dig, but they only observe me. I slip on the ice and whack my knees hard, crumbling to the ground. I lay face-down, the powder warming me. Terry nudges me with his wet nose. Guy stands on my back like a masseuse. I want to award them what’s left of the seed, to last them a few more days. They could have me if they wished. Aubrey appears hopeful for a change. Are we really the last cavalry? The last before the next inhabitants emerge to a fresh beginning? Terry nudges me again as if to say, We’re a team. As if to say, Go on. Aubrey scratches the frozen earth, creating a hole to bury the past.
Corey Miller was a finalist for the F(r)iction Flash Fiction Contest (’20) and shortlisted for The Forge Flash Competition (’20). His writing has appeared in Booth, Pithead Chapel, Third Point Press, Hobart, X-R-A-Y, and elsewhere. He reads for TriQuarterly, Longleaf Review, and Barren Magazine. When not working or writing in Cleveland, Corey likes to take the dogs for adventures. Find Corey on Twitter @IronBrewer and at www.CoreyMillerWrites.com.
Photo by Benjamin Brunner on Unsplash.
WOW, Corey, this is a fabulous stories. You are such an excellent writer, fresh, deep, engrossing, laden. Congrats!!