ECHO ECHO

Rain. That’s all I can remember. The valley, the pine trees clinging to the mist for a last chance of life.

The mud squelches and sucks as I walk the path under the arching lilacs. They lost their perfume long ago. With a bucket of food scraps in my hand I meander towards the chicken coop. The boards of the old structure are deep grey, covered in flaking lichen. I see the corner of the plastic sheet sealing the small window has come untaped in the right corner. I asked Michael to get the staple gun and properly tack the film two days ago. But the boys at the former cattle farm across the river are way more fun than farm chores. I walk up to the flapping plastic and I press the tape against the splintered siding. It stays, I shrug with indifference and enter inside the coop. Thank goodness none are dead. There’s only about 11 left and one lazy rooster named Howie. They cluck at me with their beety stares. They’re really no different than us, stuck, living off of scraps. I dump the leftovers and there’s an immediate frenzy as the scraps hit the dirt. I creak the door close and set the rusted latch into place and can still hear the raging clucks and screams from the other side.

The farm sits cozied up next to the river that snakes through the valley, the old grazing pastures now lie empty and full of thistle, making any sort of shortcut through the openings unnecessary painful. So we stick to the paths that have been set for us by great great grandfather. The trail I follow leads back west through the lilac towards the house. Covered in ivy, green trim and a bright red door, our shelter, home our prison. Built in the fifty’s it’s showing its age, and was not built to be air tight. I scrape the inch of mud off of my shoes before I enter. From what light there is outside, it seeps through the thick plastic sheets taped over the windows, dimming it further. I boot open the mint green cabinet door under the sink with the top of my foot and stow the slop bucket. A draft from the breeze outside has managed to find a way into to my cabinetry. A sigh escapes my mouth. Old house, another leak. Hopefully a mouse hasn’t opted to move in with us, as it most definitely will not pay rent, and our rent collector Miss. Kitty hasn’t been seen for a couple months at this point. To the junk drawer we go, full of needles and thread, buttons, mostly used crayons and what I need, duck tape. The cabinet is deep as I find that most of my self is in it looking for the source of the draft, a good potential spot for hide and seek, a game I never loose. Mostly due to the fact that Susan is seven years old and lacks any sort of hunting and tracking ability. I bump over an empty bleach bottle with my wrist and the issue is revealed. A small crack in the drywall letting a peep of daylight through, now sealed with 3 strips of tape.

With my head ducked under the kitchen sink I faintly hear the radio from upstairs crackle to life.

“ECHO ECHO”

My head jolts up and crack my skull on the underside of the sink. No time for pain.

“ECHO ECHO” The young voice on the other end repeats.

My feet seemingly float as I sprint up the stairs to the radio desk. The dusty red lamp is on, illuminating the outdated technology and a mess of my papers.

“ECHO ECHO. ONE ZERO KILO OUT. PREVAILING WINDS EAST GUSTING FROM FIVE FIVE TO SIX FIVE KILO. NINER MINUTES TO ARRIVAL.”

Father’s binoculars are immediately put to use. Standing on the second floor deck I can see it. Gas, smoke, whatever it is it’s poison. The copper haze is slowly killing the valley. The once lush green that carpeted the forest now is fading. The pine and spruce are turning orange, painting the landscape in a colour that does not belong. The seasons have hardly changed, a perpetual autumn palate plagues and suffocates the trees, and frankly every living thing stuck here.

My shaky legs carry me down stairs. “SUE, you inside?” I call.

A drawn out “Yeeeessss” creeps out from my parent’s vacant bedroom.

“She’s fine. Michael, where is that wet rag.” I think to myself as I bang the front door open. The old war siren stands above me on a post. I fulfill my community duty and flick it on. The shrill whine begins to echo against the walls of our valley, alerting those who may not have been near their radio. Up on the second floor balcony perch I keep a sharp eye on the approaching wall of death and scan the road for any signs of my brother. I’m assuming he’s avoiding his chores and escaped to the Finlays. An older and younger brother are the ones across the river. David, eighteen, is the same age as my brother and Frank is only a year older than little Susan. They have guns over there, which mom and dad were never privy to. Michael and David often waste time target practicing, claiming that they are training to defend the valley. I say he should seal the chicken coop so we can have a source of food. But boys don’t think like that.

The rain has reduced to a fine mist, and my patience has been reduced to almost nothing. Im about to retreat back to the radio to contact the Finlays to interrogate them about Michael’s whereabouts, when I see a dark blob running towards the house from the west just ahead of the smoke. I bring the binoculars up to my eyes, as the image comes into focus, Michael is striding through the waist deep alfalfa field. Where was that child off to. He’s a spry kid, but not spry enough to run faster than the wind. With confirmation that he’s not dead I slam the balcony door and stretch out some duct tape with haste and seal the door the best I can. The door window blinds snap open and I look down the valley. The Thompson Twins house has been engulfed, hopefully they got inside in time. They’re about four and a half kilometres out west, so Michael has maybe four minutes by my quick estimation. “Hurry up you dumb ass.” I murmur to myself. He’s just hopped the fence and passing the barn when the poison air claims the wind-break on the far end of the alfalfa field and is approaching fast. My lungs tighten as I realize my powerlessness. I thump back to the main level. “Lou that window sealed?” I say sternly. She’s colouring something on a small scrap of paper on my parent’s bed. She half rolls over annoyed.

“It’s fineeeeee” Her whine is more irritating than the machine wailing outside. My eyes give an instinctive roll and I crash through the red front door. I lock eyes with my brother maybe 100 meters away and my mouth opens.

“YOU SELFISH ASS HOLE WHERE WERE YOU!” Clearly exhausted he raises a finger above his head, a finger I’m all too familiar with. I scowl back, and blood rushes to my cheeks. The wall of fog has now eaten the barn and that’s when the stench fills my nose and lungs. It’s a hard scent to place, somewhere between rotting deer and dog excrement. My hands cover my mouth as I involuntarily begin to gag, and I dart back to the safety of the kitchen. Prepared behind the door Michael lunges into the house and I slam it shut behind him, instantly the cloud begins to seep through the bottom and sides of the frame. I look back and give my brother a stare deadlier than what’s leaking in. Out of breath panting like a dog, he gives a blank stare back. Truly there must be nothing in that head. “Don’t just stare get the tape quick! Smooth damn brain.”

“Uh, yes yes okay okay, uhh where is it? Exactly?.” He coughs back. Really? Frankly I’m not surprised. But there’s no time to get into fight right now, that can wait. The vile stench intensifies as the gas begins to hug the kitchen floor.

“Ugh, just, here” I retort. He goes to open the wrong drawer and I bump it shut with my hip nearly chopping off that finger he uses far too often. I slide open the junk drawer and toss him the roll. “Fix the door I’ll get the filter and masks if we need.” He nods back, gags and spits a gob of brown phlegm into the sink.

“Aye aye miss captain sir.” His sarcasm stems from his father.

“Susan, go radio people and see if everyone’s alright” I say as I pop my head into the master bedroom. A sigh escapes my youngest sibling.

“Okayy, you said you were gonna draw with me today.” Today’s attitude now makes sense.

“Oh, yes sorry. Well the day isn’t done yet... and now since we’re gonna be inside for a bit I... guess I can here shortly.” My outside duties are now on hold. I’d rather on the radio than exercising my lack of artistic ability. It’s fine, I do vaguely remember making a promise of the sort to my sister, but first we need to clean the kitchen air. The young girl pops up and taps her little feet up the stars, aggressively avoiding eye contact.

Behind the couch lives the air filter. A tower made with fading yellow plastic. Most of the button labels have been warn off with its extensive use. In the kitchen the boy has sealed the door but the smell is potent. “Here, Michael. leave it on for like an hour. Should do the trick.” I place it on the floor and he scoots it into place with his feet. God forbid he use his arms. Thankfully, somehow we still have electricity, I’m guessing the power station is in the far east, unaffected by our little local issue. The machine rattles to life, we owe this little thing far too much. Unable to stand the sight of my brother I join the disgruntled sister at the radio desk. A muffled voice speaks.

“All good from the Thompsons, over to the Twains” There’s a crackle and a pause.

“Everything’s fine from the Twains. Over.”

“Well I think that’s the last two” Sue looks up at me and I pick up a list of names she’s placed backwards check marks next to. Five family’s and five check marks.

“You do our check in?” I say with an impressed smile.

“Yep! It’s not too hard to use the radio.” She says proudly, like she’s used it for decade. We share a moment together, for an instant her grudge against me lifts until an automated voice starts spilling out numbers from the speaker. Her face transforms back into something that resembles the mug of a pug dog. “Get to work then.” She shakes her head with her seven year old sass.

“Aye aye captain.” As I dart my eyes toward her she’s trotted out of the room, unconcerned with the situation outside. Shes never one to be bothered, unless it involves her directly. I don’t remember being so un-phased at her age. I always needed to know everything about anything, maybe it’s an older sister thing. Sometimes I feel like the only one who is concerned about our survival, maybe that’s also just an older sister thing.

The strings of ones and zeros continue to flow in. I try and copy them down on one of the last blank pieces of paper, focusing to not miss a single digit. Five or so months of these mystery transmissions and five months trying to crack them with no prevail. It ends up with me spending hours at the radio desk staring blankly at the piles of transcribed numbers. I assume it has to do with the war. Enemy or friendly, I still haven’t figured it out.