Andrea Bishop: WORKING WITH BLANKS • Cleaver Magazine

Flash by Andrea Bishop
WORKING WITH BLANKS

My husband says, if you’re going to have to kill something, it’s best to practice beforehand. I say I don’t think I will; I have you. And if I’m not here to keep you safe? Let’s face it, I say, if you’re gone, I’m toast. Normally he would smile, but today this irritates him. Today, he’s sure something is coming for us. Today, we’re not playing around.

I say, remember when the dashboard burst into flames, and I didn’t even pull over? I just stopped and ran off. I knew you’d look after it. Of course he remembers. That was twenty-one years ago. We laugh. Jokes upon jokes. Layers upon layers.

There are ten acres between us and our nearest neighbors. Too far for anyone to mind our business. Relatives ask, how do you manage out there, just you two and the dogs? Don’t you get lonely? We’re amused they miss the point.

He says, what if an intruder holds me at gunpoint, and you have to shoot them to save me? He notes my alarm and adds, let’s make this easier. What if a zombie holds me at gunpoint?

I give him the side-eye.

What if all it takes to scare a zombie is to shoot a blank in his direction?

So we work with zombies. We work with blanks. We work with close enough. He is fearful, I can tell, but doesn’t say what’s coming for us. I don’t think he knows what’s coming for us.

We agree that lately there have been fires, floods, people acting strangely. We used to say, you can’t prepare for every outcome, you need to react in the moment. Now that we’re older, we know it’s better to think ahead.

He teaches me how to split and stack firewood. He’s rigged a system with a ramp and the wheelbarrow so I can manoeuvre rounds into the splitter. He’s cut enough rounds to last a lifetime. Before, learning these chores seemed like a waste of time because he’s stronger. He can do it faster.

We put our two dogs inside and he hands me the bow. He places a target in the woods. I stand next to the dwarf Japanese maple I planted thirty years ago for the cheer its red bark brings on a dark winter night. It’s diseased now. The structure is sturdy, still beautiful in its gnarly old way, but the previously vibrant leaves are sparse. They dropped early and won’t regenerate. I’ve been trying everything to save it.

He says, an arrow is a silent weapon; they won’t know it’s coming. I ask, they? He looks confused. Looks at me with the bow. Looks at the target. Tries to put the situation into a meaningful context. Finally, I say, the zombies? And he smiles and nods.

I don’t have the strength for this. I can’t even draw the arrow back from the bow. I say, I’m famished; could we take a break? He used to be the kind of guy who could go a whole day without getting hungry, but today he forgot and ate two breakfasts in a row.

My husband wants me to learn the gun even though black bears in our apple tree vamoose with just a broom and a shout. We have no grizzlies. Cougars are run off by the dogs, who stick together for protection. He loads the rifle with real bullets. Even though we’re ten acres from the nearest neighbors, discharging firearms is prohibited at this time of year.

He’s always been about safety first, but now he takes aim up the driveway. Something is coming for us.

I say, remember yesterday we agreed we’d lock the guns away? He looks at me blankly. I say, I think the zombies are gone now. He looks at me oddly. I say, I think we’ll be okay now. Give me the gun. But he won’t.

I need to go inside and make the phone call. It’s time. I say, they’re going to be coming for us and I might need that gun to protect myself. So he hands it to me.

Andrea Bishop lives in British Columbia, Canada. Her flash and short stories appear in The Masters Review, Grain, trampset, and elsewhere. Andrea Bishop is a morning person who has a deep respect for spreadsheets, forests, dogs, and quests. She welcomes visitors at andreabishop.ca and dialogue on Twitter @_AndreaBishop.