The shore’s scent of turbot reminded me of Wexford, of how I used to fish with my dad, the one time I did, and caught this massive turbot on my first try. Odd fish that my dad did not sell with the rest of the catch, like a tuna that a steamroller flattened, like sand, but it tasted good. And we did not have to buy food that day. That was the day before the wails. Before not even the waters of the deluge that followed could douse the fires that annihilated the city. Because most people’s souls burned, when they forgot what they had been through, what Wexford had been through, and surrendered to Eudora. But then again, if we had not escaped, if we had looked back at the land we fled, would we have done the same?

I thought of staying there, on the ground, gazing at a past that would not return, not unless I made it so, but ice fists pounded my stomach, my lungs, my veins to the point I felt ice shards freeze my nostrils when I inhaled spiked oxygen, and glacier chunks congeal my throat when I exhaled visible air. Ironic. That the government paid millions of dollars for fresh air for the people in the cities, when in the northern provinces you could breathe pure air for free.

Based on Zee Gevangenis’ location, I had to be somewhere in Baffin, Nunavut, in the USN’s side of the northern provinces. I thought of Girgor, of waiting for him. But for how long? What if soldiers arrived while I waited? I could not die because of him. But he had saved my life. My mind squirmed my soul at the thought of forsaking him. And the ice spikes paled in comparison to the viciousness of the thoughts that pummeled my chest, to the point I felt them thawed, only for an anvil to smash them. Ungrateful bastard. Selfish bollix. He risked his life to save you. Yet, you do not risk yours for him. You are an unfaithful Christian.

But Ellie’s memory dispelled them. Because I could not wait for him. Because my family was waiting for me. And even if they weren’t, justice for the dead awaited me. And Girgor would not have wanted me to perish. If he had wagered his life for me, it must have been because he wanted me alive, right?

I thought about footslogging, but I felt gravity haul my feet to the fjords’ core. But the Holy Spirit granted me the strength to move. I lifted my foot and stepped ahead. I saw myself look back. But I knew I had to continue, for everyone’s sake, so I lifted my other foot and continued. Girgor would return soon. It just coiled my veins, squirmed my organs. That he would wait for me. And I would not wait for him.

I trudged along, but not even the strength of Ellie and my parent’s memory could scatter the thoughts, like the shoals in the midst of the ocean. Where they would not hurt me. Not even the hunger that gnawed at my stomach and the thirst that clawed at my throat could distract me from the thoughts. But the cold did. Everything paled in comparison to the ice that corroded my organs. And though it seemed insane, I could tolerate the heat of the Bridge, but not the cold of the north.

And I understood why people caved to Eugenex. Why people surrendered to Eudora. Because it soothed their pain, physical, emotional; and returned their hope. The very hope Zielkkenhom and Eudora had chased away. Though I guessed Zielkkenhom did not make Yellowstone erupt, but he could have set off the first pandemic. But then again, the first pandemic began in the EF. And I was not so sure Zielkkenhom was responsible. But he was responsible of what followed, of everything that ensued.

I felt sorry for them, the people, not Zielkkenhom and Eudora, and I would pray for them, I did, though not with the consistency God must have wanted. But I could not justify them. I could not justify their actions. Just as I could not justify my surrendering, my capitulation to sin and death, to Eugenex. I would live until the thirst dried me, or until the soldiers shot me, but not until I ran out of Eugenex. Because the moment Eugenex would have entered my body, would be the moment I’d die. And I would not die that death.

The more I trudged along the ice-capped shore, the more I smelled turbot. To the point I thought I was imagining it. To the point I thought I had returned to Wexford harbor, to the fish market, back with my family. But I could not let my memories consume me. A lighter side of Gieves Syndrome. But equally lethal. Because either way, insanity by happy memories, or insanity by sad apparitions, you would die. But I did not have Gieves Syndrome. I knew so. Not because of some inner revelation or inner strength, sadly, but because I saw light posts on the horizon.

Joy thawed my body. That’s why I smelled turbot. Not because I was insane. But because a fishery stood nearby. A town. A whole town. I raced toward it and the second I set foot on it felt like when my family and I first reached Wessex. Except that no skyscrapers stood. Two stories high max. Not even cement streets. Mix of old wooden houses and new concrete structures. Picturesque. Shrouded in snow. Minuscule. But it still bustled more than the Rim. Where no light posts stood. Only ash and soot. And radiation.

Everything looked as if ice had frozen the town in eternal peace, to the point I did not feel ice spikes sleet my veins, but snow blasts refresh me. Or my brain was trying to protect me from the cold, I guessed. But the gravels did not grant me even five seconds of peace, as gravity blasted my heart when I spotted the memorial to those who had died in the war between the US and the EF. And it clouted me. Where I trudged.

Pangnirtung.

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