by Adam Tod Leverton

George opened his eyes. He turned his head to look at the blank face of the digital alarm clock. Sharon must have unplugged it so he could sleep longer. Damn. Gotta set it again. Third time this week. Sharon? Sharon! Must have gone to work already. He grabbed his watch from the night stand. Eleven o'clock. Damn. Most of the morning gone and nothing to show for it.

He went to the kitchen. He opened the fridge door. No light. Power must be out. He flipped the light switch on and off a couple of times, but nothing. He took a few pieces of sliced ham and shoved them in his mouth. He opened a bottle of Labbat Blue and took a couple of swigs. He set the bottle down on the counter next to the microwave. He put on his favourite jeans. They had been thrown over the back of one of the chairs in the kitchen. He put on his boots and laced them up. Gotta see the Super. He closed the door behind him and the little angel that held the sign that said 'welcome' swung back and forth, like it always did. It reassured him. He walked over to the elevator and pressed the button. It wasn't working either. Seven flights of stairs. Crap. Oh well.

He knocked on the door. Three times. Mr. Talib? There's no power. You at home? Must be sleeping. He tried to turn the door knob, and to his surprise, the door opened. He took a quick look around. No Mr. Talib. Must have just left. There was today's paper, lying on the kitchen table, open to the obituary section. Half a glass of orange juice and half a bowl of soggy raisin bran. He looked for the keys to the fuse box, but as he had no idea what they looked like, he soon gave up.

He went into the small lobby with its over-flowing ash trays and walked by the faded picture of the puke coloured flowers. He walked out the door and the sun blinded him for a couple of seconds. When he recovered, he walked in the direction of the park. He was going to sit on a bench and watch the park life-dogs runing around, mothers pushing strollers, old men arguing about politics and taxes. It took him a few seconds to notice it. There was, in front of him, a street full of cars, none of which were moving, all of which were empty.

He looked across the street in the direction of the park. There were no people in the park. Strange. Maybe they were making a movie? But there were no cameras, no film crews. Movement. A black labrador was running around, leash trailing behind it, looking for something or someone. George crossed the street and walked through the park. It was full of things-empties, purses, and besides the labrador, a few other dogs.

He headed in the direction of the jewellry store on Street where Sharon worked. He went to the bus stop and waited for the bus. He waited for fifteen minutes. It wasn't going to come. It took him an hour to walk downtown, and another forty minutes to reach Yonge. Everywhere he went he saw the same things. Empty cars, lost pets, bags and purses lying scattered about. He reached the jewellery store, pushed the door, but it wouldn't budge. Locked. Open up! Open the fucking door! No one came. George looked around him, and then kicked the glass in. Normally, doing this would cause the alarm to go off and get you arrested. That's what George was half-hoping would happen. Nothing. No alarm. George unlocked the door and went inside. Sharon? No answer. Her purse. It was lying on the counter. She must have set it down while she was takingoff her coat. George took the purse and walked back home. George had never been much of a thinker, but now he couldn't stop. The largest city in Canada was empty. Why? Why was he still alive? He saw a movie once where a guy was in a coma and when he woke up he was alone, because a horrible disease had caused everyone to run away or to turn into zombies. But, there were no signs of panic and he didn't wake up in a hospital. And as far as he could tell, no zombies.

Maybe there had been some sort of biological attack on the city and he was immune to it. But again, where were the bodies? The streets would be full of bodies. The dogs would be dead, too.

Maybe he was dead and this was Hell. He wasn't a very religious man, but once he had seen a program where a guy was saying that Hell was absolute loneliness.

Maybe he was dreaming. That would be easy to disprove. He took a knife from the kitchen and made a small cut on his finger. It started to bleed. If it was a dream, it was a very accurate and painful one. He gave up trying to come up with an explanation and tried to fall asleep. He fell asleep quite easily. For the next couple of days, he did nothing. He wandered around the city hoping to find someone who could tell him what happened, who could tell him what to do. The dogs started to look thin and had a desperate look in their eyes. George was sure he had the same look. He couldn't bring himself to shave, and barely ate.

He would go south. To the States. It would be warmer. There had been more people living there.

Maybe there's still people there. He went to the store across the street from his building. He took some cans, a can opener, and a case of beer. He went to the nearest car he could find. He threw his stuff on the passenger seat. He got in. He started the car. It was difficult to drive because he had to avoid other, stationary cars. He drove on the smaller streets. It took him ages. After a few hours, he was in the country. The driving was easier. No people. No one. The dogs in Toronto will die. Some, the more intlelligent, the tougher, will survive. Any animal locked in a cage, or behind a fence, will die. He stopped at farms along the way. He freed as many animals as possible.

It took him a few days to reach the border. Chicken farms, dairy farms, pig farms. A lot of the animals had already died, but some survived. He stopped at one farm, and sitting at the front door was a golden retriever. The dog gave a half-hearted growl. 'Hey, you're a nice dog. Wanna come with me?' The dog let himself be petted. 'I'll call you Lucky.'

Adam Tod Leverton is a Canadian ex-pat, who lives in Lodz, Poland, where he works as an English teacher.