Story 15/52: White Flags



The Crosstown bus swerved around a crater and struggled back into it’s own lane. Without looking up from his brochure, Jack kept his footing and slung his gas mask over his other arm. The bus clipped the edge of a blast hole, jarring the commuters. He reached up to steady himself, his wedding ring clinking on the aluminium bar overhead.
Jack’s grandfather would have said, “What season follows Winter, in Edmonton? Construction.” Not a lot of construction crews out this Spring, though; most people still standing were on Clean-Up details. Or had joined Removal teams.
The bus strained up a hill. Someone pulled the bell cord and the driver called out the next stop, “176th and Yellowhead Highway!” Jack scrunched down to see out the window. From this height he could see the precision, the efficiency of the Enemy’s bombs. The City’s main railway depot – a carefully engineered, controlled chaos of lights and wires and switches and signals – lay, safe and untouched, behind a moat of tangled, twisted railway iron. The Enemy strikes had pulverized the lines leading in and the tracks leading out. Jack had noticed, though no one else seemed to: they only destroyed the parts that could be easily fixed. All the techy stuff – the finicky, expensive, labour-intensive parts – remained untouched.


Hello, Gang of Glorious Readers, Rhea here.

I am entering stories into contests, some of which do not allow any previous publication or posting of the entries of any kind, even on a blog.

If you would like to read the entire story, send me your email address and I will forward it to you. Also, I could add you to an email list of those who want the whole shebang automatically sent to their inbox.

Best always, RDG


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