For me collapse will come like a candle snuffed out in a cave.
The garage door doesn't respond to repeated clicks - so I back up the ramp, fumble for my key and work the lock - to no avail.
To hell with it. As I head to the restaurant I notice that traffic lights are down. Everyone's calm, this is Canada, make way for the other guy and wait your turn. The doors are open wide at Maria's. She greats me at the door and explains in broken English that the power's out, the water's off and the gas is down. She's let the help off for the evening shift. Over luke warm cokes she begs my forgiveness, assures me she'll be open for breakfast - and waves off payment for the drink.
Back at my building the door to the lobby's propped open, the chairs and couches are fully occupied by old ladies who call the building home. They're probably in the lobby to avoid the hike to their apartments with the elevators frozen in place. I consider the climb to my 16th floor flat, then opt for the Hilton.
Still no traffic lights, but on arriving I discover that my plastic is worthless.
I head toward the hospital hoping to re-up my meds, but traffic is impossible so I drive to a friends home in Kitchener using the back roads. No radio, no TV, no phones, no way to contact anyone, no way for them to contact you. No one has any idea what's happening anyway.
I garage my car, poop in her garden and pee beside her house. We share some warm beer, a few cold sandwiches and any number of conspiracy theorys - but my pills are in short supply. I head back to Cambridge after a tearful goodbye, only to find the pharmacy's shelves have been stripped - and that the warm refrigerated boxes smell badly even with the contents gone. I spend the night sleeping in the car outside my apartment building. Sleeping in the car leaves me cramped, stiff and grumpy.
Then they begin. Thousands from Toronto with curious children and terrified wives. Soon tens of thousands more arrive, cars are abandoned on streets, roads and the 401. The next day the migrant hordes increase yet again, but now they're on foot and all are desperate. Nothing is secure from them, nothing survives their rapacious hungers. Parents fear for their children, children fear their surroundings and everyone fears what the future holds. My still operating car gets noticed, noticed but not attacked.
It's been a week. No word from anyone or anywhere. Looted stores, food vending machines torn open, but coins left strewn across the floor. Some people have formed into mobs. Some defending against the interlopers, some battling against the defenders. All sure that their side is justified. All sure their side will prevail. Fires flicker through the night. Families and loners stumble across trampled fields in search of sustenance. Something to eat - perhaps just somewhere to hide that night. Overloaded canoes manned by people who've never been on the water, but who believe that things must be better down stream. The local weir becomes a deathtrap. Bloated bodies bob in the river or tangle against the shoreline, disturbing those filling their water bottles. We locals know where the streams are - not pristine, but surely better than the river.
Fishermen swarm the banks and the bridges. The few who meet with any success scurry off with fish tails flapping from a bulging pocket. Abandoned children cast covetous glances at the scaly protrusions as the triumphant anglers shrink their postures and furtively make for some hidden spot to prepare their tiny, but hopefully solitary repast. Most everyone is silent, avoiding others, especially the eyes of others. The Farmer's Market is abandoned for the first time in 150 years. Barter might have worked, but the farmers that could still manage their bi-weekly journeys are not interested in leaving their fields, their families or their livestock.
If there is law enforcement, they are certainly invisible. No sirens, few horns, a few muffled explosions - usually at night - The heavy bell donated by Queen Victoria must have been electrified at some point, it's been silent from the first. Now the silence is only broken by an occasional shout, a scream or the rare shot. I've swung by city hall, but the broken windows and small fires don't engender hope from that quarter. Homes and apartments are mainly occupied by owners and renters. Public buildings, stores and shops are freely used by others. Some have been trashed - most provide shelter, at least marginally.
I've given up on my 16th floor apartment and it's contents - but note my great coat covering an emaciated form sleeping under someone's hedge. The weather has been good. Not too hot during the day. Not too cold at night. Thank God there's been no rain as the big storm drains have been occupied for days.
As my metabolism slows my hunger is abated. I haven't seen a pet for days or heard a dog bark. Even squirrels are scarce. I'm running on empty and so is my car. I decide to set out for Blair. Only an easy hike from the city but few people and little traffic - even the Toronto crazies may have missed Blair - perhaps the GPS going down isn't without benefit. My car shudders to a stop just short of the village. It blocks one lane, but I haven't seen a moving vehicle for hours. I hobble along Blair Road, fill my bottle at the old mill pond, then up the steep hill to the old cemetery. I know the area well.
I obey the No Trespassing signs and avoid cutting through peoples yards. Old habits die hard in the minds of the old. My childhood home is beside the cemetery, it peaks out between the now mature pines.
The view is still magnificent. If there had been cattle or sheep they're gone. The ospreys, eagles and hawks still tend to their fledglings, but vultures don't waste time circling as rotting carrion is everywhere. Ageless root fences break the horizon. Not a cloud in the sky - nor a contrail.
Walking has been difficult for decades. I lean against a gigantic willow, remembering that the Iroquois called this the valley of the River of Weeping Willows. Maybe this one was flourishing then - it's certainly big enough. The aged Ash I'd once waxed poetic about has been axed. I found a large hollow and pressed myself into the willow. I close my eyes.
Through lowered lids I reviewed the past week. Was this the collapse we so feared? Why were we never notified? Why didn't the authorities take any interest? Were similar scenarios playing out through the country, the continent, the world? I'll never know. I'll never reopened my eyes.
Terry