Deus Ex Machina
We arrive back in the radome chapmions, the shirts we snagged upstairs proudly boasting our accomplishment to the world that can’t see it. I conquered the CN Tower they say. Mine is slung over my shoulder but Katy Perry is wearing hers as proudly as if it still stood for anything. As I think this I’m immensely grateful we have Katy Perry in our group. What a downer it would be if we didn’t have someone who could still appreciate life post-flash. It helps she can’t remember pre. Somewhere, selfishly, and really deep down I might add, I kind of hope she never does.
As we walk through the offices I find myself with a little more courage, a little more belief, than before. It might be that I just knocked off pretty much the only item on the bucket list I didn’t even know I had that gives me the confidence. We follow all the signs to FM Broadcasting curiously, cautiously. It’s a strange time. We’re totalled from the climb but excited about the prospect of finding others. If there’s anyone left in Canada they’re here, in Toronto. Where else would they be? Maybe she will hear it too. Maybe she’ll be the first to answer the call.
Unbelievably we have to climb more stairs to reach whatever section of this donut shaped behemoth of transmission to find outgoing, but our legs are dead. We don’t really feel it anymore. We’re just hefting around lumps of meat, hoping they’ll hold us up until we find a place to rest them proper. As we’re walking through the offices and booths Katy Perry intermittently stoops to shuffle through piles of clothes. Like a newborn she doesn’t really get how morbid the act is. Disrespectful. I don’t care, never did, but I don’t think I could ever bring myself to do it. There’s something seriously haunting and it’s hard to put my finger on exactly what simply because there’s so much that’s haunting about it. I look through the panes into the booths as she does this. Hoping to pick something up. To recognize something. It’s a dry hope.
“No way,” Katy Perry says from behind me.
“What?” I ask, turning around, expecting to find her clutching a music player like a trophy. She’s not. She has her face pressed up against a booth a little ways down the corridor. Her nose is squashed against it, her breath fogging up the glass.
“C’mere” she beckons without turning to me. I walk over and glance in the window that has her attention so rapt.
“No way,” I repeat, seeing what she saw. Inside the booth is the set up the rest of the cubicles share with one major difference. The little glass-covered light on the dash, the same one that’s been dead in all the other rooms, is lit up, On Air flashing intermittently. It’s as easy as that?