FOREVER GABRIOLA

Scabs. Those hard, little shells of dried blood and pus protecting our wounds. As a kid, I peeled them off and ate them. I loved the crunchy texture of them. Loved the wet ones which bled. Licked the blood as a salty desert. Those ready to fall off on their own were a little dry for my taste. The real pleasure comes from peeling, especially the big ones. I'd try and get them off in one solid piece. Broken, they'd always leave me wanting more. These days though, I wouldn't run short of supplies.

The flesheaters roam everywhere.

My name is David Skinner, along with my pregnant wife, Laurie and twenty others we live on Gabriola, an island about ten miles off Vancouver Island. Laurie is due in two months. Lately she's had painful cramps. We try not to worry.

We've been lucky enough to keep our shores clean of the undead.

My job, as shore patrol is to report any sightings of boats or corpses.

The Island itself is fairly small, you could pedal it in eight hours. Six months ago the ferry made a twenty minute trip here daily from Nanaimo. Not anymore.

I used to live in Vancouver and grew up there with my three brothers. Often wonder what atrocities they've seen and committed.

Laurie is reheating dinner, a shrimp and scallop casserole. She ate hours ago. Pulling up a chair I watch my wife flit about the small cabin. Even at seven months she refuses to relax and take it easy, claiming her mother picked potatoes out of their field in Germany a week prior to her delivery. I know it's just her way of dealing with the state of the world. She must have worked harder than usual today though, because when I offered to do the dishes she didn't argue.

She is a short, blonde lady with beautiful tanned legs, that even through pregnancy retained their shape. Her hair is cut short and boyish which makes her look much younger than her thirty-five years.

Her legs are what attracted me to her but it was her personality which won my heart. She is so full of life, so generous to others. She could have had anyone and sometimes, when I wake up in the morning, I'm amazed to find her curled up next to me.

In bed I rest my head gently on Laurie's stomach and fall asleep listening to the sounds and movements of our unborn child.

I just start my morning rounds and my radio comes on. It is Laurie.

"Honey, you've got to come home, my water broke and I'm hemorrhaging."

"Be right there. Just try and relax." I race home.

She sits in a pool of blood on the couch, her dress soaked. I carry her gently to the bed.

"I'll go find Doc."

She nods, wincing in pain.

I run down the road to the doctor's house. It is deserted. Like a fool, I don't know what to do. And then I hear Laurie scream. Suddenly, I feel very sick in my stomach. I'm afraid to go back but I must. So I do, but I can't get myself to run.

Hands shaking with pain, Laurie strokes her swollen belly. Something inside her breaks. She knows the baby is lost and tears course down her cheeks. I watch, in agonising horror, the taunt skin move, then tear. A geyser of blood erupts, a tiny hand bursts forth.

Laurie's pain disappears long before her stillborn son claws out mewing. In shock, I watch it noisily suckle on the umbilical cord.

I know now our island is lost. I run outside fall, sobbing to the ground. My mind is numb with grief, my life over. Inside I feel cold, paralysed. There is no hope, only endless horror--to see--to commit. I look at the ocean, the moonlight sliding down each wave. The sky is full of stars. My upturned face is wet.

I sit outside, in Laurie's rocking chair. I'm waiting. Soon they'll come and we'll all be reunited. I just have to keep reminding myself over and over again, how much I used to like scabs.