A Birthday Wish

Gee Whillickers

g.whillickers@gmail.com

Craig looked down at the dog. The dog’s look of bewilderment faded with its last breath and it lay still. Craig re-holstered his pistol and turned away pretending to feel nothing.

No.

He wasn’t that far gone.

Not yet.

He stopped and looked again. Amazingly, after all this time, the dog had the dirty remains of a nylon collar around his neck. Once he was loved. Once he probably loved his owner, his family.

Now, like Craig, he was just trying to survive.

Craig’s eyes widened slightly as he realized he recognized the dog, the collar. It was, or rather once had been, Mrs. Klein’s Golden Retriever from down the street.

Before he taught himself to shoot Craig was almost killed by a German Shepherd near a warehouse much like this one. He had been lucky and managed to kick in just the right place. That’s when he taught himself to shoot. Almost right after he taught himself to stitch himself and apply antiseptic.

Thank god for books. The internet was long dead.

That was eight months ago. Two weeks after the Disappearance. The first time he had ventured out past his block.

He had had little choice. The power had been out for days and there was no more fresh food. The canned stuff and packaged stuff almost gone.

He went into the warehouse and found what he was looking for. After opening the box and then opening one of the boxes inside that one and finally opening the plastic package, he had it in his hand. A Twinkie. Still edible. The wonders of preservatives. He pulled the candle he had been saving out of his pocket and stuck it in the twinkie. He hesistated a moment before lighting it. What did he have to celebrate?

Being alive would have to do.

He sang Happy Birthday to himself, blew out the candle after making a mighty wish, and took a bite.

Fourteen years old today. Yes, he was sure. Battery operated watches with dates were everywhere. It wasn’t hard to keep track.

Craig shook his head and forced the depression that was starting to creep up on him away. No, he had to keep hopeful. He had always been a smart kid. He knew about Occam’s Razor. He knew about probability. Out of six billion people the chances that five billion, nine hundred and ninety nine million, ninety hundred and ninety nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety nine could vanish one night without a trace leaving thirteen year old Craig Jamison and only Craig Jamison sleeping in his bedroom while wearing one dirty sock were remote. Ridiculously remote. Despite no evidence to the contrary in eight months.

He chewed and swallowed the last of the confection and stood up, licking his fingers.

A noise back at the doorway.

Dammit! He cursed himself for his inattention, managed to pull out his pistol, ensure a round was chambered and the safety off when a shadow appeared blocking the sunshine.

Another boy rounded the corner and stopped suddenly, a pistol in his own hand half raised before freezing. Craig was sure the expression on the strange boy’s face exactly matched his own.

Utter shock, obviously, along with bewilderment, uncertainty, and, most of all, absolutely most of all, overwhelming relief.

Maybe birthday wishes can come true.