The Milk Chicken Bomb. Andrew WedderburnЧитать онлайн книгу.

      Published with the assistance of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council. Coach House also acknowledges the assistance of the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Book Publishing Tax Credit Program and the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program.

      LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION

      Wedderburn, Andrew, 1977–

      The Milk Chicken Bomb / Andrew Wedderburn. -- 1st ed.

      ISBN 978-1-55245-180-9

      I. Title.

      PS8645.E27M54 2007 C813’.6 C2007-901577-8

      for Scott Black and Mike Schulz

      Are you lost?

      The headlights sting my eyes. I keep my hand in front of my face, squinting. My backpack digs into my shoulder, too much stuff packed in there I guess: sandwiches, my Thermos, some comic books. I wasn’t really sure how long I’d be gone.

      I squint into the headlights and try to yell over the big, loud truck engine. I’m just out for a walk, I say.

      A what?

      A walk, I shout.

      It’s true, I’ve been out here for a while, walking up the gravelly side of the highway. I’m not sure how long. Long enough to get right out of town, past the Welcome to Marvin sign, past long dark stretches of ditch, barbed wire fences, and now and then a driveway, with a floodlight at the end, up above a farmhouse door. The wind whips grit up off the road; it gets into my teeth, makes it hard to breathe.

      The passenger door opens and a woman gets out. She walks over and squats down in front of me. Lines around her eyes, puffy cheeks. A blue bandana wrapped around her head, a starched blue dress.

      You can’t just walk up the highway in the middle of the night, she says, you’ll be run over by some maniac. No one knows how to drive around here.

      The truck is huge, not a pickup but a big blue farm truck, a red hood, a wooden box with sides tall enough to hold cows. A man with a thick brown beard and denim overalls sits at the wheel. In the back of the cab are five kids, all of them in crisp overalls and checkered shirts. Behind them I can see dark shapes. Wooden crates, hay, egg cartons, chicken wire.

      Get in, she says, get in. Shoos me up into the cab, between the quiet kids. No one says anything while I squeeze up onto the seat. I look for seatbelts but there aren’t any. The woman climbs into the passenger side and slams the door. Some maniac would have just run you over and not even noticed, she says. Just driven right by, like they’d hit a badger or a porcupine.

      Just out for a walk, I say.

      The man shrugs and puts the truck in gear. We drive off, everybody quiet, no radio. The kids sit still and don’t say anything. Their chins dip and then they jerk awake, wide-eyed for a while, until they start to doze off again.

      It sure is dark all over, driving up the highway. Sometimes headlights whoosh past and you have to squint. You can see them coming, the sky over a hill getting brighter, then two white circles that sting your eyes and cut the whole road away, leaving little blue spots. We drive past the old chicken farm. Long rows of black windows with a white glare. I wonder what happens inside the chicken farm at night – are all those chickens sleeping? Or are they up, working on their big escape? If you stand outside the long chicken-farm walls, you can probably hear them inside, clucking, scratching at the concrete floor with their dirty chicken feet, trying to find a way out. Standing on each other’s backs, trying to reach the windows. Trying to lift the latches, before tomorrow when the lights come on.

      We pull off the highway into the Aldersyde truck stop. Even this late, trucks are parked at the diesel pumps. Teenagers with red shirts under heavy red and black jackets climb up on the big rig tires to clean windshields. The father rolls down his window, waves a hairy hand toward the diesel pump.

      We’re on our way back to the colony at Cayley, he says. We can drop you off wherever you live, though.

      Well, the thing is, I was on my way here.

      He narrows his eyes at me.

      I was just out at a friend’s place in the country, and I was on my way here to get picked up. I just live over in Marvin.

      You were in the middle of nowhere.

      Yeah, I went up the wrong road. But this is where I’m supposed to get picked up. Right here at the truck stop. Turned out perfect I guess.

      His wife shrugs. I don’t know, she says, how often do you find children out by the highway in the middle of the night?

      You’re from Marvin, he says, so we’ll take you there.

      But they’ll be looking for me here, I say. They’ll get pretty worried if they show up and I’m not around.

      The Hutterite shrugs. He pulls crisp five-dollar bills out of his wallet and holds them out the window for the gas jockey. I climb overtop of the quiet kids and out the door.

      Inside the truck-stop restaurant old men hunch over their coffee cups, faces pressed close to sports pages, want ads, laminated menus. I wander over to the counter and pull myself up on one of the round stools. Put my chin down on the counter, careful about the old coffee rings and sticky spots. The waitress cocks an eyebrow at me. I listen to the truck drivers mutter to each other. Over by the door a heavy trucker plugs quarters into the pay phone. Drums his thick fingers on the plastic. The waitress picks up a pot of coffee, sniffs at the steam. Makes a face and pours it in the sink. I watch her for a while then slide back off the stool.

      The toilet in the washroom has a sign taped to the tank: Out of Order. I have to stand on my tiptoes to reach the urinal. On the brown tile wall there’s a checklist: paper towel, soap, washed. Some checkmarks and initials. A vending machine: instant tattoos, and Mixed Adult Novelties, and something called a RoughRider. A picture of a blond woman with bare shoulders, her head thrown back and her mouth open.

      I come back and there’s a piece of pie on the counter, where I was sitting. The waitress sits on the other side, her chin propped up on an elbow, sips ginger ale from a straw.

      I don’t have any money.

      I wouldn’t worry about that, she says. Where do you live?

      In Marvin.

      How’d you get here?

      I was out for a walk.

      That’s a long way to be out for a walk.

      I guess.

      Eat your pie, kid.

      I unzip my backpack and get out a comic book. Flip the pages and eat pie. In the city under the ocean, the Under Queen gets ready to unleash her tidal wave on the Surface. But millions of people live on the coast! She catches the hero and ties him, upside down, above a vent in the molten crust. The Under Queen laughs and laughs. I guess if I ruled the city under the ocean, I wouldn’t much care about the Surface Dwellers either.

      I watch the gas jockeys outside, pumping gas. One of the gas jockeys props open the hood of a car, peaks around the side to see if the driver is paying attention. The driver just sits there in his car, drumming his fingers on the wheel. The gas jockey goes back behind the hood, where the driver can’t