The Pole Shift

Mr. Knowles

“Land!” Mr. Knowles’s eyes fluttered open at the shout. He tried to focus but was unable to. The group had had a terrible time, bones had been broken as they were tossed about by the waters of the Pole Shift. A teacher and a student had been brained, they hadn’t strapped in and their rag doll dance had injured others even as they were killed. Their bodies lay at their feet for days, grim, unfathomable. 

“Land?” croaked Mr. Knowles. They had had the hatch open for a few days, and relieving themselves of the dead seemed to have heralded a resolution to be positive. They had snagged and tied up to other floating things and there was someone watching for salvation constantly. When they had spied the hump of land, they deployed their makeshift paddles and worked hard to get closer. Currents fought them, sometimes aided them, and after hours of exertion they approached the island.

“There’s a dude!” Said John the thirteen year old and the youngest of the battered group. Everyone was now watching, distantly a figure stood on a black cliff that looked like an enormous breaching whale. Behind the man there were spired trees that were stripped of leaf. The man was doing something, he had a wheelbarrow with something in it, he had his hands together in some sort of prayer. He was looking up at the trees. Then he upturned the wheelbarrow and a corpse fell to the heaving seas.

“Gross!” Said John and the others watched silently as the man drove the wheelbarrow away. Mr Knowles said:

“Did anyone see if the corpse was fresh?”

“No.” A few muttered.

“Keep watching, rowers, make to the side, lets see what’s on the other side.” The group edged to the left of the island, a current dragged them out then another in and in that time the man and wheelbarrow appeared, looked up at the trees then dumped a body into the oceans.

“Not Fresh.” Said Mr Jobling, They were nervous, as if the wheelbarrow man might be a threat.

“Do you think he looks like a decent sort?” Mr Knowles said, he had regained some vigor, as if he was calling on energy that does not come with food or comfort but somewhere deep down inside.

“Hard to say, he is staggering somewhat, perhaps he is injured? He hasn’t seen us, that seems lax. He’s praying it seems. Perhaps for the dead, maybe for himself?”

“Don’t hail him, watch for others, he might not be friendly.” 

The group fought their way around to the other side of the island where they were met by a high wall of debris. It was as if a giant child's hand had placed cars and plastered them together with the contents of the local rubbish tip. Steel and cable prevented them from getting close. As they sought for a place to dock, the man appeared again, a black Labrador at his side. John went to shout but was silenced:

“No, there’s something strange about him, watch.” The man pried the door of a car open, and with much effort dragged a  heavily decayed body from the temporary tomb. He raised his arms to the sky and shouted:

“Oh Great Prophet! Haven’t I done well? Haven’t I done well!” He then took a bottle from a deep pocket, upturned it in the direction of his throat, then staggered from the top of the wall with the body on his back, oblivious to his bewildered audience.