Excerpt 1
Charles de Gaulle International Airport - Paris
The Bombardier Global 8000 rolls to the end of the runway with engines roaring, prepped for take off. Both engines running smoothly. Check. Both tanks full. Check. The sleek jet blasts down the runway, lifting off in seconds. Within minutes, Armaan, embarking on his first cross-ocean flight as a pilot, is 30,000 feet in the air heading west toward Pearson Airport in Toronto. Easing himself back in the luxury leather seat Armaan switches on the auto pilot. With the destination set, the computer will do the work for the next 5 and a half hours.
Armaan gets up and walks through the cabin admiring the comfortable luxurious interior. The smell of leather harkens a distant memory. In the back of the plane, he discovers a tiny kitchen with a fully stocked bar. He pours himself a Lagavulin and returns to the cockpit.
Sitting down in the pilot’s chair with drink in hand, Armaan watches as the Global 8000 traverses from the east of France toward the Atlantic. It was a cloudy day in Paris, but the clouds break over the English Channel. Minutes later the beautiful blue sky reflects off the Atlantic Ocean and he knows there is no turning back.
Pearson Airport - Toronto
Armaan asked me to meet him at Pearson Airport six hours after he departed. I arrive on time – 9AM. Walking through the deserted airport, I sit down and gaze east through a grand window wistfully wondering - when I see Armaan, it will be the first time I’ve seen another person since I left on this journey ten months ago. I wait 15 minutes before a small speck appears in the distant sky. It’s Armaan’s plane arriving and carefully preparing to land on the empty runway. He touches down and brings the jet to a gradual stop. As he taxies toward the gate, I walk down the closest ramp and head out onto the tarmac to greet him.
“Grace!” he shouts out as the jet door opens. He jumps out. We do a virtual hug. The jet engines are still purring behind him. The smooth, shrill sound is music to my ears. Armaan is tall, athletic, handsome and brimming with confidence. His short jet-black hair is wavering in the wind. The bright sun causes him to squint. Looking deeply into his dark brown eyes, I refresh my memory of him – this is the most brilliant man I have ever met.
Armaan and I have a professional and mostly remote relationship, although we have worked together for years, we’ve only seen each other in person on four or five occasions. I feel very aware of the fact that we might be the only two people left on Earth.
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Excerpt 2
I’ve fully moved into the old country home an hour outside of the city. It was owned by one of my professors from University, Dr. Sam Wilson, who once hosted a party here for the students and alumni of his biology department of which I was a member. The house is so elegant, situated on a gorgeous property with lush gardens and a small pond. It’s a three-story 19th century stone house immaculately kept, with gleaming granite stone walls and hardwood trim that has been cared for over the recent years by a man obsessed with details. Stepping inside the house I find myself in a beautiful foyer with a huge living room on one side and a dining room and kitchen on the other. There are 11-foot ceilings and hardwood floors throughout. Antique rugs, clawfoot tubs and marble fireplaces seem to await around every corner. Surrounding the entire perimeter of the house is a covered veranda where I sit and watch the sunrise or the sunset, whichever direction I choose. I feel safe here because it’s so secluded with many large trees surrounding the property and a large garage out back where I can keep my car out of sight. The gardens in front of the house are flowing with beautiful flowers and many imported trees and shrubs that I can’t even begin to identify.
During my early months at the house, I kept semi regular contact with Armaan, but as time has gone on the cell phone systems of the world must have shut down because I can no longer get through to him. I keep in contact with Jonathan and Julie by making a trip into the city once a week to get food and supplies and to see them. Julie has become my de facto nurse. Over the past three months my hopes of finding Charlotte, Nick and Jesse have faded to the point where now they seem faint at best. This reality has brought me to a level of despair that is becoming unbearable.
It’s a beautiful, sunny afternoon and I am out in the front yard of the house walking around the pond and pruning some flowers in the expansive gardens that fill the grounds when I hear a familiar, but by this point unusual sound. A car approaching in the distance. I step behind a thick clump of spruce trees to hide myself from view as the sound of the car approaching on the gravel road becomes louder. At this point I have pretty much resigned myself to living my life alone and really don’t want to make contact with anyone new. The car is approaching from the east where I can see for a long distance through the fields. I can see the dust the car is kicking up much easier than I can see the car itself. But as it gets closer, I can make out that the car is royal blue in colour and it contains two people at least. Again, I duck behind the trees fearful of being seen. I hope it will keep driving past the house, but the car slows down then turns up the long gravel lane leading to the house. At first, I feel my nerves surge through my body. Then as I peek out again from the trees, I can see the car from its side profile. I recognize that car. I watch it for a moment longer, then I’m certain I know who it is.
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Dear Reader,
Do you have pandemic fatigue?
Don’t let pandemic fatigue stop you from reading this story. In this story, although the pandemic is always in the background, starting in chapter 12 it mostly disappears from the prose and the story pivots, just like Grace does.
This story is about the fragility of human existence. It’s about human perseverance though pre-historic times and today. It’s about Grace Thompson and her friendships, her genius, her determination. Sit back and let Grace take you on her journey. After all, she’s my first ever protagonist. When I imagined her and this story, I had no idea pandemic fatigue would ever be a thing.
To all of you now wondering why my first protagonist isn’t an athletic muscle-bound man who saves the world with both his brains and his brawn. Read the story. This hypothetical man would have failed miserably where Grace excels.
BT
