Click, Click, Click
By Helen McClory
Darla ran her finger down the screen, leaving a streak. Flights were reasonable. They could go tomorrow if they liked? Tracey said yes. She said yes! Darla pulled her dusty roller-bag down and began stuffing it with armfuls of clothes.
I’ll put the daisies in you, she told Tracey. I’ll pick them fresh and put them in you.
Flowers out, or stalks? Tracey asked.
Flowers. They’ll look so good against your pubes, Darla said, white on the black.
Ah, I don’t know if it’s the season for them there though, Tracey said.
Why not? It’s the same hemisphere, Darla said.
They might all be picked. You know, by researchers.
If that’s the case I’ll just have to mug a researcher, steal some back for you, won’t I? Darla said, pressing the eyelash curler up to one eye in the mirror.
They got aboard the bullet train, watched the foreign landscape dart past; blocky scenes, cubes stacked tall and close together at first, then lower and more uniform, then covert between mountains or thrown like dice across the wet green plains. Their stop: they stepped off and blundered through the town nearest the restriction zone, laughing, bumping their luggage over the kerbs. The hotel was everything they could hope for, but not at all where they wanted to start tugging at each other. That had to come later. In their rooms—separate, for discretion and the tension of delay—they showered and lay down. Darla walked to the vending machine by the front doors and selected a number at random. She cracked open her coffee. It smelled like a metallic present and she hoped the edge might cut her lip as she drank, but trying to make it do that was against the rules.
The next day they went before breakfast to take the bus to a spot close to the gates, trekking from there. It had been long enough now that there was no serious checkpoint, just a kiosk with an old man reading a newspaper inside. He said something to them as they approached.
Good morning, Darla said.
He nodded. They gestured at the gates. He seemed to understand, but resisted. Tracey shook out her hanky, which was pink. She said to Darla, you do it, you’ve got a longer reach.
Let’s get him to come out, Darla said.
Tracey and Darla had discussed the idea of bribery beforehand, deciding it probably wouldn’t work, based on what they thought the locals would be like. Consequently they had brought along some chloroform, among other supplies. Tracey beckoned the man, pointing to her shoe. He came out and shuffled over. Darla held him gently, and when he was out, they laid him on the ground with a blanket under his head.
They walked off along the crumbling road, swinging their coats. It was much warmer here than at home. A vine was sprouting through a broken window, putting out antennae-like feelers.
Well, said Tracey, we’re here.
Yes, said Darla, looking at a rusted bicycle, its basket full of black mouldering clumps. Ah, so good.
A cow wandered up to them, mooing.
I thought you’d be shot, said Tracey, scratching it behind the ear.
I bet it was a baby when they came, and it hid in the long grass, said Darla. The cow rolled its tongue into its nostril and out again.
It’s really kind of beautiful, said Darla. She was staring at a stack of sheet metal that had been placed against a wall under and advertisement. The ad was so faded she could not guess at what it was for. She wanted to pretend it was for some huge, elite dildo made of irradiated silicon. But things were too wholesome here. She blew out. On they walked, off the road, behind the boarded-up houses. A field was ahead.
Daisies, said Tracey in a tight voice.
They climbed the barbed wire fence and made a trail through the high grass.
If they mow this, when it rots it’ll release more radiation into the atmosphere, said Darla. A flareup.
Tracey ran her fingers over Darla’s arm.
Do you think the old people are still volunteering to do things around here? She asked. I mean, other than guard the gate.
Do you think the old people, you know?
Like an old-people orgy? Tracey said. Yeah.
They fold up their clothes before they do it, Darla said.
They put out inflatable mattresses so they don’t break anything, Tracey said.
No, you’re wrong, said Darla. They want to break things. They want to grind themselves into the dirt. They want their clothes to be neat for anyone who comes to get their corpses afterwards. It’s a sign of respect.
They stood slightly apart in the centre of the field.
Well. Geiger counter time? Asked Tracey.
Darla unzipped her bag and they cranked up the machine. It was from the nineties, but it still worked. The sound of the clicks went out in all directions. Tracey began unbuttoning her blouse.
Darla went to pick the flowers. There were dandelions and buttercups and daisies but all of them looked normal. She walked further off. The clicks were the ripple she would follow back to Tracey. At the edge of the woods she found them at last, the mutations, growing on long, looping stems.
Fuck, she said, and undid the buttons on her jeans. She turned to see in the distance Tracey spinning about in place. Her bra a burst of orange above the green. Someone was coming across the field towards her. Darla ducked. A man, at this distance too hard to make out but she guessed the guard, woken up early. He grabbed Tracey. They struggled. He was trying to put a blanket around her. He thinks she’s mad, Darla thought. He thinks we’re mad. That’ll teach us to buy chloroform off Ebay. She lay down, stroked the blades of grass. She picked a stem and sucked on it.
The clicks had stopped.
Darla rolled over and pulled up a frilly, double-yolk daisy.
She slid it into her knickers, felt its tickle, and sighed.
