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Postcards from After the End

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February 19th, 2042
Dear Mahir,

I got your message about the interview requests from the Times and the Post. Thanks for passing those along. No, really, thanks. Shaun printed them out and used them for knife-throwing practice. Before, he was using a stuffed elk head that came with the place. We are, as always, extremely popular with our landlord.

Like the postcard? Shaun got it from a woman we stayed with last week. Apparently, she’s from Detroit. She keeps a whole bunch of postcards and pictures from her old neighborhood tacked up on her fridge.

She says it's so she remembers why she left.

No offense, Mahir, but a lot of the time, that’s how I feel when I look at the site. It’s home, but I never, ever want to go back there.

All our love,
Shaun and George

May 18th, 2042
Dear Mahir,

This is, by this point, extremely old news, but the idiot actually found himself a zombie moose. And tried to capture it.

Idiot.

I resemble that remark, and have therefore hijacked this postcard. Like the moose, Mahir? I know it's not zombified, but then again, you're not a loved one per se. It's a postcard of lies, really, but it's the only moose one I could find. Also, I did not TRY to capture the zombie moose; I ACTUALLY captured the zombie moose. I'm thinking about doing a “Best of Canada” series. Talk to Geo about the promotion.

ANYWAY. We are healthy, despite our best efforts to the contrary, and you should have gotten Shaun's report a few days ago. I'm told the moose was a seven-point bull, whatever that means. Don't bother checking it for EXIF data, you'll only make Buffy's ghost sad.

All our love,
Shaun and George

August 8, 2042

Dear Mahir,

Happy One Year People-Tried-To-Murder-Us-And-Failed-iversary! Take Nandini out to dinner for us.

All our love,
Shaun and George

November 03, 2042

Dear Mahir,

Don't get too excited; this one's aspirational, not representational. It is COLD AS BALLS where we are. Actually, colder. Balls flee from this kind of cold, man. They have more sense than we do.

I'm doing the writing because George broke her arm. It was maybe slightly my fault, so I'm on man-slave duty until it heals. It's light duty, though. Verrry pleasant.

George just yelled at me to stop being gross, and I'm almost out of space, so that's all for now.

Having a great time, glad you aren't here,

Shaun and George

February 18, 2043

Dear Mahir,

It is even colder now than it was the last time. Hawaii isn't enough; we might need a nuclear fusion source to thaw. The thermometer outside our cabin window reads -40. Canada is a terrible, terrible place. If we weren't snowed in, we'd already be gone. Why the fuck did two Californians decide to go on the lam to Canada?

Part of me hates the fact that I've become the kind of person who talks about the weather. The other part kind of likes it.

All our love,
Shaun and George

March 07, 2043

Dear Mahir,

Seven retractions in one week?!? It's not my place to criticize, but clearly you are not beating the Newsies hard enough. Put the fear of God into them a bit.

Hope you liked the series on Nuevo Separatism; it's a bit niche, but I think it's solid work.

Confession: I've been cheating on After The End Times. I'm a member of the “legitimate media” now. Nothing much, just pseudonymous stringer work for the local publications we come across. The average age of my colleagues has jumped from about 30 to about 60, but it's oddly satisfying to be doing journalism when people aren't trying to kill me.

All our love,
Shaun and George.

P.S. - Shaun befriended a couple of members of the local hockey team. They talked him into making himself a bladed hockey stick. He's set on “Zombonies” as a series. God help Geo.

March 17, 2043

Dear Mahir,

Nice try, but did you really think I wouldn't have alerts set up on my old pseuds? We're safe, we're happy, we're together; you don't need to know where we are.

Knock it off,
George

March 25, 2043

Mahir -

Stop being an asshat and apologize to George. She stopped doing the stringer work, and now she has nothing better to do than write, sulk, and nitpick my camera angles.

While you're at it, you could apologize to me, too.

No love, dude.
Shaun

P.S. - Tell Nandini I said the kid's adorable. Actually, it looks kinda like a meatloaf before it went into the oven, but I hear that stops eventually.

June 6, 2043,

Mahir -

ZOMBONIES CONCLUDES, TRIUMPHANT. An outbreak at a Stanley Cup Finals game? A fictional couldn't make this shit up, nor can you top it. Tell Geo he owes me a metaphorical dinner.

-Shaun

P.S. - She'll come around eventually. Not to twist the knife too much, but it was harder on her because she trusted you more.

P.P.S. - We're not in Toronto anymore. Don't even try.

July 04, 2043

Dear Mahir,

You have no idea how hard it was to get a hold of this up here. But, I felt it would be apropos.

You'll probably be hearing from us less often now. Our running series have all wrapped, and we've agreed – both of us – to stop submitting video. We'll still submit text, but probably less for me, and Shaun wants to taper off entirely. He seems to be getting into this hockey thing, which is not something I would have called in a million years, but. It works for him. And surprisingly, local journalism works for me.

It's not that we don't love what we do, but as long as we're doing it for After the End Times, it's part of our story, the long story that goes back through Ryman and the CDC and my dying. And somehow, I think that life, MY life, can't begin until that story ends.

We both love you. Keep in touch.

Shaun and George