QUACK
Arthur woke up in a Montreal hospital to a silence so profound it felt heavy. There were no beeping monitors, no squeaky rubber soles in the hallway, and—most distressingly—no smell of overpriced cafeteria coffee.
After wandering the streets for three days, Arthur realized two things:
- The world had seemingly ended while he was napping.
- He was likely the last man on Earth, or at least the last one in Canada who hadn't turned into a decorative lawn ornament.
"Well," Arthur told a nearby mailbox, "if I'm going to be the protagonist of a post-apocalyptic drama, I’m not doing it in a place where it snows eight months a year."
The Vessel of Destiny
Arthur needed to get to Europe. He assumed the "Old World" might have handled the apocalypse with more class—perhaps with wine and better cheese. However, his options for crossing the Atlantic were limited. The planes were grounded, and the massive cruise ships felt "too haunted."
Then, he found it.
Tucked away in a flooded warehouse for a defunct roadside attraction was The Quack-tanic. It was a twenty-foot-long, motorized circus duck. It was bright yellow, made of reinforced fiberglass, and—according to the brochure—guaranteed to be 100% waterproof and "flip-proof" thanks to a heavy lead keel shaped like giant orange webbed feet.
"It’s aerodynamic," Arthur lied to himself, patting the duck’s massive beak.
The Gadget Duck
Arthur wasn't a sailor, but he was a man with a lot of time and access to a looted Best Buy. He spent weeks retrofitting the duck. He installed:
- Solar Panels: Plastered all over the duck’s back like shiny feathers.
- A High-End Gaming Setup: Because the Atlantic is boring.
- A 360-Degree Radar: To avoid icebergs and disgruntled whales.
- A Professional Karaoke Machine: For morale.
With a flick of a switch and a muffled quack from the modified exhaust pipe, Arthur set sail from the Maritimes, heading East.
The Great Crossing
The journey was less Life of Pi and more Rubber Duckie’s Big Adventure.
Arthur spent most of his time in the mid-Atlantic playing "The Sims" (which felt a bit redundant) and singing "Don't Go Breaking My Heart" to a school of confused dolphins. The duck was, as promised, impossible to capsize. During a Category 4 hurricane, Arthur simply strapped himself into the pilot’s seat while the duck bobbed like a cork, spinning 360 degrees while he ate lukewarm canned ravioli.
"You can't sink a duck, Poseidon!" he yelled into the gale. "It's physically impossible!"
Arrival: The European Dream
Weeks later, the yellow beak finally bumped into the docks of Lisbon. Arthur adjusted his captain's hat, grabbed his solar-powered megaphone, and stepped onto European soil.
"Hello?!" he shouted. "I’m here for the culture! And the survivors! Mostly the survivors!"
He spent the next month traveling. He rode a folding bicycle from Portugal to France, then across to Germany. He found:
- In Paris: The Eiffel Tower was still there, but the only "citizens" were pigeons who had grown surprisingly arrogant now that they owned the cafes.
- In Berlin: A techno club where the automated lights were still flashing, but the dance floor was occupied only by a very confused stag.
- In Rome: The Colosseum was empty, though he did find a stray cat wearing a discarded cardinal’s hat.
The Realization
Standing atop the Alps, looking out over a continent that was just as quiet as the Tim Hortons back in Montreal, Arthur sighed. Europe was just as empty as Canada. The only difference was that the ruins were older and the abandoned bakeries had better-looking bread (now petrified into rocks).
He looked down at his trusty motorized duck waiting in the harbor below. It looked very small and very yellow against the vast, empty blue of the Mediterranean.
"Well," Arthur said, pulling a map out of his pocket. "I’ve heard Australia has giant spiders. Maybe the spiders figured out how to run a society?"
He headed back down to the docks. He had a lot of "Sims" to play, and the duck still had plenty of battery.
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