Chapter 13
THIRTEEN
ALEX
The sign for 22Wing/Canadian Forces BaseNorth Bay is made of stone on a concrete plinth, with a tattered Canadian flag on one side and a US one on the other. There are also two guys in camo with semiautomatic rifles, one standing by each flag, unsmiling and at attention. One of them aims his rifle at us while the other one flags us down. All around us the air base stretches out like a small city, surrounded by chain-link fencing topped with razor wire, although this appears to be the entrance.
“Step out of the car with your hands in the air,” the guy calls out. “If you are carrying a weapon, concealed or otherwise, you will be shot. I repeat, you will be shot.”
His voice is matter-of-fact, almost bored, as if he were telling us to put our phones and keys in the tray at airport security. Daniel and I glance at each other, and I know what we’re both thinking. Is this the start of blessed safety—or a trap?
We’ve been driving along the road from North Bay to the base for nearly half a mile, up a hill, past an airport, empty and abandoned-looking as everything else, the deep blue of Lake Nipissing visible below us, fringed with evergreens. I hadn’t quite realized, when Nicole had talked about it, just how big this place was, and that was without considering the sixty floors underground somewhere.
I could hardly believe we’d made it here so quickly; Route11 had been a straight shot, just as we’d hoped, and we’d only seen a couple of cars on the road, and none as big as ours. Some things, it seemed, were still easy.
Was this?
“Out of the car,” the man barks, less pleasantly this time, and slowly Daniel opens the driver’s side door, weaponless, his hands in the air. “Everybody, follow the man’s orders,” he tells our motley crew, his voice deliberately calm, and next to me the woman we picked up two hours ago whimpers.
She was the only unexpected aspect of our trip; we came across her fifty miles back, trudging along the side of the road and holding a baby. I thought we’d just drive by, but then Daniel pulled over hard, tires squealing, and got out of the truck.
“Dad—” Mattie began, only to fall silent.
“Let’s see where she’s going, at least,” he said, and there was a steely note to his voice I think we all clocked but didn’t really understand. Everybody watched as he stepped out of the truck, and for a second, as he stared at the woman, he looked defeated, even despairing. Then he squared his shoulders and walked over to her, speaking gently, his head bent close to hers. I saw him glance down at the baby, his expression ready to soften into an isn’t-he-cute look, only for his whole body to stiffen, his face contorting with shock and then something that looked like a deep sadness, akin to grief, almost as if, for a few seconds, he might weep.
“We don’t have room for her,” Mattie whispered. “Do we?”
“Ruby can sit on my lap.” It wouldn’t be comfortable, but I could manage it for fifty miles.
The woman didn’t speak or even seem to see Daniel, but she didn’t resist when, with his hand on her shoulder, he led her back to the truck. Sam moved into the back and she clambered into the truck next to me, her face a blank mask, her eyes unfocused. The baby she cradled in her arms looked tiny and wizened and still…and very clearly dead. Shocked, I glanced at Daniel, who pressed his lips together and shook his head. It was clear this woman, whoever she was, wasn’t giving up her child, and I couldn’t really blame her. Still, it made for an uneasy journey to North Bay, and whatever we found there…which now turns out to be more guns.
With the two pseudo-soldiers pointing their rifles at us, we all slowly climb out of the truck, Ruby sliding off my lap, our hands thrown up in the air. I see Mattie and Sam exchange panicked glances, and Kyle looks both resolute and like he might cry.
I don’t think these guys will shoot us; they feel more reassuringly like normal military, although I’m pretty sure they’re not. They’re dressed in a random assortment of camo and military gear, like two guys playing some serious dress-up. The looks on their faces are serious, too, and their rifles are unwavering as they point them right at us. Maybe I should be more scared, but I’m so desperate to feel safe, to not have to be in charge, even if just for a little while, that right now all I can do is stand there, swaying slightly, my hands up like I’m at a rave.
I glance around at the various buildings spread out along the road—they all look innocuous, flat-roofed and utilitarian, some more modern than others.
“We heard that CFBNorth Bay was a safe place,” Daniel says into the silence. “That you were…accepting people, to…to live here.”
“You’ll need to come into our decontamination unit,” the first man states by way of reply. “Once you’re clear, you’ll have an interview to determine your suitability for the NBSRC.”
“NBSRC?” Daniel repeats .
“The North Bay Survival and Resettlement Center. Did you leave the keys in the truck?”
Daniel nods. The man speaks into a walkie-talkie while the other gestures with his rifle for us to head through the chain-link gates to the parking lot with an aerodrome on one side, a concrete building on the other. We walk slowly, all huddled together, our hands still in the air, each step laden with trepidation. What are we walking into? And should we leave? Get away while we still can?
I’m not sure we have a choice anymore, because already the metal gates are clanging shut behind us, and one of the soldiers gets in the truck to drive it away. We might have just lost all our belongings. I glance at the woman we picked up; her head is bent as she croons to her dead baby, and she seems oblivious to what is going on. Mattie is holding Phoebe’s hand, and everybody still looks scared.
As we approach the building, two people emerge, dressed in the kind of inflated hazmat suits, complete with helmets, I associate with disaster movies. They look like a cross between construction workers and astronauts. They gesture for us to come into the building, their faces serious beneath their face shields.
“Who’s reminded of the Michelin Man?” Daniel whispers, and Mattie smothers a nervous giggle. I throw him a look of gratitude, that he can make this easier for all of us, but he’s not looking at me, and despite his joke his face looks grim.
We are shepherded through a waiting room of what was probably once some kind of health center, into a room that has been cleared of all furniture; before I’ve fully taken in the barren surroundings, Kyle, Sam, and Daniel are taken into another one. The person in the hazmat suit is a woman, I realize, and she nods at us, her voice muffled by her helmet and face shield.
“You all need to strip. All clothes should be left on the floor. Try to touch them as little as possible, if you can.” Her voice is matter-of-fact, without any sympathy, and we all gape at her, save for the woman with the baby, who, by either miracle or tragedy, is still oblivious.
“Do you think we might be contaminated?” I ask, my voice wavering with nervousness. “We’ve been in the backwoods of Ontario since?—”
“Strip,” the woman says again, and it’s clear she’s not going to engage with any of us more than that.
We all start taking off our clothes as carefully as possible; considering we ran out of razors five months ago, I’m feeling a little less groomed than I would have preferred for an impromptu striptease, but I’m more concerned about some minuscule molecules of radioactive whatever that might be coming off my grubby shirt and shorts—something that hadn’t crossed my mind for months, since those first blasts, until William Stratton mentioned it, and now this. Is it a real possibility, or are they just following precautionary procedures? Either way, we’re all getting naked.
Ruby, I see with a pulse of motherly shock as she self-consciously slips off her own t-shirt, is looking far more womanly than she did before everything happened, back in the day when I might have helped her rinse her hair in the shower. Mattie, on the other hand, looks as thin I am, long-limbed and bony, shielding herself with her hands as a blush rises to her cheeks and a naked Phoebe clings to her leg. The woman with the baby hasn’t moved.
“Ma’am,” the woman in the hazmat says to her. “You need to start taking off your clothes. And your baby’s clothes—” She takes a step forward, and then does a double-take before recoiling when she sees that the baby is dead. She turns to me, in accusation.
“Why is she holding a dead baby?”
“We only picked her up about fifty miles before the base,” I reply, lowering my voice as if to keep the woman from hearing, although of course she still can, even if she doesn’t seem to be taking anything in. “We don’t know anything about her, but I’m guessing she’d had some trauma.” Obviously.
“But…” The woman looks caught between horror and a reluctant sympathy, then she squares her shoulders and takes a meaningful step toward the woman. “Ma’am, you need to let go of that baby. Now.” Firmly but gently, she starts to pry the baby from the woman’s arms; the woman lets out an ear-splitting shriek in response and takes a stumbling step back, clutching her baby to her. Mattie and Ruby both look transfixed with horror by the macabre scene, while Phoebe stares on, seemingly unfazed. I wince because I think the baby has been dead for at least a day or two, and, no matter what, this isn’t going to end well for anyone, the poor dead baby included.
Meanwhile the woman continues letting out a constant, keening shriek, like the human version of a fire alarm. For a second, the woman in the hazmat suit looks like she doesn’t know what to do; then she puts one hand on the woman’s shoulder and starts steering her out of the cell. We watch, gaping, as the woman is frog-marched out of the room, still wailing and clutching her baby. The door clangs shut behind her, sealing us in this empty cell of a room—alone, naked, and shivering.
“Where do you think they’re taking her?” Mattie asks after a few seconds have passed.
“Hopefully somewhere safe, where they can help her.” Although of course I have no idea if that’s true or not, but I hope it is. I want this place—the NBSRC or whatever it’s called—to work . I want to feel safe, and everyone else to as well, and for none of it to be my responsibility.
“Do you think she’s going to be okay?” Mattie sounds doubtful, and frankly so am I. That woman did not seem remotely okay, and the woman in the hazmat suit wasn’t exactly intent on making her so.
“I hope so, Mattie.” I take a steadying breath, determined to believe in this place. “I’m sure they’re taking care of her. And hopefully we won’t be left here too long.”
As if on cue, the woman in the hazmat suit returns, her expression bland but severe. “Your clothes will be disposed of,” she informs us crisply, or as crisply as you can sound when your voice is muffled by a face shield and helmet. “You’ll need to shower, wash with the soap provided, and then use the far door to go to the changing room, where you will dress in the issued clothing.” She gestures to a door on the far wall. “Go through there, down the hallway, and to the showers.”
We all hesitate; I suppose no one really wants to walk into an unknown room naked, but what else can we do? Putting my arms around my daughters, with Mattie holding Phoebe’s hand, I shepherd us all through the door and down the hallway, to whatever awaits us there.
Fortunately, it is, as we all really should have known it would be, just a shower, much like we’d see at our local gym, albeit a little more utilitarian. Any stalls have been ripped out, so it’s just spigots in the wall, but they let out a surprisingly forceful spray when we push a button beneath. We all stand under a separate shower nozzle, Phoebe with Mattie, as we rinse the radioactivity off us—if there was ever any there to begin with; but the truth is, it feels wonderful . I haven’t had a shower in over seven months. To be sluiced with warm water is a little bit of heaven, and, if they end up ushering us into the next room for our execution, my last thought will be worth it.
I meet Mattie’s gaze underneath the spray and I’m pretty sure she’s thinking the same thing. My hope rushes to the fore, ready to be unleashed. This is going to be good for us, I tell myself. This is what we need .
We wash ourselves with the soap provided in dispensers fixed to the wall, scrub our hair and armpits and nether regions, and I can’t remember ever feeling so clean. When we are finished, we walk down the hallway through to an empty room on the other side, where there are cheap, white towels and navy-blue boiler suits waiting for us on a couple of folding chairs.
“What’s going on, exactly?” Mattie whispers as she combs her fingers through her damp hair. She’s tightened the drawstring waist of her boiler suit, so it actually looks fashionable; weren’t these things in style a little while ago? Ruby’s been issued a woman’s size, which engulfs her, the cuffs hanging far past down her hands. She rolls up the pantlegs as Mattie twists her damp hair into a knot. Phoebe has been given a man’s white t-shirt to wear, which falls to her ankles.
“That man said after we’d been—decontaminated, I guess,” I tell them both, “we’d have some kind of interview.” I’m trying to sound confident rather than nervous. I’m really not at all sure I want to be interviewed , but if that’s what it takes to stay here…
Mattie shakes her head slowly. “What is this, District13?” She raises her eyebrows, all sass. “When did my life become a YA novel, and where is my tortured love triangle?”
I let out a snort of laughter. “Ben Stratton and Kyle?” I suggest, my eyebrows raised right back at her, and she rolls her eyes.
‘Mom, puh-lease ,” she protests, her tone scathing, but I see the flush on her cheeks, and I know it’s not just from the hot shower. I don’t mind; my daughter deserves a little excitement in her life—normal, teenaged excitement, and not the kind that gets you either shot or obliterated. Being in a place like this, when we don’t have to fight for our survival, will be good for her.
Another door opens, and the same woman, minus the hazmat suit, is standing there, dressed in normal clothes, which make our boiler suits now seem a little ridiculous, but hopefully we’ll get to wear our own clothes soon. Her auburn hair is pulled back into a bun and there’s a spray of freckles across her nose. I judge her to be in her mid-thirties, but her expression is as severe as a sixty-year-old schoolmarm.
“Come this way,” she instructs briskly, and I put my arm around Ruby as we walk through yet another door, into what looks like yet another empty room.
Mattie pauses in the doorway, Phoebe clinging to her, to turn to look at the woman. “What happened to that woman with the baby?” she asks, and her tone is borderline rude, definitely aggressive.
The woman frowns. “We are giving her the help she needs.”
Mattie frowns but doesn’t press the point. None of us knew that woman. We might feel sorry for her, but that’s all. We walk into the next room, and a little gasp of relief escapes me when I see Daniel, Kyle, and Sam all sitting on folding chairs, dressed in identical boiler suits. Sam and Kyle look, in turn, haughty and scared, and my husband only looks bemused.
“Blue’s always suited you,” he says, and again, improbably, I laugh.
The room is empty save for a half dozen folding chairs, so there are no clues as to what is going on or what this alleged interview will require.
“Did you learn anything?” I ask Daniel as I sit next to him. Ruby sits next to me, and Mattie takes the chair on the end, with Phoebe on her lap.
“That I really missed having a shower,” Daniel quips as he smiles at me, his eyes creasing in a way I haven’t seen them do in months, since before this all happened, and I’m suddenly struck by how relieved my husband is, to be in a place where someone else is in charge. Where someone else is responsible for keeping us safe .
That’s what we both need now.
The door opens and then a man steps in, and I’m pretty sure, judging by the composed but intent look on his face, that he’s the one conducting this interview…and deciding our fates.