Chapter 14
FOURTEEN
“Good morning.”
The man smiles at us, a perfunctory, professional sort of smile, and then closes the door carefully behind him. I’m trying to get the measure of him, whoever he is—he’s average height, a little slighter than average build, with thinning dark hair and dark brown eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. He looks like an accountant, save for the fact that he’s dressed in combat fatigues, and I decide there is something comfortingly familiar about his manner. He’s an administrator, a bureaucrat, like before the bombs.
“Good morning,” Daniel replies, and we all murmur variations of a greeting like unruly children cowed by the new teacher.
He stands in front of us, hands folded loosely in front of him as he surveys us with a faint smile. “You’re probably wondering what on earth is going on,” he remarks, and I decide his voice is pleasant—pleasant but also restrained, with a hint of the friendly Canadian accent. Trustworthy , I think, wanting to believe it. “What we’ve found,” he continues, “is that it’s best to have a system in place to process new arrivals. Hence the shower, the boiler suit, and this little interview. I know it might all seem kind of utilitarian and restricted, like something out of The Hunger Games , but it really isn’t.” He glances at Mattie as he says this, and she smiles a little shamefacedly. I’m amused, until I wonder if the shower room was bugged and he heard her make that remark about District13. Then I tell myself I am overreacting.
“Maybe you could tell us a little bit about this place,” Daniel suggests. “What it’s like, and who you are. Someone told us about the air base, but the truth is we came in pretty much blind.”
“Of course.” The man’s reply is swift, easy. “My name is Michael Duart, and before the first attacks I worked as a computer engineer right here at 22 Wing, otherwise known as CFBNorth Bay.”
“So how did you go from that,” Daniel asks slowly, “to this? What happened to the military presence here? Did they really all just up and leave?”
Michael nods somberly. “Unfortunately, yes. All the military personnel were mobilized after Toronto was attacked.” He pauses. “You might not have realized, but this air base didn’t actually house any aircraft. The last squadron flew out of here in 1992, when the control tower, airfield, fuel depot, and other base assets were demolished. The airport across the road is for civilians.” He pauses, his expression and voice both somber. “In any case, after the mobilization…no one came back.”
“No one?” Mattie repeats in something like a squeak.
“There were some reservists still here,” Michael Duart allows, “and some non-combat personnel, such as myself. But most everyone was evacuated from the base itself, as well as the city of North Bay, because, as a control center, 22 Wing was thought to be a likely target. It wasn’t attacked, obviously, as our enemy focused on inflicting maximum casualties through the bombing of urban areas. But, as you can imagine, or not even have to imagine, since it was probably like this where you were as well, everything was pretty chaotic at that time. If people weren’t evacuated, they deserted. Others panicked. People headed west or holed up in their homes. There were, sadly, quite a few suicides.” He pauses, as if in memory of those unfortunates. “For a couple of months,” he resumes, “it felt like no one was in charge.” He spreads his hands wide as if to say, what can you do?
“Yes,” Daniel agrees, “it certainly felt like that to me.” He pauses, his forehead furrowed in thought, and I know he feels he can’t get the measure of this man. Is he as trustworthy as he seems? I want him to be. “So what happened then?” Daniel finally asks.
“I realized someone needed to take control.” Michael Duart speaks simply, without either pride or modesty, just a statement of fact. “I could see there was a great resource here, even without the military presence. All the infrastructure”—he sweeps one hand out to encompass everything about this place—the barbed wire, the semiautomatic rifles, the security system, the sixty floors underground—“comes in pretty handy. But if it fell into the wrong hands…” He pauses. “Well, maybe you’ve seen what happens then. Vigilantes and renegades taking over whatever building they can—a hospital, a hotel, a mall.” He pauses meaningfully. “It’s not pretty,” he concludes somberly, “when that happens.”
We are all silent for a moment, recalling when we’ve seen exactly that. No, it’s not pretty at all.
“You must have moved fast,” Daniel remarks, “to take control of a place this size. How big is it?”
“Well, I didn’t do it on my own,” Michael replies, sidestepping the question about size. “There were a few dozen of us who saw the need and acted. That was about four months ago. Since then, we’ve done our best to hone our process and system, for the good of everyone here, and the future we can make for ourselves.”
He straightens a little. “You might have noticed this is called the North Bay Survival and Resettlement Center. That’s because this is about more than just surviving the next few months or years of whatever happens—the fallout, a nuclear winter, you name it. This is about resettling the country, and indeed all of civilization. And if that sounds grandiose,” he continues, sounding defensive even though none of us has said a word, “well, you’re right, it is, but that’s the world—or lack of it—that we’re living in right now, but we here at the NBSRC want to change it. We genuinely do want to make the world a better place.”
He gives this stirring speech in the same matter-of-fact voice, but now I detect the slightest hint of pride, and I can’t fault him for it. I’m stirred; they are doing something grandiose and good here. At least, I hope they are.
“I suppose that’s true enough,” Daniel agrees with an easy smile, or at least the approximation of one. “So tell us how this works.”
“Of course.” Michael Duart’s voice possesses an eager alacrity that suggests he is getting into his stride. He shifts where he stands, throwing back his slight shoulders like he is settling into himself. “So I’ll outline our basic principles and then you can decide if you’re on board or not. If you’re not, and I’ll be honest with you, a fair amount of people have decided that, then you leave here with all your possessions intact, save for the clothes we’ve had to dispose of due to the potential of radioactive contamination.”
“Okay,” Daniel agrees after a moment. “Sounds fair.”
And maybe too good to be true? I lurch between deep paranoia and wild hope, but I already know which one I want to choose.
“Good.” Michael Duart gives a brief nod. “So, the first thing is to assure you that we are not running some kind of Stalinist work camp here. We are not about the state, such as it is, taking control, or the individual giving up his or her rights for the betterment of the community.” He gives us the sort of a smile that invites you to share the joke; all that’s missing is an eye-roll. “I’m saying that up front because that’s what most people are afraid of. The boiler suits don’t help, I know, but it was just easier to have something basic for people to change into, and there were stacks of them here already, so we thought we might as well put them to good use.”
“Fair enough,” Daniel replies equably. “But how does this place operate?”
“I’m coming to that,” Michael assures us, with a quick smile. “So, the reason I said all that up front isn’t just because it’s what people are afraid of, but because of some of the measures we’ve had to put into place, to make this place function successfully at the current time, which I’m sure you’ll be able to understand once I’ve explained it to you.”
“Maybe just tell us what to expect,” Daniel suggests, the very slightest of edges to his voice. I think he’s tired of all the buildup, just as I realize I am.
“Of course.” Michael Duart’s voice is smooth and assured. “If you agree to our principles and decide to stay, and, of course, if you’re evaluated successfully?—”
“What does that mean?” I interject.
“We have rigorous standards,” Michael explains with only the barest hint of apology. “Medically, physically, intellectually. We have only space for about five hundred people on site. We can’t just take anyone, not if we’re rebuilding the world.”
Rebuilding the world ? All right, yes, he does sound grandiose, and I’m not sure how I feel about it .
“In any case,” Michael resumes smoothly, “assuming it’s all successful, you’ll be assigned lodgings here on the site.”
“Not underground?” Sam asks, sounding both eager and disappointed. “The NORAD Underground Complex…it seems really cool…” He trails off uncertainly.
“We are in the process of refurbishing the underground complex for human habitation,” Michael Duart informs us smoothly. “And, of course, we are monitoring radiation levels. At the current time, the atmosphere is at safe levels. But if that changes, then we will rehouse everyone in the complex.” He glances around at all of us as if asking for any questions, and then, after a second’s pause, continues. “Now, families stay together…” He glances between us all. “Are you all one family?”
“Yes,” Mattie says fiercely just as Kyle admits, sounding resigned, “No.”
Michael Duart’s eyebrows lift as he waits for an explanation.
“Kyle’s not related to us technically ,” I explain after a moment. “But he’s been with us for months and he’s like family.” I sound like I’m pleading, and I’m annoyed with myself. Why shouldn’t we decide who we live with? Why have I already handed Michael Duart that power, just because he’s acting like he has it?
Already, I know the answer. Because it’s safe here, and we’ll have food, and a place to sleep, and security. And for that, in this world, I know I’m willing to hand over a lot of power.
“I see.” Michael Duart is clearly making no promises about us all staying together. “But the rest of you are family?”
“Yes,” I say firmly. I’m not about to have Phoebe taken away from us, not after Mattie begged for her not to be.
Michael Duart’s gaze lasers into mine and I see a hint of cool appraisal there that unnerves me. “These are your four children?” he asks, and it’s like he knows. Yet how can he?
“Yes,” I say again, just as firmly. Phoebe has the same dark hair as I do, even if her complexion is far more olive-toned than mine. There’s absolutely no way for him to figure out that Phoebe isn’t my daughter unless she tells him herself. But why should he even care?
“All right,” he replies after a moment, his tone equable, and I relax a little bit. Then he glances at Sam. “You look over eighteen,” he remarks in the tone of someone saying, “aren’t you a handsome boy.”
“I’m nineteen,” Sam replies, sounding guarded.
“Well, then, you would live with Kyle”—he gives a nod—“in the single men’s dormitory. The rest of you would be allocated housing together.” His tone is amenable and yet at the same time clearly brooks no argument. “There are a variety of houses on site, but most families are guaranteed at least two bedrooms and a bathroom. Meals are served communally two times a day; at the present time, to conserve supplies, there’s no midday meal. Everyone eats the same thing—I’m afraid we can’t cater for any special diets or allergies, not even severe ones. It’s simply not possible at this time.” He pauses, as if waiting for confirmation, and I wonder if anyone has been turned away because of a peanut allergy.
“Okay,” Daniel says after a moment.
“Everyone over the age of fourteen is assigned a work placement,” Michael continues after another pause. “Which will be decided by the governing committee based on community needs as well as individual skills and abilities. Children under fourteen will be educated according to the national curriculum.” The flash of a brief smile. “We are fortunate to have some teachers among us.”
A silence while we all absorb this, but no one objects.
“We also find,” he continues, “that it helps the camp to function more smoothly if there’s no alcohol or drug use whatsoever. ”
I let out a huff of disbelieving laughter before I can help myself. “Where could we get either of those things, these days?”
He gives me a thin-lipped smile. “You’d be surprised.”
“Any other rules?” Daniel asks. He sounds like he suspects there are, quite a lot of them.
“There’s a curfew,” Michael replies, like an acknowledgement of an implied criticism. “Ninep.m., everyone is back in their lodgings. Again, it helps with the smooth functioning?—”
“Of the camp,” Daniel completes. “Understandable.”
“I’m glad you think so.”
Am I imagining the undercurrent of tension that is suddenly running through the room like an electric wire? For a second, no one says anything.
“The only other rule of note,” Michael finishes, “is that we have a zero-tolerance policy. Again, we’ve found it’s the only way to make things work for this number of people?—”
“How many people are here?” I interject, curious.
“At present, four hundred, give or take a few,” Michael replies. “As I mentioned before, we have capacity for five hundred.” Although not underground, I recall. In any case, they’re almost full. Quite a few people have agreed to all the rules, which means maybe we should, too.
“This zero-tolerance policy,” Daniel asks. “What does that mean, exactly?”
“It means that if you break any of our rules, you and your dependents are required to leave,” Michael replies. His tone is utterly unapologetic. “No warnings, no second chances. You just go. And you are not allowed back.”
“Not ever?” Mattie asks, sounding like a small child.
“Not ever,” Michael agrees. “I know it might sound harsh, but we have to think of the greater good.”
Which definitely sounds like a Stalinist work camp, and yet…I get it. Sort of. They can’t have people coming and going, a revolving door of would-be survivalists .
“Any other rules?” Daniel asks mildly.
Michael gives a little shrug. “No one is allowed off site—again, for the greater good. We are able to monitor radiation levels and they indicate that there’s no great danger at the base, but we have no idea how far that safety extends, and, since we can’t keep tabs on how far people might go, it’s better simply to keep the center contained. We have everything we need here, as you’ll discover if you stay.”
“How do you have electricity?” I blurt. “And running water?”
The smile Michael aims at me seems a little smug. “Twenty-two Wing operates on a microgrid, powered by solar and wind energy. Neither electricity nor running water will ever be a problem.” He makes it sound as if this is his personal accomplishment, but, since he is a computer engineer, maybe it was.
“Do you have internet?” Mattie asks, sounding so eager that I almost laugh. It could be seven months ago, when we arrived at the cottage, and she was bemoaning the lack of Wi-Fi.
“We do,” Michael replies proudly, and for a second we all goggle. It’s as if we’ve stumbled into Eden, with all its technological promises—water, electricity, even internet. It feels too good to be true, but that doesn’t mean it is. “Although,” he continues, “there’s very little you can access online right now. Most of the U.S. and Canada’s servers were destroyed in the blasts, or the resulting EMP. There are a few other bases in North America that are operating like this one, and we’re able to exchange information. Hopefully, as I’ve stated, one day we can work together to resettle both Canada and the United States.”
“Big dreams,” Daniel remarks, and for a second Michael looks flinty-eyed.
“Yes,” he agrees briefly, and another silence descends on us that feels uncomfortably tense.
“Who makes all these decisions?” Daniel asks. “You talk about we . Do you mean you and the friends who helped you take control of this place?”
Michael’s eyes narrow and I resist the urge to grab Daniel’s hand and give it a hard warning squeeze. Does he want us to fail whatever evaluation we’re given? Maybe it’s already started, and this is part of it. Too argumentative and you’re out. And I already know I want to stay. Badly. I’m too tired even to think about doing anything else, even if I might regret it later.
“Essentially, yes,” Michael replies evenly. “The governing committee is the initial group who secured the base.”
“How many of you are there?”
“Twenty-four.”
“That’s quite a lot of people to weigh in on all these matters,” Daniel observes.
Michael’s nostrils flare as he smiles faintly. “True. Any major decisions are taken by an executive committee of five.” He pauses. “But of course, if you don’t like it, you don’t have to stay.”
“I didn’t say anything about not liking it,” Daniel replies easily. “It’s just good to know what we’re signing up for.”
“Of course.” He glances between us all. “Should I leave you to discuss it? You have fifteen minutes. After that, we’ll need these rooms for processing other arrivals, and, if you decide to stay, you’ll need to have your medical and ability evaluations.”
Medical and ability …? I try not to show my alarm; Kyle looks positively panicked. It’s hard to believe more people have already arrived since we did. It can’t have been much over an hour. If there are already four hundred-odd people here and only five hundred able to be housed in total…
This place is filling up.
With another faint smile and a small bow that feels a little ironic, he leaves us alone.
“Are we staying?” Mattie demands the minute he’s closed the door behind him. She’s scooped Phoebe up into her arms and is holding her protectively while the little girl blinks slowly, seemingly unfazed.
We all glance around uncertainly at each other.
“Where else would we go?” Sam asks, the first time he’s spoken. I can’t tell how he feels about the idea; he seems resigned, but I’m aware—again—that he has not spoken to me or met my eye in several days. Our hurried conversation under that cedar tree did not resolve or even advance our issues at all, and the truth is, I’m not entirely sure what our issues even are, only that they’re there.
“It feels a little cultish,” Mattie remarks, holding Phoebe even closer. “Like, who is that guy? And why does he get to be in charge?”
“They need to maintain some kind of order,” Daniel replies in the same mild tone he used with Michael Duart. “But I know what you mean, Mats,” he continues as he glances at me. “What do you think, Alex?”
I don’t answer right away because I’m feeling a lot of things at the moment. I’m scared of change as well as surrendering choice, and yet…a very large part of me longs for nothing more than to curl up in a bed, in a place with running water and electric light. I crave stability and safety; the idea of two solid meals a day made by someone else feels like a little slice of heaven. Warm showers, barbed-wire fence…it’s a trade-off, but right now it’s also what I want.
Besides, what other choice is there? Like Sam said, where could we go?
“We can always leave if we don’t like it,” I point out. “So in that way it feels like a win-win situation, right?”
“We might not even get in, anyway,” Kyle ventures, biting his thumbnail as his gaze darts around the empty room. “I mean, what are these evaluations?”
“Kyle, you’ll be fine,” Mattie tells him, and he gives her a grateful yet uncertain look.
We all fall silent, waiting for someone to give the final verdict, to make us jump, but no one speaks. This is the right decision, I tell myself. It has to be.
“Let’s do it,” I say, and everyone’s relief at having made a decision— this decision—is palpable.
I just hope it’s the right one.