Chapter 22
TWENTY-TWO
“What…” My mouth is dry, and I force myself to swallow as I take a step closer to the terrible scene. “What happened ?”
“It was an accident,” Sam half whispers, half whimpers. “I swear.”
“But…” I stand above William Stratton and gaze down at his gray face. He’s unconscious, and there’s blood trickling from his lip, but at least not his head. “What happened?” I ask again.
“He came at me,” Sam explains. “When I was walking back.’
“Why?”
“Because he thinks Sam is having an affair with Nicole,” Mattie states bluntly, and I flinch, because I’m Sam’s mother, and the thought of him having an affair with anyone, never mind a fortyish woman, is pretty hard to take.
“Sam—”
“I’m not,” Sam says quickly. “I mean, she’s old . Not that she’s…I was just talking to her about Ben, because he’s been kind of quiet lately…anyway. Stratton is crazy. He just came at me and I…well, we had words, and then I punched him.” Sam cradles his fist, his voice filled with a wary sort of wonder. “I’ve never punched anyone before. It hurts.”
“Did you punch him that hard?” I ask, glancing down at Stratton. “To knock him out cold?”
“He hit his head,” Mattie explains flatly. “That’s what knocked him out.”
I breathe out slowly, my mind whirling. This is bad, I realize. Really bad, as bad as Mattie said. If Stratton is dead—or worse, in a way, if he wakes up—Sam will be evicted from the NBSRC, just like those boys who got drunk, one of whom might already be dead. He’ll have nothing, nowhere to go, no way to defend or provide for himself. I can’t let that happen.
But what can I do?
My mind runs through several unsavory possibilities, discarding each one in turn: hide the body, if Stratton is dead, and pretend it never happened, or at least act as if Sam wasn’t involved. No, I can’t behave like such a criminal, and if he isn’t dead that’s not a possibility anyway. I’m ashamed I even thought of it, and yet I did. The other option is to deny it—leave Stratton where he is and, if he wakes up and accuses Sam, ride it out. But Stratton is vengeful, and I’m pretty sure he’ll be out for Sam even if Sam is believed, which he probably won’t be, because Stratton is Stratton, and a man of importance in this isolated community who thinks Sam is sleeping with his wife. No matter what, it won’t end there.
The third option is in some ways the most unpalatable, and yet almost the most possible: leave Stratton where he is, to be discovered, and run before we’re forcibly evicted. I won’t let Sam go alone; this is a chance for us all to leave the NBSRC and forge our own futures.
The prospect is utterly terrifying.
“Mom.” Mattie’s voice is urgent. “What do you think we should do?”
Beneath us, Stratton lets out a groan and starts to stir. Sam and I exchange panicked glances, the first time we’ve looked each other in the eye in a long while.
Stratton isn’t even close to dead, I realize. He knocked his head and maybe has a concussion, but this isn’t a one-punch-killer type of situation, more’s the pity.
We need to make a decision, now.
“We need to put him somewhere,” I say, and Mattie and Sam, along with Kyle, who has been lurking behind me looking anxious, all stare at me in disbelief.
“Put him somewhere…” Sam repeats uncertainly. I feel like he’s asking me, in the same way he did back in Kawartha, Mom, are you a killer? Not in so many words, but the feeling is there, along with the accusation. Just what are you capable of?
I’m not sure I know the answer to that question, but that’s not what’s going on here. “Just out of the way,” I explain. “So we can escape.”
“We’re not in prison,” Mattie puts in sharply. I wonder if she’ll miss being here the most, with her friends and her teaching job, a semblance of teenaged normality.
“Prisons don’t always have bars,” I reply, which sounds like something I might have once read on Instagram. “But after this…Sam will be evicted, Mattie, you know that. He’ll have nothing. We have to go with him…and we have to make sure we get to take our supplies.”
Mattie is silent for a few seconds, absorbing everything I’ve said, all it means. “We don’t even know where our supplies are,” she finally points out. “Or our car.”
“I know where the cars are,” Kyle ventures. “They’re all parked out by the farm fields, near the airport.”
Mattie arches an eyebrow. “And the keys?”
I picture the keys in a locked cupboard in Michael Duart’s bedroom, like something out of the villain’s playbook in a Disney movie .
Kyle shrugs. “We don’t need the keys. We can hotwire the car.”
“Does anyone know how to do that?” I ask.
“I do,” Kyle says, surprising me once again. There’s definitely more to this kid than meets the eye.
“And our supplies?” Mattie asks.
“I know where we can get some stuff,” Sam says. “In the warehouse. Not our supplies specifically, but…”
“What about guns?” I ask bluntly, and the question seems to fall between us with a splat. Yes, I’m the one thinking and talking about guns.
“They’re locked up,” Sam replies shortly. “I can’t get at them.”
I shake my head. “We can’t leave this place without a weapon.”
Sam looks like he wants to argue, but then he relents. “I don’t know what to do, then,” he replies with a shrug. Over to you, Mom .
“Why can’t we just ride this out?” Mattie asks. “Stratton was the one who came at Sam. He was provoked. If Michael Duart wants this place to be the kind of fair-minded community ”—said with imaginary air quotes—“he says it is, then Sam shouldn’t be evicted.”
At this, Stratton stirs, blinking up at us blearily. His eyes are reddened, his face twisted with hate. “You are so out of here,” he half grunts, half snarls at Sam. “And that’s if you’re lucky.”
Has Stratton been listening to everything we’ve said? The thought is more tiresome than alarming; something else we are going to have to deal with.
“How can we get a gun?” I wonder out loud. I feel like there must be a solution, but I just can’t see it. What I know is I’m not willing to walk out of here without some kind of weapon.
“Mom,” Sam says after a moment, his voice almost gentle, “maybe we don’t need guns.” I stare at him like he’s stupid, and he continues, “Dad and I didn’t have guns when we traveled back to Ontario. We were without them the whole time because they’d been stolen right at the beginning, like, in the first five minutes. It wasn’t easy, but we made it. And anyway, most people…” He trails off, swallowing hard. “They’re dead now. Stratton said eighty percent, but I think it’s worse out there. People just can’t last that long. It’s…it’s pretty empty out there.” He lifts his arm to gesture to outside the base and, really, the whole world, empty as it now is. “I think we go without the guns.”
“I think so, too,” Mattie interjects with swift decisiveness. “We don’t have time to figure anything else out. We need to get out of here. We can decide the rest later.”
It goes against all my instincts, to be so vulnerable, but maybe my instincts are wrong. Maybe, in the end, those instincts haven’t been all that helpful or even good; a man is dead as a result, and my son is suspicious or maybe even scared of me. Still, the words are hard to say, never mind believe.
“All right,” I relent reluctantly. “We’ll go without guns.”
The next hours pass in a panicked and determined blur. We pick up William Stratton, Sam taking his arms and Kyle his legs, while he groggily protests and tries to shout, and then we lock him in a closet in the mess hall, in a scene reminiscent of Scooby-Doo . I’d laugh, if it weren’t so deadly serious, but Sam gets the vibe, because as we lock the door he murmurs, “If it weren’t for those meddling kids…”
I choke on a laugh, and he gives an abashed grin, and for a second we’re just us again; it doesn’t last longer than that.
We make it back to the house, managing to avoid the guards who patrol the streets after curfew, their flashlights cutting arcs of light through the darkness. Mattie and I start packing while Daniel stumbles groggily from the bedroom and Ruby wakes up Phoebe and gets her dressed. Kyle has gone to find the car, and Sam to the warehouse, all of us knowing full well that any moment this could end in the NBSRC equivalent of arrest and imprisonment, eventual eviction, as good as a death sentence.
“What’s going on…” Daniel half mumbles, and I try my best not to notice how out of it he seems. It’s only eight o’clock.
As briefly as possible, I fill him in on what has happened and what we’ve decided. He blinks the sleep out of his eyes, becoming alert, his gaze darting from me to Mattie, who is hurling things into bags.
“Leave…” he repeats disbelievingly. “And go where?”
“Anywhere.”
“But the radiation?—”
“Sam said it’s not as bad as Duart makes out,” I tell him. “But if you’re worried about that, we’ll head north.”
Slowly Daniel shakes his head. “Alex, it’s November. It will be freezing up north. And there’s nothing much up there, besides some small towns and fishing camps.”
“Plenty of space, then,” I quip, and there’s an edge to my voice, because why is he protesting this? We have no choice. Doesn’t he realize that?
“It might be like the cottage all over again,” he warns me. “People hyped up, terrorizing the countryside…”
“It might not,” I counter, which isn’t much of an argument, but I haven’t got a better one. “It’s more remote out here than back at the cottage,” I continue doggedly, “and you know that’s saying something. Besides, I’m just not sure how many people are left. If we stay here, Sam will be forced to leave. We can’t have that, Daniel.”
The painful irony of the situation is not lost on me; a year ago, I was forcing Daniel to leave our safe haven to protect Sam. Now I’m doing the same thing all over again, and I know, for me as well as for Sam, he’ll do it—even if he thinks it’s dangerous, possibly a death sentence—and this time not just for him, but for all of us.
He heaves a sigh of acceptance. “So where exactly are we going?”
“I don’t know. We need a map, I guess.” And a lot of other things. “Sam’s getting some supplies, Kyle a car. We’ll meet up at the warehouse.” I make it sound so simple, when I know it is anything but.
“And what about Nicole and Ben?” Daniel asks, and I’m jolted as well as shamed, because the truth is, I didn’t even think about them.
“You mean…should they come with us?” I ask hesitantly.
“If they want to.”
“I…guess? I don’t know if they will.” Although if Stratton decides to go for Nicole the way he did Sam… “I don’t know where to find them,” I say, like an argument, or maybe a reason.
Daniel shrugs. “Maybe Sam will.”
“I suppose we can ask him,” I reply.
We don’t have time to talk any further because we have to go. Mattie takes Phoebe from Ruby and hoists her on her hip; after a sleepy protest, the little girl curls into her, her head on Mattie’s shoulder.
“You okay, Rubes?” I ask my youngest daughter gently, putting my arm around her shoulder and holding her close for a few precious seconds. I’m jolted by how tall she is; she comes up to my chin now. She nods, her hair brushing my cheek. “It’s going to be okay,” I tell her, a promise I know I can’t make, but will do my utmost to keep. “It really will.”
She nods again, without saying a word. I give her shoulder one more squeeze and then let her go because we need to move.
Adrenaline fuels me forward, gives me a purpose I know I don’t really feel, not if I let myself stop and think for two minutes, but I can’t now, because how long is it before Stratton is found? Before the game is up and we are tossed out on our own, with nothing, forever? Questions and reassurances can come later, I tell myself, as we hurry down the darkened street and I pretend even to myself not to notice how Daniel is lagging behind, breathing heavily as he tries to keep up.
By some miracle, we avoid any curfew patrols and make it to the warehouse, where Sam is waiting, looking apprehensive but resolute, his breath creating frosty puffs in the cold night air. Nicole and Ben are standing next to him, their bodies both hunched, their arms wrapped around their middles. When Nicole looks at me, I see she has a black eye. My breath rushes out. I guess they’re coming with us.
There are several boxes of supplies stacked around Sam; I can’t see what they hold, but hopefully stuff that will be helpful. It’s better than nothing, anyway.
“How did you get into the warehouse?” Mattie asks him.
“It’s just a keycode. I watched the guy lock it up the other day. He didn’t seem to care.”
I breathe out; can it be this easy? It feels wrong, somehow, and yet I so want it to be easy. Or if not easy, then at least possible. I need it to work, because it’s hard enough, not knowing where we’re going or what it will be like when we get there.
“And the car?” Mattie asks.
Sam shrugs. “I don’t know how that part works. We’re behind barbed wire, and I don’t have any bolt cutters. There are some weaker points than others, but…” He trails off, shrugging, before continuing doubtfully, “If Kyle hotwires a car, he can drive it here, I guess, but someone is bound to hear it. And then we have to get out of here somehow, and with all this. I don’t know how we’ll do it.” He nudges a crate with his foot.
“Not without someone noticing anyway,” Daniel says. His tone is wry but he’s huffing and puffing and holding his side in a way I’m trying not to notice. Mattie notices, though; I can tell by the way her eyes narrow, and her lips press together. Just like me, she doesn’t say anything. “I’ll tell you what,” Daniel says, and now he sounds intent, although with a hint of that old wryness. “Let’s leave here in style.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Mattie demands, and Daniel just smiles.
“Trust me,” he says, and I know we will. It’s not like we have another choice.
We find out what he intends just a little while later. Kyle joins us at the warehouse, echoing our fears about the noise of starting a car; he doesn’t want to do it until we’re ready to go, because there are patrols roving around the base and it will make too much noise.
We decide to take the crates to the car, even though it’s at least a ten-minute walk and it’s freezing cold plus they’re heavy; it feels safer to load up there and then just go. Although how we’re going to go, I still don’t know, because, no matter what Daniel said about exiting in style, the base is enclosed by barbed wire, all the gates padlocked. I don’t let myself think about it too much because there’s too much to do, and I’m trusting that Daniel—and Sam—really do have some kind of plan.
Nicole and Ben work silently alongside us, neither of them speaking. At one point, I pause, wanting to say something, but Nicole gives a pre-emptive shake of her head as she hefts a crate. I guess there will be time later, if I even want to share those kinds of confidences with this woman.
Twice while we’re hefting crates we hear voices and see the menacing sweep of a flashlight arc across the parking lot, and we all hit the ground, flat on our stomachs, Mattie cradling Phoebe to her. I’m not afraid, even when the patrol is close enough to hear the men’s voices; I feel too disembodied to feel fear. In the same way as I was out on that road with the blown-out bridge, I’m separate from myself, a spectator to what is happening, distantly wondering how it will all unfold. Maybe that’s the only way to get through moments such as this one.
The patrol moves on, and we keep working, breath coming in frosty puffs, fingers numb with cold. I’m conscious of time passing, unspooling like a thread, the bobbin bouncing away from us, out of reach. It’s been over an hour since we put Stratton in that closet. We didn’t even gag him; he could have been discovered by now, and they might already be looking for us, ready to mete out whatever justice Michael Duart’s faceless committee decides is appropriate.
Finally we are loaded up and in the car, a battered, black SUV that seats eight but is taking nine, with Phoebe on Mattie’s lap.
We wait, breaths held, hearts racing, as Kyle crouches by the steering wheel and starts tinkering with wires. Daniel is at the wheel, and I glance at him, concerned; although he’s long since caught his breath, he’s still holding his side.
A sputter, two, and then the engine coughs to life and turns over. Kyle flings himself into the back, and Daniel steps on the gas so we lurch forward, and Mattie lets out a little shriek of surprise.
“How are we getting out of here?” Nicole asks in a low voice. It’s the first time she’s spoken since we saw her outside the warehouse. She has her arm around Ben and he is burrowing into her, looking more like a little boy than I’ve ever seen him.
“You can’t go over it, you can’t go under it…” Daniel murmurs and I give him a look. He’s quoting the old childhood story of Ruby’s, We’re Going on a Bear Hunt . She loved that book.
“Daniel—”
I break off as Daniel floors the engine and the car shoots forward.
Someone shrieks—maybe even me—as we start speeding toward the fence, four ragged lines of barbed wire. At least it’s not chain-link, I think numbly, just as floodlights suddenly come on behind us, illuminating an armed patrol that is running right at us. Not us, I realize, seconds later, but toward cars. They’re not letting us go without a fight.
I barely have time to process that before our car hits the wire, and for a terrifying second I think we’re going to ping back like the snap of a rubber band. The car simply isn’t strong enough to break the barbed wire or rip the fence posts out. From behind us, an engine roars to life.
No one speaks and Daniel’s knuckles are white on the steering wheel and then with a pop the fence flies free and so do we, the car careening down the road, leaving the NBSRC behind us—except, of course, we’re being chased by two vehicles, and it’s clear our pursuers have guns when a bullet scrapes the side of the car, and I realize they’re trying to shoot out our tires.
“Dad,” Sam gasps, although I’m not sure what he’s trying to say because another bullet shatters the window right by my head and Daniel reaches out and pushes me down so my forehead smacks against the dashboard and for a second I’m stunned, my head pulsing with pain.
Daniel weaves wildly over the road, trying to avoid being hit, while I stay crouched down, scrunching my eyes shut against the pain still thundering in my head.
“Is everyone okay?” he shouts, and for a split second I’m reminded of when we had a fender bender that resulted in our rear window being shattered and Mattie getting a bruise on her leg from being flung forward in her seat. It’s the same hoarse and authoritative demand of a father who is determined to take care of his family.
And he’s doing it still , I tell myself. We’re going to get out of this .
“Yeah, Dad,” Mattie whispers. “We’re okay. ”
We drive in silence for another minute, maybe two; no one speaks and there are no more gunshots. I finally dare to raise my head from the dash. “Did we lose them?” I ask, risking a look behind us. All I see is empty, darkened road.
“I think so,” Daniel replies, “unless they know where we’re going and plan to cut us off.”
“But we don’t know where we’re going,” Mattie points out. “So how could they?”
‘They’ll figure we’re going north,” Daniel tells her. “And the only way north from here is Route11.”
“So…” I prompt, trusting he has a plan. “What are we going to do?”
“Go south,” Daniel replies with a quick, small grin. “And then head north. We’ve got half a tank of gas, so we should be okay.”
“And when we go north,” Nicole interjects, “where are we actually going?”
“I looked in the atlas earlier,” Daniel says, passing a hand over his forehead, which I notice is beaded with sweat, and his skin possesses a grayish cast. “There’s a fishing camp about fifty miles northwest of North Bay. Red Cedars, it’s called. I don’t know much about it, but it will have cabins of some kind and it will be on a lake with fishing.” He glances at Kyle. “Have you ever gone ice fishing, Kyle, back in Corville?”
Mutely Kyle shakes his head.
“Well,” Daniel replies cheerfully, “there’s a first time for everything.”
We drive south, seeing no one and nothing; Daniel drives without headlights to avoid detection, so it feels as if there’s nothing but darkness—dense evergreens lining the road, which snakes like a dark ribbon through the trees. High above us a handful of stars glitter from behind banks of clouds, the only faint light.
Fifteen minutes and ten miles later, Daniel takes an exit off the road and then gets back on it, heading north. Was it long enough? Will they have set up a roadblock or, worse, some kind of trap I can’t bear to think about, so our escape is over just as it has begun?
Tension tautens the closed confines of the car as we silently count off the miles, no one saying a word. We pass the exit for North Bay, the old sign for 22 Wing barely visible in the darkness, and then we keep driving. Two, three, four miles. After ten, I begin to breathe easier. Surely there’s no blockade, no trap. We’re on our way.
In the darkness, Daniel turns and gives me a quick smile. Silently I reach out and twine my fingers with his, giving them a brief squeeze before letting go.
Then I turn my face to the window and the moonless night as Daniel keeps driving.