Chapter Two
LIKE MOST PLACES this far north, Crofton is a small town.
Or was. Now, it’s nothing but shattered houses.
Not every building fell during the mega-quake that levelled the Pacific Northwest thirty-two years ago, though some days, it feels that way.
The epicentre hit Seattle, but the Quake was powerful enough to throw unbolted homes off their foundations past the northern tip of Vancouver Island.
More than Crofton’s fair share of buildings were destroyed.
That probably happened during the chaotic aftermath.
It was everyone for themselves, once people realized no relief was coming.
In a better scenario, the Canadian government would have helped.
Sadly, a host of foreign powers saw the Quake as the perfect opportunity to strike a weakened USA.
Canada got dragged in, like a remora going down with the shark it’s suctioned to.
Before the Quake, my mum wanted to be a high school science teacher, but she joined the Red Cross when images of Vancouver Island’s flattened cities made the news.
She flew out of Ontario with one of the only shipments of relief supplies that made it here before everything went to shit and she had no way home.
Not that it mattered. She would have died if she’d stayed out East, so I guess her bleeding heart saved her.
Well, she would have died sooner. The world might not have ended all at once. But end it did.
Since the houses of Crofton have been reduced to frames, there’s little to block my view of the beach.
Beyond a stretch of blue Pacific waters rises an island.
It looks massive from here, but I know from maps that it’s small compared to Vancouver Island.
I can’t imagine it taking more than a couple of days to walk Salt Spring end to end—less, if the roads are in good repair.
Most of the shoreline is reinforced by a wooden stockade.
The only gaps are at points where the coast is so steep, there’s no chance TNS could scale the cliffs, even if they wanted to.
I can’t decide if the sight makes me feel better or worse about our prospects.
Fences are great for keeping TNS out—but also for locking people inside.
Finally, we find a fallen metal sign announcing the ferry terminal. The dock is collapsing into the ocean, lack of repair and rising sea levels doing their part to wash this place away. There’s no sign of any boats. I’m starting to wonder if I’ll need to carve a canoe and paddle, when April shouts.
“Look!”
At the water’s edge stands a large, metal barrel with holes drilled into the bottom. It’s chained to a crudely constructed post, a rough sign affixed to the top. Painted in a thick, tarry substance, the sign reads:
WELCOME TO HISTORIC CROFTON FERRY TERMINAL.
FOR PASSAGE TO SALT SPRING, LIGHT FIRE.
PREPARE ALL DOCUMENTS FOR IMMIGRATION.
“Do we have documents?” April asks.
“Of course not.” I know what the word means, but again, I get that Santa Claus feeling of stumbling upon something that only exists in legends.
At least a hospital is something I can understand bringing back from the pre-Quake days, but paperwork?
Who are these people? I was born in Port Alberni, which was relatively civilized, but even they never bothered with shit like this.
At least, I don’t think they did. I was only nine when it fell to TNS.
“Should we make some?” April asks.
“No.” How would we? Rip pages out of one of the few books we carry, then write over them with a piece of charcoal? “We’re going to build a fire.”
By that, I mean I’m going to build a fire and April will set up the tarp, then rest. It takes me the remainder of the day, scrounging enough wood and dry moss to get a bonfire going in the metal bin.
Now I understand why the buildings here have been stripped to ruins.
It’s easier harvesting wood from the suburbs south of the terminal than trying to chop down any of the massive trees to the north.
I saw off a few lower branches, but like so many before me, end up filling the barrel with Crofton’s bones.
I scrape as much of the house paint off the wood as possible, but April and I still sit upwind so we don’t inhale the fumes.
If TNS is nearby, they’ll be on us in our sleep. But the bonfire needs to be visible across the water.
April, at least, seems encouraged as we take shelter from the mounting rain. “They’ve got, like, a system,” she says, relishing the word. “They’re already prepared for us to come. Well, not us, but people like us.”
“It’s great,” I say, though I hear something ominous in her words. We’re going somewhere that has a host of rules we’ve never dealt with before. And with no documents, we’re starting off by doing something wrong.
Maybe more than one thing.
Provided you come unarmed.
No chance in hell. I’ve got my slingshot in my pocket and a knife strapped to my leg, like always.
Dinner is deer jerky and dried blackberries we gathered earlier in the summer.
As the sun sets, I pull out Anne of Green Gables.
I’ve read it so many times, the spine is falling apart.
I want to swap this one for a new copy the next time we’re looting a house with books.
It was super popular before the Quake, so I can almost always find it.
Although… maybe I won’t get the chance. Some colonies don’t allow books.
I read aloud as Anne slams Gilbert over the head with her slate and get a faint smile from my little sister.
She’s heard it almost as many times as I have.
The people in books are safe and predictable in a way real strangers never are, and so they’re our one source of company, aside from each other.
April falls asleep with her head lolling onto my shoulder and I don’t have the heart to move her so I can get comfortable too. As the night closes in, I sit awake, braced for any sound of rescue or attack.
* * *
JUST AFTER DAWN, a boat approaches, canvas sails billowing as it works against a headwind. It looks nothing like the photos of BC ferries I’ve seen on brochures from the pre-Quake days, but that’s to be expected. Those ran on oil, which is long gone.
April screeches with glee. The boat fills her with energy I haven’t seen in ages, like hope itself might cure her, and she flies out of the protective cover of the tarp. On her way, she knocks free a torrent of water droplets and my ankle gets an icy good morning.
“April!”
“We’re here!” She waves her arms at the approaching ship. “We’re here! And we’re…”
Her arms drop to her sides. “Kayla?”
“Yeah?” I get up carefully, not interested in another barrage of rainwater from the tarp.
“Is he holding a gun?”
Sure enough, the posture of the figure at the bow suggests he’s carrying a sizable rifle. Two more men flank him. Shit, I knew it. The whole smoke signal thing was a trap, and we fell right into it.
“Start running.”
“But we need—”
“I said run!” I shove her towards the north, where there’s some tree cover, and she finally gets her ass moving.
By the time she reaches the trees, I’ve shoved our tarp and Anne of Green Gables into my bag.
I’m just a few feet behind her, but the boat is already coming ashore.
April is barely sheltered within the grove when she collapses, struggling for breath.
I duck behind a Douglas fir and lock eyes with her, trying to will strength back into her limbs.
“April, run!” I hiss. “I’ll buy you some time and then—”
“I’m not… leaving you.” Her breathing is laboured.
“I’ll catch up. Get a head start.”
“Can’t.”
Her cheeks are ghastly white. I can feel our chance of escape slipping away. The men with the guns are going to come and drag us away to their island and after that…
My mind sputters out. The people Mum met at the river didn’t seem dangerous.
But clever people hide their true intentions.
They said we could go to the island if we showed up unarmed, so why are these guys carrying guns?
They don’t want to meet as equals, which means we can’t trust them.
On instinct, my hand goes for the slingshot in my pocket.
April takes a steadying gulp of air, the colour starting to return to her face. “I think I’m ready to—”
Before she can say more, gravel crunches as someone disembarks the boat. The boots have a heavy tread and surely belong to one of the armed men. I track the sound of footsteps as the man walks towards the barrel where the remains of our fire are smouldering.
A deep grunt reaches my ears. “Not this shit again.” Then there’s a strange crackly noise. “We’ve got an empty beach.”
“Do you need back up?” Another distorted voice joins the conversation, though how I can’t guess. I haven’t heard anyone else come ashore.
“No, stay on the boat. I’m coming back.” He takes a few steps. It’s almost too good to be true. He’s going to leave without looking in the woods, because he doesn’t want to get caught in a trap either. We’re going to survive to see another day.
Except, now how are we going to get April medical treatment?
Doubt nags at me, as in the background his voice retreats.
“There’s signs of a small camp, but I don’t see enough footprints for TNS or—wait.
” And then I hear the tell-tale sound of a gun sliding off his shoulder and the mechanical click of hands taking their position. “You the one who lit the fire, kid?”
April. He’s seen April.
There’s no time for carefully weighing my options. I dart out from between the trees, firing the moment I get a clear view. My stone flies true and hits him squarely in the back of the hand.
“Shit!” He cries out as he loses his grip on the rifle.
“April, RUN!”