by Jim Stark
With difficulty, Annette helped Lars through the bush and up to the old shack. So, she saw, the WDA hasn't returned here since they lost track of Lars and Lilly three days ago. Lars was conscious, but only just. Once inside the shack, he told her how to open the trap door beside the ancient, rusted stove, and then she helped him crawl inside the hole. She blew a few breaths into the inflatable mattress, and hoped the air wouldn't leak out before she could return. This underground hiding place had been unknown to her during the several romps that she and her young Sex-Een friend had had out here, and it was a place where Lars had hid with another woman, with Lilly, as the WDA tried to eliminate them. Some day, we'll build a shrine here, she thought. The shack, including down in the hole, still smelled vaguely of skunk, and Annette recalled the telling of that tale at Michael's small cabin, with Gil Henderson doing the pointed questioning and the acute listening.
"I'll be safe here,” Lars said. “If I wake up and you're not here, I'll just keep popping morphine pills until I wake up and you are here."
Annette wasn't sure what to say to her young lover at this precarious moment. “I'll—uh—leave the lead box under the front step,” she finally said ... but he was already gone to some other dimension. “Sweet dreams,” she whispered, with very little hope that her wish would come true.
She kissed him. Then she crawled out, closed the trap door, and walked outside the old shack. She walked briskly back to the boat, retrieved the lead box, ran back to the shack and tucked it beneath the single front step, covering it with several handfuls of dirt and dead leaves.
Now was a time to consider matters. Annette walked a hundred yards up the faint path to get away from the lead box ... never mind that it's sealed ... and sat on a bald, warm boulder. She dropped her head in her hands and began to cry. For a full minute, she sobbed—she just couldn't help it.
"No way!” she said aloud as she shook off her grief and rid her cheeks of tear-water with the backs of her hands. “Later!"
She took out her Sniffer and asked for the Netnews. It was all about the explosion, of course. Anchormen were covering their precious asses with extreme caution, making no assumptions about how it could be that a backpack nuke had wiped out the Whitesides’ lodge, or why. There were no live shots from helicopters yet, but Annette was sure there soon would be.
Then there was an outdoor interview from the estate, near the manor house. A Patriot agent was telling the story of how he and all his comrades had been sent away from the lodge a mere fifty minutes before the blast ... and he told the reporter how he and several of his Patriot colleagues had helped the police draw up a tentative list of names of those who were at the lodge, in the shelter, at the time of detonation.
Oh, those precious names, thought Annette. But they were only words now ... words with no material reality attached ... names of ghosts. Including me and Lars! she noted as her Sniffer droned on.
There was no way around it. The only people she knew that she could trust absolutely and who stood any chance of getting the three analog videotapes digitized and sent out on the Net were the monks of Jesus-E. They were the people that Gil Henderson turned to when he needed a tricky or dangerous job done, and she had learned not to underestimate them. But while they were only on the other side of the Ottawa River, ten or twelve miles away the way the crow flies, the Diefenbunker was perhaps twenty-five or thirty miles by road. She needed wheels, and since she couldn't exactly walk up to the Victor-E clansite and sign out a vehicle, she needed an ally ... someone guaranteed to be totally loyal and utterly fearless. Tirone Lucas, she thought.
She had to make one Netcall now, and just hope to hell that it wasn't intercepted by the WDA. She mopped her forehead with a dirty hand and did it. “Tirone ... don't say a single word and do not let anyone see your Sniffer screen ... and do not tell anyone I'm alive. Get a vehicle and meet me ... park at the western end of the lot out at the end of Bubble Street, between the last bus and the bush. Wait for me. Net, down, now."
Half an hour later, Annette crept silently through the bush to the edge of the parking lot. Tirone was there, sitting in the driver's seat of a pickup truck, smoking a skinny joint. Annette slipped in between the busses, and when she reached the truck, she just opened the driver's door. “Move over,” she ordered. It was not a good time for him to be toking up, as far as she was concerned.
Tirone obeyed. “Where we going?” he asked.
"Jesus-E, over in Carp,” said Annette. “Christ, no ‘hi; glad you're still alive; thought you were dead'?” she asked as she spun the tires on the loose gravel. She looked over at her passenger when he failed to respond, and saw that the burly man was choking back an army of tears. “Sorry,” she said.
"I had to leave home and not tell anybody,” he managed to say. “Everybody's over in the mess hall, watchin’ the Netnews and bawlin’ their fuckin’ eyes out over you and Julia and all them other good folks."
"Jeeze, I'm really sorry, Tirone,” said Annette as she squealed the pickup onto the pavement and floored the gas pedal. “I'll fill you in on what's happening as soon as we get through Customs at Portage du Fort. I'm ... going to have to—uh—sort of wing it, if they put it together about who I am."
"Fuck!” said Tirone, “I never thought about that, about Customs bein’ there. That all started back in...” He couldn't remember the year all that constitutional stuff happened. He decided to shut the fuck up for a bit. That sometimes worked wonders.
It was only a few miles to the two-horse town known regionally simply as “Portage.” A huge hydro dam bisected the Ottawa River there, with a road up on top of the dam, and at each end was a Customs office—at the near end, Canada Customs, and at the far end, Québec Customs, both plunked on each other's territory, by agreement. Everyone locally thought it should have been the other way around, but of course it really didn't matter. All Customs officials were WDA anyway, whatever their nationalities.
Annette told Tirone that the only other escapee from the lodge was Lars, and she told him where Lars was hiding. Apart from that, they spoke little for those few miles. Neither of them had any idea if Portage was as far as they'd get.
As the pickup moved towards the funnel that led to the Canada Customs kiosk, the one on Québec soil, Annette reached over and briefly held Tirone's hand. “Keep your cool, my friend,” she said as she eased to a stop, “and let me do most of the talking.” She rolled down the window.
"Name?” said the bored official from inside the security hut.
"Annette Blais,” she said flatly. “Carp. Business. Nothing to declare.” The next three questions were always: “Destination? Business or pleasure?” and “Anything to declare?” People often rattled off all four answers without even waiting for the first question, and most Customs agents had no objections to this shortcut. Annette hoped that by moving on to the other three answers, she could deflect attention away from her name, and the bored flunky with the LieDeck might fail to make the connection.
"And you?” he hollered through the open window, across to Tirone.
"Tirone Lucas,” he said. “Same answers as her."
"Her!?” snapped Annette ... anything to distract from my identity. “You call me ‘her’ now?"
"Excuse me,” said the Customs officer, “but aren't you the Annette Blais from over at—uh—Victor-E?"
"Yes,” she said, glaring at the man. “So? Is that a crime now, being from Victor-E?"
"But ... but they said on the Net that...” He stared at her.
"Yes!?” Annette said irritably, feigning ignorance of the end of his thought.
"They—uh—said you were—uh—out at ... on Wilson Lake, where that bomb went off!” he stammered.
Annette laughed heartily. “Are you kidding?” she said, phrasing it as a question so it couldn't get beeped by the LieDeck.
"I—uh—heard it myself,” said the official. “They said—"
"Look,” barked Annette, “you got your little fuckin’ LieDeck turned on, so you
listen up real good for the sound of a single ‘beep,’ okay? THEY GOT IT FUCKIN’ WRONG, OKAY? I mean even without a LieDeck, the average WDA hack could figure out that if I was out there, at that lodge outfit, then I WOULDN'T BE HERE! RIGHT?"
"Yeah ... okay ... right,” said the flustered man in the uniform.
"So ... we're going now, okay?” said Annette, with a threat of litigation in her voice, or at least contempt. “OKAY?” she repeated, almost shouting this time.
"Yeah ... sure,” said the Customs officer.
Annette drove off sedately ... no sense tipping her hand about how relieved she felt, or how desperately she wanted to put serious distance between herself and the WDA, the Customs agents, the border ... the danger. As usual, the Québec Customs people at the Canadian side of the river just waved them through.
"Jesus H!” said Tirone after they were off the far end of the dam and around the first turn in the road. “I almost had a fuckin’ seizure."
"Me too,” said Annette. “Now let's haul ass to Carp."
She tramped the pedal to the firewall and shot up to eighty miles an hour—above the speed limit of seventy, but not so far as to get a ticket if she saw the cop in time. Then she explained to Tirone on the way about how she'd taken the three analog videotapes from Michael in the shelter, and how one of them proved that the WDA had murdered Victor Helliwell. And she told him that those in the shelter believed that the WDA might also have killed her late husband, Steve Sutherland “...and probably that USLUC guy, Lester Connolly, and maybe even Randall Whiteside, way back in twenty fourteen.” And maybe even JFK way back in the nineteen sixties, she could have added, but didn't. Democracy, it seemed, had always required a bit of criminal activity ... to protect itself, presumably.
She explained that the videotapes were an old analog type, from forty years ago, and that there was no technology at Victor-E to flip analog over to digital. And even if there had been the right tech, it was clear that these messages couldn't go out over the Net in real-time, lest the WDA catch on and kill the transmission. “And if we got caught doing that from Victor-E, the WDA might even nuke the clan!” she added. “But those monks at Jesus-E aren't the goofy idiots they pretend to be,” she continued. “They got smarts, and connections, and they got ... well...” She didn't know whether to laugh or cry. “As you know—as everyone knows—they've got a bunker that's supposed to be able to withstand a direct hit!” she finished.
"Holy fuck!” was all Tirone could come up with by way of a response. Now even he wished he hadn't toked up.
* * * *
They didn't talk much the rest of the way—Annette's idea—a suggestion, really—a very strong suggestion, as Tirone read it. Twenty minutes after sliding through Customs, they rolled into the parking lot of the Diefenbunker. Annette bumped the pickup over the curb and drove right up to the half-moon entranceway that led to the underground bunker. She skidded to a rough stop, turned off the engine, and then they both jumped out and ran to the middle of the steel tube, where a sloped concrete ramp led at right angles down to the massive bombproof door to the actual shelter.
The seven-ton door opened slowly as they reached it, and there stood the same monk who had met Annette the previous time she'd been here. “You are going to die,” he said solemnly, with a slight bow.
Tirone had his fist curled and his arm cocked in a quarter of a second, but Annette stopped him. “That's how they say ‘hello',” she explained.
"Fuckin’ weird, if ya ask me,” he grunted, holstering his fist, and not caring if the monk would be privy to his opinion or offended by his language.
"Please ... come in,” said the monk. As they stepped beyond the threshold, the monk flipped an unmarked switch, and seconds later, the seven-ton door was re-sealed with an ominous hydraulic clunk. “Your friends are all eating dinner downstairs,” he added as he led the way.
"So ... what's that supposed to mean?” Tirone asked Annette. “Is that another..."
"I don't know,” she snapped.
"Only the truth,” said the monk. “Please ... just follow me and I'll take you to them. We'll dispense with the search and the blindfolds this time, considering the—uh...” His voice just petered out as he walked ahead of them.
Tirone looked at Annette with a question written on his face, but she just shrugged. It wasn't the time for interrogations. These monks always seemed to be two steps ahead of her, and she figured she and Tirone had better just do as they'd been told. They went into an elevator, down, out, and down a hall to an open door.
"Please,” said the monk, with an expansive hand gesture. “I'm sure you're hungry, and our wine is...” He let the end of that sentence hang as well.
Annette proceeded to the door, looked in, and promptly fainted! Tirone grabbed her by the armpits to break her fall, and then he looked up. “Holy fuck!” he said.
When Annette came to, she was on her back on the floor in the doorway. Tirone was smiling, and tapping her face gently with a calloused old hand. “It's okay,” he whispered as her eyes opened. “You ain't seein’ things! They're all alive!"
Annette sat up, turned her head, and almost passed out a second time.
"It's a long story,” said Lilly from her chair at the dining table—they had all decided they didn't want to make more of a big deal of this than was really necessary. “C'mon in and eat, and we'll tell you all about it."
"Now!?” squealed Julia. “Now can I get up and hug them?"
"Oh ... sure,” said Michael, suppressing a laugh.
"Go ahead,” said Becky to her irrepressible sister-in-law.
Annette was standing now, with a stunned expression on her face, and Julia's huge hug almost toppled her once more. In fact, the heat and feel of Julia's pear-shaped body was what finally convinced Annette that it was true, that she wasn't dreaming or drugged or hallucinating ... or in heaven. It took her a few seconds to hug Julia back, but then she broke down. She sobbed uncontrollably, but she smiled the whole time. The loony monks were serving food and wine to the group from the lodge—all of whom were sitting at the table, hooting and clapping ... well, except for Doreen Whiteside, Michael's mother, who managed only a slight grin and an abashed nod at the newcomers. “But how—?” began Annette.
"Tirone!” squealed Julia as she broke away from Annette and almost bowled over the clan-mate she'd known and loved for so many years. The clapping and hooting went on and on, and Julia planted a loud kiss on Tirone's stubbly cheek.
"And ... Victor?” asked Annette—there was always a chance, if miracles were being handed out holus bolus.
"He—uh—passed away just before we left,” said Becky. “He's ... at peace now."
"C'mon and eat!” said Julia to Tirone. “It's the most wonderful food,” she said to Annette.
"There's a seat over here beside Lucky,” said Randy to Annette.
"I'm all done,” announced Julia to Tirone, “so you can have my chair."
"I—uh—already ate,” said Tirone, “over at—"
"You wanna see it then?” asked Julia excitedly.
"See ... what?” he asked.
"How we got over here, silly,” she said, pummeling his shoulder with a fair flurry of pretend punches. “C'mon, I'll show you. It's not very far."
"Go ahead if you want,” said Annette, although she still had no idea what it could be that Julia wanted so badly to show off. “I'm still a bit..."
Julia guided Tirone back out of the dining room and into the hallway, where a smiling monk offered to lead the way. He's one of the monks from the lodge, Julia remembered, the one who stamped his foot on the floor. “He's monk number—uh—number ... what's your number again?"
"Who cares?” joked the monk as he led them down the hall to the elevator. “What's in a number? A sixty-two by any other name would smell just as sweet.” He laughed at his attempt at Shakespearean humor, but it was lost on his two guests ... and that didn't even matter, he knew. “Just call me—uh..."
"Smiley?” s
uggested Julia.
"Sure,” he said, smiling. “Why not?"
They went down for six or seven seconds, and when the elevator door opened, Tirone blinked in disbelief. There was a huge cavern cut out of the rock. It was perhaps the size of the Pot-house—several stories high, maybe two acres in size, with a wooden platform for a floor, made from thick, heavy planks. The entire enclosure was floodlit, and on the far side of the rough platform was a miniaturized electric ore-train, four cars long, with a small, dirty engine at the front.
Julia led Tirone across the dusty floor towards the train, followed by Smiley, their jokester monk. To the left, Tirone could see a tunnel entrance, maybe twelve feet square, with narrow tracks leading to ... well, to wherever. Beyond the train was a pit, where for years, rock and muck had been dumped from tipped-over cars. And to the right was an industrial-strength conveyor-belt that carried the diggings up into a slanted shaft to ... to wherever.
"So ... like,” tried Tirone, “youse all got out on this—uh—"
"We rode out on the train!” exclaimed Julia, clapping her hands together and grinning to the max. “The monks thought Victor was like a Jesus, eh? But o’ course he wasn't, but they thought he was, so they spent years and years digging this really long tunnel all the way from here over to underneath the Ottawa River and then over all the way to exactly underneath our lodge on Wilson Lake, so's if the—uh—who were those other people you said?” she asked the monk.
"Romans,” said Smiley. “Well, the WDA,” he explained, updating the myth. “And we used GPS to locate the—"
Julia's train had precedence, including her train of thought. “So if they tried to crucify Victor like they did the real Jesus a long time ago,” she cut back in, “they could save him and get him over to here, but o’ course by the time they drilled up through the floor at the shelter over there to save Victor, he was already dead and there was just all of us in there, in the kitchen, so we all got on the train and—"