5 Years After

by Richard Correll

  “So, it had to be someone else.” Clay’s eyes narrowed

  “Exactly,” Tom repeated.

  “Like me, maybe?” Clay stood up and walked over to Tom, towering over him, his eyes suddenly specs of ice.

  “Why are you trying to move the Prime Minister?” Tom worked hard to keep his voice from breaking.

  ‘To save his ass,” Clay leaned forward and looked down at Tom. His voice was a hardened whisper, added, “….and yours, too.”

  “You have to know how it looks,” Tom said without blinking.

  “If I wanted to engineer a coup,” Clay spoke through a mouth so tight it barely moved. “I would tell my people on the front line to stop bleeding and dying and just step aside…SO THOSE THINGS COULD COME IN HERE AND FINISH THE GODDAMN JOB!!” His voice was suddenly a thunderclap. It echoed off the walls and settled into an ominous silence.

  Tom decided to say nothing and stare back at Clay Davidson. In truth, he was in shock. He had never seen the man so angry.

  “Look around, man.” Clay’s eyes had caught fire. A raging blaze fueled by his temper. “There isn’t a government around here to overthrow.”

  “So,” Tom found his voice. “You’re telling me you have never heard anything that might sound like this?”

  Clay stared at him for a single, suspended increment in time. Tom tried to read the man and couldn’t. Was he fighting to control himself? Calming down to be more pragmatic? Or was he remembering a moment, a comment that meant nothing until now, a strange order that seemed odd, troop movements that made no sense? Clay seemed suddenly aware of how long he had been silent and turned away abruptly and took several paces away from where Tom stood.

  “I am not used to having my loyalty questioned.” He exhaled coldly.

  “You’re suggesting I move the PM after what looks like an assassination attempt.” Tom tried to pull his courage together.

  A large hand wiped itself over his bald head. He had classic Caribbean features, a large man who had made the military his calling. Service was his life. He exhaled a second time. His shoulders seemed to cave inward slightly. Like Atlas taking on the weight of the world.

  “I need to ask you again,” Tom went on the offensive “Have you heard anything that seemed out of the ordinary?”

  “No sir, I have not.” He eyed Tom coldly.

  “Okay then,” Tom nodded his head after a long moment of silence.

  “So what happens now?” Clay’s eyes held a touch of defiance. “Do you round up everyone in a uniform?”

  “Clay, I don’t fucking know.” Tom sat down in frustration. He felt his legs begin to shake. “Maybe I need to know more about what’s going on here.”

  “Maybe you do.” Clay’s eyes were still cold as he sat back down in his chair.

  “I think I need to see the military situation.” Tom was thinking out loud. He knew the general was deeply offended at his line of questioning. But he was still a man in uniform serving his government. “I need to go to the front lines.”

  “Well that won’t be too hard,” Clay had the look of a man who had just gotten the last word. “It’s about two kilometers away.”

  *

  “You’re going need this, sir.” The driver of the jeep handed him a helmet.

  “Really?” Tom asked while putting it on.

  “Really,” The driver replied. “If you are walking around with no helmet someone could think you’re a hostile and then its game over.”

  “Well, we wouldn’t want that.” Tom slipped on the helmet and jumped into the jeep. “What can you tell me about the situation?”

  “Sir, I’m just the driver,” the private responded.

  “I can fill you in,” a voice said behind him. Tom turned and saw a man of six feet tall, with gray hair and a mustache stride toward him. He was athletic, mid-forties and had captain’s insignias on his shoulders

  . He nodded to Tom and climbed in the rear. “I’m Captain Sabourin.”

  “Okay.” Tom leaned backward to face the captain while the jeep slowly manoeuvred around parked and abandoned cars. “What has been happening these last few weeks?”

  “You heard about the Rideau River attack?” the captain asked and Tom nodded. “Tonight, we’re trying to establish a new line along the Rideau Canal.”

  “How are we going to do that?”

  “We’re going to start by blowing up the Laurier and Mackenzie Bridges,” the captain explained. “No sense making it easy for them.”

  “What about survivors and stragglers across the canal?” Tom asked as he noticed the air getting thick with dust and smoke.

  “There are no survivors and no stragglers over there, sir.” The captain’s tone was even and serious, “Just those things.”

  Their eyes met for a moment as Tom digested the answer. His eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep and stress. His was the face of a man trying to hold back an unstoppable tide. It was clear he had lost many men and probably would lose a lot more before this was over. Tom nodded slowly in understanding both to his answer and his situation.

  “As you can tell by the air quality around here,” Sabourin motioned left and right with his eyes. “We blew the plaza bridge a few hours ago.”

  “Has this been a rearguard action since the beginning?” Tom didn’t want to use the word “retreat” in his questioning.

  “About two months ago,” the captain explained. “We tried to open a corridor between the airport and our position, using Riverside Drive or the Airport Parkway.”

  “How did that go?”

  “Not good.” The captain shook his head slowly. “We just kept attracting more and more of them with the fighting and the sound of the trucks. In the end, we were getting surrounded from attacks on both sides of the roads. We called it off and retreated across the Rideau River. We lost a lot of people there.”

  “Then you blew the bridges up across the Rideau River?” Tom anticipated the next move.

  “No, sir, we didn’t have time,” the captain answered sadly. “We were starting to wire the bridges when they came right out of the water on our side of the river. We had barely enough time to make it back to our new line.”

  “Beg your pardon, Captain.” Tom held up a hand. “But we know that they traverse water like this, by walking on the bottom. How was that a surprise?”

  “Sir, we can’t see them walking along the bottom of the river.” The captain sighed in frustration. “I just don’t have the manpower to be watching ever single part of the river.”

  “I understand, Captain.” Tom nodded. “I am not questioning your command. I just need to ask questions like that.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  Gunfire was closer now. They pulled up to a stop beside a bus that had crashed into the fountain in front of Ottawa City Hall. The white and glass structure was like many buildings in Ottawa, beautiful creative designs of glass and concrete. But it now took on the appearance of a haunted glass tomb in the glare of the last working streetlights. Roberts noticed the shores of the canal were steep, hopefully providing a much tougher obstacle that the Rideau River.

  The three figures walked toward the staccato sound. When the Laurier Bridge came into sight, it was awash in artificial light. He remembered days past where the canal had frozen over and was enjoyed by skaters. Traffic lazily passed over head of carefree families partaking in one of Ottawa’s greatest traditions. Now, the water was black and impenetrable. An armored personnel carrier was at the halfway point of the bridge, its 50-caliber machine gun speaking in short bursts at targets in the black of night on the other side. Clustered about the APC were soldiers with rifles who were at times shouting to other figures who were carrying wires and boxes to their position, engineers. Roberts recognized the box carriers. There was a sense of urgency in the voices that drifted their way from the bridge. Time seemed to be of the essence.

  The pristine white light revealed the first ragged figures making their way on the bridge. They moved without hesitat
ion into the wail of gunfire. The voices on the bridges became louder and the gestures more animated as the thunder beat of gunfire increased. Tom saw the first few figures fall after their heads snapped back, the tell-tale exit-wound spatter of dark liquid from the back of their skulls denoting death. They would crumple and then be stepped over by more and more. An army of disorganization, disarray and disfigurement, faces that had been torn open, scarred or burned moved like predators toward prey on the bridge.

  The armored personnel carrier had run out of ammunition and was taking on passengers as it began to flee. There was no bravery here. No one last soldier on the bridge. The fate of those left behind was clear. The experience with the enemy was evident: when you see them, don’t linger. The APC sent up a cloud of exhaust as it kicked into high gear and safety. Hands clutched out and grasped at thin air thirty yards behind in a vain attempt to pull them back to satisfy the hunger of the horde.

  “C’mon.” Sabourin grabbed his binoculars and watched the progress of the last units heading for safety. “Should be any minute now.”

  An explosion from the immediate north of the Laurier Bridge was so loud it made all three of them jump. The hard push of the blast wave passed over them. A ball of black smoke, dust and debris rose above them to impossible heights, looking like a giant wading through the relatively

  tiny buildings of Ottawa. Seconds after the explosion, the dark waters of the canal were peppered by debris from the Mackenzie Bridge. Troops took cover as more rock and debris crashed down among them. The giant of a cloud stopped growing and began to drift south.

  “There goes the Mackenzie Bridge,” Sabourin said, stating the obvious. Tom watched it all and tried to grasp what he was seeing. Carefully he applied the information he had been given to the images in front of him. Attacks to the airport had failed. The Rideau River had been breached, leaving the train station and the RCMP trapped. A feeling of claustrophobia began to take hold. Bridges were being destroyed to slow the tide that was moving ever onward. A slow noose was tightening around the final few who refused to believe that the battle here was lost. People like him. Bunker mentality, he realized.

  They appeared out of the dark, camouflaged by the noise and confusion of the bridge blast. A man in a jean jacket grabbed Sabourin’s driver and bit deep into his neck. The man screamed and lashed about like a fish caught on a line. He finally pushed the bloodied face away as it fell to the pavement. As the thing rose to attack a second time Sabourin had his sidearm out and fired two shots that hit the bloodied face at point blank. The body keeled backwards, blackened holes replacing the eye sockets.

  The private was weeping on one knee, his mouth silently repeating the word “no” over and over. He looked at the faces of empathy around him and swallowed hard. He stood up slowly and wiped the tears from his eyes.

  “It’s okay.” He tried to smile. “I got this.” He took the barrel of his rifle and placed it in the space between his neck and chin. Closing his eyes, he pulled the trigger.

  The smoke and the heavy gunfire from the bridge seemed to fade for a few seconds as the private’s body fell back and struck the pavement. Tom found feelings to be small and inappropriate to what he had just witnessed. He just kept staring at the spot where a splash of red marked the end of a young man’s life.

  A cold feeling crept into him like an animal sliding into a crevice. Instinct made him turn to his right. The face he saw was long and thin, grey skin running together in splotches of red and rotting flesh. A scruffy beard had gone white in some places. The eyes were an intense, angry yellow. It was impossible to tell how old he had been. But that didn’t matter anymore.

  He lunged at Tom with an animal quickness and bit hard at his chest. Tom put his hands up instinctively to protect himself and grabbed the man by the shoulders. The jaws of the dead man worked away at his chest. Opening and closing with piranha quickness as it tried to push closer to him. Tom felt his heel catch on the uneven pavement and then gravity seemed to redefine itself. It felt like they both fell slowly to the ground like snowflakes on a December morning. Then a loud explosion and white light that seemed to appear at the edges of his vision and spill inward.

  He opened his eyes and the world was moving without meaning. He couldn’t feel his legs. There was a strong grip where his elbows were supposed to be. A strange smell was everywhere, making him vomit and gag constantly. A wet liquid was on his face and staining his clothes. Voices echoed inside his head. Words that he struggled to find meaning to…

  “Any get in his mouth?”

  “…..look at his eyes……ain’t turning…”

  “Fuck…….FALL BACK!!!!!!!”

  “That’s a fucking first…..his tie…..”

  “See Pederson? Fuck, he bought it “

  “Jesus…..sweet Jesus…..”

  “….did they come from?”

  A sudden sound of thunder drowned out the world and echoed up and down the streets. He heard voices swear, give orders and counter orders. He tried to sit up but he couldn’t. Pressure on his chest held him down and then something covered his eyes an instant before the air grew dirty and the sound of granite hail landed all around them.

  “Take it easy, sir,” a voice he didn’t know said. “We’re almost home.”

  It was just two hours later and he was still gagging but nothing came up. Tom sat up in the back of the jeep fighting the shakes. He swallowed hard and tried to control his breathing. Still, the tremors kept running through his body. Stop! He would grit his teeth and close his eyes. It was useless. He might as well have commanded his heart to stop beating.

  He had strange feelings that were opposite polarities of one another. He was listening to a pair of voices talking but it was like it was not him listening to the conversation. He felt like a third party sitting beside himself. He wanted to curl up in a ball somewhere and hide while at the same time run away and never coming back. He felt his stomach growl but at the same time knew he would probably never be able to hold down another meal again.

  He saw his face in the jeep’s rear view mirror. His skin was grey with flecks of dried blood on his face and soaking his jacket and white shirt. Did he bite me? A freight train of fear roared through him as he frantically felt around his body. Praying he would find nothing. The image of the teeth burrowing into his chest made him feel cold on the inside and radiating outward. Was I bitten? He reached a fearful hand to his chest and felt a soaking object of cloth hanging just below his neck.

  It was the remains of his tie. He bit me in the tie, Tom said to himself. The laughter was more of a spasm than an emotion. The spasm quickened a bit and then more as he felt tears roll down his cheeks, trying to cleanse his soul. He buried his face in his hands and started gagging.

  When he awoke he was lying on a cot covered in a blanket. He felt like he was in a trap. Careful, don’t move. He surveyed his surroundings with slow sweeps of his eyes. It seemed to be a room on the upper floors of Parliament Hill. It had bookcases, overstuffed chairs and a few paintings of famous Canadians. He should have known their names but didn’t.

  Guess that makes you an average Canadian, an inner voice observed as he slowly got up and placed his feet on the carpeted floor. Death came very close, today. The thought didn’t feel like a part of him. It was like another voice was speaking his words. The whole evening played through his head in six seconds. Yes, very close. He slowly held up his left hand to observe the vibrating of his fingers. He watched for a few minutes with an almost detached fascination. Looking across the room, he noticed his overnight bag had been opened. For the first time, he realized he was wearing just his underwear. He stood up slowly and walked with care over to his bag and

  put on a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie usually reserved for jogging. Having completed his first task since waking up he sat down in an overstuffed chair and let time pass. The stillness of the room was his only companion.

  He was unsure of how long he had sat there when the door soundlessly opened a
nd Clay Davidson stepped through. He looked at the couch with a furrowed brow before finally seeing Tom in the corner.

  “Damn.” He looked at him for a long time before walking over and finding a chair to sit with him. “You’re looking better, but you still look rough.”

  “You were right,” Tom said abruptly. “I’m sorry, you were absolutely right.”

  Clay’s face became a mask of patience as he waited for Tom to continue. It was clear he needed to say a few things.

  “We have to leave,” Tom stated.

  “Hey now,” Clay held up a patient hand. “You’ve just been through some ….”

  “No, that’s not it, Clay,” Tom interrupted. He worked hard to stay calm, focused on what he was saying. “I saw it for myself. This is hopeless.”

  “Yes, it is.” Clay folded his hands on his lap and nodded his head.

  “What’s the situation now?” He dared not hold up his hands. He was sure that the general would see his tremors.

  “We’ve managed to stabilize the line by pulling back from the triangle around Elgin all the way back to Albert Street.” He sighed deeply. “Laurier Bridge was not destroyed. Oh, the explosives went off. There just weren’t enough of them.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Right now we’ve set up a firing line near the War Memorial in Confederation Park.” His head was low as he was explaining, his voice unsteady. “We’re starting to get pressure in the west end. The library and archives building has been evacuated. A boat is taking out as much as we can right now. We’re setting up a defensive line around Bay Street.”

  “Anything else?” Tom knew what he was listening to, the preparation for a last stand.

  “As we’re pulling back from Elgin and downtown Ottawa toward the Hill,” He was laying it all out.” Our engineers and crews are laying explosives in buildings.”

  “We’re going to blow up buildings?” Tom automatically didn’t like the idea but then it occurred to him: this was about buying time and saving lives. We aren’t going to be back here very soon, he grimly realized.