by S. L. LUCK
In the brown-gray sludge, with the scattering of branches and weeds and plastic waste, the fish were hard to detect. Together they went with their poles, nudging and jabbing the uniform mess until they located spots that were softer than wood but harder than mud. They stabbed the things and brought into the bags not only fish but frogs, lizards, and more salamanders than they cared to count while a sizeable component of living creatures went directly to labeled plastic containers. The work was dirty and depressing, and in the short time it took them to fill their first bags they had gone quiet with strain. Halfway through filling their second bags, Jesse stepped onto a soft spot and was sucked up past his knees, and it was Johnny who pulled him out. So it went for the rest of the morning, with each brother rescuing the other, until their stomachs grumbled and they finally left the riverbed for lunch.
They were removing their snowshoes on the riverbank when Sarah’s cruiser pulled up. She lowered her passenger window and bent toward them with two grease-stained bags in one hand. “Thought you two could use this,” she said.
The men scrambled up the shallow embankment and lumbered tiredly over the gravel. Jesse took the bags, passed one to Johnny, and leaned deep inside the vehicle to kiss his wife. He refrained from kissing her in public whenever she was in uniform, but that morning—weighed with anxiety over bringing a baby into such a chaotic world—she suffered a panic attack that cramped her stomach and made her shake. Like the times before, her fear increased until Jesse pressed ice to the back of her neck and whispered Elder Nikonha’s affirmations to her. She could handle a gun, attend bloody crime scenes, go toe-to-toe with some of the most dangerous people in Canada, but it wasn’t this which caused Sarah anxiety. Having lost her youngest sister in a car accident, it was the unpredictability of life itself. Advice from Elder Nikonha helped her through her worst times and with Jesse’s support and a lot of sage tea, Sarah had gotten better over the years. Now pregnant, she couldn’t take the healing tea, so when the bus crash claimed forty-two victims and Jesse was called out for too many wildlife incidents and Dan told her about Anabelle Cheever, the control over her anxiety slipped. And when the river suddenly disappeared, it vanished entirely with the water. Now as her husband kissed her, she wrinkled her nose at the smell and pushed his face away.
Johnny’s head appeared beside his brother’s in the window as he opened his bag. “Mushroom burgers. Right on,” he said, and popped a French fry in his mouth. “Thanks. I’m starving.”
“Do you have time to join us?” Jesse gestured toward the portable tables under a large oak tree near the walking path.
Sarah declined with a sigh. “Wish I could, but Falconer is hosting a news conference near the command station. I’m just here to keep things civil.”
Chewing, Johnny asked, “That hot reporter going to be there?” A quick elbow to the ribs pulled him from the window, making him frown at his brother.
“She’s bad news. Literally and figuratively,” Jesse scolded.
“Just the way I like ‘em.”
Sarah rolled her eyes. “I would love to babysit you two, but I’ve got to run. Be careful out there, and, Johnny…?”
“Yeah?”
“Smelling like that, no woman is going to want you anyway,” Sarah said and drove on.
“Remind me about her sisters.”
“Too good for you.”
“All of them?”
“Maybe not Shar.” Jesse took a bite of his burger.
“Isn’t she … didn’t she die in a car accident?”
“Uh-huh.”
Johnny wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Asshole.”
“You asked for it.”
A volunteer came by with bottles of water, and as they drank their attention swung to an area near the command station, where a draped podium had been deposited. Chairs were being organized into rows and sawhorses were pulled into a wide perimeter around the conference area. Four cruisers, including Sarah and Dan’s, flanked the command station and gave the no-nonsense impression that disobedience would not be tolerated. The officers waited in their vehicles until a small SUV pulled up beside them, and out walked Mayor Falconer’s communication manager, Nicole Lewis, dressed in a light gray suit. The day had significantly warmed since the morning, and yesterday’s snow was now a dirty layer of slush that spotted Nicole’s pants as she went to greet Dan.
“I should have worn black,” she said and shook his hand.
Dan gestured to his own legs. “And they say fashion isn’t practical.”
Nicole pinched the fabric above her knee and shook her pantleg. “That’s what’s passing for fashion these days?”
“Touché.” Dan put a hand to his heart, then turned toward the conference area. He walked beside her, explaining. “We’ve blocked the immediate area for journalists only, and you’ve already seen our outer checkpoint on your way in. Not too much trouble so far, just that bunch of quacks in alien costumes.” He pointed past the perimeter where a costumed gathering with picket signs was accumulating.
“Uggh,” Nicole moaned. “They were at City Hall today too. Can’t you arrest them or something?”
“And let the aliens abduct one of us when they come? Not a chance. Those idiots are the ones they need to experiment on.” He laughed.
“I’m with you on that one. All right, let’s get to the schedule. Ada will arrive in twenty minutes. You can let the reporters in now, and would you mind also talking to our favorite friend again?”
“What’d she do this time?” Dan looked over Nicole’s head to the line of vehicles waiting at the checkpoint, where Jessica Chung’s red Mini Cooper idled at the front.
“The usual. She’s pretty much camped out in front of Ada’s house. Shoved a microphone at her children when they left for school this morning, asking if their mother has mentioned anything the city should know about.”
“Christ.” Dan pinched the bridge of his nose.
Nicole removed her vibrating phone from her pocket. “That’s Ada. I’ve got to go. Thanks for your help, Dan.” She tiptoed across the mud-soaked ground to a large, open-faced tent while Dan instructed his team to direct the reporters to the parking area. True to form, Jessica Chung sped past the checkpoint, the wheels of her car spitting up mud onto passersby. Then she stopped and was out of her car, her cameraman hustling to keep up. She hurried across the roadway without looking. A horn blared and a van from CTV London slammed to a stop only a few inches away. She hit the hood of the van with her purse, swearing at the driver, and rushed onward to the seating area, taking a seat directly in front of the podium while her cameraman stood aside.
Seeing her sitting alone, Dan went over to her. He wasn’t quiet about his approach, yet even when he was standing right in front of her, she pretended not to notice him as she dug inside her purse. She finally looked up when Dan cleared his throat. “I have the right to be here,” she crowed at him.
“You do, and I’m not here to tell you otherwise, but you do have a responsibility to behave yourself, Ms. Chung.”
She snapped her gum. “You mean be quiet.”
“I mean stay where you’re seated, do not approach the mayor, do not approach her children, do not trespass in the hospital, be a decent human being.”
“Like your wife?” she retorted, knowing full well the sting it would cause. Jessica herself had covered the scandal. She’d even gotten an on-air apology from both Brandy and Shane before calling into question the police chief’s investigatory prowess, as he was unaware of the ongoing affair.
Dan pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth to keep himself from saying something he would regret. “Be good, Ms. Chung. That’s all I’m asking.” As he walked away, he thought he’d heard her murmur where Dan could go, but he ignored this.
Platoons of journalists assembled quickly as the sun peaked in the sky, and there was a thrum of conversation between them when Mayor Ada Falconer’s silver Chevy Tahoe pulled to the side of the command station. She shut the eng
ine and all four doors swung open to reveal not only the mayor but Premier Henrik Madigan and two men in dark suits. Briefly, they looked at the crowd of reporters and stopped at the command tent, where they were given lanyards and shook hands with members of the coordination team. The feedback of loudspeakers being turned on fell over the crowd and they became quiet, waiting.
A few minutes later, the quartet made their way towards the reporters, with the Premier standing aside to let Ada take the podium. Cameras went on, microphones were readied, and from the back of the gathering, Nicole Lewis gave the thumbs up to her boss at the front. Ada tipped her chin and stepped closer to her microphone.
“Good afternoon everyone and thank you for being here. Over the last few days, our city has been faced with challenges never before seen. Only a week ago, in the Callingwood tour bus tragedy, we lost forty-two members of our community. They were mothers and fathers, sons and daughters, grandparents, neighbors, friends. Our hearts go out to everyone affected by this loss, and I’d like to take this opportunity to thank those of you who have supported them during their time of grief. To our first responders, from the bottom of my heart, thank you for your service to our community.” Ada paused and her head swiveled above the seated crowd, then she continued. “Unfortunately, tragedy waits for no one. As you are all aware, one of our significant water sources, the Callingwood River, has run dry. I want to ensure all citizens of our community that we are working around the clock to figure this out as quickly as we can. I’ve met with members from the Ministry of Natural Resources and Forestry, the Ministry of the Environment, the Ministry of Agriculture, and the Federal Ministry of Public Safety, along with many provincial and federal emergency response personnel. Here is what we know: the drainage or blockage is occurring at two locations, approximately seventeen kilometers north of the city and again eight kilometers south, at the Clarent’s Bay and Albany Cove estuaries, respectively. To the north and south of these areas, the river continues as before, due in large part to a number of tributaries that unfortunately do not enter the demarcation points passing through our city. As you know, the section of the Callingwood River that runs through Garrett has drained overnight, resulting in the inestimable loss of aquatic life and their habitats as well as thirty-five percent of our water supply. Rest assured, our community is not in jeopardy of running out of water. Already, Lake Huron represents the bulk of our supply. Until we know more, however, a boil-water advisory will remain in place. We expect to have an update on this within the next forty-eight hours. On behalf of all Garretters, I want to thank Premier Madigan for his support as we work to restore our great city to its glorious self. Thank you.” She drew away from the microphone and pulled her shoulders back, ready for the journalistic assault.
Cameras flashed and three dozen hands shot up, but it was Jessica Chung who leapt from her seat and shouted above the buzz of queries. “Ms. Falconer! Ms. Falconer!”
Ada purposefully pointed to a demure man in glasses and a red scarf in one of the back rows. He stood, forcing an indignant Jessica Chung to take her seat once again. “Ms. Falconer, Ched Bosswain from CTV London. I have two questions for you. With all the people on this, scientists and whatnot, can you tell us if they have any suspicion as to the cause of the drainage? Also, is there a timeline as to when citizens can expect the water to return, if at all?”
“Thank you for your questions. We are investigating a number of theories, but until I have concrete evidence, I prefer not to release that information. As for the river’s return, I’m sad to say that your guess is as good as mine. We simply do not know the answer to that at the moment, but we are hopeful that it will return soon and take it as a good sign that only a portion of the river has been affected. As I’ve stated before, we will do everything we can to get to the bottom of this, for the good of our community. Thanks, Ched.” Ada gave the reporter, the sea of reporters, her best commiserating, tight-lipped smile.
“Ms. Falconer!” Jessica Chung hopped out of her seat, getting a little too close to the podium for Dan’s liking. He took a step toward her, but, seeing this and the ruckus it would cause on televisions across the world, Ada discretely pumped a palm beside her hip that told Dan to fall back.
“Yes, Ms. Chung,” Ada said, though inside her civil mouth her teeth were clamped tight.
“Jessica Chung, CGTV. Mayor, there have been rumours that the city has been selling water from the Callingwood River for years, if not decades, and that you were personally warned by your advisors that the practice could cause supply issues, perhaps even what we are witnessing today. How do you respond?” Jessica’s smug mouth pinched closed as she waited for Ada to answer.
No one noticed the rage that boiled up inside Ada. Her political career had taught her to kill her emotions, or they would be tied up and publicly hanged. She wouldn’t let anyone, especially not Jessica Chung, kick that stool from under her, so Ada met the question, and Jessica’s eyes, directly. “Ms. Chung, our city has never nor will ever sell our water. Our records are public, and anyone who has read them would know that there is not one iota of truth in your statement. Furthermore, you are welcome to tour our treatment facility any time you wish, with proper attire, of course.” There was a smattering of laughter as many pairs of eyes zeroed in on Jessica Chung’s mud-spotted white pants. “Next question?”
Color bloomed on Jessica’s cheeks. Her nostrils flared. Ada’s name rang from the lips of many reporters, but Jessica took another step forward so that she was only six feet from Ada’s podium. Dan tensed, but then Jessica retreated, if only an inch.
“Last question, Mayor. The city’s Fall Festival is one of the most popular events in Southern Ontario, something citizens and Canadians across the province look forward to every year. Are there any plans to cancel the festival, given the tragedies of late?”
Ada relaxed a little. “Good question, Ms. Chung. Our Fall Festival is a ninety-two-year tradition and brings thousands of visitors to our city every October. It gives our great community the opportunity to show the world our agricultural and artistic merits but—more importantly—proudly represents what we can achieve when we unite our efforts. Now more than ever I believe we need to lean on each other and come together with a positive, constructive focus. Our Fall Festival will continue as scheduled and I am happy to announce that this year, Premier Henrik Madigan and the Government of Ontario will partner with our farming community and our 4-H Club to make this year’s festival even better. Premier?”
On cue, Henrik Madigan joined Ada at the podium, and she stepped back to let him speak. “Good afternoon. Thank you, Ms. Falconer. On behalf of the Province of Ontario—” he started, but then, pulling in from the street to the gravel road, a horn blared. Again and again and again it sounded, with no apparent reason except to get attention. Heads turned away from the Premier toward the sound where a rusty old Winnebago glided past the checkpoint while scrambling officers smacked the sides, trying to get the driver to stop.
From the loudspeakers mounted to the roof came a man’s steady voice. “The apocalypse is here! Prepare to repent and save your souls! Read your Bibles! This is the work of the Lord! Jeremiah line 50, verse 38: ‘A drought on her waters, and they will be dried up! For it is a land of idols, and they are mad over fearsome idols.’ The water went with our innocence! Our sins make us thirsty, but we are quenched with the Lord!”
News cameras swung to the driver now, a mottled-faced middle-aged man with wild black hair and a chest-length beard. With a flat hand he hammered the outside of his door, where a large orange arrow pointed to a mural painted on the aluminum. There, a number of sheep were flocked around the Grim Reaper, but the Reaper had Ada Falconer’s face. She was leading them through the gates of hell.
Dan yanked the radio from his shoulder, directing his team to the Winnebago, then ran toward it. Still at the podium, Madigan said, “This press conference is over.” He and Ada were swept into Ada’s vehicle by his security team.
“Don’t bur
den your soul with their lies! Cast down your loyalty to false hope and raise up instead the—”
The loudspeakers squealed as Sarah got a foot on the driver’s running board and yanked the microphone from the driver’s hand. She leapt away as the man swerved and pushed the gas pedal. Faster the RV went, now spraying up gravel at chasing officers. Orders to stop went unheeded and, witnessing this savage departure from the news conference, cameramen hurried to catch the event on film. Dan raced toward the RV, gesturing for it to stop. From the back, from the sides, officers and security officials rushed to the madman, but it was Jessica Chung who planted herself in the middle of the road, just ahead of the driver. Her harried cameraman, filming from the side of the road, waved for Jessica to get out of the way, but she just quickened her report, her near-frenzied voice defiantly raving on. The driver hit his horn, warning Jessica to move. She stayed put. He pressed and held his horn; she dug her stilettos into the mud. The RV drew close, closer.
“Idol worshipper! The Lord won’t save whores of Babylon! Get out of my fucking way!” The man spat out his window.
Too late, Jessica realized that the RV was not going to stop and, worse, that her shoes were stuck in the mud. She dropped her microphone, trying to pull herself from the muck. Tearing her right foot out of her shoe, she looked up to see her face reflected in the RV’s front grill. She closed her eyes, bracing for death, when she was rocketed out of her other shoe.
17
In the brightly lit main-floor court of Garrett General’s cafeteria, Greg Huxley poured his fourth coffee of the morning. Awake for the better part of thirty-four hours, he yawned at the carafe that was giving him trouble and shifted his cup to the next, where the full pot more adequately surged. He liked it black, but today he added sugar and cream and he was half-hypnotized by the caramel swirl of hot liquid and cold cream when he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder. Abe shook a plastic tumbler at him. “There’s a hole in your cup too?”