I braced myself as our truck did the same.
I turned to the skinny boy beside me. “It’s up to us,” I said. “We need to hit the driver or the tires. Both difficult targets.”
He nodded. He wasn’t smiling like I’d remembered from before. I think he was starting to understand how quickly it could all go to suck.
I took out my SIG and knelt down by the tailgate, as close to the driver’s side as I could get.
“You need to stay lower,” I said. “Let them aim at me. No… move more to your left.”
He laid down on his stomach, probably in his best imitation of a sniper. He was in way over his head.
The gunman in the back of the Toyota opened fire.
His aim was not nearly as good as I’d expected it to be. Few of the rounds were even hitting the truck, and so far none had come close to my head.
I waited for the Toyota to come close enough, and then I started firing back.
From the back of a moving pickup, my aim wasn’t much better.
The skinny kid took a few shots as well, staying low as I’d told him.
I heard a loud blast from in front of us. Our truck pulled hard to the left and I lost my balance, slamming into the bed of the truck.
For a moment I thought we were about to roll, but the roll didn’t come and we landed upright in the ditch full of snow.
I looked for the second truck. It was on the ditch on the other side of the road, blown onto its side, the hood and at least half the cab on fire.
“Get everyone out of the truck,” I yelled. “Stay low in the ditch.”
I turned to the skinny kid. “Get into the snow. Take a shot every ten seconds or so. How much do you have left?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Two or three rounds.”
“Shit.”
I hopped out of the truck bed and landed in the snow, the skinny kid right behind me.
I had eight rounds. That’s not much against guys with as much body armour as you.
The Toyota stopped less than five meters from us.
The gunman opened fire on the truck.
I opened fire on the gunman.
There are still two weak spots on most sets of ergonomic body armour after years of so-called improvement: the delts and the kidneys. The delts are harder to hit, and less lethal if you do.
I aimed for the kidneys.
It took three rounds before I got one.
The gunman fell from his mount.
I charged at the truck.
The driver slammed it into reverse.
I took two shots just to keep them moving.
With the Toyota flying up toward Clute and Silver Queen Lake, I had the skinny kid stay in position with the two other gun-toting Marchands while Sara, Eva and I checked on the burning truck.
It looked like something out of my past.
The bomb had been crude and it had been dirty, either radio-activated or weight-triggered… I had no idea which. The five Marchands inside had been ripped open by thousands of pieces of shrapnel, probably screws and nails and any other scraps of metal you can find at Home Hardware.
They weren’t wearing helmets or armour. They hadn’t stood a chance.
It didn’t take long for Stems to show up. I didn’t do a headcount or anything, but it looked like they were all in one piece.
One of Stems’ men was once a medic out of Petawawa, and he looked over all five bodies, not that he could do anything about them.
Two of the surviving Marchand boys were throwing snow on the fire; I guess they needed to do something. The skinny kid remained on watch. Eva Marchand was still, staring into the flames like she was sitting in front of a campfire.
Sara took her by the hand and led her back to the other Ford pickup.
“Hit the gunner,” I told Stems. “What about you guys?”
“Nothing,” he replied. “When the explosion happened, they just turned and drove off.”
“You just let them go?”
“Hey… we came to help you.”
“Help me with what? Counting the bodies?”
“Screw you, Baptiste. This is all on you. Running around like you think you’re a goddamn one-man army… what did you think would happen?”
“Harsh criticism coming from a murderer who fucks little girls.”
I felt an arm grab at my elbow.
Sara pushed her way in between us. “What the hell is wrong with you two?” she asked, almost in a whisper. “Have you already forgotten what happened here? Mon dieu.”
“Talk to your boyfriend,” Stems told her. “Tell him to go home and leave this to the professionals.”
“I’d choose Baptiste a thousand times over you,” she said. “I feel sorry for the people who’ve put their trust in you.”
“You’re just as delusional as he is. You two are beyond hope.”
Stems shook his head. He shoved the truck keys at Sara and walked back toward his own vehicle.
“That’s my body armour,” I said.
He started tearing it off, tossing each piece down into the snow.
Sara clasped my hand. “This wasn’t your fault,” she said.
I’m sure she was just trying to help.
Today is Monday, December 24th.
The one-man army took a day off today. I’ve done enough damage, I think.
Sara was insistent that we check on the Girards at least, if not the Marchands; I was equally insistent that we stop wasting fuel on ridiculous errands. After almost twenty minutes of bickering, some of which made both of us laugh, we compromised: we’d take the cart, only to the Girards and back, and Sara would wear the helmet and vest from the moment we crossed the Abitibi River.
I think she hates that armour more than the possibility of getting shot.
Last Christmas Eve Sara and I had taken the truck (the old truck that’s still sitting smashed-up at the airport) and gone to each family between us and the Walkers, dropping off little treats that Sara and Fiona had baked, along with some apple ice wine that I’ve never liked.
Fiona had even done up a funny little Christmas card for Sara to hand out, with a group photo and a modified quote from an old comedian: “Christmas at McCartney Lake is always at least six or seven times more pleasant than anywhere else. We start drinking early. And while everyone else is seeing only one Santa Claus, we’ll be seeing six or seven.” That’s not what you’d expect from a Mormon girl, but Fiona’s always been a little different.
Last Christmas Eve we spent seven hours on it, visiting around two dozen families. This year we can’t risk going out and visiting the last few families we still know about.
There were around fifty families left after The Fires went out; that was down from probably three hundred when the shit first slammed into the proverbial fan. At least fifty more had taken Livingston up on his death march to Temiskaming, with just enough setbacks and delays to put them in the middle of the worst place to be, at the worst time, of course.
I’d told them not to go; I knew what would happen.
I should have done more.
When we came to the junction off Menard Lake Road, the Girards’ wood and metal gate was left open, with no one in sight.
The Girards aren’t known for making mistakes like that.
“Do you think they’re okay?” Sara asked.
“I think they’ve left.”
I’ve probably run into Denis Girard and his brothers more than anyone else over the past couple of years, and they’ve always been among the best to talk to. Denis has told me before they’d never leave, and I’d always believed him.
“You want to check?” Sara said.
“I do.”
“Okay.”
We had the twelve gauge and my pistol, but I knew that Sara would never touch a gun. If we ran into trouble, like one or three gray Toyota Tundras with mounted machine guns, I’m pretty sure that trouble would be more than capable of outgunning me.