“I don’t understand.”
Rolf stormed out of the house and slammed the door behind him. His aunt, tears in her eyes, said, “Neither do we.”
THE FARMER’S WIFE heard the sounds first. Motorcycles. Many. Their motors growling, getting louder as they approached the house. The farmer blew out the candles and hustled his wife and eleven-year-old daughter into the basement, throwing a bar across the door to block it. He loaded a twelve-gauge shotgun.
The motorcycles circled the house, their motors revving in an ominous prelude. As if in response to a signal, the motors stopped at the same time. The thuds of boots on the front steps, the squeak of the screen door opening, the hammering of knuckles on the front door. Behind the farmer, his wife and daughter crammed themselves into a corner.
The front door splintered, the shattering of wood ripping through the house. The stamp of footsteps surging from room to room. The echo of possessions being hurled into bags. Hammering on the door into the basement. The crunch of a shoulder smashing into it. The door held. A voice called, “Nobody here. They’re probably in town.” Another voice said, “We got all we can carry. Let’s go.”
The tromp of boots thumping down the steps. The roar of motorcycles revving. The spray of wheels spinning on gravel. The motors fading in the distance.
The farmer crept up the stairs with the shotgun, opened the door, and peered into the room. A club smashed into the side of his head, knocking him back into the basement. Half a dozen men wearing leather jackets and carrying torches scrambled down the steps. They lashed the unconscious farmer into a chair and formed a semicircle around the farmer’s wife and daughter. And laughed.
They were done. The floor of the basement was awash with blood, two naked and raw bodies splayed across it. The farmer slumped in the chair, his face lined with agony, stained with tears. The men climbed back up the stairs and tossed their torches onto the floor. They sauntered from the house, flames starting to devour the walls. With guffaws, they mounted their bikes and rode off.
“ROLF, WE CAN’T stay here. Sooner or later, the looting gangs will find us. We have to move to town,” Helena pleaded.
“I’ll move you into town, but I’m staying here.”
“I can’t leave you. You can’t farm all day and do the cooking and cleaning. Besides, you’re getting old, and Darius can’t take over the farm.”
“This is my farm. I’m not giving it up. I’ll take you to town, but I’m not leaving.”
“Rolf, don’t be a fool. This is the end of this farm. We have to move to the village.”
Darius watched his uncle, so strong, so capable, stand up to her, stolid as the hills that rose from the valley where they hunted deer. The combination of the toil on the farm, the fear of the looting gangs, and the relentless demands of his wife—even as it stooped his back and lined his face, none of it moved him. This was his farm. He’d never give it up.
Until the hailstorm. Afterward, his uncle and aunt walked among the battered crops. There were tears in their eyes, and his uncle seemed to have shrunk. That afternoon, they hitched the horses to a wagon, loaded it with the few possessions they had that would still work, and moved to the village.
8
REDEMPTION
Todd Baxter slumped against a tree in the darkness of an Ottawa evening. His severance pay was fast running out, but his job prospects were as dim as the dusk. He’d been able to get an appointment with some HR person at the government Information Technology Division, but the interviewer spent most of the time studying Todd’s resume instead of making eye contact. At the end of the interview, she dismissed him with the cliché that they’d keep his resume on file. He spoke to an employment agent who had the vacant optimism of sales. She assured him he had an impressive background, and she would call him when something came up. Call him. If he had a dollar for everyone who said they’d call him, he wouldn’t need a job. Besides, he’d soon have to give up his phone. He couldn’t afford the bill, even though he’d cancelled the data service.
He’d been able to save some money by getting his landlord in Calgary to take the last month’s rent from the security deposit. In Ottawa, he found a basement room that was just a step above a slum but was cheap. Yet even with that, he’d be broke in a few months. He thought of going to the States, but when he went to the embassy to inquire about a work permit, they’d been polite, but they might as well have laughed at him.
He slouched along the deserted street, anything to avoid having to return to his room, which was more depressing than the futility of the offices he’d been able to get into.
A noise intruded. Aggressive. Foul. In the near-darkness, he could see a group of three or four men accosting a woman dressed in a business suit. The men were taunting her, pushing at her, pressing close to her, their comments explicit. Baxter surged with anger, partly because he hated thugs, partly because the frustration of his life boiled over at the situation. He wanted to charge in. To attack. He knew he couldn’t handle four men in a fight, but something within him objected that he couldn’t just walk away. Could he call 9-1-1? No. There wouldn’t be time. He decided on boldness.
He strode toward the group and called out, “Police. What’s going on here?” He placed his hand on his belt where a holster would be.
They turned toward him, confusion and anger creasing their faces. He called again, “I said, what’s going on here.” He turned to the woman. “Are you all right, ma’am?” The men stood their ground. He said to the woman, “Walk toward me.” She eased up to him. “Stand behind me.” She complied. He said, “You guys get lost. If I see you around here again, I’ll run you in.”
One of the men gave him the finger. “You want her? You can have her. The bitch is too old for us.” They sauntered off, their insults fading in the night.
He paused to let the pounding of his heart slow, the adrenaline rush to abate. He said, “Are you all right?”
She nodded. “Thank you. It was stupid of me to be out here alone.”
“Can I walk you home?”
“No need. My car is over there. Thank you, officer.”
“No problem. But I’m not a cop. It was just a useful ploy.”
She studied him. “Very creative. And risky. Thanks again.” She paused. “You look as if you’re down. Do you have a job?”
“Let’s just say I’m in the market. Why? Are you hiring?”
“What do you do?”
“I’m a software engineer.”
“Have you tried the government datacentre?”
“Of course. But I couldn’t get by HR.”
She pulled a card from her purse and wrote on the back. “Take this to the datacentre and give it to Adam Forrester. He’s the director of IT operations.”
“I know who he is, but it’s impossible to get near his office.”
“Find a way. Don’t give that to anyone else. Good luck.” She smiled at him and drove off.
The card read, “Miriam Hendersley, Associate Deputy Minister.”
HE SAT IN a waiting room. He had made it to the executive offices by insisting he had a message for Adam Forrester on behalf of Ms. Hendersley. Her name opened doors, but not enough to get him past the last portal. A receptionist sniffed that Mr. Forrester was busy and not to be interrupted. When he said he’d wait, he expected her to call security, but she just shrugged and turned to her computer terminal.
He’d been there for a couple of hours when three men emerged from an office and stood chatting in the waiting room. One of them extended his hand. “Thanks for the meeting, Adam. We’ll be in touch.”