Abbott had learned the value of diplomacy in his climb up the hierarchy of a large corporation. His style was to seek cooperation. To negotiate. But a recent article in what he had thought of as a responsible newspaper describing him and other oil company executives as baby-killers and enemies of the earth had dissolved his normal aplomb. So there was heat in his voice when he said, “Doing all you can? Not even close. Yes, I met Elizabeth Muir. She’s a case study in dodging reality. Look, Don, this is easy to fix. Just override the Supreme Court decision. Order the transportation corridors open. The feds can do it. You can do it. Yes, there will be backlash, demonstrations, but at least the economy will recover. If you decide that’s not a path you want to take, at least have the guts to tell me to my face.”
“Jake, settle down. I said we’re looking at this and we are. But when you say we’re not doing anything, what about you guys? I haven’t seen any action from anyone in the industry other than crying to politicians like me to fix it.”
“Us? What the hell can we do? We don’t have any power.”
“No power? Jake, your company is one of the biggest in the industry. Hell, in the world. I did some research on you before this meeting. You’ve got a hundred thousand employees, billions in revenues. If you were a country, you’d be in the top forty for wealth. How can you claim you have no power?”
Abbott sighed. “Power? Okay, let me tell you how much power we have. Two years ago, we built a warehouse and distribution centre. It employs fifty people, and it contributes about half a million dollars annually to the local economy. We built it in Donaldson. Do you remember?”
“Yeah, I remember. So what?”
“We wanted to build it in Allenby. The transportation facilities there are better, and the town was more convenient. But we couldn’t. Know why?”
“Why?”
“The town council blocked it. They wouldn’t issue the required permits. It seems a few of their councillors objected to their town servicing the oil and gas industry.”
“That’s their right.”
“Yes, it is, but consider this. As you said, we’re a multi-billion-dollar company with over a hundred thousand employees and resources worldwide. Allenby is a town of three thousand. If they were one of our subsidiaries, they’d be a rounding error on our books. But they stopped us cold. Don’t get me wrong. I recognize their right to control their community. But to say we have power is to misunderstand—or misrepresent—what that means.”
“I get it. You don’t want to ride roughshod over a small town. Bad for business?”
“It isn’t a question of riding roughshod. We couldn’t even if we were inclined to. Look, Don, every company in this industry, hell in the world, is at the mercy of political decisions. Can we try to influence those decisions? Sure. Do some companies bribe? Yes, if they can find corrupt officials. How about extortion or blackmail? I know companies that resort to that. But none of that is power. It’s trying to persuade those who do have power to use it to our advantage. So when you ask me what we’re doing, all I can say is that I’m doing it now. I’m talking to someone who does have power and pleading with him to use it for the betterment of the country.”
“Not to mention your company.”
“Well, Don, you have a choice. Act to override these protests and enrich both us and the economy or sit on your hands. My company will suffer, but we can always go somewhere more welcoming. The citizens of this province, of this country, can’t. You know what has to be done. If you don’t do it, you’re right. Oil and gas companies, including us, will be out of here faster than you can say environment.”
17
REFUGE
The house seemed deserted. There were no footprints around it, no smoke from its chimney, no signs of movement from within. Darius gaped at its size. Massive enough to dwarf the small homes in the village. Bigger even than most of the crumbled houses that once made up the town before the Collapse. Panes of glass larger than Darius thought possible spanned its width on two levels. In front of the house, paved ground held some chairs and a heavy table next to a door. An upper level balcony ran along the width of the house.
At the back was an outbuilding and a stack of chopped wood. He eased up to the door and listened for sounds from within. Hearing none, he turned the handle. It was locked. There could be people inside. They could be armed. But this house offered shelter and a base from which he could hunt. It was worth the risk of checking it out. He knocked on the door. There was no response. He hammered again. Again, nobody answered. Beside the wood pile was an axe. He jammed the blade between the door and the frame and twisted. The door gave way, its frame splintered.
He stepped through the door and called out. There was no reply. He was in the lower level. In front of him, a large room opened up giving him a view through the windows to the furniture outside and the forest beyond. The floor was covered in a thick carpet that, as he walked across it, gave up puffs of dust smelling of age and decay. A set of stairs led to the upper level. There, he found an even bigger room with large pieces of furniture and a fireplace framed by stones and brickwork. Paintings adorned the walls, and the mantel above the fireplace held an array of knickknacks, statuettes, and framed photos.
Along a hallway was a bedroom that was almost as big as the house he had shared with his aunt and uncle. A bed was made up with sheets and a heavy bedspread. Off to one side was a closet big enough for him to walk into. Clothes, gray with a blanket of dust, hung from hangers. To the other side was a bathroom. He went back into the kitchen and tried the taps. Nothing happened. He flicked some switches on a wall. There was no response.
He stood at the kitchen counter looking around the dusty room. Whoever lived here was long gone.
Would they have had food? In a pantry, he found cans with labels intact. Vegetables, beans, stew, fruit. He cut into one with his hunting knife. A whooshing sound accompanied by a putrid smell caused him to gag. He reached for another one. Same result. The third one was different. Its contents sloshed as he shook it. He punctured the lid and held his breath. There was a hiss. He sniffed the can. It smelled of beef and gravy and vegetables. He cut the can open and poured its contents into a pan.
But the stove was electric. It had no chamber for wood. He found cutlery and devoured the contents of the can cold.
No longer hungry, he examined the fireplace. A fire would create smoke, but he doubted there was anyone around. He had seen no signs of people. No tracks, no houses, no chimney smoke. No Peaks. Wherever this house was, it was deserted. With the weather cold and getting colder, the only way to keep warm, even inside the shelter of the house, was with a fire.
He brought in some wood and laid sticks on a bed of dried moss. He was about to pull out his flint when he saw a box that evoked an instant memory. Matches. He struck one and when it burst into flame, he touched it to the moss and watched the flames catch the wood and take hold.
The house began to fill with smoke. He yanked on a pull chain emerging from the wall. The smoke pulled back into the fireplace and up the chimney.
That night, he slept on top of the bed, a blanket pulled around him. He told himself he could doze if he remained alert for sounds of anyone approaching, but the crackling of the fire lulled him into sleep.
The next day, he took stock of the food the house had to offer. He learned to tell just by shaking a can whether the contents were still good. When he had thrown out the bad ones, he reckoned he had enough for maybe three weeks. That wouldn’t last the winter, but it would give him time to hunt food of his own.