“Invited me to dinner,” Daniel said. “Got a little pissy when I declined. Apparently I lack in the table manners department.”
Mason bit back laughter.
Daniel’s nose was bleeding and his cheek was puffy, but aside from that his face was untouched. He groaned and brought his arms in to cradle his stomach when he slowly raised himself into a sitting position. His dark eyes glazed over slightly as he winced in pain. Mason noticed that his ankles were bare.
“Here,” Mason said. He tossed a roll of toilet paper at Daniel. Chaplin had come by earlier and grudgingly given him some supplies. A ratty blanket covered in dead leaves and dust. A bowl. A cup. A roll of toilet paper. Everything he needed to survive. Apparently.
“They’re hired goons,” Daniel said as he ripped off a few sheets of toilet roll and dabbed at the blood on his nose. “Just like some bad movie. Dark room. Tied down to a chair. All that was missing was the single lightbulb burning right above my head. Did some massive sculpting on my chest but left my pretty face. I guess they figure I still need the ladies. Don’t think I’ll be running that triathlon anytime soon.”
“You’re a real comedian,” Mason said.
“Only with you,” Daniel said as he looked around the tent. “Did you know that, Tourist Boy? I never kid with Aries. She thinks I’m the most serious guy in the world. I wonder why that is? Could be I have multiple personalities.”
Mason frowned. Maybe they’d smacked Daniel around a few times in the skull department. It was a little hard to tell.
There was a long pause while Daniel studied Mason’s expression.
“You like her, don’t you,” Daniel continued.
“Who?”
“Aries, you dolt.”
Mason didn’t say anything. He didn’t see any point in continuing the conversation. Aries wasn’t someone he wanted to talk about, especially not with Daniel.
“It’s obvious,” Daniel said. “You sometimes get this really stupid expression on your face when I mention her name. Probably a good thing too. You’d be a hell of a better guy for her than me. You’re a decent man, Dowell.”
Mason grabbed his bowl and cup and stood up. “I’m going to get some food. Want me to bring you something back?”
“No, I’m cool,” Daniel said and he winced again. Lying back down on the ground, he reached for the dirty blanket and shoved it beneath his head. “Doubt I’d be able to keep anything down. Think I’ll just have a bit of a nap instead.”
Mason shrugged and headed out into the night.
Almost everyone had left their tents and gone over toward the kitchen area, where it seemed a few of the camp residents had managed to scrape something together that might be vaguely edible. A giant pot was simmering over an open fire and a woman with long hair was doling out a small amount of what looked like cabbage soup. Another person stood beside her, handing out pieces of bread. There was nothing else. Not even salt and pepper. Over by the big tables was a bucket filled with water, and people could dip their mugs in to get a drink.
Most of the women and children were already sitting down with bowls of food. Because of the lack of silverware, they resorted to lifting their bowls to their lips or using their fingers and bits of bread to scoop out the scraps of cabbage. The only people left in the queue were men, and Mason lined up behind them. He saw Chaplin, but the older man was far ahead, chatting with a group of people, his back to Mason.
Then Mason saw someone else.
Every little bit of civility left his body in a single second.
He was barely aware that he had dropped his cup and bowl, unaware that he’d pushed past several people in the queue, but he was wide-awake when he stopped in front of the insanely tall guy he’d spotted, raised his fist, and popped him right in the mouth with all his strength.
Shouts came at him from all directions. Men both surged forward and away from him at the same time. Someone grabbed him from behind, but Mason shrugged them off.
“You bastard!” Mason’s voice was hoarse and filled with sorrow.
The tall guy blinked twice. He didn’t say anything. Instead, he stepped forward and put his arms behind his back.
“Hit me again,” he said.
Mason did. He hit him several times before the other prisoners finally managed to pull him away kicking and screaming.
* * *
There was no ice at the camp, but someone had been nice enough to wrap his hand with a cold, wet cloth. His broken fingers burned with pain but he tried to ignore it. Not his brightest moment, hitting someone when his bones were already broken. He’d probably done yet more damage. It sure felt like it.
He’s gone. He left me. Us.
The words of a ghost echoed in the back of his brain.
Paul.
The overly tall First Nations guy sat silently across the table from him. The other prisoners had given them some space to talk, but the men remained close enough, just in case Mason went ballistic again.
But he wouldn’t. The blinding anger had already left his body. Now he sat, calmly rubbing his good fingers around the vial of sand in his pocket. The last conversation they’d shared was back in Banff, when Paul had told the story about the Indian warrior who left behind the only woman he ever loved. Then without a word to anyone, Paul had snuck out into the night, leaving Chickadee alone. Well, with Mason, but without her closest childhood friend.
“When did she die?”
“Not long after you left,” Mason said. “We made it to Hope.”
“She really liked Hope,” Paul said. “She had a great story about the campground there. Something involving the biggest spider she’d ever seen and being stuck in her sleeping bag while it crawled across her pillow.”
They were both silent for a while. In the corner of the camp, the last remaining stragglers washed their bowls.
“Was it quick?”
Mason nodded. “Quick for her. Slow as hell for me.”
“I’m sorry,” Paul said. “I hope you buried her.”
“Of course I did,” Mason snapped. “I wasn’t the one who left her.”
He remembered the blisters on his hands and how the sun had been shining so brightly in the sky that morning. He’d wrapped her body carefully in the hotel sheets, plain white with a cigarette burn in the corner. Then he’d had the conversation with the stupid Bagger. He couldn’t forget how the guy had terrified him.
You ain’t figured it out yet. You belong on our side, boy. You’re just the kind of human they like.
When he’d looked in the mirror, he’d believed he’d see the black veins staring back at him. He’d expected to see the monster inside. He still did.
“Why’d you do it? Why’d you leave her?”
“Don’t you remember my story?” Paul looked at him carefully. “The Indian warrior? He couldn’t stand to watch the love of his life die, so he left.”
Chaplin came over with mugs of hot coffee and put them on the table. He gave Mason a curious glance but didn’t ask any questions. He was probably worried that the rumors were right and Mason’s eyes were turning blacker than a moonless night. Mason gave him a look back that he hoped said he wasn’t going to start any more trouble. Chaplin nodded and rejoined the circle of onlookers.
“And that makes everything okay?” Mason finally asked.
Paul absently turned his coffee mug around in his hands. “No, but it explains my actions.”
“Yeah, but this wasn’t a story,” Mason said. “And Chickadee wasn’t a fictional character. You killed her.”
Paul’s eyes flashed anger. “The disease killed her.”
“Your running away didn’t help.”
They stared at each other. Out of the corner of his eye, Mason watched the crowd of hovering men tense in anticipation.
“All actions have consequences,” Paul finally said. “The warrior in the story turned to stone for all his selfishness. Don’t think for a second that I walked away without losing a bit of my soul.”
“Don’t you dare,” Mason said. His voice was unnaturally low and calm. “You aren’t allowed to feel pity. And you can’t grieve for her. You took the coward’s way out. Turning you to stone would only be rewarding you.”
Mason stood up and started walking away. The group of men parted as he moved toward them. Everyone was silent.
“For the record, I’m glad it was you,” Paul called out to him. “She really liked you.”
Mason wanted to point out that Chickadee deserved to die surrounded by her entire family and all the friends in her life. She shouldn’t have spent her last few hours locked away in a dusty hotel room with only Mason there to helplessly hold her hand.
Better yet, she should have died an old woman, surrounded by her children and grandchildren. She should have been a legend.
Someone should have given her the world.
But she was dead. Buried in a shallow grave where only Mason would be able to mourn her properly.
He could have told all of this to Paul, but he didn’t. He didn’t see the point.
Wishing wouldn’t bring her back. And guilt was the biggest regret. He’d seen Paul’s eyes. He wouldn’t feel sorry for him, but he understood.
* * *
Daniel was asleep when he got back to the tent. Someone had dropped off another blanket, a bright pink one with a horrific flowered pattern, and Mason carefully covered him up. Daniel stirred a bit, stuck in his own dark dreams, Mason judged by the stressed expression on his face. Mind you, no one dreamed of puppies and kittens these days. Too wired to lie down, Mason instead went back into the main compound area and started walking aimlessly around the camp.
Thankfully it wasn’t raining but the night was cold. He could see his breath when he exhaled, a white cloud of mist disappearing into the atmosphere. He wished he had a better jacket; his hoodie didn’t do much to keep out the chill. His entire body was in a constant state of dampness. But there were a lot of people worse off. He’d seen several men and women who had only thin shirts. A few of them walked around wrapped in blankets and he’d seen a woman walking around with a very sheer summer dress.
The Baggers had promised sanctuary to all those who came. They promised food and shelter and a safe place to rest one’s head. But obviously no one had been allowed to pack overnight bags and the limited amount of supplies were a downright joke.
And according to what he’d seen, the working conditions were abysmal. The saying “worked to death” was beginning to take on new meaning. The Baggers obviously had their plans for how they wanted the world to be now, and they were putting them into action, with or without willing normal human help. Who knew what would happen after that? Mason had a strong suspicion that they wouldn’t all be returning to the normal world in which people were free to live the way they wanted.
Stopping along the fence line, he stared out at the water, ignoring the Bagger guard who watched him from several feet away, his finger lazily resting on the machine gun’s trigger.
From his position, he could see the boats floating in False Creek. They bobbed gently on the waves, empty vessels haunting the harbor. Wouldn’t it be nice to board one and sail off to nowhere?
He didn’t want to think about Chickadee anymore, so he imagined Aries standing at the bow, wearing a sundress, her hair catching the breeze. No land in sight, nothing but miles of sparkling blue waves. She’d turn and smile at him, the sunlight warming her skin. He’d be wearing something summery and stupid, a pair of Bermuda shorts and a straw hat. She’d smile as he approached her. Maybe he’d be holding some sunscreen lotion or tropical drinks. She’d reach out and take his hand in hers.
No, he didn’t deserve this daydream. Aries was a good person and she didn’t need someone like him. He was better off doing what he always did. So much easier to live within the walls he’d built up around himself. Safer. For everyone.
The sound of a vehicle approaching made him reluctantly turn his attention back to the camp. A few of the white vans were returning. Mason’s guard stopped paying attention to him and moved with the other Baggers toward the gate to let them in. Several of the prisoners popped out of their tents to come over and watch from a distance.
The first van came to a complete stop. Two Baggers jumped out and went around and opened the side door. Inside, the back of the van was packed full of people. They were roughly herded out and led over to the stage, where other Baggers started forcing them to line up.
Mason moved alongside Chaplin, who stood close to the stage, a tight-lipped frown on his face.
“What’s happening?” Mason asked.
“Bad things,” Chaplin said. “You may not want to watch. Not everyone can handle it. Just pray that no one you know is in that group.”
Mason waited. When the Baggers finished, there were about fifteen people on the stage. A collection of survivors, mostly women and a few men, stood nervously, their eyes moving from the Baggers to the group of prisoners who waited tensely.
A woman in the crowd began screaming; she had recognized someone. A man on the stage stepped forward when he heard her cries but was savagely stopped by a Bagger using his machine gun as a baseball bat. The man’s kneecap popped under the force of the metal. He fell to the ground in a heap.
The woman continued screaming, and finally some of the other prisoners forcibly carried her away to the back of the crowd.
Mason’s eyes were diverted back to the stage. There was a little girl standing at the end of the line. Her face was downcast as she played with the zipper on her dirty pink-and-purple jacket. He recognized her immediately. He quickly scanned the rest of the group, but Graham and his wife weren’t among the crowd. His stomach churned uneasily. If they’d found Graham’s safe house, did that mean they’d found Aries and the others?
“I know that girl,” he said.
“Which one?” Chaplin asked. “The child?”
Mason nodded.
“Better pray you get reunited with her.”
“What’s that supposed to—”
He didn’t get a chance to finish. The closest Bagger raised his rifle up to the sky and fired off a shot. The uneasy crowd grew instantly quiet.
The Baggers began moving across the stage, stopping at each prisoner to study them. They poked some people to check for injuries and even forced one man to take off his shirt so they could check out his chest. They asked questions, but the words couldn’t be heard over the murmuring of the crowd. Some of the prisoners onstage were picked out and pushed back against the wall. Others were pulled forward and shoved off the stage, where someone from the crowd would dart forward and lead them to safety.
Mason began to understand. The fallen man with the broken kneecap was dragged back against the wall, and the woman in the crowd began shrieking like a crazed banshee. One of the Baggers turned his machine gun on the crowd, pointing it warningly. Several men grabbed the woman and dragged her away from the scene. They carried her off into one of the tents, but her cries could still be heard although everyone pretended to ignore them.
The Baggers finally approached Graham’s little girl and Mason held his breath. Relief swept over him as one of the monsters yanked her forward, tossing her off the stage. Mason broke away from the crowd, reaching her first. He put his arms around her, picking her up in a quick sweep.
“Hey,” he said as cheerfully as possible. “You remember me, right?”
The little girl rubbed her fingers against her teary eyes and nodded shyly.
“I’m going to take care of you,” Mason said. “No one is going to hurt you. You’re safe with me.”
The little girl—her name was Casey, if Mason remembered correctly—dug her tiny fingers into the fabric of his hoodie and held on with all her might.
He turned, ready to walk away from the crowd, but the show wasn’t over. The guards had gone into the gathered crowd and were searching for someone. They pushed prisoners aside, hitting them with baseball bats and the butt ends of their guns, until they finally gra
bbed someone. As they pulled him up to the stage, Mason recognized Paul. People began murmuring and there were some angry shouts from the men at the back.
“It’s because of you,” Chaplin said beside him.
“Me? What did I do?”
“They don’t like fighting.” Chaplin turned and spat on the ground. “They want us docile. Subdued. If we fight among ourselves, it’s only a matter of time before the uprising begins.”
“Why aren’t they coming for me, then?” Mason scanned the crowd. The Baggers weren’t even close. They were returning to the stage without so much as a glance in his direction.
“No idea. Maybe what the others say is true. Maybe you are a spy. But it’s not too late. You might be able to stop it.”
Mason stepped back toward the stage, completely unsure of what he could say or do. The child in his arms grew suddenly heavy, and he shifted her fragile body to try to distribute her weight more evenly. The Baggers paused, their guns positioned in their arms. They were obviously amused, eager to listen to Mason beg for the other man’s life.
Then Paul’s eyes met his.
And Mason understood.
There was pain there. Pain and regret and a soul that couldn’t be repaired. A warrior who’d spent thousands of years as a stone statue. Now he was waiting for his destiny to appear.
Paul didn’t want Mason to save him.
Mason nodded.
The taller guy gave him a slight smile before looking away.
Mason walked back toward Chaplin, ignoring the angry cries and protests that burst from the crowd. He’d done the unthinkable. No one was going to forgive him for this. No one except the person standing on the stage.
Casey leaned her head against Mason’s chest. He could see a tiny little pink-and-blue barrette hidden in the mess of tangles at the back of her neck. He could feel her breath on his skin and the softness of her fingers on his arm. There was only one thing left to do. Mason needed to get Casey out of there before the bullets started flying.
“Where can I take her?”
“Come on,” Chaplin said. “We’ve got a bit of a day care set up over by the toilets. Lots of other kids there. It’ll be the best place for her.”