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\ Three Hours Earlier /
“Uh... Alright. I’m not- not quite sure what to say here” Salem grumbles, rubbing at her forehead as she settles into her driver’s seat, her opposite hand cradling a silver voice recorder whose tape continues to spin, seconds of valuable spool being spent amidst her pause. “I’m honestly not even sure that I can say anything that hasn’t been said before” she corrects, sitting in the shadow cast by the blue van her sedan is parked alongside, “I just keep finding myself looking at the past.” Clicking her tongue, the woman’s head drifts to the rolled up window beside her, a passing glance taken toward the side mirror, where a pair of headlights continue running at the front of a pickup truck whose driver attempts to make a quick dip into his flat. “No matter how much I try, I can’t escape those first days” she confesses, “with all that we’ve seen and where we’ve gone- hell, where we ended up- I just keep... I keep thinking about those first few days.” The parking lot, surrounded on three sides by large brick walls stretching four stories tall, is most vehicles’ only exposure to light comes from the burning lamp at the wall opposite the lot’s entrance. Its bulb casting a dim light over the closest few cars and trucks near it, the light centres itself between the second and third stories, its glow barely able to illuminate the window to Salem’s living room. “It must’ve been a couple nights or weeks after I met everyone. That night where Alicia caught me trying to walk off... Before we went to Concord” she continues, one foot sitting atop the brake pad whilst the other sits square of the floormat. “I’ve seen so many of you die over the last few years. I’ve seen all the shit we’ve gotten stuck in, and that night- that night- keeps playing on my mind” the muttering proceeds, her words immortalised onto tape for any and all to hear. “Don’t get me wrong, I know why. I guess it’s just never hit me hard enough until now just how much it would sit with me” Salem admits, staring forward with a blank glare, “I think I’m really gonna hate myself in a few years for leaving like this. Hell, I think that hate is already sort of settling in.” Long since she’d left the sedan she’d arrived home with, Salem inevitably makes her way back into the flat she’d called home for so many months, every word that she’d had to offer already pressed onto tape. With an eye on the corner of the room, the woman comes upon a sudden thought that drives her to make it toward the corner of the room, the one in which a box of books sits to be returned to the library they’d been taken from, only for that journey to have never been taken. “But it doesn’t matter how many years have gone by now, I’m still... still not good at saying goodbye” Salem confesses, her past self remaining in the sedan, staring at the characterless brick wall she parks at. “And even if I’m not good at it, there’s just nothing I can do to help it anymore. As much as I love you all, I think I love you too much” she proceeds, staring back at the parked truck through her rear view mirror, “and that love is too great for me to survive saying goodbye.” Leaving the voice recorder on her empty seat, Salem’s future self begins carrying handfuls of books; the initial box being too small to support the weight of down the exterior stairs. One after another, the woman descends and re-ascends the steps, gradually bringing one set of hardcover after another to the asphalt just beside her car’s rear right tire. “Maybe I was never alright with surrendering to life inside the walls. Maybe this is just my excuse for fucking off right as things are about to get bad” Salem’s past soul remarks, eyes continuing to remain on the truck behind her as it’s driver returns, just beginning to process of loading the bed with a variety of his belongings. “I’d be willing to accept that” the woman mutters, only to begin shaking her head in refusal, “but I can’t be here when this world gets you killed.” In a future only minutes after the woman’s recording had ceased, her hands wrap around the sides of the cardboard box that holds what remains of the overdue books, joining her in stepping through the front door. With the faintest glance over the nearest bannister, Salem finds the man whom the truck belongs to, his repetitive entering and exiting of his apartment allows him the chance to continue filling his vehicle with all sorts of tactical and survival gear. With an idea coming to mind, the departing survivor begins making for the first of three different staircases, inevitably holding her foot out for the top-most stair. “I don’t remember who said it, but I remember hearing one of us say that things were still perfect as long as he didn’t have an answer... Kind of like Schroedinger’s cat, y’know?” Salem’s prior self reflects, finally sparking a sorrowed grin, “it’s almost like all of you will still be alive as long as I’m gone. Like no matter where I go, everything here- and everyone in it- will stay just the way it was when I left it so long as I never turn back.” Nodding to herself, Salem tries to fight off a tear before feeling it get the best of her, its warm slide down from the corner of her eye prompting the hand in which the recorder is held to swipe at it. “I don’t feel like I belong in this world. The world as what Nova Scotia is was never my cup of tea. I understand that it’s the future, but it’s not mine” she confesses, the nod turning to a vehement shake, “even if I go- old and frail in my bed- that world will never come back in my lifetime.” Toppling, rolling and spilling down the flight of stairs she’d yet to ascend, the final remaining novels that future Salem carries in the box fall from their cardboard containment, flooding through the bottom of the box too decrepit to support the contents any further. “Goddamnit!” she howls through clenched teeth, angrily discarding the frail container over the lip of the bannister, paying no mind to whatever random plot of asphalt it embarks a descent toward. Returning to ground level, Salem annoyedly carries the books with her to the others she’d stationed beside her vehicle’s rear tire. “Books?” an unfamiliar voice calls out, prompting the woman to turn back, where her eyes find the survivalist standing beside his truck, confused at what he perceives to be her selection of valuables. “I may not know Charlotte like the back of my hand, but I don’t need a reason to look far for the trouble she’s bringing around this place” Salem’s past remarks, confident in the words that she speaks onto tape, “I saw when she took that shot at Gamble. Her heart isn’t in this for the greater good, her heart wants one thing and that’s it... power.” “Yeah... Books. What about it?” Salem’s future-self aggravatedly musters the will to retort, unsure whether or not the judgemental voice in her apparent neighbour’s reflection is intentional. “Sorry, I didn’t mean anything by it” the tenant, abandoning his living space replies, beginning to walk back to his flat before the sound of the woman’s voice prevents him. “It sure as hell sounded like you did” Salem responds, continuing to standby and wait for an answer to her question. Not wanting any more trouble than what he can sense on the horizon, the departing neighbour lowers his shoulders and extends his arms in a show of apology, “they’re just a weird thing to take when skipping town... that’s all” he confesses, turning his eyes away to face the direction of his flat once more, not wanting anything more with the discourse he hadn’t anticipated. “The world is changing. Nova Scotia may be too big for whatever’s about to happen to not be the last, but I wouldn’t put it past the world to get ugly for fun” past-Salem proceeds, watching her neighbour carry a rifle of his own and a large box of ammunition out to the truck bed. Already having been stocked with an unmade tent, various other weapons and additional ammunition, countless prepacked meal kits and other necessities, the vehicle proves to be a survivor’s wet dream. “That look in Charlotte’s eyes told me all that it needed to. She’s not going to stop until she takes that guy’s place back or dies in the process” Salem carries on, eyes still unwavering from their place upon the truck behind her. “She’ll be willing to throw out every last body she has just to keep this place unified, and that includes all of you” she proceeds, offering whatever warning she can to those bound to find the recording, “I can’t be there when that happens.” Kneeling close to the ground, Salem’s future self begins to stack the books into neater, more manageable piles. With a casual stroll up the exterior steps, the woman makes her way back to the flat and nonchalantly marches through the apartment, closing in on the firepit before taking a glance through the nearby window. With a few different containers of gear in his hand, the confrontation-avoiding survivor sets down the belongings in the vehicle’s bed before starting to cover it over. With a squint in her eye, Salem stands close to the vantage point and keeps herself hidden beside the wall, watching as the gentleman she’d never cared to ask the name of approaches her car. Passing a glance around his nearby surroundings, the man checks for onlookers to make sure he’s not being watched, a quick thrust of his foot purposefully knocking the woman’s neatly-stacked novels into each other, forcing them to fall like dominoes as he quickly hurries away to his flat. “I’ve probably said it before, and I don’t know exactly when I started meaning it, but I know for a fact that I’m telling the truth when I say it now-” Salem’s past-self voices, watching as the survivor whose vehicle she’s fixated in walks back for his apartment, “-I fucking love you guys.” As her lip quivers, another tear runs down the side of the sorrowful woman’s face, leaving a trail behind as it runs freely, allowing passage as the effort to hide it evades her. “I guess I should be glad I’m not good at these kinds of things... It keeps me from having to look you all in the eyes and say all of this” she proceeds, trying to muster a laugh, though all that can find its way through her sobering grin is a teeth-heavy groan of mixed emotion, “and even then, one of you would probably jump at the first opportunity you had to talk me out of this.” With a snarl, future Salem steps away from her window and bows her head to the open fireplace, quickly extinguishing the fire not even she easily recalls being without. Confidently and with reassurance, the woman steps through her front door and leaves it open just a crack, the peek of darkness shown through the slit in its opening affording any passers by a glance into the void of nothingness that resides within. Stepping down to ground level once more, the woman’s eyes take to the same car that she marches toward, looking past the fallen books and to the trunk that she lifts with the ease of her finger’s push. Within seconds, Salem’s hands go from empty to occupied, her left pushing the vehicle’s rear shut with a loud enough force to catch ears whilst her right brandishes the rifle she’d gone not a day of this current world without. “I’m sure some of you will think differently. This isn’t a decision that you guys could- or even should- change” Salem’s past remarks, her free hand trying to wipe the waterworks that well from her eyes. “Emilio... You’re an awesome guy. I’ve given you shit in the past, but dude... There are times where I envy the fact that I’m not you” she confesses, allowing herself to break out a chuckle for the tape to overhear, “I can only hope you’re not still refusing yourself credit for all you’ve done.” Clearing her throat, the woman runs her hand through the hair that falls over her shoulder, aware of her need to tie it back. “Clint and Nessie. I know I never had the history with you two or Angela that I had with everyone else, but that doesn’t change how much you’ve meant to me and everyone else too” Salem carries on, gently setting the recorder onto the centre console, “before Cumberland- and especially after everything happened post-Sun City- you’ve been right there for us... Every time.” “Hey!” Salem’s current calls out, brandishing her rifle as she stares into the lit flat that stands across from her, catching the ear of the man whose truck she’d spent the last few minutes scouting out. “Y- yeah?” the fleeing survivor responds, turning back as he begins to step from his common space and into the living room, pausing his return to the running vehicle as he spots the firearm in the woman’s hand. “You got any family?” Salem inquires, passing a glance at the well-loaded truck, more than aware that such a vast collection far exceeds what someone simply fleeing the city would need. “No?” the man responds, staring at the woman curiously as he answers honestly, slowly putting a duffle bag onto the tiled floor of his kitchen whilst looking onward. “To Jack and Lauren, I wish you all the absolute best. I hope this all comes and goes without hurting enough people to call it a travesty” Salem’s past self remarks, pulling her hair back and tying it into a bun, eyes keeping toward the parked truck behind herself. “The two of you have something nice going for yourselves here. Ever since the start, I felt like the two of you needed something to live for” she confesses, turning her head to the side for leverage, “I’m glad you found each other.” Finishing the tie, the woman reclaims her recorder and rests her free hand over the steering wheel, letting it hang there as a smile comes over her face again. “Fuck. This is the hardest part” Salem admits aloud, staring at the ceiling for a moment to collect herself before a chance to continue can be afforded. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you” Salem’s not-too-distant future self proclaims, watching the man’s hand begin subtly reaching behind himself before brandishing her own rifle. “I’m not so sure about you, but I know how to use my gun” the woman warns, watching the cautious reach her opposing survivor takes come to a momentary stop, “and just as I can assure you that I know how to use my gun, I can assure you that- if I shoot- I won’t miss.” “Franklin, you are one of the smartest, most sincere and toughest bastards I’ve ever met. As much love as I have for Alicia, there’s only one person that got in my good graces before all the others-” Salem’s past self reflects, lowering her voice slightly as she lifts the device closer to her face, “-from those runs with Heather and Cameron to those talks we’d have when we got into Concord... You always just came across like a dude that- even if I didn’t know why- I just knew I could trust.” Forming an ‘O’ with her lips, Salem lets a deep sigh escape as a wave of tranquillity runs through her body, easing her as she sinks further into her seat. “You’re gonna be a great influence on the little one. I’m glad I met most of you after the world ended, ‘cause you kept me grounded in ways most of you never even realised. But Frank, man I wish I knew you before then. You could’ve set me in my place” she admits, “in case I never said it before, sorry for almost shooting you that one time.” *pop* In the near distance, a loud thud hits the ground as Salem’s future self watches on, her rifle lowering from a readied position as the barrel redirects toward the ground. “I told you I wouldn’t miss” she murmurs aloud, letting her shoulders fall for a moment before stepping forward, approaching the flat’s front door, quietly pulling it shut before turning away, “I’m just glad you’ve got no family for me to feel guilty for.” Into the backseat, the woman’s books find themselves coming into a new home, the comfort of a spacious truck proving as their final method of transportation from one location to the next. Laying her rifle alongside the passenger’s chair, Salem strolls around the front of the truck and up to the driver’s side, stepping onto the vehicle’s elevated floor before taking one final glance at the place she’d called home for one last glimpse. “I suppose that brings me to the woman of the hour... Alicia” Salem’s past self remarks, pulling her extended leg away from the brake and onto the seat she occupies, continuing to stare at the bright headlights that flood her sedan’s interior with light, “y’know, when I was a little girl, I never really got along with my classmates. It didn’t matter what level of school it was, I was just never the kind that had the group of friends everyone thinks of when they imagine their youth.” Using her free hand to open her door, Salem begins speaking louder as she lets free another noticeable sigh. “Eventually, I got to that point in my life where I could just cut people off. I’d go radio silent and- since I wasn’t the most remarkable person in their life- they’d just start forgetting about me” the woman conveys, shaking her head as the free hand begins to rest atop her bent knee, “then I started feeling glad I didn’t have those friends. It would’ve made disappearing a lot harder.” With the look of dissatisfaction, Salem’s future self nods her head toward the dark window of her former flat before stepping into her new truck, slowly pulling out of the driveway before directing the vehicle toward the nearest main road. One headlight after another passes her as the adventure she begins to resume many years after she’d initially set out to have it starts taking centre stage. “And now, I feel even more grateful that I never had those friends. I can’t imagine how hard it would’ve been to set out on my own if I had to say goodbye to every last one of them” Salem’s past self continues, blending in with her present all too much as pauses of absolute silence persist from the control of a driver’s seat. “I could never imagine having to do this over and over and over again... It’d drive me nuts” she admits, a smile beginning to form on her face, “I only have to do it once.” To the company of silence, Salem’s departing drive eventually leads her to the one pitstop she’d planned to make before saying her final farewell to the compound, a mostly-empty parking lot eventually holding host to its second vehicle. Just beside a green station wagon, the well-equipped truck rolls to the front of a small and cosy library, where the lone keeper of all hard and soft covers alike just now begins turning off the building’s lights. “I really hope you make it out of all of this alive. I hope all of you do, but Alicia... Fuck. Dude, I love you with all that I’ve got to offer in my heart” Salem expresses, wrapping her free hand around the headrest of her sedan’s driver’s seat. “I’ve seen you overcome addiction. I’ve watched you force yourself into accepting who people are in spite of who you really wanted them to be” she carries on, eyes wandering the brick wall her car is parked at. “Excuse me, ma’am?” the departing woman calls out, catching the ear of the librarian as the older woman steps through the front door, preparing to lock the building down for the rest of the evening. “I’m sorry to interrupt. But, I- uh- I think I have a few books that the person who lived in my flat before I got there may have borrowed from you?” Salem explains, a visually pleasant and well-meaning nature presented, “I was hoping you could help me finally get them back where they belong.” “You brought a baby into this world. You’re the strongest chick, the biggest badass and the toughest mama I have and will ever know” Salem proceeds, finally delivering her sedan’s interior with the fresh air that she needs to keep from falling apart emotionally. “Emilio, Franklin, Clint, Nessie, Jack, Lauren- whoever it is... I hope they all live long and happy lives” she confesses, beginning to grow sorrowful yet again in spite of the fresh air, “but this new world’s gonna need you, Alicia.” “Thank you... Have a great night and be safe!” Salem calls out, waving goodbye to the librarian whom she’d finally finished her previous apartment’s tenant chore with the help of, climbing into her truck with nothing but open road ahead of her. Adjusting the rear view mirror she’d forgotten to fix before leaving her apartment, the driver fastens her seatbelt and stares into an empty backseat- the books returned to their rightful place just as she’s set to. “I know I said I was no good at it, and that I was making this in order to prevent myself from having to... But I felt like I shouldn’t be able to go without at least saying it once” Salem quips, her past self watching the truck’s owner dip back into his flat in search of the next item to load into his bed. “After all that we’ve been through, I couldn’t just walk off into the middle of the night without a word...” she confesses, shaking her head as she puckers her lips, “...not this time.” “On behalf of Nova Scotia, we wish you the safest of travels” the guard overlooking one of Nova Scotia’s few entry points from the outside world remarks, stamping a small booklet with Salem’s image and likeness on it. “Thanks” the woman replies, nodding her head toward the man as the sound of approval from an overhead patrolman fills the air, granting the massive, steel doors to the outside permission to part, allowing the well-stocked survivor to reenter the world she never yearned to leave. “From the bottom of my heart, I want all of you to know that I will love you forever” Salem recalls, some of the final words she’d uttered onto tape for her friends to hear playing on repeat in her mind as she finally ventures beyond the last stand of society’s compound walls. “Maybe the day will come where our paths will cross again. I hope for your sake that it isn’t you being forced back into my world this time around” she’d proceeded, her past self having failed to stop the tears again. Just a kilometre and a half beyond the walls and firmly a no one to the Nova Scotian government once again, Salem parks her truck along a desolate hillside and steps out, taking one final look at the lights through the dark Canadian night. “Until we meet again, know that you will forever have a piece of my heart. I will love you all until the ends of the earth and to my dying breaths” she recalls, a smile coming over her face. “For everything that we’ve seen and for all there is still yet to see” Salem whispers to herself, tucking her hands into her pocket as she embraces the wondrous sights of Nova Scotia for the final time. With a nod, the woman takes in the various lights and whatever other signs of civilisation there are to leave behind, accepting the terms that her departure has made unavoidable by turning back and returning for the driver’s seat, carrying on with her journey elsewhere. \ Three hours later / “For everything that we’ve seen and for all there is still yet to see...” the recorder plays, its tape being spun at the centre of a highly-populated flat, the words it had been used to share now meeting the ears they were intended for, Salem’s final message making its way to where it belongs, “...thank you- and goodbye.” With the click of the machine’s mechanisms, the apartment becomes filled with a lifeless hush just as the recording had started playing alongside, not a soul able to know for certain what there is to say. Looking to each other, the group that remains awaits someone else to carry the mantle of the conversation, equally as unsure and undesiring of the right as all others. Throughout the room, a palpable sickness can be felt, one that touches upon the back of each mind scattered throughout the flat. As if they’d begun to buy into the warnings that have been prepared for them, the group’s eyes soon find themselves pausing their wondrous journey across the room before falling away from all others, their focuses instead being turned to random and unimportant corners of the room that, unlike their friends, don’t inspire grave doubts. “This is useless” Emilio finally breaks the silence to speak, the eyes of the four survivors immediately taking toward him as he steps off the couch, walking to the centre of the room before dragging the chair that sits in it back toward the kitchen. “Salem is completely right. I know exactly what she’s talking about with Charlotte. That look she gave us before shooting at Gamble” he declares, returning to the common area from the adjacent kitchen, “she will never stop.” “What does that mean?” Franklin responds, his arm and a half crossed over his chest as he sits upright, “you can stand here and say Charlotte won’t stop, but how does that change anything that’s about to happen?” “Yeah. Even if Charlotte’s got no end in mind, that doesn’t change the fact that the bridge over the water was just blown up. If that doesn’t signal war, nothing can” Jack replies, gradually pulling his arm out from around his wife’s neck, “we’re already at war. What does Charlotte’s stubbornness change about what’s gonna happen anyway?” “‘Cause this war is going to be a bloody, violent, and relentless one if Charlotte has her way” Emilio replies, pointing his finger at the window near the back of the room. “It’ll only be a matter of time until we’re all drafted to serve in some makeshift army sent on suicide missions that result in nothing. Charlotte won’t accept concessions, she’ll sacrifice one life after another until she has the head of whoever’s taking over for Gamble” he continues, painting out a vicious cycle. “Even when she has that guy’s head, she’ll want the one of whoever comes next. The same with the guy that follows, and so on and so forth” Emilio carries on, almost giving himself more anger than Salem’s departure leaves him with, “everyone will keep dying until she has that island back, but even that won’t be enough. She won’t have a bridge to connect the places, and she won’t have the leverage over whoever’s still alive and preferred the way the island ran themselves instead.” “So it’s just one cycle of perpetual conquering and dissatisfaction?” Alicia inquires, crossing her left leg over her right as the voicing of her question barely finishes before the nearby sound of crying catches her ear. “Go ahead” Emilio murmurs, stepping aside to grant the mother whatever room she needs to venture off toward the tearful Buddy, “but yeah, it’s just one big cycle that repeats itself. The only consistent thing is that people just keep dropping like flies.” “Then what the fuck do you suggest we do about that?” Jack questions aloud, slowly pushing himself off the couch before gradually making it to the halfway point of the room. “Don’t get me wrong, I like Charlotte perhaps less than anyone else here. But even with that said, let’s not sit around and pretend we have much of an option” the man proclaims, throwing his hands out in surrender, “for god’s sake, we’re already stretched as it is. No one here has any say in what comes next.” “But we could” Emilio retorts, his counterpoint immediately called into question by one of the few visitors left to grace the flat with their presence. “Oh yeah? How?” Jack replies, standing just two metres away from the figure of leadership that had guided them to the wartorn compound, “do you suggest we switch sides? Maybe vote her out of power in the next election that I’m totally sure she’ll have... Wink wink. Just what do you suggest we do to fix our little Charlotte issue, Em’?” Though he talks a big game, Emilio’s lips remain pressed together when the time comes to provide an answer, one that he’d know he doesn’t have if he were honest with himself. Remaining in her seat with hands folded, Lauren watches on from her place to the room’s side whilst the flat’s second tenant remains seated at its backside, his arms remaining crossed as he awaits the proposed solution just as all others do. “We kill her” Alicia suddenly responds, turning the nearest corner with the child in her arms, rejoining the conversation and recapturing the centre of attention. Halfway rolling his eyes, Jack’s head leans to one side whilst Emilio hangs his head, more than aware that the only plausible answer is the one that the mother had just proposed. “If that were a viable option, I would’ve done it when she literally gave me the chance” Jack responds, hands finding their way to his hips as his doubts are expressed, “this isn’t like the New World Order where we can take a shot at her and drive the woman out of our camp. She’s got allies here. There’s an entire standing army that takes their orders from her. We may have gotten away with it years ago, but now- well, I shouldn’t need to say anymore about why it no longer is.” “I’m not suggesting we walk up to her, shoot her in the face, and then turn around and tell the military that they take orders from us all of a sudden” Alicia replies, reaching into the vicious recesses of her mind for the inspiration behind such a solution, “we could make it look like an accident. We could make sure she had a strong contingency plan in case she ever bit the dust, and as long as we were satisfied with who the alternative was... We strike.” “We’d become the most wanted fugitives in the entirety of Nova Scotia” Franklin rebukes, stepping off the couch and approaching the room’s centre, joining the two men that already occupy it. “Anyone else could plead innocence, but whomever actually did the act would find themselves on the chopping block... Literally” he concludes, a statement that fails to strike fear within the heart of his wife. “It’d be worth it to make sure our son didn’t grow up in the kind of world his aunt feared that he would” Alicia replies, staring into the quiet face of a baby that’s been lulled to sleep yet again. “No, it wouldn’t be” Emilio responds, watching the mother look him in the eyes upon his refusal, their eyes colliding amidst his pause, “it wouldn’t be because you wouldn’t be the one finishing the job here... I would.” “Emilio, they are emotional and impulsive” Jack replies, failing to see the sense anyone else in the room has of killing the Nova Scotian chancellor, “you on the other hand have no excuse to be falling for the same nonsensical, suicidal rationale that they are.” “Aside from a few speedboats, Charlotte lacks a bridge and boats to get anywhere even remotely close to Prince Edward Island. Even in spite of that, the woman will not rest until she has soldiers stepping on dry land across the strait” Emilio argues back, watching Jack turn away and begin lowering himself back to the open seat beside his wife. “I never said she wasn’t delusional, I just said she’s too important in this compound for any of us to do anything about her” the departing husband responds, rolling his eyes at the idea that he has of potentially being the only sound voice in the room. “She has sway in this place like no one else. For fuck’s sake, she should! She started this whole damn place from the ground up” Jack concludes, kicking one leg over the other as his phone begins to ring, “to us... she’s untouchable.” “And yet, she needs to fall” Alicia mutters aloud, looking into her son’s face as Franklin draws closer, gently resting his shortened nub on the child’s hand whilst his dominant arm softly cradles his wife’s lower back. “Yeah, we’ll be there in an hour or so” Jack remarks, answering the hasty voice on the other end of the line with a slight surprise, concluding the call before helping his wife stand up as they prepare to depart. “That was Donnie. He’s one of the dudes close to Courtney” the man remarks, quickly retreating for the flat’s front door, “Lauren and I need to head back home right now.” “But it’s not safe out there!” Alicia proclaims, keeping her voice low enough as she and her husband turn to face the disembarking couple, the shrug they receive in response being the only thing that they’re given in return. “Guys, you can’t just be leaving like th-!” Emilio remarks aloud, stepping forward with his hand outstretched before the couple brush him off, the warning he tries to offer falling on deaf ears as they quickly step through the entrance and close it behind themselves. “Damnit!” Emilio grunts, punching the air as he spins around, coming face to face with the apartment’s tenants as the final remaining guest. “And then, there were four” Franklin jokes, a frown on his face and a brow raised over his right eye as he looks into his child’s face, a remark that their final visitor fails to react to. Shaking his head, Emilio lets out a grunt as he storms to the apartment’s front door, stepping through it quickly whilst the couple that he departs from shake off the exit, already having accepted the terms of their group’s fractured state by this point. “And then there were three” Alicia murmurs, gently rubbing Buddy’s cheek with her extended index finger, his peaceful face bringing a half-smile over the face of a woman emotionally drained from the loss her night was crafted from the ashes of. = Rise is created by Zachary Serra, all rights to the series belong to Zachary Serra and the entity of Pacer1 from the start of Season 3 onwards = “Come on- in here!” Harvey calls out, taking Katie by the hand and leading her through a swarm of protestors, heading for the higher ground that a multi-story hotel appears to offer. Keeping their heads low and hurry intact, the pair shield themselves from any projectiles that may pose a threat before dipping into the remains of a window that’s been shattered amidst the destruction this horde of humanity has littered the island’s once-capital city with. “Hey, Harvey... Where the hell are we going!?” Katie calls out, her voice amplified by the mostly-empty lobby that she and the man quickly run through, only a few stragglers left behind, covering themselves behind whatever furniture they can find to avoid the chaos they’d accidentally stumbled into. “Wherever the hell it’s safe” Harvey shouts back, beginning to climb the length of an unpowered escalator in search of the next level, his acquaintance left with little choice but to follow. Down one corridor, around a corner and hurrying into the stretch of another hallway, the pair continue to bolt through the spacious and unoccupied passageways through what would most often be a peaceful and luxurious stay. Though she pays little mind to it, Katie takes a few seconds after every turn to let the oddity of where they traverse sink in, having spent so long outside in a crowded mass of people that the empty and less-travelled halls feel eerie in a strange way. From one floor to the next, the survivors proceed onward with their scurry up the height of the building, each level bringing them a bigger picture of the havoc-strewn city they’ve yet to see for themselves. “For fuck’s sake, are we going to keep climbing forever!?” Katie calls out, having spent the majority of their journey keeping to herself, instead opting to let the man ahead of her inspect their surroundings for himself, a more informed look taken at their unfamiliar environment offered. Coming to a stop at the end of another passageway, Harvey takes a look around the area before following the walls with his eyes, an open door almost immediately capturing his attention. “Over here” the man proclaims, leading the charge to an open room before taking a pause, allowing the woman to step ahead of him as he reaches for the nearest light halfway down the corridor’s length, unscrewing the bulb to entrench the path in darkness and keep unwanted travellers away. Shutting the door on the entrance of her colleague, Katie locks the room off from the outside and presses her back against it, lifting her chin toward the ceiling as she gathers her breath. “What the fuck is going on!?” she bellows aloud, already aware of the answer, but incapable of preventing herself from voicing it aloud, the inquiry coming too naturally to be ignored. “They’re rioting, what does it look like?” Harvey responds, standing at the front of the room with both hands on his hips, collecting himself for a moment before springing further into action. “Word’s getting around like wildfire. The island’s full of people- both from here and from over the bridge- and they’re all finding out about the lockdown at the same time” he continues, stepping up to a set of doors at the opposite end of the room from his friend, “they’re all cut off from the mainland.” “What are you doing?” Katie questions aloud, listening to the sliding doors part ways, granting her colleague entry to the balcony adjacent to the room, the exposure to open air immediately bringing a misplaced worry over the woman. “They can’t get to us from up here. Don’t worry” Harvey responds, stepping onto the terrace with caution before peering over the edge, a follow up that he’d carried on the tip of his tongue immediately falling away from his mind as he stares out below. Trying to catch her breath as best as she can, Katie turns around to double check that she’d locked the door before walking across the room, slowly joining beside the man who already spectates the goings-on of the world from well above. “Wow” Harvey whispers, stepping aside to allow his friend access to the bannister, watching the woman’s hands wrap over it as she takes a gander for herself, “this is an uprising.” Gathered en masse, the residents of Prince Edward Island huddle together in display of their disapproval for the actions of their ruling government. Wielding lit torches, various melee weapons and loaded firearms, the people of the breakaway landmass refuse the qualities of civilisation they’ve been demanded to present, instead opting to present their dissatisfaction for the regime by making a swarm of people too large for any one power to control. “Can you blame them?” Katie asks aloud, every strip of land meant for automobiles, emergency vehicles, and other public transportation now completely filled with a horde of residents vehemently opposed to the ruling class that offers them nothing in the way of information, reassurance, or comfort. “Gamble’s radio-silent and they’ve just now found out that he’s been pulling the strings behind their backs” Katie remarks, shaking her head as the wind begins to pick up, the late hours of an evening beginning to turn into the early hours of a new day. “Some of these people lived there. They have family there, or they have friends, or-” she continues, only to fall silent as the knot in her stomach thwarts any further deep dives into the populous, “-and now they’re stranded here.” Each breath taken heavily and slowly, Harvey wraps his fingers over the railing’s ledge and leans inward, gazing at the spectacle below and recognising it as one that will not let up any time soon. Pulling away, Katie shakes her head with a loss for words and turns back for the unoccupied hotel room, watching the light of a nearby nightstand power out just as her friend’s voice speaks aloud. “The power just went down” Harvey calls out, watching the street lamps in all directions go completely dark, sentencing the angry mob to a lightless and aid-devoid Charlottetown to a poor reception. Picking up in tenacity, the booing and shouts of defiance come over the populated city with thunderous motivation, enraging the crowd into further devoting themselves to the mob mentality that they already march with. Throughout the streets, protestors pick up their displays of violence by lighting the insides of vehicles on fire with the use of their torches, whilst other survivors take whatever weighted objections they can find and hurl it toward anything fragile. “And it’s going to stay down until all of this stops” Katie replies, taking out the tie in her hair to allow each strand to fall freely, covering her shoulders as she kicks off her shoes and takes a seat at the end of the bed. “The longer Gamble and Co. go without addressing the obvious, the worse all of this is going to get” Katie continues, sliding one sock off before beginning on the other, “whoever’s pulling the strings while they figure out how to get this under control is going to make it as uncomfortable for the people down there as they can in hopes that most of them will just fuck off to wherever they came from.” “And since that won’t work, that means they’ll just keep shutting things off until the crowd dissipates” Harvey replies, already able to recognise the direction in which the woman’s claims are heading whilst keeping his eyes glued to the action outside. “And that means that- if we’re only up here to wait out the bullshit going on down there- we’re stuck up here” Katie concludes, stepping off the bed before sliding off her pants, “and if that’s the case, then I’m going to bed.” Scoffing at the notion, Harvey continues to look at what rages on a few stories below whilst shaking his head, turning back to return to the room’s inside, “you really think you’re gonna fall asleep with all that going on out-?” Falling silent, the man’s eyes wander upon the bare legs of his sudden roommate, watching them slip out of the trousers that had covered them up until that moment. “I’m tired and spent the majority of the day on a boat from one island to another. I have a bed, I have a blanket, and I have a pillow” Katie replies, quickly lifting her shirt off before tossing it into a corner of the room and making her way toward one side of the mattress, “Gamble’s fights will not keep me from sleeping.” Having stopped halfway through the patio doors, Harvey watches with widened eyes and his mouth partially open as the woman climbs into bed, taking a momentary glance toward him as she slides beneath the covers. “What?” Katie inquires, paying little mind to the reaction as she lays on her side, a shake in her head offered before it collides with the soft pillow, earning a satisfied release of the woman’s captured breath. “I- uh- nothing” Harvey stutters, shaking his head before dipping his hands into his pockets, letting his eyes fall to the ground as he uncomfortably turns away, setting his attention toward the equally-dark building across the road from them. With a squint, Katie watches the man’s reaction for a few seconds before a sudden thought brings a smirk over her face, a last-second glance toward the pile of her clothes across the room from her solidifying the realisation. “Oh please. For god’s sake, do not tell me you’re getting all rosy-cheeked like a teenage boy at the sight of an almost-naked woman” Katie laughs, sitting upright in bed whilst undoing the clasp of her bra. “I’m not! I just-” Harvey quickly rebukes, fully turning away from the woman whilst pressing the base of his hand against the open patio door, leaning against it as he runs through the various thoughts clouding his mind like a heavy fog, “-I wasn’t expecting that.” “Well you didn’t think I was going to sleep in my regular clothes, did you?” Katie responds, still too amused at the man’s schoolboy-like reaction to not grin, “at least expect me to take off my bra or something!” “Katie, I just wasn’t expecting to see you naked... That’s all” Harvey replies, carrying the smile of a man still pleased with what he’d caught the glimpse of, even though he presents the slightest embarrassment- never having seen the woman in such an exposed state despite their months of shared work. Discarding her bra for the uncomfortable hassle that it truly is, Katie tosses the covers off herself before climbing back out of bed, standing in nothing more than the underwear that she soon slides off just as she did with everything else. “Well, take a good goddamn look, buddy” the woman responds, flinging the lime green coloured panties off to the pile in the corner before extending her arms, leaving nothing to the imagination, “I imagine we’ll be here for a while... so get used to it.” Lifting the knuckle of his thumb to the space between his teeth, Harvey presses down against his skin as he fights the temptation to turn around, ultimately falling victim to his mind’s curiosity. “I don’t mind. I don’t have the body of a supermodel or anything, but I’m confident in what I’ve got. Other people seeing whatever it is that I have isn’t something that phases me” Katie confesses, watching the man turn around and stare wildly at the presentation afforded to him. “I have boobs, a vagina, and a womb. Every woman does, and I am no exception” she continues, gesturing to her body as if it were no different from any other, “I know some people feel differently about nudity, but that’s my opinion of it. I don’t know, maybe I’d feel differently if I was here with someone other than you, but that’s not the situation we’re in.” “Why would you feel differently?” Harvey replies, finding the follow-up odd for the statement that it had stemmed from. “Because it’s you. We’ve spent how many months working together? You already know I’ve got the hots for you. If it were someone I wasn’t into and didn’t trust like you, maybe I’d feel differently about being naked around them” Katie answers, shrugging as she couples her hands behind her back, “but you? I’m cool with it.” “And you feel a specific way being naked around me instead of someone else?” Harvey clarifies, shaking his head with a level of confusion strong enough to share his interest with the woman’s body sparks in him. “Of course I do. If it were someone else, I’d just tell them to deal with it or find somewhere else to sleep” Katie responds, turning away and beginning her march back to the mattress, “with you? Well to put it bluntly, I’d just hope you’d think I was hot. Not much more to it, I guess.” Flustered, Harvey bows his head whilst his roommate steps across the room, climbing back into bed as her nude body falls behind the veil of the comforter once more. “Either way, the shit going on outside isn’t going to die down anytime soon. If you’re not gonna go find another room, you might as well just get as comfortable with it as I am” Katie concludes, pulling back the covers of the opposite side of the mattress to present the man his half, “the invitation’s open.” Though he looks up, the man’s face stares blankly at the open side of the bed, watching the woman lay herself the rest of the way into it on the other end. Ruffled, the pulled-back comforter awaits Harvey’s arrival as he weighs the option, thinking quietly to himself as the offer awaits its answer, Katie’s closing eyes making it evident that she’s fine with whatever choice he makes. | “What the fuck’s going on here!?” Jack shouts, stepping out of the car he parks just beyond the reach of his garage door, slamming his door shut as he marches toward the home he and his wife share with anger coursing through his veins. “Mr. O’Rourke, please calm down” Donnie quickly retorts, extending his hands calmly in a show of good faith as a gesture to prevent the man from marching any further than his makeshift workshop’s entrance. “Calm down? Calm down!?” Jack barks, barely able to hear the steps of his wife’s feet over their gravel-filled parking lot as she catches up to him, “are these your guys!?” “They are, but they’re only-” Donnie begins to reply, stepping in front of the homeowner as he attempts to wander past, angrily attempting to march toward the members of the compound’s army that single-handedly confiscate every piece of equipment from the home’s garage, “-they’re only here on Charlotte’s orders!” Shoving Donnie away, Jack sidesteps the man and approaches the closest guard to him, immediately drawing interest from the guards that stand by in the event of an altercation. “Put my shit down!” the man exclaims, pulling a gun out and taking aim with its barrel toward the three men lugging a hefty pressing machine into the open air. “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!” Donnie immediately orders, waving his hands toward the militants that surround the home in every direction, aware of the hostility that suddenly consumes the confrontation, and eager to prevent it from getting out of hand. “Donnie, tell these scumbags to put our shit back or I’ll blow this guy’s fucking brains out, so help me g-” Jack demands, unable to finish his colourful language-filled tirade before the man he questions interjects. “I know you’re pissed off and you’ve got every right to be, alright!? I’m not gonna try to tell you that you’re overreacting or anything like that, okay!?” Donnie pleads, trying to reason with the man who rightfully reacts with aggression at the sight he’s presented with, “pointing that gun isn’t going to help anyone here. If you lower it and talk with me, I’ll tell them all to stop for the time being.” “I want them to stop period” Jack argues back, speaking to a man sympathetic to his cause, but not delusional enough to go against the orders demanded of him. “I’d like for that too, but unfortunately- none of us can stop this” Donnie replies, continuing to speak to the back of the man’s head whilst the gun remains aimed, “I promise you that they want to be taking your stuff even less than you want them to. But these are Charlotte’s orders and we can't disobey them.” “Bullshit. You can all drop what you’re doing, give me back my shit, and drive off” Jack responds, fighting off his more vicious intentions by lowering the gun and turning to face the only voice that speaks to him, keeping the burning rage within him intact. “It’s that simple” the man argues, letting his pistol hang by his side whilst Donnie gestures for the militants to cease their duties, “but instead, you’re taking my shit. You’re confiscating what I bought. So now... tell me why.” “Because Charlotte’s ordering a full shutdown on all privately-operated businesses manufacturing conflict-based armaments” Donnie immediately replies, shaking his head apologetically, “that includes the confiscation of all privately-owned weaponry and armour-based machinery and utilities effective immediately.” “And why the fuck am I supposed to do what Charlotte wants?” Jack retorts, the feeling of Lauren’s hand gently resting on his chest being the lone force preventing his aggression from boiling over. “The answer is as simple as saying ‘she’s in charge’” Donnie confesses, watching Jack grunt as he turns away, staring off into the open field across the way from his home to keep from letting his frustration escalate any further. “Whether you like it or not- Nova Scotia’s at war. There’s no way of knowing who is or who isn’t a threat to the people in charge” Donnie continues to explain, though the remark isn’t one that’s allowed to exist without pushback. “And what exactly does Charlotte think stripping her citizens of their livelihoods is going to accomplish?” Lauren quips, motioning her hand toward the seizing of their property as proof of her case, “if she didn’t have enemies before, she’s certainly making them now.” “And you’d be an idiot to think that point hasn’t already been made to her” Donnie admits, trying to level with the woman just as he had tried with her husband, “what Charlotte says goes, and it’s been that way ever since the walls went up. Whatever happens moving forward is up to her.” “Do you think that’s a good thing?” Jack retorts, returning to the conversation after a brief departure, trying to gauge the mindset of the man that had tried to justify stripping them of their belongings. “I mean, what are we supposed to do!? This is how we afford to live!” he continues to proclaim, hands outstretched toward the home they’d rightfully earned, “and now what!? That’s taken away from us all because some paranoid freak show doesn’t want her actions coming back to bite her!?” “Wouldn’t you do the same thing?” Donnie inquires, believing himself to have caught the man in a moment of hypocrisy, only for the ease in which he answers to prove such a theory wrong. “No, I wouldn’t! I held a gun at Charlotte’s head right-fucking-here and had the chance to blow her fucking brains out like that!’ Jack shouts, standing in the open garage and snapping his finger, “but I chose not to open a can of worms! I could’ve- and probably should have- killed her like that!” “He’s telling the truth” Lauren quickly reassures, speaking the moment her husband’s initial response finishes before crossing her arms, nodding to Donnie as the man looks back to her. “I can say- with proof- that I wouldn’t do the same thing! I wouldn’t have done the same thing because I wouldn’t have made the mistake she did!” Jack doubles down, returning to the man’s presence, “I knew better. If I’d shot that bitch when I had the chance, do you think I'd have had to suffer the consequences?” “Of course you would’ve” Donnie answers honestly, watching spit fly from the man’s lip as he angrily grunts the same four words. “Of course I would’ve, but that cunt can’t control her fucking temper and gets us into a massive shit show, but we have to be the ones that lose everything because she doesn’t want to face the music” Jack scathingly grumbles, his lip curling and nostrils flaring as he looks the chancellor’s representative in the eyes, “as far as I’m concerned? Fuck her.” Though the words cease between the three, Donnie still shakes his head beneath the wave of tension that comes over the area, unable to offer the kind of apology worthy of the action he’s been tasked with carrying out. “I’m sorry, Jack. I’m sorry to both of you” the man responds, watching the husband shake his head in refusal and turn away, walking back home with anger, “this is just the way it has to be.” Nodding to himself, Jack clicks his tongue and begins laughing out of anger, spitting at the ground before taking the barrel of his pistol into the air and opening fire at the night’s sky. One after another, gunshots ring throughout the open area as the militants remain cautious, weapons drawn at the man in the event his trigger is pulled in anyone’s direction. “Y’all hear that!? Y’all hear that gunfire!?” Jack screams aloud, his voice carried toward the direction of the armed men standing by and watching his outburst. “I’m not sure who it’s gonna be, but somebody is gonna get their hands on your chancellor! Yeah, that’s right! This shit!? This shit you’re pulling with me and my shit!? Yeah, some bastards ain’t gonna take that shit lying down!” he announces, making himself heard by all, “get used to that sound... that’s just the way it’s gonna be.” Having emptied his magazine, Jack tosses the firearm onto his lawn and flips off the military that surround his home, defiantly bidding them adieu as he re-enters his home, removing himself from the conflict that drives him into a new level of rage. | “Charlotte!” Courtney shouts, quietly walking through the corridor of a renovated Moncton city hall before peering around the corner and past the open door of the chancellor’s office, finding an absence of anyone other than the woman herself. “What’s up?” Charlotte responds with a casual tone, her feet kicked up onto the side of her desk to the right of her computer monitor, the various documents that she has opened on the screen taking attention that the mob outside the building tries to claim. Taken aback, the visitor stops halfway through the doorway and stares forward, watching the woman’s eyes take from one side of the screen to the next, reading a line of text quietly to herself before proceeding to the next. “What’s up?” Courtney repeats, calling the reply into question after taking a few seconds to digest it, watching the woman’s face finally pull away from the bright screen, taking to her direction. “Yeah... that’s what I asked?” Charlotte reassures, leaning back further in her seat without a care in the world, “what’s up?” Without a word, Courtney walks across the room and stretches her hand toward the nearest window, displaying the chaotic scene unfolding just outside the capitol building. “Do you not see what’s happening out there?” she wonders aloud, hearing the sounds of repressed chanting and aimlessly wandering protestors. “Sure I do” Charlotte responds, watching her friend turn back to look at her whilst reaching for a nearby glass of water, “they’ve been at it for a few hours now. They make it really hard to concentrate.” Though she can decipher the English used by her superior and understand it with perfect clarity, Courtney reacts with an awe and immeasurable loss, similar to how she would act if they weren’t speaking the language, but more akin to a disbelief that such a remark would be uttered. “Are you fucking kidding me?” Courtney retorts, her eyes wide and mouth agape, staring at the woman who squints back to her, almost unsure of why the subdued tone of disgust would be provided to her. “You’ve got thousands of people tearing through the streets because they’ve got no fucking clue what to do now!” the guest remarks, watching the chancellor roll her eyes, “some of these people have lives out on Prince Edward that they can’t get back to now.” “I never wanted Gamble to blow up that bridge” Charlotte replies, dismissing the claim as if it had nothing to do with her. “Do you think that makes it any better?” Courtney quickly rebukes, calling the woman’s defence into question, “do you think that anyone out there should give a damn about whether or not you wanted that bridge coming down? Do you think that changes anything about the situation we’re in now?” “I wasn’t the one that planted explosives around the bridge, and I’m not the one that’s keeping them from going back home” Charlotte responds, still casually resting in her seat as if the night were like any other, “Gamble brought the bridge down, and all of this mess is on his hands.” “You pulled the fucking trigger, Charlotte” Courtney immediately rejoinders, watching the apathetic frown her superior reacts with as a response, “and because of that, this entire compound is in a goddamn uproar.” In silence, the chancellor sits with the remarks that have been offered whilst continuing to stare at her subordinate, remaining quiet in lieu of further proclamations she’s come to anticipate. “Now people are out there. They’re lost and afraid, and they’ve got no clue where the hell to go now” Courtney continues, passing a few looks toward the hostile mob only kept at bay by the armed guards protecting the hall’s interior from the wrath of the residents. “Some of them have lives over there that they can’t get back to. They have family and friends! Hell, two people from Emilio’s group are over there right now!” she proceeds, instantly cut off. “I warned that man to get anyone he cared for over here before things got out of proportion... That’s not on me” Charlotte argues back, her interruption met with an interjection of her subordinate’s own. “No, but everything else is” Courtney replies, a dissatisfied look paid to her from the chancellor’s face, “and right now, you’ve got an entire community that needs answers from someone-” the paramotorist declares, hands finding their way to her hips, “and instead, you’re in here.” “Alright, Court’... What do you suggest that I do?” Charlotte inquires, taking a sip from her glass of water before crossing her arms and leaning further back, “do you want me to walk out and tell them all ‘sorry, but you’re stuck here now. Too bad, so sad, move on’ and move on with life?” “I want you to do your fucking job!” Courtney shouts back, answering the question the second it’s finished being voiced, a sudden pause coming over her as the anger she’d tried to suppress makes its way to the surface. “You’ve thrown this entire place into chaos! And I don’t give a shit why you did it, the only thing I care about is that you fix it!” she proceeds, aggravatedly swatting a book off a table near the far end of the office, “instead, you’re sitting here like you don’t give a shit.” “I don’t give a shit” Charlotte reassures, watching her subordinate fall silent at the admission, one that hadn’t been expected. Pulling her feet off the desk, the chancellor unfurls her arms and steps out of her chair, finally shifting her attitude from one of dismissal to something confrontational, willing to take part in the infuriated discourse her subordinate has proposed. “Do you think I can afford to care about how sad some random guy who happened to be on the wrong side of town at the wrong time is because he can’t get back to feed his cat?” Charlotte interrogates, slowly stepping around her oakwood desk and drawing nearer to her argumentative acquaintance, “in god knows how long, we could have boats rolling into our port cities and purposefully spilling thousands of armed enemies or fast zombies into the compound.” “And whose fault is that?” Courtney quickly wonders back, her voice low to match the proximity her superior now comes from her, almost instantly earning a shouted response for her efforts. “It doesn’t matter whose fault it is anymore!” Charlotte barks, both hands flying out at either side, “the point is that Gamble- or whoever's in charge over there- could be minutes, or hours, or days, or weeks away from launching a return attack as suddenly as the one he opened earlier this afternoon.” Returning to her sides, the chancellor’s arms hang loosely before her right hand lifts to point at the window that had captivated her subordinate’s fixations, using it as an illustration to strengthen her point. “Those people out there won’t give a damn about anything that I’d have to say unless it was a bold-faced lie that everything was going to be alright” Charlotte points out, shaking her head in refusal, “but it won’t be. It won’t be because that’s the nature of war.” Remaining stoic in her hush, Courtney continues to look into the eyes of the woman that stands opposite her, trying to retain every word that’s uttered in spite of the incredible revulsion that they provoke within her. “They can loot shit, they can start fires, they can shoot each other- it doesn’t matter” Charlotte concludes, again steadying her point at the crowd-facing window, “they’re all gonna have to come together and fight with each other in Nova Scotia’s name all the same.” Dropping her hand, Charlotte finishes her thought and turns away with satisfaction, walking for her seat on the opposite side of the desk before the voice she leaves behind catches her ear once more. “And why should they exactly?” Courtney inquires, watching the chancellor turn back to glance at her from over a shoulder, “the whole concept of Nova Scotia’s unification is what drove their leader to wage war and destroy their lives. So why fight for that concept?” In silence, Charlotte turns the rest of the way around and stares back at the woman across the room from her, unable to fully divulge the thoughts that circle around her head as a response that ultimately isn’t yet needed. “Or maybe I’m asking the wrong question” Courtney corrects herself, stepping forward to voluntarily close the gap that separates the women, “maybe they should fight for Nova Scotia. Maybe- and I’m just spitballing here- maybe the thing they shouldn’t fight for... is you.” With the slightest redirection of her chin, Charlotte’s confused and slightly irritated expression revolts into one of rage and absolute intolerance, her nostrils flaring and eyes widened. Tensing up, the woman’s body takes a statue-like position where it had stopped off prior to the defiant remark, her eyes unwavering from Courtney’s face, which only further deepens her anger. “Get out” Charlotte calmly responds, stepping away and finishing her retreat to the unoccupied seat at her desk, lowering herself back into it and trying to kick her feet up as if the interaction hadn’t gotten the best of her. Aware that the conversation will no longer find success of any regard, Courtney seethes silently before nodding to herself, turning away and making for the exit whilst the chancellor stares into the monitor that her feet sit beside. For a few seconds, Charlotte sits with her thoughts and does the best at trying to resume her prior duties whilst reaching for her water, lifting it to her lips before pausing. With a twitch in her right eye, the woman’s ears take to the obnoxiously loud gathering just beyond the windows that separate her from the public. In a moment of outrage, the chancellor hurls the glass across the room, watching it shatter against the cement wall, her head tilting back as she tries to regain her composure. == Rise ==
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“Aaahhh!” a man in a t-shirt and bulletproof jacket exclaims, falling to the ground beneath the weight of a full-body tackle. Relentless, the assailant grabs the man’s flailing arms with all its might and tries pinning him down, fighting away the barrel of a rifle that threatens to take aim at its head. “No! No!” the soldier groans, losing the strength to fight off his attacker before slowly watching its face lean in, mouth disappearing from sight before its teeth bite down on his neck.
Kicking and screaming, the soldier’s every last will depletes as blood pools from the wound, his skin being torn away between the jaws of a zombie now fully overwhelming him. The bitter taste of blood coating his lips as his tongue dances across the stripped body tissue, the zombie dips his head down once more and provokes another shriek of pain and terror from the barely-breathing survivor, his blood spewing out like a high pressure fawcett in the final moments of life. One after another, the living fall victim to the wave of uncaged animals the undead appear to act as, lunging after their prey without exhaustion or emotion to stop them, their only care in the mindless state their deteriorated condition leaves them in being the residents that appear to them as nothing more than food. “Do you have a gun?” Salem questions aloud, keeping her head low and presence away from sight as she beckons the question for her friend to answer. “Yeah, I’ve got my pistol. I’ve only got the nine bullets, though” Emilio responds, keeping himself closer to the ground as he peers around the sedan’s rear, trying to get a precise estimation of how many zombies dart across the open area they’re stranded within, but the speed at which they run refuses him a count he’s comfortable with. Grimacing, Salem inspects the field as best she can and watches various swaths collapse from a well-placed gunshot just as quickly as the living topple to an undead offensive. “Damn” she mutters, setting her rifle on the ground for a moment as her hands reach for the vehicle’s trunk, propping it open before rummaging through whatever catches her eye. “Here” the woman remarks, tearing open the top of a toolbox before handing her fellow survivor a Phillip’s head screwdriver. “Salem, that might’ve worked for the biters we’re used to, but I’m not so sure it’ll be that effective against freaks like these” Emilio retorts, watching the woman slam the trunk shut and retrieve her rifle, a shrug coming over her. “Then get back in your car and drive away. If you’re not gonna do that- cover me” Salem replies, climbing onto the vehicle and stepping past the rear window, taking her place atop the vehicle’s roof before setting her eye to the scope of her weapon. “I thought you weren’t interested in a war!?” Emilio responds, throwing his hands out before doing as instructed, moving to one side of the vehicle to keep an eye out for the woman’s potential undead assailants. “No one in the group is safe if this place gets overrun with the dead, Em’!” Salem shouts back, pulling the trigger to spare one of Nova Scotia’s militants a few seconds of reprieve, one that he wastes by almost immediately stepping into the path of a second biter. “What is she doing!?” Courtney calls out, lifting her chin toward the roof of the same car she takes cover behind the door of, calling for an explanation from either the hobbled sniper or her impromptu coverfire. Unable to answer the question, Emilio shrugs as he walks by, continuing to circle the vehicle with his sights kept on the hundreds of undead beasts threatening the safety of their Canadian sanctuary. “How far out are you!?” Charlotte calls into the radio she pulls from her hip, firing a bullet toward the nearest corpse to her before taking another pair of undead out not too far behind. “There are people all over the road, Charlotte! We’re trying our best to get there!” the man on the other end of the line responds, speaking through his radio as he slowly traverses the massive mob of scared residents fleeing for safer pastures, trying to refrain from so much as wounding any of them. “Don’t worry, we’ve got helicopters en route to you now” the man doubles down, hoping to offer some sort of reassurance before his efforts find themselves falling on deaf ears. “No! Send the choppers after Gamble and over the bridge!” Charlotte orders, firing off at another two corpses as she pauses, “I want that son of a bitch gunned down before he can reach the other side! Kamikaze if you must, he cannot make it off that bridge!” “Ma’am, you’ll probably be stranded out there for at least half an hour without air support!” the responding driver leading a second convoy for backup proclaims, his words failing to change the woman’s command. “Send them after Gamble! He cannot make it to the other end!” Charlotte barks once more, firing at another three corpses before attempting for a fourth, only for the squeeze of her trigger to wield an empty response, her magazine expended. Dropping the radio from her hand, Charlotte begins hastily stepping backward as she pulls a second from a clip at her side, trying to buy herself time that disappears with each passing second. Hissing and swiping at the air as he marches toward her, the undead threatening the chancellor’s life draws nearer with every step, her efforts of changing out magazines nowhere close to being finished by the time he’s within arm’s reach. *pop* Within an instant, the chancellor’s close call with fate is ceased by a round expended from a rifle off to her left side, affording her the chance to finish reloading before sending off another two rounds, buying herself a moment to glance back. Carrying on with her duties, Salem pulls her barrel away from the chancellor’s direction and back toward where most of the undead remain, watching a few draw near whilst taking out those she can. Now firmly joining her friends in standing her ground, Courtney wields the rifle she’d stored in the reinforced car’s backseat and serves as coverfire for the wounded sniper. Standing in the open with the chance to catch her breath, Charlotte looks on at the trio a few metres away before her opportunity to gather herself is interrupted by the whirring sound of blades flying past above, directing themselves northbound at the chancellor’s behest. Still serving her duties within the Nova Scotian military, Salem fires round after round into the slowly-decreasing horde whilst Emilio and Courtney step forward, the woman’s barrel shooting off at those closing in on them whilst the man cleans up whatever stragglers survive her onslaught of expended ammunition. “We’ve got birds, sir” the bearded getaway driver remarks, looking in the side mirror to find a swarm of small, black, airborn machines encroaching on their position, closing in quicker than the retreating convoy’s tires can spin. “That’s fine, we expected them to” Gamble responds, bounced in his seat every few metres due to the once poorly-settled concrete the bridge had been renovated with, his hand grasping the safety handle over the door for support, “the plan is to be followed.” Like the sound of a heart beating, the blades above their chopper act like music to the ears of the foremost helicopter’s pilots, their eyes setting upon the convoy not even halfway across the Confederation Bridge by this point. “Which one is he in?” one of the two gunmen in the cabin inquires, poking their heads through the open side of the aircraft without certainty over which one to fire at. Hurrying back the way she’d once dashed from, Charlotte opens fire at the horde still closer to the bridge’s entry point than herself, passing by Donnie and Ethan as they order the troops that are still up and running in specific directions. Lunging at another corpse, Emilio digs his tool through the eye socket of an approaching corpse before kicking it off the weapon, letting its body fall into that of a second corpse, who he stabs in the back of the head to kill for good. Nodding to herself with reassurance that her friend can handle himself, Courtney begins to fully allocate her attention to Salem’s right side, covering what Emilio can’t whilst affording herself the opportunity to catch a glimpse of Charlotte’s retreat towards her. “Fuck it, fire at whichever one you’ve got eyes on” the soldier whose question went unanswered decides, leaning out of the helicopter’s side and opening fire on the armoured vans that tail the makeshift zombie cage trucks. Hearing the sound of gunfire tear up the already uneven terrain his retreat already suffers through, Gamble stares intently at the rear view mirror, watching the fleet of aircraft grow larger with every metre of distance they cover. “Get out of here!” Charlotte shouts, barking her orders to Salem and the survivors that cover her blindsides, refusing them any further opportunity to expose themselves to the horrorshow that’s unfolding, “backup is on the way, get back home!” “You’re the one that opened fire and started all of this. Your panties must be riding straight up that pussy of yours if you think I’m gonna do what you tell me” Salem shouts back, briefly pulling her face from the scope to look the chancellor in her eyes, “go right the fuck to hell.” “Do we shoot back?” the bearded driver wonders aloud, looking to the autocrat beside him for reassurance as the bullets draw nearer. “If I haven’t fired my weapon again, that means you already know the answer to that question” Gamble responds, a slightly irritated expression carried on his face as he looks back, eventually resetting his sights on the far length of the crossing they still have yet to traverse, “they haven’t even gotten in front of us yet.” Fully aware the only thing that will spark his friend’s retreat is a full wipeout of the undead army that they stand as the barrier to Nova Scotia against, Emilio marches further into the field with his weapon in tow, left hand holding the firearm he hopes to go without needing to use. Though she’s confident in the strength of their resistance, Courtney remains put beside the vehicle, beginning to watch the field of undead slowly find themselves pushed back beneath Nova Scotia’s return fire. Swiping through the air, Emilio swings at whatever imposing corpses move, far too comfortable with the act of putting the dead down and moving onto the next to be caught by surprise at the evolution of who he fights. As if playing a game, the once reluctant leader turned standard-holding follower takes the resistance’s lead, fearlessly marching into the corpse-filled territory as if the screwdriver were a padded hammer and the zombies he puts down were moles. One after another, the dead fall victim to the man wielding blind rage as a tool he expels through his pointed metal dagger, their skulls splitting and dark blood spilling as if he were so good at the game that he couldn’t help but break it. Body after body, lost soul after lost soul, weapon of malicious intent after weapon of malicious intent- the field falls to his mighty hand, dominated by the ever-sinking fury of a survivor who’d lost everything in line and is unwilling to let anymore go. Lowering her rifle, Courtney watches the man continue to whip through the field as if he were tending to crops, clearing the way for himself to travel whilst Salem does the same through her scope. Her hurry back to safety having turned into a slow rolling stroll, Charlotte eventually reunites with the closest thing she has to a genuine inner circle in time to watch the man return to his natural state as a survivor, breaking a will the undead army didn’t even climb off the trucks with. Grunting with each swipe, Emilio steps forward like a man possessed, the sweat that falls from his forehead giving a glossy sheen that splatters of blood from the dead he returns to the grave spill upon him, wearing it like a badge of honour. Within minutes, the man’s progression through the field is suddenly halted, his hand pulling back to take on the next undead body that lines up between himself and the protection of the compound his family calls home coming to an abrupt end. With wide eyes, the man holds a thousand yard stare toward the world that stands before him, keeping his hand readied for the swipe that he no longer needs to take. As the sun begins to set and the sky begins to lose its light blue colour, Emilio stares at the entrance to the Confederation Bridge that he’d unassumingly cleared his way to. In his wake, corpses line the asphalt roadway and the well-maintained lawn at each side. As if he can’t believe it himself, the rage he’d operated under dissipates in one quick, energy-draining moment as he turns back, looking into a field that had once been littered with gunfire, but now sits silent amidst a sea of eyes all centred upon him. Letting the screwdriver fall from his hand, Emilio lets a deep breath fire through his lips as he throttles his head back, flipping the loose hairs that had stuck to his bloody, dirty, sweaty face away from his visage. Overhead, the sound of whirring grows louder whilst Gamble eagerly anticipates the outcome of what he knows to be the final march between himself and a forced independence. Eventually, the roadway ahead begins to find itself pelted with ammunition from above as the aircraft pass them by, preparing to get opportunistic ground by cutting the convoy off from returning home. “Why aren’t they firing back!?” a gunman questions from the side of the helicopter, realising that the various ducks into cover that he takes are done without having any bullets to shield himself from. Unable to answer the question with certainty, the more experienced pilot passes a look at the convoy they now pass, uncertain that all is as it appears. Maintaining their pace, Gamble and the bearded driver pay close attention to the metal birds that zip past them in the sky and await for the first appearance of their turn backward. “A little bit longer and we’ll have them where we want them” the tyrant remarks, confidently reaching with his dominant hand into the pocket on his right side, retrieving the same handgun he’d used to signal the retreat and preparing himself to open fire. “This doesn’t feel right” the pilot remarks, shaking his head as he continues to watch the convoy appear as pacifists as they grant the same compound they’re now at war with the ability to beat them home. “So what do we do!?” the question-asking soldier in the cabin responds, continuing to look outward and open fire briefly before swiftly ducking back in, “should we keep firing!?” “Yes, keep firing! Don’t let him suspect anything out of the ordinary!” the pilot responds, nodding to the armed militant before reaching toward his controls, removing a radio from near its base. “All air units prepare to land along the bridge!” he exclaims, earning a look of surprise from the two men firing rounds behind him, as well as the man that occupies the seat beside him. “Charlotte’s orders are to prevent Gamble from making it across the bridge, but we can’t know for sure which vehicle he’s in-” the pilot proceeds, explaining his rationale behind the command, “-so we’re gonna stop all of them.” “Have you lost your fucking mind!? Those fuckers will smash right into us without a second fuckin’ thought!” the copilot retorts, watching his partner pull away from the handheld radio. “If we line up in rows, then smashing into us will just fill the roadway with debris and it’ll be impossible for them to get through” the command-offering controller responds, “we’ll land far enough ahead of them to give ourselves a head start on ditching the things and heading northbound.” “You want us to retreat into enemy territory!?” the soldier in the craft’s cabin shouts aloud, watching the man he calls out to turn back and answer as requested. “Our orders are to stop this convoy. Even if it didn’t feel like something was wrong- this is our best bet to do that” the pilot responds, quickly dismissing any further chances to ask questions as he returns the radio to his lips. “We’ll attempt a landing in half a kilometre, and the rest of you will fall into position and land in a row southward” the helicopter’s speaker remarks, trusting that his orders will be obeyed in full, “from there, we’ll retreat northbound and await Gamble’s next move from there- if he has any.” Listening to the engine roar, Gamble lets his hand slide free from his trench coat and begins slowly lifting the barrel toward the window beside him, tilting it toward the sky before suddenly pausing. “They’re flying away?” the bearded driver questions aloud, watching the swarm of aircraft carry onward as if they had simply been attempting to follow them, but had in no way been interested in the convoy itself. Confused, Gamble squints toward the departing fleet and gradually lowers his firearm from the window, letting it sit upon his lap as he waits to gather a clearer understanding of what’s going on. “Are they aiming for P.E.I?” the driver inquires, passing a glance toward the equally uncertain despot, watching the firearm fall onto his legs without an explanation. Gradually vanishing just as they had appeared in his rear view, the helicopters collectively voyage further down the bridge’s length beyond the point in which the autocrat can spot them. “This is highly unusual” Gamble murmurs to himself, soon lifting his chin the slightest amount before allowing a thought to dawn upon him. Releasing the grasp on his weapon, the tyrant removes a phone from within his getaway vehicle’s glove compartment and quickly dials a number. “I want you to commission a vessel to travel out from the port in favour of the Confederation Bridge” Gamble expresses through the receiver once he hears a voice answer, “inform them that they are to be on the lookout for survivors and warn them of the potential for dangerous obstructions that may be lurking in the waters.” “Thank you, Bristol” he soon concludes, hanging up the phone before discarding it on the floor, his hand wrapping around the grip of his firearm as he reclaims possession of it. After a few seconds of continued travel, the sight of the choppers is reclaimed by the autocrat, who furrows his eyebrows with visible anger as he begins to realise what sort of play the pilots have decided to take. “Slow the vehicle” Gamble remarks calmly, his voice holding a crisp and commanding rigidity to it. Not one to second guess the authoritarian, the bearded driver begins to slowly lay into the brake pad, flashing his vehicle’s red lamps to the van behind it, provoking its ceased progression as well. One after another, the retreating convoy slows their retreat to a complete standstill, the forty combined vehicles all eventually meeting the end of their travels at the same exact point. Disheartened at the flames that had been purposefully set to the buzzards, Gamble opens his passenger’s door and steps onto the bridge for himself, shutting the door on his way before stepping forward, drawing closer to the flaming rows of helicopters that make the road impassable. Following the lead of their superior, the crew that finds themselves thwarted eventually join the man in exiting their vehicles, staring straight at the debris that prevents them from returning home with their families. Taking the sights in for himself, Gamble soon takes his view away from the wrecked helicopters and watches the heavily-suited crew that had left them behind hurry off into the distance with hopes of reaching mainland- though not their own- once more. Nodding to himself, the tyrant’s hand slips back into his jacket to retrieve his weapon before aiming it forward, unsure if his firearm has the range to hit the pilots, but their disruption to his plan prevents him from taking much care of that into consideration. Steadying his face, the man’s finger touches the trigger before instinctively pulling away from it, a second thought popping into his head as he lowers the weapon and checks the magazine loaded into it. “Ah... one bullet” Gamble mutters to himself, returning the cartridge to the reflective, silver weapon that it fits into before scanning the area once more. With a squint in his eye, the tyrant reads his surroundings and takes into account the various concrete protections and supports, those that had been installed before society had fallen and those retrofitted when the bridge was expanded from two lanes to four the previous year. Reinforcements surrounding his every direction, the man at the forefront of his own aimless army nods to himself and hangs his head, turning back to the militia awaiting his further instruction before lifting his finger to his lips. Gesturing for them to keep silent, Gamble returns to them and steps into the huddled sea of humanity awaiting his next order, eventually stepping into the cabin of the truck he’d escaped peril from and calmly taking a seat. Pulling in one deep breath after another, Gamble repeatedly empties and fills his lungs with air, rapidly depleting them before expanding them once more to better condition the plan that he’s concocted at the drop of a whim. Collecting themselves together, the rebellion’s soldiers- the bearded driver included- remain outside of their vehicles with all eyes on the leader that seems as if he were hyperventilating just a short distance away. Suddenly, the autocrat’s lips press shut and remain that way as his hand slips back into the flap of his beige trench coat, the hand that remains outside of it quickly slamming the car door he’d left open shut. Retrieving the detonator, Gamble holds it between his free hand and the one that he soon reclaims possession of his pistol with, pressing his right index finger and thumb to the key that awaits a simple rotation. Looking up, Gamble stares at the flaming debris and continues to hold his breath for another few seconds whilst staring at it. The corners of his mouth stretching into a genuine grin, the tyrant’s lips part briefly again as he quickly thrusts another breath out and pulls one back in, turning the key in its ignition within the same lonesome breath. On mainland Nova Scotia, Emilio soon watches his friends return to his side as he catches his breath, trying to regain his composure now that he’s been broken from the spell he’d slain the dead to protect the living whilst in. Suddenly, the air fills with a rumble that accompanies a distant explosion to his back, one that prompts him to turn around, the crowd in the distance from him to stare in the direction of, and the peers that had been approaching break into a sprint. Barely able to be caught by his naked eye alone, Emilio stares at the clouds of debris that plume out of the bridge’s halfway point, its mushroom-like appearance only growing closer as the explosions persist. “No!” Charlotte cries out, the first to break into a full-blown run as the distant sounds are one she can identify with ease, though they’re an outcome of war she was helpless to prevent. “There’s no way he had time to make it, not driving those trucks” Ethan calls out, uttering the obvious as he and Donnie lag behind, watching the trio of survivors return to the side of Emilio, who they join in watching the ultimate demise of the single connection between the compound and its breakaway territory. Regardless of Gamble’s journey into the next life, Charlotte punches at the air and turns away, realising that his final gesture was to provide her with a ‘screw you’ on the way out. = Rise is created by Zachary Serra, all rights to the series belong to Zachary Serra and the entity of Pacer1 from the start of Season 3 onwards = Refusing the knocks at her bedroom door, Katie curls up into a ball and sits against her bed’s headboard, staring at the ruffled sheets lying at the foot of her mattress. “Katie, will you answer the door please?” her roommate’s voice calls out, an obvious displeasure able to be taken from his tone of voice, “come on, you’ve been gone for weeks. I didn’t even know if you were coming back for your things, I’d figured you’d moved out!” “Max, please just go away” Katie blurts out, tired of hearing the taps of his knuckles and the sound of his voice calling for her. With the sound of feet stepping in place outside the door, the woman sits with her rifle leant against the side of her bed, eyes staring out the window as her arms interlock around the legs she pulls against her chest. “Did something happen?” Max soon questions aloud, still not taking the hint his roommate couldn’t make more apparent if she tried, “at least tell me where you went or why you were gone for so long.” Rolling her eyes, the woman lifts her chin toward the ceiling and presses her head against the drywall just over the bedpost, watching the sunset just below the horizon as another day comes to a close. Exasperated and timid, Max stares at the floorboards his bare feet rest upon, the light that shines through the bottom of the door at least making it clear that his companion isn’t sitting in the dark. “Blaise, Aude, and I- we were really worried about you” the man continues, still incapable of reading the woman’s lack of an answer for what it’s meant to be perceived as, “if there’s something going on, I’d like to-” Falling silent, Max lets his remark cease as the sudden increase of the woman’s radio from silent to its maximum volume cuts him off, filling the apartment with 80’s-era glam metal the preloaded CD is packed with. Keeping to herself, Katie decides to spell out her interest in speaking with her flatmate through the loud music, preventing him from uttering anything more than what he already has. Thrown into a haze of anger, Max balls his fist and punches the bedroom door’s exterior before turning away, making for the opposite end of the hall just as the phone on his roommate’s dresser begins to vibrate. Having been incapable of hearing the bitter display, Katie hopes for the best in lowering the volume to a more manageable level, pressing the headset to her ear. “Yeah?” she wonders aloud, rolling off her bed and strolling toward her window, offering herself a glance at the homeland she’d spent too long away from, and yet not enough time without. “Katie, you need to get down here now” the man on the other end responds, his hurried tone and breathless speech making it impossible for the woman to figure out who’d called her. “Who is this?” Katie inquires, squinting as she presses her hand against the opposite ear, trying to block out the semi-blaring radio off to the other side of the room. “What do you mean ‘who is this?’- it’s Harvey!” the man replies, standing in the corner of a coffee shop as the lobby fills with an increasing amount of angry and confused civilians all looking to each other for answers, “I’m at the Tim Hortons on Kensington Road- near the racetrack- get here fast.” “Harvey, it’s like nine o’clock at night. Why are you getting coffee so late?” Katie inquires, taking the phone away from one ear before taking it to the other, “and why is it so fucking loud?” Opening his mouth, Harvey immediately prevents himself from speaking before he covers the receiver with the base of his hand, lowering the phone from his ear and making for the coffee shop’s exit, the noise along the busy street not much better with the large crowds that gather. “Gamble went to Nova Scotia a few hours ago. I came down here ‘cause someone told me that they closed the bridge and swaths of cars rolled into Nova Scotia, but now I’m here and it’s gone” Harvey responds, trying to summarise everything he can into a few sentences. “What’s gone?” Katie replies, taking a seat on the side of her bed before picking up the pants she’d shed when returning home a few hours prior, one foot to a leg at a time. “The bridge. By the time I got down here, all that people could talk about was something about the bridge blowing up” Harvey replies, able to speak just loud enough for the woman on the other line to make out more distinctly. “He blew up the bridge?” Katie responds, her right leg having slid through one pant leg whilst her left remains naked, the second half of her body only spared from being nude by a pair of lavender-coloured panties. “I don’t know what else would’ve happened- the whole bridge is gone!” Harvey shouts back, plugging his opposite ear as shouts of anger and distress fill the busy streets that surround him. “I’ve been trying to get a hold of anyone at the capitol building but no one’s answering the phones. I’m pretty sure there’d at least be someone to answer them, but not even Bristol is picking up hers” the man continues, squeezing past people in favour of ducking down a nearby alleyway. “Katie, open up!” Max shouts, banging his fist against her door once again, though this time his call for her has a very different intonation to it. “Hold on for fuck’s sake!” Katie shouts back, having already been informed of too much to take kindly to the man’s persistent badgering of her again. “If there’s no one answering the phones in city hall, then something must be going really wrong” Harvey explains, unable to find sense in the silent treatment he receives, “and not just war.” “Well the bridge being taken down would probably count as something more wrong than war, would it not?” Katie replies, snapping out of her stupor to finish pulling her pants up. “Sure, but I’ve never got a clue one way or another with Gamble. It could be the bridge, it could be something bigger- I’m in the dark until someone answers the phone” Harvey retorts, trying to find quieter ground to reach mid-conversation, “the only thing I know for sure is that we’re cut off from the mainland.” Expending a huff of air from her core, Katie steps across her room and continues the discourse, her free hand reaching for the radio. “Alright, I’m on my way to you. Where are you again?” she questions once more, dialling the volume all the way down to better hear the man. “Timmies on Kensington across the race track, that’s where I’m around” Harvey responds, squeezing past a rubbish bin and spilling out onto the track, “I’m on the track now and it’s at least a little less crowded.” “Alright, I’ll be there in a little bit” Katie responds, dipping her feet into the shoes off to the side of her door before swinging the entrance open, brushing past her roommate without so much as a greeting. “Katie, you can’t leave! There’s-!” Max proclaims, chasing after the woman and taking her by the arm, immediately feeling the reluctant pull she reacts with fight against hsi gesture. “The bridge collapsed and Gamble started war with Nova Scotia- I know” Katie argues back, struggling for a few seconds before finally freeing herself from the man’s grasp, the brief halt he’d forced upon her granting a chance to return to the room for an additional moment. “I’m going downtown with Harvey now that everyone’s in an uproar. Stay here if you don’t wanna get caught in the middle of danger” the woman warns, reclaiming her rifle and resuming her attempted departure. “Who the fuck is Gamble!?” Max proclaims, watching the much smaller woman hurry past him and make a beeline for the front door, “why are you going out there if it isn’t even safe for me?” Rolling her eyes, Katie takes ownership over the knob and stares at the sky for a moment before turning back, her displeased expression paid back to the man who takes her pause as the opportunity to ask the first question that comes to his mind. “What is going on with you?” Max inquires, coming to a stop in the centre of the hallway with the woman firmly in his sights, unable to comprehend her actions for anything more than out of the ordinary, even for the standards she’s set herself into. “I’m going out there because I know a lot more than you do” Katie replies, looking the man in the face as she pulls the door open, finishing her thought as she steps through and shuts it, “- and it’s enough to suggest you trust my advice.” | “I don’t think about it much” Clint responds, one arm leaning over the side of the boat as he sits near the rope of a lowered cage, a beer in his free hand. “I feel like we just spent so much time surrounded by it for me to think about death as anything more than a thing that comes for us eventually” he carries on, watching his sister take a seat just a few centimetres away with a cage of her own to look after. “So you don’t even bother with death?” Nessie wonders aloud, letting her hands fall into her lap whilst her feet kick onto the boat’s side, relaxing beneath the spotlight of their vehicle, which sways just slightly harsher than normal. “I may be willing to help the dead into the grave the rest of the way- and I may have struggled at times- but I haven’t truly lost my faith” Clint reassures, looking toward the heavens as he sips his lager, “I still believe I’ll be called home when he needs me.” Passing an amused sigh through her nose, Nessie shrugs and gives a gentle pull to the rope of her cage, making sure it’s both still attached and unencumbered. “That’s becoming a bolder take by the day” she remarks, letting her hand slide out from the course cable and return to her lap, “it at least did before we got to Cumberland. The world was almost as empty as it was inherently violent. I can’t imagine there are many people still bravely flying the lord’s flag nowadays like yourself.” “Then that’s their loss” Clint swiftly rebuttals, following his sister’s example by tugging at his cage’s cord, “I’ve seen enough in life to know that everyone should have something to believe in. Without that, there’s not much good in getting up in the morning.” Clearing his throat, the fisherman removes the tattered baseball cap from his head and sharpens the bend in its lid, staring at the passing lights of another fishing boat as it travels past nearly a kilometre away. “If people want to do themselves the disservice of going without a stronger power in life to guide them on even when the days get tough- so be their choice” he concludes, fitting the cap back to his head whilst lifting his bottle at his sister, “I’m pleased that it isn’t mine.” Shaking her head whilst hiding a smirk, Nessie watches her brother finish off the last of what is their final beer, allowing him the freedom to roll it to the other side of the ship and clear himself room to conclude their obligations for the day. “As long as you’re not too keen on dying anytime soon- that’s all that I care about” she finally responds, stepping out of her seat to follow the same line of thought, hand already beginning to tug at the crank she sits beside. “I’ll die when the lord deems that it’s my time. What circumstances surround that are out of my hands” Clint reassures, though the claim isn’t one that his sibling takes as kindly as he’d hoped for it to. “You’ll die when you’re sick and frail, tucked up in the covers of your bed with whatever kids you make with whomever it is you find around these parts” Nessie corrects, spinning the wheel that brings their hoped-for catch upon its final descent for the evening. “If that’s what he plans for me, then it certainly is” Clint replies, pressing one foot against the inside of the free-floating vessel whilst holding the other one back for leverage. “No, it will be when you go” Nessie corrects again, not wanting to afford her sibling the freedom of considering anything less as being possible, “I’d be a bad sister if I let you cart off to your disco party with god any moment sooner.” Scoffing with a grin, Clint grunts as he lifts his cage by hand, the manual ascent far behind that of the woman’s own, which has already nearly managed to poke out of the water by now. “I could die of a heart attack in three years gorging myself on all these crabs and lobsters for all you know, why expect something bad will happen?” the man remarks, lifting the question mid-pause, “and what would my dying have to do with what kind of a sister you were?” “We literally just got a phone call from Emilio a few hours ago telling us to be ready in the event that some war broke out. It’s the apocalypse- there’s always something bad that happens” Nessie answers, reaching out to wrap her fingers around the links her near-empty cage consists of, only three crabs and a fish for some odd reason carried within, “and ‘cause I’m your sister. It’s my job to look after you.” Laughing, Clint pauses his retrieval of the undersea chamber he yearns for the reunited sight of to look off at the woman, amused at her remark. “I’m pretty sure the saying is ‘we’re supposed to look out for each other’” he retorts, wrapping the rope around his dominant arm as he prepares to pull once more, “don’t you go stealing all the fun from me now.” “You get what I’m trying to say” Nessie briskly responds, lowering the cage to the boat’s floor before attempting to further clarify her point, the endeavour proving fruitless as she’s interrupted first. “Yeah, I do” Clint replies mid-pause, almost halfway finished with returning his basket to the vessel’s surface, “you’re still holding onto the mindset that you needed to pick up where mom and dad left off. Even all these years later, and there’s still some of you that just can’t let that go.” “That’s n-” Nessie attempts to reply, only to be cut off by the man that interrupts his own furthered attempts at bringing the cage to surface in order to prevent her from refusal. “For the lord’s sake, will you please just admit that’s the truth so I don’t have to stop every five seconds?” Clint amusedly pleads, directing his smile toward the woman still hesitant to do as requested, “the sooner we get this thing to the surface, the sooner we can get tying this thing down over with.” Quickly lessening the combative expression in her face, Nessie appears to concede defeat as she stares off into the distance, able to spot a boat of her own tearing through the waters in return to the mainland. For a brief two minutes, the siblings remain in silence as the woman aids the man in his work, finally reuniting a half-full cage to the surface of a boat that is soon drowned in the flashing colours of red and blue. “Woah, what’s going on!?” Clint exclaims, stepping into his sister as he pushes her behind himself, shielding his face from the flashing lights as the pair notice the patrol boat that had spent the past few seconds gradually making way toward them. His voice not having been loud enough to reach the ears of their pursuers, the brother’s question falls upon deaf ears as their vessel soon comes mere metres away from that of an overtaken police cruiser from the mainland. “Put your hands in the air and do not retaliate” one of the figures neither sibling can see with the flashing lights that obstruct their vision calls out through the receiver of a boat-mounted megaphone. “A guard is going to board your ship and you are not to engage with him unless told” he continues, blaring out the instructions to a pair of survivors unable to speak back without being cut off by the much louder commands, “if he deems you safe, you are to return home immediately.” “We were just heading that way anyway!” Clint exclaims, having gotten the hang of the alleged authority figures’ call out well enough to spot out the pauses in his remarks. “We live in Stratford and set sail out of Rosebank!” Nessie doubles down, her brother’s voice having caught the ear of the patrolling unit effectively enough for the overseeing guards to let her reply, “we’re fishermen! We just didn’t have time to get out on the water until shortly before sunset!” “And if that story checks out, you’ll be allowed to return home without an issue” the bullhorn-wielding guard responds, pulling his vessel up to the side of the sibling’s own to allow one of the men from his small group to begin deboarding. “An incident has taken place at the Confederation Bridge and all residents of both Nova Scotia and Prince Edward Island are ordered to return home at once” the public servant continues, “anyone caught disobeying this order can be fined or jailed.” “We had no idea anything was wrong! We’ve been out since about an hour and a half before sunset!” Clint retorts, though speaking in a loud tone, he maintains a good faith effort in calming any potential escalation from taking place. “I’m sure that’s the case, but our orders are to check anyone on the water for their residential status and for any weapons they may have on board” the patrolman responds, “if you’re telling us the truth and cooperate, you’ll be out of here in two minutes.” “Alright, fine! Just be careful on the lip of the boat, ‘cause it’s slippery” Nessie warns, pulling her brother back by the arm to clear room for the boarding guard to step on. Momentarily surrendering their identification cards and confessing to the possession of an automatic rifle stored at the front of the ship, the siblings are soon cleared by the man trusted with surveying the scene efficiently, his quiet nod to the captain of his own boat to carry on with his night. “Get back to Prince Edward Island, dock your boat, and head back home as soon as possible” the servant remarks, satisfied with the findings of his subordinate enough to carry on with his evening, venturing into the bountiful sea he’d still yet to traverse in sight of others fitting the bill of whom he’s meant to seek out. | Squeezing past people whilst keeping her head low, Katie travels through the busy main roads of downtown Charlottetown, trying to maintain her distance from the core of the crowd that amasses with more questions than people to answer them. Furious and wanting to know what the uncertain future holds, the public take out their aggressions by rebelling against the armed reinforcements sent out into a supposed leaderless breakaway state, refusing to abide by the lockdown order. Scared and terrified, the mob continues to topple parked cars onto their sides and roofs whilst others climb pre-greased streetlamps, presenting the same destruction of society that the idea of Nova Scotia was birthed from the flames of at the very beginning. Retaining a semblance of cooperation and peace, Katie avoids the wrath of the disturbed public and heads for the well-lit horse racing track she’d been informed her source of aid would be awaiting relatively near. “Harvey!” Katie exclaims, ducking into a cramped passageway that seems recently rushed through by swaths of civilians without any certainty over the whereabouts of her colleague. Spilling into the well-lit side of the entrance, a lost and cautious survivor enters the swarm of people gathered together to protest the various lighting fixtures that begin to lose power, the armed militants patrolling the streets, and the lack of a response to the collapsed bridge now trapping them here. “Harvey!” she shouts a second time, tripping into a brick wall as the name leaves her lips after being shoved past by a much larger man, the focus on the unruly survivor being to join those within the crowd he’s a part of in displaying his dissatisfaction. Having kept her rifle halfway concealed behind the flap of her jacket, Katie brushes the hostile interaction off with the dismissal needed to move onto greater importances. With each steep, the woman further entrenches herself into the fallout of warfare, surrounded by people as willing to do her harm as they are to anyone else. In spite of the danger that could potentially swarm her at any time, Katie’s hidden grasp on the rifle allows her to carry forward without considering the repercussions, or holding much of a care over them. “Harvey!” the woman exclaims yet again, using the rare sight of someone shorter than her to set her sights into whatever direction they travel, gaining a significantly better understanding of the track’s layout. Taking to the spectator’s benches, Katie’s eyes uncover a platform both nearby and sparsely populated to take toward, her gradual descent through the mob and into more open areas coming with pushes, harsh words and the overall aggression of a human riptide. Ceasing her callouts, Katie hops a small white picket fence before climbing a low metal railing before ascending the steps that others use as vantage points to drink, smoke, and watch the chaos unfold from. Politely waving off the few offers she gets to take a drag off a joint or a sip from a bottle, the woman carries onward to the concrete support one of the roof’s columns is cemented into, the small base that its top consists of proving more than enough to hold her. Grabbing onto whatever metal opening the stanchion affords her to hold, Katie sets her sights on the throng far greater than even she’d expected it to be. In every direction- and continuing to grow- the horde of angry civilians storm the pitch to such an extent that not even its dirt track is clearly visible, every metre that it stretches having been kicked up and trounced over by the restless living. “Jesus” she mutters to herself, letting the barrel of her rifle rest upon the concrete support she’s climbed up to, the air around her cleared of any immediate danger. Taking awe in the kind of rebellion to authority she hadn’t witnessed since the wake of the outbreak, Katie fails to find the words to describe the scene that unfolds as lights in the distance- just past the racecourse- begin to flicker off and on for a few seconds at a time. As fires burn in the distance, other areas of the track appear entirely ravaged by the uproar that makes itself impossible to ignore. Wooden materials used to light the bonfire that the protestors use themselves to protect from being extinguished by the island’s mostly-aimless emergency services, whilst metal poles are used by the citizens to craft makeshift weapons out of, arming themselves to the teeth in an attempt to dissuade the armed patrolmen from interfering with their act of vengeance. Though the chaos is striking, it fails to keep Katie from noticing the sudden tone that blares from the heavy device she’d left the house carrying on her hip. In a brief motion, the woman unclasps the phone and holds it to her ear, not afforded the free hand to conceal the other side of her head from the mutiny she’s one of countless witnesses to. “Katie, where are you!?” Harvey exclaims, shielding every part of his head other than his eyes and right ear from the revolt he stands before, inspecting the track for every last inch that it can provide them a look at. “What!?” Katie shouts back, trying to mimic the hunchback of Notre Dame by tucking her head inward, trying to use her shoulder to cover the exposed side of her face. “Where are you!?” Harvey shouts back, trying to make his voice as loud as possible, though not even he can hear his own voice more than faintly with the uproar that wages on just a few metres below. “Shit dude, I can’t hear you!” Katie responds, peering out at the enraged public as they sway like the waves of a sea, a quick sifting through her mind allowing her to come up with just one solution, “I’m at the far end of the racetrack on top of the cement things those pillars are built into.” Looking toward the general direction, Harvey peers into the distance before he seemingly spots the woman from out of the crowd. Standing by, Katie awaits her colleague’s arrival with hopes that he’d heard her direction, unable to say anything more before the call had abruptly ended. Sitting with her legs dangling over the platform’s edge and the rifle resting across her lap, the woman stares out at the populated field before passing glances back toward lesser frequented areas every few seconds. “Katie!” Harvey calls out, running down the length of the concourse at the top of the spectator’s row, his voice finally catching the woman’s ear for the first time since arriving at the swollen bubble that is Prince Edward Island’s downtown. Hopping off the ledge, Katie climbs the few remaining stairs before running to the open arms of her acquaintance, his embrace quick and hastily moved past, but revelled in for the brief few seconds that it lasted. “Let’s find somewhere a little quieter, alright?” Harvey inquires, placing his hands to either side of the woman’s face and holding it there, the look that such an act allows him to see bringing a momentary bliss over him, one that takes the form of a smile. “Yeah, let’s go” Katie replies, nodding her head with whatever leverage the man’s hands grant her the ability to, taking the lead on the pair’s dip into the rear entrance of an adjacent casino in search of a quiet nook to call sanctuary. | “They’re not letting us off the island- it’s a complete and total lockdown, Em’” Nessie responds, slamming shut the passenger’s side door to her brother’s truck as she travels the remaining length of their shared driveway. “They’ve got boats patrolling the front and back of Warren Cove, and they’re got another unit constantly dipping into Stewart Cove” she continues to speak, “even if we got out of Stewart, there’s still two rows of cruisers we’d have to get past before we even hit the strait.” Slamming his fist against the archway leading between the flat’s living room and kitchen, Emilio pulls his head away from the phone and squeezes his eyes shut, trying to gather his composure in light of the news. “Listen, it’s not safe to go out there now anyway. The only reason we weren’t planning to keep fishing even longer was ‘cause of how strong the current was getting” Nessie reassures, “when the lockdown lifts, we’ll take the boat over and meet you Port Elgin like we agreed.” “Ness’, those boats aren’t going anywhere. Hell, if they do- it’ll just be to put even more boats at the entry to the harbour” Emilio retorts, trying to keep himself in line as the woman- still mostly out of the loop from what’s going on- attempts to think of another solution. “Then we’ll leave the boat here and drive over until everything calms down!” Nessie responds, unable to see the eye roll that the man on the other line reacts with. “Nessie, the bridge collapsed. There’s no driving back at all- ever” Emilio corrects, able to hear the shuffling of the rocks along the siblings’ gravel-paved driveway cease their movement. “The bridge collapsed?” Nessie repeats, her expression shifting whilst her remarks prompt Clint to also cease his return home, turning back with a shocked visage as the woman’s repetition catches his ear, “that’s the ‘incident’ they were talking about!?” “Yes. The bridge went down, and since he definitely didn’t have the time to make it all the way across, Gamble probably went down with it” Emilio responds, returning the commons area as he tries his best to catch the woman up. “Listen Ness’, there’s nothing we can do to help you right now. We’ve got no way over, and you’ve got no way out. You should be fine for now, but for the time being, we’re not so sure there’s anyone actually in charge of the island right now, so it might just be a free-for-all” Emilio explains, trying to ease any concerns that may have yet been unmentioned, “just keep in touch, stay inside where it’s safe, and don’t trust anyone that comes up to you unless it’s one of us- got it?” “Yeah, we’ll- we’ll do- that” Nessie replies, stuttering over her words as she tries to regain her wits, finishing up the brief conversation as quickly as she can so Emilio can return to other duties, “we’ll talk soon.” Hanging up his phone, the caller sets it onto a table aside as he rejoins those that had managed to reconvene in light of the day’s chaos, their respective seats taken. “If you woke the baby, you’re putting him back to sleep” Alicia warns, sitting against her sofa’s armrest with her skull in her hand, index finger and thumb wrapping around her forehead and gently rubbing at her temples. “I’m sorry” Emilio replies, directing himself to a chair near the opposite side of the room that he soon takes a seat upon, staring forward to look at the confused and uncertain faces that sit across from him. “I bet the two of you stand to make a killing out of this at least, no?” he jokes, watching the faintest smirk he receives from Jack speak all that there is to be said about the situation at hand. Though finding the slightest amusement in the comment, Lauren’s mind fails to direct itself past the metaphorical murky waters that the Nova Scotian compound appears submerged in, carrying her optimism with it. “Where’s Salem?” Franklin wonders aloud, his half arm crossing into the fully-folded one that he crosses against his chest, blankly staring forward at the unoccupied chair at the room’s centre, its place having never been moved since Charlotte’s visit for uncertain reasons. “She’s angry and still limping around on a bum wheel. I don’t think we’re seeing her for the rest of the night” Jack responds, aware that he has no clue, but feeling like there’s only one possible answer to that question. “She said she needed to run some errands- whatever that means- and she’d be over in an hour or two” Emilio corrects, closing his eyes as he sinks further into the leathery chair, exhausted from the day and tired of thinking what will succeed it. “I think I’d feel better if she didn’t come over” Lauren responds, squinting at the unoccupied air across the room whilst shaking her head gently, “I don’t quite know what to expect from an angry, one-legged Salem.” “Nothing good” Alicia mutters to herself, though the headache she tries valiantly to wait out prevents her from giving much thought to her voice’s volume. Collectively fatigued, the group remain within the depleted commons area of the only place they’d figured to go, residing within each other’s company just as they always had whenever trouble was afoot. Now, even though there are walls erected to keep out the bad, the group finds themselves falling victim to them- instead, trapped with it. Finally parting her eyelids, Alicia stares at the edge of the older carpet that sits in the centre of her hardwood floor before following its winding pattern onward, retiring to whatever she can think of to forget about the pounding ache that encompasses her head. Eerily quiet, the living room exists in this moment as a simple barrier, a shield that keeps the dangers of the new world’s old dangers away from those that had experienced them enough to recall them like a roadmap. Soon following the trail of blue lines to the unoccupied chair, Alicia’s lids soon close themselves once more, entrenching her in an intentional darkness that she cares not to remove herself from. However, whilst her mind continues to run, a thought that dawns upon the woman prompts her eyes to open once more, reclaiming their focus on the empty seat before following her head in pulling away from the webbed-inside of her palm’s flesh. Pulling back in her seat, the hairs on the back of Alicia’s neck begin to stand as she stares at the chair, not speaking or reacting in any way whilst she does so, but instead opting to inspect it from afar. “Em’, I need to borrow your car” the woman remarks, suddenly pushing herself out of her seat and traipsing across the room, dismissing any question asked toward her other than the one that Emilio raises. “Where are you going?” he wonders aloud, aware that he can’t justify refusing her the departure on the basis of the impending warfare without painting it as more of a threat than he’s let on. “One of the first things that goes caput when a war happens is the banking system, so I’m gonna go take out a little bit of money before everyone else gets the same idea” Alicia responds, stepping past the empty chair before taking two sets of keys from a table beside the door, Emilio’s car keys and her house keys from a bowl the mans’ own sit beside. With the gentle yank of her friend’s keys from the ignition, Alicia ends her brief adventure a few roads away and steps out from behind the wheel. Staring upward, her eyes take to a completely dark window between the first and third story of the apartment complex, one that she’d at least never known to be without the faintest, orange glow of a nearby fire. Reaching the top of the third set of stairs, Alicia makes her way to the second story of her approached apartment complex, walking to the front of the fourth and final set of steps that her intended destination resides beside. “Salem, open u-” she calls aloud, balling her hand into a fist whilst facing her knuckles to the outside of a front door, having intended to knock against it for a reply before realising that it’s already been left slightly ajar. Staring at the knob for a brief second before looking back to the rest of the door, Alicia pauses for a moment before unfurling her fist, extending her fingers whilst pushing her palm outward. Faintly creaking, the apartment’s entrance gently drifts inward, revealing a living space completely entrenched within darkness, not a single flame or source of life to be found. Puzzled and cautious, Alicia slowly moves her hand to the side of the front door’s frame and feels around the wall for a switch, one that takes her a moment to stumble upon, but one that she inevitably discovers. In one moment, the kitchen’s rarely-used overhead light floods the small area in a warm, yellow glow. Along the counter, not a single dish or plate resides, the sink barren of any cutlery or utensil and with a bar of soap alongside the fawcett and its accompanying knobs. Still standing in the open doorway, Alicia finds herself unable to move at first, still looking into the living room that is just barely grazed by the now-lit lamp, the interior still bathed in an uncomfortable shade of black. Letting a breath escape through her nose, the visitor begins embarking upon her short journey into the flat, squinting her eyes as she tries to peer through the cloud of darkness that prevents her from seeing more than just what appears to her. In spite of this obstruction to her view, Alicia easily spots a second set of switches on the wall that divides the commons area from the kitchen, its presence immediately capturing the woman’s attention once discovered. Reaching out, Alicia waits for something to call out for her from within the lightless flat, half-heartedly expecting her friend to speak out from within the bleak nothingness to scare her out of some half-assed attempt at a joke. Touching down upon the glossy set of tiny levers, the apartment’s visitor finds herself still met with an absence of life, her visitation not welcomed or spoken out against in any way. Having never known the common area to be lit by anything other than the fireplace or darkened by anything but the absence of one, Alicia stares at the three sticks for a moment in an effort of figuring out which one grants her a genuine view of the room. Shaking her head at a loss as she comes up empty for a solution, the woman eventually gives into the urge that she has of discovering what lies for her to find, flipping all three switches at once. Just as advertised, the living room sits empty and without the warmth of burning logs to embrace her, the dusty chandelier instead providing her the view of an almost-untouched common space. From one end to the other, the old fashioned parlour finds itself under the watchful eye of its uninvited visitor, sitting undisturbed and unencumbered and remaining as such until the woman’s feet resume their stroll. Inspecting the environment, Alicia takes a single step forward and glances down a lengthy and once equally-dark corridor, parting her lips to call out for the resident she’d expected to find by this moment. “Salem?” she calls aloud with a subtle, indoor voice-like tone, genuinely curious as to whether or not the tenant is present, unable to fully wrap her mind around the idea that she wouldn’t be in spite of how empty and void of residency the apartment seems to be left in the state of. “Salem!” the woman calls out even louder, able to hear the woman’s name bounce off the drywalls at each side of the hallway as they reflect from her lips, taking the form of an echo. Without a reply once more, Alicia turns her eyes away from the unlit passageway and further inspects the living space, eyes taking to an empty corner of the room that feels off for some reason, believing that something once used to inhabit the cramped space once upon a time, but unable to recall just what it was. Stepping over to the corner, Alicia inspects the dust-free space and finds the square imprint of what used to encompass the space, the four lines that make up the non-existent shape composed of a thick layer of dust. Squinting, the woman turns away from the room’s nook and begins walking for the unlit fireplace, passing a glance at the empty chair for a moment before forcing herself to look back at it. Her squint alleviating itself, the woman’s eyes take to the unoccupied cushion of the ottoman-positioned chair, where a lone, silver machine sits abandoned. Confused, Alicia quickly steps up to the studded seat and takes the object into her possession, the mechanisms within rattling as she pulls it close and looks into it. Turning it over, the woman takes notice of the transparent window its front presents, a fully-rewound tape able to be seen through the divider. Looking to the device’s top, Alicia finds a number of different buttons aligning its surface, instinctively turning it over to stare at the bottom of the recorder, where only a single strip of masking tape resides bearing a single word in black letters, scrawled from the felt tip of a permanent marker. “Goodbye, Salem.” == Rise == “You’re with us” a man in a dark coat remarks, pointing to an ever-increasing group of people shuffled off into the corner of the spacious communal area, showing the way to a woman in a corduroy jacket. Bundled together, various members of the large refinery work staff await their turn to be shuffled into one of three groups, some with bags in tow whilst others stare at the figures responsible for handing them their guidance, having remained in the building’s foyer since Gamble’s arrival.
“I guess it’s not going to be as cut and dry as sneaking onto a boat or not” Harvey mutters, a small bag carried at his side with the barest essentials, a similar amount of possessions retained by his younger contemporary. “We could sneak into one group or the other and hope for the best” Katie replies, rotating her sight between the three different groups of people, no one outlier differentiating them from any other, “it’s almost like they’re just randomly assigning people.” “Not everyone here is in Gamble’s inner circle” Harvey quickly retorts, looking around the room at a variety of confused and uncertain faces, all equally unsure of what their futures hold as each other. “Some are more valuable than others, at least I’d hope that’s what’s going on here” he continues, taking in a long breath as he keeps his mind calm, “it’d bode a lot better for us if that were the case.” “How would you know that?” Katie responds, watching Gamble disappear within the sea of people as he steps off the stage, following a small group of people toward a separate exit of the room. “What do you mean?” Harvey wonders back, uncertain over the meaning behind the woman’s remark, “why wouldn’t Gamble want some of the closest people to him coming back to the island?” “That’s not really what I was getting at” Katie responds, waiting for the huddle of people she and her colleague are situated within to continue dispersing, the fates they’re bound to receive coming when the crowd fans out, “I mean how do you even know we’re still in Gamble’s inner circle?” Scoffing at the question, Harvey shakes his head as he replies, “what kind of question is that?” he wonders, panning his hand toward the group of men beckoning workers toward one corner or the others, “of course we’re in Gamble’s inner circle.” “Then why didn’t we know about his surprise drop in? Why don’t we know what’s going on back home?” Katie hastily questions back, watching the people that stand in front of her slowly move toward their allocated sides of the room. “I don’t know, but I don’t think there’s anything we’ve done to fall out of his good graces” Harvey responds, crossing his arms as his patience is tested, eager to get to the front of the line, “besides- if we had, he would’ve let us know in some way.” With the slightest frown, Katie stares up at the side of the man’s face in silence for a moment before looking away, eyes returning to the men situated at the room’s centre, directing labourers with the point of their finger one at a time. With each few passing seconds, another survivor of the outbreak’s aftermath is designated to their respective futures, their faces wearing a variety of looks brought about by where they’re meant to stand. For those tasked with returning home to Prince Edward Island, confusion and eagerness abound, settling into what they know is a long boat ride ahead- though it’s one they planned to take back eventually. For those in the corner of people designated to return to work at the refinery, the confusion is shared with their homeward peers, but the mixture of disappointment is more than easy to find amongst many, the apparent early return home one they seem to have unfortunately missed out on. However, it is those in the corner slated to return home to mainland Nova Scotia that wear clear-cut expressions of worry and concern. On some, the expression of dread and the visual equivalent of a knot in the stomach are worn like a mash whilst others display a caution, one taken toward the people they’d been stationed at the refinery with since disembarking the maiden voyage, and yet they now no longer seem to fully trust. As the number of survivors ahead of them begins to dwindle, the mismatched pairing turned unlikely friends appear to approach their immediate fate, sentenced to either an island backed into a corner amidst what appears to be impending warfare, or an Arctic-like chill throughout the middle of spring ahead of the gunfire the island is sure to watch run through it and inevitably head northbound. “Harvey Collins” the man begins, introducing himself to the armoured figure with a clipboard in hand, the armed guard’s eyes immediately taking the list he carries. “Homeland” the warden replies, stepping aside to point his finger to the corner where those returning to Prince Edward Island are to wait. “Thank you” he responds, stepping forward and immediately turning his back to the group, slowly retreating to the huddled masses with his eyes on the woman he hopes will accompany him there. “Katie Dawson” the woman greets, hands hanging by her side, a small suitcase of her minimal belongings carried in the one at her left. Looking down, the guard clicks his tongue and begins shaking his head, eyes wandering further down the list before reaching its conclusion. Flipping the page, the armed figure begins the process once more, his silence allowing the woman the briefest chance to experience the sound of limbo, the air that surrounds her filled with unintelligible chatter. “Homeland” the man finally responds, stepping aside to grant the survivor a reunion with her superior. Letting free a sigh of relief, the woman hangs her head and lets slip a pleased smile before stepping into the awaiting arms of her mentor, his embrace replacing the nervous wreck she’d almost fallen into with a warm comfort. From the corner of the room, Gamble lets slip a hollow grin as he watches the figures recouple, a nod coming over him before turning away, joining the select few he’d stepped upon the stage alongside in following through with his retreat. = Rise is created by Zachary Serra, all rights to the series belong to Zachary Serra and the entity of Pacer1 from the start of Season 3 onwards = “Why?” Nessie replies, standing off to the side with one arm crossed over the small of her other’s inner elbow, her free hand pressing a handheld phone with a long antenna to the side of her head. “Because Charlotte thinks it’s the safest option” Emilio replies from the other end, a phone of equally large size pressed between the side of his head and his shoulder, both hands grasping to each side of the steering wheel he’s at the control of. “What does that matter?” Nessie questions, watching her brother lift a pair of metal cages off their dock and into their fishing boat. “I can’t give you an answer that’ll justify leaving your home behind” Emilio responds, pulling into a small parking lot and guiding his vehicle into an open space, its yellow lines cleared over the past few abnormally warm days, “the best I can tell you is that- if shit hits the fan- I’d rather you be here with us instead of across the bridge alone.” “You said the same thing when you called us last night, ‘Em” Nessie replies, watching her brother squat toward the ground to aid another pair of crates into their personal vessel, “we’ve got agreements with the markets over here for every catch we make. That’s our livelihood, and we can’t leave it behind just because two post-apocalyptic politicians decide to argue over whose dick is bigger.” “I know that. Hell, the only reason I’m not begging you to roll back into Nova Scotia A.S.A.P is ‘cause I know you can boat over the strait whenever you want-” Emilio retorts, quickly shifting his car into park and climbing out of the driver’s seat, “-the others don’t have that luxury.” “And they don’t need it either” Nessie responds, leaning into the concrete pole her shared boat is tied to, “Jack and Lauren are in the countryside, and Alicia, Franklin, and Salem live in flats out at Moncton- so they’ll have the same protection Charlotte will get.” “Moncton will still be targeted regardless. If Prince Edward Island attacks, that will be their end goal” Emilio corrects, locking his car before jogging to the apartment complex’s entrance, “and if the attack heads Moncton’s way, the journey Gamble takes from the island will have to tear straight through Scoudouc first.” “What even makes you think this Gamble guy can get across the bridge, let alone Moncton?” Nessie responds, the squint in her eyes displaying just how unconfident she is with the man spoken of as such a legitimate threat, “have you seen this place for more than a few minutes? Nova Scotia’s got more on their military- or regiment, or whatever it’s called- than this island has in total.” “I’ve got no idea what will or won’t happen. I don’t even trust Charlotte entirely” Emilio responds, appreciatively bowing his head to the random woman that holds the door open for him, “but even more than just having talked to him for a minute or two myself- if Charlotte’s afraid of this guy, then however he can be described must not do what he’s capable of justice.” Frowning, Nessie rolls her eyes and stares off at the field sitting on her opposite side, the shortened nails on her right hand scratching at the flesh of her forehead that the hairs on her head cannot hide. “Alright, listen. Clint and I still have to get out on the water today, and we’re just about to head out” she explains, slowly stepping off from the pillar her vessel’s rope is tied around, “but if things get ugly in the next few hours, call me and we’ll dock at Port Elgin instead, alright?” “Sure, that sounds good enough” Emilio responds, marching up the steps that lead to his destination, paying a short goodbye gesture to the woman before hanging up the phone. Clipping the brick-like device to his waistband, the man makes it to the level his ascent was intended to reach, fist already balled before lifting to knock at his preferred door. “One second!” a woman calls out from within, her voice muffled and hurried, the gesture enough to satisfy the man at her front door. For a few seconds, Emilio remains patient beyond the closed entrance, eyes wandering from one side of the cramped corridor he’d ascended to before setting for the next, his ears beginning to fixate on the buzz of a nearby hallway lamp as the footsteps within the flat he stands at begin to near close. “Hey!” Alicia greets, pulling the end of a white tank top over her stomach as if she’d just put it on, stepping aside to allow her unexpected guest entry. “Is Franklin here?” Emilio inquires, letting himself in with hurry to the tenant’s surprise. “Yeah, he’s sleeping- why?” the woman responds, gently closing the door with eyes on the visitor, curious as to his reason for the unplanned drop by. “Because you weren’t answering the phone, so I needed to come out in person” Emilio responds, entering the commons area just as the man he’d asked about steps from the bedroom, his hands rubbing at his tired eyes. “Hey, ‘Em” Franklin remarks, lips parting to widen his mouth, stopping his greeting to yawn whilst stretching out his shoulders, “what’s going on?” he wonders in a monster-like groan. “I’m not sure, but Charlotte’s led me to believe that it won’t be pretty” Emilio replies, standing at the centre of the room before trying to calm his voice down, worrying it could come off as too alarmist. “Is this about the dude she said ran the place across the water?” Franklin queries, having fallen victim to the perception of his friend’s concerned tone. “Gamble, yeah. Charlotte’s pretty sure he’s taken hold over a refinery on another island up north. One she doesn’t have a way of getting to” Emilio replies, watching the couple stand by each other’s side before him. “Apparently she took what I said last week to heart- about letting him try to make it on his own and cleaning up whatever was left after he failed” he continues, trying to sum everything up simply and quickly, “taking that refinery gives him a good chance of never actually failing.” “Well that’s a good thing then, isn’t it?” Alicia responds, taking one step ahead of her husband, “if he’s got a refinery, it means there won’t be a mess to clean up.” “Honey, I think you’re forgetting that we’re talking about Charlotte” Franklin interjects, nudging his wife’s arm with the nub of his shortened one, “him being able to make it on his own would mean that she’d have to act quickly if she wanted to keep him from breaking off successfully.” “And the problem wasn’t Charlotte having to go in and clean up, the problem was Charlotte not having to” Emilio adds on, watching the woman’s head fall, “she doesn’t want him breaking off at all.” “And that means she’s gotta act quick to keep him from doing that, and that means-” Alicia follows through, stopping her remark as her husband takes over, displaying their shared conclusion by finishing her thought, “-she’s acting now.” “Exactly. She said they made an agreement almost a year ago that- by around this time- she’d give him his independence if she didn’t have a certain approval rating amongst the Quebeckers” Emilio continues, beginning to pace around the room as the couple remain cooperative with his train of thought, “I don’t think she’s too keen on taking the chance of not hitting that mark. So, if I had to put my money on it, I’d say she’s probably rallying the troops to take a march on the island as we speak.” “So what the hell does that leave us to do?” Alicia responds, passing a glance in the direction of her child’s room, “I don’t imagine taking a march across the bridge is going to go over too well.” As unsure as the woman is, all Emilio can offer her is an uncertain shrug, head drifting to the shoulder on his right side as he looks off into the distance, eyes falling upon an empty corner of the room as he thinks quietly to himself. “If it’s conventional warfare, they’ll probably be aiming at each other’s jugulars. Charlotte will go after whatever the capital of the other place is, and that Gamble dude will be aiming for here” Franklin responds, using the conversation’s pause to strategise aloud, “I suppose we’d be safe for a while. If Charlotte’s army is the stronger unit, she’ll be able to keep the other guys out of Moncton. If not, it’ll be at least a few weeks before we should start heading for safer ground.” “Yeah, I really doubt Moncton’s gonna be under threat immediately. But if they don’t come in from over the bridge- as unlikely as that is- then I’d head for Jack and Lauren’s place” Emilio reassures, incapable of offering much more optimism than that, “but since they’ll likely come in from over the bridge, I’d imagine our other married friends will give you the warning call to start running for the hills when the fight reaches their neck of the woods.” “Alright, what do we do until then?” Alicia queries, another few glances passed to the room in which her infant son sleeps soundly, completely in the dark to the threat that fills the flat he calls home with palpable worry, “try to ignore gunfire, hope the city doesn’t get taken over, and hope this Gamble guy doesn’t have bombs to start dropping?” “I don’t know, Alicia. That’s how war usually works, but I don’t know what happens when it’s a war between the only actual groups capable of holding a war at all” Emilio responds, trying to ignore the ringing of the phone at his hip as he finishes his thought, “our fight with Sheol or the old New World Order might be the closest thing to this, but I reserve my doubts that this fight would be as quick and simple as those.” Sinking his thumb into the device’s big, green button, Emilio separates himself from the discourse that the married couple now take amongst themselves to answer the line, a passive greeting afforded to the yet unknown survivor on the other end. “You rang? Like, seven times?” Salem remarks, hobbling across the room from her kitchen with a ceramic plate in tow, a few chopped red bell peppers and carrots adorning the platter. “Yeah, I’ve been trying to call you” Emilio replies, unable to speak another word before receiving a sarcastic retort. “Yeah, I figured that- what’s up?” the woman responds, setting her plate on the large arm rest of her fireside chair before taking her seat, waiting for the man’s voice to overpower the pair of detached reflections speaking to each other in his presence. “Wherever you are- stay inside” Emilio begins, entering the kitchen to pull away from the married couple’s discourse and enter a quieter space, “I’m pretty sure Charlotte is about to make a play on the island across the bridge.” With a squint, Salem’s reach for a veggie from her plate halts mid-attempt, the phone she’s placed on speaker falling silent amongst her momentary refusal to reply. “What do you mean she’s making a play for the other island? How do you know that?” the sniper retorts, wanting validation in the warning before considering it with any seriousness. “Because I was there when Charlotte realised the guy in charge of the island- that Gamble dude- probably took over a refinery a few miles north of Prince Edward Island. She doesn’t have the boats to get to it, and he’s probably got people stationed along the only road that leads to a safe launching point” Emilio confesses, his proclamation rendering the woman on the other end of the line incapable of holding even the faintest appetite she’d sat down with. “Did she tell you she was putting people together to take over the island, or are you just guessing?” Salem inquires, taking the device off speaker and pressing it tightly to her ear. “I’m just guessing, but I’m pretty confident that’s the move she’s making” Emilio responds, shaking his head vehemently as the device against his head begins to buzz once more, “either way- it doesn’t matter. Get groceries if you need to, stay inside, and don’t let anyone in unless it’s one of us.” “Are you trying to tell me I’m gonna have Quebecker-cunts knocking at my front door, Emilio?” Salem responds, groaning as she climbs out of her seat, dominant hand reaching for the rifle she’d leant against the wall nearby mid-limp. “No, but I’d prefer you to keep yourself away from danger at all odds possible” Emilio replies, continuing to speak as the phone buzzes again, “I know you said you’d leave if war happened, but now is not the time.” “Where are you right now?” Salem questions, her sock-covered feet slipping into a pair of running shoes stationed nearby her front door. “I’m at Alicia and Franklin’s, but I’ve got someone on the other line- I’ll have to call you back” Emilio answers, listening to the device’s third ring before ending his call with the woman and switching lines. “Don’t bother, I’ll be there in a few minutes” Salem replies, hanging up the phone and setting it upon her kitchen table before ripping a denim jacket off a nearby coat rack, carrying it against her chest as she steps through the front door, ready to reunite with the sole reasons she remains a resident of society’s final stand. “Hello?” Emilio answers, ear pressing back to the phone as the couple whose flat he stands in reenter the room, this time without filling the air with words directed toward each other. “Emilio, stay inside- wherever you are” Courtney chirps, speaking through the window that rushes past the open window of her passenger’s seat, “stay as far away from the bridge as you can, got it?” “Why, what the fuck is going on at the bridge!?” Emilio quickly responds, the concerned tone of voice that he’d tried to artificially dismiss minutes prior unintentionally returning in full force. “Gamble beat us to the punch” Courtney answers, a louder voice than her indoor reflection used to battle against the whipping winds, the view through her windshield affording a clear field that appears littered with vehicles at the end of it, the red and blue lights atop them flashing. “What the hell does that mean?” Emilio responds, unable to see the view that’s afforded to his friend, who joins those of similar rank at the frontlines of conflict threatening to spill over. “Gamble’s crossed onto our side of the bridge with a shit load of trucks and people with guns and armour. I think he took the ‘mandatory inspection’ Charlotte launched as an open door” Courtney replies, squinting to protect her vision from the harsh sunlight, “he’s demanding to talk to her.” “Move out of the way!” men and women in the vehicles that surround Courtney’s exclaim through their bullhorns, ordering regular residents out of the road they attempt to drive down. Gathering together at the news that their lone way onto Prince Edward Island had been forcibly declared unpassable, regular citizens out of the loop with the goings-on of the potential breakaway landmass await word as to why their travels have been refused by figures they know not the powers of. Frustrated and demanding answers, the people begrudgingly step aside for the convoy they’re aware their chancellor has ordered to the scene, blindly hoping that their arrival will spell a resuming of the passage they seek a venture across. “Just make sure you and your friends are somewhere safe as far away from here as possible, alright?” Courtney commands, quickly trying to wrap up their conversation before coming face-to-face with adversarial forces, “I’ve got to go.” “Courtney, wait! What’s-?” Emilio begins to reply, falling silent upon hearing the tone of the other line being dropped, not even afforded the chance to ask the question that sits along his mind. “I thought you were calling Salem?” Alicia inquires, watching her guest quickly reclip the phone to his waistband and hurry for the direction their presence blocks him from. “Salem’s on here way here- don’t leave” Emilio quickly declares, reaching out for the knob of the front door, “something’s going down at the bridge and I need to be there.” “The bridge!? You mean Charlotte’s making her move right now!?” Franklin exclaims, his question preventing the man from fully stepping through the front door. “Courtney said Gamble got the jump on her. I don’t know what’s going on, but he’s at the bridge and he’s demanding to talk to Charlotte” Emilio answers, again attempting to duck out of the front door before his friend’s voice holds him back. “Wait, why the hell are you going there if all of this is going down!?” Alicia calls out, hurrying forward to try and pull their guest back into the home, his reluctance affording him the opening to pull his hand away. “Listen, even if Courtney’s got Charlotte’s convoy to fall back on, I’d still like to be there in case a friend needs me” Emilio responds, vehement in his need to leave, “Salem’s on her way, so the four of you will be safe here. As long as that’s the case, I’ve done my job here.” “So war might be about to break out and your plan is to run down to ground zero with a full head of steam!?” Franklin shouts, almost incapable of fathoming the proposal his longtime friend presents, “are you trying to get yourself killed!?” “Dude, I’ll be fine! The two of you, Salem, and the baby are gonna be fine here. Jack and Lauren have each other up north, and I’ll call the siblings back to make sure they dock at Port Elgin- everyone’s going to be fine” Emilio responds, stepping into the hallway to prevent the couple from interfering with his attempt to depart yet again, “Courtney’s the only one I can’t say the same for. In the small chance she needs me, I wanna be there. So just settle in and keep each other safe, alright?” “Em’!” Franklin calls out, stepping forward to reach for the door his friend quickly shuts and darts away from, already halfway down the nearest set of stairs before the family’s patriarch can even stick his head through the exit, “Emilio!” Though his voice travels throughout the entire building, the man Franklin calls for refuses to thwart his own departure, making for the building’s exit as quickly as he can before practically jumping into his car and pulling out of the lot. Directing his vehicle northbound, Emilio begins the near hour-long journey to the rival government’s meeting point, his backseat hosting the long wooden box his automatic rifle is sealed within, a few preloaded magazines sitting in a container on the floor. | As per usual, traffic flows on the remote end of the Confederation Bridge just as it would any other day, the near-cloudless sky presenting what finally feels like a temperature fitting for the early stages of spring. One after another, vehicles pour into the strait crossing point whilst others take an earlier exit down Abegweit Boulevard, carrying on with their day as if it were any other. Unencumbered, the bridge remains the trade-off from one half of the massive community to the other, the governments they unknowingly leave behind in favour of a new one remaining well hidden as the day carries on as it always does. Heading northbound, the travellers entering Prince Edward Island await the line of vehicles ahead of them to carry forward, checked by the island’s exclusive guards for a brief rundown before granting entry to the adjacent community. All appears fine under the Canadian sun as far as the drivers are concerned, the venture one taken every day for some, whilst others embark upon a journey mostly uncommon to them. All however, view this journey as no different than whichever ones they may or may not have taken before, unaware of the tensions that boil below the surface of what their knowledge is kept from witnessing, completely oblivious to the idea that this journey may be one they cannot return from. In a beige sedan, a man driving alone with long sleeves rolled up to his elbows in light of the warm day begins to conclude his journey onto Prince Edward Island, needing not to continue along the Confederation Bridge’s route, and instead opting to disembark the venture on the earlier Boulevard off-ramp. “I’ve got a feeling that tonight’s gonna be a good night, that tonight’s gonna be a good, good night” blares through the vehicles speakers as the car begins its descent to a side street, intending to inevitably spill out onto Main Street before coming to a screeching halt. “That tonight’s gonna be a good, good night” the radio continues, humming its stereo as its brake is laid into, the man’s eyes widening as he watches a set of box trucks and armoured vans cut him off. “Pull off to the side or you will be hit” a voice exclaims through a bullhorn attached to the top of a van’s windshield, its wheels slowly turning to allow those it comes head-to-head with a chance to obey the instructions provided. Lowering his radio, the sedan’s operator rolls down his window as his vehicle comes to a full stop, his ear held out to listen for a second proclamation. “This is the Regiment of Prince Edward Island- pull off to the side or you will be hit” the first driver in an ever-stretching row of vans repeats, slowly guiding a line of nearly twenty vans and box trucks forward. As ordered, the sedan’s driver pulls his wheel to the left and slowly aligns his car with the side of the road, clearing his space for the apparent armoured convoy to take the northbound side street southbound and back onto the bridge. One after another, the same driver of the first van passes vehicles travelling in the opposite direction, not caring about having held up traffic by venturing down the wrong lane of traffic. On the other side of the bridge- the one correctly travelling southbound- a convoy of just as many trucks and vans ventures toward Nova Scotia all the same, having pulled off Dickie Street to join his fleet on the opposite side. All together, tens of reinforced vehicles close in on the passageway separating them from Nova Scotia, all four total lanes of the trans-Canadian highway are occupied by unassumingly powerful forces, ten drivers per lane. Within minutes, the drivers ordered to embark upon the mainland finally reach the bridge’s conclusion, meeting at the entrance and parking alongside each other, refusing to offer the smallest opening for a potentially unwanted visitor to squeeze through. To a litany of honking and hollering, the vans stand their ground and refuse any further passage to their homeland in the name of their autocrat’s order, the drivers that occupy their wheel shifting the gears into park as they prepare for a long-term occupation. Gathered behind the armoured vehicles, box trucks with holes filling their sides remain well-protected by the frontline, the drivers of those vehicles keeping their finger on an intentionally-repurposed parking brake at their side. Collectively angered, the growing crowd of vehicles held up at the bridge’s entrance begin taking control into their own hands, some pulling off to the side of the road anticipating an ordeal of some uncertain sort to unfold, whilst others play with the idea of ramming their automobiles into the frontlines out of retaliation. From the rear of the vans at the frontline, a swarm of armed guards squeeze through the slots afforded to them by their drivers, standing ground for the display. With their weapons held across their chests, the patrol unit stand in a few single file lines, watching an assortment of casual civilians step out of their vehicles and approach with balled fists. Ahead of all others, a man in a blue flannel shirt spouts vigour at the armed men that stand before him, seeming to have no fear of the repercussions that may ensue from his presentation. From within the armed battalion, a man unlike the others steps forward with a rifle of his own, eyes taking to the blue-shirted man for himself and hearing the hatred spilling from his spit-flying lips. “I’ve got somewhere to be! Move out of the-!” the resident exclaims, veins detailing themselves through the flesh that runs up his neck as he steps forward, unable to finish his thought before eyes widen and all emotions of rage and disgust are sent out of the window. With an emotionless expression, the man who descends from his pack to take a look at the crowd for himself readies his weapon, directing the barrel toward the approaching civilian before pulling the trigger without a moment’s hesitation. His life having flashed before his eye, the blue flannel-adorning gentleman wears gunshots into his chest as if they were an accessory, his anger having faded in the final moments of his life to make room for horror, dread, and outright fear. Sent into a panic, the crowd of once-merciless drivers thwarted from carrying on with their daily activities turn into frightened puppies, running for protection from a dog much larger, tougher, and undisciplined than themselves. Lowering the barrel of his weapon, Gamble stares at the corpse he’d sent collapsing to the ground before lifting his eyes to the dissipating crowd, some vehicles near the back of the congestion immediately turning around and veering off in the way they’d arrived. With his presence made known to those who’d yet to even take notice of his existence, Gamble awaits for word of this display to reach the ears he’d intended for it to reach, aware that a response will be made, and that the quality of life that he’d quietly maintained back at home and allowed to persist on the mainland has now permanently been altered in ways not even he can yet predict. | “Shhh, it’s okay!” Alicia whispers, cradling her precious infant with the softest of touch, the efforts she makes to quell its crying thwarted by the balled fist that pounds against her flat’s front door. “Get that- it’s Salem” the slightly-frazzled mother remarks, guiding her husband to the front of their living room, his heavy feet stepping across the ground as the heavy hand knocks at the same volume for a second time. “Where’s Emilio!?” Salem asks aloud, stepping through the now-open door before stepping into the kitchen, briefly checking for her friend’s figure before turning back for the living room. “He just left a couple minutes ago” Franklin responds, watching his guest’s head immediately dart toward him, her anticipation having not been set on receiving such an answer. “What!? Why!?” the woman quickly replies, grabbing her rifle’s strap with her right hand whilst letting it hang over the same shoulder, “I told him not to go anywhere!” “That’s what I tried to tell him to, but he bolted out the door and there was no way I was catching up to him” Franklin reassures, shrugging off the woman’s remark as she attempts to pass him by, “where are you going!?” “To go after Emilio, what the hell does it look like I’m doing!?” Salem responds, quickly doubling down on her point before any opposition can be voiced, “you didn’t think I’d come over with my rifle for tea time, did you!?” “What the hell is with you idiots going off to get yourselves hurt!?” Franklin shouts, aware that his baby remains enraptured by a flood of tears, but also conceding to the fact that peace will not be had for any of the apartment’s tenants until common sense is restored amongst its visitors. “What do you mean you idiots?” Salem retorts, stepping back as her much larger friend puts himself between her and the exit, “Emilio’s the dumbass that ran off for wherever he went- I’m just the one going off to keep an eye on him.” “It’s not like we agree with Emilio running off, but I’m pretty sure he can take care of himself if push comes to shove!” Alicia claims from the opposite end of the commons room, her hand gently resting against the side of her son’s head. “No, he can’t! And come to think about it- neither can the three of you!” Salem shouts back, watching the eyes on both of her friends widen at the quip, one that the hobbled markswoman cannot take back, and seemingly has no desire to. “All of this is a fucking joke! The apartment, the nine-to-fives, the hot water, the fucking bullshit- it’s all bullshit!” Salem continues to exclaim, her outburst only further sparking tears to stream down the infant’s face. “It’s a facade! It’s all fucking fake! It’s just a goddamn play-thing to keep fuckers like you satisfied so you can act like a meatshield when people like Charlotte wanna make a quick land grab! That’s all it ever is!” she utters, earning silence from the mother and father. Gasping for air as she limps back, Salem stands between the confused married couple she’s known since the outbreak first ravaged their initial world, one they’ve moved on from to such an extent that they’ve brought to light a new life who’d never experienced it. In silence, the sniper pans her eyes between the tower of a man and the exhausted woman seated in the opposite direction, only able to hear the crying baby as all three conscious tenants stare at each other. “That’s not just the case now- it’s always been that way, how the fuck do you think we even got here in the first place!?” Salem continues, constantly looking from one side of the room to the other as she speaks, “we’ve always been puppets to some selfish government, and that will always be the case as long as a world like this one continues to exist!” Pausing again, the sniper’s eyes begin to well up as she looks to each resident, whom remain as silent as she does through her momentary ceases of speech and stay in such a way when the words begin once more. “The only way to not be the pawns to someone more powerful is if you refuse someone that power over you- or you fucking die” Salem continues, speaking the words whilst looking at Franklin before setting her sights on Alicia and concluding, “no exceptions.” Taken aback by the aggressive display they’d figured their close friend was too above to stoop down to, Franklin looks across the room to his wife, who quietly reacts in a similar way. Disheartened at saying what she has, Salem looks away from the couple and sorrowfully stares at the child in Alicia’s arms, watching the mother half-heartedly return to her attempts at subduing the tearful presentation of displeasure. Frowning at the infant, Salem’s eyes soon fall to the ground as her shoulder shrugs off an attempt at comfort from Franklin, who extends his hand before finding himself rejected. “No” the visitor mutters aloud, pulling in a heavy breath before thrusting it from her lungs like the throw of a professional bowler, her head shaking as she turns away, pushing past the one-armed survivor, “I have to go.” Despite her injury, Salem’s determination to carry after her friend’s march into potential battle affords her the strength to beat Franklin’s attempt at persuading her otherwise, the rifle that hangs along the right side of her body smacking against the doorframe upon her departure. Without a word, Alicia tries to lull Buddy to sleep whilst staring forward, unable to truly make out what that brief and high-tensioned interaction was. | With a sour face, Courtney sits back in her lowered passenger’s seat with one foot pressing against the glove compartment, her frown and furrowed eyebrows held toward the line of vehicles standing in the way of her and those actually intending to pass by them. In her right hand, the woman casts a spinning stream of light along the roof just above her, the pink rotating fidget toy she holds between her fingers reflects the sunlight colourfully. Though all she can see at the front of the vehicular lineup are unfamiliar faces armed to the teeth, gadget spinning right hand woman knows full and well who is responsible for the holdup. “Hey, ‘Court?” Ethan wonders aloud, leaning into the half-open passenger’s window in an effort of catching the ear to his immediate superior, “Charlotte is around ten minutes out.” “Thanks, Ethan” Courtney replies, her eyes remaining glued to the obstruction in the roadway, looking past the few allied vehicles that sit in front of her own to remain attentive to the enemy’s every move. With both hands pressing against both legs, Gamble stares forward at the back of the box truck parked right in front of him, the vehicle purposefully positioned facing the way of his independence-seeking island. Eyes steady and remaining open for almost a minute between each blink, the autocrat’s ears take to the calm sound of rustling winds cooling the early spring warmth, decisive pleasure carried within each gust that sails past the tyrant. After a few minutes, the crowd that maintains their distance watches as a car confidently drives through the unusually-empty roadway. Standing off to the side, Nova Scotia’s populous refrain from interfering in the apparent stare down, but fail to bring themselves to leave the area in lieu of what altercation may be bound to break out before their very eyes- the potential devastation too alluring to pass up on the chance of witnessing. “Stop your vehicle!” an armed member of those resisting Gamble’s potential further encroachment demands, the barrel of his weapon held toward the windshield of a lonesome, gradually-slowing blue sedan. Unsure of what’s unfolding behind her car, Courtney peers into the rear-view mirror for a moment, but fails to see what the fuss happens to be about, her passive attention paid to the unimportant arrival. Putting his car in park, Emilio exits the front seat with his hands extended, “I’m only here for Courtney” the man calmly replies, showing his palms to the guard that approaches, “she’s my bartering partner.” Keeping his caution intact, the approaching guard refuses to remove his finger from the trigger he’s ready to pull at a moment’s notice, continuing to silently draw closer to the uninvited visitor. “He’s clean” a man exclaims from a few feet ahead of Courtney’s vehicle, prompting the woman to look toward her direct subordinate, eyes eventually returning to the rear-view mirror for whatever perspective she can muster. “Let him through” Donnie doubles down, watching the armed guard look back for a brief moment before lowering his weapon, stepping aside without uttering a word to grant the man passage. “Emilio’s here” Ethan remarks, aware of his superior’s trouble looking on at what unfolds behind her, informing her of his presence and immediately stepping aside to grant the woman exit from her vehicle. “Courtney, get back in the car” Donnie remarks, stepping away from the frontline of potential warfare before stopping in his tracks, a reassuring hand gesturing toward him from the man he joins the woman’s inner circle alongside. “Em’, what the hell are you doing here!?” Courtney quips aloud, slamming the front door shut as a second lonely vehicle appears just over the hill, her eyes too focused on the friend she’d demanded keep his distance to take much care over. “I don’t care who it is- I’m not leaving any of my friends to take on something like this without me being there” Emilio answers, drawing closer to the semi-disappointed, semi-appreciative acquaintance prepared for the battle to end all others. “I’m pretty sure your own friends would say the same thing about you” Ethan quips from a short few metres away, jutting his chin toward the oncoming vehicle neither of the survivors had paid any mind to, “I’m pretty sure I know who drives that car.” Following a similar line of thought, the patrolmen best-trained to defend their homeland step aside to grant the speeding vehicle access to the scene of interest, the tires on it kicking up the dirt that’s spent the last few months accumulating on the asphalt roadway with no cleaning to look forward to. Nearly burning rubber as its slows to an almost immediate stop, a white sedan parks a few metres ahead of Emilio’s and immediately fires its driver’s side door open, granting Salem freedom from the cramped front seat. “What the hell did I tell you!?” the sniper exclaims, limping out into the open with her friend and his paramotorist colleague in sight, “I swear, as much as I love you and the others, y’all can be some of the biggest idiots mankind has ever offered.” “Why are you here!?” Emilio retorts, stepping away from Courtney’s side to approach his still-wounded friend, an extended arm swatted away with Salem’s left hand whilst the woman’s right slaps her defiant confidant straight across the face. “I asked you the same damn thing” the bad leg-defying freebird spouts back, shaking her head as she stubbornly steps past her pal and joins the Nova Scotian frontline, “since you don’t seem interested in answering, I guess I don’t either.” Letting her firearm fall down the length of her arm and settle itself in her comforting hands, Salem stares at the ground to ensure there’s nothing in her way to trip over, the attention she pays to what resides beneath her rendering her incapable of noticing what happens a short ways across the road. “It’s a rather odd turn of fate to find yourselves fighting for the same woman you’d once taken everything from, now isn’t it?” Gamble utters through the receiver on his megaphone, taking a stand at the very centre of his defiant militia’s imposing facade. Hurrying to the side of both his limping acquaintance and his flight-loving colleague, Emilio joins Ethan and Donnie in composing the closest thing to a government representation the Nova Scotian side has to offer at the moment. “Even in spite of the fact that she’s willing to throw countless lives into the woodchipper just to retain what little control she has over Nova Scotia as is- the two of you still manage to uncover new common ground to stand on” the autocrat carries on, earning the full attention of those standing across a barren strip of asphalt from him. “I suppose I’m in no place to blame you. For as much naval superiority as my island can offer, Nova Scotia still has an abundance of troops that I- well- that I just can’t” Gamble continues, a feigned smile appearing through his thin lips, “if you’re one to err on the safest bet, I do understand why you’d believe those you align with now would fall under that category.” Nostrils flaring, Emilio squints past the burning sun that just begins to spiritually count down the hour or so that remains until sundown, a scathing grimace carried toward the surprisingly-imposing autocrat. Unphased, Courtney wears a similar expression to the one that the wounded markswoman does, though Salem’s visage is rooted within a deep and unapologetic disappointment in how pathetic the supposed awe-striking tyrant appears to be. With a passing glance at the car Courtney had stepped out of, Emilio’s mind wraps itself around a thought he not only can’t rid from his mind, but has no want to in the slightest. Stepping forward, his hands reach onto the floormat his friend’s non-dominant foot had sat upon prior to his arrival and claims the megaphone that awaits its intended use, his proceeding steps carrying him closer to the open road, standing at the centre of the two conflicted halves of the post-apocalyptic community. “What is this about? Is this about power? Is this about getting leverage over someone you don’t like?” Emilio rebukes, calling out the intention of the man representing a nation desiring a long yearned-for rebirth, “help me understand what it is that you want out of this.” With a squint in his eye, Gamble watches the survivor continue to draw nearer, a genuine smirk consuming the corner of his mouth. “Emilio, get back here” Courtney hisses, unable to prevent her friend from putting himself in harm’s way, the desire she is refused seeing the light of prompts her accompanying guards to prepare themselves for the first sign of trouble. Facing the music, the man who’d watched the old world fall and slowly rip everything he’d had in life away over time now enters the open waters of a shark ready to repeat the process in what ashes remained from his prior life. “As far as I’m concerned, Charlotte is willing to throw lives into battle for her own interests- and you’re willing to do the same” Emilio proceeds, returning the megaphone to his lips as he closes in on the halfway point between each enemy line. “At least when we fought Charlotte for our independence, we had the balls to put ourselves in the line of fire for it” the man continues, concluding his advancement at the exactly midway point, “I have a hard time believing you’d do the same.” Aware of the undertone to the proposal the man across from him makes, Gamble lowers his chin and lets out a genuine chuckle, amused at the challenge enough to let a smile of true levity emerge over his chagrin. “Hold your fire until further notice, gentlemen” the autocrat commands, tapping the man at his left with his hand before emerging from within the rebel forces, closing the distance between himself and the closest thing he has to comparison to- the living remnants of the first rebellion. “Is this what you would like, Emilio?” Gamble wonders aloud, extending his arms just as the man across from him recently had, displaying his cooperation with the once-rebel, now-follower. “You could do with me what you will. You’d almost certainly die for it, but you have access to me that only my secretary does” the tyrant carries on, lowering himself to the ground to place the megaphone at his feet, “if you want me to put my life on the line, then right now- you control my fate.” “That’s not what I want” Emilio responds, his reply quickly interrupted by the potentate, who challenges the rebuttal for its honesty. “Is it not? If you can tell me with absolute certainty that’s not what you wanted of me, then that must mean you know what you do want” Gamble rebukes, the conversation one of designed intimacy that only he and the man he’d only spoken to once before this moment are allowed to experience. “So please enlighten me to what you truly want” Gamble pleads, a squint in his eye as he leans in, matching the shortened distance with a lowered voice. “I want to know why you have to resort to this. I want to know why you’d be willing to throw the only thing left of the old world into chaos just for some meaningless freedom that you pretty much have in every way other than writing at this point” Emilio answers, the haste of his reply proving the genuinity behind the inquiry. “What do you think they’re saying?” Salem inquiries, quietly seething at her inability to protect the man that stands within her line of sight though she’s helpless to aid in the need of crisis. “I don’t care what it is, I just hope Charlotte gets here fast” Courtney responds, hiding her distrust of the Prince Edward Island dictator in remarks so scathing it’s hard to decipher between disgust and concern, “I don’t want him up there anymore than you do.” Lifting his chin, Gamble straightens out his posture and passes a glance off at the group of Nova Scotians having initially set out to descend upon his island, their trip one he still vehemently refuses them the chance to take. Thinking to himself, the autocrat keeps his lips pressed together as the man he stands within the reach of refuses to take advantage of the silence, not needing to speak now that his only quest is to listen for his answers. “I suppose you can consider it something akin to future-proofing. I can see the tides that are to come, and I want to make sure they’re broken up before they make landfall, do you understand?” Gamble begins, letting his hands join together at his lap as the wind begins to carry a seaside breeze over those in attendance to the evening’s outcome. “The world that came before this was made unobtainable by the powers that be. I saw them with my own eyes put their own interest ahead of the people’s” the tyrant proceeds, staring at the sky and the newly-appearing clouds, the green grass and the sandy asphalt, and anywhere that Emilio’s eyes aren’t, “and the issue was never that, it was the fact that the people stood by and they took it. They were being taken advantage of, milked dry for everything they had, and did nothing.” Staring at the man with distaste, Emilio continues to prevent himself from interrupting in spite of the great desire to call out the inadequacies within his adversary’s remarks, denying himself the ability to refuse his ears of their retort. “They didn’t do that because they were stupid. No, that was never the case. They were predisposed to believe that the powers that be were just too mighty for them to ever overcome” Gamble continues, his eyes taking to the heavens above. “Of course, now I come along and I look the mighty powers that be in the eye and refuse them the right to think that they are the ones in control” he proceeds, finally returning his pupils to those of the visibly judgemental sights that his disappointingly-oppositional ideological enemy views him with. “You know, I see you. I see that stare, and I know that you are repressing a lot of hateful feelings toward me, but I beg of you to see this situation from my side of view” Gamble chirps, now turning the conversation back to an inspection of the silent figure across from him, reading the body language and unchanging mug his eyes bear witness to, “don’t you see why I would look at Charlotte and her post-apocalyptic fortune-pit for the oppressive power that I know you know it to be?” Still met with the unrelenting silent reaction, Gamble lets the pause settle between himself and his emboldened foe, another gust of wind whipping violently past them. “Ask yourself why Charlotte would’ve wanted to prevent me from exposing myself as the true overseer of Prince Edward Island. If I was such a truly awful figure, why would she not want to clear herself of any involvement?” the autocrat continues, “instead, she takes credit for my authority. She props up my rule as beneficial.” “That changes nothing” Emilio quickly retorts, aware that the man of lesser height and much greater influence will only continue to spin around his every point to endless abandon. “Maybe so, but what it does serve the purpose of is reinforcing my point” Gamble responds, quick to reassure the man standing before him whilst also correcting him in the same breath, “she has no genuine reason to want me gone. She wants me ousted because I pose a threat to her grand plan.” “And what do you think that is?” Emilio responds, wanting whatever clarity he can earn from the figure he learns more about with each passing breath. “To continue to inflict her dominance as the last true society in the world upon whomever she can. Why else would she refuse her colonies the chance to refine their own oil? What other excuse does she have for short-changing Rockford before the community revolted?” Gamble answers, pausing as he lifts a finger. “As a matter of fact, how would I know that she wouldn’t plan on doing the same thing to my island if she had the chance?” the tyrant recommits himself to asking, his head pulling back as he presents more genuine emotion than he’d ever had with those he’s closest to. “If anything, my opposition to her direct influence over Prince Edward Island may be the only thing ensuring our continued prosperity” Gamble continues, “our sovereignty, our way of life, the continuation of Quebecois culture?” “You don’t give a shit about any of that” Emilio replies, immediately earning himself the shake of Gamble’s head, his agreement voiced instantly. “No, you’re right- I do not. But the fact of the matter is, it was Charlotte who pushed the vast majority of the French-speaking population onto the island in the first place” the separatist rebel voices, “if we’re being honest- had it not been for me refusing her the chance, she would’ve turned the island into her world of discards anyway.” “Probably. And as a matter of fact, I agree with most- if not all- of what you’ve said thus far” Emilio responds, finally uttering the most coherent reply he’d offered all day, “but what that doesn’t change is the fact that you could’ve kept Charlotte on her toes from one bridge’s length away until your dying days. Instead, you’re here. You, and your military, and your armoury, and your influence, it’s all here. The two sides at least cooperated until now, and you’re taking that away.” Finally without an immediate response, Gamble composes himself and retains his coupled hands, staring into the face of the man that defies his argument and makes the most genuine attempt at humbling him thus far. “You can call it future proofing, you can call it a predictive measure, you can call it whatever the fuck you want. That does not change what it truly is-” Emilio argues, stepping forward to get his face within centimetres of the autocrat’s own, “-a power grab.” “She’s here” Courtney mutters aloud, looking back at the line of military vehicles that approach from the same direction that her friends had, the car at the very front of the line being the one that takes her attention most notably. Glancing over his shoulder, Emilio joins Gamble in spotting the chancellor’s incoming posse, their momentary gaze fixing upon her before the once-mayor’s continued speech reclaims the focus of the now-authoritarian. “This isn’t something you had to do, this is an outcome you chose” Emilio continues, aware of the limited time he has before the chancellor strips him of this opportunity and corrals him away- eager to take advantage of every last second he’s got left, “people are going to die, you are going to ruin lives. You’re gonna take away mothers and fathers from their children, and you’re going to rid Nova Scotian- and yourselves- into extinction.” Now taking his opportunity to be silent, Gamble looks the man he’d once spoken of from such a position of authority that the common level they now speak from is almost alien to him. “And as much as you can try to pin this on Charlotte, the first move was ultimately made by you” Emilio proceeds, practically able to count down the seconds of time he has remaining once he hears the screeching tires his back is directed toward. “That makes this your war. That means people will die because you ordered it, lives will be changed because you called for it. Whatever happens next- it’s your fault” Emilio concludes, able to barely hear the opening doors of the cavalry that finally arrives, “I don’t see why you bother questioning whose side I’m on, because there’s no one good reason for either of them. You have more boats than she does, fewer people than she does, and just as much of a leg to stand on.” “Emilio!” Charlotte screams, anger wrapping around her like a snake coiling around its prey, the effort she exhausts practically suffocating her just as that same serpent does. In silence, the Nova Scotian chancellor marches past her paramotorist confidant, the woman’s subordinates and the hobbled acquaintance of the only man who draws her ire more than the figure interrupting her civilian’s travel. Seething to himself, Emilio takes two slow steps back before spinning the rest of the way around, his back turned to the breakaway island’s authoritarian just in time to see the disapproving mug of his de facto superior. “You got yourself in my good graces just enough for me to not have your ass locked away in some basement somewhere, do you really wanna throw it away getting in some goddamn spat with a sociopathic asshat?” Charlotte hisses, her voice kept between the pair. Pressing his lips together, Emilio looks into Charlotte’s eyes as the armed reinforcements she’d brought along follow her forward, those that Gamble had allocated to accompany him doing much the same. Without providing so much as a reason, the man’s expression turns into one of trouble as it falls to the ground, eyes following suit whilst the chancellor watches on, noticing the sudden change without reason to provide it. “What’s wrong?” Charlotte wonders aloud, passing a look in the direction of Gamble, a reaction that- without being privy to- surprised the rebellion leader. Trying to piece together an explanation behind the change in visage, the woman’s eyes turn into a deep squint that she soon carries back to the survivor, “what did he say?” she proceeds to ask, still uncertain. As if triggered by a sudden thought, Emilio’s downtrodden expression shifts into one of momentary inquisition, the idea popping into his head sparking a change in posture. “How long does it take to restart a refinery?” the man inquires, looking straight ahead at the small group he’d departed from minutes prior, their unsure faces finding him from out of the crowd. “I don’t know. I took over the one up here before it was shut down, why?” Charlotte responds, passing another glance to the man she intends on confronting, “did he say something about the refinery?” Shaking his head, Emilio answers the question with the reaction alone, still not uttering a word as he sifts through the thoughts within his head, as yet unable to fully make out the jumbled mess of information that consistently floods his mind. “This is as much about power to him as it is to you” he finally speaks once more, lifting his chin to look the chancellor in the eyes, “I’m not the one to depend on for bipartisan advice, ‘cause I’d tell you to send him away with what he wants.” “That’s not going to happen” Charlotte assures, aware that the man desires to hear almost anything other than that, but not wanting to present him with any hope for an alternative. “The man has now walked onto my side of the bridge and killed one of my residents. He’s not walking back with a reward for it” the chancellor replies, immediately watching a grin sprout over the face of the man beside her. “You’ve got quite the nerve to be smiling at me after all of this” Charlotte warns, lifting her eyebrows as the armed squadron she enters the conflict alongside finally catches up to her. “Don’t say that as if you care. If you truly cared about who lives or dies in here- aside from a select few- you wouldn’t be so eager to get your hands dirty and magazines expended” Emilio rebukes, looking the woman in the eyes with equal malice and disdain, “the two of you are no better than each other.” Turning away to begin his return to those he aligns with close enough to consider friends, Emilio’s journey back is thwarted by the outstretched hand of the chancellor, who prevents him from leaving on such a bitter note. “Alright, what does that make you then? A saint? A judas?” Charlotte replies, cutting back at the man with the same slice of a verbal knife as he’d swung at her with, “you, John, and the rest of them cared for no one but yourselves in New York and Sheol.” Letting his smile fall into a similar smirk, Emilio hangs his head and nods to himself, allowing the woman to repeat her question without interruption. “If Gamble and I are no better than each other for throwing lives into the blender in the name of a greater fight, then what does that make you?” Charlotte questions, waiting for a few seconds to pass before watching the man look up with his eyes forward, head eventually drifting toward her direction before stopping halfway between. Though his head sits in the space between his chancellor and his closest allies, Emilio’s eyes hold firm on their stare toward the woman beside him, his voice carrying the same confidence as the hold in his gaze. “It makes me mature enough to be honest with myself-” he answers, nodding with satisfaction before taking one step forward, prepared to leave the woman behind to take part in whatever outcome she’s the second perpetrator of, “-and admit that what it made me was wrong.” Without so much as another huff, Emilio retires to the concerned acquaintances that had spent every moment between his departure and return in a nervous wreck over whether or not he’d ever return. “What the hell happened up there?” Courtney questions aloud, able to get the question off just as her friend returns, another strong gust of wind carrying itself over the shoreside scenery. Looking back as her newly-re dyed blonde locks whip with the breeze, Charlotte watches her once-dreaded adversary reunite with those closest to her, able to accept that they fight on the same side begrudgingly. Staring back, Emilio pauses before offering his friend the answer to her question, a furrow coming over his eyebrows as his eyes set themselves upon Salem, who awaits his reply just as the rest do. “As long as the two of them are manning their separate sides, Gamble’s right-” Emilio confesses, nodding to the hobbled woman as her expression shifts for the worst, “-war is inevitable.” Slightly agape, Salem’s mouth holds a sorrowful frown as she stares into Emilio’s face, her attention soon joining those she stands within in redirecting itself toward the combat-ready frontlines, the final metres between them soon stepped upon and passed by. “Let’s cut to the chase. I know you had spies outside the compound’s walls and you know that I had an ulterior motive behind the inspection earlier today” Charlotte begins, opening the line of dialogue with the offer of cutting it short, “what’s this all about, Gamble?” “You know what this is about, Charlotte. You’ve known since the moment you started loosening your stranglehold on Prince Edward Island, and I explicitly told you almost a year ago” Gamble admits, opening the floodgates to whatever may result from this conflict. “Well if this is about the island’s independence, you’re wasting your time... It’s not happening” Charlotte responds, as uninterested in talking as the man across from her is, “it’s put up or shut up time, champ. Show me what you’ve got.” Puckering his lips, Gamble shrugs his shoulders rather animatedly and tucks his hand into the right flap of his beige trench coat. “I assure you it’s not a firearm, but if you insist-” the autocrat replies, nullifying all doubts before dipping his hand behind the obstruction, returning with a makeshift device complete with a retractable antenna and all, a satisfied grin coming over the rebellion leader’s face, “-how about this... I’ve got a bomb!” Not visually standing at attention, Charlotte’s cautious approach is mirrored by those that stand their ground alongside her, the carefully waving hand of the island’s hidden-no-longer leader gesturing them down from their momentary exposure to subdued shock and horror. “Settle down, settle down- I don’t have it on me” Gamble remarks aloud, giving the device a gentle shake before holding it within coupled hands at his lap, “and don’t worry... this isn’t the only trigger.” “What’s your game, Gamble?” Charlotte interjects, watching the curious look she receives for asking it be returned to her, “you’ve got a bomb... great. Go ahead and explain the reason for telling me that I know you have.” With his eyes falling to the ground in front of her as if he’s disappointed the fun was ceased before he could take part in it, Gamble grins wide and nods to himself, a passing glance taken toward the group distantly behind the chancellor. “Well, honestly I came here with a very different plan in mind” the tyrant confesses, returning his line of sight to the woman he opposes to such a vehement degree that it almost brings him genuine pain. “Those box trucks behind the vans just behind me are filled with fresh zombies. They’re the quick kind- the recently-deceased, light-on-their-feet kind” Gamble explains, shrugging as he speaks, “I was going to order my men to open fire if you didn’t agree to let the island break off for good.” Snarling as her nostrils flare, Charlotte sits with her boiling anger as the man across from her takes yet another look at the man who’d preceded her. “But you see, I suppose you ought to be grateful that Emilio has chosen to stand by you, because- and I don’t put this lightly- he’s the only reason I’m willing to compromise” Gamble tacks on, watching the woman pass a look over her shoulder in the man’s general vicinity before looking back to him. “He’s reminded me that these actions I was planning to take made me no better than yourself. Stubborn pond scum too fixated on nabbing power from the clutches of my opposition to see that I’ve blinded myself and become just what I hate about you” Gamble remarks, lifting his chin as he reaches for his tie with a free hand, “our conversation- as brief as you ensured it would be- has allowed me to realise that there is a higher road I shouldn’t restrain myself from trying to take with you.” “And that’s what?” Charlotte questions, her trench-like scowl only deepening, “laying your cards on the table in hoping you can justify whatever it is you’ll do to me if I refuse by arguing that you gave it your best shot?” Shaking his head to respectfully scoff at the notion, Gamble extends his arms out at each side briefly before recoupling his hands, “let’s not pretend like you have much of a choice here. It doesn’t matter if you let the people take arms against me or not- you cannot win.” Bowing her head, Charlotte appears to wear the guise of defeat as she frowns, biting into her bottom lip as she realises the man has her cornered with little room to breathe let alone make work of. “Charlotte, the amount of rebuilding you would have to do to simply make it to the shoreline of Charlottetown would be near immeasurable, why bother kidding yourself?” Gamble questions, lowering his brows to install a more shallow empathy in the woman’s direction, “your dream is a fallacy.” Keeping to herself, Charlotte stares at the ground before looking away, guiding her face toward the people that stand by, waiting for the conflict to either take part or pass like a rainstorm on an otherwise sunny day. “Oh, don’t hang your head like a sad puppy. Have some dignity, woman” Gamble remarks, watching the chancellor’s back turn toward him as she begins stepping away, the display presented to him sparking a subdued, yet noticeable irritation. “Please, just let this be over with and just cut your losses. We’ll leave you to be just as you leave us to be” Gamble proclaims, still trying to lure the woman back into accepting his request. Sucking on her bottom lip, Charlotte shakes her head as she departs from the man, who grows slightly more impatient the longer he’s left with no answer and a refusal of her attention. With a faint squint in one eye, Gamble thinks quietly to himself as he stares at the ground his nemesis had just recently stood upon before kneeling toward it. Sitting with a symphony of thoughts as she steps no less slow than that of the undead horde her community was built to keep out, Charlotte’s retreat grants her the opportunity to be with herself and consider all options on the table, beginning to feel the weight of the few choices she has to sift through. “What would your husband think of you?” Widened on command, Charlotte’s return to the grounds exclusive to Nova Scotia stops immediately, her hairs blowing in the next powerful gust of wind as the words that such a recurring feat of nature carries from one end of the bullhorn to her ears. Pulling his lips away from the megaphone, Gamble looks on at the chancellor’s halted retreat, aware that he’d struck a nerve with the question. “Come to think of it- if she’d had the chance to grow up- what would your daughter have thought of you?” For a few seconds, Charlotte’s only breath comes in the form of a long inhale, the breath that she takes soon escaping from her lungs at twice the speed it was pulled in with. His emotionless and hollow guise resuming its possession of his face, Gamble watches as his adversary stirs with the chord he’d added to her internal symphony, taking pleasure in the same thing that prompts Courtney to stand by in great horror. “Charlotte” the woman to Emilio’s left calls out, just loud enough for the chancellor to hear it in spite of the trance-like pause her retreat takes on, the response she wishes to receive not only evading her, but refusing her. Gritting her teeth, Charlotte’s right hand slowly makes for the grip of the pistol that sits in its holster at her hip, something that whilst he doesn’t notice, Gamble would still take little concern over. “He’s trying to tempt you, Charlotte” Emilio calls out, the wind beginning to pick up in both speed and frequency just as he speaks, allowing his words to only reach the stoic chancellor. Grasping her firearm tightly, the Nova Scotian ruler squeezes on the leather piece from a place of superhuman rage, the bait that’s been put out to lure her in one that a part of her doesn’t mind taking even the slightest bite of. “Emilio was wrong about one thing... I am better than she is” Gamble whispers to himself, the brow over his left eye lifting whilst his right remains unmoved, “I am willing to die for this.” “Don’t” Salem quips, reaching out to take Courtney by the arm the moment she steps forward, intent on bring the chancellor back to solid and unconflicted ground. “She’s going to shoot him!” Charlotte’s right hand woman hisses back, a claim that the wounded sniper is more than well aware of. “And if you drag her away before she does what she’s gonna, she’ll play those same damn words in her head until she drives herself crazy” the limping survivor retorts, “I speak from experience.” With a squint, Courtney looks into Salem’s eyes before pulling her arm free, begrudgingly remaining in her place whilst staring darts at her frozen superior. Alone with her thoughts and a rough minute removed from the beckoning that had caught her like a bad habit, Charlotte stays unmoved, her right foot one step in front of her left, and right arm bent to grant her hand access to her firearm. With her teeth pressing together, the chancellor’s eyes finally blink for the first time since she’d stopped in her tracks, the teeth she’d pressed together like a hydraulic press finally granted relief. With python-like strength, the grasp Charlotte takes on her pistol is alleviated gradually whilst her right leg eases up, granting her the chance to pick her left off the ground and carry on with her departure. “Now what, sir?” a man whispers to his autocratic figurehead, unsure of what the casual and dismissive response they receive is meant to entail. “Just wait for it” Gamble responds confidently, watching Charlotte’s militia retreat after her, assuming that their part in the conflict has come to pass. Finally closing the distance between herself and Courtney, Charlotte returns to familiar ground, but remains two steps away from the small group of her once-foes and acquaintances alike. “Are you alright?” the paramotorist inquires, reaching out to rest her hand on the chancellor’s shoulder, only to find the woman pulling it away, refusing to remain within immediate reach of the survivors. “Hey, Emilio?” Charlotte mutters, looking at the man with her eyebrows raised, the look he pays her affording the chance to persist with her question, “do you remember how you said you were honest with yourself?” With a squint, Emilio looks at the woman in silence for a moment before cautiously nodding his head, earning a more enthusiastic nod from that of the woman across from him. “Good... That’s good...” Charlotte responds, mustering a smile with wide nostrils that soon divulges into the expression of unspeakable hatred, eyes burning with a passion for violence before she can even part her lips to conclude her response, “... ‘cause I’m in the wrong now too.” Within one quick motion, Charlotte rips her weapon from her holster and turns back toward the island’s frontline, taking quick aim with her pistol and pulling the trigger with Gamble in sight. “Fire!” a member of Gamble’s battalion exclaims, ironically one of the last to trade gunshots with their Nova Scotian contemporaries, the silence that had filled the space between each force now being met with more brass jackets hitting the ground than the compound had ever seen since its inception. “Get down!” Courtney exclaims, tackling Charlotte to the ground before dragging her behind the cover of the open passenger’s door she’d initially stepped out from. Taking part in their respective orders, Emilio and Salem follow suit in lunging behind the vehicle as bullets whip through the air, a shared and renewed chorus of screams and cries for help coming over the civilians who’d refused to listen to their instincts and leave when afforded the chance to. “What the hell did you just do!?” Courtney screams, chopping Charlotte’s chest before covering both sides of her face at a new round of enemy fire coming toward their direction. “He’s gonna blow up the bridge and keep us from getting over there anyway, I figured I might as well kill him while I had the chance!” the chancellor shouts back, peeking around the door to read the positions that her adversaries take against her onslaught. “Shit, get in the car now!” Charlotte orders, pushing her friend against the passenger’s seat before hurrying away from cover, offering no more explanation than that six letter command itself. Watching the armoured vans pull away from Prince Edward Island’s frontline, the chancellor sets her sights on protection elsewhere as the first real wave of her adversary’s defence takes its position. Staring with anger at the dead body just a short few metres away from him, one of the resistance’s members prevents himself from firing his weapon anymore than he already has, eyes welling up with the tears of heartbreak as a hand rests on his shoulder. “Your brother was in the wrong place at the wrong time” Gamble remarks, having been spared by the natural wall of Canada’s early spring winds of the bullet that had ripped through the chest of his subordinate, “we have business to take care of.” Nodding, the bearded militant follows Gamble past the row of armoured vans and around the nearest box truck, their journey taking them to different sides of the vehicle, but the same front seat they inevitably share. Removing a pistol from his beige trench coat, the autocrat lifts his barrel into the air and fires three separate times, issuing his signal to those along his line of defence. On cue, the men at the wheel of his swat vans pull out of the way of their second row, opening the ground for the box trucks to back into, their trailer doors facing the warzone they prepare to leave behind. With his firearm still held out the window, Gamble waits for a few seconds for his trucks to get into position, allowing a few bullets to fire off in their direction before shooting into the air just one time. On command, the bearded getaway driver that accompanies his autocratic ruler pulls back on the parking brake off to his seat’s side, exposing the trailer’s interior to the same sunset they prepare to leave Nova Scotia with the memory of. “Oh shit” Courtney murmurs to herself, her eyes widening as she takes a prolonged peak past the passenger’s door, watching the various trailer doors swing up and grant freedom to what’s contained within. “Fuck!” Salem shouts, instinctively taking aim with her rifle whilst leaning against the trunk of their paramotorist friend’s entry vehicle, the sound of terror and awe the residents that remain react with only helping to aid their blood in going cold. “Aarrgghh!” vast swarms of the undead hiss in unison, violently screeching as they’re freed to feast upon the Nova Scotian populous, their feet sprinting across the truck bed and down the ramp triggered to fall once the door had been opened. At once, the undead run from the containment of their box truck homes and take after whatever moves, quickly emptying into the once-safe compound at breakneck speed- affording Gamble’s box truck convoy the clearance to begin racing home. == Rise == Sitting in a rocking chair within the corner of her room, Katie takes a ballpoint pen to the empty papers of her journal, resting the leather bound booklet atop her blanket-covered lap. “It’s beginning to get warmer now that April starts tomorrow, but it’s still ridiculously cold. That applies double since it should at least be above freezing by now” she writes, able to see the ink scrawlings she leaves across the pages through the lone candle burning beside her.
With only a twin bed in the corner opposite Katie’s rocking chair, the dorm she shares with her older business partner exists without a window to look out of. In its place, a single lightbulb sits above the door they keep shut at all times, both preferring to keep it off due to the unwelcoming shade of vibrant white it bathes the room in. Just a few short metres away, a radiator sits near the room’s corner, offering what little warmth it can to defend against the Newfoundland early spring. “Max hasn’t called since the third day we were here. I haven’t talked to Blaise or Aude since I left either” Katie continues to write, documenting whatever thoughts she has in lieu of spending her days cramped within the box she resides in with nothing to do. “I haven’t spoken to Astor since the first week we even got to the island” she proceeds, “from what I was led to believe before we departed for Newfoundland, he’s back on Orleans Island overseeing the skeleton crew Gamble left.” Folding her hands atop her lap, Katie lets her pen sit within her index and middle fingers whilst she stares forward, looking at the made bed she and her roommate leave behind with a smile. “Harvey and I get along well enough though. At this point, I’m not sure I have many other friends beside him” she pens, pausing as she lifts her journal closer to the flame, which begins to burn in a direction far enough away from the papers to leave it in a half-shadow. “We’ve gotten to know each other better. I think he’s a bit thrown off by the age gap, but I’m beginning to think we might both like each other a bit more than we let on” Katie documents, reaching the end of one page before flipping to the next. “He’s a decent guy, doesn’t come on too strong, seems to know who he is and what he wants- which he should being thirty and all-” she proceeds, placing her pen to the paper yet again before her efforts appear thwarted. “May all personnel- both off and on-duty- report to the commons area” a voice remarks through the loudspeaker sitting at the end of the hallway just beyond the door to Katie’s dorm, “again, may all personnel- both off and on-duty- report to the commons area.” With her eyebrows lifted, the woman stares at the end of her room the announcement had resonated from, unable to go without hearing it just as anyone else tucked away within the comfort of their resting area. “Hey, I was just coming to get you” Harvey calls out, watching his roommate stick her head through the hole of a heavy sweater, the added layer joining the pair of pyjamas that she’d put on. “I figured as much, that’s why I left you a note” Katie responds, shaking her head with displeasure as she joins the man in wandering down the hallway’s length, making for the same centre of activity as those that join them, “I was only wearing a tanktop and underwear- it took me a second to get dressed.” “I hear you. I just saw a poor guy scamper through the halls in a towel- he’d just gotten out of the shower” Harvey replies, wearing a black, long-sleeved shirt and a pair of grey khakis, “at least you’re getting more acclimated to the cold. I wouldn’t have expected you to be lounging around naked all day two weeks ago.” “I bet you wouldn’t have minded that thought” Katie jokes, looking to her side to see the semi-uncomfortable expression her roommate returns to her, trying to pass her a smile and dismiss the quip whilst subduing the odd feeling the remark leaves him with. “Oh, come on. It’d be one thing if you were in your fifties, but a ten year age difference isn’t as big when you’re both adults as a twenty or thirty-year one would be” she doubles down, rolling her eyes. “I’m just not used to dating younger than a year or two- let alone thirteen years younger” Harvey replies, keeping pace with the woman who shrugs at the same notion that leaves him feeling uneasy, “besides, I haven’t dated in general since pre-outbreak. This is all fairly new territory for me.” Nearing the hallways end and already trailing behind the majority of their peers, Katie pulls Harvey off to the side, keeping out of the path those they’re surrounded by continue to traverse. “I may be more than a grade-level younger than you, but I’m a grown woman. I get that you do, but you shouldn’t feel bad for thinking of me as more than just a puppy you have to look after” the woman proclaims within a hushed tone, keeping their privacy intact. “I don’t even know what I feel, Katie. Us swapping kisses over a half-drunk bottle of wine barely qualifies as a romantic gesture let alone an opening to something more, alright?” Harvey retorts, keeping a respectful and welcoming reflection to his voice. “I don’t know what way I feel about you. Am I open to thinking of you romantically? Yes. It is as black and white as that? No” he continues, “if anything, my reluctance has less to do with the age gap and more to do with the world we’re in.” Her face flushed with the same harsh tones of the lightbulb at the end of the hallway they stand within that prompts them to choose candlelight in their dorm, Katie stares into the eyes of her colleague as his sight wanders toward the corridor they’ve yet to travel. “Listen. Right now we’ve got bigger fish to fry with whatever the hell they want out of us right now, so let’s not get ourselves in trouble for lagging behind” Harvey concludes, taking the woman softly by each arm. “You’re cool. You hold your own and you’re much easier to get along with than most people I’ve had to lead by the hand on these sorts of missions, so that works in your favour” the man proceeds, shrugging his head toward the direction they’re meant to head toward, “let’s have this conversation later, alright?” Though she’s disappointed to hear of his hesitancy for any reason, Katie accepts the issues at hand their attention is better spent being levied toward. Nodding along with the proposition of the gentleman she’s come to feel affectionately for, the woman steps ahead and begins leading the charge toward the commons area their presence is awaited by. “Well this is unexpected” Harvey soon remarks, having journeyed through the refinery’s inner workings and various passageways to find an awaiting face he would’ve taken hours to guess would drop by if tasked with doing so. “That is an understatement” Katie replies, just barely making it through the tunnel that leads to the larger area before her eyes are taken by a man awaiting the growing crowd from the front of an adjacent stage. Amongst the crowd, various Prince Edward Island residents and loyalists- once-Quebecois and regular survivors just trying to settle into a home- speak within their inner circles, pondering the presence of whom they both do and don’t know. “Who’s that guy?” being asked as frequently within some circles as “why is he here?” is in others, Katie and Harvey join the ever-growing crowd full of speculative residents just as their guest begins to speak. “Good evening. Thank you for entering in a calm, collected, and orderly manner” a woman with an empty smile remarks, her hands coupled together at her lap and blonde hair tied back in a bun, “it’s at this time that I’d like to open the floor for our guest to speak. So, ladies and gentlemen, please be respectful. The floor is all yours, Mr. Gamble.” Stepping back, the woman grants the standing microphone to the hidden overseer of the island’s activities, who takes this moment to seemingly emerge from the shadows for the first time. “Thank you. And thank you- again- to the workers that followed this woman’s directions with such respect and order” Gamble begins, coupling his hands behind his back as he stares out at the collected audience standing before him. “My name is Andrew Gamble. Many years ago, I was a member of Prince Edward Island’s standing regiment. As you know, that changed when the outbreak took hold and we absorbed our ranks into that of Charlotte Walters’ Nova Scotia settlement” the man greets, offering a brief introduction to those unfamiliar to him, “since that day, I have been left quietly representing Mrs. Walters. On her behalf, I have been running the island’s daily activities for the better part of the last five years.” “What the hell is happening?” Harvey whispers to himself, though his voice is just loud enough for his colleague to overhear. “I thought he wasn’t supposed to tell people he was in charge of the island?” Katie questions back, watching the eyes of the man widen as his chin lowers slightly. “Why do you think I’m asking what’s happening?” the man retorts, clarifying his uncertainty over the unprecedented action. “Unlike the assumption many of you had, it was not Charlotte Walters that ordered for the resumed operation of this refinery- but I” Gamble continues, announcing his presence to the confined group unlike what he’d once agreed to. “And unlike what you may have initially thought, this refinery will not be supplying additional power to Nova Scotia” the man continues, a hollow smile coming over his visage, “this refinery will exclusively supply Prince Edward Island with continued fuel and power.” “Why is he saying all of this now?” Katie worriedly questions back, whispering her inquiry to the man that stands just centimetres behind her, “he’s not supposed to tell anyone other than his guards about being in charge!” “Katie, I know that” Harvey responds, lowering his face toward the woman to keep surrounding ears from listening in, “I’m just as clueless about this as you are.” “Furthermore, it is also of my command that half of you will be returning home to Prince Edward Island by the end of the day” Gamble continues, upright posture and confident expression retained throughout the announcement’s duration, “those of you that are not of Quebecois decent, or those of you that live on the Nova Scotian-New Brunswick side of the Confederation Bridge and wish to remain there, will be taken back home by a separate vessel.” With widened eyes, Harvey stares forward to the man speaking onstage whilst his younger colleague remains in the dark as to what’s unfolding, a visible look of distress and worry carried across his face. “Those of you that remain will be joined with added security. Nova Scotia hasn’t taken too kindly to this endeavour, and wishes to continue negotiations over the future of this plant in private” Gamble proceeds, further clarifying his hidden intentions to those in the know of his plot. “Under no circumstance do I want the people that stay here to take worry over the additional security- it is merely an added measure to combat potential forces unassociated with Nova Scotia” Gamble continues, feeding lies to the gullible incapable of discerning them from truth, whilst further opening the metaphorical floor to those aware of the spoken fallacies, “the island will have full control over this refinery whilst negotiations continue, and with that- full responsibility over it.” Listening to the man’s continued speech, Katie is pulled back to the sanctuary of the hallway she and her love interest had ventured down just a short minute prior, the tug at her inner elbow allowing Harvey to lead her toward quieter corners. “We need to get our things together now” the man remarks, keeping his voice low enough for it not to echo down the hallway’s lengths. “What is it!?” Katie proclaims, pulling her arm back to free herself from the grasp of her colleague, watching him stop mid-retreat and turn back for her, “what did you figure out!?” Hissing through parted lips as he holds a finger in front of his face, Harvey urges the woman to quiet herself down, passing a look toward the direction he’d begun walking for to ensure they’re alone for the moment. “That negotiation is bullshit- Nova Scotia’s got nothing to do with this. Saying they want to talk things through is just a nonsense way of saying Nova Scotia found out about this” Harvey retorts, keeping close to the woman he stands within a breath’s reach of, “something’s gone down back home, and now Gamble’s trying to tidy up his loose ends. He’s not announcing himself to the public up here to explain away why he’s here, he’s defying Charlotte’s orders ‘cause things are getting messy.” “What does messy mean?” Katie fights back, lowering her voice to match the same whispered tone as the man she speaks with, “is this messy as in argumentative, or messy as in things are about to get brutal and ugly?” “If I had a million dollars to spend, I’d be putting all of it in the latter category” Harvey responds, passing a glance back toward the huddled crowd a few metres away every few seconds, able to hear the muffled words their not-so-quiet leader continues to address the workers with. “He’s been after independence for as long as he’s been in charge- this is the biggest no-no he’s breaking” the man continues, “if he’s doing this, it’s ‘cause Independence is off the table.” “But I thought that independence going off the table is what would lead him to-” Katie immediately replies, falling silent before finishing her thought upon realising that it’s exactly what’s unfolding before them. “Yeah, he’s getting ready for war” Harvey responds, knowing the line of thought she was heading toward and finishing it for her, “he’s pulling half of us out to strengthen the arms he’s gotta fight with. Whatever happened back at home- things are getting bad ‘cause of it.” “Then why wouldn’t we be safer here?” Katie immediately argues back as her acquaintance begins pulling away, brought back to the sound of her voice. “If he’s upping security, he’ll be defending this place more than anything. At least more than anything other than Charlottetown” she reiterates, watching Harvey shake his head and return toward her, “if we get on that boat- whether we’re told to or not- aren’t we just going back to somewhere that’ll make us fight a war?” “Of course we will- that’s the point” Harvey responds, shaking his head as he waves his hand toward the huddled crowd’s direction, “do you honestly think he’s upping security over here because he thinks Nova Scotia isn’t going to come knocking at the door?” “Then why are we leaving if we have to fight one way or another?” Katie replies, unable to discern one option from the other. “Because at least we’ve got ground to concede back on the island” Harvey responds, shrugging his shoulders whilst passing another look to the huddled masses in their opposite direction, “if we’re outgunned, we can retreat further inland until there’s no more ground to meet. At that point, we can hit the open waters and go elsewhere if we play our cards right.” “As opposed to being pinned down here and getting cornered- or blown up” Katie adds, only further strengthening the point her superior makes. “Exactly” Harvey responds, extending his hand to take the woman’s own into it as he awaits her decision, “are you coming or not?” “Of course I am” Katie responds, immediately swatting the man’s hand away and taking the lead on retreating into the refinery’s depths, breaking out into a casual sprint as they return for their dorm, passing a few straggling residents slow to the call they’ve been asked to answer. = Rise is created by Zachary Serra, all rights to the series belong to Zachary Serra and the entity of Pacer1 from the start of Season 3 onwards = \ 19 Hours Earlier / Wearing the bags of exhaustion beneath her eyes, Courtney marches through the front door of a recently-reclaimed Moncton City Hall, the new home of the Nova Scotian compound’s government welcoming her from the chilly early-spring darkness. Wearing no more than a winter coat over the pyjamas she’d worn before being summoned from bed, the woman wastes little time in travelling the building’s spacious and near-empty interior with hopes of getting back to sleep as quickly as possible. “I swear, Charlotte- this was the worst night to call me in so early” the woman remarks, entering the tucked-away chamber that her superior calls home, pushing in the door whose frosted glass window reads ‘Chancellor’, “I literally got home from a trade an hour and a half ago.” With her eyes glued to the screen of her computer’s monitor, Charlotte nods in response to her confidant’s entrance, her right hand clicking on the tabs of her mouse as she scrolls through documents. “Yeah, sorry. Business calls” the woman murmurs, the way in which she replies making it obvious that her attention isn’t fully upon her subordinate. “Why are you even here this late? It’s like four in the morning” Courtney wonders aloud, shedding her coat and placing it along the back of an empty chair that sits in the corner of the room, its legs soon carrying it to the front of the chancellor’s desk at her pull. “Because of something that pains me to say more than anything else in the world” Charlotte retorts, finally peeling her eyes away from the screen to look at her once-employee and now-friend, “I think Emilio might have been onto something the other day.” Unsure of why such a visceral reaction would be taken from a harmless providing of credit, Courtney rolls with the remark as she lowers herself into her seat, twirling her hand to gesture her superior’s explanation. “When he said I should grant the place independence if I knew it would fail, it left me trying to figure out whether or not it would” Charlotte clarifies, turning the bulky, mid 90’s-era monitor toward her friend’s end of the desk. “So, for the last few days, I’ve been digging through reports and filings that the island’s been returning over the last few years” the chancellor proceeds, “that’s when I came across this.” Squinting to protect her eyes from the jarring shade of white the computer’s screen hits her face with, Courtney glosses over a paper littered with numbers and numerous words they correlate to. “I’m not an accountant, Charlotte. What am I looking at?” she concedes, accepting defeat to the text she can’t make out any differently from other scrawlings. “It’s a record of the energy consumption the island has reported since we started the system” Charlotte responds, turning the monitor back toward her just slightly, allowing both to view it. “It goes back to December 2018, a few months after the outbreak. We started keeping track of how much energy we could produce and how much we were using” the chancellor proceeds, pointing out each number whilst explaining how it differentiates from the rest. “That represents how many gigawatts of electricity we produce, this represents how many gigawatts of electricity we use” the number-junky continues, her finger pointing emphatically to the third set of numerals, “and this is how many gigawatts of electricity they use.” Leaning in with a squint once more, Courtney tries to make out what she can from the few digits that have now been revealed to her in full, slightly disappointed in still being incapable of understanding them. “I still don’t get it” she confesses, pointing to the row of descending numbers, all of whom appear similar to each other regardless of how far the document stretches, “they all look the same.” “Then yes- you do get it” Charlotte responds, the simple gesture of reassuring the woman’s awareness prompting a more invested response from her subordinate. “Gamble’s been telling me about the measures he’s taking to lessen the amount of electricity the island uses from us for years” the chancellor remarks, running her finger down the same column she’d been reading into prior to her friend’s arrival, “if his measures are working as he says they are, this number should be going down.” “Maybe he hasn’t implemented them yet? By what you’re saying, it sounds like he was implementing measures and not necessarily putting them into use” Courtney replies, a conclusion her superior had already come to. “True, and that makes this number a lot more sensical” Charlotte responds, running her finger down an entirely separate column, “this is how much electricity they’ve been producing since then- the number is still unchanged.” “So what’s the problem? Is it that he’s not running them?” Courtney replies, able to comprehend what’s being said with more clarity now, though she’s still unable to follow the deal so monumental that it required such an early wake up call. “It’s not so much of a problem as it is a sign of what’s going on over there” Charlotte responds, turning the monitor back so it faces her more directly, “he’s pretty strict about how often I can send people over to check on him, so this is what I work with.” Attempting to cross her arms, the desire to wipe at the corners of her tired eyes prompts the relaxing Courtney to take a step back and compose herself, still fighting the mostly-sleepless night she’s embarked upon. “If Emilio’s proposal turns out to be true- and they’re not ready to break off on their own- something like this could help me figure out what they aren’t ready because of” Charlotte concludes, following her friend’s lead of leaning back in her seat and crossing her arms. “Charlotte, you know I only ask this because I wanna know that I didn’t get up so early for no reason-” Courtney remarks, changing the topic of discussion briefly so she can arrive at the reason behind her calling to action, “-why is this worth me not getting sleep tonight?” With a smirk, Charlotte reaches past her computer’s monitor and extends a mug of coffee to her closest ally, one that is begrudgingly taken into the possession of a resident coming to grips with the fact that she will not return to bed anytime soon. “Because these numbers can mean many different things, and all of them work in our favour” the chancellor replies, pausing as the hot beverage changes hands, “some work well, others work brilliantly.” Rolling her hand through the air to once more gesture for her superior to explain further, Courtney follows through on tucking her arms together, letting the coffee sit at the desk’s edge so it can cool as she crosses her left leg over her right. “One thing it can mean is that they’re reporting the wrong numbers. They could be feeding me nonsense that isn’t actually representative of their usage” Charlotte proclaims, “that breaks our agreement and can let me remove Gamble from power.” “And that will lead him to double down and start a war, which means it’s not the option that you want to run with-” Courtney replies, able to see where that option leads, “-next.” “It could also mean that- like you said earlier- they’ve only implemented the measures. And for whatever reason, they either haven’t started operating them or they haven’t fully gotten them ready yet” Charlotte retorts, falling silent to allow her friend to conclude the point on her behalf. “That would mean they either don’t have the alternatives ready yet and can’t actually power the island themselves, or they haven’t started using them and don’t know how reliable they are” Courtney responds, “the first outcome leaves them up shit creek without a paddle and the second means they may actually be able to supply themselves and know that with as much certainty as we do. That means they’re hoping the measures work, and we’re hoping they don’t.” “Precisely. On one hand, they’re screwed and everyone knows it, and on the other- it’s a toss up” Charlotte reassures, nodding her head as she briefly glances back at the computer, “fifty-fifty. Either they do get the equipment running and we’ve screwed ourselves, or they don’t and realise they’re right back up that shit creek you mentioned.” “But that still isn’t good enough. At least, it’s not for you” Courtney replies, now finding the same strategic line of thought as the woman that sits one desk’s length away from her, “because as long as there’s the chance they make it work, that means there’s a chance this blows up in our faces.” “Which leads us to option number three” Charlotte replies, swaying toward her friend with the turn of her chair as she uncrosses her arms, leaning into the forearms that she presses into her end of the desk, “they’re straight up full of shit.” Letting the space between herself and her superior go quiet for a moment, Courtney lets her eyes pull to the side of the room as she shrugs her shoulders, “-which means they’d never make it on their own period.” “Bingo” Charlotte responds, a smile spreading across her face as she pushes her chair outward, standing from its leather cushioning and stepping around her desk. “That means Emilio’s plan would work. If the island really can’t make it on their own, leaving them to try would result in chaos” the chancellor carries on, “of course, we would have to clean up the chaos- but we’d be reclaiming the island as ours again. If they’re full of shit, leaving them stranded would just weed out the weak.” “Yes, but that still doesn’t get to the root of the problem that such a plan now leaves us with” Courtney replies, turning her seat to face the moving woman so she doesn’t have to get up, “you’ve got these reports for a reason. You’re not allowed to go over and make sure for yourself. That means everything that we’ve just talked about does us little good since we can’t tell for sure exactly which one of them is really what’s going on.” “Not exactly” Charlotte corrects, finally meeting a moment in thought where she and her friend cannot align. “In order to make sure that- even if Gamble was feeding me bullshit- the island wasn’t falling into disrepair behind my back, we’ve agreed to a limited amount of compound-wide inspections” the chancellor proceeds, moving her guest’s coffee mug aside to take a seat at the desk’s end, “part of those limited inspections include looking into electrical infrastructure.” Lifting an eyebrow as her sights veer off to the side, Courtney lets her mind wander for a moment in silence before her superior’s continued speech wrangles it back in. “Since I haven’t ordered any in 2023 yet, Prince Edward Island is due for an inspection on behalf of the Nova Scotian government” Charlotte responds, a smirk only continuing to grow in the corner of her mouth, “and that means we’re due a little peek into just how stable these ‘measures’ really are.” | \ 3 Hours Later / Attire unchanged from the usual dress clothes he wears beneath a long, beige trench coat, Gamble walks through the spacious halls of Charlottetown’s government building, hands balled into fists as they swing by his side. Though as empty and shallow as a three foot dip into a pool without an ounce of water in it, the off-putting grin the man normally attempts to present is nowhere to be found, instead replaced with a closed-lip and flared-nostril grimace. Passing by the empty secretary’s desk at the front of the corridor leading to his office, Gamble stares intently at the floor he’s yet to travel, walking as uncomfortably as his presence makes those he’s typically joined by. Though he appears to withhold a bountiful sum of varying angers and irritations, the emotionless overseer of the breakaway-hopeful island steps through the open doorway of his office to a small crowd he has not a single word for. “He’s at the other end of the line waiting for you, sir” Bristol remarks, her hands folded as she stands at the room’s centre, a trio of men occupying the space closeby. Nodding back, Gamble gently pushes his office chair aside and picks up the handset that rests just before the receiver it was picked up from, holding it to his ear as he stands over the desk he most frequently sits at. “Gamble” the man greets, wasting little time in opening the floor to the gentleman calling for his reply. “Sir, we’ve got a squad of Nova Scotians here to do the summer rundown on our infrastructure” the man on the line’s other end responds, unable to see Gamble’s unchanged guise lift from the receiver and take toward an open window at the back of his own office. “I see” the community’s silent dictator responds calmly, the tone in his voice failing to match the subdued expression of typically-hidden rage that festers within the shallow man’s rigid soul. “Let me see the phone” a third man remarks, curling his fingers toward the man at the opposite end of Gamble’s line, gesturing him off the handset. As instructed by his legal superior, the dictator’s caller passes the phone to a smiling man in a black and white windbreaker. “Hey, Grumble. My name’s Ethan, and it seems like your men here have a hard time understanding the definition of ‘mandatory’” the man remarks, chewing a wad of gum that sits between his molars. “Do us all a favour here and help us get this over with as soon as possible-” Ethan continues, as unable to see the expression worn on the face of the man at the other end of the line, “grab a dictionary, read this prick the definition of ‘mandatory’, and tell them to move out of our fucking way. Capisce?” Staring at the sea residing just beyond the open window, Gamble’s face takes an upward turn, the frown replaced with a smile as his eyes grow more warm and welcoming. “Of course, Ethan” the man replies, his voice changing similarly whilst his free hand takes the receiver off the desk, carrying it with him as he steps toward the office’s rear. “Boss?” the man responds, his words hitting Gamble’s ear and prompting an even wider smile. “Go ahead and let Ethan and his subordinates onto the island, please” the dictator commands, turning his sights back for the desk he begins venturing back toward, setting the receiver upon solid ground once more. “Alright, sir” the man replies hesitantly, squinting past the sun that begins rising over the sky both Nova Scotia and Prince Edward Island reside beneath, seeing the increasing grin come over a visually pleased Ethan, “come on through.” Of the belief that his part in the conversation has been settled, Gamble takes the handset away from his ear and looks at the receiver, able to make out where the device is meant to be lowered, though he appears hesitant to return it. Keeping to herself, Bristol joins the men that stand behind her in remaining patient, not wanting to interrupt the thought it appears their superior is deep within. Though his smile remains intact, the appearance of Gamble’s face leaves him looking as if he were held prisoner of a trance, once that leaves him incapable of hanging up the phone. “They know our vulnerability” the dictator murmurs beneath his breath, retaining the grin that he just can’t help himself enough to shake free from, his eyes staring intently at the phone’s receiver, “they’re starting to play their hand against ours.” “Sir?” Bristol finally wonders aloud, unable to make out what’s being said across the room from her, but more than capable of understanding that the man she takes orders from is speaking for his ears- and only his ears- to hear. “There would be no need for an advanced inspection unless there was a game to play” Gamble continues to mumble low enough to evade the ears of those watching on, “it’s too soon after last week’s discovery for this to be a coincidence.” “Sir?” Bristol calls out once more, trying- and failing- to reclaim the undivided attention of the autocrat signing off on the slips she requires to claim the credits her survival depends upon. “They’re not coming after me directly for a reason. They know something I don’t want them to” Gamble continues, nostrils flaring once more as his grin begins to lower, the hand that he holds the phone within the grasp of slowly pulling back, “I can’t leave them the inside track.” “Sir?” Bristol questions for yet a third instance, this time taking one step forward as she does so before immediately leaping back, stricken by momentary fear as the sound of a large slam comes over the room. Thrusting the phone back into the receiver with such force that the entire machine splinters into pieces and flies off his desk, Gamble lets his composed mask slip to such a point that it falters completely, showing through a violent display of aggression he seldom exposes for view. Without so much as a shout to accommodate the brutal reaction, Gamble stares at his neat desk and soon wipes away the tiny fragments of plastic his outburst had resulted in before calmly looking back at the people ahead of him. “Other than Bristol, decide amongst yourselves who leads what- I need a crew overseeing the inspections, I want a group on standby with the trucks, and I want two ships en route for the refinery at Newfoundland” the dictator commands. With the clap of his hands, Gamble signals for the three men to leave the room and debate amongst each other who follows through on what. Left with only his secretary standing in his presence, the man returns the empty visage of welcoming pleasure to his face, acting as if the mask were weightless if physical in nature. “Bristol, I’d like for you to do two things for me. Then, I’d like you to go home, do whatever shopping you need to prepare, and then go into lockdown until you’re told otherwise” Gamble proceeds, stepping away from his desk as he fixes his tie, “arrange a car to take me out to Kensington and await a return trip. Then, I’d like you to make sure that the captain of either boat one of them is sending to Newfoundland is aware that he’s not to leave without me on board.” Nodding, Bristol continues to stand at the room’s centre for another two seconds before turning away, still slightly shaken from the man’s sudden and quickly-dismissed show of anger. Now left to his own, Gamble looks back to his desk and stares beyond it, looking to the window that sits behind where his chair is usually situated, allowing him the sight of his island’s coastline, capped off with a majestic view of the Charlottetown Harbour- one he hasn’t planned on seeing the last of just yet. | \ 4 Hours Later / “Thanks, Ethan” Charlotte responds, calmly returning her phone to the receiver in which she’d taken it from, looking to the woman that remains seated in the chair across from her. “Gamble’s men aren’t letting Ethan inspect the supposed ‘measures’ he’s spoken of so frequently” she begins, kicking her feet onto an empty spot on the desk alongside her monitor, “so, they either don’t have it, or there’s something else out of order over there. Either way- they’re hiding something.” Puckering her lips, Courtney turns her sights toward the corner of the office, looking at a filing cabinet topped off with a long-dead potted plant whilst she ponders quietly. Its brown leaves hanging over the lip of the cement pot it sits within, the deceased display of rigidity appears sad and sorrowful, the only life form the room offers other than herself and her superior having spent weeks and months already well within its final resting place. “What’s your move then?” Courtney inquires, lifting the brow over her right eye as she peers across the table, “you gonna call a meeting with Gamble? Maybe hold a conf-” Falling silent, the stationary paramotorist turns her attention to the knocking at their door, the potential conversation they could’ve embarked upon thwarted by the fist calling for an answer. “Come on in” Charlotte mutters aloud, instinctually granting the figure on the other end entrance without much thought, feeling comfortable enough in her domicile to welcome those outside within. “I could hear someone in here talking, so I’m sorry for interrupting” Emilio greets, peering his head around the door and passing the chancellor a glance before setting sights upon his business partner, “you weren’t answering your phone, so I figured you’d be here or at the bar.” “We’re having a private conversation, so if you wouldn’t m-” Charlotte begins, answering on her subordinates behalf before falling silent to her interjection. “We’re pretty busy here right now, Em’. What is it?” Courtney wonders aloud, watching her superior’s eyes roll as she looks back, carrying on with the offer her friend receives. “The trade we’ve been talking about since last week- he’s ready for us tonight” Emilio remarks, the man’s presence dismissed within Charlotte’s mind, though her ears remain fixated on the words he speaks, “he wants to meet us at sundown on the shoreline out on Rosebank.” “Rosebank across the bridge?” Courtney immediately wonders aloud, the same location that she takes interest in having captivated the attention of Nova Scotia’s chancellor. “Yeah, he’s sending a married couple out. They’ll have the-” Emilio begins to respond, pausing to prevent Charlotte’s ears from taking information she’s not meant to be privy to, “-product ready for us to drive back, but they can’t leave the town.” “No” the chancellor interrupts, her eyes firmly placed upon the man that looks at her without much of a reaction, “none of you are to go over that bridge until further notice.” Though the initial response had surprised him, Emilio’s face only takes on a confused expression at the declaration the chancellor utters, a smirk and chuckle coming over him at the thought of being given commands no different than one a parent would give out. “I’m sorry?” Emilio replies, a squint in his eye as Courtney shares the redirection of his sight, both figures now looking back to the figure occupying the community’s highest ranking. “It’s within the best interest of both of you to refrain from crossing that bridge until I say so” Charlotte reiterates, doubling down on the claim that almost prompts her guest to break into a laughing fit, “I’d suggest that you let the rest of your group know that the same applies to them.” “Clint and Nessie have a place out on Stratford, so they already live across the bridge-” Emilio responds, vehemently shaking his head, “-sorry, that’s not gonna fly.” “Then tell them to move if you want them to be safe” Charlotte responds, passing another look toward her subordinate, who leans forward in her chair just slightly with widened eyes. “I’m sorry, what is that supposed to mean?” Emilio rebukes, uncertain over what the chancellor is trying to direct his mind toward. “It means that the safest place for you to be is here- on this side of the bridge” Charlotte responds, doubling down once more, “I’d consider telling the people you love most the same thing if you want what’s best for them.” “Is there something you’re not telling me?” Emilio retorts, beginning to consider their conversation in the flat from days earlier may be relevant once more. “I believe I’m making myself incredibly clear” Charlotte responds, taking her feet off the desk and cementing them to the floor once more, “are you deaf? Have you lost your hearing? Don’t go across the bridge anymore- that’s what I’m telling you.” Stepping forward, Emilio opens his mouth before feeling the soft flesh that makes up his lips return to each other, his step forward prevented by his friend’s outstretched hand. “Em’, please. I’ll go with you tonight, just-” Courtney responds, only to find herself stopped by the sound of her superior’s voice. “No, you won’t” Charlotte interrupts, stepping out of her chair and now standing up from her desk, thwarting her subordinate’s attempt at restraining the guest. “What are you not telling me!?” Emilio exclaims, pushing past Courtney’s hand as he closes the distance between himself and the chancellor’s desk, eyes widened and voice raised a few octaves, “it’s obviously serious enough for you to want Courtney to stay away from, so what’s going on!?” Snarling as her upper lip curls, Charlotte prepares to meet the level of her visitor’s voice, her waist pressing into the edge of her desk that she leans forward into. Though her mouth is agape, the chancellor utters not one word, her response instead taken over by the one figure in the room trying to prevent an outburst. “Things are about to blow up between us and Gamble” Courtney blurts out, watching Emilio look over his shoulder whilst Charlotte joins him in staring forward, their eyes glued to the woman near the office’s front door. “Courtney-” the chancellor mutters, eyebrows furrowing as she’s kept from speaking further, the paramotorist’s reluctance to acknowledge her superior’s interruption preventing it from gaining the centre of attention. “We’re not yet sure what’s going on, but we know Gamble’s doing something sketchy, and one way or another- the other side of the island won’t be safe for us to travel soon enough” Courtney continues, her spilling of the beans on the operation prompting Charlotte to throw herself back into her seat. “Just do me a favour and go get Clint and Nessie- and the rest of your friends if they’re over there- onto this side of the bridge” Courtney concludes, taking her friend’s arms as she steps up to him, forced to look up in order to stare into the taller resident’s face. “I don’t know if they will here, but things are definitely going to get messy on the island” the paramotorist continues, watching the gentle shake of her friend’s head voice his immediate reaction. “Is there about to be a war?” Emilio inquires, his voice soft and calmed, out of the ordinary in comparison to the hostile tone it’s juxtaposed to, “do we have to get ready for-?” “I don’t know. But what I do know is that it’d be best if you kept this between us and the rest of the group” Courtney interrupts to reply, not wanting to let the man get ahead of himself. “What do you mean by ‘I don’t know’?” Emilio retorts, the shake in his head more vehement as he pulls away from his friend’s reach, now standing as far from here as he does from the chancellor, “how do you know things are gonna get messy across the bridge if you don’t know if we’ll be at war?” “Because there’s a good chance they’re not ready to make it on their own” Charlotte interrupts, answering the man’s question now that her reasons for withholding information are pointless. “We sent people over there a few hours ago to inspect their infrastructure, and without going into too much information, we’ve got a good reason to believe they’re not ready for the independence Gamble’s been talking about” she continues, slouching back in her chair now that the whistle’s been blown. “If he’s asked for independence, then he has to be ready- it makes no sense otherwise” Emilio quickly retorts, scoffing at the gesture presented to him as if it were laughable. “It was probably a smokescreen. He knew I wasn’t going to give him what he wanted, but he wagered it anyway” Charlotte responds, shaking her head as she kicks her feet up onto the desk once more. Matching the woman’s dismissive reaction, Emilio shakes his head in refusal of her proposition, voicing his opposition to it without so much as a second thought. “Even if he didn’t expect it, he would’ve had to be prepared for the slightest instance that you would’ve” the survivor responds, looking at the side of the sceptical chancellor’s face, “he didn’t strike me as someone that wouldn’t have come prepared for either outcome.” “Trust me- he didn’t plan for it” Charlotte responds, her face stricken with the sunlight that peeks through the window she looks into, afforded the view of a small family walking the sidestreet just beyond the glass. “He’s always been of the belief that we were inevitably going to split apart, but if he wasn’t prepared for anything- it was me offering him independence in a year’s time” the chancellor continues, her distant tone making it clear that her mind is travelling elsewhere. “Elaborate” Emilio replies, immediately regaining the chancellor’s attention with his proposal, watching her body turn back toward him upon his request, “what do you mean by ‘he always knew you were splitting apart’.” With a squint in her eye, Charlotte passes another glance through her window, only able to see the empty, quiet street the occasional passer-by would venture past. “He suggested we break apart then instead of waiting for a couple of years for it to naturally get there anyway” she replies, her voice supporting the judgemental undertones that are carried through her expression, “he wanted to get ahead of the curve and mutually agree to break apart. So, I offered him independence if I couldn’t gain a specific approval of the Quebecois population within a year.” “And when was that?” Emilio hastily questions, watching the woman’s eyes again wander off to the side, patiently awaiting his answer. “Last summer” the woman responds, unable to shake the dismissive sway of her body as she replies. “So you told him almost a year ago that you’d give him his independence in a year if you didn’t meet a certain benchmark, and you think he isn’t prepared to go out on his own?” the once-gubernatorial candidate replies, the scathing modulation in his response carrying the disbelief in what he’s hearing, “have you taken up residency in stupid town?” “You must’ve lost your mind if you think he expects me to follow through on that deal” Charlotte retorts, now wearing the visage of disgust to the man she turns her chair away from, “even if I followed through, he certainly doesn’t expect me to.” “How the hell is that relevant at all!?” Emilio rebukes, watching the back of the woman’s head face him as the hand of his business partner grazes his arm, “whether or not he expects for this to be amicable changes nothing- waging war with you or being granted his independence doesn’t stop the fact that your resources go away regardless.” Having attempted to persuade her friend from carrying on with his side of a pointless argument, Courtney’s subtle touch soon halts its progression up Emilio’s arm, its rest now leaving it at his elbow. “Maybe Gamble and I don’t think the same, but if I were in his shoes, I’d be making sure I had a way of getting food, water, energy, weaponry and anything else from somewhere other than you” the man continues, turning to his side and finding his colleague’s change in expression. Having initially stepped forward with a sympathetic visage, Courtney now holds her squinted eyes toward the man within her arm’s length, trying to process the point he makes. “He said he had been installing ‘measures’, but he won’t let our guys inspect them” Charlotte retorts, speaking to her guest whilst staring out the window, no longer affording him the benefit of eye contact, “so he’s either full of shit, or whatever he’s doing on the island isn’t good enough.” “Well, if the introduction the guy gave me was any indication, Gamble doesn’t seem like someone that wouldn’t be ready to get cut off from your supply” Emilio replies, incapable of seeing the eyeroll the chancellor reacts to him with. “Maybe I’m still in the dark here. Maybe there’s something you know that I don’t, but what you’re telling me makes no sense” the headstrong survivor concedes, “if he knows what he’s doing and is willing to fight, then he has a plan he’s confident in.” “Or he doesn’t want us interfering with it” Courtney suddenly remarks, staring forward blankly as she speaks, her voice immediately prompting the chancellor to lose her composure. “Alright, I’m sick of the stupid goddamn schtick!” Charlotte exclaims, throwing herself out of her chair and marching around the desk, “it’s one thing for him to start trying to make a mountain out of a molehill, but the second that you start playing along, Courtney- that’s where I draw the line.” “Maybe he’s not wrong!” Courtney proclaims, watching her superior step past her and make for the room’s exit, rolling her eyes and retaining every ounce of refusal she has to offer. “Maybe he knows we could screw with it and he wants us in the dark over it!” the woman continues, her words unable to keep Charlotte from continuing to make for the door, “hiding it from us might be the only way we don’t interfere with it!” Refusing to hear those she leaves behind out, the chancellor’s hand squeezes the doorknob with great force, twisting it in the same motion that she yanks it open. Freed to leave, Charlotte steps through the entrance and begins making for the hallway, one foot already having touched ground beyond the room before a sudden remark prevents the second from following suit. “Or maybe he’s not showing it to you because it’s not there” Emilio states, watching the departing chancellor stop in the door and immediately hang her head, hairs falling in front of her face as the door remains wide open. “Are you fucking kidding me?” Charlotte murmurs aloud, finally reaching the point in which her annoyance becomes so great that it’s almost humorous. “What does that mean? He’s got some invisible energy source? What, am I dealing with some kind of ghost energy?” the woman mocks, turning back to look at the peers standing in the centre of her office. “How do you think he keeps the lights on? Who do you think powers his electrical grid? How do you think his entire island gets by?” Charlotte continues, leaving the door open as she casually re-enters, drawing closer to her ‘frenemy’ with each step. “Well, where do you get it from?” Emilio instead asks, not needing to wait long for his answer. “Oil” Charlotte hastily replies, tossing her hands out by each side, “we power the grid on our oil. And before you ask, no- he doesn’t have a refinery. The only access to oil he has is through me.” Watching the chancellor stand a few metres away from him with a smug grin on her face, Emilio looks off to the side of the room and scrunches his face, trying to talk himself out of asking a question so simple he’d assume it’d have an easy answer. “So- why can’t he just go get one?” the man wonders aloud, soon reclaiming his line of sight with the chancellor that remains silently stood across from him, not yet providing him with an answer. “I know I didn’t have a direct line with the Canadian government when I was mayor or anything, but I definitely knew the basics of how the world worked-” Emilio continues, using the silence that the chancellor leaves him with to continue speaking, “-but I knew that Canada was pretty rich with oil. Not Saudi Arabia-rich, but well off enough.” “What’s your point?” Charlotte interjects, a much more serious tone taken in her speech than just seconds prior. “Well, I’m sure the refineries you have here weren’t the only ones in all of Canada” Emilio replies, the calm reflection in his voice only assisting in leaving a strange silence over the room, “why couldn’t he have just gone out and taken over one somewhere else?” Parting her lips, Charlotte looks at the man with her mouth agape and yet fails to utter a single word, the moisture on her tongue and gums beginning to dry the longer she stays quiet. “Well, we have a compound in Toronto, so- if he’s really keen on keeping us from interfering with his business- he wouldn’t want us between him and that refinery” Courtney speaks, watching her superior’s eyes take toward her- mouth still agape. Awkwardly quiet, Charlotte looks back to Emilio as her mouth closes, not a word yet to offer as she finally breaks from her statue-like freeze, walking past the pair and back to the comfort of her desk. “Alright, so that would mean he’d have one you couldn’t interfere with. At least, not easily” Emilio replies, watching Charlotte reach into the drawer of her desk without speaking and retrieve a folded piece of paper, standing upright to compare it to a zoomed-in map that’s tacked to a bulletin board behind her seat. “That makes a lot more sense with the boats he’d sent down the St. Lawrence” Courtney replies, watching her superior compare a set of maps no different than each other apart from the locations marked upon them, “it’d mean he’d have room to make a buffer zone from Quebec City all the way north to-” “Newfoundland” Charlotte concludes, capping off her subordinate’s remark with the whispered name of the evasive island just north of the Nova Scotian compound, her mouth agape and eyes wide. “He knows the only boats I have are the ones that he docks at Charlottetown, which means I wouldn’t have the naval power to go after him up there” the chancellor proceeds, stepping back to inspect her findings, “controlling route 138 would keep me off the only road that’d let me make a safe descent on him.” “Are you sure he wouldn’t take the one in Quebec City?” Courtney steps in, pointing to the only other strategic possibility the map affords her. “If Gamble’s had as many years to plan this out as you say, then I’d think he’d have set his sights on something a little safer than one smack-dab in Quebec City” Emilio interjects, prompting both women to look back to him, “that one in Newfoundland looks a lot easier to guard.” “It’d also explain why he’s so willing to let us walk across the bridge and enter his domain whenever we please but outright refuses to even let me think he’d give up my boats” Charlotte adds, looking back to the map with an entirely new perspective. “Well, if he’s got the one in Newfoundland running- how do we stop him?” Courtney responds, accepting the discovery they’d come across, but hesitant to put her optimism in its open-bottom basket. “You can’t. If he is getting oil from Newfoundland, the only way to keep him from getting deliveries would be to capture the boat or the port it sails into” Emilio responds, stepping around the chancellor’s desk to join the woman at the wall-mounted map, “either way- that’s an act of war.” Passing a glance to the side of her once enemy-now fellow Nova Scotian devotee, Charlotte remains quiet as the air follows suit, her eyes inevitably reclaimed by the map all three of the room’s inhabitants stare at. “Yes-” she whispers aloud, lifting her chin slightly as her expression shifts to confidence, a composure she’d allowed to slip just minutes prior have returned to her, “-yes, it would be.” | \ 1 Hour Later / With a pair of goggles sitting over his eyes and digging into the bridge of his nose, a worker takes the edge of a machete to a large device, sharpening the blade and withstanding the rapid sparks that fly from the altered metal. Grimacing with each thrust, the worker finishes on his tool before reaching for the next dull blade, preparing to take its edge to the machine just as he has for many others until his attention is stolen by what unfolds at the floor of the warehouse he occupies. Across the room, a black man with nappy hair fits a wooden handle to the end of a piece of metal and wipes his sweaty brow on the long sleeve of his navy blue shirt. “Psst” a coworker hisses, catching the man’s eye briefly and nudging his chin forward. With a squint and a breath taken in through his nose, the labourer glances to his right side before looking back to his unfinished weapon, only for his eyes to take a second glare toward the figure walking calmly across the floor. In the room’s corner, a man wipes at the sharpened blade of a well-built product, the liquid his cloth is covered in providing the metal with a reflective, glossy finish. On his lonesome, the man continues about his business even as a pair of footsteps tap along the floor in his direction, paying it no mind as he stares at the floor. Setting his rag down, the man’s eyes keep to the concrete foundation of the warehouse before watching the flap of a beige trench coat pass him by. With a squint as strong as any other in the room, the man looks up at the passing figure in silence just as the rest of his colleagues do, following the man toward the loading bay they occupy the area of. With his fists balled, Gamble strolls through the populated workshop and out of the shadows the sunless space affords them, entering the light of an oncoming afternoon. “Mr. Gamble! I’m sorry, I wasn’t expecting you to-” a man in a mechanic’s one-piece remarks, stepping out of his office at the rear of the room before being cut off. “Where is your highest-capacity automatic rifle?” Gamble queries, coming to a stop just metres away from the man overseeing his weapon’s manufacturing, hands stiffening at his sides as he awaits an answer. “Sir, we don’t make automatic-” the man in the navy blue onesie begins to reply, again falling silent at the remark of his superior. “I’m aware that you do not manufacture firearms here. I am asking for your highest-capacity automatic rifle” Gamble reiterates, again presenting a content and patient posture to the figure standing across from him, able to read the uncertainty in the visage he’s returned, “I want your personal highest-capacity rifle- bring it to me.” “Sir, my rifle is-” the man in the jumpsuit replies, again only getting to begin his response before falling silent at the behest of his daunted superior. “Bring. It. To. Me” Gamble repeats, uttering not a word more, nor a word less. Lips parted, the mechanic garb-wearing figure stands by idle for a mere moment as he registers what is being asked of him, allowing the surprise of the visit and the oddity of the interaction pass before stepping away in search of his weapon. With business settled on one front, Gamble turns his attention to the group of workers beginning to cluster together in the larger workshop, the brow over his left eye lifting. Almost blinded by the awe of their superior’s presence, the men forget- all at once- that their display of unprofessionalism in grouping together and ceasing their production presents themselves in a bad light, one that the dictator appears to not mind. “No, no- come back” Gamble remarks, watching the plethora of heads that had turned away from him to return to work gaze back upon him, beckoned to the man’s call. “I want all of these weapons- every single one- wrapped, packaged, stored in crates together, and delivered to the capital in Charlottetown” the autocrat commands, his left index finger pointing throughout the room, “when they arrive at the capital, I want every single one of you present alongside them.” Concerned with remaining secluded from the spotlight that is the reach of their superior’s eye, the crowd collectively nod or dismiss a reaction in favour of getting to work, leaving their ruler to continue about his business. For a few additional seconds, Gamble awaits his subordinate’s return whilst staring at the collection of box trucks that remain stationed at the nearby loading dock, his expression remaining unchanged as if he were deep in a distant, unconscious train of thought. “Alright, this is the best that I have with me right now” the jumpsuit-wearing employee remarks, stepping out of his office with a large rifle in tow, a small bag of preloaded magazines carried alongside it, “it’s a Russian AK-10...” Falling silent, the cautious workfloor operator releases his grasp of the weapon the instant that his superior latches onto it, ripping it from the possession of its owner before stepping forward. Without a word, Gamble’s stare descends into one of well-concealed anger as he approaches the vehicles, each one parked just a short few metres away from the bay in which they had once been backed up to, the weapon’s barrel held toward the ground along the dictator’s right side. Without warning or so much as a peep, Gamble lifts the weapon toward the first truck’s side and fires a handful of rounds through the reflective advertisement that plasters its exterior, prompting the sound of screams from within that had not previously been present. Laying off the trigger, the tyrant moves onto the next bay and follows a similar act, firing an assortment of rounds through the human-filled automobile with malicious intent- his distant and subdued-rage visage unchanged. One after another, the despot riddles each truck with bullets until his weapon runs empty, eyes turning back to his jumper-wearing subordinate and mouth shut. Aware of what the stare entails, the weapon’s owner lifts one hand into the air in surrender and tosses the bag he’d yet to release possession of to the foot of his superior, wanting to remain on the side of the man who could very easily render him lifeless within moments. Dropping to one knee, Gamble quickly discards his empty magazine in favour of a new one, resupplying his weapon with ammunition and continuing to litter the vehicles with fatal gunfire. Within minutes, the second magazine- and the final one he requires- is expended upon the last of the trucks, a muffled scream resonating from within just as the other automobiles present. Silent, the various workers tasked with transporting the handcrafted weaponry watch on as their autocrat boss turns back, the barrel of the automatic rifle held toward the air with a calm satisfaction. “You may reclaim this as your own, assist your employees in transporting these weapons to the capitol building, and join them in awaiting further instruction whilst there” Gamble remarks, handing the firearm back to its rightful owner with a tone of voice as unbothered as when he’d entered. “I’ll leave it up to you to decide which fifteen or so men you put at the driver’s seat of those boxes. Whomever they are, however, they can join you all outside the capitol building as well” Gamble proceeds, gently swatting at the flaps of his undirtied beige trench coat as he begins returning for the way he’d arrived, “resume your duties, gentlemen.” Stepping down the long, asphalt-paved parking lot for the running car that had been instructed to wait for his return, Gamble soon enters the backseat and folds his hands upon his lap, using his left hand to guide the seatbelt over his chest and into its buckle. “Where to next, Mr. Gamble?” the driver inquires, looking in the rear view mirror and through the divider between the front and back of his limousine. Passing a glance out the window, Gamble lets out a sigh of delight and returns his typically-shallow smile to its equally-discomforting visage. “Back to Charlottetown- the ports, please” the authoritarian answers, resting back in the leather-covered seat he occupies as the vehicle leaves its stationary park, wheels turning to guide the man back to where his departing vessel awaits. == Rise == “Good evening” Gamble remarks, laying on a passive grin to present his secretary whilst carrying on with his night, the polite and eerily unwelcoming demeanour fading the moment he turns the corner. Wearing a pair of dress shoes to round off his attire- consisting of slacks, a blue button up shirt, and a red tie beneath a beige trenchcoat- the rebellion leader’s each step echoes through the spacious corridor he navigates in search of the room he most frequents.
His glasses level, hairline recently evened, and straight-lipped presentation neatly retained, the unemotional man carries himself through the metres that remain between himself and his office before stepping through the door to folks he’d anticipated finding upon his arrival. “Who is responsible for giving up your cover?” Gamble immediately inquires, shedding his long coat before folding it over the arm he holds against his chest, letting the article of clothing fall upon his clean desk. “The man responsible was amongst those killed, sir” a man speaks aloud from within a line of residents, all without the weapons they’d carried when within the forest. “I was informed the woman managed to snag his wallet, is that correct?” Gamble retorts, stepping around his hardwood desk before claiming the chair he usually occupies during the hours of daylight. “That is correct, sir” the same man replies, aware that he’s amongst the few willing to carry the guards’ end of the conversation. “And how long ago- exactly- did she manage to take ownership of that wallet?” Gamble questions once more, folding his hands atop his folded coat before taking his eyes toward the direction of the only man willing to reply to him without hesitation. “Fifteen hours ago, sir” the unarmed resident- dressed no differently than his peers and owning as easy of a face to forget as them at that- replies immediately. “How many were killed in this ambush?” Gamble wonders aloud, continuing to survey his due-diligence as he looks to the man that speaks back to him, stoic visage unchanged from any other interaction he’d taken part in. “Approximately eight in total, sir. All eight casualties were on our side” the man replies, experiencing the first pause from the island’s silent overseer since his entry. Without a word to offer at first, Gamble’s eyes take to one side of the line his unarmed subordinates stand in before slowly making their way to the other, unimpressed with anyone other than the figure responding to him. “That leaves me to imagine that word has gotten back to Nova Scotian higher-ups by now” Gamble murmurs to himself, soon taking his eyes toward the desk that his hands calmly sit upon. “A flank of people from the island taking fire at the compound’s guards stationed just past the cove out near New Glasgow- that’s tough to explain away” he continues to whisper to himself, reading through the situation at hand with eyes held upon his pressed-together palms. Puckering his lips before his head takes toward a nearby window, Gamble restrains the words that he speaks aloud to the confines of his head, running through his thoughts away from the various ears that surround the room. “You, go get my secretary. Thank you” the subdued leader of the breakaway island remarks to the lone soul speaking to him, remaining hushed as he reaches into the desk drawer just beside his right knee. As instructed, the surviving soldier- whose clothes are soggy and damp from the long journey back to the safety of his home island- nods and departs for the hallway. Without issue, the man closes the door gently on his way out before making for the direction in which he’d come, eyes taking to his right side where he knows the desk will be. After a few seconds, the man finally reaches his destination, coming to a stop in the middle of the open area before parting his lips. “Mr. Gam-” the man begins to speak aloud, having waited for the woman to turn toward his direction before the sound of numerous gunshots in the distance force him to fall silent. With wide eyes, the soldier ducks for cover before the first three bullets are finished firing, his posture steadying as the follow shots allow him to realise that the gunfire does not pose a threat to him. After eleven bullets are finished pounding against the marble walls of the Charlottetown capital building, the soldier stares down the hallway which he’d just traversed in shock, unsure of what horrors could possibly await down a second venture of them. “Thank you for letting me know, I’ll be with him shortly” the polite woman responds calmly, a pleasurable smile paid to the man tasked with calling her to attention whilst the awestruck soldier looks as if he’d just escaped assured death. As if nothing out of place in the slightest had occurred, the woman steps out of her seat and carries a small number of folders in her arms, letting them rest comfortably on her inner elbow before sliding her chair in. “You have a good night, sir” she remarks, nodding to the frozen-stiff soldier before jutting her chin toward the opposite end of the building she prepares to embark upon journeying into, breaking her composed character so as to instruct the man to leave whilst he’s still able to. Just as those of her employer had, the secretary’s shoes tap along the floor on her way toward the office near the corridor’s conclusion, the calm air unchanged throughout the duration of her casual stroll. With ease, the woman turns the knob of- and pushes in- the door she finally comes upon, entering an office covered in blood and the corpses of those who’d failed the leader of the rebellion they’d been called to serve upon quietly. “I have contacts within the strategies department, the internal resources department, the artillery subsection of Mt. Stewart, and the list of residents stationed in Newfoundland as of last week” the woman remarks, laying the folders onto the folded jacket her superior has yet to sit opposite. Changing an empty magazine for a full one, Gamble returns his submachine gun to the desk’s drawer before calmly lowering himself back into his seat, yet to wipe the freshly-splattered blood from his cheek. “Thank you, Bristol” Gamble replies, reclaiming the glasses he’d calmly set just beside his jacket and calmly returning them to his face, the streak of blood beginning to run down his skin. Bowing her head, the woman turns back and exits the room as calmly and with as much grace as she had entered it, dismissing the scene of tragedy and chaos that is contained within it before calmly shutting the door, returning to her desk as if nothing were out of the ordinary. Leaning into the hardwood table, Gamble takes the first folder into his possession and opens its front, reading from a list of names that run down the length of the first page within it. Taking his hand toward a nearby telephone, the man claims possession of the handset and dials the number of the figure he wishes to speak to, pressing the piece to his ear whilst staring ahead blankly, eyes falling upon his blood-covered wall as he calmly awaits an answer. = Rise is created by Zachary Serra, all rights to the series belong to Zachary Serra and the entity of Pacer1 from the start of Season 3 onwards = With her arms crossed, Salem sits at one end of the three-seat couch whilst Franklin occupies the other, his shortened arm resting on the discouraged shoulder of his wife whilst his full-length limb sits on the nearby armrest, Alicia occupying the chesterfield’s centre. On a two-seat couch to the left of the relatively-new father, Jack sits with his arm wrapped around his wife, Lauren’s body pressing into his side as they remain quiet, simply staring at the woman sitting at the room’s front. Seated on the floor with his back pressing against the coffee table at the room’s centre, Emilio drapes one hand over his bent knee whilst his business partner stands a few metres off to Charlotte’s side. Keeping as quiet as the loveseat-occupying married couple, Clint and Nessie stand beside each other with their arms crossed just as Salem’s do, their backs pressed against the drywall that separates the flat’s kitchen from its communal space. “And that’s it” Charlotte concludes, sitting in a chair she’d taken from the kitchen before every set of eyes she is the guest of, “that’s who Gamble is, how he knows you, and what he wants from me.” Closing her eyes tightly, Alicia lets her head hang whilst her lips pucker, too aggravated to respond with the thoughts her husband soon puts into words. “We didn’t come here for another war” Franklin replies, leaning forward in his seat just slightly as he speaks to the compound’s overseer, “we have a family here. For god’s sake, we left the last place we called home- before Rockford- because we didn’t want to fight anymore.” Feigning a smile, Charlotte’s head drops at the man’s remark, no more satisfied with having to argue against his claims than she is with acknowledging their accuracy. “Are you under the impression that I want this anymore than you do? The only reason I’m in this position is because of a power-hungry sociopath” she responds, the metaphorical bind her hands are tied in made evident, “there’s no point in trying to keep society thriving if the end goal is just more violence.” “Why even put him in charge on that island in the first place?” Clint wonders from the side of the room, feeling as if the point had been left unaddressed, “there’s no way I’m the only one that feels like we’re missing some rather important context.” “It was the only way we could secure our border over the bridge. Gamble and some others resisted the premier- the guy in charge of the island before everything went down- and disobeyed his orders to keep the peace” Charlotte responds, shaking her head as she leans back in her seat, “the same shit storm that ran through Connecticut swept through here about three days earlier. Levi had to settle something on my behalf since I was in New York looking for John.” “Who’s Levi?” Alicia responds, an uncertain eyebrow raised as the name evades her, though the emotion it threatens to take hold of within the community’s leader is well-subdued. “Levi was my husband. He’s the person I was going to put in charge of New York instead of John, but I changed my mind when I realised we wouldn’t finish the Toronto compound in time” Charlotte responds, clearing her throat before continuing, “he let Gamble run a phantom government and now we’re here.” “This seems like a pretty easy fix then” Lauren responds, one knee arched upward as her foot rests on the edge of the couch she and her husband occupy, “if he wants to breakaway, why not just let him break off? He’s clearly not going to back down from this, so why waste lives and ammo fighting a war that doesn’t need to be fought?” “Do you realise how much I’ve lost trying to keep this place alive? Do you even realise how improbable it was to make a place like this work in the first place?” Charlotte rebukes, hands coupling together between the parted legs she soon leans forward toward. “The most powerful force in human history- the United States- it died” she continues, speaking to a silent room, “every other nation- dead. Every leader- dead. The most well-trained troops on the face of the planet- dead.” Falling to a hush, Charlotte prevents herself from speaking further, instead choosing to let her tongue press against a chapped bottom lip whilst her eyes survey the souls of the room that surround her. One after another, the same civilians that had once been her greatest adversaries now listen into the information some of her most highly-trusted acquaintances don’t even know in full, the wicked twist of fate and the heavy irony that surrounds that truth only beginning to settle within her. “The collapse was slow and it was avoidable, but not even the greatest powers within recorded human history could stop the descent...” Charlotte proceeds, her voice lowering just enough for it to come across more emphatic than what she’d uttered in the responses that precede it, “...but I did.” As if beckoned for by a result having long-since been anticipated, a pair of hands begin to pat together at the declaration made, the two palms colliding slowly, one after another, applauding in mockery the claims bestowed upon the group that they’re heralded toward. “Congratulations” Salem sarcastically responds, leaning forward in her seat whilst the remainder of her group turn their focus toward her, centring her upon their conscience as they await her further remarks. “I mean, implying you’re the only one that accomplished such a task also implies places like Cumberland and Rockford weren’t at least operable when shit hit the fan, but why commend people like Jade and Rocky when we can all kneel to the mighty Charlotte” Salem scolds, watching the compound’s leader hang her head. “Even if we do just go along with that song of bullshit you’d sung for us, let’s ask why the hell it matters now” she proceeds, watching the woman whose seat is taken at the room’s centre look back to her with patience. “You may have kept Nova Scotia running, but now it’s on the verge of splitting in two, bloody halves. So, why are we expected to believe it’s better off being held together, huh?” Salem carries on, a clear vigour in her tone, “because you’re too proud to let it go?” “Salem-” Courtney attempts to interrupt, only to fall as silent as her superior does in the refusal the woman shows her, Salem’s finger pointing toward her as the wounded sniper definitely steps off the chesterfield. “No. I don’t want to hear from you, Courtney. I want to know why this woman- right here- is willing to let people die just so she doesn’t have to let go of her toy” she responds, spiritually biting at the woman’s interjection, “I want to know why you can’t just let them go.” “They have to share an open bridge with each other- that’s a good start” Emilio responds, surprising the rest of his group by speaking on his once-nemesis’ behalf. His head having spent much of the expected conflict hung, the interrupting survivor looks across the room toward his peers and shrugs his head, accepting that he must speak what they might be displeased to hear. “In addition to a banking system, fuel reserves, weaponry, businesses, access to different patches of land and water- so on and so forth-” Emilio proceeds, sitting upright in his chair as both Salem and Charlotte look toward him with differing dissatisfaction, “-there’s one bridge between them. They both hate each other, and what right now serves as an invaluable way to trade goods from one place to the other could very easily become a really bloody bottleneck.” “And yet somehow, I don’t believe that’s what her reasoning is at all” Salem responds, again carrying her line of sight back to the compound’s leader once more. With a frown, Charlotte steps out of her seat and stands alongside the hobbled survivor shaking her down, her composure loosening the more time she spends in the apartment, but still strong enough to support her in the argument she’s well aware is about to be engaged. “I don’t even know that I can avoid war anymore. Allow me to remind you of what I just said ten minutes ago- Gamble had spies outside of our walls” Charlotte clarifies, watching the face on whom stands before her begin to slowly dishearten, “even though war isn’t one of the outcomes of that deal he and I agreed to- he’s still preparing for it.” “I don’t blame him” Jack retorts, crafting a break in the discourse to supplant his own thoughts, “we’d figured we would’ve run you off for good back in New York, but there you were in the woods quietly getting ready for another run at us.” “And now my brother’s dead, so clearly that didn’t end so well for me, did it?” Charlotte rebukes, only for another voice to catch her ear. “Why would anyone expect that to stop you from trying again?” Clint inquires, his arms crossed and chin directed toward the ground whilst his voice takes over for his sister, whom he knows wishes to stay out of the conversation, “you lost your entire family- blood and marital- keeping this thing together. If I were Gamble, I’d wonder what you had to lose.” “I’m not saying he doesn’t have a reason to, I’m saying that he is” Charlotte corrects, not shy from admitting her understanding, “if I were in his shoes, I’d be readying myself for the exact same thing.” “Her point is that Gamble’s already committed himself to planning for a war” Courtney interrupts, her voice’s arrival more accepted this time around. “He’s got spies outside the walls, and for all we know- he’s probably got half a dozen things already in place to put up a fight” she proceeds, using her status as a more accepted face than that of her superior’s to make an effort of reasoning with the civilians, “we can’t afford to sit on our hands and wait for the war to come to us.” “Assuming these people were outside of the walls on his orders, why can’t we make the claim that they fired on Nova Scotian personnel and do away with him?” Alicia wonders aloud, her eyes looking toward Courtney to symbolise her hopes that the paramotorist would be the one to answer. “Sure. But then we’d be opening a power vacuum on Prince Edward Island” Charlotte replies instead, “martyrdom is the same reason we haven’t just tried to kill him and be done with it.” Though options and alternatives were thrown around one after the other, the room soon falls quiet, the various bodies that inhabit it all fail to produce a sound. Within an instant, the discouraged and wavered spirits of the compound’s citizens soon make themselves known through their sheer silence, one that only comes to an end when the voice of their trusted successor to power speaks aloud. “They would fail, right?” Emilio inquires, watching Charlotte’s eyes take toward his direction just like all others, “if you let them break free and they carried on with their business, how long would it be until they failed? Until everything fell apart?” Unsure of what the man is trying to get at, Alicia and Franklin turn their sights toward the pair of elites within their flat’s centre, both Jack and Lauren following a similar pathway, though their eyes take toward the ground the women occupy. “I’m not sure. He says they’re self-sufficient, but that’s about all I know” Charlotte responds, her voice less defensive of her intentions, and now more exhausted with the consistent explanations she’s forced to give, “why?” “Because you could win that war without having to fire a single shot” Emilio replies, his remarks soon reclaiming the eyesight of the two couples within the home’s interior. “If you let them go out on their own and they couldn’t hack it, they’d fall into disrepair and have no one to blame aside from Gamble” he reiterates, clarifying his point whilst the room listens on, “all you’d need to do is keep the ship tidy and neat until that happens. Then, you can swoop in and offer to reunify.” “We’d still have to go in and clean up the mess Gamble and his lackeys would make” Courtney responds, taking the reins for her superior, who continues to sit with her thoughts, “and if things get as bad in there as they are outside the walls, there’s not much we can do to quarter off the bridge.” “We’d also lose nearly half of our ports, and Charlottetown is a pretty important one to lose completely” Charlotte adds, still looking to the floor as her thoughts now voice themselves aloud, “and with that, we’d pretty much be giving up our entire fleet of war boats and the shipping boats we still have docked there.” Allowing his point to fall on the doorsteps of death it had appeared to ascend, Emilio lets his head hang without an alternative to provide, beginning to see the writing on the wall his group had begun to read whilst he extended hope that the words would not have to be made out. Equally hushed, Charlotte continues to stare at the floor whilst her thoughts return to her mind, surveyed and inspected from start to end, front and back, before falling from her tongue’s tip once more. “It might work” she murmurs, prompting the group’s eyes to join their leaders’ in taking toward her, awaiting more than just the three syllables to voice themselves. | Calmly and without trouble over the scene that surrounds her, Bristol carries herself down the corridor she frequents almost as often as her superior does, bowing her head politely at the various workers she walks past. “Good morning” she remarks to all that she finds travelling in the opposite direction of herself, each worker pulling a body-stuffed cart away from the office she finds herself closing in on, a piece of paper carried in the palms of her fingers. “Good morning, Mr. Gamble” she remarks, entering an office whose every window is opened and every inch is being scrubbed with such harsh chemicals even the cleaners feel the need to dawn hazmat suits. “Oof” Bristol grumbles as her second hand frees itself from the paper to cover her face, the first hand extending the message to the desk her superior sits at, “that’s a rather strong odour, isn’t it?” “My apologies, Bristol” Gamble responds, taking his hands away from the keyboard in which his fingers dance across to retrieve a face mask from beside him, “I had underestimated the fumes.” With appreciation, the woman claims the mask for herself and delivers the message she’d been tasked with waiting for, “it’s not an issue, Mr. Gamble” Bristol replies, bowing her head as she holds the covering to her face, “would you like me to send a response?” Standing by as she watches the island’s lawmaker read the message she’d handed him, Bristol waits for the unchanged, emotionless visage to shift in one way or the other, a reply to her question all that she desires. “No need- he’s gotten my instructions with resounding clarity” Gamble responds with the same empty, joyless grin he’s become known for sporting, “I will ask for you to call a car for my pickup, if you don’t mind. I have some business to attend to in Kensington.” Within an hour, Gamble occupies the backseat of an old town car, watching various fields and ponds pass by as if he were in the middle of nowhere. Dressed in his same suit and tie with a beige trench coat over each shoulder, the man folds his hands in his lap whilst he sits to the right-most side of the vehicle, staring out the window at the dreary scenery he’s surrounded by, the start of a rainstorm just beginning to make its way over Prince Edward Island. “That front has already been taken care of. The crew stationed in Newfoundland is already aware of the need for heightened parameters” Gamble responds, walking alongside a man dressed in a mechanic’s jumper through the floor of a bustling warehouse. “I’d imagine that’s the easy part, right?” the unnamed man in the dirty jumper and hat that’s ripped and torn in various places replies, “the plant up north being not as big and all, y’know?” Remaining quiet, Gamble’s head is held toward the ground in which he walks, keeping track of every step before his eyes peer toward the sound of repetitive thumping. “How many in total?” he wonders aloud, prompting the filth-covered gentleman he walks alongside to direct his focus toward the same scene spoken of. “Around a hundred and fifty- probably just a little more” he replies, removing his ragged baseball cap whilst his superior stops in the middle of their walk, fully turning his body toward the nearby loading bay. “They were all put under about a half hour ago. With about twenty per truck, I’d say they’ll all be up and walking in five hours or so” the dirty man proceeds, explaining the scene of unconscious human bodies being tossed into the back of box trucks as if no different from products. “They’ll all starve to death within three weeks or so, but in all likelihood- one will come back and tear into all the others” the warehouse overseer remarks, “that should take a week or so. If we’re gonna use the zombies as weapons, I’d say you’ve got about two weeks after that to work with if you still want them running.” “And you’re sure about these- running types- correct?” Gamble wonders aloud, turning his eyes to the man that accompanies him throughout the fortified, out-of-the-way warehouse. “They’re real rare now that it’s been so long since the outbreak, but I’ve seen them myself. Zombies- fresh from the crypt- running like they’re olympic sprinters” the accommodating labourer responds, “not all dead people come back like that, but some retain enough muscle for the first few weeks or so.” Taking his eyes back to the warehouse floor, Gamble’s face shows the faintest hint of emotion, a subdued look of awestruck pleasure coming over his usually-stiff and rigid visage. Slowly nodding to himself, the island’s quiet peacekeeper pulls himself away from the short balcony he stands at and begins resuming the patrol he and his subordinate had originally embarked upon, carrying on with his duties whilst the preparation for warfare carries on. | “Come on in” Salem remarks, limping aside to grant her friend entry to the flat she calls home, one hand resting against the lip of the counter she uses for support. “Thanks” Emilio mutters, closing the entrance on his way inside whilst the woman he visits begins hobbling toward a chair across from the apartment’s fireplace. “So, it’s been a few days. How’re you feeling?” the visitor inquiries, watching the hobbled woman step along the hardwood floor cautiously, her weight mostly placed in the healthy leg, which prompts the floorboards to creak. “It’s been four days. I’ve still got a bullet hole in my leg, and I don’t think much else matters than that” Salem replies, finally reaching the chair she’d intended to take a seat upon before waving off the cane in which her friend tries to offer her. “I’m not gonna bring myself to depend on that” the survivor rebukes, discouraging the assistance of anyone or anything in her time of recovery, “I’ve been saddled with worse than a gimpy leg over my life- I’ll be fine.” Allowing the woman to refuse the aid he makes an attempt at offering, Emilio returns the walking stick to the side of the room as he listens to his acquaintance’s weight collapse into the chair with a satisfying sigh. “Ah” Salem hisses aloud, arms sinking into the comfortable armrests whilst her mouth sits agape, held toward the ceiling that her closed-eyes take toward also. “Comfortable?” Emilio jokes, watching the woman’s left hand lift from her side whilst the rest of her posture is unchanged, the middle finger on it extended toward the sarcastic man who replies with a chuckle. “I’m very comfortable. If it weren’t for the leg, I’d be in paradise” Salem responds, eventually coming around to sinking into the chair like a normal person, head held toward the ottoman that her fellow survivor takes a seat upon. “I always thought people like Edgar Allen Poe lived in places like this” Emilio remarks, taking a gaze around the apartment he’s very rarely visited, rows of books that line a variety of shelves just behind the seat his friend occupies. “Cuddled up by the fire with a book in hand. Of course, that didn’t make sense since he wrote books, not necessarily that he read them-” the man corrects, peering toward the open flames and the small pile of books seated on a table beside the chair. “Thanks for comparing to Edgar Allen Poe of all people” Salem sarcastically quips, watching her friend bow his head with a smirk, “I don’t know much about the dude, but I’m pretty sure he was a freak- and not in a good way.” “Oh, he was. He definitely was” Emilio replies, another pan of his sights across the room preventing him from speaking further, “but this is the kind of place I always associated with that dark and dreary atmosphere.” “Ah yes, that’s me!” Salem enthusiastically jokes, propping herself upright further until both her and her guest are at eye-level, “Salem Ailwood- dark and dreary.” Concealing the same laughter that he shares with the flat’s tenant, Emilio bows his head whilst the room grows quiet, their laughter the only thing having prevented the crackling fire from setting an ambient tone over the pair. As their voices stop, the two survivors can’t help but silently stare at each other, almost as if they were waiting for the same attempt at filling the void that silence replenishes as the other does. “Can I ask you a question?” Emilio soon wonders aloud, aware that his friend will not take him up on speaking through the pause, instead opting to take the mantle for himself. “I’ve got nowhere else to be, so why not?” Salem responds, an eyebrow raised as her back begins falling further into the cushion support of her seat, eyes firmly cemented upon a man amidst his pause. Yet to outright open the floor to his inquiry, Emilio looks off to a corner of the room cluttered with books stacked well above the lip of a box labelled ‘return to library’, pondering his thoughts before voicing them aloud. “Why do you read so much?” he finally inquires, a brief smile coming over his face as if the question had been one he’d only just conjured, uncertain over whatever else to ask. “I mean, you practically live in a library in and of itself, so I’ve gotta ask why” Emilio clarifies, hands spreading out at both sides to illustrate the scale in which the hardcover novels fill the room, “I’m sure some of them were here when you moved in, but I can’t imagine all of them were.” Though her teeth don’t show through it, Salem’s lips part briefly to form a smile, the corners of her mouth stretching upward. “Actually they were. The guy that lived here before me died a few months before we moved in. That’s why I don’t have some massive bill for that pile in the corner there” she responds, pointing to the library box in the room’s side, “but I read them ‘cause they’re here. I mean, what else am I supposed to do around here? I work, I come home, I sleep.” “And you read” Emilio adds, pointing at the woman who soon points back to him, nodding in agreement to his clarification. “That I do. Indeed, I read a lot” Salem replies, lifting her injured leg onto her friend’s lap in lieu of the stool he occupies as a chair of his own, “I put on a pot of coffee or tea, I sit by the fire, and when I have nothing to do- which happens for a few hours every day- I read a book.” “But why?” Emilio replies, shaking his head with genuine curiosity, not seeing the necessity or even understanding the desire, “I know they were here, but that doesn’t necessarily mean you have to read them.” “No, of course it doesn’t. I’m Salem- I don’t need to do anything” the woman responds, a smile worn on her face before it falls toward the ground, looking at the healthy leg that still sits atop the floor. “So why start?” Emilio again inquires, unable to see the correlation that his initial question- though not originally having been planned to ask- leaves him eager to make out, “why pick up that first book and start reading? Why care to pick up another one, or the one after that?” Though her charming grin remains partially intact, Salem’s lowered chin indicates a different answer than what her deceptive visage implies. With her eyes taking toward the outstretched leg that she rests atop Emilio’s leg, the woman’s demeanour begins taking a turn for something sour, less amused with the witty back and forth she’d engaged within to present a more disheartened expression. “Because it kept me from running off on the rest of you” Salem confesses, finally lifting her head as she speaks, eyes finding those of her close friend whilst she does. Clearly doing what she can to hide the grief this admission leaves her with, the freedom-yearning survivor lets her back sink further into her seat whilst her eyes take toward the sky, Emilio’s patience remaining intact as he leaves her the room to process what she soon puts into words. With a squint, Salem stares at the various dots her late 80’s-era popcorn ceiling is dotted with, running over them with her eyes before speaking aloud. “When I was younger, and right after I got my driver’s licence, I bought a ragged, old van and took it out on the road” she begins, a smirk beginning to resume its hold over the corner of her mouth, “the gas was cheap and I didn’t really need to know where I was going. I just started driving until I got tired of eating the cheap shit I’d find.” With his hands folded, Emilio listens to the woman through each pause she takes, allowing the popping noises of the fireplace his back is turned toward to serve as white noise to the momentary one-sided conversation. “My parents started getting really pissed at me after a while. Especially after I stopped going to classes in my first semester” Salem continues, almost amusing herself enough to laugh, “so, eventually I decided to just start driving around full time.” Lowering her chin until eye-level with the man across from her, Salem looks at the lack of judgement in her friend’s face and takes more comfort in seeing it than she could from anything his words would be able to provide. “I haven’t seen them in years. They never called and neither did I” she carries on, diving deeper into the verbal rabbit hole she’s revealing the inner workings of to the surface, “after some time, I got my pilot’s licence so I could afford a little place like this and gas.” Preparing to continue with her remarks, Salem takes a moment for a second thought, her eyes trailing away from her silent friend and following the outstretched arm she directs toward a half-empty bottle of scotch. “Eventually, I bought a little field for myself and stuck a trailer on it. I didn’t have to pay rent and could just disappear into the middle of the woods for a few days at a time” she speaks further, unscrewing the bottle’s cap, “it was fine for what it was- which wasn’t much.” Taking a swig, the woman lifts her arm toward her mouth and extends the bottle to Emilio, who takes her up on the offer and begins drinking whilst she speaks. “I eventually found a guy to sell me a chopper for cheap, stopped doing those little ten-person travel tours my employer had me working, and started doing carry jobs for some of the locals” Salem proceeds, waiting for the man to return the liquor bottle to its rightful arms for a second sip. “So that’s what you were doing when the old world fell? Odd jobs?” Emilio wonders aloud, finally breaking his silence as his face sours, not in reaction to the woman’s remarks, but to the bitter taste of the booze that coats the inside of his mouth. “It paid well and I could work my own hours. Besides, I was living in rural Pennsylvania at the time- gas was cheap” Salem retorts, her smirk growing, “do a few odd jobs, hit the road for a few months at a time- rinse, wash, repeat.” “And exactly when do you get to the part where you save my ass out in Connecticut?” Emilio questions, a squint in his right eye as he begrudgingly gives into the woman’s hidden request that he drink once more, the bottle extended toward him for a second time. “I’d tell you to be patient, but we’re sort of already at that part” Salem replies, licking the liquor residue that coats her lips, “since the outbreak began about two weeks or so before it got bad, I was probably just outside Buffalo.” “Fuck Buffalo” Emilio immediately interjects, wincing as he lowers the bottle from his lips, reacting to a second swig that’s somehow worse than the one that preceded it. “Patriots fan?” Salem queries, reclaiming the bottle as her answer is first offered in the form of a vehement head shake. “Do I look like upscale, Windsor Locks trash to you!?” Emilio rebukes, the squint in his eyes now carried more from the offence he takes than the taste he’s left with, “Go Jets.” “I don’t know how good they were supposed to be. My football knowledge comes from that dude’s DVR back in Cumberland” Salem replies, shaking her head as she takes sip number three, “I remember a dude telling me the Patriots were Satan when I was up there, so I figured the two applied.” “They’re all in the same division. Buffalo Bills, the Patriots, and the Jets” Emilio responds, again hesitating as the scotch bottle is handed to him yet again, “they’re our division rivals- so are the Dolphins. But with that said, I’ve got less of a problem with them than I do the Pats and Brady.” “Yeah, I wonder what happened to that guy when everything fell apart” Salem replies, familiar with the man in question in spite of her inexperience with football. “I don’t care about what happened to him. I’m just pissed this shit hit when the season was about to start” Emilio responds, scrunching his face again with the third sip taken, “Sam Darnold was gonna be something special, man.” “I still have no clue what you’re talking about, but anyway-” Salem interjects, pausing to take her fourth sip before continuing with her recollection, trading the bottle back to her acquaintance. “I was in Buffalo when the first dead guy came back and made the news. I figured it was too risky going back to Pennsylvania once people started running through the shops scavenging what they could and hitting the road” she continues, “so heading for where Sikorsky was headed in seemed like a plan.” “And that’s when our paths crossed in Waterbury?” Emilio responds, swearing off any further drinking with his fourth and final swig, returning the bottle for the flat’s tenant to serve herself as she pleases. “Well, it wasn’t smooth sailing there, but yeah” Salem answers, taking her fifth swig before returning the cap to the bottle’s top, gently placing it back to the floor beside her chair, “I ran with Alicia and Franklin for a bit and we met up with you guys at the New World Order.” With a nod and caught up to speed, Emilio’s eyes trail back toward the pile of books in the corner awaiting a return trip to the library that will never come. “So it’s not just a new thing, huh?” he wonders aloud, watching the sigh-heavy grin and shake of Salem’s head respond to him, “you’ve just always been a free spirit, I suppose.” As the air that fills her chest now leaves in one, big breath, Salem’s shoulders fall and her body relaxes further into the cushioned chair, her head swaying from one side to the other. “I’ve never really been tied down. It’s a miracle that I’ve actually gotten as attached to you all as I have. I’ve only ever really been on my own- even when I was young” she admits, her head lowering whilst paused, thinking to herself for a moment before voicing her thoughts aloud. “But that’s not why I’m tempted to leave now” Salem confesses, looking back to the face of a man awaiting context, a luxury that not even she always accepts internally at times. “It was different at the New World Order. I was only fond of Alicia and Franklin at that point. With Sheol, I just wanted to feel like I belonged. With Sun City, I’d just wanted what was best for all of us” she proceeds, “by the time we got to Cumberland, I felt like the rest of you were finally somewhere safe.” Pressing his arms into the top of his thighs, Emilio leans in as the effects of his dinner- no more than a few swigs of scotch and an apple from earlier in the day- begin to weigh on him slightly. “It’s different now with Charlotte telling us about this stuff with the people over the bridge. It’s like there’s something bigger than anything we’ve seen before right around the corner” Salem explains, the sound of worry in her voice, “but this time, I care about the people that could get hurt.” Letting his body loosen, Emilio’s eyebrows refrain from their slightly-furrowed state as he pulls his body upward slightly, unable to say much to relinquish the woman from her trepid state. “I don’t feel comfortable here and I’m never really going to. But I didn’t feel comfortable in Cumberland either, and I toughed it out there” Salem proceeds, watching her friend’s eyes take to the other end of the room, “but I don’t really wanna imagine what it’d be like to see-” Hearing the woman prevent herself from speaking further, Emilio’s eyes- which had spent the last few seconds looking toward a sea of various street lamps and the lit windows of a nearby apartment building- take back toward the hesitant woman with haste. Looking at the ground beside her, Salem remains put with parted lips, unsure of exactly how she’s trying to phrase the thought she can’t fully flesh out within her head. “I don’t wanna see this battle hurt more people than it already has, I guess” Salem confesses, still refraining from looking her friend in the eyes. “When we lost John, it hurt. When we lost Jess, and Amy, and Heather- that hurt too” she confesses, clearing her throat before keeping silent for another second, using the time to finally reclaim eye contact with the man across from her, “but I don’t know that I’ll be able to survive watching anyone else that I care about die.” Left feeling like his core is knotting upon itself, Emilio parts his lips before bowing his head, unsure of how to respond to a claim that strikes him as deeply as the one his dear friend has shared with him does. “I’m afraid of how it’ll feel if I had to see you die. Or Jack and Lauren, or the siblings, or-” Salem proceeds, falling silent yet again as she reaches a thought that horrifies her to imagine, “well, with the kid being around now, seeing Alicia or Franklin die would ruin me.” “We shouldn’t think like that. It may be as possible as anything else we’ve seen, but we’ve fought through worse” Emilio refutes, a claim the woman can’t help but prevent him from clarifying further. “We say that a lot, but I don’t think that’s true this time” Salem argues, defending her stance with ease as her friend fails to find much ground to debate her with, “any other time and we could’ve just stopped the violence by staying out of it. This time, it isn’t even our war- it’s theirs.” “And we’ve beaten both of them combined before” Emilio replies, believing in his defence as much as the woman does, taking it with a grain of salt in a mountain of sand. “It doesn’t change the fact that we’re just pawns in this one. We may know- and have proven ourselves to- Charlotte a lot more than the others, but we’re not the ones playing chess this time” Salem retorts, listening to the air she shares with the man grow silent, “we’re no safer than anyone else.” Though his mouth remains slightly agape, Emilio has no intention of speaking further, all that’s needed to be said having filled the air long ago. Instead, the man’s eyes place themselves on an unimportant corner of the room where two bookshelves meet, looking away from the woman whose presence prompts him to consider the same horrifying thoughts that Salem herself dreads imagining. “I love you guys. All of you. Every one of you reminded me of what it felt like to be cared about and how to care for people” she continues, not wanting to leave anything less in the line of thought. “But I can’t take losing anyone else here. I’m willing to be as uncomfortable as possible in this bland, boring society so long as no one I care about is in danger-” Salem concludes, a stoic confidence carried within her relaxed demeanour, “-but if this place falls into chaos... I’m out.” The woman’s stance making it impossible to construe as anything different than her peace, Emilio remains seated whilst the apartment’s tenant steps out of her chair, already having gotten her stubborn refusal for assistance well-established in her guest’s eyes. “I know you’re a pathetic lightweight, so you can sleep in my chair. There’s a pull-out couch in the study if that’s more your style” Salem proclaims on her way to bed, “I don’t want you walking the streets tipsy.” Aware of the lessened sensation of sobriety and yet retaining his sound mind, Emilio watches the woman walk off and nods toward her, keeping to himself so much as a ‘thank you’ he knows she’d dismiss as little more than the decency it would be intended as. To his own devices, the man finds himself alone in the living room with a fire to keep him company, the desire to step away from the ottoman he’s seated upon incapable of being found with the heavy discourse that weighs on his mind. == Rise == |
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. Archives
June 2025
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