S7, E9 | Goodbye, Salem

“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 ==