Page 33 of The Midnight Hour
Mattie frowns but doesn’t press the point. None of us knew that woman. We might feel sorry for her, but that’s all. We walk into the next room, and a little gasp of relief escapes me when I see Daniel, Kyle, and Sam all sitting on folding chairs, dressed in identical boiler suits. Sam and Kyle look, in turn, haughty and scared, and my husband only looks bemused.
“Blue’s always suited you,” he says, and again, improbably, I laugh.
The room is empty save for a half dozen folding chairs, so there are no clues as to what is going on or what this alleged interview will require.
“Did you learn anything?” I ask Daniel as I sit next to him. Ruby sits next to me, and Mattie takes the chair on the end, with Phoebe on her lap.
“That I really missed having a shower,” Daniel quips as he smiles at me, his eyes creasing in a way I haven’t seen them do in months, since before this all happened, and I’m suddenly struck by how relieved my husband is, to be in a place where someone else is in charge. Where someone else is responsible for keeping us safe.
That’s what we both need now.
The door opens and then a man steps in, and I’m pretty sure, judging by the composed but intent look on his face, that he’s the one conducting this interview…and deciding our fates.
FOURTEEN
“Good morning.”
The man smiles at us, a perfunctory, professional sort of smile, and then closes the door carefully behind him. I’m trying to get the measure of him, whoever he is—he’s average height, a little slighter than average build, with thinning dark hair and dark brown eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. He looks like an accountant, save for the fact that he’s dressed in combat fatigues, and I decide there is something comfortingly familiar about his manner. He’s an administrator, a bureaucrat, like before the bombs.
“Good morning,” Daniel replies, and we all murmur variations of a greeting like unruly children cowed by the new teacher.
He stands in front of us, hands folded loosely in front of him as he surveys us with a faint smile. “You’re probably wondering what on earth is going on,” he remarks, and I decide his voice is pleasant—pleasant but also restrained, with a hint of the friendly Canadian accent.Trustworthy, I think, wanting to believe it. “What we’ve found,” he continues, “is that it’s best tohave a system in place to process new arrivals. Hence the shower, the boiler suit, and this little interview. I know it might all seem kind of utilitarian and restricted, like something out ofTheHunger Games, but it really isn’t.” He glances at Mattie as he says this, and she smiles a little shamefacedly. I’m amused, until I wonder if the shower room was bugged and he heard her make that remark about District13. Then I tell myself I am overreacting.
“Maybe you could tell us a little bit about this place,” Daniel suggests. “What it’s like, and who you are. Someone told us about the air base, but the truth is we came in pretty much blind.”
“Of course.” The man’s reply is swift, easy. “My name is Michael Duart, and before the first attacks I worked as a computer engineer right here at 22 Wing, otherwise known as CFBNorth Bay.”
“So how did you go from that,” Daniel asks slowly, “to this? What happened to the military presence here? Did they really all just up and leave?”
Michael nods somberly. “Unfortunately, yes. All the military personnel were mobilized after Toronto was attacked.” He pauses. “You might not have realized, but this air base didn’t actually house any aircraft. The last squadron flew out of here in 1992, when the control tower, airfield, fuel depot, and other base assets were demolished. The airport across the road is for civilians.” He pauses, his expression and voice both somber. “In any case, after the mobilization…no one came back.”
“No one?” Mattie repeats in something like a squeak.
“There were some reservists still here,” Michael Duart allows, “and some non-combat personnel, such as myself. But most everyone was evacuated from the base itself, as well as the city of North Bay, because, as a control center, 22 Wing was thought to be a likely target. It wasn’t attacked, obviously, as ourenemy focused on inflicting maximum casualties through the bombing of urban areas. But, as you can imagine, or not even have to imagine, since it was probably like this where you were as well, everything was pretty chaotic at that time. If people weren’t evacuated, they deserted. Others panicked. People headed west or holed up in their homes. There were, sadly, quite a few suicides.” He pauses, as if in memory of those unfortunates. “For a couple of months,” he resumes, “it felt like no one was in charge.” He spreads his hands wide as if to say,what can you do?
“Yes,” Daniel agrees, “it certainly felt like that to me.” He pauses, his forehead furrowed in thought, and I know he feels he can’t get the measure of this man. Is he as trustworthy as he seems? I want him to be. “So what happened then?” Daniel finally asks.
“I realized someone needed to take control.” Michael Duart speaks simply, without either pride or modesty, just a statement of fact. “I could see there was a great resource here, even without the military presence. All the infrastructure”—he sweeps one hand out to encompass everything about this place—the barbed wire, the semiautomatic rifles, the security system, the sixty floors underground—“comes in pretty handy. But if it fell into the wrong hands…” He pauses. “Well, maybe you’ve seen what happens then. Vigilantes and renegades taking over whatever building they can—a hospital, a hotel, a mall.” He pauses meaningfully. “It’s not pretty,” he concludes somberly, “when that happens.”
We are all silent for a moment, recalling when we’ve seen exactly that. No, it’s not pretty at all.
“You must have moved fast,” Daniel remarks, “to take control of a place this size. How big is it?”
“Well, I didn’t do it on my own,” Michael replies, sidestepping the question about size. “There were a few dozen of uswho saw the need and acted. That was about four months ago. Since then, we’ve done our best to hone our process and system, for the good of everyone here, and the future we can make for ourselves.”
He straightens a little. “You might have noticed this is called the North Bay Survival and Resettlement Center. That’s because this is about more than just surviving the next few months or years of whatever happens—the fallout, a nuclear winter, you name it. This is about resettling the country, and indeed all of civilization. And if that sounds grandiose,” he continues, sounding defensive even though none of us has said a word, “well, you’re right, it is, but that’s the world—or lack of it—that we’re living in right now, but we here at the NBSRC want to change it. We genuinely do want to make the world a better place.”
He gives this stirring speech in the same matter-of-fact voice, but now I detect the slightest hint of pride, and I can’t fault him for it. I’m stirred; theyaredoing something grandiose and good here. At least, I hope they are.
“I suppose that’s true enough,” Daniel agrees with an easy smile, or at least the approximation of one. “So tell us how this works.”
“Of course.” Michael Duart’s voice possesses an eager alacrity that suggests he is getting into his stride. He shifts where he stands, throwing back his slight shoulders like he is settling into himself. “So I’ll outline our basic principles and then you can decide if you’re on board or not. If you’re not, and I’ll be honest with you, a fair amount of people have decided that, then you leave here with all your possessions intact, save for the clothes we’ve had to dispose of due to the potential of radioactive contamination.”
“Okay,” Daniel agrees after a moment. “Sounds fair.”
And maybe too good to be true? I lurch between deepparanoia and wild hope, but I already know which one I want to choose.
“Good.” Michael Duart gives a brief nod. “So, the first thing is to assure you that we are not running some kind of Stalinist work camp here. We are not about the state, such as it is, taking control, or the individual giving up his or her rights for the betterment of the community.” He gives us the sort of a smile that invites you to share the joke; all that’s missing is an eye-roll. “I’m saying that up front because that’s what most people are afraid of. The boiler suits don’t help, I know, but it was just easier to have something basic for people to change into, and there were stacks of them here already, so we thought we might as well put them to good use.”
