“I… I…” I stammer, unsure if I’m planning to apologize or skip straight to begging for mercy.
“You lit the signal fire?” he asks through clenched teeth.
I manage a nod.
“Just the two of you?”
Another nod.
“We’ll see about that.” He slings his rifle back over his shoulder. “Silas, you take the south. James, you’re checking the treeline. If you see any sign of additional parties, wire immediately. Do not engage alone.”
The two men snap to their orders without another word, leaving me and April to their leader. As ever, I do the mental calculus that keeps us alive. There’s room to run now, but while I might be able to outpace this behemoth,April won’t. He’s not aiming the gun at us anymore, but if I made a play to grab it, he could throw me off him like a ragdoll. Plus, he’s wearing an old RCMP vest, so a bullet wouldn’t do much to him if I did manage to fire the gun.
He is, no doubt, running his own calculations. He spares April a glance but is considerably more preoccupied with scowling at me. I stand like a dead bug pinned in a collection, limbs splayed out for science. He hasn’t said I can lower my hands yet, and I don’t dare make any sudden movements. Not when he’s clearly deciding if I deserve to be stepped on.
I can’t imagine I impresses him. None of my clothes are in good condition, all worn and stitched over a thousand times. I’m decked out in cargo pants and a T-shirt with a rip in the centre that I haven’t had time to mend yet. I’ve tied a polar fleece sweater around my waist—the kind that holds onto every stray twig it encounters. My short, dark curls are an unholy mess, so I’m guessing I won’t appeal to his mercy through my feminine wiles or anything like that.
April, however, reaches up to tuck a piece of hair behind her ear, her eyes on one of his biceps. Which, I will grant her, are substantial.
“Do you want to explain to me why the hell you lit the signal fire and then attacked our team with nothing besides a slingshot?” he finally asks.
“You had guns,” I say.
“We have guns. You have a slingshot. And you thought firing on us wouldhelpin that situation?”
“I thought it would give her a chance to get away.” I gesture towards April. “And I mean, if we ran, what’s in it for you if you shoot at us? Dead women won’t do you any good. Not worth the bullet.”
“Deadwomen?”The furrow in his brow deepens. “So, you saw me come ashore with a gun and immediately thought we wanted to… do something to you?”
He doesn’t say it out loud, so neither do I. Nobody has to, because we all know there’s more than one kind of violence to fear in this world. In our shared silence, his expression shifts. He’s still scowling, but it feels less personal, like he’s pissed, but not necessarily at me.
He breaks the silence. “Okay. Here’s what we’re going to do. You two are going to take off your bags. Set them down, then step five paces away. We’re going to wait for my guys to come back, and if your story checks out,that’swhen we’ll talk.”
“Thank you!” April drops her bag eagerly. I’m more hesitant, but I do follow suit, because what other choice do I have?
“Everything all right down there, Charles?”
I jump at the crackling of the little black box strapped to our guard’s RCMP vest. He pulls it out and speaks into it again, confirming April’s suspicion that it’s a walkie-talkie. “Situation under control for now. James and Silas are checking for hostiles. Stand by.”
“Roger.”
“So…” I watch as he clips the box back onto his vest. “Is your name Roger or Charles?”
The question catches him off guard for a second. His face breaks into a smile, as if I’ve said something funny or stupid. Probably both. “Sid, actually. Sid Charles.”
“Then who’s Roger?”
“No one. It’s just a thing people say in walkie-talkies. Meansokayorgotcha.”
“Why don’t you just say that, then?”
“I dunno. Some kind of pre-Quake thing. Why does anyone do anything anymore?”
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a bit of rolled up paper. He crouches down next to the barrel so he can reach the holes at the bottom and sticks his paper tubedeep enough in to catch on the smouldering embers. When he draws it back up, I realize I’m staring at a lit cigarette.
What the hell?
I’m transfixed as he threads it between his teeth. Cigarettes ran out years ago, or so I thought. Granted, I also thought walkie-talkies were a thing of the past. The implications of both are staggering. Salt Spring must have some way of generating electricity. They must have stockpiles of old cigarettes.
