The pound symbol # is inserted to show an extra line space marking a change of scene in the story line. Triple asterisks indicate a time change in the story line.


Liberation Day


Reflections drew attention to ground based, solar arrays and these were targeted from space. Electric grids of nuclear and hydroelectric plants were shattered early on; not the plants themselves, but the power lines supplying the countryside. Toxic results of destroying a nuclear facility would linger for decades, and obliteration of a hydro dam could result in long term, uncontrolled flooding. Both effects would be detrimental to eventual re-settlement by the attackers.

In the Fall, drone strikes closed major highways leading to the usual border crossings. Blockades of wrecked semis made long distance travel impossible except on tree-sheltered, country road. Major bridges were also smashed. 

The Grand River snakes down from the north, where in upper reaches, farmers have marked shallow water crossings; and in middle longitudes, there are infrequent, elaborately concealed, single-car ferries. Travel through the Kawartha County Lake District is unfeasible without detailed knowledge of the gravel trails winding from lake to lake. 

Now, after little more than a year, an occasional hidden windmill and aging, fossil-powered, household generators are the only remaining sources of electricity. 

#

*		*		*

#

Dark clouds roll in from the west. The approaching Spring gale whips waves against the eastern shore. A cedar cottage masked by a promontory is surrounded by tall white spruce and birch. Inside the cabin, a man switches on a table lamp and doggedly continues studying backcountry maps. 

As a gust of rain slashes across the cottage deck, he hears a car door slam. Relieved, he stands quickly to fetch a beach towel. Facing the south window, he sees his wife, Eileen, running through the storm. A yellow wrap flaps over her head as she dashes up the porch steps, then inside. She throws down her sopping jacket and he smothers her in the towel. “Rob. Thank heavens, you’re here.”

He pats water from Eileen’s forehead as her teeth begin to chatter. Her whole body trembles as she unbuttons her soaking blouse, then flings arms around his neck for a frantic kiss. 

“Rob, you wouldn’t believe the traffic, the carnage I saw, driving over from Trent.”
“County roads, too?”

She nods. “A pile up on that little iron bridge over the York River. Two cars burning, a family dead inside the one I had to push aside.”

“Strip off, Darling. Get into bed.”

Outside, the wind howls, low-hanging spruce dance a mazurka, torn birch leaves sail between deck railings. As she pads into their bedroom, the lamp beside his lounge chair flickers once, then dies. Today’s gasoline allowance for the generator has run out. “I’ll start a fire. Be with you in a moment.”
#
Except for a candle, the bedroom is dark. Eileen lies on her side, facing the nightstand, her arms clutching raised knees. She’s pulled the heavy red and green blanket over her ear, her eyes are squeezed tight.

“Hurry, Sweetheart. I’m freezing.”

Rob heads for the bathroom for another towel. 
As he steps from his trousers, she can’t stop shaking and opens one eye. “What’s taking you so long?”

Naked, the room does feel cold and he slides in beside her, trying not to create a draft. Icy knees and breasts, Eileen captures him, pulls him against the length of her body. 

“Oh. You’re warm.” 

Her face buried against his neck, he dries her short hair, worries that her chill is more a reaction to the harrowing drive home than a Spring rainstorm.

“Phone service went down after lunch,” he whispers into her hair. 
“I know. I kept trying all afternoon.”

“No cell signal at all, Eileen?”

“Trent cancelled the Indigenous Conference at nine this morning. Then air raid alarms started shrieking. Rob, you wouldn’t believe the panic, how hard it was even to get out of town.”

“Seven hours to drive two hundred kilometres?”

“Lucky I got here at all.”

#
*		*		*
#

A late June sunset paints clouds above Sturgeon Lake. 

Cellphone service has been spotty, and when his wife’s phone rings, she rushes outside to face the nearest tower. Eileen stands atop the rock promontory beyond the spruce windbreak. Her conversation is indistinct, but after only a few moments, she becomes quite agitated. “No, Jane, you mustn’t do that. We’ll come get you.”

White-faced, stricken, Eileen hurries back to him. “Jane’s wounded. She’s holed up in a high school gymnasium. Her husband’s dead.”

“That’s crazy! John can’t be dead. Good god. Where’s your sister?” 

“Wallaceburg. Somehow she made it across on the Walpole Island Ferry.”
# 
To travel west, they’ve strapped camouflage netting over the Wrangler and will drive only at night, holed up in woodlots during the day. Fortunately, Eileen’s Jeep is built for the times: high-tensile steel body, push bumpers and reinforced windows, but lousy fuel economy. The four jerry cans lashed to a plastic frame are half July’s gasoline ration; no ration at all is promised for August. If drones don’t destroy them first, it will take nearly twelve hours to approach the St. Clair River crossing. They pack water, dried food, blankets and a first aid manual, praying Jane’s injury won’t demand more sophistication. 

Eileen refuses to bring the deer rifle. “Rob, you’re not taking that damned 30-06.”

“It kept us from starvation last winter.”

“What you’re fixin’ to kill, Honey, I won’t eat.”

“After we bring Jane here, we should canoe up into Algonquin Park for the winter. Build a cabin.”

“But Rob, the war’s about to end!”

 He shook his head, then growled. “Oh, yes. They’ll claim it will be our very own Liberation Day.” 
#
#


The End







George Crossman won the Carleton University Creative Writing Contest, Passages, for 2015 and his debut historical novel ‘1812 The Land Between Flowing Waters,’ was published by Fireship Press. One of his seventeen published stories has been nominated for the 2024 Pushcart Prize.