Kaine drummed his fingers on the table as he mulled over what could be done. The rest of the faculty still operated under the assumption that things would soon return to normal. He watched the students, still stuck here, as they milled around the common area.
This will only get worse, thought Kaine. We have food for now but soon we will not. And until that happens my esteemed colleagues will do nothing.
“This seat taken?” asked someone from behind him.
Kaine turned around and look up at him. His face reminded Kaine of the forgotten valleys around the university and his long hair had been pulled back into a braid that hung down his back. “No, have a seat,” answered Kaine, motioning to the other chair.
As he sat, he introduced himself, “Most call me Martin.”
“Robert Kaine,” answered Kaine. “Lately a professor here at the university.”
“Lately?” asked Martin. “Where were you before?”
“Kingston,” answered Kaine. “I used to work for the government, but I retired.”
Martin tilted his head as he looked at Kaine. “But you’re not old enough.”
With a sigh, Kaine answered, “My leg and knees were injured quite severely during the course of my previous employment. It makes working in my previous vocation rather problematic.”
“And you got nothing from it?” asked Martin. “Seems like a crappy thing for them to do.”
“I never said that. I did—a rather substantial amount as well as full rehabilitation. I decided to use my degree in a more civilian…” Kaine sighed as he saw Martin nod his head and grin. “Dammit, yes—I was in the Army before.”
“I know,” answered Martin. “I thought I had recognized you, but I wasn’t sure.”
“And so were you,” realized Kaine as Martin nodded in answer. “What branch?”
“Regular army, and—before you answer—I know where you worked, and who for, but I know better than to advertise it.”
“Thank you,” said Kaine, relieved.
It was not as if he wanted to hide it but the mere mention of what he used to do tended to make the majority of the students here nervous. Some of the faculty as well.
Neil tended to top that list.
Kaine sighed once more, and looked over at Martin. “What do you make of this situation?”
“I was caught in this situation before,” answered Martin, his tone even. “Back in ‘92 during Desert Shield. The power’s not coming back and we’re not seeing the effect of it by virtue of our location and the weather. But it won’t last.”
“Then we’re of the same mind.”
“It would appear so,” answered Martin. “Why do you ask?”
“Not here—but could you come to my office later? It would be better discussed there.”
Martin stared at Kaine. “I retired as well… just so you know.”
“I realize that, but if we’re right then we’re the only two here who know that, and what needs to be done. No one else does.”
“All right, fine, where do I find this office of yours?”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“I was talking with the others and they’ve taken it into their heads to make you their Queen…” Derek saw the look of horror on her face. “Listen, it would only be until we manage to find some sort of trace of what's left of Canada.”
“This is a mistake,” said Sheridan while looking at the thoughtful faces of Shiloh and Derek. “Don’t tell me you’re going along with this!”
“It does make sense,” said Derek. “In a way. After all, you do own the property. What else would it make you?”
“Land owner, employer, nominal leader until we rebuilt our government…” she answered. “But a Queen? It’s a bit pompous.”
“No, it’s accurate,” stated Derek. “Think about what a Queen is and you’ll be much amused that you’ve already been one from day one, sweetheart.”
Sheridan sighed heavily and looked at the three of them. She clearly was not comfortable with the entire idea.
Derek did not really blame her one bit on that. If he was in her position, he would not be either, but comfort level or no, if they were to survive this someone had to step up and lead them through the winter.
And it was her land.
Sheridan was strong, decisive. She was able to make hard decisions but she also had a core of compassion. She could not have been a surgeon otherwise, let alone a doctor. He waited her out. She would come to that realisation herself without someone pushing her into it.
Finally, she nodded.
“Queen. Slightly pompous as hell title to claim, but if it’s what everyone wants… it’s what everyone gets,” she said until a very out of breath Patrice came running up the stairs. “What is it?”
“Your gates-men, they’ve spotted people coming down the road… they appear to have followed the tracks of the sleigh in,” he answered. “Um…”
Sheridan waited him out, wondering what it was that could have left him without words.
Derek groaned, knowing what the others did not and he asked, “More friends of your Dad, I take it?”
“I didn’t think they even survived—they left and didn’t come back since this all started.”
“Patrice, your Dad’s friends… did they work for him?” asked Derek.
Patrice shook his head. “Came from the road, as far as we could tell.”
“The Fire Hall?” asked Marissa.
“They tried to get into it, but I guess Zack and Em stopped them—it was too much bother to get into… I honestly have no idea,” explained Patrice. “Listen, these guys… they make my Dad look like a lightweight.”
“How well do you know these other people?” asked Shiloh.
Patrice shrugged. “Like how?”
“What lengths are they willing to go to take what they feel they should have, kind of how,” answered Shiloh.
“Almost inhuman—it’s like they embraced the fact that the law was gone. The first place they headed was the Fire Hall and they bragged about how they managed to break some windows and deface the building. Mind you, they didn’t get in and they were disappointed. My Dad let them rampage around… it was better that way, he said. Animals like that didn’t deserve to live inside. Better to let them roam like the wild animals they were,” answered Patrice.
“So… no chance of negotiating or splitting them up like we did with your Dad’s group,” said Shiloh.
Patrice shook his head.
“Any idea where they came from?” asked Marissa.
Patrice shook his head. “All Dad said was that they were road trash, or even perhaps trailer trash. Beyond that, I can’t say. I’ve never seen them around before.”
“Okay, you’ve proved yourself. So far,” said Shiloh with a sigh. “We’ll see about at least finding out what happened to her in the spring when the roads get a bit clearer and passable.”
“Thank you!” Patrice beamed. “I swear to you I won’t let you down!”
Not for the first time, Derek missed having Terrence around. “How much time do you think we have?” asked Derek.
Patrice took a moment to think and after a while he answered, “With the snow and the fact they’re on foot we have maybe an hour at most. Not even—that sleigh and the horses packed it all down pretty solid. They’d still have to contend with slipping and sliding, but they won’t have to plow through the snow like we did.”
Sheridan looked over at Derek. “Go on, I’ll help Derek into his armour.”
Derek looked at her in confusion but followed her anyway.
Derek followed Sheridan down to the basement. As a gun enthusiast, he knew armour generally referred to Kevlar. What did she have in mind? He thought as he followed her into a room full of glinting metal armour. In the darkened room, the battery powered camp lamps made it look like he had walked into a medieval armoury. It seemed that much more dark and mysterious.
“Okay, you're a smaller, slighter man than Terrence was—not that he was into actu
ally wearing the armour he had made for himself. You like to take things on at range, am I right?” she asked.
“I do, but I have no idea why you’d need to know that,” he answered.
“We are the last line of defence between the bridge, and beyond that, retirees and families. In the old way—or the old English way—that meant that knights and armsmen had to protect the farmers and others from barbarian raiders and invaders,” she explained as she turned to him. “We find ourselves in that position again. So I ask again, are you the kind that prefers things at range or up close and personal?”
Derek met her gaze. “Madam, I am a hunter and wilderness scout. In the old English way, that would make me a Ranger. I prefer bows and guns, but if I have to, I can handle a knife. I prefer to travel light and fast and through terrain that a horse would find bothersome and that heavy armour would make impassable.”
She nodded. “Leathers and chain, then,” she said as she pulled the necessary pieces down. “You will wear the Kevlar under this. Modern armour is to stop bullets, but it cannot stop a sword or arrow. Chain will. Leather lacing in the chain will make it silent. Count yourself lucky. My father made the metalwork and my native friend did the leather work. The metal is not steel or iron, but titanium alloy. It will not rust. It is lightweight and far stronger. The laces within the links are moose leather and the armour is from the same moose.”
Derek stripped out of the modern and into the more medieval, with modern touches for warmth, under shirt over his clothes. Derek saw the layers as she laid them out and winced.
He already wore winter underclothes—a simple undershirt tee and long underwear, plus regular cotton socks under the woollies. Over this, he wore durable khaki coloured jeans and a matching collared shirt of a lighter denim. Over his denim shirt was a warm sweater hand knitted by Lorraine.
He dressed himself in the modern bullet proof Kevlar vest which appeared to be simply a black vest.
This was the last of the modern wear, however. Sheridan had him pull on leather trousers secured onto him with a series of ties and a plain, flat-braided leather belt. He pulled on the matching boots that had a modern work sole sewn into the bottom. The boots went past his knees and looked like something out of Robin Hood. They were warm, though, and their height would keep the snow out.
Sheridan tucked a boot knife into his right boot with the sheath sitting just above the ankle and below the knee. The knife was on the lower attachments and was roughly the length of his forearm.
He pulled on the woollen winter under padding for the armour, which draped on him like a sleeved hooded tunic.
It was like wearing a winter coat with a hood. The only modern part to it was that the winter jacket’s outer shell was on the under padding and meant to prevent wind from going through the tunic which hung past his hips almost to his knees. The tunic had two slits from the bottom to just below his hips. “The slits for movement?” he asked.
“Yeah, not so great for riding but better than not having them,” answered Sheridan as she brought over the chain mail.
This was also slid over his head, and had a hooded part, which secured the same way. It was long sleeved, and protected everything from the head down, except for his face and hands, to his knees. It covered his neck and underarms. He helped to cinch it in so that it didn't move or jingle as much until it fit him snugly. Over that was a dark brown leather tunic. “More wind break. Trust me, you won’t be complaining about this outside,” said Sheridan as she handed Terrence everything else.
Each of these pieces were made of stiffened hard leather and there was a narrow strip beaded in intricate Native Canadian designs. Derek ran a finger along the beads and Sheridan said, “My great-aunt from across the river, on the reserve, said that my armour was ‘too boring’ and needed the beading.”
“This is your armour?” he realized, and she nodded. “It doesn’t look like it fits a woman.”
She snorted. “Proper armour won’t.”
Sheridan lent him a set of archer’s gloves as they had the same size of hands.
A very distinctive fur cloak which looked more like a leather trench coat made from the pelt of a bear and tanned with the fur on the inside and the dark, tanned leather on the outside was then draped on top of all this.
“Why does this not exactly fit in with the theme?” he asked, his voice tight as Sheridan was being brusquer with him than gentle.
“It doesn’t,” she answered, grinning. “But it’s not exactly wrong either. I use that coat when I’m riding. The rest is pretty accurate, but that was made for riding. It still matches the rest once I put the last bits on.”
Derek felt like he was dying of heat inside as she tied a belt around his tunic just below his breast plate and pulled it tight enough to not slip but not so tight that it was cutting off his circulation. An Irish short sword and matching leather sheath was secured onto his belt.
“Okay, go on out to the barn and tell Shiloh to get her people to prep a horse SCA style for you. And once she sees you she’ll know how to give her to you.” Sheridan gave him a playful push to the door. “Go on.”
Derek walked out of the house and was thankful for the numerous layers underneath his new armour and coat as he stepped outside into the cold. When he walked into the barn, Shiloh and Marissa turned to look at him.
Marissa gasped and said, “Oh my God, Derek. Where the hell did you get that?”
“That’s Sheridan’s personal set,” said Shiloh. “She calls it her English Ranger set.”
“It’s real armour, though?” asked Marissa.
Shiloh nodded in answer as she led another horse out of a stall.
“Sheri said to set up a horse SCA style… whatever that means,” relayed Derek.
Shiloh nodded again. “You?”
“Yep,” he answered.
He watched as Shiloh set out a completely different set of tack, and then put it on the horse. Although the saddle and tack was different, it still went on the same way and was properly fit to the horse. But, curiously, there was still a significant amount still on the floor. Much to his surprise, she put this over the horse. It was very quickly obvious that it was chain barding with the same leather strips inlaid into the chain mail to make it quiet. It covered the horse’s head, neck and other vital areas. Over this, she put leather barding in areas deemed higher risk than most, including kick guards on the horse’s legs. The final touch was a heavy cloth skirt-like garment meant for a horse in dark green and brown. She laid furs just in front and behind the saddle, but left them somewhat loose to allow him to cover his legs for warmth and further protection. They could be easily moved out of the way and secured in a bundle near the saddle.
It all looked straight out of the Middle Ages.
She brought the horse over to him and he mounted, noting the difference in the feel of the saddle. The barn wasn’t freezing cold like it was outside, but it was still quite cool and the added protection was welcome. Derek looked over at his wife and asked, “How do I look?”
“Very intimidating,” she answered. “But you also look very warm.”
“I almost was baked alive inside the house with all this on,” he admitted.
Tyrell came in moments later. Both Derek and Marissa looked at him in disbelief. Gone was the modern mechanic and in his place was an armoured warrior. It was as if a page from history or a display from a museum had just walked in. If Derek passed for intimidating, then Tyrell was simply frightening.
Tyrell’s armour consisted of chain covered by steel plate left bare and natural. While it was not rusted, it certainly wasn't polished to a mirror shine. It also looked well used and fit him like a glove. His chain did not have leather interweave, but was a double weave of chain set so close that there were barely any gaps in the links. Derek’s armour was nearly silent, but Tyrell made noise—a metal on metal ringing and creaking of various bits of chain shifting with every move. His heavy stalking march only added to the intimidation he effused.
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Strapped to his back, the two handed hilt peeking out from under his fur cloak was the sword that had once been on display above the fire place. On his legs and belt were two pistols and another—shorter—sword. The hilts of two daggers peaked out from behind his lower back where he could reach them by reaching back with his hands.
He was not wearing his helm, but he held it loosely in one hand and he already wore the leather under padding for it on his head. Shiloh had already prepared his horse and was bringing it out for him when he walked in. The massive Clydesdale was in barding made to match Tyrell’s armour.
“Where the hell was she hiding that?” asked Derek.
“In the basement, where Sheridan was hiding what you’re wearing,” he answered, grinning as he accepted Shiloh’s help into the saddle. “Apparently it’s not exactly historically perfect. There are a few modern additions, such as advanced hinging and weight management—not to mention the alloy of the metal—so that I can actually move around without a team of people to haul my ass into the saddle.”
There was a crackle in the radio. “Front gate to Derek,” came the watch.
Shiloh handed Derek the FRS radio, and he responded, “Derek here.”
“They’re here.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Their camp on the overpass was within view of City Hall and would have only taken perhaps a half hour to get to, even through the snow. But Daniel did not want to head back straight away. He wanted to check the numerous cafes and delicatessens before they headed back by going down Larch Street.
Larch was the street running west to east down beside the northern border of the city block where the City Hall sat. The northernmost barricade ran along Larch, and the tallest tower—the provincial tower—was also the north tower. The block was not as big as it could be but it was big enough. It and one other street separated City Hall from the mall to the immediate north.
The spaces between the streets were very short. So much so if he were to stand on the top of the provincial building he could probably see who was standing on top of the mall’s office tower with enough clarity to recognize them later.
After Oil Page 17
