The NAFTA Blueprint
Page 27
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We met with Jane Milton one afternoon at a seaside cafe―an environmental lawyer, and Emma Marlowe’s partner. She got along famously with Helena, for a second I almost thought my lesbian fantasy would become a reality. Her main concern was in Halifax, an important global trade route. There was a super port proposal similar to the one in Baja California, Mexico, which would be an entry for container ships coming from Europe and the Pacific. Hudson Port Ltd and the Kansas City Rail Project were sponsors, quite appropriate. It was the same proposal as Mexico, to get the containers here from Asia, and then barrel them along the supercorridors through all of North America. If this phenomenon becomes a reality and water becomes a commodity, then it falls under the terms and conditions of the NAFTA agreement, which would become a good that will be transferred through pipelines and tankers, on the move like oil, exporting spare reserves to those willing to pay.
Canada has about twenty percent of the earth’s fresh water supply spread throughout the entire country, but there is a serious danger of losing the supply through the Economic Region―Atlantica, which is Quebec and the Maritimes on the Canadian side, straddled south of the border with New England and upstate New York. Atlantica, which is a geographical and economical prospect, includes parts of Canada, Maine, New Hampshire, Vermont, and New York. Rumor has it that in the future, North America will be defined by regional blocs used for economic trade rather than sovereign state territory, thus making countries obsolete. They’re called region-states. The U.S., Canada, and Mexico are up for sale, everything we know is up for sale.
While she spoke with a calm voice, she placed a hand on my wrist from across the table, “Don’t look behind you, but I think someone’s watching us. There’s someone across, he’s wearing a ball cap with sunglasses, and he’s reading a newspaper. Every now and then he puts the paper down to glance in our direction. All of our lives are in danger…we need to get out of here. Somebody’s been trailing you two, or me maybe, I don’t know. Waiter…”
The server glided towards our table noticing Jane Milton with her arm extended out, “Michael, Helena…start walking to the parking structure, now. If we get separated, I’ll call you.”
“Be careful,” said Helena as we walked off.
When I turned back, the waiter was standing in front of Jane blocking the view of the suspected peeper. We couldn’t see him from where we were standing, but we saw Jane back out from her chair. In haste she made a run for it. The man with the baseball cap dropped his newspaper, in his hand he had a pistol and he began firing in Jane’s direction while he tried to stand. I saw the waiter collapse over the table. Jane’s hands were flailing in the air signaling us to run, screaming customers and shattering dishes ruptured my earth.
I grabbed Helena by the hand and we dashed through the silenced streets, we went straight for about three blocks, then we turned right down a residential street. Everything was happening so rapid, and we responded with practical decisions although we were unaware of our surroundings. In moments of crucial panic, people surprise themselves with sharp animal survival instincts like avoiding predators. Halfway down the block I turned back, the perpetrator had turned on the same block. I heard three more shots and felt the ricochet from a nearby tree and fence.
“What the shit!” yelled Helena.
“Let’s go, come on…keep running!” I said.
We cut through and alley with apartments on both sides. There was another residential street on the other side. When we made it to the street, there was a fork in the road―there was a school across from where we stood surrounded by trees, to the right there was a street and a parking structure, and to the left was a main street about two-hundred meters away.
“What should we do Michael, which way should we go? Hurry Michael, what should we do?”
I went with my gut. I looked back and saw the perpetrator turn towards us from the alley, “Left, c’mon!”
We ran with swiftness for dear life until we made it to the main street. We didn’t dare look back, and Helena was crying throughout the ordeal. At the end of the street there was a small police station a short distance from the corner, Helena’s sobbing ceased. We were saved―it was the Halifax Regional Police Department. After reporting the incident, they drove us to the airport for our own protection.
13.