Fractured: Tales of the Canadian Post-Apocalypse(6)

Darrick gazed in the direction indicated. Beyond the shallows, a broad bay extended westward between St. Macaire’s heights and the foothills of the Laurentides. To his left, in the distance, the phallic dome of St. Macaire’s Basilica towered above the middle parts of the island of Quebec. To his immediate left, the morning sun lent the ruins of the chateau Frontenac a golden hue. To his right, windmills on the heights of Lorette and Charlesbourg duelled with the sea breeze.

“Can you sail around the island that way?”

“No sea captain would risk his ship in those narrows,” a fellow passenger asserted. “At least, not under sail. There’s no room to manoeuvre.”

The tone of his voice held more confidence than usual. The other man had told Darrick that he was originally from Quebec. He was coming home and the relief showed.

“Not through the Cap-Rouge channel,” the pilot confirmed. “There are ruins everywhere.”

“No doubt,” Darrick sighed.

“Not that it’s really impassable, my lord ironbearers,” the pilot added. “The fisherfolk of Sillery and St. Foy manage just fine without wrecking their fishing dories. And the lads from Cap-Rouge know every rock and ruin of the narrows.” The pilot was no less skilful, still talking as he guided the three-master toward the entrance to the harbour. Buoys outlined the channel, but Darrick admired the pilot’s sure-handedness. He tried to convince himself he was seeing the city for the first time, the better to play his part.

“Your city was lucky,” he observed. “In France, most major ports ended up underwater. At best, we were left with suburbs originally standing on higher ground. But here…”

“Here the suburbs were flooded instead, yeah,” the pilot agreed. “But we still remember the neighbourhoods beneath the waves. I could name them if you asked… My grandpa told me stories that were told to him by his own grandfather, who was in charge of a major library over there. Care to try to spot it?”

The pilot waved vaguely. Darrick made it look like he was trying to find the ruined building, even though he was perfectly familiar with the stories about Quebec’s lost library. A cable length from the old train station, sandbanks stretched lazily in the sun, pounded by the surf and trampled by seabirds. Gulls and terns flew away as the shadow of the Express de Rouen swept by.

Darrick pondered.

“Down there too?”

“Yeah, like the rest. Most of the ancient buildings collapsed. Their remnants became the foundations of today’s reefs.”

“Any sunken treasures?”

“Back then, the sea just kept inching higher, year after year. The Ancients had plenty of time to move out and take what they wanted to bring. They didn’t leave anything useful or valuable, at least by their standards. Sure, they overlooked stuff we could use today. But when the saltwater leached the metal inside the concrete and the shells collapsed, it was too late to go back.”

“Has anybody ever tried mining the rubble?”

“Not sure it would be worth it. The interesting stuff rusted away years ago.”

For a short moment, the prospect of a profitable enterprise entranced Darrick. An ironbearer such as himself was not supposed to dirty his hands with buying and selling. However, working a mine was not considered to be as sordid an occupation.

But he couldn’t forget. Ever since he’d first seen the battered ramparts of the Chateau Frontenac rise above the horizon, he’d felt like killing someone. Painful memories were surfacing like ruins exposed by the departing sea. Anger was an old friend of his, and it too had made the trip across the ocean.

“Haul up all sails!” the ship’s captain shouted from the bridge.

The sailors swarmed up the rigging to wait for the order to furl the sails. The pilot kept a light touch on the tiller and the ship slowed.

Beneath the feet of the passengers, the light buzzing of the electric motor changed pitch as the ship’s propellers awakened. The three-master rounded the watchtower erected at the end of the jetty and came to a stop inside Gabrielle Harbour. The ship hadn’t been this close to land in weeks.

They were almost there. Darrick nodded to his neighbour, the ironbearer Somptueux de Lauzon, who had never suspected he was sharing his cabin with a fellow Québécois.

“And there’s the shallop of the port police.”

Startled, Darrick turned around to greet the ship’s captain who had joined the ironbearers. She managed to look unassuming, aware that some of her passengers were nervous around uniforms. Instead of an ironbearer’s rapier, she carried a cutlass in a sheath tied to her thigh. If Darrick could believe the first mate’s tales, the captain had used the weapon to repel a dozen attempted boardings by pirates.

Darrick felt the weight of the commander’s gaze on him and he did not ask for details. He’d endured two weeks of pretending, but he was tired of dissembling. Enough.

As the ship’s captain watched, the ironbearer Darrick d’épernon leaned on the railing, as if to observe the men straining to row the shallop.

And then he jumped overboard.

? ?

The Phénix-France compound sprawled along the edge of the island, just beyond the historic Parc des Braves. A four-metre-high wall surrounded the grounds, hiding the buildings inside. A few chimneys loomed over the company’s facilities, spewing coal-black smoke. And the sulfurous stink that went along with it.