Chapter Thirty-Seven
Calgary was a modern, cosmopolitan city, and well serviced (well, compared to the likes of Lagos or Bogota, say) with a reasonably reliable and somewhat robust transit system. At the heart of the transit system was the CTrain, an electric tram that ran all through town with the majority of stops concentrated in the downtown core. The CTrain was a handy thing; a cheap way to get to work and convenient transport for thousands of hate-crazed rebels from the suburbs to the downtown core all in one. But most importantly, it also featured a stop at a station that was labelled on the map as "Victoria Park-Stampede."
The traincar was one of the older ones still in service, Slate noted dimly. The pleather seats were soft to sit upon and made of that curious blue plastic from the eighties, and the fake tiling on the floor's car was…well, between the wear and tear on the traincar and the aesthetic choices, it rather dated the electric tram in the eyes of the Prime Minister, (himself a native of Toronto). He wasn't too familiar with the city, but his "escort" had taken it upon himself to play tour guide, suddenly relaxed and happy enough for some history lessons. Apparently the trains had been ordered specially for the 1988 winter Olympics that had of course been held in Calgary, hence their dated appearance. It would all have been very interesting if there hadn't been a gun pressed to his head the entire time Calgary was babbling.
Slate had noticed a small detail on the way into the last car on the train- there was a tiny pole in front of the door with a button you pressed to open the doors at the station when you needed to get off, and it was simply labelled "Neuenhof." Product of Germany, apparently, a fact Calgary bragged about shamelessly as they stopped at yet another station and the traincars in front disgorged their contents onto the platforms.
"Fuckers at Bombardier couldn't be assed to meet a deadline, buncha lazy French bastards. Then again, you'd know all about being a lazy waste of space, money, time, effort, and oxygen, eh, Eastie?"
Eastie. Oh boy, now the man had a slur. This was going to be a delightful journey to their inevitable destination…wherever that might be. Slate cast his eyes around the silent cabin, sucking in a breath between clenched teeth. Police officers were accompanying a mere half-dozen other people, each of the paltry few handcuffed and gagged with whatever material seemed most convenient. Each was accompanied by a police officer with a weapon, sitting next to them in silence with their heads hung. One woman looked up, and their eyes met- she'd been crying, and he could see the tears running down her face. Slate smiled at her weakly, attempting to comfort her as best he could, only for those shocked brown eyes to fill with hate a second later as the woman recognized him from countless publicity photos and news broadcasts she'd seen- that everyone had seen.
The door on their car opened suddenly and unexpectedly, and to Slate's surprise, a woman was shoved onto the last car at gunpoint- she was weeping, in handcuffs and a gag so she couldn't speak. The officer doing the herding followed her on and nodded in Calgary's general direction, prompting the cowboy to respond with a cocky salute as the woman was prodded at gunpoint to an empty seat on the other end of the traincar. Slate shuddered in trepidation. This…they were doing this to their own people. Who…who was responsible for this? And more importantly, where was he being taken?
The prime minister looked out the window to perhaps gain a glimpse at his future- and he gasped. As the train rumbled out of the last station before the ominous "Victoria Park", he caught a glimpse of something through the gleaming skyscrapers that made his blood run cold.
A squadron of soldiers. His soldiers.
Being herded through the streets at gunpoint by a mob of police and civilians.
The brief glimpse of the future that he'd snatched painted a horrifying picture in the dying autumn light. A legion of green uniforms, heads bowed and arms cuffed behind them, their own weapons used against them to force their compliance as a jeering, screaming mob of animals taunted and tormented them. Some were missing helmets, some seemed to limp- some were clearly injured and forced to march, march to the train station, march to follow the Prime Minister and share in the doom that awaited him at the end of the line.
"Next stop- Victoria Park-Stampede Station. Please take all your personal belongings and newspapers when leaving the train."
The automated recording played, and Slate's blood was running through his veins like icy slush. He was going to die, but that wasn't important. His life…his life didn't matter anymore.
Their lives…the lives of the police, the soldiers, the men he'd brought in to quell what he assumed was little more than a pack of FLQ wannabes stirring up more trouble than they truly were worth…Their lives were in danger. Fathers. Husbands. Sons. Mothers. Wives. Daughters. Dozens of lives, all linked to a thousand more apiece, a mass of innocent humans spanning the breadth of the country. And they were being marched, marched to the slaughter like cattle, and it was all his fault.
The train pulled to a halt at the station, the cheerful red livery of the station's façade doing nothing to distract Slate from the crushing weight of the men he'd just put in danger. No, the men and women he'd just…killed.
He'd killed them.
He'd killed them all.
"Alright, fucker, let's get moving. This here's our stop." Calgary's voice was cruel and sardonic, a nasty smile on his face as he jabbed Slate in the back with his own machine gun. Slate rose to his feet and walked off the train slowly, feeling the weight of hundreds on his shoulders. He was silent as he stepped onto the concrete platform, a fact that didn't escape Calgary's notice. The city scowled momentarily, annoyed that his captive wasn't screaming for mercy or crying or whatever it was a Prime Minister was supposed to do when they were being marched to their deaths.
So Calgary smacked the pensive Minister with the butt of his own gun, snarling out a single command that reverberated up and down the platform:
"Walk."
Slate trembled as he walked away from the yellow line inset into the concrete, towards the ramp that would take them up and into the Stampede grounds.
Calgary was holding the fucking door open for him, Slate noted with a hint of hysterical mirth. He was holding the fucking door open for him, keeping his gun trained on the PM the whole time. Slate wasn't even in a position to bolt- the officers standing behind him made certain that escaping the Calgarian's clutches was all but impossible.
The Big Four building was an impressive and imposing space, with multiple peaked roofs which all came to a point with a flagstaff on each one. Normally the massive space proudly flew the provincial and territorial flags of Canada; normally. All that was left flapping on those poles on that particular day, however, was twelve torn banners and a single blue flag flapping defiantly in the breeze. And they weren't the only flags that had been taken down on the Stampede grounds. There was a massive flagstaff on the opposite end of the empty concrete oasis, which normally flew a behemoth of a maple leaf, the proud red and white flapping in the sun come rain or shine. Today, however, the Canadian flag wasn't flying from that pole. In its place was a far smaller flag of Alberta; yet it was still huge by all accounts, and it lorded proudly over the land below it, seemingly smirking at Slate as he stepped through the glass doors and into the hell that waited beyond.
The first thing he noticed as the glass doors swung closed behind him was the drumming.
Constant, endless drumming, reverberating through the building, flowing from the tremendously large exhibition hall just up the stairs from where he stood. The dying daylight that streamed into the building from the windows above seemed to terminate at the top of the stairs, the room beyond plunged into total darkness. Slate looked up those steps, his eyes narrowing at the people stationed there. Not police. Not even soldiers.
Corvus's green-garbed Reformationists, smiling down at him with a coldness in their eyes. Two of them, to be precise; a man and a woman, both clutching handguns and looking quite pleased. Still, the one thing he could console himself with was the fact that Calgary, as crazy as he was, didn't seem to want anything to do with them either. He'd tensed up at the sight of them, the jovial smile on his face dripping away to a neutral expression that just screamed a desire to get this tiresome chore over with and get out of there.
Slate took the steps slowly, one at a time, and as he did, Calgary walked behind him, just as slowly, just as hesitantly. The drumming was getting louder, and Slate swallowed nervously. Those drums…those drums had driven them all insane. The hypnotic thumping reverberated through the glass, slowly starting to seep into his bones. Three beats, pause, three beats, pause. He unconsciously started to take the stairs in time with the intensifying rhythm, and in the deathly silence of the hall, he faintly heard the city's footsteps falling into the same rhythm. But his thought were still his own. At least for the moment.
They were at the top of the stairs much faster than Slate would have liked, and the Reformationists didn't even say a single word. They just opened the door and shoved Slate inside the darkened hall, each one planting a hand on each of Slate's shoulders as a nervous Calgary took his first step inside. And as the glass door swung closed and locked behind him, Slate swallowed. He was sealed inside Orwell's worst nightmare.
The hall was massive, and darkened, but it was fairly easy to make out dozens and dozens of people, arranged in rows in front of a massive image that was being projected onto the far wall. The drumbeat reverberated through the room, as did the faint buzz of Corvus's static, which Slate could feel as a faint tug on his mind, a gentle undercurrent that amplified the drumbeat and made it much harder to resist letting his thoughts and breathing and heartbeat fall into the drum's endless rhythm.
But it was what the people were doing that send a cold shudder down his spine.
The crowd was seated in rows of chairs, seemingly cuffed in place- the presence of cinderblocks with chains quite literally cemented in their holes rather helpfully explained why nobody had tried to run, as did the dozens of armed Reformation Party members patrolling the perimeter and making sure nobody was having any thoughts of escape, or perhaps just any thoughts at all.
"Strong and free. Strong and free. Strong and free. Strong and free. Strong and free. Strong and free..."
The crowd chanted in a mindless unison, men and women, young and old, all of them transfixed in place by their literal chains and their slowly intensifying mental ones. The screen to which all eyes were drawn was simply showing propaganda, the words oozing onto the black or white background in a simple and eye-catching manner that was quite simple to watch without one's eyes growing fatigued. The crowd chanted in time with the drum, a mindless monotone, over and over and over and over and strong and free and strong and free and-
"Strong an' free strong an' free strong an'- oh fuck." Slate managed to catch himself as he was teetering on the precipice of madness, struggling against the words that seemed to want to wash away all his worries and fears and cares. They wore at his resistance, and the frequency's endless hum didn't help with the fighting. Slate clenched his jaw shut, closing his eyes and struggling against the words that seemed to engrave themselves in his mind.
If you let them take your mind, your men will all die.
The thought slipped out desperately, squeaking out between the words of the chant with a ferocity Slate had thought himself incapable of. No. No, he needed…he needed to fight this. He needed to fight it, to fight the trance it seemed so easy to slip into…The trance that Calgary himself had slid into, if the quick glance over his shoulder was anything to go by. The creases of worry crinkling his face had smoothed out, and he was chanting along with his people. The light being projected at the wall reflected off blue eyes that were glassy and blank, the storm of angry thoughts that had swamped his mind subsumed by the endless drumming and endless chanting.
The chanting ceased suddenly, though the drumming went on, and Slate cracked open an eye to look. A man had stepped up onto a platform, taking his stand behind a crude lectern with a microphone. The void that their voices had left was suddenly and swiftly filled, as the man started to speak.
"YOU ARE PARASITES, DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?!"
Out of the corner of his eye, Slate noticed something.
At the sound of the word "parasite", a man in the chair at the end of his row seemed to visibly recoil. He was dressed rather strangely, the glint of a winged badge on his lapel betraying his position immediately to the trained eye of a former soldier. He was a pilot. A civilian pilot, to be sure, but a pilot nonetheless. Which raised a question in the Prime Minister's mind- why the hell was he here, dressed in a pilot's uniform? The people in this room wore whatever clothes they'd been wearing at the time of their arrest…so why a pilot's uniform? Had he been trying to escape from the airport? The question was an enormous help to him in struggling against the drum and the frequency, letting him tune out the horrible words being spewed from the speaker's mouth for a few precious seconds.
"…YOUR CRIMES WILL BE FORGIVEN, BUT ON THE CONDITION THAT YOU LET THE TRUTH INTO YOUR HEARTS AND MINDS AND PURGE YOUR THOUGHTS OF ALL THE LIES THAT HAVE BEEN SEEDED IN THERE BY THOSE FUCKING ANIMALS TO THE EAST! YOU ARE NOT PARASITES, BUT THEY ARE; THEY WANT TO KEEP YOU IN YOUR MENTAL CHAINS, KEEP YOU SUBSERVIENT TO THEM, KEEP YOU QUIET AND PACIFIED AND ENSLAVED TO THEIR WILL!"
Slate shuddered as the crowd roared in a rage, casting his eyes away from the sordid scene to something, anything else at all. The distraction was provided by Calgary nodding at the two Party members who were holding the Prime Minister hostage; that small gesture of assent done, he turned on his heel to leave. He breezed out the glass doors, pulling out his phone as he went. Slate watched him go, watched the door swing closed behind him, and wished he could do the same.
The Reformationists marched him to an available chair at the back of the auditorium and engaged in a routine it seemed they'd done a thousand times before. One of them pressed the handgun to his forehead with a bored expression on his face while the other carefully unlocked his handcuffs. Slate was made to sit, his knees bending with the greatest of reluctance as the propaganda droned on in the background. And as soon as he was seated, his hands were slotted through the enormous hole in the chair's back and manacles were clamped around them, restraining him to his chair and leaving him unable to move.
As an extra measure, he felt something press into his ankle, and realized dimly that he'd just had a crude ball-and chain strapped to his leg. The chain was a heavy steel that took a lot of force to move, and it was set in a pair of cinderblocks, threaded through the holes and cemented in place with a hearty heaping of concrete that had been allowed to set. And as a final precaution, the two guards took a seat on either side of the PM, both of them keeping their weapons at the ready.
Slate gulped. He wasn't sure how much longer he could keep up the resistance…and lives hung in the balance. If he fell now…
"SURRENDER YOUR RESISTANCE TO THE TRUTH! THE LIES THAT YOU CLING TO ARE A STAIN THAT WE WILL WASH OUT, TOGETHER! SURRENDER YOUR RESISTANCE, AND LET THE TRUTH FILL YOUR MINDS! PARASITES ARE DRAINING US DRY, THE FRENCH AND THE FUCKERS FROM TORONTO AND EVERYTHING IN BETWEEN. THERE IS NO SALVATION FOR THOSE VAMPIRES; THEY ARE NOTHING MORE THAN ANIMALS; DUMB, USELESS BEASTS. YOU ARE NOT PARASITES, MY FRIENDS! BUT THEY SEEK TO MAKE YOU INTO PARASITES JUST LIKE THEM…"
And the drummer just kept on pounding, pounding, pounding at that fucking drum, washing away at his mind, washing away at his soul and his resistance-
Slate screamed in his mind, fighting back against the forces that assailed him, the image of his men in chains at the forefront of his thoughts. It was a battle, an exhausting struggle, desperately trying to keep the words from soaking in while still fighting for his men. Because he needed to stay sane to negotiate for their freedom, using the only bargaining chip he had left. But keeping that chip wasn't going to be an easy fight.
And as the speech ended and the chanting resumed, Slate closed his eyes tightly.
You fuckers aren't gonna get me.
In the cool air of the stairwell, away from the speaker's screaming and the drum's endless pounding, Calgary was finally able to breathe normally again. His eyes were still empty and glassy, thoughts still locked on the endless drumbeat, but he was able to think for himself again- a little.
He dialed Alberta's number, holding the phone up to his ear. This was supposed to be a jubilant announcement of victory, but for some reason, he couldn't find it in himself to express so much as excitement. The phone rang and rang, but finally it connected on the fifth, and the city's patience was rewarded with a rather irate voice snapping, "Hello?"
"Alberta? You need to come to the Big Four building."
The faint hint of a smile crept onto Calgary's face as he said those words, a ghost of an expression that only intensified with his next few words, delivered in that same even monotone before Alberta herself could speak.
"The Prime Minister is currently in our custody, and enjoying some….Western Hospitality."
A/N:
Wow, that was a battle to write. Hope you enjoyed that chapter, because things are gonna unfold pretty quickly from here. I might go back and edit our earlier chapters, but then I also might not. Hard to say what I'll have time for in uni.
Regardless, if you loved it or if you hated it, leave a review and let me know your thoughts! Feedback keeps me going, guys. You want more story faster, say stuff. Simple as that.
Next chapter whenever my wrists stop being stupid.