Page 55 of The Midnight Hour
“It is impossible to say. Of course, levels of radiation dissipate over time, so we are hopeful that in a few months, maybe a little longer, other regions nearby will be habitable again, including areas as close as Barrie.”
Barrie is just north of Toronto, about two hundred miles south of here, with a population of maybe one hundred fifty thousand. Or at least itwas, but now? Barrie is less than one hundred miles from Toronto. Maybe everyone there has already died.
A murmur of speculation ripples through the crowd, and Duart holds up a hand to forestall any more questions. “The important thing to remember,” he states firmly, “is that the North Bay Survival and Resettlement Center is the safest place for all of you to be. It’s understandable that some of you might be feeling anxious or even suspicious about matters, especially in regard to recent events, and a few individuals’ flagrant disregard of our clearly set out rules.” He clears his throat. “These rules have been put in place for the safety of everyone at the Center, and for the efficient running of the site. As soon as we start relaxing rules, we could be dealing with a whole host of problems that could ultimately endanger everyone here, especially when you consider what the risks and consequences truly are.” He pauses for effect, his gaze moving slowly around the room as if to emphasize just what we’re up against—total mass destruction of civilization as we know it.
A few more questions are asked, but already these are humbler, almost apologetic. The mood has shifted, and Michael Duart’s smooth manner has won the day.
It’s only later, when we’re all back at the house, that I find out more.
“I think the radiation levels are fine all around here,” Sam confesses, sounding unhappy about it. “Guys in the warehouse crew are going out all the time to get stuff, and I know they’ve gone as far as the Georgian Bay, and Port McNicoll. That’s not that far from Barrie.”
“Why is he saying that, then?” Mattie demands.
“To keep us compliant,” I venture hesitantly. “If everyone’s afraid of radiation, they’re more likely to do what they’re told, aren’t they?”
“I don’t think he’s a bad guy,” Sam continues. “Duart, I mean. I just think he likes being in charge of this place. The next step…it’s a big one. It’s got to be scary, figuring out just what that is, and when and how to take it.”
“And what about the underground complex?” Mattie asks. “Do you think it’s really not fit for habitation yet?”
“It must be,” Kyle chimes in, surprising us, “because Duart and his guys are living in it. I see them come out in the morning when I’m heading to my shift.”
“So,arethe radiation levels okay?” Mattie wonders aloud.
“Maybe it’s just a precaution,” Sam says with a shrug.
Or maybe Michael Duart wants to be behind a three-foot-wide steel door if anything kicks off. I certainly would.
The town hall meeting seems to have calmed down the general mood at least a little bit, and the mutters subside to murmurs without any more evictions or, really, behavior that could lead to evictions. And yet something has changed in me—shifted or hardened, I don’t know which, but there’s a growing part of me that doesn’t want to have killed an innocent man for a life of this.
I think of that man more than I’d like to; I took his photofrom the truck when we first arrived, slipped it into my pocket without even considering what I was doing—or why. Now, months later, I find myself taking it out and studying it for clues, as if the faces of his family will somehow tell me what sort of man he was—or, really, he wasn’t.
I try to think back to that moment when I pulled the trigger, but it’s such a blur of adrenaline and fear that I find I can’t remember anything about it at all—I’m only remembering the last time I remembered, and so its shape becomes more damning every time I let my mind linger on it. Soon I’ll have convinced myself he was a saint.
One evening in November, just after we’ve had our first snow, a dusting of two inches that thankfully melted by mid-morning, I end up in the chapel, open for private prayer but only used for Sunday services; I’ve seen only a handful of people attending, including Tom and his family. The small sanctuary with its blue carpet—the same as in our house—smells of dust and old hymnals. I’m not sure why I’m there, only that I found my way without even knowing where I was going.
I come to sit in a wooden pew, and I take the crumpled photograph out of my pocket. I’m not going to cry; I feel too empty for that. The months stretch on in front of me, and I don’t see anything becoming different, at least not in a good way. There are a lot of things I’m not ready to think about—the time Mattie is spending with Kyle and what that might mean, Sam’s relationship with Nicole, whateverthatis, and how unhappy he seems, his face set in discontented lines when no one is looking. Ruby, who is growing up without getting any bolder or louder, and Phoebe, a motherless child I’m learning to love and yet who will always be my responsibility, a prospect that daunts me.
And Daniel. Daniel, who now goes to bed right after dinner, and who seems as if he is drifting through his days, but who, last night, rolled over in bed and, without warning, held onto me tightly, burying his face in my hair. Neither of us said a word.
As I sit in that empty pew, I bow my head. I’m not sure if I’m praying or just being silent, but in any case no words come. Suddenly, I think of my father, his affable smile as he would proclaim in the manner of someone declaring a self-evident truth, “Alex, you’ve just got to trust. There’s nothing you can do about it anyway, so you might as well trust.”
I know, Dad, but trust what? And how?
I open my eyes and my gaze falls on a dusty Bible under the pew in front of me. I lean down to slide it out and let it fall open—to Psalm118, which I skim disinterestedly.Give thanks to the Lord, for He is good.
Yeah, right.
I leaf through a few more pages, and it isn’t until it falls open at Habakkuk that I realize that’s what I’ve been looking for all along. Did some former Sunday School self remember where it was? It’s a short book, only a few pages, and so it doesn’t take me long to find the verse the man I killed had written on an index card.
Though the fig tree does not bud and there are no grapes on the vines, though the olive crop fails and the fields produce no food, though there are no sheep in the pen and no cattle in the stalls, yet I will rejoice in the Lord, I will be joyful in God my Savior.
The Bible falls closed, nearly slipping out of my hand, as I bow my head and close my eyes. I don’t pray because I still have no words, no thoughts, no semblance of any coherent offering to a deity, or to anyone else for that matter. I don’t cry because I’m empty inside, too weary and numb to summon emotion of any kind. I simply sit there, my head bowed as the chapel stretches all around me, quiet and dusty and dark, and let the words reverberate through me, echoing emptily inside.
And yet…
And yet. And yet. And yet.
They are words of hope or maybe just defiance, words that can be so hard and yet necessary to say. And yet I can choose something different. Something hopeful. Something more than the NBSRC has to offer, even if at this moment I have no idea what that could possibly be. Even if so much in my life feels alarmingly precious, precarious, and fragile—my children.My husband.
