The Evacuation

The three officers had evidently noticed, because they quickly poured out of the barricade to meet him. They looked friendlier than anyone Clement saw since Andrew’s house, so he had high hopes. The most senior of them - evident from the way in which he stood in front of the others, like he owned the place - even seemed familiar, but there was a number of old, slightly fat men that Clement knew.

It did not take long for the suspicion to be confirmed: “That’s John Wilson’s boy!” the old police officer shouted. Just a minute later, he was already on the other side of the barricades.

The old officer - a family friend whose name Clement couldn’t for the life of him remember - confirmed that the situation in the city was just as grave as they had predicted. It was a lot quieter on this side of the city than on the hospital side, he had said, but they still periodically got daredevils who tried assaulting the barricades, or at the very least throwing rocks at it in an act of defiance, which greatly vexed the defenders.

“Just a day ago, these were our fellow citizens. We would wave at each other on the streets and help each other, and now everyone is out to kill us, all for upholding the government’s orders! They even gave us a fire at will order. At our own citizens! How absurd is that?” Clement could not agree more.

Then, a short inquiry about his sister - they had been keeping in contact throughout the day anyways, but a second source of confirmation was worth having anyways - Clement got straight to the question he was sent there to ask:

“Would you guys be able to accommodate a group of about eight?” The eldest officer immediately pursed his lips, and Clement prepared to be disappointed.

“I’m sorry - we’re completely packed. The houses are full, the backyards are full, the basements are full - everything is full. We could accept just you, especially since your sister’s already here, but not a group of eight.” The other officers shifted uneasily as this unpleasant truth was communicated.

It was a tempting offer, for sure, but Clement thought better of it - after all they had gone through, there were many other members who deserved to be in the relative safety of the Mansion District more than him, and even they wouldn’t accept this. “That’s okay,” he said, still quite disappointed, “I can’t abandon my friends.”

He wished the officers luck in protecting the citizens and establishing order quickly, then headed towards his truck. So, they really were alone out here…

As it turned out, he wasn’t as alone as he expected - his phone buzzed. His favourite café, Le Quotidien, located near the bridge and now completely trashed by the mob, must have still been enticing its clients with free Wi-Fi. It was a message from Andrew, telling him to check inside his bag of clothes. Clement was curious how he knew what his parents gave him, and suspected that the answer to this question lay somewhere in the bag of clothes. He wasted no time, opening the bag and rummaging inside it, until his hands hit a hard, metallic object. Within the second, the object was in his hands, turning out to be a high-end two-way radio. Brilliant - now they wouldn’t have to rely on rapidly dwindling Wi-Fi sources to communicate while out in the city.

He carefully turned it on, and said a simple “Hello.” The radio cracked to life, and he heard a voice. Though cracking and cutting in and out, it unmistakably belonged to Andrew.

He got straight to the point, as usual: “Need you to get the Yaos out of a predicament. There’s an angry mob at their door, and they want to leave with us. Use the tool if you need to. Over.”

“The Tool” was the inactivated M1 carbine he had taken along for intimidation purposes. Of course, they had removed the traces of inactivation like the long rod in the barrel to make it look more realistic, but it was still essentially a stick with a bayonet on it. Clement doubted that he could dispel an angry mob with just that, but since they were so desperate, he had to try. Andrew would owe him big time for this one.

“Got it.” He raced down Queen Street, and towards the Chinese restaurant. “Anything else you need me to know? Over.”

“Negative. They have been warned that you are on your way and will come out as soon as they see you. Hold off the mob for thirty seconds as they pack their bags. Over.”

Feeling a little lonely with nobody to talk to after the conversation with the police officers, Clement pressed on: “These are such cool radios. When did you buy ‘em?”

The immediate response stopped his attempts at a conversation in their tracks: “Stop wasting battery power. We’ll talk all about them when you get here.” So that’s the way he was going to be…

He passed the backroad, very conscious of his last escape to relative safety, but continued driving without turning. Eventually, just as Queen Street was about to end in water, he spotted the turn onto Main Street. This was an unfamiliar route to him, as this intersection contained mostly bars and nightclubs that weren’t too interesting to him, but from looking at maps, he knew how to reach the restaurant from here.

“Approaching the area, tell them to get ready!” he yelled into the radio, becoming increasingly agitated. The sight of the carbine on the shotgun seat was reassuring, but not at all calming. He rounded what he expected was the final turn, dodging a burnt-out tire and a car wreck, and trying to let the unending stream of broken glass between his tires rather than under them. Simultaneously, he allocated one hand to scramble the radio channels just in case it got captured.

His intelligence was correct - there was, in fact, a mob gathered at the entrance of the restaurant, with an old man trying to reason with them. Trying to make as much noise as possible, Clement first revved the truck, and then slammed on the brakes, producing an awful screeching sound and skidding uncontrollably towards the mob, coming to a stop just a meter from it. His driving skills could certainly use some work, he concluded.

Then, with a final thought about how the Astronomy Club never abandoned their own to give himself strength, he grabbed his carbine - with the bayonet preemptively attached - and burst out of the car to face the surprised mob.

He stopped in his tracks upon seeing the main instigators, though. Facing off Mr. Yao, the owner and main cook of the restaurant, were the Class of 2019’s Student Council President, the Head of the Yearbook Committee, and the brutish captain of the rugby team. On second glance, the entire mob consisted of former students.

What the hell did they want? Why didn’t that numbskull Andrew warn him that he would be meeting them here? And most importantly, where were the other members of the Yao family?

William Yao’s circumstances were that his parents, who both worked and lived in Toronto, sent him to live with his grandparents, apparently concerned with the education quality there. So, where was William himself, and where was his grandmother? Unfortunately, Clement did not have time to answer these questions, as first the ringleaders, and then the entire mob, all turned to face him.

He took the initiative, counting down excruciatingly long seconds in his head. “Fancy seeing you here, President.”

The President laughed. “You lot sure like protecting your own, don’t you. Sent a whole evac vehicle for them. Trust me, they aren’t worth it.” He smiled, and began walking towards Clement with his arms extended outwards, as if for a hug. The two on his flanks followed, a little behind them. However, only the muscles on the rattish president’s face were smiling, not his eyes, a gesture that from his earliest fights and confrontations screamed “danger” to Clement. He lowered his carbine, simultaneously clicking the safety lever, and praying the gambit would work.

“You have always been known for your astute observations.” A ripple of fear ran across the mob, as if the sound wave from the safety had blown them back.

The President didn’t flinch like the others, but still stopped in his tracks. His smile soured into a more sarcastic one.

“We all saw that gun inert and displayed on your wall not even a full day ago. Why don’t you stop trying to trick us, so we can discuss everything like the friends we are.”

“A lot can change in a day, President. Especially if you have a 3D printer.” For the first time in four years, he saw doubt in those dark eyes, bloodied by sleepless nights spent scheming and plotting. He took a step forward and continued his verbal assault:

“And is that why you’re all gathered here? To discuss everything like friends?”

“Oh, we were going to do just that. Unfortunately, the visitors here haven’t fully learned the customs of this land. Here, in Riverburg, we share with our friends. They clearly didn’t want to share, which is why we are reasonably upset with them."

A twofold rage - one at the President for coming up with such an elaborate excuse despite saying the opposite for years, and another at William for not hurrying up - threatened to tear Clement apart. His voice was white-hot with rage when he next spoke.

“Oh, yes. Here in Riverburg, we share everything. Club budgets, internships, and especially reference textbooks at the library.” Reminded of his various “exploits” like this, the President frowned. Now that one was out of the way, the other’s indecision couldn’t be spared either: “William, where the HELL are you? Get in the car or I’m leaving without you.” The crowd flinched again at this Andrew-inspired outburst, and the door was thrown wide open. Out came William and his grandmother, both dangerously overloaded with bags, and hurried towards the car.

“He’s alone. Surround the car!” commanded the President, but Clement countered by bringing the carbine to his cheek. He taunted the crowd, staring down its leaders through the sight: “I’m not alone - I’ve got eight friends here, and a bayonet to finish what they started. Who wants some?” For some reason, nobody seemed to want some anymore.

Suddenly, the silence was broken by William’s grandfather: “Well, for that matter, I’ve got something similar over here as well.” he said, producing a small pistol from his pocket. “Never thought I’d have to point it at my fellow citizens but here we are.” Again, why did nobody tell him that they could handle their own, and he was just needed as a driver?

The President probably still appeared calm to the members of the mob, but to Clement he looked outright pathetic - the slight quivering of lip so characteristic to children whose toys were taken away and the barely noticeable rage-induced shaking made him look even more like a real rat. Well, I was going to be civil, but I suppose three can play that game. He reached into his own pocket and took out an old, rusty revolver. Its presence explained a lot to Clement, who doubted anyone would have followed him in a time of complete anarchy such as this one without it.

As expected, he did not shoot, opting to just stand there and stare. Noticing that his wife and grandson had loaded everything into the back of the truck, Mr. Yao also slowly made his way to the shotgun seat. Clement broke off too, slowly walking towards the driver’s seat. As a goodbye, he waved the tip of the bayonet to the President:

“Goodbye, Mr. President. Enjoy your food, and I wish you many more pleasant, friendly conversations like this one.”

“Wherever you take them, it better not be the school. The school’s ours. And that includes your observatory, Mr. Wilson.” This was the most enraged state in which Clement had seen the President, ever.

Having remained meek and fearful the entire time, the head of the Yearbook Committee also spoke up: “There won’t be a brick on a brick here when we’re done!” Clement figured that was already a given, and given the state of Le Quotidien, there were much more qualified people for this task than them. He made sure to slam his door as loud as possible, started the engine, and slammed on the gas, the carbine still in his hands.