Jacqueline Hodge
It was the day the clouds exploded. The sky was blue, and the birds were singing, so blissfully unaware of the brewing war. We too were like the birds that day, going about our daily activities like nothing was wrong. Nobody knew that the bombs had been planted, or that something so innocuous could lead to national upheaval.
I was visiting the Capitol when it happened, Montreal, June 28th, year 2067, and I had been formally invited by Eleanor Wright, the Prime Minister of Canada, the mother of my mother, my beloved grandmother. I Julietta Wright was her only grandchild. These visits weren’t unusual; they happened twice per year.
This visit, however, was.
I had been walking down the long, well-maintained concrete path towards the Stratus, the country’s main parliament building, which was nestled within three circles of government buildings. I had just been escorted there from the outermost circle in a sphere-car belonging to one of the guards, something that only the very important were allowed to own. A different guard, a tall, burly, heavily armed one, walked ahead of me now, the word “SECURITY” printed in iridescent ink on his back. Those walking past looked over at me, recognition in their eyes, but they’d only nodded with tight-lipped smiles. Because of my grandmother, I had been well-known at the Capitol—well-guarded, too. I was always given the “royal treatment” at the request of my grandmother, despite my several protests. Though it was sometimes nice to be treated like national treasure, I had often longed to lead a normal life, a life where my family’s every doing was not broadcasted to the rest of the world.
The path to the Stratus was long; I always had to walk about thirty minutes from the innermost circle. Usually, those that were considered “important” by the Prime Minister were flown in by helicopter, but ever since I was a young child, I’d always insisted on taking the long route.
This path was long for good reason. After the burning of the original parliament in Ottawa back in July 2028, the Stratus had been built to be hidden away from the public. Unlike the past, only those with permission from the Prime Minister were allowed to visit. Many would die without ever seeing the building in person, so I recognized my privilege.
The Burning of Parliament Hill had happened as a result of disagreement between the Liberal and Conservative groups in Canada. I had learned that in my History 101 course. It was supposedly the result of the actions of a past leader of the United States, whose actions continued to have consequences several years after his term had ended.
My grandmother, who had been but a young teenager at the time, once told me that she remembers how the tension rose before The Burning: “It was thick like molasses,” she said, “and it nearly choked out the nation.”
It was several members with secret society affiliations who had sparked the initial fire, which had grown rapidly in the dry heat of the summer. It was a grim day, my grandmother recalls. It was thought that the goal had been to kill the Prime Minister at the time. Hundreds of innocents were killed in the blaze, but much to his fortune, the Prime Minister at the time hadn’t been in any of the buildings on that day.
Now, the tension between the two parties seemed to have settled, but it was still unknown if the society behind the attack was still active. Several of their members had been located, arrested and sentenced to life imprisonment over the years since The Burning, but nobody knew how many were left.
However, on that fated day, the world soon found out that the dust had not yet settled. As I stepped off of the path and into the shade of the Stratus, I was only met by a spine-chilling sound, and a gust of wind so strong my knees buckled and my head met concrete.
BANG.
The sound was deafening, and after it came the sound of shattered glass falling to the ground, the screech of bending steel and the smell of smoke. Even more deafening was the sound of the screams that ensued.
My vision was blurred and there was a shrill ring in my ears as I watched government officials in dirtied and torn suits run by, their feet falling inches from my unmoving body. I was paralyzed in terror.
Then, before I could bring myself to scream for help, I was swept off of the ground. I saw only black, though my eyes were still open. I had been in such a state of shock that my body hadn’t allowed me to fight back. I let myself be carried away, unsure whether I had been in danger or not, as all of my other senses faded into nothingness.
“She’s stirring,” was the first voice I had been met with when I slipped back into consciousness.
A dark figure loomed over me, and she shone a blinding white light into my eyes.
I tried sitting up, only to find that I had been restrained to whatever I had been lying on.
“Ms. Wright, you’ve suffered a traumatic head injury, please stay still,” the woman clicked off her flashlight and once again, the world went dark.
I had tried to speak, but the words I wanted to formulate only came out as a quiet, stuttering whisper, “Wh-wh-wh…”
“Please don’t move Ms. Wright,” the woman repeated, placing a reassuring hand on my arm, “you’re safe.”
Now that my eyes had fully adjusted to the darkness, I was able to make out the cylindrical shape of the room that I had been brought into. The metal walls were plain white and clean as though they’d never been used. Lights surrounded by wire cages hung from the ceiling, but they were turned off. I’m in an underground shelter, I had realized at last, which simultaneously filled me with relief and dread.
Soon after, I had noticed that, around me, several people in disheveled suits and dresses sat on the metal benches which lined the dark cylinder, their eyes turned towards a glowing object, which I hadn’t been able to see from where I was.
The faint voice of a news reporter played from the silent speakers of what I assumed was an old television set. The reporter’s voice was urgent, yet there was a hint of solemnity in her tone.
“It is unsure what the motive was behind the attacks.”
I was only able to pick up a few sentences from where I had been lying down.
“It is believed the bombs were planted within specific cellular device models in order to carry out the assassinations.”
My heart slid up into my throat, and I got the sudden urge to break out of the restraints which held me down. The muscles in my body tensed, ready to fight against the tight cuffs, but my movement was interrupted by the same woman who had been leaning over me when I woke. She sat at my head, now, and she had placed a gentle hand on my arm. I could only see the faintest outline of her face, her features faintly lit up by the screen in front of her. She wasn’t looking at me, but I knew she must have sensed my panic.
Please tell me my grandmother is okay, I wanted to beg, I wanted to implore, but I couldn’t and it only filled me with desperation. I fixed my wide-eyed gaze on her, hoping she would somehow understand what I wanted to say as the words of the reporter faded in and out of intelligibility over the sound of my pounding heart.
“... President… sworn in...”
Please tell me I’m dreaming.
“... global attack…”
Please look at me.
“... Americas… affected…”
Please, please help me.
“Canada... Prime Minister… pronounced...”
Please.
“... dead…”