Bison

The whole way back to the truck, disappointment riding shotgun, my mind was occupied with nothing but how to get through the border checkpoint.

With the detour blocked, a frontal crossing was the only option left.

In the end, it's just about hiding it.

But simply hiding things wasn't enough. What mattered more was making sure the CBSA officers never felt motivated to search my truck in earnest.

I closed out that exhausting day back at the truck, lost in those tangled thoughts.

I started work at first light. First I opened the false floor I'd built into the trailer, then packed in the heaviest, bulkiest boxes of shotgun shells, stacking them one after another.

I didn't stop there. I subdivided the compartment again, covered it with plywood, and laid the cash I'd collected along the way — plus a few valuables — on top of that. If they found it, I wanted the whole thing to look like nothing more than undeclared cash over the legal limit — something I could settle with a bribe.

That still wasn't enough.

I vacuum-sealed the VP9 and its magazines in a waterproof pack, then magnet-mounted the whole thing to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the inner wall of the gray-water tank — a place nobody would want to look. I field-stripped one of the shotguns, oiled the parts, wrapped them in plastic, and split them between the W990's massive air-cleaner housing and the spare-tire well.

This wasn't concealment. This was dispersal and camouflage, distilled from a lifetime of experience. Even if they confiscated everything, I intended to keep at least one gun to get me across the border.

Half a day gone like that. I was washing off the oil and dust and sweat when Dave called.

I hung up with Dave and spent the rest of the day wrapping up my preparations for the crossing.

I headed into town for one last errand. Being a border city, I figured I could pull as many extra U.S. dollars as possible from the ATMs. But the moment I pulled up to the bank, I knew I'd been wrong. Dozens of people were already queued at the machines, their faces tight with anxiety and impatience — a clear signal that the border checkpoint was already starting to clog.

I wasn't the only one moving fast.

People were finally waking up. I turned around without a second thought. This wasn't the time to burn hours in a line for a few extra bills. I went straight back to the truck, loaded the Sorento into the trailer again, and pointed myself at the border.

On the road to the checkpoint, I ran through every time I'd ever crossed a checkpoint in a conflict zone. It always came down to people. Sometimes you played arrogant, sometimes you played humble, sometimes you played dumb — you changed the mask depending on who was looking at you.

The approach to the Coutts border crossing already looked like a parking lot. The line of vehicles stretched for miles. I eased the big truck onto the tail of it — RVs, pickups, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠passenger cars with every kind of cargo lashed to the roof.

Could be worse.

At least it wasn't a complete standstill. I felt a flicker of relief, and thought of Dave.

Hauling a caravan through this, he's going to have a hell of a time.

After nearly an hour of creeping forward, my W990 finally rolled up to a booth with a CBSA officer standing in it. I dropped the window. Tired eyes, sharp ones, looked up at me.

"Passport and documents, please."

I handed over the papers I'd prepared. He was checking them when his eyes caught the unusual trailer behind me, and his brow furrowed.

"What's the cargo?"

"No cargo. I converted it into a kind of caravan. I'm on a transcontinental trip."

The officer's gaze sharpened.

"A trip? In this situation?"

"Yeah. Kind of just... worked out that way."

"I'm going to need to look inside the trailer. Pull over ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠to the inspection lane."

I followed his instructions with a calm face. I parked in the inspection lane, and he walked over.

"Open it up."

I opened the trailer's side door and showed him in. The officer couldn't hide his surprise at the interior, but the suspicion didn't leave his eyes. His gaze swept the space as he started asking questions, one after another.

"Did you... do all this yourself? This is pretty serious work. Why's that car loaded inside?"

I put on an easygoing smile and laid it on.

"A transcontinental trip's been a dream of mine for a long time. I spent years getting ready. North America's a big place, you know. If I'm going to spend a few days at the Grand Canyon, I need a car. And I was sick of sleeping in the truck cab every night."

I pointed at the coffee pot.

"As you can see, I had it all set up, just waiting for the day. Then this whole mess happened, and it's come in pretty handy. Haha. Lucky, I guess?"

The shameless ease in my voice seemed to loosen something in his face. But he didn't drop his guard. He went through the bedroom and the shower stall with the same thoroughness.

"You really prepared. You could live out of this for months."

"Ah, come on. This whole thing'll be over before then. Don't you think?"

I met his eyes and smiled, didn't look away. I knew the trick: meet the suspicion head-on, but never lose the humor or the ease.

A beat of silence. He locked eyes with me like he was trying to see through to the other side, then looked away.

"All right. You're free to go."

I let out a silent breath of relief and thanked him.

"Thank you. Take care."

The CBSA officer climbed down from the trailer, and I shut the door. I climbed back into the driver's seat and eased onto the accelerator. In that brief moment as the W990 rolled toward American soil, every bit of tension from the last few days let go at once.

Past the Canadian booth, a short stretch of quiet, and then I was at the CBP booth. Fortunately, the CBP officer checked my Canadian clearance, asked a few perfunctory questions, and waved me through.

At last, the W990's wheels started rolling over American ground, the Stars and Stripes painted on the pavement. Relief at having crossed, and with it, the memory of everything I'd gone through to get here.

Hah. That easy? Did I overdo it?

And in that moment, an old conversation with my father came back.

Looking back, I figured it was that lesson that had carried me through two stints in the military and more close calls than I could count — and left me in one piece, not a bone ever broken.

Relief and memory overlapping, I reached Shelby, the first town after the border, and pulled into a nearby truck stop. Maybe it was just in my head, but it felt less cold than Canada. The outside thermometer on the dash, though, was unsentimental: minus twenty-nine degrees Celsius.

I topped off the fuel tanks right away, refilled the trailer's freshwater tank, and put the hidden firearms back where they belonged. Only then could I call the long day done.

Maybe it was the relief of being across. That night, for the first time in a while, I slept deep.

The next morning I ran through the usual start-of-day routine, fired up the truck, and checked the map app for how far I'd come. Yellowknife to Shelby. Nearly a thousand miles due south, as the crow flies.

No wonder it felt less cold. Makes sense.

I turned the wheel toward Montana, toward Great Falls, the second rendezvous I'd set with Dave. I couldn't stand the silence, so I switched on the radio. Grim news kept coming.

Awakening?

The word caught me. I found myself listening closer.

The voice on the panel was calm. What it was saying was not.

I understood what he meant better than most. I knew what people became when order fell apart.

The analysis coming out of the radio sent a chill down my spine, but first I had to deal with the hunger in my gut. Hunger was the worst enemy of judgment. On I-15 toward Great Falls, I took the first rest-stop sign that came up.

What I found wasn't so much a truck stop as a small diner attached to a rundown gas station. A few beat-up pickups sat in the lot, and that was it — quiet to the point of desolate. I pushed inside. The door creaked, and the smell of grease hit me in the face.

I was the only customer. I didn't bother with the menu. Cheeseburger and coffee — the safest bet.

A moment later, a big man in a grease-stained apron came out with a plate. The owner, I figured. Hollow eyes, a few days of unkempt beard. He set the plate down in front of me with a thunk and jerked his chin toward the window.

"That shiny Kenworth out there. Yours?"

"It is."

He licked his dry lips and went on.

"Huh. A W990. Long-nose hood, chrome parts and all... You must've dropped some real money on that. Running a truck like that in times like these — you look like a man who came prepared."

"It's on payments, that's all."

It didn't sound like a compliment. It sounded like an appraiser putting a price on something.

I didn't start eating until he'd gone back to the kitchen. A dried-out patty and fries gone cold. This wasn't the time to be picky. I could still feel the owner's greasy stare on my back. I forced the food down and got up in a hurry.

I was just pulling out of the rest stop when it happened.

A group of solid-looking men stepped in front of my truck. I hit the brakes on reflex. They came out slow, like they'd planned it — from behind the gas station, from behind a rundown shed, from over a hill in the distance.

Every one of them was carrying a long gun. Shotguns. Hunting rifles. What looked like AR-15-pattern rifles.

In a matter of seconds, my W990 had become a giant bison, ringed in by hunters.