The Last Stage
I turned the radio down. I'd already heard enough. There was no reason to keep listening to the sound of the world coming apart.
The only thing I had to do now was get off this northern land as fast as I could—quietly, and an hour sooner if I could manage it.
How much longer I drove through that repeating landscape of boreal forest and frozen river, I couldn't say. I was staring blankly at the road ahead when a familiar voice issued from the GPS.
That mechanical voice sounded like an angel whispering in my ear. My heart skipped, and I pressed the accelerator a little deeper.
Before long, a weathered, ungainly sign by the roadside flashed through the headlights.
WELCOME TO ALBERTA
Wild Rose Country
The moment I passed it, a sigh of relief escaped me before I even knew it.
Finally. Out of that godforsaken Northwest Territories.
It was only a change of administrative boundary, but it felt like I'd just walked through the first gate of a vast prison.
After hours of monotonous driving beneath an ashen sky, a sign for High Level finally appeared. I didn't hesitate. I pulled into the nearest gas station.
I stopped at the pump, lifted the diesel nozzle, and started filling the W990's enormous tanks. The numbers on the pump spun like they were possessed. Once the truck was topped off, I crossed over to the trailer and filled the generator fuel tank to the brim.
Last, I pulled out the seven twenty-liter jerry cans I'd stockpiled last time and filled them one by one. The attendant watched me strangely but didn't ask a thing. In this world going mad, respecting each person's way of surviving was becoming an unspoken rule.
I grabbed a quick lunch at a shabby diner near the station. I was walking back to the truck when my phone rang in my pocket. It was Dave.
"How far along are you, pal?"
"High Level. Figure I'll make it near Slave Lake by tonight."
"What? You're already that far?"
His surprise came through the receiver loud and clear.
"Drove through the night."
Dave let out a long breath at that short answer.
"Hah... good thing you headed out first after all. I'm getting ready to go myself, but if I'm bringing my mother, I'll have to tow a camper behind the pickup. Between the maintenance and packing everything we need, it's going to take me a few more days."
I didn't say anything.
"Oh, and here's a funny one. Looks like Frank might be coming along too."
I snorted at that.
"You talked him into it, didn't you?"
"I did not! He called me first. First thing out of his mouth is, is Chan's star sign the Rat?"
"For crying out loud. The Chinese zodiac and star signs aren't the same thing."
"Anyway, Frank says rats are always the first to know when a ship's going down, and looking at all the weird stuff you've been pulling lately, he figures he'd better follow that rat. Haha. He was dead serious."
The sheer gall of it left me speechless, but underneath that, a strange certainty settled in. My read on this hadn't been wrong.
"Dave. Don't forget what we promised."
"Wouldn't dream of it. Lethbridge, Great Falls, Boise, Salt Lake City. I've got them all written down. Flying J truck stops."
He recited each one as if committing them to memory.
"Yeah. See you there."
When I hung up, a curious warmth lingered in the empty cab. Dave was still hundreds of kilometers away, but just hearing his voice had restored the sense that I wasn't alone. It was a small stove, heating a barren heart.
It felt like spotting another party member's name blinking far off in the distance during a lonely raid.
Once I left High Level, the road grew even quieter. On this stretch racing toward the end of the world, the Kenworth and I felt like lonely pilgrims. I drove on for hours more and finally drew near Slave Lake.
Instead of a truck stop, I pulled onto a quiet stretch of shoulder overlooking the water. I needed to make Westlock before the day was out. That, I figured, was the last place I'd be able to catch my breath before plunging into the chaos of a city the size of Calgary.
I crossed into the trailer, poured hot water over a cup of instant noodles, and ate a quick meal. I stretched the stiffness out of my body, then climbed back into the driver's seat without a second thought.
The sky was still crushed beneath a ceiling of gray ash. Sunset was hours away, and yet the world was already sliding into dusk. The volcanic clouds had swallowed the sun. Driving through that uncanny twilight, I felt as if I were wandering through a nightmare rather than anything real.
I drove on for hours more, and by the time I rolled into the truck stop near Westlock, night had fallen completely.
I stopped into the store and picked up three cartons of cigarettes, toilet paper, wet wipes—the small hygiene things. I figured these little items were the last line of defense for a person's dignity.
Then I returned to my own moving fortress, pulled a cold can of beer from the fridge, and cracked it with a hiss. I drank it down and closed the books on another long, long day.
The next morning I started the day with the same routine as always, then pointed the truck south again. The destination now was Calgary. As the lights of that enormous city drew closer, I tightened my grip on the wheel and made a decision.
Once I hit Calgary, I need to get my hands on some U.S. dollars.
There was no telling how long the Canadian dollar would hold its value.
At last, Calgary's skyline emerged beneath the ashen sky. The city was close, but I drove past the truck stop. Unloading the ramp from my trailer and rolling out the Sorento would draw far too many eyes.
On the outskirts, I parked in a secluded corner of a lot at Fish Creek Provincial Park, laid out along the Bow River. I eased the Sorento down, climbed into the familiar passenger car, and headed into downtown Calgary.
First stop was a large bank branch that handled foreign exchange. I slid a thick bundle of Canadian cash across the counter and asked for the maximum I could convert into U.S. dollars. After a few rounds of verification, I walked out with a stack of green bills worth nearly ten thousand dollars.
From the bank I headed to a Real Canadian Superstore for one last round of stockpiling. But from the moment I pulled into the parking lot, I came face to face with signs of collapse I'd never felt in Yellowknife.
An endless line of vehicles snaked out from the gas station next door, and people were shouting at each other in the ranks. Inside the big-box store, it was even worse. The shelves were mostly bare, and what little remained was the subject of a taut, ugly standoff. Canned goods, pasta—anything with a long shelf life—had vanished without a trace.
It was a completely different landscape from the calm of the Yellowknife Walmart a few days earlier. Unlike that quiet northern city, fear was spreading here at a far more vicious speed, in a place where hundreds of thousands of people lived on top of each other. In a matter of days, people's thinking had begun to shift from this can't be happening to I have to survive this somehow.
I gave up on shopping and headed straight back to the parking lot. Stay any longer and I was going to get swept up in the madness myself.
I was driving back toward the truck when I witnessed a strange scene by the side of the road. The glass door of a small grocery store had been smashed in, and people were filing inside and coming back out with armfuls of goods. But they didn't look like vicious robbers or a mob. They looked like people waiting their turn, quietly, to take their share.
No guns. No shouting. A silent looting.
Across the street, the store's owner stood watching his shop get cleaned out, his face vacant with shock.
The man I used to be would have been out of the car without a second thought, trying to stop them—or at least calling the cops. Instead I just pressed the accelerator. As if it were scenery sliding past. As if it had nothing to do with me.
Cold reason closed a fist around my heart.
The last survivor is the hero.
Get your head on straight.
The smashed glass, the silent looters, everything I'd seen in downtown Calgary settled onto my chest like a block of ice. I drove hard back to the parking lot at Fish Creek.
Once I had the Sorento loaded into the trailer again, relief arrived with a fresh wave of unease. The place was too remote, too empty. Fine for discreet work in daylight—but after dark it would be an isolated target, a hunting ground any looter or stickup crew would kill for.
I fired up the engine and headed for the nearest Flying J.
The paradox was that a place packed with trucks and people was now the safer refuge. At the very least, everyone would be watching everyone else. I found a spot at the edge of the lot, killed the engine, and finally let myself breathe.
I ate dinner at the truck stop diner, but even after I got back to the trailer my mind wouldn't stop turning. What I'd seen in Calgary was only the trailer. The farther south I went—the closer I got to the United States—the uglier this was going to get.
I need more safeguards.
I closed my eyes and sketched the W990's structure in my head. Then I started overlaying a defensive system on top of it. The 12-gauge tripwire I'd bought last time. I began designing a layout that could defend the truck from every direction—and hit back at the same time.
Under the front and rear bumpers. Five rounds each, ten total. Enough to blow out the tires or the radiator of any vehicle that gets too close.
Can't trigger the rear ones from the driver's seat. I'll figure that out later.
And the running boards under the driver and passenger sides. Mount them at wheel height. Stop anyone who tries to hug up alongside.
The thoughts didn't stop there.
What if they cling to the truck while it's moving?
A scene I'd only ever watched in movies could become real. I had to be ready for it.
Wire traps along the sides of the truck and the trailer, facing toward the cab. Birdshot—no. Salt rounds.
I didn't want to scar my own truck in the name of defending it.
Just enough pain to peel the leeches off. That's all I need.
As if drawing up a precision blueprint, I connected dozens of wires, primers, and shotgun shells in my head, and the fantasy ran all the way to converting the whole rig into an armored truck.
Right. Once I'm across the border.
I turned on the TV. An absurd caption filled the screen.
A guest on the program spoke with a cynical look on his face, the words coming out like a spit.
"...The last stage of every civilization has always been an age of plunder. History simply repeats itself."
"Doctor, are you saying the end is plunder...?"
"The last stage of every civilization we know was its extinction. Plunder is merely the act of cleaning up a civilization already in ruins."