The Canadian Civil War: Volume 3 - West to the Wall

Chapter 30

  Shots fired

  Marc had been speaking to people by phone all afternoon and apparently a plan had been worked out in cooperation with the local police. Rather than walk around the city looking for problems, the men would go out in trucks. I liked that idea a lot. It would be much warmer, and given a choice between sitting and walking, I’ll take sitting.

  About nine Marc and Nicole distributed the rifles and everyone reloaded. As before, Nicole and the boys would guard the house, while Marc and I drove out to a spot that had been assigned to us. Basically, trucks were being posted in three general areas – several by the hotel to see what was happening there, several along the commercial streets to see if burglaries were a possibility, with most of the trucks parked along the western streets where the fires had burned last night.

  We were given the street farthest west. It was an odd street. The front yards of the houses looked like any others, but behind the houses on the western side, the plains extended out forever. These folks had the biggest backyards on the planet. I also noticed all the cross streets stopped here, with none extending so that future streets could be laid out to the west. I mentioned that to Marc.

  “There will never be streets farther to the west. DeSmet is constrained to its present size by city code and provincial statute.”

  “Why?”

  “The short answer is, that is the way we want it. You can probably work through the longer answer. Start with the men at the hotel. They are the worst bad apples to ever arrive here, but they aren’t the first. We have had centuries of people coming here and making problems. We need a place to interact with outsiders, but there are very good reasons to limit the size of that place.” It was hard to argue with that view as we sat there, guns on our laps, watching for arsonists.

  Time passed slowly. Marc had the engine off periodically to save gas, but when it got cold in the cab he ran it again for a while. He also had his cell phone out and there were updates every fifteen or twenty minutes, but otherwise, we just sat. We had a pretty good view of the street. He looked up one direction, and I looked down the other. We talked now and then, but there were long silences as we watched and waited.

  It was near midnight when we got a call that something had been seen two streets over. Marc restarted the engine, but left his lights off as he slowly cruised down a block to the nearest intersection. We saw the lights of another pickup truck down two blocks, but we could not tell if it was local or a problem. Marc parked and we stared between the houses to see if anyone was around. A few seconds later the other truck roared to life and went racing around a corner. Marc put his truck in gear and was about to follow, when I shouted.

  “Stop. I thought I saw a man running through those yards.” I got out of the truck and started running in that direction, while Marc took the truck down the street. Suddenly there were sounds of cars and trucks all around. I ran down the street past two houses, and then tried to run between the houses where I had seen a man. What a mistake. The snow was deep, and I fell flat on my face after taking the first few steps. I got up and pushed through more snow until I got up next to the house where the wind had scoured the snow away. I was breathing so hard I thought my chest would burst, but I continued along the wall until I got to the back of the house. I stopped and looked around the corner. The back door was open – propped open the way they had been at the houses we had seen the night before.

  At this point I realized I was the dumbest man on earth. First, I had not brought a cell phone, so I could not tell anyone what I was seeing. No doubt my phone was getting a good charge back at Marc’s house, but that did me little good now. Worse, I could hear cars and trucks converging around me. Someone might arrive and see me. But would they know I was not the arsonist? I might get shot by either side, or both.

  While several trucks seemed to be converging on me, I heard several others take off to the south. Was there some sort of chase going on, or had they seen something else down there? I stayed in place. I reached into my pocket for the pistol Marc had given me. With my gloves on I could barely keep a grip on it. I took my right glove off, and now I could barely grip it from the cold. Or course I was also shaking for reasons other than the cold.

  And there I stood. It never occurred to me to try to go into the house. Not a chance. If there was someone in there, they would be armed and far more dangerous than me. I stood at the corner of the house, tried not to drop my pistol, and hoped that help would show up before I passed out from fright.

  Several eons later, I heard two trucks stop in the next street. Doors opened and people got out. I could hear them struggling through the snow just as I had, although they probably avoided falling flat on their face. There was no light coming from the surrounding houses, and there wasn’t much of a moon. With snow all around what little light there was provided some visibility, but not much. So I heard the other men long before I saw them. They were in pairs, and they came up on both sides of the house across the alley. I doubted they could see me, but I froze in place just in case.

  Eventually the men got to the back corners of that house, and they stood still just as I had. Could they see the back door of this house? Maybe. They were certainly looking toward it. Meanwhile, I was trying to imagine what might be going on inside the house. Anything? Maybe the man had already left. Maybe there had never been anyone, and the door had just been blown open by the wind. Who knew? I stood and waited. They stood and waited. Nothing happened.

  Then two more trucks pulled up in front of the house. Now I had trucks behind me. Did they know I was here? I turned to look, realizing just as I turned, that by moving I was now visible to the four men across the alley.

  That’s when the shooting began. I immediately dropped face first into the snow and kept my head down. I wanted to shout that I was not an arsonist, but it is hard to shout with a mouth full of snow. Buried in the snow it was also pretty hard to know what was going on, but it seemed like the shots were being fired from every direction, including from inside the house. After dozens of shots were fired, I thought I heard a door slam in the house, and then there were many more shots in a second or two. Someone had an automatic rifle. It fired a full clip, and then it stopped.

  It was another minute or two before the last shots were fired, but they gradually ended amid shouts of “cease fire” from the front of the house. I stayed down. A few minutes later I could hear the men from across the alley come running through the snow. The back door slammed as one or more went into the house. But I could also hear at least one coming up behind me. I stayed down trying to think of what to say to not be shot.

  “I’m with Marc LeGrande,” was the best I could do. Hopefully they would not be my final words.

  “Get up slowly.” I pushed myself up out of the snow. I left the pistol on the ground.

  “My name is Shawn Murphy. I am with Marc LeGrande.”

  “Walk to the front of the house.”

  “There is a pistol by my right foot. Don’t leave it there. It belongs to Marc.” I started back to the street, aware that I still might be shot. Scared as I was, I was still curious. What had just happened?

  When I got to the front of the house I saw the two trucks that had stopped there. Three men were by them, one of them Marc. The other two were standing. Marc was sitting on the street holding his ankle. As soon as I was visible around the house, the two men by the truck raised their rifles.

  “Stop.” Marc shouted. “He’s OK.” I fought my way through the deeper snow and kneeled down next to Marc.

  “Were you shot?”

  “No, I was trying to get around behind my truck and slipped.” I helped him get up. I thought it was curious none of the others were helping him, until I turned around and saw the body lying fallen across the front steps. “The son of a bitch had a machine gun.” Marc added when he saw where I was looking. “He shot the hell out of my truck, bu
t missed me. Luckily, these guys got him.” He pointed to the men by the other truck. Neither was moving or talking. They just stared at the man they had just killed.

  Two men stepped out of the front door, and again the men at the truck raised their rifles. “Cease fire” shouted one of the men at the door as they ducked back into the building. “It’s us.” There was a pause, and then the two men stepped out of the doorway again. “He was alone. He had a gas can, and he had poured some in one room, but he hadn’t lit it yet.” He waved the gas can and brought it with him as they came down the stairs, stepping carefully around the dead man. The two men who had been behind me also came around the corner and walked out to the street. Somehow they managed to get through the snow looking less clumsy than me. One of them handed me Marc’s pistol, but neither had anything to say. We all just stood there, Marc leaning against his truck, and stared back at the dead man. What was there to say?

  Finally someone made a call and shortly thereafter a police cruiser arrived. He brought out a flashlight and examined the dead man. He also picked up his automatic rifle and gave it a good look. That went into the trunk of his cruiser. He took names, but didn’t really ask any questions. He was on the scene maybe ten minutes and then left, telling us all “Let’s call it a night.”

  I was certainly ready to end the day. I helped Marc into his truck, and then got behind the wheel. Most of the windows had been blown out, but the engine seemed okay. So the ride home was cold, but at least we were riding and not walking. As I pulled away, I saw the rest of the men were still standing next to the other truck, just staring at the dead man. I have no idea when they finally left the scene.