all the men in the park are arming up and taking turns watching the gate now. He said they mean business. Any Sharia supporters around these parts will get their ass shot off, I think.”
Rita glanced at Sarah’s father, a serious look on his face. She started the motorcycle and was soon out of the park and back on Highway 13 headed east toward Assiniboia less than fifty kilometers away, her pistol in her bag, her jacket bungeed on top. The day heating up.
The road was better now and she thought about Muslims, guns, her country being changed, as she cruised in top gear, vehicles passing every few minutes. Farmers mostly. No Muslims that she could see. Were they all like the crazy ones back in Medicine Hat? The ones who filled the street and pumped their fists screaming Allah is great. Who is this Allah? Why does he want to kill the Jews? Why does he want to kill her?
When she arrived in Assiniboia and turned on to Main Street her path was blocked by two police cars, their lights flashing blue and red, escorting a group of black clad teens marching down the wide street holding signs and shouting. Celebrating the new law with enthusiasm. Rita pulled the motorcycle over and parked, dismounted and watched from the sidewalk as the mostly youths marched past only a few feet away from her. Signs of Allah is great. Death to the unbelievers. Islam will dominate the world. She saw a few raised rifles amongst the signs. There had to be over a hundred of them following the slow moving police cruisers, chanting Allah is great, over and over.
Yeah right, thought Rita. He’s great alright. She stared at the marchers all dressed in black sweats or black denim. There were a few older people on the sidewalk watching the parade their expression one of shock and disbelief. Fear too maybe. Rita thought how proud the parents of these kids must feel. Holding their death to the Jews signs high, shouting Islam will dominate the world. Allah is great.
One of the young men marching past looked at the bare headed Rita standing on the sidewalk. He stared at her chest, her face, yelled for her to cover herself. Even made a move toward her until another man held him back and they kept up the marching.
Rita had made no move, only stared at the kid, a teenager who pointed his finger and moved his thumb up and down like he held some invisible gun. She wanted to ring his scrawny neck and tell him to smarten the hell up. What’s the matter, kid? Allah doesn’t like tits? Or maybe you just don’t like tits. She stayed quiet, watched, waited until the way ahead was clear again. She fired up the big motorcycle and rode up Main Street and was soon heading south toward St. Victor, less than half an hour away.
As Rita steered the cruiser onto the St. Victor road, the village only a few miles away now, she saw a truck in the distance behind her. She focused on the road ahead. A road riddled with huge bike swallowing potholes. She managed to stay in fourth gear for the next while then as she crested a hill the truck was much closer, coming up behind her fast. She felt her body getting prickly, like something was definitely going on here. An old empty farm yard surrounded by tall caragana bushes and other spindly twisted trees was just ahead on her right and the rail fence was open.
She slowed and turned into the yard, the grass tall, uncut, the whole piece of land surrounded by green bush and trees. She rode directly to the opposite side of the old yard and turned the motorcycle so it faced the entrance. Quickly parked, reached in her bag, retrieved her pistol from the holster and ran behind the motorcycle into the trees and bush, moving away from the bike, watching the entrance then laying in a prone position, hidden, her gun cocked and ready. The pickup truck entered onto the property and stopped as it cleared the entrance. For a few seconds nothing happened, the driver just sat inside the idling vehicle, Rita watching from her hidden location.
The motor went quiet. The driver’s door opened and a man with a rifle walked to the front of his truck. Rita recognized the kid from earlier. The one who shot her with his finger. He was looking around the closed in yard, looking at the motorcycle, all seen through the sights of his rifle. He aimed at the motorcycle and fired, his bullet tearing a hole through the windshield.
“You might as well show yourself. I’m not going anywhere.” His eyes scanned the thick bush. “I won’t shoot you.”
Rita carefully watched, stayed silent, her pistol aimed at his chest, her hand tight on the grip, her breathing controlled. The man fired his rifle a second time, the bullet shattering the windshield, Lexan flying off in all directions. Rita glanced at her motorcycle then back at the man, his eyes searching for her. She fired her pistol.
An expression of surprise and shock came to his face. He stood upright, his right arm dropping to his side, the rifle falling from his hand into the tall grass. He stood like that for a few seconds then slowly dropped to his knees, the momentum carrying him forward and onto his face.
Rita stood up slowly, listened, heard nothing but insects and the wind, walked through the grass toward the fallen man, her pistol cocked and ready. As she neared the truck she saw his unmoving body, the rifle beside him, she bent low and picked it up, stared at the dead kid. She guessed he couldn’t be much more than seventeen or eighteen years old judging from the side of his face that was visible to her.
She listened to the sound of insects, some flying close to her face, looked down at the dead man again, a fly walking across his cheek. Listened to the wind fight its way through the bushes, heard the cry of an eagle, her eyes moving upward following the bird as it circled above her head. It cried again, the sound an invisible blanket. She thought she should feel something bad about all this, but she didn’t. Her world was poker. There was only winning and losing. He went all in and lost. It was just that simple. Guns didn’t scare her. All the old boys used to pack heat at the games and all of them were smarter than the moon god’s little disciple here. He chose his side. He for sure would have killed her if he could have. She saw the look in his eyes earlier and the kill the Jews sign he had carried.
Rita quickly removed what was left of the windshield, glad the little bastard never hit anything important. She tied the rifle behind her seat, rode slowly past the dead kid and his truck out on to the road, the hills visible in the distance, her anger still rising. It took a lot to make Rita angry but she was angry now. From head to toe.
Within ten minutes she was descending into the valley, the village of St. Victor now visible, only a rifle shot’s distance from the fast moving motorcycle. As she rounded the curve just before the village she could see people and vehicles gathered together near the first house. A long yellow school bus parked across the road. She slowed, rode toward them in first gear.
A man raised his arms as she neared them. Rita stopped. Shut off the bike. Sat looking at him as he and another man walked toward her. Both carried rifles.
“What’s your business here?”
“My sister lives here.”
“Who’s your sister?” he asked.
“Karen Blake.”
He smiled. “I know Karen. I guess you ain’t no Muslim.”
She released a slow pained sarcastic smile. “I guess I’m not.”
He saw the look. “You can pass.”
Rita nodded, waited for the bus to be backed up, still pissed off, rode slowly past the guards and along the main street that ran through the village, trees on both sides, their branches meeting, covering the street. Rita spied Karen’s house and rode into the driveway. Saw her sister coming out to greet her. She parked and shut off the engine.
“You made it.”
Rita dismounted, hugged her older sister hard for a few seconds. “So, the world has changed I see.”
“Yes, for the worse.”
Rita didn’t tell Karen about the kid she killed just a few minutes ago. “Guards at both ends of town I see.”
Karen nodded. “We’re all taking turns watching. There’s only three roads into town. No one gets in unless they’re known or they fight their way in.”
“I still don’t understand how all this could have happened in Canada.”
“It happened slowly. Politicians