The Day the World Changed

9:35 am

The rear bumper smashes against the gas station. I stare in horror at the hole in the Grand Am's windshield, right where Max is sitting. His arm dangles out the window. I put down my kickstand and vault off the bike, running towards the car.

Mariah, screaming, runs out of the station.

"Stop!" The soldier shouts.

I don't know who he's shouting at, and I don't care. Max is slumped over the wheel. The back of his head is shattered. I grasp his shoulder, pull him back, and gaze into his face. His mouth is open, as if he wants to say something, but his eyes are lifeless. Blood flows from a hole in his temple. He's gone.

"Step away from the car!"

I set his head down gently and turn, displaying my palms so Max's murderer can see them.

"You killed him," I say to the soldier. "You murdered one of the people you're sworn to protect. How could you do that?"

"He refused to follow orders," the soldier says.

Even from where I'm standing, I can tell his hands and voice are shaking. Has he ever killed someone before? I doubt it. He turns towards Mariah. "Stop screaming!"

Her cries dissolve into sobs, and she retreats inside. More faces are pressed against the gas station windows. Truck drivers and other customers are frozen near their vehicles.

"Everyone saw what you did," I say. "You shot a defenceless teenager. Worse. He's a parapalegic. How do you think that's going to look on your report?"

Now his weapon is pointed at me. "Go home," he says.

I walk straight towards him. He's standing between me and my bike after all.

The other soldiers have congregated near the pumps, behind him, but I focus on his face.

"You'll pay for this," I tell him as I walk past.

I straddle my bike and start it. My own limbs are shaking so badly I can barely steer out of the gas station. I head back towards the city, trying to erase the image of Max's face in death. What just happened? I can't make any sense out of it. The whole world has gone mad. Traffic is light on 4th Street, which is unusual for this time of day. Our crescent is dead, not a soul is in sight.

I pull into the car port and check my phone for a message from Dad, but there are none. Still.

Only an hour and a half have passed since I left home this morning. How can so much have changed in such a short time?

Mom's car isn't in the garage, so I don't bother going in the house. Is Mom still at the hospital? It occurs to me that since Mom is a nurse, instructions for her could be quite different. How I wish we still had a land line. I'd try to call her on it.

Our next door neighbour Mrs. Van Stavern peers at me through her kitchen window, flowered curtains framing her terrified face. I give her a little wave, and she waves back. Mom and I may not have a land line, but Mrs. Van Stavern does.

She opens the back door before I even have a chance to knock. She's wearing a housecoat and slippers. Curlers are pinned to the sides of her head.

"Come inside quickly," she says. The little television on her kitchen counter is blaring CBC news. "You're not supposed to be on the street."

I take the remote from her hand and turn down the volume. "Have you seen my mother this morning?"

She shakes her head. "Not since she went to work."

"Can I borrow your phone? Mine's not working. I'd like to try to call my parents."

"Go right ahead." She points to the unit on the wall.

Dad's cell goes straight to voice mail. His voice sounds so calm. I wish it could reassure me.

"Please call me as soon as you can, Dad," I say after the beep. "I'm worried about you. I'm worried about all of us."

When I call the hospital, I get the virtual switchboard, but no one picks up in emergency, where Mom works. I set the receiver back on the cradle.

"What do you think?" Mrs. Van Stavern asks. The eyes behind her thick glasses are wide with concern.

"I'd feel a lot better if I could talk to either of them."

"Maybe you should stay here with me," she says.

Her own fear is getting to her. She has no family in Estevan.

"A friend of mine died this morning," I tell her. "Right in front of me." Her eyes grow wider as I tell her what happened.

"The boy in the wheelchair?" she says. "The one who was in the accident with your brother?"

I nod and blink the tears from my eyes. "I don't feel comfortable staying put. I'm afraid they'll come looking for me."

"Who will come looking?" She asks, following me back into the living room.

"That's just it. I don't know exactly, but I think our own military is taking directions from the US."

"That's the way Parliament voted," she says, gesturing at her television. "They held an emergency session just this morning and decided to allow the Americans impose martial law. Because of the virus. It's got to be contained before it's too late. Before it kills us all."

"What if we kill each other before that ever happens?" I protest. "Max said this is the time for sticking together."

A movement beyond her living room window draws my attention. A police car drives slowly past. I am guessing the Estevan police have also been charged with enforcing the quarantine.

Should I flag down the car and tell the officers what happened at the gas station?

The squad car stops right in front of my house, which really creeps me out. Is it possible they're looking for me? And if they are — why?