They huddled in a burned-out bank off the main roads, waiting for the storm to pass. The day was barely half over and there was no sign the insurgents were running out of lightning. Bastien counted the seconds between bursts of gunfire, wondering how long it would take for him to hear the thunder.

Marie was curled up with her son against a smooth-worn piece of concrete, and though she was sleeping she didn't look peaceful. It was almost a wonder she could sleep at all. He'd given the two of them three hours, hoping that the insurgents would start getting seriously clobbered by force patrols by then, and the minutes passed like marchers at a funeral.

He sighed. She didn't look much like a terrorist, and after the performance at her apartment, he couldn't help but think she wasn't, after all. He had plenty of time to ponder when he wasn't jumping at every noise, every flicker of light or movement. If a rat had found their den, he'd have reduced it to a bloody smear. When the mother and child woke up, he felt like an old man as he shepherded them.

There was no one else on the streets that he could see, and for a moment Bastien didn't feel like he was in a city under siege any longer. He felt as if he was one of the last survivors of nuclear war. The only thing missing was a dusting of snow to cover every last hint of green.

"So then, Mrs. Desrochers, where do we go from here?" Bastien asked. "Any stations in your underground railroad to check up on?"

"Just Ms., actually," Marie said. "I never knew Jean's father before the church. A bomb got him five years ago. I'd rather Jean not have to worry about not knowing me. How far is it to a safe zone?"

"Three, maybe four kilometers," Bastien said. North Montreal was full of old oil refineries, long emptied of every last drop but still haunted by terror. "It's a big island. If we get lucky we might run into a patrol before then, but I wouldn't put any better money than those livres of yours on it. Felkies'd probably find us first, assuming anyone comes here anymore."

She nodded hesitantly, and it didn't escape Bastien that she was giving him responsibility for her life and Jean's. It wasn't any weight that he hadn't already prepared himself to bear.

"We're not far from the water," Marie said. "We're closer to it than the Blue Zone, at least. Surely things can't be that bad in Laval."

"Not likely," Bastien said. Montreal's neighbor city, just across the Riviere des Prairies, had been an FLQ stronghold for years. Not even the nine-year occupation had dislodged them. "Grunts call it the Ninth Laval of Hell. No, if we can make it to the forward base down by the tunnel we'll be better off. Army's got a strong presence there. Even then, it won't be easy. We'll probably be walking into November."

"Assuming we can even find it," Marie said. "Montreal is like the Labyrinth, but with not so many bulls. There's no way to get your bearings here. Nothing in this city is obvious. Especially not anymore."

"Mommy, I'm tired," Jean said, picking his way through the debris as if it was the most natural thing in the world. "Can't we stop and sit down for a bit? And how come there aren't any other people around? It's weird."

"Don't worry about a thing, love, we'll be safe soon," Marie said. "Just keep walking. We can't stop yet. I'm sorry."

They walked in silence for a while as Bastien learned how right she was, and he realized how much he missed patrols. Taking every step knowing that a fate like Private Tiffin's was more than bearable with good maps and constant radio contact with the base. If Marie had only deigned to bring his along, he would've been safe before sundown - and she and Jean would probably have died in the apartment.

Maybe it wasn't so much of an accident after all. Two people had died and he hadn't been able to stop it. Now, because of him, two more people had a chance to live. He breathed deep and wished he hadn't lost his good coat. It had cost him an entire case of old Niagara wine.

"I don't suppose you have any idea why you're enemy number one now," Bastien said. "Or at least high enough up there for the felkies to do housecalls."

"The only thing I can think of is that they found me out," Marie said. "Like I said, Edmund's not the first teenager who's ever had second thoughts. They don't tend to look kindly on people who try to steal their recruits. I don't think they think it's very neighborly."

"You don't say," Bastien said. They came to an intersection that might have been thriving once. The stoplights were smashed and fallen now, and the street signs buried under dust and rubble. He bent to clear one off and grinned.

"Sherbrooke," he said. "We're closer than I thought. There's an outpost near the entrance to the Lafontaine Tunnel. Best place to keep a lid on things. If we follow it south, if we can find the autoroute, we'll be in Longueuil and home free."

"No such thing as free," Marie said. "No matter what you do, you're still a prisoner of your past. It doesn't matter what you do with the rest of your life. There's only one thing that can wipe the slate clean."

They hadn't been walking down Sherbrooke for long when the screech of tires and the throaty roar of a poorly-maintained engine made the air tremble. None of them had time to hide before the technical, an old pickup truck with a heavy machinegun mounted on the back, screamed out from around the next corner. The driver must have fancied himself a knight of the post-apocalypse.

"Get down!" Bastien shouted, throwing himself behind a pile of fallen masonry. There wasn't much chance the insurgents in the technical had missed them. Sure enough, the truck wheeled back around after it passed the hiding spot and rumbled to a stop. Three teenagers who should've been joyriding and vandalizing railway bridges hopped out of the cargo bed and started walking toward him.

No - not toward him. Toward Marie. She'd thrown herself behind an old newspaper box, and there was no chance the insurgents could have missed her. Even the driver hopped out of the cab, leaving the engine running, as he sauntered with his comrades to where she shivered in fear.

"Wasn't I just saying it's been a while since we've had any fun?" asked one of them. They liked their lips like starving men presented a pork roast. They swaggered toward her, all of them carrying rifles. "Hello there, beautiful."

She struggled as they dragged her to her feet, and Bastien had to resist the impulse to open fire. Marie was in the middle of the group, surrounded by the toughs, and the AK-74 didn't have the best sights in the world. Even if they weren't expecting an attack they weren't unarmed, and one of them would get a lucky shot before he got them all.

They held both her arms and knocked the pistol out of her hands. Bastien bit his lip and waited. She knew he was there. All she had to do was hit the dirt, just for a second, enough time to leave them reeling. Enough time for him to do his job.

Marie flinched and looked toward him. Her eyes were heavy and cold, like lonely icebergs in the middle of the sea. In that instant he saw them melting. The insurgents were jeering and joking like the puffed-up teenagers they were, the sort of people that kept digging Quebec's grave deeper.

Bastien shouted like thunder and let loose his lightning. They were stunned for an instant, frozen like ice sculptures only pretending to be alive, and he could see them melting as well. His Kalashnikov chattered, but its voice wasn't the only one he heard.

Two of the insurgents were down. The other two had got a bead on him. Bullets slapped against the masonry he hid behind, cutting wailing trails through the air. It sounded like the wind was weeping at the storm. He fired the last of his bullets, and so did they. Ten seconds after the firefight had begun, Bastien struggled to his feet and vomited the remnants of Marie's ashy breakfast over the muddy sidewalk.

When he saw Marie, he wanted to throw up everything he'd ever eaten.

"Mommy!" Jean shouted, bursting from his hiding place. "Mommy! Please be okay!"

Marie was lying on her back watching the shifting clouds, a wide smile on her face. Her arms were crossed like a martyr ready to be taken, and thick blood oozed from beneath her hands. The wound was as deep as the abyss.

"I think... I think I'm going to need something a little stronger than regular liquor this time," she said, coughing. "I should have hid better. Doesn't make much difference now, I guess."

Jean crouched next to her, still clutching his teddy bear, pressing it against her. Its downy white fur was caked with mud. "Mommy, please say you're going to be okay! It's going to be okay!" He was bawling now like Bastien had never seen. Marie reached up and hugged her son's neck. She left a faint, bloody handprint on his coat.

"You need... to be strong, Jean," Marie said. "I'm so sorry I need to make you do this. This had to happen. I'm so sorry."

"Don't talk," Bastien said. "We're not far from help. We can--"

"Don't waste your breath, you're going to need it soon enough," Marie said. "You... you should have listened. I told you that the past is our prison. Now I've got the key to it all."

"If you're going to talk, then don't talk like that," Bastien said. "There's nothing--"

"I never told you about why I do what I do," Marie said. "Forging government documents isn't exactly a hobby people just fall into, you know. I've been wondering when I could tell someone... it looks like this might be my last chance."

"Then tell me," Bastien said. "Tell me and I'll listen."

"God," she said. She exhaled long and low and tried to laugh. It came out only as a gurgle. "I've kept it under for so long and now it's tying my throat in a knot." She smiled for a brief moment. "All right... I was at Ottawa. I fired one of the mortars. I killed Jean Chretien and I killed Canada."

Bastien reeled back as if she'd shoved him, and he came down hard on the ground. Before Ottawa there had still been a chance that everything would have gone right, despite the countless negotiation sessions that almost devolved into brawls. Canada hadn't fired a shot in anger to gain its independence, and the leaders of potentially independent Quebec, the leaders with a majority in favor of separation, had lost control.

He still remembered watching it on live television, nearly nine years ago now. The Canada Day celebrations on Parliament Hill had seemed more like a funeral, full of "we will endure" and "this is not the end" and everything else the government had said to distract everyone from the fact that it had lost one of the cornerstones of the country. There had been thousands there, led by the Prime Minister, mourning the dream of a dominion that stretched from sea to sea.

Then the first mortar rounds hit. The Parliament Buildings had been less than a kilometer from the far side of the Ottawa River, Quebec territory. They had crumbled during the onslaught, collapsing into a storm of dust and fire. One of the CBC's cameramen recorded it all, and before the sun had set the next day, thirty million people had seen the foundation of their country consumed by it.

There had been no hope of salvation after that. That it was a terrorist action by disaffected Quebecois nationalists didn't matter. Canada had wanted blood, and ever since then they had been drowning in it. The Maple Leaf, in retrospect, was an appropriate color.

His hands trembled. Shooting Marie would put a down payment on the debt she'd taken out when she'd help take out Ottawa, but it wasn't what Jean deserved. There was no need to toss him into a cell yet, and she had rotted in her own for long enough. There was always time for second chances.

"We were young and stupid," Marie said. "I was young and stupid and my head was full of garbage about free Quebec. It's that bastard DeGaulle's fault. I don't think... I don't think any of us really knew what we were getting into. We didn't think ahead. We just thought it would make them stand up and notice us, that we were independent and strong. It wasn't supposed to turn out like this."

Bastien sighed and surveyed the wasteland that had been a city. Ten years ago it had been a green place, full of life and hope for the future. Ever since then it had been shadowed under heavy rainclouds, clouds that would never break.

"I'm so sorry," Marie said, clutching his hand as if it could pull her out of the abyss, absolve her for everything she'd done. He wondered how many people she'd killed with those hands, and how gladly she'd done it. "I told you. The past is our prison. I only wanted to help them get out before they could lock themselves in. I'm sorry, Gaetan. You were right about me."

She took a deep, hoarse breath that sounded like a sword being pulled out of its sheath. Bastien wanted to throw her a rope, pull her out of the abyss however he could. Her eyes were starting to go dark, like Nick Tiffin's had when that insurgent had cut him down. All he had was her stare, and he didn't look away from their swirling depths.

"Take care of Jean, Gaetan," Marie said. He held her hand in his, squeezing like a lover. "He doesn't deserve this... I don't deserve him. Make sure he doesn't... please, take him home. Take him home and leave me here... this is where I deserve to be."

Marie Desrochers kept her eyes open until the end, struggling like a woman trying to pull herself over the edge of a mountain summit. In the end she fell into the darkness, and there was no one who could catch her.

Gaetan Bastien closed her eyes, said a prayer, and gathered up Jean, wailing and mourning, in a hug that his own father had always been too tough to give. The child had a long way to go, and he would be with him every step of the way.

"There's still a long way to go, Jean," he said, burying sadness with duty. Once he left Montreal and the occupation behind, he didn't think he'd have nearly enough tears. "We can make it, you and me."

"Yes..." Jean sniffled, wiping his tears away. "Yes, sir."

Sunset would be coming soon. The clouds reflected the blood of the city as the two of them trudged down the rubble-strewn road. Night was falling, and precious few stars shone down on the battered bones and forgotten glories of the city of Montreal. He knew that tonight, a new one would join them, a beacon of hope for the city of Mary.