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Best Short Stories © 2024

Into The Storm

(Reading Time: 07:42)
Anwar shudders every time he hears the emphatic footsteps of soldiers marching up and down the halls outside. He knows that they are either with him, or coming for him.

Hail and wind lash the cast-iron windows in short, angry bursts. Anwar paces, nervously chafing at the scar on the back of his neck. Every step echoes in the dim, cavernous room on Parliament Hill where he waits. Normally, this is a room where committees meet. Where laws are drafted. Where legacies are made. But tonight nothing is normal.

Footsteps outside. A sharp knock. Anwar quickly composes himself. "Come in," he says, brusquely.

One of the double doors opens, just enough for Lieutenant Rosseau to enter, salute, and stand at attention. Anwar can only make out a silhouette against the bright light pouring in from the hall, but he knows it's Rosseau-his broad shoulders and thick head are unmistakable.

"Mr. Fitzpatrick's convoy just arrived, sir."

"Bring him up."

"Yes sir."

Rosseau shows himself out, closing the door behind him. Anwar walks toward the lofty bookshelves lining the walls on either side of the fireplace. He scans the leather-bound volumes of codified law stretching all the way up to the ornate ceiling. His gaze shifts to the mirror on the fireplace mantle. He straightens his beige and green tie, and examines the side of his head where some of the short black hairs are graying. He catches his hazel eyes in the mirror and it startles him, as if someone else is staring back. He abruptly turns and walks toward the windows and looks out into the Ottawa night. Not a single person on the streets. Streetlamps illuminate thick streams of rain and hail blowing violently through the small orbits they manage to light. He can barely make out the military vehicles occupying the streets below.

Footsteps outside the room. Voices, commotion. The door swings open with no knock. In charges Henry Fitzpatrick, trailed by Lieutenant Rosseau and the two armed guards who were stationed outside the door.

"What the hell are you up to?" Henry shouts.

The guards grab Henry's arms, but Anwar raises a calm hand and they release him. Henry shakes loose. "Why are soldiers occupying my home and escorting me away from my family in the middle of a hurricane? And taking all our phones and computers away?"

Even in the dim light, Anwar can see that Henry's thick gray hair is disheveled, his eyes languid, his sunken, pale cheeks especially veiny. He is wearing blue jeans and a green sweater with a zipper at the top- far from the usual bespoke suits and flawless complexion he presents every day to Parliament and the media as Leader of the Opposition.

"Thank you for coming tonight," Anwar says, equanimously.

"I didn't have a choice."

"Please. Sit down."

"I'd rather stand. But you can excuse the heavily armed men behind me."

Anwar nods, and waves Rosseau and the two soldiers away. They salute and leave the room. Henry looks on, bewildered.

"Why the hell are they saluting you?"

Anwar says nothing as he slowly walks to the conference table. A flash of lightning illuminates the room. Loud thunder follows, rattling the windows.

"I don't like the atmosphere around here," Henry says, eying Anwar. "I have suspicions about what might be going on."

"What do you think is going on?" Anwar says, pulling up a chair next to the head of the long conference table and gesturing for Henry to sit.

"There's a hurricane out there," Henry begins, taking the seat at the head of the table. "So nobody is suspicious about the military being around. Communications are down, or could be downed, without arousing much suspicion either. It could really leave our capital very vulnerable."

More flashes of lightning. They illuminate Henry's light blue eyes.

"We're taking control," Anwar says. "Tonight. In a few minutes, we're going to arrest the Prime Minister and senior members of his cabinet. We will immediately establish a democratic government, which will operate with strict environmental protections embedded in a new constitution that will include everything that I campaigned on last year."

"Everything you campaigned on only got you 18% of the popular vote."

"Because I was outspent. We were outspent. The PM bought that election with filthy money."

Henry remains silent for a long while. The ceaseless whistling of the wind and the clatter of hail against the windows feel very loud to both men.

"I've known for some time that you were a risk taker," Henry finally says. "But going from eccentric suits and ties to overthrowing one of the world's oldest and most stable democracies? You're out of your mind."

"What's stable about a democracy that has failed to prevent global warming and irreparable environmental destruction? Just look outside: this is our fourth hurricane this season alone. Hurricanes in Ottawa, for God's sake. It's not just symbolic that we're taking control on a night like this; it's downright necessary."

Henry shakes his head and rubs his temples with both elbows on the table-a classic gesture of his, often captured by the cameras.

"How do you even think you'll get close to the PM?"

"His security team is with us."

That silences Henry.

"Even so," says Henry, "the moment you move on the PM, the world will come down hard on you. The U.S., maybe even Britain, will invade us."

"Stop living in the past. London and half the U.K. are under water, and the U.S. government, led by its reality TV star President, can't afford to fortify or even evacuate people out of New York and all the other coastal areas that are flooded. And over in the west they've run out of water altogether. We're taking in American refugees. That country is literally swamped and bone dry all at the same time."

"You're greatly underestimating the ramifications of your actions."

The pitch of the howling wind rises, and the hail assaults the windows with added fury.

"I have key military people on my side. And I expect the full cooperation of our entire armed forces by the end of the night. That will deter any interested parties from intervening."

"Who are your key military people? I noticed Rosseau just now. He's one of General Campbell's men, isn't he? You do remember that Campbell is under investigation for misuse of government funds."

"As I said, I have top military people on board. And my own party will back me. But Henry, I need you. You're the Leader of the Opposition, and someone who campaigned hard against..."

"Not a chance," he says, pointing at Anwar. "You're committing treason right now, and I'm not going down this road. You'll be lucky to come out of this with your life."

"This isn't treason. Our democracy is broken. You said as much when Parliament was shut down last week-this time, the PM's excuse was the storm."

"Shutting down Parliament is a vexing, but longstanding right of any legitimate government..."

"Wake up, man!" Anwar shouts, pounding the table and standing up.

"Everything longstanding and traditional has resulted in full glacier collapse in the Arctic, and now the Antarctic. Our cities, and some countries for God's sake, are under water. Four nuclear power plants have been overrun by the oceans-that's four A-bombs that have gone off. And worst of all, there are corporations and wealthy individuals out there right now profiting from all of this, and paying our government big campaign dollars to stay silent for just a little while longer. And you talk about tradition? The only thing tradition has done is bring us right here, to this room. This is our moment. We can do this, Henry. Think about your wife. Your kids."

"You're not married, and you don't have kids," Henry says, standing and pointing at Anwar. "You're out of your depth."

"Hey! The village I grew up in just got evacuated and is close to being wiped off the map, so don't tell me I don't have anything at stake here. But then, you wouldn't understand that, with all the Toronto real estate you inherited."

"Don't you start with..."

"And besides, I don't need a wife and kids to know that you could be a hero to them, and to our country and the planet, if you join us."

"I'm no good to my wife and kids if I'm dead or in prison."

"We will not fail," Anwar says, pounding the table with each word.

"We will succeed. With or without you, this is going to happen. You need to decide right now. Are you in or out?"

Henry takes a deep breath and shakes his head. He turns and walks toward the double doors.

"You're not leaving," Anwar says, grimly.

Henry stops, pauses, and turns around.

"When I said think of your wife and kids, I meant it. There are men with guns in your living room right now. This is your last chance. Are you with us or not?"

"You're bluffing," he says, turning toward the doors.

"Guards!" Anwar shouts. The doors open and the two soldiers quickly enter. "Take this man to a holding cell."

"Are you out of your mind?" Henry shouts. A vein protrudes from his crimson forehead as he struggles with the guards. They easily subdue him, and he is escorted out, past Rosseau, who stands inside the doors.

"General Campbell wants to know how things went."

"How do you think they went?" Anwar shouts.

Rosseau says nothing.

"Tell General Campbell to initiate the plan."

"Yes sir. The General wants you to wait here until everyone has been detained. He says it's the safest way. More guards are already outside."

Anwar nods. Rosseau salutes and exits.

Anwar slumps into a deep armchair in front of the fireplace. He rubs the scar at the back of his neck and listens as the hurricane pummels the windows. He closes his eyes.

"Put that on," his father shouts in Farsi, dumping a life jacket at his son's feet.

Anwar has trouble balancing himself on the swaying, slippery dock with the wind and rain as powerful as they are. He looks out at the enormous white waves crashing down on the cold Newfoundland shores beyond the cove.

"But Baba, the ocean is angry," Anwar shouts, straining to be heard over the storm.

"So am I," his father shouts back. He kneels in front of Anwar, wraps his hand around his neck and draws him closer. Anwar winces in pain. His father's hand is pushing on the fresh bandage on his neck.

"This pain in your neck," his father shouts. "It's you that caused it. You let those kids scare you."

"But Baba..."

"If we're going to succeed here, we can't be scared. Of anything. Not those kids, not even this ocean."

He stands and turns to face the angry waters. He raises the hood over his orange fisherman's overalls.

"When your mother left, I took the boat out on a day just like this. It showed me that I could face anything. If you do this today, you can face those kids."

"I don't want to go."

"You have to want to go," he shouts, his unshaven face dripping from the rain.

He shoves the life jacket into Anwar's chest, and the boy puts it on over his coat. He lifts Anwar into the small, billowing vessel, climbs aboard, and nudges his son into the wheelhouse. He unfastens the rope tying them to the dock, joins Anwar in the wheelhouse, and steers the boat towards the raging waters outside the horseshoe-shaped cove.

"Baba, don't." Anwar shouts, trying to turn the wheel. But he tears Anwar's hand away and increases the speed. The wipers can't keep up with the hard rain, but Anwar can still make out the waves crashing at full force into the rocks sheltering the cove.

Anwar runs outside and jumps off the back of the boat. The water is so cold that it numbs his body almost immediately. He faintly hears his father shouting, and sees the boat turning. He is barely conscious when he is drawn out of the water with the fishing net and dumped onto the wet deck.

Knocks at the door. Anwar rises from his chair. He glances at the windows, then at the doors.

He is ready.
-Yakos Spiliotopoulos

Climate Change Short Stories Short Fiction Stories 
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