When the Guns Were Turned On Us

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Chapter 28

Robert Hunt peered out of the large picture window in his living room. Hunt and his wife Barbara had purchased the early 1980s-era one-storey bungalow nearly twenty years earlier when he had been posted to Kamloops. For a man in his early sixties, Hunt was incredibly active and energetic. Seven years earlier, the Brandon, Manitoba native had retired from the Royal Canadian Mounted Police after thirty-five years of service. He’d attained the rank of staff sergeant. Like many of his fellow countrymen and women, Hunt resented not being able to live freely in the great nation of Canada he’d grown up in. The retired Mountie was especially incensed when the historic law enforcement agency that had been such a part of his life for so long was merged into the North American Police.

Neither Hunt nor his adoring wife of forty years could have ever foreseen such an extreme shift coming. It was no secret that the majority of elected representatives on both sides of the 49th Parallel had been deceiving the public for years. In Hunt’s opinion, the downward spiral had begun back in the late 1980s/early 1990s with several free trade agreements. Integrated border security came into place in the years following the horrific events of September 11th, 2001. As a true-blue Canadian, Hunt had never trusted the United States government. The constant wars, increased surveillance, an almost total loss of civil liberties were part of a grand scheme orchestrated by a twisted, almost Luciferian cabal of global elites, powerful, ruthless evil men that had been bringing tyranny to regions of the world for centuries. Now it was North America’s turn to be oppressed.

It had been around the time he retired from the RCMP that the U.S.-Canada border was erased. The then Liberal government in Ottawa succumbed to pressure from Washington to permit American law enforcement agencies as well as military forces on Canadian soil. Before most people could even fathom what was taking place, Canadian sovereignty was all but a distant memory. These days, Robert and Barbara mainly kept to themselves although they occasionally visited with neighbors and friends. Since the occupation, many citizens had become more withdrawn. The atmosphere in the entire city was rife with paranoia and fear.

As a steady rain pattered against the east-facing windows of the home, the Hunts sat quietly sipping tea. Suddenly, there was a knock at the door.

“I wonder who that could be,” Barbara asked.

Robert Hunt got up off of the couch and opened the front door. Marty Smith, a good friend of the family for over a decade, stood on the doorstep. Smith was younger, in his mid-forties, tall and wiry with bushy hair and an early 1980s-style moustache. Smith and his wife Marsha lived two doors down from the Hunts.

“Marty, I haven’t seen you around in a while. How are things?”

“Being held together,” Smith replied. “That’s about it though. Mind if I come in?”

“By all means.”

Hunt stepped aside as his close friend entered. Barbara got up off of the couch.

“Marty, long time no see,” she said happily. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Ah, no thank you Barbara.” Smith turned to Hunt. “Mind if we talk alone for a minute?”

“I guess so. Do you want to go downstairs?”

“That would be great.”

Hunt and Smith descended a flight of stairs into the home’s furnished basement. Since the start of the occupation, the local government had established a snitching program. Spurred on by generous incentives, people gladly reported on their neighbors. This resulted in an increasing number of citizens either locked up or shipped to forced labor camps. Over three-and-a-half decades as a cop, Hunt had gained enough wisdom not to trust many people. He had known Marty Smith, who had spent ten years in the Canadian Air Force as a helicopter pilot, for as long as he’d lived in Kamloops. He’d also made sure that the home was free of electronic bugs. The men sat down on a couch.

“So what’s on your mind, Marty?”

“Bob, how can I say this? It’s time. I am sick and tired of sitting around wondering which one of us is going to be next.”

Smith’s words struck a nerve inside of Hunt. Was there a chance that his long-time friend could be an informant?

“You’re advocating that we start an insurrection. Am I right?” Hunt asked.

“What other choice do we have? Besides, the rebellion has already started. Those guerrilla attacks taking place in the mountains west of the city. Rumor has it some former Special Forces guy from the States is leading a small group of fighters.”

Hunt could sympathize with his friend. At the same time, he knew such talk was dangerous and could get them in a world of trouble.

“Who else have you spoken to about this?” Hunt asked, very concerned.

“A couple of guys who I’ve known longer than you,” Smith answered.

Hunt sat back in the couch. It was all too much, too soon.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m getting a little long in the grain for that kind of thing. But if we’re going to do this, there can be no more than four or five people in a group. As well, everyone will be sworn to secrecy. Not even our own wives can know what we’re doing.”

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