I’m not yet ready to express my own experiences during the Plague Years on paper, so I will do what I feel is the next best thing, and relate the experiences of others. What follows is my first real interview.Dave Henshaw looks tired. His appearance is that of someone overworked, a look that appears less and less in postwar Canada, as people rebuild their lives. His is a look that will stay with him until his death; it is a look of one who has seen or done things that cannot be forgotten. It is therefore a surprise that he is so forthcoming, with no coaxing from the author. I met him at his home in Cornwall, Ontario. He is in charge of repairing Cornwall’s roads. The havoc years of complete neglect wrought on the roads is surprising. The repair job is expected to take most of another decade. Here is his story, unedited.

I like to think I bought some time for some people of the Greater Toronto Area. During the later stages of the Panic, about a week before the military began it’s move west, Toronto was falling apart. Ghouls were making larger and larger areas of the GTA impassable. When I say that, I mean that it was no longer possible for police or emergency crews to move in or through them because of the volume of ghouls. I’m talking more then 50% of the population shambling around, attacking everything that lived. A complete evacuation had been ordered, and people were walking. The highways were hopelessly clogged, all over the GTA. There was a terrible accident on the Gardiner Expressway, and a large number of vehicles were on fire. I remember it well because it was the first time a fire was just allowed to burn. No attempt was made to put it out. The Gardiner was the main escape route for maybe 100,000 people. Helicopters with loudspeakers were telling the people stranded on the downtown side of that mass of flames to head for the Don Valley Parkway, which would take them north. Coming through and around that fire stumbled the dead. It’s a cliché by now, but they really did look like a slow-moving river. There must have been 40,000 of them, slowly shambling after the crowd. People were walking in their thousands ahead of them. It was on the news, and while it was terrible to see so many people fleeing, it was a little heartening because of the orderly way in which it was conducted, with footage of people helping complete strangers. Elderly and sick people were being assisted around the abandoned vehicles that sat bumper to bumper by everyone around them. There was no panic, because now people knew that the ghouls were very slow. As long as the people kept to a brisk walk, there would be an ever-widening gap between them and the following dead. These people…..refugees, I suppose they now were, were joined by thousands more feeding into the DVP from the various streets that crossed it. Thousands were walking down on-ramps and joining the north-bound crowds. One large group was walking ahead of its own pursuing group of ghouls. This group walked off Eastern Avenue, and then they suddenly dried up. Not a single person was walking down that on-ramp. A news chopper showed what happened next. The people at the end of that group kept looking behind them. About 20 minutes after the last person walked down that ramp, the dead appeared. Just a few at first, they quickly swelled into thousands. They stumbled their way onto the DVP…..completely cutting off about 10,000 people. Every single one of those ghouls turned south after the smaller (relatively speaking; there were several hundred thousand fleeing north) group, who were now trapped between them and the other group of ghouls who had come through those flames. As far as I know, not a single person of that trapped group survived being cut off and trapped between the two groups of ghouls. Maybe some left the road when they saw what was happening, crossed the Don River and scaled the far valley wall. I hope so. The rest of that north-bound group panicked and ran for a short time before returning to their earlier pace; it’s a miracle hundreds were not trampled, especially when thousands of voices cried out from the south. The newsman was crying, saying there would be no footage of the massacre. The larger remaining group now had a larger gap between them and the ghouls. That was good, but now the ghouls were a true army; they packed the DVP in both lanes, from guardrail to guardrail. After the massacre, police and army units were being hastily posted at the tops of the on-ramps. It seemed a token gesture, but I think it made people feel better. An hour later, and the ghouls were on the move again. The north-bound crowd had swollen to around 300,000 people and had slowed to a crawl….or the pace of a ghoul. I was in my home on Chester Ave., which runs north off Danforth Ave. Danforth crosses the Don Valley, passing over the DVP, and what seemed like every neighbor I had came out to stand on the bridge and watch the procession north. I had not heard about the horror that had just occurred to the south, and soon went back home to continue packing. I had no idea where I was going, but going I was, the hell away from the city. It was there that my friend and co-worker Alan Wades found me. He told me about the massacre to the south, and we put the TV on. There was still footage of the refugees walking north, and of the army of dead stumbling after them. The threat was apparent at once. The dead were now actually moving faster than the refugees. A new horror was in the making. We just looked at each other. I was the one to finally break the silence. I said the only thing that came to mind at the time.

“We better get to work.”

His eyes widened, and he nodded. Work for us was pretty close at that time. We were working just north of our homes in Todmorden Mills Park. There had been some serious erosion, and the company we worked for, Don Valley Excavation was working to remove the soil in preparation for the construction of a large retaining wall to prevent further erosion. The work site was near the DVP, and near an on and off ramp.

“Guess we’ll need Gary and Davey right quick then!” he said, and it was my turn to nod.

Gary Porter and Dave Fauser were welders we worked with. They were either working on things in our shop or were making repairs to company equipment at work sites. There was no hope of Fauser making it there; he lived too far away, in York Mills, which may as well have been on Mars then. We both dove for the phone at the same time to call Porter, and we hit our heads pretty hard. It was funny, and we needed a laugh. We were able to reach him easily, and explained the situation to him, and that we thought, with his assistance, we could help. He agreed at once, having finished all his packing, and started out for the worksite. We wished him luck, and set out ourselves. He lived in nearby Greek Town, and would be there in around 20 minutes. Our short walk to the site was memorable. People were standing in the streets, and everyone was talking about the same thing, getting out of the city. And, almost to the last person, they had no idea where to go, where was safe.

“Dave, imagine how this situation is going to look in 3 weeks or so, if this continues,” Wades said.

We made the rest of the trip in silence. When we reached the site it was thankfully untouched. Neighborhood patrols kept the area fairly safe, though that was a thin illusion. At any time, 500 ghouls could walk in the kill everyone there. I opened the gate that had been erected, and we jogged in. Now that we were there, things seemed more urgent because there, right beside the work site were the refugees making their slow way north. They didn’t speak much, and looked back often, though at this point they couldn’t see the end of the column, let alone the pursuing dead. We stood there in silence watching them, and Porter scared us out of about 5 years of our lives when he walked up behind us and shouted a greeting. After some ungentlemanly name calling, we got to work. We went to the office trailer, and retrieved our keys from it. The welding equipment was stored in a small intermodal container, the kind that can travel in large numbers on ships, or on rail cars or on trailers on the highway. We called them sea cans. It was always locked at night, as it held the second most valuable equipment on the work site. Another container beside it held tools and smaller equipment, and was only slightly less valuable then the one holding the welding equipment. Locks are for honest people, and if someone really wanted to get into them they could. So, our reasons for being there were parked in front of them, one in front of each. With those parked 15 cm from the doors, no one was going to steal anything from them, period. In front of the welder’s sea can sat a Cat D7, which Alan started. In front of the tool sea can sat a D9, which I started. Once they were running, we climbed down and joined Porter at the office trailer where he was making coffee. Even at this urgent time, we were not going to move the Cats one centimeter without warming them up properly. Upon reflection, caffeine was probably not the thing we needed at that time, but old habits were difficult to break. As we sat, we talked about what needed to be done to our Cats. It was agreed that metal plate would be welded over as much of the engine areas as possible to protect them from the prying hands of the dead. Also, there was no option but to weld us both into the cabs, and to cover all the windows with plate too. Once the plates were welded to the outsides of the cabs, the plates would also be welded from the insides for added strength, which was sure to be tested. Slim observation slits would be cut into the plates covering the front, sides and back of each. With this unsophisticated game plan, we went outside, and moved the Cats into an open area where we would have room to work on them. We got the things we would need from the sea cans, and then turned to Porter awaiting his instructions. He was the welder, we just ran the equipment. The work went quickly, since there was no need for them to look pretty. The only thing we took extra time on was making sure there were no hand holds on these plates, no purchase for dozens or even one undead hand. Porter would attach a plate, and we would all try to grab it in a way that would let us apply any amount of force to pry it free. As we worked, the refugees paid us little attention. The D7 was finished first, with only the plate that was to cover the door left unattached. Those would be the last things welded on. Before we started this, the Cats were shut off, and the batteries disconnected. We wanted no chance for there to be damage to the electrical systems from the welder or plasma cutter. Porter showed us how to use the latter to cut the observation slits, and the work went much faster with him welding and us doing that. It was agreed that the thinner these slits were the better. Even if only fingers could fit through them, 100 fingers all pulling would surely pull the plates off given enough time. It was while we were cutting these slits we heard the moan. We all froze at once, then turned towards the sound. It was a single ghoul, walking past the open gate to the work site. We shared a single look, and then jumped down from the Cats, and rushed it. It had been a woman, and had been through a fight. Her jaw looked like it had been dislocated, and her right arm looked broken. There were bloody hand prints on her shirt and pants. We beat her to death. Porter hit her with his knees, having launched himself into the air about 2 meters from her. Once she was on the ground, we just kicked and stomped her head until she stopped moving. To be sure, we got a rock and smashed the remains of her head a few times, then dragged her off the street.

“Felt….kinda good, killing one of them,” Wades said as we walked back to the Cats and got back to work.

I don’t remember saying anything then, but I agreed with him completely.

“Just wait!” Porter said grimly. That shut us up for a while.

30 minutes later we were ready. We went back into the office trailer and turned on a radio there. The news was full of the unfolding drama in the Don Valley. They were advising people watching to avoid being seen by the advancing dead, that if one could just be unobserved one would be safe. They wanted them right where they were, advancing north, not into the surrounding neighborhoods, which were still populated. It was hard to get a fix on them, but we figured we’d get plenty of warning. Wades suddenly turned to me.

“Hey, the guard rail’s in the way!”

We all laughed and laughed.

“Guess we just wasted our time then. Oh, well,” I said.

It was not really that funny, but we laughed until the tears came. I guess we needed it.

“Are you guys really going to do this?” Porter asked.

“Damn right we are,” I said, and that was basically the end of it. I was afraid that if we talked too much about it, all the perfectly good reasons not to do this thing would become apparent, and we might not go through with it. We got to discussing our plan. We would need an open space, and that meant moving the cars and trucks out of the way, something I have to admit I was gleefully looking forward to.

“Shotgun on the Avalanche. It’s mine,” I said.

They snickered. My views on such things were well-known. It was a Chevrolet Avalanche, which had been lowered and had had huge wheels with spinners attached, as well as tons of other bling. I was not worried about legal repercussions of the impending automotive massacre. I was pretty sure it would be a while before the law would be interested in or even have the ability to investigate such things. Besides, we were trying to save a couple lives.

“Look!” Porter said, pointing to the refugees.

It was difficult to see at first, but as we watched for several minutes, the crowds seemed to slowly thin out. I turned to them both.

“Ok, it’s time.” There wasn’t really anything else to say for me. I embraced them both, my hands shaking a little.

“Give ‘em hell, boys. I hope I see you again,” Porter said.

We had talked it over, and decided that Porter would move to a place of safety where he could talk with us on the CB and warn us when the dead arrived. It was decided that this place should be out of sight because the refugees might decide that they needed his truck more than he did. He moved to the top of a rise near the worksite, from which he had a clear view of the northbound lanes.

“Good to go. Now lets go before I think about what we’re about to do,” Wades said.

That was all we needed, and we fairly flew into the cabs. We had put crude handles on the door plates so we could help hold them in place while Porter welded them. It was the weakest part of our improvised armour, since they would only be welded from the outside. There was no help for it. I was sealed in my cab first, and then Wades was. This went quickly as the plates had been fitted beforehand. It was a crude-looking job, but we did well for the amount of time available to us, a welder and his two amateur apprentices. Then, we were both ready, and Porter reconnected our batteries, and we started the engines. I was terrified. Scenarios were running through my head, like my starving to death as the ghouls surround my disabled Cat for days preventing my escape. Had we forgotten anything? I experienced a moment of panic when I realized we had not agreed on a channel to use on our radios. A couple quick words to Porter cleared that up though. He went over to Wades and told him channel 28. We all had both company radios, which used repeaters to boost their range, and shorter-range CB radios, which was what we were using now. We had made other preparations, and were as confident we could be. We had lots of water and as much food as we could find at the work site. We had raided the refrigerator, and cleared out the remaining lunches our co-workers had left. We then raised the blades and turned towards the Parkway.

“Mine!” Wades called over the radio. He lowered his blade to ground and took the hapless guardrail off with a crisp snapping sound. He then raised his blade and ran over the rail and supporting posts.

Without further ceremony we struck the northbound cars. I made sure I hit that Avalanche hard, and raised my blade to flip it. So sweet.

Now, I don’t want to suggest we just recklessly attacked things; there were still people heading north. They didn’t slow us down any though; it was easy enough for them to move around us. We talked as we worked and decided on a plan. We would try to completely block off the southbound lanes with cars, in the hopes it would force the dead into the northbound lanes, and it was here we encountered our first obstacle. Separating the north and southbound lanes was a concrete barrier, too thick for even our Cats to break apart. We soon learned it was best to work side by side as pushing the cars sideways into other cars until we were pushing 3 at once was very difficult. We would get in close to each other and push towards that concrete divider, both raising our blades at once to try to lift them onto the top of the barrier. Once they were there, we had no way to move them. The screeching metal and squealing tires were louder than our straining engines. There was debris everywhere, and the pavement was wrecked, our treads digging into it when we were pushing a heavy load. By the time we had an area 500 meters long cleared, there was only the occasional person moving north. We could see that most of them were wounded; probably bitten. There was nothing we could do about them, so we moved on to the next part of our plan. We needed access to the southbound lanes to create our barrier. So, we put our Cats into their walking gears and “raced” beneath a nearby overpass. The traffic was just as congested here as on the Parkway, so it took a little time. We didn’t bother using the blades; we raised them and ran over the cars as best we could. We ground and crunched our way past the southbound on-ramp, and just started pushing the cars up against the divider, making sure this barrier was even with where our northbound clear area began. We pushed some up onto the divider and more past the shoulder of the road as far as we could down an embankment. The dead could still get around that, but we were out of time. Porter called us on the CB.

“Heads up guys, I can see the first of the dead. They’re attacking the stragglers. And…..they look like they’ve all been painted red,” he said.

“Ok, man. Thanks. You should bail. I wouldn’t be surprised if they had already seen you, if you’ve seen them,” Wades replied.

“Yeah. Yes. Ok. I…I hope we all meet again. My prayers will be with you. I’ll tell any authority I meet where you are and what you’re doing. Maybe they will be able to send you some help. Until next time, lads!” Porter said, heading off. It was the last we would hear from him for 3 years.

Putting our Cats into their walking gears again, we went back to what Wades called “our chosen battlefield” on the northbound lanes. We took the same route we had taken before and by now the cars we had driven over looked flat. We positioned ourselves about halfway down this cleared area and waited.

“We’re really going to do this, aren’t we,” I asked the air.

“Are we really going to this?” Wades asked over the radio. I told him that was what I had just asked and we laughed, each triggering the CB microphone so the other could hear the laughter. I think it must have sounded crazy.

“Ok. Lets do it just like the cars, blade to blade and push them back. Best turn on the radio to drown out the…..the sounds,” I said.

“All right,” he replied, and we waited.

I think my heart had never beaten so fast. It was terrible, waiting for the dead to appear, so we could just get this over with. I closed my eyes and concentrated on controlling my breathing. When I opened them, I saw the first of them coming around and over the cars at the end of cleared area. There were just a few of them at first.

“Let’s split up and take them individually. When they come in greater numbers we’ll come together again,” I said, sounding more confident than I was.

“Fag,” Wades said. We laughed as we started towards the vanguard of the dead.

Henshaw concluded his tale here. He told me in no uncertain terms he did not want to discuss what followed. I was able to piece together what happened next by interviewing neighborhood resident Tim Franklin. What followed was a slaughter of the walking dead. The two Cats went back and forth, pressing the dead horde back against itself. After only 15 minutes had passed, there was a black sludge ten centimeters deep, extending 20 meters from the beginning of the cleared area. An hour later, the sludge was 25 centimeters deep, and extended 100 meters into the cleared zone. Henshaw and Wades backed their Cats up again and again, and hit the horde, whose advance had been slowed. As the dead ones entered the cleared zone, they would be struck by the blades and knocked off their feet. They would then be pushed back into the ones behind them, and partially crushed. Following the first hit, their brains were rarely destroyed, but with hit after hit, they were eventually destroyed, all their bones pulped. When the Cats treads started to slip and spin in the gore, they would back out of it, and press their blades into the pavement and advance, pushing the thick liquid forward and giving them an area of traction for a while. Franklin was on the eastern crest of the valley and had an excellent view. After approximately 3 hours had passed, a group of five locals joined him, armed with hunting rifles. They started cheering before Franklin had to remind them of their position; safe but only just so. When the dead started climbing onto the cabs of the Cats, they fired their rifles to clear them. Franklin described their aim as wanting. Sparks danced off the cab and armour plates, and both Cats jerked to a stop. They then agreed to pick a corpse and all try for his or her head at once. That cleared them off within minutes, leaving the armour unbreached. Franklin chuckled, saying a finger extended from the front observation slits on each Cat. He had a reasonable guess at which fingers they were looking at. The shooters sheepishly decided to adopt their concentrated fire tactic from then on. For 4 hours more the Cats pushed and crushed, aided by the occasional careful volley from the shooters. Franklin was unsure when it happened, but he suddenly noticed the Cats were hanging back for longer periods of time, the dead appearing in smaller and smaller numbers. Around the same time, a troop of 42 soldiers trotted from the north, shooting and bludgeoning those few dead who had gotten past the Cats. To a man, they appeared shocked by the sea of gore, and mostly-black Cats doing the work. Several ran beside the Cats, and got the attention of the Wades and Henshaw, and it was over. After conversing with them for a time, a detail of soldiers went with them over the ditch to the construction site, and proceeded to cut them from their filthy machines. The rest of the soldiers then pressed the shooters and Franklin into service, handing them C7A1 rifles, explaining that their previous owners no longer had any use for them. They formed a skirmish line as best they could, careful to avoid the sludge, and began walking south at a leisurely pace, firing as they went, checking between and beneath the cars.

I only had the pleasure of talking to Franklin twice before he succumbed to Dellson’s disease, the rare but deadly pneumonia that arose during the war from the squalid conditions and unburied corpses littering the world. A few details are missing, such as the names of the armed locals, and what happened to them when they left with the troop, so I hope the readers can bear with me.

This concludes the story of Henshaw and his friends. I hope readers will be inspired to put their own experiences to paper for future generations (or at least allow people like myself to do so for them). My travels will next take me west, where I will speak with the only known survivor of the fall of the Prince Albert safe zone. Thank you for reading