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Confessions of a Toll
Posted By: Andrew Matlock<andrewmatlock@gmail.com>
Date: 16 January 2006, 2:51 pm
Read/Post Comments
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Confessions of a Toll
1. My name is Jamie Ovatoll
2. I am a woman, age 28. Okay… 36.
3. I live in Toronto, Ontario, Canada, North America, Earth, Sol System, Orion Belt, Milky Way.
4. I am a Toll Booth Clerk in the Toronto Metro. That means I take money and give tickets for subway rides.
5. I LIED
6. I used to work that awful job
7. Now I have a different job
8. I kill
9. Covenant
10.
Jamie tried to think of a 10 when a series of dull thuds elevated from the distance. Crap. Covenant cluster bombing. From the sounds of it, they were at the east of Queen and working their way to the downtown core. She took another quick glance at her stained piece of paper before shoving it and the bleeding pen into her overcoat. She peaked out of her nestle place through the shattered wall onto Front Street. Light snow fell from the heights and settled softly on the ground. Actually it was more of a rubble. Everything that would occupy a street was present, but in one way or another was overturned or burned. Small flames found homes here and there while light debris danced loosely in the wind before finding a final resting place. Only one thing was not present, which one would normally expect to see on a street. People. Then again, it was not a normal street anymore. It was the street of a warzone. Are there any normal streets left? It had been like this for three months now. She could see her breath in the air. It wasn't ever this cold so early in winter. It was never this cold in our lives. Things seemed to take an ironic twist of metaphor. Her stomach grumbled for attention. She pulled up a heavy right mitted hand and set it to finding a ration bar in her thick maze of clothing. Chewing on the stale relief, she glanced around the room. Bombed out office. Overturned furniture. Garbage. Paper everywhere. Rubble and dust from the freaking hole in the wall. It was home for the last day. Home sweet home. Kind of boring… more like an extended shift in the booth.
« Private Ovatoll, come in. Requesting report from outpost two-zero-six, over »
This was the highlight of her day; the radio. It was something other than sitting and watching. She scrambled for the com unit in a pocket.
"Billy I told you, call me Jamie! Seriously… time to drop the military after three months!"
« Ya I know, but it sounds so good. Plus you're the only one who complains. Picky picky. »
"C'mon Bill, this is the best part of my day… don't ruin it!"
« Actually it's been one hour, Jamie. Hey I called you by name. What can I say… I'm a giver. »
"You're just to good to me."
« Back to business. They're not paying me nothing to do nothing. What's the latest? »
"No sightings. Front Central is clear since the grunt patrol yesterday at oh-nine-thirty. There are some sounds of explosions north east though, any info?"
« Ya it seems Covenant Montreal have been mobilizing some units to that area, and intel reports some routine carpet sweeps. Then again, intel is an overweight Russian named Jim with an attention problem. »
"Ah, Jimbo. What would we do without you?"
« Ha ya. Apparently he was raiding a coffee bar when a mall down the street was leveled. He came back with latte all over his jumper! »
"Hahaha! That made my hour. Anyone in the hit area?"
« No, we spotted the units coming in a half hour ago and moved people out. Such a bother… that mall was home to thirty civilians. »
"We're civilians too, you know."
« Ya, but the government gave us sweet guns. »
"What would I do without my sweet gun…"
« So anyways, about sixty Covenant troops have set up shop on east Queen. That's a few commanding Elites, about ten Jackals, and the rest Grunts. No signs of heavy equipment. That makes about two hundred strong at their Alpha Camp. »
"Hmm… then we're pretty much person-for-person in the core now."
« Unfortunately. We project an increase in patrols shortly, with possible strike teams to the hot spots. Be on the lookout, and get on the horn if you see anything. »
"Will do. How do you know about the strike teams?"
« I don't, but that's what we would do in the same situation. That's the extent of our intel capacity for you my dear. »
"I'm encouraged beyond words."
« Hey… I used to be a shoe salesman. I'm doing the best with what I got. »
"Haha I used to be a toll booth counter for the TTC. I'm doing the best I can too."
« No kidding…. What are you at now? »
"47."
10. I have killed 47 times
« You're a woman on the edge. »
"Tell me about it. Yesterday I named my bullets."
« You take your bullets out of the magazine? »
"All the time. I name them and rearrange them in the case
alphabetically. »
« You're something else. »
"No I'm cold."
« Aren't we all. Don't worry… one more night and you're back at base with a warm cup of tea. »
"Mmmm. It sounds surreal."
« Then again, I could always pull rank and throw you back out on recon for another week. »
"Well the thing is, then I'd have to fight you. Nah…. Actually I'm too cold to fight."
« Oh do. Let's fight. Then we can make up. »
"Are you like this with all the privates Billy?"
« Only the ladies. Okay…. some of the guys too. »
"HA I bet."
« Well I'm sorry to cut this call short, but I've gotta make the next
check-ins. »
"If you must. Call back soon!"
« Sure thing! »
click.
Back to the waiting game. Billy's kidding around was always a delight to Jamie; it was a warm escape from a cold day. She uncrossed her legs and stretched them out onto the heap of gravel leading up to the twisted cement and wire of the wall hole. Another frosty breeze crept in sending a chill down her spine. With a dirty mit she pushed a shock of blonde hair behind her ear in her hood, and then covered her face with the warm cottony hand. She nestled her rifle between her legs, the nozzle sticking up over her right shoulder. She leaned her head onto it. The gun was her job now; her instrument of work; tool of profession. See the enemy. Call it in. Kill the enemy. The truth was that she knew very little about the sniper rifle. The UNSC Corporal had taught her the basics in under a minute before handing it off and rushing on. Trigger, handles, scope, magazines, safety. She didn't know the name of the gun, or the type of ammunition it used. The cartridges had numbers written on them, but it wasn't of particular interest. Shooting, now that was. Perhaps it was easy because of the devastation the Covenant had plagued on humanity. It was easy to take revenge on an enemy who had taken so many of those whom were close to you. It was even easier because they had little resemblance to anything human, or pretty, for that matter. Regardless, it was in her blood. War ran in her family.
Wars my Family have been in :
World War I
World War II
the Korean War
Bosnia Peacekeeping
Afghanistan Occupation
the Mali War
Botswana Peacekeeping
Latvia Peacekeeping
Luna Anti-Rebellion
Sol Space Pirate Conflicts
Inner Colonies Conflicts
Reach Anti-Uprising
Outer Pirate Wars
the Covenant War ("Galactic War I")
Jamie hoped there wouldn't be a II. But the truth was, battle was apart of her family. Whether there was no other means to survive than the military, or a sense of honour in serving the armed forces, her ancestors had always been in active duty. From the early days of Canadian Infantry in the World Wars to her Mum's UNSC tours in the outer colonies, she was always reminded of the Ovatoll tradition. I had no interest in fighting. In military. That is why she worked a terrible job in the subway. Why she lived in poverty and ignorance. But now a cruel twist of events brought her family back to her. As an only child of her mother, Jamie had not heard from her in months. She was on Reach. She shook the thought from her mind. It served no purpose to remember.
She gazed off into the street. A ginger cat crawled out of a parking garage and picked into a strewn litter bin. How did this happen? The Covenant came and attacked. Everything was disarray. Major cities were hit. Sydney was incinerated, leaving the UNSC in emergency distress. London, Rome, New York, Beijing, New Dheli, Montreal, Mexico City, Los Angeles, Nairobi. All bombed and then occupied. Toronto only received light bombardment, yet millions died. Millions more when the armies came in the ships. But they moved on from north to south. I survived by hiding. Hiding in the underground. Her old job had saved her. Her new job gave her life. Of the downtown core survivors, half chose to move with the majority of UNSC units to the North American rally point in Langley, Virginia. The other half and an assortment of UNSC volunteered to stay behind and support the intel patch making up the continent's guerilla grid. The young and old were moved to malls and plazas for supplies. Anyone else able to hold a gun was given one. Glad to have it. And now here she was, in a world turned upside down for the surreal – a holocaust in her place in time. Life isn't fair. It sure wouldn't be for any Covenant who ventures into my zone. She and seventy other citizens were given the rank of Civilian Private from the UNSC, with another twenty made higher ranks and setup at the command post. Like Billy. He was a Civilian Corporal, because he knew how to use the ground transceiver. But they don't get to have the fun. The ginger cat leapt out of its lunch and back up an alley in terror. We're in business. Jamie jumped out of her memories and slowly brought her legs back into a pretzel. She took the rifle and held it up at point position, resting the barrel on the gravel. She closed her left eye and squinted her right, peering into the scope. Adjusting the small dials through trial-and-error, she unblurred the lense revealing Front a kilometer east. Three grunts. Orange packs, blue decals. That meant lowest level infantry. Routine patrol, probably to see what happened yesterday at oh-nine-thirty. They ambled slowly over the street debris, clearly not impressed with the assignment. Showtime. Jamie slid her body lengthwise over the gravel pitch, lying prone in the sniper position. Her rifle still completely inside the hole, she had the perfect vantage point from this 6th floor. She grabbed her com unit and gave it two static clicks. Adrenaline rising. She turned down the volume and held the unit to her head.
« Private Ovatoll, what's up? »
"It's Jamie, and it's three grunts. Light infantry, routine patrol. Front east, I'd say just passing… Union Station. Requesting permission to engage, over."
« Wait until they get within five hundred metres before engaging. Draw them further away from Alpha Camp. »
"Negative Billy, yesterday's corpses are at about 700 metres. They could radio in and compromise my position."
« Good thinking… take them out before they reach the dead patrol, but wait as long as possible. »
"Thanks Billy, be back in ten."
« Good luck. »
click.
Stay cool. This is where training kicks in. What training? The self-training. Basic instinct. Common sense. Will of survival. Jamie took a cloth out of a pocket. Folding it into a small bundle, she cuffed it with her teeth in her mouth. Always be aware of the slightest detail. Hide your breath from the air. She pulled her hood over her forehead and pressed her right eye to the scope again while closing the left. Hide your eyes from view. They give away surprise. The rifle was covered in loosely torn fabric and grit. So was her over-clad body; dirt and dust turned the woman grey-black. Always match your environment. Camouflage is everything to a sniper. Her form blurred with the rubble around her, body crunching and squirming to get comfortable in the stone and plaster. Again she turned the scope dials as the grunts drew nearer until she received the finest resolution. One of the display numbers read 754.321. That one means metres. Look at me, the sniper. The family would be proud. She smiled. There was no denying she enjoyed the adrenaline rush. And she was good at it. Top kills in the core. Damn straight. Second place was a distant 24 kills since the occupation. The average was 12 before being found and murdered. 47 cat lives. Let's make it 50+. She angled the rifle down to the right and dissolved her vision onto three dead grunts piled over each other. The dry purple blood stained the snow around them. Broken glass lay in the corpses' midst from the shattered shop window the previous day's bullets had exploded. Some mites feasted on the open wounds of the aliens. Christ what is that going to do to our eco system? What are mites even doing out in the winter? She swung back to the oncoming troops. Patience. It's a virtue. Steady. Cocked. Safety off. They were now twenty metres from their dead comrades, but an apocalypsed car lay between them blocking view. Just a little more. One grunt took lead and ventured out forward towards the car. Perfect. From her line of sight, the point grunt blocked view of one in behind. Hold in breath. The reticle pinpointed with alien's head. Squeeze. She pulled back on the trigger, the moment freezing in time. The rifle violently kicked back on her bruised shoulder, making the woman wince in pain. But it was worse for the enemy. The bullet exploded across the three-quarter klick distance in an instance, a deafening crack echoing throughout the silent street. It was the last sound the forsaken grunt heard before the projectile impacted into its skull. Gore splattered out revealing what used to be a face before the body hit its knees and then toppled to the ground. 48. The snow was already soaking up the splatter of blood and bits of organic mass. Behind, the second grunt body was already on the ground, writhing in pain at the smoldering hole bore through its chest. 49. Perfect. Two birds with one bullet. Its name was Murray. Behind the two fallen grunts, a smoking gash was planted into the concrete wall. The end of a worthwhile journey. The third grunt instinctively raised its sidearm in shock and bent down in terror. It scanned up Front Street where the sniper must be. Another deafening crack resounded, another bruise on the shoulder, and another dead grunt. 50. That bullet was named Nicole. Thank you Murray and Nicole. The three corpses lay next to each other in positions of death, where moments ago life had been. Good. Number 50. I love the counting. She loved the toll. Jamie let her sweaty grip loose from the barrel and took the rag out of her mouth, breathing heavily for a few moments. Her heart beat uncomfortably fast, blood pressure bringing a flush to her cheeks. She scrambled for the com unit.
"Outpost two-zero-six calling base, over."
« What's up Private Ovatoll?»
"This is Jamie reporting three neutralized grunts, just long of yesterday's patrol."
« Glad to hear it. Let me just run this over to the Lieutenant and I'll get back to you in a few minutes. »
"Okay."
click.
Time to move. Always move after a kill. To stay would bring company. Movement is confusion and disarray to the enemy. Always be mobile. Jamie sat back and brushed the soot off of her body. She got up to her full 5 feet 10 inches and heaved the rifle to her chest. Taking one last glance around the room which had been her home for the last thirty-eight hours, she sighed and left. Jamie would never see the place again. I feel attachment to my environments. They are one of the weapons I use. Stealth. Hiding.
Emerging from a back door on the fourth floor of the old brick building, she found an escape route via an ancient fire exit. This was different from her entry. Never take the same path twice. Was it paranoia? In war, paranoia is vital sense. She clambered across the grid metal to an opening in the railing. Measuring the three foot jump, she stepped back, and ran towards the leap, landing on a facing ledge. Now holding her rifle at point with one hand, she tested an adjacent door. Locked. Fishing into a pocket, she pulled out a metal wire and sunk it into the keyhole. Work did pay off. Long ago she had lost her toll booth key. Not having the nerve to tell her supervisor, she jimmied the lock everyday for years. And now the same piece of wire is helping me through this war. Some things do happen for a reason. She clicked the lock pin out of place and felt the knob go free. Opening the door, she scanned the dark staircase that led down. Passing the graffiti-ridden walls, she made her way down to the ground floor. Going into a main hallway, she found herself in an apartment corridor. Probably used to be a factory judging by the look. Upscale downtown flats. Now urban warzone of terror. The market price probably dropped a bit. Rather than use the apparent front entrance, Jamie stepped into a loft with a door ajar. Taking in the bleak remaining furnishings covered in soot, she strode over to the window. Turning her rifle around, the women thrust it into the weak window pain, sending shards of glass out into the snowy alleyway. Jamie carefully stepped through, and immediately scanned the area for Covenant. It was just a mental safety default; she knew she had moved south west and was close to headquarters.
« Private Ovatoll? » Jamie grabbed the com and quickly turned down the volume.
"Hey Billy, what's the word?"
«The Lieutenant is in the holiday spirit and said you could come home early. »
"Kick ass! I'm in your neighbourhood… be there in a few."
« Be careful! »
click.
Moving to the mouth of the alley past the holocaust day's trash dumpsters, she repeated the same crouch and scan manoeuver. Self trained of course. No I lied. Self paranoid. Keeping to the shop fronts, she gingerly moved towards the epicentre of Toronto core. As soon as the CN Tower was fully within view, she knew that the sentries would see her. She crouched once again and pulled out a rangelight the size of a bullet out of a pocket. Aiming it in the general direction of the snipers hidden around the Tower and sports dome, she quickly tapped in the day's friendly code, sending out bursts of light. A moment transpired as the ground zero team would be radioing in her tag, and then a quick double burst of light came from the third floor of a shelled-in building neighbouring the massive landmark. There would be about ten snipers in the direct vicinity of base today, all in randomized locations. It was the stronghold and last chance of the core. To minimize enemy intel, radio silence was forbidden on ground zero for base return – deeming the lights necessary. The Tower remarkably hadn't been destroyed on the holocaust day, though sporting several blast marks and battle scars. The centuries-old pinnacle still stood, and provided the perfect field intelligence position from the top mezzanine, a saucer-shaped observation deck made of glass. The Covenant hadn't suspected the location yet, and so long as no real Covenant effort was made on the city, and snipers like Jamie kept the patrols at bay, they wouldn't. Proceeding across the street from the shelled CBC building, the woman came into the Tower courtyard; a scape of concrete and deceased foliage. She waved to Stan over in one of the stationary machine gun turrets protected by a semi circle of sandbags. Five of these defenses bordered the entrance, on different terraces and distances. Finally feeling a true sense of security and a false sense of home, Jamie strode over to the Tower's entrance.
"Hey Molly, how's things?"
"The usual. Water's back on!" said the aged security guard.
"Oh boo-hoo. I just lived off snow for three days!"
"And I still have to check your pass."
"Molly! I'm cold!"
"Rules are rules. Jeez if I wasn't here to mother you all, the Covenant would be on top of us by now."
"Okay okay." Jamie pulled out from a pocket a napkin with her name and rank written on it in Molly's handwriting, with Molly's signature. I reckon the ID-card-marking factory was hit during the holocaust.
"Thanks kiddo. We all have our little paranoid moments."
"Tell me about it! I name my bullets."
"Well that's just scary. Name one after me sometime."
"Will do. See you later!" Jamie headed into the inviting lobby and stuck the napkin back into her pocket. It was better than nothing. The Covenant probably can't forge one of Molly's inked-up napkins. Just then, Jamie had a revelation. She quickly walked over to a square pillar and took out her pen and Confessions paper from a pocket.
11. I have lots of pockets, and lots of useful things in those pockets. I like things in my pockets… they keep me alive.
She smirked and put it back into a pocket. Walking over to the elevators, she spied Neil, the elderly elevator attendant. The truth was, he had been the elevator attendant at the Royal York before the turn of events, and this was the only way he was useful, and felt purpose. Completely unnecessary, but nice.
"Hi Neil! How are you?"
"Jamie! Good to see you." Neil still wore his red hotel uniform from the holocaust day. They hugged and did kisses on the cheeks. For the last few months, Neil was like a father to her, during forty-second elevator rides. "So, how was the assignment?"
"The usual… cold, tiring, hungrifying, but I got six kills!" Jamie felt the acceleration as the cab started its run up the summit. They were using the interior lift rather than the exhilarating outside elevators for the illusion of dormancy.
"Oh wow! What kind…. The little thingy-majigs?"
"Haha yes, the grunts." Neil was neither deserving nor aged for a war. It was too much. She asked about his latest, which generally involved a few hours without water, the sounds of shelling in the east, and his pet rodent Jackal, which had gone missing once again. Coming to a stop on the observation deck, Jamie squeezed his hand and promised to visit later. Walking into the sky lobby, she was literally on top of the world. The glass floors either gave intense vertigo or seamless satisfaction with the location. Her's was the later. She waved at Billy, who smiled back from across the room and finished up a radio call. Jamie walked over to the mess of desks with computers, papers, and transceiver equipment piled up. This was Toronto's command post.
"Hey Billy, what's up?"
"Not much private, just finishing up the shift's calls. Hey I'll take you for that tea in a few, just let me finish up."
"Sure thing. Talk amongst yourselves." She scanned the room looking for a source of distraction the way one does when simply waiting. The higher-ranking civilians mulled about doing the day-to-day military work. In some ways the lack of training and infusion of business or art degrees brought a sense of creativity to the operation; maps covered the walls with front line statistics, timelines and plan sheets showed the holocaust to date and future plans for the unit, and manifests of shipments and supplies dotted the ceiling supports. Jamie looked at the Lieutenant standing inside a circle on the glass floor. Using markers, Stan from a graphic design background had the ingenious idea of drawing all of the known Covenant and human positions on the floor, with a small circle and a few descriptive words. From the circle where the Lieutenant stood, a person of about six feet would instantly have visual field intelligence; the marker points lined up perfectly with all the tiny buildings a kilometer below. The practice had taken, and now scribbles were all over the floor – strong enough to resist footsteps (good for the permanent street outlines), but easy enough to erase. Jamie smiled when she spotted her erased position, with six X's up the street at the end of patrol arrows. Ah don't think about work. You're off! She still couldn't help being proud of her numbers though. The toll. She loved counting. Before it was metro tickets and money. Now it's Covenant. 50. She took out her Confessions paper. The piece of parchment that reminded her who she was, and what she did. The thing that would indicate to others what her purpose was if she were to be killed in action. But right now she wasn't going to add a number 12. Instead, Jamie scribbled out the "of a Toll" title, replacing it.
Confessions Ovatoll
This was who she was now, and who she would want to be in this given situation. The killing, the counting, the paranoia… it was what composed herself, and what she needed to survive. Talking to herself kept her sane… killing Covenant grunts kept her saner. She folded the sheet and put it in a pocket, grabbing a fresh blank page off a desk for later.
"You ready for that tea Jamie?" Billy walked over to her, stretching out his arms from a day of work.
"I'm dying for it."
Confessions of a Toll
Written by: Andrew Matlock
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