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It was a bit of a
disappointment.
The Separatist government didn't have a huge budget, (i.e., give a rat's ass), for buying English
literature and the pickings were mighty slim.
On the plus side the few new books that appeared were by
contemporary Quebec authors, some writing in English, some translated.
Authors I might not have read had I not been in Montreal.
One little tale crept into the darker areas of my mind and
stayed there even though I no longer remember the title or author and the plot
wasn't particularly original.
It slithers out every once in a while when something in the
news rings a mental bell.
The story was post apocalyptic.
As is usual in stories of this nature, a terrible disease
had killed most folks and North America was populated by a few thousand people.
The protagonist had to negotiate her way through streets that
were full of mute, shadowy spectres forever marching arm-in-arm in a futile
protest against the mistake that had sent them to the other side.
The sickness that killed most everyone was released when a
group of well meaning people freed a group of plague carrying captive primates
from some mysterious monastery in the Far East where they had been kept since
time began.
The chilling point was that the plague wouldn't have
happened if humans hadn't interfered in the natural order of things.
A small, short sighted group that has not known when to
leave well enough alone.
What foolish, foolish people.
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