[Recovered Journal – Torquay Border Incident]
Filed: Canadian National Archives | Civil Collapse Inquiry
Evidence Log #: CA-SK-TORQ/REF-2027-01
Classification: Formerly RESTRICTED | Now Declassified
Document Type: Personal Journal | Author: Unconfirmed (Presumed CBAF Sergeant)
Recovery Location: Torquay, Saskatchewan
Date Range: January 22, 2027-September 29, 2028
?
*The following entries were discovered in a damaged laptop recovered from a cold storage unit near the abandoned border outpost in Torquay, SK.
Investigators believe the author was a former Canadian infantryman recalled into service as part of the hastily formed “Canadian Border Auxiliary Force” (CBAF), tasked with managing refugee flows during the early months of the American collapse.*
This journal is presented unedited, as it appeared upon recovery. The full document was logged into evidence as part of the broader inquiry into the events leading up to national fragmentation and the North American Refugee Crisis.
—Filed under testimony archive, Section 9: “Civilian Collapse & Hyper-Normalization”
***JOURNAL BEGINS***
Journal Entry 22nd of January 2027
Overcast, -45 C, -49F.
Torquay, Saskatchewan, Canada
US/Canada Border crossing
Crossings today: 5
Well, it’s been a while since I’ve had the chance to write anything on here. Truth be told, I didn’t even realize I had my old laptop with me. Jen must’ve slipped it in my bag before she left—God bless her.
I don’t even know why I decided to start journaling again. I mean, the way the world’s going, future generations won’t even be able to power up this old piece of shit.
I probably shouldn’t talk like that, being so negative and all. But holy fuck, has it been a wild few months!
Down in the U.S., the Democrats swept the midterm primaries. It took them a while, but after the first half of 2025, they finally got their heads out of their asses and decided to take a stand against the president.
So, their victories weren’t really all that surprising. The Republicans’ reaction wasn’t surprising either—lots of talk about election fraud, stolen votes, and some sort of deep state bullshit.
Truth be told, like most of the world, by that point I was numb to American politics. One scandal after another, the relentless back-and-forth on tariffs and threats of annexation.
But with hindsight, I wish I had been paying attention. Trump forced the overturning of several elections, forcibly installed his own people in those “stolen” seats, then declared the 22nd Amendment null and void, allowing himself to run indefinitely.
Future generations take note: I hate how much I had to learn or hear about the American constitution!
Well, around American Thanksgiving, the president raged out, tore a page right out of Julius Caesar’s playbook, and declared himself dictator for life!!
Surprisingly, it didn’t lead to a civil war—well, not yet anyway.
But the fractures were definitely there. They couldn’t be hidden or downplayed anymore, and now America is poised to blow like a powder keg.
And that’s how I ended up here, in the small, frozen armpit of Saskatchewan.
Don’t get me wrong—the people of Torquay are lovely and welcoming, and if it wasn’t for them, we’d be fucked.
I was happy. At home with the wife and kids, keeping my head down and trying to get by. I knew life was going to get messy, but I never pictured this.
I was halfway through my post-service education, and then—bam! Like a bolt of fucking lightning out of the clear blue sky—I get called back into the army.
Like, what the fuck, right? I told them I was medically released. “Didn’t matter,” the dickhead on the other end of the call said. “Non-combat unit.”
So, I’m sworn back in, shoved into a uniform, and added to the growing ranks of the “Canadian Border Auxiliary Force”—or CBAF for short.
It’s an organization built out of busted vets, ex-cops, firefighters—anyone who still has an ounce of authority in them—thrown together to help with the flood of expected refugees when civil war 2.0 finally kicks off.
We don’t even have military vehicles of any sort. I’m paid an extra $1,000 a month to supply my own truck and tow my busted old camper out here so we’ve got somewhere to sleep!
No matching uniforms either. I’m lucky I got CADPAT, even if it’s the old style. Most of the folks working for me are wearing OD greens straight out of the Cold War.
If you can believe it, dear future reader, some are wearing different U.S. patterns—or just whatever they could find at the local surplus store.
They gave us these shitty patches to sew onto our sleeves to show we belong to some sort of “organization.” That’s the closest thing we’ve got to a unifying symbol.
As for weapons, a few of us have been issued old C7s from war stock—me being one of the lucky few. The manufacturer’s stamp is from 1992. It’s a well-worn gun.
A few more got old Cold War FNs, which hasn’t been easy to train guys on, and some even have WWI or WWII Lee-Enfields. It’s fucking wild.
We’ve got no machine guns, no pistols (not issued anyway), no other support weapons. Fuck all for radios, NVGs, or even flashlights.
To say Canada wasn’t prepared for this would be the greatest fucking understatement ever uttered.
But what’s really wild? The federal government allowed people to bring their own guns—even the kinds that were supposed to be destroyed or surrendered.
Not even joking everyone who showed up with the “tools of war” the Liberals fought so hard to ban got a signed and notarized pardon—on the fucking spot.
We have no winter kit. Just a bunch of civvie shit we showed up to intake with. Thankfully, we all live in the Canadian Prairies, so most of us had warm coats and proper hats and gloves.
About the only thing the government did right was give us a few heavy-duty diesel generators and enough fuel to power our campers and the huge searchlights they issued us. Supposedly, they’re getting us propane—thank God for small graces, I suppose.
So anyway, that’s our lot in life. For now, at least.
“Only until logistics catches up with us!” That’s what “Major” Markem says—my “commanding officer.”
I’m not sure what organization that asshat came from, but he should’ve stayed there. When I first met him, he told me his last posting was at the Infantry School, but he doesn’t look like he could spell “infantry,” so I have my doubts.
The man’s got no discernible skills, no operational experience, never led a deployed unit of any kind—not even fighting fires—and he couldn’t organize a fucking circle jerk if you put a gun to his head.
He’s the team lead, and I’m his 2IC—at least that’s how it is on paper.
Supposedly, the majors “swamped” managing several border crossings in Alberta, Saskatchewan, and Manitoba. Ours, being one of the slowest in western Canada—hell, probably in the whole country—is far down his list of priorities… if it’s even on the list.
Personally, I think he’s milking the federal government for gas money—traveling back and forth across the three provinces several times a week and just making it rain.
But ultimately, that leaves me as kind of the de facto leader of Team 112, CBAF.
As ragtag as we are, I’ve gotta give it to the people who showed up. My body’s busted and I’m only 40. Some of these dudes are in their mid-60s!
More than once, I thought about grabbing Jen and the kids and just taking off—hiding somewhere.
But my stupid morals wouldn’t let me. I just hope I made the right choice.
Back to our merry group. For as eager and patriotic as everyone is, honestly, it’s kinda hard not to be bitter. We all did our time, so why the fuck are we freezing our asses off because the government wasn’t smart enough to prepare for the return of “The Donald”?
Shit, even if the Liberals had thrown a couple extra billion into the defence budget way back when they agreed to the NATO 2% shit, maybe Trump would’ve let us off a bit.
But no. It was easier to pretend everything would be okay—that no one in their right mind would try to upset the delicate balance the West had worked toward since the end of World War II.
Nobody banked on the American voter, though. They’ve been force-fed bullshit from both sides for over twenty fuckin’ years—constantly told their lives were made worse because their neighbour thought differently than them—all while the quality of their leadership just kept dropping.
So here we all are again, stuck in a military completely unprepared, sitting on the edge of a giant star.
And like a burning ball of gas, that bitch is about to go supernova and engulf every fuckin’ thing on the planet.
That’s probably enough for today. I can feel my blood pressure rising, and this doesn’t seem like the best place to have a heart attack. And it’s only my third day.
This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.
Journal Entry 31st January 2027
Blowing snow, -45C, -49F, White out conditions
Torquay, Saskatchewan
US/Canada Border Crossing
Crossings today: 13
The team has been working hard over the last week and a half, setting up holding pens of barbed wire and many, many rolls of concertina.
My pants kept getting caught in the razors. Out of frustration, I kicked the bundle of wire, and a barb lodged deep in my shin, ripping my goddamn snow pants and tearing apart my shin!
I spent my whole career dodging IEDs and incompetent Sgt Majors, only to be outsmarted by a roll of fucking wire!
Just another day in paradise, I guess.
Some semi-permanent shelters have been dropped off to us, though. Mostly old mod tents with ratty winter liners—not much, really, but it gives us somewhere to go besides the campers.
Speaking of which, fifteen people jammed into three RVs in the Canadian winter is one of the dumbest things I’ve done for my country—and that’s saying something.
Twenty years in the Canadian Army has left me with a healthy reserve of cynicism. I’ve worked for some absolute disasters of government, leadership, or common sense—but this takes the cake!
We experienced our first fuel shortage three or four days ago. Our resupply was diverted back to Edmonton. The new combined RCMP/EPS “civil disobedience control teams” needed the extra juice after Las Vegas beat the Oilers and the city erupted.
The riots were so bad that the Vegas players had to be taken to the airport in armoured vehicles! I remember when booing each other’s national anthem was as bad as it got, but in the Edmonton riots, two Americans were beaten to death.
We used to flip cop cars for a Cup win—now we murder people when the local boys lose in overtime.
My heart goes out to them, it really does—but how fucking stupid do you have to be to come here after all the shit the US has caused?
It’s bad enough the NHL is pretending nothing is happening.
But now we’re supposed to welcome them as refugees? Half these assholes probably voted for Trump and were spouting all that 51st-state bullshit—and now they cower here and enjoy our “socialist” health care!
I shouldn’t be so angry—not all these people are bad, and they really do need our help.
Two days ago, we got a couple of families who had come all the way from Los Angeles, their older model Teslas looking like they had been driven through the streets of Baghdad.
Their windows were cracked, panels torn off—either through poor construction or violence, probably a combination of both.
These people had gotten out of Dodge just after the bombings of the Hollywood sign and the sinking of the Queen Mary.
The three families had stuck together, watching out for each other, and made it all the way from LA to here in about sixteen and a half hours.
They were exhausted—both physically and mentally. They were scared. They had seen some of the violent clashes between National Guardsmen and rioters when they were coming through Montana.
When I walked up to the first car, the driver—a man in his mid-30s and very well dressed—looked at me, his eyes like two saucers, and he began to cry.
“We’d like to… we need to apply for asylum…” He had been so… destroyed. Just an empty shell of a man.
He had seen his whole world—his children’s world—being torn apart around him, and now he was in butt-fuck nowhere, colder than the seventh level of hell, trying to figure out what comes next.
The sight of those kids in the back seat, wrapped in every piece of clothing they brought with them, hoping to stay warm—broke my heart.
Their little faces had their hopes and dreams wiped away; another generation fucked over by the ones before them.
I keep wondering what kind of future those kids will have—but it makes me too sad, so I try to focus on the task at hand.
At least they aren’t dead in a ditch somewhere in California.
Although the refugee camps are only a few steps removed from death anyway—so who knows, I guess.
When I lay in bed at night, trying not to freeze to death and wondering what this is all for, I think of my own kids and hope that if things were reversed, we would’ve been shown the same kindness.
I doubt it though.
Our merry band here in Team 112 continues to grow!
Yesterday, we were reinforced by reservists—naval reservists. Why there are naval reservists in the goddamn prairies is beyond me, but I was happy to get them!
We got two from Calgary, two from Regina, and two from Winnipeg. And what’s more—they actually came in an Army truck!
Well, it’s just an F-250, but it’s got an Army license plate, so we’ll count it!
We’ve nicknamed the truck the “HMCS Wheatfield,” in honour of the senior service.
It’s about as effective as the Navy anyway.
Countless governments promised submarines and destroyers, and now half the order sits rusting in Quebec and New Brunswick shipyards because they couldn’t staff the few that were delivered.
No use dwelling on that now, I suppose.
Besides the boost to our numbers, things are looking kind of bleak in the equipment department.
Thirty-plus years of neglect has left Canada’s Army war stock… underwhelming, to say the least.
After the US primaries, the Canadian government finally agreed to some serious defence spending—pretty much opening the floodgates.
Not so much loosening the purse strings but cutting the bastard wide open.
But in a sad twist of irony, we can’t buy weapons—like fucking anywhere in the world.
Europe is doing its best to stockpile its own shit, preparing for Putin’s big push.
They can’t really spare too much for the kid who showed up late to the fucking party.
The Germans did their best and sent about twenty Leopards (which I doubt we can crew or maintain).
And NATO—if it could still be called that—has promised to send an “intervention force” to help protect Canada if all hell breaks loose.
That seems like a pipe dream. The fact they said if and not when, I think, is pretty telling of their true intentions.
Russia is rattling its sabres again, ready to throw aside its fragile peace with Ukraine and take back what is “rightfully theirs.”
The US is at its breaking point.
Bombings of government buildings are basically an hourly occurrence, to the point that firefighters are having to patrol the streets in their trucks to minimize response times.
Like most of the measures tried down there lately, it was a spectacular failure.
Although initially successful, it quickly turned into a clusterfuck when the crews were too exhausted to do their jobs properly—and years of underfunding meant there was no relief.
Fires have been left to burn uncontrollably, and overworked and underpaid firefighters are quitting in droves!
What a fucking wonderful time to be alive, ya know?
Well—there is some good news.
Due to communication issues, I don’t have to Zoom Maj. Dickweed every day anymore—just once a week, on Fridays.
Still one time too many, but I’m making progress!
And I’m getting a few days of leave!
Well, two days, one night—but still!
Jen’s going to bring the kids to Regina for the night.
I can’t wait—not just to see them, but for a chance at a warm shower and a comfortable bed.
It’ll be like fucking Shangri-La!
Anyways, must sign off for now.
Early day tomorrow, and the weather’s supposed to get worse… God help me.
Journal Entry 7th February 2027
Sunny, Clear skies, -40 C, -40F
Middle of fucking nowhere on highway 6, south bound lane, not fucking moving.
Well, I’ve been stuck on the side of the road in an old army panel van for two goddamn days now!
My fucking leave was cut short because some asshole shot at the fucking White House with an RPG or some other bullshit. Nobody really knows, because D.C. is a total news dead zone. The administration kicked out all the journalists—out of the fucking city! Completely medieval!
But Civil War 2 or World War Fucking 3 seemed ready to kick off at any moment, so I was ordered back to my station.
The only transport available was this old piece of shit, bringing us a resupply of food. Someone must have been “looking out for us,” because we were getting about two weeks’ worth of rations… that were only expired by two years! Lucky us! It’s okay though, because somebody slapped a neon sticker to the side, changing the fucking expiration date!
I met up with the driver—Cpl. Jones—a rather portly, older gentleman who originally retired in 1996, but volunteered for this job to “do his part.” I climbed into the cab, and we set off.
I’d love to know why a man in his 70s is allowed to do this job. He had the reflexes of a sloth, for Christ’s sake! He chain-smoked and complained about how this was all the Liberals’ fault.
Side note—when this is all over, I don’t ever want to hear the words Liberal or Conservative again.
Anyway, we were heading south but got caught up in traffic and bad weather. The van was forced off the road by a swirling transport truck, and we’ve been sitting here freezing our fucking balls off for the last few days, waiting for an army tow truck.
The brass won’t let us get help from civilians because they don’t want to pay for any damage done?! Like—how the fuck is that still a thing?
Not like much traffic has been heading down this road lately. Everyone wants away from the border, like somehow that’ll save them from whatever happens.
Shit, I hope Jen and the kids get home alright. They’re only heading back to Brandon, but that’s about four hours—and the roads aren’t really the safest anymore. When she gets home with the kids safe, I’m gonna tell her not to come back again.
That’s going to fucking suck, but at least they’ll be safe—or safer.
Well, battery’s almost dead, so I’ll end it here. Might need to write a final letter to my family if recovery never comes… or if I beat this fat bastard to death in his sleep. I seriously can’t handle his snoring!!
February 10th, 2027
Sunny, light clouds, -5
Torquay, Saskatchewan
US/Canada Border
Crossings today: 23
Well, things have gotten pretty bad down south. There’s talk of several states breaking away from the union. Hawaii is seeking independence and closer relations with Australia.
Martial law has been declared in some parts of the country, and the president and his cabinet have retreated to an unknown location.
Elon Musk has broken away from Trump and is said to be hunkered down somewhere out west.
Republicans are split between the faux presidents, with some Democrats siding with Musk, seeing him as the only real choice to bring stability back to America.
News out of the eastern U.S. is becoming infrequent, and mostly what we get now is rumours or out-of-date information from those who cross. It’s strange—it seemed like our whole lives we’ve been fed news and stories from America, and now it’s all… drying up.
It’s like someone has died.
Today was a hard day. A pickup truck with Alabama plates pulled up to the crossing. The driver was pretty aggressive with the border agent, so we had to step in.
I approached the driver and asked him what the problem was. He was angry because the Canadian government was demanding he hand over his firearms and MAGA hat before he could enter.
He said it was unconstitutional…
It took every fibre in me not to pull him out by his stupid beard and curb stomp him right there and then.
Instead, I politely explained the government’s policy: “no unregistered firearms or weapons that go against Canada’s existing gun laws can be brought into the country,” and nothing political at all—Republican or Democrat. Doesn’t matter. We would not be allowing them to bring their bullshit here.
The asshole climbed out of his truck and stood toe to toe with me, poking his dirty finger in my chest.
Pte. Paul, my cover, raised his weapon, ready to drop the greasy sack of shit, but I raised my hand and stopped him.
“I ain’t afraid of no fuckin’ maple leaf LGBTQlmnop punk-ass bitch!” he screamed at me; the stink of his BO almost laid me out flat!
I politely—but loud enough for his “old lady” to hear—reminded him that it was he who came to us and not the other way around, and if he didn’t like the requirements for entry, he was free to fuck off back to whatever southern shithole he crawled out of.
And that furthermore, he was quite lucky he wasn’t required to pass an IQ or DNA test to make sure his gene pool wasn’t more of a gene puddle.
The lumbering ape swung wildly at me, missing every time. He quickly lost steam, and I was able to knock him down with a right hook square to his jaw. He went down like a bag of shit.
His wife, or girlfriend, or sister or whatever, lost her shit and climbed over from the passenger seat. She took her dirty old work boot off and tried to hit me with it.
Ted, the bored security guy, tased her—and she too went down like a bag of shit!
We all felt pretty good about ourselves after that one… until we saw the two hungry, scared kids jammed in the back seat, amongst the meager belongings their parents could grab for the journey.
Asshole or not, these people just want what’s best for their kids—and that I can relate to.
We could’ve locked them up, but that didn’t seem right. So once they recovered, we gave them some food and water and sent them on their way—minus most of their guns.
I get why he wanted to keep them, and I couldn’t argue with the desire to protect your family.
I let him keep a pistol, to protect his family. I know how bad it’s getting in places here, so I just hope that’s enough—and that he won’t have to use it.
On the “bright side,” every gun we confiscate at the border gets reissued to protect the border! Canada’s defence policy at its finest!
Oh, dear reader! I forgot to tell about our grand rescue from the roadside!
I was finally able to convince Cpl. “Chubbers” to let one of the passersby pull us out. It was easy once his supply of sardine and butter sandwiches had run out—the prospect of expired rations lit a fire under his ass.
A school bus transporting refugees between Red Cross camps was able to pull us out. The bus was untouched, but the van’s bumper was torn clear off.
But the best part is—I received a call from recovery letting me know they hope to get to us tomorrow afternoon-ish!
If I wasn’t living it, I’d never believe it!
Speaking of shitty army vehicles, a strange rumour has been circulating that the government is trying to get some of the old vehicles kicking around museums or legions up and running.
Apparently, that’s supposed to help temporarily fill the gap in our lack of armour!
I’m no expert, but if we’re trying to resurrect the fucking dead to defend our country, we might be in bad shape!
It’s got to be a rumour though—how could it not be? It was only a few weeks ago the government was looking for M1 Abrams to buy, and now they’ll settle for a fucking Sherman?
I suppose it doesn’t matter. No tank is coming to Torquay anytime soon. Our crossing has been designated an overflow crossing—not for heavy traffic.
The Canadian government is trying to control the flow of refugees and funnel them into urban centres.
I don’t know where they’re going to put them, though—we had a housing crisis before all this shit. And as one can imagine the plan has not been met very favourable by Canadians, especially in Alberta.
The province is threatening to close its boarders, on all sides. They’re even increasing the size of their Interdiction Patrol Teams to make it happen.
Apparently, the need is so urgent for members that a lot of the new officers have minimal training. Maybe even less than a week in some cases.
But the fact is, these people will fucking freeze to death in the camps or even rural towns who absolutely can not fit them within their current infrastructure.
Most of these refugees have no warm clothes or sleeping kit—at least nothing that’ll do them any good up here.
The overflow gig isn’t so bad though. We only get a couple of stragglers every now and then. So, we get some down time.
The government has set up these large transmitters, and they update travellers coming north to the border about which crossing to go to.
It’s honestly surprising the government figured out such a slick plan.
Each province has its own radio station call sign, so just tune in and away you go! The whole system is tracked electronically so the broadcasts give update information.
I’ve heard the signal can be heard as far a Sioux Falls, giving those fleeing the chance to make it to an open crossing.
Well, I can hear Cpl, Brown, the camp cook ringing the dinner bell, so I’ll clue it up here I guess. Here’s hoping for better news next time.
