by Kelly deVos
The scene is surreal. A rustic, homey riot.
Yeah, and also this article is more than a month old. I printed it out the last time we stopped at an internet café. My last bit of actual news.
I reread my field report and check out what I’ve got so far.
Seriously, MacKenna. Pull yourself together.
Maybe it was a mistake to use The New York Times Manual of Style. Like, referring to the murderous psychopath as Mr. Tork almost makes me choke on my own spit.
I guess now I should say something about The Spark and the New Depression and how the bad times at the bank had turned a terrible economy into a desperate situation. But there was something wrong with all of this.
Like, it was a story.
But not my story.
My back and shoulders ache. Every afternoon, Navarro puts us through the drills. We run on the beach and load guns and try to karate kick each other. Hey, now I can shoot someone.
But...could I really shoot someone?
I can’t deal with that right now.
I grab the book again, scribble out the sentences with my pen and start a new entry on the back inside cover.
FIELD REPORT #1: WHAT REALLY HAPPENED
Quintana Roo, Mexico
It was the afternoon of January 20th and I was living my old boring life in one of the million identical suburbs of Phoenix, Arizona, and basically thinking how it brutally sucked that Ammon Carver was gonna be president and that the only upside was that us journalists would have plenty to write about. But really, I thought things would be okay. I mean, all the stuff they told us in school about the power of democracy and the checks and balances of the Federal system had to mean something, right? And my dad had a good job, and we had a nice house.
Maybe The Opposition would screw people over. But deep down inside, I thought I wouldn’t be one of the people.
I know that’s way wrong, and I was trying to do my part. I donated money, and I went to rallies and gave Mr. Johnson, my journalism teacher, all kinds of shit for constantly eighty-sixing my articles about The Spark and canceling my profiles of David Rosenthal.
So there I was, and my biggest problems were really that, since my mom died, my dad worked all the time and my brother, Toby, was away at college. I was stuck at home with Stephanie, a stepmom who looked like she’d been manufactured in some robot dream-wife factory. And Jinx. My stepsister, who couldn’t pry her eyes from her laptop screen.
My new stepfamily was strange. They had been living as preppers in some bizarro basement somewhere. Plus, Jinx’s dad was Maxwell Marshall. THE Maxwell Marshall. Dr. Doomsday himself. The doofus hacker genius who’d used computer skills that almost no one could understand to rig the election for Ammon Carver. Dr. Doomsday was the reason that The Spark lost. The reason that evil Carver was president and not Rosenthal.
The daughter of the man who’d wrecked the whole world carpooled to school with me.
The one good thing was my new little stepbrother, Charles, who was eight but somehow able to figure out how to grow perfect, puffy marigolds in a small greenhouse in his room because he heard me say that it was Mom’s favorite flower.
Anyway, back to January 20th. I was driving home from school with Jinx and Charles. Jinx wanted to stop for potato chips. I mean, almost nobody eats potato chips anymore. They’re terrible for you, heavily taxed and will probably be illegal soon. But we had to stop. At a store that happened to be next door to the First Federal Bank building. That happened to be one of the banks that blew up. Maybe someday I’ll get some e-tablets or at least some notebook paper and I can tell the story of how we almost died. How we went on the run. How we were chased across the desert by The Opposition, the National Police and God knows who else.
But right now.
Right now, if you’re reading this, here’s what you need to know.
My father is Jesen Oscar Novak. He emigrated from Lanvin, Croatia, when he was four years old. He was awarded the Silver Star for heroism in Operation Cedar Hawk. He was proud of being a veteran. He watched more golf than politics on TV. Stephanie used his computer to log in to the mainframe and trigger the explosions that killed more than two thousand people.
My father is absolutely innocent.
I don’t know what history will make of Maxwell Marshall. I guess a lot of that depends on what happens next and who gets to write the history books. However, his finest hour will probably always be unknown. He created a piece of malware designed to destroy bank data, not to help The Opposition with their revolution but to help his children escape to safety. The Opposition believes we have the code that will repair the mainframe computers, and this is the only reason we are still alive. Marshall’s zero-day exploit was an act of love. Not an act of defiance.
Dr. Doomsday loved his family.
Stephanie Novak or Stephanie Marshall or whatever she goes on to call herself is not a history teacher and was never really my father’s wife. I don’t know who or what she is. She took Charles, and I don’t think it’s because she loves him. Sure, he’s her son, but when it’s all said and done, he’s the same as the rest of us. A pawn in her chess game.
Stephanie Novak will probably never get what she deserves.
Gustavo Navarro is for The Opposition. There’s no getting around it. He’s brave and smart and he’s so in love with Jinx that he’d probably jump in front of a train for her. Dr. Doomsday trained him and sent him to help us escape. And he’s good. Maybe even as good as Marshall. But he’s a good guy with bad ideas. And you can’t outrun what you are forever. I think Dr. Doomsday said that in his book.
Right now, we’re relatively safe here in Mexico. Our own country is in chaos. The Opposition has basically instituted martial law. David Rosenthal, the man who really ought to be president, is missing. The Spark is afraid. Banks are closed and people are panicking and the stock market has crashed. Jinx thinks she’s got Marshall’s encryption key to work. I don’t really know what that means. The “key” is a bunch of gobbledygook computer code that looks like you let a monkey pound on a keyboard for a while. But she says it works, and I trust her.
And we have a name of someone who can help us. We’re going to leave the bunker with the key and find Esmerelda Ojos. We’re calling this a plan, even though my dad and Toby have yet to agree to it. Plus, we still don’t have an answer to the big questions.
How will we get Charles back?
What will happen to my dad?
What will happen to all of us?
Jinx wants to get her brother back.
Toby wants a revolution.
Navarro wants to hide in the bunker.
And I want...
I put the pen down for a second and, like, I can feel the corners of my mouth fall into a frown. Mr. Johnson would give me an F for this report for sure. It has slang and all kinds of bias and about five hundred uncorroborated facts.
And, seriously, MacKenna, this isn’t a story in the inverted pyramid format.
Who cares about the New York Times or style sheets? Who knows if I’ll ever get this stuff published? Or if anyone will ever even read it. Screw Mr. Johnson.
This is my story.
I cross out the words Field Report #1.
I replace them with:
And I want...
I want to go back. That’s what I want to write. Like, back to my life before any of this happened. Not only is that impossible, it’s not right anyhow. The election of Ammon Carver exposed terrible problems that were hidden or ignored or covered up. These problems have to be solved. It’s a real mess.
We have to clean it up.
I want...
I want a world where none of these things could ever have happened.
And I want to find out the truth about why they did.
I drop the paperback book in time to see Navarro, all red in the face, g
et up from the kitchen table.
“We have a name,” I tell him as he passes me. “Esmerelda Ojos. Now that the satellite is up, we can use the internet to find her and—”
He turns around. “You don’t know what you have. Or what you’re doing.”
He goes to the stairs and leaves the bunker. After his footsteps trail away, it’s silent apart from a few clicks and beeps coming from the old computers in the corner.
Some part of me knows that this is the beginning of something.
The start.
Today is Day One.
Maybe you have heard it said that a nation will more willingly believe one big lie over many small ones. But the truth is far older. Caesar spoke correctly when he said that men will willingly believe whatever they wish.
—Comment by PRESIDENT AMMON C. CARVER to his daughter, ANNIKA CARVER, after issuing Executive Order 17881, Suspending Congressional Activities during the Ongoing Economic Emergency
JINX
For an hour or so, Navarro sits alone on the beach.
I watch him on the security monitor. He’s got his back to the camera and faces the waves. He doesn’t move as they roll in and out.
Toby’s at the opposite end of the bunker, messing with a pile of books.
MacKenna stands next to him as if to supervise whatever he’s doing, but she says nothing as he makes a series of stacks on his bed.
While Navarro’s outside, I explain the situation to Jay.
I’m behind the desk of the comm center, listening to the whir of the machines. “Okay, so as you know, Dad encrypted all the bank’s data. It can’t be accessed or restored without a key, a piece of complicated code that he hid on disks in the bunker. We can’t use the code here. These computers are way too slow, and the satellite dish Dad left is super old. But we can access the internet and use it to plan our next steps,” I tell him. “Figure out where to go next.”
I cough into my shoulder. When the computers run for too long, there’s a faint whiff of burning plastic in the air.
Jay, who has remained in the kitchenette, drums his fingers on the table. He opens his mouth. And then closes it, as if he’s thinking carefully about how to phrase something. After a pause, he clears his throat. “The boy is right though. You should have discussed the satellite with me before you activated it.”
That’s not really what Navarro said. But I appreciate Jay’s efforts to keep some form of order. At least it feels normal.
Toby drops a stack of books with a loud thud. “I’m glad you did it, Jinx. We’ve been sitting around here discussing things. Drilling. Talking. Arguing. For a month. It’s time to do something.”
Jay again hesitates, thinking. “Perhaps, son. Perhaps. But—”
The return of Navarro interrupts Jay’s train of thought. Jay takes a deep breath and remains silent, surveying the bunker.
I swivel the comm center chair around to face Navarro as he flops onto his own bunk. “But,” he says, picking up the conversation, “we could have at least come to a decision as a group.” Navarro folds his arms across his chest. “It also, apparently, didn’t occur to you that Jay could have remained here in relative safety regardless of what we decided to do.”
MacKenna and I exchange a look.
Actually, this very thing had occurred to us. But—
“I’m sure Stephanie knows where this place is. It’s only a matter of time before she sends someone to look for us,” MacKenna says.
—there is that.
“You don’t know that,” Navarro says. But I can tell he’s thinking. About the rules.
Rule fourteen: Don’t put your fate in the hands of your enemy.
“MacKenna is right,” Toby says, staring down at a paperback. “Stephanie might not be looking for my father right now. But the instant that locating him becomes a political necessity, we’ll be hearing from her again. I told you before. We should move him to a safer location.”
Yeah, my mom might know about the bunker. But the bigger issue is—
Jay stands up, puts his hands on the back of his chair. “Excuse me, son, but you are all out of your minds if you think I’d remain underground, hiding like a groundhog afraid of his shadow, while my children run around fomenting a revolution.”
That. MacKenna said there was no was Jay would let us leave the bunker without him.
Navarro stares at something in his lap.
Jay takes a few steps so that he’s standing in the center of the bunker, midway between where I am at the desk and everyone else at their bunks. “I’m not a piece of old furniture that you need to find a home for.” He clears his throat. “I’ve been trying to give each of you a little space to deal with the...”
He falters, and I wonder how he would describe what’s happened to us. Or to him.
I wonder how he deals with all the betrayal.
I swallow a dry lump in my throat.
But as usual, Jay doesn’t give much away. “To deal with the reality of our situation.” He glances at me. “To each grieve in our own way.” He continues to move toward Navarro so that he towers over the bunk. “But make no mistake. It is essential to establish a chain of command. And I am in charge here.”
Rule number eight.
It hadn’t occurred to me that Jay might have read Dad’s book. Or maybe that bit of wisdom is something that my father and my stepfather have in common from their army days.
Jay stands up very straight. His dark hair has gotten a bit grayer at the temples since we arrived in Mexico. But the remnants of his military training emerge. “Here is the new drill. Jinx and MacKenna, I want a list of possible destinations. Places we could go after leaving here. Toby, Gus, you’re with me. We’ll handle supplies.”
Given that this is the first time that Jay’s given us any orders, there’s a pause. But MacKenna comes to sit at the kitchen table, and that settles it.
The chain of command is established.
I turn my attention back to the computer.
I quickly write a program that does a public records search. It’s based it on the theory that Esmerelda would be living in Mexico within a hundred-mile radius of the bunker. But the system Dad cobbled together is old and slow, and it takes a while for the program to run.
After the NeXT beeps again, I print out the results on paper I recycled from a weird survivalist cookbook which, thankfully, has recipes on only one side of the page.
I join MacKenna at the table, and we look through the papers. We make a list of all the people we find named Esmerelda Ojos along with notes about their location, how far away it is, how we’d get there.
“Here’s one,” I say. It’s a newspaper article about a woman who opened a cantina in San Pedro, about an hour south of us. “This would make sense.”
Pulling her cardigan tight around her chest, MacKenna shakes her head. “Look at the date of the article. If she’s still alive, she’d be like a hundred and fifty years old.”
Navarro and Jay are at the weapons cabinet in the corner opposite the comm center loading supplies into bins. They appear to be taking inventory. Navarro mutters to himself and once in a while, I recognize a word or term here or there. Glock or Colt or rounds.
MacKenna swipes up the papers and neatens them. “So how many is that?”
I check the list I made on the back of a recipe for rattlesnake chili. “Fourteen Esmereldas,” I tell her as I make my way back to the computers. “If we operate under the assumption that the person would be relatively close to my dad’s age and then sort the list based on proximity to our current location, we could—”
Navarro groans and drops the bin he was holding onto the carpet.
MacKenna and I watch as he goes to one of the bookshelves and comes to the table with a weathered atlas. He opens it and places a yellowing paper map on top of my printouts. “Esmerelda Ojos isn’t a
person.” He shoots me a glare. “It’s a place.”
He smooths out one of the wide maps and taps his finger at a spot a bit removed from the coast. “At least, that’s how American tourists refer to the Ojos de Esmerelda Cenote. It’s basically a network of flooded caves. It’s pretty remote. My uncle used to take us scuba diving there when I was a kid. We had to stop the trips because the roads in that area haven’t been well maintained since the New Depression. Not easy to get in.” Navarro sighs. “Or out.”
I decoded the message from Dad last week.
MacKenna’s mouth falls open. “You’ve known that this whole time? When were you planning to tell us?”
He had been keeping his own secrets. I was trying to get us out of the bunker, while Navarro was trying to keep us in. “Maybe the same day you were planning to tell me about the satellite dish?”
Toby joins us and leans over the atlas. “This is what? Fifty miles or so from here?”
Navarro nods. “Fifty miles north.” He adds, “When it would be safer to go south,” in a low, ominous tone.
Jay presses the top on the plastic bin he’d been loading and then takes a seat at the head of the kitchen table. “I want you all to listen to me. No more secrets. Do you understand? Do all of you understand?” He looks pointedly at me.
It’s Mac who answers. “Yeah, Dad. We get it.”
“So we think what? That Marshall hid something in these caves?” Jay asks.
I shrug. “Maybe? I assume he stored equipment there. Or information. Something to help us deploy the code he wrote.”
Navarro begins pacing in the small area around the table. “Those are dangerous assumptions. We don’t know when Dr. Marshall loaded up those floppy disks, but presumably he hatched this plan while your parents were still married. We don’t know what he may have told your mother. What she knows.”
I catch his gaze, forcing him to look at me for the first time in a while. His posture softens a bit. And, anyway, he’s wrong. My parents didn’t talk. They hid everything from each other. “My mom was a spy for The Opposition while my dad was secretly sabotaging their leader. I’m pretty sure they didn’t discuss these things.” I try to give him a small smile. “Dad wouldn’t have left us the instructions if he didn’t want us to use them.”
