Day One

by Kelly deVos

  QUOTES AND BACKGROUND INFORMATION:

  “It smells like crap.”—Teenager in death metal concert tee.

  “That’s probably jet fuel.”—Probably his mother.

  “We better hope The Opposition lets us make it to California.”

  —Random man.

  It’s hard to get quotes when you have to hide and can’t talk to anybody.

  We’ve been in a long, winding line for almost an hour. In keeping with our cover story, Jo waved goodbye to us, the supposed strangers she’d picked up at a dive hotel, as soon as we parked on the pier. She fell in with a crowd of adults who were far more assertive in trying to get on the ship than we were. She’s at least fifty people or so ahead of us in the line, with a completely neutral, passive expression, occasionally making casual conversation with the people around her. The ramp zigs and zags a few times and is guarded by both Federales and navy personnel. When Jo arrives at the entrance, she manages a bored yawn as the navy woman checks her paperwork. Then she disappears through the door.

  And is gone.

  I can’t take it anymore.

  I have to get out of this horrible cardigan. I shrug it off and tie it around my waist.

  My passport falls out of the pocket. Jinx and I have to scramble to pick it up. A couple of people in line make annoyed, impatient noises. I can almost hear Jinx’s thoughts.

  Nice work, Mac. There’s nothing at all memorable about your Charlie Chaplin impersonation. If only I had an organ-grinding monkey.

  We pass several more soldiers in blue jumpsuits, all clutching large assault rifles. These guns are different than the old ones collected by Dr. Doomsday. They, like, have electronic displays on the front with messages like LOGIN, READY and AUTO HEAT SYNC on them. These kinds of weapons are illegal for civilians to own. Maybe that’s why Marshall decided not to use them.

  As we near the door where a trio of soldiers inspect documents, a woman three places ahead of me is suddenly jerked out of line and hauled off down the pier. She cries hysterically and kinda slumps over. Her polka-dotted sundress drags on the ground as they carry her away.

  My pulse picks up.

  More than anything, I want to run.

  I want to go back to Dad.

  Jinx checks her watch, a bright green thing with glow-in-the-dark happy faces on it. Normally, Jinx wouldn’t be caught dead in something like that. “It’s around three,” she says. “I wonder if we’ll be at sea when the sun sets.”

  It’s exactly the right kinda thing to say...bland...forgettable.

  “I bet a sunset on the water is beautiful.” I fight to keep the edge of panic out of my voice.

  We come to the metal podium, and Jinx steps back to allow me to go first. For a second, I kinda think, that’s crappy. Like if there’s a problem, I’m the one who’s gonna be in trouble.

  But then.

  I realize this is the drill. She’s got the disk drive. The only thing we have of any value. The only chip we have to bargain with. She has a plan to get away.

  What is it that Dr. Doomsday said?

  Always be prepared.

  Jinx is prepared. To run.

  My heart beats so slow as I take my place in front of the podium. A male soldier opens my passport and transport authorization letter. He compares the picture to my face, checking and checking again. “Hannah Ashley Brown?”

  “Yep,” I try to lean on one leg. The way I used to when I took selfies.

  “What’s your destination?” the man asks.

  “Home,” I say. This is what pops out of my mouth. Even though I’ll never go home again. I have no home. “Uh... Santa Monica,” I stammer when the soldier gives me a hard look.

  He runs a highlighter over my papers and hands them back to me. “Remain in an orderly line and follow the yellow arrows up to the hangar deck. You’ll receive your tent and mealtime assignments. For safety, stay in your tent whenever possible.” The man dismisses me with a nod. I go through the door and, out of the corner of my eye, I see Jinx take my place at the podium. Jinx emerges a second later looking relieved.

  The two of us continue along slowly until Toby and Navarro are also in.

  The worst is over. We’re on the ship.

  You know what’s not over?

  The line.

  Like the soldier told us, we follow the reflective yellow arrows through a mazelike hallway. Inside, it’s different than I expected. There’s stuff everywhere. Steel beams poke out all over the place. There are stacks of wood and equipment. There’s an order to it though.

  It’s like an organized mess.

  We pass through a door that looks like it belongs on a submarine, but someone put some thought into how to make the place, like, cheerful. The floors are bright blue. The wall has a wide yellow stripe on the bottom of it.

  Then.

  We. Wait.

  And wait and wait and wait, until my feet ache and my back is stiff from carrying this dorky bag they gave me, and I can’t stop yawning.

  When we finally emerge on the hangar deck, I can barely hear myself think. A place where you’d normally park airplanes has instead been converted to a massive tent city. Everything is gray. The walls. The flooring. Everything. The dull roar of voices in a thousand conversations fills the wide space. On the side opposite us, a makeshift cafeteria has been set up.

  Every few minutes a navy person inserts someone into the front of the line, causing groans and delays. The people are clearly VIPs. I think I recognize an actor from one of those superhero movies.

  I try to make conversation with one of the navy women monitoring the line.

  “So...uh, how many soldiers are on this boat?” I ask.

  “We’re sailors, ma’am,” she answers brusquely. “When the ship sails, we’ll have sixty-seven officers and 1,067 enlisted personnel on board.”

  Sailors not soldiers.

  Ship not boat.

  I make a mental note for when I write my article later.

  We’re finally given our tent assignment. Copeland’s connections must be good, because he arranged for the four of us to be in the same tent, which simplifies matters a great deal. There are more naval personnel shouting directions and orders. We stay in a long queue and finally end up in a small tent along a wall. It’s in a pretty good location. Not too close to the cafeteria, the elevators or the huge hole where the hangar opens to the sea.

  After all that time in Doomsday’s bunkers, I feel right at home. Air mattresses covered with basic bedding have been tossed in the tent. There’s a set of paperwork on one of the beds that contains our meal schedule and bathroom schedule.

  I’m not sure what happens if you want to take a shower.

  I dump my bag on one of the mattresses, open it and rifle through the contents. A toothbrush. Some lotion and...two other dresses that are exactly the same as the one I’m wearing. With different-colored ugly stripes.

  Because this is my look now.

  Yay.

  My brother climbs onto the top bunk.

  Jinx reads the paperwork. “According to this, our dinner time starts at 19:00. We have thirty minutes to get there and get our rations.”

  “Or?” I ask.

  “No food,” Navarro answers with a shrug.

  I yawn for the millionth time. “What do we do now?”

  Toby is already reading that stupid, stupid book Copeland gave him.

  “Now? We wait,” he says without even glancing up.

  * * *

  The next day passes uneventfully at sea.

  We have breakfast.

  And go back to our tent.

  And lunch, and go back to our tent. And finally, dinner.

  Despite the fact that everyone is supposed to remain in their tents, a lot of people seem to be treating this trip like a free cruise. As we come and g
o, I catch glimpses of people lounging around the hangar deck, especially at the large opening in the back where the ocean breeze wafts in, but also, on the small balconies that line the side of the ship. Well-dressed passengers lean on the industrial railing, taking pictures of themselves. Taking pictures of the planes that occasionally come and go. Sailors shoo people dressed like tourists away from equipment. I overhear a man asking some navy guy if they’ve got any deck chairs. The sailor spits out a curt, “No sir,” before hustling away.

  In between eating scrambled eggs and ham sandwiches, Navarro drills. He does laps around the deck and briefs us. Like it really helps to know that some general or other is on board, or the son of some actor is asking for organic baby food.

  Navarro says one thing that seems to concern my brother.

  After lunch he says, “I overheard a few of the navy people talking. There’s concern about retaliation. Carver has a press conference scheduled for later today.”

  “Retaliation for...?” I repeat.

  Toby understands more about this than I do. “It’s unclear whether Governor Clooney had the legal authority to assume control of this vessel. General Copeland was concerned about this as well.”

  I see red spots. Here’s another reminder that my brother was keeping things from me. Having conversations behind my back.

  “So?” I say. “What difference does that make?”

  Toby resumes his reading, leaving Navarro to answer. “Governor Clooney told the world that it was necessary to use this boat to allow California citizens stranded in Mexico to return home. But that was after the official secession. So, is this a proper use of his emergency powers, or an act of war against the federal government? And if Carver decides it’s an act of war, what will he do to retaliate?”

  That question hangs in the air.

  About an hour before dinner, Navarro goes out on one of his drills. Since Copeland wouldn’t let me take my e-tablet with us, Jinx is trying to help me find something to write on. She swiped a CPR pamphlet at lunch and is currently rifling through our bags in hopes of finding a stray pencil.

  “Nope. Nope. Nope,” she mumbles as she zips and unzips the duffels.

  Toby puts down that damn book. “I’ll be right back. My radio is on channel two.”

  “Where are you going?” I ask.

  He’s already got his hand on the door when he answers. “I’m going to speak to Jo.”

  “To Jo?” I’m off the air mattress and I can’t get down fast enough to stop him. He’s gone before I can ask what he needs to talk to Jo about, why I can’t come, too, and how he even knows where she is.

  “I’m sick of this,” I say.

  Jinx nods distractedly. “Me too,” she says. “But it’s almost over. We’ll be in San Francisco by midnight.” She drops Navarro’s bag.

  “That’s not what I mean.” I mean, I’m tired of this total bull with my brother. “Let’s go.”

  She freezes and turns to me with her mouth in a tight O. “Go? Go where?”

  I tap my fingers on the metal lockers. “It doesn’t bother you that Toby and Navarro are off doing whatever they want while we’re—”

  “Navarro isn’t doing whatever he wants,” she points out. “He’s following the drill. And he reports everything back to us.”

  This is true.

  But.

  “Yeah...well, my brother is doing whatever the hell he wants,” I say.

  “Okay...” Jinx looks worried.

  I move toward the tent flap. “I’m gonna find out what he’s doing.”

  A look of resignation crosses her face. “Okay. Okay. I’ll go with you.”

  Then. We drill.

  Jinx makes us spend five minutes on some zillion-point checklist. You have your radio? Is it switched to channel two? Do you have your identification?

  She goes on and on and makes a point of putting on the weirdo fanny pack she carries the disk drive in.

  “Why are you taking that?” I ask.

  “I have to guard it at all times,” she says. There’s an eye roll contained in her tone. Like she’s telling me something super obvious. Something that I ought to know.

  When we leave, I’m Hannah Ashley Brown in the horrible cardigan with my passport in my pocket. We agree to keep our radios off unless there’s an emergency.

  The tent city is packed.

  But Toby is long gone.

  “Um...so...where do you think Jo’s tent is?” I ask Jinx.

  She’s already taking the lead. Strolling past me. “They wouldn’t go to her tent,” she whispers. “There’s probably three other people in there. And, anyway, it would be needlessly conspicuous. They would pretend to run into each other in a common area. The cafeteria. The back of the hangar. We should check those places. If anyone asks, we’re headed to dinner.”

  Right.

  We’re on a drill.

  And she turns out to be correct.

  We walk around the deck, making occasional conversation about the ocean breeze or things to do in San Francisco. And we’re walking for a long time. The Booker is longer than several football fields. Staying in the middle of the boat, we’re mostly able to avoid getting stuck in the clusters of people who are moving from tent to tent. We’re walking and walking and walking...

  Then.

  I spot Toby and Jo on the...I guess...starboard side? There, on one of the open-air landings. They’re doing a great job pretending to be flirting college coeds, but I can tell their conversation is serious. And there’s something about the two of them. They’re staring out at the open, empty sea. Toby seems scared.

  Jo looks like she’s waiting for something.

  I quicken my pace, but my intention to confront my brother is disrupted.

  Jo pats him lightly on the arm. He nods and takes off. Fast. Moving in the direction of our tent. I’m about to suggest that we do the same. Maybe Jinx is right. We’ll be in California in a few hours, and then I’ll have plenty of time to yell at my brother.

  But.

  Jo spots us.

  She looks...angry.

  She motions for us to join her on the landing. We walk in that direction and as we go, she waves her hands dramatically for us to hurry. So much for being incognito.

  I try to be casual and lean against the metal railing.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” she asks in a mixture of shock and anger. “You have your orders. You’re supposed to be in your tent.” Her composure is slipping away. “Shit. What the...hell are we...gonna do?”

  Jinx’s face shifts into worry. “Do? Do about what?”

  I grind my teeth. “Oh, so my brother can roam around up here but—”

  She grabs my arm. Hard. “I sent your brother to the tent to get you and escort you to the...” She trails off. Her eyes widen. Jinx and I have our backs to the sea, so I have no idea what she’s looking at.

  I’m about to wave my hand in front of her face.

  Ahead of us on the hangar deck, there’s a beautiful woman in a bright green dress that flaps romantically in the breeze coming in through the doorway. She’s twirling a pair of binoculars and in the middle of listing her favorite restaurants in the Filmore when she gasps. A melodramatic, over-the-top type of gasp. Like from a soap opera.

  All that’s missing is a record scratching sound effect.

  I’m about to roll my eyes, except people everywhere in the hangar deck are pointing and waving and shouting.

  “Oh no,” Jo whispers.

  I whirl around to face the ocean.

  I can barely make sense of what I’m seeing.

  Way off in the distance, on what can only be the coast of California, is the kind of thing I’ve only ever seen in old news footage. From the Manhattan Project. From tests of the atomic bomb. From Hiroshima.

  A cloud. Cold. Black. M
assive and mushroom in shape. Rising so high that it might extend into space. Every minute or so, bursts of lightning illuminate the dark billows of smoke.

  I can’t think. Or speak, or move.

  Jinx grabs Jo’s arm and shakes her. “What’s that? What the hell is that?”

  Jo doesn’t answer. Maybe she can’t. And, anyway, part of me knows.

  It’s Carver’s retaliation.

  There’s more yelling, and then the low rumble of thunder. Like the sound associated with the cloud of death is finally reaching us on the ship. Next to me, a mother holds a small girl who clutches a tiny doll. It’s got long black eyelashes that flutter.

  Jo grabs one of my arms and one of Jinx’s. “Come on!”

  She starts pulling us toward the front of the ship.

  All hell is breaking loose.

  An alarm siren blares, and a series of announcements begin. Mostly instructions to us civilians about remaining calm and staying put. But there are also some to navy personnel as well. We do our best to move forward, and I catch snippets of conversation as we move.

  I thought we dismantled all our nuclear weapons.

  Did you see the size of that blast? That’s no nuclear bomb.

  What is it, then?

  Something...else.

  A woman screams, “Rogue wave!”

  Sure enough, off the starboard side, a wall of water heads toward us. It’s hard to tell exactly how big it is, or how fast it’s moving. But it’s huge. The size of a skyscraper, or bigger.

  More screams.

  The wind picks up.

  Somewhere in the back of my brain, the journalist is talking.

  BACKGROUND INFORMATION:

  -A rogue wave is a freak phenomenon that occurs without warning in the open sea. This isn’t a rogue wave. It’s the result of that explosion. Of whatever is happening in California. It’s The Opposition’s revenge.

  We can’t go forward.

  There’s no going back.

  Jinx shakes Jo again and yells, “What are we going to do?”

  There’s no answer.

  If you desire an America where everyone looks like you, loves like you and worships like you, then you do not love your country. You love yourself.