by Kelly deVos
This time—
—it’s a hit.
The speed and power of the projectile is incredible. It lifts the bumper of Mom’s SUV at least three feet off the ground. The dart is so fast that it passes through both rear tires, which burst with a boom that sounds like it’s just inches from my ear, despite all the noise. Shots explode from the roof of the SUV before silencing altogether. Clearly, whoever is in there with Mom lost control of their gun.
The other SUV is fishtailing and swerving across both lanes of the bridge. We’ll be caught up with it in a matter of seconds.
Okay. I need to take the thing out. I need to take Mom out.
Here.
I.
Go.
Holding my breath, I aim for the gas tank.
Boom.
Fire.
The SUV becomes a violent bomb.
The green car is getting quite close. It’s slowing down, but Mom’s SUV does a sharp circle and hits the green car. Both the SUV and the other car are blown across our lane and pushed over the side of the bridge.
Disappearing into the Columbia River.
Whoever was in that green car probably wasn’t trained for this.
Whoever was in that green car is probably dead.
More death. More loss. More pain.
There will always be casualties.
How many more people will I kill before this is finished? Will this war ever end?
My mom is fine. That accident wouldn’t have killed me, and she’s better than me. Certainly, more dangerous. I grip the rail gun. It’s got one shot left.
I could make Toby turn this car around. One shot is all it would take. I’d have plenty of time. They’re going to have to swim to shore.
But. Could I really kill my own mother?
Plus, Navarro desperately needs a doctor. And I have to save my brother.
I bounce up as we run over some kind of car part and then a pothole full of seawater. Another massive wave splashes over us. Toby swerves but manages to keep the car from skidding.
I stare at the gray sea. “Where is my brother? Tell me where he is. Where is Charles?” No one can hear me over the wind and the waves. That’s all I really want. I want Charles back.
I unbuckle my belt, wrap it around my hand and crawl along the roof of the car. I’m almost knocked off when we hit another pothole. But I’m able to swing myself back into the driver’s seat, sending Toby into Navarro. Gus has passed out in the passenger seat.
I’m too cold to feel anything at all.
Toby climbs into the middle row of seats to console a crying Annika.
I glance in the rearview mirror.
We can’t go back.
I push down the part of me that wants to.
We were simultaneously haunted by Dr. Doomsday’s theories.
And ruled by them.
—MacKENNA NOVAK,
Letters from the Second Civil War
MacKENNA
She was right there.
Terminus had smacked Josephine Pletcher with the butt of a rifle, and she’d fallen off the second-floor balcony onto a hard tile floor. But in the time it had taken me to change my sweats, she’d gotten up and disappeared. Maybe the zombie apocalypse is nigh.
I’ve always wanted to use that word. Nigh. Nigh. Nigh.
Okay, MacKenna, this is not the time for witty wordplay.
“What are we gonna do?” I ask Terminus.
He keeps peering over the side of the loft and gripping the wrought iron railing and checking and rechecking the floor.
“Why am I asking you?” I mutter. “Come on.”
There really isn’t that much to talk about. The only option we have is to go to the parking lot and hope that Jo isn’t waiting to ambush us and hope that we can get that old car to work. Yep. Great plan.
I grab Terminus’s hand and drag him down the stairs. I hold the flashlight in my other hand and keep it pointed at the ground to make sure we don’t step in any blood. We creep out the way we came in, through the employee break room and out by the door with the creepy buckets of doll parts.
I open the door only a crack, peeking out into the night with one eye.
Behind me, Terminus breathes heavily and jiggles the bag he’s holding. If there is someone outside, they probably know we’re back here. There isn’t much point in being timid. We take off at a run, using the flashlight to guide ourselves around to the front of Dollapalooza, where the lone, dusty car is parked.
I’m in front with Terminus a few feet behind me. When we arrive at the corner that leads to the front of the building, from what I can see in the moonlight, two military-type vehicles, like Humvees or something, squeal across the Dollapalooza parking lot. The caravan is coming right toward us.
It has to be Jo. Or whomever she was with.
I need to stay calm.
Keep it together, Mac.
LEAD: Two idiots waste a ton of time fighting a supersoldier only to be gunned down in a parking lot.
No. That’s too emotional. Also, not much of a story.
“She’s gonna kill us,” Terminus says, and then keeps repeating, “She’s gonna kill us.”
Real cheerful.
“We have to run! Now!” I yell. I sound like Jinx.
We run into the parking lot and my flashlight rolls over the fake Southern columns that flank the front door. The Humvees are getting closer. They’ll be right by the door in about ten seconds.
The little crappy car is...gone.
We are so so so so so screwed.
I skid to a stop. Terminus is right behind me and almost shoves me into a small, motorized scooter that’s now parked by the front door. How many people are here at the damn doll factory? What the hell is going on?
Like, maybe we could steal the scooter, but even if we can get it to work, there’s no way it will hold both of us. Or be fast enough to get away from a bunch of all-terrain vehicles.
“Okay. Okay. Maybe we can...” I stammer.
Terminus sees the scooter too. “You take it. I’ll see if I can buy you some time.”
“Oh hell no,” I tell him. Every time we’ve ever split up has been a complete mess. If I’d stayed with Jinx, this wouldn’t be happening. The only thing to do is go back inside Dollapalooza and attempt to hold Jo’s team off as best we can.
The Humvee motors grow louder, filling the quiet night.
I take Terminus’s hand again and draw him back around the corner in the direction of the rear door.
We almost run into the small blue car as it barrels onto the grass yard that surrounds the building. Terminus’s hands slam onto the dusty hood. We can’t run back. We can’t fun forward. My knees shake and are about to give out.
The passenger door opens.
MacKenna Novak, prepare to meet your maker.
I close my eyes. I wonder if death is like in those old movies and cartoons where you float around in the clouds and listen to harp music.
“Get in,” a voice says. A familiar voice. My eyes fly open.
It’s Galloway.
The car only has two doors, and I don’t have time to locate the button to move the front seat forward, so I squeeze into the backseat in between the two seats in the front as Terminus gets into the passenger seat. I hit my face on the rear window as he pushes me so he can close the door.
I say oof and Galloway also grunts.
I must have knocked into him as I climbed in. I notice his left arm is in a sling. The skin under his eyes has turned bluish black. Galloway’s got scrapes all over his arms and face. He’s been beat to all hell from when we tossed him out of the Land Rover.
But he’s alive.
Galloway hits the gas.
This car is a real piece of crap. It’s old and not computerized. Like, a vehicl
e Dr. Doomsday would have preferred. But it’s got an engine that sounds like a lawn mower. We’ll never outrun Jo in this thing.
Galloway keeps the little car close to the Dollapalooza building. He holds a small black fob in his right hand. He goes too slow. Way. Too. Slow. Slow enough that shots ring out into the night, grazing the edge of our unmarked POS.
I grip the edge of my seat. Hard. “They’re shooting at us!”
Oh, real smart, Mac. Everyone knows they’re shooting at us.
I turn around to watch the brown Humvees gaining on us.
We circle around to the front door, and I’m seconds away from asking Galloway if he’s planning on driving round and round in a circle like some bizarro NASCAR race through a baby doll hellscape.
He pushes a button on the fob.
A huge explosion rocks our small car. I turn around in my seat to see flames push up over the hatchback. Galloway must now have the pedal to the metal, because the engine screams as we try to outrun the fire. Right as it seems like we’ll be sucked into the mess behind us, Galloway is able to put some distance between the explosion and us.
I catch my breath as we get close to the parking lot exit. Galloway’s bomb took out both of the Humvees. I can see the silhouettes of soldiers climbing out and surveying the mess. A couple of them continue to fire at us, but our situation is improving by the second.
It’s going to be enough. We’re gonna get away.
For now.
LEAD: Student journalist and morally flexible hacker rescued from attack at doll factory by ex-marine.
That’s okay, I guess. It has the who, what and where. But not the why.
Okay. Fake it ’til you make it. Confidence. Go.
“So. Where we headed?” I ask.
“You tell me,” Galloway says, between clenched teeth.
“What are you talking about?” I ask.
“Let’s stop playing games. I think we’ve established that if I take you to Fort Marshall or to the safe house, Copeland’s people will have you executed.” He glances at Terminus. “You must have suspected as much. That’s why you were so hell-bent on ditching me.”
Well. It helps that Galloway assumes we were smart enough to actually have some plan or motivation beyond getting back to my dad.
Terminus opens his mouth, but I speak first. “That’s right,” I say in a strong tone that I don’t really feel. “Dr. Doomsday has a friend at the border. We were heading there.”
Galloway’s shoulders relax at the mention of Dr. Doomsday, and we near what I think is the same road we were on before. It’s dark and there are no streetlights. I don’t know what exists beyond the tiny headlights of this small car.
“Uh. Um. Sorry for kicking you...and...uh...” I stammer.
“Tossing me from a moving car?” Galloway says with a humorless laugh. “Considering Captain Pletcher tried to take you out, I won’t hold it against you.”
“Thanks,” Terminus says. He digs around in his bag and offers bottles of water to me and Galloway.
“So where is the colonel’s contact?” Galloway asks.
I reach for a bottle, twist off the top and take a long gulp. “At the San Miguel gate on the border. I think it might be—”
“I know where it is,” Galloway says. “I was briefly stationed at one of the inspection stations during the Border Patrol Strike.”
The Border Strike. I did a report on this. Since the New Depression started, labor strikes are common, but the strike of the border patrol agents was particularly contentious. The Spark called out the marines to staff the border, and The Opposition wanted the agents fired and blacklisted.
I check behind us again. No one appears to be following us, and the flames in front of Dollapalooza are now like a small campfire in the distance.
I tap Galloway on the shoulder. “Do you have any idea what’s really happening?”
“What do you mean?” he says, sharply.
“I think Copeland has a plan. Something we haven’t thought of.”
“Like what?” Galloway asks.
“I don’t know,” I say. “But deactivating those cold fusion bombs isn’t his endgame. Plus, I don’t believe he gives a damn about helping Rosenthal.”
Even as I say these words, I know they’re true.
All these things. Peter Navarro. Dr. Doomsday. General Copeland. AIRSTA. Los Alamos. All these pieces of a puzzle. They don’t seem to go together.
Galloway thinks for a minute. “All I know is what they probably told you. That Rosenthal wants the other cold fusion bombs deactivated and destroyed. But...”
“But what?” I ask. My pulse slows to a dull thud.
He sighs. “The last time I saw Colonel Marshall, he talked about Copeland. He said, ‘The general won’t be happy until the whole world is at war.’ The way he said it chilled me to the bone.”
“Is that why you’re helping us?” I ask.
“Not really,” Galloway says slowly. “Regardless of what happens, I consider Max Marshall my commanding officer, and he gave me a standing order.”
“What was the order?” I ask.
“Follow Jinx Marshall.”
Right. Only Jinx isn’t here. So, what does this mean for us?
A set of headlights approaches us. I hold my breath.
The car whizzes by us without any event.
Terminus speaks in the silence. “One of the classes Dr. Marshall taught was about political systems modeling. Specifically, how leaders could use disaster situations to consolidate power.”
“I remember,” I say. “Dr. Doomsday talked about that the first time I met him. You create a little chaos. Blame your enemy. Get power. That’s what he said.”
“Right,” Terminus comments, also thinking hard.
Doomsday also said, When I realized that Carver didn’t want to fix this world, that he wanted to remake it in his own image, I left. But it was too late.
All along we assumed that Max Marshall left The Opposition because he didn’t want to participate in the attacks on First Federal. But what if it was bigger than that? Whatever Dr. Doomsday learned at AIRSTA, well, he wanted no part of it.
Cause chaos. Blame your enemy. An icy chill runs through me as I realize.
Copeland is still working for The Opposition.
LEAD: General Copeland leads a mission to detonate two cold fusion bombs and blame devastation on The Spark.
“So, San Miguel?” Galloway says, cutting through my thoughts.
“Yep,” I say absently.
Both sites were in states dominated by The Spark. By bombing major cities in those areas, The Opposition eliminated population centers that were important to the enemy. Blaming Rosenthal for the attacks was brilliant.
Holy crap. I have to get to Los Alamos.
And I have to warn Jinx.
“You’re sure this guy will help us?” Galloway asks. He catches my gaze in the mirror.
Even though I’m about to lie my face off, there’s something reassuring about the fact that Galloway considers himself one of us. The last time we saw Louis Antone, he’d pretty much told us to leave and not come back.
“Oh yeah,” I say, leaning back, going for a casual look. “He’ll help.”
“That makes sense,” Galloway says, relaxing even more. “Like the colonel said, Always have a backup plan.”
Terminus shakes his head, a small gesture only I notice. Probably because I’m the only one staring at him all the time.
Focus.
“Oh yeah. For sure.”
For sure.
When I was a little girl, my father used to tell me that people can see only what they can understand. What he meant, of course, was that the population at large could be controlled by their inability to understand complex affairs. But I always wondered if the reverse was true.
If I could get the world to see me, would it understand me?
—ANNIKA CARVER
Unpublished memoir
Property of Pembroke Press; Archive; Not for release
JINX
Amelia’s team is going to get us all killed.
Somehow, we finally make it into Astoria. I’ve never been here before, so I don’t know what it’s supposed to look like. But I don’t think anywhere is supposed to be like this.
Old hotel buildings line the shore. At one time, they were probably beautiful places to stay with a view of the Columbia River. Now they’re all either partially or fully underwater. We see an old man in a canoe paddling around a faded pink and turquoise building with a sign that reads ATOMIC MOTEL VACANCY. He ducks to go under what was probably once a porte cochere and continues to steer his canoe to a staircase.
Amelia’s directions take us away from the shore and into a hilly area but, even there, it seems like the apocalypse has come and gone. Buildings are boarded up and riddled with bullet holes. Everywhere I look I see peeling strips of brightly colored paint and rust. It’s a village that the wind is trying to knock down and the sea wants to reclaim.
A lady wheels a shopping cart full of junk up the street and visibly jumps when we pass.
“What happened here?” Annika whispers.
“The war,” Amelia tells her flatly.
I pull the car into the driveway at Angeline’s Bed-and-Breakfast. Years ago, people were probably writing reviews about this place that called it romantic and charming.
But now.
The blue sign has a hole punched through it. The stairs are missing a step. Several of the windows are cracked. The flower beds have been trampled.
“There’s a doctor in here, right?” I say to Amelia.
“Yes,” Amelia says.
I run around to the passenger side to help Navarro out. He almost falls on top of me, and I’m relieved when Toby appears behind me. Together, the two of us carry Gus inside. We enter a wide living room with water-stained hardwood floors and a grouping of furniture that faces a wall of windswept bookcases. There’s a registration desk in front of the wall opposite the front door. From the looks of it, no one’s been behind that desk in a long time.
