Day One

by Kelly deVos

  Amelia gives Annika an appraising look. It’s as if she’s finally met her match.

  I find out that there are showers upstairs and hustle up there to change because I want to be ready when the doctor is done with Navarro. The water in the shower is hot, but I can’t get warm enough.

  No one knows for sure where MacKenna is. And we have two new members in our party.

  A hacker. The son of a bomb builder. A sociology student turned soldier. An American princess. And now a television producer.

  This is us.

  I feel ridiculous getting dressed up like a forest ranger. I’ve never tied a tie before. And I can’t shake this sinking feeling.

  Like my father always said.

  You can never tell what some people are capable of.

  Dr. Doomsday said, “Trust no one.” What he should have said was “Trust yourself.” Trust the little hairs that stand up on the back of your neck. Trust that punch-in-the-gut feeling that makes you think something is about to go wrong. That voice in your ear that makes you leery of someone claiming to be a friend.

  When you override your sixth sense, that’s when things go

  really wrong.

  —MacKENNA NOVAK,

  Letters from the Second Civil War

  MacKENNA

  It takes a little over an hour to make it to the gate at San Miguel.

  It’s around seven when we get there. The plan is to ditch the car a couple miles from the border and walk to the gate that Antone took us through back in January.

  Of course, we’re picked up by The Opposition before we can implement this plan.

  I want to kick myself because I seriously should have seen this coming. Like seriously, we’d seen the news footage at Fort Marshall. We knew that Ammon Carver and The Opposition were guarding the border and working with the Federales to catch Americans sneaking around. Plus, how many times did Dr. Doomsday warn us that the various gates would become inaccessible? Like one million?

  LEAD: Inept student journalist pays no attention to the news; gets self killed.

  Yay.

  The Opposition has set up a series of portable trailers on the American side of the San Miguel gate to deal with Americans trying to illegally cross the border. The site is lit up by a bunch of tall stand lights powered by loud generators. We’re taken inside one of the portables, where we find ourselves in a bland interior with basic metal desks, elementary school–blue carpet, folding chairs and stainless-steel racks.

  There are signs all over the place. Some are written in both English and Spanish.

  Like.

  REFUGEE PROCESSING CENTER

  And.

  “Notice: One candy bar and bottle of water per person.”

  Great. The Opposition is rounding up political dissidents and giving them a bottle of water and a candy bar before sending them to some kind of death camp.

  IMPORTANT FACTS:

  -We have no identification.

  -They took the phones we stole from the baby doll factory.

  -Oh yeah. We broke into and pretty much demolished a factory.

  -I don’t even remember Galloway’s first name.

  Galloway scowls at me. “Well. This is quite a plan,” he says.

  Terminus glares right back. “You’ve been living in Mexico for months. You chose the route we used to get here.”

  The officers haven’t bothered to separate us, which doesn’t seem like normal police procedure. But maybe when you round up three fools and plan to lock them up and throw away the key, you really don’t need to follow some mega-official checklist.

  They’re holding all three of us together on the far side of the portable trailer. We’re sitting on a metal bench in an area that’s been fashioned into a makeshift cell with pieces of chain-link fence that have been hastily welded to the floor. Outside our cage, a man sits at a desk, typing rapidly. He’s got a name tag. Jamie Evans.

  “Sir? Excuse me. Sir? Mr. Evans?”

  I pace and keep that up for a useless ten minutes. All attempts at conversation fail.

  Finally, I fall down on the bench. “What are we doing here?” I ask. I’m mostly talking to myself at this point but it’s the first thing that gets any reaction.

  “Waiting,” Jamie Evans tells me flatly. No expression on his face.

  “For what?”

  He looks up for a second. “For who.”

  “For who?” I repeat.

  Jamie nods. “Yeah. For who? That’s the question you should be asking.”

  Ugh. My face gets hot. “Fine. For who?”

  He smirks. “You’ll see.”

  Okay, then.

  We’re waiting.

  So Jamie Evans types really, really fast. Prints out a paper. Places it in a short filing cabinet next to his desk. Wash. Rinse. Repeat. Over and over. Whatever is going on generates a lot of paperwork.

  So...we’re waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting.

  We’re waiting for...gunfire.

  At first the shots are faint and in the distance. But they get closer and louder and closer and louder, until it’s like someone is popping a bag of popcorn three inches from my face.

  “What’s happening?” Galloway asks.

  “You’re the adult! Aren’t you supposed to know?” I shout.

  “Ow!” Terminus says.

  At first, I think he’s been shot or something. But, no, I’m digging my fingernails into his arm. Unlike Galloway, Terminus doesn’t look like he’s on the verge of having a heart attack.

  There’s a bunch of yelling, and Jamie glances at the three of us in confusion. He opens his desk drawer, grabs a handgun and leaves the trailer.

  “Okay,” Galloway says. “Up you go.”

  Before I can ask important questions like, Up where? or What the eff are you talking about?, Gallow has grabbed my lower legs and hoisted me up. My head crashes through one of the fiberglass tiles of the portable building’s suspended ceiling.

  My reporter’s brain is busy indexing facts for articles I’ll never write.

  BACKGROUND INFORMATION:

  Suspended ceilings use square, removable tiles placed in a metal grid. Schools prefer this construction technique. The tiles conceal plumbing and electrical features and muffle sound while allowing easy access for repairs.

  My forehead brushes a metal pipe.

  Okay, MacKenna. Pay attention!

  I hear Terminus stammering. “Uh. Do you really think that’s a good idea?” he asks. He sounds nervous. For the first time since the cops picked us up.

  “Jump in here if you have a better idea, Partridge,” Galloway says. To me he calls, “Crawl forward a little bit past the cage, then come down and see if you can get us out of here.”

  I grab on to the thick steel pipe. Galloway continues to push on my legs and after a minute I’m up there, scrambling around like an overgrown spider.

  “Keep your weight on the steel grid,” Galloway shouts. “Or you’ll fall through.”

  Right. Right. Keep my weight on the grid.

  I balance myself on the thin metal of the grid. As I crawl along, I knock and hit and jostle the other tiles. One falls down and lands on Jamie’s desk.

  Okay. The guy’s desk is as good a place as any to bring myself down.

  I’m about to lower myself down. When.

  The portable door opens with a sharp knock.

  My. Heart. Stops. Beating.

  Through the hole created by the missing ceiling tile, I’m staring at the top of Josephine Pletcher’s head as she passes by me and comes to a stop directly in front of the cage. She’s got another shotgun slung over her shoulder.

  “Galloway?” She’s trying to sound snotty. Like she usually does. But there’s an edge to her voice. Something is going wrong. “You are becoming a real pa
in in my ass. And where the hell is Novak?”

  Outside, the gunfire continues.

  For some reason I can’t quite explain, I don’t want to give anyone the opportunity to answer that question. Without giving myself even one single second to think things over, I crawl forward a couple feet, lift up the panel directly over Jo’s head. I let out a yell and let myself fall through the hole in the ceiling.

  I fall down like a kid doing a belly flop into a pool. I sort of land on Jo. At least I kinda hit her and knock her down. She’s already got her leg in, like, a medical boot or something and her head is all bandaged up. Which honestly is pretty weird. The Opposition has more soldiers. Why not send someone who wasn’t beat all to hell to pick us up?

  But whatever. Their planning problems are their problems.

  The rifle flies out of her hand and land’s on Jamie’s desk.

  As I go for the gun, Galloway shouts, “The keys! They’re on a hook by the door.”

  I run to the door, grab the ring of keys and thrust them at the guys. Terminus takes them, hands shaking, and fumbles with the lock but makes fairly quick work of it. The instant he’s outside the cage, his fist hits my nose.

  Hard.

  I see stars as I fall back into Jamie’s desk chair. I’m wheeled back into a rack full of boxes of candy bars. Jo snorts with laughter as a box of Snickers falls from a shelf, knocks me in the head and lands in my lap.

  At first, I think it must have been an accident.

  Okay. It’s gonna be okay. Blood runs onto my lips, but my nose isn’t broken. I’ll be okay.

  Galloway rushes forward, probably to get the gun and cover Jo.

  Oh. And. Then.

  Galloway skids to a stop as Terminus recovers the shotgun.

  “Hold it right there,” Terminus says with the rifle up.

  “I’m docking your pay for every second I spend in here, Partridge,” Jo says with a smirk on her face.

  Oh. Holy. Hell.

  Jo didn’t need reinforcements.

  Because.

  She already had a man on the inside.

  Terminus gives me one of his looks. One of his attempts to appear charming. “Come on, now. Don’t look so betrayed. In another version of reality, I’d love to take you out for a veggie burger and a movie. But this is not that world. And I did tell you I’m in it for the money.”

  Yes. He’s said as much all along.

  “Good luck spending it when you’re dead,” I say. My teeth grind.

  “I’m the one holding the gun,” he says with a laugh.

  LEAD: Harold Partridge cannot be trusted.

  LEAD: Harold Partridge is gonna kill me.

  LEAD: Harold Partridge is a villain.

  Galloway stays frozen with his arms in the air.

  I remember one thing that Jinx told me.

  Terminus is a coward.

  “You really think you can shoot me?” I ask.

  Jo is limping in his direction.

  “No,” he says as he hands her the gun. “But she can.”

  Dear Lord.

  I am such a fool. I always wondered how my dad had gotten involved with Stephanie. But here it is. This is how. You take a little bit of a chemical reaction, add a person who’s agreeable, who seems to go along with your plans, and...boom. Dad and I are the same. Getting our strings pulled like little puppets.

  Outside the trailer I hear more yelling and shooting and...

  A helicopter?

  A distracted expression crosses Jo’s face and for a second her gun falls a bit slack. Whatever that sound is...it’s something...unexpected.

  The trailer door slams open again. There’s an audible gasp from everyone in the room. The only way I know I’m not hallucinating is that Jo is wearing this mask of shock and chokes out these words.

  “Mrs....Carver?”

  Well, yeah. It’s Ramona Carver. Or Mrs. Healy or whatever she calls herself. It’s Ammon Carver’s mother. Right there, in her faded blue jeans and a cowboy hat and ranch boots. Toting a rifle. Like a character from one of those Larry McMurtry novels she’s so fond of. If there was one person I never ever thought I’d ever see again in my whole entire life, it was her.

  “Good evening, Miss Pletcher,” Ramona says with a pleasant smile. “Please give my regards to your father.” She then fires twice into Jo’s midsection.

  Jo stumbles back into the chain-link fence.

  I cover my mouth to stop a scream.

  Josephine Pletcher falls face forward onto the cheap carpet. This time, she won’t be getting up and crawling away.

  I’m expecting it to be like when Jinx had to shoot a guy next to me when we were first escaping America for Mexico, and I couldn’t hear anything for like two days. Instead, the sound is like someone playing drums. A few loud noises that leave my ear drums intact. I notice there’s a long black cylinder attached to the end of Ramona’s rifle.

  Once more, I know I should have paid more attention to Navarro’s lectures. Especially the one entitled “How and Why to Use a Silencer or Suppressor.”

  A deep, dark crimson stain spreads under Jamie’s desk and creeps in my direction. I pick up my feet and look away.

  Terminus shifts his weight from foot to foot and his eyes travel all over the room. “Wow. I’m relieved that’s over.”

  He’s gonna try to spin this.

  “Are you?” Ramona says coldly, before I can say anything.

  He nods and opens his mouth to speak.

  Boom. Boom. Ramona shoots him too.

  I make a squeaking noise as I choke. Harold Partridge is dead. His body right there next to Josephine Pletcher.

  Forever.

  Shock and horror ripple through me and then a bit of revulsion as I realize something else. I am a bit relieved.

  Galloway raises his hands higher in the air and whispers, “Whoa. Whoa!”

  “He’s with me.” I force these words out of my dry throat with as much energy as I can muster.

  Ramona lowers her rifle. Slightly.

  It occurs to me for the first time that she might be here to kill all of us. I remember when Jinx ran around acting like she was terrified of Ramona Carver, and I had laughed and wondered why someone who carried, like, ten thousand guns was frightened of a dingbat old lady.

  Don’t you understand? That dingbat old lady raised Ammon Carver, Jinx had told me, all panicked and freaked out. She even used damn air quotes.

  Yep. Shoulda paid more attention to that too.

  Ramona nods. “All right. Let’s go.”

  She turns. Her long gray braid swings and hits her back as she heads for the door. Galloway and I have no choice really but to run outside after her.

  Outside, a blue helicopter with a white swath on the side waits with its engine churning. Gunfire and shouts continue. The Opposition fire at a trio of vehicles kicking up dust as they speed away from the portable buildings.

  No one pays any attention to Ramona Healy.

  Part of me wonders if this is what Jamie meant—if Ramona Carver Healy is who we were waiting for.

  “That’s our ride,” Ramona yells over the noise, pointing at the helicopter.

  “What are we doing?” I shout back.

  “I’m going to end this thing,” she says. “And you’re going to help me.”

  Max used to tell me we train to survive at any cost, but that in reality we all have a price that we’re ultimately unwilling to pay. Things we won’t risk. Lines we won’t cross. If you push someone to that point, they become especially dangerous. Volatile. Unpredictable.

  A man who knows he won’t survive is capable of anything.

  —SPECIAL AGENT STEPHANIE MAXWELL to

  GENERAL HARLAN COPELAND

  Meeting memo; Operation name redacted;

  Date redacted.


  JINX

  “It’s out of the question,” Dr. Knudsen says.

  The doctor and his nurses are sitting on the sofa, all shaking their heads in unison. Navarro can’t travel.

  It’s been an hour since the surgery. Dr. Knudsen believes it was successful. Optimistic outcome is the term he uses. He thinks Gus will have some sight loss in his left eye but mostly he’ll be okay. Navarro is still in the other room on the cot, barely waking up from the anesthesia.

  The clock is ticking.

  Despite the fact that all of Amelia’s people want to act like we have all the time in the world, my mother is coming. It’s scary how scary that thought is.

  “We can’t stay here,” I say.

  “Even if it’s not medically safe, we have to risk moving him,” Toby agrees.

  The two of us stand in front of the bookcase facing the sofa. Annika is still getting ready. I’m sure she’ll manage to look gorgeous in one of these awful uniforms.

  “Amelia tells us you destroyed the vehicle that was following you,” Dr. Knudsen says.

  “That won’t be enough to stop my mother,” I say.

  “How do you know?” Amelia asks, pointing the camera at me.

  “Because it wouldn’t stop me,” I say in a tone of frustration. The stiff fabric of my forestry service uniform itches, and the shirt’s pointy collar pokes into my neck. “You don’t know these people. You don’t know what they’re capable of.”

  Knudsen frowns. “You sound like your father.”

  Amelia stands in the corner swiveling the camera from face to face.

  “I’m in charge here,” Toby says, drawing himself up to his full height so that he towers impressively over the short doctor, who is also seated.

  The doctor snorts. “How old are you, son? Eighteen? Nineteen? I’ve been a doctor for twenty years, and I don’t care what uniform you put on. I won’t allow you to override my judgment on my patient’s care.”

  I exchange a look with Toby. “You’re really not getting this. None of us can stay here. We’ll all be—”

  Before I can add “killed by The Opposition,” a phone in Amelia’s pocket rings. She’s forced to turn off her camera.