Day One

by Kelly deVos

  Perfect. Basically, Amelia doesn’t want us to survive.

  I unzip one of the packs. It’s decent. A handgun. A few magazines. Basic supplies like a canteen and waterproof matches. More than that, there is a stack of what must be zip-lining gear. Dr. Doomsday would give it a C+.

  This is a violation of the rules.

  Don’t put your fate in the hands of your enemy.

  But.

  There’s no choice. There’s no time.

  We each take a pack. I go for the neon green one.

  It might blend in with the trees. If you squint really hard.

  Mom goes in and grabs a rifle. A Colt AR-15 and several magazines.

  Copeland remains in the hall, watching all this happen with an amused expression.

  Mom marches us to the end of the hallway that narrows into darkness. On the way, we pass Dr. Knudsen and the nurses. They join our odd procession.

  Wood splinters. Glass breaks.

  The National Police pound down the door.

  They’re coming in. Okay. Okay. We can survive.

  I’m so close to getting Charles. I have to survive.

  Dr. Knudsen is breathing hard. One of his nurses, the blond lady, is crying. The male nurse has the hiccups.

  Mom points to a heavy, retro, canary yellow chair. “Grab that,” she says.

  We all file into the stairwell. Toby’s the last in. He grunts as he maneuvers the chair into the narrow doorway. It gets stuck halfway through, and Toby has to climb over. It’s a good idea. It will create a bit of a delay.

  Mom is better than I am. Copeland gives her a sanctimonious little nod of approval.

  We take the stairs at a fast clip and enter another bedroom full of old, abused, dainty furniture. A twin bed has a fluffy blue down comforter with a long stain along the edge. The door to a tiny bathroom creaks open.

  Amelia raises her camera, but a stern look from Mom makes her lower it again.

  I shut the bedroom door, lock it and push a chest of drawers in front of it.

  Light streams in through an open window opposite the door. Flimsy indigo curtains flap open in a light breeze. There’s a gorgeous secretary’s desk in the corner near the window. Old copies of Nancy Drew books are arranged in artful stacks in a case over the writing surface.

  I approach the window and peer out. The room overlooks the rust-and-mold-covered side of the Angeline. A row of National Police crouch in the space between trash cans. Their helmets bob back and forth. A female officer shoos a stray cat away. The cat releases a high-pitched screech before taking off toward the front of the house.

  Thick silver steel cables extend from the corner of the roof right above our window and run from house to house, and occasionally to rotting wooden poles. Remnants from the days before The Spark converted most of the country to a combination of natural gas and wind power.

  “You’re sure these aren’t still electrified?” I ask, pointing upward.

  I’m expecting Amelia to answer, but it’s Copeland who says, “I’m sure. The Spark shut down Pacific Power ages ago. These lines haven’t been used in years.”

  Being as quiet as possible so as not to attract attention from below, Toby climbs out onto the windowsill and pokes one of the cables. Nothing happens.

  “Why didn’t they remove them?” Annika asks.

  Mom sets her leather case down gingerly on the desk. “In large cities, they did,” she says with a shrug. “But maintaining these less urban areas was never a priority for The Spark. And this area was hit especially hard by the sea level changes.”

  Her inference is clear. The Spark allowed this terrible mess in Astoria to develop and never bothered to clean it up.

  Toby attaches the progression carabiners to the cable. He never did this drill with Dad, so it had to be Copeland’s people.

  From downstairs, a man’s voice shouts, “We’re in.”

  More scuffling of boots and echoes as the downstairs doors are kicked open.

  Shouts of Clear!

  The National Police are methodically checking the building.

  Toby draws Annika to the window. There’s a set of handlebars attached to a metal pulley. It’s basically like a trapeze. We’ll have to hang on for dear life. Hope we don’t fall before we make it to the next house.

  Perfect.

  Mom removes her gun from her coat pocket. For a split second, I think she’s going to shoot me, and I brace myself.

  Until she says.

  “Earplugs.”

  Then I understand her plan. Navarro and I open our packs and pull out several pairs of military grade earplugs. I toss packages to Knudsen and the nurses.

  “What the hell are you doing?” the blonde nurse whispers, her brown eyes wide, traveling from me to Mom’s gun.

  “Distracting the soldiers below so they don’t shoot at us while we go out the window.” This is a classic play from Dad’s book.

  Copeland sits casually on the bed and watches us, almost like he wishes he had a bowl of buttered popcorn. “It really is a shame we’re gonna have to execute you when all this is over, Stephanie,” he says.

  I put the plugs in my ears. As Toby sends Annika swinging out the window, Mom moves toward the tiny bathroom and fires a single shot through a rectangular window over the shower.

  Annika remains graceful as she glides through the air. Her blond hair billows and her jacket puffs out heroically behind her. If there ever was a money shot, that was it. I can almost feel the frustration radiating from Amelia’s skin.

  Down below, the National Police scatter in all directions searching for the origin of the shots. The stomping down below increases. People seem to be running all over. Another shot rings from outside.

  Toby sets up another pulley and motions to the doctor and nurses. The doctor reluctantly climbs out the window, tightly clutching the handles of his pulley. Mom fires another shot. I stare at Knudsen as he zips away from the Angeline. He loses his grip just as he reaches the roof of the next building. He lands too soon, falling several feet onto the sloped roof of a beige house around two hundred feet downhill.

  Toby waves for the nurses to go next.

  “I can’t go out there,” the woman says.

  Mom points her handgun in the nurse’s direction. “Go now. Or I will shoot you.”

  The first nurse reluctantly takes the pulley apparatus from Toby. The male nurse goes next. Mom has to fire several shots to cover his screaming. Toby and I exchange a look. I give him a small shake of my head.

  I’m not leaving before him.

  He reluctantly climbs out the window. Navarro helps Toby with the pulley. That leaves the two of us alone with Mom.

  A speck of blood appears on the white gauze covering Navarro’s eye. Knudsen was right. Navarro shouldn’t be traveling.

  Mom goes to the desk and places her handgun down. She gets ready with the rifle. The top drawer from the chest falls to the floor in a crash I can’t hear. I’ve never seen my mom in action before and...

  It’s terrifying.

  She marches to the door as the National Police break through using a Halligan bar. The first man through the door is shoving the chest of drawers aside when Mom takes him out.

  With a single shot to the head.

  She doesn’t allow his body to drop. Instead, she grabs him underneath one arm and uses his body as a human shield, no doubt capitalizing on the confusion of those who recognize her uniform. She continues to fire, eliminating the whole team in the hall with cold precision. When she’s finished, she shoves the first man’s body into the stairwell with as much force as she can muster. To maximize the number of obstacles in the hall.

  I shiver.

  Sticking my head out the window, I can see that the National Police are in chaos. They’re dragging high-tech bullet shields from their vans and runni
ng toward the doors of the Angeline, preparing to storm the building en masse.

  “Susan! Come on!” Navarro says.

  He takes my hand and tries to drag me to the window.

  But right then I can see it all. Mom is drawing all the National Police into the building because...

  Mom rests her rifle on the desk. With her back to Copeland and blocking his view, she opens her leather case, pulls out a padded envelope and very carefully unpacks its contents on the writing surface.

  Explosives.

  Strips of yellow plastic explosives.

  I pull out my earplugs.

  It’s Semtex. It has to be.

  Dad kept some of this in his workshop, but he’d never let any of us touch it.

  “Mom...” I say uncertainly.

  Behind her, Copeland remains relaxed, waiting for the next round of action.

  If it is Semtex, it’s enough to take out the house and even part of the street.

  “Susan! We have to go!” Navarro yells.

  With my earplugs out, I can hear the sounds of the National Police carry from the porch.

  Mom has a small metal hammer and a candlelighter. A really simple detonation scheme. Light the explosives. Then combust them with a hammer. It’ll work great. If you don’t give a damn about killing yourself in the process.

  Mom leans close to me. “Susan,” she whispers. “Get your brother and run. Don’t go to AIRSTA. Do you understand? Do not go there.”

  My blood runs freezing cold. She’s going to blow up the Angeline.

  With herself inside.

  All this time, I thought I would kill her. To find out that I can’t, and even worse...

  “No! Not for me!” I say. “Mom...”

  I don’t want you to die for me.

  “Susan!” Navarro screams.

  Mom’s eyes tear up. “Susan. Jinx. You have to go.”

  I’m still muttering, “No,” when Navarro yanks my arm. Hard. He presses the pulley handle into my palm.

  As I’m climbing through the window, I glance back at Mom. She’s lighting the Semtex.

  “Go,” Mom says. “Go as fast as you can.”

  Copeland has noticed the flames, and he’s getting off the bed as I grab the handles and sail out the window. I think I hear Mom say I love you as I push away. But I’m not sure. My upper arms burn, and my dangling legs feel like they weigh a million pounds.

  Hold on.

  I pass over the lone National Police soldier left in the alley. Over the tops of metal trash cans. An abandoned, rusted-out fishing boat. Old, worn-out tires. Stacks of wet firewood.

  Hold on.

  I’m barely able to keep my sweaty fingers wrapped around the plastic-coated metal bars.

  The instant my feet hit the asphalt tiles of the gable roof, I drop onto my knees. I put my hand down on a spot missing a tile, and it punches through into the insulation. Tiny scratches sear my palm as I pull my hand back. I can’t catch my breath.

  “Be careful.” Toby’s alone on the roof. He’s already sent everyone else farther down the hill. “This roof is in awful shape.”

  Navarro’s right behind me, and he’s barely got his feet on the roof when the Angeline explodes into flames that creep out nearly to our feet. A few screams break out near the back door but are silenced almost immediately. A series of secondary explosions, probably from the gas appliances in the house, send black flames higher and higher into the air.

  Mom is gone.

  And she’s taken Copeland and most of the National Police out with her. Only a couple people remain down on the ground. One is bent over, probably throwing up. The other crouches behind a flaming Suburban, yelling into a phone.

  From the roof, I can see the sun finally beginning to set. Toby helps me to my feet.

  “We have to keep moving,” he says.

  “They’ll be back.”

  Dr. Doomsday told the world that it was possible to outrun the past. He and Ramona Healy were the same in that respect. In a strange way, it made perfect sense that they were friends. They both wanted a world where what’s done didn’t need to be reckoned with.

  But the past will always catch up.

  It will always outrun you.

  In the end, time moves faster than you do.

  —MacKENNA NOVAK,

  Letters from the Second Civil War

  MacKENNA

  Ramona tells me and Galloway to climb into the rear of the helicopter.

  There are three orange leather-covered seats back there, but Ramona takes the front seat next to the pilot. I can’t see what the guy looks like. He’s wearing a helmet, and his eyes are covered by a pair of reflective goggles.

  That leaves me and Galloway in back with an empty seat between us.

  Galloway was a marine. He’s been in the war. Maybe he’s used to what we just saw.

  But me.

  My stomach will not settle. My heart will not slow. The lump in my throat will not go away.

  The instant we’re inside, the pilot lifts off smoothly. Galloway points at his seat belt, and I take heed and fasten mine as well. I want to ask Ramona what in the hell is going on and how she knew where to find us and where we’re going, but it’s insanely loud in the cockpit. The engine whirs the way a giant might moan, and the continuous clicking sound of the propeller is almost like sitting on the wing of an airplane.

  We drift up and away from the brightly lit portable trailer and the speeding vehicles. Away from where Harold Partridge took his last breath.

  Galloway reaches into a pocket mounted on the seat in front of me and hands me a pair of headphones with a headset microphone attached. He’s already wearing a pair. I put them on, and they muffle most of the noise.

  Ramona and the pilot are in conversation.

  The pilot is yammering on in a bland professional voice. Like he picks up fugitives every day. “—has been confirmed. We’ll reach our cruising speed of 158 miles per hour in about five minutes. I’m still recommending that we stop to refuel in—”

  “No.” Ramona’s voice fills my ears. “We’ll continue on.”

  “We’ll be outside the recommended flying distance of—”

  “Duly noted,” Ramona says. Real cold-like. “If needed, there are any number of places we can land. I can have my team come to us.”

  Her team?

  LEAD: Ramona Carver is running a covert operation.

  “Excuse me...uh... Mrs. Healy. Where are we going?” I ask.

  “There will be plenty of time to discuss that, young lady.”

  The pilot ignores me. “Very well, Mrs. Healy. I estimate flying time at three hours and four minutes following your desired route. This gives us an expected time of arrival of 1:14 a.m. local time.”

  Of course, he doesn’t say what locality he’s talking about.

  The pilot’s microphone clicks off.

  “Okay but, Mrs. Healy—”

  “You can call me Ramona, girl,” she says brusquely.

  “Okay but, Ramona...” I’m too overwhelmed to form a question.

  Why are you helping us? Can you help me contact my father? I need to find Jinx. She’s walking into a trap. Where are we going? What are we doing?

  “Get some sleep. When we land, we’ll talk.” Her microphone clicks off, and I get the idea that if I keep talking, I’ll be talking to myself. Ramona appears to be taking her own advice. In front of me, her long braid falls behind her seat as she rests her head against the leather.

  Galloway turns away from me and stares out the window.

  I feel around on my headset and notice there’s a button below the earmuff that turns off the microphone. I press it so that no one who might be listening can hear me sniffle. I don’t wat to cry. Not for Terminus of all people.

  Certainly not for Josephin
e Pletcher.

  Yet.

  The tears come.

  Terminus betrayed me, but did he really deserve to be executed like that? It was simultaneously not enough and also way too much. In the end, will any of us get what we deserve?

  We fly north across the border.

  I press my nose to the cold glass of the helicopter’s window. My father took Toby and me on a helicopter ride once, over Colorado. It was beautiful.

  This is...dark.

  Like, totally dark.

  I mean, I don’t know where we are, but we’re probably traveling over Southern Arizona. We should be passing over the occasional town or truck stop. There should be some sign of life.

  Instead.

  We fly over a two-lane highway packed with cars that don’t appear to be moving. Their headlights pulse and flicker. Every few minutes, there’s a red-yellow pop. No cities. No towns.

  Just.

  Campfires.

  I close my eyes and hope to unsee everything.

  * * *

  Galloway shakes me. His mouth moves, but I can’t hear anything.

  I realize I fell asleep with my headphones on. Cool. I lift them away from my ears.

  “We’re here,” is the first thing I hear as the helicopter engine quiets down.

  Where is that, exactly?

  Wherever it is, it looks a lot like the same desert we started in.

  We all get out of the helicopter. As soon as the engine stops, it’s as silent as the grave.

  “Wait here,” Ramona tells us. She takes off toward the silhouette of what in the dull light of the early morning half-moon looks like an abandoned shack. It’s about two hundred or so feet from where we landed in the helicopter.

  From what I can see in the beam of the flashlight Ramona Healy is waving around, we’re in a dry, brownish landscape. Blue-black blobs, probably trees, dart the landscape. Ramona’s light flashes over a large turquoise-and-pink sign that’s shaped like a bird and says STOP! YOU’RE IN PIE TOWN.