by Rysa Walker
The freeze-frame of the video is a group of maybe twenty people. They’re dressed in black, wearing ski masks designed to make them look like bears. Judging by their size and build, they’re all adults—most of them male, but there are definitely also a few women in the mix. Several of them are holding WOCAN flags—with the California bear in the center and logos for the other three states across the top.
The video is silent—just quick flashes of these “bears” at a variety of locations. Most show a fenced area behind them, some with strands of barbed wire across the top. All of the locations are brightly lit, a few almost blindingly so, with an array of metal boxes, pylons, and wires.
I pause the video on one of these images—a guy in a bear mask, moving his gloved hand toward a large gray box. A sign on the box says Texas Electric Cooperative, above a cartoon version of an electric plug wearing leather chaps and a cowboy hat. On the right side of the frame is the lower portion of a body—just work boots and a few inches of denim—lying on the concrete.
“You guys need to see this. What’s the box he’s touching?”
Aaron squints at my phone. “Best guess would be a power transformer. Who’s that supposed to be?”
“Apparently a member of a WOCAN splinter group.” I push play again, and the man’s hand touches the top of the transformer. A bright-blue glow appears beneath his glove, and then the entire screen goes dark.
The next clip is the same scene with minor changes. A different transformer. Someone else in a bear mask, same blue glow, and then pitch black.
“How is that possible?” I ask.
The others shake their heads, but it’s Daniel who provides the answer, with a strong second from Jaden.
It’s not possible. Someone may have taken out the Texas power grid, but it wasn’t a bunch of adepts in bear masks. I doubt they’re even adepts. That’s just the diversion.
Another transformer blinks out. And another, and another, until I lose count. All wearing the stupid bear masks, dressed in black, wearing gloves—
“Hold on,” I say, running the video back a few seconds. They’re all wearing gloves, plural, except for one. She’s dressed in formfitting black leather, and the small hand on the transformer is gloved. The other hand, however, is not. I very clearly remember the sensation of those nails clawing my skin and, even worse, the sensation of her psychic claws raking through my memories.
“Hmph,” Taylor says. She reaches over to expand the picture on my phone, and peers closely at the screen. “I think we’ve found a Dacia Bear.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Lyon Mountain, New York
December 19, 2019, 8:10 a.m.
As usual, Taylor is the first one awake. She’s tearing open a packet of instant oatmeal when I slide my tablet across the counter toward her. “If I had any doubts that you locked on to the right location, this erases it.”
She looks at me instead of the screen, her eyes narrowed.
“I said if I had any doubts. Not that I actually had them.”
Mollified, she reads the headline and makes a noise that’s half snort, half laughter.
“Cult of Alien Worshippers Gathers in Adirondacks. You need to stop reading this garbage, Anna.”
“Oh, I’m going to. I’m going to stop reading anything except escapist fiction, if we ever get out of this mess. Cozy mysteries. Maybe a little shifter romance now and then.”
“Any more on the bear attacks in Texas?”
“Nothing beyond what we heard yesterday. A lot of speculation. A few experts noting that there’s no way that the entire grid for Texas could be taken down by damaging a few dozen substations, that it’s more likely the grid’s computer system was hacked. No one is listening to them, however—I mean, we saw it with our own eyes, so it must be real, right? A lot of political posturing, especially by those in the congressional hearings, and, of course, repeated denials by the WOCAN group.”
“Yeah,” Taylor says. “Did you see the interview with the WOCAN spokesman? He was literally in tears talking to the reporter, saying that they’d never do something like this. That people die during major outages, and they’re committed to nonviolent change.”
“Can’t help but sympathize with the group. They’re getting a false rap same as the adepts, and it’s not—”
My phone rings. It’s Kelsey. I can tell from her tone that something is bothering her, so I pull on my jacket and take the call outside. “What’s up?” I ask as I brush the top step of the RV clear of snow.
“Nothing major. I just wanted to hear a friendly voice, more than anything. Miller is making me crazy. He wants to run this place like a prison camp. What’s the point in Magda paying for a house by the ocean if we’re not even going to let the kids run on the beach?”
This is Kelsey’s ongoing battle with Miller. The eventual compromise was that the kids can go with her in groups of two, one group per day, as long as she convinces two of his guards to walk with them. One of the guards is almost always willing, but finding a second has proven tough. Most days, the kids end up exercising on the volleyball court.
“Miller’s an ass,” I agree.
“He is. Hopefully things will improve once Magda arrives and sees for herself that he’s simply not a good fit for this position.”
“Magda is planning to visit Sandalford?”
“She didn’t mention it to you?” Kelsey seems surprised. “Contractors showed up yesterday to get the other house ready for them.”
“Oh. So . . . I guess that ends Miranda’s hopes that Jasper could stay in the guesthouse.”
“What?” Kelsey laughs. “Oh, no! Not the guesthouse. You’ve seen Magda’s London house in the video meetings. Do you really think she’d even consider living in that tiny cottage? I meant the big yellow house next door.”
That makes a lot more sense. While nowhere near the size of Sandalford, that house is still huge, and there are several acres of land between the two so that Magda could maintain a bit of privacy.
“And Jasper’s not around anyway. He’s missed his last two therapy sessions. We’re not sure where he is. Miranda even went over to that island yesterday, the one where he was keeping Peyton after her episode, but he’s not there. I don’t think she believed he would be really, since the truck is missing instead of the boat, but she had to check. She’s been downplaying it to the children, but she’s actually quite upset.”
My chest tightens. I don’t like Jasper Hawkins, but I definitely don’t wish him dead. And given the recent spate of accidents happening to people connected to Cregg and the Delphi Project . . .
“You haven’t mentioned anything about Jaden’s mother to Miranda, have you?”
There’s a long silence on the other end before Kelsey responds. “No. I hadn’t even made that connection until you mentioned it.”
“Mrs. Park isn’t the only one. A car swerved off the road to hit a friend of the Quinn family, someone who worked with Aaron’s dad. Pretty much the same MO as the van that tried to sideswipe me and Deo.”
“I’m not going to mention any of this to Miranda yet,” Kelsey says. “It will just worry her.”
“That’s probably a good idea.”
After we hang up, I sit on the steps, taking in the view. It’s beautiful here—a vivid blue lake in the valley circled by evergreens. The entire scene is capped with a light dusting of snow that’s supposed to melt away by afternoon, and according to the weather forecast, that’s all the snow we’ll see for the week. The big storm on the horizon will miss upstate New York almost entirely, dumping the bulk of the snow—a foot or more—farther to the south.
Of course, I know that’s a total crock. We’re going to get well over a foot of snow here, and I’m going to have to hike through it. We stocked up on winter gear yesterday at a department store just off the interstate. I’ll admit I was tempted to skip that step since I know that we have those things in the vision. Since nothing can change, our winter clothes and backpacks would have to mag
ically appear even if we didn’t go shopping. Right?
But the first thing I saw on the rack when we walked in was a kid’s padded jacket with BB-8 on the front and back—the same jacket I saw on Bree in the vision. Before that moment, it hadn’t even occurred to me that the kids wouldn’t have jackets. But if Cregg didn’t let them aboveground at The Warren, I seriously doubt he’s doing so at this new location. We bought a few dozen jackets, scarves, hats, and gloves in an array of sizes, along with two extralarge backpacks—one regular, and one for hiking with a toddler. Taylor also insisted on buying two yellow plastic sleds, which I suppose might come in handy even if I didn’t see them in the vision. And then we spent three hours waiting for a technician to install a snowplow on the front of the truck.
Aaron had to put the snowplow on his Quinn Investigative credit card, because Magda insists it won’t be necessary. Her security team is on standby at their offices in New York City. If Hunter contacts Bree, she’ll give the team the green light to head to our location. Under no circumstances are we to move in without that security team. They will do the actual rescuing. We’re in charge of reconnaissance only. Her team will have weapons and four-wheel-drive vehicles to transport the kids back to the airport, where her jet will be waiting to fly everyone to Sandalford.
She has reiterated this over and over. Kelsey, Sam, and even Aaron’s mom joined in to reinforce the point about us not going in alone. And I know it makes sense. Of course it makes sense. But no matter what they say, no matter how much I may agree with them, there was no security team in my vision. It was only me and Aaron, leading the others out through the snow.
This is the closest campground we could find, but it’s still nearly twenty miles from where they’re keeping Bree. Deo and I—or to be more accurate, Deo and Hunter—spent the last few hours of the six-hour drive yesterday in the back room, trying to link with Bree. We had absolutely no luck, and by the time we got in last night, we were too tired to keep pushing.
The plan is to try again from here, and if it still doesn’t work, we’ll unhook the truck and drive closer to The Pit. And, as reluctant as I am to hand my body over to a six-year-old again, we might as well get started.
Taylor is rummaging around in her bag for clean clothes when I go back inside.
“Is Deo still asleep?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Taylor says archly. “Just because we’re having sex doesn’t mean we’re sleeping together. Those bunks are too snug.”
There’s no response when I tap on the door, so I push it open. The ozone smell hits my nose instantly, stronger than it’s been in weeks. It increased a bit as soon as we were back in the camper with less circulating air, and it was back full force yesterday, but I assumed it’s just stronger when he’s working as an amp.
Deo’s on his side, huddled against the wall under two blankets. A bottle of Tylenol is open on the shelf next to him, along with a partly empty glass of water and the thermometer. I stare at the thermometer, unable to pick the damn thing up and check the history. It’s been nearly eight weeks. Way beyond the three weeks when the other amp relapsed.
He has a cold. Or the flu.
“Something wrong?” Taylor asks from the main cabin.
When I don’t respond, she pushes past me, resting the back of her hand against Deo’s neck.
“No.” She curses softly. “He was fine yesterday. Not sick at all.”
Her voice breaks on the last word, jolting me out of my shock. I step inside and grab the thermometer from the shelf, but the humming noise hits me and I’m forced to move out of the room to read it. The display shows 104.2, taken three hours ago. I push the history button and see that reading is down slightly from 104.8, taken at around two thirty this morning.
“Damn it, D. Why didn’t you wake someone up?”
I moisten a towel from the kitchen and bring it back to the bedroom, tossing it to Taylor. She presses it against his forehead, and he stirs, mumbling something I can’t make out.
“It’s the flu,” Taylor says, her tone indicating that there will be no argument. “It’s been too long for it to be a relapse. It’s. The. Frickin’. Flu.”
It’s possible that I could sit out here in the cabin and Deo’s ability would still boost Hunter’s signal, but I don’t know whether Deo using his amp ability weakens him. And it’s not like this is something I can look up on WebMD. If there’s any chance it might make him sicker, I’m not risking it.
“Listen, I’m going to wake Aaron up so he can drive me closer to the silo. Call me if there’s any change, okay?”
Taylor nods, pulling another blanket from the closet, and crawls into the too-snug bunk next to him.
“Is that a good idea? I mean, if it’s the flu—”
“It is the flu, which means I’ve already been exposed. In fact, I’m starting to feel like crap. Close the door behind you.”
Near Lyon Mountain, New York
December 19, 2019, 2:24 p.m.
The sky is crystal clear, with just a few wispy clouds. Despite my worries about Deo and about our upcoming jailbreak, it’s nice to be in the fresh air. It’s cold, though, and I’m glad for the thick jacket and gloves.
Aaron is behind me. He reaches around and puts the binoculars to my face, turning me slightly to the right. “That’s it. The one with the wraparound porch. The other houses appear empty.”
“I see it.” The house is downhill, maybe 150 yards away. From here, it looks like a perfectly ordinary house. You’d never guess it was hiding a missile silo. A passenger van is parked on the far side, and beyond the house is an open hangar that wasn’t on the satellite map. Inside the hangar is a small helicopter, like the ones you used to see reporting on traffic until most cities turned that task over to drones.
“Do you think this is close enough?” Aaron asks.
“Hunter thinks it should be. He once contacted Bree from school when she was home sick. That was nearly a mile away.”
Of course, neither their elementary school nor their house was encased in six feet of steel and concrete. We have no idea how that might interfere with their mental telephone. But there’s only one way to find out.
Aaron and I park ourselves on a blanket beneath a large pine, and I brace myself to change places with Hunter. I’m more nervous about it than I was last time, mostly because it means letting my walls down. I think the odds of Dacia being in that house are pretty slim, given that she was in Texas thirty-six hours ago, playacting with her fellow bear terrorists. But Dacia wasn’t the only one at The Warren who could read minds—Jaden says she wasn’t even the best of the bunch. I think we have to assume that the boy called Snoop Dogg is among the kids at this place, although I’m not convinced he’s entirely against us. But that’s the real problem—I don’t know who is on our side here.
You taking me with you this time?
Startled, it takes me a moment to place the voice. I’ve only heard her speak once before, in the cafeteria at The Warren.
Maria?
Yes, it’s Maria. If you take me with you, then I’m on your side. But you already know this because you saw me in . . . Oh, wow! That’s Jaden in there with you! We miss you, Jaden! You got one of the Fudds too, don’t you? The cute one. How many people you got in that head of yours?
Too many.
Apparently, we’ve been planning this all wrong. I thought we’d have to transmit a message, but Maria is like one of those robot spiders on the internet, crawling through my head and snagging information. It’s not pleasant, but her intrusion carries no malevolence like Dacia’s did. Just rampant curiosity.
Including curiosity about things that are very personal and absolutely none of her business.
She takes the hint.
This Aaron is cute. Not as cute as the Fudd in your head, though. Me and Pavla had the biggest crush on that one, I tell you. But we can talk sex stuff later. What do you need?
I have no intention of talking sex stuff with her, so I decide it might be a good id
ea to lay down the ground rules.
Aaron is with me, Maria. No peeks inside his head or at his tush. You got it?
It’s joke, okay? Anyway, the zadek game is no fun since they took Pavla.
Pavla? Who took her? She was your friend—the one who scribbled the note on my mirror, right?
Only half of us made it here after The Warren burned. But she got out. I hear this from the guards. She is with the other group.
The group that Dacia is with?
Ha. Daciana Badea is not with any group. She does her own thing.
I am tempted to dive down the rabbit hole and ask her everything she knows about this other group and Dacia. But I need to stay focused, something that isn’t easy with Maria.
How many guards are inside The Pit—the silo house?
Ooh. The Pit. I like this. Good name. There are six right now, not counting Snoop. He has uniform, but is not really Fudd. Two are the . . . medici . . . the nurse guards. Like Ashley. But day after tomorrow, there are only four. The zloduch—the crazy man—will go to hospital in Albany for his checkup.
Um . . . do you mean Cregg?
Yes. The creepy man with fingers in a box. One nurse and one guard—well, two if you count Snoop, but I don’t—will go with him. So then there are only four here, counting Ashley.
Cregg needs to go to the hospital because of the burns?
No. For the cancer. Although the burns heal slower because he was taking the chemo.
Cancer. Okay, that explains things like the weight fluctuation—he was thin when I last saw him in person but heavier in some of the photographs online. It also explains the Senator’s vague reference to his son’s ongoing health problems.
How often does he leave to get treatments?
This is the first time since we left The Warren. And it’s not clear . . . I am thinking maybe no chemo? Maybe just checkup to see if he needs more chemo later. I would know more, but I don’t go inside the zloduch’s head. One minute he is fine and normal. And then his mind turns to a snake nest, and you are seeing pinky fingers in a box. So gross. But I know the schedule for tomorrow from the Fudds.
