by B. C. Tweedt
And he crouched on, suddenly drawn to the front of the bridge, some distance away. The smoke wafted over his vision, but Greyson could make out a figure at a control panel by the shatterproof glass. He, like Greyson, seemed unaffected by the choreography unfolding around him. His hands were at a control panel, fingers flitting away as if working a piano into a frenzy.
The numbness and the ringing anchored Greyson to the floor, but he rose up from behind the panel as the violence flurried around him. It ignored him as if he were the star of the show, appearing at center stage for the grand finale. He raised the gun and put the man in his shaking sights. He tried to hold his breath, but it escaped in short gasps. His finger pressed against the trigger.
Do it. Pull the trigger. Stop him! Stop it all!
A wash of smoke clouded Greyson’s vision again, but when it faded away, the man had stopped playing with the panel. He still looked down at his hands, as if he were listening to the final resounding notes, but a time came when he turned to his audience.
His eyes seemed to search for Greyson amidst the clouds.
His eyes.
His Dad’s eyes.
All at once, a powerful surge of frozen energy swelled in his lungs, pressing tears to his eyes – but a worldly caution beat back the joy, tensing every muscle in his neck. It couldn’t be true. It hadn’t been true so many times.
“D-dad?”
The man stared as if transfixed by the boy amidst the clouds and violence. His brow twitched, as if he were fighting with a thought – a memory – but confusion reigned.
Greyson’s own memories were flashing through his mind, matching the dad he knew to the man at the panel. The twitch of his brow, the vivid, green eyes, the broad shoulders and thick hair.
It’s him! It has to be! He’s alive, alive, alive!
The emotion swarmed inside, spawning tears and shaking his limbs. The gun fell to his side and slipped from his hands.
Though only a few seconds had passed, Greyson feared the worst – that he wouldn’t recognize him. He’d been forgotten.
“It’s me.” The tears streaked down his cheeks. “It’s me, Dad.”
The man’s eyes gave nothing. No recognition. No love.
Greyson gulped hard and tried not to cry, but it was futile.
Suddenly a wave of smoke rushed over him and another blast of gunfire erupted from the opposite side of the room as a swarm of men entered, firing into the smoke.
Searing pain – like a knife had gone completely through his hand. A spatter of blood hit his shorts.
His blood.
Another knife blade sliced through his left shoulder with a thump. He screamed and fell backward to the floor.
The shock sent him reeling. What just happened? I can’t move my arm!
The smoke rippled past, and shapes moved like shadows from the control panel to the opposite door. Several heads moved past, but only one stopped, looking back. A gap in the smoke revealed he had a gun in his hand, and his eyes searched for an enemy.
“DAAAAD!”
His dad looked toward him, but not for long. The swarm of men fired into the smoke as they ushered his dad toward the exit. Greyson jerked up, but was suddenly slammed back down. Forge stood over him with his rifle raised in one hand and his other pressing against Greyson’s shoulder.
“DAD! WAIT!”
Greyson’s bloodshot eyes watched the doorway, expecting him to come back – to fight off the men who pulled him away. But he was gone.
Suddenly, a ripping pain bit at the inside of his shoulder like a small animal was feeding on his muscle; he winced and cried out, but the pain was secondary.
“Dad! Wait! It’s me!”
He reached toward the door with his bloody hand and gasped at the hole through his palm. He’d been shot.
He snapped his hand back to his chest and cradled it.
“Stay down, kid!”
There were two men around him, but he could barely hear them. The lights were fading. He was so tired, and nauseated.
He heard Grover calling from the control panel. “We’re locked out of fire control! They’ve programmed the launch. Get on the com and tell them to take this ship out, now!”
Forge’s voice blended into the ringing in Greyson’s ears. He cried out for his dad again, but his voice grew fainter. Black edges blurred into his vision.
“Four minutes!” Forge yelled. “Disable missile defense!”
“Done! Get us out of here!”
The voices around him grew fainter and he felt someone tug him up, swinging him over a shoulder.
The soldiers took him away. His eyes, glazed with pain, stared at the floor bouncing below him, but his thoughts were beyond. They were searching his memories – searching for an explanation. But he was so tired. So very tired. Even his mind was weary. He thought about odd things. His farm in Iowa. The corn swaying in the wind. Kit’s weak bark in Forge’s arms.
“Two minutes!”
The rain pattered his face and his eyes rolled upward, toward the storm. A helicopter rose through the rain and wind, carrying men with orange life jackets; its rotors beat at the grey clouds as it disappeared into them.
“Dad…”
Forge swung him around. The American Dream had broken in two. Its gigantic pieces were nearly submerged, engulfed by the dark splashing waves.
He closed his eyes.
The helicopter. His friends’ voices. Sydney’s hand in his.
“Get us up! NOW!”
He felt his body drifting upward, lighter than air.
“Oh, God.”
Jarryd’s voice.
Greyson’s head turned as the helicopter banked. He saw the destroyer below, still surrounded by black waves, lit with the streaks of fire as missiles blasted from the launchers – numerous streaks searing into the rain, disappearing into the clouds.
But another streak came from behind.
WhhhhhhhhiiiiiiisssSSSHHHH!
The missile struck the ship’s hull. A giant flash lit the entire world and then another flash enveloped the destroyer. It reappeared in three pieces, jutting from the fireballs that tore it apart as if it were a plastic toy. The waves rushed over the top, pulling the pieces into the ocean’s abyss.
“HOLD ON!”
Their helicopter shook violently with the shockwave. Alarms went off and there were screams, but Greyson could only watch out the side as they turned, leaving the wreckage behind. He saw only the ocean and the spectacular storm front – a wall of circular clouds deeper and thicker than he had ever seen.
Darryl.
He’d finally caught up to them.
Darryl lashed at their helicopter out of anger, but they were gone.
Gone.
Greyson tried not to cry. He hated to. It hurt to breathe. It hurt to think. And he didn’t want to die. Not yet.
“You’re gonna be alright.” Sydney spoke over him, crying as well. “They’re going to take care of you.”
“That’s right, kid.” Forge was over him as well, letting Grover pilot so he could attend to the wounded. He pricked Greyson with a syringe and unwound bandages.
Greyson nodded, taking shallow gasps as the syringe sent a wave of relief through his veins. He felt the burden of pain lift from his shoulder. A sudden euphoria made him smile.
He had almost forgotten something. “I ate the cream corn,” he whispered.
There was a long pause and then Sydney squeezed his hand. “Yeah? How was it?”
“It was…it’s good.”
“You’re lying.”
“So?”
Sydney scoffed through her tears. Behind her the soldiers were talking in worried tones. The radio chatter was intense. Ten missiles. No one knew where they were going. The fear was palpable. The aftermath would bring a firestorm of revenge and Foster wouldn’t let even one Plurb live. It would be all-out war.
Forge cut Greyson’s shirt away and pressed at his shoulder. Greyson only felt the pressure.
�
��Where’d he go?” Greyson asked sleepily. The euphoria was wearing into exhaustion.
Sydney and Forge shared a confused look, as if they thought he was hallucinating. “Who?”
Greyson swallowed hard and tried to open his eyes. His eyelids were too heavy. “My…my dad.”
There was a long pause. Sydney whispered, “He was there?”
Greyson nodded as Forge applied some sort of bandage around his armpit and chest.
Sydney squeezed his hand. “He’s alive? That’s amazing. And you knew it! You knew it all along!”
Swallowing, Greyson fought off the chains of sleep. He couldn’t fight much longer. He was too numb to be happy, too numb to be angry. “My…hat?” He hadn’t been able to give it back to his dad yet. He still needed it.
Forge pressed it into Greyson’s good hand. “You’ll have some pretty wicked scars. Your hand especially.”
His hand was a cold fire. Sticky. His fingers could barely move, and each time he tried, a shiver of pain would force its way through the numbness.
Jarryd blurted out toward the front. “Where are we going now? They took our parents – and our brother!”
Grover shouted back from the cockpit. “Shut up!”
Jarryd huffed and leaned back in his seat. Forge answered his question once Grover had turned back to the front. “We’ve got a safe place where we’ll meet some friends and hide out until we figure out what to do.”
“Hide out?” Jarryd asked. “We don’t hide. We wait.”
Forge’s smirk was weighed down by concern. “Then we wait.”
The kids’ minds wandered off in separate directions, all wondering what they were waiting for. Avery thought of her father and mother. Hostages. Frightened.
Jarryd eyed the blood stained bandage on Greyson’s shoulder. He didn’t want his best friend to die. He was his only real friend.
Next to Jarryd, Nick rubbed around the scrapes on his hand, wondering how he had missed it. The plot made complete sense now. They weren’t senselessly killing people. Perhaps the missiles would strike military assets – surveillance satellites, maybe, or the drones that blanketed the skies, able to kill American citizens on command. Maybe the Plurb’s strike would bring the government to its senses. To show them it was not in control – the people were – free people who would not stand by and let tyranny control them. Nick nodded solemnly to himself.
Beside him, Sydney was watching Greyson wince as he struggled against sleep and pain. He was pale, shivering, and weak, but she was angry at him – for leaving her…for blaming her. And now for thinking about leaving her altogether. He couldn’t die. Don’t leave me again.
But she remembered something. He had left her weeks ago, but he had taken something with him.
“You…you took my picture – the Polaroid.”
Greyson nodded, smirking as he fought off sleep.
“Why?” she asked, gripping his hand.
He took a stuttered breath. “I…admire you.”
It took everything for Sydney not to cry. Tears still escaped, but she brushed them away as fast as they came. She didn’t know how to respond, so she just held his hand tighter.
Under his shifting eyelids, Greyson’s memory jumped back to the destroyer’s bridge. The gunfire, the smoke, his dad. He remembered calling out. Walking forward. Seeing him.
“He…” Greyson whispered.
Sydney leaned in and squeezed his hand.
Greyson coughed and smacked his lips. With a calming breath, he whispered again. “He’s one of them.”
The helicopter rocked in the wind, rubbing the back of Greyson’s head against the headrest. His hair made a scratching sound against the plastic that mesmerized him. Though Sydney began to say something, the scratching was all he heard as he lost consciousness.
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Under his bedcovers, Sam closed his laptop with a shuddering sigh. His eyes were lost in a present nightmare, and his fingers curled around the black thumb drive.
He had to destroy it. Burn it. Make it disappear. But no matter what he did to it, it would never disappear from his memory. The knowledge was now his, forever. He couldn’t burn a secret, but he could keep it hidden from the world, trapped within his mind’s vault.
But he hated hiding things. Especially this. He hated it. It ate a hole in his stomach. He wanted to punch something, throw something, scream and yell, but he held it in, just as he would hold in the secret. It couldn’t be told. It would be as devastating to the nation as it was to him.
Footsteps in the hall. Rushed. Loud voices and radio static.
They were coming for him!
He never should have told his dad about his friends’ text. Or maybe they had been monitoring his new computer – watching and waiting. He should have known!
Sam pulled the thumb drive out, flung his covers off, and vaulted to the window. He pulled open the window and flung the thumb drive out just as the door burst open.
Secret Service agents stood in the doorway. Sam was frozen, his arm still partially outside. They gave him a suspicious look.
He prepared himself to be taken.
WAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!
A siren blared through the open window, coming from down the street. It was like a tornado siren he’d hear in Iowa – but this was Washington D.C.
“Sam! Come with us. We’ve got to hurry.”
“Wh-what’s going on?”
One of the agents rushed inside. “It’s a precaution. Missiles have been fired. Now!”
Sam’s heart flopped inside his chest. They weren’t out to get him. They were here to save him. He turned and leaned out the window with the flapping drapes. From thirty floors high, he could only make out individual cars.
A tiny black thumb drive was down there. Somewhere. But as far as he was concerned, it was gone.
As the agent whisked him down the hall in his pajamas, he contemplated the secret. Heat rimmed the outsides of his eyes and the tears pooled. How could he? How?
The lies. All the lies. His dad had said he never lied! But he’d kept a horrible secret, and the secret was the truth.
They made it inside an elevator and the agent hit the button.
As the hum of the elevator droned on, he eyed the agent.
Does he know? If he doesn’t, what will happen if I tell? How will he react? How will the world react?
A sudden realization streamed like energy through his veins. What he knew was devastatingly powerful. It was a powerful secret, and he held that power.
Maybe that’s why his dad was becoming so powerful. Though he had his own secrets, maybe he had other people’s secrets, too. Some people would do anything to keep a secret from being told.
“Don’t worry, Sam,” the agent said. “Your dad is already in a bunker. He’s safe.”
Sam’s lips quivered into a sneer. Of course he was safe. The documents proved that someone in the government was working with the terrorists. He didn’t know much else, but he would have to find out. What he did know was that his dad had seen the same evidence and had hidden it from the public. His dad was in on it. Or he was allowing it to happen.
And thanks to Sam’s warning, his dad knew his friends had been on the cruise, trying to stop the attack. If Dad is allowing the terrorists to do what they’re doing, he wouldn’t have done anything about the attack, letting my friends die while he was safe in a bunker.
A tear worked its way down the edge of his nose.
But then again, his dad wasn’t safe. A bunker couldn’t hide him from the devastation the secret could unleash. The secret was a weapon that, when properly wielded, could take down anyone.
But Sam didn’t want to take him down. There had to be an explanation. Or maybe the evidence was faked. It had to be. He knew his dad more than anyone, and his dad hated the terrorists. So, maybe his dad was going undercover, pretending to work with them.
Why the message on my back, though? ‘Out of evil comes good’? What was Emory saying to Dad?
If they are working together – why would Emory do that to his ally’s son?
This was just like Hide and Seek. Sam was the seeker who knew exactly where the hider was hiding. Now the hider was at his mercy. He could wait as long as he wanted to expose his dad and the rest of the government. But he’d give it more time. He had to know why. Until he knew, he had to hide the secret and seek more evidence. In this game of Hide and Seek, he was both hider and seeker.
The game was in his control, but he didn’t want to win.
The trail of tears slowly curved down Sam’s cheeks, snaking past his mole and falling from his quivering chin.
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Men heaved a body into the middle of the rocking lifeboat where it was instantly the attention of dozens of frightened onlookers. Though the women and children gasped as it fell limp at their feet, a middle-aged man jumped to his aid. A moment later, the men at the boat’s side heaved up a heavier boy from the water who coughed and hacked as he rolled toward the other body. This one was bleeding from a head wound and his face appeared to have been mangled recently, but he was alive. He scrambled to his knees, slipping on the waterlogged bottom and pushing away the onlookers.
“Save him! Save him now!” the bigger boy rasped.
The middle-aged doctor unsnapped the other boy’s life jacket and pressed his ear to the boy’s chest. A thin, wheezing choke seemed to bubble from his throat. “He’s alive. But his esophagus has been crushed. A knife. Who has a knife?”
Two hours later the boy wavered in and out of consciousness. He was on the shore. He could hear the waves crashing. A helicopter was landing and his friend was calling for it. Guns fired. Screams of fear. A crying child. Bodies all around him. People picked his body up. Time passed.
He woke lying on a gurney, being pushed through a rocky corridor in the wake of a helicopter’s blades. The lights flashed overhead as they rolled him onto the perimeter of a gigantic, rocky chasm. His head lolled to the side, giving him sight of the men and equipment bustling about like insects below. Though it was dark, he could make out shapes of helicopters, towers of cargo containers, forklifts, and soldiers spread about the canyon as big as a football stadium. There were hundreds of men below, and more corridors were dotting the rock walls on every side. He knew it was a quarry, but the question of why they took him here only began to pester his wayward mind as he was swung into a cave.
