I look in the rearview mirror and see the empty backseat where I forced Sam to sit because I didn’t want him up front with me. I recall his impish smile, his irksome questions about my nonexistent “love life.” I couldn’t get to our destinations, couldn’t be rid of him fast enough.
How many times did I tell him “I hate you” growing up? Ten, a hundred, a thousand?
Did I ever once tell him “I love you”? I can’t recall.
The longer I cry, the more I expect Grackel to chime in with her redundant advice, but she doesn’t, so I contact her.
What do you want, human? she says, brusque even for her.
“Anything from Allie?” I ask aloud, trying to imagine I’m not alone in this car.
She hears, but she cannot hear.
“What does that mean?”
If I knew what it meant, I would have told you.
“Is something wrong?”
No. What do you want, human?
“I just need somebody to talk to.”
I have big ears and you have big emotions. I can hear you wherever you are.
I consider disconnecting but decide a pissed-off Grackel’s better than the silence. As I reach the southern outskirts of Chicago, I recount my recent interactions with Sam and Dad, share some of my car memories.
Then I tell her about Colin. She lets me ramble. I spend at least ten minutes discussing Aunt Sue’s theory. Could he actually love me?
“Can you contact him for me, Grackel?” I ask. She doesn’t respond. I’m not even sure she’s listening. “Grackel? Please, if you—”
Kill emotion, human, she snarls, and disconnects. A couple of miles later, I realize she must have learned of Colin’s Kissing Dragons role before I told her. Maybe he confessed. Maybe my emotions gave it away.
I understand her anger at Colin. But why’s she taking it out on me? I spend several more miles searching for an answer, keep returning to the only one that makes sense.
Because I don’t hate him. I can’t. We’ve all done bad shit. Learn from it, move on, forgive the best you can.
How can you forgive? Baby’s voice is the tiniest whisper in my head.
She sends me a series of images from the Georgetown ER, focusing on the four stations where Mengeles tortured dragons to determine their weaknesses. At the nearest, the Red strapped to the slab still retains a healthy glow as flamethrowers douse her. Two more Reds, fading fast, undergo a variety of experiments at Chemics and Impactions. The Green at the final station, subjected to high-voltage electrocution, is nearly glowless. On the slaughter slab at the far end of the hangar, All-Blacks dismember a previous “test subject” with chain saws.
The images move from the dragons to the dragon talkers. There’s Evelyn, smiling at the Thermals station, flames reflecting in her eyes. Two boys who I knew only by their assigned numbers interact with the Reds at the middle stations. They’re dead now, like those dragons, like the willowy girl at Electrics. Lorena. Beautiful, alive Lorena.
Baby transmits one final picture, lets it linger. It’s of me, staring at her, shock and horror and grief etched in my features. It’s from the day the All-Blacks and Mengeles torture scientists dragged her into the ER, her wings broken, her glow dim.
How can you forgive?
“I can’t, not them. Never them. But Colin—”
Is one of them. How do you know he wasn’t there?
I pull over to the side of the highway. I struggle to breathe but can’t seem to find any air. I’d never fathomed the possibility. But it’s possible, so very possible. I reach into my pocket for his note, which I’ve already read too many times. There are things I want to tell you, but I’m not sure how without making you hate me.
Was Colin a soldier in one of the military’s talker camps? Maybe even Georgetown? He didn’t work in the ER, he wasn’t a guard for the girls’ barracks, nor was he one of those who visited late at night to swap favors. I remember those men. They frequent my nightmares.
But there were plenty of other roles. Maybe he tended the boys’ barracks, maybe he was one of the soldiers in the battle room. Maybe he just did what he was told. If ordered, would he have put a CENSIR on my head, shocked me senseless, killed me? In that other life, would he have called me glowheart and despised me?
I don’t know. Doesn’t matter anymore anyway.
I read the note one last time, then rip it up. I’m lowering the window to toss the remnants when the dragon sirens atop Chicago’s skyscrapers awaken. I scan the cloudless sky but don’t see anything other than a few drones. I check my rearview mirror. The skyline looms large and ominous, several military helicopters buzz around, but that’s it.
An automated voice booms from the sirens. “Report to your nearest shelter. Failure to comply will result in jail time or a heavy fine.”
This must be a scheduled attack drill. Major cities perform them at least twice a year.
The billboard ahead indicates that I need to take exit 51E and proceed to the Fulton River Public Dragon Shelter. Armored personnel carriers and cop cruisers are already maneuvering through the city to establish choke points that funnel us there.
Two choices. Haul tail to the next exit ramp, turn around, and pray I make it out of Chicago before they barricade the roads, or continue on to the shelter, hope my fake ID holds up, that nobody recognizes me. . . .
I’m already flooring the accelerator by the time the last piece of Colin’s note flutters from my hand.
17
The red cascade of taillights ahead of me signals the end of my getaway attempt. Two armored personnel carriers barricade the highway, forcing everybody to exit at Union Avenue.
I’m soon surrounded by hundreds of All-Blacks. The majority usher civilians from buildings. Dozens more direct traffic with machine guns or batons, turning us until we’re headed north. I search for escape paths, but APCs and tanks block the major intersections, cop cruisers the smaller ones.
Though I’m but another black car in a black sea of activity, I feel like I’m the centerpiece in a giant funeral procession. And it’s not just the soldiers peering through the windows of my Prius hearse. Other drivers, their passengers, the growing herd of pedestrians. All of them can see me; most of them probably know me. The knit cap tugged low over my ears and the sunglasses obscuring half my face are insufficient shields to the thousands of eyes out there.
Our funeral crawls past tightly packed buildings that crowd the road. I keep my chin tucked to my chest, partly to obscure my face, partly to examine the emap on my lap. I look for an alley or a covered parking lot to hide in.
“Remain on the path,” a bullhorn-amplified voice yells.
“Failure to comply will result in a heavy fine.”
“Follow directions. Move along. The faster you comply, the faster we finish this exercise.”
I peek up and see several college kids in Urbana-Champaign sweatshirts sitting on a bus bench, arms linked. Three A-Bs gesture at them with batons. An argument ensues. It ends quickly, with the soldiers arresting them.
I look around, notice more people in handcuffs. I wipe the sweat from my palms, crack my window. Behind the sound of sirens and more bullhorn commands, I hear people chanting antimilitary riffs, which the A-Bs ignore as long as everybody follows their orders.
Those who don’t follow orders are brought to heel with batons, pepper spray, and handcuffs. A few people have attempted to slip free during these dustups. So far, nobody’s made it.
I need a bigger distraction. . . .
Waiting for my opportunity, I watch another scuffle break out on the sidewalk. An A-B clocks a sitting Mohawked man until he stumbles to his feet; a second cuffs him. The bullhorn bellows for order, warns people to behave. Half a block ahead, soldiers quarrel with a group that refuses to vacate a Starbucks.
Somebody shrieks behind me. In my rearview mirror, an old man dressed in a hideous pinstripe red suit swings his cane at A-Bs herding him and others from an Italian restaurant.
The
nearest A-B kicks away the cane and puts Old Man in handcuffs. The two women accompanying him, his daughter and granddaughter, I’m guessing, attempt to backtrack to retrieve his cane. Soldiers intervene.
“Remain on the path!” the bullhorn orders.
Granddaughter argues with an A-B, Daughter smacks another one. They’re handcuffed, too.
Without his cane, Old Man has trouble keeping up, and on the far side of the causeway that separates the restaurant from a clothing shop, he collapses onto a bench. When he ignores an A-B’s order to rise, the soldier jerks Old Man to his feet, grabs hold of an arm, and drags him along at a hitching gait. Old Man grimaces and yelps, but the soldier doesn’t care.
Others do. They shout curses at the A-Bs. Several form a wall, blocking the way.
The bullhorn crackles. “Move along or you will be prosecuted!”
The protesters remain steadfast. A soldier draws his pistol and raises it overhead. When nobody budges, he fires a warning shot. A second soldier pepper sprays them. More A-Bs charge in with batons, but none of those from my vicinity.
Time’s running out.
I look at Old Man, who’s slipped free of his A-B escort during the commotion. He’s leaning against the wall of a storefront, hands on his knees. He’s flustered, short of breath, and not at all deserving of what I’m about to do to him.
I whisper an apology, then shout, “Watch out! Old Man’s got a knife!”
The nearest A-B whacks Old Man with a baton, sending him to the ground. The surrounding protestors ignite and swarm the soldier. Several more attack his buddies. The A-Bs directing traffic race over to help.
I pull to the side of the road, snatch the map, and slip out the car door. In a low crouch, I scuttle between vehicles, working my way back toward the causeway that splits the restaurant and clothing shop. Behind me, gunshots erupt, these from machine guns. Someone cries out.
Everything escalates from there. I can’t see anything from my position between two SUVs, but I can hear it all. Car alarms and panicked honking and feral shouts intermingle with dragon sirens and bullhorn yells and trilling gunfire.
And above everything, the screams, though I’m not sure all of them are real.
I break cover and dash into the causeway. There’s a micro park to my left, a few benches to my right, but nowhere to hide. Ahead of me, an access road separates the causeway from an empty parking lot.
I scurry forward, am almost to the road, when I hear voices coming from around the corner. I back into the shadows of the restaurant facade and press myself against the wall. Two A-Bs go running by, the sun reflecting off their scale-covered helmets.
Keeping a tight grip on my Beretta, I edge to the corner. I can see a building adjacent to the parking lot. It’s either an apartment or a dorm complex. If it’s the latter, it’ll have a dragon shelter, which means the A-Bs won’t search it. One gigantic, flashing problem. A cop cruiser blocks the end of the access road, no more than twenty feet away from the building.
I peek around the corner to check the other direction. The road curves out of sight, but that’s where those two soldiers came from.
The riot’s dwindling. A couple of stray gunshots still echo, a few moans penetrate the whir of sirens, but that’s it.
“. . . are aware that several people responded to this drill inappropriately,” the bullhorn speaker is saying. “Anybody found hiding will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. Return of your own free will, and we will be forgiving. Remain on the path. Do not make us tell you again.”
I’m about to freak out when I notice the five-foot-high brick wall ten or so feet to my right. It’s behind that Italian restaurant. Dumpster!
I push myself over the wall on my second try, am thrilled to discover that the Dumpster’s enclosed on all sides. I tuck the Beretta into my waistband, lift the Dumpster lid, and make myself cozy in days-old food discards.
Soon I hear a male voice and two sets of approaching footsteps. I sink lower, keeping one hand on my gun, the other over my mouth.
As they come closer, I discern words. “Yes, sir.” Pause. “No, sir.” Pause. They pass in front of the Dumpster. “Right away, sir.”
“What’s up?” another voice asks.
“Cap says we gotta hump uptown.”
A groan. “More babysitting?”
“Ground support.”
“Good. You see that damn trust-fund hippie who tried to get his swag on with me? Put his ass in place.”
“Yeah.”
“Little punk bastards.”
“They do think it’s a drill. . . .”
Their footfalls dwindle. They continue to talk, but I’m no longer paying attention.
“They do think it’s a drill!”
If it is a real attack, where are the dragons? Where are the dragon jets? Where’re the fire and the death? I don’t know, but they must be coming this way. And if they’re coming this way, to a city like Chicago, with its advanced dragon defense system, that can mean only one thing.
Oren and his Greens.
I want to flee, want to become light and speed far away from the scent of putrid tomatoes. But I can’t. Not until the soldiers and cops have evacuated the area.
I prop open the Dumpster lid with a to-go box to let some light in. As I examine my map for the best route out of this nightmare, I listen to the thrum of cars and the echo of bullhorns, I listen to the dragon sirens, but mostly I listen for the dragons.
18
When Mom died, I figured that was the end of her life. But Keith, her army copilot for several years, visited often, providing Sam, Dad, and me with hundreds of new memories.
Like the time she briefed her flight crew an hour before they launched on their mission to Denver. The city was under siege by a fleet of Reds. Straight-faced, she handed out Playboys and ordered everyone to “alleviate their nerves.”
That was the first half of the story, one of Sam’s favorites. One of Dad’s, too. But right now it’s the second half of the story that most resonates.
When they arrived in Denver, not much was left but ashes.
“Destruction and death everywhere you turned,” Keith said. “But the worst things were the dragon sirens. Many of them still blared throughout the city. But they sounded different. . . . Humanity’s got an echo. In Denver, that echo was gone.”
It seemed profound to my fifteen-year-old mind, humanity echoing, though I never fully understood what he meant. And up until a couple minutes ago, a part of me wondered how that could be worse than thousands of scorched corpses.
Now, with the bullhorns and the vehicles gone, and nothing but the sirens blasting into forever, I hear the emptiness. And as I crawl from the Dumpster and climb over the wall, I understand.
Here, on the vacant streets of a massive metropolis, I’m the only person left on the earth.
I emerge from the causeway, expecting to find blood and bodies from the riot—the precursor to the apocalypse. I am relieved when I discover only rubber bullets and a few other silent hideaways scurrying for vehicles. Citations flutter beneath windshield wipers, but I don’t see any boots on tires. Must not have had time.
I warn the people about the impending attack.
“They would have run something on the emergency alert system,” a man says.
“The A-Bs would have told us,” another says, though at least he glances skyward.
“If you thought so, why didn’t you go to the shelter?” a woman asks, then sucks hard on her cigarette.
“Shelters might not be safe,” I say. “Get out of Chicago.”
I sprint back down the street, find the Prius. I hop in and floor it. A few blocks down, as I’m about to make a left turn and head west until I can’t anymore, I spot five people handcuffed to a long bike rack on the sidewalk. If not for the red suit among all the black, I probably wouldn’t have noticed them.
Old Man’s laid out, unmoving. Daughter and Granddaughter tend to him. The other two, wearing Urbana-Champaign
sweatshirts and bruises on their faces, are rattling their handcuffs. When they see me stopped in the intersection, they wave for help.
Shit.
I park the car and hurry over.
The shorter boy gives me a tremulous smile. “Wouldn’t happen to have a hacksaw with you?”
I ignore him and nod at Old Man. “Is he okay?”
“He’s unconscious,” Daughter says. “We tried to call 911, but our signal’s down.”
“Bastards went straight gangsta on his head with their bully sticks,” says the other boy. “Thought he had a knife. Dude’s rockin’ a cane. He was in freakin’ handcuffs.”
“I’m not sure if this’ll work, but I’ve got a gun,” I say, which draws worried looks from the women and impressed ones from the guys.
“A lady packin’. I like that. What dorm you at?” Shorty says.
“Quiet. Hold still.” I place the muzzle against the chain that connects his handcuffs to the bike rack.
Shorty’s smile evaporates. “On second thought, maybe I’ll wait for the scale chasers to come back.”
“This isn’t a drill,” I say. “I overheard a couple soldiers talking. Dragons are coming.”
Shorty nods several times, excited for some reason. “No wonder they were so amped. Never seen them like that about a drill. Freakin’ scale chasers.”
“K-Dawg was saying something about a cover-up,” the other boy adds. “He heard some background chatter on the military channels. . . .”
“You’re wrong,” Daughter says. “They wouldn’t leave us here.”
“Classic scale-chaser misdirection,” Shorty says. “Rumors were starting. They wanted to put a damper on it. Tied us up to prove it is a drill.”
“So they’ll come back for us, right?” Granddaughter asks, glancing at Old Man.
“For sure,” Shorty says.
“Look around you. They’re not coming back. Hold still now.”
“No, no, they’ll come back. They wouldn’t ditch out on us,” Shorty says, pushing at my leg. The others agree with him.
There’s no time to argue. I remove my cap and ruffle my hair until they can see the scar from the CENSIR.
The Other Side Page 11
