“We missed so—so much.”
I’m silent. For a moment, I stand there unsure what to do.
“I need to get some sleep.”
Wen doesn’t buy the lie.
“You need to watch this. We both do.” She pats the bed beside her. Reluctantly, I plop down next to her. She’s right, but I can’t help resenting her for forcing me to watch. I want reality to go away—to leave me alone. Cowardice comes easy, I guess. I grit my teeth, determined to face my own weakness.
“. . . tried the American spirit. It is not our tragedies and heartache that define us; it’s how we band together to build a new future.”
The Stars and Stripes fly at half-mast over a memorial set outside the Griffith Observatory overlooking Los Angeles. Cranes are erecting a new dome. Workers mill around, repairing damage to the building.
The memorial is simple—an eternal flame burns inside a silver bowl mounted on a marble pedestal. The vast mirrored surface reflects the blue sky as if the heavens have descended on Earth. Thousands of wreaths, bouquets, and assorted flowers have been laid at the base of the memorial, spreading out for dozens of yards on either side and swamping the forecourt. In the distance, a dark mark scars the heart of Los Angeles. Buildings lie in ruins. Ground zero is obvious from the way the devastation ripples out across the landscape, stretching for miles.
A reporter walks in front of the flowers, talking as the camera pans to follow him.
“We often hear it said, ‘Never forget,’ but forget what? The attack? The heartache? The hurt? The loss?”
He bends down and picks up a bunch of flowers. From their wilted appearance, they’ve been out in the sun for days. The reporter opens a card and reads.
“For Susan and Corey. Taken too soon. You are loved and dearly missed and in our hearts forever. Love, Mom and Dad.
“For me, this epitomizes the rebuilding effort. We’re not erecting bridges and schools to simply move on; we’re rebuilding the heart of America, honoring those who have fallen by remembering all that was lost.”
The view shifts to a helicopter flying in low over the ruins of the city. Rubble lines the streets, a stark contrast to the smooth paths carved into the devastation. A bulldozer clears a path through the fallen bricks like a snowplow scraping the road clear.
“We called it unthinkable, but we invented it—nuclear weapons, intercontinental ballistic missiles, artificial intelligence. We thought of it—it was our idea.”
The helicopter sets down, unloading supplies. A line of workers forms a human chain, ferrying boxes to a truck. The labels read: MEDICAL SUPPLIES, WATER, MRES, DECONTAMINATION KITS.
“Now that our fears have been realized, what’s next? Where do we go from here? What is the future we see? What are we thinking of now? Where will our next steps take us? What is thinkable and unthinkable in the postwar world?”
Boxes are stacked. Muscles flex. Sweat and grime stick to rugged hands. Soldiers grimace, fighting fatigue as they push on relentlessly. The truck moves out with the camerawoman standing on the sideboard, riding on the outside of the cab. Although she’s filming the approach to a refugee camp, her reflection is caught in the side mirror. Like the soldiers, she’s aged before her time. Her hair is swept back in a ponytail. Skin that should be soft is worn and leathery. She realizes she’s been caught on film and leans out, getting a wide shot of thousands of tents in the valley below.
“There are no guns, no grenades, no bulletproof vests. Now we’re in a fight against nature. Resettlement is underway, but almost a year after the attack, the sheer size of the dispossessed still weighs heavily on the recovery effort.”
The truck rumbles along a muddy track, weaving its way into the camp. Liz is expecting survivors to flock to get supplies, but for them, this horror has been unrelenting for months. They stand and watch, gaunt and thin. A middle-aged man wearing a torn suit several sizes too big for him smiles and waves, but the sores on his face speak of the horror he’s endured.
“Displacement camps around the country have shrunk from millions to hundreds of thousands, and now down to tens of thousands, but even so, forty thousand here, fifty thousand outside of Chicago, and another eighty thousand in Virginia require a herculean effort to service. The logistics are humbling.”
I’m shocked by the contrast. The tents are clean and tidy, neatly set in rows. Golf carts transport medical staff in crisp, sky-blue uniforms. They’re immaculately dressed, young and healthy. The survivors, though, are disheveled and anemic. They look dazed and out of place.
The phone rings. I jump. I was there, driving into the camp, and suddenly I’ve been dragged back into a hotel room in Washington, D.C. It takes me a moment to adjust.
Wen answers.
“It’s for you.”
She hands me the phone.
“Hello?”
“Liz? Is that you? Bee? Honey? It’s me.”
My hands shake.
“M-Mom?”
“Oh, Liz.”
I can hear her heart breaking on the other end of the line. I lean against the wall, sliding to the carpet. “Elizabeth. I saw you on TV. ”
“Yeah. That.”
I choke up, unable to speak.
“It’s okay, Bee. Everything will work out. You’ll see.”
Suddenly, I’m seven years old again and screaming for my mom. Tears stream down my cheeks. Blood drips from the loose skin on my knee. I’ve fallen while skating. My leg hurts. I want to grab it, to make the pain go away. It stings so bad. Mom hugs me, holding me tight and whispering in my ear, calming me down. “Breathe.”
I sniff, wiping my eyes. For a moment there, twenty years evaporated. Time unwound and Mom was comforting me again.
“Um—Where are you? Are you here in D.C.?”
“No, honey. They said it was best I waited ’til after the hearing. They said they’d fly you here.”
“They?”
“Jim McConnell and Susan—I forget her full name—from the NASA astronaut office.”
“Oh.”
My head’s spinning.
“They gave me your number. Said it was okay to call you. I haven’t interrupted anything, have I?”
“No. No, Mom. It’s fine.” Typical Mom, more concerned about others than herself. Oh, it is wonderful to talk to her in real time instead of waiting half an hour for a video reply on Mars. I’m a wreck. Wen hands me a box of tissues and I hunch my shoulder, keeping the phone to my ear as I try to wipe my nose without honking like a goose.
“Janice is pregnant.”
“Janice? Really?”
My brother married while I was on Mars. I only met Janice once—at Thanksgiving about a year before our launch. She was his girlfriend. They’d only met a month or so earlier. I’m trying to remember if I was kind or rude to her. Back then, it was easy to be the center of attention. Every family event seemed to revolve around me—being selected for Mars was kind of a big deal—making it hard to have a normal meal. In the back of my mind, I can hear one of those conversations replaying on a loop.
“So, will you have Thanksgiving turkey on Mars?”
To which I’d say, “No. No turkeys. Just chicken. And only after nine months when we cull the laying hens.”
“Who kills the chickens?”
“I don’t know. Not me. Probably McDonald. I’ll have to ask Connor.”
“Is he old?”
“Who? Connor?”
“No, McDonald. Old McDonald.”
Time for a fake laugh. Cue the canned response as I pretend I haven’t heard that one before. “No. He’s twenty-nine.”
Mom’s voice brings me back to reality.
“She’s in her first trimester. They’re moving down to Kansas City to get away from the radiation belt. They say she’s safe enough here, but you know your brother.”
I nod, not that she’d know.
“Uncle Merv is doing well. He broke his hip after a fall while out hunting. Silly old duck. Jennifer has been telling him for y
ears to slow things down.”
I spent summers at his place and loved swimming in the local lake, snapping turtles be damned. It’s soothing to hear about my relatives, a reminder that there’s life beyond this bubble.
“What about you, Mom? How are you doing?”
There’s silence for a moment. We both know what I’m referring to.
“I miss him.”
“Me too.”
My father and I were close. I was a bit of a tomboy, always playing with things in his workshop. My brother might have been the budding football star that got Dad yelling from the bleachers, but his real passion was Sunday mornings working on his old Mustang with a curious young girl who had a penchant for wearing pink only when it was most likely to get dirty. Mom would yell at him whenever I came in covered in grease. He’d just laugh it off. I think I got my love for fieldwork from him.
“Be careful, Bee.”
“I will, Mom.”
Her use of Bee is telling, as that was Dad’s nickname for the hyperactive little girl buzzing around his garage. Eliza-bee-th, I guess, but I loved the way he’d ruffle my hair when I’d get in trouble for leaving a mess on the concrete floor. Spreading tools all over the garage is one thing. Putting them away where they’re supposed to be, in the right order, is another, and one he taught me to love.
There’s a slight crackle on the line. It’s probably nothing. The telecommunications infrastructure in both Washington, D.C., and Chicago somehow survived a nuclear blast. It’s a small miracle it’s working at all, but I wonder who’s listening in. Wallace? Chalmers?
“I love you, Mom.”
We haven’t really said much, but I feel as though the conversation has come to an end. We could say more, but there’s nothing that needs to be said. Not here. Not now.
“You take care of yourself, you hear?”
I laugh. “Yes, I hear you.” Her concern melts my heart.
“Love you, Bee.”
“Bye.”
I hang up without waiting for a reply.
Wen has turned off the television. She disappeared into the bathroom a few minutes ago, no doubt to give me some privacy. Now that I’ve hung up, she returns. She smiles knowingly at me. There’s something cathartic about moms. Problems the size of Everest somehow seem smaller.
I crawl into bed as Wen turns out the light.
Earth is not the same. This doesn’t feel like the planet we left years ago. It’s different. Damaged. Whether that’s Mom, the survivors in Los Angeles, or the protestors outside the hotel, or even me, it’s clear life will never be the same for any of us. The only question is, where to next? The fallout from the attacks is more than mere radioactive dust. I find myself drifting off to sleep thinking about that documentary.
Where do we go from here?
17
Get Out!
“Liz. Liz.”
“Huh?” I roll over, opening my eyes. It’s dark outside. “What time is it?”
“Just after four.” Wen whispers, “Something’s wrong.” I sit up in bed, rubbing my eyes. The television is on, but the sound is muted. It’s the only light within the room, and although the background is dark blue, the light is blinding. There are two words on the screen.
Get out!
“What’s happening?”
Wen holds her finger to her lips and points. A dark shadow blocks the light seeping in beneath the door. As we watch, it’s dragged to one side, slowly allowing more of the hall light to creep in. My heart skips a beat as the television turns itself off.
Wen tugs on my shoulder. “We need to go.”
“What? Where?” I get up, slipping on some shorts. I push my feet into my running shoes, not taking time to tie the laces. We creep to the door. Wen pulls it open, moving slowly. The hallway is strangely silent—empty. Where are the soldiers? I peer around the edge of the doorframe. There are bloody marks on the carpet. As I watch, a pair of legs are dragged into the next room, with the door catching on the boots as the heavy metal panel tries to swing closed.
Su-shun is across the hall from us. His door cracks open.
“Go.” Wen pushes me out of the room. I dart across the corridor. Su-shun opens his door wide. I’m aghast at Wen taking the time to close our door softly. She eases it shut, slowly releasing the handle without making any noise as Su-shun and I beckon for her to hurry.
The door to the next room shuts, but someone catches the handle from inside, preventing it from slamming. Su-shun and I wave frantically at Wen. The soft crackle of a radio sounds. Boots run down the adjacent corridor. Someone is about to come around the corner. Wen rushes across, but like us, she’s struggling to pull her eyes away from the blood trails leading to the far room.
Once inside, Su-shun eases his door shut. There’s a soft click within the lock that, to my mind, sounds like gunfire.
“Not good,” Wen says.
No fucking shit.
I think that, but I don’t say it.
“Su-shun. How did you know?” He points to his television. There’s a blue screen with white writing.
Welcome to the Washington Astor:
You are under attack.
Wake Wen and Liz. This is not a drill.
Bring them to your room.
Now.
“I—” He rubs his eyes, struggling to complete a sentence. “Couldn’t sleep. I was watching basketball. There was some noise outside my room. Bumps. A scuffle. Then this on the screen.”
The television changes channels.
Your conference agenda for this morning is:
Go to room 205 in precisely 10, 9, 8
The screen turns off, plunging us into darkness. Wen continues the count, whispering, “Seven, six.”
Her pacing is impeccable. My hands are trembling. She has a slow, steady rhythm. Su-shun’s hand rests on the door handle, poised to move.
“Five, four . . .”
There are footsteps directly outside our door, along with the distinct squawk of a radio. For a moment, I wonder if someone’s about to kick in the door.
“. . . three, two . . .”
I jump at the deafening sound of shotgun blasts. A metal door falls inward across the corridor as Wen mouths, “. . . one.”
There’s shouting opposite our room.
Boots pound on the floor.
Voices yell.
“Go. Go. Go.”
“We have a breach.”
Su-shun doesn’t hesitate. I would. I do. I’m frozen. He’s already out the door and in the corridor. Wen pushes me out of the room. I’m shaking.
I’m not sure how many soldiers there are charging into our old room, but they have their backs to us. They’re wearing helmets, with several of them wearing night-vision goggles, no doubt to improve their sight, but these cut down their peripheral vision, allowing us to pass behind them unnoticed. I guess it’s a case of anticipation. They expect us to be in there, not out here, not right behind them.
They knock over furniture. Flashlights flicker across the walls and curtains. Suddenly, the television in our old room turns on, which must freak them out as much as it does me. I’m not sure what’s on the screen, but the volume is turned up, blaring at them, hitting them with a wall of sound. It distracts them long enough for us to creep by without being noticed.
The smell of gunpowder hangs in the air. There are several other soldiers in the hallway, but they’re about twenty feet away on either side. They’re kneeling, with machine guns pointing out away from us. They’re sentries, probably with orders to cover the entrances at either end of the floor. With their backs to us, they don’t pick up on our motion across the corridor.
Room 205 is diagonally opposite us.
Su-shun tries the door. Locked. He rattles the handle. I push past, manic, grabbing at the handle. Deep within the lock, there’s a click. We rush in. Wen is the last one inside. There are already voices in the corridor behind us. Yelling. Swearing. Somehow, Wen has the presence of mind to close the door slowly, easi
ng it against the jamb and gently releasing the handle.
We stand there in the darkness with our throats pounding in our chests. I swear, a drum set at a rock concert is quiet by comparison. We’re all breathing heavily, doing our best to calm down, trying to be quiet. The curtains in the room are open, allowing a ghostly light to filter in from the street.
There are another set of shotgun blasts, and several boots kicking at Su-shun’s door, which must be caught on an angle. We can hear soldiers clambering over it, rushing inside, cursing and swearing.
“Where are they? Where the fuck are they?” a male voice yells from the corridor. “I want to know where the hell they are. Can anyone tell me how the fuck a bunch of civvies can outwit us?” A boot kicks our door, and we jump, but it’s the soldier lashing out in frustration, not an attempt to break in. Regardless, it has us backing up.
My elbow knocks a lamp off the dresser and it’s all I can do to scramble and catch it before it crashes to the floor. My fingers grab at the thin lampshade, and I crouch, softening its fall and preventing it from swinging back in to hit the dresser. With trembling hands, I reset the lamp on the smooth polished wood, catching my reflection in the dresser mirror. The look in my eyes is one of terror.
“They’re here. They’re still here,” another voice says. “We’ve had eyes on for twenty-four hours. Those Chinese fuckers haven’t left. They must be on-site somewhere, along with the American.”
“Then where the fuck are they?”
“Maybe Wallace suspected an attack? Maybe he had intel and switched rooms or switched floors.”
“I want a full sweep. Turn this goddamn shithole upside down. I want those scalps.”
I’m shaking so bad I’m in danger of collapsing. I’m shivering. I feel insanely cold. It’s irrational—as though I’m standing naked in a walk-in freezer.
“Easy.” Su-shun comforts me, rubbing my shoulders.
Reentry Page 13
