“Easier said than done,” Galen said.
“Hey!” Lucy called, her voice carrying on the wind. “I’ll be right there!” She let them go ahead, and then Lucy turned. She slipped out of her wet shoes and held them in her hands and took a step back toward the ocean. She looked out to the horizon where the towers of Kymberlin stretched upward against the landscape, barely visible and intermittently concealed by the rising waves of the incoming tide. Like she had told Gordy, the towers seemed like an illusion. Simultaneously visible and then invisible from shore, and so removed from the world, they had been designed for docility and pseudo-contentment. She felt nothing but sadness for the people locked away inside its shiny glass houses. Cass’s window had faced the east, and so it was not even remotely visible from Lucy’s vantage point, but she stood on her tiptoes and waved all the same, flapping her arms and wishing that Cass could see her. Maybe Cass would miss her, or maybe she would move on to a new best friend, a new ally, a new purpose. Cass made her own way and never looked back. She had strength and conviction that could not be rivaled. But one thing was certain: she would land on her feet, and in her moments of idle thinking about the King family, Cass would not view their time together with regret; there would be only fondness for her onetime friends.
Cass was the only thing Lucy would miss about Kymberlin. She hoped that her friend would see her happy and healthy in the cards.
But Lucy wasn’t sure about the future of the Islands for the duration of Huck’s proposed five-hundred-year plan. Would people find contentment there? Would it become the new normal? Or would people fight for the freedom and liberties stripped from them? Lucy didn’t know, but she did know there would be more people following in their footsteps. In her heart, she knew that to be true. Whether Huck’s regime kept control for months or years or generations, there would always be a few who would rather choose uncertainty than a life locked up. All the provisions in the world could not buy serenity; the Islands were a powder keg, and Lucy could hear a small voice telling her, “There will be others. There will always be others.”
Above her, the Ferris wheel rocked and swayed. Lucy wondered how long it would be until the structure collapsed, until the cars fell from their hinges, finally succumbing to rust and deterioration. There were things Huck could destroy, and things he could rebuild. And there were other things that would remain untouched by the history growing up around it.
Lucy turned and marched toward the edge of the beach. She could still feel Kymberlin behind her, watching her, present, as always. But when she turned, she could no longer see the building that had been her home for such a short time. It had been there a moment ago, visible on the horizon, but now it was gone, enshrouded in darkness and fog. As if it had never existed at all; as if it had functioned as an illusion.
“Goodbye,” she whispered to the air and it carried her words out to sea and into the hearts of those that needed to hear it. “Goodbye,” she said again and she outstretched her hand to the sea. Her heart ached, but she knew that she had to be strong. Someone had to be strong. Then she sprinted up the sand and around the corner, and stumbled into the parking lot of the Palace Playland.
“We found a van,” Galen said, and he pointed to a single vehicle in the parking lot, parked at an angle across the empty spaces. He opened the door and peered inside. “Keys!” he shouted, and Lucy sprinted forward. Maxine was already busy situating the children inside, buckling them and finding space for their small backpacks. She climbed in after them and waited.
“You driving, Mom?” Lucy asked, but Maxine shook her head.
“I trust you,” Maxine said, and she nodded toward the driver seat.
Lucy started to climb in, but her eyes went to the piece of white paper resting in the center of the seat. She picked up the paper, a small receipt, and read it again and again. I love you. My heart is with you. To our place, it said in Grant’s handwriting.
“They made it here,” she said. “Ethan and Grant and Teddy...they made it off Kymberlin.” She held up the receipt and shook it into the air. “And I know where to go.”
Galen hopped into the passenger seat. Lucy started the engine. She flipped on the headlights, which for a brief second illuminated the entrance of the Palace Playland, casting the eeriness of the park in a yellow glow. Then she turned the wheel and pulled out, the van hitting a curb before settling on the street.
They drove in silence. Lucy looked in her rearview mirror and saw her mother cradling Harper, the two of them cuddled together with their eyes wide. They scanned the abandoned buildings of the small coastal town and turned to watch out the back window—half expecting to see Huck’s army emerge behind them. But nothing stirred. They slipped out unnoticed. Their future and their safety rested in Gordy and Blair’s hands and she had to trust that Gordy’s words were true. Only they had the power to keep Huck from following them. And she resolved right then and there to abandon her fear and embrace freedom instead. She may not have all the answers, but she had a promise. And that promise would carry her forward.
“I’m hungry,” Monroe said. “When can we eat?”
“I’m cold,” Malcolm answered.
“Shhhh,” Maxine replied. “I know, sweeties, but we’re doing the best we can right now. We’ll stop when we can. Just let Lucy drive.”
“Here,” Galen said and he reached into his backpack. He pulled up some granola bars and an apple. He handed them to the backseat. “I just brought food,” he admitted. The twins opened up the bars; the wrappers crinkled.
“Where are we going?” Galen asked a few miles later.
Lucy kept her eyes on the road, “I guess that’s the only thing I know the answer to right now,” she said. Then she reached out and took her brother’s hand. “We’re going to Ethan and Grant.” She drummed the fingers of her left hand on the steering wheel and broke out into a huge smile. “There’s a little cabin at the foot of the mountains and it overlooks this lake. It’s away from all the death…like a little bubble of peacefulness that escaped destruction. And there are places for everyone and a room with a fireplace and a piano. It’s beautiful and it’s safe.” She paused—her eyes focused straight ahead, only seeing as far as the headlight beams in front of her. Then she looked over at Galen and back in the rearview mirror. “We’re going home,” she said. “Home. Together.”
THE END
Author’s Note
The inclusion of an author’s note is sometimes an annoying little addition stuck shamelessly after the last page. So, instead of slamming the book shut/powering down the Kindle/Nook/iPhone, and pondering the final words, the reader is subjected to a self-indulgent addendum.
So, I give you permission to skip this. (Not like you need my permission, because, truly, you—the reader—have all the power.)
Many people already know the story of how Virulent came to be. A ninth grade student in a pullout class for reluctant readers was unsurprisingly reluctant to read any book I peddled in front of him. Discouraged and out of options, I promised him that I would write the book he wanted to read. Sliding a piece of paper in front of him, I had him craft a list. His list was brief. He wanted: the apocalypse, death, destruction, bad guys with backstories, zombies, and he most definitely didn’t want a sappy love story. Sorry kid about the zombies.
For a few months, I crafted what would become some of the early chapters of Virulent. It was my creative writing students who inspired me to keep plugging away. (Yes, they inspired ME! I’m beyond blessed to teach the next generation of writers.) And when one of my students took the manuscript home and came to me the next day begging for the next chapter, I knew that I had to finish the story I had started.
I had no idea when I started Virulent where the story would go. So, writing three books was out of the realm of my understanding.
There was only one thing I knew for certain: when I wrote The End, I wanted it to truly be a beginning. Let me put it this way instead: I wanted the Virulent Trilogy to
be an origins story. So many of our favorite dystopian books take place years after society has succumbed to its reformed way of life. If the trilogy had opened with that in mind, then we would have started twenty years later on Kymberlin; characters would visit the Remembering Room as part of a yearly cleansing ritual to understand why they are out on the ocean and not on land. Huck may be dead, but his legacy of a megalomaniacal reign would be evident in every corner of the Island. And perhaps a small group of children, born and raised within the glass walls of the tower, would plot an escape. Together they would want to venture to the western mountains of the Former-United-States. Whispers of a community there, a group of survivors, infiltrate their daily conversations. People born with shackles always dream of running free.
That is a different story.
Maybe I’ll write it someday. Maybe I won’t. Maybe someone else should?
Regardless, I knew that ending The Variables where I did would inspire a certain level of frustration. There are unanswered questions. My intention was to end the series when it felt like it could be the start of another great adventure. For me, that feels powerful and exciting.
In that vein, I opted out of publishing the epilogue I wrote. It didn’t work; it didn’t fit. It wasn’t where the story needed to stop—I went on too long, told too much, painted too precise a picture.
Sometimes the future of our most beloved characters is best left in the mind of the reader. You can craft for yourself what will happen to our motley cast after The End. And best of all: you won’t be wrong. I leave the next chapters to you and your imaginations. I trust you.
No matter what happens to my dear Lucy, Grant, Ethan, Darla, Teddy, and the others in the aftermath of their escape, one thing is abundantly clear. They have become intricately woven into the fabric of my life and they will still stay with me every day. I wish for them happiness and love and a life without regret. But who knows? We don’t always get what we want.
Alright, narcissistic navel-gazing over. Continue on with your day. And know that I appreciate you (yes, you; don’t be silly) more than you will ever know.
Shelbi
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I have already wasted my best ideas. An Academy Award acceptance speech…credits at the end of a movie…what else is out there to fully capture my appreciation besides a boring old acknowledgments page? I thought of recording my thank yous and uploading a video and simply providing you the link.
But I’ve been trapped in my house for four days due to a snow and ice storm in Portland and I am in dire need of an eyebrow wax and a haircut. Add that to the fact that I have not showered and I’m wearing sweatpants. There are some moments that should not be captured visually for posterity. (Don’t take that sentence to mean I’m unhappy with this current state: sweatpants make up fifty-percent of my wardrobe.)
Do you want to know the truth about writers? Do you want to pull back the curtain to the writer’s life and examine the minutia of his or her world?
It is a lonely journey. Long hours in front of a computer and inside one’s own head.
I write these acknowledgments as a way to show my appreciation for the people who dared to venture inside that crazy head. For the people who have allowed me to be a horrible friend. Do you know what a horrible friend does? A horrible friend listens to you and tries to help you solve your own problems, but the whole time is thinking about whether or not you want to hear about how her characters are trapped on this manmade island out in the Atlantic. And do you know why it’s the Atlantic and not the Pacific? Because the Atlantic has better waves that could be converted to wave energy. And do you want to hear about what I learned about wave energy?
No.
No one does.
But good friends…amazing friends…friends deserving of their name IN PRINT…listen anyway.
Good friends respond to the following frantic text messages within minutes: “HELP! I THINK I KILLED OFF THE WRONG CHARACTER! HELP! MUST REWRITE! GOING TO DIE!” They buy you bourbon and meet you at bars and pretend to love your characters as much as you do. Or, better yet, they DO love your characters as much as you do.
Good friends know that you are capable and talk you off the brink of bad decisions. They help you see your potential and encourage you to take chances when you are thinking that it’s better to take the easy way out.
And when you apologize to these friends and say, “I’m sorry I’m talking about the book so much. I’m self-aware to realize that this is not how we should be spending lunch,” instead of admitting you are right, they say it’s okay, it’s fine, and together you wax philosophical about parent/child relationships.
Real, good friends respond to long rambling Facebook posts lamenting how you’re not strong enough to be a writer and your ego is too fragile and you’re pretty sure everyone thinks you are a fraud. They remind you that you are just a paranoid idiot and there are, surprisingly/unsurprisingly, people who really like you. So, shut up.
Yes, a lonely journey indeed.
Because inside my own head at any given time are multiple narratives spinning and weaving and growing into full-fledged stories. Many other authors talk about how they don’t want to bother their friends and family with drafts and writer’s dilemmas. I guess I’m a bad friend. Because if you are my friend, I have asked you to come along this journey with me. Some of you are my beta-readers, some of you are my escape, some of you watch my kids so I can write, and some of you let me wake you up at 3 a.m. to read a new chapter. (Okay, that one is just my husband.) Some of you are just an encouragement to me always—through kind words or excitement over this crazy life I have chosen. I could not ask for a better group of people to spend my time with.
No matter what role you have had in helping this trilogy come to fruition, you are essential to its existence. And to mine.
So (here come some, but not all of, the people, if you want to skip the names and stick with the sentiment, then stop reading):
First of all: THANK YOU TO MY BROTHERS, BRYCE AND CORBIN. I got a ridiculous amount of flak for thanking them after bacon in the last book. I mean, bacon is around every day, is very delicious, and quite literally sustained me through writing The System, but I can understand the issue at its base level. Bacon vs. Brothers seems very callous, especially when I have exceptionally talented brothers. I am lucky to have shared my childhood with them. They are fantastic and I suppose if I had to choose between them and bacon, I’d choose them. (And a specific thank you to Corbin for helping me with the audiobook theme and my trailers and all that stuff that I cannot do on my own. No matter what you are working on, you drop it to help me. I’m grateful. Thank you.)
Thanks Mom and Dad and Matt and my boys; and the entire Sherman clan: It would be impossible to write three books in this timeframe without essential and dedicated support from all of you. People always say that you can’t choose your family or your in-laws, so you are stuck and you have to deal with it. Or something along those lines. Well, I feel like I won the lottery.
Elliott: I don’t know if you will remember this time of our lives with any great clarity, but watching you draw and write your own Virulent books and staying up late with me to tell me all your stories has warmed my heart more than you could possibly imagine. I hope you do grow up to be a writer, little man.
Interlude…a story:
Me: I wrote about a five-year-old boy in my book and he’s kinda like you.
Elliott: Oh. What happens to him?
Me: He gets kidnapped.
Elliott: And then what happens?
Me: And then he is rescued by some brave people.
Elliott: That’s not like me. I’m a superhero. If I were kidnapped, I would rescue myself.
I love you, kid. You are a superhero.
Ike: you were just a mention, a thought, a possibility when I started these books. And here you are now, a “getting big” three-year-old, as I finish this journey, and your little personality is such a joy to me. You are funny and brilliant
and creative. You are sly and patient and determined. Your smile slays me. You bring light to everyone with that crooked little grin. If you ever decide that you can forgo the ten bedtime songs, in specific order, every night, in order to go to sleep, then mommy can write more to save up for your braces.
Matt. No words. No gushing. Just. I love you. And I promise I’ll do a little bit of my fair share of the cleaning now. (No, I’m totally kidding. I’m sorry, mean joke. That isn’t going to happen.) I’m sorry that you had no idea when we got married ten years ago that I would turn into a slovenly mess who sat around drinking and eating pizza and spending so many hours in front of the computer that my eyes would start to twitch. You are my biggest fan and my kindest critic. And none of this is possible without you. Everyone should know that. And everyone should also thank you because you are the one who has to deal with me crying at 3am when I know that I have to revise something that already took weeks to write. You deal with that so others don’t have to. Way to take one for the team.
The Variables (Virulent Book 3) Page 44
