A Better World (The Brilliance Trilogy Book 2)

by Marcus Sakey

  Wait!

  The front doors of city hall are opening, and someone is coming out. It looks like . . . it appears to be more soldiers, dressed differently. They are carrying heavy riot shields and wearing . . . oh shit, gas masks. Several of them are pointing devices at the crowd. Some sort of weapon?

  They’re firing . . .

  2:49

  Tear gas, it turns out, is painful. Luckily clever Mama Sue was near the back of the crowd and suffered only a whiff of the stuff.

  I’ve climbed onto a planter outside an office building, and from my undignified perch I can see the gas swirling around the street. People are running in every direction, and those who fall are being trampled by the people behind them.

  A group of tough-looking fellows wearing bandanas over their faces and carrying baseball bats and tire irons are pushing back toward the building. The soldiers have locked shields and are preparing to repel them.

  Oh—oh God.

  2:53

  What started as a peaceful demonstration is becoming a bloodbath. People stagger around the streets, bleeding. Fistfights are breaking out, people are stealing jackets. A woman lies in the gutter, not moving.

  The little girl beside her is screaming, “Mommy!”

  2:57

  The crowd has blocked a police car. The officers are yelling through their speaker, telling everyone to back away.

  Now a group of men have begun to rock the car, bouncing it on its axles, each bounce going higher.

  The car just tipped onto its side. One of the officers has opened his door and is trying to crawl out—

  Oh shit, the crowd pushed the car onto its roof. The officer who was escaping is—my God, it looks like his leg was caught under the car. He’s screaming.

  Men are surrounding him, they’ll pull him free. Or—

  JESUS!

  3:02

  Chaos. Smoke rising, can’t see from where. People howling. They’ve become a mob, it’s gonr crazy here, no one actng like people, they’ve become animals, throwng rocks and bottles. There’s no aim or purpose just people falling apart, angre turning to rage.

  father is holding boy and running, boy crying, terrified.

  Woman with torn blouse, blod on her face.

  Rock shattering window in cty hall

  What was that sound?

  Not gas. That sounded like

  CHAPTER 16

  Gunfire. Not sure from where. But more than one.

  I’m scared.

  i’ll try to get out of here. So many peple, all the hate.

  How can ths be happning here?

  If I don’t make it, tell my mother I love her.

  Tell peopel about ths. Don’t let it be covred up. don’t let them—

  Ethan’s d-pad went blank.

  He jerked, blinked. He’d been staring at the screen so intently that his eyes were dry.

  He pressed the button to turn it back on—nothing. Out of juice. Funny, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually run the thing down to nothing. It felt strangely crippling, his connection to the world reduced to a useless piece of composite fabric.

  A boom like a crack of distant thunder came and went.

  The writer had said everything was happening around city hall. That was only a mile and a half away. Ethan folded the d-pad and slid it in his pocket. It was cold in the house, and his limbs were stiff. He walked to the front door, stepped onto his porch. Bleak gray skies. Thanksgiving weather, perfect if there was a fire burning and a house full of family and the smells of cooking food.

  Less perfect wearing three sweaters over an empty belly. Less perfect when columns of smoke rose in dark curls to the east. Less perfect as military helicopters hovered like hummingbirds above the downtown area.

  Strange. He’d been plugged in, reading about things that were happening just up the road. Modern living right there.

  “What was that sound?” Amy had joined him on the porch, Violet in her arms.

  “A car blowing up, I think. There’s a riot downtown.”

  “Over food?”

  “Over everything.”

  Amy nodded. One of the things he loved about his wife, she didn’t panic, didn’t go silly over bad news. She just worked the problem. He could see her doing that now, the gears of her head turning. “It’s been a week. If they were going to get food in, it should have been here by now.”

  He nodded. They stood and watched the smoke rise. Another boom sounded. Violet stirred, moaned softly, and then went back to sleep.

  Amy said, “Remember that time we were driving to California? We were in one of those boring states where nothing changes, losing our minds, and we played that game.”

  “Sure. The zombie apocalypse.” Amy had looked over at him and said, So what do we do when the dead rise? They’d spent hours talking about what to pack, where to go. How they’d want to hit a camping store, load up: water purification tablets, first aid supplies, matches, good knives, a tent, a shotgun and ammo if possible. Whether an isolated farmhouse would be ideal, or whether it would be better to steal a boat. How the key would be to act fast, to recognize that things had changed. It was a universal fantasy, a game everyone had played to while away the hours.

  “Well, it’s not zombies. But it’s time to start thinking that way.”

  He looked over at his wife, their daughter in her arms, standing on the porch of their lovely home, the first they’d owned together. A place they’d bought for Violet before she even existed, imagining her playing in the backyard, walking to school. Their little slice of the American pie.

  “Cleveland is not Manhattan,” he said, slowly. “You can’t hold a couple of bridges and tunnels and lock everyone in.”

  “Right. Before we tried the highway. Probably the first thing they closed. But they can’t watch everything all the time.”

  “They can watch the streets.”

  “Then we get off the streets. They can’t lock arms around the whole metro area.”

  “I saw helicopters,” he said. “They probably have more now. They’ll be using them to watch for people leaving.”

  “It’s a lot of space. And helicopters make noise. We pack light, drive as far as we dare, and then we walk.”

  “You know what we’re talking about, right? Abandoning everything. Becoming refugees.”

  “Better that than waiting for the riots to reach us. ‘Normal’ is gone, hon. We’re on our own.”

  He thought of the day before, the insanity of it. How a conversation had turned to violence over a few words and a book.

  Mostly he thought of Lou, lying in a halo of broken glass, a gun in his hand.

  “Let’s get packed.”

  He’d have laughed if he had the heart.

  When they’d tried to leave a couple of days ago, they had crammed the Honda to the roof. Two suitcases filled with clothing and luxuries, Violet’s travel swing, a lockbox of documents, on and on. All things that seemed necessary.

  Funny how flexible a standard “necessary” was turning out to be.

  They’d culled all the obvious stuff quickly. If they had any chance at getting out, it would be on foot, and that meant none of the plastic crap, the baby accessories that had taken over their home. No pack-and-play, no bathtub. No picture books, no monitor, no musical seahorse.

  Food. Water. His tent, musty from disuse. Winter jackets and good walking shoes and a couple of changes of clothes. Matches and a flashlight and batteries. A first aid kit. Diapers and wipes and rash cream. Sleeping bags.

  He found his old backpack in the basement, the same one he’d worn across Europe two decades before. It took three minutes to realize it was too small.

  Okay. No spare clothes, just socks. The bulk of the diapers went next. They were light, but they took up a lot of space. He kept twenty, which was maybe three days’ worth. Batteries were the opposite problem, little space but too much weight, and he swapped the big flashlight for a small Maglite and AA batteries.

  The c
anned food would last but weighed a ton. He trimmed it down to the remaining evaporated milk for Violet, the jerky, a few cans of soup, and a container of peanut butter. A can opener.

  One sleeping bag; they’d have to share, use the winter coats as blankets.

  Amy joined him as Ethan was hoisting the pack onto his back and tightening the straps. Forty pounds, maybe? A solid load, but doable. It would be better if they could both manage full packs, but one of them needed to be wearing their daughter.

  “What about Gregor?”

  “Shit.” Ethan looked at the cat, splayed out on an easy chair, oblivious. His buddy for years, lap-warmer and near-constant companion. “We can’t take him.”

  “We could try,” she said, her voice empty of conviction.

  For a moment, he considered it. Bringing the little guy, bearing him in their arms as they walked. Packing food for him.

  The key to surviving the apocalypse is to recognize that things have changed.

  Ethan knelt down beside the cat, rubbed his head. “I’m sorry, buddy. I’m afraid you’re going to have to take care of yourself for a little while.” Whenever Gregor saw birds and squirrels, the cat went nuts. He’d finally get his chance at them. Ethan stood up before emotion could paralyze him, opened the back door and the screen, and left them agape.

  “Is that everything?”

  “Almost.” Amy held up the gun.

  He looked at her, at it. Nodded. “Let’s go.”

  They threw the bags in the back of the Honda, strapped Violet into her car seat, and then got in themselves. Ethan stared out the driver’s side at the house. Normal really is gone.

  “Ethan.” Amy pointed.

  Jack Ford was walking toward them. Lou was two steps behind.

  Something cold settled in his belly. For a moment, he just stared. Then he reached over to the glove box and withdrew the pistol. He set it on his lap as he rolled the window down.

  His neighbor stared at him, a haunted look in his eyes. “You guys are leaving?”

  “No. Just going for a drive.” The lie coming awkwardly. “See if we can find some food.”

  Jack’s eyes flicked to the back of the truck; he must have seen them putting the backpack in. Lou moved up alongside, all tension and clenched muscles. Ethan’s hand on the gun felt wet.

  “Listen,” Jack said. “About yesterday.”

  “We’ve got to go.” He put the truck in reverse.

  “Wait.” Jack put a hand on the doorframe. His other hand was behind his back. Ethan tensed. Voices screamed silently in his head.

  “Here,” Jack said, and raised his other hand, revealing a small cardboard box. He held it out. “Just in case.”

  Ethan looked at him, then at Lou, the man’s face expressionless. The same face he’d seen on the other side of a gun barrel.

  Then he reached out and took the box of ammunition. “Thanks.”

  “Thank you,” Lou said. “I almost. Yesterday.”

  In the backseat, Violet let out a sudden startled cry, and all four of them jumped. Ethan said, “We’ve got to go.”

  “Good luck,” Jack said. “We’ll watch your house.”

  “Keep an eye out for my cat, would you?”

  “Sure.”

  Ethan rolled up his window and pulled away. The two men stood in his rearview mirror, and beyond them, columns of smoke rose while helicopters darted between them.

  Was I just prepared to shoot my neighbor?

  Yes. Yes, he had been.

  No more normal.

  CHAPTER 17

  On the monitor, Cleveland was burning.

  Cooper watched the president watch it. Lionel Clay’s face was drawn, his shoulders tight beneath his dress shirt. He stood like a man caught in a spotlight.

  “The situation’s getting worse.” Owen Leahy pressed a button, and the image shifted, an overhead view of a government building. Cold stone and columns, it was a gray island encircled by a sea of people, thousands of them, a mass of rough currents that formed no pattern. The secretary of defense continued, “City hall is surrounded. The national guardsmen who were already on scene have secured the building, but they’re having trouble getting reinforcements in. Cleveland PD has a riot team en route, but the mob is making it slow going.”

  “Where did the fire start?” The president spoke without looking from the screen.

  “The east side, 55th and Scoville. A tenement building, but it’s spreading fast. There are twelve square blocks burning, another twenty at risk in the next hour.”

  “Fire crews?”

  “They’re spread thin, and they’re tired. There have been multiple fires every day for the last two weeks. This is the first that’s gotten out of control. Crews are focusing on containment, with every station sending men, but the mob is—”

  “Making it slow going.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Get the mayor on the phone.”

  “We’ve been trying.” Leahy left the rest unsaid.

  “The Children of Darwin are behind this?”

  “They’re certainly involved. But there are thousands of rioters. It’s out of control.” Leahy pressed another button, and the angle shifted, zooming in.

  A camera drone, Cooper figured, unmanned and circling a mile above the scene. The video showed the front line of a pitched battle, men and women screaming at each other, whirling, spinning. A man in a leather jacket swung a baseball bat. A teenage girl, her face a bloody mess, leaned between two people pushing to get out of the fray. A white guy stood over a black man, kicking him savagely. A group rocked a car, bouncing and shoving and bouncing until it tilted up on one side, held for a moment, and toppled.

  “The whole city is like this?”

  “A lot of people are out protecting their property; others are just watching. But everything within half a mile of Public Square is a mess. Intelligence estimates there are as many as ten thousand rioters in the downtown area. And the power is still out. It will get worse when night falls.”

  “Why didn’t the mayor call in more police right away?”

  “We don’t know, sir. But at this point, even if riot squads make it to city hall, they won’t be able do much more than protect the staff. The mob is just too big.”

  “The Democrats are going to have a field day with this,” Marla Keevers said. The chief of staff had a way of turning the word Democrats into an obscenity. “You’re going to take a huge—”

  “I don’t care about politics right now, Marla. One of my cities is on fire. Is this part of a larger attack?”

  “We don’t know, sir.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s chaos down there, Mr. President.” The secretary of defense paused, then said, “Sir, it’s time to take aggressive action. We should assume that this is the first step in an attack, maybe a national one.”

  The president said nothing.

  “Sir, we need to act.”

  Clay stared at the screen.

  “Mr. President?”

  And as Nick Cooper stood beside a glowing Christmas tree in the Oval Office of the White House, watching the world begin to fall apart, he found himself thinking of something his old boss had said just before Cooper threw him off a twelve-story building.

  “Sir? What do you want us to do?”

  His one-time mentor had said, If you do this, the world will burn.

  “Mr. President?”

  The monitor had shifted back to a wide aerial view. The fire had spread, and thick smoke blotted out half the city.

  “Sir?”

  President Clay just stared at the monitor. Cooper could sense the tension in him, the fear. The man was staring like everything was a dream and if he concentrated hard enough he might wake up.

  “All right.” Owen Leahy turned to Marla Keevers. “The National Guard isn’t enough. I’m ordering all military forces to active alert, and pulling secondary divisions from overseas to reinforce positions across the country. We need to be prepared to apply overw
helming force.”

  Keevers nodded.

  “We should immediately arrest John Smith, Erik Epstein, and any other known leaders. Also, detain all tier-one abnorms who are under surveillance by the DAR—”

  “I’m all for arresting Smith,” Cooper said. “But you’re talking about thousands of people.”

  “There are protocols in place to establish regional internment camps.” Leahy turned back to Keevers. “In addition, effective immediately, we’re activating the Monitoring Oversight Initiative. We can’t wait until next summer. If we had done it when the measure passed, these cities might not be under attack. Begin with tier ones and move down the ladder. I want a tracker in the neck of every abnorm by Christmas.”

  Cooper couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Not just the content, but the fact that Leahy was making these decisions on his own. “You can’t do that.”

  “It’s already law, Mr. Cooper. We’re just moving up the timetable.”

  “No, I mean you can’t do that.” Cooper stepped forward, purposefully too close. “Unless you’re launching a coup d’état.”

  The secretary bristled. “Watch your tone.”

  “Watch your own.” He stared the man down. Knew he was being insubordinate and offensive and didn’t give a shit. Some moments a person had to stand up. “I haven’t heard the president give any of these orders.”

  “This nation needs strong leadership right now. Any more delay and things are going to get worse.”

  “I agree. But you’re not the president.” He turned to Clay. “Sir, if you think things are bad now, just wait. Rounding up citizens and activating the MOI means declaring war on our own people.”

  “We’re already at war.” Leahy gestured to the screen.

  “That’s a riot, not a war. And you can’t save America by imprisoning all the Americans.” He wanted to yell, to slap the desk, to grab them by the shoulders and shake them and make them wake up. “This will galvanize the terrorist cause. It will turn everyone against each other. This is what will lead to war.”

  Leahy said, “I’ve had enough. We appreciate your service, Mr. Cooper, but it’s no longer necessary. You can go.”