In the Afterlight (Bonus Content)

by Alexandra Bracken

  The soldier was well past the point of youth; the stubble on his weathered cheeks was silver, matching the heavy brows above his pale blue eyes. He faced forward again, ignoring the uncomfortable shifting of the younger men and women to his left and right as they waited for their next order. His gaze shifted to a girl a few feet away from me. She was crying, still yelling, “Mom! Mom!” Her dark curls stuck to her wet cheeks.

  The soldier shook his head. Such a slow, simple movement. He shook his head and let the riot shield fall forward into the mud. The sound somehow cut off all others. His own automatic rifle he left on the ground as he straightened up to his full height, chest out and forward, as he dodged the hand of the dumbstruck soldier next to him who’d half-heartedly put an arm out to stop him.

  He stepped over his own shield, snapping the clips on his Kevlar vest and tugging it off. The helicopter’s light found his path and traced it as he came toward us slowly, showing that he was unarmed. He held out his hand to her, and, after a moment of hesitation, she took it and allowed him to draw her forward to drop the vest over her head. His helmet came off next, and though it was too big for her, he clipped it on anyway, adjusting the strap tight under her chin.

  The soldier picked her up and she locked her arms around his neck in complete trust. As he carried her back toward the line of soldiers, the officer in charge finally shook off his stupor enough to realize he should be shouting orders. He tried. No one, not a single one of us, listened. I heard my heart in my ears, louder and louder, and held my breath.

  Holding out an arm, he pushed his way through the soldiers that tried to close the gap he’d left in the line, until, finally, the few FBI agents still standing over the woman released her. She met the soldier halfway, tearing the girl out of his arms and into hers. It wasn’t until Liam reached up and lightly squeezed the arm I had around his neck that I realized the kids around me were moving again. The crack in the line of soldiers expanded as two kids followed the path they had taken through, three kids, four…

  The officer was shouting into the megaphone, but except for a rare few, the soldiers were lifting their riot shields out of formation and turning to the side. The kids flooded through them, the same way they’d flowed through the trees; finding the openings, gathering their courage close, and passing through them.

  Vida said something I couldn’t hear. My head was too heavy now for my neck to support, and both of them stumbled as my left leg crumpled beneath me. Liam’s hands were on my face, forcing my eyes open. It was so cold—how could I be sweating?

  I was lifted up completely, carried through the crush of families. More than one had thought to make signs with their child’s name, using those strange, unthinkable phrases like welcome home and we love you.

  When my eyes opened again, the next face I saw was Chubs’s; the word on his lips was shock. And Cate—there was Cate, her cheek bruised, tears in her eyes. She held my face between her hands and was talking to me as I was lifted off the ground.

  The red, blue, red, blue, white lights stained their skin. I knew we were running, but I couldn’t feel anything, even as I was lifted again, higher this time. Onto a soft surface. Unfamiliar faces. Lights flashing, snapping sounds, voices, Liam—

  Ambulance. Liam tried to climb into the back with me, but he was forced out as two of the assault team members were loaded on—two men, one clutching a unnaturally limp arm, the other bleeding profusely at the brow.

  “I’ll come find you!” Liam was shouting as he backed out. “We’ll find you!”

  The EMTs strapped me down, pushing me back onto the stretcher. Liam stood a few feet away and Chubs had his arms around him, trying to talk him down, hold him in place. He saw the panic surging in him clearly as I had.

  The doors slammed shut and the siren switched on.

  “—tell me your name? Can you tell me your name?” The EMT was a young woman, her expression serious as she studied me. “We have a possible transverse fracture of the right tibia. Four—five—six lacerations, ranging from four centimeters to six on the upper and lower body—look at me. Can you tell me your name? Can you speak?”

  I shook my head, tongue like stone.

  “Are you in pain?”

  I nodded.

  “Blood pressure low, rapid pulse—hypovolemic shock—can you—?” One of the men on the floor was blocking the drawer she needed to get into, but pried it open with his good arm, passing her what looked like a large sheet of tinfoil. The EMT spread it over me as another put a line in my arm and began bandaging.

  The strange blanket trapped in a little pocket of warmth. I began to tremble as the pain woke up again.

  “What happened to your leg?” I grunted as she lifted it into some kind of brace. “Can you tell me what happened to your leg?”

  “Hurts—” I choked out.

  She held my face in between her hands and I felt wild, almost unhinged, as I looked into her eyes. “You’re okay, you’re safe. We’re going to take care of you. You’re safe.”

  One of the soldiers on the floor reached up, his blood-stained hand coming to rest softly over my wrist. “You’re a good girl,” he said, “you’re a good, brave girl. You did a good job.”

  “You’re safe now,” the EMT repeated. “We’re going to take care of you.”

  The wall I’d built up against the well of pain and fear and anger finally collapsed, and I began to cry. I sobbed, the way I had in the garage of my parents’ house on that last morning before they took me, I bawled, because it was such a relief not to have to hold it in any longer, to have to pretend.

  I didn’t have to stay awake when the first pull of peaceful nothing came.

  FOR DAYS, I FELT LIKE I WAS TRAPPED INSIDE MY OWN BODY.

  There were moments, few and far between, where I could sense I was waking up, coming close to the surface of reality. Unfamiliar sounds, clicking, wheezing, beeps. Faces behind blue paper masks. Ceilings passing overhead. I had the most vivid dreams of my life, haunted by people I hadn’t seen in years. I rode in the front seat of a black van, my forehead against the glass. I saw the ocean. The trees. The sky.

  In the same way that the earth always hardens again after the rain, I felt myself solidify again, becoming a whole made of pieces. And one morning, I simply woke up.

  To a room full of sunshine.

  I blinked, body and head heavy and slow as I turned toward the source of the light. A window, the curtains framing the flowering arm of a nearby dogwood tree. The walls were painted a soothing light blue, a strange contrast to the dark gray machinery beeping and glowing around me.

  Hospital.

  I dragged myself up, meeting the resistance of the wires attached to the back of my hand with a few gentle tugs. Someone had draped a thin white sheet over me, and I had to use my left leg to kick it off in order to inspect the new, unexpected weight around the right. A plaster cast. A long, flannel pajama shirt. Beneath it, my arms were heavily bandaged, and I felt the pull of tape along my collarbone; I reached up to feel the gauze padding.

  I let myself relax, listening just for a moment to the sound of the street below, the stream of voices on the other side of the wall. Some part of me knew that I should be afraid, but I was too exhausted to try. When I couldn’t stand the sour, dry feeling of my mouth and throat any longer, I reached for the water glass on the stand nearby and downed it in one go, nearly knocking over a small vase of flowers.

  There were crutches leaning against the opposite wall, under a TV mounted from the ceiling. But the moment I started to swing my feet over the side of the bed, the door cracked open.

  I don’t know who was more surprised—me, or the petite, steel-haired woman who stepped inside with a small tray of food. Green eyes widened.

  “You’re awake!” She shut the door quickly behind her, then turned back to me, absolutely glowing.

  I stared at her, devouring the sight. She mistook my silence for distress—or confusion, I thought—because she quickly set the tray down and d
ragged a nearby chair over. “Do you know who I am?”

  The word burst out of me. “Grams.”

  She grinned, taking my hand and holding it between her soft, paper-thin skin. For a long time, we did nothing but study each other. Her face was softer now, and she’d let her dark hair lighten completely. But there was this look of mischief in her eyes that was so uniquely hers, I felt myself choke up at the sight.

  “You’ve seen some trouble, haven’t you?”

  I nodded and she leaned over and kissed my forehead.

  “You’re here,” I repeated, somehow dumbfounded by this. “You found me.”

  “Little girl, after they took you, we never stopped looking for you. The moment they released the list of children and the location of the camp, we were in the car speeding straight for you. It took us hours to find out which hospital you were in. You had quite the crowd guarding you, they almost didn’t let me and your folks in.”

  I shook my head, unable to process this. “They don’t remember me.”

  “No, they don’t. It’s very odd, but they…how do I say it? They can’t drum up the details, but you’ve always been there. Deep down. Not here,” she said, tapping her forehead. She moved her hand down to cover her chest. “Here.”

  I almost couldn’t get the words out. “Do you know what I am?”

  “Well, for starters, you’re my darling, precious girl, who can do something a little peculiar with her mind,” she said, her soft Southern accent stronger than ever. “You also seem to be somewhat of a media darling.”

  I sat back at that, suspicion working a slow path through my mind.

  Grams held up a finger, walking over to retrieve a newspaper from a purse I hadn’t noticed by the door. “It’s been a feeding frenzy outside of the hospital for days. You have two armed guards posted outside of your room at all times, a whole wing to yourself, and still a vulture tried to sneak in and take a photo of you.”

  The New York Times had run with the news of the camp hit and the subsequent fallout. I spread the newspaper out over my lap, apprehension already cutting through my hard-won calm. In the time I’d been gone, Alice’s original idea for an information package had changed, blossoming into the complete story of what had happened in Los Angeles, and at the Ranch. It was pages of her photographs of us, all of us—planning, playing, working. The road code. She’d written about why the deceptions had been necessary, and what editors and media bosses had worked with us to cover up the truth until the Thurmond camp hit began. There was a long profile of Cole, his face grinning up at me in black and white.

  And then there was the piece about me. While she hadn’t gone into any details about my abilities, Alice had deprived readers of pretty much nothing else. I was at the edge of many of her photos, just out of frame, face hidden by shadows or hair. The others—Cate, especially—must have filled her in on how I’d escaped Thurmond in the first place, what my life had been like on the run and with the League, and then, how I’d been willing to go back to the camp to help them. The paper had run photos of me being carried to the ambulance, but Liam’s face was out of the shot. It might as well have been a completely different person because I didn’t recognize that small, pale girl at all.

  I shrank back against the pillow, feeling exposed under Grams’s watchful eye.

  “There’s more, if you’d like to read it,” she said, taking the paper away.

  “Not now,” I said. “Has anyone else…”

  “Hmm?” Grams walked the paper back across the room and took up her tray of hospital food again, settling it over me. “Has anyone else, what?”

  “Been by,” I mumbled. “To visit.”

  Grams gave me a knowing smile. “A charming young woman with a mouth that could give a sailor a heart attack? A sweet little one who brought you flowers? The one who spent half a day chasing doctors and nurses around, demanding answers about your condition? Or, by any chance, are you referring to a very well-mannered Southern boy?”

  “All of them,” I whispered. “Are they here?”

  “Not at the moment,” Grams said. “They had to go back to the hotel—everyone’s in Charleston for this fancy press conference. But they were here, and they asked me to give you this for when you woke up, so you’d know how to find them.”

  Grams handed me a folded piece of paper. Hotel stationery, as it turned out, with a telephone number scrawled across it. Call as soon as you can. Liam’s handwriting.

  “I missed you very much, darling girl,” Grams said softly. “One day, I hope you’ll talk to me about what’s happened to you. I don’t want to read about it; I’d much rather hear it from you.”

  “I missed you too,” I whispered. “So, so much. I wanted to find you.”

  She smoothed the hair back from my face. “Do you want to see them now?”

  I didn’t need any clarification about who them meant.

  “Do they…” I swallowed. “Do they want to see me?”

  “Oh, yes,” Grams said. “As long as it’s all right with you.”

  After a moment, I nodded. When she left the room, I balanced my tray on the small table. My heart was hammering in my chest the moment I heard their footsteps.

  The last time, I thought, this is the last time I’ll do this.…

  Grams appeared first, stepping aside to let a slight, frail woman in, followed closely by a salt-and-pepper-haired man.

  It was remarkable how little I remembered about what they really looked like. Maybe the years had done damage to them the way they had to me, thinning them out, running them back and forth over life’s sharp edges. It was so odd to see the shape of my nose on another person’s face. My eyes. My mouth. The dimple on my chin. He wore a polo shirt tucked into slacks, she wore a dress, and I had the strange thought that they had dressed up to see me.

  I wished it didn’t feel so painfully uncomfortable, but I could see it in their faces. They looked at me, and all they remembered was the morning I’d been taken away, when they’d forced me out of the house in their confusion. The years stood between us, empty, aching.

  So I started with the sweetness. A camping trip we had taken a very, very long time ago in the Blue Ridge Mountains; the hike down through the autumn trees, just beginning to change their colors. The air had been crisp and clear, the rolling mountains only a few shades darker than the endless blue sky above. We’d slept together, the three of us, in this little pocket of warmth in our tent, fishing for our food. I’d watched, amazed, as Dad had started the campfire.

  The knotted memories released with only the slightest touch, as if they’d already begun to unravel on their own. I pulled back from each of their minds in turn, barely able to control my own feelings without the sudden flood of theirs.

  “Someone please say something,” Grams said, exasperated.

  But I didn’t need to say a word. I only needed to let them hold me as they cried.

  I’ve heard some people say life can change in a day, completely flipping you feet over head. But they’re wrong. Life doesn’t need a day to change.

  It needs three.

  Three days for parachutes to start falling from the sky, bringing packages and soldiers in blue United Nations berets into the cities that needed them most.

  For a small coalition of foreign leaders to step foot on American soil for the first time in seven years.

  For Senator Cruz’s story to be released, and for her to be chosen to oversee the entire country’s restoration process.

  For the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff to resign, shrugging off the shame and collecting his pension.

  For the Armed Forces to issue new orders, and to then realize the men and women who’d left their postings were never coming back.

  For the President of the United States of America to disappear off the face of the earth.

  For the United Nations to divide the country up into four peacekeeping zones, each overseen by a former senator of that region and a foreign power, and send in troops to oversee
the policing.

  For the first of nearly a hundred water riots to occur.

  For Leda Corp to issue a statement denying their involvement in Agent Ambrosia, but oh-so-generously offering to supply a chemical they claimed could neutralize it.

  I read about it in the papers my parents brought in. Watched it on the news. Absorbed this new reality. And that night, when visiting hours were over and two kind-but-firm nurses led my family away, I reached over for the phone on the wall. The painkillers they’d given me were making me drowsy, but I didn’t want to sleep without hearing his voice. Without making sure they were all okay.

  I dialed the number and lay back down, the phone cradled between my ear and shoulder. I spun the curling phone cord around my fingers, waiting as it rang…and rang…and rang. And rang.

  They’re probably out. Doing…something. I tried not to let myself deflate as I started to reach over to hang the phone back up. I could try again in the morning.

  “Hello?” The voice burst through the connection, breathless. “Hello?”

  I drew the phone back and smiled as I whispered, “Hi.”

  Liam let out a soft breath. “It’s so good to hear your voice. How are you feeling?”

  “Better now.”

  “I’m so sorry we couldn’t stay. Senator Cruz asked us to come back to the hotel—there’s been—it’s no excuse, but it’s been busy. Both Chubs and Vi said that you’d be mad at us if we didn’t go.”

  “They were right.” I settled back down on my side. “What’s been going on? Grams said something about a press conference?”

  “Yeah, for the plan. The big plan. It’s been a parade of faces coming in and out—oh, God, and get this. We have a representative in the deliberations.”

  “Who?” I asked. If it wasn’t Liam, then…who?

  “Guess who opened his big Chubsie mouth and started, in glorious detail, outlining every single thing he thought Senator Cruz should be doing the other night at dinner? It was a magnificent rant.”