by A. G. Riddle
When the sun’s set, we march in darkness except for our headlamps glittering across the snow and the muddy glow of a half-moon shining down.
A hundred yards from the warehouse, I try the radio again.
Still no response, only the crunching of our footfalls as we march toward the dented building.
The exterior lights aren’t on, and there are no windows, just opaque, warped, hard-plastic walls.
The soldier leading the column throws his left arm up at a right angle, palm forward from us, fingers extended and joined. The column freezes. Brightwell holds her left hand at her waist, palm down, fingers extended and joined. Together, the soldiers lower to a knee, rifles still raised.
The soldier ahead ventures forward to a lump in the snow, where he slings his rifle on his shoulder and squats down, brushing the white powder from the pile.
It’s a woman. Brown hair. Skin ashy: gray and blue. She’s dressed in a nightgown.
He pulls at her body as the other five soldiers hold their rifles at the ready, panning left and right like lighthouses searching in the night. Grigory, Izumi, and I are fixated on the frozen woman, the beams of our headlamps a spotlight on the scene. There’s a child in her arms. Couldn’t be more than four years old. It’s horrifying. But what I see next is even worse: there’s a gunshot wound in her chest. She was running to the warehouse when she was gunned down.
I’m repulsed. Instinctively, my mind judges these people. And in the next moment, I remember what we did at the entrance to the Citadel. If our warehouse were still standing, what might other survivors think of what they saw there, of what we did? Does that make us bad people? Or just survivors? In the world that’s left, I wonder if there’s a difference anymore.
One thing is clear: the people in that warehouse are armed—and willing to kill to protect themselves and what’s inside.
Brightwell’s voice pierces the silence. “Dr. Sinclair, I recommend we divide into three forces. Civilians will hang back. My troops will form two groups that will enter the building at opposite ends.”
“It’s a good plan, Captain. But we didn’t come here to fight. Besides, we probably can’t win if it comes to it.”
I seem to be spending a lot of time lately convincing people not to fight. In this case, I wonder if it’s the right move. I cut Grigory a look. He nods at me, silently agreeing.
“Sir?” Brightwell asks.
“We’re going to knock on the front door.”
Her eyes tell me that she doesn’t like it one bit. To her credit, she simply says, “Yes, sir.”
Her soldiers fan out, two of them taking covered positions behind the lumps in the snow, rifles trained on the large roll-up door.
When we’re twenty feet from the warehouse, I call out in the night: “Hello! We’re here to help. From Camp Seven. Please open the door if you can hear me.”
Nothing. Only the sound of wind blowing across the snow, the building occasionally popping or groaning in the night.
I call out twice more; then I try the radio again. My hands are freezing; my face is too.
I nod to Brightwell. She points to a soldier next to her, who leads two other soldiers to the warehouse.
There’s a standard swinging door next to the large roll-up door. The soldiers try the handle, find it locked, and then fish a crowbar from a backpack and start prying at it. The lock doesn’t budge, but the door casing around it bends, and soon the door pops open with a squeal, revealing darkness within.
The soldiers converge on the door, Grigory, Izumi, and I following behind.
They cross the threshold, rifles raised, scanning the vast space, the beams of their headlamps raking over the pylons set in the concrete floor. Pallets are organized in rows, wrapped in milky white plastic, stacked twenty feet tall.
“Hello!” I call out, voice booming in the space. “I’m from Camp Seven. We’ve come to help. Can you hear me?”
Silence.
Brightwell cuts a glance to me and I nod.
Her team creeps forward, in a semicircle, shielding Grigory, Izumi, and me behind them.
When we reach the first row of pallets, I smile as I read the boxes: Meals, Ready-to-Eat. These are leftover supplies from the mass evacuations during the Long Winter. They’re years old, but still good. For the moment, our food problem is solved.
Carefully, the soldiers move deeper into the warehouse, boots grinding against the fine dirt on the floor. Deeper in the warehouse, I think I hear a sound, an object falling. Everyone stops to listen.
But the sound doesn’t repeat. It’s silent except for the wind raking over the building. One of the wall panels behind us creaks. That’s probably what it was.
Beyond the pallets of MREs are containers marked as holding blankets and modular plastic habitat walls. The walls were mass-produced in the months before the evacuations. The AU must have overestimated how many they needed. Or were saving some for another purpose. We might be able to use them—
A squeak punctures the silence, the sound almost like a radio being activated and quickly turned off.
The boxes beside me seem to explode open, their walls folding down as soldiers step from them, rifles pointed at us. A gun barrel presses into the side of my neck, cold and hard.
“Don’t move,” the man growls.
Brightwell’s team is still as night, guns held out, but their eyes flash back and forth, sizing up the twenty Atlantic Union soldiers surrounding us.
Suddenly, one of Brightwell’s men flinches, turning toward the soldier nearest to him. The other man steps back, rifle shaking in his hands. I can see his finger on the trigger. I could swear he’s squeezing it.
“Steady…” Brightwell says softly. “We’re all on the same team here.”
Footsteps on the concrete floor draw my attention, but no one moves their headlamp to see who it is. The shadowed figure stops thirty feet away. When he speaks, I instantly recognize the voice.
“We’ve decided to pick new teams. Post-asteroid rules, if you will.”
I thought the grid was the greatest threat to our survival. But I was wrong.
Chapter 36
Emma
The following morning, Harry is waiting for me after breakfast. “You ready to be heckled?”
I force a smile. The meeting with the adults could certainly go that way.
“I’m going to hide behind you.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
When the kids are at school, we gather the adults at the opposite corner of the bunker, far enough away that the sound won’t carry. Fowler, Harry, Min, Colonel Earls, and I stand with our backs against the wall, our audience spread out on the floor, some sitting cross-legged, others—those with leg injuries—with limbs stretched out. Some of the men stand in the back, staring skeptically.
“I know you have questions,” Fowler says. “This meeting is to answer them. But first I want you to know that we have a plan for our survival. We’re going to get out of this bunker—”
A tall man with a beard at the back yells, “When?”
“A team is currently working on a timeline—”
A woman sitting in the second row, clutching her legs to her chest: “How? Where are we going?”
Fowler holds his hands up, waiting for the commotion to die down. “You deserve answers to all these questions and more. Right now, this is what I can tell you. First of all, we have enough food in this bunker for the time being. We’ve also conducted an aerial survey of the other camps. More food will arrive shortly.”
Another bout of questions erupts.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please,” Fowler says calmly. “We’ll get to your questions. I know some of you have loved ones in the other camps. We’re making contact and collecting a census. The main thing I want you to take away from this meeting is that we have a plan. We’re executing it, and we need your help. Each and every one of us has to pitch in if it’s going to succeed. That starts now. There’s something very important we need to do in this
camp, and that’s talk with our children about what’s happened. They’re scared. They’re confused. And for those children who have lost their families, they’re very, very upset—even if they’re not showing it. Right now, teams are out searching the wreckage for items the children left behind. Toys, pictures, anything familiar that we can give them at this time. We need your help. Those of you who are able to join the search teams, please move over to the right. Those staying here, we’re going to start a seminar on how best to talk with your children about what’s happening.”
Questions fly from every corner of the audience.
“Please, please, folks. Today, we have to put the children first. Then we turn our focus to our own questions and fears. That’s the plan.”
Chapter 37
James
“We didn’t come here to fight,” I call out into the darkened warehouse. “We’re here to help.”
I count twenty AU soldiers surrounding Grigory, Izumi, and me in the aisle. We have seven soldiers and three civilians. Not good odds.
The figure takes another step towards us, footfalls echoing in the cavernous space, his voice bordering on anger.
“Ladies and gentleman, James Sinclair is here to help. Help himself, that is.”
“We can help each other.” To Captain Brightwell, I say, “Lower your weapons.”
Her eyes bulge at me.
“Do it, Captain. We didn’t come here to fight our own people.”
She clenches her teeth and slowly lowers her rifle. Her soldiers follow suit. The soldiers from Camp Four surge forward and snatch their rifles and sidearms. They also grab our radios and turn them off. We have repeaters at the trucks. They would have rebroadcast any messages from us or Camp Seven. Unfortunately, we’re now cut off.
The figure steps out of the shadow and smiles. “Now that was really stupid, James.” He shrugs. “But not surprising. After all, you’re prone to doing stupid things, aren’t you?”
Richard Chandler was once my professor, a friend, a mentor. Until he saw me as a rival to his own work. He stopped being supportive, then started undermining my work behind my back, and, when I was arrested and charged with a trumped-up crime, he was the public face leading the lynching mob of public opinion. I’m not even sure he disagreed with what I did. He probably just liked the goal: locking me away.
After I went to prison, I didn’t see him again until the briefing at NASA for the first contact mission. He was initially assigned to the Fornax, a secondary posting to the one I received. In the briefing, he once again resumed his attack on me, using the same tactics he employed in countless TV interviews before and during my trial. But two things were different then. One: I was present to defend myself. And two: this jury was composed of scientists, people with minds trained to separate fact and conjecture. They didn’t buy it. Their concern was for humanity’s survival, and Chandler was pulled from the mission, taking from him the thing he wanted most in the world, the thing that drove his crusade against me: fame. Recognition. Public celebration. Authority.
He tried to take his revenge on me after the Long Winter ended, in the arena where he fights best: TV interviews, the court of public opinion. And through a twist of fate, he’s been given one more shot at me. I just hope he’s still rational enough to see reason. That’s our only chance here.
“Richard, this is bigger than what’s between you and me. We need to work together.”
“Do we?”
“I’m serious. We came here to help.”
Chandler shakes his head, acting disgusted. “Right. You picked a warehouse full of food and water and habitat supplies and came here with a company of soldiers to help? No. I’m betting you came here because your band of survivors is slowly starving and you need something we have in this warehouse. We’ve been dealing with this for weeks. You may have seen our solution—past intruders like you are still outside in the snow.”
He motions to an army major next him. “Proceed. And check outside for any others.”
“Stop!” I yell. “I have something to offer.”
Chandler holds up a hand to the major.
“We have a way to survive. Not just this week, or next week, or for a few years. I’m talking about truly surviving. For generations.”
“Wait for it, ladies and gentleman. The big lie comes next.”
“Richard, we have a way off this planet.”
Chandler throws his head back and laughs. “That’s rich. Really. Remember who you’re talking to, James.”
“I’m not lying.”
Chandler narrows his eyes. “I think you are.”
Chapter 38
Emma
I had expected the Birthright study sessions to end after we escaped the Citadel. I’ve made no effort to keep the group together.
The members, however, have sought me out and implored me to resume the meetings. For many of us, idle time is the most agonizing. We all dread the hours after the sun sets, when we’re packed into this bunker with nothing to do but think. Everyone thinks about the same things: whether we will survive, and the people we’ve lost. The dead haunt the minds of the living. Indeed, like in the Citadel, our own minds are perhaps the greatest enemy we face in these dark times.
In the mess hall, I sit at a table at the end of the room, the forty attendees scattered across the other tables, looking down, some staring at me. There was little debate about what this session should focus on.
“Today’s topic is grief. It’s a subject The Birthright addresses at length.” I focus on the tablet in my lap. “According to The Birthright, grief is a brother to fear. It is another mechanism our minds employ to protect us.
“Fear protects us from harm. Fear motivates us to act to prevent injury to our body and minds. What does grief protect us from? Like fear, if we want to manage our grief, we must first understand it.”
I scroll to my notes in the margin and take a second to organize my thoughts.
“The Birthright asserts that grief is our mind’s way of remembering the people we’ve lost. Grief reminds us that their lives were important. Why? Perhaps it’s a method of self-preservation. Perhaps grief is our minds’ way of reminding us that our lives are important too—that we will leave a mark on the world, that we will be mourned as well.”
I pause, scanning the group. “Imagine a world without grief. A world where we instantly forget about the loved ones we lost. A world like that doesn’t feel right to me. They deserve more than to be instantly forgotten, just as each of us does.
“But grief is much more than that. It is our mind’s manifestation of our fear that our life will never be as good as it was before our loss. Grief strikes in those moments where our loss is laid bare. It overcomes us when we see a picture of the people we’ve lost. When we find something they made. When we remember a phrase they used to say. Like fear, grief can be paralyzing. But, like fear, it also motivates us. To get over our grief, we have to move on. We have to patch the holes in our life left by our loss. That is the purpose of grief. It is a pain that our mind uses to try to force us to repair our lives as best we can.
“And like fear, there’s a dark side of grief. Our mind can malfunction. It can forget when to turn off our grief. Grief, like fear, can overcome us. The Birthright says that those periods are what we must be mindful of. Like fear, we shouldn’t hide from grief. We should recognize it for what it is. Let grief run its course. Repair our lives as best we can—knowing that things will never be the same. Clinging to a life that is gone forever isn’t healthy. Time and action are the only cures for grief.”
As the group files out, it occurs to me that every single one of us has lost family and friends. They were there one day, gone the next, ripped from our lives, a deep unseen wound left in the wake.
I think the lessons from The Birthright are only half of the reason this group gathers. The other half is simply knowing that we’re not alone, that others are feeling the same thing we are, as if knowing that we’re standing together
relieves the weight bearing down on all of us.
Chapter 39
James
I’ve been on trial for my life once before.
Then, my crime was trying to save someone I loved. In that case, it was my father. I pushed the boundaries of what the human race was capable of, of what our future would look like. Those actions ran afoul of the wrong people, powerful people with a different vision of our future. I lost the trial, and they locked me away.
In truth, I didn’t fight much then. I was heartbroken by my father’s passing and felt isolated because everyone I loved had turned against me. I thought my case was hopeless. Back then, I simply didn’t have it in me to defend myself.
Here, now, standing in this darkened warehouse, snow falling outside on a ruined world, a dozen guns pointed at me, I feel like I’m once again on trial for my life. Against a group of people with a different vision for our future. One they control. The judge this time is Richard Chandler, perhaps the person who hates me most in this world.
This time, I’m going to fight. Because it’s different for me now. I have something to fight for: Allie, Emma, our child. My brother and his family. And my friends and the people who are counting on me. This time, my vision of our future is our only hope for survival. I sense that the next few moments will decide whether it becomes reality, whether I walk out of this warehouse alive and live to see it, and whether my children will grow up.
I focus my attention on the AU Army major who seems to be in charge of the troops here, a man a few years older than me, with a lined face, greying hair at his temples, and cold, hard eyes staring me down.
“Consider this, Major. We knocked on the door. We called out to you—before we came in, and after. We announced ourselves.” Carefully, slowly, I motion toward Izumi. “And we brought a doctor. Those aren’t the actions of a raiding party. That’s what people would do if they truly were here to help.”
