by B. C. Tweedt
Greyson gritted his teeth and blinked away his embarrassment. Again, they’d been too slow.
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Jimmie Coates waved at the last of his supporters who had lined the walkway from the stage to his vehicle. They still shouted “JIMMIE!” over and over, despite his loss; he still flashed his toothy smile and saluted them with a tip of his trademark cowboy hat, but his angry heart battered his chest.
His security contingent kept him moving, for which he was thankful, though he made a regretful face at someone begging for an autograph. The cameras flashed on both sides, police drones hovered above, and journalists shouted a jumble of unintelligible words.
He waved one more time, halfway in the SUV, before his security slammed the door. Immediately, he let loose with a tirade so loud and long that his face grew bright red, his hat flew from his head, and his uniformed sons could only stare blank-faced out the window.
When he finally ran short on breath, he shoved his hat back on and reached in the cooler for a beer, still seething. “Rigged. We’re going to fight this. Figure out what they did. It’s Raines’ fault, taking all my votes! Dumb!”
The SUV crawled away and picked up speed with police drones and a caravan of security sandwiching them in safety.
“What did you expect?” his eldest son asked after a pause. “The polls have been…”
“Shut up! Just shut up!”
His son kept a tense face, still staring out the window.
“Polls? Really Scott? You’ve seen the crowds. Did…did you expect them to be so stupid? The people – for crying out loud. Elect a friggin’ dictator. Well, if that’s what they want, I guess…”
“WATCH OUT!”
The impact was so severe it shattered the side windows and nearly toppled the SUV. Only the eldest son had seen the police drone veering straight for their side, but it had been too late. Knocked cold, his limp body hung from his seatbelt next to his father, whose beer had blasted open, soaking him. As the SUV jarred itself back onto the road, he sat stunned, the beer sloshing into his lap.
“What the…?”
And then the vehicle squealed to a stop. Jimmie heard the security personnel arguing up front as they gestured at something in front of them. Still jarred from the impact, he sat in a haze, groggily trying to see what they were looking at. When he saw the three military Quad drones with their guns trained directly at them, he only had a moment to react.
He pressed his body against his son’s, putting himself between his unconscious son and the drones just as the guns began to fire.
Chapter 66
Jarryd startled as Grover slammed his fist down with a hefty curse. “Murray, how far out is team three?”
The analyst clicked a few keys. “Ten minutes.”
“Good. Tell them we’ll brief them in the air.” Then he turned to the group gathered around him. He leaned on the crates and the maps, clenching his jaw as he thought of what to say next. Finally, he looked up, motioning at Greyson. “Orphan’s right. It is about…frickin’…time that we take the fight to the enemy. The Plurbs have been twisting their knife deeper and deeper into our thigh, and…it’s starting to tickle. Let’s do this right. Take the knife out and shove it in their bottom nostril.”
“Oh, snap!” Jarryd yelled as the soldiers shouted their agreement.
“So let’s do this right, and hand our country the remains of the traitors to do with as it likes.”
More cheers erupted as Grover shifted gears. “Forge, you and Diablo gear up and go. And you,” he said turning to Jarryd and Avery. “Let’s get you geared up. Watkins! Find their clothes. Murray, get Bartender the glove.”
Everyone in the tent jumped to motion and Jarryd lit up. “The glove? Sounds kinda cool. Do I get goggles finally, too? Like for real, it’s been a year and still no goggles.”
Greyson jogged up to him. “Want mine?”
“Nah, I’m just kidding. They wouldn’t let me wear ‘em.”
Greyson nodded, started to say something, but stopped. He let his chin drop. Jarryd knew what he was thinking. They hadn’t been able to talk about his brother yet. “I’m okay,” he said before Greyson could say anything. “I just got to do this right now. To make up for his mistake. That’s what brothers do.”
Mistake. That’s what it was.
Sydney joined them, and her somber face let Jarryd know that she had heard. But she didn’t say anything. Neither did Avery; she merely took his hand in hers. It was probably better they didn’t talk. Jarryd didn’t like the whole emotional deal – especially not talking about it. Nick had been a part of him. Every one of his brother’s flaws felt like his own.
Smiling, Greyson put a hand on his shoulder. “You got this,” he said, the gleam in his eyes confirming his confidence.
Jarryd nodded back. “And you? What will you do?”
Greyson eyed Diablo as he grabbed a duffel bag. “Not sure.”
“And you?” Avery asked Sydney.
She took ahold of her tutu. “I’m going to get changed.” But she stopped and turned back to Greyson. “Talk later? Finish what we started?”
Jarryd cocked his head, curious about what they had started. He could see Greyson blush as he replied. “Sure.”
Sydney had a blip of a smile before running off, holding her tutu up as she pranced through the snow.
“Don’t ask,” Greyson muttered to Jarryd.
“Fill me in when I get back.”
Greyson nodded, gave him a fist-bump, then jogged after Diablo.
Jarryd’s attention turned to the man with a full-length white overcoat who retrieved a pair of gloves from a small case and ran with an abnormal gait toward them. Jarryd had learned over the year-long apprenticeship under Murray that he wasn’t a runner – or much of anything involving sports. He was, though, a genius.
“These are for you,” Murray said, holding them out. “Been keeping them secret for just the right time. And now’s the time.”
Jarryd took them by the fingers and held them before his eyes, letting them spin. “O-kaaaay? What’s their secret? Lasers? Explosives? Poison gas?”
Murray smiled. “Love. Trust. And bonding.”
Jarryd stared at him. His mentor stared back.
The staring continued.
“Really?” Jarryd asked. “Don’t mess with me, Murray.”
The scientist snickered and took the gloves back, showing him their features. “Embedded in the fabric are dozens of micro-needles.” He put a glove on. “And they’re synchronized. When you press the middle finger to the thumb on the left glove, the right glove’s needles protrude out, injecting the hormone cocktail into whatever flesh it is touching, without the subject feeling a thing.”
Jarryd backed up as the man waved the glove around. “Hormone cocktail?”
“That’s correct. Oxytocin, vasopressin, et cetera. It’s designed to increase the subject’s positive social feelings toward you and decrease the negative. Distrust turns to trust, apathy to compassion, hatred to love; you got the picture.”
Jarryd was still skeptical. “So I touch someone with the needles out and they’ll love me?”
“Not exactly; but it will certainly increase the odds.”
“Say no more.” He slid them on. Then he turned to Avery. “Shall we test the love gloves?”
Avery rolled her eyes. “What do I get? Mace?”
Murray chuckled, reaching in his hair and digging while the kids cast curious glances at each other. His digging fingers eventually jerked free of his curly mess with a single bobby pin.
“Really?” Avery asked. “I already ‘ave like a billion of those…”
“Not one like this. It’s completely undetectable and contains a dose of tranquilizer strong enough to take out a moose.”
She snagged it and held it in Jarryd’s direction. “Now th‘et’s what a g’ihl needs.”
“And finally,” Murray began,
holding up two thick syringes. “Your earpieces.”
Jarryd’s mouth had dropped open. “Where do you want to put that? And who should I report you to first?”
Murray continued unfazed, “It’s graphite mesh that’ll unfold nicely once inside your ear canal, and it’ll be completely untraceable.”
A spray of mist interrupted them as another chopper descended toward the lake, hovered over the beach, and set down on a bed of hard sand. Jarryd watched as the blades powered down and helmeted soldiers jumped out. Soon, a line of refugees was pouring out. Jarryd recognized them – especially the one with Nick’s old fanny pack.
“Asher made it,” Jarryd whispered to Avery.
Avery smiled, nearly tearing up. She tried to hide it, covering her eyes and then her lips.
Feeling the moment, Jarryd extended a gloved hand, tapping it on her hip to get her attention. She began to reach out, but decided against it. “Nice try,” she whispered in his ear. “You ‘ave enough ‘ormones for the both of us.”
Murray tapped their shoulders and they turned to see the syringes. “Ready?”
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Greyson met Kit halfway across the beach and embraced him in a squirming hug full of licks and pets even as the snow fell hard around them. Asher and Drake’s squad watched from his side, the helicopter’s blades beginning to die but still pushing wind at their jackets.
“You guys okay?” Greyson asked, standing.
Asher immediately wrapped him in a hug, taking his turn. He buried his head in Greyson’s chest. “I was scared.”
Greyson rubbed the snow from his hat and patted his back. “I was, too, bud. But you’re safe now with all these soldiers.” He met eyes with Drake. “And with Drake.”
“And with you,” Asher added.
Sighing as he released the hug, Greyson motioned them toward the campground where the other refugees were headed, huddled in blankets. “You stay here and I’ll meet you when this is all done.”
“You’re not staying?”
He shook his head, looking over his shoulder at Rubicon’s helicopter where Forge had started the engines and Diablo stepped inside.
Drake stepped up. “What? Where are you going?”
“Toward the swarm.”
Drake’s eyes drew back, but shot up again. “Where?”
Greyson sighed, knowing Drake’s reaction ahead of time. “The swarm heading toward Dallas.”
Drake walked toward the helicopter, but Greyson stopped him. “You can’t,” he whispered.
“I know the city.”
“We’re not going in the city. Diablo’s going to take them out from the air.”
Drake’s chin stiffened. “If you’re going, I’m going.”
Greyson eyed the others watching their conversation. Sensing their interest, he whispered even quieter in Drake’s ear. “Your squad is here.” He looked over his shoulder at the helicopter. “Mine is there.”
Drake’s thoughts were clear in his eyes. Though there was still the passion to help, he conceded.
“What about Sydney?” Asher asked, butting in. “Did you find her?”
Greyson eyed the row of cabins, half-expecting her to be racing toward him, begging him to stay. But she wasn’t. “She’s in one of the cabins, getting changed. You can find her.” He felt a twinge of guilt, realizing he hadn’t considered her part of his squad. “Tell her goodbye for me.”
A wave of tiredness pushed him to reconsider. It had to be after midnight now, but his night was just getting started. So was Jarryd’s and Avery’s. The whole country’s. He was familiar with this feeling now, but it didn’t make it any better. He was standing on the precipice. The gravity was pulling him over, and nothing but a hurricane stood below. But he knew he had to fall. There was more to fear if he stayed than if he went. He feared getting more attached to Sydney than he already was. He feared regret – feared losing his country when he could have done something – anything – to keep it.
“I’ve got to go,” he said at last.
As the anxiety ate a hole in his stomach, he met eyes with Drake and the others. Ankeny gave him a less-intense glare than usual, Windsor managed half of his signature smile, Grimes examined the helicopter, and Drake gave him an approving nod as he put his arm around Asher. “We’ll pray for you,” Drake said, nothing in his voice giving an impression otherwise.
“Worth a shot,” he said, remembering how he’d prayed with Liam shortly before he’d died. Then, telling Kit to stay, he dashed off, racing to the helicopter and climbing to a seat inside. Diablo gave him a brief look, as if he were deciding whether to let him go, but Greyson didn’t give him a choice, buckling in. With a huff, Diablo turned away and Greyson called out. “All in and accounted for.”
He ignored Forge’s chuckle as the heli rose from the rock and sand with a crackle. The beach began to shrink underneath, and so did his friends, standing in a cluster as the frigid wind battered the falling flakes at their cheeks. They waved, but at the front of the group was Asher. He pulled one arm back and pushed the other forward, as if shooting his sling. His eyes watered as he fired.
Greyson fired back as the boy shrunk and shrunk, soon no larger than the snowflakes fluttering below. They left the sand and snow behind. The trees merged together in splotches of green, and then the clouds covered them all.
WHUP-WHUP-WHUP-WHUP-WHUP!
When the clouds became uninteresting, Greyson turned to the inside and closed his eyes. The vibrations from the hull lolled him closer and closer to sleep as his mind wandered from place to place. It reminded him of the time he was on top of the train, staring at the stars over Georgia.
He opened his eyes. The stars were out again, even more stark and beautiful without the light pollution from below. The sight was tranquil, reassuring him that he was indeed on the same planet that had once been so peaceful just years ago. It was he that had changed. Their small country, too. Not the stars.
It was helpful knowing that there was something that never changed. Or at least wouldn’t change for billions of years. It gave him a small taste of stability. But he remembered how his time on the train had come to a violent end. Plunged off the tracks by a pickup driven by Cael’s father.
He closed his eyes again as if to block out the memories. That was then, he told himself. Over a year ago – before he’d met Forge and the rest. He could relax now, with Forge as pilot and an invisible helicopter instead of a rickety train. The flight would be several hours. He should try to catch some sleep.
Taking one last glance at the stars, he shimmied into a comfortable place on the headrest and drifted off to sleep.
Part V
Chapter 67
Sometime in the future
The boy on the screen took off his red hat and wiped at his buzzed hair. The figure watching the TV hadn’t moved. He knew the video was approaching its end.
“Emory put you all in the back of the truck,” the gruff interrogator summarized. “With the bomb.”
“Yeah. Sam, Jarryd, Sydney, me, and…Liam.”
“Did you see the other candidates’ children?”
“Yeah. They were on other trucks.”
“Were you sure it was a nuclear bomb in your truck?”
The boy arched his brow. “Yeah – I mean, I think so. It was dark, but it was super big and bolted to the bottom of the truck. We tried to move it, but couldn’t.”
“So, it could have been a decoy?”
The boy hung his head in exasperation. “Sure. I don’t know. I’m not a bomb expert or whatever. But when I made it to the shore, I saw the explosion come from where our truck was going.”
“Take a step back. How’d you get to the shore?”
“I jumped off the truck, into the river.”
“Why?”
The boy seemed to glare at the interrogator beyond the camera. “To save…to try to save my friends. They’d fallen off.”
&nb
sp; “What were you doing before that happened?”
“We made our way to the roof, trying to stop the truck – trying to stop the bomb.”
“So you must have really believed it was a real nuke?”
The boy nodded. “You don’t?”
The interrogator ignored the question. “Did you see anything on the bomb? Letters, numbers, symbols…?”
He shook his head, racking his memory. “No. But I don’t get it. Who else would have nuked Des Moines? Isn’t it obvious?”
“A missile struck the vehicle. What caused the nuclear explosion is still under investigation.”
“A missile…?” the boy trailed off. “But…”
“We may never know. But as you’ve seen, it’s hard to trust anyone.”
“You think the government did it?” the boy asked with sudden resilience.
There was a pause off screen. “The government…someone using the government, or
something we haven’t seen. We are trying to figure that out.”
“Why would they do that?”
“Let’s get back on topic. You said they tortured Sam?”
“Yes. His back was bloody when he got on the truck. And then…we found out they’d written – or sliced – or whatever – words onto his back. Latin words.”
“What were they?”
“I don’t remember. But they meant ‘Out of evil comes good’.”
“Did he tell you why they wrote that?”
“No. But he said it was a message.”
“A message? For his father?”
“Yeah.”
“So Emory must have assumed the possibility that Sam’s father would get the message somehow? For Sam to survive?”
“I guess.”
