by B. C. Tweedt
But she was stubborn. Embarrassed.
“Just…caught up to me,” she said, explaining herself.
Avery nodded, rubbing her back. “No doubt. It’s been a long day. The longest. We need to get some sleep. All of us.”
Agreeing, Sydney wiped her nose and hugged Avery. “Thank you.”
“Of course.”
They began to walk away when Beep cleared her throat. They stopped, looked at her. “What?”
Beep’s eyes were full of vigor. “Nuh-uh. I know I’m an outsider or whatever, but that’s not how we do it. If there’s something wrong with one of us, we figure it out. Be honest. Free the truth. Let it all out!” She lifted her arms in the air like she had landed a gymnast’s triple flip.
But Sydney and Avery just stared.
Beep saw their confusion and dropped her arms. “Look. Confess. You’re mad for him. Crazy. In love.”
Sydney’s mouth dropped. Avery held in a laugh.
“We can’t help you if you don’t admit it,” Beep continued.
It was an awkward pause. The cold bit at her skin and she still shivered.
“Beep – it’s cold, and I’m tired. I’m just going to go to bed and…”
“No! Friends don’t let friends hide things from each other. Admit it and then we go inside.”
She shivered, the vapor coming from her mouth escaping into the darkness. How could she admit it if she didn’t know what to admit? Sure, she loved him – but wasn’t it more like she would love a brother? What was the difference between that and being ‘in love’? The whole romantic thing. Wanting to kiss him or something. There were times that she thought about him in a romantic way. She felt guilty about it, but it was easy to slip into it again. She just wanted to be with him – that’s what it was. Whether it was going on an adventure or cuddling.
Gosh it’s cold.
“Fine,” she said, frustrated. “I might…think he’s pretty cool.”
Beep smiled with a squeak, rushing toward her with a hug.
“There. Is that good? Can I go to bed now?”
“Uh, no. Friends don’t let friends go to bed without talking about crushes.”
As Beep led them away, light on the balls of her feet, Sydney couldn’t help but smile. She’d missed having a real friend. Even if they were annoying.
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Chase followed his mother who followed the long train of evacuees progressing through the stadium tunnel. He had often dreamed of walking this tunnel, but in a much different context. Instead of football pads, he wore only a backpack – full of the belongings they had gathered from their car before following the military’s evacuation route. Instead of the roar of fans at the tunnel’s lighted end, he heard the commotion of thousands of people making their homes on military cots. And instead of a game to look forward to, he was looking forward to vengeance.
He wasn’t the only one. Guns were rampant. Even ones with clips and scopes that the government had declared illegal long ago. Texans were known for their love of guns, and it seemed they had lived up to the stereotype, choosing to bring their guns with them to the evac zone. The National Guardsmen were looking the other way and Chase couldn’t help but wonder if they would soon be soldiers of the ARC.
A Guardsmen waved them forward, his face resigned to stoicism.
They entered the stadium and were overwhelmed at once. They were at the center of a giant bowl of seats, many of which were filling with evacuees. Someone had already made a sign for the benefit of the media. A white sheet hung from a balcony, painted with the words:
Remember the Alamo? We did. Remember Dallas? We will.
#YouMessed #ARC #PrayforDallas
Chase gave an agreeing nod, but turned his attention to the field, where most of the activity was centered around the rows of cots, the medical tents, and the line of people snaking around security barriers.
Soldiers barked out directions, fighting for order. There were medics and policemen, too, but many of those helping weren’t wearing uniforms. A young man was unfolding cots, a middle-aged woman still wearing her school teacher ID was gathering children, and many others were asking how to help. It had been the same along the route. Hundreds had offered their homes in the hashtag #EvacDallas; a picture was going viral of a ranch-hand guiding a group of evacuees through traffic riding a dozen horses; and those on his bus had prayed for the city, their families, and all the heroes rushing to help the victims. It was moving.
After seeing many of the recent attacks from afar, being in the middle of one put a fresh perspective in Chase’s heart. Attentions had been diverted to what was most important in an instant, and the best of people came out in the midst of tragedy. They were a resilient people.
Chase grabbed his mother’s hand, following her to the line for new arrivals. Both of them began looking for Grandma Andrea, his brother Jamison and sister Addie, but he doubted they would have left their home.
His mother turned to him as if she had heard something. Soon after, he heard it, too. There was a loud hum and an equal quieting of voices. It didn’t take long for those around them to quiet as well. They had heard it, too.
And then the hum became clear, vibrant. It was a swelling song, growing in volume until it filled the entire stadium. A wave of understanding passed over the whole crowd.
It was the national anthem.
The man stopped unfolding cots. The teacher helped the children put their hands over their hearts. And the soldiers didn’t bark any more orders.
The reverence of the song enthralled and gripped their hearts, bringing tears to his mother’s eyes.
But Chase couldn’t bring himself to sing it. And he wasn’t alone. The man next to him had a jaw latched tight. They shared a look.
“Chase…” his mother chided through her teeth, glancing at the flag hanging among other banners.
He stared at her, clenching his jaw as tight as the other man did.
“We’re American,” she whispered. “Always will be.”
She joined in the song, tears still in her glassy eyes. Though he hesitated, he had always done his best to obey his mother. With hesitation, he sung the final words.
“O’er the la-and of the free-ee, and the ho-ome of the bra-ave.”
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Jarryd had watched the girls retreat to the cabins. The boys shuffled, contemplating leaving as well, but Jarryd was comfortable where he was. Watching and listening to the commotion in the tent was intriguing, and it felt odd to leave when everything important was going on where they were. The whole country was spinning, and they were sitting in one of the hubs. Since many of the monitors were now streaming news networks, it was a guilty pleasure knowing that he had played a part in the drones’ sudden destruction.
If only they had stopped them sooner.
Videos played of Dallas, smoldering craters where FEMA camps once were, and old images of Jimmie Coates and his sons. And everywhere the videos played, the header accompanying them spoke of the evil Pluribus had done. No networks blamed the government. None had fallen for it.
Maybe no one had believed Emory’s threat. Or maybe the government had gotten to all the news companies. Nick had often talked about that. And Nick had often been right – no, he had always been right. He was the smart one, the wise one. But how could he have done what he had done? Had he been right again?
A stabbing reminder of Nick’s betrayal prompted him to sit up, seeking a distraction. He eyed the other guys. “So-oooo, dudes. Let’s talk like men. How do I get from a six-pack to an eight-pack?”
Windsor elbowed him. “It’s not all dudes,” he whispered.
Jarryd scanned their faces and took a double-take at Ankeny. “Oh. You just kinda…blended in there.”
Ankeny’s lip curled.
“How’s it hangin’?”
Ankeny rolled her eyes. “You want an answer?”
Jar
ryd drew back. “To what?”
“The eight-pack. Give up your donuts. Lose your muffin top.”
“Oh. Ha ha. Avery happens to like muffin tops.”
Drake interjected. “Jarryd, Ankeny knows her stuff.”
Windsor leaned in and whispered. “She has the pack to prove it.”
Intimidated, Jarryd avoided eye contact with the girl. He settled instead on the monitors.
“Avery only likes the tops of muffins?” Grimes asked, genuinely confused. “Does anyone have one I can give to her?”
The other guys snickered until Jarryd butted in. “Why would you give her one?”
“As a gift. It’s often interpreted as a sign of affection. She can be my girlfriend and I’ll be her boyfriend.”
“Uh…what?”
“I want her as my girlfriend. With my brain and her beauty, our offspring will serve to advance humanity.”
Jarryd’s mouth dropped to his chin.
Before Jarryd could resort to violence, Drake jumped up, pulling Grimes with him. “We better get some rest if we can, lady and gents,” Drake said. “So we can help out better tomorrow.”
The others agreed in silence, yawning and stretching as they maneuvered toward the cabins. When he saw Jarryd was staying, Drake lingered. “You’re a good man, Jarryd,” he whispered, knuckling his shoulder. “I think Avery sees it.” With that, he flashed his braces and strode into the dark with his guitar and his friends.
Jarryd lingered, curling into a blanket with a confused smile on his face. For a tool, Drake wasn’t bad. As he contemplated Drake’s remarks, searching for sarcasm, his eyes caught one of the monitors replaying the swarm’s attack on Dallas. It was a shaky phone video taken from the ground. Whoever was holding the camera was zooming in on the anti-aircraft vehicles as the swarm passed over them. “Shoot!” the man yelled, over and over. But a soldier pushed him away, knocking the phone from his hands. The header read “Defense Down? Military fails to defend.”
A minute later, the screen was nothing but static. One of the computer operators worked with the monitor, checking other channels – but only one was down. Jarryd heard the soldiers murmuring. The government had shut it down. Silenced them when they had gone off narrative.
The cold made Jarryd pull the blanket closer, staring at the static.
The frenzy of black and white dots was a sullen reminder that they hadn’t won. The momentary joy they had experienced destroying the drones had only been a speed bump to their enemies’ plans. But who exactly were their enemies? After everything, Jarryd was still confused. The Plurbs were definitely bad, and so was StoneWater, but the government was too, now. They’d tried to kill Greyson. They had taken away many of their freedoms and let the drones attack Dallas. And according to Rubicon, deep in the tangled roots of it all was some evil organization that wanted war.
But, if the Plurbs and the government were both bad, was the ARC good? Is that the side Nick had chosen? Or had he gone with the Plurbs?
Jarryd shook his head. He supposed it all came down to that – choosing sides. Nick had chosen his. What side am I on?
Rubicon? Did they even count as a side? They were more like the unfortunate referee stuck between two brawling teams, getting clobbered by both sides. They had no home, no flag, no uniforms. But, he supposed, they had each other, and they had a clear objective. Peace.
So, Jarryd, reasoned, they did have an enemy. It was war.
And it was upon them.
Chapter 83
Three days later…
The grand church could seat a thousand. Three thousand attended the Coates’ funeral, including dozens of Congressman, dignitaries, CEOs, and the President-Elect – Joshua Reckhemmer. Those who couldn’t fit in the church lined a winding entrance to the road and into the town. Night had fallen when the funeral was finished, leaving only the blue gleam of the moon to light the black-clothed attendees as they carried three American flag-draped caskets to the hearse.
A choir stood at the exit, music sheets in their gloved hands, the vapor from their breath hanging close to their tearing eyes. Camera crews hid under black cloth. Security rounded the perimeter. But there were no drones.
And there wasn’t a sound as candles were passed out and everyone found a place alongside the hearse’s route. Among them was a girl in a black mourning veil, her candle held at her front, unlit, as she found a place next to a sharply dressed boy with a swoop of hair above his big, sad eyes. His name was Matthew Raines.
For several minutes, they waited in silence, the wind whishing and whooshing in the trees, the sniffs of noses and stifled sobs a reminder that there were indeed humans among the robotic mourners. Matthew stared blankly ahead, his mind on some distant worry one moment, then a present one the next.
DONG!
The bell’s deep vibrato made him gasp awake, the sound echoing in the night from the church’s bell tower. It thumped his ribs and shook in his ears.
DONG!
Again, resonating along the path. Matthew held his candle; the man next to him elbowed him and offered his lit candle. He thought of his mother in prison as his wick lit; he passed on the flame.
DONG!
The beacons of light flickered further and further down the path with each bell toll. It was surreal. As if they were all held captive by the sound. They dared not stray from the line or let their light blow out. This was a solemn moment, and reverence was demanded.
DONG!
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Sydney was thankful for Drake’s strumming and singing. Even if his playing and his voice had been poor, it would still be a welcome distraction. And even if he hadn’t been kind of cute, with his big, bracey smile and radar ears, she still would have watched him rather than the sky. But sooner than she would have liked, he stopped his strumming, smiling instead at something that distracted him in the air.
She heard Rubicon’s new aircraft landing on the other side of the lake and saw its lights bathing the mountain as it spun, but she didn’t look. She turned her eyes to the water and skipped another rock across its glassy surface. He was here. She knew he was back, but something else kept her on the rock. She also knew he was leaving.
Drake swiveled his smile to Sydney, but she could only return half of what he gave her.
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The pain was almost too much for Orion to bear. He was near passing out when another rush of morphine kicked in, flowing through the tube to a vein the doctors had found unburned. The numbing relief made him want to cry, but his father was still inspecting him. The pain from disappointing him could not be soothed by morphine.
“Dad…” he muttered, finding his freakish voice altered again – disjointed, dying.
His father, Emory, leaned closer. There was no compassion in his eyes – there rarely was. Just calculation. Orion could tell; his father was thinking, evaluating his son’s usefulness. Perhaps he was regretting taking him from the streets, adopting him, training him, keeping him by his side.
Emory’s eyes softened. “No more excuses. Get your revenge.”
He showed him his tablet. The remote alarm had gone off.
Orion’s heart monitor leaped with beeps. Surprise, confusion, elation – all at once.
Then Emory whispered. “The next time I see you, he’s dead – or you’re dead.”
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The hearses passed by. All three. Crawling. Giving each and every person a chance to see them. Ponder. Meditate on the loss. Not just of the three. Thousands. Counting the camps, tens of thousands. If the candles stretching for a mile each stood for a life lost, it would need to stretch for five more miles to come close. It had been made clear that this funeral was not just for the Coates’. It was for all the Americans who had been murdered by their own government’s machines.
There was anger in the crowd. Righteous anger, bubbling under the sad surface. It showed on p
eople’s faces. It was amplified with the sound of the hearses’ tires, weighed down by the bodies inside. And then it was displayed, with their tiny act of rebellion.
Flags. The kind like coarse paper glued to a chopstick. They emerged from pockets, purses. Were handed out by those in trench coats. And they were held by the ranks, nearly filling the route on each flank.
But they weren’t American flags.
It was a white flag with a red arch. Below the arch were the blue stars. Only three, but there was space for more.
Matthew didn’t have a flag. Even if he had, he would have been too scared to wave it. He was even uncomfortable being close to those who did. Instead, he stared through his candle’s light, seeing its reflection in the passing tinted windows. In the reflection, he also saw the hooded girl next to him begin to move.
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Nick stood before the rusted prison bars, holding back his tears. Nearly gagging on the words he meant to come out, he stood up a little straighter, counting on his silver epaulettes to convince the guards to do as he said. “O-open up! Let them out!”
The two guards with AKs wavered, giving each other looks. The nearest one, a squinty one with a mullet took a step toward him, leaning forward.
But Nick held his ground as the prisoners blinked and wiped their eyes.
“I-is that you?” came the woman’s voice.
It was her. Beneath the mud and tangled hair.
It had been worth it. Everything.
Nick gagged again, but turned to the mulleted guard, shoving the papers in his chest. “Let them out, or you’ll take their place!”
The guard glanced at the papers and shoved them in the other guard’s chest as he fished out the key, unlocking the prison doors. “You’re gaggin’ already. I wouldn’t get too close, I were you.”
The prisoners stood up. His adopted brother Sammy, with barely a piece of flesh without mud on it. Sydney’s parents.
