Astray (Gated Sequel)

by Amy Christine Parker

  I’m afraid he’s going to shoot me, but then I realize that he can’t. If he does, he could blow us both up. Instead he ties my feet too. Then he grabs a black military-style vest from behind one of the barrels and what looks like a clock from the far corner of the van. The clock’s connected by wires to something I can’t see. He lays it down beside him and very carefully puts the vest on, then takes a rectangular box out of one of the pockets and puts it into his pants pocket instead. Outside somewhere a band begins to play. The program is getting ready to start.

  “What’s that for?” I say just to keep him talking, to stall for time.

  He looks up at me and grins. “It’s an insurance policy.”

  It’s a bomb too, only he’s wearing it. Which means …

  “You’re going to blow yourself up?”

  “If I’m brave enough to make this sacrifice, Pioneer said that the Brethren will spare me too.” When he says it, I can see that familiar glassy, faraway expression in his eyes. He said in the barn that he didn’t believe in the Brethren, but here, now, it seems like maybe he’s changed his mind.

  He picks up the clock thing and presses a button. The numbers start to scroll backward. He set it for ten minutes. That’s all the time I have left to get out of here, and my hands and feet are tied. I’m going to die.

  “I’m going to lock you in now.” He turns and slips out of the van. “This is it,” he says more to himself than to me, and his face lights up. Then the doors shut and he’s gone.

  The clock keeps ticking down. 9:30, 9:29, 9:28 …

  Think, Lyla, think! There has to be some way to get out. I wriggle down onto the floor and put my feet up to the van wall. I pull them back and then slam them against the wall. Boom! Boom! Boom!

  Outside, the band has started playing “Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer” so loud that I’m sure no one can hear my kicks. Still I wriggle against the floor and pull my legs back to go again. Boom! Boom! Boom!

  I kick again and again, but when the clock goes under five minutes I realize that it’s no use, that I have to figure out a way to get out or I’m going to die and so are a lot of other innocent people. I need to get my hands free. Now. I lie flat on my back, panting. Think, Lyla!

  Something sharp is sticking me in the back.

  The shears. I’ve had them this whole time. I turn on my side and use my fingers to inch my shirt up so I can grab them. My fingers slip a little, but then grab hold.

  4:00, 3:59, 3:58, 3:57 …

  I inch the shears out and they drop to the floor, and I have to wriggle backward a bit to reach them. It takes more time than I’d like because I can’t see them. I can only feel around on the floor. Finally my fingers touch the steel and I almost cry out in relief.

  3:25, 3:24, 3:23 …

  I get a hand around each handle and then lie on my side, lifting my legs as close to my hands as I can. My thighs threaten to cramp as I try to open the shears—one handle in each hand—and get them positioned around the rope binding my legs together.

  2:52, 2:51, 2:50 …

  It takes two tries to position the blades around the rope and not my skin. There is a thin line of blood running down my left leg, but I bring the handles together and then apart, very slowly, each opening and closing of the shears an ordeal. My thighs cramp, but I can’t rub it out or stop, so I keep cutting even though my leg muscles are screaming.

  2:00, 1:59, 1:58, 1:57 …

  The rope breaks and I drop the shears, stretch my legs out, and uncramp.

  1:20, 1:19, 1:18, 1:17 …

  I have to do my hands now, which will be harder. I am almost out of time, and the knowledge just about derails me, but somehow I pick up the shears again and bring my legs under me until I’m kneeling. I look over my shoulder at the barrels and find a place to wedge the shears tightly. Once they’re in place, the blades spread and facing out, I run the rope around my wrists over one of them. It’s sharp and nicks my wrists and forearms every time I don’t aim exactly right. The rope is loosening, but slowly.

  1:00, 0:59, 0:58, 0:57 …

  I’m talking to myself. “Come on, come on, COME ON!”

  Outside I can hear people singing. The van reeks of gasoline. The ropes around my wrist are thin—one of them should have given way by now. I’m not going to make it. I don’t want to die like this. Not like this.

  All at once a piece of rope gives and I’m able to slip out of them. I’m free! The van doors have a latch on the inside. It opens easily and I scooch out of the van without stopping to check the clock again.

  RUN!

  I don’t say this word. It’s more like my whole body screams it. I push off of the ground and sprint away from the van, toward the grocery store, where at least a hundred people are gathered. There are kids on the risers ahead of me, preparing to sing. I recognize a familiar set of glittery braids in the second row. Jack. Down below her in the crowd, I see more familiar faces. Principal Geddy, Mrs. Ward.

  “Bomb! There’s a bomb! Get away. Get away!” I yell as loud as I’m able. It’s a real yell this time, ragged and hoarse, but loud. Mrs. Ward turns toward me, and when she sees my face and how I’m hurtling at her, her eyes go wide and she begins to yell too.

  “Bomb. Run! Everybody, now!”

  I pass Mrs. Ward and start pushing the people closest to me onto the grassy strip alongside the market, trying to get them as far away from the van as possible. I look back to see Mrs. Ward pushing Jack ahead of her, then slowing to help an older woman.

  There’s a flash of light, and then it’s like all the sound gets sucked out of the world before the boom that follows, which is so loud that I feel it shake the ground under me. A massive black cloud shoots up into the air, and then I feel a flash of fire on my skin as something slices across my side. The shockwave hits me next, and I’m thrown off my feet face-first into the grass. I look up in time to see a tire catapult past me, the rubber on fire. The grocery store’s windows shatter and pieces of debris slam into it. Smoke washes over me in a cloud and I put my hands over my head. One by one bits and pieces of debris rain down from the sky.

  I will take vengeance; I will repay those who deserve it. In due time their feet will slip. Their day of disaster will arrive and their destiny will overtake them.

  —Deuteronomy 32:35 (discovered on Pioneer’s cell walls shortly before the Winter Festival Bombing)

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  I’m still alive. The smoke begins to clear and I’m still alive. I look up at the risers, where just a few minutes ago kids were getting ready to sing. There are people lying across the parking lot in scattered groups. Some are moaning; others are very, very still. I don’t see Jack or Mrs. Ward anywhere. My side burns and I put my fingers on my sweatshirt. There’s a long gash in it and my shirt underneath. My skin is sticky, and when I touch it, it’s enough to make me hiss through my teeth. I don’t think the wound is deep, but it hurts almost as much as my throat.

  I make myself stand up and take a few steps. I don’t know where I am at first. The whole parking lot looks like a war zone. The van is nothing but a burnt-out shell and the cars that were next to it are pushed over into the grass. All of them are still on fire.

  I can just make out the white festival tents beyond the wide stretch of parking lot. Most are still intact. I can see people there too, most of them staring in this direction.

  Jonathan.

  He’s somewhere over there. They have to be his next target. I stumble forward, picking my way through the debris as fast as I can. My leg keeps vibrating, my thigh muscle twitching under my jeans … but when I put my hand over it, I realize that it’s Cody’s phone inside my pocket that’s moving. I pull it out. The screen’s all lit up. It takes me a minute to remember how to answer it. Finally I do and hold it up to my ear.

  I can’t hear anything over the ringing in my ears.

  “Cody?” I shout into the phone. “There was a bomb. Get your dad.” I don’t bother with turning off the phone, I just slip it back in
to my pocket and keep going.

  I’m not sure what I’ll do if I find Jonathan. He’s got the bomb strapped to his chest. How can I get him to stop without setting it off? There are so many people here, more than were over by the courthouse. The only thing I know to do is to get them as far away from the festival site as possible. I run up to the two women closest to me. When they turn my way, I stop in my tracks. Mrs. Dickerson.

  I take off past them before they can stop me. I look back once and they’re both still standing on the sidewalk gaping at me. It takes me a minute to understand. With my bald head and red eye and swollen face, I must look like one of Cody’s monsters come to life.

  I look around. There are still so many people. I can’t get them all out of here, not on my own. It’s hopeless. I turn in a circle, my eyes landing everywhere but focusing on nothing. Where is he?

  A siren splits the air loud enough that I can just hear it over the ringing in my ears. And then another and another until the whole sky seems to be screaming. A line of vehicles, every one of them with flashing lights, speeds down Main Street. They drive right up onto the grass between the tents and the parking lot. I watch as the people jump out and make their way to the bomb site. The entire sheriff’s department must be here, as well as all the firemen and EMTs. Thank goodness most of them weren’t at the festival earlier. If they had been, there wouldn’t be anyone to help the wounded and …

  I suck in a breath. Jonathan was waiting for them to show up. This next bomb is meant for them. I take off in their direction, silently willing my feet to move faster, but I’ve already been running too long and can barely pick my feet up anymore. I weave in and out of pockets of bystanders, yelling as I pass for them to run to the diner and away. “There’s another bomb!” I’m yelling more forcefully than before. I’m right about what Jonathan’s planning, I can feel it. I thunder past the tents. The aroma of fried food and cotton candy hangs heavily in the air, a reminder of what this day was supposed to be.

  I see the sheriff almost as soon as I get close enough to the vehicles to see people’s faces clearly. I open my mouth to shout his name, but then I realize that Jonathan could be somewhere nearby. If he realizes that I’m coming to warn them, he might set the bomb off early. I clamp my mouth shut and push forward. It feels like I’m moving through quicksand; every step is getting harder and harder. My body is slowing down.

  I practically fall into the sheriff when I finally reach him. He grabs my arms to steady me. His eyes go wide. I can tell he’s horrified by how I look. He doesn’t even seem to know it’s me at first, but then he pulls me into his arms and hugs me tight to him. I almost lose it and start to cry.

  “It’s Jonathan. He set off the bomb and he’s wearing another one. Here.” The sheriff leans over and talks into the round black thing clipped to his shoulder. It crackles. I can hear someone else’s voice coming out of it, answering him.

  “You have to go, please! There’s no time.” I pull on his arm and try to drag him away.

  I look everywhere, my eyes scanning the road and vehicles and festival tents and people. Jonathan is out there somewhere. I can feel it.

  It isn’t until he’s just a few yards away that I finally recognize his black hat and vest. My heart starts pounding. It makes me feel like even my body is on a countdown timer, beating out the last few seconds before the next explosion. Jonathan’s hand moves up toward his vest pocket.

  “He’s over there!” I shout, and the sheriff grabs his gun, wheels around, and points it at him.

  “Don’t move!” he yells as he steps in front of me, putting his body between me and Jonathan. Jonathan’s hand moves a little closer to his pocket.

  “I said, DON’T MOVE!” the sheriff hollers. His voice is loud, but his face is deadly calm.

  A dozen deputies have formed a wide arc around Jonathan, their guns trained on him. “Get back, get back,” they hiss at the festival-goers standing too close. The people scramble out of the way, running until they’re across the street. The area is slowly beginning to empty out, but Jonathan doesn’t seem to care. All of the people he wants to be close by are. He smiles just a little. For one very tense moment, everyone waits to see what he’ll do.

  “I’m the First Horseman of the Apocalypse!” he shouts.

  “You don’t want to do this,” the sheriff says.

  Jonathan cocks his head, his eyes wild. “Oh, but it’s already done.” His fingers twitch, and I flinch and get ready for the next boom.

  There are a series of bangs. Jonathan’s head snaps back. A spray of bright red dots pepper the tent just behind him. His hand straightens out but never makes it to his pocket. Then he’s crumpling, his knees giving way all at once. I wince, waiting for the bomb to go off when he hits the ground, but it doesn’t.

  Jonathan’s face is sideways on the ground. His eyes are open. I can’t shake the feeling that he’s staring right at me as he dies.

  Hmm. I wouldn’t do anything I’d feel guilty about.

  —Charles Manson

  TWENTY-NINE

  Deputies surround Jonathan’s body and begin to push people back as far as possible. At first I’m not sure why, but then I understand. The threat’s not gone. Jonathan’s still wearing a vest of explosives. Dismantling it presents a new kind of danger.

  “Dad!” Cody is running in our direction. He stops short when he notices me. Unlike everyone else, he knows who I am right away. His arms come up like he wants to wrap me in them, but he isn’t sure how to touch me without hurting me. I don’t wait for him to figure it out. I throw myself against his chest and hold on to him as tightly as I can.

  “Get Lyla out of here. Take her to the hospital. Then find your sister and your mom; they’re supposed to be here somewhere.” The sheriff pauses. I know he has to be frantic not knowing where they are. He puts a hand over his eyes. “If you find them, you call me that second.”

  Cody nods and the sheriff turns back toward the field.

  “Be careful,” I croak. My voice seems to be leaving me again, but this time because it’s so thick with so many emotions that I can’t speak past them. In a matter of months, I’ve grown to love this man and his family. “If you get hurt …”

  “I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me.” He gives me a soft smile. “Do you have any idea how brave you are?” he asks.

  I shake my head. “I’m not brave. I’ve been scared all this time.” It feels good to say it out loud. I don’t think I’ve admitted it to anyone since I left the Silo.

  “Being brave doesn’t mean you’re not afraid; it just means you’re able to act in spite of your fear,” he says. “And you do that extraordinarily well.” He pats my head, and even after he takes his hand away, I can still feel the warmth of it.

  Cody carries me down the road to his car, his arms so tight around me that I can feel his fingers pressing into my arms and legs. I feel a little silly being carried this way, like some kind of damsel in distress from one of those books he caught me looking at when we first met. But it’s also kind of nice. Strange how his arms can make me feel safer than any shelter could.

  “I stand against … these smooth tongued prophets who say, ‘This prophecy is from the Lord!’ … I did not send or appoint them, and they have no message at all for my people,” says the Lord.

  —Jeremiah 30:32

  THIRTY

  The bomb killed ten people. It doesn’t sound like a lot considering how many it could have been, but still, it’s a staggering number. And this close to Christmas, it seems all the more tragic. It’s a time for family gatherings, not funerals.

  The entire town feels like it’s blanketed in sorrow. The streets are full of people gathering together, hugging and crying and trying to figure out a way to carry on. There are stuffed animals and flower bouquets strewn along the length of the park and the grocery store parking lot, lying under strings of white Christmas lights. The town discussed taking down all the Christmas decorations, since no one felt much like celebrating it, b
ut in the end they were left up for the kids.

  It’s been exactly one week since the bombing. It’s only five o’clock but already it’s completely dark outside. We’re gathered out in the road just beyond the park, standing in front of the diner where just a week and a half ago Jack and I ate lunch. She’s with me tonight, as are Cody and his family and my dad.

  A temporary stage has been erected in the street. On it is a cluster of people, each holding a picture of one of the bombing victims. Mrs. Ward died trying to help several students get to safety. Her sister and husband stand together, each with a hand on her photo, their faces pale and sad and so, so angry. Mrs. Rosen’s husband is in the center of the group. I can barely look at him, there’s so much pain in his eyes. He holds her picture as if it’s the heaviest thing in the world.

  We stand and listen as one by one the mayor reads the victims’ names out loud. It’s overwhelming, hearing them spoken together this way. I try to memorize each name, hold it in my heart so that I never forget them. It seems like the least that I can do—that we all can do tonight. Several people walk through the crowd handing out small white candles with little paper circles around their bases. One by one people light them and pretty soon the entire street is awash in candlelight.

  There’s a light tap on my shoulder. I turn around and Will’s behind me. He’s wearing his baseball cap pulled low over his face and a scarf over his mouth. I haven’t seen him since he handed me the shears and told me to leave the trailer park. He looks at me, his eyes wide, scared. He must be afraid that I hate him now that I’ve had time to process what happened and the part he played in it—the way I was afraid that he hated me after the raid.

  “Can we talk a minute?” he whispers.

  I glance at Cody and he lets go of my hand. I follow Will to the small alleyway beside the diner.

  “I came to say that I’m sorry about everything. I wanted things to go back to the way they were so badly.” He looks up at the sky. “I don’t have a life anymore, Lyla. You were it. I just … when you were gone, I felt like I didn’t know who I was. Before the raid I was so sure about my future. I could see my whole life mapped out in front of me. And then it was all gone and nothing seemed right anymore. I kept hoping that if I followed Pioneer, if I listened to what Mr. Brown told me to do, I could get it all back … get you back. I didn’t think about anything else.” He swallows, and I can see tears rolling down his cheeks. His eyes are bright with them. “Mr. Brown and Brian … I didn’t know what they were doing with Jonathan. I didn’t even wonder until I saw what they did to you that night. What does that say about me, Lyla? If I’d just opened my eyes …”