The Last Everything

by Frank Kennedy

These must be our final words to you. If you are listening, then you are minutes away from the end of your life. We know how confusing these recent events must be for your young and undeveloped mind.

  We believe each human being is born into this universe with a unique purpose built into his genes. The struggle of each man and woman is to uncover this biological purpose and strive with all his might to fulfill it before he dies. In this sense, you have lived a brief but successful life. Through your death, the fates of millions to come will be ensured for centuries. Few humans have been granted such a remarkable gift.

  However, we believe you have been denied one essential opportunity: The chance to know the very world into which you were born, and the one your actions will help to create. We have embedded a visual tour of Earth and her colonies inside the Mentor’s program. She will play it for you as you go to your rest. The last images you see before you die will be of the three of us on the day you were born.

  With Fondest Regards,

  Mother

  Father

  45

  J AMIE HELD THE AK-47 ahead of his body the way Sammie showed him, his finger poised against the trigger. He felt naked and alone, but he refused to die without meaning. He was going to give his friends enough time to escape. He realized a bullet could shatter his skull in less than the blink of an eye, but the thought didn’t terrify him. If death came, he wanted it to be swift and merciless.

  He did as Sammie advised and raced to the fattest tree he saw, steadying himself with deep, measured breaths. If the enemy was close by, they come from the north, so Jamie knew focused on a path west. Morning light struggled to cut through the canopy, and the spaces between the trees seemed dark and foreboding. All he could imagine to do was run.

  And then, the Earth tilted.

  The sunlight disappeared altogether, but the forest floor of thickly-packed leaves and fallen, rotting branches glowed. He viewed the forest as through a fisheye, seeing only the carpet on which he must run, with all else dissolved into darkness. Some fallen leaves fluttered in a breeze that did not exist. Jamie sensed himself losing touch with reality, fading into a realm where he was no longer in charge.

  He tightened his grip on the weapon, which no longer felt awkward in his hands, and sprinted. He did not hear the leaves crunching beneath him, and he barely felt the low twigs that snapped against his bare chest as he plowed deep into the forest all but blind. When he reached a slope that would carry him south toward the hunting road and further into the grip of hopelessness, he heard footsteps close behind.

  The first machine-gun blasts zinged over his head, one bullet ricocheting off a pine tree dead ahead. The terrain became rugged, with deep gashes in the earth caused by runoff and a pair of fallen trees slowing his escape. He leaped across the second, moss-blanketed tree, ducked down just as additional shots were fired, and rolled up behind the giant log. Only then did he sense blood and realized a bullet grazed him.

  The crunching of leaves underfoot exposed his pursuers’ positions. Jamie heard them splitting up, coming around to attack him from either side. Jamie looked over his shoulder to what should have been his path of escape. The darkness brought the forest in upon him, as if confining him in a closet. Yet Jamie saw a possibility, perhaps no more than thirty feet away. The land stopped there, falling. His ears honed in on a trickle of water beyond the ledge.

  The contours of the rifle felt natural and inviting against his grip, a familiar energy sweeping his blood as if he grew another appendage. He recalled the power that enabled him to pull the trigger twice before. He reached into the hidden place in his heart that used to tempt him toward things he knew were wrong – the place he usually resisted, keeping him from becoming everything he despised. This time he surrendered.

  Out of the shadows, Jamie saw a fog rising, the vague and lazy haze coalescing into clear, discernible figures. In his mind’s eye, he saw numbers, letters, fractions and functions. They vanished in an instant, but he knew what they were. They were beautiful, and they were terrifying. Even if he didn’t understand the vast algorithms of the Jewel, Jamie knew what they equaled. The Jewel was alive and defending itself.

  Jamie jumped to his feet, swung about in fury, and raised the weapon. He used only his ears. He heard the snap of a single twig.

  He held the weapon steady as he fired, the report a series of gentle pops, as if muffled by a brain that didn’t want to know any more. Jamie heard the zing of another bullet slip past his right ear. In that instant, the sunlight returned, cutting through the trees and removing the abyss. The glow of the forest floor disappeared. Although the fury would not allow him to lower the rifle, Jamie saw what he did.

  A strapping man with a receding hairline and a stare of utter bewilderment dropped his weapon as he stumbled backward against a tree. Reginald Fortis’s chest was shredded with bullet holes, and the man’s body crumpled pitifully on its side.

  Salty sweat dribbled from Jamie’s forehead, but he made no effort to wipe it away while studying the body with neither amazement nor remorse. He met Reginald once; the local writer had given a shockingly dull lecture one day in Agatha Bidwell’s English class.

  He heard the footsteps of the other pursuer and ran for the ledge. Bullets smacked the ground at his feet, and Jamie turned and fired, spraying bullets in his attacker’s general direction. He figured it out: make the enemy believe Jamie was in the trench, following the stream toward the lake.

  Jamie saw himself as a boy fighting for his life but also a dark, despicable monster who surrendered to a power he would never comprehend. As his fury boiled, his instincts muddied. He didn’t notice the birch root growing above ground.

  Jamie stumbled and fell end-over-end, the rifle catching in a low cedar while the rest of him rolled over the ledge and fell ten feet, landing on his back in wet sand. He lost his breath for an instant, but pushed himself up when he heard the pursuing footsteps. He looked around for the AK; but when he didn’t see it, he grabbed the .45 tucked in his pants. His wet hands fumbled with the pistol, and he struggled in the soft sand to find his footing. Oblivious to the throbbing pain in his back, Jamie tried to decide which way to run.

  Lester Bowman, a man who ran a bed-and-breakfast and who Jamie recognized from several visits to Rand Paulus’s grocery, emerged at the top of the ledge, pushing aside bramble and revealing an M16. Jamie neither moved a muscle nor blinked an eye. He saw only an end that wasn’t fair, a fate no boy should ever have to suffer. His brain told him to raise the pistol, fire and hope. Jamie wasn’t sure whether his muscles followed suit. What he did know was that another figure appeared in the same instant, only this time on the opposite side of the stream.

  “Drop it,” someone yelled. “Drop it now.”

  Jamie turned. The police officer was not talking to him. Rather, the man aimed his rifle across the stream to the opposite ledge. He yelled to Lester a third time. Just when Jamie thought he might be about to survive, he heard a weapon cock. He faced Lester, who appeared to be smiling as he aimed toward Jamie and pulled the trigger. The first two bullets landed at Jamie’s feet, the third splintered driftwood behind him, and the fourth …

  A pair of violent thunderbolts exploded across the stream. A hole opened in Lester’s neck, and blood sprayed. The second shot caught Lester above his right eye, and the body fell over the ledge, the M16 resting at its side. The officer altered his aim.

  “Drop it,” the officer said. “Let it go, young man.”

  Jamie raised the pistol to fire, its barrel still aimed at the spot where Lester once stood. It’s over, Jamie told himself. Let go.

  He couldn’t. A sliver of the fury that kept him alive refused to go away. The snake slithered beneath his skin and encouraged him to find another target and finish what he started. Jamie tried to resist, his right arm firm but his trigger hand trembling.

  “Come on, son. Put down the weapon. Don’t make me do this.”

  Jamie wasn’t ready to let go. His breaths were deep and rap
id; he saw blood everywhere. He wondered whether Michael and Sammie escaped the forest alive. Jamie wanted to surrender, but not to this officer. He simply wanted everything to be over. He knew that whatever drove him to kill would only grow more powerful in the scant time left. The Jewel did not want him to die yet.

  He didn’t have to fire the pistol, only turn and aim. The officer would take it from there.

  Jamie wondered whether he would feel pain. If the bullet killed him at once, would he see a flash of light? Would he wake up on the other side, like all the church-going folks around these parts believed? Was Ben right? Maybe, Jamie reasoned, this wouldn’t be so bad. At least he wouldn’t be around for the gruesome end the Chancellors planned for him.

  He spoke to no one in particular. “Why did they do this to me?”

  He twitched, his left foot starting to turn, his ears deaf to the officer’s warnings. And then, with no understanding of why, Jamie dropped the pistol into the stream. Through his tears, he looked up and saw two officers.

  “Step back, get down on your knees, and place your hands behind your head,” the first officer said. “Do it. Now.”

  Jamie obliged. He didn’t care anymore.

  46

  R APID POPS SHATTERED the still morning as Michael and Sammie fled. Michael imagined his best friend lying in a bloody heap, decorated in bullet holes and eyes staring at the sky. Sammie, on the other hand, brightened her smile as a second volley echoed through the woods.

  “That’s him,” she whispered. “He’s still alive. He’s fighting. He’ll make it, just like us.”

  Michael followed Sammie in a crouch. They headed due north, parallel to a highway so close he could almost see it through the brush. They ran no more than twenty yards at a time before Sammie raised a hand, and they ducked behind bramble, a log, whatever was convenient.

  A third volley – this time a mix of automatic fire and two distinctive shotgun blasts – whipped through the forest. Michael’s heart cringed.

  “Why the hell did you let him go? He’s gonna die out there.”

  Sammie swallowed. “Jamie wants you to get home safe, Coop. Nothing else mattered to him. You heard him.”

  “That don’t mean …”

  “Look, he’s fast, Coop. Real fast. He’s a runner.”

  Sammie picked her next destination and waved him forward. The bramble to their immediate north was too thick, so she led him west toward the highway. His confidence grew, assuming they were making a beeline to safety. Then, thirty seconds into their sprint, Sammie waved him to the ground. They both lay flat on their bellies as Sammie pointed through a narrow gap between trees.

  Michael saw a familiar face in camouflage pants, a black t-shirt and a cigarette dangling from his lips. Christian Bidwell’s back was turned. Michael needed a few seconds before he saw Christian’s rifle extended in an aggressive posture. Michael turned to Sammie, who was studying her fingers, counting off as she moved her lips. She spoke, but in a whisper so faint Michael heard part of her message.

  “They kept him back in case we used a decoy. Be ready.”

  “For what?”

  Sammie took aim. Michael stopped breathing.

  As her trigger finger started backward, Michael grabbed his own weapon and prepared to aim. However, Christian took off in a dead run, and Samantha pulled back.

  “Whoa,” Michael whispered. “What are you doing? Waste him. That dude shoved a gun down my throat. Waste him.”

  “No. We have to be smart. He’s not a threat. It’s time to go.”

  Michael heard his pounding heart and panicked breaths as they sprinted to the highway. When at last he saw a speed limit sign, Michael allowed a smile. He did not think anything about racing out of the forest and onto the road, rifle in hand as he waved for help. He was a body length away from doing just that when Sammie threw him to the ground.

  “Oh, c’mon,” he spouted. “What’d you do that for?”

  She told him to be quiet and pointed to the south, just beyond the tree line bordering the highway. Michael’s heart leaped. He saw a pair of patrol cars, a white van and a black helicopter more than a hundred yards away crowding the highway. At least three officers and two others, one of whom wore a blue jacket with the gold letters FBI, milled together.

  Sammie nodded. “A roadblock. I knew there were police close by, but I didn’t think …” Her eyes softened as a giant smile formed.

  “Oh,” she whispered. “Oh, god. Jamie.”

  Michael moved forward a few feet and got a better look. Two policemen emerged from the woods with a tall boy whose long white hair and shirtless profile were recognizable.

  Michael whispered, “Yeah, dude. That’s what I’m talking about.”

  Then he rose to his feet and started out into the open. Sammie grabbed him from behind and yanked him down.

  “Just hold on, Coop. Look again. They’ve got Jamie in handcuffs.”

  Michael didn’t care. Jamie was alive, and that was good enough for him. He told Sammie as much, but her giant smile disappeared.

  “We’ve got a problem, Coop,” she said. “A big problem. Listen to me very carefully.”

  47

  8:23 a.m.

  A GATHA WONDERED WHAT might be her greater humiliation: That she was an inept tactician; that her stubborn pride cost the lives of at least ten people who also called themselves Chancellors; or that her grand and glorious mission to provide moral justice was reduced to being stuck in traffic on a rural highway.

  She fidgeted in the back seat of the Camaro, a pistol equipped with suppressor in her hands, and she wondered whether this roadblock was the final straw of the biggest failure of her life. One hour earlier, she sat in this same spot and laid out plans to hunt down and kill the Jewel. Since then, she botched negotiations for Jamie’s surrender and failed to give three well-trained soldiers sufficient advantage over their target.

  Only Christian’s safe return – a narrow dodge of the officers closing in – proved to be the sole bright spot. His report on Jamie’s capture, however, sent her reeling.

  Now, as she and two of her three remaining soldiers found themselves trapped on the highway between a tractor-trailer and a school bus packed with children, Agatha knew she was the king of fools, a shell of the woman who once led battalions into combat.

  “Walter anticipated everything,” she told Arthur. “He even knew he was going to die, and he did nothing to disrupt the outcome. All but guaranteed it, I suspect.”

  “So it’s hopeless?” Christian asked. “I don’t believe that, Mom. Sheridan is out there. Hell, we know where he is. The police have him. Won’t be hard tracking him down. Might have to take out a few badges to get to him, but we’re Chancellors. We don’t …”

  “Surrender? No, son. We don’t. But if we keep going, if we try again ...” She paused. “Either way, all this ends in an hour and a half. We cannot just kill the Jewel with bullets. We must burn the host body to be certain. We would not likely have time or opportunity to escape. Do you understand the implication?”

  “Look, Mom. I’ve always wanted the chance to go back home. I don’t remember much about it; Father was always off-planet on duty. I’d love to see him again. But fact is, I just want to be wherever you are. I know I haven’t always been the most respectful son.” He nodded with confidence. “I’m prepared for whatever happens.”

  Agatha felt more than pride. She sensed genuine love.

  Turning to Arthur, who was driving, she asked, “And you?”

  “The cause is no less just than it ever was, Agatha. There are still four of us, counting Jennifer. Austin Springs is the closest town. That’s where they’ll take him. We’ll have to be fast and lucky, but it can be done. We still have not seen any sign of Shock Units coming through the fold, a point in our favor. I recommend we turn around, get out of this traffic jam and head north, the long way around the lake. We’ll still have means and opportunity. Into the fire, Agatha.”

  Christian pumped a fist. “
That’s the spirit. Into the fire. What do you say, Mom?”

  A new spirit of hope rose inside the car, but Agatha could not get past the humiliation of it all. She felt old and tired. The notion of returning to the Collectorate no longer appealed to her.

  Fate provided a different path.

  “There’s only one course for us,” she said. “Into the fire.”

  48

  J AMIE NEVER SAID a word – not as he was cuffed, not as the officers rushed him from the woods, not as they hauled him into the back of a white van in the middle of Highway 39 and interrogated him. Jamie heard their questions, which straddled the line between sincere concern for a boy whom they wanted to help and suspicion of a young man whom they almost shot. They asked him whether he was thirsty; a deputy offered him bottled water, but Jamie refused even though his throat felt like sandpaper.

  He saw no reason to fight on. As the deputies dragged him through the woods, he heard additional shots from the north, where he left Sammie and Michael. Once they were free of the woods, a deputy turned up his shoulder-harnessed radio, and Jamie heard another officer report finding a body. Moments later, as he sat in the van listening to questions he refused to answer, Jamie heard another voice report on discovering two more bodies.

  He was lost in a haze, staring at the van’s floor, when someone new sat beside him. All Jamie saw were a woman’s feet, covered with low black shoes and hose. She spoke in hushed tones.

  “Here’s where we stand, young man,” she said. “Many people have died this morning for no apparent reason. So far, all those who might know anything have been shot to death or blown to pieces. Now along you come, running through the woods, playing cowboys-and-Indians. Only problem is, the other guy has an M16 and you’re packing a .45. Tough odds, huh?”

  The woman grabbed him by the chin and turned Jamie until they made eye contact. Her dark, searching eyes pierced Jamie, so he looked away.

  “You are either a victim, or you are involved in this madness. But you’re alive, and that makes you valuable. I am Special Agent Janice Bronson, director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation in Birmingham. I don’t trust teens and I have no patience for the silent treatment. I’m no shrink, and I will not mother you because you’re a minor. Nor am I currently considering your constitutional rights. My thoughts are for the people whose families are grieving today.”