by David Estes
The guy looks like a Greco-Roman wrestler. Benson couldn’t stop him if he had a hovertank. Plus, having someone else besides his mother might make things slightly less awkward.
“Why?” Benson says.
Simon’s eyes are like smoldering coal. “Jarrod is doing what he thinks is best, but he’s changed. He’s not the man I decided to follow all those years ago. Too many innocents are dying at his hand. Everything is unravelling and I don’t want to be here when it falls apart. I need a new path. Maybe this is it, or maybe it’s not. But it feels like a start.”
Benson nods. He understands exactly what Simon means. He starts down the steps. “Wait!” someone hisses. “I’m coming, too.”
He turns to find Minda standing next to Simon. She’s wearing loose black pants, high black boots, a black tank top, and a wicked grin. Oh, and a huge gun in a holster on her hip. She’s also got a warm-looking jacket slung over one shoulder.
Benson raises his eyebrows.
“Harrison and Destiny saved my life,” Minda says.
“After you saved theirs,” Benson points out.
“It doesn’t work that way,” Minda says. “One life saved doesn’t equal another life saved. It continues on, until one of us dies.”
Benson’s not sure how any of that makes sense, but Minda would be a valuable asset to their growing team. “How are you feeling?” he asks, his only concern being her recovery from the gas inhalation back at Refuge.
“Like gold,” she says, which Benson assumes means she feels well enough to travel.
She strides past him and down the stairs. Although she tries to hide it, he detects a slight limp, as if her legs are too weak to carry her weight.
When Janice follows Minda and the two of them are out of earshot, Benson says to Simon, “What do you think?”
Simon laughs from deep in his throat. “I think you’ve never tried to say no to Minda before. It’s like trying to teach a wildcat not to hunt. Impossible.”
With that, he stomps down the stairs, leaving Benson alone at the top. He hates that, once more, other peoples’ lives are connected to his own, but at the same time he feels relieved.
He hates himself for feeling that way.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The snowstorm hits in the pale yellow light of dawn. They all knew it was coming, but Simon still curses under his breath when the first snowflakes swirl down from above.
Although the snow looks pretty, like fallen angels fluttering from the heavens, Benson says, “This bot-lickin’ sucks.”
“Oooooh. Nice,” Janice says, sticking her tongue out and catching one.
“At least we won’t run out of water,” Minda says. “We can just melt the snow.” Her limp has gotten progressively worse in the hour they’ve been hiking. Benson estimates they’ve got at least another ten hours to go before they reach civilization. He doesn’t know how she’s going to make it.
“Let’s stop a minute and rest,” Benson suggests.
“No,” Minda says. “The longer the snow falls, the slower we’re going to be. We need to get as far as we can while the ground it still dry.”
Benson knows she’s right, but having her collapse after another couple of hours without rest will slow them down a lot more. “My mother needs to rest,” Benson says, flashing what he hopes his mother will realize is an apologetic smile in her direction. She doesn’t seem to notice, turning in circles with her tongue stuck out.
“She seems fine to me,” Minda says.
Simon seems to catch on to Benson’s thinking, because he says, “I could use a quick breather, too.” The big man doesn’t even look tired. Benson offers him a surreptitious nod in thanks, which Simon returns when Minda’s not looking.
“Fine,” Minda says, gingerly lowering herself onto a mossy log. “But just five minutes. We can’t spare any more time. Harrison had his hoverboard. He could already be in Saint Louis by now.”
The thought of Harrison in the same city as Corrigan Mars, the man who killed their father, makes Benson shiver despite the thick layers of clothing he’s wearing.
Janice continues running back and forth catching snowflakes on her tongue, while Simon checks the ammo in his gun and Benson paces.
After what feels like less than a minute, Minda pushes to her feet and says, “Ha ha. Nice one. Simon needed a break. Yeah, right.”
She strides off, not limping even the slightest bit, which must hurt like hell.
Simon shrugs as if to say “It was worth a shot,” and follows her. Benson sighs and grabs his mother’s arm in the crook of her elbow. “C’mon. Let’s go find Harrison.”
As his mother lets him lead her through the woods, she says, “Harrison is catching snowflakes, too.”
The random comment makes Benson laugh. A real laugh. He almost feels bad about it. Luce is dead. How can he laugh? But picturing his athletic, confident brother running around with his tongue out is too much for him to contain. The laughter spills from his mouth in droves, until his mother starts to giggle, too.
“Catching snowflakes on his tongue,” Benson says, still chuckling.
Janice stops laughing. “His tongue?” she says, frowning. “No. On his head. I meant on his head.”
Which, of course, sends Benson into another fit of laughter.
After that, things mostly go quiet, save for the occasional grunt from Minda as she steps wrongly on one of her feet. Once, she stumbles, and Simon grabs her to keep her from falling. Instead of a thank you, she says, “I’m fine. I’m fine,” muttering it under her breath as if she’s trying to convince herself.
With every passing minute, the snow seems to fall harder and harder, until the trees are painted in white. Eventually, visibility declines to near zero, and it’s only by sticking close behind each other that they’re able to form a human chain and not get lost. Centimeters of snow on the ground turn to a third of a meter, maybe more. Each step is harder than the last, as the snow seems to suck at their soles. Their souls, too, Benson thinks grimly.
But still they trudge onward, the only sound coming from Janice, who mutters incessantly. “Snow, flow, blow, crow, dough, foe, low, know, mow…”
Hours later, they emerge from the trees. Overhead, the sky is a blank sheet of white. On the unbroken plains, the wind is like a battering ram, buffeting their faces with stinging crystals of ice.
“We have to find shelter,” Simon says, using his gargantuan arms to gather them in a circle, their faces turned inward so they can talk. “How much farther can you go, Minda?”
Minda’s eyes are brown steel. “As far as you can,” she says.
“Minda. Seriously. How much farther?”
“Simon. Seriously. As far as you can,” she says. From the look in her eyes and the taut line of her jaw, Benson doesn’t doubt a single word. Hopefully her body is in agreement with her mind.
Janice says, “Igloo.”
Benson’s breath catches as that single word conjures up a long lost childhood memory. A memory as good as any of them. The day his father stayed home from work.
The snow had fallen while they slept, and Benson had woken up to a magical world of white. It was the biggest snowstorm in twenty years, his father had said. So big the entire world was closed for the day, or so his father had told him. Janice wasn’t coming.
And his dad wasn’t going to work. “Today we’re going to build an igloo,” his father had said.
“What’s that?” Benson asked, as his father stuffed his hands into mittens and his head into a wool cap.
“A snow house,” his father had said.
It took them all day, taking breaks for hot cocoa and marshmallows, but they did it. They built an entire house out of snow. It wasn’t as big as their real house, but they could both fit inside, and when they huddled together, Benson had been delighted to find that the house made of snow was warm.
Janice had come over the next day and they’d spent hours in it together, playing games and telling stories.
&nb
sp; “Mom?” Benson says now. “You want to build an igloo?”
“Snow is warm,” is all she says in response.
“Umm,” Simon says.
“I can go on,” Minda reconfirms.
“No,” Benson says. “She’s right. Trust me. If we burrow in the snow, we’ll be warmer. It doesn’t have to be a normal igloo, just a small cave should do the trick.”
“This is craz—” Simon starts to say, but Benson warns him off with his eyes.
“I make the rules,” Benson says. “You’re tagging along on my expedition. You’re welcome to go back or go forward, but we’re building an igloo.”
“But not with glue,” Janice says. “Just with snow.”
Simon shakes his head, but doesn’t argue. “Alright. It’s your show. Where do we start?”
“There!” Janice says, pointing to a large drift partway out into the field. Something caused the snow to collect in greater abundance there, perhaps a natural rise in the landscape or a trick of the wind.
Their feet sinking almost up to their knees with each step, they make their way to the drift, buffeted by the howling wind. Benson clings to Janice and Janice clings to Simon. Even Minda manages to swallow her pride, and clings to the opposite side of Simon, who’s like an immovable force of nature.
His thighs and calves aching and his lungs on fire, Benson lets out a heaving sigh when they finally reach the small mountain of snow, which is at least two meters high. “Now what?” Simon says.
“Now we dig,” Benson says, dropping to all fours.
For a moment it’s just him, scraping away the snow with his hands, burrowing into the base of the mound, but then Janice drops beside him. She spreads her legs out wide and starts shoveling the snow through the gap like a dog searching for a bone.
After a few minutes, Simon and Minda join them. Minda practically punches through the snowbank, using sharp jabs to cut deep, like a pick. Simon uses his shovel-like hands to scoop the resulting chopped up snow away from the growing hole.
Their progress is slow but steady. Benson’s hands are numb and he thinks it’s possible his nose has fallen off, because he can’t feel it, but still he digs, the promise of future warmth as his only motivation. His and Janice’s tunnel gets so long that only his feet are sticking out. Already, he feels warmer out of the wind. He reverse-crawls and taps each of the other’s feet. Soon three heads pop out of their respective holes. “We need to combine our two tunnels to make one big wide one,” he says.
“Allow me,” Simon says. On his back, he coils his legs like a spring, and then rockets them forward into the wall between his and Minda’s tunnel, and Benson and Janice’s tunnel. The snow shatters like a pane of glass. With two giant scoops he removes the excess powder.
“Yeah,” Benson says. “That’ll work.” He feels a sudden swell of appreciation that he’s not on this journey alone. He only hopes his comrades won’t get hurt along the way.
As Simon continues to destroy the wall between their tunnels, the others begin chipping away at the ceiling. Ideally, they’d be able to sit up in their igloo.
By the time they finish, they all look exhausted. Even Janice has stopped muttering her rhymes about snow and ice and melting and igloos. Their backs to the wall of snow, they just breathe, smiling tired smiles.
Simon says, “Good idea,” to Janice, and she beams.
“It feels so…warm,” Minda says. “Like we’ve got a fire in here.”
“Body heat and insulation,” Benson says, satisfied with their little snow hut. They won’t want to stay here for long, but at least it will keep them warm enough to ride out the storm. At the same time, he feels anxious, like they’re wasting too much time. There’s a very strong possibility that Harrison and Destiny reached the city before the storm, which means they’ll be able to keep moving, using the Tunnels and Tubes. With all the maintenance bots and holo-ads and Crows patrolling the city, they won’t make it very far.
Even as they sit in their igloo, Benson knows it might already be too late for his brother.
Benson replays his last words to Harrison in his mind:
You’ll never be my family.
Leave me the hell alone.
He should’ve seen through his brother’s façade—should’ve seen he was goading him into a fight. Harrison, for all his pomp and swagger, had never been mean to Benson. He knew very well that Luce wasn’t just “some chick” to Benson. Yet he knew the exact button to press on Benson’s temper, almost like they’d been brothers for years.
And Benson fell for it.
Harrison wanted Benson to be so angry at him that he wouldn’t try to follow him. In that mission, he failed, Benson thinks. I’m coming, Harrison, whether you like it or not.
“Warm up and get some rest,” Benson says. “We’ll leave in a couple of hours, regardless of the storm.”
No one answers and Benson realizes they’re already asleep.
He drifts away, images of his brother and Luce taking turns in his mind.
~~~
Rough hands wake Benson from a deep sleep, and he slaps at them, trying to free himself. But they’re too strong, unbelievably strong. “It’s me,” Simon says gruffly.
As Benson’s mind catches up to reality, he hears it. The whir of an incoming Hawk drone, flying much lower than usual.
Benson’s eyes go wide and a jolt of fear rushes through him. Somehow, some way, Pop Con has found them. Shhh, Simon says with a single finger to his lips. For all they know, the Hawk might have a listening device pinpointed on their exact location, hearing every word they say.
Janice and Minda stare at the ceiling, as if the drone might crash land right on top of them.
Wait here, Benson mouths.
Simon shakes his head, throwing an arm in front of Benson. Me first, he mouths back.
Quietly, Simon crawls through the tunnel, just ahead of Benson. At the entrance, Simon allows half an eye to peek out. Benson cranes his neck to see past the huge man. The wind whips around Simon, swirling with snow that never seems to reach the ground. Although it doesn’t seem possible, visibility is even worse than before.
As Simon squirms out into the storm, Benson crowds behind him.
He can hear the drone whirring away somewhere above, but can’t see its sleek black undercarriage.
In this storm, not even the high-powered cameras and detection devices of a Hawk could’ve spotted their igloo, which looks just like every other mound of snow from here to Saint Louis. Which means one of two things: They were randomly probing around the city and got really lucky, or…
Simon or Minda or both of them are filthy traitors.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Amidst swirling snow, the Saint Louis Prep guys’ team win their first playoff game 4-1, even without Harrison as goalie. His replacement, a talented freshman named Bobby Williams, nearly deflected the lone goal scored on him, but the shot was too hard and slipped through his fingers.
Harrison knows he would’ve made the save, but still, he’s proud of his former team.
The team he will never play for again.
The thought makes him feel just a little bit hollow inside, like when he’d search the stands for his father and come up empty.
Destiny says, “Now what?”
Through the slats in the bleachers, all they can see are shoes. White shoes, black shoes, blue shoes—slapping the metal bleachers as the crowd makes their way out of the stadium. The heated metal continuously melts the snow, leaving puddles for patrons to splash through. Water cascades down around them, like hundreds of tiny waterfalls.
His people. His fans. If he were to step out from the shadows under the stands, would they cheer for him like they used to? Would they chant his name—Harrison, Harrison, Harrison!—like they would after he made yet another highlight-reel save?
His ego screams Hell yeah! but the truth whispers bitterly in his ear:
No. They’d condemn you like they did your brother. Like they did your fathe
r. “Slip lover!” they’d scream. “Traitor! Kill him! Kill him!”
With the torrents of feet pounding down the bleachers and the laughs and cheers of happy STL Prep Flyers fans, Harrison’s head starts to spin. He’s dimly aware of Destiny grabbing his arm, whispering something to him, but he can’t hear or see anything, his entire world swallowed up in a moment of realization:
His old life is over.
Over.
Gone like an express train through the Tunnels. Gone like his father. Gone like Florida when the oceans rose and the tsunamis hit. There’s no going back. No rewind button. No do-overs.
Everything stops spinning, clarifying with the kind of intensity Harrison has only ever experienced while on the hoverball field. Destiny is saying, “Harrison, Harrison, are you okay?” clutching his arm to hold herself up. No…wait…that’s backwards. She’s clutching his arm to hold him up. His legs are like rubber, unable to sustain his weight.
“I’m okay,” he says, panting. “I’m…okay.”
“What happened?” Destiny asks, still gripping him tightly, her fingers burning lines into his arm.
“Nothing,” he says. “Doesn’t matter.”
The footsteps are becoming less frequent as the final stragglers exit the stands.
“You know, you don’t always have to be the strong one,” Destiny says.
Harrison stares at her. “You tried to kill yourself,” he says.
Her head drops in shame, and he says, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…” Didn’t mean to what? Remind her? Beat her over the head with the truth?
“No, you’re right,” she says. “I haven’t proven anything to you. I don’t even know who I’m going to be from minute to minute. One moment I think I’m okay, that I’m the survivor who’s made it this far, and the next I feel like a puddle of tears, broken past the point of repair.”
“You’re wrong,” Harrison says, shaking his head. “You have proven yourself to me. Shown me your strength. Just by coming with me, you’ve shown me exactly who you are.”
“And who is that?” she asks. Destiny raises her chin, revealing a hollow in her brown, slender neck. Harrison has the sudden urge to kiss the crevice, but he knows if he does he won’t stop there. And this is not the time or the place. Once upon a time, in another lifetime, it might’ve been exactly the time and the place, but not anymore.
