“But when moths fly to the light, they fucking die.”
“Yeah, well, no analogy is perfect,” Palmer said, frowning.
“With all these people here, the compound must be trashed by now. You really think there’s going to be anything left to secure?”
“It’s already secure,” he said. “Olivia’s inside with her mom, Samantha, Grant, and Passion, plus a group of hackers and Pete Hardy. They found it a few days ago and locked down the compound before anyone else could. But the area is contested government land. It’s an old chemical depot, and there are a bunch of special interest groups vying for it. When they discovered the compound and an occupying presence, they got a little riled up. Now with it all over the news, we’ve got this.” He gestured out the window.
“So, this is a rescue mission?” I asked, still confused. “Mr. James wants us to get his daughter and his information out safely?”
“This isn’t about what Alex wants,” Palmer said, navigating a sharp turn in the road a little too fast. “We’re way beyond that. He thinks in terms of his own little empire, but this is way bigger than The Hold. It’s bigger than Fineman, your father, or the CAMFers. We’re here to facilitate the beginning of—What the fuck?” He slammed on the brakes, sending me hurtling toward the truck’s dashboard.
I caught myself before my head hit the windshield. We’d almost rear-ended the car in front of us and there were red taillights streaming into the distance beyond it. Further down the road there were flashing lights too, the red and blue strobe of numerous cop cars.
“Dammit,” Palmer said. “That’s why there were so many people camping off the road. They’ve got road blocks at the entrances.”
Even as he said it, a batch of vehicles passed us in the other lane, obviously motorists who’d been turned away at the gate.
“Fasten your seatbelt,” Palmer said, checking his rearview mirror and putting the truck in reverse. “We need to find another way in.”
There was already a van behind us, and more cars piling up, but Palmer still managed to pull a U-turn with the awkward camper. When he merged into the other lane, right in front of an oncoming RV, they had to slam on their brakes to avoid hitting us. The old Indian guy behind the wheel scowled and his wife flipped us off, but Palmer didn’t even acknowledge them.
“Is there another way?” I asked, as he gunned the gas and we took off back the way we’d come.
“There’s always another way.”
We were maybe five minutes down the road when I noticed a guy my age on a dirt bike, off to the side. He was waving at us vigorously, gesturing for us to pull onto the shoulder.
Palmer saw him too and slowed, but just before we reached him, the biker took off, veering straight into the desert down a dusty trail.
“It’s a service road,” Palmer said, swerving onto the shoulder, following the bike.
“And who’s the biker?”
“I have no idea. But I guess we’ll find out.”
Headlights flashed in the rearview mirror, almost blinding me. It was the RV. They were following us and they weren’t happy, that was for sure.
Palmer didn’t seem to care. We couldn’t see the biker anymore, but he’d led us down this road and Palmer seemed determined to follow it to the bitter end.
And then we came to the end—a huge, fortified, chain link fence twenty feet high and stretching in either direction as far as the eye could see. Palmer almost ran into it, barely stopping in time. The dirt track we were on ran straight up to the fence and continued on the other side.
We weren’t alone, either. The biker rode out of the shadows, another dozen dark forms on dirt bikes joining him on either side of our truck. Several of them dismounted, wielding baseball bats. And the RV had pulled up right behind us, blocking us in.
“Shit,” I said.
“They have bats. We have guns,” Palmer pointed out. “Just let me do the talking.”
The leader, the one who’d led us into this trap, pulled up next to Palmer’s window, his bike buzzing like a hornet and kicking up dust.
“Hey,” he yelled over the noise of the engine. “You’re not Bernie.”
“He’s sick,” Palmer said, without missing a beat. “He asked me and my nephew here to take over.”
“Then what the hell were you doing at the road block?” the biker asked, shutting his bike off. He was young, probably younger than me. “Didn’t he tell you about the new route?”
“He said something,” Palmer explained, “but you know Bernie. He never gets it right.”
“Good thing I saw you then,” the biker smiled, glancing behind us. “Who’re your friends in the RV?”
“Don’t know,” Palmer said. “They just followed us.”
The biker gave the big vehicle a second look. “Not a problem.” He shrugged. “If they can pay, we’ll let them through. You got your entry fee?”
“Sure.” Palmer reached into his pocket, pulling out the envelope full of money he’d offered to Bernie earlier. “Here.” He handed it to the biker who immediately flipped it open and started counting.
He was only a few bills in when I heard one of the RV doors slam and the crunch of sand underfoot.
“What the hell is going on?” a gruff voice asked.
“Wait your turn, old man,” Biker Guy said. “You’re next in line.”
But Palmer had gone rigid at the sound of that voice, his hand sliding toward the gun in his underarm holster.
“This guy was driving like a maniac,” the old Indian said, coming up to Palmer’s window and glancing in. “He almost“ He stopped, his mouth falling open, his eyes bulging. “Nathan,” he hissed on an exhale, his entire face gone pale like he was seeing a ghost. “What—how on earth—but you’re dead.”
The biker stopped counting money, looking curiously between Palmer and the Indian.
“You got me confused with someone else,” Palmer said, his cheek twitching. “My name’s not Nathan, and I’ve never been dead.”
“I know you,” the old coot insisted, his right hand drifting to his chest and clutching it, his eyes drilling into Palmer. “I would know you anywhere.” He sounded weird, breathy, his voice barely audible. “How did you survive? What about the others? Where have you been all this time?”
And then the guy went down, like a felled tree. One minute he was standing, the next he wasn’t.
“Move,” Palmer yelled, shoving his door open, slamming it into Biker Guy and sending him and his bike flying. Palmer crouched over the Indian guy, who’d collapsed in a heap just outside the truck door, and I heard Palmer whisper, “Gordon, can you hear me?” Then he was yelling at Biker Guy again, who was just getting up, the envelope of cash still clutched in his hand. “I think he’s having a heart attack. Call 911,” Palmer ordered.
“I’m not calling the cops, man,” Biker Guy said. “This gate isn’t exactly legal. Is he dead?”
“Not yet,” Palmer said, putting two fingers on the old man’s neck.
Just as I scooted across the seat to get out and help, a female voice cried, “Gordon,” and the woman from the passenger seat of the RV threw herself down at the old guy’s side. “Gordon, oh my god, please wake up,” she pleaded, tears streaming down her face.
“How far to the nearest hospital?” Palmer asked Biker Guy.
“There’s one in Hermiston,” he answered.
“I’m—not—going—to—that—hospital,” Gordon said, opening his eyes. “I’d die first.”
“Do you have any aspirin?” Palmer asked the woman. “It might help.”
“I think so.” She nodded, turning toward the RV and yelling, “David, bring the aspirin. It’s in the pouch on the back of my seat.”
At the sound of that name, Palmer and I locked eyes.
It couldn’t be. What were the odds? There were a lot of Davids in the world and this was probably just some random David, not the one I’d known as Marcus. Not the David.
But in my gut, I knew it was him, e
ven before he ran up carrying a bottle of aspirin.
I had to hand it to him. Marcus—I still thought of him by that name—always played it cool. He paused, only for a moment, looking from Palmer to me, before he tossed him the pills and said, “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Wait. You two know each other?” Gordon wheezed, trying to sit up.
“We three,” Marcus clarified. “This is Mike Palmer. And that’s Jason Williams. They were at the dome when it displaced.”
“You were at the compound?” Gordon asked, glaring at Palmer.
Palmer ignored the question, just like he had Marcus’s. Instead, he told the woman to help Gordon sit up while he opened the bottle of pills. “Chew these, don’t just swallow,” he instructed, slipping two aspirin between Gordon’s lips. “They taste bad, but they work better that way.”
“Is he going to be all right?” the woman asked, clutching Gordon’s hand as he chewed.
“You should get him to a hospital,” Palmer said.
“I’m not going to a goddamn hospital,” Gordon growled. “I’m fine, Mia.” He took her hand “Just help me up. Reiny and Lonan are waiting for us in there.” He gestured at the fence. “We have to get in tonight. No more delays.”
“There’s an emergency medical tent inside,” Biker Guy spoke up, a couple of his cronies standing behind him. “And it seems like Bernie gave you enough to get the RV in too.” The money was nowhere to be seen. He’d already pocketed it, and he probably thought we’d been trying to rip him off since it was obvious we knew Marcus, at the very least. Maybe he even thought we’d faked Gordon’s heart attack. “Anyway,” he said, “you all better get moving and out of the way. We’ve got more customers coming down the road.” He gestured at a group of headlights off in the distance, moving quickly toward us, led by the single light of a kid on a motorcycle.
“But how do we get in?” Mia asked, looking up at the fence in our way.
“Like this,” biker guy said, whistling loudly and waving his hand as more forms appeared on the other side of the fence. They reached their arms up, pulling down dark lines of rope or chain, and suddenly a huge flap of the fence rolled upward, leaving a gaping hole a little bigger than the RV. “You’ve got about five minutes to get through before we close it for the next batch,” Biker Guy warned.
“You said you have people inside already.” Palmer looked from Gordon to David. “How did you manage that?”
“We left together in two vehicles,” Marcus explained. “Unfortunately, on our way here the RV’s fuel pump went out, so we sent them on ahead while we stopped to get it fixed. That was yesterday, before the roadblocks went up. When we got turned away, we didn’t know how we were going to get in. Then you pulled out in front of us, and here we are.”
“Time is ticking, people,” Biker Guy said. “You going in or out?”
“In,” Palmer and Gordon said in unison.
“Gordon,” Mia said, fear in her voice. “You’re sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure,” Gordon insisted.
“I can drive the RV,” Marcus offered.
“Then let’s load up,” Palmer said, helping Gordon stand and handing him off to Mia and Marcus.
Palmer watched them head back to their vehicle, his eyes scanning its dark interior and narrowing slightly.
I followed his gaze, but all I saw was the soft glow of an interior light winking out.
“What is the chance we’d run into them?” I asked, as we climbed into Bernie’s pick-up.
“There’s no such thing as chance,” Palmer said, starting up the truck, as Biker Guy waved us through the fence, the RV following behind us.
18
MIKE PALMER
Driving across the dark dust bowl of Umatilla in a beat-up truck, it all came rushing back to me—another night just like this one, long ago, a group of us sneaking through the fence, though we’d cut it open ourselves back then. Another vehicle’s headlights flashing behind me, just like they were now. I had to shake off the feeling of deja-vu. Had to remind myself that had been another lifetime. I wasn’t a young, idealistic, FBI agent working his first assignment and trying to change the world. I was older and wiser. Now, I understood you don’t change the world—it changes you.
It had certainly changed Gordon. Seeing me alive after all these years had nearly killed the old bastard. And him refusing to go to the hospital—if he died out in this desert, it would be his own damn fault. He was as stubborn as ever. That much hadn’t changed. If he lived, he was going to grill me about where I’d been all these years. I wouldn’t be able to avoid it forever.
I should have known he’d come to the Umatilla when he saw it on the news. How could he resist? And of course, he’d managed to get his hands on David Marcus and Kaylee at the reservation. I’d seen her glowing face peering out from inside the RV. And that hadn’t really surprised me either.
Everything was falling into place. And now that the world was seeing events unfold via the news and social media, there was no stopping it. The road blocks didn’t matter. People would come. They would get through just like we had, and those who didn’t would still see. The more the officials tried to stop it, the more people would want in. The more they tried to cover things up, the more would be revealed.
The end game was coming.
I glanced over at the Williams kid sitting next to me. He looked like his mother, and he had her sensitive nature too, though it had nearly been beaten out of him by his piece-of-shit father. The boy was a bit rough around the edges, but he had potential. In fact, he reminded me of myself at his age. I’d recognized that when I’d let him beat the crap out of me outside of Greenville. He knew how to cause pain efficiently, and he wasn’t squeamish about it. He had balls and good intuition, plus he was more than proficient with a gun, and he knew how to shut the hell up even when something was eating at him like it was now. He wanted to ask me about Gordon, had been itching to ever since we’d come through the fence. But he’d waited, biding his time, staring out the window and watching the evenly-spaced hummocks roll by. He was a good kid, but I could see his patience was wearing thin.
“You knew that guy, Gordon,” he finally said, turning toward me. “I heard you say his name before his wife did.”
“Yeah, I knew him, but it was a long time ago. Another life ago.”
“Is that why he thought you were dead?”
Ahead, a small sign at the side of the road flashed in my headlights and I slowed the truck, pulling up next to it and stopping. The RV pulled up behind me, but no one got out.
“Stay in the truck,” I ordered Jason as I opened my door.
I stepped around the pick-up and walked to the tiny sign situated in front of a giant, shallow crater in the desert. Six hundred feet to my right was an igloo and six hundred feet to my left was another one.
Incident 47, the sign read. Complete and catastrophic disintegration. Four casualties.
How nice of them to erect a marker. To finally admit that something had happened that night, thirty-three years ago.
Such a touching memorial.
Except for the fact that it was wrong.
I hadn’t died the night Gordon had led us here to work his little act of protest. And the others waiting outside the igloo with me hadn’t died either. We had been displaced. I’d ended up in a mountain snowdrift in Norway, stunned, alone, half-frozen, and 4,600 odd miles from where I’d been a moment before. If not for the kindness of an elderly Norwegian couple who’d found me and taken me in, I might have died of exposure that night.
And I’d thanked them by lying about my identity, falling in love with their only daughter, getting her pregnant, and leaving her, never to be heard from again.
It had been a dick move. I’d known it then, and I knew it now. But I’d also known myself and I was a lot of things, but father-material wasn’t one of them.
I’d come back to the States, of course, and discovered I had a little brother. My grieving parents had replaced
me, but I didn’t blame them. I couldn’t really explain where I’d been all those years or why. Chase was young enough to accept the mystery of it, but the rest of my family, not so much. So, I started a new life again with a new name and set out to discover what had happened to me, and what it meant.
That night, when Gordon led his band of rebels into Umatilla, I was supposed to call in backup to catch them in the act and arrest them, but I hesitated a moment too long. And everything changed.
Now, I stood in front of that sign, the wind blowing dust in my face, and I fought the urge to turn and glance at the RV. It was foolish to hope Gordon would come out and stand with me, that he would clap me on the back and we would look at what we’d done, together, and assure one another it could still be fixed. Because Gordon was in worse shape than either of us had let on. No, I would have to honor this memorial alone.
Complete and catastrophic disintegration, the sign said. That part, at least, was accurate. Being suddenly unmade, your very essence dissolved and put back together somewhere else—it does something to you and you have to find out what, and why, and how. Those questions, plus the strange circumstances of my daughter’s birth back in Norway, drove me to seek an explanation at all costs.
That was how I fell in with The Hold. I wanted answers, and when I finally located Alex, I thought he might have them. He invited me into his fold with open arms, trusting me instantly because of our shared experience at Umatilla. Or maybe he just wanted to keep me close and make sure I never revealed our mutual secret. Whichever it was, he assigned me to the compound to be the main protector of his precious infant Kaylee. It was a terrible idea. She cried whenever I came near and screamed when I held her. But slowly, the trust between us built. I never let anyone see it, the way she softened me. It was a weakness, and I knew it. I didn’t deserve to have a little girl love me. Not after I’d abandoned my own child like a coward.
So, years later, when Alex asked me to disavow The Hold, leave the dome, and go infiltrate CAMF on a long-term mission, I did it. I left her. I ripped her clinging, crying, snotty five-year-old form from my leg like an old Band-Aid, and I went away. I did my goddamn job and got in good with the CAMFers, aligning myself with a new and rising scientist in their ranks, Dr. Julian Fineman. He was a genius and a fucking mad man. It took me seven years and a lot of unspeakable acts to fully earn his trust. Those were dark years for me. Very dark. When Julian assigned me to the quiet little town of Greenfield to pose as their fire chief and keep tabs on one defective, it had been a relief. It had also been my chance to sneak back to the dome occasionally and report to Alex face-to-face.
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