“Once we enter the City, we’ll be limited as to what we can say to one another. Now is the time to get it all out, you know?” He squirms in his seat and glances at each billboard as they fly past.
“I don’t want to be your friend, okay?” Heart drums double-quick, stomach churns, eyelid twitches—my body didn’t get the you’re a fearless spy memo. “If I ever fall in love with someone else, it’ll be because something in that man reminds me of you. Isn’t that weird? Don’t you see how messed-up I am? You can’t make me love you, mold with you, and then disappear from my life, Jack, because now, I’m irreversibly different and stamped with you.”
At any other time, confessing such an intimate part of myself would make me keel over in mortification, but knowing I could be dead in a few hours makes restraint and embarrassment seem like luxuries. We will enter the Third Layer tonight. And there’s a high chance we may never exit.
Jack rubs his mouth to hide an obvious smile. “Stamped?”
“Yes, stamped.”
“So I, like, tattooed you or something?”
“Yeah, I have an embossment of your face on my butt.”
He laughs. “Well, let’s hope the aliens don’t body-search you.”
“What, you don’t think it’s normal for a sister to have her brother’s face permanently sketched on her backside?” Involuntary tears blur him into a watercolor smear when I lean onto the console and drag my index finger up the crease of his sleeve. I miss him when I touch him, even when he looks me in the eyes and talks as if we’re coffeehouse strangers-turned-friends. He’ll forgive me one day, won’t he?
Traffic thins. The loud roar of civilization becomes a steady buzz, a dying pulse and then, silence. Cars fade into Earth’s background, and we’re left on an empty stretch of asphalt with ruins around us, a snow-globe world behind us and the truth looming in the distance.
“I’ll have to pull off the main road in a few miles,” he says, “so the Scavs won’t track us. Nash and the gang should be waiting at our designated entry point.”
“What if I’m not ready? What if … the Purebloods see through me?” I remove the needle from my arm and stop the bleeding with a handkerchief. A lump stretches my throat until I can hardly breathe.
“They won’t look, so they won’t see.” Jack places his hand on my knee and gives an affirming nod. “Let’s beat those bastards at their own game.”
After speeding through a maze of back roads, we arrive at our meeting place—the empty lot beneath an arching overpass. Garbage is everywhere, shifting with the wind like debris caught in an ocean’s surf. I shiver from the cold and unload my half-empty suitcase from the car’s trunk.
The RV emerges from the desolate suburban set minutes later and rolls to a stop. Nash, Tally, Abram, and Colonel Buchanan emerge with the iron doorframe in their arms.
“We need to hurry,” Nash says. “The dome is at its weakest level of gravitational strength.”
Everything seems to happen in flashes of time and movement. I’m swept up to the dome-protruding overpass. With a single shove, Abram and Colonel Buchanan propel the frame into the translucent barrier. There is an eruption of sparks, a hiss of protest, and then nothing except for a single door in the center of a forgotten road.
“No freaking way,” Tally squeals. “It works!”
Colonel Buchanan hands us earpieces, voice recorders, and small radios that resemble cell phones. “We’ll set up our Command Center in an empty shopping mall a few miles from here. Make contact with us every night. Relay all gathered information…”
“Yeah, Dad, we know.”
“If you are unable to make contact using these devices, find a pay phone and call my personal number—it’s written inside those pamphlets I gave you. The Feds will be able to monitor what is said between us, but neither phone can be tracked. Be selective with your words.”
“We’ll contact you once we’re settled.”
Jon took me fishing last summer. He loved to fish. I tried to match his enthusiasm, but when our rusty tin-can of a boat capsized, I lost my ability to fake excitement. His cup of bait was in my hair—worms in my hair! Not the small garden worms. The slimy, gigantic, I-am-going-to-terrorize-a-city kind of worms. I screamed and splashed. Jon laughed so hard, he almost drowned.
Memories. I want more. More misadventures with Jon. More dance parties with Jack. More espresso-drinking contests. Before I die. But it might be too late.
“Goodbye” sneaks past my chattering teeth as if it has a mind of its own. I hug Nash and Tally, give a firm handshake to Abram and a glance of trust to the colonel. Then, it pushes me over the frame’s threshold, plants my heels in gravel and grass where they’ll stay.
“Don’t look back,” Jack says when Abram pries the door from the dome. He swings our suitcases onto his shoulders and begins the trek up a hill. “We can do this, Julie.”
“Your optimism is cute.”
Stuck. No going back. There is a mission file with our names on the tab. We are operatives, pawns in a game bigger than any individual. If we fail, humanity disappears.
No pressure.
The slope levels, easing the ache in my sweaty thighs. I stagger forward and almost collide with Jack, who is frozen at the edge of an old bridge. He stares into the abyss of space with a gleam of something close to awe in his eyes.
“There it is…” His lips quiver before molding into a smile. “We’re here.”
Before us lies the City, a glittering oasis in a sea of blackness. Skyscrapers, sleek and remodeled, flood the horizon. Small aircrafts zigzag through the cluster of high-rises, glowing blue and white. A ginormous structure rises from the center of the metropolis, ablaze with lights.
“We’ve reached the Third Layer.”
THIRD LAYER
Chapter Eighteen
“No matter how big the lie; repeat it often enough and the masses will regard it as the truth.”
John F. Kennedy
Jack surrounds me. His eyes. His charm. The uncanny charisma that beams from his face and the faces of those on the sidewalk. I hold my head high to match theirs, emerge myself in the doppelganger sea where the women are pretty and the men sway like sleek tycoons. Their bodies slide across me in brief caresses of drop-waist dresses, pearls, striped suits, and black-and-white shoes. Nothing old or overused. Not a wrinkle or glimmer of emotion to be seen.
Buildings rise on either side of the street, shimmering with lights and mega screens. Cars, designed to resemble vehicles from the 1920s, speed through the metropolitan maze and electric sky. Why did I agree to come here? What made me think I’d match the Purebloods, blend into their nostalgic City? Oh no, they’re noticing me now—a woman with finger curls smiles when she bumps against my shoulder, and the teenage boy selling technological newspapers tips his hat as I hurry past.
They look, but they don’t see me.
I stumble into Jack when a Model-T replica swerves close to the curb. He shoots a warning glance and then nods his head toward the bus station across the avenue. There it is—our divide, the end of a line and beginning of another. The question is, whose line is about to end?
“You will be in good health. No harm shall come to you here,” Jack says once we’re inside the station. He reaches out his hand to touch mine, but instead, stuffs it into his blazer’s pocket. “We will not be apart for much time. All will be swell.” His mouth quivers, and his eyes turn red.
“Will you pay me a visit tomorrow?” I yell over the uproar of beautiful voices. “I would very much like to see you.” My nostrils tingle with the thick scent of cologne, and my heart rolls within me like a wheel thrust into motion. I know our mission backward and forward. I’ve spent hours engraining each move into my head, but theories differ from reality. A theory says, “Here is how you could save the world.” Reality says, “Here is what will happen if you try.”
“If all goes as expected, I will visit you tomorrow evening.” He tenses and motions to the cluster of security cameras
above the terminal. “You must be cautious. Their eyes are all around. They will be observing you always.”
“I will be most careful.” Because I need to be with him again. Because I really want to live.
Steam billows through the structure when an aerial bus lowers to the road and opens its doors for entry. Purebloods flock to the vehicle’s mouth in a single surge.
“You best go before the bus fills with passengers.” Jack returns my suitcase. He fakes a conclusive smile as dazzling as post-baseball fireworks. “Until tomorrow, sis.”
My hands ache with the need to touch him, trace the creases of his forehead and the lump on his nose’s bridge, to be glued to him so we won’t be separated. Theory liked us. Theory made us seem in control. Reality, on the other hand, turns us into lone soldiers on an outnumbered battlefield. It reverts us from spies to scared kids who dream of nothing more than to have a decent home.
“Until tomorrow.” I join the swarm before my knees turn to stone, and I waltz into the bus’s belly. A green light flashes when I place my hand on the scan. Accepted. As a Pureblood passenger.
I drop into a padded seat by the door and browse the outdoor terminal for Jack. He waves from the platform as if he’s sending me someplace nice, maybe college or summer camp or spring break vacation. He waves like Jon did when I left for an overnight camping trip with Missy.
Tears dilute him into a mistakable blot. I press myself against a window as the bus lifts into flight and the last member of my family slips into the distance.
****
Streetlamps illuminate the repaved sidewalk of Druid Hills and turn the dead of night into a reading-capable glow. I unfold the pamphlet Colonel Buchanan gave me and trace the boarding house’s address with my thumb. It shouldn’t be far up the road, maybe half a mile. A few hundred yards until I reach my assigned location, become a lie. A few minutes of walking alone through a rich neighborhood that looks an awful lot like those outside of Charleston.
Luxurious new mansions crowd the stretch of manicured lawns and flowerbeds, pop up like weeds between old cottages and seventies abodes. Why weren’t the aliens more original with their architecture? They were supposed to invade Earth in a fleet of spaceships, fight a bloody war, and build colonies out of plastic pods, not construct their world to look like our past.
I smooth my skirt with shaking hands and reapply red lipstick—it makes my mouth taste and smell like blood. Jon would be brave and complete the mission, wouldn’t he? After all that’s happened, would his desire to save the world trump his shaking hands and pounding heart? Be like him—that’s what I have to do. I must be my brother’s substitute, absorb the conviction that made him strong.
Escape is but a pretty thought.
The boarding house beckons me toward its red-brick entryway and ivy-covered walls. I go to the front door situated between spiraling topiaries and pound the lion-shaped knocker. Oops. I did it. Jon and I used to play dingdong-ditch on Halloween. I should take this opportunity to practice ditching.
A woman resembling an actress from a 1950s sitcom opens the door. “Good evening.” When she smiles, I almost expect a commercial twinkle to appear on her bleached teeth. “May I help you?”
Help? Yes, that’d be nice. I’d like to be helped back to my comfy life of classes and coffee. I’d like help tearing apart this City, the dome, every newspaper and magazine with Pureblood propaganda. I’d like someone to help me stay alive.
I swallow the cannonball-size lump in my throat and return the smile. “Yes, I am in need of a room to rent. My name is Julie Lefèvre. I am the daughter of Lavinia Lefèvre.”
“Why yes, I recall meeting Lavinia years ago. She is my husband’s cousin. Please, come inside.” The woman wipes her hands on her floral-print apron and steps aside. “You must pardon my appearance. I am making dinner for my family.” She takes the fur wrap from my shoulders and hangs it on a coatrack. “My name is Margo Lefèvre. You have arrived at an optimal time, Julie. Several of our rooms are now available to rent. It would be quite a pleasure to have you live here with us. How is your mother?”
“She died several years prior to now.” The first of many fibs.
Margo emits a faint gasp and then touches my arm. “You have my sincerest condolences. Please, come and enjoy a cup of tea in the apartment. You must meet my husband and inform him of your mother’s passing.” She places my suitcase near the stairs and leads me into a private section of the house. “What brings you to the City?”
Here is my chance to recite the lies Colonel Buchanan created. Julie Lefèvre is a crumbled piece of paper riddled with facts and timelines. She’s a theory, and I’m her reality. I put a face to her name.
“I came with my brother. He works at the Department of Homeland Security,” I say as she takes me through a personal living room. “His quarters are quite small, which is why I decided to come here. Mother often spoke of the loveliness of this house and your amiable company.”
“How very kind of her.” Margo blushes when we enter the vintage kitchen. “This is my husband, Jed.” She gestures to the man seated at the breakfast table. He could easily be a cutout from a Norman Rockwell painting—gelled hair, a clean shaven face, spectacles, and a yellow sweater vest. “Jed, this is Lavinia’s daughter, Julie. She will be renting one of our spare rooms.”
Jed glances up from his crossword puzzle and grins. “Gee, that is swell. I was unaware that my cousin had a daughter. We have not spoken in many years.” He sets his teacup on a lace doily and adjusts his wiry glasses as if to get a better view of me, probe my face with his shimmering eyes.
“Both of my parents were killed in a car crash when I was a young child. I do not remember them well. My brother and I were raised in the suburbs by our father’s brother.” Sweat drips down my back—better beneath clothes than streaming my temples. I lower into the empty chair across from Jed and meet his vibrant gaze. Let him look. He won’t see.
Margo births a plate of desserts from the cupboard and places it between her husband and me. “What a tragic experience. If we had known of your misfortunes, we could have been of some condolence to you and your brother.”
“How unfortunate for you both.” Jed sinks his teeth into a rose macaroon, sprinkling his vest with pink shards. His humanoid jaws clench the European sweet tight, and then part into a smile matching in indulgence. “Let us now be of some help to you, Cousin Julie.”
“You are most kind.” I pick at my fingernail cuticles and gulp my tea like a shot of vodka. Did the room get smaller? Why is the air heavy and hot? Bleached teeth, bright eyes, alien housewife and husband—I’ve been to haunted houses less scary than this place.
“Mother, I am hungry.” A little girl, probably eight or nine, wanders into the kitchen from an adjoining room. Unlike human children, she is fully proportional. Her dark hair hangs in curls at her waist. “When will dinner be ready?”
“Adalene Margaret Lefèvre, it is quite rude to interrupt a conversation. We have addressed your offensive habit many a time. Apologize to our guest.”
Ada sighs and throws me a haphazard glance. “I apologize for my interruption.”
“Very good.” Margo unties her apron and motions to the kitchen’s exit. “Let me show you to your room, Julie. You shall have the best available.”
Floorboards creak as Margo leads me up the main staircase, down a decorated corridor. She sweeps her fingers across shelves and countertops as if checking for dust—maybe that’s what she’s doing. “There are to be no male suitors in this house. Loud music is prohibited past eight o’clock.”
“Do not worry, Cousin Margo. I am a quiet person … and I usually keep to myself.” Because loving a boy and causing commotion would silence me forever and put an infinite end to the mission. I’ll keep my head down. I’ll follow the rules, at least, for the time being.
“Marvelous.” She sighs when we enter a bedroom with poppy-stamped walls and plush furniture. “The laundry room is in the basement. We eat dinner toget
her on Saturdays. If you would like to cook food, please take advantage of the community kitchen on the main floor. Hot plates are unnecessary fire hazards.” She sets my suitcase on the queen-size bed and clasps her hands into a neat ball. “Charis LeBlanc lives next door. She is pleasant company. If you feel lonesome, pay her or me a visit.”
Great idea. I’ll pay an impromptu visit to the aliens who’d string a noose around my neck if they knew the truth. I’ll sit in their frilly parlor and let them look at me long enough to detect my human genes. Sarcasm, of course. I really should stop being bitter and impudent. Dead brother, dead friends, dead world—those are decent excuses for snarky thoughts, right?
“I am grateful for your hospitality. Family is of utmost importance.”
“Quite.” Margo touches my arm as if I’m her sister or child, a real relative, not some stranger she found on her doorstep. “Pleasant dreams, my dear.”
****
Life became a checklist the moment I passed through the dome, a collection of segments all bound together by a moving body and focused mind. The small details of time slip into a void—I don’t remember what I had for breakfast, whether or not Margo said, “Good morning,” if someone sat next to me on the bus. Trivial things like that don’t matter when I’m alone, which is a normal state nowadays. Life is a checklist, and soon, it’ll be complete.
The District claws through the pavement of metropolitan Atlanta and plumes into the sky, shimmering with glass, joining what remains of an old space station in a slow creep toward the clouds. I become a vein in its monochrome body when I enter the plaza and join the surge of suit-wearing Purebloods. They move in diagonal lines on either side of me. Their briefcases slap my hips. Their horrible, beautiful faces remain stiff and straight, as if noticing someone for a split second would be a violation of conduct. But I’m invisible. And to be a shadow is to have a shield.
I scan my hand and enter an atrium that echoes with the patter of feet. Workers crowd around transparent screens to read the day’s news and weather reports. Milkmen exit the cafeteria with empty wire baskets. A receptionist sits at her kiosk in the center of the lobby, hands folded and eyes bright. Her red lips lift into an overenthusiastic smile as I approach the desk.
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