by B. C. Tweedt
Sydney stepped up next to Nick and surveyed the landscape. She tilted her head and her mouth dropped open in bewilderment. The scene was bizarre, like out of some disaster movie. The long, grassy slope dropped down to a ditch and a six-lane highway where cars and trucks were deadlocked in every direction for almost a mile. They looked left and saw cars – right, more cars. Blinkers and hazard lights were on, horns were blaring, and some passengers had even gotten out to walk between the lanes as if they were aisles.
“What’s going on?” she asked on behalf of everyone.
“I-I’m not sure,” Nick said, searching the scene for answers. “It is rush hour, but this is crazy. Maybe they’re escaping something. Or all going toward the same thing?”
“Well, let’s go ask them,” Jarryd suggested, still breathing hard. “After a breather.”
Nick eyed the rest of the group. They looked ragged – worn out. “Good idea. Everyone, let’s rest here for a couple minutes. Sammy, you got any food for us in your bag?”
Sammy growled.
“Come on.”
“I have nuts and funnel cake – for Sammy’s self only.”
“Any water?”
“No. Duh.”
Nick rolled his eyes. They’d have to get water first thing. His throat was burning and his lips felt like they were cracking, but he didn’t want to complain. He was sure everyone else’s were, too.
Nervous enough to pace, but forcing himself to rest on the soft grass, Nick peered back at the neighborhood they’d just walked through. After he’d convinced the group that Greyson knew what he was doing, they’d maneuvered through empty backyards, taking glances at the televisions tuned into news stations; they’d weaved around to the front streets when forced to, ignoring the looks of bystanders trying to glimpse the smoke rising from the fairgrounds or gawking at the police helicopters and emergency vehicles that traveled past. They’d even turned down several offers from compassionate families who’d offered them sanctuary. Though tempting, they were following Greyson’s wishes – to find a public place. Perhaps he knew something of the terrorists’ plans he wasn’t sharing, and Nick had to trust him. It had paid off the last time they’d gotten into a similar mess.
Nick was still watching when, near the end of the row of houses, an elderly man emerged from his front door, letting the screen-door squeak closed behind him. He turned on his front porch and began fiddling with something against the side of his house. When his stooped wife followed him out, Nick understood what he was doing. The wife handed the flag to him and he put it into the flag stand. When he had smoothed it out, he took a step back and admired the stars and stripes flapping in the thick breeze. Several other households had done the same down the street – a small, but striking symbol of allegiance in a time of their country’s peril.
Maybe Jarryd is right, Nick thought. America is indivisible. Who would want to tear it apart? It had been a beacon of hope, freedom, and greatness as long as he lived – and as long as his parents had lived. Happiness and prosperity was all he had known. Sure, the government had been getting out of hand, but violence was not the way to stop it. If the country would learn anything from today, it would be that terrorism would not win. It couldn’t defeat the country he knew – the one that history told him always won – the one that always fought for what was good and what was right. It wasn’t perfect, but it was his. The Civil War was long gone, and no one would be stupid enough to let that dark history repeat itself. Slavery was gone – and so also was anything so divisive to cut such a strong country to pieces.
Washed by a sudden sense of patriotism, Nick saluted the old man’s flag before turning back to the lines of cars. But, still in the grip of emotion, the enormity of it all hit him. Hundreds of people, perhaps thousands had been affected and millions would be scared. Especially here the tension was evident in the air, the small panic emanating from the horns and angry shouts of the drivers. No one, including the kids watching from the hill knew the full scope of the attack and the changes it would cause. Though the traffic had ground to an absolute stop, Nick couldn’t help but think that the world was moving.
Despite the fear there was also an almost-majesty to the scene with the variety of colored cars streaking like a rainbow across the vibrant green grass. And above, the sun went behind a dark row of clouds stretching to the west, sending a wave of shadow that enveloped the traffic jam, the slope, and then the huddle of kids sitting in the grass. The shadow sent a shiver of relief through Nick’s hot body and straining eyes.
When his sight had fully adjusted, the horizon had come into clearer view.
“Hey, guys, look,” he said, pointing to another side street where cars were lined up, packed into a massive parking lot. Those who had left their cars were headed to one of two places – a gas station on the corner or the gigantic SuperMart.
“It’s a rush for gas and supplies,” Nick said. “My stepdad said that happens with every natural disaster. And it happened after 9/11. People are afraid something will happen to the supplies and want to get them before they’re out.”
“They wouldn’t run out of nuts, would they?” Sammy asked, licking the remains of a funnel cake off his fingers.
“Well, let’s go make sure we get the last of them, huh?”
Sammy jumped up and swung his backpack around his shoulders. “Aye, aye Captain!” he yelled as he dove down the hill, rolling over and over toward the highway.
As the rest of them climbed down after him, Sydney took one last look in the distance behind them, where Greyson had forced them out with a knife and where Sam was hiding in an empty home. Part of her wanted to sprint back to them, to rescue them, but another part trusted Greyson. Hopefully Nick was right. Greyson knew what he was doing.
Chapter 29
The air was moist and smelled of urine. It made him want to gag, but the rag jammed into his mouth and taped to his face was already accomplishing that. Of all the things bothering him – the pitch dark, the smells, the itchy bag over his head, the binds around his wrists and ankles – the worst were the sounds of the others. There were several in here with him, and he could hear their groans, their stifled cries, and the shuffling of their clothes. But it was so dark he couldn’t see his own nose, let alone the others’ faces. For all he knew, they were his friends and his mother.
Not long after they had thrown him in here, he had a fearsome thought – one that he never wanted to have again. For a moment, just for a snap of the fingers, he had wanted to die, and believed he deserved to. Something had triggered the thought; perhaps the hopelessness of the situation, but more likely, the overwhelming guilt had spurred him to believe that ending it all would be the easiest way out.
And now he hated himself for it. Why would I think of that? I’d never do it. Never. Would I? What if they torture me, though? How can I stand up to that if I can’t even stand up to this stupid guilt?
There were plenty of reasons to give up, but plenty more not to. He had to keep fighting for those reasons – to possibly hear where his father had been for the last year, to find his mother and tell her, and to kiss Sydney again. The possibility for such things seemed nonexistent when he was first thrown in, but he had convinced himself that those he was with were more hostages – probably more just like Sam who the terrorists hoped to use as leverage or ransom. And they wouldn’t be killing them. That wouldn’t make sense. So, if they could still serve a purpose, there was still hope to escape or to be ransomed back to those they loved.
Besides, it was his thirteenth birthday in a few days. He had always wanted to be a teenager. To struggle with acne, not flesh wounds; puberty, not terrorism; and social awkwardness, not the guilt of betraying a friend.
Sam.
As much as Greyson was complaining, longing to be normal, how much more could Sam be? He had done nothing wrong – nothing to deserve this. If anyone had the right to complain, it was Sam.
A sudden quiet struck the dark, and noises filtered in from outside w
hatever room they were in. The sounds of trucks – large ones – and men shouting orders. Other machinery sounds – like trucks being loaded with something heavy.
As Greyson continued to listen, he was suddenly reminded of when he had been tied up with Sydney and Jarryd, underneath the giant missile in the observatory at Morris. The hopelessness of that situation had matched this one, if not surpassed it. Yet he had made it out of that with the miraculous intervention of Liam. It was possible. All things were possible.
He had to keep fighting. Fighting for what was good, no matter how hard. He could still do this somehow. He could save them all. He would redeem himself – cure himself of this infection that was keeping him down, deceiving him into thinking that it was hopeless. It isn’t! The infection is powerful, but I’m stronger. It may be winning the battle, but I will win the war. That’s probably what the Pastor was going to say. The cure. There was a cure. And what is it? Perseverance. Hope. Will power. Fight.
I have the cure.
----------------------
Walking on a busy highway was usually not a good idea, and the kids were still apprehensive, but the cars hadn’t moved in minutes. They weaved around them, eyeing the drivers as they did. Most were still sitting, listening to the radio or trying to get their cell phones to work, but others had simply parked their cars and left. The kids filed into a line of people as they cut across the median toward the SuperMart on the other side of the highway.
“Where you going?” Jarryd asked a young man who reminded him of Brandon, his old camp counselor.
The man swiveled to look at them, but continued his hurried walk. “I’m uh…going to the SuperMart – like everybody else.”
“Why?”
The man gave him a look. “Why are you?”
“Get some water.”
“Well, I’d just drink tap if I were you.” He said, glancing back and forth between them and the growing crowd in front of them. “Not worth the effort unless you’re afraid of them poisoning our water, too. They just might.”
“Who?” Jarryd asked. “The Pubes?”
Nick cringed. The man laughed. “Yeah, them, or the government – once they start thinking we’re all Pubes.”
“That would suck. But seriously, whatcha getting?”
“I’m not sure. I was heading home, heard the news and then got stuck in that traffic jam. Figured I better get something before they all get it.” He swept his hand toward the parking lot. “You seriously coming for water?”
They crossed the ditch and entered the parking lot. Cars had invented spaces when the rest had been taken.
“Yeah, well, we’re coming from the fair.”
He turned and walked backwards, a look of fascination on his face, “No way! I heard on the radio there was an attack there, too. Was it epic?”
Nick gritted his teeth at the man’s callousness.
“Yeah, totally!” Jarryd said. “It sucked! There were more attacks?”
The man continued backwards, still checking the path toward the SuperMart. “Yeah, four or five at least. Chicago, Dallas, New Orleans…and some other ones. This is crazy. It’s like we’re some Middle Eastern country – like Iraq or something.”
“Yeah. I guess…” Jarryd turned to Nick and whispered. “Where’s Iraq?”
“East,” Nick offered. “In the middle.”
“Ha. Ha.”
The man turned back one last time. “Sorry to ditch ya, but I’m going to get as much beer as I can. That stuff’s going to be gold in a few days. Peace.”
He turned and sprinted into the store, pushing through a small crowd near the carts.
“You hear that?” Nick asked Sydney. “More attacks.”
Sydney shook her head. “Insane…”
Nick led the group into the noisy crowd, shimming between the adults, holding each other’s hands to stay together. The excitement was something near that of the midnight sales on Black Friday, the busiest shopping day of the year where nearly everything was on sale. But today, greed was taken to a whole new level. This wasn’t about the next gadget or game, it was about survival.
A fight was breaking out behind them over one of the last carts.
“I had it first!”
“No, my hand was on it!”
“Hey, let the lady have it!”
“I’ll let her have it, alright!”
Once through the worst of it, the kids looked back, but could only make out a surge of bodies and faces. SuperMart employees and a security guard entered the melee, but it looked futile. They kept moving, slowly zigzagging through the fastest moving areas of the crowded aisles of the vast store. The crowd was like a mob of zombies, eyes listlessly searching for the best food, sauntering behind the lead zombie, quiet, but agitated.
And playing to the zombies was an incessant looped video displayed at the end of each register. The face of the Secretary of the Department of Homeland Defense was speaking to the camera. “…alert level red. The risk of attack is at its highest. You are asked to remain calm and remain indoors if at all possible until the alert is lifted. Please be on the lookout for any suspicious activity or person. Always alert the nearest peace officer or call 911. Thank you for your cooperation. This is an emergency broadcast…”
Nick shook his head and blinked. This was too much for him to handle. He longed to be with his parents, to have them tell him it would be okay, and to tell him what to do. But for now, he was that guy. He made the calls.
“We need to get supplies, but more importantly, we need a phone. We have to reach the FBI. Ask an employee. Say it’s an emergency.”
Sydney scoffed. “It’s an emergency? That’s what everyone is going to say. And you can bet every one of these people wants to use a phone.”
Nick was eyeing an “Employees Only” door that probably led to the phones. It looked empty enough. What would Greyson do?
But before he could formulate a plan, a bigger woman to their right held her phone up toward the ceiling, trying to get reception. She nearly stumbled into the person in front of her, knocking her sunhat down over her eyes.
“Oh, excuse me!” she apologized after the man gave her a death stare. “I just thought I got a bar for a second there.”
Jarryd’s ears perked up and he turned to Nick with a smile. “Allow me,” he whispered to his brother as he pushed toward the woman. Nick nodded, as if Jarryd needed his approval to woo the woman into borrowing her phone.
“Hey there,” he said, giving her a smile and a pump of the chin.
“Oh, hi,” she said, smiling back before squinting at her phone again.
“I like your brassiere,” he said motioning with his eyes to her hat. “I’d have liked to have had my hands on one of those today.”
Her eyes came off her phone screen and landed square on his pupils. Then, with a loud scoff, she slapped him in the face, turning heads all around them.
Jarryd pressed his hand to his cheek in surprise. “What? It looks comfortable!” She raised her hand again, but he squirmed away, retreating into the men’s clothing racks.
Catching up to him, the rest of the group informed him what he had actually said. After punching Nick a few times, he was interrupted by an eruption of cheers from the crowd. Cell phones were being held up in celebratory fashion. One man shouted, “I got bars!” and the rest confirmed the same with their phones.
The jammer was down.
Sydney, Jarryd, Nick, and Liam all pulled out their phones as Sammy glanced at a new pair of tighty whiteys.
The messages from their parents started pouring in, backed up over several hours. The excitement among the group was palpable. They all smiled, even Jarryd as he rubbed at his burning cheek. It felt like it would all be over soon.
Back in the entryway, two policemen ignored the violent brawl erupting next to them, and made their way toward men’s clothing.
Chapter 30
There was a sudden flash of light, filling the inside of the bag covering Greyson’s he
ad with shades of red. He could see shadows moving toward him and they grabbed him. They were strong. He was lifted away then set on his bound feet. He stumbled, but angry shouts made him attempt to walk as two large hands were latched around his thin arms. They could have snapped his arms like twigs if they wanted to.
“Put him down here.”
The two men set him on a chair and the bag was torn from his head. He had to close his eyes to shield himself from a blazing lamp. Fingers suddenly grabbed at his gag and it was pulled from his mouth along with a long string of saliva. He coughed at the rush of air and sucked it in gratefully.
“Hi, again.” It was Orion, looming over him with that same sly smirk. “I’m going to hurt you. Just to get that out there so there’s no suspense.”
Greyson stared blankly ahead. He would give him no satisfaction in it.
“But first I wanted to tell you something…”
Blinking as if he was still trying to adjust to the light, Greyson had already started glancing around, taking in the surroundings. A large, open building. Dark except for one area where desks and computers and lamps were manned by perhaps a dozen men dressed in black. They looked professional – unlike many of the other terrorists he saw at the fair dressed in camouflage. Others were scurrying about, and some were at guard posts –armed with automatic weapons. There were three white moving trucks, one of which was being loaded with some sort of rectangular machine. There seemed to be a lot of hubbub around that machine.
“…something that reveals your character. Tells me what kind of people we’re fighting against.”
Greyson’s hands were still handcuffed and his legs bound, but his pack was still on and behind him. There was still one ball left, but he could never hope to pull the slingshot back with handcuffs on. Unless I use my teeth…
“You sent your friends away from you, knowing Jarryd still had a tracker on him, knowing they’d be tracked down – possibly killed. Yet you did it anyway, because all you cared about was your little deal with my dad.”
