When the madness blossomed all around them, she had fallen. Her husband David, the portly, brilliant Jimmy Buffet enthusiast who toiled in the secondary economy so he could take weekend boating trips along the Intracoastal, had stopped to help his wife regain her footing. Even as the torrent of humanity pushed Ben forward—even as he clutched Lina’s tiny hand in his own, helping her navigate the chaos—he watched for a split second as David stooped to help his wife.
It was no use. The tide crushed them under and there they vanished. They were on the concourse one second and then they were gone, and Ben had held Lina’s hand and screamed for Orin, churning his legs and pushing against the panicked masses as they streamed for the exits.
After the Miami detonation, night had become day throughout the state of Florida. There was a bellowing, rushing suction as the atmosphere was drawn out of Jacksonville’s stadium while a shimmering gyre of orange death humped skyward along the southern horizon, like the first waking throes of some long-slumbering fire god. The chaos ceased for an instant while terrified football fans studied the sky, the air now whistling past them as that mountain of poison became Everest, erasing the stars and feeding itself on oxygen.
400 miles away, and yet it colonized the heavens.
There was a furious concussion; it buffeted the stadium, knocking every person in attendance to the ground. The jumbotrons and scoreboards creaked, cracked, splintered and fell, crushing spectators in pools of sparking electricity. There was a deafening roar—a horrible harmony of the Miami blast and the raw terror of the thousands in the Gator Bowl.
The world was reeling, and that was its cry.
Ben recalled how the initial impact of that tainted air had flung him to the ground, and then he was up again and running, little Lina tucked under his arm. It wasn’t until he had managed to descend the stairs and was back in the parking lot on State Street that he’d realized Orin—bleeding from an ugly gash on his forehead but otherwise whole—had also made it out.
“What do we do?” Ben brayed, hysterical. Lina was limp in his arms, her face buried in his armpit as the sky roiled and pitched above them, the cloud of fallout spreading.
“The van!” Orin shouted. “We’ve got to get to the van! There’s a key in the dash and we’ll—we’ll go to the shelter! Hand her over, Ben.”
“I got her! It’s okay, Orin, let’s just go!”
“No way! She’s my sister—my responsibility! Come on, Lina honey!”
She perked up at the sound of her brother’s voice and reached desperately for him, and then they were sprinting again and it wasn’t until they’d found the van and Orin was behind the wheel and practically standing on the accelerator that Ben had been able to so much as snatch a breath.
“Goddammit!” Orin cursed, slamming his fist against the steering wheel for emphasis. He threw the van into reverse, plowing into an SUV. He spun the wheel and put the van through its paces. With a squealing fishtail they were free and careening through columns of panicked pedestrians. Ben felt the van buckle, rise slightly, and settle as they hit something.
“Jesus—what was that?” Ben said.
“Who the fuck cares? Lina, honey, put on your seatbelt,” there was another rugged bump and that sensation of something large passing beneath the van’s tires “—and buckle it tight! We gotta get home! We have to get--”
“What was that? What in the hell happened back there?” Ben shrieked, bouncing around in his seat as Orin piloted the van through the chaos. It took a moment, but he was finally able to latch his seatbelt.
“That,” Orin said as he smashed through some shrubs, popped over a curb and veered straight through a grassy stretch of park, “was the end of the fucking world. Someone just started a revolution.”
Ben stared at Orin. The older boy’s face was an angry mask; tears leaked from the corner of his right eye. Blood oozed down his temple. Ben turned to Lina; the little girl just stared straight ahead, sucking her thumb, her eyes vacant husks.
Orin punched the accelerator and they tore through the park, tires shredding sod, before hopping another curb and squealing onto the entrance ramp to the Mathews Bridge. A smattering of other vehicles had also escaped the sports complex; they were desperately attempting to make it onto the bridge, but most of the traffic came in the form of pedestrians. Orin weaved across two lanes before passing the last of the runners; he put the pedal down as far as it would go and the needle on the speedometer crept upward: 55—60—65.
Ben looked out the back window in time to see a station wagon plummeting over the edge. A heavy-duty truck had nosed it cleanly off the bridge and through the guardrail, and it was at least 150 feet to the water.
The truck was gaining on them.
They screamed across the St. Johns River, barreling through sparse traffic on the Arlington Expressway. A column of police cars—lights blazing—clogged the opposite lanes of traffic, heading for the sports complex.
“It’s all connected, right?” Ben asked. “First Seattle, now Florida?”
“Of course they’re connected. Whoever did this—it was all mapped out. You heard Phillips—he said there were explosions in Denver and Pittsburg too. This is huge, Ben. It’s the end of it all. We’ll meet up with Mom and Dad back at the house. They’ll have to…” he bit his lip and gathered himself, “…they’ll have to help us move our things into the shelter. Jesus, we should have been prepared for this! When we get back, I need you to gather supplies, Ben. Water—as much as you can possibly cram into the van. Lina? Lina, honey?”
The little girl didn’t so much as blink.
“Lina, I need you to snap out of it!” It was dangerous, but he turned, leaned across the center console and slapped her hard on the cheek with his left hand. “Lina!” he shouted, looking back just as the left front fender coaxed a shower of sparks from the guardrail.
Her thumb fell out of her mouth and she stared at her brother in stunned silence before disintegrating into a wailing mess. “Lina! Sister, honey, listen to me…we need your help!” Orin said, watching her in the rearview. “We’re taking you to the clubhouse, sweetie! All this time you’ve wanted to come and see it—we’re finally taking you with us!”
The shock of the blow wore off and her cries became sniffles. “I can really come to the clubhouse?”
“Of course you can,” Ben said, “but when we get home, we need you to help us gather supplies.”
“What kinds of supplies? Can I bring Little Beth?” she said, referring to the tattered ragdoll that had been her constant companion since she’d been able to hold herself up in her crib.
“Of course you can,” Orin said. “You’ll need to pack some clothes in a bag, Lina. Take three of everything. Socks, shirts, pants—load it all up. Grab Little Beth and your clothes and put them in your backpack, and then we’ll need you to help us gather food. Can you do that, honey?”
Orin leaned hard against the steering wheel, narrowly avoiding a Subaru that had flipped over on the expressway. A body, bloodied and still, was smashed up against the concrete barrier.
“Uh-huh. I can help you.”
“That’s good, Lina. We need your help,” Ben replied. Damn, it was good that she was coming around.
They raced up the Mill Creek flyover and onto Monument Road, the van straining now at 80 mph. Its frame shuddered and Ben clutched the handle on the armrest, his fingers white.
“Bing-BING-Bong!” his monitor chimed.
“Jesus!” Orin hissed. When he turned to look at Ben, his eyes were filled with contempt. “Throw that fucking thing away, Ben. You don’t need it anymore.”
Ben panicked. His kit—the shots! He’d taken one just before the end of the whole mess, but then he’d lost it, probably in those first frantic moments after the southern sky had flared a deathly orange. After a minute of futile searching, Orin caught the fear in his friend’s eyes. He softened his tone.
“Look, Ben, missing one injection won’t kill you. You have medicine at the house, righ
t?”
Ben nodded. He couldn’t tell if it was his immune system, as he’d been told all these years, or his bruised psyche, but he suddenly felt nauseous.
“We’re almost home,” Orin said. “You can dose up when we get there.”
On cue, he yanked the wheel and the van darted toward what was now an unmanned guard station. The entry to Hidden Hills, their suburban Shangri La, was unguarded.
Unguarded, but not at all open for business.
“Hold on,” Orin grunted as they bore down on the lowered barrier. He was doing forty-five when he hit it; the van’s grill shattered and radiator fluid geysered up onto the windshield, creating a shimmering green curtain.
“Christ!” Orin screamed, flicking on the wipers. Shards of the fiberglass barrier swished back and forth on the glass. Lina moaned as Orin struggled to keep the van under control. He popped up onto the sidewalk briefly before lurching back into the road. He shot Ben a savage grin. “Made it!”
As they navigated the residential labyrinth, Ben took it all in. There were already fires. How could that be? Not fifteen minutes earlier, they had been watching the Super Bowl! A roof burned while a thin man dressed only in boxer shorts trickled a stream of water from a garden hose on the blaze.
The man’s shoulders were slumped. Why fight it? his posture said. It’s all going to burn anyway.
Orin wove through columns of parked cars, working the brakes and goosing the accelerator as residents—their neighbors—flooded into the streets in fear. Roads with insipid Florida monikers slid by on either side: Palmetto Street, Hyacinth Way, Orange Grove Place.
Finally, and with a desperate squeal of rubber, Orin angled into Graham Court. He spun the wheel, jammed down on the brakes, slammed the transmission shifter on the steering column down and executed a harried three-point turn, backing the van across the grass until the back doors abutted the entrance to their home. He was out in a flash, sprinting to the sliding door and yanking his sister from her seat.
Ben went straight for the garage. There were four pallets of water—each with six one-gallon jugs. He loaded them into the van and pillaged the recycling bins for empty containers. There were about a dozen empty milk jugs and he brought them into the bathroom in armloads. He drew water in the tub and began to fill them up.
“Good call,” Orin said, popping his head into the bathroom. “There’s Tupperware in the kitchen when you’re through. We’ve got ten minutes, Ben. Fifteen tops.”
Lina poked her head in behind her brother. “Fifteen…tops!” she repeated somberly, and Ben and Orin laughed despite themselves. It was nice to see some life in the girl.
He was rummaging through the containers in the kitchen when he heard the murmured conflict echoing down the hallway. He inched his way toward the voices. It was coming from Lina’s room.
“We only have enough for our family.” Orin said. There was an edge to his tone, though he wasn’t shouting. “I’m sorry, Mr. Kravitch. We’re going to find my parents and then we’re going to take shelter. You need to go home—take care of your own family.”
“We won’t use your things!” a man’s voice pleaded. “I promise! We just need some help until the worst of it has passed.”
“Look, I don’t appreciate you bringing that in here,” Orin said. Ben wondered what he was talking about, but he didn’t want to risk glancing into the room. Something in his gut told him to stay hidden. “We don’t want any trouble. We’re just trying to do what we can to get Lina to safety, Mr. Kravitch. We just…”
“But I know about the shelter!” the man shouted. There was an edge to his voice—a note of frantic insanity in his tone—that puckered the flesh on the back of Ben’s neck. “I know you’ve been planning, Orin! Your dad was always talking about a revolution, so I know you have a place to go. Take us with you! Please!”
“I can’t, Mr. Kravitch. You need to get out of here—your family needs you!”
There was a grunt and the sounds of a struggle and then the roar of gunfire. Suddenly, Lina was shrieking at the top of her lungs. “Orin! Orrrriiiiinnnnn!” she screamed, and then the gun roared again and the room was silent.
“Oh, Jesus! Oh dear lord and baby Jesus, what did I do?” the man said, his voice naked with revulsion. “What did I do?”
Ben peered around the corner. A balding, middle-aged man stood over Lina’s ruined body. From the corner of the room, Orin locked eyes with him. Blood bubbled past his lips and slid down his cheek.
Ben dashed at the man, hurtling himself at his back. He caught him low, the tackle flinging them both forward. Their momentum pushed the shotgun up under the man’s chin and it went off, the man’s face and the top of his skull vanishing in a cranberry mist. The back of Kravitch’s skull smashed into Ben’s face. His nose crumpled and the world went momentarily black, and then the husk of the man was beneath him.
Ben didn’t quite lose consciousness, and he pushed himself to his feet, the world around him shimmering behind a curtain of tears. He kicked the man’s body off the shotgun, which he picked up and threw across the room.
He turned to Lina.
“Oh God!” he said. He touched her shoulder, but she was gone. He pulled her close and rocked her in his arms. “Oh my God, Lina!”
He’d never known such pain.
“Ben,” Orin croaked. “Ben, bring her here.”
Ben lifted her. How much did she weigh? Forty pounds? He tucked the girl in close to her brother. “Take the bike,” Ben whispered. His teeth were slick with blood. “The van’s too…just take the bike. Go over the fence. Go…now. There’s enough…there’s enough in the shelter for a long time.”
“Orin,” Ben pleaded. He was weeping, holding the boy’s hand. How long had he known him? Months? “Orin, you have to come with me! Please, Orin? Please come with me? I can’t do this by myself, and you’ll get better. I’m scared and…”
“Go,” Orin said. “Go now. Before they come around here. There will be others. Go, Ben.”
“No, I don’t want to leave you, Orin, I don’t think…”
But the older boy shuddered and a change coursed through him and then his eyes were like glass. Ben fell hard on his ass and vomited. Blood from his burst nose mingled with the Cherry Coke and nachos he’d been snacking on in the stadium, many lives ago when they had been watching a football game at the downtown stadium.
A goddamned football game!
He retched until he was spent and then stood and pulled the comforter from Lina’s bed. There was a cartoon character on the blanket—one of her favorites—and he used it to cover them both.
He found his backpack and stuffed it with the last of his immuno enhancers. Only two packs remained, and a sudden sense of dread gripped him. What would happen to him if the ranch was gone—if Mr. Brown could no longer send fresh supplies of medicine?
“Jeez, Ben,” he chastised himself, “think of someone else for once!”
He hunted through the bathroom cabinet for medical supplies and returned to his room to collect the only picture of Coraline that he owned. He took his telephone charger and a flashlight. He packed two bottles of water and a box of energy bars and few items of clothing before he slung the pack over his shoulder and crept out the back door to the shed, where he found the old beach cruiser that Orin had lent him.
He walked the bike out to the street and took stock of the place. All around him, life was disintegrating. Three houses down, a man dressed only in sweatpants kept a shotgun trained on a writhing, bloodied figure in the driveway in front of his house. The shirtless man locked eyes with Ben for an instant, the challenge clear in his eyes, and Ben put his head down and stood up on the pedals, gathering speed. There were fires and people shouting at each other; a few cars raced up and down the narrow streets, but Ben mostly had the roads to himself.
The concussion of the Miami blast had seemingly tripped every car alarm in Duval County, the cacophony adding a terrible score to the devolution in the streets.
He w
as about a mile from the house when he encountered the little girl in the street. She might have been two or three years old, and she wore a white jumper spotted with something dark—maybe it was catsup or chocolate sauce, but Ben wasn’t hopeful. Not on that day. He hammered on the brakes and came to a skidding stop.
“Hey,” he called, and she looked up to him, her eyes filled with tears. Her hair was mussed, like she’d just gotten up from a nap. Her lip quivered, and she was two steps away from losing it completely. How she had found herself there alone, Ben could only guess.
She raised her arms in the universal sign for pick-me-up! and took a halting step further into the street just as the out-of-control Mercedes came barreling around the corner, its tires squealing on the hardtop. Ben watched the accident unfold in slow motion, and it was the worst thing he’d ever seen—the worst sequence of events—that he’d ever been unable to forget.
Life had been hard in those cold, hungry years after the Reset. That was a fact. But nothing was worse—even the things that had happened to Orin and Lina—than the memory of the harried man in the Mercedes sedan; nothing was worse than seeing the car hit the little girl wandering alone on the far side of the street.
The driver stopped. To his credit, he had not fled. Together, they tried to revive her, to see if anything could be done. When it was clear that she was beyond help, the man just fell onto his side in the middle of the street. He curled into a ball, right there in the middle of the street, emitting a low-pitched keening sound and holding his head in his hands. All of this happened while the shock of what he had just witnessed crashed down on Ben like a rogue wave.
After a long minute, he stepped back onto the sidewalk and collected his bike, and then he was pushing it through the woods and toward the shelter, moving only out of human instinct. He was maybe a hundred yards into the trees when he heard a fierce collision. He briefly wondered, with a peculiar sense of detachment, if the man had picked himself up from the street before the cars collided.
Ben pushed ever further into the woods, putting the fractured world at his back. When he finally arrived at the fence, he hid the bike in a palmetto grove. He scaled the fence and trotted across the grounds to the deserted processing plant, where he angled directly for the crumbling office complex before stepping into the protection of the shadows. He paused to scan the forest. Satisfied that he had not been followed, he snapped on the flashlight, entered the old processing plant and barricaded the door behind him.
The Reset Page 4
