by Walter Jury
I EXPLAIN MY PLAN TO DAVID AND SEND HIM OFF TO slip a Valium or five into Rufus’s beer. David could so easily screw me over here, but somehow I know he won’t. He gives me his hooded sweatshirt and heads off to the lodge in his T-shirt, since he’s safe from the sun right now.
I dump my iodine crystals into the gallons of ammonia. I’ve only done this in chemistry class, never on such a large scale, but if it works, it will be exactly what I need.
Chaos.
I cap the bottles and sneak out the back of the clinic again. I have some time, because it’s going to take at least half an hour to sedate the old man. I don’t think Rufus will let any of the others have possession of the scanner—but he won’t put it away, either. He’ll have it with him. Which means I need him to stay put.
But I need everyone else to move.
With my hood up and my head low, I unroll the paper towel and position two layers of it in the stiff grass beside the sidewalk in front of the lodge. From inside, I hear men’s voices. It’s like this angry hornet buzz, punctuated every now and then by a shout, a curse. I’m betting they’re arguing over how many H2 they can kill before dawn. Just like David said—anyone who flashes red is not going to be treated like a person. They’ll be treated like an enemy.
I am in the middle of pouring the contents of my bottles over the paper towels when someone stumbles out of the front of the lodge.
It’s the hobbit.
He’s got his hand on his half-open fly. I think he might have gotten lost on his way to the bathrooms. He squints at me in the darkness. “Matt? That you, buddy?”
Still hunched over my paper towels, praying the dark substance I’m pouring on them isn’t going to dry before I’m ready, I . . . grunt.
The hobbit leans forward. “What’re you doing there?”
“Cleaning up,” I say gruffly. I have no idea what the fuck Matt’s voice sounds like.
“Eh, okay. All righty . . .” He contemplates his open fly like it’s a wonder of modern technology. “Keep it up then.” He belches, then staggers back through the front door of the lodge.
I finish emptying my ammonia bottles and toss them in the grass. Sticking close to the buildings, I skirt between the lodge and the dining hall, and then sprint across the field to the solar panel array. I almost hate to do this; it’s going to affect everyone who lives here, including the women and children. But the men are going to be after me in a raw second when they figure out what I’ve taken, which means I need to kill the power so I can get past the security system quickly. Which means doing permanent damage to their solar array.
Using the scalpel, I pick the lock on the access panel. It’s painstaking work—especially with only a razor-sharp blade as a tool—but after several minutes I manage to switch the wires and reverse the polarity on the solar panels without slicing one of my fingers off. As soon as I secure the final connection, there’s this echoing snap, followed by ominous, sparking crackles as the system surges and fries itself to nothing.
One by one, the lights in the buildings go dark.
As soon as the lodge goes black, I take off running.
In my head, it’s like I can see it, the sands falling through an hourglass, whittling away the time I have, the time until the substance on those paper towels dries completely, until someone jostles it just the right way. I get to the back of the lodge and flatten myself against it in time to hear clomping footsteps on the front porch, someone yelling that he’s going to check the array. He’s going to be very unhappy when he finds out what I’ve done.
I creep over to the third window from the left, and as promised, David has left it open for me. I nudge the curtains aside and watch the last few men heading out the front door of the lodge, speaking in slurred voices.
I hoist myself into the main hall. The only light in the room is supplied by the low amber flames in the fireplace. It’s enough to show me Rufus Bishop hunched over in his chair, an overturned mug still clutched in his hand. I cross the room and stand over him, my heart slamming against my ribs. His other hand is resting on the table, meaty fingers curled . . .
. . . over nothing.
“I wondered if you’d come back.” Aaron Bishop steps from the hallway behind me.
He’s got the scanner in his hand.
“That doesn’t belong to you,” I say, taking a step toward him. I might have been worried about the time running out before, but now all I want is for it to speed up. What if my diversion doesn’t work? All Aaron has to do is shout, and I’m caught.
But judging by the cruel twist of his lips, he wants to play a little first. “Where’s the H2?”
“Safe from you.”
He lets out a huff of laughter. “How could you pollute your blood like that? Or are you just fooling around?” He nods at Rufus. “He gets all high and mighty about that stuff, but I don’t blame you one bit. What’s it like to screw an alien?”
It’s going to be fun to hurt this guy. “Give me the scanner.”
He looks down at the technology in his hand. “And what are you going to do with it?”
“Keep it away from people like you.”
His expression twists with disdain. “People like me? At least I am a person. You’d rather hand it over to a bunch of fuckin’ aliens?”
I shake my head and wipe my hands on my pants, never taking my eyes off his. “My dad didn’t create it to help either side kill.”
He’s just opened his mouth to reply when there’s a series of loud cracks from the front of the lodge. It sounds a hell of a lot like gunfire. Judging by the yelps and cries to take cover coming from outside, that’s exactly what the Bishops think it is.
My nitrogen triiodide trap has detonated.
Aaron whirls toward the front door with panic in his eyes. I take my chance and slam my fist into the side of his head, then yank the scanner from him and take off. I lunge through the window and go out headfirst, rolling to my feet immediately. I can already hear the thumping of shoes on hardwood behind me.
Scanner in hand, I sprint across the clearing. The guy who was sent to fix the array sees me coming and must hear Aaron yelling behind me, because he steps onto the sidewalk and adopts a low wrestling stance. From the way he’s all bleary and weaving, I can tell he’s about as sharp as the hobbit was.
So I don’t even slow down. Two steps before I reach him, I jump, plant my foot on his shoulder, and sail right over his drunk ass, landing on the other side and moving forward again before he can pick himself up off the ground. Behind me, Aaron’s steps are staccato thumps against the asphalt. He appears to be the only one of this crew who’s sober. He’s also extremely fast, and he’s gaining on me. My bare feet are torn and aching as they pound the blacktop. It’s a relief when they hit the leaves and earth, and I hurtle into the trees blindly, trying to stay ahead of Aaron. I vault over the split-rail fence and loop around the pond because I have no idea whether the scanner is waterproof. As I draw parallel with the southeastern shore, I hear a faint cough and roar—someone’s firing up a generator. Of course, these people have a backup electrical system. Which means . . .
The security system will be live again at any second.
I throw myself forward, desperate to make it through the invisible fence, all too aware of Aaron’s ragged breaths behind me as he closes the distance. He’s not hesitating, even though I can easily hear the high whine of the cameras on either side of us booting up. Surely he has to know the system’s coming online, has to—
Crack.
I jerk and stumble, then clumsily run my hands over my chest, surprised to find it intact. A gurgling moan comes from behind me, followed by the piercing shriek of the alarm, letting all the Bishops know an intruder has passed through the invisible perimeter. I spin around, disoriented, half convinced those automated rifles are about to cut me down.
Aaron lies a few yards away. He
’s curled on his side, and even from here, I can see the wet black ooze over the fingers he’s pressed to his chest. His eyes, glittering ebony saucers in the moonlight, are fixed on me with absolute terror. There’s blood flowing freely from his mouth and nose. He’s drowning from the inside out.
With the scanner hanging from my tingling fist, I take a step forward. And then I realize that if I try to help him, I’ll be shot as well.
I can’t do a thing for him.
“I’m sorry,” I say, and I mean it. I know a fatal wound when I see one, and though I hate him, I didn’t want him to die.
From just over the split-rail fence, there’s an agonized cry. The drunken solar-panel fixer has seen Aaron. He shouts over his shoulder to turn off the generators, his voice broken and panicked. And then his head swings back around—and his gaze lands on me.
I stagger back under the weight of it, the heat of it, the hatred. The blame. The promise that once they turn the generators off, the Bishops are going to come after me with everything they have, and they won’t care about the consequences. I whirl around and plunge into the trees, crashing through the brush. I don’t slow down to get my compass or my shoes, I just sprint, hoping I’m heading in the right direction.
My entire focus is on survival, on putting as much distance as I can between me and the Bishops. I lose track of time, of distance, aware only of the whoosh of my breath and my heartbeat pounding in my ears. I can hear them behind me. The beams of their flashlights hit the trees around me. I keep going, grateful with every step that I’m still alive, that if I keep going maybe I can find my way back to my mom and Christina. Assuming I’m heading in the right direction. I am sweat-slick and panting by the time my toe catches on a root and I end up sprawled on the forest floor. The deep, earthy smell of rotting leaves fills my lungs as I push myself up. The scanner is lying a few feet away. I lie very still, listening for the sounds of the mob coming after me, but somehow, I seem to have lost them—all I hear is the hoot of an owl and the trickle of water from a nearby stream.
Slowly, aching, I get to my feet and wipe my hands on my pants, then look down at my bare, muddy, bleeding feet.
I have no idea where I am. I have no idea how long I’ve been circling in these woods, but I know it’s been a while. I’m damn lucky I haven’t fallen right into one of their primitive snares or shallow, wooden-spike-filled pits.
From far behind me, deep in the dense maze of trees, there’s a shout. I spin around to see the pinpoint of a flashlight bobbing in the distance. I haven’t lost them after all.
But if they’re back there, that means that I need to move in the opposite direction. My feet throbbing, my brain foggy with fear and fatigue, I creep away, listening for signs that they’re hemming me in. I should have been back at the road ages ago. Will my mom and Christina still be waiting for me if I make it back? How long will it take Mom to call up her friend? What would the Bishops do to me in the meantime? Those thoughts keep me moving when all my body wants to do is drop.
Finally, up ahead, I hear the faintest of sounds, one that definitely isn’t coming from the forest. It’s a car horn. I can’t believe it—my mom is taking an incredible risk, but it’s all I need to get me going in the right direction.
Between the honks, I hear enough to know the Bishops have recognized the noise as well, because one of them calls to the other, and the flashlight beams bounce more quickly as they start to run. If they catch us now, they won’t be thinking about their assets in some bank in Chicago—the only thing on their minds will be avenging Aaron’s death. And when I consider what they’ll do to Christina, it sends a new, frenetic energy sizzling through my arms and legs.
I hurdle fallen tree trunks and stumble through brambles, holding the scanner close to my chest, bouncing off oaks and shouldering past spindly maples as I try to put some distance between me and the Bishops.
They start firing as soon as the car comes into view.
My mom, who’s standing just outside the sedan, dives into the driver’s seat as I leap over the muddy ditch separating the woods from the road. Christina throws open the door to the backseat and grabs me by the shoulders, using all her weight to heave me inside as a bullet thunks into the rear panel of the car.
“Go!” I roar, and my mom hits the gas pedal, lurching forward as I try to pull my legs all the way inside.
We’re at least a mile up the road by the time I am able to get the passenger door closed, but that’s not because I’m too tired or hurt to manage it—it’s mostly because Christina’s grip on me is iron, and I have trouble getting loose, even for a minute. As soon as the door slams, her arms are around me again, her hands in my hair, and even though she doesn’t say anything, the look on her face tells me what she’s been going through the last few hours.
I let her pull my head against her chest, and then I hear nothing but her heartbeat, nothing but her breath, nothing but the blood rushing through her veins. It resets me, better than any compass. I wrap my arms around her waist and don’t move until we cross the border into Maryland and are well on our way to Charlottesville.
AS WE DRIVE, I TELL MY MOM WHAT HAPPENED AT THE compound, including how Aaron got shot by Rufus’s security system. She makes a pained face. “Poor Rufus,” she whispers. Then she’s quiet until long after the sun rises over the horizon. I wonder if she’s thinking how easily that could have been me, bleeding out on the forest floor. I know I am. Her shoulders finally relax as we cross the border into Virginia. We’ve passed a few state cops, but in our bland gray car with Pennsylvania plates, we don’t draw any attention. We go through a drive-through for breakfast in Fredericksburg, and then she parks behind a trashy motel under the low-hanging branches of a pecan tree.
“I have to sleep for a while,” my mom mutters. “I’m about to pass out. And we should probably lie low until it gets dark. I don’t want to take any chances. Can you keep watch?”
“No problem.” Sometime in the last hour or two, Christina and I have switched places, and now I’m holding her as she dozes with her head on my chest. I’ve cleaned my feet off with a bunch of wet wipes my mom requested at the drive-through, and it turns out that apart from one long scrape on the bottom of my left foot, they didn’t sustain too much damage during my frolic in the woods. They ache to the bone, though, and I don’t mind the opportunity to keep them up and stay put for a while. My brain is another story. I’m still wired.
My mom gazes over the backseat at Christina. “She wanted to come after you. Last night.” She smiles. “I was wishing you’d left some of that Valium behind.”
I stroke Christina’s hair. “She’s not good at sitting still.”
“She’s graduating in a few weeks, isn’t she?”
“Yeah. If we ever make it back.”
“College plans?” my mom asks.
“You’re really asking me that after everything that’s happened? Like she can just return to everyday life?”
“It’s too early to say. If I have my way, this will die down soon, Tate.” She rubs at her temple and closes her eyes. “Don’t lose hope.”
“Penn,” I say, a familiar ache starting up in my chest as I look down at Christina’s face, so peaceful as she sleeps. “She got into Penn.” I’m happy that she’ll be going to such a good school. And Philadelphia’s only two hours by train. And we still have the summer. Assuming we’re both alive and that I haven’t been tucked away in some secret CIA cell somewhere. Assuming she still wants to be with me.
God, I’m going to miss her.
My mother nods. “It’s for the best.”
“What did you say?”
Her eyes meet mine. “Now that you know the truth, you need to face your responsibility.”
“My responsibility.”
“To make certain that the Archer line does not end with you.”
There’s a ball of lead forming in the pit of my st
omach, cold and toxic. “We’re not talking about this.”
She pulls the band from her ponytail and leans her seat back. “That’s fine. We don’t have to talk about it right now.”
Translation: We’re going to talk about it at some point.
I slide down in the seat a little, bringing Christina deeper into the circle of my arms, and stare out the window as my mother’s breathing slows, easing her into sleep. It’s not like I’m ready to settle down or anything. Hell, most days, I don’t think past the next few hours, let alone years into the future. Christina and I never talked much about what next year would be like, with her in college and me still stuck in high school. But the thought of losing her hurts me in ways I can’t really face right now. And the thought that my mother might have some short list of human girls who would make acceptable wives? That leaves me cold. I wonder if this is why my father never liked Christina. Not because she’s H2, but because he knew how hard it would make things for me.
I am the last of the Archers.
That feels like it should mean something, like it should be important. But right now, it just feels lonely.
I sit very still for a very long time, while my mother and Christina sleep, while they breathe the same air and dream separate dreams, while I try to figure out what each of them needs from me and realize there’s a strong possibility I will disappoint them both.
The sun is sinking by the time my mother stirs and brings her seat upright. Christina, who has been slumbering steadily for the past several hours, murmurs something about hydrochloric acid and shifts restlessly. I hope she’s not having a nightmare about chemistry class.
“You said we were going to see a colleague of yours,” I say to my mom as she turns the key in the ignition and pulls out of the parking lot.
“His name is Charles Willetts. He’s a professor of history at the University of Virginia.”
