by Adam Bender
“Chocolate…cherries, I think,” Jon said with a smirk. “Hey, why’d you stop looking? You’re missing them kiss.”
“Jon, I am so sorry,” Eve said meekly at the bottom of the lighthouse. She couldn’t believe she’d managed to embarrass herself so much on their first stakeout together. “I just had this hunch, and I was so sure…”
“Hey,” he tried, “I mean, it seemed reasonable at the time they might be trading weaponry, or illegally obtained data…”
His rationality didn’t make her feel better. “They were trading spit!”
Jon smiled. “Honestly, I think the fact we didn’t suspect a date just proves once more how little either of us gets out.”
She giggled. “Yeah, I guess so.”
They walked to their cars. Eve turned once for a last glimpse at the darkening vista. Somehow the statues seemed to glow more vividly than before.
She breached the silence. “Well, it was nice working with you, Jon.”
“Yeah, it was fun,” Jon said. He stopped and looked at her.
Eve started to speak, but decided there was no need to man-ufacture additional humiliation tonight.
“Well…uh…it’s still pretty early,” said Jon, breaking the silence. “Do you maybe–I mean, do you have any dinner plans…currently?”
He saw but could not hear the evacuees as they hurried past the electronic eye of a DAY cash machine. Closed-circuit TV screens inside the bank’s basement flashed live images of mothers wrenching children’s arms forward and grown men plowing through human gaps. Sometimes someone would trip and disappear into the swarm.
The Heretic known as Seven rubbed a fresh thatch of stubble on his chin. There were bags under his eyes and he had to use his elbows to support his head over the computer desk. Glancing downward, he realized that an idle right hand had carved the name Eve into the pinewood with a ballpoint pen. Cursing under his breath, he tossed the writing tool across the room. It bounced across the unfinished concrete floor and disappeared beneath a tangle of gray computer cords.
“…just received confirmation of another church demolished,” buzzed the radio news. “The 12th Avenue Cathedral is the sixth major church, and–including the Capitol Tower–the seventh national landmark destroyed since the Enemy began its air strike on the city last night. President Drake has directed the Guard to manage an evacuation of the Capital. We have been asked to remind our listeners to do so in an orderly fashion so as to…”
Up on one of the screens, a guy with a baseball bat took a big hack at the glass door of the car rental place across the street. The smash diverted a stream of evacuees into the opening. Meanwhile, in the foreground, a crumpled woman latched onto the midnight blue leg of a policeman of the Guard. When she refused to let go, the Guard pulled a pistol from his holster and pushed it into her forehead.
Seven forced his attention away from the monitor to the far wall, where there was painted a jet-black face with fiery red eyes. The visage was the sign of the Underground.
He wondered if it was right to hide down here in one of the rebels’ nests. Not after everything that had happened, not after everything that he’d done. But where else could he go?
“…are exploring possible communications between the Enemy and the Heretic group known as the Underground in the days leading up to the attack…”
His eyes fell blearily upon a silver thumb drive sticking out of the dusty computer tower by his feet. The red-blinking box contained information that–he hoped–was powerful enough to turn things around in this country, or at least start moving them in the right direction. It had already been an hour since Seven had attached everything to an e-mail and clicked send. The Underground should now have all the evidence.
Seven groaned. He had betrayed the Underground before he helped them, and the guilt lingered like a bad hangover. The past stalked and hounded him at every turn, but the Enemy’s attack provided a grand distraction. If he just ran fast enough, he thought, maybe he could leave it all behind.
The lens flared as late-morning sun bled into the streets. A single surveillance monitor was the only source of natural light in the secret basement beneath the DAY Bank, but still the change finally roused Seven from slumber.
He awoke in a fit of profanity. If the clock on the wall was correct, he’d been asleep for almost two hours. After a couple deep breaths, he tugged the memory stick out of the computer and moved for the exit.
It was a struggle keeping his gaze high as he crossed the street toward the car rental store. Eventually, avoiding the millions of glass splinters forced his eyes down to the trampled dead and dying. He shivered but pressed on.
Finally, Seven came upon the entrance of the car rental shop. A small sign lying on the ground exclaimed in big red letters: COME ON IN, WE’RE OPEN!
He shrugged and shuffled inside.
A CCTV screen hanging in the corner of the room im-mediately caught his attention. The image was grainy but instantly recognizable. Seven waved his hands and the short-haired man on the screen mimicked the motion on a half-second delay.
The floor of the shop was smothered with torn yellow brochures. The papers, rustling gently under a slow-rotating fan, piled up to swallow the counter in the back. Seven looked left and right, and then clambered over the top. On the other side, he pulled open a drawer and scavenged. Finding nothing, he slammed the drawer shut and yanked at another. After this and a third drawer also proved unfruitful, he let loose an agonized scream.
There must be keys in here somewhere, he told himself. There must be at least one car left.
A deep rumble rattled the counter, shaking loose a brochure. It shimmied out from the pile and floated to the ground. Tracing its fall, Seven’s eyes landed upon something else entirely. Poking out from beneath the yellow trash on the floor, a bronze object glinted in the sunlight.
He picked up the key and rushed through the back door labeled Garage.
The parking lot was smaller than he had anticipated, and there was only one vehicle left–a slightly beatup looking purple minivan. After some hesitation, he tried his key in the door and it fit. Seven climbed inside and sunk into the driver’s seat. He left the door open as he considered where to drive. He couldn’t think of a single destination.
It didn’t matter, he decided eventually. He would do what he always did–keep moving and let things sort themselves out. The strategy hadn’t exactly turned up great results so far, but at least he was still alive and a free man.
Seven reached out to shut the door. To his surprise, his hand met something round and covered with soft cotton. He was swatted away with painful force.
“Hands off!” shot the newcomer, a sharp-eyed girl with a red bandanna wrapped tightly around her hair. She pressed a blunt metal object into his side. “And, like, get your butt out of the van!”
The words “Don’t shoot!” came spluttering from his mouth and he flailed his hands wildly in the air. “I’m unarmed. What do you want?”
“What do I want?” the young stranger protested, pointing at the sky. She was short, but stood like a giant. “Didn’t you hear the bombs? This city is turning into a war zone! I want to get the hell out!”
“Well, I guess that makes two of us,” he said. Suddenly, a strange idea surfaced from the ether and he waved manically at the backseat. “But look, this van has got to be big enough for eight!”
“What?” she seethed, lowering her gun. “Are you suggesting that we…car pool?” She said the last two words as if it described a shockingly immoral act.
“Um,” he said, “yes?”
The stranger’s jaw dropped. “But–but, what do I need you for?”
“I mean,” he replied, sounding a little surprised at his success up to this point, “it’s pretty easy to steal a car from someone when they’re on their own, isn’t it? I think you just proved that.”
“But you–” she gasped, eyes smoldering. “Fine! But I’m driving–”
He shrugged and slid into the p
assenger seat. “Then I guess I call shotgun.”
“And we go where I say, and I drop you off where I want–”
“I’m Seven, by the way.”
“–and you–what?”
“Seven. It’s my name. Do you have one as well?”
“Talia,” she grumbled, swinging her small frame inside. Her ponytail hit him in the face.
A sign at the garage exit asked Seven and Talia to stop to pay the attendant. But the station was empty and the gate was smashed to pieces. Talia sped up and the minivan shot out into the morning light.
The radio, which had been nothing but a hiss of static in the garage, came suddenly alive. “…state of emergency is still in effect, and Patriots living within the Capital have been instructed to evac-uate. No word yet on whether the Guard anticipate further attacks from the Enemy, and if so, when and where they might occur. But if you are still in the city, you must evacuate immediately.”
The intersection ahead was a sea of pigeons. Most of the gray birds bobbed around an upturned pretzel cart; though some hadn’t yet caught on to what all the excitement was about. The birds stiffened as the van neared. Then, like one great phoenix, they lifted off into the smoke-filled sky.
“So,” said Talia over the broadcast. “You call yourself Seven, huh? That’s an interesting name.”
He looked at her blankly.
“Are you very lucky?”
“Not especially.”
Talia rolled her eyes. “C’mon, there’s no way your parents named you after a number.”
“Oh, well, it’s kind of a dumb story…”
“In that case, you can spare me the details.”
Seven looked helplessly at the tuner. “Enemy fighters late last night appeared over the Luna Coast and launched a bombing campaign on the Capital,” the radio said. “In the attack–wait, hold on a minute–we’re receiving some new information. We’re going to go to Alan Thomas for the latest.”
“Thanks, Ethan,” said a new voice. “We’ve just learned that the Enemy has a full navy fleet located about twenty miles off the Luna Coast, and the Guard believe that’s where the fighters returned after the attack. An administration official told us the Guard has just sent its own jets into the Capital to engage them.”
“Is there any word on the Enemy’s next move?”
“Not at this time. But we should be getting more inform-ation shortly.”
“Thanks for that report in our developing story. Just fifteen minutes ago, the president said this about the attack…”
“Make no mistake–we will get these guys! The Enemy will pay dearly for its aggression upon our great, peaceful nation. But as we strike outwards, we must also look inwards and consider how we might stop this from happening ever again. Although our nation remains strong, we must consider the damaging and divisive impact of heresy in our land.”
Seven shook his head. Even when the country was getting attacked by another country, the Guard blamed alleged Heretics inside its own borders. Seven was not surprised. The so-called Heretics had been the Guard’s default scapegoats for as long as he could remember.
“For the past year, we have been tracking a group of Heretic extremists known as the Underground,” the president went on. “Their work has been to sabotage our fine nation, and their attacks have become increasingly vicious in recent months. Yesterday, we captured their leader. In the days to come, we will snuff out their faction entirely.”
Seven felt a rush of guilt as he recalled the role he had played in the arrest. He anxiously fingered the memory stick in his pocket.
The anchor’s warm vibrato returned. “The president, of course, was referring to yesterday’s capture and execution of Daniel Alexander Young. The Guard learned that Young, president of DAY Corporation, was secretly funding the Underground using company profits. Last night, just before the attack, Young’s son and likely successor–Daniel Alexander Young, Jr.–released this statement about his father’s arrest, which denies any DAY ties to the Underground.”
Young’s voice was tremulous. “Although DAY Corporation certainly signed my father’s paychecks, the company was unaware of–and exercised no control over–how he spent his money after hours. One man’s mistake should not–and will not–jeopardize the jobs of the thousands of flag-waving Patriots who work for DAY Corporation. The Board and I are currently reviewing our books to ensure that any and all lingering connections between the company and Heretic extremists are severed.”
“Again, those were the words of Daniel Alexander Young, Jr.–or Danny Young, as he’s better known in the tabloids.”
The radio burst with drums and staccato synthesizer. “Coming up after these messages, we’ll have more on what the attack means for citizens living outside the Capital. Stay with us.”
Seven looked up and saw that Talia was running a red traffic light. He didn’t flinch. “Well this certainly is disconcerting,” he said instead.
Between the cavernous skyscrapers, the place was a ghost town. Newspapers and other garbage rolled by like tumbleweed. Here and there, bodies lay crumpled on the pavement. But there was no one else. Even the homeless seemed to have gone.
“You and I waited a long time to get out of the city,” said Talia as if she could sense Seven’s awe. “Most of the people who wanted to leave are out already or on the highway.”
Seven considered. “So what are you still doing here?”
“You first,” she returned.
Not wanting to divulge any details either, he asked, “Where are we going?”
“Like, duh, the only exit out of this city?” she said.
He looked at her blankly.
“Uh, the Tunnel?”
“Oh right,” he said, trying to pass it off like a momentary lapse. “And after that?”
Talia gasped and slammed the brakes. The van stopped short a few feet from a garbage dump of twisted metal and crumbled concrete.
“Oh my God,” she said, turning off the radio. “Is that…?”
“The Capitol Tower,” Seven finished. “You didn’t know?”
“I heard,” Talia said with a hand on her forehead. “But I’d only seen the cathedral on Bell Street.”
“The Enemy seems to have targeted national symbols,” he replied.
“What’s their game?” she cried. “They’ve got bombs so big they could wipe our whole country off the map, just like that! Why didn’t they use them?”
“Maybe they were worried we’d nuke them back.”
She shook her head condescendingly. “You say that like it’s off the table.”
Talia shifted into reverse and pressed the gas. The minivan did a backwards U-turn, raced forward a block and whipped around a corner. Someone on the street screamed–Talia ripped the steering wheel back and forth and the van squealed by a soot-covered woman. Seven spun around to watch the lone figure through the rear window. The lady dropped to her knees and appeared to cry out.
“If we pick one up,” stated Talia, “we’ll have to pick them all up.”
Hawk-eyed agents of the Elite Guard filled the Desert Base’s double-tiered auditorium to capacity. Conversation was kept to a hush, but Eve doubted it was out of respect to the lives lost in the Enemy’s attack. The predators were silent by instinct.
A hook-nosed man with silver hair slid carefully into the seat next to Eve and stared. She returned his gaze with a polite smile and turned her attention to the stage.
“Hey, angel, what cloud in heaven did you come from?”
She looked at him for a few seconds to verify the question was directed her way. When he nodded she gritted her teeth, and without emotion replied, “The Capital.”
“I’m from the Engine Valley.”
Figures, she thought. “And what a lovely city that is. By the way, I’m engaged.”
He frowned and muttered, “I don’t appreciate the sarcasm.”
Of course he didn’t, reflected Eve. Very few Guard–and fewer Elite Guard–had a sense of humor�
��something to do with the overbearing alpha-male culture of the institution, she suspected. Still, it wouldn’t stop her from trying. As a man wearing sunglasses approached the oak podium and tinkered with the microphone, she nudged her other neighbor, who looked younger and thus potentially still human.
“This is the third time that man has been on the stage,” she whispered with a hint of mischief. “The government does more sound checks than a rock band.”
The agent produced a smile, but seemed to have trouble holding it. “I wouldn’t know,” he said.
Eve nodded until he looked away, then she buried her head in her hands.
The house lights dimmed. President William Drake and his entourage strolled onstage to roaring applause. He was a distinguished looking gentleman with salt-and-pepper hair, and his every movement oozed charisma. Eve thought him attractive, but impossibly unattainable. Anyway, she had a man. Or did, anyway.
“Thank you,” Drake purred with a sprinkle of country twang. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.” He raised his hands gently for quiet, but the sign wasn’t understood. “Please,” he tried.
The applause continued.
“Please,” he said again, tightening his navy blue tie. “Thank you…Thank you…Please…”
“Silence!” roared a black-cloaked figure, striding to the president’s side. The cleric’s face was barely visible beneath the shadow of his hood, but Eve knew it was the Headmaster. The appearance of the Church leader brought quick silence, leaving only the shallow cough of someone in the back. The dark figure glared it into submission.
“Thank you, Father,” Drake said sheepishly. He looked out over the crowd. “And thank all of you for coming out here on such short notice. It’s vital that you be here with us during the greatest crisis our nation has faced since the Great War.”
Eve couldn’t help but shiver. The president and the Headmaster rarely appeared together. President Drake tended to take on the more public duties of leadership–including speeches to the troops–while his counterpart in the Church kept to a largely background and administrative role in the nation’s affairs. Certainly the Enemy’s attack on the Capital was serious enough to justify a joint briefing, but for Eve the bombing somehow hadn’t felt so real until now.
