by Tom Abrahams
Her eyes widened for a moment; then her lids lowered. Her jaw slackened; her chest heaved once and then relaxed.
Rick pulled her head next to his and squeezed her limp body. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered into her ear. “I’m so sorry for the pain I’ve caused you.”
Rick knew she didn’t hear him. She was already gone. The mother of his child was dead. Still, he gripped her familiar body against his, holding her for his comfort. A wave of guilt was washed away by a torrent of anger that exploded inside him.
This was Gus’s fault. Karen would be alive if he hadn’t opened fire. If he hadn’t insisted on fighting back. Rick looked to the greenhouse at the instant Gus’s body flailed wildly, responding to a barrage of bullets hitting him.
As he collapsed to the ground, a trio of soldiers approached in formation. One of them checked Gus’s body then all three of them moved cautiously toward the house. The gunfire had stopped.
Rick inhaled the stinging smoke and moved Karen’s body from his lap. Rolling over, he pulled himself under the house by using the opening Karen had created with her feet.
Almost immediately Kenny greeted him. The boy wrapped his arms around his father’s neck, squeezing him tight.
“Dad,” Kenny whispered, “what do we do? Where’s Mom?”
Rick looked for the others, but couldn’t see them. Mumphrey, Lana, and Candace were somewhere in the darkness.
“Where are the others?”
Kenny motioned over his shoulder. “Back there. Mr. Mumphrey said he had an idea. Where’s Mom?”
Rick didn’t have time for new ideas. He grabbed Kenny’s face with his hands and looked his son in the eyes. Their noses touched as he spoke.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said. “Now. I’ll worry about Mom.”
“But—”
“Now!” Rick said. He looked to his right toward the back of the house. It faced the northern edge of the property. “Go that way.”
Kenny didn’t argue. He nodded, his eyes wide with fear, and he began crawling toward the back of the crawl space. Rick followed right behind him, focused solely on getting Kenny away from the danger. As he moved along the ground, dodging plumbing and gas lines, he could hear a muted conversation from outside the crawl space. It had to be Reggie Buck. Despite its volume, his voice was pitched with fear.
“I’m coming down,” he called out. “I’ll drop the weapon. I’ll drop it.”
Rick scurried to the edge of the crawl space where Kenny was waiting for him. Mimicking Karen, Rick kicked out the wood lattice and the two of them moved into the open. Rick realized then he’d left the rifle next to Karen’s body. He was unarmed.
Rick looked to the woods directly beyond the fence before staring Kenny in the eyes. “All right,” he said to his son between heavy breaths. “We’re heading straight for those trees. When I tell you to go, you run. You don’t stop; you don’t look back. I’ll be right behind you. Once you get into the trees, count as you run. Once you get to fifty, stop and hide. I’ll find you.”
Kenny’s glassy eyes searched Rick’s. “What about Mom? Where is she?”
Rick clenched his teeth. He took a deep breath. “Three.”
“Dad!”
“Two.”
“But—”
“GO!”
Kenny scowled but pushed himself to his feet and started running. Rick waited until Kenny cleared the fence; then, crouched low, he worked his way around the western side of the main house. He was met by the hum of the large natural gas generator that sat next to the porch. Rick stood up and eased his body between the generator and the porch, moving closer to the front of the house.
When he neared the corner, he could hear voices over the generator’s hum. He didn’t recognize one of them. The other was undoubtedly Mumphrey.
“Like I said,” came the familiar phrase, “we’re coming out. We’re not armed. There’s five of us.”
Rick clung to the wall, staying out of sight. From his obstructed view he could see six soldiers. All of them were ready to fire, their weapons trained low at the house.
“One at a time,” a soldier responded, his words clipped and sharp. “Move slowly. No quick moves. We will shoot.”
A pair of thumps and a crack later, Mumphrey emerged, his hands up. The soldiers put him on his knees and frisked him.
A pair of soldiers helped Mumphrey back to his feet.
“How many more?” one of them asked.
“Like I said—” Mumphrey adjusted his shirt and brushed off his pants “—there’s five of us. Me, three women, and a boy.”
Rick curled back behind the house and stepped between the generator and porch. He’d heard enough. He ran until he hit the fence, climbed over it, and dropped to the other side, falling to the ground. He scrambled to his feet and bolted for the woods. He hit the trees and started counting. When he hit twenty-five, he slowed to a walk and picked his way through the yaupons and holly bushes that littered the brush.
Breathless again, he called to his son with a strained whisper. “Kenny?” He squinted, trying to find his son amongst the tangle. He stepped carefully, his breathing heavier than his feet.
“Kenny,” he called, “it’s Dad.”
A short figure appeared from behind a thick pine.
Rick shifted his weight and spun toward the soft whimper. The boy lunged at his dad and wrapped his arms around Rick’s waist. Rick held his son against him and tried to catch his breath.
Kenny looked up at Rick, his eyes seemingly knowing the answer to a question he didn’t have to ask.
Rick loosened his son’s hold and knelt in front of him, his knees sinking in the soft dirt. He gently placed his hands on Kenny’s shoulders, prepared to embrace him.
“Your mother,” Rick said, “she…she…”
Kenny’s eyes danced from Rick’s eyes to his chest and back. His chin quivered. “There’s blood on your shirt, Dad.”
Unable to look at it, Rick held Kenny’s gaze with his own. Tears burned his eyes, cascading down his face. His chest felt tight. Telling Kenny the truth would make it real. Saying it out loud made it permanent.
“She…your mom…”
Kenny’s expression flattened. “She’s dead.”
Rick pulled his son into his body. He needed consolation as much as what he offered Kenny. Karen didn’t deserve the life she’d lived or the death she’d endured. Rick felt responsible for both. He didn’t know what to tell his son. The words wouldn’t come.
Kenny’s body stiffened against Rick, resisting his father’s efforts to hold him. But when Rick was about to let him go, Kenny melted. He buried his head into Rick’s neck and sobbed. His little body shuddered and he gasped for air on the edge of hyperventilating. Rick resisted the urge to emotionally collapse. His son’s cries emboldened him, reminding him of the need to be strong. He held his son for what felt like hours. It was likely minutes. The sun was beginning to peek through the veil of branches and leaves that surrounded them.
“What do we do now?” Kenny asked. His swollen eyes were red with sadness and exhaustion. “Where do we go?”
Rick sighed. In the distance, he recognized the rumble of the military transports. He knew where they were headed. Mumphrey, Candace, and the Bucks were on their way to the camp. He was sure of that and it left him with no options.
“I think we need to go get Mr. Mumphrey,” he said. “He’d try to get us.”
Kenny wiped his eyes with the backs of his hands. He didn’t ask where they were going or how they’d free Mumphrey. Rick wondered if shock had taken hold.
He thought of different things to say to his son to try to make him smile, to lessen the immediacy of the pain he felt. Nothing felt right. Nothing seemed appropriate. So Rick Walsh pushed himself to his feet and took his son’s hand.
“We gotta go back to the ranch,” he said. “We need a ride.”
CHAPTER 9
MISSION ELAPSED TIME
75 DAYS, 14 HOURS, 06 MINUTES, 32 SEC
ONDS
DENVER, COLORADO
The food was better than anything he’d tasted in months. Clayton savored the maple flavor of the bacon, the strong, freshly brewed coffee, and the hearty crunch of granola. He couldn’t get enough.
“It’s not going anywhere,” said one of his uniformed guards.
Clayton held the spoon inches from his mouth. “What’s not going anywhere?”
The guard snorted a laugh through his nose. “The food. You’re eating it like it’s got wings, feet, and a place to be.”
Clayton shoveled the spoon into his mouth and squirreled the granola into his cheek. He followed it with a swig of coffee. When he’d emptied his mouth, he aimed his spoon at the guard. “Funny that you say the food’s not going anywhere. The same applies to everyone and everything in this place.”
The guard smirked. “Ungrateful, aren’t you? You could be up there.”
Clayton shrugged and plucked the last piece of the bacon from his plate. It was slightly overcooked and crispy. He relished the last bite and ignored the glare from the guard.
They were sitting in the corner of what they called the “feed” level in building two. Apparently building three’s cafeteria was suffering from power issues, so they’d made the longer train trek to this bunker. Clayton had to admit that, despite its Orwellian feel, the underground complex was impressive. It reminded him of a subterranean International Space Station, a series of tunnels and levels connected together to form a human-sized gerbil habitat. The only thing missing was microgravity.
The cafeteria was crowded, in large part due to the inaccessibility of the feed level in building three, and was a study in people. Clayton watched men, women, and children as they moved through the space. He studied their faces and their body language. Incredibly, nobody seemed concerned. They drank their coffee and ate their granola. They talked amongst themselves. Some laughed, others were engrossed in their DiaTabs, tapping and scrolling through whatever it was on their screens.
He scanned the tables, expecting, for some reason, to see a familiar face. And then he did. A young girl with gentle blond curls. She was lanky but athletic as she crossed the room with her tray of food. There was a confidence there. Her eyes were large and round and her cheeks carried a hint of cherub, as if there was a trace of baby still there.
Clayton froze. His heart thumped. Sweat bloomed at his temples and the back of his neck. He dropped the spoon into the bowl.
The guard reached out and touched Clayton’s trembling arm. “Hey,” he asked. “You okay?”
Clayton’s gaze narrowed and everything blurred but the girl. She walked toward him. He smiled at her. She didn’t see it.
Clayton waved at her. “Carrie?” he said. His voice trembled when he called again. “Carrie? It’s me. Clay.”
The girl didn’t respond. She turned left into the crowd and disappeared. Clayton stood at his seat and craned his neck to see the girl. He cupped his hands around his mouth.
“Carrie!” he yelled.
Many of the nearby diners turned to Clayton and stared. The guard stood and forcefully gripped the astronaut’s shoulder. “You need to calm down,” the guard said.
Oblivious to the guard and the growing numbers of staring eyes, he stood on his toes. A glimpse of the girl flashed between a pair of adults. He called for her again and waved his arms. “Carrie!”
“Who are you calling?” the guard asked. “Do you know someone here?”
Clayton shrugged his shoulder from the guard’s grip and looked at the man as if he had three eyes. He pointed into the crowd. He was wide-eyed. “It’s my sister,” he said.
“The little girl?”
Clayton glanced at the crowd, noticing the confused stares from those around him. He looked back at the guard’s knitted brow and the concern evident in the frown lines that framed his face. Clayton’s face reddened. He could feel the heat in his cheeks. He sank to his seat and buried his head in his hands.
“Oh my—” he said weakly. “I-I’m sorry.”
Clayton’s twin, Carrie, died when they were fourteen. They were fraternal twins on their way home from soccer practice. She’d been the star, a starting forward whose kicks sent the ball exploding like a rocket from her strong right leg. Clayton played sparingly on their select team as a defender. He’d always believed he’d made the invitation-only team only because of Carrie. He’d only recently grown taller than her and was still awkward with his gangly arms and legs.
Their coach had ended practice early when storm clouds gathered above the park and distant thunder threatened with increasingly frequent rumbles.
He’d called shotgun and got the front seat next to their mother. Carrie had reluctantly taken the backseat behind their mother as the clouds emptied and the rain began falling in sheets.
“Do either of you need to go to math tutoring?” their mom had asked, pulling out of the soccer park’s parking lot. “I can take you on the way home. I don’t want to have to go out twice in this weather.”
“I’m good,” Carrie had said, yanking the seatbelt across her body and clicking it into place.
Carrie had never needed to go to tutoring. She’d been taking geometry and was acing it. Clayton was still a year ahead of most classmates, taking algebra, but needed the extra help a private tutoring center provided.
“I do,” he’d said. “I’ve got a test on axioms of equality tomorrow.”
“I can help you if you need it,” Carrie had offered. “I don’t mind. I like property equations.”
“Thanks,” Clayton had said. “I’d rather go to tutoring. We already pay for it.”
Their mother had chuckled. “We pay for it,” she said. “That’s a good one.”
“You know what I mean,” Clayton had said.
His mother had turned the windshield wipers to the fastest interval. Instead of turning left to go home, she’d turned right onto the four-lane road that ran parallel to the park, and accelerated into traffic. A flash of lightning flickered an instant before a crash of thunder reverberated through the car.
Sitting in the feed level of building two, Clayton could still feel the thunder in his chest all these years later. He could hear the shrill squeal of the tires on the wet pavement and the sudden, violent jolt of the pickup truck slamming into the rear door of the driver’s side of the car.
He remembered his unconscious mother bleeding onto the deflated air bag, her body uncomfortably pushed into his. There were the strangers who pulled him from the tangled metal of the car, the firefighters who rescued his mother, the medics who tried unsuccessfully to save Carrie’s life.
Since that day, Clayton’s fraternal twin had remained frozen in his memory as a gifted fourteen-year-old. He’d sometimes see her in crowds.
She was at his high school graduation and at the rehearsal dinner the night before he and Jackie got married. She’d been amongst the tourists in Red Square on his first trip to Moscow. She’d stood outside the State History Museum, her white coat a stark contrast to the gold-spired red building. It always took him a moment to realize she wasn’t really there, that he’d seen her in someone similar. It felt real in the moment. It was as if she was always there at the most critical, life-altering moments of Clayton’s life.
He’d never talked about it. He’d kept it from Jackie and hidden it from the litany of doctors with whom he’d visited during his time at NASA. If they’d ever suspected he occasionally “saw” his long-dead twin sister, he’d have washed out of the astronaut corps many times over.
This vision was different, though. He was thoroughly convinced, in that moment, that he’d seen his sister. Clayton bit his lower lip, lifted his head, and looked over at the guard.
“Sorry about that,” he said, trying to play it off. “I was confused for a second. Maybe it’s the concussion.”
The guard’s eyes twitched. Clayton pushed his chair back from the table.
“Can I get one more serving of granola?” he asked. “Is there enough?”
The guard nodded with what appeared to be a newfound sympathy. “You’re not supposed to make a second trip, but I don’t care. I’m sure you’re hungry. How long did you say you were up in space?”
Clayton picked up his bowl and set the spoon on a napkin. “About ten weeks. A little longer than that.”
“Did you get stir-crazy?”
Clayton shook his head. “Not really. We had the whole world on our porch.”
The guard smiled. “Don’t worry about the bowl,” he said. “Get a clean one up at the buffet.”
“Can I get you anything?”
The guard thanked him and declined. Clayton wove his way from his corner table to the buffet on the opposite end of the cafeteria. He joined the line next to a tall woman, who smiled at him before running her long fingers through her strawberry blond bob.
“It’s busy,” she said to him. “I had to come over here from building three.”
Clayton picked up a bowl and held up four fingers. “Building four,” he said.
A man ahead of the strawberry blonde leaned back and looked at Clayton. He held a plate of eggs. “Did I hear you say building four?”
Clayton hesitated but answered, “Yes. The offal level.”
The man stepped from the line and let the woman move ahead of him. He sidled next to Clayton and lowered his voice. “Offal level? What’s that?”
Clayton shrugged. “Some sort of holding area. I guess they’ll move me at some point.”
A nervous smile crept across the man’s face and he leaned into Clayton. “Are you the astronaut?”
Clayton took a step back from the inquisitor. “Who are you?”
The man nestled the plate of eggs against his chest and extended his right hand. His eyes brightened. “I’m Vihaan Chandra. I work for the Space Weather Prediction Center. Well, I did. Now I’m here.”
Clayton gripped the bowl almost tightly enough to break it. He took another step back from Chandra. He didn’t take the scientist’s hand. Instead, he shook his finger at him and chastised him through clenched teeth. “You were in Boulder. You knew what was coming and you dismissed it as an anomaly. You blamed the equipment. Two of my friends died up there because—”
