by Lisa Nowak
Chapter 6
Logan
Chicago, Illinois, Monday, May 21, 2063
The morning we leave, it’s seventy-five degrees by eight o’clock. For the past ten days, temperatures have reached the upper nineties, only dipping into the seventies at night.
Zoey’s buckled into our SUV with her laptop, and I’m loading up our bags when Dad comes out to tell me to take Mom’s duffle back inside.
“What?” I turn to see an uncharacteristically rigid expression on his face. “Why?”
“Don’t argue with me, Logan!”
The outburst makes me jump. Wow. What’s got him so upset? Without a word, I pull Mom’s bag out of the Toyota and carry it into the house. Dad stays behind to talk to Zoey.
“Mom?” I call as I close the door behind me. She’s standing at the front window, staring out in an absent sort of way, hand at her throat.
“Mom,” I repeat, touching her arm. “What’s going on?”
She startles and swings around to give me a tight smile. “Just a temporary change of plans. I have to wrap up some loose ends, but I’ll join you in a few weeks.”
Loose ends? At this point? But as I’m pondering this, my brain strategizes a way to use it to my advantage. “Let me stay, too. I can finish my classes and keep you company.” I’ve made my peace with the move, but I’m not looking forward to plunging into a new school three weeks before the year ends.
Mom’s fingers go to my cheek. “Honey—”
“You’ll do no such thing.” The door slams behind Dad, punctuating his statement. “Get in the car. We’re leaving in two minutes.”
My fists clench at my sides, but I’ve rarely seen him this angry, and I don’t want to start a war. With my mouth shut, I follow the order.
Mom trails me outside. Eyes teary, she pulls me into a quick, forceful hug before leaning into the back of the SUV to wrap her arms around my sister.
“What’s wrong?” Zoey demands. “Why aren’t you coming with us?”
“I will, sweetheart. Just not right now. Don’t say anything more to your father about this, okay?”
“But—”
“Please.” Mom brushes Zoey’s blond hair back from her forehead, giving her a do-it-for-me look.
With an eye roll and an exaggerated sigh, Zoey relents. “Fine.”
“I love you.” Mom backs out of the car, turning to face me. Her hand finds mine and squeezes. “Take care of her, Logan.”
Something as unsettling as it is unreadable hovers in her eyes, but there’s no time to decipher it. “Of course.”
A door slams behind me and Dad barks, “Let’s get moving.”
I slide into the front passenger seat while he steps up to Mom, draws her close, and buries his face in her hair.
“I’m sorry, honey.”
“We’ll work it out,” Mom says. They stand like that for several moments before she pulls away.
Neither Zoey nor I say a word as Dad gets into the car and types something into the navigation console, his fingers stabbing the keys.
I sit motionless, trying to process what just happened and afraid the slightest wrong move or word will lead to another explosion. If this is just about tying up a few loose ends, why’s Dad so tense?
When I fail to come up with a logical explanation, my mind wanders back to his reasons for making this move. Zoey’s a big one, for sure, as is the opportunity at Intel, but I wonder if he might have another motive—if he’s hoping it might dissuade me from joining the military.
“The Army’s for kids who don’t have the smarts for college or can’t afford it,” he’s told me more than once. “You have other options.” He’s never been able to see how insulting that attitude is, not just to me, but to all the people who put their lives on the line defending his freedom. One thing’s for certain—I’m not going to ask him about it now.
Despite Mom’s absence, Zoey is soon reclaimed by the raw excitement that’s possessed her since she learned we were moving. Cascadia is her idea of the Holy Land. She’s probably Jefferson Cooper’s biggest groupie, and she has every one of Frequent Deadly Lightning’s albums, even though they came out before she was in kindergarten. But her fanaticism is more than just a tween crush. Zoey’s way into all things green, and Cooper’s energy policies have elevated him to god-like status in her eyes.
“Maybe we’ll actually get to meet him, Logan. Wouldn’t that be totally prime?”
It’s nice to see her so full of zip, but still, I laugh. “I think he’ll be a little too busy running Cascadia to hang out with a couple of kids from Chicago.”
The stink of dying fish seeps into the car as we head north along Lake Michigan.
“Ugh,” Zoey groans. “Look how low it is already. I don’t think it was this bad last spring.”
The ugly, green water, thick with algae bloom, oozes decay. Despite our blizzards and torrential winter rains, the lake never fully recovers from the summer heat. These days, it seems the dredges outnumber the ships, fighting an endless battle to keep the channels deep enough.
“Fortunately, that’s not our worry anymore,” Dad says. “Where we’re going, the government takes a proactive approach to the climate crisis.”
He’s plotted a northern route, which he hopes might be a little cooler: I-94 through Wisconsin, Monsantesota (as it’s been known since the corporate takeover of the bankrupt government six years ago), and North Dakota. According to the navigation console, the drive to the Cascadian border outside Butte, West Montana, should take less than a day. It’s crazy to think that in the 1800s, wagon trains spent months crossing the country. Or that even as little as thirty years ago, before self-driving cars became common, the trip could take days if you stopped to eat, sleep, and fuel up. But that’s not an issue for us. Our hybrid SUV will go seven hundred miles on a tank of gas, and Dad brought along plenty of food. He’s afraid Zoey will have a medical emergency out in the middle of nowhere, which is a frightening idea, considering her homecare nurse wasn’t allowed to come with us.
The road’s surface, which hasn’t been good since Madison, deteriorates as we head into Monsantesota. The Toyota alternately jolts from hitting potholes and darts to avoid them. We don’t see a single living tree the whole way across the plains states. Even grass doesn’t grow here anymore. A dust storm scoops up the unanchored soil and scours our SUV with it. Of the few times we stop, twice it’s because the grit is so thick it overwhelms the navigation system.
Somehow, the powder works its way inside. A dry, metallic scent fills my nose. I can taste the dust in the air, and it makes Zoey cough. Dad keeps glancing over the seat at her. Each time he asks, “You okay, honey?” she gets a little bit crankier.
But Dad’s incessant worrying isn’t the only thing bugging her. Even though our Toyota has the Net package, it’s not working properly in this godforsaken wilderness.
“Ahhhh!” she yells, pounding a skinny fist against the door panel. “That’s, like, the twenty-millionth time it’s dropped.”
Something I’m well aware of, since she hollers every time it happens. She’s probably on Connect Me, engaging in social network repartee as one of her many personas. She has at least three in addition to her real self, and probably more. A staunchly conservative widowed schoolteacher in South Florida. An elderly Canadian environmental activist. A high school sophomore in a small town outside New Seattle, who’s a huge fan of Japanese anime. Sometimes she gets into arguments with herself, which is a real crackup. Even though fictional personas are against the site’s rules, she’s found a way around the barricades that keep most people from doing it.
“Which one of you got dropped this time, Sparky?” I crane my neck to look at her between the seats. Zoey glowers, jerking her chin toward Dad. He doesn’t know about her Connect Me mafia. I grin and shake my head. Whenever I’m on the site, I worry I might be talking to one of my sister’s yet-to-be-discovered secret identities.
As we make our way across the country, Dad’s mood improves, and he be
gins commenting on the view outside the grit-caked windows. Probably the most unsettling things we see are the ghost towns. Big cities like Minneapolis and Fargo have become nothing but block upon block of abandoned buildings. Garbage, shattered glass, and derelict cars litter the streets, and the drifts formed by the incessant dust are so big our SUV has to swerve to avoid them.
There’s one sign of hope as we drive through Bismarck at sunset. A new factory, built by FreedomCorp. It’s huge and looks like a fortress, with high brick walls topped by razor wire. Dad says they manufacture telecommunications equipment and need the walls to keep out looters. Zoey looks them up online during one of her computer’s rare moments of Net lucidity.
“‘FreedomCorp believes in the future of America,’” she reads. “‘While other companies are closing their doors and leaving communities high and dry, we’re making a concerted effort to breathe new life into these troubled towns. We offer not only steady employment at a great wage, but also family lodging in our clean, friendly, state-of-the-art facilities. Anyone seeking employment in the cities of Bismarck, Cleveland, Houston, or Tulsa should be sure to apply. We have many exciting positions available.’”
“Lodging?” I say.
“It’s not a new concept,” Dad replies. “A lot of companies have done it. Vanport, for example, just outside Portland. The entire town was built to house the families of shipbuilders during World War II. It makes sense to resurrect the idea. Some of these cities have horrible problems with crime, blackouts, and food shortages. If they’re going to survive, someone has to step up to solve those problems.”
As a fan of political and military history, I’m familiar with Vanport, but I let Dad believe he’s educating me. It’s rare that we can find a topic we’re both interested in, and I don’t want to ruin the moment.
“What amazes me is that something like Cascadia could happen,” Dad says, shaking his head. “Who’d have thought a secession was possible, let alone a peaceful one?”
I’ve speculated about this quite a bit. “The only reason it worked is because Cooper was willing to trade water and electricity for the equipment on those military bases. If he hadn’t done that, we’d have wound up in a civil war that would’ve wiped us all out.”
Dad glances at me, a rare light of respect in his eyes. “I think you’re right.”
In my opinion, the compromise was a brilliant tactical maneuver. Cooper realized the United States wouldn’t be able to cope with a sudden loss of resources from the Northwest, so he proposed a grace period of five years in which they’d continue to receive water and electricity at no cost. When that didn’t fly with his co-conspirators, he amended the idea. Cascadia needed a military, and simply taking over the bases in their territory would have been a slap in President Goldstein’s face. But a trade gave him an out.
“What I find fascinating is Cascadian politics,” I say, since further talk of the military could easily lead to an argument. “The Northwest is known for being liberal, yet Cooper’s taking a middle-of-the-road approach. I mean, sure, he’s into green energy and regulating emissions, but he also pushed for a closed border. Plus he rolled back Goldstein’s latest gun-control law.”
“Lots of hunters in the Northwest,” Dad says. “It’s one thing to give up semi-automatic weapons and another not to be able to buy ammunition for your deer rifle. Cooper’s no fool. He’s not going to alienate half his constituency. And the Cascadian Party’s a good compromise after years of gridlock between the Democrats and Republicans.”
I settle back in my seat. This is something I could talk about all night. “True. But there’s division even within that party. I mean look at the vice president. He thinks Cooper’s energy infrastructure projects are too big a financial risk. And then there’s the issue of water rights. If Sarto had his way, there wouldn’t be equal distribution between cities and farmland.”
“I think that’s the point,” Dad says. “I guarantee you, the Cooper/Sarto ticket pulled more votes because of that diversity.”
He’s got me there. It’s a political strategy that’s been used forever.
Once dusk has given way to night—after nine, because it’s almost summer and we’re so far north—I climb in back and fold down the seats so Zoey and I can get some sleep. It’s eerie to hear the dust scratching against our SUV in the darkness. I wake at sunrise and crawl up front to sit with Dad.
“Did you get much sleep?” I ask. Even though he doesn’t need to pilot the car, the driver’s seat couldn’t have been comfortable. But it would’ve been even more cramped in the back with us.
He sighs and rubs a hand across his stubbly face. “Enough.”
I scrounge in the bag at my feet for some energy bars and hand him a couple. Silence hovers between us as we eat. Despite last night’s discussion, the two of us aren’t very good at communicating. Zoey is the one he understands. She’s as smart with computers as he is, and none of my efforts to please him can compare to her just being herself.
I pull out my iPad and bring up my favorite book, The Art of War. It’s an ancient Chinese work that’s been used as a military training guide for centuries, but Sun Tzu’s wisdom can be applied to anything strategic—law, business, sports. I use it regularly on the football field.
Zoey wakes up an hour after I do. Like a magician performing some slight-of-hand, she works a pain pill out of the bottle in her backpack and slips it under her tongue. She wouldn’t be taking one if she wasn’t feeling awful, but she doesn’t look any paler or shakier than normal. I don’t want a repeat of yesterday’s grumpiness, so I pretend I didn’t see.
“How ya doing, honey?” Dad asks, turning to flash a grin at her. He must not have noticed her covert maneuver, or he’d be fussing.
“Great.” She gives him a thumbs up. Her own smile looks only slightly forced. She’s spent years perfecting that please-don’t-notice-me-I’m-fine expression.
I dig into the food bag for some of my homemade trail mix and hand it to Zoey. Even though we can afford the meat many people do without, she refuses to eat anything with a face. Since this is one area where Dad won’t humor her, I’ve learned to run interference, taking over the cooking that he and Mom are too busy for anyway.
Dad’s sketchy mood has returned by the time we stop in Bozeman to find a bathroom. I hurry back to the car, not wanting to set him off. I have no idea what’s bothering him now. We’re only eighty miles from Cascadia. He ought to be happy.
The last stretch passes quickly, and as we approach the border, we begin to see trees. Real trees. I’ve spotted a few patches of forest high up in the mountains since I woke this morning, but they were graveyards. Dark, brittle skeletons ravaged by fire, and sickly stragglers fighting for any drop of moisture that might make it over the Rockies.
Zoey presses her forehead against the window. “Logan, look at the trees.”
“That’s nothing,” Dad tells her. “Just wait until we get to Idaho and Oregon.”
“I know, Dad.” Zoey’s passion for research is exceeded only by her love for all things electronic, and she’s no doubt thoroughly studied the subject. Besides, she’d be the ultimate tree hugger if there were any trees left back home to hug. Most of them died after the anti-watering laws went into effect.
We top a crest and the border crossing at the Continental Divide comes into view. A couple of trucks are lined up at the gate, but judging from how deserted the interstate has been, I suspect most freight is shipped in and out through North California and the southern part of Idaho. I’ve hardly seen any other cars since I woke up. Only limited travel visas are issued for Cascadia. The official word is that regulations will relax in the future, but for now, they want to keep everyone out.
The checkpoint, which looks like something you’d see in photos of concentration camps, makes that clear. An imposing steel and concrete structure, complete with roll-down gates, blocks all four lanes of traffic. A fifteen-foot chain-link fence extends from it, the top angling back over the U.S. sid
e with looping strands of concertina wire. Underneath, signs read, “Danger. High Voltage.” The fence runs as far as I can see in either direction, disappearing among the trees. Guards armed with assault rifles stand at each of the gateways.
“Damn, look at all those guns,” Zoey says.
Dad pulls up behind one of the trucks. “Language, Zoey.”
“Remind me again of why Mom couldn’t come with us?” It’s her way of sticking it to Dad for reprimanding her.
“Like I told you, she had some important matters she had to finish up at work.”
“So when will she be done with all that?”
“I don’t know!” Dad snaps.
Zoey flinches, staring at the back of his head with wide eyes. I don’t think he’s yelled at her more than a dozen times in her entire life.
“Probably in a few weeks,” Dad continues, his tone more reasonable. He runs a hand through his hair and looks at her through the rear-view mirror. “You have to remember, her career is just as important to her as mine is to me.”
I glance at him. Since when? Mom’s a journalist, and even though she enjoys her investigative environmental reporting, she’s been threatening to quit for years because she’s sick of the stress and deadlines. Besides, I can’t see her allowing work to come between her and Zoey. This is the woman who, every time Zoey’s been in the hospital, has spent the nights camped out in a chair beside her bed.
The trucks are ushered through, and then it’s our turn. The guard steps close, rifle at the ready, to look through the driver’s window of our SUV. “Passports and visas?” he barks.
If we’d had any doubts, he makes it clear this is no friendly weekend trip to Toronto.
Dad hands over the official papers from the Cascadian government then holds out his wrist phone. The guard bumps it with his tablet to transfer the digital version. He glances at the readout. “Carl Voigt?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you have two children? Logan, age sixteen, and Zoey, eleven?”
“Yes, sir.” Dad’s tone brings to mind the way a soldier would speak to a superior officer, another thing that’s totally unlike him. In his world, he’s used to being pack leader.
The guard peers around Dad, dispassionately appraising my sister and me. “Wait here while I check this out.”
He walks over to consult with someone in the booth, keeping an eye on us the entire time.
After five minutes, Zoey starts fidgeting. “What’s taking so long?” She leans between the front seats to look around Dad’s shoulder. “He should be able to check everything on his tablet. It’s like he’s—”
“Hush, Zoey.” Dad’s fingertips drum out a beat on the side of the navigation computer. He darts a glance toward the booth, releasing a long breath through tight lips.
After ten minutes, the guard comes back. He hands the papers to Dad. “You can go.”
The roll-down gate creaks skyward with a rattle. The Toyota’s hybrid engine engages. We drive through the checkpoint, out of the United States and into our new life.
