Citizens of Logan Pond Box Set

by Rebecca Belliston

  “Isn’t it too soon for Oshan to have gotten the president, sir?” Greg said.

  “Yes.” McCormick smiled a slow smile. “But not too soon for Isabel. Way to go, girl. That means it’s time to move, gentlemen.”

  “This way,” Burke said, waving them through.

  sixty-one

  BURKE AND THE OTHERS PLOWED through a group of armed guards with a precision that was both sickening and incredible. Bodies lay strewn about—only those bodies were dressed differently than the other guards in the compound. They wore dark suits and ties.

  The president’s entourage.

  Trying not to look at the carnage, Greg followed Burke’s group to an elevator that barely fit them all. When they emerged on the fourth floor, a different set of armed people met them. No suits. No ties. No uniforms. These soldiers looked like they lived in the backwoods.

  Kearney’s group.

  Guns raised, pointed both directions in a momentary, startled stand-off.

  “Hold your fire!” McCormick yelled, pushing to the front of the elevator. “Hold your fire! It’s me. Where’s Kearney?”

  “Over here,” Kearney called back. “Is that McCormick?”

  Strangely, when the rebel leader broke through his group, he was smiling. Greg had never seen the bearded rebel smile before.

  “You’re out, sir?” Kearney said. “We were worried Rigsby added you to the lineup.”

  “He did,” McCormick growled. “But Pierce’s slick tongue got carried away with him, and somehow he finagled us out. Report.”

  Kearney’s smile grew. “We made it through. We got him, sir. President Rigsby is down.”

  A shout of victory rang through both groups. President Rigsby’s reign of terror was over. But McCormick seemed less than thrilled. He nodded soberly.

  “Dead or just down?” McCormick asked.

  Kearney’s smile faltered. “Not sure yet. We lost contact with Lieutenant Ryan. She’s still up there.”

  Isabel.

  McCormick glanced back at Greg. Losing contact was never good. “Then no celebrating yet. Where are your people stationed?”

  As Kearney caught up the commander, Greg spotted a man off to the side who looked younger than the others and twice as pale. Braden Ziegler gripped a rifle, and watched the chaos, frightened. Beyond the mayhem, gunfire sounded through the walls of the compound. Fighting had broken out everywhere. It sounded bad. Standing off to the side, Braden looked like a lost kid.

  Greg strode over to him. “Looks like you’ve been busy.”

  Relief washed over Braden’s young face. “Greg, you made it. Oh, I’m so glad. Wait, is that Oliver?”

  Oliver rushed forward and shook his hand, looking out of place in his bright, orange prison uniform. “Good to see you, Braden. So good.”

  “What happened?” Greg asked. “When did you last see Isabel?”

  “A while ago,” Braden said. “As soon as we let Kearney and the others in, she told me to stay here. I’ve been waiting here ever since.”

  Greg would thank Isabel later. Braden might have the heart of a warrior, but he spent his days milking goats.

  More gunfire sounded outside, but who was shooting whom? Military or rebels? Either way, people were dying on both sides—which was unacceptable.

  Greg looked at Oliver. “How do we stop this?”

  “I…I don’t know,” Oliver said, scanning their surroundings. This particular hallway had no windows. It seemed to lead to small, inconsequential offices. Oliver shook his head. “We need to see what’s happening out there. Maybe we should head up top to see if we can figure out how to stop it.”

  “Somebody needs to go up there,” Greg agreed, growing more concerned with every pop of a gun. His gaze shifted. “But not us.”

  Greg stormed over to the two leaders discussing strategy. “Call off your guys,” he said to Kearney. “They’re killin’ innocent people.”

  Kearney glared right back. “My people are taking control of this compound. The president stationed men everywhere.”

  “And how are your guys distinguishing between Rigsby’s cronies and kids pulled off a farm?” Greg challenged.

  “What’s the difference?” Kearney said with a shrug. “They’ve all sworn loyalty to the tyrant.”

  Temper snapping, Greg threw his hands into the air. “If you’d listened to anything, you’d know that most people out there are here by force, and your guys are killing them. How’s that any better than the scheduled execution?” Exasperated, he turned to McCormick. “Sir, you’ve gotta get up there.”

  “Up the tower?” McCormick said in surprise. “Why?”

  “With all due respect, sir, those are your troops they’re killing, not Rigsby’s. Somebody’s gotta put a stop to this, and that somebody has to be you.”

  Commander McCormick thought about that for a second before he nodded. “Fine. Pierce, you’re with me. You, too, Kearney. And will somebody please get Pierce a blasted gun?”

  When they burst out onto the tower platform, Greg saw more bodies down, but one caught his full attention. A tall man with slicked back hair and a dark, pristine suit lay in a smear of his own blood.

  President Rigsby.

  Nobody hovered over the president’s dead body. It had been abandoned for self-preservation. The rebels crouched behind the waist-high wall, shooting blindly into the crowd.

  “Nice of you boys to finally show up,” Isabel growled. Greg whirled around and spotted her behind them. “Get down before you’re shot, idiots!”

  Greg didn’t.

  His gaze swept over the fleeing crowd below. It was chaos, with very few soldiers-in-training firing back. Greg checked the other towers. Oshan stood on one, and Greg couldn’t see any more of the president’s henchmen even though Isabel’s group was still firing freely.

  “Lower your guns!” Greg shouted. “Cease fire, cease fire!”

  “But, sir,” one of them said.

  “Do it!” Commander McCormick ordered.

  As Isabel and the rebels lowered their guns, Greg followed McCormick and Kearney through and around the bodies, heading for one destination.

  The microphone.

  “Are the cameras still rolling?” McCormick asked.

  “Let’s hope, sir,” Greg said. “Because everybody who’s watchin’ the broadcast is just as scared as us—probably more so.”

  With a quick nod, McCormick stepped up to the microphone.

  * * * * *

  Carrie, Richard, and the others followed Jershon through the back hallways. At each corner, he stopped and checked around before waving them onward.

  Their group was nearly to an emergency exit when the speakers suddenly crackled back to life.

  “My fellow friends and comrades,” a voice said loudly, echoing through the compound.

  Carrie stopped.

  People bumped into her, but she held up a hand, recognizing that voice.

  “My name is Commander Charlie McCormick from the Federal Special Patrols Unit. Beside me stands Kearney, who leads the civil rebellion in this area of Illinois. We stand together to inform you that President Rigsby has been killed.”

  Carrie’s hand flew to her mouth. Gasps of shock sounded around her.

  “Oh my,” Richard breathed. “They got him.”

  Rigsby was dead.

  Yet gunfire still echoed in the background.

  “We’re in the process of detaining those closest to the president,” McCormick continued loudly. “Now, I beg you to stop the violence—not just here, but all within the sound of my voice.” An edge crept into his tone. “President Rigsby will not kill another American so long as I can help it. I order you to cease fire!”

  “A screen,” Carrie said urgently. “I need to see a screen!”

  They had passed one a few minutes ago. She spun around and ran back to it.

  “Where are you going?” Jershon called.

  For whatever reason, the others followed Carrie.

  Carrie stop
ped at the large television mounted on the wall. On screen, McCormick stood tall with Kearney behind him. And on the other side of them…

  One hand went to her mouth. The other clutched her lucky shirt.

  “Greg,” she whispered.

  Greg was there, alive. Oliver, too, stood farther back, though he looked ill.

  “We must stop ending lives and start saving them,” McCormick continued loudly. “That begins here and now, but it doesn’t end here or now. Every state, every county, every precinct within the sound of my voice, I urge you to stop the violence. With Rigsby’s death, we need to push the darkest days behind us. It is time for peace to become our new motto, our new way of—”

  “Halt!” someone barked, running up to Carrie’s group. A guard held a rifle, pointed directly at Carrie. “Halt right there! Hands on your heads. Down on the ground. Maynes, I found them! Get the others.” His grip tightened on the trigger. “Down on the ground, all of you! Down!”

  Carrie’s heart pounded in her bad ear.

  Reluctantly, she obeyed.

  She dropped first to her knees, caught one final look at Greg on the screen, and then lowered the rest of the way down, lying on the tile floor with everyone else, cheek pressed to the cold, hard tile.

  Other guards ran in and surrounded their haggard group.

  “Don’t move a single muscle, or we’ll shoot!” they yelled.

  Above them, Commander McCormick continued. “All hospitals and medical units, I urge you—no, I beg you—to open your doors to those who are sick and dying. Stop checking cards. Stop saying who is a citizen or not. We’re all Americans—but more than that, we’re all human. We all deserve to live. If you have access to the cure, give it out, duplicate the formula, I don’t care. Do anything to save our people.”

  “Quiet!” one of the guards yelled. But he wasn’t yelling at Carrie’s group. The recaptured prisoners were all devastatingly silent. He yelled it at his partners. “Shut up. I want to hear this. He’s talking about the cure.”

  “We can rebuild later,” McCormick boomed. “We can fight about laws and cards and citizenship another time—and we’ll have to. We’ll need to spend time untangling ourselves from the laws Rigsby created that have enslaved us for too long. But today, I beg every one of you with everything that I have to save our people.” He accentuated the last three words, so nobody would misunderstand. Our people. Our country.

  Truly united.

  Carrie’s eyes burned. Tears leaked across the bridge of her nose, dripping onto the hard, cold floor. But they weren’t tears of fear or sorrow. They were tears of relief.

  They had done it.

  Next to her, Richard O’Brien lay with his cheek pressed to the tile. His hand slid across the cold floor and snagged hers. He smiled weakly, as if he could feel it, too. No matter what happened now, no matter what happened in the next few minutes or whether they lived or died, they had won. She had seen it in Greg’s face on the screen. She could hear it in McCormick’s voice now. It was over. The worst was behind them. A brighter future for Amber and Zach. For Crazy Marge, and…with luck, everyone in America.

  A few more hot tears slid down her nose.

  “We have fought too many battles,” McCormick shouted, “overcome too many obstacles since the creation of this great country to let one man destroy it! So I say it’s time to end the conflict. It’s time to live free. Choose life. Choose liberty. Choose to put down your weapons and help us save America—and choose to do it now!”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Carrie saw a movement, slow but unmistakable.

  The guards around her started to lower their guns.

  Gaze flying from person to person, she watched it happen. The muzzles of each rifle lowered until they hung loosely at the guards’ sides, no longer a threat.

  sixty-two

  CARRIE AND THE OTHERS GATHERED around Jamansky’s patrol car in the bright sunshine. She blinked against the brilliant light, and her head spun with the events of the day, but her soul filled with joy.

  Ashlee Lyon’s face was vibrant as Carrie and Richard told her about how they had been released. Once the guards had disarmed, they had stared at each other, unsure what to do next. McCormick’s speech ended. The broadcast shut off. Then slowly, the guards had started helping Carrie’s group to their feet.

  Carrie still couldn’t believe it.

  With a squeal of joy, Ashlee kept hugging random people, people from Carrie’s group, or complete strangers running out of the compound. Carrie smiled at it all. She was thrilled, too.

  But still no sign of Greg or Oliver.

  Braden Ziegler emerged a short time later with many of Kearney’s group. Braden found them by the car and told them all about how Greg and Oliver had shown up and convinced McCormick to barge up into the tower and into the broadcast. Because of the ridiculously loud speakers, Ashlee heard Commander McCormick’s speech even from outside. They all had. It was amazing. It had saved their lives.

  But…

  The longer it went, the more conflicting Carrie’s feelings became. Relief. Joy. But also worry. Overwhelming worry, strong enough to make her insides feel weak. She wrapped her arms around herself. Most of the fighting had stopped, but occasionally she heard a random gun fire off. Each time, her stomach clenched.

  Where were they?

  Turning, she checked the main entrance to the Naperville facility again. The stream of people filing out had slowed to a trickle, as if everyone who wanted to leave already had—or everyone who was able to leave.

  What if Greg and Oliver had been caught in the crossfire?

  Once her own small group of prisoners had reached the outside, they’d hugged and cheered and hugged some more. But eventually they’d broken apart. A few remained in the parking lot with her, as if they didn’t know what to do or where to go next. Some had been imprisoned for years. That seemed to be the general feeling all around: what to do next?

  Rebels, soldiers from the compound, people on both sides looked lost. She watched their excitement as they exited, but once in the parking lot, disorientation set in. Carrie knew what she needed to do next, though. She needed to find Greg. The longer it went, the more her stomach tied in knots.

  She looked up at Richard. “Are they okay?”

  “They’ll be fine.” Richard glanced back at the large facility. “They have a lot to sort through right now. I don’t envy Commander McCormick.”

  Nodding, Carrie told herself to stay optimistic, but as more people drifted away, the rest grew silent. There was nothing more to say. She, Ashlee, Braden, and Richard stood there, leaned against the patrol car, watching the compound.

  A woman from her group walked up to Carrie and hugged her for the fourth time. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you for saving us.”

  Carrie smiled. “It was all of us. We did it, didn’t we?”

  “Yes, we did,” the woman said with a laugh. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going home. I haven’t seen my husband in four years. Do you think he’ll still take me back?”

  “Of course,” Carrie said warmly. “Go home and spread the good news.”

  Ashlee’s fingers suddenly dug into Carrie’s arm.

  Carrie twisted around. The sun was too bright, too blinding. Desperate, she shielded her eyes.

  Striding out of the compound was a man in a black, crisp uniform. A red stripe ran down one of his pant legs, a blue one down the other. His brown hair was longer than he liked, totally shaggy. A line of dried blood ran down his hand, but he was smiling as he talked to the guy next to him: a tall, thin, tired-looking man who wore an orange prison jumpsuit.

  Suddenly the two men caught sight of Carrie and the others from Logan Pond.

  Greg’s smile faltered. He stopped in the bright sunshine. Then suddenly he broke into a dead run, sprinting across the sidewalk and over the parking lot.

  Carrie met him halfway, laughing and crying simultaneously.

  He scooped her up and spun her around and around. Th
en he kissed her soundly and entirely. Once he set her back on her feet, Carrie stroked his cheeks, checking his arm, and feeling his skin.

  “You’re okay,” she said. “You’re okay, you’re okay!”

  “Better than okay,” he said, kissing her again. Then his arms enveloped her, pulling her close against him in a tight cocoon. She pressed her good ear to his uniform until she heard his steady heartbeat, swift and strong.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Carrie saw Oliver slowly approach the woman standing near the patrol car.

  After hugging practically every single person coming out of the compound, Ashlee Lyon seemed hesitant, almost shy in front of Oliver. She brushed wisps of blonde hair away from her face and then clasped her hands in front of her, bright red fingernails and all.

  “Oliver,” she said with a controlled smile. “I’m so glad you’re safe. I’ve been so worried about you.”

  “Look,” Carrie whispered, nudging Greg.

  His grip loosened around her enough that he could watch the interchange.

  “It’s good to see you, Ashlee,” Oliver said. “Uh…thank you for your help.”

  That seemed to melt her.

  With a cry of joy, Ashlee threw her arms up around Oliver’s neck, startling him. Then she started to cry. His eyes flickered nervously over to Carrie and Greg, both of whom just smiled. Though it took him a second, Oliver’s arms eventually folded back around Ashlee.

  Greg leaned down to Carrie and whispered, “Think he can handle her? She’s a bit of a fireball.”

  Oliver started to pull back as if he might release Ashlee. He’d always been awkward with physical affection—and women in general—but Ashlee kept squeezing the life out of him. Though Carrie couldn’t hear the details, Ashlee was talking a mile a minute, telling him everything that had happened since his arrest, while her tears bathed his orange uniform—and smeared her heavy mascara.

  “It’s okay,” Oliver’s gentle voice said as he patted her back. “It’s all okay now.”