The whole rig must have been hastily put together; wires were everywhere, snaking down the backside of the table like vines, and the monitors were at odds with the single silver keyboard, missing a few of its keys. Notebooks were scattered across every available surface; sheets of paper covered in different handwriting styles had fallen on the floor.
Just like that, just for a split second, he thought she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen—even though she must have been pushing seventy and was wearing a pit-stained Mr. Spock T-shirt. He even forgave her for asking where he was from, especially since she was only trying to figure out how far her waves would have to travel. She was probably asking everybody.
“No, I— Are you operating the whole station by yourself?” He moved closer to her without meaning to. The gentle hum of the generator and her radios soothed him like the purring of a giant cat. This was exactly what he needed.
The woman spun in her chair to face him. “Of course. What do you take me for?” She shoved her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Name’s Rosie. You’re in the Command Ops Center of southern Nevada, as I like to call it. With most of the local cell towers losing their backup power, I’m taking messages and broadcasting them where they need to go. Cell towers got nothing on good ol’-fashioned tech,” she boasted.
She had a point: even if he and Cate had gotten their phones charged, power outages were screwing with cell towers. But with two-way radios, they could contact their parents from all the way out here, put their minds at ease.
They could find a way home
“You’ll send messages anywhere?” Adeem asked. A ginger cat began weaving between Adeem’s legs, nuzzling against him. “For free?”
“‘Whoever has a bountiful eye will be blessed, for he shares his bread with the poor,’ as they say.” Rosie winked. “I’ll send messages anywhere but Alma. You’d have to go to Roswell for that.”
His shoulders tensed. “Roswell?”
“Guess you wouldn’t know about it if you’re not plugged in, eh?” she chuckled. “Everyone’s talking about it on the waves. Some kid in Roswell supposedly created some kind of superpowered transmitting device—been beaming messages toward Alma for days now. Pretty sure half the population of New Mexico has already sent messages, begging the aliens to spare us.” She shook her head.
“You don’t seem to approve very much,” Adeem observed.
“Honey, I’ve lived long enough to know that begging your oppressors to spare you never works. You either fight back, or”—Rosie tapped one of her transceivers— “remind the ones you love there’s something still worth fighting for.”
Adeem wondered if Leyla had heard about the transmitter. Or if it even worked.
He pulled his dead radio from its carrying case. “I’ve kind of been off the waves lately. Do you think you could hook me up?”
Rosie beamed and plucked off her headphones from around her neck. “Another radio enthusiast, I see! I bet I can scrounge up an extra charging outlet for ya—just hang tight. Help yourself to some water, in the meantime, and for Pete’s sake, wash your face or something; you look like you got into a fight with a sand dune and lost.”
Adeem let out a long breath of relief. “Thanks. Thank you. So much,” he said, before nearly tripping over the ginger cat in a rush to the watercooler.
Rosie stood up from her chair and tiptoed around him toward the trailer door, careful to avoid any snoozing cats. “Anything for a fellow Hammie,” she said before closing the door behind her.
With a few huge gulps of the cold, crisp water, Adeem could practically feel his cells buzzing with life. Osmosis had never felt so good. He couldn’t wait to tell Cate to come in here and fill up, too.
The thought surprised him—how much he wanted to see Cate’s face light up with a smile. Not with the delirious, end-times laughter she’d already offered in response to his terrible jokes, but with real happiness. Maybe all that crap he’d said to her about hope last night hadn’t all been BS.
He looked around and could hardly believe their luck. Now he understood why all those people were camping out here: to use Rosie’s radio. The woman was a certifiable desert flower. Maybe they had no way of getting to Roswell now, but at least they’d be able to reach their families back home.
With this huge a rig, he could probably even send a message to Leyla . . .
The realization jolted him. He could send a message to Leyla!
He set down his cup and sidled into Rosie’s chair, his breathing shallow. Slowly, he traced her keyboard with his fingers, savoring the feel. God, he’d missed this. If Rosie’d do anything for a fellow Hammie, surely she wouldn’t mind him borrowing her equipment for a second.
He scoured through her equipment to find an anchor to something familiar. Rosie’s rig was beyond unfamiliar: it was three times the size of his, and ten times more powerful. But like code, radio worked the same any- and everywhere. He let out a huge breath and switched to an empty high-frequency band. The monitor closest to him glowed with confirmation. If he could broadcast his own message, the transmitter station would relay it until another station received it and relayed it onward—until maybe, just maybe, his message would find Leyla. He could do this.
A bead of sweat rolled down his spine as he put on Rosie’s headphones and set the transceiver to broadcast. He picked up the microphone. Adjusted his glasses.
But he hesitated. The words wouldn’t come.
What could he even say? Hey, it’s me—your little bro, in case you forgot—just letting you know I tried to find you, but hey, that’s life, I guess. Hope you have a safe, fun-filled apocalypse!
He groaned. Even if he did figure out the perfect thing to say, on public broadcast, no less, what if she didn’t hear? She could be in a radio quiet zone, for all he knew. Or worse.
Even if she did hear, what if she didn’t care?
The words his dad had spoken still echoed between his ears: You could have been out there finding her yourself, but I’ve never once seen you make an effort.
He’d said it out of anger and frustration, but the thing was, his dad had been right. And it wasn’t just about finding Leyla. Adeem never made an effort for anything, whether it be in Coding Club, or actually doing something with the games he made, or even being a good friend to Derek. It was why poor Ms. Takemoto constantly hounded him with flyers from MIT robotics, and why his parents constantly lectured him about wasting away his talents. For him, life was a series of RPG-style random encounters, and he chose Flee every time. Like a coward.
But this time, he had made an effort, hadn’t he? He’d traveled across desert, gotten stranded, nearly died trying to find his sister. His wallet and car had both been stolen, for God’s sake. And yet, what did he have to show for all his effort? Nothing but shredded feet and wounded pride.
He set down the microphone.
There was no point in trying anymore, he thought, queasy with misery. Maybe some things weren’t meant to be.
Outside, a door slammed and someone shrieked. He jumped in his chair, and several cats bolted for the corners. Rosie’s dog raised its head.
Cate? His heart pumping wildly, Adeem pushed his way outside. At the entrance of the mini-mart, a man in a dark green apron had Cate in a tight grip.
“You really thought I wouldn’t notice, huh?” The man was practically spitting at her.
Cate squirmed, trying to wrench away. “Get off me.”
“Hey!” Adeem stormed up to them. “What the hell is going on?”
“You her partner in crime?” The man glared at Adeem and pointed a red, sausage-like finger at him. “Goddamn criminals like you are the reason this whole world’s gone to shit in the first place. You have any idea what I’ve had to do just to protect my store from people like you?”
“We’re not criminals,” Adeem said. At the same time, he caught sight of Cate’s face and his stomach sank. What had she done?
“Please,” said Cate, attempting to wrench her arm f
rom the man. “Let me go.”
“Listen. I think you’re confused.” Adeem’s mouth was dry. “We’re just passing through—”
But before Adeem could finish, the man cut him off. “Yeah? Then why the hell did I catch your little friend”—the man replied, shaking Cate’s arm with every word—“stealing shit from my store?”
Adeem noticed for the first time that he had Cate’s balled-up cardigan in his fist. He shook it: a granola bar, a small bottle of aspirin, and a couple of weird plastic tubes slipped from the pockets. Then he dug his fingers through the pockets until her blackbird key chain, mini-Taser, and wallet landed on the dirt—the latter of which only made her look guiltier.
Cate let out a small whimper.
“You picked the wrong store to mess with,” the manager of the mini-mart said, puffing his chest. “My cousin’s the local sheriff, and you bet he’s gonna throw your little asses in jail.”
Adeem’s brain went numb. Her bucket list. Her stupid freaking bucket list.
“Why?” he said dumbly. But he knew she wouldn’t be able to explain.
Either way, it was too late. The manager was speaking into a portable radio he’d pulled off his apron, and his red-rimmed eyes were pinned to Cate.
And Adeem didn’t dare move, didn’t dare argue.
After all, he’d already learned the hard way that making an effort only made things worse. And it didn’t look like this situation came with an option to hit Flee.
22
Jesse
With a loud click that pierced through the quiet—a goddamn blessing, considering the other night a parade of people in alien masks had been blasting horns and banging drums down his street—Jesse locked up his shed for a break. He was starving and about to faint. It was around 7:00 p.m., and a vast portion of the crowds of people waiting for him to return from the hospital had all but given up for the day and left, many of them probably returning to their tents down the street. The smell of charring meats drifting through the air made his mouth water. From his home, he could see plumes of smoke from their bonfires raking across the murky depths of the night sky.
Jesse could have sworn there were more tents than yesterday.
He shivered and shrugged his black leather jacket back onto his shoulders, where it had been slipping. He didn’t normally get cold easily, but now, no matter how hard he tried, he just couldn’t stay warm.
The chirp of crickets punctuated the relative stillness, and the usual clamor of the growing tent city—the bongo drums and singing and dancing—had dimmed to a dull, faraway hum.
But when the grass rustled behind him, his hand shot toward the knife tucked in his pocket. Ever since last night—ever since Marco’s goons had jumped him—he’d decided to carry a switchblade he’d found in one of his dad’s old utility cabinets. His fingers gripped the cold metal of the handle so tightly they hurt.
The source of the sound came closer. Even obscured by the night shadows, Jesse would recognize that gait, that soft, calm stride anywhere. Corbin.
“Hey, you.”
Jesse slowly pulled his hand out of his pocket. He should have been happy to see him again.
But his stomach only ached with a painful cocktail of guilt and anxiousness, feelings he wasn’t used to. He didn’t want Corbin to see him like this.
“Man, I haven’t seen you all day. I thought people were gonna start rioting. Where have you . . .” Corbin recoiled at the sight of Jesse’s bruised face. “Oh God, what happened?”
Jesse smiled as charmingly as he could without hurting his lip any further. “Would you believe me if I said my machine turned sentient and attacked me? Kept calling herself HAL.” Jesse had figured out the Daisy Bell reference Corbin had made earlier; he’d forced himself to watch 2001: A Space Odyssey, even though he’d almost fallen asleep halfway through it. He barely had time to finish it, anyhow.
Corbin briefly smiled back. “Ha. And here I thought HAL was a gentle soul. You gonna be okay?” He looked at Jesse, his eyes focusing only on his—not the bruises, the nasty cuts, or the split lip. Corbin wasn’t grossed out at all. He just seemed genuinely worried.
Jesse let out an inward breath of relief that Corbin didn’t pry too much. “Yeah, should be. But what about you? What are you doing here?”
“Mari’s not doing too hot at the hospital. More fatigue than usual. And they’re starting to get concerned about their generators.” Corbin put his hands behind his neck, stretching out his shoulders. “Been trying to keep myself distracted. Thought maybe I could take you to dinner.”
As he got closer, Jesse noticed the exhaustion etched on his face: the dark creep of stubble on his chin, the bloodshot eyes cupped by sunken, shadowed skin.
“Jesus. Is she okay?” Jesse was surprised by how scared he sounded. “Are you okay?”
“I don’t know, it’s”—Corbin rubbed his eyes—“a freaking madhouse, Jesse. Some guys broke into the hospital and tried to steal medical supplies. Nurses had to rush into Mari’s room and barricade the door. With all the craziness happening, more people are taking it upon themselves to go vigilante, I guess. But a bunch of people from the waiting room tackled the guys and tied ’em up until some cops finally showed.” Corbin laughed tiredly. “Mari’s . . . still safer there than anywhere else right now. Except she really wants to see you again. She’s really excited about the machine.”
Jesse’s fingers buzzed with the urge to comfort Corbin, but he squeezed it away. Maybe painkillers could ease his guilt; the feeling was eating at his stomach, and it hurt ten times worse than the split lip. You’re lying to these people, people just trying to survive.
“I haven’t seen an, um, response back from her message yet, but I’ll check when I reopen tonight.”
Corbin looked at him, and it was impossible to read his expression. “Night shifts, too, now, huh? Maybe you should be resting after HAL went rogue on your face?”
“Oh yeah. That.” Jesse tugged at the collar of his leather jacket, which he could have sworn had gotten tighter. “Had to show her who’s boss. And then had to do some repairs.”
He couldn’t tell Corbin he’d been locking up the machine with new, steel chains and installing more locks all because he’d gotten the shit beat out of him. And he definitely didn’t want to admit that his argument with Mom had left him a little unsettled; if he tried to sleep now, he’d be tossing and turning all night with a ghoulish parade of thoughts banging around in his head.
Corbin chuckled. “As long as she’s good now. Gotta take care of that machine of yours. It’s basically become a beacon of hope, you know? Not just for Mari, but for hundreds and hundreds of people.”
Jesse squirmed uncomfortably. A beacon of hope. Wish machine. A pipe dream. People kept calling it that, but even the money it had brought him wasn’t going to be his anymore. Which meant he had no way out anymore. Eventually, he’d have to give up everything, and with no way to escape, it’d be a matter of time before Corbin and Mari would find out he’d been scamming them all along.
Corbin and Mari would be left with nothing but a handful of dead hope, just like Dad’s scratched-off lotto tickets clutched in her trembling fists.
Tell him the truth. The voice was screaming inside his head, but his throat was squeezing shut, and his head wasn’t working right. Even if he did tell the truth now, he had no idea how Corbin would react. What if Corbin got furious, decided to tell the world that the machine was a lie?
Then again, what if Corbin already did know, and was holding his breath, testing Jesse, waiting to see if he’d pass? Waiting to see if he’d own up to it.
No. It wasn’t over until it was over, and if Corbin was keeping quiet, so would Jesse.
So instead, Jesse asked, “So are your parents with Mari right now?”
Corbin kicked at a pebble on the ground. It bounced down Jesse’s empty driveway until it hit a crushed soda can some asshole tourist had left behind. “It’s kind of complicated. My mom and dad are divorced. Mom’s in
Chicago, and Dad’s here. He’s with Nan and my grandpa back home, catching up on sleep.” He exhaled, his breath shaky. “Everyone’s so exhausted. There’s just so much going on and not enough time. It’s kind of scary.”
Jesse wanted to run. Like a selfish coward, he wanted to ghost Corbin and forget any of this had ever happened.
“I’m really sorry you guys are going through this,” he said, his voice grating from his throat.
But Corbin shrugged. “Don’t be. It’s not your fault. She really loves your machine, you know. You’re practically her hero. You’ve only been good to us.” He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “Maybe when Mari’s feeling a little better, you could go see her?”
The suggestion made Jesse uncomfortable. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to see Mari again. She was actually really cute, for a little kid. Mom used to be good at sewing; she’d probably make her another one of those headbands, if he asked. If she wasn’t still mad at him.
He stamped out those thoughts. He was getting carried away, letting himself get closer.
“I’ll . . . I’ll think about it,” said Jesse.
His feet felt leaden on his front porch. Part of him wanted to run, but part of him wanted to stay, too. Words played across his lips. He wanted so badly to spit it all out, just tell Corbin everything. Maybe Corbin would be different. Corbin was different.
The problem wasn’t Corbin, he realized. The problem was him. Jesse was the same selfish piece of shit as everyone else.
“I should probably skip dinner and get a nap in now, like you said,” he said, swiveling the cuff on his wrist. “Need my beauty sleep. It’s gonna be a long night.”
Corbin grinned. “Oh, you have no idea. You got less than three days left.”
He was right. At midnight tonight, it would be two days left, technically.
Jesse smiled back weakly, shoved his hands in his jacket pockets, and walked past Corbin, fighting the urge to inhale the subtle cedarwood-and-vanilla scent wafting off his body.
I Hope You Get This Message Page 19
