Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

The System

Book 2 in the Virulent Trilogy

Shelbi Wescott

Copyright © 2013 Shelbi Wescott

All rights reserved.

Always for Matthew, Elliott, Ike:

Thank you for allowing me the luxury of time.

I love you.

Prologue

4 years before The Release

Scott King emerged from a taxicab on the corner of Fourth and Main, looked up at the silver building in front of him, and took a deep breath. Dressed in a brand-new suit, complete with a blue and green paisley tie handpicked by his wife Maxine, and holding an old leather briefcase, he hoped that he appeared professional and put together. He needed his outfit to scream Hireable Disease Specialist. His typical laboratory wear included twenty-year old blue jeans and an Oregon Ducks t-shirt underneath his white lab coat, so the suit was a new addition to his wardrobe. And it wasn’t an entirely welcome one—the fabric clung to his legs as he walked and the jacket felt tight against his back.

The city bustled around him, people on cell phones, horns honking, the click and thump of feet on pavement. Scott examined himself for a long moment in the front window of the building before inserting himself into the fray vying for a place in the revolving door. Then he checked in with the doorman per the instructions on the cryptic letter he received only a few short weeks before, and waited for his escort to arrive.

“Scott King?” a woman’s voice called behind him and Scott turned to her, smiled. Then, shifting the briefcase over to his left hand, he shoved out his right, and shook her hand with a firm grip, which she reciprocated. Her hand was warm and firm, and Scott resisted the urge to reach into his suit pocket and spread a thin layer of hand sanitizer over his skin.

“Yes,” he replied, his voice higher and lacking the self-assurance he had practiced. He prayed that he wouldn’t say anything embarrassing or make a joke or enter into a rambling non sequitur about air travel. The woman in front of him was younger than he had expected—early to mid-twenties, an intern maybe, but she had a confident air that belied her youth.

“I’m Blair, Huck Truman’s office assistant and,” she paused for dramatic effect, “his adoring daughter as well. I’ll be getting you prepped for your interview with him today. You look nervous, Scott. Don’t be nervous.”

He opened his mouth to respond and then clamped it shut, answering only with a tight-lipped smile.

“This is all just a preliminary interview,” Blair said and she leaned over and stuck a key into a box at the side of an elevator and the doors slid open. Scott waited for her to enter first and he couldn’t help but notice her long tan legs and the fit of her skirt as she walked in front of him. He looked to the ceiling and held his briefcase tighter. She entered a second key and then pushed a button for the top floor. The doors shut and the elevator purred as they rose.

Blair looked every bit the part of a young professional. Her hair was perfectly colored, her nails manicured in shellac; her pointy crocodile leather shoes looked more expensive than anything Scott’s wife would have purchased—including Maxine’s wedding dress. In addition to her flawlessness, Blair seemed talented at small talk; even her smile, as she encouraged Scott to share the banal details of his trip, seemed genuine.

“My father, or Mr. Truman, as I’m supposed to say, has been gushing about you, Scott. May I call you Scott?”

He said it was fine.

Blair continued, “Your résumé is impressive.”

“Thank you,” he replied and watched the numbers as they climbed higher and higher. Floor 20. Floor 21. Floor 22. A steady ascent. “Ms. Truman—”

“Blair. You can just call me Blair. Please. ”

He could hardly bring himself to say it. “If you think you wouldn’t mind…I did have some questions before my interview.”

“Of course. I’d be happy to answer any questions I can, but you should know that I really am only an administrative assistant for my father and brother.”

“Yes, I see.” Scott’s head felt heavy and he yawned a bit to pop his ears. “Usually I do a bit of research into a company before I interview, but it seems like the Elektos Corporation doesn’t exist in the digital world, which, as you can imagine, is a bit odd for a giant company in the twenty-first century. Cryptic letters asking to see me? Money to fly me out here, put me up in a five star hotel, and no one has heard of you. So, I suppose I should ask, is your dad a superhero? Am I about to meet Batman?”

Blair gave him a polite smile and blinked vapidly, but she narrowed her eyes a bit, assessing him, and didn’t answer. Scott’s hands grew sweaty and he snickered and then waved away his joke with his free hand.

“I kid, clearly. You’d be taking me underground to the bat cave. Spiderman, maybe, then, right? No. I’m sorry. It’s hard to conceptualize a company I wasn’t able to research. Research is my job. And I am interested in what this company does…I feel like I should be armed with that knowledge, at the very least.”

“Sustainable, renewable energy,” Blair answered with a perfunctory head nod.

“Oh.” Scott was confused. “That’s not really my area of expertise.”

“We’re here,” Blair said as the doors opened up to the lobby of a sterile and blindingly bright lobby. White couches had been staged in a rectangle and potted plants sprouted by their sides; a waterfall wall trickled and dripped behind a stainless steel reception desk where a thin redhead broke into a bright, rehearsed smile at their arrival. Since the building was so tall, Scott couldn’t really see the city below, only the tops of the other buildings nearby and a vast, open blue sky.

“Blair. Mr. King,” the redhead said upon their arrival.

“Please have a seat and Jessie here will get you set up,” Blair told him in a hushed voice. Then she sauntered off and Scott took a seat on a white chair, setting his briefcase down beside him. He sat for five minutes, Jessie engaged in paperwork, as only the sound of the waterfall echoed through the open room. Then Jessie grabbed a clipboard and walked over to him. She was wearing dangerously high heels that clapped with powerful bursts against the hardwood flooring.

“You will need to sign this before we begin,” she said in a chipper singsong voice as she handed him the clipboard. “Right here,” she pointed with the end of a ballpoint pen, “and here.” Then Jessie waited, hovering in front of him, her arms dangling motionless at her sides.

Scott glanced over the form. Written in bold across the top: Nondisclosure Agreement. Without hesitation, Scott scribbled his signature on the bottom and printed his name on the line up top. He then initialed both pages and handed the clipboard back to Jessie, who smiled and then pivoted and walked back to her desk.

The form didn’t shock Scott or raise any red flags.

Companies often asked for his discretion when discussing research and development. He had signed many similar forms in his tenure as a scientist and the details he had learned about people and companies were vast and damning to a great number of people. Secrets didn’t interest Scott; while he supposed some people would have been ecstatic to tease out of him salacious details, he was content to hide them away.

After depositing the clipboard, Jessie beckoned him to follow her into a small side room.  He followed her, briefcase in hand, and as he did, he marveled at the quietness of the office. There were no ringing telephones, no bustling associates; the only noises were the waterfall, the soft swish-swish of Jessie’s pleated skirt, and their own footsteps as they walked down toward the door. Jessie unlocked the room and swung the door wide and then wordlessly motioned for Scott to enter. He took a step inside and froze.

The room was empty except for a single table and a mirror on the wall. Immediately Scott thought of every police procedural movie or television show he had ever seen. This room looked like an interrogation room—even the mirror was a two-way mirror, and Scott couldn’t help but wonder who was on the other side.

“Wait—” Scott called, but Jessie had already closed the door behind him, the sound of a deadbolt sliding into place.

On the table was a stack of papers and a single pencil. Unsharpened.

Without knowing what else to do, Scott pulled the chair out, sat down, and began to flip through the pages—scanning the content quickly, his leg bouncing—and he noticed that it was some type of personality test.

1. Your friend is an artist. She has worked on a painting for two years. One afternoon, she asks you to come over and take a look at the finished product. Upon entering her studio, you realize that you hate the painting and think it is horrible. How do you respond?

A. Lie. Your criticism won’t impact the final product and it will only hurt her feelings.

B. Tell the truth. She has a right to know.

C. Be vague and supportive. Do not lie, but do not tell the truth. Issue statements that could be deemed as praise, but dance around the issue.

Scott looked at the pencil and exhaled through his nose. Then he opened up his own briefcase and took out his own pen. Then his hand hovered over two of the choices before he circled ‘C’ and went on to the next question. Flipping to the final page, Scott noted that he had 199 questions to go.

A game. Did they want him to wait for instructions? Did they want him to take control?

With a long glance at the mirror, Scott shed his suit jacket, loosened his paisley tie, and got to work.

Huck Truman was short and stocky with a full head of gray hair and a well-trimmed goatee. Scott estimated that he was in his mid-sixties, early seventies, but it was hard to tell. After his two-hour stint in the windowless cell, filling in answers, and growing thirsty, tired, and restless, Jessie moved him into Huck’s office—a sprawling room with simple décor and a gorgeous view.

The older man sat back in a black swivel chair and flipped through the pages of the personality test while giving small sounds of approval and thoughtful consideration. “Interesting, yes. Of course, of course.”

It was hour three. The armpits of Scott’s shirt felt damp and his eyes were bleary; he regarded Huck with curious disdain.

He had tried to engage Huck in dialogue about the company, but was silenced with a wave. So now he sat uncomfortably, and shifted his weight in the chair.

Then Huck tossed the papers aside and crossed his arms over his charcoal gray suit. “You must be very agitated with me right now,” he said. “I would be. But we must be very careful to assess you to the best of our ability before we introduce you to our work. Usually my son assists me in this process, but he is out today in the field. I like you, Scott King, and I would like to work with you. Would you like to work with us?”

“I don’t—” Scott started. Then he stopped, furrowed his brows. “You haven’t even interviewed me yet. And…frankly…”

“Of course,” Huck interrupted him with a laugh. “We are operating a very private company. Our agenda is quite…unique. You have been handpicked because we believe that you can understand our cause.”

“Renewable and sustainable energy is a good cause,” Scott replied, adopting his patented interviewee tone.

Huck laughed. “Is that what Blair told you? Oh, that girl. Trying so hard to be helpful. She’s not incorrect, but that is only a single component of our work. The entirety of our goal is much larger, so much broader in scope.”

The room was silent and Huck reached into a drawer. He pulled out a red file folder marked CONFIDENTIAL and slid it over to Scott, who reached to open it with his right hand, but Huck’s hand slapped down on the front and held it shut.

“Once you read this, there is no going back. You will know our secrets and the risks are large.”

Scott nodded. He ran through his options in his head, the pros and cons of standing up and leaving. It wasn’t just that he was curious, but that the incentives were attractive. This job could help provide for his growing family in ways he would have never imagined. And honestly, he rationalized, how bad could it be?

“I’m intrigued. I think I’d like to move forward,” Scott replied.

“You’re under no obligation to work with us after I show you this…but I believe that you will want to start your employment immediately.” Huck lifted his hand and Scott picked up the file.

Flipping it open, Scott began to read. His eyes scanned the first page and then the second. There were diagrams and case studies, pictures, and data collections. Scott’s heart began to beat and he felt his blood pressure escalate. It took him a bit to understand what he was looking at. He opened his mouth to ask a question, but Huck put both hands in the air and instructed him to keep reading. So, he read. And read.

He noted pages on: airborne toxins and a virus in the water supply.  There were pages and pages of major cities and the open reservoirs that supplied water to tens of thousands of people. Maps. Careful research. An article about pandemics and bioterrorism. Scott was scanning a blueprint of disaster. First, they would poison the crops, then they would poison the water supply. After the military was compromised, they would drop the live virus on cities—crop-dusting people with liquid death. Six cells of tireless terrorists would, if it worked, eliminate the earth’s population in 48 hours.

Scott couldn’t fathom how this avuncular gentleman with the gorgeous daughter in this sky-high building could have anything to do with the proposals he saw outlined before him. Or what the large packet, with an outline on how to implement genocide, had anything to do with his job interview. He laughed nervously and ran his fingers through his hair, a half-grimace, half-smile on his face.

“This is…” he searched for the right word, “…it’s murder. You’re talking about the systemic annihilation of an entire species?”

Huck did not answer.

“Is this a joke?” Scott continued and he tossed the folder back on the desk. “I mean…haha. Right? I feel like such a fool. Is there a hidden camera in here? I’m not a fan of making an idiot out of someone for other people’s amusement.”

He stood up and peered up at the corners, searching for the cameras.

“This is no joke, Mr. King,” Huck said, and he motioned for his guest to sit back down, but Scott didn’t move; he stood lamely, his mind spinning. “I promise you that our plans are not malicious in nature. Freeing, rather.”

“What?” Scott shook his head to clear it and then blinked twice. Putting his hands on his hips, he looked to the floor. “I’m so confused.”

“The Elektos has a mission. To rebuild the earth. We’ve killed it, destroyed it. Everything is in ruin and we have a chance and plan for real change. But that doesn’t happen with our current population…that only happens if we are given a second chance.”

“A second chance?”

“At living.”

“You’re out of your mind. You’re proposing to kill innocent people. Come on, where are the cameras? Now you’re just baiting me. This is good footage. Good footage. Have any scientists agreed to help you? Wow. What a show. What a Goddamn spectacle.” Scott laughed and then reached down to pick up his briefcase, but Huck rose and started speaking, his voice louder than before, more intense, more commanding, and Scott stopped to look at him. With his hand on his briefcase handle, his back bent, he looked at the older man and felt ill.

“Yes,” Huck continued. “War always harms the innocent…it is a byproduct of destruction. But you see…we believe that you have to destroy to rebuild. That’s cliché and yet so very true. I believe you will see that the greater good will prevail and that our end will justify the means.” Huck opened his top desk drawer and took out a wooden box. He then procured a long cigar and, after offering a second one to Scott, he bit off the end and then lit it. The sweet smoke stung Scott’s nostrils, and he made another move toward the door, briefcase in hand.

“This is a sick joke. I won’t sign any release form for you to air my reaction on television,” Scott said as he moved to the office door. He grabbed the doorknob and pulled but found it locked. “I’m a private man. A simple scientist. Let me out, please,” he asked in a sincere, calm voice.

“Sit back down.”

“I’d like to leave.”

Still puffing on his cigar, Huck leaned over and turned on a giant flat screen television hung against the far wall of the room. Black and white images clicked on and it took Scott a long moment to realize what he was looking at. A playground, a park—the one near his house, a block away, with the broken tire swing and the plastic slide that turned blisteringly hot in the summertime. He saw Maxine, his wife, a baby on her hip, pushing his twins on swings: one push and then another push, repeat. His thirteen-year-old daughter Lucy sat on a bench several yards away from her mother and siblings and she was hunched over her phone, fingers flying.

Scott took a step toward the screen and without looking at Huck, said, “How did you get this footage?”

“You have a lovely family,” Huck replied. “The footage is live. Here, let me show you.” He leaned down to his desk and punched a button on his phone. “Blair, can you patch this line through to Brandon? Thank you.” He paused and then said, “Brandon, hello. Scott King is here. Could you zoom in on the baby? Harper, right? Just zoom in.”

And the camera on the TV zoomed forward until the screen was filled with his two-year-old daughter’s chubby face. She squealed, although the sound was muted, and Scott felt sick.

“She’s a cutie,” Huck said and smiled. “I have a granddaughter myself. Children are so joyful and amazing. I’m quite fond of them.”

“You’re watching my home? My wife and my kids?”

“We have no other choice,” Huck replied apologetically. Scott looked at him. He was confused by the sadness that permeated the old man’s face. There was guilt in the lines in his forehead and around his eyes; he was tormented, apologetic, but unwavering all the same. “What if you choose to leave? Try to shut our program down? We have to take precautions. There would be consequences…we’ve worked so hard to get to this place and we cannot have the whole thing ruined because we made one single error. One bad call.”

“Don’t you dare hurt them.”

Huck nodded. “Sit Scott,” he motioned again for the chair. “Let’s discuss this like gentlemen.”

Scott’s mouth dropped open. Aghast. “Look. Leave my family out of this. Threatening them won’t make me want to work for you.”

“If you don’t work for us, that’s fine. We’ll find someone else. We won’t find someone better than you, and that’s the truth, but we can replace you. But you saw the date on our proposal. We’re under a time crunch, especially since our last head scientist is no longer with us.”

“Is he dead?” Scott asked wide-eyed. “Good God, did you kill him?”

“Goodness, no.” Huck laughed and he took a long puff. “My colleagues are like family. You’ll see…you will. It’s not what you think. Look, Scott, it’s simple. You work with us and you receive an exceptional advantage. You will get an opportunity to save your family. Think of where your kids will be in four years…that doll right there,” he motioned toward Harper’s smiling face, “will be in kindergarten. Your oldest son, in college. And then one day, the world as they know it will end. They will be heading off to meet friends, walking into a class at school, and…” he lowered his voice to a whisper, sucked on his cigar, blew the smoke outward and said in a cloud of haze: “Extinction.”

Scott felt his blood run cold.

“Of course, you can try to save them on your own,” Huck continued. “But if you are with us, their security is guaranteed. You won’t need to worry, fret, ponder if they will have futures…they will have futures. They can fall in love, have children; all the things you want for your children when you hold them as babies…they will get all of that and more. The world we are building is a world of comfort, safety, and progress. What legacy are you leaving for these kids?”

Scott blinked and waited for Huck’s speech to continue; then he realized Huck wanted a reply. “Oh. A legacy of...” he gulped. “Integrity, I suppose. Love. Honesty. Respect for people and the earth—”

Huck’s hand flew down to the table and hit the wooden surface with force; the bang echoed in the sparsely furnished room. “This world…this world has none of those things. You are fighting a losing battle! But my world will change that. Don’t you truly want those things for your children?”

“I—” Scott couldn’t finish; he felt clammy and in shock. There were no camera crews waiting in the wings; no one was going to watch his reaction with a laugh track dubbed over his dumbfounded expressions.

“So, before you leave today, I want to ask you, Scott King. Are you for the cause?” Huck jammed his cigar into the corner of his mouth and left it there, smoldering.

“No,” Scott answered instantly. “The cause of murder?”

“Change. A future. A baby was killed the other day. Shot…in the face…by a family friend while he and the dad did drugs. Did you hear that story? It was on the news. That is just one story, Scott. One story of darkness and evil and sadness. There is fear everywhere and I’m taking it back. I want to live in kindness, honesty, truth. None of that exists in this world. None of it.”

Scott wiped his brow. He had heard the story of the baby. It was disgusting. Like any parent, his thoughts had gone to his own children and their precious and fragile lives. “There is good too,” he countered, but his voice was weak, quiet. “There is good on this earth.”

“Not enough good,” was Huck’s assured reply.

“Why?” Scott asked, his mouth dry. He swallowed and asked again, “Why are you doing this to me?”

Without a reply, Huck leaned down and grabbed a remote—he pointed it at the flat screen and paused the live feed: the image of Harper froze on the screen with his daughter Lucy a fuzzy blur in the background, still hunched over her phone.

Then Huck turned and walked right up to Scott. He put a hand on his shoulder. Popping the cigar out of his mouth, he cleared his throat and smiled a toothy grin. “The short answer? For them.” He pointed to the screen. “For the people we love. But in time…I’ll discuss it all in time. You will see how my plan came to be, and why it must happen, and then you will understand that there is no other way. Everyone does, in time. Everyone. So come, Scott.” He started walking toward the door. “Let’s go get some dinner.” He looked back to see if his guest was following. “Are you in the mood for sushi?”

CHAPTER ONE

Yellowstone National Park, Wyoming

Lucy sat among the growing lupines, their purple buds stretching to the sky and swaying in the cool spring wind. From the grassy and flower-covered hill, Lucy admired the towering Grand Tetons in the distance and the still waters of Jackson Lake. She watched the glassy water ripple toward the shore and always—despite knowing that it wouldn’t happen—expected to see a fish jump or a vacationer kayak past. Some earthly expectations were hard to overcome.

The log cabins of Jackson Lake Mountain Lodge were all empty. There were no dead bodies to move, no smells to overcome, no rotting surprises left to discover around the corner. The virus, unleashed by bioterrorists, claimed the residents of the small Wyoming town before vacation season opened, and so the cabins were the perfect discovery after long days on the road. Each cabin was deceptively rustic on the outside and luxurious on the inside; they offered a welcome respite from travel for Lucy King and Grant Trotter as they made their way from Portland to Brixton, Nebraska.

The duo had landed their hot air balloon in central Oregon. Grant might have known how to fill the balloon and sail it out and over the congested city and suburbs, and he might have known how to follow the wind, but landing was a skill he had yet to master. Lucy had a fist-sized bruise on her leg that was finally fading to a respectable shade of yellow. and her jammed finger no longer ached. She would have teased Grant about his inability to think through the landing part, but he had looked embarrassed and ashamed after they crawled out of the overturned basket.

From there: they slept in an empty house, stole a green Toyota Camry with a full tank of gas, and followed the highway all the way into Idaho before stranding themselves right outside of Boise. It was easy to push away the thoughts of what had happened to the world as they drove down nearly deserted back roads and empty towns.

Grant and Lucy had not seen another living soul since leaving her brother Ethan back in Oregon. Ethan wasn’t alone: he had Darla and her young son Teddy, both of whom he had befriended at the Portland airport amidst the tragedy and chaos of Release Day. While Grant and Lucy had thought of their Oregon contingent often, they knew that Darla, who had worked with industrious diligence to free Lucy from the high school where she had been kept captive, would care for Ethan in their absence.

The hardest part was not knowing. So, they trudged forward, focusing on the goal at hand: Nebraska.

As they moved forward across state lines, in and out of cities, they would occasionally spy a flutter of movement, a shadow dancing across a curtain or something shifting in the corner of their eye, but every search for survivors ended with disappointment. The shadows were from the wind, and the movement just figments of their imaginations. No, the world was quiet; people were gone.

But reminders of their existence were everywhere.

When they got to Boise, they saw that the absence of human life was causing more than just empty cities and abandoned vehicles. Pipes had burst, streets were swamped with sewage and debris and, in many places, fires still smoldered. All around them was evidence of those who perished after the Release—evidence of a former life. Even though it had been only two weeks and two days since the world succumbed to terrorism, it felt like years.

From Boise, they walked, bicycled, hiked, and eventually found two more cars with enough gas to get them across state lines. When they drove into the Yellowstone National Park and stumbled upon the Jackson Lake Mountain Lodge, Lucy and Grant knew they had to rest. Road weary and hungry and struggling with basic hygiene, the empty cabins beckoned them.

What was planned as a single overnight recouping of energy turned into a three-day spiritual and emotional renewal. Nebraska was calling them, but the beautiful snow-capped mountains, late-night fires in the comfort of king sized beds, and lazy mornings by the lake were exactly what they needed. The resort town appealed to them most of all because it was easy to forget the world was empty. The reminders of death and destruction were few and far between: dead fish and dead birds, not dead people. Although finding dead people wasn’t as alarming as it had been when the virus first broke out. In larger cities and smaller towns, they regarded the dead like any other inanimate object: fire hydrant, mailbox, body.

The shells of people who were once living, breathing, alive, were just part of the landscape of their changed lives and nothing more.

Lucy heard footsteps behind her, and she grabbed a single lupine in front of her and ran her hand over the stock, stripping it of flower petals. She loved the way the stalk felt against her hand, the rough bumps against her skin. Without turning, she picked at the fallen purple petals and cleared her throat. “I left you a note on the counter…I didn’t want to wake you,” she said.

Grant sat down beside her and nudged her in the side with his elbow. “You don’t have to leave me notes. It’s not like you’re ever going very far. I think I can probably figure it out on my own.”

She smiled at him and looked outward toward the lake. “I always leave notes when I’m going out. My momma taught me well.”

Stretching his legs out in front of him and leaning back on his elbows in the grass, Grant looked over at her and examined her profile, the backdrop of Yellowstone behind her. “It’s beautiful here.”

“It is,” she replied.

He reached out without looking and tried to grab a flower, but he missed. His hand brushed against Lucy’s leg and she didn’t flinch away. His closeness no longer affected her like it might have before the Release; they just existed, two parts of a whole—two people on a mission, working together. They enjoyed sitting like this, in silence, one of the most beautiful places in the world enveloping them into a feeling of safety and peace. If they left here, they would lose that. If they left here, they would have to admit that the world had ended. Sometimes it was nice to forget.

“Okay, my turn. I’ve thought of one.”

Lucy smiled. “Male or female?”

“Male.”

“TV or movies,” she asked.

Grant looked above at the clouds and squinted, thinking. “Mostly movies. Some TV. Before he got big.” Grant couldn’t contain a subtle smirk. Lucy caught the intonation and rolled her eyes.

“You gave too much away…I swear. Pop culture is my party trick. You won’t ever win.”

“You think you know already? That’s like three clues. That could almost be everyone in Hollywood.”

“Tom Hanks,” Lucy answered and she crossed her arms over her chest.

“Whatever. You’re right. I gave it away…no need to show off,” he replied and he tossed a handful of grass at her, but the wind carried it off before it could land. They settled into silence; the Guess-Who game, a variant on twenty-questions that they played during their car rides, ending anti-climatically. Then Grant sighed, and he dropped his voice down to an almost whisper. “We’ve been here three days.”

“I know.”

Lucy didn’t want to look at Grant and see the pressure to leave this place in his eyes. She knew if she saw him, saw his brown eyes and the eagerness, that she would stomp back to the cabin, pack her bag, and climb back behind the wheel of their third vehicle—some silver hatchback that still smelled like cigarette smoke and fast food—and drive straight to Nebraska without a second thought. But something was keeping her rooted in this place; a certain type of contentment that only the wilderness could provide.

Grant never pressured Lucy to make decisions. He never blindly conceded to her wishes either, and he didn’t storm forward with his own agenda. Even when Lucy wished that Grant would just take control, he refused. She admired his maturity while simultaneously feeling aggrieved that it required her to be mature, too. It would have been easy to fall into some angst-ridden teenage moodiness. Discovering your father may have helped plan the extermination of the human race wasn’t an emotional picnic. Here though—sitting among the flowers and the mountains—reality seemed more beautiful, less dark.

“I don’t want to rush you—”

“Us,” she corrected and shot him a sideways glance. “It doesn’t have to be just my decision.” He was staring right at her and she turned back to the lake and kept her eyes trained straight ahead. Nebraska—the idea of it—seemed dark and far away. It was only an eight-hour drive, and there was the potential that her family was close, but when Lucy thought of what she’d find there, the comforts of their log cabins seemed safer. And safe was good.

“Yes, it does,” Grant replied with a half-smile. “It really does.”

Lucy reached out and grabbed his hand and gave it a squeeze. She couldn’t begin to verbalize how grateful she was that Grant understood the enormity of this last leg. And she couldn’t admit to him that she was losing her nerve.

In the end, she had championed the trip, relished the idea of storming into the great unknown. There was an exhilaration born from the adventure, but they’d been on the road long enough that the novelty had worn off; now, with the truth so close, she longed for Oregon and Ethan and mornings of fixing Teddy breakfast and helping him discover the chapter books of her early childhood—Little House on the Prairie or anything with Ramona Quimby or The Boxcar Children, CS Lewis or Roald Dahl.

If her family was safe, they would have come for her. The fact that they hadn’t should have been a clue. Her heart tugged her back toward the known.

Grant seemed to sense the trepidation in her silence. He lowered himself to the ground and then tucked his arms under his head.

They sat like this several times over the past few days. Grant sprawled out staring at the sky, Lucy tucked up, knees to chest, shedding the flowers of their petals.

“We can’t stay here forever,” Grant said.

“You have to admit it’s tempting,” Lucy replied.

“Come on, Lula,” he admonished kindly, using her best friend Salem’s moniker for her. It was endearing and sad all wrapped up into one. They had been there together when Salem succumbed to the virus, and the images haunted Lucy every time she closed her eyes.

“I think we give it another night. Just one more? Sit by the fire, make a good meal. And I want to know it’s our last night. I want to enjoy it. I don’t know what lies ahead…and I want to have one good, big, night.”

“We’ll be in Nebraska by tomorrow, then?” Grant asked, his eyebrows raised.

She shuddered. Then shrugged. And finally nodded.

“Hey, I get it,” Grant said. “And I don’t blame you,” he added. “But—”

“I know,” she interrupted him. “I know. Tomorrow.” Giving them a time frame made it real and tangible; in twenty-four hours she would be in a different state and searching for her family.

Grant didn’t move from the ground. “Did you travel much? As a kid?” he asked, sensing her discomfort and changing the subject. “Have you ever been here…before everything?”

“Yellowstone?” Lucy asked, and then she shook her head. “We didn’t travel too much.” Traveling with six kids was a nightmare; all promises of joyous family vacations ended in disaster and yelling. Once they had gone to Disneyland, but it was in the pre-Harper era, as Lucy was embarking on her first year of junior high. The twins cried the entire plane trip and Galen never stopped talking; once they arrived, Ethan and Lucy kept trying to pretend like they were spending the day by themselves. They migrated ten steps forward, backward, or to the side, assuming the identities of older teens enjoying a day of independence. Once, Maxine called to them to join them in a line, and Ethan yelled back, “Stop talking to us! Creep.”

How much she had longed to be free from her embarrassing family during that particular vacation. Many of their Disneyland pictures captured Lucy’s pre-teen angst perfectly; pouty lips, crossed arms, nary a happy thought in sight. Ethan whispered in her ear while they climbed aboard Big Thunder Mountain Railroad, “It’s not like we even need them for anything. I know how to get back to the hotel. We should ask to split up.” The request was met with icy glares and too-loud lectures about the importance of family.

“Someday I’ll be dead and you’ll wish you enjoyed Disneyland with me,” Maxine had said to Lucy with an extended finger, her voice loud enough to solicit bemused smiles from passersby.

Lucy blushed then as she blushed now, thinking back on her youthful impertinence.

“Did you?” Lucy returned the question.

Grant nodded. “Only child. Divorced parents. For a few years they really tried to top each other. Indoor water parks. Hawaii. Each trip helped them feel a little less guilty. Like, hey, we can’t screw him up too badly, I mean, we took him to Sea World and Six Flags in one summer. What kid wouldn’t want that? And sure, I was at fun places, but my dad barely spoke to me. Then my parents got remarried…”

She raised an eyebrow and Grant shrugged.

“Yeah, as a kid you’d dream about that happening. And then it did, and I’m not sure it was better. I’m not sure they remarried for the right reasons. Or I should say, my dad didn’t remarry her for the right reasons. My mom never gave up hope…never stopped loving him.”

Lucy hesitated. She wanted to ask Grant about his mom. He mentioned her occasionally, but he hadn’t offered up any details of his life beyond small jabs at his dad and passing recollections about his life pre-virus. Grant spoke more about the art of pole-vaulting and mentioned his hopefulness that a movie director survived the apocalypse because how could there be a world without movies?

But Grant’s mom seemed taboo. A topic of conversation they could not traverse together. In the past eight days alone, Grant had broken down and cried twice. Both times seemed out of the blue and Lucy couldn’t pinpoint the trigger for his grief. He had seemed uncomfortable afterward too—ashamed that she had been a witness to tears—however, Lucy let the moments run their course, always quick with a comforting squeeze or a random story to change the mood.

“That’s enough of that,” he exhaled. “So, Lula, what’s on the docket for our last day in paradise?” Grant asked.

“You know how I feel about making decisions,” she replied. But then she smiled. “What I really want to do is take a nice warm bubble bath.”

“Order a pizza and watch television.”

“Yeah, so we’re both delusional,” Lucy teased and poked the end of a lupine stalk into his arm. He grabbed it and she tumbled forward after it, laughing.

Then Grant let go and she tossed it to the side; she let her eyes wander to the mountains and the lake.

“Let’s walk up to the lodge,” Grant said with authority. “There’s a piano. I’ll start a fire. We can raid the kitchen and see if anything non-perishable survived.” He stood up and wiped the dirt off the seat of his jeans.

Lucy looked up at him, squinting into the late morning sun. After a moment, she replied, “It’s a date.”

The lodge was a small wooden building located a short walk from the lakeside cabins. Defunct Christmas lights were strung around the perimeter and a wood carving of a buffalo greeted travelers at the entryway. There were twelve-foot doors, with inlaid carvings that told an old story about a black bear traveling along the peaks of the Tetons. Lucy ran her hand over the wood and it was silky smooth to the touch. Then they swung the lodge doors open wide and entered the musty lounge; dust covered every surface—the spring cleaning prior to the summer opening interrupted by the virus.

Grant built a fire in the wood-burning fireplace in the center of the room. He arranged dry logs, conveniently stacked next to the side of the fireplace, and shoved in stacks of lodge brochures to add to the kindling. Then he reached into his pocket and produced his Zippo lighter, lit the corner of the paper, and stepped back to admire the flames as they licked upward, engulfing the wood in a whoosh and filling the area with warmth.

Lucy walked over to a small bar area and opened up a small refrigerator. The contents were limited, but since the lodge area was without power, the leftover items had spoiled. There was a block of limp, moldy cheese, a bottle of ketchup, and a small collection of individually wrapped butter packets. Lucy shut the door and kept moving. Hand-carved and mounted to the wall behind the bar was a wine rack. Placed into the little cubbies were dusty bottles of reds and whites and blends. She took a glass, wiped it down with a nearby paper towel and then scanned the bottles.

With the fire now crackling, Grant slid onto the piano bench and lifted the lid. He began to play a melody and Lucy spun to look at him. She recognized the song. It was from some indie band that Ethan liked; she always mocked him for his musical taste—listening to bands that steeped themselves in obscurity and thumbing his nose at popular genres. Music snobbery ran amuck on Portland college campuses; three months into his freshman year of college, Ethan abandoned his high school hip-hop loving ways, procured a fake ID, and started hitting up shows at Dante’s or across the river at Mississippi Studios. He’d go alone, which seemed tragic to Lucy. But Ethan loved it.

“Was that Spoon?” Lucy asked when Grant’s song ended. She blushed when he broke into a huge grin. “Was that impressive?” she asked with a hint of self-satisfaction.

“Not so much, actually. It’s not like they’re completely obscure,” Grant plucked out a different tune with one hand, his body still turned to face Lucy.  “I was more impressed that you got Tom Hanks on the second guess.” He grinned. “Are we drinking wine?”

She shrugged. “It’s here. It’s a liquid.”

“How’s our water supply?” Grant spun his body on the bench to shift his attention. Their voices echoed in the absence of other sound.

“Dwindling.” They had each packed enough of her father’s water pouches to last a week; in smaller towns, where the virus took lives in a surge, leaving no time for looters to rise up, it was easy to find bottled water and soda cans. But in the larger cities, where people killed for clean water, there was nothing.

The bioterrorists contaminated the water supply first. Their airborne attack was secondary. Either way, despite her inoculations and Grant’s apparent inherent immunity, they were hesitant to drink tap water. And that was even if they could. In some places, like the cabins, running water ceased entirely—leaving dried up pipes and restricted access. In a pinch, the lake water would suffice, but Lucy hadn’t become thirsty enough to try it. They’d managed well on stolen goods, water pouches, and MREs. It wasn’t luxury living, but they’d encountered limited hardships.

Finding a corkscrew, Lucy spun the screw down into the softness of the cork and then yanked upward, the stopper slipping outward with a pop. Then Lucy poured a glass. She took a sip and felt the bitter liquid on her tongue. In her mind, she predicted wine was just an alcoholic version of grape juice, but she was wrong. Lucy dribbled the wine back into the glass and then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. A tiny river of purple dripped down her chin.

“It was that delicious, huh?” Grant asked. He raised his eyebrows. “If you offer me any of that, I don’t want the same cup.”

“It’s gross.”

“It’s sophisticated. An acquired taste.”

“I’ll pretend you didn’t just insult me because I don’t like wine.”

“Here,” Grant stood up and walked behind the bar. He took the bottle and raised it to his lips and then took a small swallow. “It’s not so bad,” he said, setting the bottle back down in front of them.

They stood in silence; then Lucy moved past Grant to the fire. She sat down on the hearth and rubbed her hands in front of the flame.

When she looked up, Grant was looking at her. He rested his elbows on the bar and scratched the top of his head.

“Have you been thinking about how many other people are like me?” He asked her.

“Catholic, piano-playing, hot-air balloon geniuses?”

Grant rolled his eyes. “Incorrigible.”

“Come on,” Lucy tucked her hands into her lap. “You know I don’t know how to answer that.”

They had been having the same conversations since they left Oregon. It was always variations on a theme: speculative musings, worries about the future, addressing the unanswerable. Sometimes they would know the topic was a repeat and they’d discuss it again out of interest—and out of a human need to say, “I’m still thinking about this. It’s still on my mind.” And other times, it was like they had forgotten they’d traversed that road before, delving deeply into a conversation before realizing that it felt familiar.

Out of their more common topics, they often wondered about Nebraska. What was in Brixton? Would her family be in plain sight? What if they got there and no one was there? Or they pondered life as they knew it: Would they ever eat ice cream again? How long would it take before buildings crumbled? Were there groups of indigenous people in the rain forest somewhere totally protected from the virus and living life like normal? Could there be more people immune and carving out a life in the ruins?

They never talked about Lucy’s dad.

They never speculated about his role in the bioterrorism.

Lucy let those questions stay unasked. Both of them seemed to understand that to admit Scott King was somehow involved meant they were walking straight into the lion’s den. It was a scenario that was too painful to contemplate fully.

“I know, I know,” Grant replied and he joined Lucy by the fire. “I just keep thinking how cool it would be if we just met up with a whole group of people…immune…and then we’d realize that we can start over, you know? Start a little city. Do things right.”

Grant had said that before too. “A little village, where people are kind to each other, and you pay for things with your talents, and no one is in charge, and everyone is valued,” he had mentioned once. He waxed on about taking chicken eggs over to his neighbor’s house to exchange for fresh cow’s milk. A place where everyone was a giant family with no hidden agendas. Lucy thought it sounded like the kind of city in a science-fiction movie where everyone turned out to be robots. His brand of post-apocalyptic socialism sounded nice in theory, but even Lucy knew it wouldn’t take long for people to fight for power.

She had taken AP Government, after all.

“I’m sure you aren’t the only one who survived the virus after exposure. You can’t be.” She said it once and she said it again, for his sake.

“Maybe if we get to Nebraska and we don’t—” Grant stopped and looked at Lucy; he lowered his eyes.

“It’s okay. Don’t stop yourself on my account.”

“If we can’t find anything…maybe we can really work on hunting for other survivors.”

Lucy shook her head. “That never works in the movies,” she replied. “They’d be nice and accommodating at first and then we’d wake up right at the moment where they were about to eat us. Survivors of the apocalypse are always cannibals. We should just go home.”

Home. Oregon was still her home.

“Sure,” he conceded. He leaned in to the fire and grabbed a stick from nearby and poked at a log; tiny sparks flew up into the flue. “Sure.”

They slept in the lodge that night, moving their feathered comforters down in front of the fire and sleeping side by side. Grant polished off half the bottle of wine before curling up into a ball and snoring into the wee hours of the morning. Lucy used pillows from the lounge couches as a mattress, but by the time the sun crept into the mountainous skyline, Lucy found herself flat on the floor—her cheek cool against the wooden boards.

Drool-stained and sweaty, Lucy sat up and rubbed her eyes. Her body was thick and sluggish from exhaustion and dehydration. She poked Grant with her toe, jostling his body and moving him back and forth until he peeked out of one eye and then clamped it shut with a groan.

“Morning already?” he asked.

“Uh-huh,” Lucy replied.

He rolled into a sitting position and lifted his arms above his head. Then he stretched with a loud yawn and plopped his hands back down; his front cowlick stuck straight up, the rest of his shaggy hair falling in clumps around his face.

“Breakfast?” he asked.

“We have our ready-meals. Let’s eat on the road.”

“Oh, look who’s eager now?” Grant smiled.

She shrugged. It was true she woke up with more resolve to leave their secluded hideaway, but she still felt covered in general unease. There was no more procrastination, no more conjecture. It was like she had been standing on the edge of a diving board, waiting for the motivation to fly forward into the water, and finally she realized that if she didn’t just jump someone would have to push her.

She hated being pushed.

“Let’s load up.”

“Okay.” Grant eyed her suspiciously. “No ceremonious goodbye? No morning walk around the lake? That’s so unlike you. I’d thought that you’d have written a eulogy to the mountain already.”

She shook her head, ignoring his playful dig. “I’m ready to see my family. I’m ready to know the truth.”

They walked back to their shared cabin and shoveled their few pieces of clothing, discarded toiletries, and remaining food containers into their backpacks and then trudged in silence back to their waiting car. Lucy did pause to take in the majestic Tetons and the glistening lake one last time; she wanted to write a note in the dust on the cabin’s kitchen counter: We were here. But at the last second she walked away, leaving the dust intact.

Grant backed out of the parking spot and traveled up through the winding roads back to the highway. While the highways were still littered with abandoned cars, this area of the country wasn’t inundated with blockage. There was just enough destruction to remind them that they weren’t just leaving their Yellowstone vacation and heading back to the real world.

“Keep an eye out for an exchange car,” Grant said to Lucy as he picked up speed. “We’ve got about half a tank left which won’t get us very far.”

“How far to our destination? Eight hours?”

“About.”

She drew in a shaky breath. Her hand went to Salem’s crucifix, a habit that had formed the past week.

“We’ve got this,” Grant said and he took his right hand off the steering wheel and reached over to give Lucy a comforting pat. She leaned in to his touch and let his hand linger on her shoulder. “Seriously, Lula…at the risk of sounding insensitive…what’s the worst that could happen?”

CHAPTER TWO

Portland, Oregon

Doctor Gloria Krause knelt over Ethan King—supine on the floor of the den—and ran her hand across his forehead. She clicked her tongue and adjusted her purple-framed glasses on the bridge of her nose and peered down at her patient, squinting in the dim light. A stethoscope around her neck dangled and swayed like a pendulum as she leaned forward. Krause slipped the ear tips into her ears and then placed the chest piece flat against Ethan’s exposed flesh. Her eyes focused on a point across the room, her mouth tight; then she sighed and removed the ear tips, and snapped the metal tubing back around her neck.

Darla, the thirty-three year-old mother and self-proclaimed Raider—those who helped steal from the dead and redistribute to the living—rubbed her hands over her eyes and looked at Ethan’s body. He had deteriorated rapidly in the last few days and it pained her to watch him so close to death. They were few now, just a small group: to lose one of their own at this point would be beyond a travesty; it simply wasn’t fair. Darla’s ventures into looting and trading took a hit after the Day Sixers, those who had survived the initial viral attack, passed away. The population in Portland and the surrounding areas had declined to just a handful of people: Most of them now congregating at the King home, and all of them the recipients of a lifesaving vaccine.

There was no other life.

No one else left.

“Is it time, Mom?” asked a young woman in the corner. She was tall, with frizzy auburn hair which she wore tucked behind her unpierced ears.

Doctor Krause nodded to her daughter and to the audience spread throughout the room. “Is it about noon? Yes. It’s time.”

Darla tied her sleek black hair up into a bun and took a step forward. She looked down at Ethan, his chest rising and falling, his hair matted to the side of his head. Then she turned to the doctor. “The light is best now. Joey and I already set up the house yesterday. If we need to move, we move now.”

Darla had spent the better part of her day yesterday hunting through the Whispering Waters subdivision looking for an empty, open, full of light, house that would convert into an operating room for Doctor Krause.

Doctor Krause, her daughter Ainsley, and a bumbling thirty-something Raider named Joey came into the picture through Principal Spencer. The principal was the black market mastermind, who emerged with a vengeance after the world was attacked by bioterrorists, and who had been given precious vaccines and one task: find a doctor for the ailing Ethan. When Darla had handed over the vials of the lifesaving medicines to the borderline sociopath, she had no way of knowing if Spencer would be able to fulfill his end of the bargain.

The day Lucy and Grant floated away over the Portland landscape, Darla left her five year-old son Teddy with the ailing Ethan and marched her way back to Pacific Lake High School, where she found the three recently vaccinated people waiting for her to explain their roles in this bizarre stage-play.

Spencer had used Joey to locate Doctor Krause and her surviving family—but the details after that were murky, told to Darla in snippets over the past week; little pieces of the puzzle slipping together to form a dark and depressing tale. All Darla knew was that Spencer had dumped them all unceremoniously out in front of the school to wait for her—like children waiting for the bus on the first day of school.

Darla met the unlikely trio in a mess of tangled expectations and doubts. Doctor Krause had been firm with Darla—they did not just want to be a pawn in someone else’s chess game. But Spencer gave them no choice; he had vaccinated them against their will, dragged them down to his school, kept them captive until Darla arrived, and then released them without a thought for their future well-being. In the most basic and drastic terms, the vaccinated strangers arrived like slaves. You will live, but you will help, was the spoken decree.

In the time since Darla brought the resentful newcomers back to Whispering Waters, Ethan took a turn for the worst. His legs, crushed after a truck driven by a dead-man ran into him on his way home, showed signs of infection.

He needed amputation. Without it he would die.

Since that news came to light, Ethan’s surgery trumped everything. Darla was certain she had forgotten to eat yesterday, and she’d barely spent time with her own child.

She found a home only a few doors down that would work as an operating theater. Into the afternoon, the sun flooded a former dining room with enough light to aid the doctor in her surgical task. With the equipment gathered, the stage set, and the patient slowly slipping away, they knew the time had come.

“The tissue damage is too extensive,” Doctor Krause told them. “The blood vessels are crushed and his fever is spiking. I thought we could avoid it, I really did.”

“We knew it would come to this,” Darla said. “We’ve prepared for it. Let’s go. The longer we sit and talk about it, the better chance we have of realizing how stupid we are for trying.” She made a move toward Ethan, but Doctor Krause put out her hand.

“There is no way to prepare for this, Darla,” she said sternly. “Finding supplies and covering a room in sheets isn’t quite the medical miracle you’re hoping for. This is a dangerous procedure. And, even then, Ethan may still...” the doctor looked to everyone and weighed her words. “Amputation is not guaranteed safety for him. And before we move him, I need everyone to acknowledge that risk.”

Darla nodded, annoyed. “We know the risks, Doctor. But even you told us that he’ll die if we don’t. There’s no decision to make here. This boy is the reason we’re alive…if it weren’t for him, we wouldn’t be here. All of us.”

“I’m well aware that I’m here because of Ethan,” Doctor Krause replied curtly. She ran her fingers through her hair and looked at her daughter, who hadn’t moved from her spot in the corner and watched the conversation with a bizarre juxtaposition of eagerness and apathy.

Joey entered the den, looking bleary-eyed; he’d taken to waking up in stupor, lumbering around in a state of perpetual confusion. How he had managed to situate himself in a prime position to move goods and services around after the Release baffled Darla. In the old world, he had been a gas station attendant and used his access to gasoline to set himself up in the first few days, but beyond that, Joey’s lack of discernible gifts made him more like a houseguest who had overstayed his welcome rather than a member of their small, but functioning community.

The man cleared his throat. Joey was young, but not too young: baby-faced, accompanied by a smattering of wrinkles on his forehead, crows-feet around his small, beady eyes. “So, this is it, huh?” he asked. “Operation day.”

Darla nodded.

“Who’s going then?”

“I am,” Darla answered without hesitation. “I just need someone to stay with Teddy.”

Ethan let out an involuntary groan and the room’s attention shifted back to him. Doctor Krause nodded as if someone had asked her a question and she was answering in the affirmative; she pursed her lips and pointed a long, bony finger at Joey.

“You stay here,” the doctor commanded.

Joey nodded and gnawed on a hangnail. “Good. I mean, like, I don’t even think I could do it. You know?” He shuddered and searched with his teeth for any other scraps of skin to pull and bite.

Even when Doctor Krause first suggested amputation, Joey’s pallor shifted from bright and rosy to a pastel yellow. The jaundiced look returned whenever Joey glanced at Ethan’s injuries—the black and blue and bumpy canvas of the boy’s non-functioning legs.

“Great,” Darla said. She didn’t entirely trust Joey to watch Teddy with the same attentiveness as the other housemates, but if her choices were that or missing out on Ethan’s surgery, it was an easy decision.

“We’ll totally play together. A fun game. Fun board game. Or something just fun,” he trailed off as he met Darla’s gaze, her hand itching above the gun in her holster. The short, dark-haired Raider put his hands up in surrender. “Yeah, jeez. I know, Darla. I’ll take good care of him. I’ll be the best babysitter ever. I always wanted kids or nephews…I’m not saying I’m good with kids, but I can be Uncle Joey. I mean, don’t even worry about it. It takes a village, right?”

Darla raised a single eyebrow and locked her eyes, and dipped her chin. “Joey,” she started, her tone a cross between menacing and exasperated.

“Yeah?” Joey replied.

“Seriously. Shut up.”

Darla and Doctor Krause carried Ethan out of the house on a stretcher lifted from a crashed ambulance. Ainsley followed behind. They entered the secured house through the open garage. At the far end of the garage they placed the stretcher down and worked together to pick up Ethan and carry him into the house—they went through a mudroom and through a small hallway and into the bright and light living room. A long dining room table, meant to seat a large gathering at Thanksgiving dinner, was their operating table. Darla outfitted it with blankets and pillows, and all of the surgical accouterments procured from the local hospital—which was not an easy journey.  Joey had found their last supply in a shop nearby: a battery operated handsaw. And he looked close to vomiting as he handed it over, the realization of its use dawning on him.

After all three women worked together to get his limp body on the table, Ethan lay exposed in just a pair of blue and white checkered boxer shorts. He had been in and out of consciousness, but as they gathered around, his eyes fluttered open and he saw Darla first.

“Hey,” he said to her and attempted a smile.

“It’s time, kiddo,” Darla replied and she grabbed his hand.

“Okay. Okay,” Ethan closed his eyes again. “I can do this.”

“You’re strong,” Darla told him. “Strong and ready. You’ve got this.”

“Doc?” Ethan rolled his head to the side. “What’dya got for me? We doin’ this old-school? Whiskey and a mallet to the head?”

“Morphine and a local anesthetic. Only I can’t give you much morphine…the risk is too great without a way to monitor your vitals closely. I’m sorry, Ethan…you will feel some of this.”

“I’ll feel it,” he repeated.

“You will,” Doctor Krause told him as she gave him his first shot. “But I’ll do the best I can.”

“Can’t I get a spinal or something? You need electricity for that?”

Doctor Krause smiled and adjusted her glasses. “Ethan, we don’t have options. I’m not a surgeon and I’m not an anesthesiologist. I want to keep you alive…we have to do this the way I know how.” She looked at him and winced. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be—” Ethan closed his eyes.

Darla held his hand.

The doctor administered another round of injections into Ethan’s wounds. He didn’t even flinch as the needles entered his flesh. She picked up a block of fabric off of one of the side tables—it looked like a luggage strap and it wrapped around Ethan’s leg five inches above his knee. Doctor Krause sighed and glanced at her ragtag surgery technicians; she looked calm, but her clamped jaw and narrowed eyes gave her away: she was nervous—scared even. She had been honest about her position as a family doctor; it was a job that did not lend itself toward emergency amputations. But it was too late now. They were committed.

“Okay, Darla. Ainsley,” the doctor instructed and she passed around a box of surgical gloves and masks. They covered their hands and their mouths and stood waiting for further instruction.

Doctor Krause motioned for Ainsley and she took a step forward.

“Darla, I’ll need you to hold Ethan still as much as possible. Start near his shoulders. Ainsley…when I ask for an item, grab it quickly.” The doctor placed a hand on Ethan’s leg and pinched slightly. Then she asked for a scalpel and extended her gloved hand backward; her daughter picked up the metal instrument and placed it in her mother’s open palm.

Then Doctor Krause started an incision an inch above Ethan’s knee. The blood started to run down the sides of his legs, not a gush, but a trickle, and she mopped it up in a swift wipe with clean, cut towels. Blood matted down his leg hair and made his skin a rosy color. She ran the scalpel along that line and then dug further: past the skin and into a white layer of fat.

Ethan’s leg jerked upward and Darla moved into position, wrapping her arms around Ethan’s shoulders and hugging him tightly to the table. Ethan started to yank and groan. His face was white, his teeth chattered against each other, rattling inside his mouth.

“Shhh….shhh,” Darla repeated and with her hands secure on Ethan, she could not stop to wipe away the tears that started to roll down her cheeks. She let them run and drip, but she tried to will herself into finding every iota of strength. “It’ll be over soon. It’ll all be over soon.”

The incision went deeper.

Ethan screamed, even in his fevered state, and rolled his head from side to side. Doctor Krause looked up, unperturbed, and paused until the wailing died down before moving to the red, stringy muscle.

“Clamps,” she called and Ainsley answered by placing several within her reach. “Thread.” The doctor started to clamp Ethan’s exposed veins and sew several others shut. Still the blood seeped through the towels below his leg, turning the white into crimson.

And still Ethan screamed, calling out gibberish, guttural exclamations of pain. Sweat pooled along his brow.

“Darla,” the doctor said in a near-whisper. “If you could…there’s a bit more morphine we can use. This will be the last though or we risk overdose. Ainsley?” The young woman handed Darla a syringe as Doctor Krause continued running the blade into Ethan’s tissue and muscles and clamping the remaining, exposed pieces of his leg. Darla positioned her body against Ethan’s and then jabbed the analgesic into his upper leg. Ethan still whimpered and groaned, but his eyes closed, his head flopped to the side. His breathing became ragged and labored.

“Check him,” the doctor said and her voice was tense and terse. Her daughter rushed wordlessly past Darla and listened through her mother’s stethoscope at Ethan’s heart.

“Fine. Fast, but normal,” came the reply as Ainsley moved back into position.

The doctor reached the bone. Ethan’s skin above the knee hung limply without anything to support it. Leathery and loose, it didn’t even look like skin anymore.

“Saw,” Doctor Krause demanded and the saw was delivered. She flipped it on and the buzzing sound filled the room—Darla looked away as Doctor Krause instructed Ainsley to tug upward on the flesh to expose the bone. With ease and without flinching, Ainsley worked the fat and muscle around the bone, creating a clear path. Manhandled and cut to shreds, the inside of Ethan’s leg began to look like ground beef.

It took four attempts, but then the bone broke free. Doctor Krause tossed the amputated leg to the ground and it fell with a thunk. Then she sprang into action, removing clamps, stitching veins, and positioning the remaining pieces of Ethan’s leg around the clean-end of the bone. She took the skin flaps and, like wrapping a burrito, folded them over the muscle and fat.

She began to stitch the top and bottom skin flaps together.

In less than thirty minutes, the entire procedure was completed. Ethan’s stump was stitched crudely and wrapped with layers of gauze.

His lower leg lay abandoned on the floor.

Blood splattered their clothes and the floor, and the room smelled like sweat, blood, and fresh meat. Doctor Krause removed her rubber gloves and shook her mask free and exhaled through her mouth.

Ethan moaned and shifted, but he did not wake.

“That’s it?” Darla asked.

“No,” Doctor Krause replied. “He has risk of infection and shock and phantom pain. And morphine addiction, if we need to keep him sedated. Among other risks and worries. And I don’t have any knowledge of prosthetics…so, he’ll never walk again. If he lives. No. This is not over for dear Ethan.”

Ainsley coughed into her shoulder and sniffed. She stood rooted to the floor, the stethoscope still around her neck.

Darla kept her hand on Ethan’s arm and felt how hot his skin had turned. “What can we do? How can we help him?”

“Nothing. We can’t do anything more,” Doctor Krause replied. She put a hand on her daughter’s back and gave her a small push back toward the garage. “Go on,” she said in a small voice to Ainsley. “Help watch the child. Go relieve Joey.” Ainsley obeyed, and she slipped out of the house with her head bent low, and her shoulders hunched. Then the doctor turned back and crossed her arms, looking around the room.

“What can I do?” Darla called—her voice rising in fear and anger. “Is there anything I can do?”

“We will stay with him until he wakes. Then we’ll move him back into his bedroom and care for him there.” She marched into the dining room and grabbed a chair by its back and dragged it over to their makeshift operating table. After checking Ethan’s vitals once more, she sat down and closed her eyes. Darla refused to sit and she refused to move. She stood by her friend, and looked at the horror they had created; her stomach ached.

After five silent minutes, the women heard shuffling in the garage and steps in the hall. They lifted their heads in unison and waited with curious expectancy.

Darla figured the news would be Teddy-related; after all, what other reason would Joey or Ainsley have for venturing back? She gave up a silent prayer that Joey had kept an eagle eye on her rambunctious child, and that the news from the house was benign.

But it was Principal Spencer who materialized from the dark of the hall and into the light.

The last time Darla had been anywhere near Spencer, she was shuffling away three angry and confused people from the entrance of the high school after he had told them, “Get out. You’re not my problem anymore.”

He held a metal flask in his hand and he took a swig, bearing his top teeth as he sucked down his daily allotment of bourbon. Then he surveyed the carnage and whistled low and long.

“Looks like I missed all the fun,” he said, his bloodshot eyes resting for a quick second on Ethan’s discarded limb. His mouth curled downward in disgust. “Jesus, this looks messy.”

“Good afternoon,” Doctor Krause said in reply, her voice easy and calm. But she didn’t budge from her chair, nor did she leave her eyes on him for long.

“Yeah, and a hell of an afternoon it’s been,” he said. Then he nodded to Darla, who regarded him with crossed arms and blatant disdain. “I’m here on official Whispering Waters business.”

“It can’t wait?” Darla asked him, rolling her eyes. “If you haven’t noticed…your timing is shit.”

“No, it can’t,” Spencer replied and he took a step closer.

“Just stop where you are. You can speak to me from there,” Darla took her right hand off of Ethan’s arm and lifted it up to halt him in his tracks. “He’s at risk for infection. Do you mind? What right do you have to just waltz in like this?”

“I’ve been talking with Joey—”

“I’m sure the conversation was riveting.” Darla rolled her eyes.

“Yeah, well. We decided it was best for me to move up here. Join you guys.”

“Like hell you will,” Darla said and she took a step away from the table and toward the door.

Doctor Krause turned from the debate and stood up from her chair. She busied herself with Ethan in a calculated attempt to avoid confrontation with the man who had unceremoniously whisked her away—she checked his temperature again and wrapped the blood pressure cuff around his arm, squeezing the bulb in her hand and watching the dial spin and shudder.

“You’re not wanted. We’ve been doing great on our own,” Darla added.

“Totally looks that way,” Spencer said with a look around the room. Darla huffed, but stayed silent. “Look, chica. It doesn’t make sense anymore to stay at Pacific Lake. If you haven’t noticed we’re the only ones left. And I’m not gonna lie…the building is really starting to reek. But you’re in luck…I’ve got no ill-will. I’ll even bring my supplies with me.”

“Oh, how suddenly generous.”

“This is the way it’s going to be,” Spencer said to her and he turned to leave. “I’ve been eyeing that cute little tan house on the corner. Couple houses down from yours. Decorating style matches my taste already. Owners were probably at work when the virus hit…nary a bloater in sight.”

“You’ve been snooping around our neighborhood?”

“Shopping. Property is dirt-cheap right now. Surely you’ve noticed.”

“You’re disgusting,” Darla rapped her knuckles on the table and swore under her breath. She closed her eyes tight and let out a throaty growl. “There’s no room for your ego up here.”

“It seems a bit tactless to mention that without me you’d have no doctor. No Joey. Who’s been quite helpful…even you can admit that. Your problem, Darla, is you seem to think I’m the bad guy—”

“Only a bad guy would forget that without Ethan,” she pointed to his unconscious body, “you’d be dead. And for the record, I was against bringing you along. I don’t trust you and I don’t care for you, and I don’t care if you know it. Stay at Pacific Lake.”

Doctor Krause sighed. She opened her mouth like she had something to say, but then promptly shut it and returned to her chair.

“What was that Doc? You want to weigh-in?” Spencer asked and he took another sip.

Darla scoffed. “You don’t get to move into these homes and take over. Doctor Krause and Ainsley think you’ve made enough decisions for them, thank you very much. We make choices as a group here.”

“Come on, Doc?” Spencer pushed again and Doctor Krause rolled her head back and looked the ex-principal in the eye, a strand of curly brown hair falling into her face.

“It’s hardly the time to even start this conversation, since I’m clearly with a patient…Ethan is my entire focus. And I don’t care where anyone lives as long as we work together—”

Frustrated, Darla shot the doctor a look and then threw her hands up in the air, agitated and defeated.

“Then it’s settled. Say sayonara to your little self-imposed exile. It’s hard to hide when there are only a handful of us left alive,” Spencer replied swiftly and he turned to walk away. “I’m thinking of a housewarming party in a few days. Save the date,” he added with a smile, and then he walked back down the hallway and out of the house, leaving the doctor and Darla alone with Ethan’s broken, bloodied body.

CHAPTER THREE

Brixton, Nebraska

It was late afternoon when Lucy and Grant rolled into Brixton. Lucy’s heart nearly stopped when she saw the green population sign announcing their arrival: Welcome to Brixton. Population 26.  It appeared that the population used to read twenty-seven, but someone had drawn over the seven with a sharpie—broadcasting the loss in crude, broad stroke marks. Beyond the sign was another half a mile of nothingness, flat plains, knee high grass waving, dancing, and welcoming them into the city like a parade.

When they reached the first set of buildings, Grant rolled the car to a stop, threw open the door, and then swung his foot out on to the dirt, stretching his arms up to the sky.

Lucy followed behind him, exiting the car and looking around.

Brixton was a ghost town.

From their vantage spot, they could see most of the city: A church, a bar, a fire station, a schoolhouse, a general store, a post-office, and a library—beyond that a cluster of houses and a baseball field, and a red grain silo towered to the sky. The store and the bar stood side-by-side along the narrow Main Street.

That was it; that was the entire city. All of Brixton could fit inside of one-quarter of Lucy’s local mall back home—a sprawling expanse of department stores, pretzel shops, and makeup kiosks. And the dusty town wouldn’t even take up one quadrant of the area. She’d never visited a city this small; a city practically nonexistent. A city of nothingness.

Lucy couldn’t help but wonder about the people who chose to live their life in a place like this, so far away from civilization, removed from a decent shoe store or coffee shop. What did the people of Brixton do when they wanted to watch a new movie or go out for pizza? She started to feel sorry for the kids who lived here, but then she shook her head, frustrated with herself. It still took too long to realize that movies and shoe stores and nights eating pizza were relegated to the distant past.

Unless Brixton had been protected from the virus that killed the world, everyone here was gone.

“This doesn’t look promising, does it?” Lucy asked and she walked over to Grant and stood by him—they took in the flat landscape and the empty buildings. They had the appearance of a movie set facade. She wondered if they walked inside if there would be nothing there but exposed beams and open sky. “There’s no one here.”

Only the church looked somewhat substantial with its white roof and bell tower and stained glass windows adding color to the landscape.

“Hey now, don’t get discouraged yet. There’s only one way to find out,” Grant replied and he started to walk forward.

Lucy remained with one hand planted on the car, her eyes searching everywhere for movement. She hadn’t expected a welcome sign or an army of people waiting for her, but she had expected something—she had hoped for people, for life.

“You coming?” Grant called to her.

Without answering, Lucy jogged to catch up. She kept pace with Grant, matching his steps as they meandered down Main Street, where the road fluctuated between paved and unpaved in increments.

Their heads vacillated between the right side and the left side of the street—storefronts on one side, grass and a boarded up house, the church, and library on the other. When they reached the midway point, they both stopped.

“Maybe we got all the clues wrong,” Lucy said and she let out a long, slow exhale. “There’s nothing here to see.”

“Come on,” Grant waved her forward.

The bar on the main strip sported a huge neon sign out front that read: Carson’s Place. With the power out, the sign looked depressing in the afternoon sun; the fluorescent tubing winding around itself in forced cursive. In the front window, the blinds were drawn tight, but the door was left standing wide open. Grant walked straight to the open door and nudged it open further with his toe before peering inside.

Lucy, only steps behind him, sidled up to his elbow.

Without a word, Grant walked into the bar and made a beeline for the blinds. He yanked them upward; the sun spilled in through the streaky window and flooded the area with light, illuminating a swirl of dust particles that floated around their vision. Lucy coughed and waved her hand—the dust danced and swam and settled on the floor.

With the sun as their light, Grant began to inspect the bar. There were two abandoned drinks on the bar-top—a coffee cup and a brown liquor of some kind. The coffee had hardened to a block of solid sludge and the top was dotted with mold. White and green circles grew on the surface of the former liquid and crawled up the sides of the porcelain.

The dust on the floor was undisturbed by footprints until Grant’s and Lucy’s own shoes created a pathway of tracks.

“Totally vacant,” Grant stated the obvious. But he looked perplexed.

“The virus?”

“This place has been empty long before that.” He pointed to a bowl of fruit on the counter—formerly bananas, lemons, limes—they were virtually indistinguishable. Each one was merely a lump of green, dusty mold. If Lucy had touched one, it would have disappeared into the air. Cobwebs floated from the ceiling; the mirror behind the bar no longer displayed a reflection—the dirt and grime obscured every inch of its surface.

“These drinks were left here,” Grant pointed. “And the door was unlocked. There are open bottles on the ledge. They left in a hurry?”

Lucy felt a shiver crawl up the back of her neck and her arm hair stood on end.

“I’m going back outside,” she whispered and shuffled back out into the sunlight.

Without a word, Grant exited the bar behind her and stood on the street with his arms crossed. He looked up and down, his eyes scanning, searching. Then without announcement, he walked into the general store next and Lucy followed at his heels. The store was equally abandoned. Lucy ran her hand over one of the shelves in the fully stocked store. She passed by rows of canned goods, cereal boxes, and two liter bottles of soda.

“This isn’t right.” Lucy called over the row of untouched supplies. “Unless…everyone here died before they thought about stocking up on things?”

“Or maybe it’s such a small town that no one thought of looting?”

“But look.” Lucy ran her hand over the top of a box of rice and held her finger up for Grant to see. It was darkened from the dust.

“Too much neglect. That box has been there a long time,” Grant said.

“Right.”

They left the store and stood once more in the center of the road.

“I’m confused,” Lucy admitted. “Isn’t there supposed to be something here? Anything? I feel like I should be searching for the next clue maybe.”

“Your father wouldn’t send us here for another clue,” Grant sighed and ran his hand over his hair. “That’s just mean spirited. No. What we’re looking for is either here…or it isn’t here anymore. Look, Lucy, I don’t think I’d want to stay here tonight and we’re almost out of gas—”

“No. There has to be something here.”

“So, Brixton. What are we missing?” Grant spoke into the road. Then he turned to Lucy, and he reached over and nudged her shoulder. “Don’t be discouraged. It’s not like we’ve seen the whole city.”

“Yes, we have,” Lucy replied and she waved her hand in a sweeping gesture in front of her body. “This is the whole town. There’s no one in the bar or the store. There’s no one coming out to greet us. There are no dead bodies. It’s just like everyone here vanished.”

Then Lucy raised her eyes and saw the post office. A wind-torn American flag flapped lazily next to its entrance, and a blue mail bin, covered in dust and mud, sat next to the entrance. She had an idea. “Alright, there’s one thing we can check.” She started walking swiftly toward the brick building; this time Grant followed her. When she reached the post office, she pushed open the single glass door and listened as a tinny bell announced her arrival.

The Brixton post-office was a single room with a laminate countertop separating the front and the back. Along the far wall were PO boxes and Lucy realized that the townspeople must not have had mailboxes, but rather traveled to this building daily to collect their mail. Its cash register was ancient and the drawer was wide open; stacks of ones and fives, and a single twenty, remained.

Without fear, Lucy ducked under the counter and waltzed into the belly of the mailroom. Several buckets of unsorted mail remained untouched on a back counter and Lucy reached in and grabbed a letter. The postmark was from two years ago. She tossed it to the side and grabbed another; same postmark date—two years before.

Lucy tossed Grant a small package and he fumbled to catch it against his body.

“What do you notice?” she asked him. He glanced at the white packaging and shrugged.

“Someone actually mails things to people in this city?” he asked and then he smiled at his own joke—his single dimple appearing for a moment. Lucy rolled her eyes.

“Date,” she instructed and pointed.

Grant looked down and read the postmark himself. “Huh,” was all he said in reply.

“Is that strange?” she asked.

Grant nodded, perplexed, and then he set the package down on the counter next to them. “So…everyone in Brixton’s been AWOL since before the attacks?”

“Seems that way.”

Lucy peered back into the darkened part of the post office—the rows of unclaimed, unsorted mail that sat in darkness, beyond the sunlight. She tried to see if there was anything more worth exploring. The back part of the building didn’t have windows and it was blanketed in stale, dusty darkness.

“This place creeps me out,” Grant said and he took a step back toward the exit.

“This whole town creeps me out.”

“Maybe it’s something about being around dead people’s mail. I don’t know.”

“Did you grab our flashlight?” Lucy asked. Back in the dimly lit mailroom she could see several large boxes wrapped with clear packing tape and showing evidence of wear on the corners. She glanced back at Grant; he rested his body against the back part of the counter, his elbows perched behind him on the counter. He shook his head. Lucy turned and took a tentative step into the shadows.

“What else is there to see?” Grant called after her. “Let’s go. The next empty place awaits our discovery.”

Lucy thought about heeding Grant’s advice, but she couldn’t help her curiosity; there was a certain voyeuristic allure about this place. Who mailed that package? What was inside? Would the person who mailed it assumed it found its way to the recipient; had they spent two years wondering why no one called to say thank you? Her mind wandered to unclaimed Christmas presents or birthday gifts—or maybe even something more sinister. She also thought about the supplies having already mentally catalogued the canned goods at the store—if Brixton wasn’t the final destination, they would need to restock necessities.

She took a step further into the blackness of the room. Her eyes adjusted and searched out shapes. Lucy reached the shelving unit and tugged the package down. She rested it against her arms and read the packing label. To Izzy, it read. From a grandma without a return address. She wanted to open it, but Grant’s loud sigh deterred her. Lucy pushed the box back up on the shelf and stepped away.

“Maybe we could use this stuff,” she called to him.

“Yeah, sure, okay,” came Grant’s reply.

She sniffed and turned toward him.

Then she caught a shape out of the corner of her eye. A flash of fabric, a familiar outline.

“I think there’s a body back here,” Lucy shouted. Grant stepped away from the counter and craned his neck to look around her.

“Only twenty-five left to discover, I suppose,” he replied. Grant dug into his pocket and pulled out his lighter. He flipped open the lid and the wick erupted. Then he walked over to Lucy and tried to hand it to her.

“Why are you making me look at it?” Lucy asked and she crossed her arms.

“Hey, new rule. You find it, you examine it,” Grant said with a smirk and he pushed the flame forward.

“No way. We go together,” she said and then she tugged on the corner of his shirt and pulled him forward. He skipped a step and then bumped into her shoulder. Lucy lost her balance and stumbled into the shelving. It jiggled and then settled; none of the boxes spilled to the floor below. She righted herself and cleared her throat, then they started to move.

Tip-toeing forward, Grant and Lucy shuffled toward the shape. They bent down and Lucy’s breath caught. She thought she was immune to the discovery of bodies, but there was something about the dark and the orange flicker of the lighter, mixed with the unsettling nature of the entire town, that made this particular venture more hair-raising.  The body was turned away from them—there was a mass of tangled hair; the body wore a long flower dress and a khaki vest.

“It doesn’t smell,” Grant noted and Lucy realized he was right. The odoriferous victims of the virus had become commonplace and impossible to escape. Rotting flesh, the stink of melting organs and decomposing flesh, replaced other smells; their noses had adjusted to the shift, especially in larger cities, but Grant was right—and Lucy only now realized it: the town didn’t stink.

Lucy leaned over and touched the dress and the body rolled backward to the floor with a small crash and a rattle; the hair sloughed off and fell to the floor, exposing a white skull. She let out a small scream and her hand flew over her mouth to stifle it. This body was a skeleton. Its jaw hung open, all the teeth were intact, but there were gaping holes where this person’s nose and eyes used to be. The khaki vest had a small patch on it that read “Brixton Post Office” but the clothes looked tattered and moth-eaten. Around the skeletal ankles were white socks and the body was still wearing its orthopedic shoes.

Grant moved their light up and down the bones. Then his hand stopped at the skull. He took his free hand and reached over and stuck his pointer finger into a dime-sized hole near the temple.

“Well, that’s interesting,” Grant noted and he popped his finger back out. “Plot twist. She didn’t die of the virus.”

“Shot?”

“Execution style.”

“And left undiscovered? In the middle of an unlocked post-office?”

Grant stood up and flipped off the lighter. The darkness enveloped them and Lucy let her eyes adjust. Then she felt Grant’s hand on her shoulder and she fumbled around for his hand, letting him help her up off the ground. Then still holding on to him, they walked back toward the light in front. Lucy and Grant ducked back under the counter and then out to the road, leaving the skeleton behind them.

“So, let’s get this straight,” Lucy started, squinting at the sudden brightness. “The whole city of Brixton disappears. Leaves mugs and drinks and cash unattended. They vanish.”

“Except they didn’t vanish,” Grant said, his eyes scanning the town, his brows furrowed as he scanned each building. “They were murdered.”

“The whole world’s been murdered,” Lucy pointed out and she put her hands on her hips and tried to follow Grant’s gaze. “And one dead person in a post-office doesn’t mean that everyone died that way.”

“You wanna bet?” Grant asked and he snapped his head back to her.

“Not particularly.”

“But you admit that there’s no one here. Right?”

Lucy shrugged.

Grant started walking back down the middle of the street, bypassing the library and heading toward the church and its bell tower.

“Where are you going?” Lucy called after him.

He turned and pointed toward the church. “I want to find the rest of the bodies.”

Grant’s instinct was mostly right. Inside the church they found five more skeletons. All with bullet holes in their temples. Two of the remains were in a pew; at one point they might have been sitting side-by-side, but as their bodies withered down to just the bones, they now slumped together at an odd angle; one skull resting on the other in a perpetual state of embrace. Lucy picked up a hymnal and flipped open the pages. Each row was outfitted with a Bible and a hymnal and a collection of offering envelopes. Layers of dust covered everything—the fabric on the pews, the bones, the floor.

Another skeleton was crumpled near a wooden pulpit. Two more huddled together in a baptismal. Lucy and Grant found a small spiral staircase off to the side of the sanctuary; they climbed it, taking the steps slowly, feeling their way. The door at the top opened up to the bell tower. From there, they could see their car and each and every building in Brixton. Everything was silent and void of life. In the distance, they saw the rolling Sand Hills.

They climbed back down and exited the church.

Maybe they’d never know the details, but the broad story of what happened to Brixton was clear: Each and every person in this small town had been systemically wiped out with a single bullet to the brain. Lucy didn’t want to venture into the single-room schoolhouse next to the church and she begged Grant to just leave it be, but Grant would not be deterred. He pushed open the doors and stood for a long moment, counting with his finger. Then he shut the doors and met Lucy back down the steps.

“Four little ones. Two adults. That’s half the town. I bet if we searched every house and every building we’d find everyone.”

“No. I don’t want to. And I don’t understand.”

“It doesn’t look like these people were hiding…it must have happened fast,” Grant noted.

“Why would my father send me here? This feels like a joke. A cruel, awful, horrible joke.”

“We haven’t really been looking for a message…maybe that’s what we need to do. Go back and see if there’s a message here for you.”

“Grant—” Lucy started and she could hear the whining in her voice, the admission of defeat, and the worry that all of this would be nothing more than a dead end. Which was worse? Facing her father and her fears? Or realizing their entire trip had been for nothing? She threw her hands up when she saw Grant’s glower; he had such an intolerance for her moodiness.

“We’re here, Lucy. We’re in Brixton! And we’ve been here for less than an hour…so, maybe hold off on the defeatist attitude until after we’re sure there’s nothing to find. Okay?” Then he smiled and raised his eyebrows—a ta-da—an invitation to make it a challenge; he would match her step by step. He never just let her stew and sulk, and it simultaneously irritated and impressed her.

Lucy paused and glared at him; she crossed her arms over her body and dug her heels into the dirt.

“Come on,” he said and rolled his eyes.

“I’m not going to fight with you,” she stated and raised her chin.

“Perfect. I’m not going to fight with you either. You know I’m right. Don’t do that thing.”

“What thing?”

“That thing…where you make up your mind that something is going to be one way and then throw a fit when it turns out to be another way…and then five minutes later realize that it’s not the—” he stopped and frowned.

“You were going to say the end of the world, weren’t you?”

Grant made a face.

Lucy smiled despite herself. “Anyway,” she continued. “It’s not being defeatist if we are, indeed, defeated, you know?” She wanted to explain her desire for a quick exit. But even as the words left her mouth she realized that even she didn’t sound convinced.

Grant walked over to her and put two hands on her shoulders: she tilted her head to look up at him as he towered over her. “Same conversation as before. It’s always the same.”

“It’s just…you’re right…I guess, it’s not what I expected,” she admitted. “That’s all.”

“Yes, because all of this would have been so easy to expect. Please, Lucy. This is an easy fix. Abandon expectations.”

Lucy waited a second and then nodded.

He dug her hand out from her crossed arms and gave it a squeeze, then spun Lucy around and began pulling her back toward Main Street.

“Library. Then houses. No stone unturned.”

“We have maybe an hour or so before sunset.” She nodded toward the sky.

“Then we camp.”

She shivered. “I don’t want to stay here, no way. It just doesn’t feel right.”

“We’ve stayed with dead bodies before,” Grant offered. “The dead can’t hurt us.”

Shrugging, she let him pull her up the small steps to the library. “Feels different, I guess.” Then Lucy paused. She tightened her arm as Grant continued forward, and then she yanked him back. He complained, rubbed his shoulder with his free hand, and then looked at her.

“What?” He dropped her hand and met her on the second-to-last step.

“Did you hear that?” Lucy’s voice dropped to a near-whisper. She left the stairs and took two big strides back into the middle of Main Street, her head spinning from left to right.

“Hear what?” Grant asked, confused and worried.

She heard it again.

A bark.

Distinct and crisp as anything.

She spun to Grant and raised her eyebrows expectantly and Grant nodded.

“Shared auditory hallucination?” he said to her, his voice cracking.

“What direction was it coming from?” Lucy did a half-jog away from the library and listened again, cupping her hand around her ears—hoping that her grandmother’s old trick of amplifying sound would help her detect from what direction this animal was coming from.

Closer now. A bark. A real bark. It was getting closer and closer. Grant migrated back toward the church and then she heard him call out.

“Lula! Look! God Almighty…”

Running full-speed toward Grant and Lucy was a black lab.

They watched as it rushed forward, the dust flying up on his heels. It grew nearer and nearer until it pounced up on Grant playfully when it reached him, licking his hand and jumping up and barking. A leash was still attached to a collar around its neck. Grabbing the leash, Lucy tugged the dog over to her and scratched behind its ears. The dog nuzzled her hand.

They heaped love and affection upon that dog like they were men in the desert who just found water. Squatting down into the street, Grant let the dog lick his entire face. And Lucy giggled as the dog jumped and leapt around them with obvious excitement. It was the first living thing they had seen since they left Oregon and they couldn’t help but think the dog was a miracle.

“Maybe the virus didn’t make it here,” Grant said.

“So the dogs weren’t affected in Nebraska?”

“Yeah, but—”

Lucy understood the question before he asked it. This dog wasn’t emaciated from two years of neglect; it was sleek and well-groomed. Its bright red collar looked brand-new and it reacted to humans with trust and comfort. This was someone’s pet.

And it was alive.

Looking down at the collar, Lucy palmed the silver paw print and ran her finger over the inscription. Then she let out a puzzled hum.

“What?” Grant leaned down.

“This dog’s name is Frank.”

At the sound it his name, Frank licked Lucy and barked once.

“And?”

“Well…Frank lives at…Floor A. Pod 6. Room F.”

Grant didn’t answer. He just looked down and gave Frank a scratch on his rump, a goofy-grin plastered on his face.

“Frank! Fra-ank!”

They jumped and Frank’s ears perked up at the sound of his name. He joyfully barked again and Lucy and Grant paused.

“Oh no,” Lucy whispered. “A person,” she said as a sigh.

Exposed and without cover, they could only freeze, Frank’s leash in hand, and wait.

“Gun?” Lucy asked as she shot a quick glance at Grant.

“Car,” he answered. Grant frowned. “I wasn’t thinking—I—”

Around the corner of the library, a woman materialized. She was young, but older than them, and tall and dressed for a jog in shorts and a tight tank top. She had earphones in each ear, she was still bouncing along to a song they couldn’t hear, and her eyes scanned the street; she hadn’t spotted them yet. Frank barked and pulled on the leash in response to seeing her.

And the woman saw Frank before she saw them.

When her eyes traveled from her dog to the person holding his leash, she paused. Her eyes narrowed. She tugged her earphones out of her ears and even from over twenty yards away, they could see the fear in her eyes. She assessed the distance between them and then in a flash took off running—the dirt kicking up behind her, the street full of the sound of her sneakers hitting the cement and then the unpaved road in quick bursts. She was fast, just a blur, and then she scrambled up the steps to the library and slammed the door behind her. Frank broke away from Lucy’s grasp and trailed after her, barking at the closed door.

Grant and Lucy could only stare.

She was there. And then she wasn’t. Fast as lightening across the empty Main Street and into the only place downtown they hadn’t entered.

“Well?” Grant asked.

Lucy’s heart was pumping wildly and she looked at her friend wide-eyed. “Well, what?”

“Should we follow her?”

“Are you crazy?”

“She was just as surprised to see us as we were to see her,” Grant offered. “You know what it means though…” he smiled.

Lucy stared at the closed door and the poor confused dog calling for his owner. She replayed the image of the woman’s face seeing them and the quickness with which she fled the scene.

Brixton, Nebraska was not a dead-end after all.

“Gun first. Library second,” Lucy commanded with an authoritative nod. And Grant clapped her on the back.

“That’s my girl.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Ethan’s eyes opened. He blinked and tried to move, but his body felt heavy, like he was attempting to pull his arms through maple syrup.  He was in his own room, in his own bed. Everything was the way it had been before: there was his desk, still littered with homework from his college classes; and there, on his dresser, was a picture of him and Anna on the mountain, holding snowboards and each other, smiling under thick goggles. His laundry basket overflowed with the clothes he wore several weeks ago, those pants and shirts forever relegated to an unwashed pile.

His blinds were shut tight, but light slipped between the slats. Ethan tried to raise his hand, but it barely moved. Nothing was working right—his body defied every command and Ethan groaned. Then he felt wetness across his abdomen and he turned his head to see the girl—the curly haired one, with the long legs, the high forehead, and the aquiline nose—bathing him, section by section, with a tub of baby wipes. The girl, Ainsley, he remembered, but only barely, lifted his left arm and ran a wipe down under his armpit and across his side; he emitted some noise of disapproval and tried to pull away from her, but his limbs were beyond his control.

She set his arm back down and paused, looking at him, her head turned, without saying a word.

“How’s your pain level?” Ainsley asked clinically when the silence had become too oppressive. No greetings, no small-talk.

The mention of pain sent Ethan’s nerves tingling and his leg began to ache on command. Deep, throbbing, shooting waves of pain emanated from his upper thigh and traveled down to his toes.

“My leg hurts,” he replied.

“On a scale from one to ten?” the girl asked.

He hated that question. His pain could not be quantified in numbers. It was excruciating, his leg throbbing; he was unable to think of anything else besides the pain. However, if he said ten, then there was nowhere to go—if the pain got worse, could he just add a number to the scale? And what if he said eight, but they assumed an eight was manageable? This was not manageable.

“It just really fu—freaking hurts,” he snapped at her. But Ainsley didn’t flinch or blink or seemed disturbed by his outburst. She just stared at him, her big brown eyes locked onto his, and then she nodded once—a mechanical action, without warmth or objection. She picked the heavy blanket off of Ethan and folded it over her arm, and then she bent down over Ethan’s leg and inspected his stump.

It was the first time Ethan had seen his leg after surgery. He had forgotten.

He could feel his toes. His calf hurt. A sharp shooting pain traveled from his absent knee down to his aching ankles. But there was nothing there—he felt pain in places that didn’t exist. Ethan felt weak and light-headed. He had forgotten. And now he remembered. His right leg was gone.

“I’m sorry,” Ainsley said and Ethan didn’t know if she was sorry for his amputation or sorry for showing him the swollen, puckered remnants of his leg.

“I need…something,” Ethan said to her, his mouth dry, the words barely forming on his tongue. He closed his eyes and Ainsley placed the blanket back over his legs, shielding the grotesqueness from the world, hiding it away.

“My mom will be up soon to administer your medication.”

“Are you what, like, my nurse?” Ethan asked and he tried to smile, but it came off like a grimace. Ainsley didn’t seem to notice.

“I was going to be a nurse. Before.” She moved the wipes to the side and stood by the side of his bed, her arms dangling down at her sides, unmoving. She didn’t continue, didn’t launch into the history of her life. She just looked at him, blinking.

“Not a doctor? Didn’t want to follow in your mom’s footsteps?” Ethan asked. He had no interest in keeping the conversation going, but Ainsley didn’t look like she was leaving and he hated awkward silences. He didn’t know much about the doctor and her daughter. They appeared in a blur, their initial introductions now lost in a drug and fever-induced haze, but he did remember snapshots.

After Lucy and Grant left, his pain increased and he began to show signs of infection; he slipped further away from consciousness—and by the time the doctor arrived, he was sleeping most of the day; everything passing by in hazy dream. He wondered if he’d ever get his memories back from the past week. It seemed unlikely.

“Because they are both related to medicine? Also, that presupposes that I like my mom and admire her choice in occupation,” Ainsley replied.

Ethan stared at her. He wished she would leave, but she made no movement toward the door. “Right. Good point. Okay,” he said. “So, then why not a teacher, social worker? Car wash operator?”

“I was kidding,” she added straight-faced. “I both like my mom and admire her choice in occupation.”

He blinked. And shook his head. Who was this girl? Trying to shift, Ethan winced; Ainsley put a warm hand against his bare shoulder and eased him into a sitting position. She fluffed up pillows and tucked them behind him, adjusting until Ethan nodded and motioned for her to stop. Then she handed him a juice box, the straw already inserted and bent for him, like he was a child. He recognized the box, with its popular cartoon character mascot, as the twins’ favorite post-school drink. Before taking a sip, he closed his eyes and tried to picture their faces.

“So,” Ethan continued, “You’re a nurse and a comedian?”

“Comedian? You think I’m funny?”

“That…it was…my own…look, I was just trying to make a joke.”

Ainsley cocked her head, the edges of her mouth twitched. “That was your attempt at a joke? Then you should leave the funny to me.”

Ethan smiled.

They heard a knock on the door and their heads turned in unison. Ethan was expecting the doctor, but it was Joey who stuck his head inside. He looked around and saw Ainsley; he mumbled something and then moved to leave, but Ainsley motioned for him to come inside.

“It’s fine, Joey,” Ainsley said and she moved around the edge of the bed and then flung Ethan’s door open wide. “Don’t lurk.”

“I wanted to see if he was okay. I brought a, um…I brought a…” he took a step inside and waved a homemade card and a small bouquet of picked flowers in the air. He looked to Ainsley and then to Ethan, and then lowered his head. “Just, um, a small get well gift. But…”

“It’s sweet,” Ainsley said and reached to take the flowers from Joey’s hand. He gave them to her and shrugged, then shoved his hands in his pockets and looked down at the floor, rubbing his sock against the bedroom carpet. “Did you need anything?” she asked him.

Ethan looked at the girl—how she stood with her hands on her hips, the flowers sticking out from her sides, her eyebrows raised expectantly. She took the role of his guardian and nurse with severe seriousness. When Joey didn’t answer right away, Ainsley spun away from the visitor and tucked the flowers on Ethan’s desk, then she handed him the get well card—crafted from some of his mother Maxine’s scrapbook paper and colored pencils. Ethan might have appreciated the sentiment more if he had any real memories of Joey. To Ethan, Joey was like a long-lost relative: somewhat familiar, but difficult to place in the current realm. All he knew was that Joey was the connection between Spencer and the doctor: a Raider by trade. Beyond that, Ethan didn’t know anything about him.

Joey was skinny and baby-faced. He could have been eighteen or thirty-five, it was hard to tell; he had dark brown eyes and mop of wavy brown hair, a strong, square jaw, and a long neck. He squinted when he smiled, and he had a contagious laugh—a high-pitched giggle that belied the ruthless Raider persona.

That was the thing about the end of the world: you could never predict an individual’s behavior. When the danger became apparent and everything crumbled, people had a way of surprising you.

There was nothing about Joey that pigeonholed him as the type to capitalize on other people’s death for profit. Perhaps that was part of his cunning; it was easy to trust his honest face, his genuine laugh, his sheepish smile. Combined with his bumbling monologues that displayed questionable intelligence, Joey was likeable enough.

Maybe under different circumstances, Ethan and Joey would be pals. But with the pain in his leg escalating, it was difficult to focus. Ethan just wanted Joey to leave.

“Spencer—” Joey mumbled and then his eyes shifted to Ethan; he blubbered out a small laugh, his hands still in his front pockets, he shrugged—which Ethan understood as some sort of apologetic action, designed to endear himself. “Hey,” Joey said to Ethan, derailing his own conversation by officially acknowledging Ethan’s presence. Then he shifted his attention back to Ainsley. “Spencer wants to meet with us when you have a second. Your mom wanted me to make sure you were there for it. Something about…” he looked at Ethan again—then looked away, “a plan? In case—”

Ainsley turned toward Ethan and muttered a barely audible apology for Joey’s interruption, but Ethan mustered his energy to wave his hand dismissively. “Don’t mind me,” he said with a twinge of annoyance, and turned his head away from them.

Ainsley motioned for Joey to move back out into the hallway. Even though she shut the door, he could still hear their hushed and hurried conversation—Joey’s voice rising and falling, with Ainsley replying in quick, short staccato bursts. After a moment he heard steps tromping away and then Ainsley slipped back inside his room.

She sighed and looked at him—assessing the damage done. “Sorry. That was…”

“No, I definitely get it,” Ethan replied. “One little surgery and I don’t get to be included in house meetings.” He closed his eyes; her silence was the answer he needed, but when he rolled his head over to look at her, Ainsley was just standing there—her expression blank and unrevealing.

“Think what you want,” she said after a moment, “but it’s not like that. We just want you well. When you’re well, attend as many meetings as you want.”

Ethan didn’t have the energy or the interest to push the issue further.

Without warning, his door burst open again and Teddy darted up to the side of Ethan’s bed, Darla following on his heels.

“Hey there, kiddo,” Darla said to Ethan as she scooped Teddy up and walked over to Ethan’s side. She crouched down, her rambunctious five-year-old on her knee, and held out her hand. Ethan grabbed it and gave it a squeeze. “The doc’s on her way up. I know you need to rest and relax without entertaining a whole crowd, but…”

“It’s like I’m a stranger in my own house,” he said to her.

Darla smiled a reply. “I guess it’s not really your house anymore.”

“Don’t remind me.”

Teddy slipped away to a corner of Ethan’s room that housed a used collection of Star Wars figures. Ethan’s love for Luke Skywalker started when he was in late elementary school. His father introduced him to the otherworldly tales. While he had outgrown playing with the action figures and racing around his house with his plastic light saber, he had never outgrown the way the stories made him feel—the themes carried him year after year. There were clear battle lines between good and evil and the corruption of power; Ethan liked knowing who to root for.

“Did you ask to play with those things, Teddy?” Darla chastised in her mom-voice without taking her eyes off of Ethan.

Teddy kept playing with the figures, bending a miniature light saber around inside Obi Wan Kenobi’s hand.

“Who’s this?” Teddy asked and held the guy up for Ethan to see.

Ethan smiled. “I’ll tell you all about those, little man. Later. Okay?”

Teddy, satisfied, spun back to the toys, ignoring his mother’s request for permission.

“So,” Darla continued. “You feeling okay?”

“No,” Ethan responded without hesitation. “I’ve got pain where I don’t have a body. And pain everywhere else too.”

“Like I said, the doctor is on her way up…she’ll help.”

“She’s helped plenty, yes,” Ethan replied and he couldn’t help tipping his hand, laying his resentment bare.

Darla turned to Ainsley and then to Teddy who, while leaning on Ethan’s shelf, had knocked it down off of the brackets with a crash. With a sigh, Darla hung her head.

“I’ve got him,” Ainsley volunteered and she swung Teddy off the ground; he was still clutching a Yoda and a miniature Millennium Falcon as she carted him out of the room with promises of a treat.

With the door closed, Darla turned her head back to Ethan and her eyes narrowed.

“You do realize that without the doctor you would’ve died. Right?”

Ethan shrugged. He looked away.

“No,” Darla said and she stood up. She leaned down over Ethan and poked her finger into his bare sternum, and he flinched. “No. No way.”

“What?” Ethan whined and he tried to pull away from the pressure on his chest, but Darla had him pinned.

“There’s no room for self-pity. You hear me?” He lifted her finger off his chest and when he didn’t answer right away, she poked him again and Ethan let out a yelp. “You’re alive, Ethan. That’s worth it. You can’t deny that.”

“Stop!” Ethan said and he brought his hand up and tried to grab her wrist to prevent any more finger-poking, but she swatted his hand away. She was so much faster than him. “I lost my leg, Darla.”

“Are we doing this? Are we making lists of the things we’ve lost?” She stood tall and crossed her arms over her chest.

He conceded. It should have been the argument to end all arguments.

“I’m in pain,” he said after a long moment.

“I know.”

“I just don’t want to be in pain anymore.”

“Give it time.”

“Time,” Ethan mumbled. “I guess we have all the time in the world now. Got nowhere I need to be, right?”

Doctor Krause entered without knocking. She smiled at Ethan and Darla, but it looked forced, like she had practiced it in a mirror; she flashed her teeth, but even that seemed robotic, inhuman. Ethan looked at her and assessed her; she looked like how he had always pictured doctors—thin, tired. She gave Darla a pat on the back and Darla bristled at the touch.

“It’s good to see you awake,” Doctor Krause said to Ethan. “Ainsley told me your fever is down. You feeling a bit more aware?”

Ethan nodded. “I suppose.”

“Joey was able to hit a new pharmacy yesterday…we’re well-stocked with pain killers. When you’re better, you should thank him. It’s no easy task to fulfill my shopping list, on foot, with the state of the world out there.”

“Yeah.” Ethan cleared his throat. “I’ll be sure to do that.” Darla shot him a warning look. He rolled his eyes.

Doctor Krause hadn’t seemed to hear his sarcasm, she continued blithely on. “But I do want to be cognizant of building up a tolerance. If we can’t adequately meet your demand for pain medication with our supply, we could get into scary, painful territory.”

Ethan waved his hand. “Whatever. I’m not the type of guy who needs to know what you’re doing. Just give me the meds.”

Darla threw her hands up and sighed. “Come on, Ethan.” She turned to Doctor Krause, “I’m sorry, Gloria.”

“Please,” Doctor Krause replied. “He’s hardly the rudest patient I’ve encountered. And amputation is emotionally and physically draining.”

“Where’s my leg?” Ethan asked, shooting a look at Darla. She clamped her mouth shut.

“I’m sorry?” Doctor Krause moved toward Ethan and sat down on the edge of his bed—it was an action that required familiarity, and he moved his hand away from her side, resting it across his belly, watching her with a sideways glance.

“Where is my leg now?” Ethan asked again.

Doctor Krause still looked confused. She looked to Darla and then back to Ethan, concerned. “I don’t think I underst—”

“We just left everything over at the other house,” Darla answered for her. She had understood immediately what Ethan wanted to know.

“Which house?” Ethan turned his gaze to Darla.

“I don’t know…three houses down…right side. Brown house…”

The DiCarlo house. He knew it. Sophie and Ryan. Young couple with kids in elementary school. Ethan wasn’t ashamed to admit, even now, that he enjoyed Sophie DiCarlo’s little hot pink workout outfit that she donned while jogging the neighborhood after the kids caught the bus. It wasn’t an outfit per se: just tight, buttocks showcasing pants with a matching sports bra. Anna caught him ogling once and punched him in the arm hard enough to leave a bruise; but it was worth it, he thought then, to imprint Sophie’s tanned, thin jogging legs into his memory.

“Where?”

“The tan—”

“No,” Ethan snapped. “I know which house. Where inside the house?”

Darla drew in a long breath. So Doctor Krause took over. “The open area in the front had the most light at midday. You don’t remember anything?”

He shook his head. And closed his eyes.

“We performed your surgery in the front room. The one with the floor to ceiling windows,” the doctor added.

His disembodied leg was discarded in Sophie DiCarlo’s living room.

Ethan’s emotions flashed between anger and amusement.

Sitting up, Ethan tugged the blanket off of him again. Even though Ainsley had drawn it back over his leg with efficient calmness, he really wanted to see it again. Right above his knee, there was nothing. His brain thought of toes and an ankle that wasn’t there and made an attempt to connect to the body parts—the result was dizzying.

His right leg, now left to rot in a once-pined-for dead woman’s house, wasn’t just an appendage. It was a road map of childhood battles, sports injuries, drunken dares. There was the scar a few inches long on his calf from a playground accident when he was five; and a patch of hair that never grew back the same way after a group of college friends dared him to try out a home waxing kit; a webbed toe, a badge of honor as well as a junior high embarrassment; a tiny birth mark on his ankle.

Gone. All those characteristics, those ties to memory and individuality, were gone. His housemates seemed so concerned for his pain level, his fever, and his risk of infection. Ethan just wanted to see his leg again—to acknowledge its absence in a tangible way—but he would be forever at the mercy of everyone else until he was healthier.

Ethan registered Darla and Doctor Krause’s concern.

Darla’s warnings about wallowing in self-pity rang in his ears. She was right, of course; he wanted nothing more than to make them feel even half of what he was feeling. Maybe for a moment it would help. But only for a moment.

He cleared his throat and let his body drop back onto his pillows. “Can we talk drugs again? I need something for the pain.”

“We can still administer morphine. It will help with the phantom pains as well,” Doctor Krause replied. She was carrying the morphine injections with her and with Ethan’s approval she administered a dose. “Joey located lollipops too. Fetanyl lollipops. You’ll like them,” she said with a smile.

“Is there any hope for me to walk again?”

Doctor Krause locked eyes with Ethan and he struggled not to break her gaze. “Without access to prosthetics? I don’t know. We don’t know what the world is going to look like tomorrow, let alone in a few months. Years. It’s possible.”

“Be honest.”

With a comforting hand on his arm, Doctor Krause tried to smile, but it came across as pained. “It’s safe to say that your energy should be spent elsewhere. Focus on rebuilding your health, remaining free of infection, positive healing. Positivity goes a long way in recovery.”

“You sound very doctorly,” he scoffed. The morphine was kicking in; a flood of warmth and contentment rushed across his body. He even smiled at Doctor Krause and was no longer bothered by her mass of unruly hair, her unnaturally white teeth, and the tiny mole on her chin.

Without reply, she nodded to Darla and left the room; he was slipping into chemically-induced bliss, and her job was done.

“Feeling okay, then?” Darla asked. She rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands. When she dropped her hands to her sides, her eyes were red, bloodshot. “So, you really don’t remember much heading up to the surgery?”

He shook his head sleepily.

“Look, there’s something you need to remember about the doctor. And Ainsley. Something you should keep in mind.” Ethan tried to appear alert. Darla continued, “They didn’t ask for this. They weren’t given a choice.”

“The doctor?” Ethan was confused. Nobody asked for any of this.

“Spencer forced her to take the vaccine at gunpoint. She told him they would rather die on Day Six than subject themselves to the injections. I’ll tell you the story when you’re better, okay. But you should know…unwilling to come here is putting it lightly.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Ethan asked her, all his anger seeping away, the thoughts of his abandoned leg no longer filling him with dread. The numbness was great; he floated—he looked at Darla’s dark hair, her intense eyes. He felt compelled to tell her she was beautiful.

“So you’ll know,” Darla replied.

“Know what?”

“How much saving you has cost her.”

And with that, Darla left the room, shutting the door with a deliberate slam behind her.

CHAPTER FIVE

The library was empty. Musty and dark and completely empty.

Grant and Lucy wandered the small square building, peering under tables and toppling over boxes in the storage area. They examined each and every corner, but the blonde woman had vanished. There wasn’t a back door and there were limited hiding spots. It was like she simply walked into the library and disappeared into thin air. Frank barked for them from the outside steps.

“I don’t get it,” Grant said and he pulled himself up onto the library’s front counter. Plastic stands displayed new releases, but the books were outdated and dusty. Lucy pulled out a drawer from the card catalogue and thumbed through the aged pieces of paper corresponding with a book in the library.

Lucy paused and let her hand drop. She turned to Grant. “Let the dog in,” she instructed.

Grant nodded, understanding, and hopped down—he flung the library door open and Frank tore into the room. At first the dog seemed confused, running to Lucy and then to Grant, sniffing and jumping. Then he ran to the back of the library and barked twice at a long bookshelf; Frank pawed at the books and whined, his tail wagging.

“You think there’s something back there?” Lucy asked.

“Like a hidden room? No. There’s nothing to the side of this building. If there was a room back there, it would have to be small.”

“She wasn’t a giant,” Lucy replied and she motioned for Grant to raise his gun. He drew the gun and they walked toward Frank and his bookcase-of-interest. When they reached it, they removed some books and pushed against the back of the bookshelf, but it was solid wood. They knocked. Unsurprisingly, nothing knocked back.

“Maybe it slides?” Grant offered and so they tried pushing the shelf first to the right and then to the left, but still the tall walnut bookcase didn’t budge.

“Alright, Frank,” Lucy said, bending down to the dog. “Where’d she go, boy?”

Frank barked a reply.

“Lucy—” Grant said in a soft voice. She recognized that tone and her heart sped up in anticipation. Grant leaned into the bookshelf and put his ear against one of the wooden sides. Then he put his hand flat against the wood. “It’s vibrating.”

Puzzled, Lucy leaned in and put her own hand next to Grant’s. She felt the movement, the subtle shaking, and then she too could hear a mechanical hum emanating from below them. Stepping back away from the bookcase, Lucy’s eyes grew wide. “Come on,” Lucy said in a whisper. “Back away.”

But Grant remained rooted to his spot.

The churning and vibrating grew louder. Then it stopped with a clunk. And without any warning, the middle two bookcases opened outward, springing forward like automatic doors. Lucy looked to Grant, her eyes wide, but he wasn’t looking back at her; his stare was fixated on the blur of movement heading in their direction.

“Run! Run!” Grant called, but it was too late. Two armed men darted outward into the small library. Raising his hand, Grant fired at them without hesitation. The gun blast was deafening and Lucy covered her ears; but Grant must have missed, because in that split second Lucy felt one of the men grab her around the shoulders and yank her toward the open bookcase.

She screamed, but the man wasn’t deterred. Lucy opened her mouth wide and attempted to bite the flesh on the backside of his hand, but she couldn’t quite reach and she ended up chomping on air. From a corner in the library, Lucy could hear Grant and the second man scuffling. There was another gunshot—not by Grant’s gun—and then a pause, a silence.

“No!” she screamed. “No!”

It all happened so fast. The gunfire. The men. She wailed and kicked harder and screamed at her attacker. The man tossed her through the bookshelves and Lucy’s eyes adjusted to the dimmed box. It was an elevator; and a third man was operating the lift system—his hand poised over a green button, a key around his neck on a long chain plugged into a keyhole. A fourth man, who had also stayed in the elevator, grabbed Lucy and pinned her arms behind her back, then tucked her into his body. He smelled like cinnamon chewing gun and cheap cologne.

Then everything went black.

She could feel the fibers of a cloth bag against her cheek and gathered around her neck; blind and afraid, Lucy lashed out more, but the fourth man’s grip on her tightened.

“Grant! Grant!” Lucy yelled, but her voice was lost in the cloth.

From outside of the elevator, there was scuffling, dragging, and—to Lucy’s great relief—Grant’s angry voice calling out.

“Get your hands off of me!” Grant was yelling.

They tossed him into the elevator with Lucy, covered his head too, and knocked him to the floor.

“Are you hurt?” Lucy called, her own voice amplified, her ears ringing.

“Are you?” Grant replied.

The man with the key, turned it inside the lock, pushed a button, and the bookshelves slid back into place with barely a squeak. With a lurch, the elevator began to travel downward, foot-by-foot, into the earth. As it lowered, Lucy could smell dirt and damp even through the bag. When the elevator didn’t stop, Lucy realized that they had to be slipping deep underground and she resisted the urge to scream and flail about. The man’s grip on her hadn’t loosened and the tiny box housed them all, but barely.

Panicky and trapped, Lucy began to breathe rapidly. She felt light-headed and her body felt heavy. She swayed and felt a man to her left and a man to her right; her knees buckled and the man holding her, yanked her upright and leaned her against his own body.

“Easy now,” the man’s voice said to her.

“She panicking?” another one asked.

“Yeah,” the man holding Lucy replied.

“Keep her calm, dude. Blair said the interrogation will have to be quick.”

One of the other men chuckled. It was such an out-of-place reaction—his laugh, amidst their terror. “I don’t mind doing favors for that girl, but she knew she was going to be seen someday. It was only a matter of time.”

“I don’t want to be around when the old man finds out.”

“He finds out, then we all get the tank. Remember that.”

“Then she better be quick. I don’t plan on falling on my sword for her. It’d be best for everyone if she just makes the problem disappear.”

“When was the last time those tanks were used, anyway?” asked the man next to Lucy.

“The old man used ‘em quite a bit trying to clean up his messes. Some girl came back to Brixton looking for her parents after they stopped calling her back. Brought the State Sheriff. She was the last one that I know of.

The elevator noises calmed; someone cleared his throat.

“What’d he do with the Sheriff?” another voice asked.

“He lives in Pod 8 now, with his wife and four daughters.”

The men chuckled, privy to some inside joke that Lucy couldn’t understand.

They went quiet for a second, and then one groaned.

“Shit,” he mumbled. “We forgot the damn dog.”

They pulled the bag off Lucy’s head and tossed her into a small room. The front wall was pure glass from floor to ceiling. Lucy walked up and put her hands on the glass and started pounding, but the attempt was futile—the guards had dumped her and left; they separated her from Grant, shoved her into this room, and left her alone.

The walls of the cell were solid cement and the ground was tile; a mish-mash of colors and shapes—like a mosaic of samples from a home improvement store. Lucy noticed that the ground was wet, as if someone had recently hosed down the whole room, and she shivered at the thought. With her imagination running wild, Lucy began to call for help more fervently.

“Please! Help me!” she screamed, until her throat felt raw.

She stopped mid-scream as a metal door swung open in the opposite room and the blonde woman appeared. In the time between seeing her on the road in Brixton and now, the girl they called Blair had changed out of her jogging outfit and into something simpler: tan pants and a white shirt. Her hair had been let loose from its ponytail, and she had even applied a fresh layer of mascara. She was twenty-something, petite, and strikingly beautiful—but even from her position inside her glass cage, Lucy could see the dark circles under her eyes.

Lucy let her hands fall to her side and she watched as the young woman marched across the bare room and straight up to the glass. A guard followed behind her—maybe even one of the men from the elevator—but Lucy wasn’t sure, and he hit a button near the door, activating a speaker system.

“Do you know where you are?” Blair asked, her voice pouring into the cement room from the ceiling.

Lucy shook her head. Then she answered the only thing she knew for certain, “I’m in Brixton, Nebraska.”

Blair fanned her hand out in front of herself. “Do you know what this is?” and then she crossed her arms and waited, tapping her index fingers against her elbows, her mouth drawn into a tight frown.

“An underground jail?” Lucy guessed. She looked around the cement walls again and the wet floor. When she looked up, Blair was looking straight at her—assessing her with a pained expression.

“Not exactly,” she replied. She uncrossed her arms and ran a hand across her hair, smoothing it neatly into place. “Look. I know this is all confusing, but I need you to think. I need to know. It’s imperative that I know.”

“Know what?” Lucy asked.

“Tell me why you came to Brixton. How did you and the boy know to come here?”

Grant. Lucy took a step forward, “I won’t answer anything until you let me be with him. Where is my friend? Where did you take him?”

“Why did you come here?”

“Tell me where you took him!”

“How did you know this place existed?” the young woman yelled and she tore forward and pounded her hands against the glass, her mouth contorted into a sneer, her eyes narrowed in fury.

Scared by the sudden outburst, Lucy walked backward until she felt the cool cement against her back. Then she closed her eyes and willed the girl away; she felt so exposed and raw. There was nowhere to hide in the room, and the glass displayed her every move. She didn’t know how to play this game—should she tell her about her father? Keep his name to herself? Which option would grant her grace? Lucy didn’t know and she was terrified to misstep. She wished for counsel, but knew she’d find none.

“Please,” Blair said, her tone shifting from anger to pleading. “Are any more of you coming?”

“More what? More people?” Lucy opened her eyes and she opened her mouth in surprise. “Because there are so many more people alive? Have you been living in this hole in the ground for years? Don’t you know what’s gone on out there?” Her voice began to rise, there was a tremor in it, and she felt her face go crimson.

Her angry retort caused Blair to bristle. Blair leaned closer to the glass, crossing and uncrossing her arms. “I am more than aware. It’s just—” she stopped, drew in a breath, then let it out with a single sigh. Her bottom lip quivered and her eyes filled with tears, she looked at Lucy and shook her head. “You don’t understand. This has nothing to do with you. I’m so sorry. I never wanted it to be like this. But…you don’t understand.”

Blair’s tears seemed genuine, and she was right: Lucy didn’t understand. As interrogations went, her captor seemed particularly bad at it.

“Just let me go,” Lucy tried. “My friend and I can go quietly.” It was a lie. And one that was wholly see-through. She would not leave without news of her family. Had they met a similar fate?

This time Blair didn’t even reply. Instead she simply dropped her head, closed her eyes, and mumbled something incoherent under her breath. Then without a word she walked over to a keypad by the door. With swift keystrokes, she entered a code. And then flipped open a plastic case next to the keypad. She turned and took one more look at Lucy and then closed her eyes, inhaled slowly, and then pushed the button.

At first nothing happened.

But after a long delay, Lucy could hear the rumble on the other side of the walls. Then several round holes opened up at the top of the wall—Lucy hadn’t noticed them before, circles the size of coffee can lids—and water began to pour out of them, like a waterfall, cascading to the floor below. One metal cover slid open and then another, until six or eight spouts appeared, all dumping lukewarm water into the room.

It wasn’t until the water began to collect and rise, covering Lucy’s sneakers and climbing up her leg, that she realized what was happening and what would happen next. Sloshing forward, the water splashing around her, Lucy pushed herself to the glass. She pounded with wild abandon and called out.

“Please!” Lucy begged. “Please!”

The young woman lowered her head. Regret, guilt, it flashed across her face, but she didn’t move to stop the water.

“No. You can’t do this. I’m here for my father! My name is Lucy King. I came because of my dad! My father is Scott—” Lucy stopped; the water had reached her mid-thigh, it was creeping upward toward her waist. She regarded the rising liquid and forced herself to remain calm. “My dad is Scott King. He sent me here. He wrote the coordinates in the back of a book and told me that if anything happened that I should come here. I’m here! Please! Stop the water! Please!”

Her words stopped Blair from moving; she froze and lifted her head, she squinted her eyes and looked straight at Lucy, her breath rising and falling in quick bursts. She took three small steps forward and lifted a finger to Lucy, pointing at her, her mouth falling open.

“Lucy?”

“I’m Lucy!” she screamed. And she smiled. Recognition had danced across the young woman’s face. “Yes, yes! I’m Lucy King.”

“And the boy next door is Ethan?” Blair pointed to the left wall—indicating that Grant was on the other side.

Lucy stopped.

The water was at her waist. Her feet felt like they were weighted with lead.

The girl knew them. Knew who they were. She knew Ethan’s name; it had rolled off her tongue with ease.

Smiling, certain of her safety, Lucy shook her head. “No. My brother is still in Oregon. He’s injured. I need to get him help. Please, can you take me to my father?”

“Wait…that boy…was he vaccinated?” the girl took another step toward the glass, her brows knit with confusion and worry.

“He’s a survivor.”

“A survivor? What do you mean a survivor? I don’t understand.”

“He made it past Day Six. He’s immune. Somehow.”

“Immune. No. He survived the outbreak?” She looked even more concerned. Blair stood there with her mouth tight and her body leaning toward the door, itching to leave.

Lucy nodded. Which answer would save her or save him, she wondered.

After a long pause, the water lapped upward across Lucy’s chest, the girl turned. She scrunched up her features and balled her fists.

“I’m so sorry,” she sighed. “Please God, forgive me. I’m so sorry.”

And with that, she turned and ran out of the door, slamming it behind her.

The water was over Lucy’s head now. She had kicked off her sneakers and they sank to the bottom of the room—the tank, she now realized—and kicked her legs and circled her arms, just like her swim teacher taught her. Treading water was never Lucy’s strong suit, but she was too panicked and the water was rising with too much speed for her to float. Her head dipped beneath the surface and she’d pop back up, assessing the ceiling and estimating how much time she had left before she’d run out of breathing room.

Four feet separated her mouth and nose from the top of the tank.

She prayed and when she did, she felt for Salem’s crucifix, still around her neck. The chain stuck to her neck. She had never prayed before the Release, but during her time with Grant she had picked up on his penchant for reaching out to pray in tough moments. It still seemed silly to hope that there was a higher power, but when she had mocked Grant’s go-to response, he had chided her. Grant had said, “How could it hurt?” And it was a question Lucy took to heart.

There wasn’t any time to fully process what was happening: the woman knew her, knew her father, but still left her here to die. Escape seemed elusive, but Lucy was hopeful that there would be a way for Grant to avoid this fate. Her prayers now shifted to him. Save Grant. God, please save Grant. How cruel for him to be a miracle and then lose his life like this.

There were two feet of air remaining.

Her body rose and bobbed; her head hit the cement above her. She kicked her legs wildly and pushed her hands against the ceiling. Then she swam to a corner and positioned herself between the angles of the walls—one leg bracing against one wall, her other leg bracing against the second wall. She kept losing her grip and sliding down, falling into the crystal clear water, the dry room on the other side of the glass visible through a hazy film.

One foot remaining. The water slid up her neck and toward her chin. The metal holes flooding the water were now completely underwater; still the water poured outward and still the waters rose. There was a flurry of movement on the other side of the glass, but Lucy couldn’t see what was happening from her vantage point. It looked like people entered the room. Two shapes. Lucy ducked her head under the water and swam over to the glass. She held her breath and propelled herself down, then opened her eyes.

Blair was back.

And there was a boy with her.

A man.

A young man. A middle-aged man, maybe.

Lucy couldn’t tell anything else.

She wondered if they were there to watch her die: if somehow her drowning was a spectacle to be witnessed.

But then she noticed that the man had Blair by the arm and they were arguing and Blair tried to pull away, but the boy pushed her toward the glass. For one quick second, Lucy, with her cheeks puffed up with as much air as she could muster, saw Blair’s face on the other side of the glass watching her—like Lucy was a fish at the aquarium. Lucy’s lungs burned and she couldn’t hold her breath any longer. She let her breath escape and giant bubbles formed in front of her and gurgled upward. Then she let her body travel back up to the top; there were only inches left and Lucy tilted her head backward and sucked in more air through her nose, maximizing the last final seconds of breathing.

It happened.

Lucy was fully submerged. All was quiet underwater; and Lucy concentrated on the air in her lungs—willing herself to hold her breath until she couldn’t any longer. She pushed herself down and opened her eyes; the boy and the girl were still fighting and then she saw him hit Blair with an open palm across the face. Her blonde hair flew and she reeled against the force. Blair stumbled backward and touched the spot where his hand had been.

Lucy closed her eyes.

Drowning. What would it feel like?

Soon she would have to breathe. Soon she would need to breathe.

Don’t inhale. Don’t inhale. Don’t inhale. She commanded herself—Lucy kicked her legs and pounded her fists against the glass. Everything in her chest burned and ached; her brain commanded her to take a breath. She fought it as long as she could. She opened her eyes.

From beyond the glass, Blair was moving toward the plastic box, cradling her cheek.

She pushed a button.

There was a rumbling and a whoosh. The ground of the tank shifted and sunk downward, and it created a gap so the water could drain. Lucy felt herself being pulled to the bottom of the tank, propelled by the force of the water above her seeking an exit. But it was too late, even with hope of escape seconds away; Lucy couldn’t fight it any longer. No matter how hard she struggled against the impulse, her body forced her to expel the air in her lungs. And then, mechanically and instinctually, she breathed in. Water stung her nose and burned her throat, and it settled deep inside her chest like a cool compress on her lungs.

Then the panic set in and Lucy kicked her legs and felt the pain of death in every inch of her body. There was no air, no relief. Her body flailed and rippled with spasms; she tore at her clothes and her chest. In her head, she was screaming, but in reality, she was making no sounds at all.

Her body felt heavy and she couldn’t even find the strength to move; she just let the water travel into her lungs, and she sank to the bottom of the tank—she looked at the mismatched tile beneath her.

The pain subsided, the panic drained from her. She resumed breathing, in and out, and there was a coolness in her body, like she had swallowed an ice cube and could feel it traveling past her lungs and settling in her stomach. But then she realized: she didn’t feel afraid anymore. She just kept trying to fill her lungs with water to feel the cold. Lucy thought she might have smiled as she embraced the calm and the peace of knowing this was the end.

She let herself float now. Her body bobbed. Keeping her eyes trained on the cement above her, Lucy watched the gray ceiling move further away and then her body hit the floor. She closed her eyes and thought of her family—she had come so close and she was sorry that she wouldn’t be able to say goodbye. Her life was not flashing before her eyes but the images of Harper, the twins, Galen and her mom and dad did float past her vision. They would be sad. She hoped they would find comfort.

But she wasn’t sad. Death isn’t so scary, she thought as the ceiling blurred and everything around her went white.

CHAPTER SIX

Water poured out of her in a rush. She vomited pure liquid and it escaped her involuntarily and seeped out onto the tiled floor, pooling beneath her already wet clothes. Her lungs seared with sharp, shooting pain and her throat burned as the water fled from her. No matter what, she couldn’t stop herself from coughing and choking. Snot streamed down her nose and her wet hair lay in a tangled mass.

She was on her side; her shoulder bone rested on a groove, she tried to shift away, but everything hurt.

“We have to get her to the medic pod.”

“Gordy…” Blair’s voice was whiny and afraid.

The young man spun, one hand still resting on Lucy’s back. “That entitled whimpering might work with dad, but not with me. Are you out of your small, ridiculous, mind?”

“Don’t lecture me. Not now. You don’t think I know how bad this is?”

“Call the hospital on Floor F. Get the medic pod to get a room for her. Do it now.” He pointed at the door, but Blair didn’t move. He muttered imbecile underneath his breath.

“What about the boy, Gordy? He’s a survivor.” She spat the word like it was poison.

“Leave the boy. He’s not our concern right now.

“Grant—” Lucy said, and then she coughed, more water dribbling down her chin and to the floor; she thought she tasted something metallic and rusty. She thought of Grant and then to the pain in her chest and then back to Grant. She felt panic, like bile, gurgling up her throat.

“He’s fine. Just sitting in the tank,” the man named Gordy answered Lucy, but he didn’t even glance down at her. His hand on her shoulder felt mechanical, rigid. He had saved her, this Lucy knew. His face was the face she saw first when she was pulled from the abyss, and she focused in on his crystal blue eyes, the stubble on his chin. She had been in a place of peace, a place absent of pain, and then she felt drawn back—there was the sensation of touch: wetness, roughness, sharpness. Then she saw Gordy’s face and had the uncontrollable urge to vomit.

Whatever peace found her in those moments in the tank were gone. For a second, she wished he had just let her die.

She went to wipe her mouth, but her hand felt weighted down to the floor.

Lucy coughed again. And again.

“Get her up,” Gordy commanded.

“Get the guards to do it. They can say they found her.”

“You think they’re going to take the blame for this?”

Blair was quiet.

“Gordy, please—” she whispered. “Dad—”

“You better hope the girl lives. If she dies, Dad will never forgive you. Breaking the rules is one thing, but murder Blair. Murder?”

Blair scowled and climbed off the ground of the tank. “That’s rich, Gordy. That’s hilarious,” she seethed and pointed at him. “Maybe Dad will only love me if I murder seven billion people. God forbid I tank one person.”

Gordy shot up off the ground and walked right up to his sister; he leaned down over her and backed her up against a wall. His movement was quick, deliberate, and Blair didn’t have time to maneuver away from him. She cowered as he pressed his hand against her shoulder. “Don’t you ever say anything like that ever again or I will tank you. The Kings are members. And you know that it’s different. You know it, Blair. Call the medics.”

“Even you didn’t think they should be allowed to stay,” Blair challenged in a small voice. “Don’t get all high and mighty now…you wanted them dead once. You didn’t trust Scott. Remember that O-Mighty-One?”

Gordy gave Blair’s shoulder a second push into the cement wall and then walked away from her, leaving Blair to rub her shoulder. Her chin quivered.

Lucy coughed and coughed; she gasped for breath. She wanted to shout at them to shut up; she wanted to tell them she was in pain.

“It’s done. The decision was made long before and it’s done. Call the medics, Blair. Or I’ll have the guards tank you and bury you in the Sand Hills.”

“Gordy—”

“Call the Goddamn medics!”

Blair bristled and huffed, and then sauntered out with her fear disguised with defiance. But Gordy—who was her father’s age, somewhere in his early forties, maybe younger, but not by much—now leaned over her, his eyes narrowed, his face still. He opened his mouth to address her and then shook his head, thinking better of it.

“I’m sorry,” was what he finally said and Lucy looked at him.

“Where am I?” she asked. It hurt to speak. She coughed and leaned over the tile flooring.

“There are many ways to answer that—”

“I want to see Grant,” she demanded, pushing the words out through the ache.

“It’s difficult to explain, but Grant is not a member. It’s not as simple as just letting him out of the tank. He has no family here.”

Lucy shook her head. “He’s my family. A brother.”

Gordy smiled, not unkindly. He exhaled out his nose and patted her on the shoulder. “That’s a sweet sentiment and I’m sure it’s served you well these past weeks. But the System doesn’t work like that.”

“What system?”

“The System. This place. Where you are now…”

“My family?”

“Is here.”

“I need to see them—” Lucy started to push herself up from the floor, her knees wobbled underneath and her hands slipped against the wet tile.

“Easy, easy,” Gordy hummed and kept his hand trained on her.

“Take me to them now,” she demanded and as her tone challenged him, she couldn’t help but feel like Gordy was amused by her; it was like she was a four-year-old demanding an extra cookie and he was entertained by the suggestion.

“Lucy King, you are like your mother, aren’t you?” Gordy laughed at this. His own private joke.

The mention of her mother sent an icy trickle down Lucy’s spine. “I need her. Is she here? Please,” Lucy begged, attempting a different tactic.

“In time. There are protocols. They will be alerted of your arrival soon…there are things that need to happen first.”

“No,” Lucy shook her head, and hot tears stung her cheeks. “That’s not fair.”

Gordy didn’t answer. He merely looked at her, his eyebrows raised, expecting her to see the error in her logic so he didn’t have to state the obvious.

They were both saved when two men and a woman, in blue jeans, t-shirts and lab coats, entered the side room and waltzed through the door into the tank, eyeing Lucy with confusion and clinical concern.

One of the men knelt down to get a closer look. His eyes were kind and comforting, and Lucy felt her tension melt away—she hadn’t realized how tense Gordy and Blair had made her feel until the others arrived. For the first time since they set foot in Brixton, Lucy felt like someone might take care of her—someone might show her kindness.

“How much water did she intake?” the man asked Gordy, but he kept his eyes on Lucy.

“I can’t guess that…she puked up like a liter? She wasn’t breathing. But we got to her fast. I got to her fast, I should say.”

“We’ll get her up to the medic pod to observe her,” a second man answered.

“Is her questioning over? Why the change of heart?” the woman asked. She was chewing on a piece of bubble gum and it snapped loudly, echoing inside the tank.

Gordy laughed. “Oh, so my sister failed to communicate the most important piece of this whole mess.” He paused for dramatic effect and pointed a deliberate finger at Lucy’s soaked and disheveled state. “This is Lucy King.” He waited again and then added, “Scott’s daughter.”

The woman gasped and brought her hand up over her mouth. “No,” she said between her fingers.

“Damn,” the second man whistled and he shook his head.

The man crouched down by Lucy grimaced and then stood. “Does Scott know?”

“Not yet,” Gordy answered. “I want her examined first…make sure she’s out of the woods before we give him hope.”

Lucy coughed and looked at him. “Out of the woods?”

The first paramedic looked at her. “Your lungs might still have water in them. There’s still a risk of asphyxiation. Keeping you for observation is just precautionary. We’re all experts here. We’ll take good care of you. You’ll be reunited with your family soon, I promise.”

“Grant,” Lucy said again. She tried to sound forceful, commanding. “I want to see my friend.”

The medic looked to Gordy and Gordy shook his head. The look could have meant anything, but the coldness in Gordy’s eyes as he denied her request without saying a word, made Lucy’s skin crawl.

“He’s part of my family,” Lucy lied. “My dad will want to see him…”

“He’s gone,” Gordy said and he shot her a calm look, his eyes on fire.

“You just said he was fine,” Lucy raised her voice and inside the tank the noise amplified, the medic closest to her cringed. “Take me to him!”

“She’s delusional. Sedate her,” Gordy instructed to the man by her side. Lucy shook her head and tried to scoot away.

“Is that necessary?” the man asked, but he seemed to regret the challenge the moment it left his lips. “Whatever you say, boss.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a capped needle; he uncapped it in a swift move, the plastic skittering across the floor and before Lucy could scamper away, he held her by the upper arm and stabbed the needle into the fleshiness of her bicep. “Just a prick. Easy now.”

Lucy felt instantly sleepy and her body swayed and dipped.

“Mom. Grant,” Lucy called. Her voice sounded hollow, like a rattle in her brain. She tried to form more words of protest, but they disappeared into the void. “Mom—” she said again, imagining her mother’s face swimming in front her before she gave in to the darkness.

Her head pounded with a pulsating headache that radiated behind her left eye. She tried to bring her hand up to rub her eye socket and put pressure on the pain, but her hands were held into place with metal rings—she tugged and pulled, but her body was trapped against the cool hospital bed. Then her eyes caught sight of the man beside her bed; he was watching her with a plastered-on grin, his cool blue eyes—the same shade as Gordy and Blair’s—followed her movements with calculating fascination.

“Hello,” he said in a booming, cheerful-infused, voice. “You’re awake. Good, good.”

“Unlock me,” Lucy said and she cringed. Her throat still ached, her chest still pounded with the desire to cough. Her words eked out in barely a squeak.

“Let’s keep your feet locked in, shall we? But don’t you worry, little one, you won’t be here long. I’ve been given positive information about your recovery.” As he spoke, he pulled out keys from his pocket and drew the sheet back around the first cuff and then the second, popping her wrists free of the confines. “There you are. Better?”

Lucy nodded, annoyed that her ankles kept hitting the metal rings—a reminder that, once again, she was someone’s prisoner. Her breath caught and she felt her heart pound; she grew light-headed.

“Who are you?” Lucy asked, closing her eyes to control her symptoms. “Gordy and Blair’s dad? You look like you could be their grandfather.”

The man laughed, raising his chin to the ceiling and slapping his hand against his knee. “You’re a quick one. Funny too.” He pointed at her. “Of course you are. The Kings. Salt of the earth. Yes, I’m mighty glad to hear you arrived here safe and sound. You should know that your parents were out of their minds with worry.”

“Where are they?”

“I know you’re eager to see them.”

“They don’t know I’m here yet, do they?” Lucy placed her hands over her eyes and she prayed for a reprieve from the growing ache.

“No,” the man said and he frowned. “Some rules were broken, you see. Big rules. Before I invite your parents to see you again, well, we need to chat. I wish it didn’t have to be like this, but there are rules.”

“What’s your name?” Lucy continued to press her eyes closed.

“I’m Huck Truman. You’re in my shelter.  My dome, I’ve liked to call it. Now we just say that it’s the System. ”

“A system?”

“The System,” he corrected. “But it’s only temporary. I have no desire to keep everyone living underground…seems like such a dreadful way to spend my twilight years. I like sun and air and green just as much as the next person.”

“What is this place then? Like a giant doomsday shelter?”

“Yes,” Huck nodded and he chuckled again. “That is exactly what it is. A giant shelter…totally self-sustainable, if needed, for over a decade. But we won’t need it that long…months, a year maybe, at most.”

Lucy didn’t speak. She opened her eyes and looked at him and he glowed as he mentioned the intricacies of her new home, as he said. A small indoor park with faux-sun; a movie theater; a restaurant. Lucy’s headache clouded her ability to process the details; what exactly had she stumbled upon in the middle of Nebraska?

“Like a resort,” he said. “It isn’t fair to take people away from the only world they’ve known and then isolate them in darkness, without the comforts of life. That was my vision, you see. My greatest accomplishment to date is the System. And I know that you will come to understand our cause in time; I recognize that this may seem new to you. But the one thing I knew, when I set out to change the world, was that the people we chose to survive would never want for the basics and would always have access to luxuries. You’ll find everything you want here, Lucy. And if we have forgotten something, then you have a direct line.” He pointed to himself with a wink.

“I want to see my family,” Lucy said again. She felt like a broken-record. She resisted the urge to reach out and grab Huck’s white hair and pull it off his head. Her desire to do physical damage to something was gaining by the second and he was the only thing within reach.

“Let me tell you a story,” Huck shifted in the plastic seat by her bed and grimaced as he adjusted his legs and leaned back, exhaling.

“Does the story end with you taking me to my family?” Lucy asked and she lifted her hips off of the bed and adjusted her upper body hoping to find comfort.

“Oh, little Lucy,” Huck’s eyes glistened and he reached out to her and patted her hand. His hands were frigid on top of hers and she instinctually yanked her own hand back. “You remind me of my daughter.”

Lucy’s mouth dropped open. “The girl who tried to kill me? I don’t mean to be a pain…but no. I can already tell you that we don’t have anything in common.”

“No, no,” Huck shook his head and crossed his arms over his body. “I had another daughter. She has since passed on.”

Lucy resisted the urge to say she was sorry. She was not unaware that somehow this man was responsible, in some capacity, for the annihilation of the human race. His own loss seemed insignificant and Lucy closed her eyes so she didn’t have to see his hurt radiating back out at her, pulling at her sympathies, begging her to just see him as an elderly man with a dead daughter, and not a monster.

She was desperate for her father.

Her questions were mounting.

Huck continued without her response. “She was your age. Just turned eighteen.”

Clamping her mouth shut, Lucy bit her cheeks, and focused on her pain. She did not want to listen to his story, did not want to give him an audience for his blatant pandering.

“There are so many tragic ways to die. That is what the world taught me. It is an important lesson that caused me much pain. The tragic ways in which we can lose a loved one…”

Lucy sighed. She turned to Huck just as he wiped away a single tear. She shut her eyes again. “You mean,” she started, feeling her heart skip as she mounted her attack, “like a fast-moving virus?”

“Exactly like that, yes,” Huck replied without missing a beat. Then he leaned down to her, and put a single hand on the bed to steady himself. “I accept your confusion. But I’m here to tell you that your arrival here is very important.”

“Please…” Lucy didn’t want to ask again.

“Your parents thought you might have died,” Huck told her. “Of course, they assumed you would come. It hasn’t been long…they don’t know what it’s like to give up hope.” For the first time in their talk, Lucy felt ill-at-ease; the resentment leaked through his avuncular exterior. “But here you are. Hope is rewarded. They will be thrilled. Thrilled.” She detected the hint of disdain. “The rest of my dome? With the people I think of as my family? Not so thrilled, perhaps. We shall see, we shall see. It’s very complicated, Lucy. Very complicated indeed.”

He pulled back and dug into his pocket again.

“Here,” he said and he extended his hand. Lucy clenched her hands into fists. So, Huck dropped a small trinket to the side of her bed. She looked sidelong at it and could tell from the coil shape, the glint of a jewel, that he had given her a necklace. “It belonged to my daughter.”

“I don’t want it,” Lucy said quickly.

“Of course,” Huck replied and he nodded. “You think I’m evil and horrible.”

“I just want to see my family,” Lucy bit back the tears, angry at herself for cracking and showing him just how badly she wanted to see her family.

“I want that too, darling.” He pushed the necklace forward. “My daughter tried to drown you in the tanks after disobeying the System’s rules of not going outside without an express order from the Elektos cabinet members. To jog. She disobeyed our community’s rules because she thought she was above the rules and she wanted to run, with her dog, in the sunlight. A petty and stupid reason. But yet…she feared me so much…that she was willing to sacrifice you.”

“Okay,” Lucy said. “I don’t care what you tell me; I don’t care what lies you tell me. You can’t keep me here.”

“I’m many things,” Huck continued, his voice deepening. “But I’m not dishonest. Ask me anything. Go on.”

Lucy scowled. She stuck her lip out and frowned with petulant frustration. “Fine,” she finally answered. “Why won’t you let me see my family?”

Huck cleared his throat. “I need to decide the consequence for Blair before I can tell your father that she tried to kill you. It’s unfair to ask you to lie for her. It is my own dilemma. My own burden to bear. But the System has rules and, unfortunately, my dear daughter won’t fare well once the details of her actions come to light. I’m afraid, to put it bluntly. Afraid for her well-being.”

“My father will forgive her…because I’m alive,” Lucy said. She knew this to be true. Her father was many things, but the one quality she simultaneously loved and hated was his capacity to forgive. When it came to forgiving his own children, Lucy thought this was an amazing trait. When it came to forgiving the people who trespassed against his family, Lucy found his agreeable attitude alarming.

“I’m sure that is true,” Huck said. “But I’m not sure I can forgive her, you see. Maybe if she thought that you were an outsider, I could understand, but you and I both know that she knew you were Lucy King and still left you to die. Right?”

Lucy shrugged. Maybe he was fishing. Her lungs still hurt, and she felt none of her father’s carte blanche blanket of absolution; no, she wanted Blair to pay. But more than that, she didn’t want to give Huck anything—not an iota of information.

Honesty was one-way. Reciprocating only gave him back the power.

“No,” Lucy then answered.

“No?” Huck asked, his eyes wide. “She was merely protecting the System and not killing one of my best cabinet member’s daughters?”

Lucy didn’t answer; she searched his eyes, and remained silent.

“The rooms are wired, Lucy,” Huck said with a sad smile, after a beat. “I’ve seen the tape.”

Lucy blushed. Immediately caught. She felt hot tears sting her eyes.

“I understand you want to protect her…to speed up the reunion?” he said, his tone asking a question, but his words offering her the way out. She hated to take it and give him the satisfaction of orchestrating the situation, but she felt trapped.

“Yes,” she mumbled.

“Then maybe Blair didn’t know you were Lucy King.”

“Maybe.”

He pointed to the necklace on the bed. “My oldest daughter loved this necklace. I gave it to her on her thirteenth birthday. She was a little superstitious…I gave her the gift and said that thirteen was a beautiful number, nothing to be afraid of. She wore it and said it made her feel brave. Do you believe that an object can do that?”

“What?” Lucy asked him. “Make someone feel brave?”

“Yes. She believed it had power. And so I believe it does.”

“Why are you showing it to me?” Lucy looked at it directly for the first time. It was an aquamarine gemstone suspended inside a twisted ball of metal and wires and then attached to a long silver chain.

“It’s an apology. For everything I’m responsible for…and I realize the list is long. I’m sorry, I am. And I hope you can trust me because we’ll be asking a lot from you Lucy King and I need you to be brave.”

It was a beautiful and unique necklace; the kind of jewelry she would want to buy, but couldn’t. But Lucy already had a necklace around her neck that belonged to a dead girl and that necklace, more than this one, would remind her of all that she had faced on the outside. Huck Truman’s dead daughter’s necklace was an unworthy token compared to Salem’s crucifix and she wished she could tell him that.

“I’m already brave,” Lucy said and she turned her head away from him.

Huck laughed. “You are indeed, Lucy. You are indeed.” Then with a sigh, he stood. There was the sound of the door sliding open and then sliding closed, and the female medic from the tank room appeared to the side of the curtain surrounding Lucy’s bed. She motioned for Huck to come closer and then she whispered something in his ear; she made quick eye contact with Lucy before casting her eyes to the floor.

“I’m quite sorry to hear that,” Huck said and then he added. “The Kings can be notified that Lucy’s in the medic pod now. I’ll accompany you, if that’s okay.”

The medic nodded. “I’ll wait outside,” she said and then slipped back out the way she came in.

“Well, Lucy, I’m so terribly sorry to end our talk on such a horrible piece of news…” he cleared his throat and Lucy felt her body turn cold. Somehow she knew what he was going to say; she sat herself up on her elbows and shook her head.

“No,” she said. “No bad news. No. Don’t tell me anything.”

“I’m afraid,” Huck continued speaking over her pleas, “that the friend you arrived with—”

Lucy shook her head back and forth, her damp hair flying, and she couldn’t stop the tears. More than sadness, rage built up inside of her. Big blocks of fury set the foundation for all her other emotions; she teetered upon them and stared into an abyss. “No! Shut up. Shut up.”

Huck looked as if he had been slapped. His hurt was evident and made Lucy even angrier. “I do hate to be the bearer of bad news…but it appears your friend took his own life.”

The words hit her ears and she froze. With her chest heaving, her heart pounding, she stopped and stared at him, unblinking. No. That was wrong. That was a lie. Honest Huck. Full of lies. No. There was no way.

“They found him hanged in the tank a few moments ago.”

“No,” Lucy said with confidence, all the fight and fire leaving her body. She sat deflated and confused. “How? With what? On what?” She lobbed each question at him with a measured level of disbelief and self-assuredness. “And…he wouldn’t have,” she added in a whisper.

“It’s so terribly sad,” Huck said again. “To have survived it all…and then end it here.”

“You’re lying. Grant would never…”

“Your family will be here soon,” Huck interrupted, his voice carrying over hers. “What’s done is done. What’s gone is gone. The System is about new beginnings. So, I highly encourage you to focus on happy reunions now, shall we?” He sounded chipper once again. Lucy blanched at his nonchalance.

“Where is he? I want to see him! You say he’s dead? Prove it. You can’t. You won’t. You’re a liar. A liar,” she hissed.

“Lucy—” Huck said her name in a patronizing tone, chastising her inability to blindly accept the facts as he told them.

“You said you’d be honest, but then you lie to my face. I won’t ever believe you! I won’t ever believe you!” Lucy yelled at Huck. She picked up his dead daughter’s necklace and threw it at him; he didn’t move as the chain spun through the air and landed short, sliding across the tile toward his feet.

He looked injured. Surprised. He frowned and shook his head.

“You’re right,” he said to her. He looked straight at her, his eyes flashing. “Lying never does me any good. So, I will tell you…he didn’t commit suicide.”

Lucy held her breath and clenched her fists. Her fingernails created little crescent-moons dotted against her flesh.

“And he’s not dead…yet…” Huck added the last word slowly. “But you won’t ever see your friend again and I need you to accept that.”

“No. I won’t. I won’t ever stop until I see him again.”

“I can make many things happen today. I can reunite you with your family; I can make you comfortable here. But Grant,” Huck said the name like it tasted bitter on his tongue, “won’t work within our System, Lucy.”

“You’re out of your mind,” Lucy replied breathlessly.

“I’m sorry,” Huck said, and Lucy’s head popped up: his two words packed a wallop of emotion—as if he actually was sorry, as if it pained him to take away her friend.

“You can’t be,” Lucy said through tears. “You can’t be sorry and also take him away from me.”

“I have more than just you to think about, unfortunately,” he told her and then he turned around. “I’ll be seeing you around, Lucy. Be brave.” Then Huck turned and deliberately stepped over the necklace before punching in a code to the side of the door, which triggered the door to open automatically—like, Lucy couldn’t help but think, the doors in the show Star Trek that her father used to watch despite her and her brother’s protests.

In a second, Huck was gone. The door slid back into place and Lucy, still shackled to the bed, stared after him with her lip quivering and her mind racing. She was about to be reunited with her family. She was about to see her dad, hug her mom, and be with her brothers and sister again. But Grant. Lucy flopped her head back on the bed and brought the pillow up over her face and then she screamed as loud as she could into the folds of the fabric.

Grant. Grant. Grant.

Her friend.

Her solitary companion.

Lucy wiped her tears and struggled to sit up, the paper-thin gown they had dressed her in opened at the back. Seeing her family was secondary; she had to find Grant and help him, save him, rescue him from this place. But she was trapped and alone and without an ally. It was the worst feeling in the God-forsaken world.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Ethan was dreaming about running. Jogging. With Sophie DiCarlo at his side. Their feet slapped along the concrete, but his dream was in mute—he could see Sophie’s perky pony-tail flop and bounce with each step, see her arms pump at her sides, and feel the wind rush against his face, but everything was silent: a world absent of sound. Sophie turned to smile at Ethan; her bright eyes so alive and trained only on him. She said something, called to him, but he couldn’t hear her. He could just see her lips moving.

“What?” he called. But even though he knew he was yelling, no sound came out.

Sophie spoke again. Nothing.

“I can’t hear you!” Ethan said as they jogged into the neighborhood, side-by-side on the road. Their legs rose and fell in unison against the concrete.

Then the sound hit him in a rush. The wind, the cars, the birds, a dog barking, and Sophie’s voice: all so crystal clear.

“You’re going to die,” she said with a smile.

Then blood began to pour from her eyes and her nose, streaming onto her sports bra and dripping down between her cleavage.

“What?” Dream Ethan asked her. And when Sophie DiCarlo opened her mouth to answer, a river of blood dribbled down her chin and stained her skin crimson.

Ethan woke with a jolt.

He was hot, burning up, and he yanked his blankets off and flung them to the floor. Then he swung his healthy leg to the side of the bed and physically moved his amputated leg over as well. With his shoulders heaving, he inhaled and exhaled in short bursts, staring at the ground, wishing he could get up and walk out of his room.

It was dark outside.

Someone had left candles burning on his desk. He sniffed and then hit his bed with balled up fists. His room stunk like lilac. He hated lilac; hated the scented candles his mother used to buy and stock in their hall closet. During her most proficient cleaning spells, the entire house reeked with the overwhelming scent of manufactured Hawaiian Breeze or vanilla bean candles.

Between his pain and his frustration, he couldn’t even find an ounce of nostalgia for something that so clearly represented his mother.

Without a nurse, an aide, he was trapped. He had slept all day; the house was silent. Ethan tried to push away the anger he felt at being left alone. What if he needed something? What if he had fallen out of bed? What if he was hungry? Had everyone forsaken him already?

His leg throbbed, but Ethan ignored the pain and the ache—more than anything, he wanted to move, wanted to get out of his room. Ethan put his left leg on the ground and his body wobbled; he shifted so that he could place his hands against the headboard and steady himself. Then he lowered his stump off the bed too and felt the gravity of his leg pull him downward; there was heaviness despite the absence and it overwhelmed his senses.

What would he do? Where would he go? To the bathroom? Downstairs? Could he prove to these strangers that he wasn’t a total invalid? But he was and he knew it, even as he tried to shimmy along the side of the bed, his leg in total agony, his hands shaking, he knew that without these people, he would die.

Ethan’s door swung open and Darla entered, waving a flashlight toward the bed.

“Ethan? Ethan?”  Darla said as she tiptoed into the candlelight room. She drew in a sharp intake of air when she saw him standing on the edge of his bed, hunched over, just in boxer shorts. “Are you out of your mind?” she spat and rushed over, dumping the flashlight on the bed and tucking her arms underneath his armpits. “If you popped a stitch, you’ll bleed out. Die.”

“I don’t want to stay cooped up in this room. I’ll die of boredom,” he moaned as she helped him sit back up on the bed.

Darla rolled her eyes. “Then I’ll bring some cards the next time I come in. We’ll play a riveting round of poker. What do you want to throw in the kitty? Since you want to gamble your life, how about your meds?”

“Did you just come in here to give me crap?” Ethan asked.

Darla smiled. “Hey, I feel like our dynamic duo is suffering a bit with you being laid up in here. I came in for company, to be honest.”

“The others don’t seem like they’re riveting conversationalists,” Ethan said and he pointed to a half-finished water pouch on his desk. Darla passed it over to him.

“I’m trying to be nice to them,” she answered. “But something’s not right. I feel it.”

“Really?” Ethan asked. He was suddenly alert; he gulped the rest of the pouch.

“I’m a good judge of character, I think,” Darla said defensively. Ethan put his hands up and looked at her sidelong. “Okay, I’m sorry. It’s just…they don’t include me. That’s strange, right? And Spencer moved from the school—”

“What?”

“And the doctor and Joey went to his new house tonight. For dinner. They didn’t even tell me…and it feels off. Plus—” she paused, weighing her words.

“Spit it out.”

“I could be wrong.”

“I trust you.”

That made Darla smile; in the candlelight, she looked younger, less tired. Ethan frowned—he felt like his failing health had left her alone; she and Teddy were the closest thing he had to family now, and he had deserted them.

“Someone’s stealing. Why, I don’t know. We’re open with our resources, everyone has equal opportunities and access…but the MRE pile took a hit the other day and some of the canned goods.”

“Spencer?”

“It’s my only guess. Everyone else is here at the house. It’s got to be…but I’m lacking a motive.”

“That bastard.”

“Well,” Darla said, dropping her voice, her tone wary, “let’s not accuse him yet. He’s sneaky and a known opportunist, but why would he steal? The food is out in the open…it’s not like we’re keeping anything hidden from him. And he doesn’t have anyone to trade with anymore.”

“They’re conspiring against us,” Ethan said matter-of-factly and he crossed his arms over his bare chest. “Private dinners. Stealing our stuff?”

“Then why save you?” Darla shook her head. “No, something’s off…I can’t put my finger on it.” Then, after a pause, she smirked and added: “Ainsley’s pretty keen on you.”

“No one says that anymore.”

“It’s a new world. I’m bringing it back. You watch…all the hip kids will use it,” Darla said and smiled widely.

“No one says hip kids either.”

“Wrong again. My world is six people large; maybe you’re just not cool anymore, and it’s time to face the facts.”

“Ouch,” Ethan said with a smile. “A one-legged Adonis is always cool.”

“Adonis?” Darla roared. “I’ll give you credit for the Greek mythology reference and downgrade you for narcissism.”

“Why do you think Ainsley’s keen on me?” Ethan changed the subject.

Darla sat back in her chair. “Because I need her to be.”

“I see,” Ethan nodded once. But he didn’t see entirely.

“If Spencer’s vying for power, this is a competition we need to win. Joey’s a buffoon, but he’s a Spencer lackey. But if we keep the doctor and her daughter on our side, I like our chances. Otherwise, there’s no predicting what he can convince people to do. It’s scary.”

“Darla,” Ethan adjusted his legs and grimaced. She raised her eyebrows in reply. “What are we vying for? Why does power matter? What’s left to control?”

The question lingered and the house creaked; outside a gust of wind blew a tree branch against the siding and they turned to the noise, on high alert.

“I think that’s obvious,” she replied when the outside noises died away. Darla looked at him, her mouth drawn into a straight line. Then she crossed her arms and leaned back in the chair, her feet planted firmly on the ground.

“I’m lost,” Ethan said and he shrugged. “Spell it out for me.”

“You, Ethan.”

He still didn’t understand.

Darla continued, “Your dad knew about the attacks and the vaccines he left saved our lives…”

“So?”

“Are the pain killers making you dense?”

Ethan grumbled and slid down in his bed, rolling over and fluffing a pillow against his stomach.

“Stop pouting,” Darla chastised. “What will happen when Lucy gets to Nebraska? What will happen when your family knows you’re alive?”

“I hope they’ll come for me,” he answered.

“And when they do?” Darla asked. She paused, her eyes pleading. “What happens to us?”

The question caught Ethan off-guard and he dropped the pillow to the ground and looked straight at Darla—and she was looking straight back at him, her eyes raised in an expectant pause.

“I don’t know,” he answered, his voice small.

“You think they’ll just take us all?”

“Yes,” Ethan said almost in a whisper.

“But if they don’t…if it doesn’t go down like that…you think Spencer and whoever else he can gather with him will let you go without a fight?”

“I’ll make sure you and Teddy get to come with me. I’ll make sure of it. No one is leaving anyone behind. You have my word.”

“You won’t have a choice.”

“If my family wants to see me again, then they’ll let me bring you too!” Ethan was getting worked up and he could feel the tears coming. He shut his eyes tight. Displaying emotion wasn’t a norm for Ethan; he wished he could slip back into simple days and one-word retorts.

“Your dad may be the reason our family is dead—”

“Stop.” Ethan put his hands over his ears, like he used to when he was a child. He was trapped. Normally he’d storm out, make someone follow him, make someone continue the conversation, but on his own terms.

Darla stood up and walked over to the edge of the bed. She dropped down, her face inches from his. “Hey,” she said in a soft voice. She ran her hand along his forearm and tugged his hand free. He let his hand fall and he looked at her. “Hey. I’m just telling you…there might be a new war brewing. And you’re at the center of it. Who controls Ethan, controls their future.”

“I’m not important,” Ethan corrected. “I’m just an injured kid. A nothing.” He started to hate the way he sounded, but he couldn’t stop himself.

Darla patted the top of his head. “You’re my friend, idiot.”

“Thanks,” he answered. “Are you just my friend because you think you can use me for a better future?”

She winked. “Nah, kid. But now you’re catching on.”

It was Ainsley who brought him breakfast. It was one of his father’s MREs: a biscuit with sausage gravy, and it was room temperature and gelatinous. He gagged it down, under Ainsley’s faithful eye, and then handed her the debris.

She made a face at the leftover brown goop before dumping the remaining packaging into the wastebasket by his desk.

“Some future, huh?” she said nodding toward the container.

“What’d you have for breakfast?” Ethan asked incredulously.

“I haven’t had anything yet,” she answered, stepping in for her nursing rounds, which Ethan thought seemed like nothing more than making sure he didn’t have a temperature and that his heart was still beating. He certainly didn’t need Ainsley’s warm body leaning over his, touching his arms, his chest, to tell her that he didn’t have a fever and he was, in fact alive.

“When I’m up here eating that shit, I just keep imagining that it’s a big party downstairs and you’re all feasting on bacon, eggs, pancakes,” he paused and assessed her reaction. She didn’t even glance at him. “That’s ridiculous, I know.”

Ainsley shrugged. “I’ve dreamed about milkshakes for the last two nights,” she said. “Giant, cold, smooth, chocolate milkshakes. Except in one dream, the milkshake was talking. I don’t know what that was about.”

Ethan paused. Besides divulging that she was a nursing student, it was the first time Ainsley had muttered anything about herself. It wasn’t revealing or intriguing, but it was a start. Darla’s comment about Ainsley’s potential attraction played on a loop as he watched the girl take his blood pressure, her hand on his arm, clammy and soft. He debated about whether or not she was pretty.

He cleared his throat.

“I feel isolated up here,” he said. “Alone.” The truth felt nice to say, but he worried that Ainsley would shred his honesty and leave him wanting. His mind wandered to Anna. God, he missed Anna. How had they started? It was so long ago. He was a senior, and she was a sophomore. She sent him a semi-flirtatious text message and he showed it to his friends. They mocked her lack of subtlety, but the conversation shifted: should he ask her out? He did. Winter Formal first. A barrage of photos, doting parents, group dinner, a sweaty and boiling ballroom, rigid formal pictures—his hand placed on her waist by the overweight portrait studio photographer, who winked at him as Anna adjusted her corsage.

There was no courting Anna, no masterful feats of dating acumen. They just clicked. She was simple and didn’t require him to put on a song and dance for her. They were content with ordering pizza and watching movies, sitting in silence. He loved her. And he missed her. No matter how much Lucy hated Anna and mocked him for dating her, Anna was always there for him. She just wanted to be loved. So, he loved her.

Even entertaining Ainsley’s crush seemed like a monumental betrayal to his girlfriend, not even three-weeks dead.

He pushed aside Darla’s innuendo. This girl was not for him—even if she might be the only girl his age left in existence. He pined for Anna; wished it was Anna’s hands helping him, Anna gently wiping away the blood on his stumpy wound, inspecting his surgery scars with tenderness and not disgust.

Ainsley sighed. “Everyone’s alone no matter where they go,” she replied. “Even in a big house full of people.”

“Comedian and philosopher now,” Ethan answered with bite. He didn’t need another Darla who seemed to physically balk at validating his worries and insecurities. It became even more evident that he was a stranger in his own house. Ainsley finished her routine with detached steadiness. He watched her; she never responded to his comeback—didn’t flinch, didn’t narrow her eyes, or crack a smile.

It was like he didn’t exist.

She wasn’t pretty, Ethan thought. Her nose was too big, her hair too frizzy. She was too thin and angular. And her perpetual frown made her seem older than her twenty years.

“Pain level?” she asked.

“Just go away,” Ethan whispered. He regretted it the moment he said it and he wished to take it back, but it was liberating too. He closed his eyes and folded his arms across his chest and breathed in and out at steady intervals. “Please,” he added to soften the blow.

“Whatever you want, boss,” Ainsley answered in a calm voice. She finished her inspection though and noted his vitals on the notebook paper chart doctor Krause had created. She shook out his pills and placed them on his bed stand, within reach, and then turned her back and walked out without another word. Ethan caught a glimpse of Ainsley as she turned the knob in her hand before shutting the door. Her eyes were dark and empty, bottomless, unreadable.

He trembled and tucked his blanket up under his armpits and stared at the ceiling.

Darla didn’t knock. She opened Ethan’s door and walked right up to Ethan’s bedside. Since that morning, she had changed into her trademark black leggings and her white tank-top; she stood with her feet apart and her arms crossed, her gun back in its holster, visible and gleaming. The outfit indicated that she was heading out to hunt—even without a population to trade with, Darla took long trips exploring the area. She said she was out looking for others, survivors, but the effort was futile.

“Heading out?” Ethan asked.

Like thunder, Teddy’s footsteps raced down the hallway and came to a stop outside the door. Then Ethan saw the child peek around the door, his eyes wide, full of mischievous curiosity.

“Mo-om,” the child said, drawing his mother’s name into two syllables. “Hey, Uncle Ethan. Do you have more of the alien toys?” Teddy trotted into the room and over to Ethan’s bed.

“Hey buddy. I do. You like playing with them?” Ethan rolled his head to look at the child—his eagerness palpable.

“Joey plays Star Wars with me. We have sword fights, like this.” Teddy brandished an imaginary sword and swung it around his head, emitting the familiar drone of kids playing with light sabers filled the room. Ethan felt a rush of nostalgia; he looked away.

Dropping to her knees beside Teddy, Darla brushed a wisp of sandy-colored hair away from the boy’s face. She kissed him on his forehead and pulled him in for a hug. “Teddy, Mommy is going to talk to Ethan now. Like we talked about, okay? I’ll be right down. Then we’ll go to the park.”

“You’re packing heat to go to the park?” Ethan mumbled down to them. Darla shot him a look.

“It’s not unwise to be careful,” she said through clenched teeth. Then looking back to Teddy, she physically turned him toward the door and gave him a tender pat on his bottom, sending him scampering away—buzzing and humming his sword noises as he went.

“Park outings, huh? I thought you were scouring the area for life and supplies.”

“Jesus, Ethan. I’m a mom. Teddy’s everything to me and I’m not going to let him hide away in the dark, afraid, all the time. So, I’m going to the damn park. Sorry that you don’t approve,” Darla stood and crossed her arms.

“He’ll never get a real childhood,” Ethan said in a half-whisper. “He’ll never get to watch a movie in the theater or have friends.”

“It’s a little early to predict what will and won’t happen in my child’s life.”

“What kind of life is this?”

Darla sighed. “You do the best you can with what you have. Always. That’s what I’m doing.”

“We have basics. I don’t know about you, but I have more fear than security.”

“Please—” Darla brushed an arm in front of her in anger.

“It’s not fair to raise a kid in this world. I just feel sorry for him, that’s all. I’m entitled to that opinion.”

“Okay,” Darla said, raising her voice. “You’re done. I’m done.”

Ethan didn’t answer. He rolled his eyes and shook his head into the pillow; he felt the lecture brewing before Darla even opened her mouth. He wished he could silence her before she started, but she was determined.

“You don’t understand—” Ethan started: An attempt to stave off the barrage of misunderstanding. Darla silenced him with a glare.

“I came up here originally because Ainsley is crying downstairs. Telling her mom she can’t do the nursing stuff anymore. She asked if we could all take turns checking up on you.”

“She should work on her bedside manner,” Ethan replied.

“You’re an ass.”

“A few weeks together and you’re the expert on me?”

Darla took three giant steps forward and landed herself face to face with Ethan. “I get it. We all get it. And we’re over it. All of us.”

“I see,” Ethan nodded. He clenched is jaw. “Yesterday it was us against the world and today it’s we are all over this.”

Darla didn’t respond. She stared at him, her eyebrows raised. Ethan turned away from her.

“Whose side are you on?” Ethan continued. He struggled to sit, and propped himself up on his elbows, his arms weak and wobbly. His body begged to sink back to the bed; his heart pumped in his ears.

“Is that ever a valid question?” Darla answered. “Does it make you feel better if I sit here and blubber? That’s not me. I don’t cater to you. I don’t work like that.”

“What do you want from me?” he asked after a moment. “I’m a stranger here. Trapped, confined to my room…while everyone else makes the decisions.”

“Make a decision then,” Darla interrupted.

“I want to be moved downstairs.”

“Fine. We’ll put you back in the den. Make another decision.”

Ethan hesitated.  “I want to choose my meals. And when I take my meds. And—”

“Don’t you see?” Darla interrupted again. “Can’t you see it?” She shook her head and scrunched up her eyes, and then she swallowed and took in a shaky breath. “This is all for you. For you. Dammit, I’m on your side, Ethan. But how can I keep defending you to everyone else when you just want us to wallow with you? You’re mad because someone brought you a meal that you didn’t get to pick? What are you? Five years-old?”

He didn’t answer.

“I’m still sick. This,” he pointed to his hidden stump, “can’t be undone. It won’t heal.”

“Stop. Just, stop. We know. We don’t need to be reminded every ten minutes,” Darla yelled. Her voice carried and Ethan knew, based on his time in this house, that anyone could hear. How often had he sat in his own dining room and eavesdropped on the rising voices of his parents? He felt a hotness flush into his cheeks—awareness covered him like a shroud.

“Was Ainsley really crying?” Ethan asked after a moment.

Darla nodded.

“She doesn’t say a word to me,” he mumbled, grasping. “I tried to engage. Tried to talk,”

Darla blew air through her nose and rubbed her left eye with her hand. “They’re good people, Ethan. I told you before. Good people, who were given one chance to survive…and that chance involved saving you.”

“They didn’t have to take the vials.”

“Then you’re dead. And they’re dead. And Teddy and I are alone with Joey and Spencer? No thanks. That sounds like the world’s worst sit-com.” Darla tried to crack a smile, but Ethan remained stone faced. “I’m begging you to find something good here and even if you can’t…don’t take it out on the people who are caring for you. Okay? Is that too much to ask?”

That assessment of his behavior didn’t sit well with him. “You just think I’m a whiner?” he asked and Darla shrugged a reply.

“Yeah, I guess,” she answered eventually. “You’re also a survivor. So, start acting like one.” Then she turned and walked to the door. “I’m going to go to the park with Teddy. When I get back, we’ll get everyone to help move you downstairs. Then you can pick an MRE for lunch. We were unaware those things were important to you. So, it’s a plan?”

Ethan nodded. Discouraged, he was still willing to concede. How often would Darla need to save his life before he could show her gratitude? He opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it. Then he sniffed. “I don’t know how to be,” he finally said.

“Don’t you think we get that?” Darla answered in a soft voice.

“I miss my family,” he said.

“Me too.”

Ethan slumped back down to the bed. “What if they never come for me? What if Lucy didn’t make it? What if they think I’m dead? What if they’re dead? What if this is it?”

“Sometimes in life we suffer great pain alone. And sometimes we suffer great pain collectively. You, Ethan King, are not alone. What makes you think your worry and pain is bigger than anyone else’s? Because it’s yours? I’m older than you, wiser perhaps. Take it from me, kid, there’s no one in this house who isn’t suffering a great deal. All of our wounds are unimaginable. So, when I tell you to shut up, I don’t mean to tell you stop hurting. I’m just saying, shut up. We see your lost leg, your worry about your family, and we raise you a dead wife, lost mothers and fathers, friends, and for Doctor Krause and Ainsley? A husband, father, and three brothers. And it doesn’t stop…then you go outward…it’s endless. The loss. It’s endless.”

Her speech was silenced by Teddy’s eager calls downstairs. She looked out into the hallway, her hand on the doorknob.

“I get it,” Ethan answered.

“I know you do, Ethan,” Darla said and she wiped her eyes. “I know you do.” Then she shut the door behind her and Ethan listened as she walked purposefully down the stairs. He stared at his textured ceiling and tried to find images in the splotches and splatters. Then he closed his eyes and sent out a prayer: Let my sister get to Nebraska. Let my family be safe. And have them come for me. It has to better there. It has to be better than here. Just get me away from this place. Get me out of Portland.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The female nurse swooped into the room, unhooked Lucy from her monitors, unshackled her ankles, and handed her back her laundered and dried clothes. Lucy stared at the bundle of fabric; she brought them up to her nose and inhaled deeply. Unlike her mother’s powerfully perfumed laundry detergent, her clothes just smelled clean—void of the body odor, dirt, dust, and any other stench acquired on her four-state trek.

Her grungy white underwear sat on top. And it wasn’t until that moment she realized that someone must have pried them off of her while she was unconscious. Nurse or doctor, it didn’t matter, she felt such shame that her cheeks turned hot.

“Go ahead and get dressed, sweetie,” the woman said and nodded toward the clothes. Then she spun on her orthopedic shoes and left Lucy alone.

In the privacy of the room, Lucy slipped out of her gown and let it fall to the floor. Then she hurried into her underwear, her bra, still warm from a dryer—a luxury Lucy hadn’t realized how much she missed—and then her pants, shirt, and her sweater. Completely dressed, she sat back on the bed, and waited. Her feet dangled off the edge of the bed and she held her hands in a ball on her lap.

There was a knock, then the door slid open, and the nurse reentered.

“Your parents are here,” she said and then stepped out of the way to let Maxine King’s imposing self through the door first. Her dark brown bob was combed into place; she wore an unfamiliar teal shirt, dotted with sequins along the collar, and black pants. Lucy drank in everything about her mother; her eyes, her arms, dotted with patches of chicken-skin that Lucy used to pray she’d never inherit; the freckles on her nose, and small the mole on her neck. She began to cry.

“Lucy! My Lucy! Lucy!” Mama Maxine shrieked. Tears streamed down her face as she flung herself toward her daughter, scooping her up into a crushing embrace, her nose inhaling Lucy’s hair, now dry and frizzy. “I can’t even believe…I can’t…I’m so…you’re here! You’re finally here.”

The nurse exited quietly.

“It’s not the Seychelles,” Lucy said, her chin trembling. “Oh Mama, Mama.” Lucy reciprocated the hug and refused to let go, clasping her hands together behind her mother’s back and nestling her head into her mother’s chest, the sequins pressing into her forehead. “What happened? How did all this happen? What is this place?” she asked, not moving an inch.

“Shhhh, shhhh,” Maxine whispered. She kissed the top of Lucy’s head and rubbed her hand along her back. “Sweet Lucy Larkspur…it feels like years. I can’t even tell you…I don’t know where to begin. You’ve missed so much. And—”

Lucy pulled back and wiped her eyes. “There’s a boy…”

“Grant. We’ve been told about him, yes.”

“He’s my friend, mom. He’s in trouble.”

A look of worry flitted across Maxine’s features, but Lucy couldn’t tell if it was concern for Grant, for Lucy, or for something bigger. Maxine looked like she wanted to speak, but instead she glanced back to the door, where a shadow lurked in the doorway. Her mother’s non-reply was glaring. When had her mother ever paused for injustice? When had she stayed silent when a child or friend needed her help? Lucy felt panicky.

Something had shifted.

She opened her mouth to protest the lack of outcry, but when she started to speak, no words formed on her tongue.

The shadow moved and crossed to their duo; a big hand came out and tousled Lucy’s tangled mane.

“Hey beautiful girl,” Scott King said to his oldest daughter. He choked back his emotion and reached in around his wife to join the hug. He wore a white lab coat; and underneath, a suit and tie. His salt and pepper goatee was trimmed, the cleft in his chin visible underneath the shadow of whiskers; and as he leaned in for an embrace, the hair scratched Lucy’s face and she bristled under the touch. She looked up and locked eyes with her father—his brown eyes were soft, kind, and hurt. For the first time, Lucy realized how young her father was; even his crows-feet and the web of wrinkles across his forehead seemed out of place. He wasn’t this all-knowing beacon—he was just a man.

“Dad,” Lucy said and her voiced cracked. She looked everywhere but his eyes. Without answers, her dad felt like a stranger.

“You’ve had an adventure,” her dad said like a statement. As if he had any idea of the real adventure. “But I knew you’d find the clues—”

“Ethan?” Maxine interrupted. “I’m sorry. But we have to know…where is Ethan?”

The question caught Lucy off-guard. She buried her head again into her mother and scrunched up her face, her eyes closed tight, blocking out the light, and the sight of her parents. “He didn’t come.” She stopped and realized that didn’t was not the same as couldn’t.

Her response was followed by silence.

And her silence seemed to freeze them; at first Maxine brought her hand up over her mouth, then she took a deep breath, brought her hand down purposefully and steeled herself for the news. Her mother’s voice whispered in her ear. “It’s okay, Lucy. It’s okay. I just need to know. A mother needs to know. Why? Why didn’t he come?”

A lie formed first. She wished to tell him that he was fine, but staying put—that venturing without him was an act of bravery instead of necessity. When Lucy looked at her parent’s faces, full of concern, fear, and expectancy, Lucy knew that the truth would hurt more. The lie may make her look brave, but the truth would cut them deeper. And as happy as she was to see them, hug them, take in their smell again; she realized she was angry—hovering right there beneath the excitement and the relief, was pain.

If she hadn’t been so overwhelmed by everything—the hole in the earth with its fully equipped hospital, drowning in a tank, seeing her parents for the first time in weeks—she might have been functional enough to tell them all of the ways she had pained at their absence. Instead, she said what she could simply and without embellishment.

“He’s hurt,” Lucy told them.

Maxine drew in a sharp breath and turned to Scott, her eyes narrowed.

“Hit by a car. His legs were crushed. When I left, he was fine, but deteriorating…”

“Good God,” Scott said and he took a step away from his wife and daughter. “I’ll need to…” he trailed off. He took a step toward the door and then a step back toward Lucy. “What else?” he asked her. “Tell us everything.”

“Huck would send the army off for one of his kids. He owes you the same courtesy,” Maxine said to her husband, speaking over his questions to Lucy. She shifted her attention, even though she still held one of Lucy’s hands. “You tell him. You tell him to send the planes.”

“Come on, Maxine. You know I can’t just walk in there and make that demand. Not now, anyway.” Her father put a hand on his wife’s shoulder, but she shook him off. Lucy felt embarrassed to be privy to their argument and she tried to shrink away from the conversation.

“Not now? Then when? You promised. And I don’t take broken promises lying down,” Maxine added. Then she ran her hand across Lucy’s brow and tucked a piece of blonde hair behind her daughter’s ear. “No secrets anymore, Scott.” She said this while rubbing her thumb against the freckles over Lucy’s nose and she smiled. “Didn’t you say that to our kids when we got here? No secrets. We’re a team?” She dropped her voice down to a whisper. “And here is my wonderful Lucy. Oh, Lucy. I missed you.”

Maxine’s tears dripped freely and Lucy’s heart broke to see her mother in so much pain. She looked between her mother and father.

Scott ran his hand through his hair and he nodded. “Let’s get out of here,” he instructed. “Come on, girls.”

“Yes, come sweet one, come,” Maxine cooed to Lucy. “We’ll go home.”

Lucy looked up and searched her mother’s face. “Home?” she asked. “You call this home?”

“Home for now,” Scott answered. He put his hand out and Lucy took it; then he pulled her into his side and kissed the top of her head. Scott leaned his lips down to his daughter’s ear and whispered. “You’re a beacon of hope, my darling. Your mother needed hope. I’m so glad you made it.”

Lucy smiled a tight-lipped smile as her father led her out into the hallway; his hand moving to her elbow as he steered her to the right and down into the dim lights that reflected off of shiny metal walls.

It was the first time Lucy had seen the insides of this tomb.

Her eyes grew wide, and her body grew cold and tense.

“What is this place?”

Her father clapped his hand on her back. He smiled with renewed enthusiasm; as if someone had flipped a switch. “We are in an amazing place. A scientific marvel.”

“A cavern. An underground dome,” Maxine echoed a half-step behind them. “Your father is very proud of it.”

“It’s unlike anything you’ve ever seen. Lucy, just wait. Just you wait.” Scott’s voice rose and changed pitch; it was his tell that he was excited and gaining momentum. “You don’t even know the times I wished I could tell you about this place. How many times I almost let it slip!” He clapped his hands together as they approached an elevator. Sliding his finger across a touch-screen, a light switched from red to green, and from somewhere in the belly of the dome, an elevator began its descent toward them.

“Is it safe?” Lucy asked in a small voice. She backed away from the doors, but felt her mother’s hand press against her back.

“Is it safe,” her dad repeated and he scoffed. “That’s the whole point. That was the whole point. You’re safe now. As safe as you will ever be.”

Scott placed his hands on her shoulders and gave them a squeeze. His eyes were bright and eager—like a child on Christmas morning.

The elevator doors opened, beckoning them into a sterile metal box.

And together, as a family, they walked inside. The silent doors sliding shut behind them.

Floor B. Pod 6. Room 8. A silver plaque screwed into place right above the peephole read: The King Family – Scott, Maxine, Ethan, Lucy, Galen, Malcolm, Monroe, Harper. CL 1. Lucy reached out her hand to touch her name and Ethan’s name. How strange to see it there, so plain and organized. Carved into the metal before the Release; an optimistic statement of faith that the Kings would arrive to this place together.

She looked to her mother, whose eyes looked away from the plaque and the reminder that they were still an incomplete family.

Scott King opened the door. As he swung the door wide, Lucy peered into the first room. It was dark, windowless, brown walls with low ceilings, and a spattering of light in the form of low-wattage bulbs burning in sconces along the walls, casting pools of white upward and creating shadows in the corners.

“Go on,” Maxine whispered.

“Our little apartment,” Scott added.

Lucy looked between her parents and then peered inside the room again. All Lucy could think was that they had to leave their beautiful house, with a backyard, sun, and windows and move themselves into a cramped and dark space no bigger than a hotel suite. She had not known what to expect when they reached Nebraska, but this was not it.

Tentatively, Lucy stepped inside. But it took no longer than a second for her to want to back right out again; the room smelled stale—fresh air pumped in through vents in the ceiling, but it was artificial, dry. The furniture was stiff and old; perhaps Huck’s interior designers had fashioned the apartments with the leftovers of some consignment shop.

She stood in a small foyer. Inside a wicker box was a collection of shoes. Tennis shoes of varying sizes and one small pair of glittered slip-ons.

Harper.

The moment she thought the name, the dark apartment was flooded with light. Bright track lighting along the ceiling flickered on and out from behind couches and chairs, her siblings poured, yelling and screaming, “Surprise! Welcome home, Lucy!” Even Galen, his adolescent demeanor grounded in perpetual disdain of his entire family, couldn’t help but rush forward and greet his sister with a warm embrace.

Absorbing the affection from her siblings overwhelmed Lucy. She closed her eyes and let them attack her with pats and kisses; she collapsed to the floor and Harper climbed into her lap.

“Daddy said you were coming soon,” Harper said. “Daddy said you and Ethan were coming.”

“Is Ethan here too?” Malcolm cried out with excitement.

Maxine swooped in and began peeling off her children, chastising them for intruding upon Lucy’s space, but Lucy didn’t mind it at all. She sat on the floor motionless, still holding Harper, finding comfort in the child’s small frame and the way she fit like a puzzle piece into the crook of Lucy’s arm.

“We talked about that,” Maxine said with authority. “Ethan’s not here.” Then after a beat, she added, “Yet.”

“Wanna see our room?” Monroe asked.

“Wanna see the Center? Wanna go swimming?” Malcolm cried.

“It’s actually pretty cool here,” Galen told her with a shrug.

“Why did you stay behind?” Harper whispered.

Lucy looked at the faces of her brothers and sister, her eyes wide, a pain in her chest growing and throbbing. And then she began to cry. She put Harper on the floor and scrambled to her feet. She spun this way and that—looking at the foreign furniture, her family in clothes she didn’t recognize. Her breath began to grow noisy and ragged. From somewhere next to her, she heard her mother say her name in a warning tone. She caught a glimpse of her father, leaning against the wall. Lucy couldn’t tell if he was worried for her or for himself, and she wanted to scream; her desire to run, flee, escape was powerful. She burst away from her congregating family and toward the door. Bypassing outstretched hands and calls of worry.

All she had wanted for weeks was to see her mother and father and brothers and sister again. All she had dreamed about and pined for was to find them alive and wanting to see her too—the entirety of her family waiting with baited breath for her triumphant return. Of course, she had been worried to find them dead, worried to find them gone.

But this was something else entirely.

She had found them changed, altered, different. They felt foreign to her, as if these people were merely impersonators of her family and not the real thing.

She reached the door before her mother could grab her and she flew out into the hallway. Right and left were identical: huge metal doors flanked either end. And the hallway was dotted with doors, like theirs, with silver plaques broadcasting the names of tenants.

“Lucy King,” Maxine called down the hallway—saying her name with the clipped cadence someone reserved for disobedient preschoolers. “You will return to this room immediately.”

Slowing down, Lucy put her hand against the metal walls and felt the coolness against her skin.

“This must be very difficult,” her father called down to her from their doorway. He had his hand on his wife’s arm, presumably to prevent her from flying down toward Lucy and dragging her back by force.

Always the voice of reason—always the ying to her mother’s yang. Always entering conversations with calmness and clarity, with doses of humor.

A door five feet away from Lucy opened a crack. Peeking out from behind the frame was a girl her own age with long black hair combed around her shoulders. She stared at Lucy a long time, unblinking. She was dark and beautiful and for a brief second Lucy thought of asking to come inside; then she shook the notion free and realized that no one in the System could be trusted. Lucy stared back, until the girl offered her a sad smile and shut the door; the click echoing down the hall.

“Grant,” Lucy said. Then she turned back toward her parents and raised her voice. “I want Grant.” She felt the futility of her desire as she said his name; and she was filled with such longing and sadness. Lucy hit her fist against the metal and then drew her hand to her side, cradling it against her stomach.

It felt so wrong to explore this place without him. She wanted her parents. Now she wanted Grant. Nothing would feel whole again.

Maxine shook off her husband’s grip and walked into view. She put her hands on her hips, her legs wide. Then Harper sneaked around their father and clambered up to Maxine, hanging on her pants leg, and staring down at her sister.

“There are some things beyond our control,” Maxine said. “But we will discuss it when you come back.”

“Come inside,” Scott added.

“No,” Lucy said and she felt like she was going to throw-up. “I want to see him. He deserves to be with us. It’s not fair.” She wiped her eyes.

“I have waited for you! Cried for you every night.” Maxine called as she took two giant steps forward, lumbering under the added weight of Harper’s body. “I will not lose you. Do you understand me?” Her voice trembled with rage.

The metal doors at the end of the hall closest to Lucy slid open. And Lucy saw one of the armed guards from before enter and stand at attention across her escape path. With her mother and father at one end and the guard at the other, Lucy knew she was trapped.

“He’s my friend. He doesn’t deserve this. I brought him here. Don’t you understand? I brought him here! It’s my fault. It’s my fault.” Unsure of what to do next, Lucy fell to the floor in the hallway, her back against the wall, her legs splayed out in front of her. After a moment, she tipped herself over and let her body shake against the ground. Then she felt hands lift her up and hold her. As if she weighed nothing at all, her father picked her up off the ground and cradled her in his arms.

“No Lucy,” her father said. “It’s my fault. Don’t waste time blaming yourself. Blame me. Blame me, child.”

Tears stained her father’s shirt and Lucy couldn’t stop them from flowing. She cried for her lost friend, her confusion, and her shift in expectations. Lucy wanted to tell him this; wanted to say something, anything, but she found herself mute. Slobbering and hiccupping into her father’s chest.

He shifted and turned past Maxine, hushing her impending storm with a single look. Then walking right past the twins and Galen, huddled and whispering where Lucy had left them, he took Lucy into a bedroom and shut the door with his foot, the slam echoing behind him. There he set Lucy down on a bed. It was fully made—its comforter smooth, and there were three floral accent pillows. He deposited her down and Lucy curled herself into a ball.

“You left me,” she said.

It was the first thing that came to mind to say.

Her father buried his head in his hands for just a second. “Lucy…” he paused and then stopped. He tried to rub her back, but she pulled away.

“I don’t want to leave my friend. We were a good team. We fought hard to be here. Can’t you see that?”

“Okay,” Scott replied. “But—”

He sighed. Rubbed his temples. And then he simply said, “Okay.”

“Who are these people? They tried to kill me, Dad. Don’t you see? They tried to kill me and they are going to kill Grant. You have to stop them, please? I’m begging you. Stop them.”

His face went ashen and he looked to the floor.

Then Scott stood up. “You’ve had a shock,” he said weighing his words. “It’s reasonable to be upset and confused.” He walked to the bedroom door and put his hand on the knob. “But let’s get something clear here, Lucy. When I heard that you had missed the flight. When I heard that you and Ethan weren’t at home…when I begged them to wait, to stop, to go get you from the school…and they didn’t? Then my worst fears were realized. That I sacrificed everything to save you and it wouldn’t matter.”

“You did this to us,” Lucy mumbled without accusation. She shook, like she was freezing, her limbs quivered against the bedspread and she was unable to stop them.

“I did this for you.”

She didn’t turn to look at him; instead she kept her eyes fixated on a framed picture of a tree—a towering oak in the center of a huge field, a piece of nature that didn’t exist down here in this place. Its image was unsettling; like a piece of hotel art, trying to trick you into believing you were somewhere, anywhere, other than where you actually were.

“Then it is true. You helped unleash this virus. That killed our friends. Family. Everyone. You did this.” Even Lucy was scared at how she let the indictment fall so matter-of-factly. She closed her eyes for one brief moment and the image appeared of Salem’s body in the ground, heaped on Leland Pine’s wife: One direct and one indirect victim of her father. She couldn’t look at him without seeing what he had done. Her dead classmates. Him. The bloated bodies they encountered in Portland and beyond. Him. Salem. Him.

“What you said is not untrue,” Scott answered her. His voice felt far away. “But it’s not the truth. Do you understand?”

Lucy didn’t answer. Instead, she closed her eyes and wished for the shaking to stop.

There was a knock on the bedroom door and her father opened it a crack and peered out at the disruption.

“They brought a note for you,” Maxine said tersely. “They’re calling you in.”

“In a minute,” Scott answered.

“Send a note to Huck that you are going to spend time with your daughter. Work can wait.”

Scott didn’t answer her. He waited a beat and shut the door. Lucy pictured her mother on the other side of the wooden barrier seething and waiting. The blankets felt nice against her skin and Lucy had no desire to move from this spot.

“I want you to listen, Lucy. I want you to listen to me,” he said. He stepped away from the door and back toward her body, still curled into a fetal position. “I raised you to be a good scientist. A good researcher. Ask questions, understand the world around you, don’t take anyone’s answer at face-value. Right? Haven’t I? Isn’t that what I’ve always said?”

Lucy nodded weakly.

“This is no exception, then.” Scott sat down on the edge of the bed and leaned on his knees. While he was bending over, Lucy stole a glance. He too had planned for the joyous welcome—he had hoped to find his little girl, still turning to him for all the answers, intact and willing to carry on like before the Release. “That’s all I can give you now. Just…don’t jump to conclusions. And whatever you do,” he lifted his head and Lucy didn’t have time to look away; her eyes locked with this. “Whatever you do,” he repeated, “don’t punish your mother for this.” His tone turned steely and threatening. “You have no idea what she’s been through. She doesn’t deserve your disdain.”

And with that lecture, Scott King rose and walked to the door. Lucy still stared into the space her father had occupied only seconds earlier. “Wait,” she whispered, her throat dry. Scott paused and turned to her; he looked at his daughter with concern and compassion.

“Yes?” he asked in a quick breath, hopeful.

“Save him,” Lucy said without looking at her dad. “Don’t lie to me. Don’t say you can’t. I know you can save him. I know it’s up to you. And if you don’t,” she paused and lifted her eyes and narrowed them, “I’ll never forgive you.”

Scott King sighed and frowned. Then he turned without replying and left her alone.

“Chocolate milk and a granola bar?”

Lucy cracked open an eye and saw her thirteen year-old brother Galen standing by her bedside. He looked down at her and held up the goodies for her to see.

Her eyes were swollen from the crying. Her face felt tight with dehydration and when she smiled at her brother, her dried tears stretched along her skin. She took the milk—in a plastic cup—and sat up to take a sip. She ached and felt dizzy; Galen put a tender hand on her arm and the touch felt odd, unlike him, and out-of-place. Unsure of how to respond to his brotherly compassion, Lucy shied away from the touch and, after downing the entire drink, reached her hand out for the granola bar.

“Thanks,” she said as she bit into the chewy oats. “Did Dad leave?” she asked with her mouth full of chocolate.

“A little bit ago, yeah,” Galen said and he sat down on the bed next to Lucy. “Mom won’t tell us about Ethan.” He looked at the floor. “She said we’ll discuss it later, after we get you better.” Galen paused. “It’s been really hard.”

Lucy turned to her brother. The middle-child of their clan; capable of being simultaneously annoying and unassuming. He liked to read and help their mom bake, which Ethan never tired of mocking. Unlike the perpetually dirt-stained, snot-streaked, booger picking twins, Galen enjoyed keeping up his appearance, and in the sixth grade had taken to ironing his own shirts after Mama Maxine berated him for his unrealistic demands on her laundry schedule. He wasn’t quiet, but he was often talked over. And he’d taken to watching old Hitchcock movies instead of the dumb comedies and action films that his peers preferred.

But he was still her little brother—and Lucy had enough stories of rude comments spoken over shared toys, fights over bathroom time, and a history of Galen’s pre-pubescent contempt for family, that she hadn’t really looked at her brother as anything other than someone to share space with. Just when he’d endear himself to her, Galen would undo it all with sarcastic comment or an ill-timed prank.

Without warning, Lucy leaned over and wrapped her arms around Galen’s upper body. She held on as tight as she could. He rocked backward under her impromptu hug and then laughed.

“So, you missed me too, then?” Galen asked as Lucy sat back, her eyes glistening.

“I never wanted to believe that any of you were gone,” she said and swallowed the rest of her snack. “And then when Ethan let me listen to mom’s voicemails and there was hope—”

“You should’ve seen her,” Galen said with wide eyes, remembering. “She went crazy.”

Lucy didn’t admit that the news was refreshing. That somewhere in the back of her mind, even still, she wondered if any of them had tried to come for her, tried to save her.

“She wouldn’t stop crying,” Galen added.

“Good,” Lucy said. Then she sighed, regretting the knee-jerk reaction, and shot a look to her brother. “No, I didn’t mean that. I thought everyone left me to die…”

“Have you ever seen mom throw a punch?” he asked with a smirk.

Lucy shook her head. “I don’t believe you. She didn’t.”

“She did.” And Galen laughed at the memory. “Some men-in-black type. Sunglasses, suit. Right in the jaw. Bam.” He mimicked the man’s head tossed back from the force, complete with sound effects. Then his smile disappeared. “The guy said fine. She could go get her children. But that this plane was leaving with or without her…and that per Mr. King’s orders, the children who already boarded would have to stay. There was no time to wait.”

“She had to choose,” Lucy stated the obvious conclusion, just to hear it out loud.

“We didn’t even know what was going on outside.”

Lucy raised her eyebrows. “The virus?”

“We thought we were at war.”

“It was a war.”

“You know what I meant.”

They were silent for a moment.

“It hasn’t been good,” Galen said again. “They’ve been fighting. About you. About Ethan. I know that you don’t want to be here—”

“That’s not it at all,” Lucy interrupted. “It’s just…” she weighed her words, “this place…it isn’t what I thought it would be. It’s all so…strange. I need time to adjust to it.”

“This place isn’t so bad,” Galen said. “I thought so at first. But—” he hesitated. “I’ve heard Mom and Dad talking. I’ve listened to them at night. Everyone else is too young to understand…but I get it. And because I get it, because I understand…I think I can appreciate this place.”

She raised her eyebrows. “What do you understand?” she asked.

“The world was going to end no matter what. Dad saved us. He really did, Lucy. He saved us from dying out there…saved us from everything that was going to happen in the world. This place is only temporary and then we get to start over. I don’t know,” Galen trailed off. “I’m glad Dad did this for us. I think he made the right decision. And I kinda like it here.”

Lucy bit her lip and looked up to the ceiling. “You wouldn’t feel that way if you were the one left behind. Trust me. I didn’t get saved from anything. My best friend died. I spent a week trapped in my school. I just traveled here with another friend…who is going to die. What exactly was I saved from?” She instinctually rubbed her wrists. The battle wounds of her night with Spencer had healed, but there was a patch of bright white new skin, where the handcuffs had cut the deepest: a permanent scar.

“You’re not dead,” Galen offered, but he was tentative. He rubbed his temples and didn’t look at his sister. “And I bet Dad will get Huck to go get Ethan. Now that things have settled down? I bet he will.”

“That’s great,” Lucy said, and she meant it. Ethan needed to come to this place, needed the doctors and the help. “What do you know about this Huck guy?” she asked, shifting her body on the bed to face him—her knees touching the side of his legs as he dangled them off the bed.

“He runs this place. He’s nice.”

“Why do you like this place?”

Galen turned a bit, “They have a game room. A gym called the Center. Things for us to do, like movie nights and stuff. It just feels…I don’t know…the people are nice here. It’s…I can’t explain it…it’s not like it would seem. We all know we’ve survived something big and we’re all in this together. Maybe it’s hard to explain. But I’ll take you on a tour when you’re up for it.”

“You wouldn’t want to go home?”

He processed her question and thought for a bit. Then he shook his head. “I miss some of my stuff, I guess. But like I said, we’re not staying here.”

“We’re moving back?”

“Home? No. I’ll have Dad tell you. He can show you the blueprints. It’s awesome. Huck’s building floating cities! Six of them. One city for each of the six underground Systems.”

“There are six of these things?” Lucy pointed upward.

Galen nodded and smiled. “All over the world! It’s great, Lucy. You’ll think so too. I know it.”

Lucy didn’t say anything. She just stared at her brother and wondered if he would have felt the same unbridled enthusiasm for her father and Huck’s plan if he had seen the bodies and the destruction; maybe he didn’t even know the reality of the outside world—the crumbling cities, the devastated earth.

Galen thought he was at a type of summer camp.

She knew better.

Beyond that, she couldn’t wrap her mind around why Grant would be a threat to any of this. Was the System so weak, so brittle, and unreliable that one extra person could send it plummeting into destruction?

“I want to find my friend,” she said. “Do you know your way to the tanks?”

Galen’s eyes grew wide and he shrank away from her. “No, Lucy. I can’t. We’re not supposed to snoop.”

“Does Dad have a lab here?”

He nodded, “But I can’t take you there either. I don’t know where it is.”

Lucy handed him the plastic cup. “Thanks for the milk. I want to be alone now,” she said and then she tipped herself back over and crawled under the comforters, pulling the blankets over her head until she heard Galen let himself out.

CHAPTER NINE

Grant opened his eyes. He stared at the man standing near his shackled body and recognized him in an instant. For a second, he tried to place himself—there was the tank, then the guards, the injection, and now, this bland hospital room, his body flat against the hard bed. He knew he was incapacitated, so he didn’t even try to move or fight. Instead, he followed with his eyes as Mr. King moved around the room; the scientist adjusted vials, and syringes, slapped on latex gloves, and hummed a jaunty little tune. He hadn’t seemed to notice Grant was awake and just now coming out of his sedation—which was a bit unnecessary; Grant wasn’t throwing any fits, and he would have gladly climbed up on this bed and let them strap him down if it meant that Lucy could be reunited with her family.

It wasn’t out of some chivalrous desire for self-sacrifice either. She just deserved a happy ending; he really felt that way.

Somewhere in Idaho, Grant had the realization that this may not end well for him.

He had kept his alarmist opinions to himself. Lucy had written a whole new chapter with him as her newly minted brother; he’d just become one of their family—it was all smiles and pep, with the TV soundtrack of a 90s family comedy, complete with laugh-track and a moral at the end.

This moral: You do not walk into the hidden underground hideout of an evil mastermind and expect to get adopted into his family.

Lucy was going to be super disappointed with the way things turned out. Cue audience sad moans.

Scott King’s eyes met with Grant and he raised his eyebrows a bit. “You’re awake. I apologize for the entertainment,” he said with a self-deprecating smile, suddenly awkward.

“I’m always a fan of Scientist Humming. One of my favorites,” Grant offered up and Scott’s smile widened.

“Yes, um, that was Humming in a Major Chord,” Scott continued the joke. “A favorite.” Then Lucy’s father walked over to Grant and without warning plunged a needle into his arm; Grant flinched and then relaxed as Scott withdrew the needle. Then he slapped around for Grant’s veins and carefully drew a vial of blood. He held his finger over the injection site for a few moments before walking away, looking at the blood with curiosity.

“There’s no need for sudden needle plunges,” Grant called after him. “I’m not a big fighter. I’d rather know what you’re doing.”

Scott nodded without turning around. “Noted,” he replied absentmindedly. They fell into an uncomfortable silence.

“You want to know why I’m alive,” Grant said to Scott, hoping to extend the conversation.

Scott turned to Grant. He tucked the capped vial of Grant’s blood into his lab coat pocket. “Yes,” he replied. “It’s perplexing.”

“Up until a few hours ago, I thought it was sort of like a super power,” Grant replied. “I mean…Virus Boy. Has a good superhero ring to it.”

Scott kept his eyes trained on Grant; then he smiled.

“Virus Boy,” Scott repeated and he chuckled. Grant shrugged and put his hands in his lap—he tried to think of more virus jokes, but they eluded him. He wished he had paid more attention in biology class; there had to be a good zinger about antibodies.

For a brief moment, Grant thought maybe it would be exactly like Lucy suspected—they’d free him from his metal bed, invite him up for supper, and bygones would be bygones. If Scott King appreciated humor, maybe Grant could win him over with puns and superhero jokes all night.

He had nothing else.

No leverage.

No parents searching for him; no living family hoping for his return. Only Lucy and her friendship was the only clout he had, but he didn’t want to use her. It wasn’t fair.

“I can see why my daughter enjoyed your company,” Scott replied and he turned to leave. “It’s clear that you are a good guy, Grant. And you’ve been good for her. I appreciate that.”

“We were separated,” Grant said, his voice trailing off. “I’ve been worried. But… I mean, just, it must have been a great reunion. So, she’s happy now? I guess, I mean…” he stopped. He didn’t know what he wanted to say. He lifted his wrist and the chain lifted with him. “I just want her to be happy, you know? So, is she? Does she seem happy?”

Scott paused and he ran his teeth over his lips and made a clicking noise with his tongue. “She’s concerned about you, actually. She’s having a rough time understanding this place.”

“Huh,” was all Grant could think to say. He wished she wouldn’t. He wished she would just enjoy seeing everyone again. “Will you tell her that I said that…”

“I’ll stop you right there,” Scott interrupted. “You have to know Lucy well enough now to know that telling her something won’t change what she thinks.” He leaned against the counter. “This is a huge adjustment and there’s no easy way to explain—” Scott motioned around the room in a sweeping gesture.

Grant let the chain rise and fall and hit the metal bed. It clunk-clunk-clunked in the small room. Then he let his eyes scan the small room; all the vials and science equipment.

“Hey, I have a question…it’s embarrassing,” Grant said after a moment.

“I don’t do embarrassing,” Scott answered quickly and turned to walk away. “I’d send an assistant in…but I’m afraid it’s just me and you, kid. So, sorry. I’m sorry. Never could do any of that stuff even with my own kids—”

“No—” Grant called to him, backpedaling. “No. Not like, you know, physically embarrassing. Or personal…no…nothing like that. I wanted to ask about…” he paused and then decided just to say it. “Zombies?”

“Zombies.”

“Yeah, you know, the undead. Flesh-eating dead people.”

“I know what zombies are,” Scott answered. “What do you want to know about them?”

“Can they happen? In real life?”

Scott took a tentative step back toward Grant and tilted his head to the side, regarding Grant with equal parts amusement and concern. “You want to know if zombies are real?”

“Could be real. It’s just…you’re a scientist and all. You study viruses, right?”

After a delay, Scott nodded.

“Mythologically speaking a virus is one way zombies happen. Virus. Zombies. And so, could all of the people who died of the virus…just…you know…”

Scott laughed and the sheer volume of it scared Grant into silence. He stopped talking and looked at the man sidelong. All of the pictures at the King house showed him with a reserved smile—never showing his teeth—his arms wrapped around Maxine, who always looked a few years older than him. The patriarch of the King brood mastered photographic stoicism. But here, he seemed lively and jovial; endearing even, and Grant did not know how to marry the Scott King he expected and the Scott King standing before him. He waited until Scott was done laughing and then looked at him, unblinking.

“I’m sorry,” Scott said and he held up a finger. Then he grabbed a chair from the corner and dragged it over to Grant’s bedside. Sitting across from Grant, crossing one leg and leaning over, Scott smiled. “Okay. No. The bodies killed by the virus are dead. Gone.”

“Okay,” Grant answered, waiting with baited breath to see if Mr. King would indulge him.

“If you’re asking whether or not zombies are scientifically disproven, however, then I can’t answer no. I don’t have empirical evidence, but there is some anecdotal evidence that might support zombies.”

“English,” Grant replied.

“I haven’t seen any. Don’t expect to. Research suggests…maybe.”

“Maybe.” Grant smiled.

Scott leaned in a bit further. “We’re not talking about an army of the undead. That’s impossible. Once people are dead, they are, in fact, dead. But there are medicines that can simulate death and chemicals that can cause a zombie-like reaction. People have been known, anecdotally, to die and then have vague recollections of their behavior for an extended period of time. But those are not real deaths…they are chemically simulated deaths.”

“That’s not the same,” Grant said and he felt a bit let down. He was hoping Lucy’s father could answer this question for him once and for all.

“Maybe not a Hollywood version of zombies, but if someone was close to death and spent time in a zombie-like state? And perhaps that state had lowered inhibitions or hallucinations? Well, then, that is quite remarkable.”

“Would those zombies like brains?”

“No way of knowing,” Scott replied. “Seems a trial would be needed to measure a chemically simulated zombie’s desire for human flesh.”

Grant smiled. “Awesome.”

“We wondered if the virus we were creating would in fact create a zombie-like phenomenon,” Scott revealed in a whisper. “If the virus damaged part of the brain, but left vital organs working and functioning. But that wasn’t our desire. And, ultimately, none of our test subjects succumbed in that fashion, which is good.”

“You wanted to kill people. Done and done.”

Spoken plainly, Scott bristled. He frowned and tapped his hand against the metal bedframe.  Then he lifted his head and nodded. “Yes. We did.”

“You’re very honest,” Grant replied.

“When discussing science, I appreciate the truth. Other things? Not so much. I appreciate the good white lies, the social niceties. By nature I’m inclined to lie…but honesty is a precept of our new world. I’m getting used to it.” Scott clapped his hands and then put them in front of him. His forehead glistened.

Grant tried to force a smile: honest murders, such a relief. “Okay…what happens to me? Since we’re being so truthful.”

The question took Scott off guard and he leaned back in his chair. He glanced to the door and then to a small camera in the corner of the room. For a few seconds, he was gone in some faraway place, and then he looked right at Grant and shook his head.

“We planned on survivors. Those who escaped, somehow, exposure to the virus. Pockets of indigenous people untouchable for a time. However, within populated areas, those who witnessed the fall and the chaos and didn’t die? We couldn’t have that. So, if there is a group of people who are immune? It’s a problem. You are, to be blunt, an overlooked and missing piece in my plan. If I figure out how you survived, then I can prepare.”

“For?” Grant raised his eyebrows.

“How to…go forward.”

Grant understood. He just wanted to hear Scott say it. It meant something to be told firsthand and not treated like an imbecile. “Spell it out for me, Mr. King,” Grant said. “I’ve been through a lot in my life. I can handle whatever you say.”

“If we know how you lived…we can figure out what could possibly help you…expire. You in the collective sense. You, as in, people like you. Assuming I discover that there’s an explanation. Maybe you really are some singular miracle. Either way…if there are others like you, it would be our intention to…”

“Kill us.”

Scott nodded once.

“Right,” Grant picked at the threads on his pants. “I see.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You’ll run tests and experiments…and ultimately, one of them will kill me.”

Scott exhaled through his nose in a short burst and looked at Grant. “You are just one person. It would help if I had a room of people like you…only then would my data mean anything. For now, I will settle with seeing if I can find any markers or indicators that would appear to give you immunity. After that…I honestly don’t know.”

Grant handled his sentence thoughtfully. “Do I have to stay like this?” he motioned to the shackles.

“I can see about getting you permanently settled in a room.”

“Honest and humane. I like your style,” Grant tried to muster a smile, but couldn’t bring himself to do it. “So,” he said after a moment, “no zombies from the virus…but maybe zombies sometime.”

“What’s your fascination with zombies, kid?” Scott asked as he stood up and moved his chair back to the corner of the room.

“No reason,” he replied. “Just a childhood fascination, I guess.” But as Scott unearthed the vial of his blood from his coat and placed it in a tray and began making a list of experiments to run on Grant, he knew why he was drawn to the creatures. They were tenacious and unrelenting. Even after claimed by death, they didn’t stay dead. He’d been drawn to zombies before the virus—their gruesome affect, his confidence in surviving them. Grant knew that if zombies attacked, he could help save the world from destruction. Only, the world had fallen into destruction anyway and he hadn’t been able to do anything about it.

No, Grant realized. Zombies found a way to keep living.

And he hadn’t given up hope yet that he would too.

Scott left Grant in the lab for about an hour. Or two hours or fifteen minutes; time melded together in the empty room. Alone with his thoughts, Grant replayed the events of the last few weeks in his head. Starting with the fight with his dad the morning of the Release, where he had yelled the most unoriginal and painful insult he could think of at his father: “I wish you had died instead of her.”

To which his father had said in a calm, even voice, “Right back atcha, son.”

That was it: The last conversation he had with his dad. He’d been counting down the days to college; a beacon of hope just within reach—an opportunity to escape his father’s expectation that he’d continue helping with their land and keep up the farm. Or just a chance to forget that he would never be enough to fill the hole his mother left when she died. Grant knew his father loved him. It was just that he didn’t really enjoy parenting, and he wasn’t good at knowing what Grant wanted or needed. The man didn’t have help, didn’t ask for it—never wanted anything except peace and quiet and blind allegiance.

Somewhere down the line, indifference turned into full-blown aggravation. The whole scenario reeked of some old-fashioned drama, but Grant was just an urban teen with a dream of a menial career that didn’t require effort outside the workday, like grocery store manager or office supply rep. He wanted to go to college to prove he could. And for the parties, maybe for a chance to join a club, or play keyboards for a garage band, do some charity work. Meet a girl.

He wasn’t saddled with ambition or a lack of self-awareness. Grant just wanted to live a basic existence—achieve the minimal amount of happiness, go through life without ruffling a single feather. Drink beers on weeknights and watch movies. It all sounded like the perfect future until someone had to go and ruin it for him.

But what he told Lucy back in Oregon wasn’t untrue. He wasn’t afraid of death. Not then and not now. Losing someone didn’t make him want to fight; it just paved the way to welcome whatever fate tossed his way. Not many teenagers would ever see it his way. All his friends had an unhealthy attachment to the world they lived in—a general expectation that they were destined for great and beautiful happily ever afters. Grant figured he was the most realistic and grounded teen he’d ever met and part of that was embracing the futility of fighting.

His anger toward his dad was the only thing he wanted to keep.

Like a wound he couldn’t stop picking, whenever Grant felt too complacent about his lot in life, he’d think of those final words and wish privately he’d handled that last conversation better.

When Scott reappeared with a set of keys, Grant greeted him with a wave, even though his shackled wrists kept him from moving much on the slab: only a few inches in every direction.

“I have good news,” he said as he unlocked Grant and let him sit up; Grant’s muscles were sore and he stretched upward, letting his hands plop back on the bed.

“A room for Virus Boy,” Scott continued and he motioned toward the door.

“For real?” Grant slid off the metal frame and his feet hit the floor. “It’s not like a trick or something? Not that I don’t trust you…it’s just…Virus Boy shouldn’t believe his captors have his best interests at heart, right? If I were a comic book, this would be a trap.”

Scott shook his head. “You are not in a comic book,” he said as Grant moved toward to the door. “You’re in the EUS Two. Elektos Underground System Two. We’re bad at naming things, I suppose.”

“No. Elektos? Underground System? Two? Crazy. Where’s EUS One?”

“Brazil.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah, he’d probably be in EUS One or here,” Scott winked.

Grant didn’t even know what that meant, but raised his eyebrows, the magnitude of this enterprise dawning on him slowly. “There are more of these places?”

“Six.”

Grant waited and let out a sigh. It took a prolonged second, then Scott obliged. “Brazil, here in Nebraska, Saudi Arabia, Russia, Australia, and Botswana.”

“Woah,” Grant said. “That’s nuts.”

Scott dipped his head. “It…has been an undertaking. Financially. Emotionally. Spiritually.” Then he looked up, his big eyes meeting Grant’s and he motioned for the door. “The room is no trick. I understand what I’m needing from you…I don’t want to keep you uncomfortable.”

“Yeah. I get it,” Grant replied, following Scott’s lead out of the lab room and into a larger room, with microscopes and other scientific equipment that he didn’t recognize. “Like when they give death row inmates a nice big meal before,” he drew his hand across his throat and made a scratching noise. He was probably being too irreverent, because Lucy’s dad turned around and shot him a disapproving look. There was something satisfying in making him squirm though, even if that wasn’t Grant’s intention.

They reached the far end of the room and Scott opened a door marked “Supply Closet”. Grant made a face.

He had genuinely hoped for a room, not just some glorified temporary shelter, but he supposed it was better than the alternative. Besides, he’d spent enough time in supply rooms to last him a lifetime.

The door opened and Grant peered around Scott.

To his surprise, the closet was huge. Fluorescent lights beamed down from the ceiling, illuminating shelves with various odds and ends. Surprisingly, Scott had been hard at work making the space habitable. He had set up an army cot against one of the walls and then Grant smiled. Stuck to one of the walls with long pieces of masking tape, was the iconic poster for George Romero’s Night of the Living Dead.

“How did you—” Grant trailed off then he looked at Scott, a bit bewildered and confused. Also, touched. Which made the reality of his situation take hold in his chest and suddenly feel oppressive; he wished he hadn’t made light of dying earlier—he was stuck between not wanting to care and believing that he cared too much.

“I know a guy who knows a guy…who knows a guy…who brought some old posters with him here. You were in luck, purely coincidental. It was either that or Farrah Fawcett’s red swimsuit poster.”

“Who’s Farrah Fawcett?” Grant asked.

Scott clapped him on the back. “Yeah, believe it or not, I was just a kid when she was popular.” His eyes landed on the poster and he stared at the iconic image. “Forever ago.”

“Three weeks was forever ago,” Grant said and Scott muttered agreement.

“At any rate,” Scott continued, “this will be locked. But look…” He pointed to an old-school TV/VCR set and a stack of videos. “Entertainment. A bed. I can try to get you books?”

“Sure,” Grant answered. He sat down on the cot and bounced on it a bit; Scott King’s own California King size bed had been his most comfortable night’s sleep since the Release of the virus, but he refrained from mentioning it, worried about how it would sound. “Why are you doing this for me?” Turning to his captor, Grant tried to search Scott’s face for any sign of what was to come.

“Because,” Scott looked down, “I’d want someone to do this for my son…”

“Do what?”

“Treat him well. Treat him…like he mattered.”

“Do I?” Grant asked in a whisper. “How can you say I matter?”

Scott took a long time before he looked up at Grant. “You do matter. You matter very much…it’s just—”

“I matter more as a science experiment than a person?” Grant crossed his arms over his chest. “I get it, Mr. King. I do.”

“I wasn’t going to say that,” Scott said after a moment. “You matter as both. You need to know that I can’t save you. It won’t matter what happens, what you say, how much I think you deserve to live. There is a greater good, a bigger picture. And—”

“Okay,” Grant interrupted and he put up his hand. Nothing had changed from before; the writing on the wall was bright red and clear.

“But I don’t know how long you’ll be here…”

“I already said okay.”

Scott looked like he didn’t want to leave. His eyes scanned the room and he pointed out the blankets, he asked if Grant was hungry, he was stalling, and Grant didn’t know why.

“Mr. King,” Grant said after there was an awkward break. “I’m going to be okay. You can go if you want.”

“Yeah, well, I’ll be back. Running the blood work. Here, I need a swab too.” Scott uncapped a long cotton-tipped stick and instructed Grant to swipe the underside of his cheek with the tip. Then he capped it back and put it in his coat. “Thank you.” He hesitated and then left; there was a distinct clicking and locking, and then the sound of retreating footsteps on tile.

Once Grant thought he was alone, he went over to the door and turned the knob, but it didn’t budge. Then he turned and rested his back and took a look around. He couldn’t help but grin: from one closet to another. Except this time he was alone. And there was no chance of clandestine mobility. And he hadn’t asked Lucy’s dad about going to the bathroom.

While sharing a small space with two girls had been occasionally annoying, he also enjoyed Lucy and Salem’s company during their time in the Pacific Lake storage room. He knew that this would be different.

Grant took a step forward and stared at the procured poster. An odd offering, to say the least. Yet, he was comforted by the small act of kindness. Scott King told him that it wouldn’t change his future, and perhaps that was true, but it did give him a strange sort of hope.

Hope wasn’t bad. Hope could sustain him.

That, and the thought of Lucy somewhere in the EUS Two: enjoying time with her family, eating a hot meal, maybe playing a game with her brothers, reading a book to her sister. He closed his eyes and pictured her enjoying a bath. A real bath.

“Father God,” Grant prayed out loud, unsurprised by his own voice in the small space, “let her just forget I’m here. Just for tonight. Please? If she wants to take up a ‘Free Grant’ cause tomorrow, then I’m all for it. And you know that I’m asking because she deserves just some time…to adjust to her family. I, of all people, can understand that. Just protect her. And have her forget about me. I want her to feel normal again. I don’t want her to hurt anymore. Amen.” Even as the request left his mouth, he knew that he was asking God for a miracle.

CHAPTER TEN

The den was comfortable. Light poured in during the day. A fire flooded the room with an amber glow in the nighttime. Sometimes Ethan asked Darla or Ainsley to crank the Victrola and he’d listen to the scratchy records over and over—there was a surreal quality to his life, and the lack of electricity and the old-fashioned music helped transport him to a different time completely. His pain hadn’t subsided, but his general disposition moved into a more melancholy state, with brief periods of acceptance. When Ethan felt sad about his leg or angry that he wasn’t whole, he let himself daydream about Nebraska.

His family would come for him. And then, when they did, maybe he would be in a place where a prosthetic was a possibility. Dreams of the future sustained him.

“And crabwalk to the bookcase with a beanbag on your head!” Teddy giggled and Ethan smirked as Darla sighed and then set a blue beanbag atop her head and shifted into the crabwalk position.

Darla’s parental resourcefulness crafted a game that kept Teddy busy and amused for long periods of time. The rules were fluid and the activities ever-changing, but the basic idea was the same: they would spread out 52 playing cards out along the carpet of the den. Seven of them were marked with a black X. The rest were marked with symbols that stood for Story, Activity or Task. While the activities varied, the person who drew the seventh X was the loser and the other remaining opponent the victor.

Bemoaning introducing Teddy to the idea of the crabwalk, Darla shifted her body backward. “Mom is getting too old for this,” she huffed and then collapsed, sloughing the beanbag to the floor. Ethan smiled; it was a rote parental complaint—Darla was lithe and in shape, and her continual exploration of the surrounding neighborhoods was a daily activity.

Teddy crawled over and gave his mother an impromptu kiss.

“What was that for, Buddy?” Darla asked, smoothing his hair across his forehead.

The child wrapped himself up into Darla’s lap, silent, and contemplative. Then he looked at her with watery eyes. “I miss Mama,” Teddy said. “I want to go to heaven too.”

“Don’t say that!” Darla snapped at her son and Teddy recoiled, his eyes wide. She then self-corrected and spun Teddy to face her, and she cupped his chin in her hands. “Mommy needs you here, with her. Mommy misses Mama too.” She rocked him and kissed him. “Mommy misses Mama every day. But Mommy needs you, Teddy. We are a team now, okay?”

Darla hadn’t talked about the death of her wife—a moment that Ethan had been present for at the Portland airport, amidst the chaos and pain of Release day. For either Teddy’s benefit or her own, she didn’t continually dredge up the loss. Ethan was impressed by her strength and resilience and he envied her.

Ethan glanced away from the mother and son, to give the duo a bit of privacy, and his eyes locked with Ainsley who was standing in the doorway, shifting uncomfortably as if waiting for an invitation to come in. He motioned for her and she hesitated and then entered, shuffling her feet as she walked over to his dad’s desk—she palmed a baseball on a stand, a souvenir from a Giants’ game down in San Francisco. Scott King had caught a foul ball. The scientist juggled and almost dropped the trophy, but emerged victorious. In the eyes of his young sons, Scott was the hero of the day—saving the bored Kings from the doldrums of their own vacation.

Whenever the family wasn’t sure if a day could improve, Scott would say, a smile on his face, “You have to wait. It’ll get better. I haven’t caught the ball yet.”

Out of loyalty and deference to the memory, Ethan wanted Ainsley to stop touching that prized possession. It belonged to his dad; it meant something. It wasn’t just a trinket for everyone to play with.

“Hey,” Darla said, looking up to Ethan, and tears stained her cheeks. “Ted-bear and I are gonna go have some time together. You mind?”

“Why would I mind?” Ethan asked and he shifted on the couch. The stump of his leg was exposed; he’d grown tired of the blankets.

Darla sniffed and stood up—like an octopus, Teddy wrapped his arms and legs around his mother’s body as she walked out. The two were melded together, like one person. And once they were out of sight, Ethan turned to Ainsley and tried to smile.

“Hey, Ainsley,” he started in that familiar tone that indicated he wanted her attention. “I’m sorry…for the other day.”

The girl shrugged and deposited the baseball back on its stand. He relaxed as he watched her hand release it.

“No,” Ethan continued, determined. “I had no right to kick you out. You were just doing what you had been asked to do. It was stupid. I was wallowing.”

“Of course you were,” Ainsley said matter-of-factly, and she walked out from behind the desk and took a step toward Ethan. One arm hung at her side and she grabbed it with her other arm, scratching her fingernails into the flesh around her shoulder. “I know I’m not…” she paused and gnawed on the inside of her cheek, “always the best communicator.”

“Well—” Ethan tried to think of something kind to say, but Ainsley was right.

“No, I take a long time to warm up to people in general. It’s not you.” She tried to smile, but it was forced and looked more like a grimace. “I’m just bad at…life.”

“I wouldn’t say that.” Ethan pointed to the couch. “You don’t have to just stand there. You can sit.”

She shook her head violently. Then she shifted on her feet.

“I don’t bite, Jeez.” Ethan tried to laugh.

“I’m just awkwardly swaying like a crazy person, huh? Look, this is going to sound insane…but I’m better in large groups. One on one, I get batty. Like there’s this magnifying glass on me. If there’s some God out there, he or she has some sick sense of humor. Hey, Ainsley Krause can’t function in small clusters of people…let’s force her to live in a small cluster of strangers for the rest of her life.”

Ethan’s mouth dropped open and then he smiled. “That was a whole paragraph. You just put like whole sentences together…”

“Yes, this is perfect. Let’s keep doing this. I’ll warm up to you much faster if it’s just nothing but witty repartee.”

“That sounds exhausting.”

“Indeed, my entire modus operandi of any relationship is just to exhaust you until you don’t have any will power left to tell me to get lost.”

“Does that work?”

Ainsley took a step toward the couch and then a step away; then she took four quick steps and plopped herself down at the far end. She waved. And Ethan waved back, amused.

“I just want to start over. I want to go back to the place where I’m not the crazy doctor’s kid who gave you a sponge bath,” she said.

“I don’t remember a sponge bath,” Ethan replied. “Baby wipe bath?”

“It sounded really wrong in my head to say it accurately,” Ainsley said with a shrug. “But as you wish. The crazy girl who cleaned you off with baby wipes.”

“You are right. Much worse.” He laughed and then stuck his hand out across his body, trying with everything inside of him not to grimace or show that it pained him to reach toward his leg. “I’m Ethan.”

“Ainsley.”

Their hands met. His was warm and clammy. Hers was cold and dry.

“I’m an amputee. By way of a car accident caused by the apocalypse. And the oldest of six.”

Ainsley sniffed. “The Northwest’s only nurse. Premiere yo-yo enthusiast. And the youngest of three.” Then she sighed. “Although now…I guess I’m an only child.”

“I don’t know what to think about you, Ainsley,” Ethan replied and he crossed his arms over his chest. “Everything about this is weird. But this must be even worse for you?”

The question gave Ainsley pause and she lowered her eyes and looked around at the items littering the side of the couch. “I don’t know,” she finally answered. “I’m in shock. This isn’t real life. I don’t care how many weeks pass. Sometimes I wish Spencer had just let me die.”

“What?” Ethan paused and looked at her. He remembered Darla saying something vague about the Krause’s being forced to help him, but no one had ever told him the whole story.

“Spencer stuck me with the needle…to vaccinate me…to force my mother to also take the vaccine. I think he was afraid that Darla would kill him if he didn’t deliver the product, but that’s how he saw us. Commodity.” Ainsley tried to run her fingers through her hair, but she didn’t get very far. She gave up and flopped her hands into her lap. “My mom and dad discussed it and said, no thank you. We will not divide our family. And then he took that choice away. He used me, to get to her.”

“I’m sorry,” Ethan said.

“Why? You didn’t do anything wrong,” she said back.

But Ethan hated when people responded to empathy with that comeback. He frowned. “I’m not sorry because I personally caused your pain. I’m sorry because I understand it is an awful situation.”

Ainsley nodded, and then she looked right at Ethan. While bringing her curly hair into a ponytail, she said, “But your father did cause it. So. That’s the elephant in the room.” Immediately after saying that, Ainsley shrunk backward on the couch and covered her face with her hands. She splayed out her fingers and looked at him through the web of digits. “Bad Ainsley,” she mumbled. “Normal people would find a way to build that into natural conversation. It’s just been on everyone’s mind. The subject of conversation, actually. Oh, I have to stop. I’m stopping.”

The expression of it being an elephant in the room took him by surprise. He hadn’t really thought that his personal albatross was causing grief among the outsiders. Other than basic curiosity or, he imagined, anger, he had a hard time envisioning Spencer, Joey, and Doctor Krause dedicating much time to discussing his relationship to the release of the virus.

Now he knew he was wrong.

“Okay, well, now you can’t just stop there. Spill it,” Ethan said and he adjusted himself on the couch so he could lean over and pry Ainsley’s hands off of her face. She groaned and fought him and then relented, curling her hands into her lap, picking at her cuticles.

“I think Spencer wants—” Ainsley paused as if she heard something, craning her neck and peering out the den doors.

“He’s not anywhere near the house. I would be able to smell his bullshit a mile away.”

As if on cue, Spencer appeared around the corner of the den. A sick smirk plastered on his scruffy face. He held an easel and a white flip chart under his arm; he cocked his head and stared at Ethan and Ainsley. Then he cleared his throat. “Yeah, well, settle in, chief. I’m bringing my bullshit in presentation form,” Spencer said and he tapped his office supplies with his free hand.

“You have a presentation?” Ethan asked incredulously.

“Gather the troops,” Spencer replied. “I’ve got something to say.”

Before he worked his way into administration, Spencer was a social studies teacher. He spent his hours lecturing children on World War II and the principles of the New Deal. He taught about mob mentality in Sociology class and the effects of a bull market in economics. In his tenure as an educator, Spencer developed an affinity for the flip chart. As he stood before his neighbors in the Whispering Waters complex, he blinked a red laser pen on and off against a title page that read “Spencer’s Plan” in thick strokes of Sharpie.

He’d clearly given this a lot of thought.

“What’s this about?” Darla asked, with Teddy on her lap.

Joey and Doctor Krause had gathered in the den as well, waiting for Spencer to begin his big announcement.

“I’ve prepared my little speech with some visual aids, which I think will be helpful to your comprehension.” Spencer said. He held a hand on the first sheet of paper, ready to turn it over. “May I begin?”

“You’re calling the shots,” Darla replied, rolling her eyes.

Spencer cleared his throat. “Great. Just the way I like it.” He flipped to his first page. Written at the top it said: Why are we here? Drawn in the middle was a stick figure with one leg. Dripping from the missing appendage was blood, drawn with a red marker.

With a quick click, Spencer trained his laser pen on the image. “As you can see, I’ve answered this question with a clear drawing of Ethan.”

Ethan groaned. He looked around the room and he saw that everyone was staring at the chart with interest, so he settled in and crossed his arms.

“We are here because of Ethan. All of us, in some way, are connected to him. He helped you,” Spencer nodded toward Darla, “or he needed you.” He looked to Doctor Krause. “Okay?” Then he flipped to the next page. A smaller version of the same one-legged Ethan had been relegated to the bottom part of the page and an arrow pointed upward to a larger stick figure: A man in a lab coat holding a test tube. Spencer labeled him plainly as: Ethan’s father.

They all looked at the drawing and waited for the commentary.

“Right,” Spencer continued. “And Ethan’s father is this guy. His role in the virus that killed our world is contested, but it’s clear…he did have a role in it.”

He paused, and then flipped the chart again. Spencer had drawn an outline of the United States of America. There was a circle over Oregon and a circle over Nebraska with two sets of dotted lines connecting the two. Taking his laser pen again, Spencer traveled the first line. “Ethan’s sister and a friend took off to Nebraska to contact the people there. It is with great hope that everyone in this house waits for the people from Nebraska to,” he ran his pen the other direction, “come back to Oregon and…”

He shut the pen off. Waited. And then he flipped the chart. Drawn on the next page was just a single, solitary question mark. “Do what exactly?” Spencer asked.

Teddy, who had been sitting patiently in his mom’s lap, reached up and tugged on her shirt. “Mom, I’m hungry,” the boy complained at full volume. Spencer shot Teddy a look and Darla shushed her child.

“Wait, Teddy. Just wait,” she instructed and Teddy, pouting, collapsed into her side.

Spencer continued. “So, what happens when the guys from Nebraska come back for Ethan?”

Ainsley raised her hand. “Is that a rhetorical question?”

“I hated school,” Joey added.

Doctor Krause said nothing.

“I’ll tell you what I think,” Spencer said, ignoring them all. He flipped the chart. This time it was a picture of a couple other people holding vials, a few others holding guns, all of them frowning—and a collection of dead stick people, drawn in a heap of circles and lines and X-ed out eyes. “We are waiting around for a bunch of people who tried to kill us to try and kill us again. This is not some farfetched concoction. No, no, I am guaranteeing that there is no way in hell that Ethan’s welcoming committee is gonna look at two middle-aged professionals, an awkward teenage girl, a lesbian with a superiority complex and her whiny kid…”

Darla raised both her middle fingers in salute to Spencer, but he shrugged it off.

“Hey…what about me?” Joey called from the back.

Spencer pointed to the back of the room and clicked his laser pen on Joey’s chest. “And that guy. Who continues to flip on light switches when he enters the room even though we haven’t had electricity for weeks now.”

“Light!” Teddy cried triumphantly.

Darla patted Teddy on the head and then turned her attention back to Spencer, “First of all, you’re an asshole. Middle-aged professional? Maybe you won’t make the cut because you’re a power-hungry psychopath. Second of all, we have leverage.” She looked around the room and pointed at the doctor. “Doctor Krause saved Ethan’s life. Before that, I saved Ethan’s life. And you think they’re going to kill a child? Teddy’s just a little boy.”

“They already killed millions of little boys,” Spencer said and he crossed his arms in front of his body.

Darla turned to Ethan who had been quiet for the duration of the presentation. “Well? You want to weigh-in here, chief?”

After a pause, Ethan shrugged. “I don’t know what to tell you. We’re arguing as if they’re on their way…or as if we know they’re coming tomorrow. Maybe no one is coming for me. Maybe this is all just a waste of Spencer’s drawing abilities.”

“I have more,” Spencer added.

“He has more,” Ethan repeated and pointed to the chart. “By all means…”

“Mom!” Teddy called out. “I need a snack. A snack!”

Growling under her breath, Darla looked at Teddy and then pointed to the back of the house. “You know where all the snacks are,” Darla told him. Teddy grumbled, but then relented, scampering out of the room and toward the back patio where the crew had turned the covered porch into a pantry—easily accessible for everyone, with ample room to organize by occasion and type.

Once Teddy had disappeared, Darla spread out her limbs—stretching her legs outward and leaning back on her hands. She motioned for Spencer to continue. He flipped his chart and there was a picture of the outside of the house. Ethan was outside; there were two circles over two of the second floor windows looking down into the yard; and three stick figures stood in the doorway.

“This is the plan,” Spencer said. “I think we stockpile bombs and weapons. We prepare as if a war is coming to Whispering Waters. If it becomes clear that Ethan’s people have come back for him, we set up me and Darla as snipers. Joey, Doctor Krause, Ainsley hold back inside the house and wait for the all-clear.”

“Teddy?” Darla asked, confused.

Spencer cocked his head and frowned. He reached over and grabbed a pen off of Scott’s desk and drew a smaller stick figure next to the character that was supposed to be Darla upstairs. “Teddy hides with his mother.”

“A sniper and the five-year-old. Perfect plan,” Darla snorted.

He ignored her and continued. “We are prepared to attack at all times. We do not let our guard down. They can take Ethan, but they don’t get near us.”

Ethan shifted on the couch and leaned forward. “Wait, wait. This is ridiculous.”

“I agree,” said Doctor Krause from the back of the den. “If they are coming back for Ethan, there is a good chance that they are not here with the intent to kill us.”

Spencer slapped his forehead. “If you were students in my history class, I would be failing you for an inability to see the larger picture. What part of they already tried to kill you did you fail to understand?”

“We have no evidence that Ethan’s father was responsible. Only that he knew about it,” Joey said. “Right? Ethan?”

Ethan remained silent.

Spencer ran his laser pen over the whole sheet in wide circles. “I don’t give a shit if this is the plan…we need something though. Because I’m telling you…there’s no way I’m dying for this kid. You hear me, Ethan?”

“You’re paranoid,” Darla mumbled. “You’re crazy and paranoid.”

With a smirk, Spencer flipped to the last sheet of paper in his presentation. It read in large letters: I AM NOT PARANOID.

“Bravo,” Ainsley said and couldn’t help but smile. “But I think the principal doth protest too much.”

From the dining room, Teddy meandered back into the group. He held a candy-bar in his hand and munched happily on the melting chocolate; it covered his face with smears of mud-colored brown. Plopping himself down next to Darla, he took another bite, and Darla acknowledged his return without glancing in his direction.

“Look,” Darla said, putting her arm around Teddy, “and I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but…I understand the worry. I do. But you’re taking this off the deep end. Setting up snipers? Preparing bombs? Because they’re really going to want to take us back with them when they find out how well we’ve welcomed them to Oregon.”

Darla scooped up Teddy and put him in her lap.

“It’s reactionary,” Ethan added.

Joey opened his mouth to speak and croaked out a few syllables of agreement before Darla interrupted him with a growl.

“Ewww,” she groaned. Darla held her hand out away from her body and looked at Teddy’s face and hands. “What is this?”

“Chocolate,” Teddy replied with his mouth full. He grinned and flashed her blackened teeth.

“You got it all over me!” Darla exclaimed and she set Teddy upright and scrambled to the box of tissues on the bookshelf. “And chocolate?” She paused and then reached down. Grabbing the candy bar wrapper from Teddy’s hand she held it up to the group. “When did we find a collection of chocolate bars?” she asked the room.

The group looked at her.

“Chocolate? News to me,” Joey exclaimed. “I inventoried last night and we definitely didn’t have any candy.”

“Maybe he found it in the kitchen?” Ainsley offered. She yawned and turned her head toward Ethan. He gave a subtle wink and she nodded her head toward Spencer’s display. Ethan shrugged.

Darla, still holding the crinkled wrapper in her hand, leaned down to her son and looked at him. “Teddy,” she said in a slow, firm voice. “Where did you get this chocolate from?”

Teddy shook his head and clamped his mouth shut. He looked to the ground, his lip starting to tremble.

“You’re not in trouble,” Darla added. “But we don’t know where you got it from and we’re just all confused. Can you tell us? Please?”

With everyone waiting for his answer, Teddy leaned in to his mom and dropped his voice to a whisper. “I don’t want to say,” he mumbled. “Everyone’s looking at me. I’m embarrassed.”

“Teddy—” she continued and she lowered her head and her eyes expectantly.

“The man.”

The room took a collective intake of breath.

Ethan snapped his head back to Ainsley, but her eyes were trained right on Teddy. Joey took a step forward and Doctor Krause sat up straighter. And Spencer’s hand went to the gun he kept perpetually in the waistband of his jeans.

Clearing her throat, Darla tried to steady her voice. “What man, Teddy?”

The child wiped his mouth. “The man in the backyard.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Her mother said to be ready at nine for brunch in the Sky Room. She brought in a sundress and a hot pink cardigan, instructed Lucy to take a shower, and even handed her a steaming mug of green tea. Maxine kissed Lucy’s forehead, paused in the doorway, hesitant and unsure, and then ushered her other children away, leaving Lucy all alone to get ready, without any idea of what the Sky Room was or why she had to wear a dress.

Their underground apartment was tiny compared to their two-story home, three counting the basement, back in Portland. And even though Lucy couldn’t get Grant out of her head—where could he be? Did he think she had abandoned him? Was he hurt? Afraid?—she still managed to fall asleep in the bed assigned to her in a small room designed for her and Harper. Late into the evening, after the lights in their room dimmed and the wall night-lights clicked on a soft glow, Harper left her own bed and crawled under the covers with Lucy. Her body filled the empty spots left by Lucy’s own body with a natural flexibility. Harper tucked a leg under Lucy’s legs, pressed her back against Lucy’s belly, and twisted her hair between her fingers. The six-year-old also sucked with ferocious vigor on her thumb; it was a habit Lucy thought her little sister had outgrown.

Yes, Lucy had slept, but only after she had a chance to talk to her dad.

Hours after he left for work per Huck’s bidding, her father reappeared, shedding his lab coat, kissing Maxine, and absorbing hugs from the twins. He proclaimed he was off to bed, but Lucy quizzed him on the System; she stood between him and his bedroom door, unwavering and unwilling to budge.

She learned that the underground housing was powered by solar energy. Had she and Grant ventured up over a grassy hill to the North of Brixton, they would have seen the expansive solar troughs harnessing high concentrations of power and funneling them to their new home. The EUS, as her dad called it, was a dome shape, with ten floors, and on floors one through eight there were 10 pods. The pods held clusters of 5 apartments each. In the center of each floor there were various rooms: a greenhouse for growing vegetables, the medical center Lucy was taken to, a rec center.

Lucy couldn’t conceptualize where the tanks were located. She supposed, as much as she hated to admit it, that her father could be misleading her on the size and scope of the System. She tried to remember the path to the tanks after she was pulled out of the elevator, but everything was a hazy blur—her already distant memory, slipping away before she could grasp it.

It wasn’t too long before she could tell her father grew restless of her questions. He retreated to his simple bedroom, but only after embracing Lucy wordlessly and holding her close to his chest. She could feel his steady heartbeat through his shirt. A consistent and comforting thud-thud thud-thud. “I’m proud of your bravery, Lucy,” he said. And she initiated the end of the hug, pulling away, and curling up onto the uncomfortable beige couch in the corner of the open room.

She wished that everyone understood that she was not the same. The weeks had changed her. How had everyone else arrived at the System unscathed?

The world was dead. Her friends were dead. She was living underground.

But now: brunch with her mom in a sundress just her size.

The dichotomy was dizzying.

Lucy held the dress in her grasp and opened the door to her room. She stood in the middle of the open area, shifting between one leg and then the other. Monroe and Malcolm were playing a board game; moving tiny plastic pieces around some map of the United States. Harper watched them from the couch, sucking away, her index finger curled up over her nose.

“Shower?” Lucy asked and Harper pointed with her free hand to a door next to their tiny kitchenette. She walked across the room and slid into the bathroom, which had a toilet and a tile shower. Shedding her clothes, Lucy stepped onto the tile and turned the shower dial; a low-pressure stream of water trickled from the showerhead. It was lukewarm. Lucy loved her showers hot, scalding—no amount of heat was enough. The tepid water annoyed her and she spun the dial hoping for more, but the water didn’t change temperature. Then Lucy noticed the countdown. Right above the faucet a digital clock ran backward from five minutes. Ticking away.

Working fast, Lucy lathered up what she hoped was shampoo and then rinsed; she watched the suds slip down the metal drain in the middle of the floor. She had enough time to run some of the same soap over her body before the counter reached zero and the shower clicked off, leaving Lucy standing naked and shivering.

She took a towel and wrapped it around her body and then she walked over to the mirror. It wasn’t even steamy. Lucy looked at herself, leaning in and peering at her bare skin, yellow under the light. It seemed already that her cheeks had lost some of their youthful roundness. Her face appeared pallid and gaunt.  She tucked her wet hair behind her ears and sighed.

The Sky Room was a restaurant located on the tenth floor. When they walked through the double doors and into the room, Lucy gasped. The top of the dome was painted as a replica of the sky—just like the ceiling of the Venetian hotel in Las Vegas that Lucy had seen in pictures; artificial light simulated sunlight and from small speakers on the walls, Lucy heard the distinct chirp of birds and a subtle whooshing of wind. Funnel people underground, but give them a fancy restaurant with all the amenities of the outside world? It was all so strange and surreal.

Maxine stayed closed to her daughter, and she had donned a slimming black dress and a pair of heels. Lucy watched as her mother walked up to a podium and told a young man standing there that the King party had arrived.

“Mom?” Lucy asked as the young man then grabbed two paper menus and walked them through a maze of bistro tables where people from the System ate off of mismatched china. “This is weird.”

With an apologetic look around at the people at the other tables, Maxine flashed Lucy a cautionary smile and then motioned for Lucy to sit. The young man handed Lucy a menu and helped her push in her chair. Lucy set the menu aside and took in the room—nicely dressed people, eating in hushed voices.

“Seriously, Mom. I’m gonna freak out,” Lucy continued and set her elbows on the table and looked around. People glanced up to make eye contact with Lucy and smile. Everyone appeared friendly but immersed in his or her own little world.

“Simmer down,” Maxine replied and she took a cloth napkin and placed it in her lap. “I’m not asking you to accept any of this…but I do want to have a nice brunch with my daughter. This place is supposed to be a treat. Can’t I treat you? Isn’t that allowed? When was the last time you had a hot meal? When was the last time we had a date, huh?”

Mother-daughter dates used to be a real thing in the King home. With six children, someone was always feeling neglected, so they became a way to connect one-on-one. The dates went up on the family calendar and nothing, no work emergencies or kid emergencies, ever derailed them. The child was able to choose the outing and it was special and fun. Lucy remembered back on her time alone with her mom with fondness and nostalgia.

“That’s not exactly my point,” Lucy complained. Her mother glanced around at the other tables and then motioned for Lucy to keep her voice down. Rolling her eyes, Lucy continued. “You can’t honestly tell me that this whole thing isn’t…bizarre.”

“It is,” Maxine said curtly. She scratched her cheek and took a breath. “So, what now? You want to leave?”

“Is that an option?”

Her mother dipped her head and leaned closer. “To leave the Sky Room or to leave the System?”

“Both, I guess. And listen to yourself. The Sky Room, Mom. The System? Like, this place has a name…like we’re on an outing…I just…why is everyone acting so normal?”

A different young man approached the table and they pulled apart, returning upright. Lucy blushed.

“Good morning, Mrs. King,” he said addressing her mom by name. “Drinks for you two?”

“Coffee, please,” Maxine requested.

“A mimosa,” Lucy said. “No, just, straight gin. Right. That’s a thing, right?”

Maxine raised her eyebrows and didn’t take her eyes off her daughter. “She’ll have an orange juice.”

“They don’t serve alcohol in the System?”

“We do—” The young man looked confused, he glanced at Maxine and then Lucy with an embarrassed smile, as if he were worried that he wasn’t in on some joke.

“I’ll have coffee too,” Lucy said after a second to spare the waiter, and the boy nodded and walked quickly away.

Maxine tapped her long fingers on the table. Rat-a-tat-tat and then a repeat rat-a-tat-tat, never looking away from Lucy, her brows knit with assessment and concern. Lucy stared back. Maybe before the Release she would have cowered, but something about losing Grant the moment she stepped foot in the underground system, combined with her family’s robotic acceptance, made her feel emboldened. She knew her mother wouldn’t expect it; that she’d play all her cards and expect Lucy to toe the line.

It was Maxine who broke the silence first. And as she started to speak, Lucy realized quickly it wasn’t what she expected.

“I hate this place,” her mother said, not bothering to lower her voice or lean in closer. “You’re absolutely right. All your instincts. You’re right.”

Lucy froze. Then she looked confused. “Do they pipe gaseous truth serum into the air ducts here?”

Maxine didn’t budge. Then she ran her hand through her short bob and folded her hands neatly on the table.

“I didn’t bring you up here to play a game, Lucy Larkspur. I brought you up here because I missed my daughter. God dammit, I have been,” her mother paused, her voice breaking, her chin quivering and Lucy struggled to keep all her own emotions in check, “a disaster. I thought they would have to commit me. It was my fault…”

“No,” Lucy shook her head with sudden sympathy.

“I sent you out of the house that morning. I lost you and Ethan. Still, right now, I can’t forgive myself.”

“But Dad—” Lucy tried to form the argument faster than her mother could shoot it down, but she was too slow. Maxine was armed and ready.

“Sure, I was mad at him too. He lied to me. For years.”

The waiter slid between two tables and set down two steaming coffees in front of them. Then he disappeared again. Maxine cupped her hands around the mug, just like she used to do at home, letting the warmth seep into her fingers. Bending down to blow across the top of the liquid, Lucy tried to take a sip, but the coffee was still too hot. She pushed the cup away and waited.

“He lied to you about everything.”

“Not exactly.”

With a shuddering breath, Lucy closed her eyes. She did not want to hear that her mother knew about the attacks—even in a roundabout way. If her mother had an inkling of what the future would bring, Lucy couldn’t handle it. Imagining her mother as the naïve housewife impervious to the truth wasn’t a better alternative. Neither meshed with what she knew of Mama Maxine. Rewriting her father into his new role was bad enough: Lucy couldn’t fathom not having anything remain the same.

“I won’t try to dumb it down for you, Lucy. Okay? Your dad told me that he was working on something top secret. That even telling me that little bit put my life in danger. He said that he sold his soul to save his family, and that I had two choices. Trust him implicitly and live. Or try to go out on my own, with no guarantee of safety.”

“Some choices.”

“Exactly.”

“You never even let on that something bad was happening.”

Maxine shrugged. “I didn’t know a damn thing. I thought your dad was being hyperbolic or paranoid.”

“You were wrong,” Lucy said with bite, but her mother ignored it.

“It’s been known to happen.”

The waiter reappeared without warning and slid a basket of croissants between them. Lucy’s mouth began to salivate at the sight of the bread and she reached out and grabbed one, shoving the warm pieces of flaky dough into her mouth. She noticed he had also brought butter and Lucy’s eyes widened. She dipped a piece in butter and swallowed it down with minimal chewing. She went back for another.

“Are you ready to order?” the boy asked.

Lucy, her mouth full, turned to the boy and stared at him. She was suddenly full of questions.

“Who are you?” she asked him. And when the boy didn’t answer, Lucy set the rest of her croissant down and turned her body to face him. He shifted away, his eyes scanning the other tables, perhaps hoping for some reprieve. “Where did you come from?”

Maxine put her hand across the table and tapped twice, but Lucy ignored her mother’s not-so-subtle plea.

“Floor D?” the boy answered. “Did you know what you want to eat?”

“Are you a waiter robot?” she asked. “Another one of my dad’s science experiments? Did they breed you in this dome?”

“Excuse me?” his voice shook a bit.

She slid forward in her chair. “I mean, I asked where you came from and you said floor six…and you just want to serve me food. But what about before? West Coast? East Coast? Is your whole family here in this place? Where were you the day of the virus and the bombs?”

“Lucy—” Maxine’s voice was full of warning.

“I just want to know. Because I can’t stop thinking about it and why is everyone else acting like the world hasn’t ended?”

“Lucy. Larkspur. King. You are embarrassing yourself.”

“Should I come back?” the boy asked Maxine and she nodded and was off like a shot, shoving his tablet into his apron and walking toward double-doors that led to what Lucy presumed was the kitchen.

“You want me to play nice, but I don’t even know what’s going on, Mom. You want me to be happy that I’m here, but I don’t know what here is! Who are these people?”

“Survivors.”

“This place comes with its own waiters?”

“They are here just like you and me.”

“Do they know Dad killed their families?” Lucy hissed.

Maxine stood up and smoothed out her dress. Then she walked calmly over to Lucy and leaned close. She was so close that Lucy could feel her hot breath like a punctuation mark against her face. “As your mother, who loves you and lost her mind waiting for your return, I am begging you to shut up. Shut up. Please, please,” Maxine was near tears, her eyes pleading. “We are here for a brunch. I had to make some trades and deals to get us in the Sky Room today…because I needed it to be special. I want something to be special for you. Do not make a scene. Please, listen, do not do this.” Lucy had seen her mother angry, worried, frustrated, and irate. She had followed her mother’s moods like star signs in a book. But if there was one emotion Maxine banished from her life it was panic. And yet, behind her eyes, just below the surface of calm, cool, and collected, there was an undercurrent of that banished emotion.

“What happens here?” Lucy asked in a whisper. She looked at her mother’s skin, soft and creamy without a stitch of makeup; then she looked down at the green tiled floor. “Why are you afraid?”

“I will not lose you again,” Maxine said softly and she tried to place her hand on Lucy’s shoulder, but she shied away.

“Why are you afraid?” Lucy repeated.

“I’m not afraid,” Maxine sighed. “I’m cautious and I’m not careless. I know who I’m dealing with, and I’m being smart. And you should be too. This is our entire future.”

Then she stepped backward and stretched, crossing her arms over her body. She had fortified herself against anything else Lucy was going to lob at her—her eyes narrowed, her body was grounded—but there were just enough cracks showing that Lucy felt all her fight leave her.

When her mother’s emotions were already heightened, it didn’t take much to trigger an even greater storm. Whatever her mother felt about this place, she wasn’t going to divulge it to Lucy in the middle of the Sky Room.

Without comment, Lucy grabbed the paper menu and scanned the brunch items. Pancakes and scones, French toast, eggs. She wondered at the food supply and how the restaurant operated. She wondered many things, but she was afraid her questions would set her mother on a rampage. So, she filed them away.

The young waiter returned. And they ordered. Just like they would have a few months ago, at a real restaurant, above ground.

“Thank you,” the boy replied without making eye contact and Lucy watched as he flitted about to the other tables. Maybe he had been a waiter before the Release; was he just continuing his role in a new place? A new world? Same life, new place. Something about that notion depressed Lucy.

What was the point of surviving if everyone kept falling back into the ruts of their old life?

A murmur spread among the diners and Lucy looked up and saw Huck, with Gordy and Blair, enter the Sky Room. Her eyes followed as the trio was led to a table in the corner. They sat and arranged themselves, and like a wave, the others in the room began to take note of their presence—chatting in more hushed tones, leaning into the tables, nodding in their direction. The shift in energy was clear.

Blair held her body straight and tall, holding herself up with perfect posture. It was as if she was a marionette and the puppeteer from above was pulling her string taut and rigid. At any moment a string could break and Blair’s body would tumble into a heap. The young woman brushed a piece of hair off her forehead and smiled at her brother and her father, then leaned in and laughed.

It was like she knew she was being watched. Every action was for show.

The sight of her made Lucy’s skin crawl, her heart rate increase, and her breath become shallower. She instantly felt a pain in her chest; without thinking about it, she brought her hands up to her chest and monitored the rise and fall of her breathing. Her mind wanted to put her back in the tank with the waters rising, submerging her, but Lucy pushed it away—Blair was irrevocably tied to her memories of drowning. That pain was stamped on her brain and Lucy tried to push away the growing anxiety.

Huck scanned the room, waving at the people and smiling. He made eye contact with Lucy, and she dropped her hands from her chest and blushed, but she couldn’t take her eyes off of him. He nodded deeply to her, acknowledging her presence with solemn reverence. All eyes in the Sky Room turned to Lucy, eager to see who was deserving of Huck’s focused attention: including Blair, whose demeanor shifted, her smile faded.

Hoping that everyone would look away, Lucy bent her head downward and counted to ten before gaining enough confidence to resume normalcy. She wrung her hands in her lap and wished she could just disappear from this place.

A hush passed over the room.

“Why is everyone looking at me?” Lucy asked her mother without looking up.

“Because Huck Truman made a display that he knows you personally. Because you’re important.”

Lucy wanted to cry. “Important?” her voice cracked. She braved the embarrassment and looked up at her mother, whose own face mirrored Lucy’s uncomfortable demeanor.

“Shortly after we arrived, Huck put the System on lockdown. Either you’re in here and you’re safe or you’re out there and you are on your own. There were a few people who missed their planes or families, like ours, who were separated. Huck made a big show that he would deny them entrance. Now, no one ever showed up…that we know of. Until you. And then people found out about the tanks,” Maxine grimaced at the vague reference to Blair’s attempted murder. “The circumstances surrounding your arrival are causing a stir. And Huck doesn’t like unknown variables. Dissent isn’t acceptable.”

Maxine looked weary and sad.

Lucy could only think of one thing, her mind wandering to the person she had left behind. “But Ethan—” Lucy started and her mother silenced her by reaching across the table and giving her hand a squeeze.

“Your father told me that...” her mother’s chin wobbled. She steeled herself and took a sip of coffee. Maxine cleared her throat, “Huck’s plan—” She shook her head, too overcome with emotion to say the words.

“He’s not going back for Ethan?” Lucy asked plainly.

Her mother shook her head.

“But we have to go back!” she snapped, her voice rose above the din. A few heads turned in her direction, their eyes lingering before returning to their meals.

“Be quiet,” her mother warned.

Lucy leaned her head close and whispered. “How can anyone like it here? My friend is gone…maybe dead. My brother wouldn’t be allowed to rejoin his family?”

“It’s worse than that, Lucy,” Maxine lowered her voice too and matched Lucy’s whisper. “No variables. Huck,” she thumbed her finger over her shoulder, “wants no variables.”

Lucy didn’t understand. Then she felt afraid. Maxine was brazen, it was true; before the Release, Lucy would think her mother was a total embarrassment—her outspoken opinions seeped into every facet of their existence. But how could her mother openly discuss the man who held their fate in his hands without fear or worry? Lucy looked at Huck and his family, ordering their meals, and the people at the other tables a few feet away. She gulped. Their discussion felt dangerous.

“Should we talk about this here?” Lucy asked her mother.

Maxine smiled and reached across the table. She took Lucy’s hand in her own and gave it a squeeze. “Your father isn’t entirely certain that our apartment is safe. The Sky Room is loud and busy. Public. And safe.”

“Mom—” Lucy continued to hold her mother’s hand in her own. “What did you mean? No variables.”

She drew in a sharp breath and grimaced. “Grant isn’t supposed to be alive. He had exposure to the virus…he isn’t supposed to be here…he’s an unknown variable.”

Lucy had never known her mother to have trouble spitting things out. She pulled her hands away and placed them in front of her on the table. “Just tell me.”

“Your father has been instructed to create a second virus. For a second release. To…erase the probability of survivors.”

The news wasn’t a total shock, but then Lucy understood what her mother had alluded to earlier. “A new virus?”

Maxine nodded.

“So, people who were vaccinated previously—”

“Aren’t safe anymore.” Maxine confirmed the worst news of all: Scott King was working on a new virus that would eventually be used to kill his firstborn son.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Darla and Spencer were the first to sprint out of the den and toward the back; fearless and united, they stumbled out onto the covered porch and then halted in their tracks, scanning the area with guns drawn. Wordlessly Spencer motioned for Darla to take one side of the patio, but before they could fully explore the yard and the surrounding areas, Darla recognized that something was wrong.

“The food,” she said, her mouth dropping open. “Spencer…where is all our food?”

Stopping on the steps, Spencer scanned the porch and then swearing loudly, he took a giant leap out onto the lawn and rushed to the side yard. He fired a warning shot up over the open gate, but Darla yelled after him.

“Don’t fire, don’t fire,” she screamed, running to the side of the patio.

“Joey!” Spencer called. Then he pointed to Darla, “Tell Joey to grab a gun.”

She crouched down and looked at the emptiness of the patio—earlier that day they had mountains of the ready-to-eat meals that Ethan’s father had left them, in addition to the other canned goods and non-perishables salvaged from the surrounding neighborhoods. Altogether they had collected over six months of food for the entire group and all of it was gone.

Darla had suspected someone was squirrelling away food, but Joey had started the nightly inventory and the small disappearances had stopped.

The shock of the empty porch was almost too much to handle.

Joey wandered to the porch and whistled loud and low. His face went white and he tapped his foot  “How on earth—”

“Right under our noses,” Darla groaned. “Teddy!” she called back into the house. “Teddy!”

The child appeared just beyond the screen, pressing his nose against the mesh. “Yes, mama?” Teddy asked, tentative and unsure. He knew that something had gone wrong and he frowned and rocked on the other side of the door.

She turned to Joey. “Go tell the others what happened…but don’t be all alarmist…can you exude calm leadership? Seriously. Calm, leadership,” Darla commanded. “And meet Spencer out front.”

With a salute, Joey disappeared back inside as Teddy joined his mother on the porch and Darla, with a furtive look around, put her hands on Teddy’s shoulders and smoothed his curls with her hand.

“What did the man look like?” she asked Teddy. “Do you remember what the man looked like?”

Teddy shook his head.

“Can you remember anything? What he was wearing? Did he say anything to you?”

For a second, Teddy pondered all the questions. Then he raised a finger, “I remember! He asked me if my mommy was inside.”

A chill traveled down Darla’s spine. “Good,” she told her son, steadying her voice, and forcing a smile to comfort him. “Anything else?”

“No. Just…is he a bad guy, mommy?” Teddy asked, wide-eyed.

Darla kissed Teddy on the cheek. “Yeah, buddy. I think he was a bad guy.”

“Oh,” was all Teddy said, but he looked clearly conflicted. “Am in trouble for eating the bad guy’s chocolate?”

“Not at all.” Darla looked at Teddy and turned his head so she could look in his eyes. “You are not in trouble, Buddy. But it’s time to go inside and stay with Ethan, okay? Don’t come out here again unless mommy calls you.” Darla directed Teddy back into the house and as the screen door shut behind him, she sighed. Such a life for her little man. Then she hopped down into the backyard and bent to examine the grass. As Oregon drifted closer to May, the rain made sporadic appearances and the lawn was still damp, the ground underneath soft. Darla instantly noticed the wheel tracks in the mud next to the lower step—whoever stole the food had to have made several trips. It was an undertaking that seemed suspicious in both scope and execution. The thief was brazen or he was stupid: he would have spirited away wheelbarrow load after wheelbarrow load right under their noses. It was a feat.

Although, if it weren’t for Teddy stumbling upon the robbery, Darla supposed they wouldn’t have noticed for a couple more hours. Did the man know their schedules? Was he watching them? Where did he come from?

It seemed unlikely that anyone from Nebraska would venture all this way to kill them through slow starvation.

Spencer marched back to Darla through the open gate with Joey on his heels.

“Wheelbarrow,” Darla said pointing to the tracks.

“Moron,” mumbled Spencer. “If it was our stash he was after, why take it all at once? If you have the element of surprise, of people not knowing you exist? Why tip your hand? He could have bought himself a week or so…you know that we’d all think Joey was just screwing up the inventory.”

Joey scrunched his nose. “Hey now,” he challenged, but then he met Spencer’s gaze and shrugged. “Whatever, man.” He bounced anxiously on the balls of his feet.

“Maybe he’s planning on leaving the area?”

“He will if he’s smart,” Spencer said. He hacked and spit a mucousy stream of saliva to the ground.

Joey fidgeted with the gun at his side and looked between Spencer and Darla in turn. “He can’t be far, right? We can find him. Let’s go. Let’s take off—a couple of us in each direction.”

“He’s gone,” Darla said matter-of-factly. “And he has everything we need with him.” She kicked the grass and swore under her breath. They’d survived without devastating hardship—cold meals, no showers—because they had food and water. Now, every day would become about scrounging for sustenance and nothing more; they were about to feel the pain of this existence in the most visceral way possible: hunger. Thirst.

“In words hardly ever spoken,” Spencer said, “I think Joey’s right. We know these neighborhoods; there’s no way someone took off on foot with all our supplies…and a car or a truck only gets you so far. Any of the major roads are still blocked.”

“We have to try. That’s everything we have,” Joey whined.

Darla closed her eyes for a second and then sighed. “He knew the stash was here. Right?” The men nodded. “And he knew we were here. He had a car…that we didn’t hear…”

“He parked it a block away. Left it running?”

“How did we not hear that?” She looked to the ground, ruminating on all the ways this was even possible. “Okay. We split up.” She looked up and checked her weapon and then started marching toward the front.

“Hold up!” Spencer called to her back. “Who’s with who?”

Darla spun and rolled her eyes. “You two, head west. I’ll head east.”

“By yourself? You want us to grab Gloria? Ainsley?” Joey asked. He took a step back toward the porch. “The man could be dangerous.”

She smirked and rolled her eyes. “Please, boys. Please. If he’s dangerous, I’m better off by myself. I don’t have time to find a thief and babysit.” And with that, she jogged out toward the front of the house, her gun drawn, and on high alert for anything that seemed out of place.

The bodies in the yards were even more disgusting as time passed. Skin rotted away to reveal gelatinous insides, some of which spilled out into pools on the ground. All over the neighborhood the stink of death and rot drifted with the wind; but the King House crew had become accustomed to the smell, and only occasionally did the odor elicit any response. Darla had traversed the neighborhood, the offshoots of the subdivision, many times.

She knew each unmoved landmark: Car driven into garage at ten o’clock. Body of man in pajamas on upstairs balcony straight ahead. The blue Volvo with the door open would appear on the next block. Right next to the house that burned down, an abandoned fire truck, its lights long dead, still sitting outside. The hose tangled forward and never retracted, the bodies of the firefighters MIA.

Many of the homes had been searched for supplies. The dead did not need cereal boxes and canned goods. They didn’t need their flashlights or their supplies of Ibuprofen. Darla never judged the homes she raided. A house four blocks away from the Kings sported an obese man who died in his bathtub. Naked and forever at rest in discolored water. Six homes down from the naked man was a beautiful, well-landscaped bungalow that turned out to be owned by a hoarder. Darla didn’t make it five feet into the house before unleashing a terrible avalanche of boxes and paper bags filled with garbage.

The lives of the dead were not interesting to her. She didn’t care what they were reading when they died. She didn’t care if they were alone or if a family died together. She noticed, but didn’t care, if there were animals left unburied, or tributes to animals who passed before their owners—immortalized for their short lives before anyone realized that they would follow closely behind.

No, Darla only cared if the dead had something to offer her.

Scanning the street, Darla saw nothing out of the ordinary. Nor did she hear a car or a truck. The distinct roll of an engine was absent. She ambled in the open, unafraid, for she was convinced that the new owner of their non-perishable supplies would not be stupid enough to stay where he could be found.

She checked each vehicle with her memory. Black mini-van at green house, unmoved. Red truck at tan house. Unmoved.

Then Darla stopped.

A rumble. White noise, but distinct. A car was running and from somewhere relatively close. The strange noise called to her and she tried to place it. Darla wandered through a yard, waltzing past an uncovered boat, the house with the open slider, the family of four all together in one of the back bathrooms, like they were hunkering down for a tornado instead of a virus. She emerged on one of the next streets over and scanned the familiar landmarks.

Darla froze.

She looked down at the ground and then back up again, as if the truck with its small utility trailer attached to the hitch was just a figment of her imagination. Four houses down, the truck idled. It couldn’t be real. But there it was—the door on the trailer raised up halfway and the inside fully stocked with their stolen food. Opening and closing her mouth like a fish, shocked that it would just be sitting here out in the open, Darla adopted a steady stance and brought her right arm straight out in front of her; her gun trained at the back of the trailer.

Then she lowered her gun and took three giant steps to the side to get a better look. Darla’s mouth dropped open and she let out an involuntary gasp of surprise.

“You’ve got to me kidding me,” she scoffed. And then she felt like a fool for not thinking of it sooner. How had they not assumed it before? How could the possibility have eluded them? “Of course.”

Written in swoopy letters across the side was: From Up Above Tours. Beautiful Adventures Daily.

From inside a two-story house, Darla saw a rustle of curtains, and so she waited. After a few more minutes, a tall man emerged carrying a case of beer and nothing else. He whistled as he walked, moving his small haul with ease, and unaware that he was being watched. It was easy to see the resemblance even from a distance—the same sandy-blonde hair, the same lumbering gait. He sported no gun that Darla could see and she knew that shooting at him would be like firing upon a sitting duck.

Still, the duck stole their food.

She was conflicted.

The man tossed the beer into the back of the utility trailer and then closed the door, taking the time to latch it closed. Then as he started to walk back to the bed of the truck, Darla took long strides forward. Still, he had not noticed her. Darla realized that she was not dealing with a brave mastermind; she was fairly certain this overlooked member of their community was just an inept thief.

“Hey!” Darla finally called after him, unwilling to let him climb into his truck without acknowledgment of her appearance.

He halted and then turned. His eyes locked into Darla’s and he looked like he was about to pee himself as he registered her gun and her slow approach.

“You have some things that belong to me,” she called and her voice echoed down the street. Me me me me.

He brought up his right hand and waved once in reply.

Darla took her free hand and waved once back. “Yeah, okay,” she whispered to herself. “Whatcha gonna do now, huh?”

Before she could shout at him again, the man scrambled into the cab of his truck, put the car into drive, and screeched off down the street. The trailer swung and bobbed as he made his hasty escape, barely missing parked cars and mailboxes. Darla merely stood and watched him flee—he took a hard right, and then gunned it down the next street over. His panic was evident in the erratic escape, the noise of his truck fading into the distance.

She smiled.

He was heading home.

And she was pretty certain that he would be confident they couldn’t find him there.

Except, she knew exactly where he lived.

Clicking the safety on her gun, Darla slipped it into the holster, and stood in the street for a long, reflective minute, before turning back around and walking with quickened strides back to the King House.

It was going to be a strange afternoon.

Ethan made a face. And Spencer looked confused. Only Joey seemed to sense Darla’s excitement.

Darla had called the troops together in the den and relayed what she experienced.

“Wait, wait,” Spencer said, raising his hand. “You know this guy?”

“No,” Darla said, exasperated. “Grant…the kid you kept locked up in your school with Ethan’s sister? The one who went with her to Nebraska? Pretty sure this is his dad. Looked just like him and was driving the trailer we pulled a giant deflated hot air balloon out of.”

“Why didn’t you just shoot him?” Spencer asked. “Easiest way to get our food back.”

“I didn’t want to shoot him,” Darla snapped. “He wasn’t hostile. I know where he lives. Maybe we can avoid killing the small population that is left. Just a simple thought. Besides, I got the impression he wasn’t a threat. If he’s not dangerous, then he’s just stupid.”

“Great,” Ainsley said from the corner. “He and Joey can be buds. We can hum the Benny Hill theme song whenever they try to do anything together.”

“The Benny Hill song?” Ethan asked from the corner.

Ainsley looked at Ethan and rolled her eyes, “You know, Yakety Sax? That bumbling anthem that always plays when clowns are pouring out of a clown car…or during a clip-show when they show a montage of people getting hit in the balls?”

“I’m so glad you guys think so highly of me,” Joey chimed in.

Doctor Krause moved the conversation back on track. “What’s your plan, then?” She moved herself over to Ethan and attempted to do a round of vitals, but Ethan swatted her away; defeated, she sat down on the side of the couch next to him and waited. She looked between everyone and said, “Well?”

“Ambush. We’ll surprise him…drive our food back. Gloria and Teddy stay back with Ethan. We arm Ainsley—take her for appearance only. Beef up our numbers. We won’t even load her gun.”

“For appearance?” Ainsley cringed. “If it’s appearance you’re after, why don’t you dress my mom up in some leggings and take her instead?”

Darla ignored the dig. “Look…on the off-chance that this guy is armed and good with a gun and he happens to know we’re coming and takes us all out…then I’d much rather have a doctor stay alive to care for my son and Ethan in my absence.”

“Now I clearly know my value in this household,” Ainsley quipped. “Joey and I are going to form a least-appreciated club. None of you are welcome.”

“Yeah,” Joey replied and he pumped his fist. But he had no further retort.

Ethan frowned. “I’m even forgotten about for the least-appreciated club? Thanks.” Then he turned to Darla and narrowed his eyes, “If the cripple is perpetually stuck at home, shouldn’t I at least get a choice of company?”

“Goodness,” Doctor Krause teased. “I was never once picked last in dodge ball, you know. Y’all are going to give us a complex.”

“It’s not that,” Ethan added. “It’s just…that’s sort of a grim future for me. At least if I get Ainsley I have a chance of a pity hook-up.” He looked at Doctor Krause, “No offense.”

Doctor Krause grumbled her disapproval at Ethan’s lewdness, but Joey snickered and leaned over for a high-five.

“In your dreams,” Ainsley said, but everyone in the room noticed her cheeks turning red. So, she held her head up and put her hands on her hips. “I’ll go with you,” she quickly added to Darla.

“Ouch,” Ethan said and he stabbed an imaginary knife into his heart. “Fine. You’re going to make me do this the hard way. If you make it back from the trenches, you want to go out on a date? I know a place. It’s called my mom’s kitchen.”

Ainsley blinked twice. Then she turned to her mom, “Did you up his pain killers this morning?” She then turned back to Ethan, “Are you drunk?”

“I’m happy we get the food back,” Ethan replied with a shrug. “And yes…I may have gone a little heavy on the codeine.” He brought his hands up to demonstrate that he had imbibed a bit heavier than usual.

“What’s drunk mean?” asked Teddy from the corner, lifting his head up from a coloring book for a second before going back to his drawing.

Spencer grumbled, “Is everyone done? I have a headache, I’m tired, and I’m ready to get this bastard and our supplies. Forgive me for not having an invested interest in Ethan’s suffering libido.”

Darla, Joey, and a disgruntled Ainsley examined their weapon supply and then headed out the front door, slamming it behind them.

The Trotter farm looked exactly as Darla remembered it. The generator they used for the fan still sat in the middle of the yard; the barn remained open and the house still looked shut up and empty. The only difference was that the pick-up truck and the white trailer now sat out front—a beacon for the four survivors.

“Didn’t he think we’d notice a truck and utility trailer on our street?” Joey asked as they gathered behind the front shrubs.

“But we didn’t notice it on our street,” replied Ainsley.

Spencer maneuvered himself to the front. “All right, so we find a back door. Or head in through the garage. Or do we split up?” He craned his neck to watch the house. “We can’t assume he’s not armed.”

“We don’t split up. We stay together. Follow me,” Darla instructed and she motioned for the group to scamper across the yard, ducking and making a beeline toward the trailer. When they reached it, Ainsley was winded. She shot Darla a look.

“What? It’s a large yard.”

“Stay here,” Darla said and after a quick scan, she walked to the trailer and threw the door open. Inside was bare. All the spoils of war had already been carted inside. Shoved to the side in the now-empty space was an overturned wheelbarrow with mud caked to the wheels. Darla shut the doors and joined the clan. “We’ll have to load everything back up.”

“We should take everything he raided,” Joey added with a small bounce. “Leave him hungry.” He looked at everyone in eager anticipation.

Darla shook her head. “He’s entitled to the stuff he found fair and square. I can’t imagine if he’s been hitting up the same houses we already looted that he’d have much of anything. And he’s about to lose his goldmine.”

Joey grumbled, “I don’t know why you’re being so civil. This guy stole from us. You goin’ soft on us?”

“My job is to get our food back, not to start some war—”

“Hey guys,” Ainsley interrupted in a lazy drawl.

Spencer moved toward the front of the truck, his gun drawn. He peered toward the open garage. “A generator? Oh, hell yes. We’re taking the generator as payment for this guy being a pain in the ass.”

“Um, guys—”Ainsley said again without urgency.

“Spit it out, Ains,” Darla said while keeping her eyes trained on the porch.

“Yeah, um, the dude we’re looking for is just chilling over there,” she lifted her hand and pointed to a corner of the yard.

The man sat in a lawn chair, sunglasses on, holding a beer can. He didn’t move or wave, but they could see the steady rise and fall of his chest. His head was titled to the side and his cheek flat against his shoulder.

“I’m pretty sure he’s asleep,” she added and then dropped her arm, with her unloaded gun, by her side.

Darla grumbled and took off marching and as she neared the chair, it became clear that Ainsley’s prediction was true. There the thief sat, sheltered from view initially by a large weeping willow, in a plastic lawn chair; his head hung limp to the left and he snored on occasion with a throaty growl, his hands clutching his newest treasure: warm beer.

Raising her gun, Darla poked the muzzle against the man’s shoulder. He didn’t budge. She tried again, this time poking his cheek. He shifted in his chair, his beer can sliding down his hand an inch, but still he didn’t wake.

“What do you expect?” Ainsley asked. “Stealing our stuff was hard work.”

Spencer cleared his throat. “Come on, step back,” he said. Then without warning, he raised his hand upward and fired two shots into the air. Bang-bang, in rapid succession.

The deafening blast wakened the sleeping man with a jump and, startled, he flailed wildly, flinging his can to the ground, where it dropped with a thud, foamy liquid pouring out in a gush and seeping into the grass. Then he tipped over in the chair and scrambled backward, his eyes wide like saucers above his now-askew sunglasses. And when he settled, his breathing heavy, on the ground in a heap, he ripped the glasses free and stared up at his visitors with shock.

Darla motioned and snapped once and immediately the four of them trained their guns on the thief. Even Ainsley brought her hand up, although her weak wrist made it look like she was pointing the gun at the man’s feet.

“Don’t move,” Darla said. She was calm, as if discovering him was merely inconvenient, but her tone was still commanding. “Sit up and put your hands where I can see them.”

“I’m not armed,” the man replied. “I’m not armed,” he said again as he shifted to his knees and lifted his hands so the crowd could see.

“You have a productive day today?” Spencer asked, his voice dripping with contempt. “Maybe you wiped out our entire food supply? Maybe you thought you’d leave us to die? And you bought a little boy’s silence with a chocolate bar?”

The man was quiet. Then he licked his lips and blew a breath of air. “Look man,” he motioned toward the guns, “I’d feel a lot more comfortable if you lowered your weapons.”

“No,” Darla answered.

“I’m not armed and I’m not dangerous. So, maybe lower the guns out of my face?” The man raised his eyebrows and waited, and then he added, “Please?”

“What’s your name?” Darla asked, taking a step forward.

“Dean. Dean Trotter,” he answered and Darla exchanged a look with Spencer.

“Well, Dean,” Darla answered without budging, “I’ve got good news and I’ve got bad news. You have a preference of which I tell you first?”

Dean thoughtfully considered his options. “I want the bad news first.”

“Everything you took today from us…we’re taking it back. And we’re taking your generator. And we’re taking your truck and trailer to transport. Unless you’ve got a stash of weapons too and a small army hidden in your house, I’m pretty sure you’re screwed. But I’ll make a deal with you…you walk back for the truck and we’ll hand over the keys. I don’t need your truck.”

Dean coughed. “Look…”

“You don’t get to negotiate,” Spencer snapped. “Keep your mouth shut.”

“Fine,” Dean answered, lowering his head. “What’s the good news?”

Darla smiled, “We aren’t going to shoot you.”

Ainsley leaned forward a few inches and cocked her head. “And your son may be alive and on his way to Nebraska?” she added. “I never met the dude, I was just saying…in case you were wondering.”

“I wasn’t,” Dean replied. “Who else would’ve loaded up my brother’s balloon without my permission?” He scanned the faces of his captors and ran his hand through his hair, then he flashed them a sheepish grin, all teeth, and tossed his hands up. “Well, I’m sorry about the stuff, but you can’t blame a guy for trying. Right?”

“You can, actually,” replied Darla.

“You stole from a child,” Spencer added. “That didn’t cross your mind?”

Dean scrambled to his feet, still raising his hands. “Hey now. It wasn’t like that. I didn’t think…I thought you had more. Who puts all their food outside?”

“People who think they’re the only ones left in Oregon,” Ainsley replied. “But point taken.”

Darla shot her a look. Ainsley pursed her lips and shrugged.

“Well,” Dean continued. “Look, no hard feelings. Really…I’m just a dude trying to hunker down for the duration, you know? I’d been watching the houses… I didn’t want trouble. Just…I didn’t think you could follow me. My stash was dwindling…you run out of places to go. I want to start over. Can I start over?” He waited for their reply. Then he shot out his hand.

The group exchanged wearied glanced.

“I have weapons back at the house,” Dean added quickly. “And a large stockpile. I’ve hit up East County in my spare time…got the trailer up past 182nd one day. I’ll let you take a look. Maybe we can work out some trades. Your meals would make life easier.”

Darla shook her head with disbelief and Joey watched wide-eyed. Then he was the first to chuckle; a slow bubbling laugh that he tried to suppress and then, understanding its inappropriateness, it only seemed to grow. When he looked at Dean, he stood there with a half-smile on his face, watching Joey like he was a simpleton.

“I’m sorry,” Joey said after a long second. He covered his mouth his hand. “I’m sorry. Just…” he laughed again, “I think we just made a friend.”

Spencer muttered under his breath, but then was the first to lower his gun. “You’re a real piece of work, Dean,” Spencer said and he put his hand on Darla’s arm, encouraging her to follow suit. She resisted at first, shaking Spencer off, but then he gave her a solitary look—a moment just between them, and Darla dropped her weapon. Then he turned back to Grant’s dad and sighed, “I can’t decide if you’re a genius or an idiot.”

“Don’t think I haven’t heard that before,” Dean said with a smile. “Anyone up for a beer?”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Scott moved Grant back into the lab, keeping a firm hand on the boy’s elbow as he directed him into the bright, sterile room. He bypassed securing Grant to the table, but Lucy’s father still seemed hesitant and on-edge, as if Grant might bolt. Which was a ridiculous worry, since Grant knew he was trapped. He’d been in the supply closet at least a few days, but maybe even longer, and Scott ventured down during strange and unpredictable hours to help Grant eat, go to the bathroom, and then he’d run his tests. Bruises formed along his arm from the poking and prodding after blood draws and other needle pricks. While Grant had never been squeamish about medical procedures, and he didn’t intend on starting now, he’d certainly taken a beating under Scott’s careful watch.

Whatever those tests were telling Scott King, Grant had not been privy to the details—but while he still tried to engage Grant in shallow conversations about books and movies, his entire demeanor suggested that he was a world away. Detached and distant, Scott treated Grant like a talking monkey: A fascinating specimen with intriguing ideas, worthy of basic conversation, but perhaps not human decency.

At the end of the day, here in the System, Grant was only a lab rat.

A lab rat with acute self-awareness.

His video collection pile was dwindling and during the hours of solitary confinement ennui was Grant’s most overwhelming emotion.

“I brought you some new books,” Scott said as Grant hopped up and walked out toward the lab, the schedule of events rooted firmly into place.

“You have a library in this place?” Grant asked.

Scott nodded. “Very well stocked, too,” he added.

Grant shrugged. “Did you have to decide what to bring? Was it like some committee of the best minds in literature sitting around some table all arguing with each other?” He sat up a little straighter and assumed a deep-announcer voice, “If you’re about to annihilate the world and live underground, what five books would you take with you?”

“Something like that,” Scott replied. “The difference is that over the course of time, we will have access to everything again. The books left above ground are not lost forever…just for a time,” he explained.

“Can I make requests then?” Grant asked. He thought maybe he’d try to read through all those books his high school teachers said were important, but he hadn’t ever tried to read. It was a start. The idea had come to him while he thought of Lucy—he remembered her trying to read through Fahrenheit 451 while they had been trapped together. He thought maybe she’d be proud of him.

“Certainly,” Scott replied. He organized his tools and counted vials. He wasn’t too chatty and it made Grant feel awkward and more inclined to start a conversation. They had endured long silences in the lab before, but only when Grant was feeling woozy from the experiments. Scott was the only person Grant had left to talk to.

“Whatcha got for me today?” Grant asked, glancing at Scott’s usual assortment of medical equipment.

Scott walked over and put Grant’s arm flat against his own. He inserted a small needle into the flesh of his upper arm. Then he pulled the needle out and inspected the injection site. The shots rarely hurt, but this one ached instantaneously. Grant felt a little lightheaded and he looked at Scott askew, rubbing his arm.

“That’s a new one,” Grant said.

“A direct injection of the virus.”

Grant shot up and opened his mouth to protest. The word took a bit to form as he felt himself starting to panic. “I told you,” he said, his voice rising. “I want to know. You don’t get to do it without warning. I need a chance to prepare. It’s all I’ve asked for.” He felt close to tears. Passing away on the table in the middle of talking about books was not how he needed it to happen. He’d asked Scott numerous times to let him know if the end was near; besides incidentals, it was the only legitimate thing he had asked of Lucy’s father, even though he could think of a million more things he truly wanted instead.

“This won’t kill you,” Scott said matter-of-factly.

“Direct injection? Of the virus that killed everybody?”

“It won’t kill you. You’re immune. Finding out why is the next step. But I need to see if your cells respond at all. If the virus multiplies at all. It’s crucial.”

“Why?” Grant asked.

“Lots of reasons. Are you still a carrier? How does your body respond? Where does the virus become inhibited? At what point in the process does that happen? I have many questions and no answers. You’re puzzling, Grant.”

Grant nodded and rubbed the injection site. When Scott looked down for a second, he wiped his eyes and tried to make it look like he was just scratching an itch.

“I wrote Lucy a letter with the paper you gave me,” Grant said after a moment. The light-headedness passed, but his arm still ached. He hadn’t wanted to tell Scott about the letter yet, but the end seemed closer—more tangible. He’d hate to have his words go to waste.

His statement caused Scott to freeze, and he closed his eyes. When Lucy’s dad opened them, there was a twinkle. A knowing look. Grant regretted mentioning the letter if teasing was on the menu. When it came to their bizarre relationship, Scott often blurred the lines between his role as torturer and his role as Grant’s solitary companion.

“You did?” Scott asked.

“It’s a goodbye…it’s a—” he wanted to say a manifesto, but that wasn’t the right word. It was his final attempt to say what was in his heart. It was a way to keep himself alive in her heart. He hesitated, “She’s my friend. My only friend, I guess.”

Scott leaned against the metal bed and then put a hand on Grant’s shoulder. The gesture felt awkward—an act of fatherly intimacy that Grant felt like Scott didn’t deserve. He looked at Scott and wondered what he would say, how he would respond, if Lucy ever shared the letter with him. Under different circumstances, he might have met Scott as he picked up Lucy for a date. He’d have shaken his hand at the door and exchanged mumbled conversations about dinner plans. He’d have tried to assess what kind of father Scott was going to turn out to be: relaxed and kind, militant and angry. Would he have waited up until they returned? Or would he have left the post-date spying to his wife? Grant shook all those thoughts away. He tried not to entertain them.

When Salem had kissed him outside the journalism room, Grant wished he had been kissing Lucy. But it never seemed like the right time to bring that up; there was nothing like the worry and threat of disaster to thwart romance. As their days and weeks progressed together, he knew that if he could make it through this, he hoped Lucy would remain by his side. He’d wanted her to give him a signal, anything, to let him know that he wasn’t the only one feeling a connection. But she’d been so focused on her family, on Ethan, on the future—it was never the right time.

Besides, it was stupid to daydream about traditional romance. Stupid to think that there was room in this new life for dating, falling in love, planning for the future.

It all seemed ridiculous. Like a rope from the old world he wanted to hold onto until the last possible moment.

“So, do you confess your undying love for my daughter?” Scott asked and he raised his eyebrows.

“No—no,” Grant stammered, suddenly embarrassed. His cheeks flushed. That was new: blushing was not a normal reaction. The letter was void of romantic intentions because he wasn’t going to use his last dying words to make Lucy feel forever tethered to him. There was unfairness in that. He had let her know how much she had meant to him during their weeks of travel. He had hoped to leave her with something positive.

“I always used to joke with Lucy that if she dated a guy and I didn’t get to meet him first, I’d kill him and she’d never be allowed out of the house,” Scott said to Grant. He laughed. “Apparently I’m prophetic,” he said with a smile. Then he stopped laughing, looked at Grant, and started to laugh again. Inappropriate dark humor was a common theme in their conversations. Usually, Grant thought Scott’s brand of humor was endearing. He lacked a certain self-awareness that made Grant feel more comfortable—like a goofy drunk uncle.

Grant gave Scott a half-smile, but out of politeness. “You can read the letter beforehand, if you want.” It was a bluff, but he hoped the transparency would indicate that he had nothing to hide. “It’s not really like that—Lucy and I never…she’s just my friend…are you sure I’m not going to die?” He pointed at his arm.

“Yes, I’m sure. Not today. You’re not going to die today. I can’t explain it yet, but I’m confident about that,” Scott walked back over to Grant and ran his finger over Grant’s arm. “Is that tender?”

With a sniff, Grant nodded. “I have the letter on me. It’s in my pocket. Just…in case.”

“You really don’t trust me? To keep my word? You thought today you’d wake up and I’d just inject you and we’re done?” Scott shook his head. “It’s okay. We have time.” Then Scott turned his head and eyed Grant carefully; the look made Grant draw back.

“How much time?” Grant looked down at the table. The idea of months upon months in that small closet was worse than the threat of death. He tapped his fingers against the metal frame. Maybe Lucy’s father was on some sort of strict timeline, but it didn’t feel like that most of the time.

To prove that point, Scott merely shrugged and then leaned over and patted Grant on the back. “I think we have a lot in common, you and I,” Scott said. Then he left Grant alone and went to his workstation, where he messed around with vials and slides under a microscope, mumbling little noises of approval or confusion.

“How so?” Grant asked after a while.

“What? Huh?” Scott asked, spinning around, and then he made a face. “Oh, yes. Just…you’re not a complainer. Not a big fighter. It’s funny…there are two camps, even when you work with animals.”

“Animals?”

“Mice. Monkeys. Even the animals…two camps. Very distinct.” Scott pulled a petri dish off of the shelf and added a solution to it; he then slid some of the dish’s contents onto a slide and stuck it under a microscope. “There are those who are born to fight and those who are born to accept. Line up. Kill me, I won’t fight it, types.”

“That sounds like an indictment,” Grant said. He could hear this father’s voice running like an undercurrent through that faint-praise: You’re weak, Grant. You got to get out there and just jump right in. Take some chances. We’re fighters, you and I, and the Trotters don’t give up, we don’t roll over, we don’t quit.

“Not at all. At least I don’t think so.” Scott didn’t look up. “I do think it’s a trait we share. I’ve never been a big complainer either. And I think I’m happier for it.”

There was nothing he could say as a reply. Grant wasn’t happy. He was resigned. There was a marked difference.

“The cells are like little fortified battalions. I’m confused by it entirely,” Scott said, although he didn’t seem to direct this news to anyone in particular. “And if they aren’t responding to the direct injection…” he trailed off.

Grant’s hand went into his back pocket and he pulled out his letter to Lucy. He had written her name across the envelope—he hated his childish scrawl, the ‘y’ of her name looked like a ‘g’, but maybe she wouldn’t inspect her name too closely. Maybe she would just run her finger over the little image he drew in the corner: A hot air balloon, two stick figures sailing through the air. They were holding hands.

He hadn’t noticed Scott walking back up to him, holding a new set of needles.

“Is that the letter?” Scott asked and he leaned over. “To Lucy?”

Grant nodded. He went to put it back in his pocket, but Scott stuck out his hand.

“I’ll put it in the lab safe. Just to be sure.”

There was a moment of hesitation, but then Grant handed the envelope over. The longer it stayed in his pocket, the harder it was to think about the fact that he would never see Lucy again. Resigned, it was the perfect way to describe how he felt. Scott reiterated every day: There was only one way this could end. Kicking, screaming, yelling, may not even prolong his life, and it may make things harder for Lucy and for her family. He rationalized his lack of fight as martyrdom.

“I promise. I’ll keep it safe and I will give it to her to read when the time comes.” Scott tucked the letter into his lab coat and patted his pocket once. Then he reached for Grant’s arm and Grant obeyed by extending it fully. Scott drew four vials of blood and pulled the needle from his arm—with a sad smile, he shuffled off to the counter.

Grant watched as Scott worked. Organizing. Pulling. Pouring. Sorting. A quiet sort of work, mechanical and automated. Occasionally Scott would mutter something under his breath or make a strange sort of clicking noise, but the work was silent.

“So, what are your requests?” Scott asked after a few minutes.

“What?” Grant’s mind went to last requests, but then he realized Scott must have been back at their beginning conversation. Books. He was back to the books. Scott’s mind often worked in large circles, crawling back to a conversation from hours ago without missing a beat. Grant rarely kept up. “Oh, um, maybe…just some classics.”

“You got it,” Scott replied. He pulled over a rolling chair and sat down. Then he popped up, walked over to a refrigerator in the corner and pulled out some additional glass beakers. “The work is lonely, that’s for sure,” Scott said out of nowhere, and Grant looked around, confused.

“In the lab?”

“I used to have a team.”

“Don’t tell me…” Grant grimaced. “You killed them?”

Scott laughed and pointed a finger in jest at Grant. “Funny,” was all he said, but Grant hadn’t been kidding.

“Here. Let’s try this.” Scott walked over to Grant holding a collection of test tubes. “A virus with the same properties as my virus.”

His virus. “Did you name it?”

“The virus? No. Should I have?”

“Something catchy. Like S1K1.”

“Nice. And here comes the pinch.”

He jabbed the needle in Grant’s other arm.

Grant could see the letter to Lucy sticking out of Scott’s pocket. The hot air balloon drawing visible—and the curl of the y. He regretted handing it over to him. Maybe he should get a new envelope. Write her name with a distinct ‘y’. It was a mistake—he realized that now. It was a mistake writing the letter at all. Maybe he should have demanded to see her one last time.

That should have been his last request.

They wouldn’t have honored it, but at least he could have asked. So then Scott could tell her, “Yes. He asked for you.” Maybe then she would know the truth. Why had he wasted an entire letter without telling her the truth?

His head began to pound.

“I’m getting a headache,” Grant mumbled. His chest felt tight. He took in a deep breath of air and felt nauseated.

“Huh,” was all Scott said and he put his hand against Grant’s forehead. With speed and efficiency he drew some blood, as Grant started to feel clammy and weak.

Salem. His last kiss had been Salem. He closed his eyes. And he thought of Lucy. What she would say if she had known about that kiss?

Salem’s lips touched his and he kissed her back, it was true. But it had always been about Lucy.

“I don’t—” Grant started and then he leaned back, reeling. Jagged lightning flashes danced before his eyes. Blues and yellows—pops of stars in his line of vision. “I need to lie down.”

“I didn’t think it would…it’s from the same family…okay, easy now.” Scott placed his hands behind Grant and assisted him down onto the hospital bed. He whispered to himself and even as Grant slipped into sickness, he could hear the worry in his voice.

“I’m co-co-cold,” Grant mumbled. It wasn’t supposed to happen this fast. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Is that how everyone else felt? In the moments before they passed on? That thought caused his heart to tighten more. He wondered what the victims experienced as they walked toward death. He realized now that it wasn’t the peaceful march he’d imagined for himself. No, he was sad and afraid. He felt panicky.

He thought he’d have more time.

“My letter,” Grant said. He reached up and grabbed the first thing he could—the edge of Mr. King’s lab coat. Scott King stumbled away from him. Yanking the fabric and pulling the cloth toward him, Grant repeated his final wishes. “My letter…when I’m gone…my letter…”

“I know, son. I know. You’re not going to die. Hang on.” His words were comforting, but his face was afraid. For the first time Grant could tell that Scott King didn’t sound confident in his assertion that he would live.

“My letter…” Grant said again and then he tumbled into unconsciousness.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Her father looked exhausted when he came through their automated apartment door. His eyes were droopy and bloodshot; he hadn’t shaved in over a day and already the whiskers on his chin were thick, casting a dark shadow over his features. Despite his evident exhaustion, Scott smiled when he saw Lucy. She was lying flat against the floor, her arms and legs stretched out away from her body—her eyes still, examining the intricacies of the ceiling.

“What are you up to?” Scott asked.

“Thinking,” was Lucy’s reply.

“Everyone else?”

“Out.”

He shed his white lab coat and draped it over the back of a chair. Then with one hand on the chair and the other shoved into his pocket, he stood without speaking, staring at her outline on the floor.

“You not feeling communicative today?” Scott asked her, but he didn’t glance in her direction.

Lucy rolled her body over and then sat up, crossing her legs in front of her body and placing her hands to her side. She didn’t answer. When her father was away, she knew he was down in the lab working with Grant. His list of betrayals against her was starting to stack up. No variables, her mother had told her in the Sky Room. Every time she looked at him she saw the blood on his hands. She had nothing to say to him.

“Well,” her father continued without waiting for an answer. “I’m going to take a quick shower. Then…you want to take a walk? Get out of this space?”

Lucy shook her head. “No.”

“Think about it. I’ll be back.”

His shoulders drooped as he headed toward the bathroom for his five-minute shower. Back home, Scott would take epically long showers, sometimes twice or three times a day. He’d stand in his master bathroom shower and let the water run cold. It was often a bone of contention with Maxine, who would lament her husband’s bad habit after finding that there was no water to run the scores of dishes through their dishwasher or start a load of laundry—which was just an endless parade of food and grass-stained shirts and jeans.

The restriction on shower time must have been frustrating for her father.

She wished that there were more things for him that felt uncomfortable, because shorter showers were not a big enough punishment.

After the bathroom door shut behind him and locked, Lucy caught sight of the envelope. It would not have interested her or piqued her attention, but it was the image of a hot air balloon, two tiny stick figures standing together, that drew her eye. And immediately, Lucy knew.

The water was running. Her father hummed and his voice echoed.

Lucy scrambled forward and yanked the paper from the lab coat pocket. Her name was written in Grant’s childish scrawl on the outside. Without hesitation, she ripped the envelope open and unfolded the note that had been tucked inside. Scanning the words, Lucy let out a gasp. Then she looked to the bathroom door, looked at the letter, and then clutching it to her chest, she rushed to the safety of her bedroom. Crawling on top of the floral comforter, Lucy started from the beginning and began to drink in Grant’s words. It was difficult to understand, her brain fuzzy with the worry of being caught and the enormity of the letter’s first line. She read and reread, trying to hear Grant’s voice as he wrote down these words, his last words, to her.

She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and tried again.

Dear Lucy, the note began, if you are reading this note then I am probably gone. That sounds so dramatic. And also cliché. I tried to word it differently, but then it sounded really casual and stupid. Like: I hope you’re doing well and I wish I could’ve been there when you saw your family again. But you should know that I’m bad at writing letters. I’m not so bad at writing, per se. It’s just letters that I’m no good at. Because you are my only audience and I know that these are the last words I get with you and…well, it’s just so much pressure.

Lucy stopped and stifled her tears. Her hands were shaking and they were turning wet with sweat. She clutched the letter tighter and closed her eyes, and wished for the strength to keep reading Grant’s words, even when those words told her a terrible and awful truth: Grant was gone.

Your father isn’t at all like I pictured him. I thought he’d be more mad scientist-y with white frizzy hair and big plastic gloves up to his elbows laughing maniacally while lightning flashed around him. He’s just odd and kinda goofy. If it weren’t for the whole ‘killing the world thing’ I think I would like him. He’s been kind, if not distant. Sometimes I think he likes me and sometimes I think he’s just trying to make things easier since my time is short. Either way, he’s not so bad. I don’t know what’s been going on with you, but I can imagine that you’re probably all sorts of pissed at him. Don’t be.

Lucy smiled. Leave it to Grant to find the best in her dad. She didn’t know if she could read any more.

Look, I wanted to write you a letter mostly to tell you that I can’t think of anyone I’d rather spend the apocalypse with than you.

That’s a unique line—don’t get to use that every day.

Of course, if I had a choice, I’d want to come back as a zombie in the zombie apocalypse with you…but clearly I was wrong about that whole thing, which is really a damn shame, because this whole cross-country story would have been FAR BETTER with zombies chasing us. Hiding in this damn hole in the ground would be better too if there were zombies outside trying to get in. But yeah, zombies.

You’d be cooler if you liked zombies.

No, I don’t mean to make it into a joke. I’m sorry. I’m bad at this.

Your friendship has meant everything to me. So much so, that I wish you’d always been around. I could have used a friend like you when my mom died of cancer. Duhn-duhn-duhn. Big reveal. I know I never told you that—it’s hard to know when to bring it up with people. Especially in the face of so much loss, you know?

The fact that Grant had been carrying around the memory of his mom, not talking about her or her death, during all the time that they were together made Lucy both upset and sad. He’d been so brave, she realized. So brave and so resilient.

Cancer is this devastating thing. It rips you open. You have time to prepare for the death, but you’re never ready when it finally comes for the people you love. In some ways, I understand now what my mom must have been going through. It’s awful to know you’re going to die and know you can’t do anything to help the people you love work through it.

After that though, it’s worse for everyone else. I’m gone. You’re still here, living, dealing with that.

I know because I’ve been through it.

I guess that’s what I really want to say. I want you to be sad. I mean, be a little sad. Give it a week. You can cry and bawl and be mad for three days. Four days, tops. Then…it’s okay. I’ve told you like a million times that I’m not afraid to die. I believe my mom is waiting for me. I know…insert Lucy crying here…but it’s true.

Lucy laughed through her tears.

She wiped her chin and smiled, then let her tears continue to fall.

I’m in good company.

But I’ll miss your company.

That’s some good writing right there. I’m not trying to joke. You’re here, my mom is there—I don’t get to choose my fate, so I’ll embrace the one that was left for me.

Please just know that I care about you, and of all the people left on the planet you’re the only one whose happiness matters to me. So be happy, Lula.

Be happy for me.

Then he had signed it. Complete with a crude cartoon of a mop-headed boy giving a thumbs-up.

Your partner in crime and zombies. Grant.

Lucy looked up. She had been so absorbed in Grant’s words that she hadn’t realized her father the water was off and her father was out of the shower. She folded the letter and started walking, pushing the paper against her leg as she walked. Flinging the door open, Lucy marched into the open room and looked around. The bathroom door was open and her parents’ bedroom door was closed. Without a thought about her father’s potential level of undress, Lucy grabbed the handle and waltzed straight inside, slamming the door behind her.

Scott King stood in his boxer shorts and a t-shirt, one leg balancing as he slipped on a pair of jeans.

“Lucy, what are you doing?” Scott exclaimed and he stumbled backward toward the bed, hopping on one foot. He looked startled, but then when he saw her face, he looked confused.

“Why?” Lucy seethed. “Why couldn’t you do the right thing for once in your life? You had the whole world…the whole world…and all I asked for was one boy. What was one more to you?”

Her father dropped his pants to the floor and stepped out of them. Then he started to walk toward Lucy as she started to charge forward. She had never felt more full of rage. So murderous. As Scott put out his hands to embrace her, Lucy raised her fists and pounded his chest as hard as she could. He flinched, but did not retreat, and eventually he puffed out his chest in an attempt to absorb her blows.

“Lucy, Lucy,” Scott repeated her name, calmly and firmly. “Stop. Sit. Stop!” He raised his voice and Lucy, breathless, sunk to the ground.

“You killed him. You killed him! And you’re going to kill Ethan too? You’re nothing. You’re evil. I wish I’d never been born. That’s better than admitting that I’m your daughter.”

Her words stung him. When she saw him flinch, she couldn’t help it—she wanted to keep going. Hurt upon hurt; she relished being able to tell him what she thought.

“You’re a coward. And I hate you.”

Her father wrapped his arms around her shoulders and tucked her into his chest. His arms were still damp from the shower, his skin warm. She tried to wriggle away, but he only increased his grip; still, Lucy struggled against him. Her tears dampened his shirt and she stomped her legs, hoping to catch his toes or his shins.

“Lucy,” her father repeated. “Lucy. Stop.”

When she wouldn’t calm herself, he raised his voice.

“Stop!”

“Why? Why do you have to be so horrible?” Lucy sobbed. “Why do you have to take away everything I love?”

Her father killed Salem.

Her father killed Grant.

Her family was alive, but what did it matter?

Lucy heard the bedroom door creak open and from the corner of her eye she saw her mother standing there holding two cloth grocery bags by the handles. Her eyes traveled between Scott and Lucy and then she set her bags on the floor and walked over to them, tugging Lucy by the arm.

“I leave for twenty minutes and everything goes straight to hell,” Maxine muttered. She wedged herself between daughter and husband and went to move Lucy away, but Lucy would not be budged.

“You were strong,” Lucy seethed. “You were my role model, my hero.” She looked straight at her mother.

“Careful,” Maxine replied, her voice steeped in warning.

“You’re nothing. You let him do this. You went along willingly.”

Maxine raised her hand. “Enough,” she yelled in protest. But Lucy did not stop. She launched an even greater attack, screaming in hysterics until she saw her mother raise her hand and let her palm fly toward Lucy’s cheek.

The sharp string of betrayal landed squarely on her face. Lucy was shocked into silence. She brought her hand up and placed it over her injury; tears welled up in her eyes and spilled over her hand and her other cheek—silently rolling down. But she did not say another word, or sniff, or dare to move.

“The punishment for insubordination is the tank,” Maxine said calmly. “You’ve already been through that once before. Did you feel like once wasn’t quite enough? If you are so hungry to die, then I’d be happy to walk you down there myself.”

“I don’t want to die,” Lucy mumbled after a period of silence. “No one else should die.”

“Then learn to live. Here.” Maxine slid out from between Lucy and Scott, rubbing her right hand with her left. She then slipped the handles of the grocery bags onto her wrists and left the room, slamming the door behind her.

When Lucy was certain her mother was no longer in hearing range, she turned to her father and lowered her eyes.

“This is not a life,” she said.

“It is the only life I can offer you,” Scott replied, and he sank downward, sitting on the edge of his bed with his head in his hands.

“I don’t want to be here.”

“There is food here. Protection. An education. A hope for a better life. A plan for the future. My only other option was to let you die at the hands of a man who wanted to take that from us. Should I have let him?”

Lucy was silent for a long time and then she thought of everything that had happened in the last few weeks, and she simply nodded. “It’s never the right thing,” she said to her father. “It was selfish.” The word popped out of her mouth before she had time to self-censor.

Scott lowered his head. “It was selfish to want to save my family.” She was uncertain if he was asking her or tossing the statement out into the ether.

“At the expense of everyone else?” Lucy nodded a reply to her own rhetorical question.

“But you want to save Grant,” Scott answered and he raised his eyebrows. “What would you risk to accomplish that goal? What sacrifice would you make?”

The tense was not lost on her. “Want to? As in, I still can?”

He shook his head, “Lost on semantics. You’re missing the point. We do everything in our power to protect the people we love. The line between good and evil is not as black and white as you may think.” He raised his finger, but he looked defeated. “Especially when it comes to family. There are no rules.”

That assertion defied everything she had been taught by her parents. They instructed her to be a good citizen and a good friend; to live according to the laws of the land. That there was a wrong thing to do and a right thing to do—things that hurt people were wrong things to do. Moral relativism was never part of their family creed and guidelines. While her father was a self-proclaimed atheist and her mother agnostic, she had been raised in one of the most moral, ethical, and responsible households: what’s wrong was always wrong, no matter what.

She rubbed her cheek.

“Dad—” she started, but she didn’t know what to say to him. There were no words. No greeting card canned sayings that helped her navigate these murky waters of their tenuous relationship.

Scott looked up and his eyes were red. “Perhaps it’s time we go see Huck. You’ve missed it all. The explanations, the comfort. Huck will help you see…you are safe here.”

“I never guessed you to be such a lemming, Dad.”

Scott looked straight at her. “I’ve told you before that blind social behavior is not an actual trait of lemmings. It was manufactured, by a studio, for Hollywood effect. They flung those lemmings off the cliff to make it appear that they followed the first one. It’s false. A charade. There is an entire phrase, imbedded into the lexicon of our language that is a scientific lie. Perpetuating that belief by attributing my behavior to that animal is incorrect.” He tried to smile; tried to pass off his mini-lecture like a joke.

Lucy wasn’t buying it.

She raised her arms in disbelief. “Are you serious right now?”

“Yes,” Scott answered quickly. “You see…think about the make-up of an animal whose instincts would instruct it to rather die than seek self-preservation…”

With a sigh, Lucy hit her hand against her forehead. “Oh, Dad. How did you do this? You couldn’t have possibly known I was going to use the word lemming…but you’ve turned it around, to prove your point? You’re a mind ninja.”

Under different circumstances, that might have been a compliment.

This time Scott didn’t smile. “I’m serious. Monkeys, lemmings, ants. It doesn’t matter. All of our evolutionary instincts are to survive. And when humans are threatened we also naturally digress to that innate foundation as well…”

“Dad—” Lucy couldn’t handle it anymore.

“I’ve always taught my kids how to be critical thinkers.”

“And yet we’re living in an underground apartment building,” she exploded. “With blind allegiance to some crazy old dude? Dad! You and Mom told me once that you didn’t want me to attend church with Salem because their religion was based upon a crazy, narrow belief system.” She paused and searched her father’s face for clues that he knew what she was going to say next. “And here we are.” She motioned around the room.

“Huck could answer some of these things. He’s—”

“If you tell me you did this because you thought it would save our lives, fine. But if you tell me you believe him, this…everything?” Lucy couldn’t even finish her thought; the idea that her father could get caught up in some cultish organization was so unbelievable she was afraid that hearing him admit it would cause her to shrivel up and no longer exist. More than anything she had seen or heard, that fact, alone, would unravel everything she had ever believed. It was too much.

“There’s so much more to this than you could possibly understand,” Scott finally answered—it was a lazy move by a cowardly parent: expressing that she couldn’t understand and so therefore didn’t deserve answers. He had always been better than that. Always.

“I want to see Grant,” Lucy stated and put her hands on her hips. “Please?”

With a deep sigh, Scott looked at his oldest daughter and then scratched at the stubble on his chin. “You can’t.”

“I have to.”

“No.”

“His letter says he’s dead. Is he dead?”

“I can’t answer that—”

She took a defiant step closer. “You owe me an answer. You owe me that much.”

“Lucy…” Scott closed his eyes. “Grant is gone. Grant is gone and there’s nothing we can do about it.”

She hadn’t moved in over an hour. Her mother put away the food items—collections of grains and fruits that Maxine planned to use for a special family dinner—in the small cupboards and stepped over Lucy’s body on her way to make beds in the two bedrooms. It was like Lucy didn’t exist. She didn’t have any energy to cry or fight; instead she just stayed on the floor and hoped someone would kill her.

Maybe someone would step on her head on accident. Maybe someone would come and tank her anyway.

Lucy hugged Grant’s letter to her chest.

Maxine wandered over and stood above Lucy, with her arms over her chest.

“Get up,” she instructed.

Without reacting, Lucy stayed where she was.

“I’m taking you to the Center. It’s not healthy to stay cooped up in this apartment.”

“You think so?” Lucy stated, dripping with all the facetiousness she could muster, and then she rolled on her side, away from her mother.

For her entire life, Lucy had loved and adored her parents. While the rest of her teen friends wallowed in angst about over-protectiveness and fought ad nauseam about cell phones, grades, dating, and privacy, Lucy thought of her mother as one of her closest friends and looked up to her father as a wise leader. The strangest part was how quickly the facade tumbled, and how instantaneously her disillusionment took over. When she felt a tug of remorse for judging them too harshly, her mind pulled her back into the grim reality of the System. Housed inside these walls, walking freely and comfortably were people who, at the very least, were complicit in the release of a virus that killed billions of people. Billions.

With the loss so staggering, it was difficult to comprehend.

She had no answers, no understanding of why. She only had a face of evil: Huck. And her own father. And now, she realized, her mother too.

“I’m serious,” Maxine stated. She reached down to lift Lucy off of the ground, but Lucy yanked her arm back and tucked herself into a ball.

“The Center. The System. The Sky Room.”

Maxine stood directly over her daughter, both legs on either side, and peered down with her hands on her hips. She was seething, her chest rising and falling in rapid bursts, her eyes narrowed. “Why are you acting like this?”

“Because I’m a teenager,” Lucy replied with a flippant eye-roll. She was unafraid of being slapped again.

“I want to help. But you have to let me in,” Maxine replied. Lucy looked at her mother and felt a twinge of remorse for her flippancy. Her mother was worried. She’d never catered to Lucy before.

There was a knock on the door. Lucy knew that the doors in the pods were unlocked, so a knock was strange—someone from outside their family was waiting to be let inside. Feigning disinterest, Lucy kept her eyes on the door as her mother, with a sigh, left her post to answer it.

As Maxine opened the door wide, Lucy, from her vantage point on the floor, saw the girl from her first day standing outside in the hall. The one who had peered at her and closed the door.

“Hello, Cassandra,” Maxine said with a sigh. “Galen went to the Center…then he’s an assistant cook in the Sky Room today. He’s not here, if that’s who you’re looking for.”

The girl named Cassandra ignored Maxine’s exasperated expression and clear dismissal. Unlike anyone Lucy had ever met before, the girl disregarded Maxine’s outstretched arm across the threshold and slithered her way into the King family residence.

“No, no,” the girl said and she walked straight up to Lucy. “I came to see her.”

Maxine’s shoulders slumped, and she looked back out into the now-empty hallway, and then shut the door. “Come in, of course,” she said to the closed door before turning around.

Lucy was able to get a good look at the girl without moving. Her sleek black hair was parted down the middle and braided into two long plaits; large golden hoops dangled from her ears, and pale pink lipstick glistened on her lips. Despite all the surrounding factors of their living situation, the girl—Cassandra—was stylish in a red shirt-dress and a yellow belt. She spoke with a slight accent, although Lucy couldn’t place it.  She had to be close to Lucy’s age, although even age seemed relative in the System. Her dark skin was flawless and smooth.

But it was her eyes that caused Lucy pause. One eye was the color of night and it was so dark that even the pupil blended into the iris: just a dark black circle. Her other eye was a kaleidoscope of color: one half started off as brown, but toyed with turning green or gold, before settling on a sky blue. The effect was so arresting that Lucy couldn’t stop staring.

“So. We meet. The girl who arrived late to the party,” the girl said, looking down on Lucy’s rolled up body. “Come on. Get up. Let’s go.”

Lucy shifted into a sitting position and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “Go where?”

“Around. Don’t you want to?”

“Not really,” Lucy answered to the stranger. “I don’t know you.” She stole a look to her mother who stood back, but appraised the situation with a look of annoyance rather than relief. It was written all over her face: Don’t come in here and achieve what I could not. Lucy looked between her mother and the new girl and back again.

Cassandra raised her eyebrows and smirked. “Of course not. That’s why you should come. You won’t ever meet anyone like this. Consider me your welcoming committee.”

With one final look to her mom, Lucy nodded. “Sure,” she agreed out of spite and rose to her feet. Tucking Grant’s letter into the waistband of her pants, she looked over at her mother again for permission—with raised eyebrows and an expectant silence—and after a long stare, Maxine motioned for the door.

“When will you be back?” her mother asked crossing her arms.

Cassandra shrugged. “By curfew?” she suggested, but Maxine laughed at her reply. The girl didn’t cower. “Fine, fine, Mrs. King. Let’s say by dinner. Lucy has a lot to see.”

With visible frustration, Maxine relented. Turning away and placing her palms flat on the apartment’s small kitchen table. She bent over, as if in prayer, and didn’t say anything else as Cassandra and Lucy exited the apartment and walked out into the sterile hallway. The elation Lucy felt at winning against her mother’s will was quickly replaced by confusion and apprehension—did she really want to follow this girl blindly throughout the System?

After the door was shut and they had meandered a few feet away, the girl flipped her long braids over her shoulders and smiled. “Parents in this place have become so predictable. They want you to buy in to the same lie they have. So much so that they’re eager to do things they never would have before. They’re permissive, to a point, and to a fault.”

“I’m not sure I’ve found that to be the case,” Lucy said, thinking only of Grant.

“Cass,” she said, sticking out her hand toward Lucy’s middle. Lucy grabbed her palm and gave it a small pump. “Your next door neighbor.”

“Lucy. King.”

“I know. The Head Technician’s daughter.”

“So, how did you end up down here?”

Cass smiled. “Your dad orchestrated the reason we’re here. My dad is the man behind the place.”

“Oh yeah?” Lucy asked, her head still foggy and her mind still fixated on Grant and Grant alone.

“Yuppers,” she replied. “Claude Salvant. Architect and designer behind all the Systems. Overseer of Building for this one. So,” Cass flashed Lucy a wink, “keep your complaints to yourself.”

Joking or not, Lucy couldn’t even bring herself to smile. Cassandra seemed to notice her audience was struggling. They approached the door at the end and pushed their way through, then walked to the elevator and Cass called it to them by placing her palm on the device by the door. Once inside the elevator, Cass turned to Lucy and smiled.

“So, this place…for all its high-tech perks…has one downfall.” She leaned in conspiratorially toward Lucy’s ear. “Paper-thin walls.”

“Ah,” Lucy mumbled and she understood the implication. “Well, then I apologize for the meltdowns.”

“Seems like they were a bit warranted. But I never judge what happens in someone else’s family. Scout’s honor.” She placed her hand over her heart. “Look, Lucy. Here’s what’s going to happen. You with me? We’re going to stop by the Center. Make sure some people see us. We might disappear into one of the theater rooms, chat it up with the boys who hang around there. Then you and I are going to make a little secret journey,” Cass lowered her voice and leaned in. “Follow my lead and don’t ask any questions. And understand that I get annoyed when people can’t obey these simple instructions. Got it?”

The doors opened and Cass walked Lucy out into a hallway. Double doors five feet away were held open and Lucy could hear the din of voices and conversations, people laughing and carrying on like normal. Cass made a move to walk toward the room, but Lucy stalled.

“Wait. We just met. And you’re taking me on some kind of—” Lucy noticed Cass widened her eyes and shook her head once as a warning, so she stopped mid-sentence and crossed her arms over her chest. She was forever going to be the odd one out down here. “Why are you doing this? You don’t owe me anything.”

Cass smiled as if she had expected Lucy to ask her this. “I already told you, ma cheri. Les murs parlent. Anything you’ve said above a whisper,” she tapped her right ear with her pointer finger a couple times and then giggled. “I already know enough. I know you needed out of that shitty…with apologies to my dear Papa…apartment. Now, are you ready for an adventure?”

If Lucy had ever admired Salem’s clumsy flirting, it was only because she had not been introduced to the fine art of pure, unadulterated charm. Twenty-year-old Cassandra Lourdes Marie Salvant oozed charisma at every turn—her two-toned eyes were sharp and clear as she meandered around the Center, flitting in and around different groups of people, touching them gently on the arm as she went—documenting her presence with a smile or a nod, and sometimes with a one-liner or compliment too. People’s heads followed her as she roamed. Everyone knew her, deferred to her, welcomed her with smiles, hugs, and genuine excitement.

Lucy shuffled behind, her heels still sticking out of the back of her shoes, her arms crossed over the shirt she had worn for two days straight. She had never been so viscerally aware of her own deficits. For a while she was embarrassed that Cass had to be seen with her, but soon she realized that no one seemed to notice her—eyes and attention went to the dark beauty first, following her path visibly as if she left behind an actual trail of pheromone.

The Center was a recreation hall—roughly the size of Lucy’s old high school gym back at Pacific Lake. It was set up with air hockey tables, darts, and a snack shack. For the younger set, there was an indoor playground. Monitored by a larger woman with a whistle, the kids slid down slides and crawled through tunnels, climbed up ropes, and played organized games of capture the flag or tag.

Lucy’s siblings were here. The twins seemed to be playing a variation of the game tetherball with some other kids their age and Harper ran gleefully through the indoor park in pure screaming bliss. Galen hung around a picnic table with some other kids, and they were engaged in a card game Lucy didn’t recognize. But the smile on his face indicated that he was having fun. He looked up and saw his sister and registered shock and then amusement, he motioned her over, but Lucy declined and pointed to Cass. Galen followed her finger and then nodded, as if arriving with the beautiful next-door neighbor was the most predictable thing in the world. He waved and went back to his cards, and Lucy lingered, watching him, before moving on.

Cass must have noticed Lucy’s face as she took in the scene; she stopped her trek and backtracked, leaned into her new friend and whispered, “Stimulation for the body is good for the mind. Children are encouraged to play. Plus, it’s hard to be cooped up, no? My dad designed this play space with kids of all ages in mind. I’m quite fond of it.”

Everyone else seemed to be, too.

Lucy loved the way Cass spoke to her—voice low and lilting, like every word had power and meaning.

Cass kept moving and she stopped to chat with a group of young women sitting on some couches, engaging them in a conversation about a book. Then Cass slipped her arm through Lucy’s and patted her bicep with a loving tap. “Look, look. A movie theater too. He did think of everything, didn’t he?” And Lucy couldn’t tell if Cass was filled with genuine admiration for her father or if everything she said was cut with an undercurrent of cynicism.

Sure enough, just beyond the ruckus of the Center gym, there was a theater—small in size and scope compared to the megaplexes Lucy usually graced, but a theater nonetheless. People lounged in beanbags and on blankets and sat glued to the screen as some black and white classic played in the foreground.

“You think we’ve been seen, ma cheri?” Cass asked and she patted Lucy’s arm again. “You and Galen had a moment. So. Let us retire from here.” Cass directed Lucy into the theater room and, holding her hand, placed her up against the back of the wall. She waited, watching the crowd and then watching the screen. Then, as the music swelled and the group’s attentions were focused forward, Cass opened a small door in the side of the theater and as quick as a wink, ducked inside and shut the door behind her.

They were back in a hallway, long and sterile, with no other doors nearby. Cass looked at Lucy and erupted into a smile.

“Your face!” she exclaimed. “So afraid! My adventures are top-rate, I promise. But…” she brought her finger up over her lips and made a shushing sound. Then, still holding on to Lucy’s hand, she pulled her down the hall and through another set of doors, through a second hall and another set of doors; until Lucy was altogether turned around inside the giant belly of the System.

Finally they seemed to have discovered a dead-end. Cass led Lucy right up to the metal wall and with a wide smile she leaned down to the floor and pushed her hands against the metal. The wall gave under her touch and slid upward three feet, exposing a darkened tunnel.

“I don’t think so,” Lucy declined as politely as she could. “I have this fear…of the dark and small spaces. It started with this fruit cellar at home and I just don’t think…”

Cass didn’t seem to hear Lucy’s mumbled worries, because she dropped to her hands and knees and crawled into the exposed tunnel, disappearing into the darkness. Swearing under her breath, Lucy followed, taking a second to clutch Salem’s necklace and send up a tiny prayer to the God in charge of phobias. As she crawled, the darkness swept over her and she couldn’t see anything. Panic crept through her.

“Cass?” She called and her voice echoed. Behind her she heard the wall slide back into place and she was in total darkness, alone. “Cass?” Her voice rose with worry.

Still on all fours, Lucy scrambled forward, hoping to find her friend. But before she could get very far, the tunnel flashed with light. Overheads snapped on and Lucy covered her eyes with her hands and let her sight adjust to the view. Cass stood next to the far wall by a light switch panel, an impish grin twitching on her face. They were in a small room with nothing but an elevator waiting for them.

“Stand up, silly girl. You have room,” Cass instructed and then she hit the elevator button and the door swung open for them immediately.

With a sigh, Lucy stood up and brushed off her hands and then climbed onto the lift. Cass pushed a single button. Up and up and up the elevator rose. And Lucy couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps her father was ignorant of the geography of the System. They were exceeding the time it took to get to the Sky Room. By the time it started to worry her, the elevator clunked to a stop. The doors opened. But they opened to a wall. A brown wall pushed up against the open doors, blocking them from exiting and Lucy looked at Cass for an explanation.

“Push it,” Cass said. “Don’t worry, it’s no trap. You’re so serious, Lucy. Come on, push it.”

Worried about appearing like a spoilsport, Lucy obliged Cass’s instructions and pushed against the wall. With one simple shove, the wall sprung open, revealing an attic-sized room—sparkling clean with a red couch and yellow armchair. A book overturned on an ottoman; a throw-blanket folded neatly to the side. Craning her neck, Lucy realized that the elevator had deposited them close to the surface. Instead of a ceiling, there were thick panes of glass, nearly four inches thick, and they exposed a blue sky, spotted with clouds. The landscape of Nebraska was obscured; the windows just gave those in the room a taste of the earth outside.

“Well, go on, silly,” Cass prodded and gave Lucy a little push.

Lucy walked out into the middle of the room. Then Cass followed behind and pushed the faux wall back into place, obscuring the elevator—just like in the library on the day she had arrived—and spun around in a full circle, admiring the tidiness and the beauty of this little hideout. More than anything, she felt buoyed by the sunlight. Real sunlight poured in through the window and bathed Lucy in warmth. The fake Sky Room had nothing on Cass’s real sky room and Lucy smiled.

“What is this place?” Lucy said and then she blushed, aware of the awe in her voice.

“Welcome,” Cass said. “To my little place of escape. My den of refuge.”

“This is amazing. It’s so close to the surface…does Huck know?”

“Oh, goodness no,” Cass replied quickly and she moved her way to a makeshift kitchen; with miniature cupboards brimming with snacks. She stood on her tiptoes and opened one, reaching into the back and pulling out a box of graham crackers. “When my father was overseeing construction? He built this place for me…it’s a secret. The day he told me about the plans for our family, I cried and cried. Because for me…the most important thing is the sky. The clouds. I can’t imagine living without seeing the clouds.”

“So, he gave you a place to watch the clouds.”

“Or the stars.”

“Wow,” Lucy breathed. She pulled a pillow off the small couch and placed it on the ground, and then she lay her head down, her arms above her, and stared out the glass. The window was so large, that she could almost forget she was inside, hidden away.

“So, you lived here? In Brixton? Among the dead?” Lucy asked and she looked at Cass sidelong as she made her way back to where Lucy was laying.

“So many dark days,” Cass admitted. “For you, your nightmare began a month ago. Bam. A big reveal. But not for me…my apocalypse started years before yours.” She handed a cracker to Lucy.

Lucy took a bite and wiped her mouth. “Why did you bring me here? Why are you sharing this with me? Couldn’t we get in trouble?”

“Of course,” she replied. “A hidden elevator to a refuge that provides a hope he did not provide? Ha, no. Huck would not be pleased to discover this…I’m not sure if it’s tank worthy, but isn’t that part of the way this place works? Confusion over consequences. Loyalties run thin…or so he makes you feel…perhaps my father would suffer the greatest.”

Never a rule-breaker, Lucy began to feel nervous. Her heart pounded and she thought she heard the elevator clunk downward; she wondered where they were looking, where the landscape above them would be on a map—if she could pop her head up and look out, would she be able to see her car?

After a long pause, Lucy rolled her head over and looked at Cass, facing her. Cass continued to face upward, looking at the sky with longing. She couldn’t help but stare at Cass’s strange eyes; looking from one to the other and feeling uneasy—as if there were something about this new friend that was not quite human.

“Why are you showing me this?” Lucy asked.

“A perfect question,” Cass replied and she stretched herself out next to Lucy. She seemed confident and at ease—without any of the worry that Lucy felt. Either Cassandra was braver than Lucy or she lacked sense. Perhaps the former seemed more likely, but Lucy worried that it was the latter. “The walls, you see. I heard it all. And so I realized that we are not so different, you and I. Each of our fathers sold his soul for a future. And while they sit and cry and pray that we will understand the ramifications for failing to fall in line…we see that this doesn’t have to be our future. Our parents have fallen prey to a rule by terror. A pity really.” As her monologue went on, Cass’s accent grew heavier. Lucy still didn’t know anything about this girl. “Yet…they keep doing things to save us. Perhaps to ask for forgiveness? This sky,” she swept her hand out over the window, “is an apology in a way.”

“You put all that together from eavesdropping?” Lucy questioned with a small smile.

Something about that struck Cass as funny and she roared loudly, slapping her hand against the floor. When she was done laughing, she pointed to Lucy and reciprocated the smile. “I listened before you came. I know some things. Perhaps more than you do…about the pain of leaving people behind. Your father’s empty assurances of protection. They do not want to lose you…”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Lucy said flippantly.

“Your friend Grant is alive.”

Lucy sat up and looked down at Cass, who didn’t look at Lucy right away. “How do you know that?” she asked and instinctually she felt her pants to make sure his letter was still secure against her body. “My father told me—”

“What he needed to tell you. Yes. But he is not dead.”

“How do you know?” Lucy asked again, pressing closer, and staring at Cass.

Cass shifted her eyes to Lucy and she winked. “The kaleidoscope eye sees all.”

Lucy exhaled loudly and felt like crying, but she held it back. Grant was alive. It didn’t matter how Cass knew; knowing was only a piece. Now the hard part would start. How could Lucy get to him before her father’s hand was forced and something bad did happen? She felt silly. Grant had been dead and undead so many times, she had lost count.

“He’s my best friend,” Lucy said to Cass. “I feel like he’s the only one who would understand how strange this is—”

A shadow passed over them, a quick and fast-moving darkness, a blur, and Lucy’s heart began to quicken. She raised her head to the window and saw the flash of movement above them; Lucy screamed and scampered back to the wall, convinced that they had somehow been caught. But Cass’s giggle gave her pause. Lucy peered up to the window and then let out a long breath.

Relaxing against the cooling glass was Frank, Blair’s black lab. Panting heavily and then pausing to lick the window—seemingly unaware of the bodies below.

“Oh, poor puppy,” Lucy said and she shot to her feet and stared up at the dog. “Why didn’t Blair go back for him? He’s all alone out there?”

“Punishment,” Cass said and shrugged. She stood and stretched upward as if waking from a long nap. “Going out is against the rules. She broke the rules. She loses her companion.”

“But he’ll die,” Lucy said and she looked to Cass as if she held the keys to fix this.

“Yes,” Cass replied and nodded. “Why does Huck care? He is immune to death. A necessary cost. That is what he says…those we lost were a necessary cost for forging a new life, a better life, free of the path of our world’s blindness and evil. What is one dog?”

One dog meant everything in a dogless world, Lucy thought. Frank was not something to be tossed aside, but to be cherished. But she knew that arguing with Cass was pointless; this was not her new friend’s logic. Lucy had not heard the Huck rhetoric before spoken so plainly. Cass was educating her on what her parents had been afraid to say: Why, really, were they here, underground, as the lone survivors? What was the point?

“He thought he was doing a good thing?”

“Not a scholar of history, I see,” Cass replied with a wink.

Lucy shrugged. “Hey, I did my homework. Solid B student.”

“Huck felt death was a necessary action. Imperative to change. He’s not so difficult to understand…he follows in the footsteps of many powerful men who believed radical change was our only chance. The difference, I suppose, is he succeeded where they failed. And now the only history that matters is the one he is writing. He is the hero of a broken world.” Cass crossed her arms over her body and took a step forward.

“Sounds like you could write the history books if you wanted,” Lucy replied. Charming and smart. Brimming with sophisticated, canned replies. “Who are you?” Lucy asked in awe.

“Someone who has had more time to live in this world. We lived in Cambridge. Woke up in the middle of the night with my father standing over me with a suitcase. Pack what you need. Leave everything else. And say goodbye. Moved here…after Huck’s army annihilated the city…in a house built for my father, my mother, my brother, and me. Left my friends without a word and told that I was now part of the Elektos. The chosen ones. But Huck would call me a variable if he knew my heart. C’est la vie.”

The word caught her attention. “I thought that variables were people outside who could threaten the world inside,” Lucy clarified, thinking back to when her mother uttered that word in the Sky Room.

“Or people inside who want out.” Cass smiled.

“Then not everyone wants to stay here?” Finally someone was telling her the truth. The plastered smiles of the men and women in the Sky Room were a facade. They were people born from fear, from irrationality.

“Sadly, not enough. They will understand someday, but by then it will be too late.”

“I want out too.”

Cass smiled. Her lips caught a bit on her bright teeth. She nodded once—a commanding action. They had known each other for an hour, but they were united in rebellion.

Lucy rolled her eyes playfully, “I know you know that already…but…I wanted to say it. Out loud. This is not a life. I can’t stay like this and I don’t feel like I should have to.”

“Of course. Agreed. But if you think it’s easy to just walk out and leave, then you don’t understand the System or the man in charge of it.”

Her shoulders dropped and she closed her eyes. “I see. It was too good to be true.”

When she opened her eyes, Cass was standing closer to her face, her hands outstretched, and she placed her hands on Lucy’s shoulders. “An escape would involve conspiracy, espionage, detailed planning, an inside man, a cover-up, and an understanding that whatever you left here would be gone. Forever.” Her eyes pierced sharply into Lucy’s, as if she could impart the importance of her words through her stare. “And miracles. Many, many miracles.”

“What if I just wanted to save my friend?”

“Unless you act fast, you have a better chance of escape.”

Lucy sighed. “You’re a really crappy motivational speaker. I thought you didn’t want this life either. You got my hopes up that it doesn’t have to be like this.”

“The difference,” Cass replied, pulling away, “is that I know this isn’t the life I want after years of careful thought. You think this isn’t the life for you because you’re comparing it to a life that doesn’t exist.”

Her honesty stung.

“Then just tell me what to do,” Lucy said, defeated.

“No.” Cass shook her head firmly, her braids waving against her back like two black pendulums. “Never. I brought you up here because you needed something special today…to remind you that even though this place is dark and confusing, you are not alone.”

Lucy’s heart pounded. She could feel the blood rush in her ears. “I’m leaving this place. And I’m leaving with Grant. If you don’t believe I can do it, then I am alone,” Lucy said and she took a backward step back toward the elevator. She felt flustered; she blushed. For every ounce of Cass’s charm, Lucy felt inadequate and blundering. “And…and…I want to get the dog back inside,” she added stammering, grasping. “He shouldn’t be punished for Blair’s mistake. I’ll do that first.” She punctuated her last request by pointing to poor Frank, who still sat against the glass, now barking—although the glass obscured the sound and she couldn’t hear him, only see his mouth open and close, his head turning to follow some unknown sound.

Then Lucy began to cry; she felt the sharp pang of emotion creeping up, pushing its way out. If Cass said anything to her, anything at all, she knew she would burst into sobs. Being underestimated always made her cry harder than anything else.

But if Cass was going to reply, she didn’t have a chance.

Startling them both, an alarm began to ring—loud and clear in the tiny space—an incessant beeping of warning.

“Is there a fire?” Lucy asked, covering her ears. “Is that a fire alarm?”

Cass shook her head. She walked over to the wall and flipped a switch. The beeping stopped. Still, Lucy thought she could hear it ringing upward from deep within the belly of the System. She looked frantically to Cass for answers.

“It’s the alarm for a meeting. If that goes off, we have to gather, by pod, in the Center. As fast as possible.”

“Does that happen often?”

“Only once. On Release Day.”

“What could it mean?”

Cass walked over and opened her faux wall; she pushed the elevator button and the doors swung open on command. Then she rushed into the tiny space and motioned for Lucy to follow.

“Huck is summoning. Missing it is not an option. It means we better hurry and sneak back in…before we’re missed…or before we’re caught.” Her eyes scanned the glass and then she closed her eyes for a second. When she opened them, for the first time, Cass’s confidence wavered and she looked afraid.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Dean moved in. After helping restock the patio with their supplies, he climbed back into his truck, sat for a few minutes, and then came back to the house with an offer: he’ll move closer and they could pool their resources. The agreements outweighed the dissent.

Ethan, who missed the entire journey to the Trotter farm and the bonding that ensued, met the new houseguest with blatant contempt. In private, they tried to pass it off as a tactical measure: keep your friends close and your enemies closer. But after time it became apparent that no one thought of Dean as an enemy. While they were enjoying his company, Ethan inwardly seethed about the implications of adding one more person to their group.

It was one more mouth to feed, one more strong personality to contend with, and one more person to worry about when his family came back to get him. While Spencer and Joey seemed to appreciate what Dean brought to the household—an old school hardness combined with all the qualities of a fun-loving extrovert, especially after a few rounds—Darla communicated that she too was wary.

“I don’t know, Ethan. I don’t trust him.” And after he pressed further, she looked at him and admitted, “I think there’s something wrong with a man who doesn’t seem to care about whether or not his son lived or died.”

It was a valid point.

And their worries hung visibly whenever he entered the room.

They wanted to embrace their fondness for Grant while exercising their right to dislike his father. After all, he had made off with a six-month supply of meals and never seemed remorseful.

“I used to think that when the world ended, all these macho hero types would survive. Battling off the evils and looking out for the little guys. That is an inaccurate depiction of our current situation,” Ethan mused to Ainsley and Darla while spinning around the den in his chair. Doctor Krause had given the okay for Ethan to start spending some time out and about. No longer confined to the couch was liberating. He moved the wheelchair right and left, and appreciating his newfound mobility. “Who knew? You try to kill the planet and you get high school principals and gas station attendants battling for a top seat.”

“Darla’s bad-ass,” Ainsley said and pointed to her friend.

Darla gave a non-committal look. “Glad to know I’m winning the power-rankings for most-least-likely-person to lead a group of people after the apocalypse. My mother would be so proud.”

“Let’s just remember that none of us are supposed to be alive, though,” added Ainsley. The sobering thought settled on the room and she frowned. “Sorry.”

“So then,” Ethan replied, adjusting his body on the couch, “if I saved all your lives, then maybe one-legged undeclared former college sophomore takes first place.”

“We are doomed,” Darla deadpanned.

Ethan threw a pillow at her and she batted it away with one swipe.

“What’s happening in here?” Dean called as he entered the room. Ethan thought he recognized the plaid shirt Dean was wearing as one of his father’s; he added it to an ever-growing list of things that annoyed him about his houseguests.

“We’re just talking,” Ethan answered.

“I’ve got something to talk about then,” Dean exclaimed, powering forward with dauntless ambition for ruining conversations. “Spencer and I were having a little chat. Seems like there’s dissention in the ranks about what to do when the killers come back to collect one of their own. Right?”

Ethan cringed. The killers. Now there was no room left to entertain the idea that the people in Nebraska could be friendly. He shifted uncomfortably and watched as Dean walked the perimeter of the room, examining the spines of books, pulling some out to look at further, and pushing them back. At least he didn’t march in with a presentation.

“Let me guess,” Darla said. “You think Spencer’s plan is great. Arm ourselves and wait.”

“I do. Yes.” Dean replied without even looking at them. “I don’t mean to burst anyone’s bubble here, but this guy,” he jabbed his thumb toward Ethan, “isn’t exactly on the same level as us. I actually wanted to add to the plan. I think we have room to negotiate. Make some demands. Food. Water. Shelter. Protection from further attacks.”

“What if they don’t come?” Ethan asked.

As the days passed by, non-arrival seemed more likely than rescue. And with Ethan’s fever returning sporadically and Doctor Krause mumbling worries about infection, everything about his future felt tenuous.

“Or what if they don’t negotiate?” Darla added.

“Hey,” Dean threw his hands up. “I’m the new guy, I know. But when Spencer laid it all out for me…I don’t think I want to have anything to do with them. I’m content here. We haven’t ventured out to the suburbs, if we work together we can clear more ground, move around. Start a little garden.”

Spencer’s flipchart and easel remained set up in the corner. Dean saw it and smirked.

“A little garden?” Darla scoffed.

“I can put together a little demo too, if it helps.” Dean ignored Darla. “Look, Ethan and Darla, you’re the holdouts.”

“I don’t count?” Ainsley asked and then waited. Everyone looked at her. “Fine. I don’t count.”

“And Doctor Krause agrees with you?” Darla asked.

Dean shrugged. “It would appear.” Then he cracked his neck and clapped his hands once together. “Well, this has been fun. Just…think about it.” He spun and walked out of the den, and then kept on walking out of the house, shutting the door behind him.

“If I’d known that Spencer and Dean would end up being besties, I would’ve shot him when I had the chance,” Darla moaned. Then with an agitated sigh, she stomped out of the den, leaving Ainsley and Ethan alone.

After a prolonged silence, Ainsley turned to Ethan and cleared her throat.

“I’m growing to hate all the grown-ups,” she moaned.

Ethan shrugged. “You don’t feel like a grown-up?”

“No,” she stared at him. “Do you?”

He made a face. “I feel bored. Boredom is my most active state.”

“We can cure that,” Ainsley answered.

Ethan motioned for her to continue.

“I believe you had offered to take me on a date?” she reminded him with a sly smile. “Or was that some drug induced offer?”

He paused and turned his head slowly to her. He moved his chair forward and backward; rolling in a straight line and backward, his head hung low. “Oh yeah? I mean…I didn’t think…it was just a…” He looked up at her. “Really?”

She shrugged. “It was your idea and, well, we’re both bored.”

“Oh, I see. Boredom-date. Thanks,” Ethan replied sarcastically. “But…”

“No, sure,” Ainsley stood up without waiting for a full reply and she waved her hands in front of herself. “I get it. It’s fine. I was just kidding too.” She looked at him and then added dryly, “Ha. Ha.” She exhaled. “Cribbage, then?”

“Fine,” Ethan said before she had time to leave the room. He wheeled his chair a few feet forward; close enough that he could touch her, and he raised his eyebrows. “Okay. I’ll plan a date. Tomorrow night. A real thing…you know…because we’re bored.”

Ainsley smiled and tucked a piece of curly hair behind her ear. “Well, don’t let me twist your arm,” she said. “I didn’t really—”

“No, I got this,” Ethan interrupted and he rolled his chair back, unwilling to let Ainsley take back the thinly veiled request. “Trust me.”

“A what?” Darla asked. She flipped over a card. Teddy waited for his instructions. She looked at him and then said, “Skip around Ethan’s wheelchair while holding…this stuffed animal,” she said and then Teddy took off skipping.

“A date,” Ethan said loudly and then he lowered his voice and cleared his throat. “A date…you know…something fun. To break up the monotony.”

Darla high-fived Teddy as he finished the rounds and slid into her, giggling.

“Your turn, Mommy,” Teddy said and Darla flipped over another card. An X. She smiled and put it in the X pile.

“So, what is it? A date or just something to break up the monotony?” Darla asked.

Ethan ran his right hand over the wheel of his chair; it spun in lazy circles in the middle of the den. He didn’t answer right away and then he shrugged.

“Can’t it be both?” he finally asked.

“No,” Darla answered instantly. “It can’t be both.”

“You can’t blame me for wanting to have some fun. We have to make our own fun, right? Humans weren’t made to live like this.”

Darla rolled her eyes. “You don’t have it so bad,” she said. Teddy flipped a card.

“What does it say? What do I do?” he squealed.

“Run upstairs. Touch the door to the bathroom and run back,” Darla answered and Teddy took off running, his little feet pounding heavily against the floor. She shifted her attention back to Ethan and ran her hand through her long dark hair, combing out her tangles with her fingers. “So, what do you want from me?” she asked.

“What should I do? I need ideas.”

“This was your idea. You’re on your own.”

“Come on—” Ethan whined. “I can’t take her to the movies. Or like to a fancy restaurant…” he trailed off. Then he looked at Darla with a crooked smile. “Or can I?”

Teddy’s pitter-patter began to make its way back to them; they listened as he stampeded down the steps and then rushed into the den, breathless, his cheeks pink.

“Just tell me what to do, Ethan,” Darla said as she crawled back over to their playing cards and flipped over another one. An X. “Game over, dude,” she told Teddy with a frown and Teddy started calling for another round.

“I’m going to need some help to get my idea up and running. Help from Dean and Spencer and Joey too. It takes a village,” he replied.

“That phrase doesn’t refer to dating post-apocalypse. Which,” Darla put a finger up, “I’m not okay with. It feels…”

“Normal,” Ethan finished for her. “I just want something to feel normal.”

“Too bad,” she said. “We don’t get that luxury anymore.”

“I disagree.”

“When is this date?” She spread out the cards on the floor, shuffling them and mixing them together with both hands.

“Tomorrow night.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

Ethan beamed. “Does that mean you’ll help?”

Darla fell forward and rested her head on the floor of the den. She banged her head slowly against the wooden floorboards and mumbled something Ethan couldn’t hear. When she brought her head up, she looked at him with annoyed disdain. “I’ll help,” she conceded. “But only because I feel sorry for you.”

“I’ll take it!” Ethan replied with a wink.

Doctor Krause looked at the thermometer and shook her head. She reset it and tried it again, waiting the requisite amount of time until the beep-beep-beep signaled that it had reached the apex of its slow climb.

“How long have you had the bruising?” she asked Ethan and he turned away from her, embarrassed and ashamed. “And the redness. The oozing. How long?”

“A few days, maybe. Maybe I noticed it yesterday…I don’t know.”

“And you didn’t tell me? Ainsley didn’t notice when she came in for rounds?”

Ethan grimaced. Ainsley had been by to check on him, but he hadn’t let her be his nurse the past few days. Instead, he’d encouraged her to just sit with him, play cards, read books. She hadn’t complained about being relieved of nursing duty and it made Ethan feel like he was doing something good—allowing the girl, his friend, to have a life again that didn’t involve constantly checking on him. It was the unfairness of it all that got to him the most—Ainsley didn’t ask to spend her days bound to him. She deserved better than that.

“She didn’t notice…I didn’t let her check my leg,” he said and the moment the confession left his lips, he knew he had admitted something dangerous.

The doctor was quiet, like her daughter, stoic and unassuming, but she took her role as Ethan’s caretaker seriously. The flash of worry across her face was unmistakable and Ethan’s stomach sank.

“Don’t get mad at her,” he quickly amended. “I just didn’t want to feel like a patient. I wanted to be normal…I didn’t—”

“You are recovering from the most invasive surgery I can imagine…in a world without access to modern medical care,” Doctor Krause said, her voice rising, trembling, “And you think you can dismiss your nurse because you wanted a friend? Nothing about this is normal. It wouldn’t have been normal a year ago, let alone today.”

“It’s not her fault—”

She waved him away. “I can’t tell if the hematoma or the infection is causing the most swelling around the incision. But I need to get you on a round of antibiotics immediately. When did you run out of the other antibiotics? And further more…how many hours have you been spending in the chair? I said the chair was fine for small periods…then you needed to lift the leg.”

Ethan didn’t reply.

“Oh, Ethan,” Doctor Krause said in a sigh. “I need to know everything. I can’t help you if I don’t know everything. Let’s start small. How do you feel today? Tell me all the symptoms.”

He didn’t want to admit that he hadn’t been feeling great. There had been a subtle shift; an ache that he couldn’t get rid of, a headache that never disappeared. But the excitement over his date had usurped his health. He’d assumed the bruising and redness was normal—hadn’t he just lost a limb?

He cleared his throat. “Pain is worse. I…knew I had a fever…I could tell,” he replied. He watched as Doctor Krause closed her eyes, as if she were sending up a silent prayer. “The phantom pain’s been worse, but I can’t treat it with the meds. And I’ve been feeling pressure in my chest sometimes…I’ll feel like I can’t breathe. I thought maybe I was just having anxiety…”

“Stop,” she said and put up her hand. “Ethan. You are very sick.”

He bit his lip and looked away. “Well, I’ll do another round of the antibiotics and—”

“I think we should move you back upstairs. Elevate your leg on the bed. Have Ainsley come in multiple times a day for physical therapy.”

Ethan shook his head wildly. “No. No! I don’t want to get moved back up there. I hate it. It’s like prison. I’m fine here.”

“You’re not fine. You don’t understand…if I can’t stop this infection…” she stopped from finishing her thought. “You could lose more of your leg. And that’s only the best scenario.”

The thought of going through another round of amputations filled Ethan with dread. “But Ainsley and I have a date…tomorrow…”

“That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,” Doctor Krause answered with a flip of her hand. “You are ill. Beyond my abilities.”

“What does that mean?” Ethan asked, his voice breaking.

“If the infection spreads,” the doctor resumed in a clinical voice, calmer, steadied, only her sad droopy eyes mirroring her worry, “then there is nothing I can do.”

“I won’t move back upstairs.” Ethan felt the pressure in his chest again. He coughed wildly and gasped for breath. Then he raised his head, and wiped his eyes, “And I have plans. Real plans. Dean and Spencer are helping and everything. Do you know how much that means to me?” He tried to control his emotion, settle himself, but his hands shook.

“I’m not saying this because Ainsley is my daughter, I’m saying this because I’m your doctor,” Doctor Krause said calmly as she rose from Ethan’s side. “There is no date tomorrow. No date the next day. No fun until your fever is gone, the swelling is gone, and your bruising has healed. Those are my orders and I’ll make sure everyone else in this house understands—”

“No!” Ethan interrupted, his voice full of anger and apprehension. “If I’m going to die,” he paused and waited for Doctor Krause to contradict him, but instead she crossed her arms over her chest and waited, “then I want to spend a night doing something special. I want that choice.”

“Choice?” The word triggered something dark and Doctor Krause’s eyes flashed. “You think you are entitled to a choice? Since when do any of us get choices?” She scoffed and turned on her heels. “I’ll be back. I’m asking you to meditate on your health and start thinking like someone who wants to live and not a short-sighted twenty-year-old boy…”

“Who is going to die,” Ethan finished for her.

She paused in the doorway of the den and then turned. “I’m going to do everything in my power to try to save you, but I need you to be smart. I need you to want to get better. I’ll resort to begging.” Doctor Krause gave him a sad, small smile.

“I’m going to go on the date, Doctor Krause,” he replied. “I need this. You don’t understand how much I need this.”

Without reply, the doctor looked at Ethan and her shoulders slumped. Then with a sniff, she stared at him for a long, assessing moment, and then he turned back around and left, leaving Ethan alone, afraid, and determined.

Dean and Spencer moved Ethan back to the couch. Joey had run off on a hospital run with Darla—a task they were not looking forward to; the rotting bodies in the hospital were getting less manageable by the day. The infection raged and Ethan grew tired; he dozed while trying to calm his fever. And the fever dreams left him spent and anxious. When he woke, he saw Ainsley sitting by his side—her hair set about her shoulders in perfect coils, her brown eyes trained on him, her mouth pouty.

“Hey,” Ainsley replied. She held out a cool compress and tilted her head. “I didn’t want to wake you. I need to pack this on your wound…to get the swelling down.”

“You don’t need to do that,” Ethan said. He sat up a bit and reached his hand out toward her. “I can do it. Let me do that.”

“Don’t be ridiculous—”

“Your mother already said that to me once today,” he interrupted with a smile.

Ainsley got up off her chair and threw the blanket off of Ethan’s lap. She gasped when she saw his leg. The purple, blue, and black bruise climbing up his thigh. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked in a whisper. “All this time and I thought you were feeling better. I will never believe you again,” she added with an overly ominous tone.

“I feel fine.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Ainsley said matter-of-factly. She settled down next to his legs and put an ice pack next to his amputation site, and then with ease, she ripped the medical tape and wrapped it against his leg. “You’re falling apart.”

“I’m tough,” Ethan winced and then smiled. “I don’t want to be your burden.”

Ainsley shrugged. “Whatever.”

“The date is happening, by the way.”

She rolled her eyes and reached for the blood-pressure cuff. “I’m not going to pretend to understand your obsession with this. I admit it would be something different…”

“Yes!” Ethan called and then he coughed.

“How long have you had that cough?” Ainsley asked as she adjusted the cuff on his arm.

“Please don’t do that nurse stuff. It makes me sad,” Ethan replied, but Ainsley didn’t answer. She tightened the cuff and watched the dial spin.

“Please shut up,” Ainsley said with a wink. “Your blood pressure is higher than normal too. Man, I have, like, monstrously failed you.” She raised her finger and poked it into Ethan’s shoulder. He pulled away from her touch, but couldn’t quite escape it. “I’m no longer taking orders from you. Find yourself another gin rummy player.”

There was a sudden pressure in his chest and it filled and burst until Ethan couldn’t help it; he started coughing wildly, a non-productive bark. When the coughing died down, Ethan frowned. “Darla hates rummy. You’re my only hope.”

“The saddest statement ever uttered.”

“Date. Tomorrow. Don’t be late.” Ethan coughed again. “I’m serious. It’s happening. I have it all worked out.” His mind drifted to Anna for a moment; he imagined her blonde hair, her smile, and the way she made him feel. The date with Ainsley had started as a joke, something to do, to look forward to, but now he realized how much it made him feel alive—how much he couldn’t let it go. In a world of darkness, he’d made this one night the light. It wasn’t Ainsley that made it special, but the thought of doing anything that didn’t involve sitting around and waiting to get sicker.

“I actually agree with my mom. Ethan, this is serious. Can’t you take this seriously? You’re too sick—”

“Don’t you dare stand me up.”

Ainsley took off the cuff and placed the back of her hand against Ethan’s forehead. Her skin against his skin caused his chest to tighten and he pushed the feeling aside. It wasn’t supposed to be like that; he didn’t want it to be like that.

He touched her wrist, wrapping his hand in a circle around the smallness, his fingers overlapping, and he lowered her hand to his chest. Then he put his hand over hers, pressing her hand into the flesh. His heart beat fast and wild; Ainsley’s face dissolved, her mouth opened partway and her eyes watched her rising and falling hand. When she and Ethan locked eyes, he thought there had been a shift—subtle, nearly imperceptible.

“Please,” he added. “Please.”

“Fine. One pretend date. Only because I can’t say no to a dead guy,” Ainsley said in a whisper. Then she tugged her hand free of Ethan’s grip, pushed her chair back, and with dropping shoulders exited the room.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Cass and Lucy watched and listened as people traveled down the hallway toward the Center for the gathering; everyone’s voices were full of expectation and energy—vibrantly calling and whispering about why they were being summoned. The once-empty hallway was brimming with traveling occupants of the pods. The girls had to lie in wait until the halls cleared, the last of the footsteps dying away, before pulling up on the secret panel and slipping, unnoticed, back into the bowels of the System.

“Come, come,” Cass said and she gripped Lucy’s hand, slipping her fingers around Lucy’s and pulling her toward the voices.

As they rounded one hall and disappeared down another, they could hear the roar of the crowd settle into a hush and Gordy’s familiar voice address the crowd, setting the stage for his father, with great effusiveness.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” Cass clicked her tongue. “We’ll have to sneak back through the main doors. There would be no way to say we missed the memo from the theater.” Then still holding Lucy’s hand, Cass walked them to the Center’s entrance and with a deep breath, ducked into the crowd.

It was the first time Lucy had seen everyone in the System gather in one place. She realized, with astonishment, that it seemed like there were fewer people living with her underground than had gone to her high school. All the survivors from North America were housed here and altogether they didn’t even equal a large high school population?

Her eyes scanned the crowd for their pod, but Cass knew right where to go and led Lucy to stand in place, shoving her next to her parents, brothers, and sister, who shot her looks of reproach. Lucy buried her head and tried to absorb her mother’s daggers.

“Where were you?” Maxine hissed. “Tardiness…”

“Right,” Lucy whispered back, “It’s not allowed. I get it. We hurried. I’m sorry.”

Maxine placed a protective arm around Lucy’s shoulders and tucked her into the softness of her body. She held her like that, scrunched together, as Huck rose to address the crowd.

As he walked to the small podium, up on a platform that hadn’t been there when Lucy walked through an hour ago, the group began a scattered applause; then the cheers grew, and more people clapped for Huck. Scott brought his hands together, but Lucy folded her hands in front of her, pushing them together in silent protest.

“Well, thank you. Thank you, but please, that’s unnecessary,” Huck said, speaking into the podium’s microphone, which was wired to a small amplifier and broadcast his voice crisply to the far reaches of the room. “I stand before you today to say how proud I am of our successes this past month. That’s right…we’ve been here a month already. Now that we are learning how to operate within the System, I can say with ease and assurance that the great time we have hoped for has begun.”

Lucy looked to her father and mother as they watched Huck. She wondered how many people defied him in their hearts and their minds, unwilling to show on the outside how his fine sounding arguments affected them. How, she wondered, could one man make so many people afraid?

“But I am gathering us together today to remind ourselves why we are here and why others are not. Perhaps enough time has passed that we may begin to let our thoughts wander to fairness.” Huck leaned over and took a cup of water from Gordy and sipped it. “I’m here to say I understand. Your concerns are valid. And I am not an unconscientious leader. As a matter of fact, when I outlined what kind of leadership our new world deserved, I set up the tenets of honesty, morality, and of working within our own conscience as a foundation. Together we are working toward a world void of the pain and dishonesty and deceit that has plagued our earth.”

Lucy felt her heart-rate increase. Her chest heaved and her eyes narrowed. Like a bull storming before the color red, Lucy watched Huck with such unease, that she felt like she was going to be sick. Her stomach clenched and she brought her hand up to her mouth.

“We are the chosen few,” Huck continued and Lucy shuddered. “We will bring the earth back to its former glory by letting it heal. And we will let ourselves heal too.”

“Mom—” Lucy whispered, leaning into her mother.

Maxine hushed her without looking down.

Lucy struggled against Maxine’s grip. “I don’t feel good.”

“You’re fine. Hush,” Maxine insisted and tried to snuggle Lucy in closer.

Huck’s voice rose throughout the crowd, his jovial smile evident even from across the room.

“But we must discuss fairness. That word that means so much to us here, in this place. I’ve heard whispers and rumors of how I have acted unfairly as your leader. I’ve allowed someone who was left behind to enter the System…even though in the days after our arrival, I said I would not.”

Murmurs spread across the room. People whispered, pointed. Eyes fell to Lucy and she absorbed their attention with embarrassment. She wished to disappear and she felt her trademark blush creep and spread.

“Oh God—” Maxine said.

Lucy didn’t say anything and she looked to the ground and concentrated on a small section of the floor. There was a black scuff mark and Lucy studied it, refusing to acknowledge that she had become the center of attention.

“Lucy King,” Huck said her name. The room went silent and people shifted; Huck’s head panned the crowd, but Lucy didn’t move. Her mother squeezed her hand.

“They said Lucy’s name, Mama,” Harper said and tugged on her mother’s shirt.

“Hush,” Maxine replied.

Huck continued. “I will not lie to you. Lucy arrived here at our compound and, due to a strange array of circumstances, she discovered the System. We did not bring her here or choose her over other survivors. No, Lucy came on her own accord and showed initiative and loyalty. We had a choice to keep her out there in the world, tank her…”

The crowd gasped and muttered collectively. Lucy knew what they were thinking: the tanks are real. Her father reached over and tousled her hair, Lucy pulled away. She glanced up for just a moment and caught a glimpse of Cass, only a few feet away. Cass winked at her and Lucy ducked her head again.

“Or,” Huck raised his voice, “we could show her kindness. And reunite her with her family…and her father…Elektos Elder board member Scott King, was thankful. As we all should be,” his voice rose even louder. “Lucy is a member of our collective family. Harboring resentment that she lives while others did not is a cruel and bitter way to live.” He paused. Cleared his throat. “I should know,” he added and sniffed. “Ultimately, as your leader, you must trust that I am making decisions that are good for the whole. Even if my decisions appear to contradict your expectations. It should comfort you that I do not live in a black and white world, governed by the law instead of compassion for the individual.”

People muttered their approval. One by one the heads and attention turned forward, although a few people still stole glances in Lucy’s direction.

“Great change sometimes requires great sacrifice. Even innocent sacrifice; and don’t think that it isn’t hard for me to make those final decisions. Just know that every step forward we make toward our goal, we are fully realizing a future in paradise! You, my loyal and amazing friends, are at the beginning of history. We will rise from the ashes, we will build our Eden. We saw injustice and did not stay silent. Things in life were cruel and we met their cruelty with swift retaliation. With God on our side, we have taken back the world from the clutches of evil, corruption, and depravity,” Huck’s voice rose and shook. Gordy, standing next to his dad, put his hand on his father’s arm and Huck chuckled into the microphone. “Sometimes my emphatic speaking embarrasses my family,” he said, and a murmur of laughter rippled through the crowd.

Someone closer to the front called out words of encouragement and there was scattered applause.

“No, no,” Huck replied to the crowd. “No praise to me. Applaud yourselves. You are the cornerstone of this new world. The builders. The creators. Those who followed, even though you could not see the fruits of our labor in action. Celebrate faith!” Then the room erupted into cheers and clapping; Huck bowing gracefully down from the podium and walking through the crowd, the people parting like the Red Sea.

It was then Lucy realized he was walking straight toward her. People shifted and moved, turned and made an opening, and Huck landed right in front of her, his hands extended, his face lifted in a bright smile.

Lucy turned to her mother.

“Go on,” Maxine urged and gave Lucy a subtle push.

Lucy put her own hands out and Huck grabbed them in an exuberant handshake. Everyone watched them, and there was scattered applause, as if they were celebrating his humanity in saving her life.

“We meet again,” he said in hushed tones. Gordy, like a bodyguard, stood at his father’s elbow and appraised her with wariness. He had saved her life after Blair let her drown in the tank, but maybe he regretted allowing her into the System.

Lucy remained mute.

“I hope your time with your family has been wonderful and relaxing,” he continued and then before Lucy had time to reply, he leaned in and under the pretense of a hug, whispered in her ear, “Adjust your attitude and your company. You are now the face of acceptance and grace…I trust you will demonstrate your gratitude when given the chance.” As quickly as he arrived, he was gone, assisted away with the help of Gordy and a small collection of other guards. He exited the Center and the people began to disperse by pod.

“What did he say?” Galen asked. “What did he say to you?”

“You’re famous!” said Malcolm.

Out of the corner of her eye, Lucy saw Cass nod toward the hall and she looked back to her family.

“Do you all just eat that up?” Lucy said, turning to her parents. Her mother bristled. She cracked her neck. “You buy that magnanimous, it’s all for you, bull-shit? You think he’s being honest with you?”

“You’re incorrigible,” her father said to her and he crossed his arms. “I don’t even know what to say to you anymore. If you don’t want to see the truth, then we can’t help you.”

“You want to know who gave really awesome speeches and made the people feel special? Hitler. I wonder if you put their speeches side by side if either of you would even be able to tell the difference.” Then Lucy spun and followed Cass’s braids back out into the fray, leaving her parents to contemplate the magnitude of their allegiances.

“The plan is fool-proof, I promise,” Lucy said and she looked to Cass for confirmation. Over the last hour, they had deliberated and plotted, schemed and assessed. Sitting in the middle of the Center, after the crowd had cleared and the recreation activities resumed, they huddled together, absent-mindedly playing a game, and talking in hushed tones. Occasionally someone would come up to Lucy and ask a question about the world outside. Huck’s announcement had launched her from rumor to quasi-celebrity.

“Did you hear anything about what happened to Chicago?” one lady asked.

“Was the virus quick? Did people suffer?” asked another.

One boy just wanted to know about the animals at the zoo.

Eventually the attention died down and Cass and Lucy would go back to planning. To any outside observer they were just two girls enjoying the rest of their afternoon, but the air around them was tinged with hushed excitement.

“So, we’ll need a mechanic.”

“Who can be bought.”

“Kip,” Cass replied. “A sweetheart. Won’t be able to resist.”

“How do we talk to him?”

Cass laughed and then pointed her arm straight out in front of her, the trajectory of her finger landing on a guy no more than twenty feet away. He was a bulky redhead playing a game of darts. With a wink, Cass hopped up and waltzed over, touching Kip on the arm and pointing to Lucy, where Lucy responded with a half-wave and a smile. She had no idea how Cass was luring him into their plans, but she trusted her new friend’s instincts.

Kip the mechanic willingly set down his darts and shuffled over, dragging his feet along the wood.

“The famous Lucy, huh?” he asked as a question as he extended his hand. “Cass says you have a question to ask me.”

Lucy peered around his large frame to look at Cass, who stood behind and nodded. It would ruin the whole plan if she pitched their idea and Kip was expecting a different proposition.

“It’s a task,” Lucy added to safeguard and couch her offer in transparency. Honesty was a rule of the System after all. “And it’s secret.”

The mechanic smiled. “Hey now…I don’t need to get myself into any trouble.”

Cass stepped forward. “It’s like this. In an hour or so, my dad will call the main elevator guards and tell them that he’s discovered something malfunctioning. And he’s sending you to fix it.”

They had thought of the plan early on—the only hiccup was getting Cass’s dad to call in the non-broken elevator. Lucy suggested Cass tell her dad the truth, she needed Frank; and after much deliberation it was decided—he would help. His agreement was born from the fear that without his help they would make a mess of the situation and land themselves in trouble.

“But there’s nothing wrong with the elevator. I’m following,” Kip said and he brought his hand up to the base of his neck and scratched his hairline, tilting his head and scrunching up his face as he did. “And then? What is it you’re after?”

Lucy reached into her pocket and pulled out a small bag of jerky that she had stolen from her mother’s pantry. She handed it to him, placed it in his palm, and closed his freckled hands around it. “For Frank.”

And Kip nodded with recognition. “I wondered why I hadn’t seen that thing around here. Thought maybe people started to complain.” He sighed. “Okay, I head up, fix the elevator, come back down and say to the guards, hey look, I found Frank?”

Cass and Lucy nodded.

“We’ll be waiting to claim him. Don’t let the guards say they’ll take him back. Say you want to do it yourself,” Lucy added, afraid that their whole plan would fall apart if a guard looking for some extra kudos took Frank before they could.

“I hate to ask…but I imagine you have something in mind. What’s in for me?” Kip said and grimaced as the words left his mouth. Cass patted him on the shoulder and then gave a little squeeze.

The prize wouldn’t have been much in the pre-release days, but even in her short time in the System, Lucy knew she had something valuable to give. In addition to stealing the jerky, which would likely not be missed, Lucy had taken something far more treasured. For a full week, Maxine had bartered with those in charge of their food allotment to give her fresh mangoes. Fresh food was rare. Exhausting all available means, Maxine was given the last two mangoes in the entirety of the underground System; she had paid a hefty price—two pantry trips and five of her ration cards. The implication was clear: Maxine would rather skip meals than go without the mangoes.

Juicy and sweet, a treat beyond compare, the fruit represented what they could not have until they left this place—it represented what they had taken advantage of in the world before and what they could have again when Huck’s new cities were built. Getting them was a sacrifice, and even Lucy understood their importance.

Beyond the basic reasons why the mangoes were special, they were also Lucy’s favorite food. And she knew that her mother fought for them for her. The mangoes were a peace-offering, an olive branch; a subtle and tender way to let Lucy know that she wouldn’t let her go and that her needs would be met here. As Lucy had tucked the green, yellow, and pink orbs into a small sack, her stomach ached.

Stealing the fruit was a worse sin than anything she had done.

She took her mother’s hope and hard work. And when her mother discovered their absence, she would be devastated.

For the greater good, she had said to herself as she slipped out to meet Cass, the weight of the contraband against her hip. She recognized the irony of using Huck’s words in an act that would defy his own orders. At that moment, she paused and closed her eyes. Maybe all of life was just a giant struggle—a giant, beautiful, complicated struggle—and those who hurt the ones they loved the least were the winners.

Still feeling the weight of guilt on her shoulders, Lucy looked at Kip’s eagerness and sighed. She tugged the bag free and motioned for him to come closer. Then she let him glimpse inside. His eyes grew wide with astonishment and excitement. For a second, Lucy was glad that Kip recognized their value, because she had been afraid she would have to sell him on the luxury.

“To eat. Or to trade,” Cass added.

Kip let his hands drop to his sides and then raised his eyebrows. “Trade, of course. You know what I can get for those? Fine, I’m in. I’ll go wait for the call.”

Blair opened the door to her apartment a half-inch and looked out at Lucy. She seemed surprised to see the familiar teenager standing outside her door and she made a move to close it, but then paused. She opened the door again, only a crack, and assessed Lucy.

“What do you want?” Blair asked warily. Lucy scooted to the left, her hand on Frank’s collar, and she pointed down to the dog without saying a word. When Blair noticed the lab, she flung the door open wide and dropped to her knees, grabbing Frank behind the ears and pressing her nose against his wet nose.

“Frank!” she cried and then she pulled back. “How did you—? Oh my goodness. Come, quick. Get inside.”

Stumbling forward, Lucy found herself in the front hallway of Blair’s apartment. Unlike her family’s place, Blair’s area was light and new—her furniture was modern; she had bright rugs and art pieces on the walls. It also looked like Blair was in need of a maid. Snack wrappers littered the mahogany coffee table and piles of clothes collected near the door to her bedroom. Even though it was only early evening, Blair was already in her pajamas—soft flannel that hugged her body and accentuated her perfect proportions.

“I’m sorry it’s a mess,” Blair said quickly as she saw Lucy scan her clutter.

Frank ran around in a circle, barking and wagging his tail. Then he ran over to Blair’s small kitchen and nosed around. His food and water dish remained untouched since he’d been gone and the dog did not waste any time inhaling the leftover kibble and lapping up the water.

“How could you possibly—?” Blair started to ask; then she stopped. “Why? Why did you do this for me?”

“The dogs died first,” Lucy said, remembering the fateful day of the Release. She wasn’t going to answer Blair’s question yet. “All the dogs died…but your pet was exempt?”

Blair nodded. “Your father helped me vaccinate Frank. This dog is my best friend. I couldn’t imagine a life without him.”

“And your dad wouldn’t let you go back up and get him?”

“No one is supposed to go to the surface until we move. I mean, my father and his army will travel around occasionally…but…it was a punishment. For…”

“Putting me in the tank?”

Blair closed her eyes. “You don’t understand.”

“You think I don’t understand complicated relationships between dads and daughters? Maybe you shouldn’t underestimate me,” Lucy replied and she put her hands on her hips. “I didn’t just bring your dog back to be kind. I need something and I think you can help me.”

With a sigh, Blair went over and plopped herself down on her couch; she moved aside a pile of clothes and kicked away several pairs of shoes. “Let me guess. You want to see the boy?”

It didn’t surprise Lucy that Blair guessed the reason she was standing there in her room. After all, so many of Lucy’s problems started with Blair and how she reacted seeing them up there aboveground in Brixton. She replayed that day over and over—maybe things would have gone differently if Lucy and Grant had arrived in the System and set their own terms. Huck was hell-bent on keeping the portal closed, but if she had seen her father first, or her mother first, maybe she could have saved Grant from the beginning.

“And I want a meeting with your dad,” Lucy added, putting everything on the table.

Resting her head on the back of her couch, Blair contemplated the requests. “Lofty requests,” she said after a minute.

“Getting the dog wasn’t easy—”

“I didn’t say no…yet,” Blair responded and she rolled her eyes. After a long moment, she sighed. “Fine. After your parents are asleep tonight, meet me here. Make sure you aren’t seen and aren’t followed. By anyone.”

“That’s it? It’s that easy? Tonight?”

She launched herself up from the couch like a shot and walked over to Lucy, her eyes fierce. “No, it’s not easy. We can’t be seen, we can’t be caught. But I will still help you. And I’ll no longer owe you a damn thing. Understood?”

“Understood,” Lucy said in an instant, afraid that Blair would rescind the offer at any moment. “Water under the bridge.”

“Ha,” Blair replied. Her voice was weary. Frank gave a friendly bark and Lucy leaned down to give the dog one final pat. He licked her hand with his rough tongue and she resisted the urge to bury her face into its fur and soak up his softness. Poor Frank, she thought. But her thoughts quickly turned toward tonight.

Soon she would see Grant.

And after that, she would save him.

Then she would have to find a way out of this place.

In the entirety of her teenage life, Lucy never once deigned to sneak out of the house. She never had a reason, first of all, but in addition to that, the wrath of Maxine was an all too real worry. She often wondered how her friends could deal with the guilt and worry associated with leaving the comfort of their beds behind and slipping out into the night—whether it was for love or friendship or just simple rebellion.

As she waited for her father and mother to drift off to sleep—waited for the subtle snores that emanated through the paper-thin walls—she was wide awake and nervous. Fully clothed underneath the covers, Lucy felt the night drag interminably.

Finally, the apartment fell silent and slipping her feet to the floor, Lucy tip-toed through her room and out into the living room—expecting her mother to burst forth from her room at any moment, her eyes flashing, bringing with her loud fury and rage.

With her hand on the door, Lucy heard the small creak of a door and the quick pitter-patter of feet. She turned and saw Harper scamper toward her, holding a stuffed teddy-bear in her hand, her bare feet slapping against the floor.

“Where are you going?” Harper asked, rubbing her eyes.

“Go back to bed,” Lucy commanded. She bent down and held her sister by the shoulders and turned her back to the room, but Harper pushed against her and spun forward again.

“No, I want to go with you.”

“You can’t go with me,” Lucy whispered. “You have to go back to sleep.”

Lucy’s heart pounded with the threat of discovery. She kept her eyes trained on her parent’s bedroom, waiting for them to stumble out and end her chance to see Grant. She thought of Blair, waiting for her arrival, and hoped that she wouldn’t give up hope that Lucy was coming.

“Are you leaving us?” Harper asked and the question caused Lucy to pause. “Are you going away from us again?”

“What? No,” Lucy answered. “Of course not. I’m coming back.”

“You were gone before and I missed you,” Harper replied and she crawled into her sister’s arms, snuggling her chin on her shoulder.

“I’m not going away. I’m going to see a friend.”

“I want to see your friend too,” Harper said. She was more awake than before, her eyes bright. It would be impossible to direct her back to bed and still make it to Blair on time.

With a groan, Lucy grabbed Harper’s hand and put a finger to her lips. “This is a secret,” she said. “Don’t talk.” And Harper nodded, wide-eyed, and gripped Lucy’s hand tighter. Together they slipped out into the hallway and out the unguarded doors.

She swiped her hand against the elevator doors, and traveled back to Blair’s floor. When the doors opened, Blair was waiting, her back against the metal hallway door. She popped up at the sight of Harper and wagged her finger.

“She was not part of the deal,” Blair said in a hushed voice.

“I had to bring her. She woke up,” Lucy complained and she tightened her grip on her sister’s hand. “I’ll need to see Grant alone…so…”

“Now I’m a babysitter?” Blair moved toward the elevator and swiped her own hand. “You’re pushing it, King.”

“I’m not a baby,” Harper complained. Blair shot her a look and Harper sunk into Lucy’s side.

They boarded the elevator and Blair pushed the button. Lucy watched closely. The same floor as the Center; Lucy’s heart pounded. Grant had been so close all this time and she had maybe even walked right past him without knowing. It made her heart sick to think about it. The doors slid open and there were two guards, Blair nodded to them and they nodded back, turning their heads away from the small trio as they walked in the opposite direction of Cass’s secret hallway.

“They won’t tell?” Lucy whispered and Blair didn’t answer. She rounded a corner and led them down several hallways, before bringing them outside a nondescript door. Then Blair pulled a single key from her pocket and opened the door; unlike the other doors, there was no swipe pad.

When the door swung open, Lucy was looking straight into a shiny lab.

She gulped. Her surreptitious mission now felt real, tangible. Grant was close.

“Stay here, Harper,” she whispered.

“Take the key. It’s a master. It will unlock any room in there,” Blair said and she held the shiny object out to Lucy in her outstretched hand. “You have ten minutes.”

“That’s all?” Lucy’s voice sounded weak and afraid. She cleared her throat. “That’s all I get?”

“Ten. Go,” Blair repeated and gave Lucy a small push inside the bright room.

Lucy walked in and the door shut behind her. She scanned from right to left; the room was empty and still. She didn’t know what she was expecting to see, but Grant was nowhere inside the lab. Her father’s lab was pristine—she expected nothing less. There were two rooms; one with a smattering of equipment and another with a metal bed and a long counter, a refrigerator with glass doors held shelves of vials and samples, each one labeled in her father’s steady hand.

She heard some rustling and a faint cough, and Lucy spun in the direction of the noise. There before her was a supply closet and she fumbled with the key and tore forward; after the lock clicked open, Lucy rushed forward—the door banging behind her. Sure enough, Grant was there, asleep. He was huddled into the fetal position on a cot, two shabby blankets pulled over his body, one leg falling off the bed, exposing a single dirty sock. She walked forward, trembling, and looked as his breath rose and fell. His skin was jaundiced and his eyes were hollow and they appeared black and blue.

She squatted down and wiped a piece of sandy-blonde hair out of his eyes. And then whispered, “Grant. Grant. Wake up.”

Upon hearing his name, Grant bolted upright, his eyes wide. Disoriented, he spun his head left and right before finally settling on Lucy; then after a few bleary seconds, he broke into a smile.

“Lucy! You’re here! You’re really here!” The blankets dropped away, exposing his bare chest and arms, and Lucy gasped. Track marks were etched into his flesh; dots and bruises traveled up and down his arms. Someone had been using him as a pincushion. Grant’s entire body seemed weak and sickly; her father had seemed to drain his body in a short amount of time. “How did you—?”

“It’s a long story…I’ll tell you another time. Just know that I’m here, Grant. I’m sorry it took me so long. I’m so sorry,” Lucy said and she hopped up on the bed next to him, looking at his arms and running her hand over the sores and the scars. “What has he done to you down here?”

“Human guinea pig,” Grant smiled. “Don’t let the body fool you,” he tapped his head. “Positive thinking, works wonders. I’m not that bad. I’ve kept my spirits up.”

“How could you possibly?” Lucy asked and she began to cry. Grant wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into him.

“Hey now,” he said into her hair. “It’s okay. I’m still here. You’re here.”

“I read your letter,” Lucy said and she pulled away, sliding her hands into his as his arms fell away from her shoulders. “I read it and I thought you were dead. I thought you were gone. And when I thought that…when I imagined losing you…”

“I knew I shouldn’t have given that letter to your dad,” Grant replied and he smiled. His single-dimple appeared in the center of his cheek.

“You can tell me anything,” she said. “No secret is too big to keep from me. I wish I had known about your mom…I wish so many things. I need you here with me, don’t you understand? And I’m fighting for that, you need to know that. I’m going to get you out of here.”

Grant squeezed her hand. He winced and coughed to the side. “You’re determined, but Lucy…my fate is sealed. There’s no way you could save me without risking everything.” He smiled a sad smile and then looked away.

“I’ll risk everything then,” Lucy replied and she straightened her back. She took her right hand and reached over and lifted his chin; then she looked him straight in the eye. “Everything.”

“Don’t. Not for me. That’s not what I want. Are you going to get in trouble for seeing me?”

She couldn’t tell him the truth. He had enough to worry about in here. “I’m going to keep seeing you every day until I can get you out of here,” she replied. “I’m sorry if it felt like I’d forgotten…I haven’t forgotten.”

Grant ran his fingers through his hair and smiled. “I hoped you wouldn’t worry about it. I’ve been happy to dream about you being content…”

“That’s ridiculous. I can’t be content in this place—”

He interrupted her. “You’re making it harder for me to come to terms with my future,” he said to her. “Don’t take this the wrong way…but seeing you makes me want to live, Lucy. You make me want to fight. And…with everything that is going to happen to me…”

“Stop!” Lucy said and she put her hand over his mouth, clasping it tightly against his cheeks. She could feel his lips pushing into her palm. “I won’t let anything happen to you,” she whispered. “Shut up. Shut up about giving up. You should fight.”

She leaned forward and wrapped her arms around him and pulled him into her. It felt perfect and right to hold him; she knew her ten minutes would be up soon and she didn’t know what she should say that would maximize that time. Grant brought his hands up and placed them on top of her head, running his hands down her blonde hair. Her body relaxed into his.

As she pulled back, Lucy brushed her lips against Grant’s cheek. It was quick and involuntary. For a moment, her thoughts turned to a real kiss. She thought of leaning in and finding his lips; letting herself finally give in to what she had wanted all along. She exhaled and looked at him.

He looked at her with longing. She could see it in his eyes—she could feel him evaluating the situation and debating if this was the right moment.

His look, so clear, so purposeful, seemed to say that her kiss on the cheek was not enough. And it gave her the courage she needed. With a deep breath, Lucy leaned forward into Grant and aimed her lips for his.

But as she neared him, Grant pulled back.

“No, Lucy,” he said firmly. It wasn’t unkind, but it was clear. Definitive. He shot her down.

She sat up, rigid and embarrassed. Her heart pounded in her chest and she didn’t know what to say or what to do. How could she have misread all the signs? Her frustration grew and she shook her head, fighting back the tears that were threatening to come at any moment.

“Oh, Lucy—” Grant started, his face fell.

“Stop. Don’t explain. I’m sorry.” She closed her eyes tight. She would not cry; she would not cry over a kiss.

He reached for her and she let him grab her hand, but he was clammy and cold. “No. I need to tell you that—”

A rattle and a crash interrupted them. Someone was in the lab and their quick feet were headed in their direction.

The door to the closet bounced open and Grant and Lucy jumped, still holding each other’s hands. She turned her head and saw her father standing in the doorway. He was wearing a bathrobe and in his hand he clutched his keys. Scott looked between Lucy and Grant and then he marched toward her and grabbed her, squeezing her upper arm and yanking her backward.

“Dad! No!” Lucy screamed. “You don’t understand!” She kicked and tried to pull against his weight, but he was bigger and stronger than her. “Don’t do this to me! Let me go!”

Scott spun and with a look of pure anger, he yanked the supply closet door and let it close. Lucy caught a glimpse of Grant’s face; his eyes wide and full of shock and worry, his arms still reaching out for her, and then the wood door obscured her view and Grant disappeared behind it—locked back up in his tomb, alone, and without hope.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Despite Ethan’s failing health, date night became a preoccupation for the Oregon survivors. Even Dean and Joey were caught up in the moment.

Ethan spent a great deal of time outlining his wishes, scribbling out instructions on one of his father’s yellow legal pads, and asking his helpers if they were possible. And suddenly the whole house, with the exception of Spencer—who disappeared to his own home with misgivings and grumblings about not aiding stupidity—seemed to reluctantly cater to the idea that the date would happen whether they wanted it to or not.

Darla had even agreed to be in charge of the food.

And then they rushed about: raiding houses for items they hadn’t needed before, decorating the backyard, and reminiscing about their best dates.

Joey recounted a particularly fun evening people watching in downtown Portland, sharing a blue cheese and pistachio ice cream cone, and then happening upon an arcade nestled between apartment complexes. They played skee-ball and drank beer until the owner kicked them out. The girl’s name was Maggie and their relationship never peaked beyond that night.

Dean talked about the process of re-dating his ex-wife and then surprising her with a trip to Vegas. Moved by the location and their bonds for each other, they were married a second time by some heavyset man in a knight suit in front a castle facade at the Excalibur Hotel. They laughed through the entire ceremony and then ran down the strip shouting to everyone that they were newlyweds.

“She died about a year later,” Dean added and he rubbed his eyes. “There’s nothing like a little perspective to make you realize who you love the most.”

Ethan watched everyone turn from grumpy naysayers to excited party planners, buoyed by their own memories of romance, and he couldn’t help but smile. Two things had unified them: getting their food back from Dean and now this date.

“I’m only doing this because I think Teddy will have fun,” Darla had said. “We’re cooking together. Understand that. It’s purely selfish.”

Doctor Krause, who had accepted that her wishes would be ignored no matter what, and Joey, helped Ethan into a change of clothes—Dean was needed to help tie his tie—and then they got him settled into the wheelchair; then the men grabbed the chair by its sides and lowered him to the backyard, where everyone had been hard at work. The Oregon weather cooperated with blue skies and a warm spring breeze. The cottonwood trees were shedding; large white cotton capsules drifted around the yard like snowfall.

“Hey, Ethan,” Dean said standing next to his generator. “She’s coming…you just give me the signal.”

Ethan nodded and spun his wheelchair to face the patio. The screen door bounced open and then shut; behind it he could make out Ainsley’s silhouette.

“I feel stupid,” Ainsley said from behind the door. “I didn’t go to prom for a reason. This seems like a huge effort for a fake date.”

“Just come out,” Ethan called and he kept his arms on his wheels. “Nobody is going to laugh at you.”

The screen door opened and Ainsley stepped out. She had slipped out of her regular outfit of jeans and t-shirt into a long striped cotton dress; it went past her feet and draped along the floor. Ethan didn’t recognize it as belonging to Lucy or his mom, so he guessed that Ainsley had raided someone else’s closet. She crossed her arms over her chest and smiled.

“Someone told me I should wear a dress,” she said as she started toward the steps.

Ethan nodded to Dean, and Dean yanked the cord to start the gasoline-powered generator. It started to hum and then the backyard lit up with strings of tiny white sparkling lights, which were layered back and forth across the yard. Ainsley’s eyes lit up and she pointed toward the burning bulbs.

“Thank you, generator,” she said. “Let there be light!”

“Have a seat,” Ethan instructed and he pointed to a white upholstered chair at the table. She sat and folded her hands in her lap. Ethan rolled over across from her and picked up a lighter, leaned over and lit a series of candles in the middle of the table. The flames danced and licked at the air.

“You should have been a producer on those dating shows that all my friends used to watch,” Ainsley said. “You’ve got a knack for ambiance.”

“New reality show. Post-apocalyptic dates. The end is just the beginning.” Ethan replied as he waved his hand over the tablescape; complete with cut flowers and fine china. With the entire neighborhood at their disposal, they had spared no expense. The empty houses were always the best ones to steal from—it still felt wrong to take something from somebody when their body was in the next room. Ethan hadn’t done any of the actual procuring, but he’d directed well from his wheelchair. And it gave him something to focus on, something to temporarily numb him from the increasing fogginess.

Ainsley picked at the corner of the tablecloth. “What about…Not if You Were The Last Man on Earth: When Dating Meets Doom.”

“That’s a good one,” Ethan said.

“Love is a Battlefield.”

“In our case, love is just a barren wasteland of dead bodies.”

“We really should have capitalized on this idea sooner,” Ainsley added.

They were interrupted by their waiter.

Darla had dressed Teddy in a cute white jacket and a black bowtie. He ambled up to the table and held his head up high. Then he spun and shouted back up to the porch, “What was I supposed to say?”

Ethan and Ainsley turned to see Darla and Doctor Krause standing in the shadows; the Christmas lights sprinkling them with dim light.

Teddy rushed back and Darla crouched down and whispered in his ear. Then the child scampered back and cleared his throat. “Good evening. I am your server. May I start you with a glass of juice?”

“Juice?” Ethan scoffed. He looked across to Ainsley, “I’m sorry. I heard good things about this place…I didn’t know it was a dry restaurant.”

“Doctor’s orders,” Doctor Krause called from the porch.

“Are we seriously going to have an audience all evening? I feel like I’m participating in dinner theater and I’m the entertainment,” Ainsley called to her mother with a withering look.

Doctor Krause put up her hands in surrender and disappeared back inside.

Teddy looked back and forth between Ainsley and Ethan. “Juice?” he asked again. And the duo nodded at him and he ran back up to Darla. “They want the juice, Mom!” Darla handed him two cups and he tiptoed back, watching the dark liquid closely, careful not to spill. They took their drinks and Teddy rushed back.

“I did it, Mom!” he screamed, with unbridled giddy excitement.

Ethan raised his juice and leaned forward. “To surviving. To doing things that feel normal. To fake dates and nights that make us forget that we have to start all over again in this world tomorrow morning.”

Ainsley cleared her throat, “To midget waiters.”

They toasted, clinking their glasses together.

“Tell me about your best date,” Ethan said as he sipped the juice. He swallowed it down, wishing it were something harder. He’d been inspired by everyone else’s stories and it seemed like a good icebreaker.

Ainsley stared at him. “A real date?”

“Yeah. Tell me I’m doing okay with this…”

“Sure, I mean,” she looked down and tapped her fingers against her glass. “I’ve never really…I had a boyfriend in high school. Do dates with him count?”

“Of course.”

“Glow in the dark mini-golf?”

“That was your best date?” Ethan asked.

“We toilet-papered his ex-girlfriend’s house once. That was fun,” she said with a sly smile.

“So, he was a romantic?” Ethan laughed.

Ainsley laughed; she tilted her head and flashed her wide-mouth, full of white, straight teeth. “He was fine. Nice. Attentive. Even our breakup was boring.” She took a sip of her juice. “I’ve wondered about him…where he was…when the virus hit.”

“New rule,” Ethan said, putting his glass down on the table. “No virus talk.”

“Even your toast—”

Ethan reached out and touched Ainsley’s wrist from across the table. “New rule.”

They watched as Teddy approached the table. “Your dinner is served,” he said and then he turned to Darla and beamed. Teddy ran back to his mom, who handed him white bowls, and the child delivered them, struggling to lift them to the table. Liquid splashed the tablecloth. Ethan bent down and sniffed at the red and brown mixture.

“Excuse me, waiter?” Ethan asked and Teddy stopped and smiled. “What are we having for dinner tonight?”

“MOM!” Teddy yelled to Darla. Then he lowered his voice to a loud whisper, “What are they eating?”

“Taco soup,” Darla answered and she wandered to the table. “Canned tomatoes. Black beans. Kidney beans. Pork and beans. Corn. Taco seasoning. Dinner of champions. Pantry soup. You complaining to the management?” She narrowed her eyes.

“Good sell,” Ainsley said and she dipped her spoon in and brought it back up, watching the red liquid run down the silver.

“Three different kinds of beans. On a date,” Ethan added and he nodded to Darla. “Thanks, Mom.”

She smiled. “Fake date. And hey…the butcher was fresh out of steak. I thought I was being fancy.”

“You’re dismissed,” Ethan said and he waved his hand.

“Jeez,” Darla said under her breath and she rolled her eyes. “The peons and I are going to have our soup inside.”

Ethan turned and watched as everyone crowded inside. Dean stopped to pressed play on an old stereo, which was also hooked up to the generator. One of his dad’s old Frank Sinatra CDs started playing and Ethan smiled softly. He remembered his father playing Sinatra in his den on quiet summer nights; during the rare times he’d allow himself a cigar. Something in the music wiggled into him. The punctuated rhythms of the horns, and the swooping strings, and Old Blue Eye’s lyrics dripping with romance—Ethan didn’t want to be lonely.

He didn’t want the world to feel so empty.

Darla set down a bowl of soup in front of Dean. He bowed toward the warm liquid and inhaled; when he came back up, he was beaming.

“A warm meal,” he said. “Makes the running around for this silly little thing worth it.”

“You’re welcome,” Darla answered. Teddy rushed through, his bowtie askew, heading for the screen door. “Where are you going, young man?” she asked and her child halted in his steps.

“To eat with Ethan,” Teddy answered.

“Ah-ah-ah,” Darla snapped her fingers. “The waiter eats inside. Go on. Get. Leave them alone.” Teddy slumped his shoulders and retreated to the den, where his toys awaited him. Peering out of the dining room window, Darla spied outside, with the shades drawn, she and Dean had a perfect view of the glowing backyard and the young couple slurping their soup and engaging in cheerful banter. Ethan and Ainsley both smiled—an act that seemed rare compared to the duo’s grumpy way through life.

“To be young,” Dean replied, catching Darla’s gaze and turning over his shoulder to look outside. He turned back to her and grinned, “You want a beer with your soup?”

“Cold?” Darla asked with incredulity.

He nodded. “Lukewarm. I hooked the mini-fridge up to the generator and ran an extension cord into the kitchen.” He hopped up and returned a few seconds later with a barely cold beer can.

“Not much of a beer drinker,” Darla started, but she cracked open the top, “but I’ll take it. Thank you.”

“Ethan shouldn’t have all the luxuries tonight, right?” Dean said and he tipped his can against hers.

“I’m impressed,” Darla said, sipping her soup slowly. “You’re a good sport, with all of this.” Someone outside said something funny, and the laughter carried inside. “I figured you to be aloof. You know, withdrawn.”

“Don’t lump me in with your other middle-aged houseguest,” Dean replied and he set his drink down with a smack. “I have no ill-will. Just trying to live, you know? Hoping to reunite with Grant…”

It was the first time Dean had really mentioned his son. She paused, debating about pressing further. She was reassured to hear him say his son’s name. Grant had been a kind kid, in the short time she spent with him, and she’d been fond of him—he was polite, eager to help.

“The morning they took off in the balloon…” Darla started, unsure of herself. She watched Dean’s face, looking for a reason to just shut up and leave it be, but he waited and watched for her to continue. “Didn’t you hear it? The fan?”

“I’m not proud of it,” Dean answered. “I was self-medicating. Look, I thought Grant was dead…first my wife, then my son. I was a mess. And I was afraid, you see. What kind of life is left when everyone you love is gone?”

“None. No blame there.”

“Thinking I lost Grant messed me up. When I saw the balloon…I don’t know,” Dean ran his hand through his hair, and he sighed. “He didn’t come in, you know? Didn’t check. We both thought we were the only ones left. I figured…this is what letting him go feels like. It’s numbing.”

“I can’t imagine losing Teddy,” Darla shuddered. She closed her eyes and the images of Grace, her love, her life, and that moment in the airport when she realized she was losing her forever, danced before her. It didn’t feel like she was gone. It felt like she was away, on vacation. Everything about their lives had been so disrupted it was easy to pretend that in a few short days she and Teddy would pack up, head back to Southern California, and everything would be as it was.

“I had time to prepare for my wife’s death. I can’t decide which is worse…to know or not to know.”

“Does it really matter?” Darla asked him and she pushed her bowl of soup away. She was no longer hungry.

“No,” Dean answered. He tapped his fingers against the can. “No.” He sniffed. “Loss is loss.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Darla replied and she leaned back in the dining room chair. A breeze blew in through the kitchen. The CD Dean had plopped into the player carried a song into them—something soft and romantic, something that didn’t match her feelings. She listened to Teddy in the den, his imagination taking him to far off lands. She couldn’t wait for the next part of Ethan’s evening; she couldn’t wait for something to feel normal.

They ate their soup with occasional lulls in speaking; the music filled in the silences. Then Ethan stopped, mid-bite, and looked up. The twinkle lights in the trees caught Ainsley in a perfect glow—her hair falling into her right eye. She looked up and caught his glance, and she slowly she tucked her hair behind her ear and narrowed her eyes.

“You’re staring,” Ainsley replied and she slurped a noisy bite of soup off of her spoon. It was an exaggerated unladylike action. He knew she meant it as a warning. “Seriously. Stop.”

Ethan put his own spoon down. And he blurted before he could help himself, “You’re beautiful.”

“Shut up.”

“No,” Ethan said and he shook his head. “You really are.”

“Beautiful is not a word that boys like you say to girls like me. Unless we’re the only ones around, right?” She took another bite and rolled her eyes.

“Hey now,” Ethan grumbled. He put down his spoon and looked at her. “It’s not like that.” It wasn’t. “And what do you mean boys like me?”

“Boys. Like you. With girlfriends and charm.”

“You think I’m charming?” Ethan asked and he pointed a finger at his own chest. Then he laughed straight up to the sky. “Funny, Ainsley. Real funny.”

“Okay,” she said simply. And then she sat back and looked at him. “I am beginning to feel like this is just some big joke to you.”

Ethan looked crushed. He opened his mouth to say something, but he felt a stab in his stomach and a pain travel across his chest. Buckling over, he slapped his hand over his mid-section and let out an involuntary gasp. Spots traveled into his sight and he tried to blink them away. In an instant, Ainsley was on her feet. She rushed over to him and spun his chair away from the table; kneeling down he put her hand against his forehead.

“You’re hot,” she said.

Ethan raised his head. His skin went clammy and he felt a bead of sweat trickle down his forehead. “Shut up,” he said back.

“You are burning up,” she reworded. “You’re the worst patient. You can’t decide if you want to yell at me or hit on me.”

The pain subsided and Ethan slowly sat back up. “Probably just the beans,” he said and he took a deep breath. “Sit down. Finish eating.”

“It could be anything. A heart attack, blockage…”

“Really, I feel better. I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. I should get my mom—”

“No!” Ethan snapped and he grabbed Ainsley’s arm. She looked at him to his hands and he released her. “Please? I want to finish this. I want to enjoy the rest of this night. It matters to me.”

They paused and the music played in the background: The soft undertones of saxophone, the crooner singing smoothly.

“I’m worried about you,” Ainsley said in a soft voice. “Do you see how everyone worked their tails off today to make this happen? That’s because they’re worried too.”

“I thought it was because they believed in true love.”

“Ethan—”

He lowered his head. “The joking is just because…” he paused and looked back up. “How else am I supposed to go on like this? With everyone waiting around for me to die?”

Ainsley didn’t say a word.

“Are you done with dinner?” he asked, changing the subject, and he struggled to sit up. Once he was upright, he took a large breath and gave her an A-okay sign.

She nodded. “Yes. And I’m done with the juice too. Let’s go in. You lay down. Thanks for dinner.” She made a move to leave, but he stopped her.

“That’s not it,” he said. “What a lame date. Music and taco soup.”

She bowed her head and took a deep breath. When she raised her head, her eyes were pleading, worried. “Here’s the thing, Ethan. I like you. I believe in you. And I want you to live, dammit. This scares me. You’re not well.”

Tears welled in Ethan’s eyes. He felt the surge of emotion build in his chest; he hadn’t felt this close to losing it since he first saw Lucy bursting forth through their doors and barreling toward him—her joyous celebration at their reunion marred by his knowledge of what she was about to discover.

“The world is awful. Dark,” Ethan said.

“You’re forgetting the new rule,” Ainsley reminded him with a smile.

“And I just wanted this. For all of us. So we could forget.”

“It’s not fair to forget.”

“What kind of future is this for us?” Ethan asked. He let a tear roll down his cheek, he didn’t care anymore. “What if no one comes?”

“They’ll come for you,” Ainsley said and she patted his shoulder. “Your family won’t desert you.”

“They’ve already deserted me,” he said and his voice rose, and trembled. “I have strangers who have seen me at my worst. It’s not supposed to be like that. You’re not supposed to be alone at the end. You’re supposed to have the people you love.” He wiped at his cheek angrily.

The porch door swung open and closed and Ethan and Ainsley turned and saw Dean standing in the shadows. He was holding a beer can in his hand; he tilted his head back and finished it.

“Hope I’m not interrupting,” Dean said and he watched as Ethan wiped his eyes. “I was just thinking you guys might be ready for the grand finale?” he asked and he stepped forward into the light.

Ethan said they were. And Ainsley turned and looked at him, her eyes lingering.

Dean walked over to the far part of the King yard—grabbing an extension cord, he unplugged the stereo and plugged in a video projector. The bright blue light from the projector illuminated a white sheet hung on the fence with white clamps. Ethan rolled over to the part of the yard where they had set up the equipment and pointed his finger toward the sheet.

“Dinner and a movie,” he announced with pride.

Ainsley brightened at the thought of a film. “You don’t know what kind of movies I like,” she teased.

“Too bad,” he replied. “This part of the date is for everyone.”

Darla, Teddy, and Joey poured out of the house and Doctor Krause was quickly on their heels. Even Darla had a smile on her face. She clapped Ethan on the shoulder and gave him a little squeeze.

“Nicely done, kiddo,” she said. “Who would’ve thought, huh?”

The group arranged pillows and beanbags, and out from the shadows, Dean and Joey helped bring forward a couch. Together they helped Ethan move from his chair to the sofa, propping his leg up. Ainsley sat down below him. She put her arm up along the side, and Ethan slipped his hand into hers.

She tried to tug away, but he gripped firmer.

“Fake date,” she reminded him. But Ethan ignored her.

Dean stood before the blue screen and cleared his throat. “Ladies and gentleman, welcome to the Whispering Water’s neighborhood showing of Star Wars.”

Teddy jumped up and down, his face beaming with pure excitement. “Oh, it’s real! It’s real!” he said and then he rushed up to Ethan and wrapped his arms around his neck. “Thank you, Uncle Ethan. It’s all I’ve wanted for my whole life.”

Laughing, Ethan unhooked his hand from Ainsley’s and hugged the child back. “I know, Teddy. I picked it just for you.”

The boy beamed with excitement and went back to sit on Darla’s lap. “He picked it just for me,” Teddy whispered.

“Courtesy of our dear James Spencer…who opted out of this evening…but did wander back to Pacific Lake high school to raid the audio-visual equipment,” Dean continued. “We present for you. A movie.”

Everyone cheered.

“I’m here,” a voice called from the back and Spencer ambled over, sitting down with his back against the couch, next to Ainsley. Everyone paused and looked at him and he shrugged. “Come on, I’m not going to turn down a movie.”

Dean hit the play button and the movie began. The familiar music blasted from a set of six-inch speakers.

The opening gave Ethan chills and he motioned for Ainsley to sit up beside him on the couch. She shook her head. He pleaded with his eyes and she relented, snuggling up between Ethan and the arm of the couch; he rested his head against her shoulder, leaning back into her body.

“You did good,” she whispered to him.

“It seemed so unfair for the kid to never watch it.”

“Not just that,” Ainsley said. “The whole night. Thank you. It was a good fake date. You care about us. Really, I mean it. Thank you.”

With his eyes on the screen, Ethan sighed. “Maybe it wasn’t so fake.”

“The truth,” Ainsley replied ominously. “All a ploy to watch a movie. I get it. You could have just asked. Spencer would’ve gone back to the school to get a projector if you had traded him something of value.”

“Wouldn’t bet on it,” Spencer interjected and Ainsley waved him away. “I’m not always in such a generous mood.”

“Private conversation,” she replied.

Ethan shook his head and his hair rubbed against her shoulder. Then he shifted and looked at her. The light of the projector illuminated her eyes—he could almost see the entire movie playing as a reflection. “I’m scared,” he whispered.

She turned to him. Her lower lip in a pout. She brought her hand up and patted his head in a sisterly way. “We’ll take care of you,” she replied. “My mom’s a good doctor…”

“No,” Ethan replied. His eyes were drawn to the movie for a moment and then he looked back up at Ainsley. “I’m scared I’ll never get a chance to really live. To get married. To have kids. To have a future. I don’t care if the world is gone…if we’re the only ones left. It’s not selfish to still want something good—”

He wondered if this is what Grant felt like the night he spent at their house. Feeling, for the first time, like there were things he’d never get to do. It was emotionally draining and he knew he wasn’t handling it well.

“Oh, please, Ethan—”

“I’m serious.”

She shifted and lowered her voice, shooting looks out at the other survivors, who seemed to be enthralled with the film. “Please stop trying to make everything out to be something bigger. The best way to get back to normalcy is to stop comparing what we don’t have anymore. Please. I’m begging you.”

“You can feel it, then,” he replied. “You’re scared too.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She made a move to leave, but he put his hand out and grabbed her knee.

“Ainsley—”

“No,” she whisper-yelled. “Stop, please.” Joey turned and looked at them, but then quickly turned back to the movie. She rolled her eyes.

“I could fall in—”

“You’re feverish.”

“And you’re not listening.”

Darla shot them a glare. “Hush up, kids.”

He rested his head against her shoulder; she seemed tense and rigid. Then he reached up and tried to grab her hand, but Ainsley pulled back. She leaned down and put her lips next to his ear. “Please, Ethan. I’m sorry. I’ve already loved too many people who aren’t around anymore. Don’t make this harder on—”

“You?” he whispered. Then he brought her hand up to his mouth and kissed it gently. She made a soft sound of protest, but didn’t pull her hand away. “It’s okay. I understand. Just hold my hand…be my fake girlfriend. Just for tonight and then I won’t ever say anything about it ever again.”

“Perfect,” Ainsley whispered and she gave his hand a squeeze.

They settled in together in the darkened yard, the story of love and loss and good and evil playing out before them, blanketing their features with whites and blues. Teddy sat wide-eyed and Darla held him close; everyone cheered and booed and celebrated together—bonding over something that they would have taken for granted a month ago.

Ethan closed his eyes and felt the fever envelope his body, numb his brain, send him spinning, but he didn’t let go of Ainsley’s hand.

For a brief moment, the Oregon survivors pretended everything was normal. They could not see or understand the dangers and tragedy lurking just around the bend.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Maxine was a shriveled mess. Her nose was red from crying, her eyes bloodshot. She looked from Lucy to Scott with her mouth open in shock, a crumpled tissue in her hand. It was morning and Lucy hadn’t slept—from the looks of everyone else in the room, no one in their small underground apartment had much sleep. Upon waking, her parents had called an obligatory family meeting. Galen collapsed with a grumpy yawn on the floor; the twins sat beside him, and Harper had tried to crawl into Lucy’s lap, but Maxine called her away.

Lucy secretly wondered if Cass was on the other side of their bedroom walls with her ear pressed to the sheetrock, attempting to eke out all the details of her failure.

The guard sold her out. Scared into submission after Blair’s original antics, he told Huck, who sent a note to her father.

She hadn’t stood a chance.

All her plans for saving Grant seemed to slip right out through her fingers. But while hysteria was building beneath the surface, Lucy stayed outwardly calm. She sat on the floor in the middle of the room and watched her mother cry her way through a lecture.

“And the mangoes, Lucy. For a dog?”

An attempt to lie about the mangoes unraveled when Galen inadvertently mentioned that the mechanic Kip was pedaling the fruit in the Center later that afternoon.

“This is not you. This rebellion. This disrespect. Who are you and what have you done with my real daughter?”

Lucy raised her eyebrow and didn’t say a word.

“Oh, I know what that look means little lady, but don’t you dare turn this around on me.”

“Do we have to be here for this?” Galen asked and he rolled his eyes.

“We’re bored,” Malcolm echoed.

“This is a family discussion,” Maxine snapped at them and the boys sulked.

The knock on the door made them all jump.

“No, no, no,” Maxine cried and she looked around wildly. “Scott?” she said his name with a tremor. “They wouldn’t take her away without letting us know. You told him we would handle it. Did you tell him we would handle it?”

There was another knock.

Scott closed his eyes and then pivoted. He opened the door a crack, took a note, said thank you, and shut it again. Unfolding the sealed paper, he looked up at the whole room and then his shoulders sank. He walked over to Lucy and handed her the paper and she took it, unfolded it, and looked at the message.

“Is this for real?” Lucy asked.

“It’s his seal,” Scott replied.

Maxine rushed over and put her hand out for the note. Lucy handed it over and crossed her arms.

“What does this mean?” her mother asked. “What could this possibly mean?”

After clearing his throat, Scott pursed his lips and inhaled. He looked at his family, all of their eyes turned on him. “It means what it says,” he turned back to Lucy. “Go get dressed.”

She obeyed and slunk away from the family room and into her shared room, slipping back on the sundress her mother set out for her the first time she went to the Sky Room. Using her fingers as a comb, she untangled her hair and then pulled it into a ponytail. By the time she walked back out, the rest of her family had scattered and only Maxine was waiting for her.

“Huck never meets with people,” she said, more like a reminder. “Good manners and protect yourself…”

“Mom. I’m fine,” Lucy replied.

Her mother sniffed. “Everything your father sacrificed so we could survive—”

“I get it, Mom,” she said. “You’re starting to sound like you’re only trying to convince yourself.” And Lucy walked right past her mother, out the door, and down the hall toward the elevator.

Huck and the Sky Room awaited her for an early breakfast.

When she stepped off the elevator, she noticed the difference right away. The buzz and hum of people congregating for a meal was notably absent. Instead she was greeted with silence. She took several tentative steps and her shoes clapped with loud urgency against the floor. The hair on her arms stood on end. There was nobody up here—the space felt vacant and hollow. Lucy contemplated her fate if she ignored Huck’s breakfast invitation and slunk back downstairs. Would she be allowed to refuse him? What would happen then?

No. Lucy had wanted this meeting to happen. She had requested it and she would not become a coward now when there was so much to lose.

With a deep breath, she forced herself to enter the room. And just like she predicted, the room had been cleared. All the tables were gone, sans one. The single table sat in the middle of the room, directly under the apex of the artificial ceiling. Fake sunlight tumbled downward and washed the room in an eerie glow.

Huck waited.

He waved as she entered and pushed his chair back to stand.

Steady, steady, Lucy thought to herself. On her approach, a single server appeared from the side and pulled out her chair for her. She slipped into place and then the waiter pushed her chair back in. To keep busy, she ran her hands over her dress, smoothing the fabric along her thighs. When she looked up, Huck was smiling at her.

“Lucy King. Thank you for being my guest of honor this morning at breakfast. I am delighted that you agreed to meet me,” he said and he waved for the server, who brought over two tall glasses of a sparkling drink mixture.

Lucy took a sip, the sweetness was overpowering, and she set it back down, swallowing quietly. “I had asked if I could see you,” Lucy replied. “I wasn’t expecting it to actually happen.”

Huck put down his own drink and looked straight at Lucy. “Many people request to see me. Some have questions. Some have solutions. Most have requests. Others just want to be close to the leadership. It makes them feel protected…or above the others…if they can feel like they have my attention.”

She didn’t know how to respond, and so she looked around the empty room nervously. It was just the two of them, alone, and Lucy felt all of her rehearsed arguments and appeals just beyond her mental reach.

“I fit in the request category,” she said after a long pause. She let her eyes fall to the table and she waited to be dismissed.

“Of course,” was Huck’s response. “First things first. Are you more of a bread girl or a protein girl?”

“Bread girl,” Lucy answered quickly.

Huck rang a silver bell beside his water glass and their server appeared. He then raised a single finger in the air and then man nodded, spun, and left. Lucy watched the exchange with puzzled scorn and he noticed. With a smile, Huck leaned forward, and lowered his voice.

“You’re thinking it’s too excessive. The service. I see it in your eyes. You must understand there are perks that come with being the leader. But I won’t lie…I’ve always been a man of means. Some of this…the Sky Room, my office…are luxuries for me.”

She didn’t know anything about Huck’s office or his living quarters, but she imagined he wasn’t roughing it. Maybe his shower didn’t have a timer.

“Hey,” Lucy replied, “It’s your world. We’re just living in it. Right?” She grimaced, aware of her tone, and when she saw Huck’s face—his apprehension, a flash of frustration—she backpedaled. “No, I mean…my mom always used to say we deserve little luxuries…” she trailed off and then sighed.

“Don’t be nervous, my dear.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry either,” Huck laughed. “If I didn’t want to entertain your requests and if I didn’t think I’d enjoy your company, then you’d still be in your apartment with your parents…and from what I hear, your little field trip last night didn’t go as planned.”

Lucy turned red. All her emotions related to last night bubbled to the surface. Huck treated the incident with such nonchalance, but Lucy knew that he had been the one to turn her in to her parents. She narrowed her eyes, hoping to shame him into confessing his role. But Huck didn’t seem concerned with keeping his role in her discovery a secret.

“Ah, I see,” Huck hummed. “You blame me. Well, of course.”

She didn’t reply.

“No, no. I accept your blame. You are right. I told your father. But for your own good, Lucy. Out of worry for you alone.”

Lucy started to protest, but Huck put up his hand to stop her.

“You think that’s hyperbole,” Huck continued. “But your father has been experimenting with Grant. Testing viruses on him. Infecting him…” He paused and waited for her to fully understand. She blinked twice and furrowed her brow. “He could have been highly contagious to you. Depending on what stage of the viral infection he was in.”

His words sunk in and Lucy thought of her attempted kiss.

Maybe she hadn’t been rejected after all. Maybe Grant had known that kissing her would have put her at risk. Her body slumped and Lucy felt even more ashamed for her behavior: assuming out of humiliation that her feelings for Grant would never be reciprocated.

“Why won’t you let me save him?” she asked. Now, more than ever, she needed to see Grant again. Beyond that was the need, the compulsion, to not let his life end at the hand of her father.

“Where does it stop?” Huck asked. “Where do you draw the line?”

“I don’t understand,” Lucy said.

The server appeared carrying a tray. He walked the length of the Sky Room to their table and delivered two plates full of French toast, dusted with powdered sugar and cooked apples.

“Bread,” Huck announced with a smile, pleased with himself. “Bon appetit.” He raised his glass and Lucy took hers and engaged in an awkward toast. She set the glass down without drinking. “You were asking what I meant?” he clarified, taking his fork and cutting off a small bite of the toast. “I’m not a man without empathy. Without feeling. I care deeply for people, for the earth. But I believe we allowed ourselves to get horribly lost…and that pained me. Perhaps you think I’m cruel and evil…behaving with reckless disregard for this boy’s life, but I promise you that is not the case. I value people very much. Grant included.”

“Stop, please,” Lucy said with her mouth full of breakfast. She set her fork down and finished chewing. “That’s a lie. That’s either a lie you’re telling me, or just a lie you’re telling yourself. But you cannot take lives and value lives. You can’t.”

“You’re wrong,” Huck noted and he kept eating. Shoveling the egg soaked bread into his mouth with grotesque efficiency. “It was the only way. If there had been any other way,” he lowered his voice, “then we wouldn’t be here. And we wouldn’t be heading to the islands…”

“The islands,” Lucy repeated. People had talked vaguely of their future, about a move, but no one had fully explained to her what would happen when their time in the underground system was over.

“We are building them. And they are wonderful. Eden, my darling. Heaven on earth. When our time here comes to an end, the chosen ones will be rewarded with a life beyond anything they could imagine. But paradise, utopia, doesn’t just happen. It is conceived from the most amazing of dreams and plotted with utmost care. I will leave nothing to chance…”

Lucy couldn’t help but shake her head. “I’ve read enough books to know that your utopia is an illusion,” she said. She paused and looked at Huck’s reaction; he motioned for her to continue. “This place is not utopia.” She waved her hand to the ceiling of the Sky Room. “People are afraid that if they defy you, they will die…”

“I’ll stop you there. Just for a second. Did your parents ever teach you about traffic?”

Lucy hesitated. “Like…cars?”

“Yes,” Huck said and took a bite. “Cars. Look both ways before you cross the street…because, as crass as it may sound to a child…if you don’t follow the rules, and hold your parent’s hand, watch for cars…you will die.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“Don’t put your finger in the electrical socket. Don’t jump into a pool if you don’t know how to swim. Rules. They are for protection.”

Lucy shook her head. “Yeah, but if I ran out in front of a car, my parents wouldn’t punish me by killing me anyway.”

“The tanks are a scare tactic,” Huck added flippantly. “Designed as a precaution against extreme rebellion. Because our world will not accommodate…”

“Democracy?”

“Democracy is a lie,” Huck blurted, his agitation seeping through. He cleared his throat. “Your entire life until now has been a lie. You and the billions of people who lived on this earth have never been free. But in addition to living in chains, you bought the idea that you had freedoms. Lucy, I will never proclaim that what we are creating is perfect. But it is better. Better than the world we came from, better than any place the world was going. I have faith that by stopping the cycle…by choosing our future and choosing who we share that future with…that we will have our utopia. You see, my dear Lucy, I am creating the world I wish to raise my grandchildren in…a world that is not overrun with greed, evil, lies, and conspiracy…”

“By killing people. Innocent people?” Lucy felt her hand shaking. She put it in her lap to steady it.

“No one is innocent. That is another lie,” Huck said and he shook his head. “Purging. With the intent to rebuild, to fix what is broken. It is a story we have accepted before. These Systems and the islands are my ark…”

Lucy’s shoulders slumped. “So, your world will not work unless only your chosen people survive?”

“This is all about Grant, is it? You can buy into this world…if you can have the boy?”

She hoped it would be easy enough to say that was the case and be done with breakfast, but her wishes were not even that simple.

“And my brother. And the people we left in Oregon. Good people. People who deserve a future too.” It wasn’t until after she had finished her sentence, and she saw Huck’s cheeks flush, and his eyes flash upward, that she knew she had made a mistake.

It was too late to take back the confession and she searched her brain, trying to figure out if she had told anyone else about Darla and Teddy. Or had she been too preoccupied with her separation from Grant or taking in her new home?

“So, your brother is not alone. There are other survivors,” Huck said in a steady voice. “Like Grant? Unaffected by the virus?”

She stayed silent as long as she could. She did not know which was the worse crime. Eventually, she shook her head. “No,” she finally said, but she refused to say anything more.

“I see. This is news. So…you are trying to say that there are vaccinated survivors left in Oregon? And I should warn you…withholding information will harm your brother,” Huck said to her as a blatant threat. He leaned across the table and extended his hand. “I am surprised, you see, not angry. I deserve to know what awaits my team back in Oregon. We must go back prepared.”

That piqued her interest and Lucy looked up. “You’re going back for him? Really? My mother said—”

“It was always my intention to go back for Ethan. I owe your father that.”

“He’s been injured. He needs help soon. You have to go soon,” Lucy pleaded. She had renewed hope and energy, but she was overcome with urgency.

“Who else is there with him? How should we best prepare for a rescue mission?” Huck asked this while looking down at his plate. He moved a piece of toast around in the sugar and then popped it into his mouth. His eyes were raised with concern and interest. Lucy didn’t know how to respond or if to trust him. She hesitated.

“It’s okay,” Huck said with a wave of his fork. “Don’t say anything you feel uncomfortable sharing.”

“Thank you,” replied Lucy. She stared at her untouched breakfast. Picking up her fork, she moved some of the pieces around, isolating the apples on one side and the bread on the other.

“Almost everyone was accounted for,” Huck mumbled to himself. “That’s okay. That’s okay.” He ran his fingers over his lips and mimed throwing away a key. “I’ll pressure you no more.”

Huck reached down and rang the little silver bell. The man appeared and walked the distance to the table, standing at attention by Huck’s side.

“Yes, Mr. Truman?” he asked.

“Summon Scott King to my office in fifteen minutes. Thank you,” Huck told the man.

“Of course, Mr. Truman,” he replied and walked back across the vacant Sky Room.

“You haven’t touched your breakfast,” Huck said and he pointed to Lucy’s full plate. “Would you like me to have someone box it up for you?”

Lucy shook her head and forced herself to take a bite. “I feel like…” she started and stopped. She ran her hand over her forehead. “If I leave breakfast and you still won’t let me save my friend…I feel like a failure.”

“He means that much to you?”

Lucy nodded.

“I can’t guarantee his life. It’s not a simple decision. There are factors. Ramifications. How do I explain it to the others who also had people they loved…and were forced to stay behind…”

“You already told the masses that you are making decisions for the good of the System.” Lucy was proud of this argument and she felt her confidence building.

“So, all of my addendums are just to benefit the Kings,” Huck said and he set his fork down and leaned in, running his tongue over his teeth. “You. Ethan. Grant. A little pathway of future resentment. Is that what you want?”

“I don’t care about what other people think.” Lucy deflated.

“You should. You must.”

“I just want to see him.”

“Even with the personal risk of being infected?”

Lucy nodded again.

Huck sighed. “Tell me about Oregon.”

She drew in a sharp breath. Telling Huck the truth was too dangerous, and that was not including the fact that telling him how Darla and Teddy survived would be admitting that her father left them the vaccines.

“How did the others survive?” Huck asked her again, more pointedly. “Tell me what is in Oregon and I will give you the boy. I will spare him.”

“Just like that?”

He snapped his fingers. “It is my decision to make.”

She cleared her throat and her hands shook. “There is a woman and her son.”

“Vaccinated.” It was a question. Huck narrowed his eyes and waited for her reply.

She hesitated and then thought of Grant. His skin had turned so yellow and he looked so weak. Yet his letter to her had been kind and spirited. Grant was the epitome of everything good and amazing in the world—and he was being sacrificed. How could she make the choice to never see him again? She needed him.

“My dad left extra vaccines for his kids as a precaution in case we missed a dose. He was afraid of something happening to him before—” as Lucy started to tell Huck, she began to understand her father’s fear. One misstep with Huck could have cost him his place in the System and his clues, his room in the fruit cellar, and his vaccines were ways to ensure that his kids would survive.

“Just the two people?”

Lucy nodded. “We gave the other vaccines away. But when I left, it was just my brother, this woman, and her small son. Teddy,” she added, remembering the child’s face. “They deserve to live. All of them.”

Huck rose from the table without warning and picked up a napkin from beside his plate. He dabbed the corner of his mouth and then dropped the napkin back down. “Thank you,” he said.

“Grant?” Lucy asked in a panic.

“I’ll discuss it with your father,” he replied as he turned and walked away—his back to her, his shoes clapping against the floor. He headed back toward the elevators and out of the Sky Room.

“You said it was your decision,” Lucy called after him. “You said you’d save his life.”

“I will save his life,” Huck continued, still walking away. “But whether or not you get to see him ever again? That is up to your father.” He rounded the corner and disappeared out of sight.

Without even a formal goodbye, Huck was gone, and Lucy sat staring at her plate, reeling, and feeling tricked.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Scott stood outside Huck’s office. He took in a deep breath and then knocked, waiting for an affirmative answer before walking inside. When Huck called from behind the door, he turned the knob and entered. He’d been a visitor to the office several times, but he never tired of the glorious mural painted on each of the four walls. Each time it made his heart skip. Huck had commissioned an artist to create a replica of the view from his office at the old Fourth and Main building where he had conducted most of his business.

If he didn’t stare directly at the artwork, Scott could pretend that he was back in the real world, meeting Huck for the first time, sitting at that office. And when he let his imagination travel in that direction, he often wondered if he would make the same decisions. Ultimately, despite the fear and complications, he was proud that he had saved his family. Lucy could pontificate all she wanted with her narrow understanding of how the world worked, but Scott was secure that he had done the right thing.

Lucy would understand someday. Maybe it wouldn’t be until she had children of her own, but she would understand.

“Sit, sit,” Huck instructed and Scott obeyed. He lowered himself into the big leather chair opposite Huck’s desk and waited for his boss to explain the nature of their meeting. “Your daughter and I had a lovely breakfast this morning, Scott.” Huck leaned back in his chair and folded his hands above his head.

“Thank you for meeting with her. I’m sure you were able to answer many of her questions,” Scott answered, weighing his words.

“She cares deeply for the boy.”

“So it would appear.”

“Young love. It’s hard to decide if it’s wonderful or misguided. In this case, I told your daughter that Grant was unsafe from a practical standpoint.”

“That was my concern as well,” Scott admitted.

“What have you been able to discover? An anomaly?”

Scott shrugged. “There are markers that would indicate it could be genetic. But I’m running tests against some of our other blood samples…without a larger sample, I don’t know. I’m trying to narrow it down soon.”

“Good. Here’s the deal. If Grant is a singular case…a mistake, then he can live.”

Turning his head, Scott looked at Huck. He blinked and bit the underside of his lip. “I’m sorry. What?” Scott asked. This edict defied everything he had been told; all of his experiments and tinkering were for nothing. “There’s no way to know if he’s a single case…just the fact that anyone carried an immunity to that virus is suspicious.”

Huck waved Scott’s reply away like it was odiferous. “Like a flip of a coin. If the resistance to the virus is genetic, I want him gone. Nobody should know that there could be people out there who have survived. It will only create dissention and a desire to go after them. But if he’s an exception…a mistake. A rarity. Then,” Huck crossed his arms over his chest, “we can pass off his inclusion like he is a miracle.”

“I can’t know for sure unless we can compare him to others like him…”

Huck waved this impediment away too. “You are the best, Scott. You will submit a full report and you will deal with it. And in the meantime…I promised your daughter that she could see him.”

Scott stayed still, but his left leg twitched. After a moment, he rubbed his forehead with his pointer finger. “Oh,” he muttered. “Well, then, Lucy must have had a compelling argument…I’m impressed. I’m sure she’ll be very grateful…”

“Her arguments were weak. Based on the assumption that someone deserves to live simply because they’ve been born. In the end, I told her it was up to you.” Huck rose and paced the length of the room, his hands behind his back, and Scott watched. “I figured,” he continued, “that you’d want to make that decision…since you appear to need to play God.”

“What?” Scott remained seated, but his eyes followed Huck’s pacing. “I don’t know what that means.”

Huck stopped and locked his eyes into Scott’s and Scott resisted the urge to look away first. “You know…deciding on your own to go against what we had outlined. You have some explaining to do, Mr. King.”

“I don’t know what—”

“I trusted you,” Huck seethed through a clenched jaw. “We had rules. You, who were asked to enforce the vaccinations…”

Scott’s heart began thumping in his chest and his leg picked up momentum. Huck leaned over the desk, and he pointed a shaky finger at Scott’s chest, his face a full blanket of accusation.

“Huck,” Scott started. “Do you have something you need to ask me specifically?” He asked the question, put it out there, although he knew where this was headed. He knew the minute he was summoned that this was not a friendly visit.

“You have created variables, Scott. Do you understand the ramifications of your actions? You have single-handedly jeopardized the rescue mission of your son—”

“Wait—”

“How can I send my men to go get Ethan if I don’t know what waits for them there? I asked you to create a secondary virus and I’ll need it. Now.”

“It’s not ready…and I’ll need Grant to complete my testing…”

“Then Ethan will stay where he is. He is lost to you.”

“Huck—” Scott felt clammy. He stood up, so he could face Huck eye-to-eye. The old man came out from around his desk and stood next to Scott, his nostrils flared in and out.

“You abused the position I gave to you…while those people begged for extra vaccines, begged to save one more person…you hid them away? You used my time and my money to create problems for me down the road? Do you have any idea how annoyed I am by this betrayal?”

“It was my vaccine. My creation,” Scott stammered. “I created the extras on my own time…”

“If your family failed to meet the vaccination date by the vaccination time…that was your fault. Those were our rules. Your rules, even. You stood beside me and upheld the statute despite tears and panic with dozens of other families.”

“I was worried. I thought if I had them at my disposal, why shouldn’t I try to protect them in case…”

“You told them where we were. The first violation. You left behind our only commodity. The second violation.” Huck slammed his fist down upon the desk and Scott took a step back, and he looked down at the carpeted floor and stared at his own plain brown shoes. “How many vials did you leave behind?” Huck asked after taking a breath.

“Six,” Scott whispered.

“Lucy told me two of those went to a woman and her son. A young child.”

Scott knew what was coming next. He closed his eyes and held his breath.

“Decide their fate,” Huck said. “You created them. You tell me what I should do with them.”

“They are accidents. Those vaccines weren’t supposed to leave my family, Huck. I’m sorry.” Scott shook his head and took another tentative step backward.

“Decide!”

“Kill them,” Scott said. “That solves it…that fixes it. We kill them.” He said the order softer now. He closed his eyes and tried to push the image of the woman and her young son away. His vaccines had saved them and now his decision killed them. His stomach ached.

Huck stomped to the office door and opened it; then he called out, “Get me the General.” Then he slammed the door and walked back to Scott.

“I’m sorry,” Scott replied, wiping his brow. “I didn’t think beyond that…didn’t think that they would use the vaccines for others.”

“You didn’t assume they’d use it? To save friends? Or help others? To trade?” Huck asked, dripping with supercilious contempt. “Then I overestimated you. And you underestimated them.”

There was a knock on the door. Both men turned to look as the man Huck called the General waited to enter. Huck motioned for him and the tall man, with dark hair and a buzz-cut walked with brisk, clipped steps into the room. He was dressed in a specially designed uniform. It was notably similar to the guards, but more colorful, and a brass tag identified him as a high-ranking official of the Elektos military. He saluted Huck, but Huck did not return the old-world action.

The General had been a well-decorated Army general and a multi-war veteran in the former world. But he had traded that position for a job in the Elektos military and a chance to build a new world. The General’s intimate government affiliations were invaluable as they planned the Release and the System. Huck could dream it, but the General could make it happen.

Even Scott didn’t call him by his actual name, Phillip, but only as the General—which solidified the man’s mystique as Huck’s third-in-command behind Gordy. It was the General who helped Huck hide his building development and recruit cabinet members. He was intimidating and severe: as unapproachable as Scott was personable.

“Where are the planes?” Huck asked without formalities.

“At the runways. Fueled and ready. The System in Botswana isn’t expecting you for another week, sir,” the General said, he relaxed his shoulders a bit, but his face stayed rigid and focused on Huck, following the leader’s actions with his eyes.

“Rescue mission in Oregon,” Huck stated and if the General was surprised, he didn’t flinch. Huck walked back to his desk and stood behind it, resting his hands against the wood. “We’ve decided to go back for someone.”

“We could be ready to go within the day. Depending on the team. Urban or rural location?”

“Urban,” Huck answered.

“We have available helicopters outside Portland. Two at the Hillsboro airport…”

Huck cut him short. “I don’t need the details. Between all the travel arrangements…when could you get to the location?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

“I want you to go with them,” Huck commanded.

“My team is quite capable of leading a rescue mission without me,” the General replied. Then he added, “sir.”

“It’s more complicated than that.” Huck wagged a finger. Then he turned to Scott. “Tell him his orders,” he instructed and the General shifted his attention to Scott, his eyes narrowing.

“My son…Ethan…I’ll give you my address, I believe he’s still at home. But my daughter said he was injured badly…hit by a car. We don’t have any other details…”

The General nodded, waiting for the rest.

“Go on,” Huck said. “Tell him about the variables.”

Scott looked at Huck, his jaw tightened, and he swallowed. “There might be others…a woman for sure, and her child…”

The General looked to Huck and then to Scott. “How many survivors should we prepare for?” he asked.

Huck put his hand up to stop the conversation. He looked at Scott expectantly and then turned back to the General, “Bring back only Ethan. Kill the others.”

“We’ll take care of it,” he said swiftly, without a hint of surprise. Then the General pivoted, poised to leave.

“Wait!” Scott yelled and he took a giant step toward Huck. “Wait.”

Everyone turned to him and stopped. Scott put his hands out toward Huck, pleading.

“You having a change of heart?” Huck asked with a sneer.

“Bring back Ethan and the child,” Scott answered. Then he looked to the ground.

For a long moment, the room was quiet. The room hummed and then Huck turned to Scott. “You heard him. Ethan and the boy. No other survivors. Are we clear?”

“Yes, sir,” the General replied. “We’ll kill the mother and any other survivors on sight. Bring back the boy and the child. Easy.”

“You are dismissed. Let me know when you leave and I expect a full debrief when you return,” said Huck and with a nod the General spun and left the room.

After the door had shut behind him, Huck turned to Scott. “You’re weaker than I predicted.”

“I know.”

“I believed more of you.”

“It was a momentary lapse.”

“This child will be your responsibility…”

“Of course,” Scott mumbled. He had no idea how Maxine would react to him adding a seventh child to their brood. But he rested in the comfort that she would stand by his side in the decision to bring the boy back. He didn’t know why he felt compelled to offer the boy a chance at life. Something inside of him couldn’t stomach the idea of killing another child. His hands were bloody enough.

“I do admire your compassion,” Huck continued, slumping down into his chair. “Don’t get me wrong. You are an admirable man, Scott…but in times of great war and great change, there are hard decisions. The end will justify the means, I believe that and so do you. We have a cause and we have a plan. Do not waver, and do not hesitate. Remain strong.” He put out his hand, palm down, and motioned for Scott. He reached, grabbing Huck’s hand in a side-shake.

“Of course,” Scott replied again and he tried to pull back, but Huck held on.

They stood there, with outstretched arms, Huck locked on to Scott.

“You are one of my most trusted colleagues,” Huck continued. He looked close to tears, his chin wobbled. “It hurts to think you didn’t trust that I would take care of you.”

“I’m sorry.” Scott looked to the floor. He admired the brown speckled carpet. He could still feel Huck watching him, assessing his every move. And Scott felt his hand go cold. The prolonged handshake felt more ominous the longer it continued.

Then Huck released him and Scott hesitated for a second before letting his hand drop to his side.

“I will let you know when the planes leave,” Huck added with mechanical and businesslike air. “We shall welcome Ethan home like the prodigal son. And we shall spin the story of the child…we’ll find a way. Leave the details to me.”

Scott nodded. Frozen.

“And…Grant…our stowaway,” Huck said as a reminder. “I expect to be notified when the results are in. And continue to work on our second virus. No matter the outcome with Grant, I still intend to follow-through with a second release. I won’t take any chances before we move to the Islands. Do you understand? I’m done cleaning up all of your messes. Lucy. Grant. Ethan. This child. Make it right or suffer the ultimate consequence. Is that clear enough, Scott?”

With his eyes steely, cutting into Scott like a saw, opening him piece by piece, Huck sat in his chair. He turned his body away, and after a lingering moment of awkward silence, Scott nodded, turned, and let himself out. Once in the hallway, a safe distance from the man he had followed into the underground System, Scott took a shaky breath. He put his hand out against the wall to steady himself and let all the ramifications of his choices wash over him.

He knew what he needed to do next.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Cass and Lucy sat on the couches in the Center and watched the others around them with idle curiosity. They looked like the picture of teenage apathy: faces drawn in tight-lines, nary a smile in sight, their slender legs hanging over the edges of the cushions, swinging and bouncing to imaginary music.

While the energy of the other System occupants filled the room with the sound equivalent to a hive of tireless bees, the girls sat in silence. A book from the lending library, next to the movie theater, lay open on Lucy’s lap, open and cracked along the spine. She tried to read and reread the first paragraph at least a dozen times, but her mind drifted to her breakfast with Huck, her fight with her family, and her last moments with Grant. Everything continued to slip into an even more unreal version of itself and Lucy just closed her eyes and tried to pretend that she was back at her real home, in her own gym at Pacific Lake; in this reality Salem was by her side, and they were listening to the boys play basketball during lunch.

She had just captured the perfect level of transcendence, when she felt the shift around her; there was a disruption in her daydream. Lucy opened a single eye and saw her father standing a few feet away, watching her.

Cass didn’t move from her spot on the couch. She too looked up at their visitor and before she could say hello, she yawned, covering her mouth with the back of her hand.

“Good afternoon, Mr. King,” Cass said. “Pop on down for a bit of darts?” she added with a wink.

“Lucy?” Scott questioned ignoring Cass’s question, and Lucy rolled her head to look at him. “I was heading to the lab…” he paused and ran his fingers through his hair, then he looked to Cass and then back to Lucy. “Do you want to come with me?”

Swinging her legs down off the edge, Lucy turned. “To see Grant?” She caught a glimpse of her friend in the corner of her eye, who offered her a sly smile.

Her father nodded.

She pivoted again and looked at Cass for permission, and the bubbly beauty blew her a kiss.

“Amuse-toi bien,” Cass said. “Give the boy an extra hug from me…from a friend he’s never met,” she added. And Lucy swung off the couch, her book tumbling to the ground. Tossing it back to the couch, she reciprocated the air-kiss – smacking her hand and waving goodbye to Cass. Lucy’s heart pounded with excitement and an ounce of trepidation—could this be the moment she had hoped for? Had Huck’s words carried any power with her father? Or was her father merely allowing her a proper goodbye? She reserved celebration until she knew for sure, until Grant was free.

“Does this mean what I think it means?” Lucy asked her father as she walked over to him. She tugged on the back of his shirt. “Does it?”

“I need to examine some results,” was all her father said and he led the way, picking up his pace. Lucy skipped to keep up. They exited the gym area and made it halfway down the hall before he slowed his stride.

“Dad—” she continued to press, and Scott spun: he looked so tired and weary, that Lucy hesitated. There were dark circles under his eyes that she had never seen before and his hair seemed peppered with gray. His cheeks were sallow and saggy. She realized that he had aged more in a month than in an entire decade. He seemed like a mere shadow of the man she remembered from their life in Portland. And Lucy’s throat went dry and she started to speak, but no words came out.

Her father had always been a handsome man. She was young, in elementary school, when she first noticed the way people looked at him—as if his ruggedness, his youthful face, seemed out of place with the rest of his life. They watched him—the attractive scientist, with the ever-growing family—and talked about him behind his back. Then he’d speak, and he’d fumble a joke, refuse a handshake, his neuroses glaring to those who knew him best. It was those small details of her dad that made him so special to her. So real.

Her hero. Her rock.

And he ruined everything.

In an instant, he was nothing like the man she thought raised her. Somewhere, deep down, the Scott King she idolized was still living and breathing beneath the shell, but something else had taken him. He was lost to her.

It seemed like a lifetime ago when she was sitting in Wyoming, playing with the flowers, reluctant to leave the beauty and tranquility of the mountains to join a family forever altered. Deep down, even then, she knew this would happen. Seeing him, facing him, accepting him. She couldn’t forgive him.

Scott opened his mouth, as if he were to tell her something, then he stopped and turned his head. He measured the way she was looking at him. And his face fell. Then it flashed, with something unrecognizable: fear or scorn, confusion or anger. She braced herself for scolding; prepared for him to unleash the deluge of his pent up emotions. But instead Scott took giant steps back to her and without warning enveloped Lucy in a hug, wrapping his arms around her shoulders.

“Dad,” she whispered, but Scott hushed her.

She sunk into him. They stood for a long moment in the hallway just holding each other—a few people scooted around them on their way to the elevators or into the Center, but neither of them minded. Scott pulled back and held Lucy out from him at arm’s length, his hands still on her shoulders.

“There’s something I have to say—” he started.

Lucy looked at the ground and pushed her eyes shut; she tried not to cry. When she looked up, she saw the worry on her father’s face. “Just say you’re sorry,” she whispered.

He flinched at her words and then he drew her back into him. “I’m sorry,” he replied. “There are so many things I wish I could explain. But please know…I never wanted to hurt you.”

“Will you save Grant?” she asked next, her cheek still pushed against her father’s chest, his heartbeat thumping in her ear.

There was a period of prolonged silence and Lucy could taste the apprehension in the air. Her father wasn’t convinced Grant was worth saving? Or: he was simply scared. It dawned on her in that moment how fear was the ultimate motivator and perhaps she had spent so much time angry with her dad that she hadn’t been able to recognize his own worries. Still, Lucy didn’t fully understand, and couldn’t rationalize how there was any other option. He had to free Grant.

“Yes,” he answered. “I will save him.” Then he paused and shook his head. “No, that’s not right. We will save Grant. Or rather, I will save Grant because of you.”

Lucy was afraid to move, afraid to breathe. She was afraid to think that this was just another trick before she encountered another setback.

But her father leaned down closer and tucked a piece of her blonde hair behind her ear. “Don’t worry, kiddo. I haven’t caught the ball yet.”

Lucy threw herself into her father’s chest and smiled into the folds of his soft, cotton shirt.

They stood and watched as Scott gathered up the files. He spread them out over the metal bed and shook his head. He flipped through pages and pages of data, examining and crosschecking, mumbling to himself. Lucy watched, but she knew better than to say anything. Grant, released from his closet, stood by her, his hand intertwined with hers. His Romero poster had been rolled up and Grant carried it under his arm. He had asked Scott if he’d have to give the poster back, but Scott had only laughed in reply. Unwilling to part with it, he held it to his body with such force that his bicep began to ache.

“Well,” Scott finally mumbled. He turned back to the kids and gave them a weak laugh. “Here’s to undoing some science.” Gathering back up the papers, Scott walked over to the counter. He opened the lower cupboard and searched around until he found a box of matches. Then walking over to the sink, he lit the match and began to burn the papers. Letting it ignite, he then ran the water over the flames, creating an ashy, chalky mess. One by one, paper by paper, he destroyed everything in Grant’s file.

“It’s genetic then,” Grant said when Scott was done.

Lucy’s dad picked up the remains of his work and plopped the soggy mess inside a plastic container. Then he shoved the plastic container into the bottom of one of the freezers. And he shrugged.

“Without another comparative sample, it’s all conjecture. But yes. I think your immunity is inherited.”

Lucy turned to Grant and searched his face. They seemed to all understand the ramifications of that analysis immediately: both within the System and beyond its walls.

“Does that mean? Could he be…” Lucy started, but Grant gave her hand a squeeze, silencing her.

“Look,” Scott said to them, his face intense. “Listen to me carefully. Repeat this…repeat it in your head, imprint it on your heart…you can never utter those words again. Your immunity has no known cause. You are a miracle.”

“I understand,” Grant said. “If he thinks there are others like me, he’ll use me to get to them. Right, I know.” He nodded once, his eyes on Scott—an understanding passed between them.

“He may use you to get to them anyway, Grant. But this is your only hope. Say it, please,” Scott instructed.

“I am a miracle,” Grant echoed. He turned to Lucy and grinned, flashing his teeth in a brilliant smile.

Scott clapped Grant on the back. “Just keep telling yourself that. Let it sink in.”

“No, I got it, Mr. King,” Grant nodded. “I’m a miracle. Back from the dead.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Ainsley ran her hand over Ethan’s forehead. She wiped his bangs off to the side, but some of the hairs stuck to the sweat. His cheeks were flush, red and splotchy, and he moaned with each exhale; there was a throaty growl with murmurs of pain. The house was quiet and waiting, each of the survivors entering the den at intervals to take a turn to sit with him. He’d deteriorated rapidly in the last few hours, slipping into a state between sleep and wakefulness. Occasionally he’d mutter something, and once Darla heard him call for his sister, Lucy.

It pained her to hear him. Lucy and Grant had been gone for weeks now, but it felt like so much longer.

Ainsley turned to Darla, her look a cross between weary and pleading. Her mother walked into the room holding a new array of drugs raided by Joey, she counted pills into her hand and sighed. It wasn’t enough.

“Mom,” Ainsley said turning to Doctor Krause. “You have to do something. Tell me those will help him.”

But Doctor Krause just closed her eyes. “Don’t you think I’m trying? We’re doing everything we can do. I’m not electing to neglect my Hippocratic oath here…I’m trying.”

“He has to live, Mom,” Ainsley rose to her feet. She walked over to her mom with clipped steps and she grabbed her by the wrists. Doctor Krause startled and dropped a bottle, the pills spilled to the floor. “We came here to save him. So, save him.”

Darla, sitting at the desk, turned away. She had lost all of her energy and all of her fight. In some ways, it was encouraging to see Ainsley take up the cause. The girl still wanted to take on the world while Darla was ready to beat a hasty retreat from the stress and angst of a home waiting for death. She looked at the spilled pills and wished for someone else to make a move to pick them up.

“I can’t help him anymore,” the doctor admitted and pulled away from Ainsley’s grip, but then she reached back out, and her daughter walked away from the outstretched hand. “Without the proper medicines or care…what can I do, Ainsley?”

“He can’t die,” Ainsley said. She looked straight at her mother, “We made it this far. He can’t die now.”

Dean entered the room. He looked down at Ethan and scratched his temple. “Can you make him more comfortable at least?” he suggested. “It’s a shame. He seemed like a good kid.”

“Don’t you dare use the past tense,” Ainsley seethed. “If we can get his fever down…if Darla or Joey can do another run for antibiotics. We can search more houses…”

“Stop,” Doctor Krause said. She leaned against the bookshelf.

“We’ve pilfered through everything in our radius,” Darla added. “Some of the things on the shopping list just don’t exist.”

“What? There’s only one hospital? One pharmacy? Please,” Ainsley rolled her eyes. “I feel like I’m the only one who is still trying.” She pointed a finger at Darla. “Don’t make excuses just because you’re tired.”

“Damn right I’m tired,” Darla replied and she lifted her legs and rested them atop the desk. “But could we stop with the pity party? I cared about that kid long before you showed up.”

“Dean is right,” said Doctor Krause in a loud voice and Dean turned at the mention of his name. “Making him comfortable is the most important thing.”

“Mom—” Ainsley challenged. But her argument was cut short by the sound of the front door slamming shut. Spencer rounded the corner, and he banged his hand against the door to the den for emphasis.

“Quiet!” he yelled, putting a finger to his lips. “Everyone shut up.”

The group turned to him.

Joey appeared on the landing from upstairs, fresh from an afternoon nap. His brown hair stuck up in a clump along the crown. He stretched and yawned; then his head slowly rose and he peered at the ceiling. His hand rose and he pointed. Then he opened his mouth to say something, but Spencer raised his hand to silence him.

“It’s them,” Spencer whispered. “I thought I heard a plane overhead about an hour ago. But now…”

“Helicopters,” finished Dean.

Spencer nodded. “Two. From the west. And close.”

After months of silence—no sirens, no engines, no roar of engines in the sky—the whirl of the helicopters was upon them and they were as loud as a clap of thunder in a Midwestern storm. It was difficult to hear anything else.

“How do we know it’s them? The Nebraska group?” Doctor Krause asked in a whisper.

“Who else could it be?” Spencer spat and he reached for his gun, checking it and readying it. “Go. Go. Everyone into position.”

Ainsley hesitated and looked between Ethan and the group. “Let me stay with him,” she begged Spencer. “Please let me stay with him.”

“Positions!” Spencer yelled again and as the helicopters gained ground.

“I want to stay—” Ainsley tried again, approaching Spencer, her curly hair flying.

“We had a plan. And you will honor the plan,” he said in a hushed voice. Then he raised his gun at her and held it steady. “Non-negotiable.”

Joey rushed into the closet bedroom upstairs and grabbed the sleeping Teddy. Tucking the child into his arms, he bounded down the steps.

“What’s happening, Mama?” Teddy said sleepily.

Darla took her son from Joey and kissed his head.

“Buddy, remember what we talked about? You and Ainsley are going to hide in the dark for a bit. It’s a game and you need to stay quiet,” Darla said to him, her voice catching. She swallowed and watched as Joey and Spencer moved their arsenal of weapons into reach. Darla shook her head. “I love you. Be good.”

“No,” Teddy whined. “I want to stay with you.”

“You can’t, Theodore. You can’t stay with me. It’s dangerous.”

Ainsley walked up to Spencer and touched his arm. “Please,” she said in a whisper. “My mom can sit with Teddy. He’d want me to stay. I want the chance to go with him…it’s only fair—”

Spencer raised his gun. He held it steady against Ainsley’s head, pushing the metal barrel between her brows. She flinched and a single tear rolled down her face; her breathing became rapid and unsteady. The whirl of the helicopters had died down. Close-by the enemy had landed. Ainsley stared down into the barrel of Spencer’s gun, and she took a step backward. Then without another word she grabbed Teddy’s hand and together they rushed into the basement.

Darla watched her son until he had disappeared. She gripped the banister tightly, and pressed her eyes closed for a single second, before spinning around and sprinting upstairs to the second-story.

Spencer’s plan was detailed. It involved a meticulous action plan, and each of their roles had been drilled into their heads. Spencer and Dean’s incessant distrust had seeped into daily conversations and during their days and evenings they plotted against this unknown enemy who they singularly held responsible for the death of mankind. Only Darla, fueled with loyalty for Ethan, challenged the plan. But in the end, she was outvoted and outnumbered and tired of feeling like she was the only voice of dissent, she abandoned her rebellion and settled into her role.

It was a simple course of action: Spencer would put himself front and center. Joey would act as his backup. They would lead or keep the enemy in the front yard, where Darla and Dean, positioned as snipers in the upstairs windows, would respond to any act of insurgence by unleashing violence upon them. Ainsley and Teddy would hide in the fruit cellar until given the all clear.

Ethan, unable to be moved, would stay in the den, with Doctor Krause by his side.

Spencer’s entire plan was to negotiate Ethan’s release. Darla saw the flaws in this logic: it made the Oregon survivors enemies from the start and assumed that those coming from Nebraska were both terrorists and reasonable negotiators.

Now, with Teddy gone from sight and the impending threat bearing down on them, Darla felt more than just anxiety crawl across her skin—her instincts told her to run, hide, leave everyone else to deal with this on their own. She and Teddy could make it on their own out there. There was a small wooden door in the basement that opened up to the backyard; she could easily leave Dean, overpower Ainsley, and take her child and run.

She couldn’t. Despite the growing anxiety, Darla was loyal.

Reluctantly, she took her position in the upstairs bathroom, arranging the blinds at an angle and scanning her vantage point.

“I’ll be right next door,” Dean said by the door. “We both take a shot or no one takes a shot. One knock for ready, aim. Then a long three count and fire.”

“Just go,” she snapped. “I got it.”

He looked like he had wanted to say something else, but instead he just took in a deep breath and disappeared in a flash.

Down in the yard, Spencer stood at the edge of the King’s lawn—which was now shaggy and long, with myriad stocks of dandelions blowing in the wind.

“Helicopters landed,” he shouted. “Down at the park two blocks away. Arrival immediate.” Then he discussed something with Joey, who paced along the edge of the driveway, hitting his free hand against his leg.

From her second-story window, Darla saw the crowd first.

Tiny specks of black and brown, crouching and running in formation along the sidewalk; the sound of their shoes hitting the pavement echoing up the road like little bursts of gunfire. Clap-clap-clap. They moved like military, tight together, ducking and using the area as their shield. This was no rag-tag group of civilians.

She counted.

Seven. Eight. They moved so quickly that she couldn’t tell. There was no way that she could take them out before they saw her; and even though Dean had been using his afternoons to target practice, she didn’t trust his shot either.

“This is going to end poorly,” Darla whispered to herself and she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Her thoughts went to Teddy. “Keep him safe. Just keep him safe,” she whispered to no one in particular. She forced herself to keep her gun steady on the approaching storm.

Three houses down, Spencer saw the visitors and he called for Joey to get back. The two of them backed themselves up onto the King’s front porch. And they raised their guns as a welcome.

Then the men stopped moving. From the back of the group, an unarmed man made his way to the front; he looked at the King house, his eyes scanning the yard, making note of the two men waiting for him, and as he looked upward, Darla ducked, careful not to disturb the blinds. She hoped he had not seen her, hoped she had not immediately blown their cover.

Through the open window, the conversation drifted to her.

“Lower your weapons. Disarm,” the man called. “I am General Charles. We are here for Ethan King. We have no beef with you. I repeat, lower your weapons.”

“General Charles,” Spencer repeated. “Welcome to our humble neighborhood. You see…I’m not exactly sure on whose authority you are acting. Seeing as how there’s no government, or laws, or…a population.”

“I’m not asking, sir,” the General continued. “We are here for Ethan King. And we will acquire him with or without your help.”

“Ethan’s indisposed at the moment. You get me.”

Darla’s heart thumped in her chest. Why had she let him be the face and voice of this operation? Because, she realized, she never thought this moment would come. Throughout all of Spencer’s planning, Darla had thought he was a total paranoid crackpot.

But he had been right.

He’d said they would come armed. Prepared. And as enemies.

Her sense of foreboding increased.

The General was silent. He spoke in low tones to the people around him. Darla hesitated and then pushed herself against the wall and rose slowly to peek at the action. The men moved into position around the perimeter of the yard. All guns trained on Spencer and Joey. The General appeared unarmed and unafraid and his arms were crossed against his body.

“What is it you think you can acquire? What leverage do you think you have over us?” The General said.

Darla peered downward. She could see Spencer and Joey a few steps down now. Standing on the cement steps, Joey and Spencer both scanned their guns over the crowd. Joey bounced his leg and even from a story above, Darla could tell he was a sweating, twitchy mess.

“We want protecting,” Joey blurted and Darla heard Spencer’s sharp voice of dissent.

“Protection,” the former principal amended. “We want food and shelter.”

“How many of you am I offering immunity to?” the General asked.

Spencer didn’t bite. “What you see is what you get.”

“I’m here for Ethan…and the child,” the General said and he took a step forward.

Darla started to let out a yell, but she forced herself to stand silent; she clamped her hand over her mouth and watched—her eyes darting between Spencer and the General.

“What child?” was Spencer’s reply. “You’ve got the wrong house.”

The General turned and nodded. And a single shot rang out.

Joey crumpled to the ground beside Spencer’s feet; his body tumbled forward along the cement and came to rest upon the steps—his legs on the landing, his chin against the ground. Blood pooled and poured from a wound in his head, staining the gray sidewalk a bright crimson. Spencer addressed the body with coldness. He stared down at Joey’s unmoving form, and then he looked back up at the General.

“Oh,” Spencer replied. “You mean that child.”

“No,” Darla gasped and her heart caught in her throat. “No, no.” She thought she was yelling, but no sound was coming out.

Darla heard the knock.

Dean had knocked against the wall.

Ready, aim.

And Darla scrambled. Tossing her gun to the floor, she scampered out of the bathroom and over to the room next door.

“Dean! Dean!” she whispered. “Hold your fire. Hold your fire!” She crashed into the bed, out of breath.

Startled and shaking, Dean lowered his arm and pushed himself away from the window.

“Three,” he said with a quiver. “Jesus, Darla, they shot Joey.” He was white as a sheet.

“I saw,” Darla answered. She put her head down on the bed. “We can’t shoot them…we can’t let them know we’re here. They want my boy…I’m going to get Teddy…”

“There’s no time,” Dean told her, shaking his head. “Darla—”

Darla held her hand out. “Give me your gun. Give me the gun!” He obliged and Darla gripped it in her hand. “I need your help. You have to help me. Create a diversion…or…”

They stopped talking. From downstairs they could hear the stomp of feet, the rush of people. There was shouting and barking of orders.

A voice called, “Downstairs. In the cellar! Grab the boy!” and a second voice shouted, “We’ve got Ethan! Ethan, sir!”

They heard another single gunshot ring out.

“No, no, no,” Darla screamed and she started to rush into the hallway. Panic flooded her and Darla felt numb; an intense primal yell began to bubble out of her and her vision went foggy. Dean lunged after her and grabbed her arm, yanking her backward into him.

“You can’t,” he said. “It’s suicide. You can’t,” he repeated.

They heard the footsteps on the stairs.

“My child—” Darla started and she spun again. Dean grabbed her and dragged her backward. The men were upstairs. One door banged open. Then another. She looked at Dean, her eyes pleading. “My boy.”

“I lost my boy too,” Dean whispered, his eyes darted back and forth, staring at her. He was fierce, intense. “We’ll get them back. We’ll get them back. We’re no good to them dead. You hear me? You’re no good to Teddy dead.”

Darla shook her head. “No,” she turned to bolt again, but Dean held her. “Please, let me go.”

He shoved her to the floor and pushed her toward the bed. “You have to hide. Hide. Hide!”

With silent sobs convulsing through her body, Darla forced herself under the King’s California King. She tucked her body between two plastic bins of clothes and tried to picture Teddy’s face. He would be so scared. He would be so worried. He needed her and she needed him. The door to the master bedroom banged open, shots were fired into the open room and Darla covered her ears with her hands. She couldn’t tell if she screamed or if she was only screaming in her head. Then the firing stopped, the footsteps retreated.

After a long minute, someone yelled that the upstairs was all clear. Her ears rang and she didn’t know if she should move or stay. Then Darla felt Dean’s hands latching around her ankles and he rolled her out from under the bed.

She was about to ask him where he hid, when they heard the boom. The foundation of the house shook with violent fury. Then a second boom rocked them and Darla tumbled to the ground. They rushed to the window, Dean’s hand still holding Darla’s arm. Outside, they saw the men pouring from the house, stomping back down the street in tight lines. Two men in uniform worked together to carry an unconscious Ethan from the house; Ethan’s body seemed tiny in their hands. When they reached the sidewalk, one of the men took over—cradling the twenty-year-old like a baby. His head flopping as the soldier picked up his pace.

And then Darla saw her son.

He was crying, tears streaming down his face. And he kicked and flailed at the young man carrying him away from the house, running back toward the way they came.

“Teddy!” Darla yelled and she pushed off from Dean before he could grab her and rushed into the hallway. The smell of smoke was overpowering and as she reached the stairs, she knew then that the house was on fire. Flames licked up from the basement and were already growing, lapping at the first set of stairs. Darla ignored the inferno, didn’t question where her houseguests were, and she bounded down the steps and out the door.

When she reached the landing, she skidded to a halt. Joey’s body lay in the same position as before; his eyes wide-open, staring up at her, vacant and void of life.

She pushed the image aside and bolted down to the grass and out onto the street. Already the men were like dots in the distance, rounding the corner toward their waiting helicopters. Darla sprinted after them, pumping her arms, her lungs aching and ready to burst. She had never run so fast in her entire life; it felt like she could takeoff and fly. But as she neared the park, she saw the first of the machines rise and circle with a steady whack-whack-whack of its propellers.

Then the second helicopter lifted. And Darla sank to the ground, her chest heaving. All the air had left her body and she gasped for breath.

“Teddy! Teddy!” she yelled between gasping breaths.

Teddy was gone.

She screamed and rose to her feet; then pushing herself with all her might, Darla began to follow the helicopters, chasing them across the sidewalk, cutting through yards, until they were nothing more than tiny spots in the sky.

“Darla! Stop!” She heard and she turned.

Running after her, his big body thumping along the paths she had taken, was Dean.

“They’re gone,” he breathed. “They’re all gone.”

“I tried to get him,” she sobbed and gulped. “I couldn’t run fast enough.”

“No,” Dean shook his head and he put his hands on his knees. When he looked up at her, he had tears in his eyes. “At the house. Back at the house.”

His meaning dawned on her and she paused. “Everyone?”

“They shot everyone,” Dean answered. “God Almighty, Darla, they shot everyone.”

They ran back to the fire. The flames now burst through the second-story windows; orange and red, they danced toward the sky. And black billowing clouds of smoke followed the colorful hues into the air above the house. Soon, the entire neighborhood was painted in a thin blanket of white and gray.

“Ainsley…Doctor Krause…” Darla said trancelike. She tumbled to the ground when the heat of the fire touched her skin. Her thoughts next went to Teddy’s toys. The action figures he had come to love; she resisted the urge to go back into the fire to salvage them. He would be so heartbroken to learn they had burned; her desire to save the toys overwhelmed her. She turned away and let the tears fall.

“Doctor Krause was gone for sure. I saw her as I left. Execution style. Ainsley…I don’t know…” Dean replied. “The fire moved fast…”

Darla nodded, but she wasn’t listening.

She scanned the grass and then jumped. Sitting upright against the shrubs in the far corner of the yard was Spencer. His shirt was stained red and splotches of blood stuck to his neck and his chin. His face was pale, his eyes closed, but Darla could see the rise and fall of his chest.

“Son of a bitch,” she grumbled and crawled forward.

“Darla—” Dean said, but he let her go, following on her heels.

“You gave them my son,” Darla screamed over the roar of the fire. “You told them where he was…this…this death…this is on your hands!”

Spencer kept his hands pressed to his belly, but blood still seeped through his fingers. The men had shot a hole into his stomach and left him to die. Joey, Doctor Krause, were killed instantly—Spencer was dying slowly, bleeding out with each painful intake of air.

They had wanted him to suffer most.

Darla felt Dean’s hand on her arm. Her lips trembled, her limbs shook, everything inside of her was cold. The heat of the fire radiated toward them, but Darla was freezing, her teeth chattered together.

“I wish, I wish,” she breathed, “that they had left you for me.” And she rocked her body forward, with Dean’s hand still wrapped around her wrist and she spit on him. Her saliva rolled down Spencer’s cheek and nose.

“I was never the enemy,” Spencer said in a whisper.

“I don’t have to choose,” Darla screamed. “It’s not you or them. It’s you and them. He’s all I have left! Can’t you understand that? He’s all I had left!”

“Trying…to save…”

“Yourself,” Darla cried. “That’s all everything was ever about. You. You. You. Their blood is on your hands. All those people…who trusted you…”

Something within the house crumbled and crashed; wood and debris began to tumble inward. The crackling of the fire was deafening and the heat became more intense.

“We have to get away from the house,” Dean said and he tugged on Darla.

“Gun,” Darla commanded, but Dean shook his head.

“We have to go, Darla, now,” he said.

“Gun!” she said again and Dean reached into his waistband and pulled out a second small shotgun.

She raised the gun and held it to Spencer’s head. Another crash; sparks and smoke flew upward into the sky.

“You took away everything that mattered to me,” she said as the tears spilled down her face.

“I’m…already…gone,” Spencer muttered with his eyes closed. “You’re…doing me a favor. I want you to…shoot me.”

Darla’s hand trembled as she held the gun in front of her. Then she dropped it to the ground and kicked it away toward the house.

“I want you to suffer,” she said and Spencer did not reply. Blood began to pool at his sides.

Dean marched back through the heat and whisked Darla away, grabbing her around the waist, and pulling her toward safety. She kept her eyes trained on Spencer—the principal followed her gaze and then closed his eyes, his breathing slowing.

“Rot. Rot. Rot in hell…murderer…” Darla screamed at him and then she crumpled into Dean’s arms and let herself get dragged to the opposite side of the street. “He took away everything I had,” Darla said again. She sobbed and watched as the King house succumbed to the fire.

Dean lugged her to the neighbor’s porch and he lifted her up, rested her against the steps. With the burning house in the background, he cupped his hands around her chin and looked at her.

“We’re getting our sons,” he said. “Do you hear me?”

“I hear you,” Darla answered. “I hear you.”

“Grant and Teddy are okay.”

“Okay.”

“They didn’t take Teddy to hurt him. They took him to save him,” Dean said. “If they wanted to hurt him, they would’ve left him to die. Right?”

Darla nodded. She didn’t know if she believed Dean, but she understood the logic. She nodded again. Then she wiped her face, aware that she was covered in dirt and grime and sweat. With her insides feeling like gelatin and her brain still reeling, she turned and bit her lip.

“I’m ready,” she said. “Let’s go.”

“Right now?” Dean asked. “You okay? You need a moment?”

She shook her head, her raven hair flying. With her hands on her hips, she shot a look to her new unlikely ally. “I don’t need anything but my child.”

“Where are we headed?” Dean asked. “You lead the way.”

Another boom and crash exploded behind them, Darla flinched, but she didn’t move. Her thoughts went to Ainsley, whose body was still out there, probably buried in the house. She wondered what her last moments were like…if she fought, if she sacrificed herself in those final seconds before they took Teddy. Darla pushed the thoughts away; her mind gravitated back to Teddy and the look on his face as they carried him down the street.

They took him away.

“The men knew Ethan was here. And they knew about my child. Which means one thing…Grant and Lucy made it to Brixton. So, we go to Brixton.”

“Nebraska,” Dean said. “Into the lion’s den.”

“You can stay if you want,” Darla spat, turning to him, her eyes flashing with betrayal. “But nothing…nothing…will stop me from going after my son.”

“Hey,” Dean said and put his hands on her shoulders, pulling her into a brief hug; her body stiffened as he embraced her. “You’re the boss. I’m with you. Let’s go get our kids back.”

He let his arm linger on her shoulder for a second and then he grabbed her hand and gave it a squeeze; then, mechanically, they both turned to the pyre and stood frozen on the sidewalk, as the home tumbled downward, crashing to the earth in a pillar of smoke and ash and flame.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Lucy felt light. Like a weight had lifted off of her shoulders. She kept looking at Grant like he was going to flit away, but every time she stole a glance he was there, smiling back at her.

The sun beat down through the skylight. It was a cloudless Nebraskan day and soon the light would dip below the glass and they could experience the joy of a bright sunset. They were waiting and watching the sun: something that Grant had not seen since they had first arrived in Brixton. He blinked and stared up at the glass, in awe, and giddy.

“This place…it’s awesome,” Grant said. “I hope they never find it. I hope it’s ours forever.”

Ours. Lucy loved the sound of that.

After Grant was given a tour of the System—which included a trip to the Center and a special glimpse into the Sky Room—Cass had brought them up to the special room as a treat.

“I’ve got the real Sky Room. If you want,” Cass had enticed and then they wandered through the intricate labyrinth of hallways and sneaked through the fake wall, and rode the elevator to the top. Grant’s face was frozen in admiration.

Once settled, Cass reached into the mini-fridge and grabbed a bottle of champagne.

“To celebrate,” she announced and slid out the cork with a small pop, a stream of white gas escaping out of the top. Then Cass poured them each a glass into small plastic cups and handed the bubbling drinks to her guests. “A toast,” Cass continued. “To Grant’s freedom.”

“To health,” Grant added.

“And forgiveness,” Lucy contributed.

Cass pointed her glass to Lucy and then to Grant. “To new beginnings and new friends.”

“Cheers,” Grant replied and they rose their plastic cups and pushed them together before taking small sips. Lucy took several strong gulps and then rubbed her head and smiled.

“I’ve never had champagne,” Lucy mused looking into her cup. “Were you keeping this up here for a reason?”

Cass shrugged. “This is a good reason, no?”

“I’m not complaining,” Lucy added quickly. Then she rose the cup to her lips and finished off the rest.

“Easy there, partner,” Grant warned with a smile.

They spent the rest of the time in relative silence, and then Cass abruptly left them alone. Slipping into the elevator without fanfare, the doors closing behind her, she sent Lucy a subtle wink before she was lowered out of sight.

It wasn’t the first time Lucy had been alone with Grant: They had those days together traveling and the time in Wyoming. Somehow, though, it felt different: as if everything was leading up to this exact moment.

They rested on their backs, staring without conversation through the thick glass that separated them from the world above ground; everything had changed. Now, they knew the truth. The searching was over and the dealing with what the future would look like for them was beginning. Lucy took a deep breath and extended her hand, feeling for his body next to hers. She found his hand and took it, intertwining their fingers. Then Grant rolled to his stomach in a sudden move and leaned over her, his face inches from hers, his breath pouring over her like a wave.

“You saved me,” he said.

Lucy smiled. “I said I would. I hate breaking promises.”

“What if you were a coward? Like, what if you were just selfish. Scared?” he asked.

She turned her head away and closed her eyes, “Come on,” she answered. “Whatever.”

“I’m serious. You put it on the line…the easy thing would have been to just worry about you. You didn’t.”

“No,” she said and her eyes snapped open. “Who would’ve have done that? Who would’ve left you to die?”

Grant turned his head. “Lots of people, Lucy.”

“I didn’t do anything. My father—”

“Stop. No.” He lowered his body next to hers and propped his chin on his hand. His brown eyes unmoored her and she looked way. “That was you. You cared. You wanted to save me. You did. You.”

“Of course.” She couldn’t help but sound surprised. “What else would I have done? You’re my friend…”

“Stop,” he whispered again. Then he leaned his body forward and kissed her. Their lips met and Lucy remained frozen against the ground, scared to ruin the moment, scared that if she shifted or sighed he would pull away. His lips were raw and chapped, his unbrushed teeth clicked for a second against her own; but all Lucy could feel was the way his right hand reached up and cupped the side of her face, the way his body felt brushing against hers.

He stopped and looked at her. Their eyes met for only a second before Lucy lifted her head and kissed him again. She raised her body into a sitting position, keeping herself fixed to Grant as she rose—as if when they separated for a second she could lose him again forever. She was cognizant of every action, every touch, every sound. And she never wanted it to end.

Lucy wrapped both arms around Grant and he tumbled backward. He pulled away and laughed. She giggled too and stayed above him, for a second, looking deep into his eyes. She searched them for signs of sadness, happiness, pain, joy. He smiled, and she shifted her attention to his little dimple and leaned down to kiss it.

He sighed. “Lucy—” he said and stopped. He had a pained expression, but then he closed his eyes, and turned his head away.

Her heart melted as she looked at him, and she noticed then that her hands were shaking. “I have thought of kissing you for a long time,” Lucy replied. “I’ve thought of us…of what we could be, if—”

He covered his face with his hands.

“I kissed Salem,” Grant blurted. He flung his body forward into hers, straight-down, full dead weight into her shoulder, and banged his forehead against her body. Then he stayed perfectly still, holding his breath.

“Oh please, sit up,” Lucy instructed and she patted his back. He winced as he rose, looking ashamed and embarrassed. “Jeez, that’s what you say first? The first words after we kiss? A blurted confession?”

“It’s not a secret I could keep from you,” he grimaced and looked at her exercising perfected puppy-dog eyes. He brought his hands up in front of himself and folded them in apology. “It wouldn’t feel right. We should put everything on the table,” he took a deep breath. “I kissed Salem.”

“I remember it differently,” Lucy replied and she leaned in to kiss him on the cheek. “Salem kissed you.”

He pulled back.

“You saw.” Grant’s mouth dropped open in surprise.

“I saw,” she answered. “I loved her. She was my everything…but I can admit that she had a way about her…she could be convincing.”

Grant’s shoulders slumped and he smiled. “I thought I’d have to explain it to you. But I don’t. This whole time I’ve been practicing in my head. If I ever got a chance, I’d just say: Please give me a chance, even though I kissed your best friend. But I don’t have to give you that speech? You have no idea how that makes me feel.”

And he cupped her chin and kissed her again.

“Save it,” she replied. “Save the speeches.”

“Just kiss you?” he asked.

“Just kiss me,” she answered.

The room disappeared. The sun slipped down further in the sky. All Lucy and Grant could feel were each other. After minutes or hours they slid back down to the floor and, lying shoulder to shoulder, they just held hands and stared upwards, watching as a few rogue clouds passed into view.

“Will we ever escape these people?” Grant asked after awhile.

“Yes,” Lucy said without missing a beat. “I don’t know how. And I don’t know when. But this is not my life. Huck and the System are not my future.”

“Good. I’ll follow you.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Lucy cautioned. “I don’t know what will happen next. I’m scared of the future…”

“The future will bring what we want it to bring. Whether we stay. Whether we go. We don’t have to fit inside anyone’s system to be happy, Lucy. If I have you…if I have security…if I have…”

“The occasional zombie movie?”

“Then I’m complete.”

They closed their eyes and threatened to drift off to sleep, each of them pondering the future. Lucy daydreamed of escape. Grant daydreamed of stability. Each of them dreamed of happiness.

Then the ground began to shake.

At first Lucy thought she was imagining the subtle vibrations, the nearly imperceptible movement of the glass above them.

“What is that?” she asked, sitting up.

Grant looked around. A rumble accompanied the shaking, but it was not coming from beneath them, it was coming from above. They hopped up and looked to the sky. From their position under the glass, Grant and Lucy watched as a medium-sized passenger plane rolled past. The gunmetal underbelly, with landing gear down, floated by and then landed out-of-sight somewhere out there in the fields of Nebraska.

The ground above them hummed with energy and then everything became still again.

“A plane,” Lucy said in a whisper.

“Survivors?” Grant guessed and he watched the window above with rapt eagerness, as if the plane’s passengers would appear and stare down at them like animals at the zoo.

Then Lucy broke into a grin and jumped up and down. She bounced over to the elevator and beckoned it upward. When she looked back at Grant, she was crying.

“No. Huck said…Huck did it! No, Grant, not just any survivors…my brother’s here,” she exclaimed and she pounded on the door. “Hurry, hurry, stupid thing. Hurry. My brother’s here.”

Grant looked up through the skylight one last time and then rushed over to Lucy. He slipped his hand around her shoulder and then let it fall to her waist.

“Ethan’s home,” Lucy said as the doors finally opened and she stepped inside, tugging Grant along with her. “We’re all here. Everything as it should be. Ethan will be on our side…Ethan will help us fight this. With Ethan and Cass, we’re unstoppable, Grant.”

“Welcome to the System, Ethan,” Grant replied with a sly smile. “Whatever you were expecting…this isn’t it. But hey, we’ve got a restaurant and a basketball court.”

The doors shut. The elevator started its slow descent. They felt the temperature shift, the coolness of the earth as they traveled further away from the surface.

Lucy turned and kissed Grant and when she pulled away, she beamed. “I didn’t think there could be any good days left. I thought I’d spend the rest of my life unable to feel anything but anger and pain. But today,” her eyes brightened and flashed with excitement. “Today is a good day.”

“Maybe that’s just the champagne,” Grant teased. “But hey…don’t shortchange us. It’s a great day!” he added. “What more could we ask for?” He kissed her cheek and nuzzled his nose into her hair. He was the perfect height for kissing her forehead and Lucy’s heart pounded with love and anticipation.

The doors to the elevator opened; holding hands they stepped out, and with smiles on their faces, eager to welcome the new arrival, and feeling blessed by all of the day’s unlikely fortunes.

END OF BOOK TWO

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I read something on the Internet about how awful acknowledgments pages are. And how authors should stop waxing on and on about all the people that made their book great because it’s ridiculous and boring. Shut up, Internet. Even as a reader, I love the thank yous. It’s a glimpse at the person behind the work. (It’s all about VOICE, people. You can hear the author’s voice in this section of the book, and sometimes for the first time. And that’s just cool. Also, did they thank their spouse [check], mom and dad [check], third grade teacher [sorry Mr. Adams]? Or did they pretentiously name-drop authors? Let the judgment fall.)

The article suggested that instead of paragraphs of effusive list of names, the acknowledgments should just read like film credits. Name. Role. Done.

Bo-ring.

But I’ll try it.

So, let’s prepare…fade to black, credit music starts to roll (something from Vampire Weekend’s new album would be good. Peppy). And…

Starring:

Matt Sherman as the World’s Most Gracious and Giving Husband

Elliott and Ike Sherman as the World’s Most Understanding and Patient Children Who Let Me Feed Them Mediocre Dinners So I Can Write Instead

Ross and Connie Wescott as the BEST parents EVER

Carina Moss as Poetic Inspiration and Wescott’s Biggest Cheerleader and All-Around Awesome Surrogate Daughter

Jill Moss as Supreme Beta-Reader and Insightful Person #1

Sunshine McFaul as Supreme Beta-Reader and Insightful Person #2

Debbi Kaufman as Supreme Beta-Reader and Insightful Person #3

(That’s just in order of when feedback was received and not a ranking. Because that would be dumb. And because they are all amazing and I couldn’t have done this without them. Truth.)

Samantha Lynn as Grammar/Punctuation Queen and Nitpicker Extraordinaire

Jacque Nelson and Jacquelyn Manjarrez and Olivia Craft as Character Cheerleaders and School Support System

Nicole Johnston as Most Giving Person Ever. (Here’s to all the 9th graders stuck with US next year!)

CHS as Students in Crowd Scenes. (Yes. All of you.)

My Book Club as Group that Sustains Me Emotionally

Bacon as Food that Sustains Author Physically

Bryce and Corbin Wescott as Brothers Who Have Made Me Who I Am

It feels like I’ve thanked fewer people this time around than last time around. But, honestly, since Virulent came out, I have had the fortune of seeing just how supported I am. Thank you to everyone who picked up Book One and enjoyed it, and made me feel like writing Book Two was something that the world might actually want. I was going to write it anyway, but knowing that there were people anxiously waiting to find out about these characters provided me with the energy to move forward.

It’s all about you. Thank you for joining me on this journey. Really, deeply, honestly: thank you!

About the Author

Shelbi Wescott is a high school Language Arts and Creative Writing teacher, a mother of two, a television junky, and a board game connoisseur. Her first book, Virulent: The Release was born from a challenge issued by her students to write a book that would interest them. She hopes that the sequel will also live up to that challenge.

When she isn't writing, Shelbi can be found wandering the aisles of Powell's Books, throwing really elaborate birthday parties, and officiating weddings. She lives in Portland, Oregon with her husband (a newspaper editor) and her two sons, Elliott and Ike.

Visit her at www.shelbiwescott.com or follow her at www.facebook.com/ShelbiWescott