Night Resurrected (31 page)

belly was hardly more rounded than

Remy’s, and even with that curve, she

looked long and crisp and sleek. At the

same time, she appeared spectacularly

uncomfortable as Vaughn ushered her to

stand next to him.

“Mangala Kapoor was a mechanical

engineer. She was instrumental in not

only maintaining and developing some of

the mechanics that kept water running

and electricity on hand in one of the

small outlying settlements, but she also

made a point of collecting seeds and,

through years of trial and error,

propagated a variety of non-native plants

and spices. If it weren’t for Zoë’s

grandmother, we wouldn’t have access

to food like cinnamon or peanuts and

almonds any longer.”

The

applause

was

loud

and

boisterous, and Zoë made her escape

from the stage as quickly as she could.

Remy could see her complaining as she

stepped off, and she could imagine she

was griping about why she had to go up

there and stand in front of everyone for a

total of two minutes, dressed like this,

and so on. At least she wasn’t wearing

the skirt Flo had threatened her with.

When she got to the ground, Quent

snatched her up in a big bear hug that

had Remy smiling wistfully. Apparently,

even bad-tempered people had someone

to love them. Of course, that meant the

bad-tempered person had to actually

allow
themselves to be loved.

She watched as they wandered arm in

arm away from the stage and toward her

and Wyatt. When they came close

enough to see them, Remy saw the

surprise in Quent’s face. Whether it was

because they were together or simply

because of Wyatt’s unexpected presence,

she didn’t know.

“Fucking

glad
that’s
over,” Zoë

grumbled, bending over, her arm jerking

vigorously. She suddenly became about

three inches shorter and Remy chuckled

when she straightened up, holding the

white heels. “All that crapload of hassle

—
hours
of getting fussed on—for two

measly minutes. I am
never
doing that

again.”

“Oh, yes you are, luv. Especially

when our children are old enough to

understand what their great-grandmother

did for humanity. Just think . . . without

her, we’d never be able to have peanut

butter. Or cinnamon buns.”

“Bite me,” was Zoë’s reply.

Remy heard Wyatt snort behind her

and murmur something to Quent. The

other man laughed and the two spoke in

low voices, leaving Remy to marvel at

Wyatt’s altered mood. He seemed to be

in unusually good humor.

But as Vaughn read off a few more

names, Remy felt Wyatt beginning to get

restless behind her. She was just about

to see if Zoë wanted to get another glass

of mead when the mayor spoke into the

microphone.

“We have one last honoree tonight.

An unexpected pleasure, for he’s a

newcomer to Envy and traveled here just

to join us today, for the first time, on

Survivors Day. Recently arrived from

Glenway with his daughter, Cat, he

previously lived in Tyrell Valley—a

hundred fifty miles east of here and too

great of a distance to even know about

our celebration. Tonight I’d like to

introduce you to a survivor who was

only eight when the world was Changed.

Living in the remains of the city of

Denver, Colorado, David Callaghan

survived by . . .”

Remy felt Wyatt snap to attention

behind her. He made an audible sound, a

shocked, choked noise of unadulterated

disbelief. He pushed past her, suddenly

walking toward the stage.

“Bloody buggering hell,” Quent

whispered behind her.

“What the hell is up his ass?” Zoë

demanded as she and Remy turned to

look at him.

“David Callaghan . . . that’s Wyatt’s

son’s
name.”

Chapter 15

W
yatt felt as if a bucket of cold water

had been dumped on him, and then as if

he were shoved into a burning building.

Icy cold then flaming heat. The chill of

disbelief. The rage of hope.

Everyone and everything fell away as

he slogged through a heavy, murky

world, as if he were wading through an

ocean of gray Jell-O. He couldn’t get

there fast enough, but he felt as if he

wasn’t moving either.

He got to the front just as David

Callaghan took the stage, standing next to

Vaughn. Wyatt didn’t hear anything they

said, nothing about the reason for the

honor, nothing at all. His ears were

filled with a roaring sound. Everything

around him was dark except for the light

shining on the man onstage.

He stared up at the man there, next to

Vaughn. Was it possible? Could it be

possible
? He realized he was shaking.

There were—had been—a million

David

Callaghans

in

the

world.

Hundreds or even thousands of them

near Denver in 2010. And probably

dozens or more of them had been eight in

June of that year.

He wanted to jump up there, to look

this man in the eye, to see if it was him

. . . but the longer he waited, the longer

he could hold onto the hope.

That forgotten feeling of
hope
. Of

light.

So he watched, waited, prayed. Tried

to get a good look at the man’s face from

his position on the ground. Tried to

imagine what the boy of eight would

look like now at nearly sixty. Tried to

keep himself from seeing resemblance

where there might be none.

Applause broke out just as Wyatt felt

someone move in behind him. A rush of

awareness penetrated his murky world

and when Remy touched him, he tensed,

but didn’t pull away. He didn’t even

wonder what she was doing there. He

just . . . let her, allowing himself to

appreciate it.

Then as the applause died down, as

David Callaghan waved then began to

walk offstage, a new sound filled the air.

Distant at first, then growing louder.

A

tdt-tdt-tdt-tdt

that

came

from

overhead.

Wyatt

recognized

it

immediately, but he knew he was one of

the few who would. The sense of alarm

was so strong, it washed away the shock

and hope and murkiness about the man

named David Callaghan.

This couldn’t be good.

Silence fell over Envy . . . a sudden,

arrested reaction as everyone looked

toward the sky. Beneath the moon-stoked

clouds, the large vessel came into view

like a monstrous bird. Wyatt heard the

collective gasp, the intake of breath, as

the helicopter centered over the city.

A white beam of light shot down in

the middle of the crowd, and people

stumbled back from the illumination as if

afraid it would burn them.

The air whipped up now, sending the

canvas walls of tents flapping and dust

whirling.

Yet,

aside

from

that,

everything was eerily still.
Tdt-tdt-tdt-

tdt . . .

A disembodied voice boomed from

above, carrying over the thrumming beat

of the rotors.
“Remington Truth.”

Somehow, over the noise, Wyatt

heard the gasp at his shoulder. He

reached back blindly and angled an arm

around her, shoving her behind him,

holding her there as he looked up,

shielding his eyes from the beam of light

and the clouds of dust. His mind raced

even as the voice continued.

“Turn Remington Truth over to us

and Envy will be spared.”

Wyatt tightened his arm around

Remy, holding her immobile. He could

feel her shock and trembling, the jerking

breaths she was trying to control.
Don’t

make a sound. Don’t move.

He felt her shifting, tensing against

his back, and he grabbed her arm, trying

to keep her quiet without drawing

attention to them. Surely she wasn’t

crazy enough to announce herself, to give

herself away . . .

“You have forty-eight hours to

produce Remington Truth,” declared the

clear, booming voice. “This will be your

only warning. Our conduits will arrive

tomorrow

for

the

acquisition

of

Remington Truth. And
this
is only a

precursor to what will happen if you do

not comply.”

The beam of light was suddenly

extinguished as the helo rose . . . and

then something streaked from the

mechanical bird in a glowing red arc,

flaming to the ground.

“Run!” cried Wyatt, shoving Remy to

safety as he shouted again to anyone who

would listen.
“Run!”

Now there was noise: people

shouting, screaming, moving . . . and then

the soft, dull pop of an explosion. He

looked to make sure Remy was gone,

that she’d listened to him for once. And

as he spun back there was a sudden flare

of light, the billowing red-gold of hungry

fire.

Wyatt hesitated only a moment,

turning to see that Remy was still

running. Then he ran toward the flames.

Pushing through people, he propelled

them past him as he charged toward

what had become a rolling ball of

flames. Someone shouted his name but

he didn’t stop.

Whether by accident or design, the

bomb or whatever it was had landed on

the roof of one of the tents. It took only a

moment for it to surge into a blaze, and

by the time Wyatt got there, the canvas

was a ball of fire.

“Water! Buckets! Anything you can

find!” he shouted to the crowd at large,

directing them away as he looked at the

roaring fire. The familiar smell of smoke

filled the air, stinging his eyes. The roof

sagged, pulling down its supports, and

as Wyatt watched, it collapsed into a

mountain of flames.

Coughing,

still

shouting,

Wyatt

looked for some source of water. If the

fire wasn’t extinguished, it would set the

building next to it ablaze. Fuck. It

already had.

“Water!” he cried again, knowing

Envy could only have rudimentary

firefighting tools at most. A bucket

brigade. Maybe some sort of hose . . .

He bumped into Quent, who’d

somehow appeared, and Jade, and a sea

of other familiar faces as someone

shoved a container of water at him.

Vaughn. Fence. Ana. Others he knew

from the pub. The night became a blur of

activity and grim intent. Shadows of

more people. Pots and pails of water. A

few puny hoses. The sizzle of wet on

flame. The roar of fire. The crack and

pop of new fuel for the blaze. The crash

of something collapsing.

“Holy hell! Look at that!”

A column of flame tore into the sky,

sending ash and chunks of burning timber

tumbling to the ground. Damn. Must’ve

hit one of the grease-laden barbecue

pits. The golden-orange glow threw

eerie shadows and discoloration over

the people battling the fire, the desperate

warriors gathering up anything that could

be used to subdue the flames. Blankets

and pieces of canvas beating on small

pools of fire. Pots of water.

Wyatt remained in the thick of it,

giving orders, shouting from a smoke-

etched throat, dry eyes stinging and

watering at the same time. Yet he was in

his element: he knew this. It was his

world.

Then he heard it. Somehow, above

all the roaring, shouting, crackling, his

ears tuned in and he heard it: “. . . in

there! She’s in there!”

The terrified, desperate cries shot

straight to his consciousness. A phrase

he’d heard countless times before.

“Someone help! Someone save her!”

Wyatt spun and ran toward the sound