Storm (19 page)

danger. I couldn’t live with that. I had to hope that they would
understand. That Tori would understand.
I joined the others in the children’s section of the library. Everyone was lying on the floor, having fixed small nests of pillows. Kent
was already snoring. Jon was reading a book. Olivia had her eyes
closed, but she was humming a sweet song that I didn’t recognize.
Tori lay with her back to the wall. I didn’t think for a second that
she was asleep.
I grabbed a few cushions and found an empty spot near the
door that led back to the lobby. I sat down and made myself comfortable . . . but not too comfortable. I didn’t want to fall asleep.
After about an hour, Jon turned off his headlamp. I waited another
fifteen minutes, then I stood and walked quietly through the room,
hovering over each of my friends, trying to see if they were asleep. Kent was sawing wood. Olivia had stopped singing and was lying with her mouth open and drooling. Yes, even hot girls drooled.
Jon was breathing heavily. I padded softly to Tori and took a big
chance.
“Tori?” I whispered.
She didn’t answer. I wasn’t sure what I would have said if she’d
rolled over and answered me.
“I’m sorry” were my last words to her.
With everyone asleep, I had my chance. I walked quickly back
to the area where I had been lying and put on my hoodie and
cross-trainers. I thought about grabbing my gear bag but decided I
wouldn’t need it. There was something else I needed much more. I padded back to Tori and gently picked up her gym bag. After
backing away a few steps, I reached inside and rooted around until
I found the gun. I pulled it out and carefully returned the bag. Quickly, I backed out of the room and into the lobby. There
would be no turning back. I was committed. The next minute was
crucial. I had to get out of there without the others knowing. I hurried through the lobby and pushed open the front door
of the library as quietly as possible. After slipping outside, I gently eased the door shut until I heard the faint click of the lock. As
soon as I heard it, I realized I had made a potentially fatal mistake:
I didn’t have the keys to the Explorer. How could I have been so
stupid? I wasn’t even sure where Kent kept them. If they were in his
pocket and he was wearing his jeans, I was done.
I ran to the Explorer in the hopes that Kent had left them in
the ignition. I grabbed the door handle, took a breath, and pulled
it open to see . . . the keys.
I didn’t stop to celebrate. The steady chime that rang to signal that the key was in the ignition might be heard from inside. I
jumped into the car and quietly pulled the door closed. I sat there
in the dark for several long seconds with my eyes on the front door
of the library, expecting somebody to come charging out after me. The door stayed shut. I had made it that far without being
discovered, but the next few seconds were the most critical. It was
absolutely dead silent. The sound of an engine starting up would
be heard for miles. I would have to be out of there and on the road
before anyone woke up and came to investigate.
My palms were sweating, and my heart raced. I was absolutely
confident with my decision, though it meant I was betraying my
friends. Especially Tori. She had opened herself up in a way she
never had before to admit that she needed me, and my response
was to take off on her. Since our escape from Pemberwick Island, I
had been trying to convince everyone that unless we could rely on
one another, we were doomed. I was about to go against all that I
had been preaching. My justification was that I didn’t want to put
them in danger because of my personal mission. By going alone, I
was actually protecting them.
That’s what I told myself, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that
I was abandoning them. Whether it was smart or not, the group
looked to me for guidance. It wasn’t a job I asked for or wanted,
but it was mine anyway. With me gone, there would be nothing
to keep them together. Tori would go to Nevada. Olivia and Kent
would probably go to Florida. Who knew what Jon would do? My leaving meant they would be on their own.
I hated that it had come to that, but it didn’t stop me from doing what I had to do.
I fired up the engine, jammed the car into gear, and gently
stepped on the gas. I didn’t want to skid out, slinging gravel. That
would have brought people running. Instead, I rolled slowly out of
the parking lot with the headlights off.
Before turning onto the main road, I glanced in the rearview
mirror.
The library doors remained closed. I had made my escape. It
was time to stop looking back, clear my head, and focus on my
plan.
After traveling halfway across the country, my driving skills had
gotten way better. Still, it was tough to navigate without headlights.
I didn’t dare turn them on though. Moving headlights would be
seen from miles away—and from the sky.
Once on the road, I realized my second mistake. I had forgotten the map. Idiot! I had to get my head out of my butt and start
thinking a few steps ahead or I’d be done before I got started. I
drove from memory, retracing the route we had taken from Fort
Knox to the library. Luckily there weren’t a whole lot of roads or
choices to make. I drove north until I hit the intersection we had
taken earlier and turned east. This road would take me back to the
wide track of dirt that surrounded Fort Knox.
The SYLO base.
When my wheels finally hit the dirt of the dry moat, I drove
another few minutes until I arrived at the first of the long hangarlike buildings we had passed earlier. I guessed it would be another
half mile or so before I hit the road the convoy of trucks used to
cross the dirt moat. I didn’t want to drive the final stretch. That
would be too risky. The rest of the trip would have to be on foot,
so I braked to a stop.
When I opened the car door, I spotted something in the door’s
storage area. It was one of the walkie-talkies we had taken from the
store in Portland. I grabbed it, though I can’t say why. I sure didn’t need it. Who would I call? Maybe it meant I wasn’t ready to admit that I would never see my friends again. It was a comfort. A small comfort, but a comfort nonetheless. I clipped it onto my belt and
started walking.
Jon’s theory sounded right. SYLO must have cleared the area
so that they could detect anything approaching the base. For all I
knew the stretch was littered with land mines. I put that gruesome
thought out of my head and pressed on.
My heart was racing so fast that I traveled the distance in next
to no time. I kept my eyes on the dirt track but tried to be aware
of any movement that might mean I’d been spotted. I didn’t know
what I’d do if I was attacked by SYLO soldiers. Run, I guess. But to
where? By the time I’d gone through all the possibilities, I spotted
the dark streak that was the road into the fog. I crept up to the closest building and crouched down at the base of its wall. From there
I could see both ends of the road. One end stretched back toward
the burned-out buildings and field of plane wrecks, the other disappeared into the wall of white smoke.
Up until then everything had gone perfectly, but it was the only
part of my plan I had control over. The rest would be left to fate.
Or luck. Since the days had grown short, we had turned in early at
the library. It was only a few minutes past nine o’clock. That was
good. For me to succeed, I needed it dark. If I had to wait until
daybreak, I was done. All I could do was wait and be patient . . .
and hope that I hadn’t made a huge mistake.
Though it was dark, I could still make out the sheer wall of
smoke that lay at the end of the road. What would I find in there? These guardians obediently protect us from the gates of hell. SYLO.
Murderers.
I wanted the truth. I wanted answers, though I didn’t expect
them to be comforting. There would be no happy endings to this
story. Not after so much tragedy. The most I could hope for was
understanding.
And revenge.
I don’t know how long I waited there. Maybe an hour. I was
huddled down to try to keep warm against the evening chill when
I saw light appear and reflect off the road in front of me. I instantly
went from drowsy to hyper-alert.
Something was coming from the direction of the scorched
buildings.
The distant rumble meant it was a truck. I peered around the
building to see headlights. It was another convoy—exactly what
I’d hoped for. The most dangerous and foolish part of my plan
was about to unfold. When the time came, I would have to make a
quick decision and hope it wasn’t a fatal one.
When the first truck rolled by, my heart jumped. It was a huge
garbage truck with the SYLO logo painted on its front door. My
luck was holding. The next truck rolled by. It was the exact same
type as the first. I looked back to see four more sets of headlights.
The sanitation division had arrived to clean up the camp. Ever since we learned about the possibility of survivors gathering in Nevada to try to fight back, we had wondered if a group
of civilians could really make a difference. We were kidding ourselves. We wanted to believe it was possible. It wasn’t. As noble as it
sounded, I had no doubt that a rebel army, no matter how driven, would be crushed like helpless ants under the heavy boots of two
professional armies.
I didn’t want to be a crushed ant.
I wanted to be a single bee that nobody saw coming—and that
did some damage.
I examined each of the trucks as they rolled by. It was dark so I
couldn’t be 100 percent sure, but I thought I saw what I needed.
If I was wrong, I’d have to crawl back to my hiding spot and wait
for another chance. If I was right, the game was on.
The final truck had nearly reached me. I would have a quick
second to decide whether to go or not. I looked around to see
if there was any security. There wasn’t, at least not that I could
tell. The last truck was nearly there. After a final glance around for
anyone who might be looking my way, I put my head down and
sprinted for it.
The garbage parade was moving fast. I had to calculate the angle
and hit it on the first try, like chasing down an open-field runner
in football. I ran for where the truck would be when I got there. When I was a few yards away, I reached out for the metal handle that was on the right rear of the massive garbage bin. Below it
was a small platform. It was a place for sanitation workers to ride as
they made multiple stops.
I dug in and hurtled forward while reaching out. For one brief,
terrifying second I thought I’d miss it. There would be no second
chance. I leaned forward, willing my fingers to grow longer. With
one final burst of speed, I grabbed on and wrapped my fingers
around the metal bar. I pulled myself forward and half jumped, half
yanked myself up onto the small platform.
My heart was pounding and my lungs ached, but I was on and
headed for the fog.
There was no telling what I would find in there. If soldiers were
checking the trucks, it would be a short ride. I reached to my lower
back and felt Tori’s gun. If somebody caught me with that, there’d
be no talking my way out of it. I’d be dead.
I knew the risk, but I needed the gun.
We rumbled across the narrow roadway, growing closer to the
wall of smoke.
I would soon learn whether we had heard a recorded voice
coming from that drone plane, or if Captain Granger had returned
from the dead.
If he had, I was about to send him back.
That was my mission.
I would get my revenge.
The truck approached the white wall, and seconds later I was
enveloped in the cloud of smoke.

People.
The fog thinned, and visibility grew. I could make out people in groups of two, apparently sauntering along casually with no particular destination in mind. I imagined that they might be couples out for an evening stroll through a sculpture garden.
The smoke cleared further, and I realized I couldn’t have been more wrong.
The strolling couples wore red camouflage military fatigues with dark red berets: the uniform of SYLO. The green-and-yellow rising-sun patch on their berets and their shoulders confirmed it. I was back in the center of a nest of SYLO vipers . . . who had assault weapons slung over their shoulders.
The full realization of what I had found hit hard when the smoke thinned and I saw the sculptures for what they really were: artillery. These were modern, antiaircraft weapons aimed at the sky. There were hundreds of them, stretching out on either side of the road.
“Hey, kid!” a soldier shouted.
I tensed up. Should I reach for the gun? No. That would be suicide. These guys were professionals with assault rifles, and all I had was a pistol that I’d never even fired.
I looked over my shoulder to see two SYLO soldiers on the side of the road. Their weapons weren’t aimed at me. Yet.
“Bad night to be on garbage duty,” the soldier called. He was actually smiling.
“Sucks to be you,” the other called.
I gave them a casual shrug as if to say, “What can you do?”
These guys thought I was working, not sneaking in to hunt down their commander.
The convoy moved on, and I soon realized that the smoke was completely gone. I looked back to see that we had emerged from the other side of the fog bank. We had just passed through a wide band of smoke-camouflaged weapons, and now I was inside Fort Knox, where the first thing I heard was . . . calliope music.
I thought I was imagining it. The guttural rumble of the garbage truck masked everything except for the bright, tinny sound of old-fashioned calliope music. I took a chance and swung around the side of the truck to look ahead and confirm that the sound
wasn’t
coming from my imagination.
We were passing by a row of jet fighters parked on a runway. Normal jet fighters, not black Air Force marauders. The map had shown us that we were headed toward the runways of the fort when we came upon the wide stretch of cleared earth. So the jets made sense.
What I saw beyond the silent row of aircraft didn’t.
When I made the decision to penetrate the fog, I expected to find a military base like SYLO had set up on Pemberwick Island. Or maybe the ruins of Fort Knox. Or even an Air Force base full of black fighters that had finally broken through and triumphed. I was not prepared for what was actually there.
It was a carnival. A full-on carnival, complete with rides, tents, strings of colorful lights, and a carousel, which was providing the music.
I jumped off the truck, letting it continue on its way without me. The lure of the carnival was too great. Not that I wanted to ride the rides or try my hand at ring-toss; it was the idea that it existed at all that drew me.
It was about a hundred yards from where I had jumped off the truck to the first row of brightly colored tents. To get there I had to walk across a wide expanse of grass that was far from empty. Every twenty yards or so, there was a metallic, cone-shaped structure that looked like a large teepee. They stood like silent sentries, each rising forty feet toward the sky. I had no idea what they were or what purpose they served. It was yet another mystery, but one that wasn’t nearly as strange as the carnival.
As I got closer, I could hear other typical carnival sounds. People laughed and screamed. Adults as well as kids of all ages hurried between the rides. Bells and buzzers signaled a game that was won or lost. The throaty chugging of gas engines powering the rides provided a bed of white noise. There was absolutely nothing out of the ordinary about this carnival, except that it existed.
I reached the row of tents, stepped beyond them, and entered an impossible world of fun and music. The place was jammed with people who were running along the midway, playing the games, and lining up for cotton candy and hot dogs. Most wore normal civilian clothes, but many of the adults had on red SYLO fatigues. This was definitely not like the golf course prison on Pemberwick Island. These people wanted to be here. They were having fun.
This was where Mr. Hartman’s son wanted to bring his father to be safe.
I wasn’t worried about sticking out. There were plenty of people my age who must have been the kids of SYLO soldiers. I doubted that they’d spot a stranger. Or so I hoped. As I walked through the crowd, I saw a mini-golf course; dozens of skill games; a dunk tank where kids threw softballs at a target to knock a SYLO soldier into the drink; and food booths that offered ice cream, sodas, popcorn, hot dogs . . . you name it. There were plenty of rides too. I saw the Scrambler, the Octopus, Tilt-a-Whirl, flying swings, a carousel, and plenty of kiddie rides. The only thing missing was a Ferris wheel. None of the rides were taller than the steel teepees that were scattered throughout the fairgrounds.
I wasn’t used to being around so many people, especially people having fun. It was all so . . . normal, which is what made it so incredibly abnormal. As typical as the scene was, there was something odd about it that I couldn’t put my finger on. I stood in the center of the midway and did a slow three-sixty, taking it all in, watching the faces of the happy people, wracking my brain to figure out what it was that seemed so off.
The place was magical, yet a little cheesy. Carnivals weren’t Disneyland. They were erected quickly and torn down just as fast to be moved to the next location. The tents were faded and patched. The colorful paint on the carousel horses was cracked. Many of the light bulbs on the rides were burned out. But none of that mattered. Especially at night. Thousands of colorful carnival lights made the place feel like a wonderland . . . just like every other traveling carnival.
That’s what was wrong.
“Power,” I said to myself.
There was electricity.
I had been so stunned by the sight of the carnival that it hadn’t clicked right away. Carnivals were supposed to look exactly like this. They were bright and colorful and cheesy . . . but not in a world without power. SYLO had the means to produce electricity, and by the looks of the carnival, it wasn’t from batteries or a couple of generators. This base had juice.
It made me focus on the reality of what I was seeing. This was an oasis. A well-protected oasis. There was a wide expanse of cleared earth that ringed Fort Knox. Inside that ring was a second ring of artillery and plenty of armed soldiers who protected the fort from attack. But what exactly was being protected? A rinky-dink carnival? There had to be more.
I heard the loud clang of a bell followed by a huge cheer. I looked to where the cheering came from to see one of those highstriker games where you try to ring the bell on top of a pole by hitting the base with a heavy mallet, shooting a metal weight up a wire. I’d never actually seen anybody win at that game. I always thought it was rigged.
Clang!
The bell rung again, and another cheer went up.
I wandered closer, not so much because somebody was killing the game, but because the crowd was so enthusiastic about it. It was a show of joy and laughter that filled a void in my soul. The spectators were thrilled, probably more so than the feat deserved. Hearing them laugh and applaud made me understand why this carnival existed.
It was a break from the reality of war. A vacation from the horror. By tomorrow the tents would probably be struck and the rides dismantled, but for the time being these people could forget that they were living inside a ring of artillery and under the constant threat of an aerial attack.
I made my way closer to the action. I wanted to see the guy win again so I could cheer him on like everybody else. I wanted a few seconds of relief. As I wound my way through the loosely gathered group, I could see that the hero of the moment was a SYLO soldier. No big surprise. He was a tall guy, though not particularly muscular. His back was to me, and I could see that he was breathing heavily from the exertion.
“One more time! One more time!” the crowd chanted, urging him on.
The soldier gripped the heavy mallet. The chanting grew louder and faster. The guy took a deep breath, wound up, and slammed the mallet down. He hit the pad, and the metal object shot to the sky, nailing the bell once again.
Clang!
The crowd cheered. I did too. I couldn’t help myself. It was silly, but at least it was something positive. There was very little that I had seen over the past few weeks that deserved a simple cheer of congratulations. I felt good for the guy, and for the crowd, and for me. It was nice to cheer for something.
It was a cheer that caught in my throat when the soldier turned around.
He wiped his forehead with his sleeve and handed the mallet to the man in the rainbow-striped jacket who was running the game.
“Show’s over,” the soldier said. “I’m too old for this.”
The crowd shouted “No!” as if to assure the guy he wasn’t all that old. He was their hero. He had given them reason to cheer.
He was also their commander.
Not only had he rung the bell, he had done something else that was equally impossible.
He had come back from the dead.
It was Captain Norman Granger.
The man I had come to find . . . and kill.