The Other Side

by Joshua McCune

  Grackel, dragon jets are after you.

  Painted black, invisible to dragons. Designed for speed, stealth, and execution. A couple can take down a bright Red in under a minute. Grackel’s old, not very fast to begin with, and she must be exhausted from the night’s flight.

  Do not worry about this one, human. Arabelle is safe. Contact Randon when you are ready, she says, ever calm. Until then, you are on your own. Be brave.

  “Thank you,” I whisper to the LCD, then shut it off.

  “Grackel’s stopped talking to me. It’s my fault, my fault,” Allie says between hiccupped sobs as she worries at the silver dragon pin clutched between her hands.

  “It’s not your fault.” I press my forehead to hers. “Nothing is your fault. She’s just conserving her energy. She’ll find shelter in the mountains. The jets can’t fly there.”

  “But the helicopters can, yes, yes.”

  I shake my head, remembering the dragon-hunting gunships and ax-wielding soldiers who decapitate old Reds far too well. “Grackel’s a smart one. I bet you all the money in my go bag that she outlives us all.”

  Allie sniffles. “That’s a silly bet. How am I going to collect if you’re wrong?”

  “Good call. I bet you a big piece of cake we hear from her before we finish breakfast.”

  “Deal.” She squeezes her eyes shut. “She won’t go Georgetown on us, will she?”

  Captured and sent to a hidden research facility to be tortured and executed. “No, of course not.” They’ll probably just kill her outright. As the altimeter ticks toward zero, I hope for that.

  I check my Beretta to make sure it wasn’t damaged when I fell, load a full magazine, then ready the chamber. I won’t be a prisoner again. Death is preferable. Anything but capture.

  6

  In between inserting an IV, administering an oxygen mask, and checking Colin’s vitals, the EMT keeps looking at me. And not in the “I don’t believe your ridiculous gunshot story” sort of way. More like he’s trying to figure out where he’s seen me before.

  I’d hoped the scruffy hair, gaunt face, and lack of makeup would hide me from the scrutiny Preston warned me would occur. Had hoped to fade from public memory, maybe visit Dad and Sam in a few months—but on his last visit to the island, Preston informed me that I’d need to lay “Yoda low, Dagobah style” until the war ended.

  Then he pulled out his tablet and loaded the final scene from the Kissing Dragons midseason finale. Heavily edited with CGI effects, it showed me executing Baby, who’d been digitally transformed from a Silver into a Red because dragon children aren’t supposed to exist. And of course they took out the part where I stabbed James.

  According to Preston, a week after they released the video, the president’s press secretary announced our defection back to the other side and offered a reward for information leading to our capture.

  Half a million dollars. Each. A lot more than any EMT makes.

  “So where did you say you were from again?” he asks.

  “I didn’t.”

  “You a cheechako?”

  “I don’t know what that is.”

  “Yep, she’s a cheechako. A foreigner. A Southerner,” Driver says, affecting a horrible accent. Something between Georgia and Canada. He laughs to himself. “Everything’s south of Dillingham. How’d you get up here?”

  “We flew, yes, yes,” Allie murmurs. Her head’s resting on my lap.

  I stroke her hair, glance up to find Driver examining us in the rearview mirror. “Look, we’re tired. Don’t want to be rude, but could we quit it with the questions?”

  “I really should take a look at your ribs,” EMT says.

  Which means me taking off the jacket, him seeing the gun. Me using it. “I’m fine. Worry about him.”

  I force myself to sit up straight, hide my grimace behind my hand, and return my attention to the window. We speed past old wooden homes and shops, most fishing related. A town, a real town. Feels strange. Maybe because nothing in Dillingham is painted black. Maybe because I’ve lived in a prison camp or a shipping container the past several months.

  “You see anything funny while you were waiting for us?” Driver says.

  I shake my head and slide my other hand over Allie’s mouth, but she seems to have fallen back asleep.

  “Heard them jets, though, right? Sheriff says they were DJs. Dragons in Dillingham? That’ll be front page for a week. Everyone’ll be sending in photos of junk they didn’t see, calling ’em dragons or UFOs. At least it’ll be a changeup from sasquatches.”

  I can see EMT’s expression in the window reflection. The mention of dragons has his gears turning. I reach under my jacket for my gun.

  “Thought there weren’t any dragons in Alaska?” I say.

  EMT shrugs. “The Mengeles say it’s too cold for them, but you never know.”

  Cold has little to do with it. Not enough food supply to sustain numbers, according to Grackel. Nothing palatable, at least. A part of me expects her to pop up into my head at any moment and decry the polluted taste of caribou. But she doesn’t. Randon and Baby have gone to sleep, safe in the mountains, and I tell myself Grackel’s sleeping, too.

  “What about that research base of yours they found in Antarctica?” Driver says.

  “Twisted, bro. Straight twisted what they did.”

  Driver snorts. “You gonna believe some YouTube fool who calls himself RedJediGrunt? It’s all CGI.”

  “Bro, that stuff is real.”

  “I’ve got a holy glove I want to sell you.” Driver wiggles his gloved fingers at us. “Worn by Jesus himself.”

  “It’s real, bro. It was on the news.”

  “You believe in dragon exposure, too?” Driver scoffs, rolls his eyes. “Get too close to a dragon, you’ll go crazy?”

  “It’s happened. Just watch The Other Side and you’ll know it’s true.”

  Driver hooks a thumb over his shoulder at EMT. “Dragon boy’s got a real thing for those dragon shows, don’t you know? Spinoff after spinoff. Infects the neurons.”

  EMT’s face lights up. “That’s it. I couldn’t figure out who you looked like. That Melissa Callahan girl. Shame about what happened.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Kissing Dragons?”

  I shut my eyes, give a slight shake of my head.

  “Don’t mind him,” Driver says. “He had a poster of that girl in his bedroom.” They made posters? Of course they did. I was world famous three months ago. “Don’t worry, Sarah, you’re much prettier than she is.”

  I can’t help but laugh at that. “How’s he doing?”

  “Bro’s a fighter. Something about him, too. I’d swear I’ve seen him before. The front lines, maybe.”

  “Him?” I say, opening my eyes to find EMT squinting at Colin. Is this guy an ex-A-B who platooned with Colin? A Bureau of Dragon Affairs agent? Sam once told me they have sleepers everywhere.

  Driver chuckles. “He thinks everybody looks like somebody, don’t you know? Add some sideburns, and he says I could be Elvis’s son.” He puffs out his chest and glides a hand down his profile. “What say you, Melissa Callahan? Am I a Presley?”

  “Sure.” If Elvis had adopted. Deep breaths, Melissa. These are just people. Not BoDA agents in disguise. Not ex-military. Just ordinary people. I have to tell myself that a few more times before I release my hold on the gun.

  When we arrive at Kanakanak Hospital, a single-story strip of a building that seems more like an extended barn than a medical facility, a team of scrub-dressed men and women unload Colin and roll him away. I grab our bags, loop them in triplicate over my shoulders, and carry Allie into the lobby. A lanky man bundled in a fur-lined sheriff’s coat strides toward me.

  “You Sarah Cosgrove?” he asks.

  I set Allie on a chair, put the bags beside her. “Yes, sir.”

  “You injured?”

  I exaggerate a wince. “Ribs.”

  The faintest smile
touches his lips as he powers up his tablet. “From the car accident?”

  I nod, unable to meet his gaze. It was a ridiculous story, but I panicked when EMT asked me why we were on the side of the road in the middle of the night, me with fractured ribs, Colin with an hours-old gunshot wound, and Allie without a bruise.

  “You got ID, Ms. Cosgrove?”

  I retrieve my wallet from my go bag and show him my Washington State driver’s license.

  He types info into his tablet. “What you doing up here in Dillingham?”

  “Heard it’s dragon free. Good boarding,” I say.

  His smile broadens into a full smirk, and I consider going for my gun. One of the first things Colin taught me was how to quick draw and fire. Not as accurate, but the sheriff’s at close range. It’ll be the end of the road for all of us, but I won’t be a prisoner—

  The tablet beeps. He appears mildly surprised. “Where you staying, Ms. Cosgrove?”

  “With our uncle.”

  “What’s his name?”

  My heart flutters. I spit out the first thing I can think of. “Preston Keith.”

  “Don’t know him.”

  “He just moved here. From Michigan. Tired of dragons and everything.”

  “Hmmm. Now tell me what happened again?”

  “We were out late . . . partying,” I say.

  He glances toward Allie. “Partying, huh? And after you left this party, that’s when you were shot at?”

  “I don’t know if it was someone aiming for us, or just . . . like a hunter.”

  Sheriff’s looking at me hard, like he knows my thoughts, but he’s still holding his tablet, his own gun holstered at his side. Can I kill him without warning?

  “A hunter? Mistook you for a bear? What kind of car were you driving?”

  Do I have a choice? “Prius.”

  He fixes me with a stare I saw many a time when Dad was about to lecture me or Sam for screwing up. “My deputy has yet to find this mysterious car of yours. This magic Prius that looks like a bear and can drive through Alaskan snow. My deputy did, however, find this near the end of C Street. Very close to where you got picked up.”

  He shows me the tablet screen, and I slide my right hand beneath my jacket. There’s our crate, wide open. “What is that thing?”

  “I would reconsider,” he says. I’m not sure whether he means my story or if he knows I’m carrying, but I hesitate. “Found blood inside. Now, if I wanted to, I could throw you in holding while I run some of that blood against some of your friend’s.”

  “That’s not necessary, sir.”

  He purses his lips. “I don’t know what strangeness you’re up to, but we don’t want any of it here. You got twenty-four hours to clear out. We understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” I say, redirecting my hand into my pocket.

  “Smartest choice you ever made. Now give me the piece. Slowly.”

  I don’t delay.

  “This ain’t bear insurance,” he says, examining the Beretta. “Don’t ever come back here, Ms. Cosgrove.” He calls over a nurse whose mouth seems set in a permanent frown. “Get these two cleaned up. And this one’s got some busted ribs that need tending.”

  “What about the GSW?” she says.

  “After he’s fixed up, discharge him. Off rec.” He gives me that stare again as he walks past. When I turn to track him, I see a second cop holstering his gun. He grins, tips his hat, and leaves with the sheriff.

  Nurse Frown uses her ID badge to get us through an automated door that opens into an antiquated section of the hospital. Track fluorescent lighting, half of it flickering or burned out, illuminates peppered tile that was probably last in fashion fifty years ago.

  Puckered scowl never faltering, the nurse leads us past an office and an emergency stairwell, then through a swinging door into a room with a half-dozen lockers and a single shower. She provides us towels, orders us to meet her back in the lobby in twenty minutes, and hurries off.

  While Allie heads into the shower, I return to the hallway, make sure it’s empty, then power up the phone. I dial the number Preston made me memorize. I don’t expect anybody to answer, but when someone picks up on the third ring, I’m so happy I almost forget the ridiculous code phrase I’m supposed to provide. “Obi-Wan Kenobi, you’re our only hope.”

  “Sarah?” Preston says, sounding worried. Preston never sounds worried.

  “Yes. Pres—” I begin before remembering that’s not his identity anymore. “Michael, we’re in trouble. We used the crate. We’re in—”

  “No locations. Can you make it to the white mountains?”

  “Huh?”

  “You have the SIM card?”

  “Yes.” I pulled it from the map in the crate.

  “Put it in the phone. That’ll tell you what you need to know.”

  “What’s going on? I couldn’t contact—”

  “Bad stuff, Cosgrove.”

  “What about Papa?” I ask, which is Keith’s code name.

  “Fine. No time to talk. Get here if you can. Sorry we can’t help. Good-bye.”

  “Wait! Is Jame –” I catch myself. “Is Jay okay? We haven’t heard anything from him in a month.”

  “You don’t know?” he says. There’s something else in his voice now. Also something I’ve never heard. Melancholy? Despair? “I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry?” I mumble. “Is he okay? Tell me.”

  “I don’t know, Callahan. I just don’t know,” he whispers. The fact that he slipped and used my real name terrifies me almost as much as his words. “Everything’s hosed. I’m sorry.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, but the phone’s gone silent. I look at the screen. Call ended.

  When I tap out the number again, a message appears— Locked—and I’m asked for a passcode. After my third failed attempt, the screen goes blank.

  Preston must have programmed the phone to deactivate after I called him. Worried that I might try to contact someone else. Like my father or brother. How could he do that to me? What if we needed an ambulance again? And what about James?

  Deep breath. In nae. I fetch my pack, retrieve the SIM card, and slide it into the phone’s back. The screen lights up, and that digital map from the crate appears in miniature. I jab at the red pushpins that dot the evacuated territories. Touching one pulls up the name of a city, mountain, or national park and assigns it a code phrase. No other information. No photos. No detailed maps. Nothing.

  Worse, “the white mountains” are Denver. That’s at the edge of the drone zone. The city’s a pile of rubble, abandoned to nature and the ghosts of the dead these past ten years. Maybe a place for humans to hide, but not dragons.

  I scan through the remaining hideouts, committing them to memory, for all the good it’ll do. When I remove the SIM card, I test the phone again, but it might as well be a drink coaster. I hurl it at the wall, then stomp on it.

  I stare unblinking at the broken remnants and feel a familiar sting behind my eyes.

  “No!”

  No more tears. I did not cry for Grackel; I will not cry for James.

  7

  After showering and changing into our spare clothes, Allie and I return to the nurse’s station. Nurse Frown’s not frowning anymore. She wraps my ribs extra tight, gives Allie a lollipop that’s instantly gobbled, and tells us Colin’s looking good and should be out of surgery in an hour.

  I thank her and ask if I can use her cell phone to call a cab so Allie and I can get breakfast. Nurse Frown starts frowning again, then lectures me about cell phones causing cancer, extra so because of Dillingham’s poor reception. Once she’s exhausted her fund of knowledge, she escorts me to the hospital’s old-school push-button phone and looms over me until I hang up.

  Ernie’s Cab drops us off at the Twin Dragons restaurant, which the driver informs me used to serve Chinese before being converted to a diner when some “cheechakos bullied their way in.” Two fire-breathing, interconnected neon dragons adorn the front window.
Long, snakelike, wingless. Nothing at all like real Reds or Greens, other than the bright glow.

  The first thing I notice when we enter is the unhealthily delightful smell of grease and bacon. A waitress greets us with a perfunctory hello and shows us to a booth. The few other patrons in the diner at the early hour don’t pay us any attention.

  For the first time in more than half a year, I almost feel normal. Just two sisters out for an early breakfast.

  “There’s no cake,” Allie says, pouting at the menu.

  “Cheesecake.”

  “That’s not real cake.”

  “They have pie.”

  “I want cake.”

  The waitress, Estelle, drops off a Pepsi for me and a Mountain Dew and a Dr Pepper for Allie. “What can I get you?”

  “The lumberjack trio.” Hash browns, three pieces of bacon, three buttermilk pancakes, three scrambled eggs, and three sausages smothered in gravy. More food than I could eat in a day, but I don’t care, I’m gonna eat it all.

  Estelle nods to Allie, who’s full-on glaring at the menu. “What about you, little lady?”

  “Do you have any cake?” I ask.

  “We have cheesecake. Frozen.”

  Allie thrusts the menu at our waitress. “That’s not real cake.”

  Estelle shrugs. “We got pie. Fresh as of last night.”

  “That’s not cake either, no, no.” She stands and pulls on her coat. “Where’s there cake?”

  People are definitely paying attention to us now. Most in that embarrassed covert glancing sort of way, but four teenage boys on the other side of the diner are staring at us in that same intent manner as EMT.

  “Allison, sit down,” I hiss. She flops into the booth and sulks. “Is there anywhere else that serves cake?”

  “There’s a bakery on the other side of town. Won’t be open for a few hours, though,” Estelle says.

  “She’ll have the cheesecake,” I say. Estelle shrugs again, collects my menu, and walks away. “Allison—”

  “It’s Kim, remember? I wanted cake.”

  “I know, but we can’t cause problems. We have to keep a low profile.” I glance toward the boys’ table. One of them has a tablet out. Another waves at me. I scowl, pull my ski cap lower, and grab the wallet from my pack. I put money on the table to cover our order. “Come on, Allie, let’s get outta here.”