by David Lucin
Jenn recognized it immediately, and her stomach grumbled. “Is that a—”
“Soy protein bar? You bet.”
“Where did you get it?”
It was already open, and half was gone, but Dylan took out the rest, split that into two, and gave one chunk to Jenn. “Courtesy of the Flagstaff Police Department for all our help. Liam told me they wouldn’t have been able to manage without us.”
“Oh yeah?” she said absently, barely listening anymore. These soy protein bars were calorie-dense: about four hundred per unit or a hundred per quarter. She gobbled her portion in a single bite. Once she swallowed, she thrust her tongue into the deepest, darkest crevices of her mouth to work out every bit of food that hadn’t found its way into her belly.
Dylan nibbled off a piece of his. Jenn was amazed by his restraint. “While I’ve got you cornered, there’s something I wanted to talk to you about,” he said and chewed.
Curious but still occupied by getting the most out of her protein bar, she asked, “What’s up?”
“Val was my right hand. Me and her, we just clicked. She knew what I was thinking and vice versa. She listened but would also call me out or offer her opinion. Bryce, Yannick, Maggy, they’re all good workers, and I trust them, but they don’t have the kind of personality I look for in a leader.”
Was he calling her a leader? A sense of pride tickled her chest.
“It’s about more than doing what you’re told,” he continued. “Take Bryce, for example. Rock-solid guy, and he’d be one of the first people I’d bring to a firefight, but he’s a doer. A workhorse. But you?” He popped the remainder of his bar into his mouth. “After Grierson left the farm the other day, you already had a plan. You came over to the house on your own initiative and were ready to go. Down in Phoenix, more of the same. We would’ve run into that trap in Camp Verde if you hadn’t piped up. Then you figured out a way to use Rusty. You thought outside the box, and that’s what I need.”
“Need?”
“Yeah, I want you to start taking on a bit more responsibility so you can lead shifts someday.”
She tucked her boots into her backpack. Of course, the idea of being a leader was flattering, and she wanted to take on that role, but Val’s shoes were so big she doubted they could be filled. “Are you sure? I’m the youngest person on the team by like five years.”
“Six,” Dylan confirmed. “Yannick’s birthday was last month.”
“You think they’ll listen to me? Bryce is old enough to be my dad. He’s even older than you.”
“And yet he still listens to me.” He interlocked his fingers on the table and leaned forward. “Age has nothing to do with it. Or it shouldn’t. Like I said, Bryce’s a doer, and he was also a firefighter. Those guys understand how a chain of command works, and you’ve earned everyone’s respect already. You faced off against the Major, remember? You’re pretty much the stuff of legend.”
“Yeah, sure.” She snorted out a laugh. “Have you told them I was scared of your rifle when you handed it to me?”
“No, I think we should keep that part to ourselves.” He yawned and picked at a crumb in his teeth. “So, interested?”
“Interested in what? My promotion?”
“It’s not a promotion. Not yet. More like . . . training, let’s call it. Or being groomed for more responsibility.”
“Do I get a raise?”
Dylan tapped his lip. The gesture was thick with sarcasm. “Um, no.”
She held out a hand anyway, and he shook it. “Then I accept,” she said, “and agree to be trained or groomed or whatever.” To be your new Val.
“Good, because I was only asking to be polite. You can’t turn down a promotion in the military, so you can’t with me, either. Up or out, as they say.”
“Up it is, then.” The light from the lantern reflected off her watch, reminding her how late it was and that she was back on shift in less than eight hours. “Well, I should take off. Sam’s waiting for me upstairs at Allison’s.”
Slowly, and with a grunt, he rose from his chair. “I’ll walk with you.” His face brightened. “I’m about to head up to Charlie’s place for a bit.”
As she hefted her bag over her shoulder, she asked, “You really care about her, hey?”
She assumed he would act casually with, Sure, she’s all right. But he said, seriously, his chin low, “Yeah, I do. Evan too.”
Strangely, for the first time, it occurred to her that the stakes in all this were as high for Dylan as they were for her. Higher, even. Him losing Charlie would be the same as Jenn losing Sam, and she’d fight to the last breath to keep him safe.
“Nothing’s gonna happen to her,” she assured him. “Or Evan. They’re staying right here. I promise. No matter what Grierson and CFF say.”
“I know,” he said. Then, after he put on his hat, “Okay, let’s get out of here so I can lock up and visit my girlfriend.”
“Girlfriend?” she teased. “So you guys are official? I never would’ve thought you’d move so fast, Dylan.”
He shook his head at her. “Always a jokester, eh?”
Waggling her eyebrows, she bumped him with her shoulder. “You regret giving me that promotion yet?”
14
Dad had summoned Philip for a private meeting at the ranch, likely to discuss the police’s crackdown of the protests yesterday. A march from downtown had been organized—which CFF had no hand in encouraging, a testament to how much the movement had grown in only a few days—and Philip assumed that his father would join, but he refused to go out in public. He was afraid of being arrested on sight, even though the police still had no idea that he was behind the Go Market attack.
Philip waited in the living room of the Grierson house. The place was emptier without Mom. He noticed the silence the most. From the moment she woke up until the moment she went to bed, she always had music playing, even if she was working outside. After the EMP and the bombs, for the two weeks that she survived, the music gave way to humming as she tinkered, making her home perfect, all in spite of the calamity tearing the world apart around her.
Now, though, this house felt like a museum. All over were artifacts of Mom and her creativity: the wide-mouthed ceramic bowl on the kitchen table, the rocking chair by the fireplace, the watercolor of a lone ponderosa pine standing tall in a meadow—the inspiration for CFF’s symbol. Seeing all that she left behind made Philip’s stomach clench with anger. She should be here, too.
He held a framed photograph from the mantle: Heather, Dad, and Mom out by the corral, two out-of-focus horses in the background. No Philip. Judging by the age of his sister, he assumed the picture was taken shortly before the war. He tried to imagine himself in the photograph, an arm wrapped around Mom’s shoulder, but it was impossible. It was a little easier to pretend that he was the one behind the camera.
“Sir?”
Philip returned the photograph to its proper place. In the doorway leading to the kitchen was Esteban, and at his side was a young girl with long brown hair weaved into a braid. Ophelia, his daughter. She was a copy-paste version of her father: they had the same broad nose and the same tall forehead. Though she stood half-hidden behind him, the pink unicorn Philip had given her was visible in her hand. With the Go Market and the protests, he’d almost forgotten that her birthday was this past Wednesday and that Esteban had promised to bring her by to meet him.
He had no experience with children, not even Rachel’s son Brandon, so he wasn’t sure what to do. Presumably, his tattoo, shaved head, and tight-fitting T-shirt would freak the girl out. Fortunately, Esteban broke the silence. “This is who gave you your new toy. What do you say, sweetheart?”
She moved farther behind her father.
“Sorry, sir,” Esteban said. “She’s shy around strangers.”
“It’s okay.” A bead of sweat rolled off Philip’s brow. He fought the urge to come up with an excuse to leave. For some reason, this little girl frightened him more than armed thugs or
security guards down in Phoenix.
We’re both afraid, he realized.
Falling into a crouch to hopefully appear less intimidating, he pushed out, “Hey there. I’m Philip. What’s your name?” He knew, of course, but this was the only way he could think to break the ice.
“Ophelia,” she mumbled.
“What’s her name?” he asked and pointed to the toy. “Your unicorn.”
Clutching it to her chest, she peered around her father. A smile tugged at her lips before it broke into a wide grin. “It’s not a she. It’s a he.”
The anxiousness in Philip’s belly was fading, so he said, “Okay, what’s his name?”
“Elliot,” she deadpanned.
Philip laughed at that. “Elliot, huh?” Esteban only shrugged. “That’s a very . . . adult name.”
She took a tentative step forward. Then, without provocation or warning, she darted at Philip and wrapped her arms around his neck. The force almost knocked him to the floor.
“Thank you!” she squealed.
“Ophelia, no,” Esteban grumbled and shook his head, then added, “Sorry, sir. We’re still working on boundaries.”
Philip patted her back with one hand. “It’s okay. At least she’s not shy anymore.”
She pulled away from him and stroked the unicorn as she said, so quickly he barely kept up, “I love him. He’s my new favorite and he sleeps with me at night. I try to take him out with us when we go to the store or walks but Mom says he needs to stay home so he doesn’t get dirty or lost but Dad let me bring him today to show you.”
He chuckled at her, and she smiled in return.
“Okay, sweetheart.” Esteban held out his hand to her. “Time to leave.”
“We just got here!” she protested with a stomp of her foot. Philip admired her spirit. She didn’t take flak from anyone, not even her old man.
“I know, but Mr. Grierson’s busy.”
An idea struck Philip. He wore his best serious face and told Ophelia, “That’s right, but if you ask your dad nicely, maybe he’ll show you around the ranch and introduce you to all the animals.”
Her eyes doubled in size. “Really? Can we, Daddy? Please!”
Esteban shot Philip a look that asked, Are you sure it’s okay? Philip gave him a firm nod, and Esteban said, “I suppose we—”
Before he could finish his sentence, Ophelia interrupted by wrapping her arms around Philip yet again and shrieking, “Thank you!”
He was overcome with emotions he couldn’t put a name to. Regret? Longing? He was thirty-three years old. Ophelia turned six last week. If he had made a few different choices, he might have had a daughter her age. Or a son. Or both. Like Esteban, he could have been a father. Mom would have been the perfect grandmother. By leaving home, Philip robbed her of that opportunity, and he hated himself for it, though he wasn’t the only one to blame. The mayor, the police, and the refugees cut her life short when she still had so much time left.
“I appreciate it, sir,” Esteban said as Ophelia skipped over to him. “We’ll be quick.”
“Take as long as you want,” Philip managed to say.
Esteban rustled his daughter’s hair. “Mr. Grierson’s waiting for you in his office.” Now Mr. Grierson was his father. “You can head in whenever you’re ready.”
“How’s he doing?” Philip asked. He hadn’t seen Dad since last night.
Esteban pushed up his glasses as the lines on his forehead stretched, but he didn’t answer the question, which told Philip everything he needed to know. Yesterday was a setback, but CFF could come back from this. Hopefully Dad would see it that way, too, and not work himself into a frenzy.
Ophelia was practically bouncing up and down. “Don’t let Elliot get dirty,” Philip warned. “It can be dusty out there.”
She held the toy close. “I won’t. Promise!”
Esteban led her outside, and Philip slunk upstairs to his father’s office. The door was closed, but he heard heavy footsteps and drawers banging shut. He knocked twice. A few seconds later, his father responded: “Enter.”
Philip went inside. On Dad’s desk was an open suitcase with wheels. In it were clothes and a shaving kit. Dad wore a brown sport coat atop a white collared shirt, the same outfit as yesterday. Had he even gone to bed? His pale skin suggested that he probably hadn’t.
“You going somewhere?” Philip asked.
From the corner of his desk, Dad retrieved a framed photograph of him, Faye, and Heather. No Philip in that one, either. Gently, he placed it between two shirts in his bag and said, “The ranch is no longer safe.”
“What are you talking about? Esteban’s here, and we’ve got a full roster of guards on shift.”
Dad’s jaw twitched. “After last night, I fear that the police might begin suspecting our involvement in the Go Market. This is a precaution.”
His mention of the Go Market made Philip see Valeria Flores, her face a mask of pain. He shook the image away and asked, “There’s no evidence, Dad. We’re good.”
“The police will come up with some excuse to achieve their desired ends.” He laid a binder in his suitcase. “If you don’t believe me, look no further than their claim that our demonstrations were a threat to public safety. If they want to arrest me, they’ll concoct the evidence they need. We hardly live in a land of law and order anymore, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”
Philip could tell that his father had made up his mind, so he tried, “Where are you going?”
“The compound, of course.” Dad sat in his chair, opened another desk drawer, and pulled out a bottle of single malt, one glass. The old analog clock on the wall read 9:05 a.m. He poured himself two fingers and downed half. “I’ll be safe there, unless we have traitors in the mix.”
“Traitors? Come on, Dad. The people who know about that place aren’t going to sell you out.” He took the seat on the other side of the desk. “You think Rachel would ever do that? Esteban?”
Dad finished his drink, and to Philip’s relief, he didn’t pour another. The bottle went into the suitcase before he settled into his chair, fingers interlocked over his stomach. How much had he been drinking lately? When Philip was little, Dad enjoyed the odd nightcap, glass of wine with dinner, or pint at a brewery downtown, but four ounces of hard liquor before noon was unusual, not to mention unhealthy. Was this morning a one-time thing? Philip hoped so.
“I’ll come with you to the compound,” he offered when his father hadn’t responded to his assurances that no CFF people would sell him out. “Get you all set up there.”
“No, son,” Dad said and pushed himself up. “I have another assignment for you.”
What did he have in mind now? He wouldn’t want to retaliate against the cops, would he? “What’s up?”
Dad wandered toward a bookshelf, where he ran his fingers along the spines of several hardcovers. “I assume you’re aware that Sophie Beaumont has thrown her lot in with the police and the mayor and sent a number of her guards to assist in the shutdown of our demonstrations.”
A tendril of worry crawled up Philip’s spine. What did Sophie Beaumont have to do with any of this? Dad hated her, yes, but that rivalry stretched back years to when she and Edward raked in the profits while doing nothing for the community in return. While Dad was out at the farmer’s markets, handing out samples and care packages to the needy, the Beaumonts were squirreling away resources and preparing for end times. Philip didn’t have much of an opinion on the woman either way. She was rude and crass, but then again, Rachel could be, too.
“I heard,” he said. “Less than ten, though, I think.”
“Less than ten,” Dad echoed, then turned to the large window behind his desk. After a thick silence, “It would have been your mother and I’s anniversary next week. Did you know that?”
Embarrassed, Philip admitted, “No, I didn’t.”
“We had plans this year.” He continued gazing outside, his form little more than a silhouette in the faint light. “It had
been a while since we’d treated ourselves, so a few months ago, we decided to drive up to Zion National Park in Utah. I’d been there with my own family when I was young, but your mother, she always wanted to see it. Spectacular. Shames the Grand Canyon in its splendor.”
Philip had seen pictures of Zion. Nothing could have been further from the hellholes he frequented in Phoenix. “That sounds nice.”
“She deserved more. A trip to Europe, maybe, or Canada, but what with the war and our recent financial troubles, it wouldn’t have been possible.”
The mention of financial troubles struck Philip like the butt end of a rifle to the cheek. Did Dad mean that as a dig, or did it slip out? Philip couldn’t tell with his father sometimes. He chose to believe the latter and said, “Yeah, she did. She talked about seeing Rome.”
“Indeed.” Dad returned to his chair. “She had so much life to live, son. So much more to give the world.” A pained smile crossed his face. “She had plans as well, plans for all of us. For Flagstaff. She loved this town.”
“Like what?” Philip croaked. Speaking about his mother brought on a slew of guilt, regret, and anger. He was tempted to reach across Dad’s desk, find the bottle of scotch, and guzzle a few mouthfuls, but he hadn’t had a drink since he first went to prison and had promised Mom he wouldn’t have one again.
“Winter will be hard, as you know,” Dad said. “She wanted to turn the barn into a refuge from the cold, a place where those without proper heating could stay warm. Already she was thinking of ways to improve the insulation and construct a chimney to vent smoke from fires. Often, she spoke of using school gyms similarly. I didn’t only lose a wife, and you didn’t only lose a mother. This town lost an asset.”
There was irony in what Dad was saying: without a doubt, Mom would have done everything in her power to help the refugees like she helped anyone else. But that truth didn’t change the fact that they belonged in New River, not Flagstaff.
Dad’s cheeks reddened, and a vein in his temple pressed hard against the skin. “We cannot allow those who were responsible for her death to go unpunished. They cannot continue to run Flagstaff and maintain the status quo. Thousands more will suffer.”