by A. G. Riddle
The major squints, as if performing a visual lie detector.
“Consider this,” I continue. “We know that as of two days ago, you had approximately one hundred people alive in this building. I know because I’m from Camp Seven. The camp that houses NASA and CENTCOM. The seat of the most advanced technology in the AU and its concentration of military power. I know there are—or were—a hundred people in this warehouse because we flew over it with a high-altitude military recon drone with infrared capability. We’re here because there are life signs. We’re also here for the supplies. That’s true. But we need both—supplies and people. And you need us. I meant what I said. We have a plan for humanity’s survival. Not just a few of us. All of us. That plan only works if the people in Camp Seven make it happen. You need us, Major. We’re your only chance.”
“Let’s hear this plan,” he says carefully, never breaking eye contact.
“Within fourteen months, we’re going to leave Earth.”
His eyes go wide. I continue, my voice as calm as I can make it. “We still have two ships in orbit. They’re almost finished. We’ll board them and leave Earth for a new world where we can all survive. To do that, you need us—you need the people in Camp Seven, their expertise.”
Chandler scoffs. “Please. Even if this man is telling the truth—which, based on past experience, is doubtful—we don’t need him. I can do anything he can do. He’s a liar, a felon, and he’s redundant.”
I throw my head back and let out a laugh, letting the sound echo in the vast warehouse. “Richard, Richard, Richard. You’re finally busted. This isn’t some TV talk show with an uninformed host hungry for ratings. This is real life, with lives on the line. And behind me are two people who were actually there at the first contact mission briefing, who saw you pull this same stunt.” Slowly, I motion to Grigory and Izumi. “They saw you get thrown off the mission. They can tell us why: because your ideas were wrong and your ego would have endangered the mission and everyone on the planet. A group of scientists heard both of us out and they chose me and we all know what happened. We defeated the grid at Ceres and the Long Winter ended. You weren’t good enough then and you’re certainly not good enough now.”
Chandler steps closer to the major, making his plea in a quiet confidential tone. “I told you he was a liar.”
“Facts don’t lie, Richard. Consider this: in Camp Seven, we have more people than you. And that’s not all. Remember, CENTCOM was there. Those high-altitude recon drones are the tip of the iceberg. We’ve got heavy artillery, guns to go around, and enough troops to raid this facility with overwhelming force. If that was our goal, we wouldn’t be talking right now. Every one of you would be dead or on the run. We wouldn’t have knocked or called out to you. We would have come in quietly. Gunshots would have been the first sound you would have heard. But consider this: we didn’t do any of that. There’s another reason why.”
Chandler opens his mouth, but the major silences him with a harsh look.
“We didn’t just come here for supplies,” I say calmly. “We’re here because there are survivors in this warehouse. The scientists in Camp Seven can get us off Earth. But we need to take enough people to restart the human race. More than anything, we need people. A genetic pool large enough to ensure our survival.” I pause, letting that sink in.
“Major, the planet is going to keep getting colder. These pallets full of supplies are going to keep shrinking, even if you carry on defending them from anyone who lands on your doorstep. But eventually, you’ll run out. You’ll starve. If you don’t freeze to death before that. I’m offering you a chance to live.”
The major glances at Chandler, then at me. Slowly, his hand drifts down to his side, to the pistol holstered there. It’s clear he’s made his decision.
Chapter 40
Emma
In our cubicle, I bundle Sam up in warm clothes recently recovered from the wreckage.
“W-where are we going?” he asks nervously.
“For a walk, Sam. Everything’s going to be okay.”
Allie is across the corridor, at Madison’s cubicle, playing with her cousins. Like Sam, she senses something is going on. She rushes into our cubicle and grabs my other hand. “Wanna go too, Mommy.”
I squat down, bracing on my cane, ignoring the pain in my legs. “Not today, Allie. I need to take Sam somewhere.”
Allie bunches her eyebrows. Water comes to her eyes.
I pull her into a hug and whisper: “I’ll be right back. We’ll play, okay? I promise. I love you.”
“Da?”
“He’s at work, sweetie. He’ll be back soon.”
Habitats used to cover the landscape in Camp Seven, the white domes sticking out of the rocky, dusty desert. Now it’s just a rolling expanse of white as far as the eye can see, lumps and hills and mounds, hiding the wreckage of our homes, the evidence of the grid’s deadly assault.
Sam and I crunch across the snow, making five tracks, two little foot prints for him, two larger ones for me, and a dot in the snow for my cane. I hold his little hand in mine, feeling his fingers squeezing tight.
He hasn’t said a word since we left the bunker.
Three hundred yards away from us, another group is walking in the snow: two parents and two children, holding hands, no doubt venturing out to the home or habitat they used to share (or somewhere close to it—it’s hard to navigate without road markers or house numbers). Another mother and father are standing a hundred yards away in the other direction, squatting down, talking to their three children.
It’s eerie out here. Utterly quiet except for the wind. A pale, dusty yellow sun shines down on us, the sky hazy, as if we’re all in some sort of netherworld, a purgatory we can’t escape, trapped here to roam for all eternity.
I stop beside one of the mounds, not sure if it’s Sam’s habitat, knowing it doesn’t matter. “Sam, do you remember the night you last saw your parents?”
He perks up at the mention of his parents, nodding quickly.
“What did they tell you?”
His expression turns guarded.
“Did they say the word asteroid?”
He shakes his head, confused. “Th-they said there was a st-st-storm.”
“There was, Sam. A storm. A natural disaster. That’s something that happens and it’s no one’s fault.” I scan the terrain around us. “That’s what happened to the camp. Your parents were very brave. Before the storm came, they covered you up. They could have covered themselves, but they choose to cover you because they love you very much.”
He stares at the snow. “I heard it. Wind. A c-c-crash. It was dark. I tried to get o-out. I was trapped.”
I reach inside my coat and draw out a stack of photos. “Sam, these are yours.”
He peers down at the photo. His parents are about my age: a woman with dark hair and a beaming smile; the father wearing wire-rim glasses, looking serious. They’re holding a newborn Sam, sitting on a living-room couch, a bank of windows looking out on a small, manicured suburban yard enclosed by a fence. A life and time from before the Long Winter, a life Sam was too young to remember.
“Your parents loved you very much, Sam. They always will.”
I pause, waiting for him to look up, but he keeps studying the photo, his hand shaking now.
“The storm was very, very powerful. A lot of people weren’t as lucky as you, Sam. They didn’t make it. Your parents… were among those people. I’m so sorry, Sam.”
A tear drops from his face onto the picture.
“They will always love you.” I press a hand to his chest. “And as long as they’re in your heart, a part of them will always be with you.”
Chapter 41
James
The major’s voice rings out in the warehouse, gruff and loud. “You say you brought a doctor?”
Slowly, I turn back in Izumi’s direction. “Yes. Dr. Tanaka. And I have medical training.”
“All right. Prove it. We’ve got wounded. If t
hey die, so do you.”
Chandler opens his mouth to speak, but slams it shut. Apparently, he has enough sense not to argue with the decision to let us live long enough to save some of their men.
The major turns on his heel and leads us deeper into the warehouse, to a makeshift camp they’ve built out of habitat parts. It looks like a giant Lego structure: modular parts stuck together, a prefab door in the middle.
The major instructs our seven soldiers to wait outside. I can tell Brightwell doesn’t like it.
Inside, the smell of rot hits me first, the putrid odor of infection and dead flesh making me gag. The warehouse is frigid, but in here it’s balmy and bright, the small LED lights along the ceiling lighting our way. The quarters are tight, the people packed into cubicles far smaller than the cramped quarters at CENTCOM. They made this stronghold as small as possible: easier to defend, with less perimeter to cover. And less volume to heat.
At the end of a narrow, winding corridor, there’s a makeshift infirmary, with eight tiny beds, six holding soldiers in uniform. In places, their fatigues have been cut away to provide access to the wounds. Wide bandages cover their arms, legs, and torsos. Red and yellow stains seep through.
Izumi rushes to the first soldier, who has a leg wound. The man is about my age, with a freckled face and brown hair.
A woman wearing blue rubber gloves lingers on the other side of the bed.
“Gunshot wound?” Izumi asks, not looking up at the gloved attendant.
She nods quickly. “Yes. Ten were wounded in the…” She cuts her expression to the major, who’s standing in the doorway. With a hand, he impatiently motions for her to go on. “I tried to remove the bullets from two of the injured, but we lost the first patient. I stopped after that.”
“Are you a surgeon?” Izumi asks.
“No. A midwife.”
“What antibiotics do you have?”
The woman leads Izumi to a crate and throws it open. I can tell from Izumi’s reaction that it doesn’t have what we need.
“Major,” Izumi calls over her shoulder. “We need the supplies from our convoy.”
“I’ll send my people to get them. But I meant what I said: no excuses. If they die, you die.”
Chapter 42
Emma
Since I took Sam outside and spoke with him, he has stayed at our cubicle, mostly watching TV on the tablet. He naps with his back turned to me, probably hoping I can’t hear him crying before and after he falls asleep. He’s snuggled in next to me, watching Space Labs when Allie comes home from school. She frowns when she sees us.
She drops onto all fours and crawls in between us, almost knocking the tablet out of Sam’s hands.
“Allie, that’s not nice.”
“You’re my mom.”
“Allie.”
She turns to Sam. “Go away!”
I grab her upper arm and pull her to her feet, ignoring the pain in my legs. I lead her out of the cubicle, like my parents used to do to me when they were really upset. When we’re out of earshot of Sam, I crouch down at face level with Allie.
“Sweetie, that was very, very mean.”
She stares at the floor, defiant. “You’re my mom.”
“I am your mom. And Sam is going to stay with us.”
“How long?”
“Forever.”
She bunches her eyebrows, confused.
“Allie, when we went to the Citadel, it was because a very scary storm was hitting the camp.”
“Asteroids.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“School.”
“Yes, the asteroids. We were very lucky. You and me and Dad weren’t harmed by the asteroids. But Sam wasn’t as lucky. He didn’t make it to the Citadel. He was trapped in his house.”
Her expression changes.
“His house was destroyed. His parents are gone. I want you to think about that. Think about how sad you would be if Dad and I were gone.”
Impulsively, she throws her arms around me and begins to cry. “Gone where?” she asks, barely able to get the words out.
I hug her tight. “I’m not going anywhere, sweetie. The point is, Sam is very sad right now. He needs us. Think about how sad you would be if you were Sam. Think about how you would want people to treat you.”
I release her and she stares at me for a long moment.
“Do you understand, darling?”
“Yes,” she says quietly.
“Are you going to be nice to Sam?”
“Yes.”
I take her small hand in mine and lead her back down the corridor.
“Is Da… gone?” she asks, voice somber.
I stop and squat down again, legs aching. “No, Allie. He’s not gone—not like Sam’s parents. He’s at work. He’s coming back.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
A few hours later, I’m sitting in the situation room, listening while Harry tries the radio again.
“James, do you read?”
No response.
They still haven’t checked in. And we haven’t heard from the backup team we sent either.
Harry glances up at me, silently asking what I want to do.
“Reroute one of the drones to fly over warehouse four-one-two. James should have reached it by now. We need to know what’s happening there.”
Chapter 43
James
We lost two patients during surgery. The other four are iffy at best. I’m exhausted when we finish with the last one, dead on my feet, weary from the drive and the hike and hours of cutting and suturing. If the major keeps his promise, I’ll actually be dead soon.
Thankfully, he doesn’t make good on his declaration. When Izumi and I finish, one of his men simply leads us to a twelve-by-twelve room where Grigory and Brightwell are lying against the wall, both half asleep. I figure the major will keep us alive long enough to determine whether any follow-up medical care is needed. After that, who knows.
Grigory cracks his eyelids and stares at me with bloodshot, sleepy eyes. I’m too tired to make conversation. Despite the threat of imminent death, I drift off to sleep the moment my head hits the blanket on the floor.
I drift in and out of sleep, my body sore and numb.
There’s no sense of day and night here, just the constant semi-darkness inside this makeshift prison cell.
Twice, Izumi and I are summoned to change the patients’ bandages and assess their conditions. Two of them are septic. We’re not optimistic about them. The other two will probably make it, with some luck.
Back in the cell, when the door closes, Brightwell whispers, “We need to make a move.”
“We didn’t come to fight,” I respond.
“Did we come to be used as hostages? That’s what we are. Best case here: they trade us back to Camp Seven for weapons, armor, and vehicles.”
“Worst case?” Grigory mutters.
“They use us as body shields during an attack on Camp Seven,” Brightwell says. “They know Camp Seven won’t risk harming us. In that scenario, Camp Seven might even lose the battle. At that point, your families become hostages as well.”
“Making the move is sounding better,” Grigory mumbles, still half asleep.
I don’t like it, but I have to admit, Brightwell is probably right. I keep hoping that someone in this camp will see reason and start talking to us.
“Colonel Earls has probably come to the same conclusion,” Brightwell says. “We’ve missed several check-ins by now. Earls will do the math. I bet he’s already sent a team here.”
“Why?”
“Simple. It’s better to fight here than at Camp Seven, where our enemy can attack at a time of their choosing—and put our civilians in the crossfire.”
I exhale as I let my head fall back against the wall. “All right. I’m listening.”
As escape plans go, ours is pretty simple.
Just as they have twice before, a sergeant and a private escort Izumi and me to
the infirmary to check on the patients.
We perform our exams, administer antibiotics and painkillers, and when the guards aren’t looking, I load a syringe with anesthetic and tuck it into my sleeve. Izumi does the same.
My heart is pounding as I shuffle across the small infirmary, trying to act naturally. The next few minutes will determine our fate here.
A corporal who suffered a gunshot wound opens his eyes for the first time.
“How are you feeling?” I ask.
“Terrible,” he whispers.
“Good. That means you’re alive. We’re going to keep you that way.”
He turns his head to the side and closes his eyes. I’m moving to the next patient when I hear gunfire ring out, muffled through the walls. I have no concept of how close the gunfire is or whether it was from inside the warehouse or outside of it.
The major’s voice calls over the radio. “Secure the prisoners. Units three and four to the eastern loading dock.”
“Let’s go,” the sergeant says.
I turn and march out of the infirmary, feeling sweat forming on my forehead. Since the prison break at Edgefield, I haven’t fought anyone hand-to-hand. Even the melee at the Citadel was at arm’s length. Then, I was just trying to escape. This will be different. I have to attack.
I try to focus myself as we march down the narrow corridor. The heat presses in on me, but my hand somehow feels clammy and damp.
We pass the two cells where they’re keeping the rest of our soldiers. They must’ve reasoned that splitting us up would decrease the chances of an escape attempt.
As before, the sergeant stops us in the hall and the private places a hand on his sidearm as he reaches forward to unlock the door. The moment the lock clicks, I jerk the syringe from my sleeve and lunge forward, jabbing it into the sergeant’s neck.