I move close to the nearest officer and yell over the din, “I’m looking for my father, Ben Lucas.”
He doesn’t respond. I don’t think he can hear me.
Dominick touches my arm and yells into my ear, “This was a bad idea.”
I turn my attention back to the police officer.
“Sir? Hello? My father, he works inside. I just want to know if he’s okay.” I reach out to tap his shoulder since he doesn’t seem to notice me.
“Stay behind the line!” His body shakes as he bellows the command. He looks Benji’s age behind the riot helmet.
The crowd behind us reacts and pushes forward. Dominick loses his balance. His body is thrust at the police officer.
The officer pushes him back over the line and hits him once with his baton. Blood trickles in a line down Dominick’s forehead.
I feel the anger of the mob reach my veins. I can’t stop myself.
“No, someone pushed him! Stop!”
I jump between Dominick and the officer, pushing a little to create space. The officer shifts either to push me back or use the baton. It all happens so fast I can’t be sure. All I know is that I hear Dad’s voice over the crowd.
“Alexandra? That’s my daughter!”
Thank God. My heart skips at the sight of him running out of the store behind the line of officers. Within seconds, however, my skin senses the tension in the air like thick, hostile humidity.
The officer pauses long enough for Dad to get closer. Just when I think that things might be okay, that things are over, things become unhinged.
The face of the mob sees my father, many heads acting as one. He’s wearing his supermarket manager shirt and BENJAMIN LUCAS, MANAGER name tag. He symbolizes their struggle, their hunger, their confusion. My dad is their enemy.
The mob attacks. Bats, fire extinguishers, crow bars, knives, bricks, broken bottles, fists, boots, elbows, anything and everything, in a mix of force and vengeance and righteousness and sinew.
In a flash, I am run down, my palms slapping frigid pavement and sending shock waves up both arms. People step on my legs and arms, oblivious that I’m beneath them on the ground as they rush past. The pain is sharp, stunning, stifling. I roll into fetal position and tuck my head to shield myself. Somehow Dominick and I have ended up at the line of scrimmage.
Dominick.
I can’t see anything but moving boots and sneakers. I can’t risk lifting my head to find him.
I squeeze my eyes shut and pray to a God that I’m not sure even exists.
“Please, please, please. Help.”
The popping sounds of gunfire. Then a loud, airy noise followed by a hollow thunk. Seconds later, my eyes and throat burn like the rage around me, and my nostrils and mouth start dripping with snot and saliva. I choke on my own spit. The fire in my throat makes my windpipe close. I hold my neck and gasp. Dad is in danger, and when I try to help him, try to reach out to him, I cannot breathe. It’s the attic all over again. Only this time, it’s not his fault. Not his fault.
My world collapses.
Chapter 20
Day 148: December—877 hours to decide
Question: Do you have sicknesses? Diseases?
Answer: We have advanced medical knowledge of the human genome and brain that we no longer have sickness, advanced aging, or disease. When new outbreaks emerge, we can easily cure them.
I wake to harsh lights and a female voice mumbling near me. Whatever she’s saying, it sounds like a muffled plea. The voice reminds me of the crazy lady from the vertex site, begging for someone to listen to her rants, but as my mind drifts into full awareness, I recognize the shape of my mother.
“Where am I?” The heaviness in my temples and ears dulls my thoughts. My throat and eyes feel dry and sore.
“You’re at the hospital.”
Then I remember.
“Where’s Dad? Oh God, where’s Dominick?” My heart freezes, waiting for information.
“Alexandra, relax. They’re okay.”
It seems like she’s talking in slow motion. As my mind clears, I see nurses and scrubs walking in the distance. Why am I in a hallway on a cot? I sit up, toss a sheet off my lap, and try to stand. I’m not even wearing a hospital gown. The pants I threw on before Dominick picked me up still cover my body, but they’re filthy and one of the legs has a ripped hole.
Dominick and Dad are nowhere in sight. I need to see them to believe they’re okay.
“Where are they, then? Dad? Dominick?” I yell down the corridor. A few nurses head toward me, but Mom shoos them away.
“Dominick’s fine,” she explains. “He’s got bruises and a broken arm, but he’s fine. They’re also monitoring him for a concussion. Dad’s being prepped for surgery.”
“Surgery?” My mouth goes dry. “I thought you said he was okay.”
“He is, but he broke his leg, dislocated his shoulder, and has some internal bleeding.”
My head gets woozy, and the floor slants awkwardly. Mom catches me and leads me back to the cot. Her words sting my already tired eyes, and I think I’m crying, but it’s hard to tell.
“Why am I in the hallway?” I ask through the haze.
“The hospital is so overcrowded and understaffed, and your condition is not as severe as other patients.”
Not as severe. That means Dominick’s and Dad’s conditions are severe.
I start to hyperventilate, my chest caving in and out in rapid succession. My skin is on fire, and sweat pours down my back. I fall off the side of the cot and onto the checkered floor. I can’t find my pills to anchor my body to my mind. How can this not be what death feels like?
Two nurses scramble over to me. The pinch of a needle, and then nothing.
I wake up feeling physically numb and emotionally drained. Whatever they gave me, I’d love it in a pill form. As I glance down, I see that I’ve become worthy of a hospital gown. Mom says my injuries are minor cuts and heavy bruising, but since I collapsed, they want to check me for a possible concussion or something worse. Dad’s still in surgery, and there’s been no update on his condition. Benji and Marcus are waiting near the surgical unit for more news.
After I plead with my nurse, she allows Mom to push me in a wheelchair to Dominick’s room. I try to convince her that I can walk, but she says it’s standard procedure.
Dominick’s in a hospital room built for two, but currently houses six patients. His glasses are missing, and one of his eyes looks swollen shut. A large bandage covers the side of his head, and his left arm is in a sling, which sucks since he’s left-handed. His mother and Austin sit near his bed watching television. Austin waves to me. Dominick’s mother gives me a grim stare. I guess it’s always the girlfriend’s fault.
I watch Dominick sleep.
My family and I watch television together to pass the time. It’s ironic that we’ve been clinging on to every possible minute left on the planet, and now we cannot stand each second as we wait for word of Dad’s condition.
I click through channels and notice something odd about the news. The media has changed focus. Every newscast is reporting feel-good stories about the nation and the world, optimistic anecdotes about CORE scientists working hard to defeat the comet with Artemis, heroic tales of those journeying through the vertexes, and hopeful speeches from world leaders that we will overcome.
What’s missing is the violence, the looting, the breakdown, the truth. I know the violence must be happening across the globe, but it’s absent in every segment. I’m guessing the media content has been censored to stop the spread of mayhem. People need to hold on to the notion that the world has rules. Anarchy cannot be televised and promoted.
I search the Internet using my phone. Some sites are spreading optimism, but on other sites, especially on social networks, people are scared and posting videos of spreading mayhem. The c
ontrast between the news and the people disturbs me on a deep level. How can they expect people to look out the window and see violence with their own eyes and still blindly believe the media’s message of hope? How can we edit the truth and it not have consequences?
All I know is that when the media actually starts focusing on the good, it means we’re screwed.
Hours later, Mom sits with me, Benji, and Marcus in my hospital room with five other patients and their families.
“You’re lucky you weren’t arrested,” Benji says.
“Thanks,” I mutter. I didn’t even know that was a possibility.
“Why would she be arrested?” Marcus asks. “She wasn’t doing anything wrong.”
Thanks, Mr. Blu.
“Wrong place, wrong time. Police usually arrest everyone and sort it out later. They were outnumbered, and she was unconscious. They may come back to ask her questions.”
“Great. Thanks for that,” I spit back at Benji.
“Thanks for what?”
“Making me worry about the police coming here.”
“Welcome.”
Marcus rolls his eyes and smiles at me. I’m liking him more and more. I wish he was my brother instead of my brother-in-law. I don’t understand how Marcus can stand Benji sometimes. Now I know why he made such a great teacher.
“So who’s gonna tell Dad about the store?” Benji asks the three of us.
“What about the store?” I ask.
Mom places her hand on my back. “The supermarket was burned to the ground. Arson.”
It’s gone? Dad cannot lose his job. He loves his job.
“No one was hurt in the fire, though,” Marcus adds.
“I’m not breaking the news to him,” Benji says.
“I will,” Mom volunteers. “When the time is right.”
A knock on the door ends the conversation. Two men wearing scrubs enter the room. Mom takes a deep breath and doesn’t exhale. She holds onto my bed rail so tightly her knuckles turn white.
They brief us on Dad’s condition. Aside from the broken leg and dislocated shoulder, he suffered from a stab wound to the chest that punctured and collapsed his lung. They stabilized the lung and put him on a ventilator, but he lost a lot of oxygen and still has low levels. They aren’t sure if there will be any brain damage. He’s still unconscious.
It’s a waiting game.
My family wheels me to his room. His skin is the color of paste, and from what I can see of his lips behind the ventilator, they have a bluish tinge to them. Like permanent Zombie Night. Mom kisses his forehead and strokes the side of his face, whispering things I cannot hear into his ear. She doesn’t cry. I sit by his side and listen to the machine breathe for him as silent tears fall over my cheeks. Benji and Marcus stay in the corner as if he’s contagious. I only have one thought.
I cannot leave him like this.
I cannot leave him like this.
When Dominick wakes up and sees me, his mouth smiles, but his one good eye tears up.
“You look terrible,” I say, crying and laughing.
“You look gorgeous yourself,” he says back and hugs me with his right arm. I flinch as a pain in my left side shoots forward.
“Sorry,” he apologizes.
“It’s okay,” I say, then I lift up the side of my shirt and see a huge bruise.
“Ouch,” he comments.
“Looks worse than it feels,” I lie.
“Why are you in a wheelchair? Is something wrong with your legs?”
“No, no. I just fainted. It’s protocol.”
He doesn’t look convinced.
Dominick’s mother asks my mom, “How’s your husband?”
“No change.” After a few strained minutes of minor conversation, Mom proposes, “What do you say we leave these two alone for a bit? Good time to search for a decent cup of coffee.”
Yes. Please say yes.
“Sounds good to me,” Dominick’s mother agrees. “Let’s go, Austin.”
“Aw, but I was watching that.” He points at the television screen to a Pokémon cartoon.
“I’ll let you pick a snack from whatever they have left around here.” Then I hear her whisper to my mom, “I bet some people are coming to the hospital just for the food.” She turns her attention to Dominick. “We’ll be back in a little while. Do you need anything?”
“No, I’m fine,” Dominick says.
She kisses him on the forehead, and the three of them exit quietly. We still aren’t exactly alone since there are five other patients in the room, but four of them are asleep, and one old man stares out the window.
Dominick touches my shoulder. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought you there. I’m such an idiot.”
His words stun me. I had no idea he’d blame himself.
“Dominick, it’s not your fault. Not at all. We didn’t know what was going to happen. You were trying to help.”
“By walking right into a violent situation? It was stupid. We could’ve been killed. You . . .” His good eye fills with tears.
“I’m fine. We’re fine.” I kiss his forehead, his cheek, his lips. He half-kisses back. The last time I saw him this low was after his father’s funeral.
“I’m so glad you’re going with us,” he whispers.
I kiss him to avoid having to say anything, and his eyes droop, the drugs pulling him under.
I can’t leave him like this.
I can’t leave him like this.
The problem is that the “him” my brain is referring to isn’t Dominick.
“Maybe,” I whisper back.
Chapter 21
Day 153: December—750 hours to decide
Question: What is the weather like on your planet?
Answer: Much like Earth’s. But we have the ability to control and manage the weather to meet our agricultural needs.
Dominick and I were released from the hospital, me two days before him. Dad has only gotten worse. Still unconscious. High fever. Infection at the surgery site. Understaffed must also mean incompetent. One small piece of good news: the hospital refilled my Ativan.
Today is New Year’s Eve. Dominick and his family leave tomorrow. His mom waited as promised, and the fact that her son was attacked only reaffirms her wish to leave ASAP. Dominick still thinks I’m going with him.
I meet Dominick at the house near the ocean for one more night. We need one last night alone so I can say goodbye.
"I will go. Eventually. But not yet.”
Dominick flips out. “Are you crazy? You can’t wait for him. You don’t have time. Since so many people decided to wait, the vertexes are becoming a bottleneck nightmare. The holograms gave us six months to leave for a reason. It comes down to math.”
“Dominick, I know. I will come. I promise.”
He paces in front of the fireplace. The glow from the fire highlights his face, displaying both his anger and his recent facial injuries. It’s heartbreaking to see him hurt physically while also hurting him emotionally.
“How can I believe you?” he asks. “Seriously. Once I go, I can’t come back. It’s a one-way exit. If you don’t end up going . . .” His voice cracks.
“I know. I will go.” I hold his good hand, try to make him look at me. He won’t. “I won’t leave you again. That was a mistake I won’t ever make again. You have to have faith in me.”
He grunts and tears spring from his good eye. “You don’t get it. If the other side is like what the holograms are saying, I want to experience that world with you. And I want you safe. The world is falling apart. Look around. All this time, your father didn’t even care about your safety, and here you are worrying about him?”
“This isn’t about worry. He would wait for me. I have to give him one last chance to change his mind. I won’t be able to live with my
self if I don’t try. Can you convince your mom to stay longer? Can you stay longer?”
“You know I can’t do that.” He turns away.
“Because of your father, right?” I clarify. “Well, this is because of mine.”
“But you don’t even like your dad,” he says. “Not really.”
Low blow. I don’t know what else to say to him to make him understand. He’s too worried about me, and I’m too worried about my dad.
We spend most of our last romantic night together not talking. He pokes at the fire. I eat a small bag of trail mix. It’s what they call a stalemate. At some point, I crawl into bed under the heavy blankets to help my body let go of the weight of the world.
In the morning I find Dominick lying awake next to me. We reach out to one another across our divided loyalties. The whole time I hope beyond all reason and fantasy that it’s not the last time.
“Can you do one thing?” Dominick asks as we get dressed.
“What?” I’m worried what his request might be.
“Come with us to the vertex today. I want you to be the last thing I see in this world.”
A lump develops in my throat at the power and love in his words. But the lump constricts as the memory of the last time I went near a vertex replays in my mind. I know Dominick would never do what Dan the Drunk Dude did. At least, I think Dominick would never do that. But desperate men take desperate measures.
“Sure.” My voice squeaks, and I clear my throat. “Of course.”
Dominick's mother hugs me when we arrive at their apartment. She’s never hugged me before, so I’m not sure what has changed. Dominick whispers something to her, and her face drops. I think it’s about me not going. I’m surprised that she cares. She hardly knows me.
Together we pack up the few belongings they each want to bring with them. Dominick drives his car with his mother in the passenger seat, and Austin and I ride in the back.
The ride is both endless and finite. I can’t wait to get out of traffic, and I hope we never escape. I don’t want him to leave without me. I don’t want to stay without him. I cannot let him go, but I don’t have a choice. He’s chosen his path, and I’ve chosen mine.
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