What Tomorrow May Bring

by Tony Bertauski

  “Then who?” Cole asks. “Not the Star Dwellers. They don’t even have guns, much less bombs. They’ve got knives and bows and slingshots, and that’s about it. Not bombs.”

  I know he’s right, which leaves the Sun Dwellers, the Realm with the greatest resources. I try to think of any other possibility. I have no idea, but something about the timing seems far too coincidental. “Do you think it was someone trying to help us?” Even as I say it, it feels stupid. No one knew we were leaving. And anyway, who would want to help us?

  “Not likely,” Cole says.

  Eventually, everyone stops talking and we trudge along in silence. It’s probably safer that way anyway. After what feels like miles, Tawni finally says, “We’re here.”

  It is a good thing, too, because with every step my legs threaten to topple underneath me. I yearn for a soft bed, for a comfy pillow to rest upon.

  “We’ll have to sleep in the shed,” Tawni says. Cole and I groan simultaneously. “We’ll stay there at least until morning, when my parents leave for work, or wherever it is that they go every day.”

  I sigh. “Won’t your house be under surveillance?” I say. “We did just escape from prison.”

  “Not this quickly,” Tawni says. “With the bombings, they’ll have more important things to worry about. Plus, with my parents’ connections to the Sun Realm, there’s no way they’d allow surveillance of their property.”

  I mull it over, hoping she’s right. “Okay,” I say. “Lead the way.”

  We steal across the front of the house, which is bigger than most in the Moon Realm, at least five times as big as my house. My eyes have adjusted to the dark (plus there are small night lights along the front walk), so I can make out artsy rock formations littering the landscaping. They’re hand-carved and probably cost a fortune. We easily zigzag our way through them and I guess that Tawni could guide us without injury even if she was blindfolded, such is her familiarity with the landscape.

  I can’t see much of the house, except that it looms up like a fortress in front of us. Compared to most homes in the Moon Realm, and particularly in our humble district, it’s as big as a palace. I can’t wait to see it when the dim cavern daylights are illuminated.

  We reach a medium-height wall separating the back from the front. Raising one of her long legs, Tawni clambers over it easily, like she’s done it a thousand times. Following her lead, Cole hops over the barrier swiftly and looks back at me, as if he’s considering offering me a hand over. I pretend not to see him and, against my better judgment, place my hands firmly on the top of the wall and push off hard, using it to vault over the top. Although I clear the wall easily, I pay the price on the landing, feeling the jolt of my feet on the stone through my entire body, particularly around my battered ribs.

  It hurts like hell, but I grit my teeth and dare myself not to show any discomfort. Cole’s watching and I don’t want to look weak in front of him. I don’t know why. He’s already seen me fight, knows I’m tough, knows I’m strong and capable. Maybe I’m just trying to prove my toughness to myself.

  Regardless, I don’t think it works. Cole pretends not to notice that I’m in pain, but I think I see a twinkle in his eyes and a casual smirk on his lips. I brush past him and follow Tawni around the house.

  The backyard is even bigger than the front, possibly bigger than my parents’ entire property. In the center of the space is an in-ground pool, probably the only one in the entire subchapter. The still waters glow an eerie blue, lit from beneath by underwater pool lights which evidently stay on all night. I try not to think about how much that would cost—and that it’s funded by the sweat and blood of people like my father.

  The shed is past the pool. It isn’t what I expected. When you live in relative poverty, the word shed fosters an image of a tiny stone cubbyhole, crumbling around the edges and filled with rusty tools, spiders, and the occasional bat. Not a four-room building with running water, electricity, bunk beds, and shelves of food. Maybe I’m going to get a bed after all.

  Tawni pushes open the door without a key and slips into the darkness. We can’t risk turning on the lights, so she gives us a brief tour using the soft glow of her digital watch. Then she breaks out a can of beans, which we eat at room temperature, a box of salty crackers, and a tube of some kind of mint jelly. Although it shouldn’t be, the food is amazing, and we eat frantically. It’s a good thing there are no lights, because I don’t even stop to wipe the crumbs or juices from my mouth.

  We risk turning on the faucet and cupping our hands to drink. My throat is so dry the water burns slightly on the way down. The second gulp goes down better.

  No one speaks until we finish all the food.

  When the last cracker is gone, Cole says, “Will your parents come in here in the morning?”

  “No,” Tawni says. “Never. I’ve never seen either of them in here.” Her voice is thick with distaste. “They think it’s beneath them. These are the servants’ quarters. They used to live with us, but it became too expensive, so now they just come during the day to clean and cook and maintain the place.”

  I’m shocked. Disgusted. The rest of us are barely scraping by and Tawni’s family has servants. Seriously! I want to say something but I hold my tongue, because I know she’s uncomfortable with the set-up, too. It isn’t her fault. Like I said before, you have no control over what situation you’re born into.

  Cole changes the subject. “What happened to you guys in the Pen?”

  I’d almost forgotten that he only saw the butt end of our escape from our cells. It feels like all three of us have lived through the entire thing together.

  I give him a taste of his usual sarcasm. “See, Tawni and I were playing poker with a few of the guards, when it came time to meet you. We thought they’d let us go because, by that point, they owed us a bundle of money. Instead, one of them whipped out an Uzi and started firing away. We ran like bats out of hell, leaping bullets and fighting guards the whole way. It was crazy.” Maybe not all true, but it was crazy.

  “Mostly lies,” Cole says in the dark. “But a hint of the truth, the crazy part, right? Oh, and I expect you did get shot at, too.” He’s good, all right, but I’m not about to tell him that.

  “Okay, the true story is…”

  I tell him the full story, downplaying the incident with me and the guard who stepped in front of me, but totally milking the “barrage of bullets whipping past our heads, tearing our clothes—I think I felt one trim off a lock of hair.” I don’t mention the mysterious aching I felt on the fence.

  “Let me see where the guard hit you with the stick,” Cole says when I finish.

  I don’t want to. Don’t want the sympathy. Don’t want them to worry about me. I know it’s bad, but probably not as bad as it looks.

  He won’t leave me alone until I show him.

  Even using only Tawni’s watch light to see, my side looks awful when I raise my tunic. Already my skin is marbled with purple and blue at the top and green splotches at the bottom. The shape doesn’t look quite right, like I’m missing a rib or two.

  To my surprise, Cole laughs. If I’m expecting sympathy, I don’t get it. “You’ll live,” he says. And then: “I’ve seen worse from a single punch on the schoolyard.”

  I thought I didn’t want sympathy, but then when I don’t get it, it makes me mad. It’s probably just lack of sleep, the pain I’m in, the gamut of emotions I’ve felt this night—or I’m just a head case. Probably that, too.

  Tawni is nicer, immediately tearing off strips from one of the bed sheets and wrapping them around my stomach and side to support my battered ribs. I grumble about her pampering, but afterwards I’m glad she does it, because my ribs stop hurting temporarily.

  The servant’s bed I sleep on is more comfortable than the one I’d slept on growing up. I practically melt into it. Although I’m too tired to be excited about having escaped the Pen, I do smile in celebration just before I fall asleep.

  Chapter Twelver />
  Tristan

  I shudder when a flash of blinding pain blurs my vision. Shaking my head and blinking, I try to regain control of my body. When my vision returns, it’s not a pretty sight.

  They’re surrounded with no hope of escape. I don’t know why of all nights they’ve chosen this one to attempt to gain their freedom, but I know if we don’t help them they won’t make it. She won’t make it. For all I know, the guards might shoot first, rather than try to apprehend them. For all I know it might be another policy, like no visitors allowed outside of certain hours. The gunshots we heard earlier certainly point to that conclusion. I can see the new guards on the first day of training. Lesson 1: Always shoot guests attempting to escape.

  Not a nice way to treat your so-called guests.

  I can see her halfway up, frozen in place, eyeing the guards on the outside of the fence. Even between the tightly woven chain links, she looks fierce and strong. If she was a type of energy, she’d definitely be nuclear.

  I’m coiled tighter than a snake ready to strike, my muscles tensed and flexed, my fists balled, my feet naturally assuming a runner’s stance. I start to sprint toward them just as the bomb explodes. It’s louder than a cannon in the quiet night, and I can feel the shockwaves from the force so strongly that they stop me dead in my tracks.

  Frozen in place, I’m unsure of what just happened, or what to do. The acrid smell of smoke and dust fills the air. I can’t see the guards on the inside, but presumably they’re taking cover or were injured by the bomb blast. The guards on the outside are still pointing their guns at the prisoners, but they’re pacing, nervous, much less sure of themselves than they were a few seconds ago.

  Compared to the second bomb, the first was like getting hit by a feather. The incendiary tears through the hotel above us, maybe through the exact room we’re staying in—whether by coincidence or design—sending shivering tremors through the street below our feet. I lose my footing as a crack widens in the stone beneath me. I roll hard, narrowly avoiding falling into the widening tentacle in the street. Instinctively, I cover my head, curling up in the fetal position. Heavy chunks of stone shower down, battering my defenseless body. Some of the rocks are sharp, having splintered off dangerously, piercing my skin. If one penetrates my eyes I’ll be instantly blinded.

  When the rubble shower ends a few minutes later, I sit up quickly, scanning my surroundings. Roc hasn’t fared much better than me, although he’s sitting up, too, rubbing a nasty red bump on his head. His clothes and face are covered in gray dust.

  “You okay?” I say.

  He coughs and gives me a thumbs-up sign. I turn my attention back to the Pen. The guards on the outside are gone, their guns scattered haphazardly on the ground. The escapees are gone, too.

  She is gone.

  “Tristan!” Roc shouts behind me.

  I turn, and then, seeing him gazing at the hotel above us, follow his line of sight. Several columns of heavy stones are wobbling precariously, on the verge of toppling.

  “Go, go, go!” I shout, running hard toward the Pen’s fence line. I hear Roc’s footsteps pounding behind me, and then a dull, machine-gunning clatter as the stones collapse.

  I whirl around, saying the quickest prayer of my life for Roc. He’s fine, having escaped the impact zone just in time. With Roc safe, my thoughts go to her. But then I remember someone else: the deskman at our motel.

  Without explaining to Roc, I rush back to the building, leaping heavy stone slabs and piles of smaller rubble along the way. The doorframe is mangled, but still holding itself up amidst the pressure of the collapsing floors above it. I slip through, rapidly locating the old man. Despite his seemingly innate ability to sleep anywhere and through anything, he finally met his match when the bomb hit, or perhaps when the roof partially collapsed.

  I’m not sure what happened to his desk—perhaps it’s splintered beyond recognition—but it isn’t there anymore. In its place: the old man—and a huge slab of stone that has him pinned to the ground. Finally, his head is up, his wild eyes looking at me, scared and helpless, begging me to save him.

  The stone slab is far too big for me. Even with the adrenaline cocktail coursing through my veins, my first effort at lifting it is fruitless. It doesn’t budge, not even a little. The task is like trying to lift the very earth on my shoulders, a feat only accomplished by Atlas—and I’m no god. While my mind races, I feel a hand on my shoulder. Roc pushes me gently aside and slides a thick metal pole beneath the stone. I have no idea where it came from, but I know exactly what he’s doing—making a tool, a lever—and so I locate a good-sized roundish stone that I’m able to roll over. Together we push it under the pole. Overall, I’m the bigger of the two of us, so I push down hard on the end of lever, using my entire body weight to force it to the ground. The stone is massive, and even with the lever, it strains against me, trying to thwart my attempt. Eventually the lever moves down an inch, and then two, gaining speed as I gain leverage. I’m straining so hard that I have to close my eyes for fear they’ll pop out of my skull.

  I feel the pole drop suddenly beneath me and hear a loud crack and a thundering crash. Even with my eyes closed, I know what happened. The pole snapped in the center like a twig, releasing the stone. The man was crushed, broken beyond repair. I slowly open my eyes.

  Roc is holding the man, who is not crushed, not broken—at least not beyond repair. Evidently I raised the stone a sufficient height for Roc to slide him out safely before the lever snapped. For that I thank God.

  Roc is smiling, helping the man to his feet. The guy is clearly injured, so we each flop one of his arms over our shoulders and half-carry him out of the cracking building. As we pass through the doorframe, the rest of the roof collapses, kicking up a cloud of dust around us as we escape.

  We’re lucky. The old man is even luckier.

  I’ve never felt so unsure of what to do next. I guess because I’ve never been in such an unbelievably confusing situation. We hear booms echoing around the town as more bombs hit, presumably destroying other buildings. There are shouts in the distance, both from the Pen and from other streets. Other people, probably just like us, trying to decide what to do, where to go, figure out what’s going on.

  “He needs medical attention,” Roc says, looking at the man.

  “I’m fine,” he grunts.

  “No…you’re not,” I say. “Where’s the nearest hospital?”

  “It’ll have been bombed, too,” he says gruffly.

  He has a point. Nowhere feels safe at the moment. But still, out in the open I feel like we’re too exposed, like at any second another bomb might land at our feet. We have to keep moving.

  Roc seems to be thinking the same thing. We both start moving, forcing the injured guy to come with us. We turn the corner, but stop immediately when we see the scene in front of us. Smoke, rubble, buildings collapsed and collapsing. People running. We skip that street and head another block down. The next street is quieter, not yet hit by any explosions, perhaps not a target of the attack by…well, by whoever is attacking—I have no idea who.

  We travel another half-block without event and then hear a noise as we’re passing an old building on our right. “Psst,” a voice says.

  A woman is waving at us from down a set of stairs, from inside a doorway. “Psst,” she says again.

  “Yes?” I say, unsure of how to respond to such a strange greeting.

  “Do you need help?” she says.

  We do need help—desperately need help—so I say, “Please.”

  She beckons to us with one hand. We make our way down the steps awkwardly, trying not to bang the man’s already battered legs on the stonework. The woman turns sideways and shepherds us through the door and onto a small landing. Below us steps descend into darkness.

  Once we’re all inside, the woman closes the door and says, “You’ll be safe down here.” She moves past us to the stairs, holding a long candle in a small ceramic bowl high above her head. We follo
w her down, carrying the old man between us. The stairway is wide enough for us to walk three abreast.

  At the bottom is another door, which the woman opens. As she enters, she says, “I’ve got three more.”

  We poke our heads through the doorway, into a small cellar. It’s crowded. Not including us and the woman, there are eight others. Four candles identical to the one carried by the woman are positioned in each corner of the space, providing spheres of light that overlap in the center.

  “Make yourselves at home,” the woman says, before exiting back the way we came and closing the door behind her. We gingerly lower the old man to the floor, next to a couple of kids who are staring at us with wide eyes. They can’t be more than six years old.

  “Thank you,” the man says, his voice cracking. His demeanor has changed slightly, as if he’s been softened by our persistent willingness to go out of our way to help him. I wonder what made him so hard in the first place. Perhaps it was just the cruelties of life—the faltering economy, old age, living in a cave—but I sense it was something more specific. He wears a wedding band but hasn’t once mentioned his wife, out of concern or interest or anything. I guess that he’s lost her already.

  Roc sits down next to the man and I follow suit. My back to the rock wall, I take in my surroundings. The place is only about fifteen by fifteen feet. It reminds me of a small wine cellar—perhaps that’s what it is, or used to be. No wine adorns its walls anymore. I’d be surprised if anyone can afford wine in this subchapter these days. Regardless of what it used to be, or could’ve been, it will serve well as a bomb shelter now, deep under the ground-level rock surface.

  In addition to the two kids, there are three women and three men. Two of them hold hands and are younger, sitting next to the kids, probably their parents. The young wife looks fearful, maybe not for her own life but surely for her children’s; her eyes dart about nervously, always returning to her young ones. The other four are older, gray around the edges, with serious faces that would fit in perfectly at a funeral. Well, at least three of them look that way. The fourth—a short, frail man with an impressive mop of gray hair—is wearing the biggest grin you could imagine. I wonder if my mother’s threat from my childhood—that if you make a face for too long it will get stuck like that—has cursed this man. Perhaps in the throes of an extremely merry moment, his face was frozen in the biggest smile of his life.