Night Resurrected

by Joss Ware

  “Against her bloody will,” Quent reminded him flatly. “If you recall. I don’t think she’s particularly sympathetic to the Strangers.”

  Vaughn nodded, his jaw visibly tight. Wyatt found himself feeling unwillingly sympathetic at the misery in the other man’s face. Something was definitely up there. “I do recall. I didn’t want to make an assumption that everyone here would be in agreement that she should be trusted. And included, however. After all,” he looked at Wyatt, “Remy’s safety is at stake. As well as that of the entire city. We have to find a way to get out of this situation with both intact. And the clock is ticking.”

  A prickle went down Wyatt’s spine and he went cold. Vaughn knows. He knows where Remy is.

  But what did that mean? My first loyalty is to the people of Envy.

  Wyatt heard that loud and clear. The question was whether the mayor’s priority included offering up one life to protect and save many if it came down to that.

  There was a knock on the door and the room went silent. The place wasn’t a secret location, like the underground computer lab built by Sage and the Waxnicki brothers, but this was a private sanctum in Vaughn’s public office. Not many people knew it existed, let alone how to find the entrance.

  Vaughn himself rose and went to the door, easing it open a crack. He spoke quietly to the person on the other side, then opened it fully. “Please join us,” he said. “I expect you’ll have something to add to the conversation.”

  The mayor stepped away from the door, casting a warning glance around the room. His expression indicated prudence in the topic of conversation.

  “Hi, Dad,” Ana said when her father walked in accompanied by another man. “Does everyone know my father, George? He’s the one who grows Elliott’s penicillin,” she added with a smile. “And keeps Flo’s showers running superhot.”

  “And this is David Callaghan,” George said, gesturing to his companion as he introduced him to the room at large. “He’s just showed me a most curious . . .”

  Wyatt’s head was filled with a loud buzzing sound. He started to get up but his knees wouldn’t hold his weight. His chest tightened so he couldn’t breathe, and he felt Quent reach over and close his fingers over his arm.

  Then the man named David noticed him. Their eyes met and the newcomer’s face went slack with shock and then turned white as a sheet.

  He gripped the nearest chair and stared at Wyatt. “Dad?” he whispered. “No, no,” he added, shaking his head. “I’m sorry. That’s . . .” But even as his voice trailed off, he couldn’t seem to look away. “You look . . . just like . . .”

  “Your father.” Wyatt found his voice and a blaze of joy surged through him. “Wyatt Callaghan. Married to Catherine, father of Abby and David. Resident of Lockwood, Colorado. Fire chief and burgermaker extraordinaire.” Now he managed to stand. “David, it’s me. Your dad.”

  Chapter 17

  “David. I am your father,” said a very deep, breathy, bass voice.

  Of course, that was Fence, bringing levity to the situation as usual. Wyatt barely heard him, however, for the roaring, rushing sound that filled his ears obscured everything but his son, David, saying again, “Dad? But . . . how is this possible?” His expression was a combination of joy, disbelief, and confusion.

  Wyatt wanted to explain, but he found he didn’t want to waste his energy doing such a mundane thing while he could be drinking in the sight of his son. Examining every detail of the man he’d become. Noticing the gray in his thick, dark hair, the wrinkles radiating from the corners of his eyes. The smooth, slight sag to his skin. Whiskers. No more freckles. And he was much taller than he’d been fifty-some years ago.

  And so he was grateful for Sage, in her calm, organized way, who explained to David how his father came to be sitting here, fifty-one years later and unchanged. Mostly.

  When Sage finished, Wyatt said, “I have so many questions for you . . . but first, I have to know—” His throat closed up then, suddenly, and it burned when he tried to swallow. Tears stung his eyes and he blinked furiously.

  David’s expression was still shocked, but now a veil of sadness slipped over it. He shook his head. “Abby and Mom . . . they didn’t make it. They survived the storms, the earthquakes—I’m sure you’ve heard about it all. They were some of the many who died suddenly days later, for no apparent reason. It was quick and painless,” he added quickly, with a matter-of-fact air. “They didn’t suffer. It wasn’t until two weeks later that we figured out why some people survived and others didn’t.” He’d probably said these words countless times. Made the explanation simply and smoothly, as if he were teaching a history class talking about the Holocaust or the Civil War, or recounting a family story about walking five miles to school in a snowstorm.

  But Wyatt saw grief still there, and he clenched his fingers tightly into his palms. Rage and black fury roared through him, tempered by a surge of nausea. He wanted to scream and shout and hit something . . . someone.

  Yes, it might have been quick and painless. But David was left alone. An eight-year-old boy. Alone. In the middle of inconceivable destruction and devastation. The end of the fucking world. Losing his mother. His sister. Wondering where his goddamn father was. Wondering and wishing and waiting and hoping every single fucking day. For fifty years.

  Tears burned his eyes and Wyatt had to squeeze them closed to keep from sobbing. How could he have failed them so? How could he have been absent during the most terrifying, desperate time of his family’s lives . . . especially when he’d been a savior for so many others?

  Someone touched him—a gentle hand on his shoulder. Wyatt looked up, blinking, and realized he’d retreated into the darkness of despair once again—even in the face of what should have been happiness. But David was there, rubbing his shoulder, his face sober and his eyes hopeful. And glad. There was joy in his expression. Joy and sorrow.

  Wyatt didn’t think any longer, he just pulled his son—his son!—into an embrace. And he let the tears leak from his eyes, felt David’s trickle against his cheek, and they held each other for a long time.

  When they pulled apart, clearly both filled with infinite questions and things to say, Wyatt realized the room was empty. The others had left them alone, and he was grateful for it.

  “I can’t believe it,” he said, looking at his fifty-nine-year-old son, unable to keep from staring at him.

  “You?” David said, and chuckled with happiness. Wyatt saw Cathy there in that moment, and he felt the pang of grief . . . but it wasn’t as deep or sharp as it had been. “Here I am, old and wrinkled and worn out . . . and my father shows up and he looks half my age.” His laugh rang out in jubilation. “If only I could look that good at . . . how old are you now? Ninety-eight? It’s like a Benjamin Button thing.”

  Wyatt laughed too. The first time he’d really laughed, really felt pure happiness in a year. “I don’t think it’ll happen that way for you, Davey.” Then he sobered, took his son by the shoulders and looked him in the eye. “I’m sorry, David. I’m so sorry.” Grief welled up in him again, mingling with the beautiful happiness, making him feel as if he were in that murky Jell-O again . . . but at the same time, looking at a ray of sunshine he knew he could eventually reach. “Can you ever forgive me?”

  David was shaking his head, his old eyes filling with tears. “No, Dad—”

  “I should never have left you and your mother and Abby. I shouldn’t have gone to Sedona. I should have stayed home.” Wyatt’s throat burned, his voice was dry and rough and he could barely force the words out.

  “No, Dad, no. You can’t do that to yourself.” David was earnest and intent. And he spoke like an adult. A man. Good God, his son was a man. “No one could have known. No one could have prevented what happened. And even if you hadn’t gone to Sedona . . . what would you have been doing anyway? Yes, you’d have been out there, pulling people out of the rubble, putting out fires, helping them . . . and you would have died three days later anyway.”
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br />   Wyatt shook his head hard, trying to clear it. Trying to make sense of everything. Every un-fucking-believable thing that was happening right now. “What do you mean? Who knows if I would have died? I might have been one of the few who survive—”

  David shook his head. “No. Dad. Trust me.” He covered Wyatt’s strong, tanned hands with his own, older, veiny, age-spotted ones. Surreal. “The people who survived . . . they all had something in common. We figured it out. All of us who lived, who didn’t suddenly expire, had had a tetanus shot two days earlier.”

  Wyatt stared at him, waiting for the information to filter through and into his brain. “You’re telling me that the people who survived did so because they’d had a tetanus shot?”

  “Two days earlier,” David confirmed. “It’s true. Trust me,” he added with a wry, sad grin. “When you’re eight years old, you remember shots. They’re almost as bad as—well, no, forget it. In the grand scheme of things, they aren’t that bad. But as it happened, my friend Johnny Raybourn—do you remember him?—we’d had shots on the same day. I remember, because we were complaining about it at school. He survived too. We found each other at the school, where people went after things . . . got crazy. And from there we got to talking to people and realized that everyone who was still alive had just had the shot.” He shrugged. “I can’t explain it any more than I can explain you being here . . . but, Dad, it’s a miracle. And I’m sure as hell not going to question it.”

  “I know.” Wyatt closed his eyes. Tried to push away the images of his young, bewildered, grief-stricken and frightened son.

  “It was fifty-one years ago,” David said, as if reading his mind. “It was beyond terrifying. It was . . . unbelievable darkness and fear and devastation. But it was a long time ago, Dad. I’ve accepted it and built a life—a good life—with that in my past. And now . . . the most miraculous thing has happened. Something I could never have imagined. You’re here.” His eyes filled with tears again, but they were joyful tears. “And I can’t wait for you to meet your granddaughter.”

  Granddaughter. Wyatt’s heart nearly stopped. “I have a granddaughter.” He tried out the words, listened to them as they seemed to float in the air between them, and let them sink in. “I have a granddaughter.” He felt his lips stretch in a smile of wonderment.

  “You actually have two of them,” David said with a grin. “And a great-granddaughter. But only Cat is here.”

  “Cat?” Wyatt said, looking at him.

  David nodded. “Catherine Michelle. After Mom. Of course.”

  Tears gathered in his eyes and he blinked hard, harder. “I can’t wait to meet her.” Something warm inside him flowered, expanding warmly and sweetly through his body. After a year of cold and emptiness, of battling back any possibility of feeling again, he was alive again.

  He’d been reborn. Twice in one day.

  “You’ll meet her as soon as possible,” David promised. Then his expression became sober once again. “But it seems that right now, there’s a sort of crisis happening We’re on a countdown.”

  “Yes,” Wyatt said. Some of his joy melted away as he remembered the far more urgent problem of Remy and her whereabouts. He was going to find Vaughn and make him tell him where she was. “Right now we’ve got a nasty situation.”

  “I’m here to help. And I should probably tell you,” David said as they both stood, “that I’ve known Lou and Theo Waxnicki for years. And I’ve been a part of their . . . network . . . for the last three of them.”

  Wyatt felt a rush of surprise tinged with pride. “You’re part of the Resistance?”

  He nodded. “That’s why I’m here. I’ve never actually met Sage, but I’ve been in touch with her via the network for years. She can vouch for me. And I mainly know the Waxnickis through the same interface, although I met Theo in person a few times when he first came to set up the network access point near where Cat and I lived.”

  “How did you get here, now?”

  “I found something in Glenway that I thought George should see, and I brought it here. Now that I’m here, I want to help—with whatever you’re going to do regarding this threat about Remington Truth. That,” he added, looking at Wyatt steadily, “is what George and I assumed this big meeting with Mayor Rogan was about.”

  Wyatt nodded slowly. “Yes. I want to tell you more, but I have to get the agreement of the others to do so.”

  “Absolutely. I understand completely.” His smile was one of chagrin. “I made the mistake of mentioning to Cat—and Yvonne, my other daughter—that I was sort of involved in a resistance group, trying to explain to them why it was urgent that I get to Envy. And now Cat wants to join . . .” He shook his head. “She’d jump in feet first if she could.” Then he looked up at Wyatt and a proud smile curved his face. “She takes after her grandfather.”

  Thirty-three hours.

  Tomorrow night at ten.

  Remington Truth.

  Everywhere she went, Cat heard people whispering about it. Or arguing, with desperation and panic rising in their taut bellows. They gathered in groups and every pair of eyes turned to watch whenever anyone new walked by.

  She wandered, feeling lost and impotent. She wanted to be doing something, but she knew no one but Dad and Ana, and they were nowhere to be found. She suspected they were meeting with the others in the resistance group . . . but she hadn’t been invited.

  Remington Truth. What did that mean? Was it the Remington Truth . . . like some sort of book or document? A canon or writ or something? Or was it an object? A statue?

  Could it be a person? Remington Truth. A little tingle, a little pop in her thoughts told her that made the most sense. But that would be like finding a needle in a haystack. And if I were Remington Truth, I’d be keeping way out of everyone’s way.

  “Come on, Jason. We’re leaving. We’re getting out of this city!” The high-pitched, strident voice of a woman filtered through the constant level of noise to Cat’s ears.

  She turned to look and saw the woman rushing along with a large pack over her back and another slung over a shoulder, crosswise over her chest. She held the hand of a small boy whose legs pumped to keep up with her determined strides, and an older child followed.

  There were others too. Groups scuttling nervously out of the building, carrying their belongings.

  “I’m going to demand a meeting,” cried another voice. This one was a woman as well, and her pronouncement was greeted with shouts of agreement and urging. “Rogan’s got to answer to us! He’s got to tell us what he’s going to do!”

  “We can’t wait for the mayor and the city council,” someone said. “They’ll argue about it for hours. We have to act!”

  “Start a search for Remington Truth. Someone’s got to know what it is. I’m going to demand that Rogan step up to this!”

  The voices were growing louder and more strident, and Cat edged away as the rowdy group, propelled by fear and ignorance, surged by.

  This could get ugly.

  She shook her head, wishing she could do something. Wishing she knew some way to help.

  Wishing Dad would let her.

  As she turned to go back outside—at least she could help there, although much of the cleanup was done—she noticed the huge dog.

  He seemed lost and distraught, and although he was frighteningly large, she couldn’t bear to see an animal in distress. Since he was inside the building and didn’t appear to have any concern with or from the people walking by, she suspected he belonged to someone living in the place. Hopefully he was just separated from his master.

  “Hey buddy,” she said, crouching next to the auburn, brown and black wolflike animal. Even when on her knees, she found her face at eye level with him, so she didn’t approach too quickly. Carefully and slowly she held out a hand for him to smell. “Are you lost? What’s wrong?”

  He had intelligent amber eyes that seemed to understand exactly what she was saying. His ears perked up into sharp triangles and he allow
ed her to pet him, then butted at her with a whine.

  “What is it?” she asked. “Who are you looking for? Do you want me to help you find your daddy? Or your mama?” He went to attention at that and bumped her harder . . . then turned and started off.

  Although she didn’t have a dog of her own, Cat understood. Follow me.

  “Okay then,” she said. “I’ll bite.”

  She followed him as he trotted rapidly down a long corridor that ended at a door. “Ah, so that’s it,” she said when he scratched at the door.

  She opened it and followed the dog inside. They were in a . . . what was it called? . . . a staircase that went up and up and up . . . a stairwell. The dog bounded up the steps, then paused on the landing to look down at her.

  He gave a short, peremptory yip as if to say “Come on!”

  Cat shrugged and followed him up, and when she reached the next floor, she understood why. He was waiting for her to open the door to the hallway. The expression on his face was one of Duh!

  Laughing at the dog’s attitude—plus the fact that he was so damn smart—she opened the door to the corridor. He took off, his nose to the ground, sniffing as he went along. Cat waited to see what he’d do next, and was mildly surprised when he went to the end of the hall and turned around to come dashing back. He pushed past her into the stairwell and bounded up the next flight.

  She followed, opened the door to the corridor, and watched while he did the same thing. Obviously, he was searching for someone.

  “Okay, I’ll play,” she said, ruffling his fur. And so they went on and on, up each floor in turn.

  The dog became more efficient as they went on . . . he merely walked a few feet past the door, sniffed around, then came back and bolted up to the next level. Cat couldn’t help but wonder how many more stairwells he was going to lead her to once they got to the top of this one, but she found the process so fascinating and intriguing she stayed with him.