The Vestige

by Caroline George

  His hand pressed against the jet’s window, fingers flattened into strips of skin, veins flexed. He staggered through torrents of wind like a piece of debris caught in a tornado. And when the plane rolled into motion, his face tightened into a display of desperation and resolve as if watching me soar toward the horizon was too painful for him to conceal from expression. He made me leave—why can’t I be angry? What happened to the agony that made me scream and beg for relief?

  Empty is good. Empty is strong.

  “It’s mighty nice to see you again, darlin’.” Nash lurches from his desk when I enter the Communications Control Center. He grins and gives me one of those brief side-hugs encouraged at church youth groups. “How you holding up?”

  “Not too well.” Awful. I’m crumbling to pieces.

  “This’ll help.” He lifts a half-filled pot of coffee from its hotplate and pours black liquid into a World’s Best Father mug. “Have some apocalypse brew.”

  “Bless you, Nash.” I clutch the mug to my chest and shove through the forest of box stacks and outdated technology to a rusted lawn chair. Tension dissipates from me as I lower into the seat. No more weight on my shoulders or pressure in my chest. Only coffee—the same instant powder my rich, dead grandparents used to have in their kitchen. I gulp the bad imitation and scrape my tongue to lessen the grotesque aftertaste.

  The remains of my lipstick leave a bloody crescent on the mug’s rim.

  “I spoke with Jack a few minutes ago and told him you’re here.” Nash pulls his hair into a ponytail and keys a line of code into the computer. “He located a radio and moved someplace where the Feds won’t find him. He’s working now to locate the inner dome’s generator.”

  “At least he’s alive.” Because I can’t cry over another grave.

  Will the future consist of bad coffee and leftovers? Nothing new. Nothing profligate. Only the necessities. Am I the bloody crescent painted on my cup’s rim, tasting only a poor substitute of a known luxury because I, too, am proof of a plush life that no longer exists?

  Have I become the pathetic remains of a perfect illusion?

  Tally slides into the threshold. She leans against her thighs, panting like a runner after a marathon. “Come quick. The messengers from upstate have arrived.”

  Loneliness played with my mind more than I care to admit. In the City, while I sat at the Lefèvre Family’s dinner table and rode the bus to and from work, I fantasized about the moment I’d waltz into the Command Center. I expected the homecoming to be filled with grainy clarity and warmth, people swarming me with cheers and questions, a sense of pride in a job well done. The play-by-play is still vivid in my thoughts. I prefer it over reality, because here, the air is stale, the world is matte and human interaction is like communicating with puppets. I need sleep. Rest will revive my senses, right?

  Nash and I follow Tally through the makeshift military camp, past cluttered check-out counters, and into an entryway protected by vending machines and cheap games. A teddy bear with dull, button eyes leans against the glass of a claw machine and stares at me—creepy bastard. I try not to look at it. Dull eyes are dead eyes, and I’ve seen too many dead eyes.

  White light pours in from the fogged storefront windows and illuminates a crowd of silhouettes. I squint and shield my eyes as they approach.

  “Julie!”

  I flinch when arms entwine my waist and jerk me into a hug. Braids slap my forehead and an endowed chest smashes against my sorry excuses. That voice—I’d recognize it anywhere. The scent of hair oil and rosemary—I used to joke I’d be able to smell her a mile away.

  “Missy?” I open my lids but keep eyelashes feathered over the breach. Her face comes into focus—dark skin, thick lips, gold-tinted cheeks. Impossible. She can’t be real … but she’s hugging me. Missy. Best friend from Charleston. Here.

  “Hello? Earth to Julie.” Missy laughs. She cups my face in her long, slender hands and probes me with her dark pupils. Her mouth pinches into a straight line—she must see it, the pain and scars within me, the unmistakable presence of loss. “I’ve missed you.”

  “What are you doing here?” I squeeze her tighter. I’d cry if my tear ducts worked.

  “I was recruited to be a messenger a few weeks ago. Colonel Buchanan held a clandestine meeting at my new college. When he mentioned you … I knew I had to enlist.”

  “How’s your mom?”

  “Not good. How are your parents?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t seen them in months.”

  She nods as if the information is matter-of-fact. “Lots of people have been separated from their families. At the meeting, once Colonel Buchanan told us about the aliens and the dome, my roommate realized her dad had been missing for years.”

  “We’ll find them.” At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.

  “Yeah.” She musters a smile and drapes an arm over my shoulders. “I can only stay here for the night. My squad is on tour. We’ve been trying to spread news about the invasion. Hey, you should tag along, that is, if you have some spare time.”

  Jack doesn’t want me in the City. I don’t have work to complete at the Command Center. Why shouldn’t I go on vacation and take advantage of my inactive state?

  “Sure. I could use a few days of R&R.”

  “Great.” Missy clasps her hands together and scans the indoor refugee camp. She gives me a you-have-so-much-to-tell glance. “Sexpot isn’t here, is he?”

  “No. He’s still in the City.”

  “Are you two … a couple?”

  “It’s the end of the world and you want to talk about boys?” Of course she wants to know my relationship status before we debrief each other. Most girls would rather talk about romance than military protocol and apocalypse scenarios.

  Yes, it’s true—single, love-scared Julie Stryker is dating the quirky weirdo she met at work. Dating … are Jack and I dating? We are together, yes, but dating means something different. Normal people date, go to restaurants and movies. Jack and I skipped that step and went straight to a relationship level I can’t classify. I love him … even when he locks me in a jet and sends me to outer space.

  She folds her arms and lifts her chin. “I knew you’d end up together. I just knew.”

  ****

  Three days—that’s how long it takes for me to forget about our diminishing timeframe.

  Missy and her squad travel to various locations to spread news of the aliens’ invasion. Tally acts as their guard, and I do whatever is needed, which isn’t much. Uselessness is a relief. I don’t have to be strong and together. I can be exactly as I am without putting anyone at risk. While they meet with mayors and business owners, I distract myself with distracting things: books, magazines, television, Starbucks, and outlet stores that smell like expensive perfume and money.

  To be surrounded by a pretty world, distanced from obvious danger and my weighty collection of problems, makes it easy to forget.

  Comfort makes it easier to keep my eyes closed.

  “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.” Missy stands in the center of the chlorine-polluted room, behind a podium. She shuffles through her notes and recites the introduction of her truth spiel.

  Members of the local Homeowner’s Association pack the neighborhood pool house, located in some suburb of some big city. They encircle plastic foldout tables and stab forks into slices of store-bought Key lime pie, the same brand Mom used to buy for Thanksgiving and Christmas.

  Tally emerges from the bathroom. She rolls her eyes when I hand her a brownie. “No use kissing my butt, Stryker. I called shotgun for the whole trip. Chocolate won’t make me give up my seat.” She wipes the sweat from her pale face and guzzles water from a plastic cup.

  “Are you feeling okay?”

  “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “You look awful.”

  “Priss.” She scoffs and rubs the splotches on her neck. “I’m fine. Mind your own business.”

  “The world ha
s ended,” Missy shouts in a crescendo climax. “We’ve been invaded by aliens.”

  I plug my ears before the civilians pitch their fit. Wait for it. Ah, yep, here they go. Murmurs and laughs spread through the room like wildfire, at least, from what I can tell by the many gabbing mouths. People spring from their seats and squirm—the sight is funnier mute.

  “Are you insane?” The bald man next to me throws a plate at the podium. His megaphone-loud voice slices into my silence. “Is this a joke?”

  The truth is crazier than lies because lies are required to stick to possibilities—the truth isn’t.

  “You’re a bunch of freaking idiots.” Tally slams her fist against a tabletop. “This isn’t a freaking joke.” She swipes her sweaty bangs and then staggers sideways. A yellowish goo oozes from her mouth.

  “Tally…” I grab her wrist. It’s cold and clammy. Shivers quake her arm, ripple across her body and onto to mine. What’s wrong with her? Why hasn’t she told anyone about her illness?

  “Outside. Now. Don’t make a scene.” She meets my line of sight and clenches her jaw as a saliva dripple cascades onto her t-shirt. “Get up … and walk out the door.”

  Now is when I should prepare myself. The news festering on her tongue isn’t good, neither is her puckered expression or fear-glazed eyes. She will say what I don’t want to hear like the nurses who told me Sybil died or Jack when he declared Jon’s passing. Her mouth will deliver the next blow.

  I rise from the chair, and together, we leave the building and trek across a parking lot crowded with squeaky-clean mom-vans and sports cars. Lampposts draw trails across the tennis courts, create a path to lead us from the pool house to our mud-caked van.

  “You’re sick, aren’t you?”

  Tally climbs into the vehicle and collapses next to a toolbox. She clutches a rifle to her chest as if it’s a teddy bear. “I don’t get sick.” Her teeth chatter. “I’m tired, that’s all.”

  “Sure, and I’m President of the United States.” I sit on the van’s stoop. A warm breeze tousles my hair—it’s drenched with the scent of brake fluid and carbon monoxide. “Do you have any more unlikely things you want to say?”

  “Gosh, you’re obnoxious.” She scratches her neck—it’s covered in boils, a discolored rash.

  “What the heck?” I brush her hair to the side. A wad of dark strands fills my hand in a tangled clump. Soft. Like Sybil’s. Before she died. “Oh, Tally…”

  “Don’t touch me.” She bats my fists and scoots into the crevice between seats. “I rubbed against a vine of poison ivy a few days ago. It’s no big deal.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “This isn’t something you can fix, okay?” She chokes on what might be a sob and then rubs her eyes until they turn red. “You can’t help me, so don’t try.”

  “What’s wrong with you?” I grip an armrest so tight, my knuckles lose their color. Pain expands within me until I can no longer sit up straight. “Fine. Be stubborn. Don’t tell me. I’ll take you to the hospital and … someone there will be able to help.”

  “I didn’t recognize the symptoms in time.” She squeezes my knee and wipes a tear from her cheek. “The radiation has already infected my bone marrow. No one can fix me.”

  “You’re joking.” I flash a smile to enforce the statement, to ease the sudden squeal of panic in my head. “You can’t have Acute Radiation Syndrome.”

  “The dome is thinning, I think, and my body has absorbed some of the leaked radiation. I checked the patient logs at surrounding hospitals. There are fifteen current cases.” Her voice crackles like a fire until all severity burns to a desperate crisp. She stares at me—it’s about to come, that horrible news I predicted. “Julie, I’m dying.”

  It happened in a single, shattering moment—two seconds for my entire world to fall apart. I watched Jon cross the street. I heard a loud bump, splintering, and a crack. Then, I watched his body roll up the windshield of a car. I saw him on the ground, in the middle of the road, eyes open and blood pouring from his mouth and nostrils. I heard screaming. It was my screaming. I felt my legs lurch forward. I touched his face, felt for a pulse, screamed.

  Not again. Tally will be fine. Maybe she has the flu or pneumonia. Doctors can fix her like Jack fixed me. They’ll stick an IV in her arm, and everything will be fine. She has to live because no matter how much I deny it, I will be the girl crying over a casket.

  “No,” I wheeze. “You can’t die. We buried Charlie and … the Scavs killed our friends … so I can’t watch you die, too.” Tears burn my face as I wrap her in an embrace. If I hold her close, maybe she won’t slip away and disappear. Maybe I can keep her alive. “The aliens might have a method of treatment in the City. I’ll go back.”

  “You’d be better off if I died.”

  “How can you say that?”

  “Because…” She breaks free and curls into a fetal ball. The whites of her eyes fade from bloodshot pink to a necrotic yellow color. “I love Jack.”

  Rewind. Repeat. Over and over. Tally, the girl who slept in the bed next to Jon for years and groaned as I bled oceans in the back of her van, is in love with my boyfriend?

  “He saved my life, you know.” She coughs and then speaks in a dry rasp. “Both of my parents overdosed on drugs so … I was put in foster care. When I turned eighteen, I was left to live on the streets. I slept on park benches and worked odd jobs. One night, after I’d swiped a few beers from a drunk guy, I attempted to rob an apartment. The owner was home. He caught me.”

  “Jack?”

  “Yeah. Jack.” Tally smiles—I hate everything about it, how her teeth glisten with thoughts of him, how her sunken face glows. “He gave me food and said if I enlisted in the military and did something productive with my life, he wouldn’t press charges. So the next day, I enlisted as a Marine.”

  I slide toward the open door and drape my legs over the step. A new kind of discomfort twists within my gut, a dull pulse that makes me squirm. She’s been close to him from the start. I knew she liked him. Why wouldn’t she? He’s her commanding officer and best friend. A crush comes with the territory, but love? Love is different from like. Love is committed. Love doesn’t back down.

  “You don’t have to worry, though. He doesn’t feel the same way. I told him once and … he looked me dead in the eyes and then pretended I hadn’t said a word.” She drags herself forward, latches hold of an armrest. “He picked you, Julie.”

  “So why would I be better off if you died?”

  “I can’t be happy for you. If you marry Jack, I won’t come to the wedding. If you both end up in a house with a cute picket fence, I’ll throw toilet paper all over your front yard because … I’ll wish it was mine. You get that, don’t you? I want to be a good person and a not sucky friend but deep down, I’ll always be the one he didn’t choose, and I won’t be happy for you.”

  “That’s okay. Don’t be happy for me.” I heave a jagged breath when our sight becomes a single, connected line. “Live long enough to be happy for yourself. Love him. I don’t mind because … no one can be loved too much. Tally, you can toilet paper my yard over and over. I’ll help you.”

  She laughs. Snot runs down her chin. “Can we stab forks in the grass, too?”

  “Of course.” I sandwich one of her slender hands between mine. “The domes are thinning for a reason. It might be a warning. Maybe the Feds want to reestablish their supremacy. I don’t know, and it doesn’t matter, but other people are going to get sick. We need to radio Colonel Buchanan and tell him to issue a warning, supply potassium iodide tablets to as many towns as possible.”

  “Not good enough,” she says. “You have to go back to the City and fulfill your mission. It’s the only way to prevent further damage.”

  “The District.”

  She nods. “Blow it up.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “Imagining the future is a kind of nostalgia… You spend your whole life stuck in the labyrinth, thinking about how you’l
l escape it one day, and how awesome it will be, and imagining that future keeps you going, but you never do it. You just use the future to escape the present.”

  John Green, Looking for Alaska

  Sacrifice—I used to think the term meant quitter. Martyrs, instead of fighting for their lives, willingly gave themselves to gain a status for their cause. I wanted to believe those sacrificial people had other options—they just couldn’t see them. Now, I understand there are moments in our lives where we are given only one option, one path, one fate. We don’t always have the choice between life and death.

  We can only choose how we die.

  I clutch an embroidered purse and tap my foot against the floorboard. Passengers flood the transit—pretty people in their pretty city. A little girl sits across from me with her mom. She flips through a vintage picture book and toys with her sundress’s pleated skirt. A young couple holds hands a few rows ahead. They’re all happy. They have lives and memories, experiences I might never have. Not after today.

  “Are you sure you want to do this, Julie?” Nash asked as Colonel Buchanan squirted dye into my hair. “There has to be another way.”

  “There isn’t,” the colonel said on my behalf. “Tally doesn’t have much time. Heck, none of us do. I checked with hospitals. Hundreds of people are experiencing symptoms of radiation poisoning.” He plastered his fingers to my sopping scalp and tilted my head until our eyes locked. “I contacted that girl from the boarding house: Charis LeBlanc. She sent us a bag of her blood. The new genetic marker will allow you to travel through the City unnoticed.”

  “Have you told Jack?”

  “No, for obvious reasons.”

  Nash stretched a tape measure across my chest to fit me for the bomb-vest. “You will wear the explosives into the District, ride the elevator down to the basement, and activate the bomb. You’ll have five minutes to escape before detonation.”

  Colonel Buchanan steadied my trembling arms with his still hands. He crouched next to me, furrowed his brow into a dash. “I don’t know how to tell you this because you’re my son’s girlfriend. I want you to be safe but … the mission must come first. If you’re given the choice between…”