The Final Trade

by Joe Hart

  She reaches up and rubs the short wisps of hair covering her scalp, her hands creeping there whenever she’s not paying attention. It was too badly scorched to simply trim. The first time they’d stopped on the road she’d borrowed scissors from Chelsea and cut off the tangled and singed locks, the scent of the burning mountain coming from the hair almost making her sick.

  The road bends before them, the missile installation coming into view, and the sight both thrills and frightens her. A cold anticipation begins to grow as they roll through the open gate and the rest of their group bursts from the entrance, Seamus barking wildly and jumping among them. Zoey glances back to where Nell perches on the edge of the bench, body rigid, eyes wide as she watches the people outside the ASV wave and yell.

  Merrill pulls to a stop and Ian opens the doors, nearly getting floored by Seamus as he leaps into his arms.

  “I missed you too, old boy!” He laughs, turning his face away from the dog’s energetic tongue.

  They file out of the ASV, Zoey second to last as she passes Nell, who still sits on the bench, gazing at her hands, which she rubs continuously.

  “Are you okay?” she asks the other woman.

  Nell glances up at her, then out the door, where the group is reuniting with hugs and loud exclamations. “My hands are shaking.” A smile pulls at her lips and is gone instantly. “I dreamed of this for years, every hour of every day. But then I made myself stop because it was going to kill me.” She fingers the bandage around her wrist. “Now I’m here and I’m absolutely terrified.”

  Zoey crouches beside her, back screaming its protest but she ignores it. “It’s going to be all right. Follow me.”

  “Zoey! Get out here!” Sherell calls. “You hate us that much you gotta hide?”

  She turns, stepping down out of the vehicle. Seamus is the first to greet her, his big paws slapping into her hands and causing her to stagger.

  “Seamus! Down!” Ian says, and the dog drops, nuzzling her leg instead. She pets him and looks up as Sherell approaches her.

  “What happened to your hair?”

  Zoey smiles. “I needed a change.”

  “Well, you got it. Now we just have to change it back.” The group laughs and Sherell sobers. “You made it.”

  “We did.”

  “We’ve missed you,” Sherell says, hugging her.

  Next is Newton, who leans in awkwardly but doesn’t move to embrace her. She grins and hugs him. “Thank you for keeping them safe,” she says in his ear. He smiles, blushing slightly before moving away.

  Rita steps past Newton. She looks Zoey up and down, eyebrows furrowing. “You look like utter hell.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Was it worth it?”

  The question makes her throat tighten and she can’t reply. Rita frowns and hugs her quickly before stepping away. “Come inside, I was just making a soup that didn’t smell too bad.”

  “It smells terrible,” Sherell says.

  “Then you can starve for all I care.”

  “It would be preferable compared with eating your cooking.” Sherell smiles evilly and Rita shakes her head as she starts to turn away.

  “Rita,” Zoey says. The other woman stops. “There’s someone else here we’d like you to meet.” She steps aside and nods to Nell, who comes slowly down the steps. She gazes at Rita, mouth partially open, jaw trembling. Rita stares at her for a moment before frowning at Zoey. She takes a stride toward Nell, her hand coming up as if to shake, but freezes, eyes locking on the scar above Nell’s eyebrow.

  Already Nell’s crying. She takes a tentative step forward, as if the ground might collapse beneath her, and reaches out a hand, gently grazing Rita’s hair.

  “You’re real,” she whispers. “And so beautiful.”

  Rita’s face is flushed, her green eyes flickering all over her mother’s face. She shakes her head. “You’re dead.”

  “I thought I was.”

  Rita brings her hand up to Nell’s brow, fingers tracing the scar there. Then it’s as if an invisible barrier breaks. Rita crashes into her mother and Nell sobs, pressing her face into her daughter’s shoulder.

  Zoey swallows the solid lump in her throat. The two women rock from side to side before Nell finally holds Rita at arm’s length before embracing her again, a burst of happy laughter coming from her.

  “Do you want to try my soup?” Rita says in a tear-choked voice.

  Nell laughs again. “I’d love to.”

  They walk, arm in arm, toward the installation, and the rest of the group follows, a buoyancy carrying them toward the doors. Zoey stands for a moment by herself, letting the cold air flow around her before joining the others inside.

  The soup isn’t nearly as bad as Sherell let on, and they all eat like they’ve been without food for days. Zoey watches them around the table, their voices intermingling in a steady buzz of conversation. There are smiles, jokes, passing of food and drink. Seamus barks at Ian’s plate, begging for a scrap as Ian glances in mock disapproval at Sherell and Rita, who look away, both grinning at one another.

  Family.

  It’s the only word for them.

  But she’s not part of it. Not anymore.

  Zoey pushes several chunks of canned meat around in her soup as Merrill and Chelsea both rise to their feet. Merrill taps his spoon on the table, and when the room quiets, he wraps an arm around Chelsea.

  “We have some news,” he says, beaming. “Chelsea and I are going to be parents.”

  There is a beat of silence before the entire room erupts in cheers, everyone popping out of their seats to rush to the couple. Zoey rises as well, slower, and studies Merrill’s and Chelsea’s faces.

  They are ecstatic.

  Floating.

  Chelsea glows with an internal light she noticed on the road along with how close and protectively Merrill hovered near her the entire trip. Now it makes sense.

  But it’s only another reason why she’ll have to leave them all.

  Eli puts an arm around Tia’s shoulders. “Thrilled to say we’re expecting too.” Everyone laughs. Tia shoves him away and he nearly trips over a chair, which only makes them all laugh harder.

  “You can expect an ass kicking if you touch me again,” Tia says, but she’s smiling.

  Zoey makes her way to Merrill and Chelsea who gaze at her, both of them already registering something wrong in her expression. She’s about to tell them congratulations when there’s a quiet knock at the door.

  Lyle stands in the hallway, sheepish eyes glancing up from the floor to the group. “I’m sorry to interrupt.”

  “What do you mean?” Merrill says. “You’re not interrupting. Come in, eat.”

  Lyle rubs his hands together. “Um, no. I guess I’m not hungry.” His gaze locks on Zoey and he swallows. “I did it. It’s ready.”

  There is a part of her that was hoping the programmer wouldn’t be able to accomplish the task. Maybe it’s the sane part of her, the part that’s still soft, that contains sympathy. That’s human.

  But the darkness surges at his words, a cold, seething brutality without a shred of empathy. It is the same thing that forced her onward to the ski run, that thought of the plan to burn the men alive in the first place, that pulled the flare gun’s trigger.

  Zoey nods. “Okay.”

  She moves past everyone toward the hall, feeling their eyes on her, and it’s only when she’s at the door that Merrill’s voice stops her.

  “Zoey. What’s he talking about? What’s ready?”

  She sighs, looking down the hallway. “Come with me and I’ll show you.”

  48

  Lyle’s workroom smells like the man hasn’t left it since they departed.

  She supposes that might be a very accurate assumption, given the rumpled look of his clothes and bloodshot eyes.

  Lyle seems to become self-aware as he sits at the desk, the group pouring in behind Zoey. “Sorry it’s a bit stuffy in here. Haven’t gotten out much lately.” H
e licks his lips, hesitating, and Zoey is about to address everyone, tell those who have no idea what’s going on the truth, when Lyle continues. “Before you explain, there’s something else you all should know. While I was working down here, gathering information on NOA, I happened upon several dormant e-mail accounts. Most were unimportant, fledgling researchers or understaff to the board of directors, but there was one account that caught my eye.” He shifts in his seat as if uncomfortable. “It was registered to ‘Shepherd,’ no other identification, but it was protected well. Whoever created it didn’t want someone stumbling on to it.”

  “What did it say?”

  Lyle swallows. “I’m sure you’re all familiar with the atomic device that was detonated near Washington, D.C.? The one that killed the president and all those people?”

  “Of course,” Tia says.

  “This Shepherd was the one that planned it.”

  “Wait, you said you were accessing NOA’s files, right?” Eli says.

  “Yes.”

  “But the bomb was used by the rebels.”

  “That’s correct. But it was never explained how the rebels knew the exact location of the president or how the bomb was brought in close enough to kill him.”

  A dawning horror makes the hairs on the back of Zoey’s neck straighten. “You’re saying someone inside NOA told the rebels where and how to get through the government’s defenses? How to kill all those people?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

  The stunned silence is dense within the room, like all the air has been sucked from it.

  “There are dozens of e-mails from Shepherd to an account that I can only guess was a rebel leader at the time,” Lyle continues. “It’s all here.”

  “Those bastards,” Tia says. “Why the hell would they do it?”

  “Maybe it was a spy?” Rita says. “Someone from the rebels’ side who worked for NOA.”

  Lyle shakes his head. “I don’t think so. The account was too well hidden and protected for someone with lower clearance within the organization, and the information was definitely classified. This was top level for sure. Someone who had power.”

  Zoey turns and slowly looks from Sherell to Rita, seeing the same answer in their eyes. “The Director.” They both nod after a moment. “It was him.”

  “But what purpose would it serve? Why would the Director want to destroy NOA? Without the government’s protection, they would’ve been sitting ducks,” Merrill says.

  They are all quiet again, no answers to his question.

  “What were you talking about before? What’s ready?” Chelsea asks after a time.

  Lyle turns his head to Zoey and she takes a breath.

  Here it is. The moment when I show them who I really am.

  “Before we left I asked Lyle if he could hack into the installation’s mainframe and gain access to the missile guidance systems. He said he’d try, and he succeeded.”

  “Okay. So what?” Eli says.

  “I want to fire a missile at the ARC to destroy it.”

  It’s like she’s slapped them all. Everyone besides Rita and Sherell look shell-shocked.

  “Zoey. No,” Merrill finally says. “You can’t. That’s . . .”

  “It’s what? Barbaric? Horrible? Murder?” She nods. “I know. But if we don’t do something, they’re going to keep coming. You remember what the spy said who told us about this place; they were searching for us, for other girls. As long as they’re able to, they’ll keep coming. The three of us will never be able to live without looking over our shoulders, wondering when the Redeyes will show up in the middle of the night to bring us back there. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life in fear.”

  She trembles, with dread or rage, she doesn’t know. She gazes at each of them in turn, looking for support or admonishment. But what she sees is worse.

  Sadness.

  Disappointment.

  Disgust.

  “I know what you’re thinking. That I’m a monster. And you’re right. Someone who was anything else wouldn’t have done the things I have. So that’s why after the missile is launched I’m going to leave.”

  There are several quick inhalations and glances among them.

  “Zoey, let’s think about this for a while,” Ian says. “This isn’t something to be decided rashly.”

  “I have thought about it. And this is the only way we’ll ever be safe from them.”

  “You can’t,” Merrill says. His eyes are needlepoints of sorrow, as if he’s lost her already. Maybe he has. “Don’t. Please.”

  She can only meet his gaze for a second before looking away. If she were to hold it any longer she knows she wouldn’t proceed. Knows the rearing void would lose its grip and wither away like ash in the wind.

  She turns to Lyle. “Is it ready?”

  “Yes. I used the dam’s location to pinpoint the ARC.” He punches in several keys and the screen before him changes, a complex series of numbers and letters filling columns. At the bottom the cursor blinks beside a single word.

  Execute.

  “All you have to do is hit the return key,” he says quietly, and rises from his chair before retreating to the farthest wall.

  Zoey reaches out a shaking hand, index finger extending toward the key. Its letters spell all kinds of words as her eyes become unfocused.

  Monster.

  Heartless.

  Soulless.

  Murderer.

  She remembers Terra’s broken eyes, a despair so deep it seemed bottomless.

  Her finger hovers over the key.

  Touches it.

  The air in the room thickens. It chokes her. Can she do this? Kill all those people? Kill them like a god from above without preamble or explanation?

  Her finger puts pressure on the key.

  She closes her eyes.

  And steps away from the computer, drawing her hand back and wiping it on her pant leg as if she’s touched something filthy.

  Without looking up she pushes through the group, noticing Merrill isn’t among them. They let her pass and then she is out in the hall, picking up speed. Up the stairs and running down the corridor toward the last blaze of sunlight on the western horizon. She needs fresh air, needs to be away from the confining walls, away from what she almost did.

  Zoey bursts through the doors outside, drawing in great lungfuls of air. She stands bent over, hands on her knees, but the earth begins to spin under her feet and she straightens, spine throwing a lance of pain outward in all directions. It’s enough to clear away the floating black dots in her vision.

  And she sees the sunset.

  Sees it for what feels like the very first time.

  It is a half crown of radiance that’s eclipsing behind the hills to the west, the colors so honest and pure she can’t look away from it. Cool air caresses the top of her head but she can’t move, not even to shiver. The sun fades slowly into a deeper shade of red, arms of purple stretching up as if it only wishes to hold on to the twilight, to keep the dark at bay for another minute.

  The scuff of a boot brings her attention up to the lookout tower where Merrill leans against a support, attention on the sunset as well. She moves to the structure and climbs the ladder, hoisting herself onto the covered platform.

  He glances at her as she steps up beside him but doesn’t say anything. They watch the sun’s glow bruise the skyline until the entire land beyond the installation is gilded in the strange half-light hue.

  “I couldn’t do it,” she says finally.

  “Why?”

  “Because then I would’ve been just like them. Taking or sparing life as they see fit. Never giving us a choice. And I don’t want to be them. But I’m afraid I already am.”

  Merrill turns to her, face in half shadow. “You’re not a monster.”

  “I am.”

  “You’re not.”

  “Did you see . . . did you see the mountain? The bodies?” She can barely get herself to form the words
over the raging inside her. Half savagely reveling in the blood-soaked justice, the other half weeping for who she’s become. “Did you see them burn? I can still s-smell them . . . hear them screaming.” Her voice rises, getting thinner, weaker. “The missiles, when you told me about them, I thought I was the one down there, the one that stopped the other, worse missiles from coming to destroy everything. But I’m not. I’m the worse one. I killed all those men . . .”

  And her voice fails her in the sob that escapes in a choked panic. But then Merrill is there, wrapping his arms around her, voice low and soothing as the dam within her finally splits wide.

  It is a rush of toxicity in the form of tears and wordless sounds, animalistic and filled with anguish so thick she thinks she’ll drown in it. She cries into Merrill’s coat, grasping at him, terrified that if she loses her grip she’ll fall into the void that’s finally opened and will never be able to find herself again.

  It is an eternity before the hurricane of her emotion becomes a slowing tide. Her tears begin to dry in salty rivers on her face, the wind cooling them.

  She’s weak, empty, nothing left inside to give. She’s bled it all out.

  Merrill holds her at arm’s length, only a faint outline in the closing dark.

  “You saved us. You saved the women and men who would’ve been tortured and killed. And by not pushing that button, you saved yourself.”

  She wants to cry again, to fold up and be carried away into sleep. Sleep for a thousand years.

  “Thank you,” she whispers. He squeezes her shoulders. And she leans into him again. “I love you.”

  There is a brief silence before she feels his chest hitch against her. “Love you too.”

  For the first time in many weeks she feels safe. Not only from the threats they face, but from herself. And now she knows which one is the more dangerous of the two.

  “I didn’t get to tell you congratulations,” she says, finally stepping back from him to wipe her eyes.

  “Thank you.”

  “You both look so happy.”

  “We are. We’re terrified, but we are.”