“Fifty.”
“That’s not many,” Darla said with a sigh. She had hoped for hundreds. Thousands. Fifty. That’s all that was left across the Western United States?
Ray bowed his head. “Each of us thought we were the only ones left at some point. Fifty seems like plenty to us.” He paused. “Look...if you don’t know anything, that’s fine. But we’re fighting for our lives out there. And if you do know something, I can’t tell you how glad we’d be to finally have some knowledge of what we’re up against here. We’d be happy to give you a place to stay, a meal, a place to clean up...”
“No,” Darla said quickly. “No, thank you. I can’t even begin to tell you how fortunate we are that you pulled off that little rescue that back there. Whatever your intentions...” she trailed off. “Look, we don’t want to seem ungrateful. But we have earned the right to be a bit suspicious.”
“A meal. And a shower,” Ray said. “Then you’re on your way…no strings attached.”
“I’m sorry,” Darla said again. “We don’t have time for that.”
“There’s something more pressing you have to do?” His question was honest, genuine. He rapped his hand against the side of the truck and waited.
“Can you give me and my friends a ride to Nebraska?”
The request caused Ray to pause, and he looked back at his kids and then his wife. Jillian nodded. Liam leaned over and whispered in her ear, and she nodded again.
“We’ll drop the kids and Liam back off at our community and then we’ll take you where you need to go. But...”
Darla put up her hand. “You want to know what’s in Nebraska. And what we know.”
Ray nodded.
With a look to Dean and then to Ainsley, Darla rubbed her eyes. “I just spent God knows how long in someone’s basement because I didn’t know if I could trust them. Why on earth should I trust you?”
“That’s valid,” Ray replied. “Very valid. It’s been a rough time for you. Well, you have a drive to Montana to think about it. And your ride to Nebraska is free of charge. What I mean is, if you don’t feel like you can trust us, then you don’t lose that extension of our hospitality. And if you think you can trust us, we’d be happy to keep your stories safe.”
“Who are you?” Darla asked. “Why not demand I tell you...why not force me? Why any of this?” She motioned to the trucks, the silent spectators with guns.
Ray nodded again. “Because we believe.”
“Believe what?” Dean asked.
“In goodness. In the capacity of the human heart to be kind. We believe that we’re here, alive, for a reason. In helping those who’ve lived through the biggest terror of our time...we’re not each other’s enemy, I believe that.”
“Are you some kind of modern day Jesus, Ray? Prophet of Montana? You sound too good to be true, if you ask me. Your little group some sort of cult?” Darla winced as a sudden pain from her hand shot up her arm. The adrenaline was wearing off; she was starting to feel again.
Ainsley moaned from the truck bed. “Cult,” she repeated. “Too nice. Like Mormons.”
The comment made Ray smile. “We’re not necessarily nice. And we’re not a cult. We’re just people who are trying to make this work. Come on. You can ponder on the drive.” He tapped Jillian’s truck and waved her forward; she started to drive again, and pulled out in front and led the caravan down the dark and winding roads. Behind them, Ray got back into his car with Dean. They followed behind.
Darla leaned back against the plastic truck bed and stared up at the stars. The trees passed by overhead in a steady rush. Ainsley nestled in against her and began to cry.
“Are we free?” she asked Darla. She hoped the drugs would wear off soon.
“I think so,” Darla answered.
“Then why am I still scared?”
“Because it’s dark,” Darla told her with authority. “You’ll feel better in the morning.”
Still staring at the stars and the moon, Darla put her good hand straight up into the air and felt the rush of wind around her fingers. She thought she saw the North Star, or maybe a planet, burning brighter than the others right above her. Then it slipped away out of sight. She closed her eyes and felt comforted by the engine’s constant hum and the steady sway of the truck.
“Teddy,” she whispered to the sky. She imagined her words floating to him. “Teddy....Teddy...Mama’s coming. Stay strong little bug. Mama’s coming.”
Chapter Eighteen
Lucy couldn’t sleep. Grant’s letter, still in her bag and marooned in Cass’s apartment, remained unread, and with each growing hour of insomnia, her anger threatened to boil over. It wasn’t just the letter, because leaving her bag there was her own fault, but it was the whole murky relationship she witnessed in that brightly lit hallway that was getting under her skin. Ethan’s brooding combined with Cass’s secrecy about befriending her brother unsettled her and she felt herself growing anxious.
If Grant were here, she wouldn’t feel so alone. Without him, Cass was her only friend and ally.
If Cass had ever really been her ally.
That thought ate her up inside the most.
As best friends go, Salem had been a lot of work. Dramatic and self-absorbed, sometimes Salem went entire conversations without stopping to listen to Lucy’s side. But Salem was honest and real. She never tried to be someone she wasn’t, and she didn’t keep secrets.
When Lucy had stormed back into her new home on Kymberlin after she watched Ethan slip into Cass’s apartment, she found her parents cuddled on the couch looking out over the ocean. Her mother was in a fuzzy tan bathrobe, and she was sipping a hot drink. Her father sat behind her, and he rubbed his hands across her back in a way that made Lucy feel like she shouldn’t have interrupted. They were whispering, smiling, tangled up together. Lucy never knew if she should be happy that her parents still loved each other or disgusted that they weren’t shy about public displays of affection. Watching them nuzzle each other made her feel a mixture of both.
Bowing her head, she walked briskly through the room, right past them.
“You’re back,” Maxine said as Lucy crossed through her line of sight. “Your dad made a mean hot chocolate tonight. The little kids are down. Want to join us?” It was an invitation to crawl back into a different time, when evenings were spent over worn out board games, with warm drinks and salty snacks; when her mother offered them up extended bedtimes like a trophy.
None of that held any power for her anymore.
She declined and climbed the stairs into the loft and crawled into her new bed—a tan quilt, with teal pillows—and tried to sleep, fully clothed. Rest eluded her in waves. She’d doze for ten minutes, then startle awake, and then stare at the ceiling, wishing for reprieve. All night she listened for the door and for Ethan’s telltale footsteps, but one thing for was certain: Ethan never returned.
Cass opened the door wide. She wore a soft pink tank top and with matching cotton pants and she held a cup of coffee. Her curtains were drawn tight, but still they were no match for the rising eastern sun which shone directly through her window wall. The whole place was light and yellow, hazy like a lemon-filtered dream.
“Good morning, darling,” Cass said when she saw her, and she leaned in to kiss Lucy’s cheek, but Lucy ducked away from the kiss and walked straight over to the chair that held her bag. It was right where she left it, untouched. She slung it up on her shoulder and walked back toward the door, head bent down to the floor. But Cass stood in her way, blocking her exit. “I was going to bring it to you.” Cass nodded toward the bag. “But I figured you would come back if you needed it.”
Lucy mumbled something incoherent—a mix of “it’s not a big deal” and “whatever”—and tried not to look up. If she looked up then Cass would see her threadbare nerves, her bloodshot eyes, and all the questions she had about Cass and Ethan.
“Sit down,” Cass instructed and she pointed a finger to her couch. Lucy turned. There was evidenc
e someone had slept there—several crumpled blankets, an extra pillow. Lucy’s eyes lingered on the remnants of her brother’s presence for a beat too long, and when she turned back to Cass it was clear that Lucy had tipped her hand. Cass raised her eyebrows knowingly.
“I’d prefer to go,” Lucy whispered. “Grant wrote me a letter last night and I didn’t get a chance to read it. Because my bag was here.”
“Read it now,” Cass said. “I’ll pour you a coffee. Then we can go exploring—”
“No,” Lucy replied. “I want to be alone.” Her emphasis was clear. She made a move to leave.
“It’s not what you think.” Cass stretched her long body against the doorway, preventing an escape. “You could ask me about it, if you want. Instead of making all sorts of presumptions that aren’t true,” she said. And then Cass raised her eyebrows, waiting. She added, “Do you have something you want to ask me?”
Acknowledging that Lucy was misguided and pushing all the hostility out in the open caused the air in the room to shift. Now everything felt fragile and tenuous. Lucy let her bag drop off her shoulder and she held it with both hands in front of her.
“You’ve been seeing my brother,” Lucy said. “Behind my back.”
Cass nodded and motioned to the couch, then leaned over and blew on the rising steam of her coffee, displacing it in a cloud. Lucy turned and glanced at the sofa with its discarded reminders that Cass had shared a moment last night with Ethan—and then she looked back at her friend. Cass’s eyes were wide and expectant, but still inviting, and Lucy knew that if she sat down and spoke with Cass to unravel all the details of why and how, she would be forced to abandon her indignation.
She wasn’t willing to do that yet.
Grant’s letter was still unread. And she replayed Ethan and Cass’s conversation in her head—focusing on their intimacy, their chemistry, their playfulness.
“Sit,” Cass said, and motioned again.
Lucy bit her lip, and her hand went to the place where Salem’s necklace usually sat. When she found her neck empty, she placed her hand flat against the upper part of her chest and kept it there, still.
“I have a letter to read,” Lucy replied, and she pushed her way past Cass and out into hallway. The smell of coffee followed her as she went.
“I don’t hold a torch for Ethan,” Cass said, peering out her door. Somehow it seemed unconvincing.
Lucy looked back. She was ten feet down the hall now, standing in front of someone else’s door. The name was in Chinese and she couldn’t read it. “Who says things like that, Cass? You don’t hold a torch? Just stop with your silly ways of saying things, and your flighty kindness like everyone’s your best friend. Why can’t you just be honest with me? Spit it out. Just admit it. Ethan was new and mysterious and fun—”
“Ethan,” Cass raised her voice, “was dismissive and terse and rude.”
“And yet you wanted to spend time with him instead of me?”
“You’re jealous?”
Lucy’s nostrils flared and her jaw clenched tightly.
Cass bowed her head, and when she looked up, she was smirking, but not kindly. “I love you Lucy King,” she said. “But please stop sounding like such a teenage drama queen.” Then she took a step back inside her apartment and slammed the door; the echo of it carried down the hallway and hit Lucy like a slap.
Cass’s words haunted her. Drama queen. Those were words used for Salem or the other flighty girls who reigned supreme back at Pacific Lake High School—the girls fueled by gossip and the need for attention. She was the one who dealt with the drama queens, who stayed in the background of the messes they created and hoped to rise above it all. She could be called so many things, so many barbs would have stuck, and yet Cass chose that one. The one that didn’t.
She had a right to be jealous, didn’t she? She had a right to be upset about the secrets Cass kept. But she didn’t have anyone to talk to about it. No one whose guidance and counsel she could seek.
Holding Grant’s letter, Lucy slipped out into the main tower of Kymberlin and stood where the party had been the night before. The space was now clean and empty, and it boasted a woman in a blue pantsuit with a button that said New Arrival Liaison. Ask me about your day! A young couple with a weepy toddler stood at her table. The woman pointed toward the elevator and then leaned down, holding out a sticker to the boy, who snatched it tentatively.
As the family walked away, Lucy walked up.
“Good morning,” Lucy said, her voice dry. She swallowed and cleared her throat. She was wearing the same dress from yesterday. It felt itchy against her skin. “Good morning,” she tried again.
“Good morning, Miss King,” the woman replied. “May I direct you to a specific location this morning?”
Lucy stood there, her hands dangling by her sides, and she tilted her head. “Oh,” she said, taken aback. “I just—” she brought her hand up over her neck again. Her eyes scanned the atrium, and she spotted the tiny domed camera, like at a Las Vegas casino, positioned above the arrival liaison’s head. The woman smiled, a bleached-white grin, and kept her eyes trained on Lucy. “I need—” Lucy started again and then she shook her head. “I’m fine. I’ll just explore.”
“Of course,” the liaison said. “May I recommend floors one through five? The museum of North American artifacts is quiet interesting. Or, of course, there’s always the library. And if you need anything, Lucy, please don’t hesitate to come back.” Without missing a beat, the woman turned her attention to a man standing behind Lucy. “Ohayou gozaimasu, Tanabe-san. May I help you find your way?” The man spoke in Japanese and the woman bowed and made murmurs of understanding; Lucy shook her head, confused, and began to walk backwards, but she stumbled when she hit someone walking behind her. Hot liquid traveled down her back and she shrieked, spinning, to see Gordy standing there, his coffee cup now half-empty, brown streaks of liquid dripping off the sides. There was a puddle of coffee on the carpet beneath them.
“This is brand new,” Gordy chastised, looking at Lucy and the mess with disdain. He snapped his fingers toward the liaison, and she pushed a button on her table and nodded at him with a smile.
“I’m so sorry,” Lucy said, and she bent down to the spill. Digging in her bag, Lucy felt a hot flush in her cheeks, and she tried to eke out another apology, but it came out mangled. “I have...maybe...some...” she stammered. Lucy pulled out a t-shirt, her last remaining clean clothes, tossed it on to the coffee, and rubbed the stain with flustered vigor.
“Stop, stop,” Gordy said, pushing her hands away. “Don’t grind it in.” He tossed the t-shirt back to her—a stain had formed under the armpit and across the right arm. Besides her sundress and her Kymberlin sweat suit, that t-shirt and a pair of jeans were the only clothes she owned. She hoped that their ocean view home had a washing machine. She doubted it. “Stand up.” Lucy obeyed.
“I’m sorry,” she said again, looking down.
“You’re a mess,” Gordy replied.
“Like always? Or just right now?”
The question made him pause and offer her a hint of a smile. He motioned to the stain, “I overreacted. It’s nothing. Just a spill. Tatiana will get someone up here to clean it up...but you...your shirt.”
“I’m fine. It’s fine.” Lucy shoved the t-shirt back into her bag and began to walk away toward the main elevator. The coffee-soaked dress clung to her back and felt lukewarm against her skin. She pushed the button and the glass elevator greeted her, and when she stepped inside, she saw Gordy sneak in right behind her. She shoved herself into the corner, and busied herself looking down at the floors of shops and signs below.
“Do you just want me to choose?” Gordy asked and Lucy looked at him.
It was the first time she had ever really looked at the man who saved her life back in the System. He had gray hair around the temples, and a soft baby-face that belied his actual age. Gordy had to be closer in age to her father, but he seemed younger, less tired. His
skin was shiny and clean, the beginnings of a beard neatly trimmed, and Lucy caught a vague whiff of his fruity aftershave from the other side of the elevator. Not a drip of coffee had found its way to his tailored khaki pants, white shirt, and argyle sweater vest. And instead, Lucy stood there reeking like coffee with her unwashed hair clinging to her neck.
Still, there was something unsettling about Huck’s son. While he had been the one to pull Lucy from the tanks, she had always felt like that had been to save Blair, not her.
“I’m sorry?” Lucy said, confused.
“The floor. Do you want me to choose the floor?” Gordy asked, his hand hovering over the buttons.
Before she had time to answer, Gordy pushed the button that read LL, and the doors shut with a definitive click. The elevator began to descend. Through the windows, Lucy could see everything—the other elevators shifting around the floors, the open expanse of shops and offices. The entire city was located within the first tower of Kymberlin. It was a bustling metropolis of commerce (which Lucy didn’t understand, yet. If she wanted to buy a new shirt, how would she pay for it?) and government. They moved quickly, like Charlie Bucket’s fast-moving ride through the sky, except their elevator was plummeting; although, Lucy could concede that both Wonka and Gordy shared a strangeness: both exuded a calculated air of eccentricity coupled with an arbitrary set of rules.
“Where are we going?” Lucy asked. She scooted herself even further into the corner and wondered if her toothbrush could be used as a weapon.
Gordy smiled. “The lower level, Lucy.”
She looked down. Beneath them was the glass floor of the tower, and underneath that: the ocean. The elevator was not slowing down, not stopping. They risked crashing into the glass and plummeting into the cold, icy waters of the Atlantic. Except they didn’t. The cylindrical box dropped them down past the floor, and instead of people, shops, and government offices, now Lucy was staring out at the ever-darkening waters of the sea.
When they stopped and the doors opened, Lucy gazed at the hallway stretching out before her, and she looked at Gordy.
The Virulent Chronicles Box Set Page 93