“It’s her. It has to be her,” Bash says. “What are you gonna do?”
My adrenaline is through the roof, making me nauseous. It’s the same time in Washington. I can’t call the school. Jonesy is with Mom. If I call them and freak her out, she might lose her opportunity for a show. Plus, it’s not like I can show them the clip. But if I’m wrong—fuck—if I’m wrong it could send Mom into another spiral where she disappears into herself for months, maybe years. Lots of people are making political art based on everything happening with our current POTUS, an overweening rogue, as my namesake Sir Toby Belch would say.
But if I’m right, it will have blood; they say, blood will have blood.
Nobody understands my anger and despair like Lady Macbeth.
Mom and Jonesy are supposed to be back in two days. Maybe I can get a jump on this and see if it’s a wild-goose chase without them ever knowing I was gone. But if something happens to me, if I disappeared, too, they wouldn’t know where to look.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I have to do this.
“Toby!” Bash says, snapping me out of my head.
“I have to drive up to Washington.”
“Now?”
“Not right now, but yes. I don’t have a car. They took my mom’s Prius.”
“I’d give you mine, but I don’t think it would make it. Can you rent one?”
“Too expensive. No credit card.”
But then a possible solution to my problem hits me. “Can you drive me back to Nikko’s?”
INCH
I’M NEVER COMING HOME
WE CAN’T LEAVE for The Burrow until Blue goes to Achilles’s mew, puts on his hood to keep him calm, and tethers him to his jess. There’s no way we’d be able to come back for him, but their bond is such that once Achy has the hood on, he won’t screech. She brought the carrier with the handle on top that she built out of wood to transport him when necessary. Not that it’s ever been necessary.
Birdie takes the origami chicken from Daniel. I grab a pen, the notebook I use to write letters to Bucky, and a few granola bars. Blue said she had everything she needed. We exit our house through the kitchen door shouldering I’m Never Coming Home bags, just like Daniel. Our INCH bags are also geared to the hilt with snares, medical supplies, slingshots, fishing line and compact poles, a bow, and hatchet, knives, folding saws, fire starters, compasses, a small shovel, tarps, Bivy sacks, duct tape, and the best of our clothes for outdoor survival. This may not be a natural or man-made disaster, but situationally, the logic applies.
Both phones are tucked in my pockets. I contemplate turning them off to save battery life, but set them to Vibrate until we know for sure what’s going on. As the screen door slaps behind me, I realize Birdie was right. We wouldn’t actually know what a home looks like long-term. Blue was right, too. Maybe Bucky can’t save us in the physical world, but he will be with us wherever we go. And that peculiarity, completely unique to us weirds, gives me some comfort.
“I can take Achy’s carrier for you,” Birdie tells Blue. “It’s the least I can do, considering you wouldn’t have that vicious bird if it weren’t for me.” She bumps into Blue to let her know she’s joking, and Achilles flaps his massive wings, forcing Birdie to lean out of the way. “Traitor,” she tells him. But it’s me that word clings to like a prickly bramble.
We take the surrounding woods to The Burrow, watching and listening for anyone making their way to the training area. I didn’t give much thought to Mr. Whitlock calling the clearing a proving ground, but I can’t deny the low booms we’ve heard over the last year. The Burrowers use this spot to test their homemade explosives and hand-forged, knee-high cannons. Stuff they’ll use in the future to deter intruders.
The rain hasn’t started yet, but the smell of ozone is building in the forest air along with the rise in humidity, exaggerating the pine scent and earthiness. A squirrel runs scatter-footed across the path when he hears us coming, making Achilles flap his wings again. He doesn’t screech because he hunts by sight and the leather hood helps keep him from taking off after prey. My sisters and I keep as quiet as possible. Voices carry through these woods like an errant pinball bouncing from tree to tree. When we’re a quarter mile from the Ackerman house, we cut to the right. I lead them in a wide arc, approaching the bunker from an angle. It takes longer but keeps us from skittering along the edge of the woods, where we’d be easier to spot.
We’re about thirty feet away when I tell my sisters to leave Achilles’s carrier at the base of a moss-covered western hemlock.
Birdie nocks an arrow on her bow, ready to defend us should we be seen.
“Do you want to put Achy inside?” I whisper.
Blue shakes her head. “If I need to, I’ll let him fly.”
My sisters are nothing if not a complex study in fight or flight.
We move as one unit to the spot where Ansel was dragging Birdie away from the bunker. I pump my hand to let my sisters know I’m going to drop behind a massive cedar tree, perfect for keeping all three of us out of sight.
I take the night vision device out of my EDC in time to spot Dieter exiting the bunker with Connor. The lens turns everything as acid green as the sickness gripping my gut. I’d bet anything Connor Clarke is one of the burly G.I. Joes Rémy spotted with Annalise on Overcast Road. He’s one of Dieter’s most unwavering robots, and I finally understand why. From what I can tell, Dieter is leaving him behind to guard the bunker while he takes care of business. Presumably, the meeting where yours truly is supposed to be the unwelcomed guest of dishonor. The biggest issue for us is the rifle Connor is carrying. Military issued and designed to kill quickly, making it obvious that precious cargo is stored inside that bunker.
Birdie pecks at my arm before taking the NVD. The adjustable scope only requires single-handed operation, making it advantageous if you want to grab the arm of the person with you and squeeze like you’re checking their blood pressure. Which is exactly what Birdie does when she sees Connor for herself.
I whip out our shared cellphone and text Ansel:
I need your help ASAP. At the bunker behind your house. Connor Clarke is armed and guarding and I need to get inside. I’ve got my INCH. I know … a lot.
I show Birdie the screen on our cellphone then hold my breath and wait.
Please respond. Please respond. Please respond.
Birdie pulls my head close and whispers, “Do you trust Ansel? I mean really trust him? Or should we ambush Connor and take him out?”
She must have forgotten Daniel said he trusted Ansel with his life. I don’t know the proper way to sign my answer. We have hand signals for hunting, but sometimes we have to make stuff up as we go. I point to myself (I), crisscross my wrists in front of my chest and actively close my fists (trust), then point at Ansel (him). That feels right to me. Even if it’s wrong, my sisters nod like they understand my meaning.
I search the ground for a stone heavy enough to throw long distance and lob it as far as I can. When it hits the ground, I take the NVD from Birdie and watch Connor walk around the concrete building housing the bunker’s staircase. He’s alone, but doesn’t shoulder his rifle like I would expect. That doesn’t mean he’s any less of a menace. Getting him out of the way won’t be easy. Not without Ansel’s help.
I draw my Gerber folding knife from its holder on the side of my EDC, heart pounding since I’m not sure how this might go. One way or another, we’re getting in that bunker to see for ourselves what Whitlock was after, even if that means taking Connor down. Three against one.
I never truly understood the phrase I can’t believe my eyes until I see Ansel come out of the bunker and blow a handful of white powder in Connor Clarke’s face. I thought for sure he’d be at the meeting with everyone else, impatiently awaiting the prepper witch trials, if you will. I know for sure Annalise is all too ready to point her accusatory finger at me. And Magda would back up whatever her daughter says, even though the trick Ansel just pulled is the Ackerm
ans’ own form of witchcraft. Does that make him an accomplice, or has he simply wised up to his sister’s maneuvers?
Birdie is tapping my arm again for the scope, but I’m watching Connor willingly hand over his rifle. I gasp when Ansel butts Connor in the head with the stock, hard enough to stun him, then puts him in a sleeper hold. Connor doesn’t fight back because he’s temporarily lost all free will, a zombie, just like Whitlock said in his email.
I hand Birdie the scope and lean against the trunk of the giant tree next to Blue, trying to fathom what just happened. What my friend just did to someone else from The Burrow.
Our cellphone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out and see a text from Ansel that says, You’re clear.
Friend or foe, I text back.
Friend. Always.
I grab my sisters and we march out of the woods like a three-girl army, minus the gas mask and balaclava from my painting, but primed for anything just the same. We must look something fierce because Ansel adjusts his grip on the rifle, prompting Birdie to raise her bow.
“I’m not your enemy, Birdie. Lower the bow.” His voice holds all the authority granted him by his last name, but my middle sister isn’t easily intimidated.
“I will,” she says. “But first, I want to ask you something. One last time. Is Daniel inside that bunker?”
I keep my own thoughts about Daniel as closed off as my expression.
“I’ve already told you he isn’t,” Ansel says. “I have no reason to lie to you.”
“You have every reason,” she snaps. “Your last name is Ackerman, isn’t it?”
“I didn’t get a say in that any more than you three did.” Ansel throws up a hand, asking me for help.
I push Birdie’s bow down. “We don’t have that much time.”
“You’re right,” Ansel says. “My dad is on a tear about you being on the news. Annalise has gone completely rogue. Running her own missions like Thane. She has him convinced you talked. That you knew Whitlock was a fed. You’re not safe here. I’m not sure any of us are safe here anymore,” he says.
“We know about the Devil’s Breath,” I tell him. “Annalise used it on us, just like you used it on Connor, didn’t she? What did she have us do the night we all came back exhausted and filthy?”
“I still don’t know,” he says. “We may never know. She’s on a power trip.”
“What about our mother? If she’s second-in-command—”
“Your mother.” Ansel mocks me with a carping laugh. “She and my father are as tangled up as everyone suspected, and more. Do you know how Devil’s Breath is made? From the seeds of trees that produce datura flowers. They emptied Alice’s greenhouses this morning. She’s no less complicit than my own mother or Annalise.”
Birdie gasps and her eyes snap to mine, swirling dark. A maelstrom of disbelief, fury, and heartbreak. My own heart becomes a wildling, veins twisting and tightening around its bony cage, threatening to tear itself out. Mother was more of a pacifist before we joined The Nest. Worried about climate change and natural disaster. Accepting she had a hand in making Devil’s Breath is insane. It begs me to question whether she was truly a willing accomplice or under the influence of Devil’s Breath herself all along.
“What else are they making? I want to see for myself,” I snap at Ansel. “Mr. Whitlock—”
“What do you know about Whitlock?” Ansel’s face hardens.
“Everything,” I lie. Then guilt forces me to honesty. “And nothing. I found out too late he was a fed.”
“Better late than never, I guess.”
He may be right about that, but what if he’s wrong? We still haven’t heard from Daniel. “If we’re not safe here, we need some leverage. I can’t take anyone at their word. I need to see it with my own eyes. You don’t have to stay here, either. You can come with us.”
Ansel’s face is pure conflict. “I’m sick of Annalise’s constant manipulation. Tired of trying to find ways to circumvent my father’s decisions. But you’re asking me to help you take my family down.”
“I’m not. I’m asking you to help me save mine.”
“You know that doesn’t include Alice.”
I nod. “I know. Especially if what you said is true.”
“It’s so much more than that, Honey. I don’t want you to leave, but there are things you deserve to know.” He looks over his shoulder and checks his field watch. “They’re gonna start looking for you once they realize you’re not showing up for the meeting. You probably only have about ten minutes.”
“Ten minutes is all we need.”
His lips are a tight line as he inhales and nods. “Be quick.”
We storm the door together, and Ansel puts an arm out to stop Blue. “You can’t bring your falcon down there. The air … it’s not safe. There are respirator masks next to the door. You should put them on, just in case.”
My eyes go round as moons. “Splitting up isn’t optional.”
We stick together no matter what.
“It’s okay,” Blue says, sensing my distress. “He’s not lying. I’ll stay out here with Achilles.”
Ansel stares at the ground, his shoulders curled inward. That’s when I know he’s gutted over his family being mixed up in something dangerous. And powerless to do anything about it, because he’s tied by blood to the whole coalition. In coming here, I’ve cleaved his allegiance in two. And yet still he’s helping us, because … because he has feelings for me.
“Ansel—” His name seeps from my mouth with gratitude.
“Don’t thank me, Honey. I can’t handle it right now. And please don’t ask any more questions. Just go.”
He pets Achilles without fear, watching the falcon’s head turn in clicks to his touch, avoiding my eyes like he’s the one wearing the leather hood.
Birdie beats me to the keypad and punches in the numbers. I set an eight-minute timer on my watch, giving us two full minutes to get out. The staircase into this bunker is the same as all the others. Concrete and dimly lit by motion-detecting, solar-powered lights whose batteries are mounted outside the overall structure. Respirators hang by the door for us to put on.
“You ready?”
Birdie nods, and we pull the protective masks on and open the door. These quarters are nothing like the ones designed for living below the ground. No makeshift kitchen or bunk beds built tight to the ground. No shelving units filled with canned and dried foods. This is a lab fixed inside an oversized bunker. And Daniel, as expected, is nowhere to be seen.
I move around the room and take in the cabinets and table, microscopes, Erlenmeyer flasks, and Bunsen burners, test tubes, a centrifuge, and stainless steel sink. Several notebooks and clipboards are scattered around the stainless steel table. I flip through the pages and witness a plan for how to access the Pacific Northwest water systems. They point to a drawing for a chemical compound in Mother’s handwriting, her initials signing the corner.
For a second, my naïveté tries to convince me this is something to ensure our access to clean water. The good mirror view of the prepper in me hoping for the best. But then I spot several jars containing the heads of rattlesnakes. Above them, rows of amber glass bottles line wall-mounted shelves, each plastered with the same biohazard label we saw on the tanks being rolled inside. They’re labeled with their chemical compound.
I pull the periodic table to the forefront of my memory. Benzene. Sodium. Potassium nitrate. Cadmium. Uranium. My heart skips a beat. Hydrogen cyanide. The danger of these chemicals trips all my alarms. Every one volatile, explosive. One label reads Tabun. A word I’ve read somewhere before. I rack my brain trying to remember the article about Emil Ackerman and the nerve agents he helped develop for Operation Paperclip. Tabun, one drop on a rabbit would kill it within minutes.
I look for Birdie when I hear the clinking of glass, forgetting for a moment she’s in the bunker with me. “Don’t touch anything,” I scold.
She startles at the terseness in my muffled voice and turns
fast, nearly dropping a test tube full of Prussian-blue liquid. I hold my breath as she returns it to its holder, careful not to spill a drop.
“We don’t know how these compounds behave. Come here. Stay close.”
My sister backs away from the corner and comes to my side, looking at the notes over my shoulder.
I always believed Dieter put preparedness and self-preservation above all else. But his notes paint a different picture. His documentation talks about initiating widespread proliferation of potentially deadly toxins to be used in what he decides are emergency situations. The goal being to decrease the size of the surviving population.
The idea of our mother leaning toward anarchism as a means of survival makes my stomach twist with disgust and betrayal. I understand some of the chemistry, but most of it goes beyond the high school lab. These are the notes of a person who can only be described as a homegrown terrorist. Someone paranoid and secretive, but methodical. This plan is deranged and it makes my chest hurt to think that under our noses was a man ready to cause the shit hitting the fan for a lot of people if he felt it was warranted. And then what, use his fledglings from The Nest like a baby-making farm to rebuild society among his hand-chosen members? Isn’t that the definition of a god complex? I’ve never had any intention of procreating with any of the Burrow Boys, including Ansel. Not even if the fate of the world depended on it and we were the last girls on this compound. Hell, even if we were the last girls on earth. My body, my rules. I’d take my chances against their poison first.
I don’t know how many times we’ve heard Dieter say, When the shit hits the fan it will be us against them. Coming back for Mother isn’t a reality. It’s too consequential. Because right now, it’s us against them. Ansel was right. We aren’t safe. Maybe nobody is safe here anymore.
I clock the frightened look in Birdie’s eyes as I pull out the burner phone. I need to take as many photos as possible for Mr. Whitlock. FBI agent or not, making myself a snitch or not, because this goes beyond the scope of normal.
Last Girls Page 27