“Jazz,” she said. “Can we talk, alone?”
Max stepped between them, his eyes round with fear. “Agnes, she didn’t mean—”
Max is afraid of me. They all are, a little.
Agnes ignored him and drew Jazz into the shade. In the shadows, her fine-featured face might have been Beth’s.
“You know none of this is my fault, Jazz,” Agnes said. “You know I’m just like you.”
“Sure, except God speaks to you.” A bitter laugh. “God looks out for you, tells you everything you need to know. And what do you do? You hoard it all for yourself.”
Agnes felt hot, flushed and ashamed. “I don’t know nearly as much as you think. I don’t know what’s going to happen. I’m just trying to survive.”
The Outsider wiped her eyes, examined her nails. But Agnes saw the old Jasmine—the kinder one—peeking through the shadows.
Jasmine’s eyes swept up. “You’re really in the dark, same as us?”
“Every human person is in the dark.”
The wind blew hard, and small stones rolled through their campsite.
First the Virus, then the library, then the cave; Zeke’s medicine, and now the problem with the phones… the chain of events reminded her of Revelation. At the end of the world, disaster followed disaster—hail, plague, then fire—and didn’t stop for anyone. Not for sweet baby brothers or scrappy sisters. Not for Outsiders with hearts of gold. Disasters kept arriving and they didn’t stop until they flattened the earth.
In her heart, she knew Beth had tried to call. That meant that she, like Sarah and Agnes before her, had escaped.
But there was nothing Agnes could do to help her, reach her.
Nothing, except—
“Jazz,” she said. “Will you pray with me?”
The Outsider girl rubbed her tired eyes. “I don’t know. Will it help?”
“Try it and see.”
They linked hands while the sun beat down.
They prayed, and hoped, and prayed.
48
BETH
Any nonharming belief is ultimately protective, a defense against despair.
—AGNES, EARLY WRITINGS
Beth was awake yet dreaming.
She was in a cheap motel room in Holden, snuggled beneath a comforter with Agnes and the kids. She’d finally mustered the courage to ask Agnes to run, and now they were hiding out, frightened but hopeful. The plan was to sell Father’s truck and buy a plane ticket to Texas or Nevada, whichever was cheapest, then get a job at a laundry while they sent the kids to school. Sure, the kids weren’t all on board yet—Sam in particular was surly, ever threatening to run home to Father—but they’d adjust. They were already adjusting.
The twins made friends with the family next door. Ezekiel begged to try foreign foods he’d seen on TV. Sam, though he wouldn’t admit it, was curious about school, science classes, sports teams, and—eww, gross—girls.
Yes, in time, the kids would be fine. Meanwhile, she and Agnes, shorn of their prairie dresses, were spinning dreams and making plans. Agnes would get her GED and Beth would travel on a round-the-world airplane ticket, stopping at a beach somewhere to get her belly button pierced. Maybe she’d even talk Agnes into getting a tattoo. Something to commemorate the day they’d found the courage to run. The day they became Outsiders and apostates and refugees and dreamers.
The day their new lives had begun.
But that, of course, was just a dream.
“Beth? Are you all right? Beth?”
Cory was shaking her.
She rubbed at her eyes, still holding the phone to her ear, listening to the flat dial tone.
She’d left a voice mail, but it wouldn’t matter. Even if she left a million messages, Agnes was never coming home. Why would she, when she was already free?
“Beth, sit down,” Cory said anxiously.
She slumped on the edge of her parents’ unmade bed, trying to get hold of herself.
“Listen to me,” Cory insisted. “Agnes is going to get that message and come home.”
“No,” Beth said frostily. “She won’t.”
“How do you know?” he demanded.
“My sister always thinks about what’s best for Ezekiel,” Beth snapped. “Do you think he’d be better off coming back here? Do you?”
Cory held her cold hands. “You’re losing faith. We’d better pray.”
She snatched her hands away. “To who? To what? I told you this place was cursed.”
He touched his leg. “The miracle—”
“For all we know, the Devil did it.”
Cory’s face twisted with shock and horror, but Beth wouldn’t take it back.
Better to forget the whole experience in that church—Agnes’s blessing and the incomparable feeling of power—and crawl back into her shell of selfishness. She’d survived Red Creek a long time that way.
It was no use waiting for Agnes to call. It was time to admit that the kids were dead—or worse. Red Creek was dead—and truly, running was the only sane thing left to do.
She stood. “I’m going to shower and pack a bag. I suggest you grab some of Father’s clothes if you’re coming with me.”
His mouth dropped open. “Agnes is going to call you back on this phone. If we leave, she’ll have no way to reach you. We can’t go.”
“Watch me.”
On the way to the bathroom, she was already peeling off the disgusting wedding gown. Shedding it like an itchy, scaly skin.
49
AGNES
Human beings have always needed reminders that God isn’t like us; that His thoughts are utterly alien. One look at a human Nest screams that this is so.
—AGNES, EARLY WRITINGS
On the third day, Ezekiel refused to get up and walk.
“I’m aching,” he whispered. “I can’t.”
His blood glucose: 598.
“That’s diabetic ketoacidosis,” Matilda said, blanching. “But look, we’re nearly there. If we can only…”
Max whipped the toothpick out of his mouth. “Want to ride piggyback, little guy?”
“Are you sure you’re strong enough?” Agnes asked. Max had thrown out his back carrying Zeke the day before.
He shrugged, lifting the child. “I guess I’d better be.”
Agnes marveled at the change in Max. Could this really be the same Outsider boy who’d been too lazy to ferry well water back at the library?
That day, Agnes, Zeke, and the Outsiders made better time than anyone had thought possible, forcing their legs to keep moving despite their exhaustion and the relentless heat. The endless shimmering asphalt seared Agnes’s eyes, and she felt welts rising on her cheeks, vicious sunburns. But Zeke was feeling better, bit by bit. Drinking water, even talking again. And they’d seen no red creatures, which felt like a blessing: like God had decided to ease their path now they’d nearly reached the end of it.
“Come on, Max! We’re almost there!” Danny called.
Weakly but playfully, Zeke slapped Max’s chest. “Yeah, Max! Giddyup!”
The Outsider let out a pretend whinny and put on a burst of speed. Sweat drenched his Modest Mouse T-shirt, but he never once complained.
Beside Agnes, Danny grinned triumphantly. They were going to make it. Soon, they’d be safe. Already, relief emanated from Matilda’s shoulders in great waves.
“Do you think we’ll have showers at Mercy?” Danny wondered. “Hot water, even?”
“Don’t get your hopes up, kid.” Matilda gasped for breath as the hill steepened. “The best you can expect is a bar of soap and a sink.”
“I’ll take it. I’m filthy.”
“Too right,” called Max. “Ezekiel, doesn’t Danny stink?”
Her brother smiled a pale smile, and then they reached the hilltop.
Agnes’s heart faltered, stuttering.
There was no hospital.
No Mercy.
Where the building should’ve stood, there was nothing but blazi
ng rubble scattered over a desolate field.
Agnes felt like she’d been clubbed across the middle with a sledgehammer. This must be a sunstroke hallucination. What she saw… It was impossible.
She closed her eyes, then opened them.
“Oh my God.” Danny reached for her hand. “It’s gone.”
It was no hallucination. There was nothing but waste, destruction, and ruin. Small fires still danced in the rubble.
Her mind turned sloppy and encumbered, her thoughts like quicksand.
Think.
Matilda hadn’t been able to reach Mercy on the phone, but none of them had anticipated anything like this. Not even the Burn Squad, who knew Mercy was their only hope—
The Burn Squad.
Agnes’s muscles tensed.
“They set it on fire,” Danny whispered. “Those bastards, they—”
“No,” said Matilda firmly. “The Captain didn’t do this. This mess was made by someone far stupider. Just think of the waste. The medicines, the machines…”
“It was someone with a bomb,” said Max. “No gasoline fire could do this much damage.”
Agnes clutched Danny’s arm. Together, they stared down the long stretch of parking lot at the thousands of pounds of useless rubble where the promised land should’ve been, still rippling with flame.
Bomb or not, a great building had toppled. Only one corner of it had held, reaching up into the sky like a stone spine ripped from its body. Glass covered the ground below it like a glittering snowpack, and in the remains of a parking structure, giant smoke-blackened letters spelled MERCY.
It was almost like a joke—or a curse—because surely this would’ve been the largest, grandest building Agnes had ever seen.
No haven on the Outside, the Prophet whispered in her ear.
“A Nest must’ve formed here,” Matilda said. “Some band of idiot criminals must’ve thought the best thing to do was—destroy everything.”
No haven, came the Prophet’s voice, cold as a raven’s caw. No haven on the Outside!
“I don’t understand,” Agnes moaned. “What did I do wrong?”
“Oh, sweetheart,” said Matilda. “It’s not your fault. Just bad luck.”
Jazz appeared at her side. “Remember what you said? God is still here. God is still singing. Right?”
In Sunday school Agnes had learned that the word apocalypse meant “unveiling.” So she’d learned that when the Rapture finally came, the world’s true nature would be laid bare.
She saw that the Outsiders’ hospital was a wasteland, its earth salted with exploded glass; and her heart was a wasteland, too, sharp with exposed joists and stanchions. She tried hard to understand what mistake she’d made, because in her bones she didn’t believe in luck.
This was an act of God, but she couldn’t understand it.
Why had God let Zeke’s insulin shatter when he dropped his cooler, and where on earth was the home they deserved?
Where was Zion?
Max’s voice cut sharply into her thoughts. “Agnes?”
She turned. “What?”
“Something’s wrong.” Max slid Ezekiel off his back, into his arms.
Agnes reached Zeke just in time to see him double over, retch, and vomit black bile onto his shoes.
Max took a quick step back, his face misshapen with horror.
The vomit. It reeked.
“I’m sorry.” Zeke groped for her blindly. “Agnes, I’m—”
She pulled him against her chest, terror yawning beneath her like a trigger-trap door.
“Roll him on his side!” Matilda hurriedly checked his vitals. “Set him down gently, Agnes! Danny, put up a tent. I need my black bag—”
“Zeke, it’s okay.” Agnes rocked him like the baby he’d always be—to her, at least.
He trembled against her, and she couldn’t help but remember that day long ago, before Matilda, before insulin. The sense of death, so near. And the smell of it.
Zeke held her eyes. Trusting.
Agnes gripped Matilda’s sleeve. “What do we do now?”
The nurse looked haunted. “I think you should try the prayer space.”
Even secular, rational Matilda was asking for a miracle. Nothing could’ve frightened Agnes more.
Agnes bowed her head over Zeke.
The prayer space unfurled like an infinitely petaled flower, but what she found in its depths wasn’t comforting. No matter how hard she sought God, the prayer space wouldn’t answer. She tried until her hands burned, and she felt faint with fever. But no sound came, and her hands refused to glow.
Gently but firmly, the prayer space said, No.
The prayer space was capable of any miracle, she was sure. Why would it deny her this?
“I don’t understand,” she cried out.
Matilda observed her pityingly. “Hold his hand. We’ll have the tent up in a moment, and I’ll start an IV. Then…”
The nurse let the words hang, twisting uselessly in the wind.
But holding her brother, Agnes felt her panic fading. A strange, distancing calm settled over her like a shroud. Mercy still blazed in the field below, and Danny was cursing, struggling with the blue plastic tarp. She smelled late summer on the breeze. Autumn was just around the corner, but Zeke might not live to see it.
He might not live.
And then the sun finally set, leaving the sky an injured, blackened shade of dark.
The end of the world overtaking her at last.
50
BETH
There is rebellion that creates and rebellion that destroys. Choose carefully.
—AGNES, EARLY WRITINGS
After showers, food, and rest, Beth managed to get a reluctant Cory into the driver’s seat of Mr. King’s truck. But he wouldn’t fasten his seat belt, let alone start the engine. He dangled the keys they’d discovered in Mr. King’s shed.
Beth stared daggers at him as insects gathered in buzzing clouds on the hilltop.
She wore her blue prairie dress for the trip, her hair neatly braided. At her feet was a duffel bag packed with her few things: a change of clothes, Sam’s broken toy truck (she couldn’t bring herself to leave it), and a box of stale breadsticks they’d already half demolished. The truck smelled of manure and oiled leather.
Cory kept very still, watching sunlight glinting off the keychain’s cross.
“Well?” she finally asked him. “What are we waiting for?”
Blue eyes met hers, brilliant and hard.
She sucked in her breath, because Cory’s expression was every inch as unforgiving as his father’s. She’d never seen him look so much like a patriarch before—or so much like the hard man she’d married.
“I’m not leaving unless you swear we’re going to look for Agnes. You and I both believe she can heal the sick in the bunker. Maybe we’ll find her in Holden. Then we can come back.”
She threw up her hands. “Agnes could be anywhere. We’d be fools to come back.”
“We’re fools to leave.”
She’d never learned to drive, and pleading with Cory was infuriating. Familiar, too, because wasn’t that how she’d always had to handle men?
“God knows I’m scared to death, too,” said Cory. “But it isn’t right to run. Not when there’s a chance of saving our families.”
Beth’s lips thinned. “Get this through your head, Cory: Agnes. Isn’t. Coming. Back. What happened here isn’t our fault. How can we be responsible now?”
He stared, incredulous. “Because we’re the only ones who know! It’s like the Good Samaritan or being your brother’s keeper—”
She fumed. “Don’t quote Scripture at me.”
He gripped the steering wheel, looking ridiculous in her father’s oversize spare shirt.
“Don’t tell me that miracle didn’t change you. You must care about the word now.”
“Hmm, let me think,” she answered sarcastically. “Nope, still not caring.”
Bewildered, he asked,
“Why?”
“Because this isn’t Bible study, it’s life and death. We can’t sit around waiting for something that might never come. We’ll starve if we stay.”
“I think she is coming.”
“You’ve never spoken two words to my sister! What the hell makes you so sure?”
“Faith, Beth!” He struck the dashboard hard enough to make her jump. “The rebellious dwell in a dry land.”
“Stop it.”
“They shall fall by the sword: they shall be a portion for foxes.”
“It was lies, Cory. The Prophet—”
“What about the Bible? Is that just lies, too?”
Fighting with Cory felt like being forced to swallow shards of glass. Beth wanted to beg for mercy—to shout, Stop, enough! But she couldn’t. Some small, buried part of her was like a growing vine, reaching and searching for the light. For life.
And she knew in her bones—she’d always known—that Red Creek was death.
“Our brothers and sisters—they’re as good as dead, Cory. You know it. I know it.”
Cory’s Adam’s apple bobbed. He seemed to be searching for some safe place to land, some point on which they might still agree.
“Maybe you’re right,” he admitted. “But we can still try to do the right thing. Even if it gets us exactly nowhere, we have to try.”
Beth bit her lip. “You’d die for a chance? A slim one?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s right. Noble.”
The sun had nearly disappeared. Soon, fireflies would rise from the meadow grass, and it would be time for the children to play the Apocalypse Game. She could almost hear the twins shrieking, laughing as they gathered grass stains and courted skinned knees.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “But I won’t die for a chance.”
Cory’s mouth tightened. “Why’d you marry my father?”
The question caught her off guard.
“You knew how I felt about you,” he pressed. “So why?”
The memory of the terror she’d felt when the egg struck her face flew up from her heart like a flock of crows, startling her badly.
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