Storm

by D. J. MacHale

  The full realization of what I had found hit hard when the smoke thinned and I saw the sculptures for what they really were: artillery. These were modern antiaircraft weapons aimed at the sky. There were hundreds of them, stretching out on either side of the road.

  “Hey, kid!” a soldier shouted.

  I tensed up. Should I reach for the gun? No. That would be suicide. These guys were professionals with assault rifles, and all I had was a pistol that I’d never even fired.

  I looked over my shoulder to see two SYLO soldiers on the side of the road. Their weapons weren’t aimed at me. Yet.

  “Bad night to be on garbage duty,” the soldier called. He was actually smiling.

  “Sucks to be you,” the other called.

  I gave them a casual shrug as if to say, “What can you do?”

  These guys thought I was working, not sneaking in to hunt down their commander.

  The convoy moved on, and I soon realized that the smoke was completely gone. I looked back to see that we had emerged from the other side of the fog bank. We had just passed through a wide band of smoke-camouflaged weapons, and now I was inside Fort Knox, where the first thing I heard was . . . calliope music.

  I thought I was imagining it. The guttural rumble of the garbage truck masked everything except for the bright, tinny sound of old-fashioned calliope music. I took a chance and swung around the side of the truck to look ahead and confirm that the sound wasn’t coming from my imagination.

  We were passing by a row of jet fighters parked on a runway. Normal jet fighters, not black Air Force marauders. The map had shown us that we were headed toward the runways of the fort when we came upon the wide stretch of cleared earth. The jets made sense.

  What I saw beyond the silent row of aircraft didn’t.

  When I made the decision to penetrate the fog, I expected to find a military base like SYLO had set up on Pemberwick Island. Or maybe the ruins of Fort Knox. Or even an Air Force base full of black fighters that had finally broken through and triumphed. I was not prepared for what was actually there.

  It was a carnival. A full-on carnival, complete with rides, tents, strings of colorful lights, and a carousel, which was providing the music.

  I jumped off the truck, letting it continue on its way without me. The lure of the carnival was too great. Not that I wanted to ride the rides or try my hand at ring-toss; it was the idea that it existed at all that drew me.

  It was about a hundred yards from where I had jumped off the truck to the first row of brightly colored tents. To get there I had to walk across a wide expanse of grass that was far from empty. Every twenty yards or so, there was a metallic, cone-shaped structure that looked like a large teepee. They stood like silent sentries, each rising forty feet toward the sky. I had no idea what they were or what purpose they served. It was yet another mystery, but one that wasn’t nearly as strange as the carnival.

  As I got closer, I could hear other typical carnival sounds. People laughed and screamed. Adults as well as kids of all ages hurried between the rides. Bells and buzzers signaled a game that was won or lost. The throaty chugging of gas engines powering the rides provided a bed of white noise. There was absolutely nothing out of the ordinary about this carnival, except that it existed.

  I reached the row of tents, stepped beyond them, and entered an impossible world of fun and music. The place was jammed with people who were running along the midway, playing the games and lining up for cotton candy and hot dogs. Most wore normal civilian clothes, but many of the adults had on red SYLO fatigues. This was definitely not like the golf course prison on Pemberwick Island. These people wanted to be here. They were having fun.

  This was where Mr. Doyle’s son wanted to bring his father to be safe.

  I wasn’t worried about sticking out. There were plenty of people my age who must have been the kids of SYLO soldiers. I doubted that they’d spot a stranger. Or so I hoped. As I walked through the crowd, I saw a mini-golf course; dozens of skill games; a dunk tank where kids threw softballs at a target to knock a SYLO soldier into the drink; and food booths that offered ice cream, sodas, popcorn, hot dogs . . . you name it. There were plenty of rides too. I saw the Scrambler, the Octopus, the Tilt-a-Whirl, flying swings, a carousel, and plenty of kiddie rides. The only thing missing was a Ferris wheel. None of the rides were taller than the steel teepees that were scattered throughout the fairgrounds.

  I wasn’t used to being around so many people, especially people having fun. It was all so . . . normal, which is what made it so incredibly abnormal. As typical as the scene was, there was something odd about it that I couldn’t put my finger on. I stood in the center of the midway and did a slow three-sixty, taking it all in, watching the faces of the happy people, racking my brain to figure out what it was that seemed so off.

  The place was magical, yet a little cheesy. Carnivals weren’t Disneyland. They were erected quickly and torn down just as fast to be moved to the next location. The tents were faded and patched. The colorful paint on the carousel horses was cracked. Many of the lightbulbs on the rides were burned out. But none of that mattered. Especially at night. Thousands of colorful carnival lights made the place feel like a wonderland . . . just like every other traveling carnival.

  That’s what was wrong.

  “Power,” I said to myself.

  There was electricity.

  I had been so stunned by the sight of the carnival that it hadn’t clicked right away. Carnivals were supposed to look exactly like this. They were bright and colorful and cheesy . . . but not in a world without power. SYLO had the means to produce electricity, and by the looks of the carnival, it wasn’t from batteries or a couple of generators. This base had juice.

  It made me focus on the reality of what I was seeing. This was an oasis. A well-protected oasis. There was a wide expanse of cleared earth that ringed Fort Knox. Inside that ring was a second ring of artillery and plenty of armed soldiers who protected the fort from attack. But what exactly was being protected? A rinky-dink carnival? There had to be more.

  I heard the loud clang of a bell followed by a huge cheer. I looked to where the cheering came from to see one of those high-striker games where you try to ring the bell on top of a pole by hitting the base with a heavy mallet, shooting a metal weight up a wire. I’d never actually seen anybody win at that game. I always thought it was rigged.

  Clang!

  The bell rang again, and another cheer went up.

  I wandered closer, not so much because somebody was killing the game, but because the crowd was so enthusiastic about it. It was a show of joy and laughter that filled a void in my soul. The spectators were thrilled, probably more so than the feat deserved. Hearing them laugh and applaud made me understand why this carnival existed.

  It was a break from the reality of war. A vacation from the horror. By tomorrow the tents would probably be struck and the rides dismantled, but for the time being these people could forget that they were living inside a ring of artillery and under the constant threat of an aerial attack.

  I made my way closer to the action. I wanted to see the guy win again so I could cheer him on like everybody else. I wanted a few seconds of relief. As I wound my way through the loosely gathered group, I could see that the hero of the moment was a SYLO soldier. No big surprise. He was a tall guy, though not particularly muscular. His back was to me, and I could see that he was breathing heavily from the exertion.

  “One more time! One more time!” the crowd chanted, urging him on.

  The soldier gripped the heavy mallet. The chanting grew louder and faster. The guy took a deep breath, wound up, and slammed the mallet down. He hit the pad, and the metal object shot to the sky, nailing the bell once again.

  Clang!

  The crowd cheered. I did too. I couldn’t help myself. It was silly, but at least it was something positive. There was very little that I had seen over the past few weeks that deserved a simple cheer of congratulations. I felt good for the guy, and for
the crowd, and for me. It was nice to cheer for something.

  It was a cheer that caught in my throat when the soldier turned around.

  He wiped his forehead with his sleeve and handed the mallet to the man in the rainbow-striped jacket who was running the game.

  “Show’s over,” the soldier said. “I’m too old for this.”

  The crowd shouted “No!” as if to assure the guy he wasn’t all that old. He was their hero. He had given them reason to cheer.

  He was also their commander.

  Not only had he rung the bell, he had done something else that was equally impossible.

  He had come back from the dead.

  It was Captain Norman Granger.

  The man I had come to find . . . and kill.

  NINETEEN

  The crowd applauded as Granger did his best to look humble.

  “Show’s over,” he said. “As you were.”

  His people may have been off duty, but he still gave them orders. The crowd dispersed, and I realized I was the only one standing there, still staring at him. I quickly moved away, hovering close to a tent that held a baseball toss game.

  I was beyond being surprised by anything. Though I needed to see him to be sure, I’d known in my heart that Granger was alive the moment I heard his voice booming from that drone aircraft. Seeing him brought back so many memories. None of them were good. My hands started shaking. I had to clasp them together to keep from jittering. The last thing I needed was to let my emotions control me.

  I needed time to think and plan my next move, but I had to be ready for anything. Half of my mission was already complete. I had seen Granger. The SYLO commander.

  His presence on Pemberwick set the wheels in motion for Quinn to die.

  He had turned my parents against me.

  He was an enemy.

  He was a murderer.

  I had promised myself that if I found him, I would kill him.

  Would killing a soldier in a war zone be murder? I guess that depended on who was doing the killing. Was it justifiable homicide for a civilian to take out a soldier who destroyed his life? I was going to find out. But to succeed, I had to be cold and calculating.

  I had to be like Granger.

  The SYLO commander strolled away from the high-striker game in no particular hurry. I trailed him, staying far enough behind to go unnoticed. I used other people to shield me from his view, while trying not to look like, well, like I was following him.

  Granger walked casually with his hands clasped behind his back and his posture impossibly straight. He surveyed each ride, food cart, and game as he passed, looking them up and down like he was on an inspection tour. At one point he stopped next to one of the tall metal cones. He reached out and touched it, running his hand along the smooth surface as if admiring its workmanship.

  His casual inspection tour reminded me of the way he strolled among the bullet-riddled bodies of Tori’s father and the other rebels on Chinicook Island, casually examining the victims of his ruthless attack. He showed no remorse or sympathy, and then he ordered his soldiers to torch the woods where we were hiding.

  I felt the weight of the gun pressing against my back. Killing Granger would go a long way toward getting revenge for what had happened on Pemberwick. But was I willing to sacrifice myself to do it? This bizarre carnival was in a secure military base loaded with armed soldiers. If I managed to put a bullet into Granger, several more bullets would soon be entering me. Not only would it be suicide, there would probably be other casualties. More innocent people would die in the cross fire. Some could be kids. I couldn’t let that happen. I had to get Granger alone.

  He suddenly stopped walking and pulled a phone from his belt. Apparently SYLO not only had power, they had cell service. Granger listened for a few seconds and then reacted physically to whatever he was hearing over the phone. He tensed up and glanced around as if looking for something. Or someone.

  Had he been alerted that he was being stalked? I ducked behind one of the metallic teepees and cautiously peered at him.

  Granger turned and hurried away. My guess was that he was looking for a quiet place to talk. With the phone to his ear, he hurried past the furthest tent, away from the carnival and out into the dark beyond.

  He was alone. I had my chance.

  I followed quickly but not at a dead sprint. I didn’t want to attract attention. When I left the lights of the carnival, I had trouble seeing in the dark. I had to follow the sound of Granger’s voice as he shouted at the phone.

  “Details!” he demanded. “I don’t want speculation. I want facts.”

  He was definitely worked up about something.

  “No,” he barked with authority. “Not until we have confirmation. Are you in contact with the AWACS?”

  He was still moving. Fast. Every so often I’d catch a fleeting glimpse of him as he appeared from behind one of the cones before disappearing behind another. A few seconds went by without me hearing him. Was the conversation over? Where was he going? I had no choice but to keep moving in the same direction and hope I’d spot him again. I rounded one of the cones . . .

  . . . and came face-to-face with him.

  He had turned around and was headed back toward the carnival.

  Granger stopped short. I saw a brief look of confusion cross his eyes. I was familiar to him, but he couldn’t place me. Those few seconds of uncertainty gave me the time I needed. I reached behind my back, pulled out the Glock, and held it on him, keeping it steady with two hands.

  “Tucker Pierce,” he finally said as the puzzle pieces clicked into place.

  “Why aren’t you dead?” I asked.

  Granger was on full alert, though he didn’t look as scared as he should have, considering he was facing a gun held by a squirrelly guy with a chip on his shoulder.

  He said, “That was quite the stunt you pulled, navigating between those two burning ships. That took guts.”

  “I saw your boat explode.”

  “It did. I wasn’t on board. The commander was willing to chase you into that inferno, but wouldn’t risk my life. He shoved me overboard before turning into that flaming gauntlet. The entire crew was killed.”

  “Did you order him to follow us?” I asked.

  “I did.”

  “Then you should have been with them,” I said with disdain.

  “Agreed. But I wasn’t, and so here we are. Will you be shooting me?”

  “That’s the plan.”

  Granger kept spinning his cell phone in his hand. He seemed far more concerned with the news he had gotten over the phone than with me.

  “You’re a long way from home,” he said calmly, gesturing to his left.

  He was pointing to a building that stood a few hundred yards from us. It was a large but squat two-story structure made of lightcolored cement. It looked like a fortified bunker with windows.

  I had no doubt that it was the famous gold repository.

  “Why are you here?” I asked. “Why Fort Knox? Is it about the gold, or the vault?”

  Granger lifted an eyebrow.

  “You’re a smart kid,” he said, though it sounded more like an insult than a compliment. “Gold is going to be the foundation for a new monetary system. Or so they tell me. That kind of business is way above my pay grade. I’m just a simple soldier.”

  “Is that why SYLO has so much firepower here?” I asked. “To protect the gold?”

  “To protect the future,” he replied. “Are you enjoying the carnival? We’re trying to make it as pleasant here as we can.”

  “Really? Pleasant? SYLO is putting on a carnival while trying to destroy mankind?”

  His eyes went wide, and for the first time since I’d met the guy . . . he smiled. It was small, but it was real.

  “I see you’ve been spending time with the Retros,” he said.

  “The what?”

  “The Retros. That’s what we call ’em. The black planes. The Ruby. The genocide. They’re accusing
us of trying to bring about the end of days, so what do they do? They wipe out two-thirds of the planet’s population. Does that make any kind of sense to you?”

  “They said we needed to start over. To reset.”

  “And you believe that?” he asked, incredulous.

  “I don’t know what to believe!” I screamed with frustration.

  He thought he had an opening and took a step toward me.

  I lifted the gun to his face.

  “Stop!” I commanded.

  He did.

  “I’m scared as hell,” I said, “and I hate your guts, so take one more step and I swear to God I’ll put a bullet in your head.”

  It was strong talk . . . that I knew I couldn’t back up. Granger knew it too. All I had to do was pull the trigger . . . but I couldn’t. I didn’t know it for sure until that moment. I wasn’t a killer, no matter how badly I wanted him dead. I think the only reason he didn’t attack me was to avoid being shot by accident.

  “You’re backing the wrong horse, son,” he said calmly.

  “I’m not backing anybody! All I see is the Air Force battling the Navy in a civil war that’s killed billions of people. For what? What’s the point? Explain it to me.”

  “No,” he said flatly.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t trust you.”

  “You . . . what? You invaded my home, murdered dozens of people, turned my parents against me, tried to shoot me out of the water, and you don’t trust me?”

  Granger leaned forward. I lifted the gun until the site was centered between his eyes.

  “You should have listened to your mother,” he said without flinching.

  That threw me.

  “My mother?”

  “She warned you not to trust anyone, yet here you are, holding a gun on the bad old soldier man you think is the cause of all the problems. How old are you? Fourteen? Fifteen?”

  I had to grip the gun tighter to keep my hands from shaking.

  “Maybe you’re too young to understand, but they’re using you, son. Those Retros are like termites. You don’t know they’re in the walls, eating the wood, until your house falls down.”