by Ellery Kane
I aim the sandwich for the bull’s-eye center of a paper plate, then take my time setting the small table nearest the exit with plastic utensils and a burned-to-the-nub candle I found in the back. I pop open a can of soda and pour it in a coffee cup. Not bad, McAllister. Not bad at all. I think the old guy would be proud. Almost content, I sigh as I take my seat. I raise the cup and toast to the air. “Here’s to you, Ollie and Arto.” Two hands cradling the sandwich, it’s almost inside the cave of my mouth when it hits me. The pickle. I forgot the damn pickle.
I groan and head back to the counter, still savoring the expectation of that first bite. I want it to be perfect. I find the pickle hiding beneath the crumpled wax paper, discarded from the cheese. I grab it—and a noise interrupts me. Slipping my gun from my waistband, I turn toward the sound.
My sandwich is gone. Plate licked clean. Not even a crumb. Like it never happened.
“Seriously?” I say aloud.
A scrawny German Shepherd stares back at me. He looks as mangy as I must after three days without a shower. He cocks his head at me, then smiles. I know—dogs can’t smile. But that looks like a smile to me. A smirk even.
“How did you get in here?” I look over my shoulder at the broken door, nudged open. “Clever, aren’t you?” He wags his tail in agreement, and I feel an unexpected surge of anger. It seems to rush—hot and raw—from nowhere, but I know better. There’s a well inside me that never runs dry.
“Get out of here!” The words burn my throat on the way out.
The dog startles a little at the sound of my voice. I forgot how scary I can be. Still, he doesn’t seem convinced. Tail lowered, he comes over to me like I invited him and nudges my leg.
“Hear what I said? Go!”
He licks my hand. “You only like me because I taste like turkey.” I give him a shove toward the door. “Go on. It’s for your own good.”
Shifting his weight to his haunches, he holds firm. I push harder. He doesn’t budge. “Fine, then.”
I pick him up. He’s like a bag of bones—ribs close to the surface, poking at me. Eyes the color of acorns gaze into mine, and I will myself to look away.
“I’m an iceman,” I tell him, before I set him down outside the door, pull it shut, and barricade him out with a wall of crates and cardboard boxes.
Sandwich number two is an utter disappointment. I can’t focus. I burn the bread. The charred edges taste like ash, and the smell lingers, a persistent reminder of all my failures. Worst of all, I can hear the dog. So I hurry. I shovel it in. Between my chomping, there’s this: Scratch, scratch, whine, whine, scratch. My internal dialogue is not much better.
You’re a jerk, 243. Absolutely miserable. That dog is a stray just like you. Give him some turkey at least. Prove you have a heart, even if it is frozen solid.
Don’t do it, 243. If you feed him, he’s yours. Your responsibility. Doomed the way you are. Besides, you can’t even take care of yourself.
Jerk.
Sissy. I hear my dad’s voice. Cry baby.
The dog’s bark cuts the chatter in my head. It travels through me, shrill like the strike of a bell. I swallow the last bite and blow out the candle, cursing myself for my stupidity. If I have to die, at least my last meal was respectable. Gun close to my side, I move toward the back door, letting my eyes adjust to the dark. Pressing myself to the wall, I watch two long shadows pass across the floor. Two shadows, two Guardians. They stare in through the window. The dog barks again—this time from the street. But the men seem oblivious. Of course, they are.
I inch toward the exit, sliding the crates aside with my boot. With my barricade removed, the door cracks open, just as that hunk of concrete meets its end against Arto’s front window. Go, Quin! I’m halfway in, halfway out, halfway to freedom, when the dog starts flipping out.
He’s a regular Cujo, playing a vicious tug-of-war with the Guardian’s pant leg.
“Shoot it!” The voice is familiar. It sounds the way mine did when I was still 243. Hard and final, like the last nail in a coffin.
The Guardian raises his weapon and aims it at the dog’s clenched muzzle. Unfazed, the dog clamps down harder—doesn’t even flinch—and I feel like it’s me staring down the barrel of the gun. That dog is protecting me. And I haven’t the slightest idea why. No one’s ever thought I was worthy of protecting. Not Ryker. Not Mrs. Lawson. And certainly not my father.
Two bullets, two Guardians. I do it without thinking, like I always have. But somehow it’s harder. I can’t blame it on the Emovere. Can’t blame Ryker either. This was all me. I’m not even sure they’re dead, but I don’t want to look this time. Cautious, the dog sniffs the first body, then meets my eyes. The sandwich starts to make its way back up.
“I told you to steer clear of me,” I snarl. “You almost got yourself killed.”
I turn my back to him, but I can hear his nails clicking toward me. “Leave me alone.”
I go out the same way I came in, but I’m not the same. I felt free. But I’m not free. I never will be. My body is heavy. I drag it like a ball and chain, slogging back to Coit Tower. Behind me, the dog follows.
CHAPTER FOUR
May 1, 2040
I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain—and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.
—Robert Frost, Acquainted with the Night
“Artos! Get off me!” I feel his long tongue slap, wet and cold, against my face. Eyes still shut, I try to steer him off the bed. No such luck. He’s gained at least ten pounds since I found him. Since he found me. And he’s as stubborn as an ox. He wriggles around me and licks me again. “Okay, okay. I’m up.”
I hate mornings. Always have. In that hangover between asleep and awake, I don’t know who I am, where I am, what I’ve done. But then, I do.
You’re Quin McAllister, foster kid nobody wants. You’re at Mrs. Lawson’s. You wet the bed again.
You’re Quin McAllister, screw-up, delinquent. You’re in juvie. You stole another car.
You’re Quin McAllister, hopeless case. You’re at River Bend. You punched your fist through the wall.
You’re Quin McAllister, Legacy 243. You’re on Alcatraz Island. You killed innocent people.
You’re Quin McAllister, AWOL, wanted man. You’re in a stranger’s bed, in an evacuated city. What haven’t you done?
And the dreams don’t help. The sound of that little yellow truck, wheels turning in my ears, is a screaming alarm clock. Every morning, my eyes snap open. My heart rattles around like a marble in a tin can. I can taste blood in my mouth—I bit the inside of my cheek again. And every morning, I say it out loud, “You’re afraid,” even though I feel nothing.
Unaware of it all, Artos prances in a circle around my feet, then jumps onto the bed, hunkering in the warm spot I left apparently just for him. “I like it here too,” I tell him. “But we leave today.” He cocks his head at me like he disagrees. “Today,” I repeat. I’ve already broken my own rules. Move on after one night. Don’t get too comfortable. Leave it as you found it. It’s been four nights, and one look at Artos, sprawled out like he owns the place, confirms we’re both way too comfortable.
I pull on my boots and head for the bathroom. A squeeze of toothpaste on my finger, a splash of cold water to clear away the cobwebs, a pump of soap that smells like lilac, a soft towel against my face. And the crowning jewel, a working toilet! It’s certainly a step up from Coit Tower … a whole flight of carpeted steps. It’s the nicest place we’ve stayed yet—most of the houses were already looted—and I could get used it. “And that’s why we’re leaving.” In the mirror, Iceman’s mouth forms the words. I pretend it’s an order. “Yes, sir.”
This is house twenty-six. Twenty-six houses, thirty nights, thirty-one mornings, and I still haven’t found the Resistance. Aside from Elana—she must’ve been a mirage—I put my bullets in the only signs of human life I’ve seen here. There is no Resistan
ce. It’s just another lie Ryker concocted to keep us medicated.
“Artos, come.” I try to sound convincing. He can tell when my heart’s not in it. We’ve been practicing. His ears stand at attention. His eyes follow me. But the rest of him stays settled in for his morning nap. “Artos. Come.” That was better. He slinks from the bed, giving me that look. The one saying, “You’re an idiot, McAllister. But you’re my idiot, and I’ll follow you anywhere.”
“Good boy.” I plod down the stairs, wincing a little with each step. The thick socks I scavenged from the bedroom drawer are no help. These blisters sting like fire ants. That’s what happens when you try to canvass a city looking for something that’s clearly not there. And then there’s the dog bite, two searing holes in my ankle. It’s been two weeks, but it still hurts like hell. Artos bounds past me without a care. “You had to pick a fight, didn’t you?” I say to him, well aware of the irony. “You couldn’t just walk away.”
I open the cabinet and pour the last of the granola into a bowl. The milk has gone sour, of course, so I douse it with a little water and make believe. I’ve had worse. A dog lived in this house. Another reason Artos likes it here. He’s been eating first-class kibble from a ceramic dish. “Enjoy it, buddy. It might be our last good meal for a while.”
I flip on the TV to keep us company. The insufferable Barbara Blake again. She doesn’t even try to seem fair.
Today marks one month since SFTV’s last broadcast from inside San Francisco. However, our sources confirm the Guardian Force is working around the clock to protect our city. Soldiers are facing hostile and deadly opposition from rebel Resistance forces. Last night, we received information warning that an attack on the Bay Bridge may be imminent. All bridges into the city remain impassable. Residents are urged to avoid all entry points into San Francisco. As always, stay tuned to SFTV for the latest and most accurate information.
I practically spit out my cereal. “Can you believe her?” Artos wags his tail and trots over to me, leaving the empty bowl behind him. “Rebels? Deadly opposition? Does she realize it’s just you and me?” I rub his head, careful of the bite wound on his nose. It’s healing better than I thought it would, but he squeals a little when my hand gets too close. My fault. I shouldn’t have been feeding him in the park. Why didn’t I just let him come inside? Insistent, he nudges my hand, reminding me. Less thinking and more petting, McAllister.
“You and me,” I tell him, scratching one ear, then the other. “Two strays.”
I split the curtain with my hand and peek outside. The day is gray, the color of a dingy T-shirt. I try not to see it as a sign. Ryker says superstition is just another word for stupidity. But once, I heard Mrs. Lawson say McAllister blood is cursed. It seemed logical enough. And until I left Alcatraz in my wake, it’s never been proven otherwise. Sign or not, I’ve already made a plan, and I’m sticking to it.
I was eleven when I got my introductory lesson in grand theft auto from Professor Slinky, my baby-faced bunkie and hot-wire virtuoso. I guess I can’t say I never learned anything in juvie. I stole a lot of cars. A lot more than I got busted for, but never wrecked. Didn’t even speed most of the time. I wasn’t looking for a crash and burn. I wanted a getaway. Far, far away. But every time I got on I-5—north or south, it didn’t matter—I couldn’t get more than ten miles outside of L.A. without seeing Colton’s face. That little yellow truck, and the day I let him down.
Artos is sitting shotgun in the slickest ride I’ve ever stolen. It’s almost too easy. Not a proper GTA. I found the spare key tossed in the kitchen drawer, and I’m about to break my last rule. Don’t take anything you don’t absolutely need.
As soon as I back out of the garage, I roll down the passenger window. Artos knows what to do. He lets the wind blow his fur back, closes his eyes, and lolls out his tongue. I laugh at him. “Did somebody teach you how to joyride?”
I drive as fast as I can down Pacific Avenue. I know I’m being careless. Surely Ryker’s got all the surveillance cameras up by now. But I figure, the quicker I get there, the quicker I get out. I make it to Coit Tower in five minutes and leave the car running. “Wait here,” I tell Artos through the open window. He’s already pawing at the door, eyeing me anxiously. “Stay.”
The computer tablet and my mother’s book are exactly where I left them for safekeeping, buried in the crumbling wall, beneath one of the large bricks. I hold one in each hand and think, This is who I am. A poet and a criminal. My mother and my father. I want to leave the Book of Quin. I want to smash it against a rock. Watch it fall from the very top of the tower to the street below. I don’t know why I can’t, but somehow it feels as essential as the pages my mom touched. Tucking both inside the leather jacket I pilfered from the first house we found, I run. I push through the door, and I’m home free. Ready to leave this ghost town in my dust.
“Stop! Stop right where you are! Legacy 243, you’re under arrest by order of the Guardian Force.” I feel the icy metal of a gun barrel pressed to my neck. Idiot. That’s what I am. A complete and utter, unarmed idiot. Artos’ barking is panicked, desperate, helpless. Like he knows my gun is sitting useless in the backseat. Like his whole world is coming to an end.
“Hands up, 243! Get down on the—” A shot fires, and I’m dead. My hand goes to my neck and comes back warm and smeared bright red. I’m dead, right?
The voice that answers is not the soldier’s. “Quin McAllister, I was beginning to believe you were more myth than man. And yet, here you are. In the flesh.”
I close my eyes and open them again. I feel the blood between my fingers. Not mine, apparently. I don’t turn around yet. My legs are anchored to the earth like tombstones. In my mind, it’s the devil back there. Or God. And for the first time in an ice age, I feel a twinge in my gut. Fear.
CHAPTER FIVE
May 2, 2040
What brought the kindred spider to that height,
Then steered the white moth thither in the night?
What but design of darkness to appall?—
If design govern in a thing so small.
—Robert Frost, Design
“Just a little to the left, please.” The voice is familiar to me now. Not the devil, after all. Not God either, apparently. Powerful, though. And brave enough to fire the bullet that saved my life.
“Yes, sir.” Force of habit, I follow orders, hanging his fancy diploma—Stern School of Business, New York University—smack dab in the center of the wall behind his desk. Otherwise, the room is sparse. Just a pillow and a blanket on the floor where I slept last night.
“Mr. McAllister, I do insist that you call me Augustus.”
“Yes, sir—I mean, Augustus.” He stands alongside me and puts his hand on my shoulder, claiming me the way my father might, if I had one. The thought makes me want to squirm away, but I don’t. Next to me, Artos rumbles, and I tighten up on his leash—another gift from house twenty-six. The last thing I need is for him to get us kicked out of here.
“Good. Now that we’ve cleared that up, I hope you slept well.” I didn’t sleep a wink—what does he expect with an armed guard posted outside the door?—but I nod anyway. “We have a lot to discuss, Quin.”
I wait for it. I know what’s coming. Mr. McAllister, I have to ask you to leave Resistance headquarters immediately. You’re too dangerous. Too unpredictable. Too damaged. That’s what I would say if I’d read the Book of Quin. Which he has. He demanded it, wouldn’t take me here until I gave it up. Worse, he made me stand there, dead Guardian and all, to follow every scroll of his finger until he reached the end. He didn’t say a word, didn’t even raise an eyebrow. I have to hand it to him. He’s got one heck of a poker face. But one thing’s for sure—nobody will ever lay eyes on that file again. Not if I can help it.
“A penny for your thoughts.” He smiles wide. Like he already knows them.
“I’m still in shock, I guess.” I’m a thawing iceman. “The Resistance was right here under my nose this whole time. Looks li
ke I’m not much of a detective.” I’m a thawing, good-for-nothing iceman.
Augustus nods at me. “But you have other skills.” Stealing cars, fighting, running away, killing. “You’re a soldier with intimate knowledge of the Guardian Force. That’s invaluable to our cause.” That too, I suppose.
“So I can stay?” I sound way too eager. What’s wrong with me? I’m not even sure I want to stay. Less than twenty-four hours ago, I’d all but blown this town.
He doesn’t say yes or no. Instead, he bends toward Artos, extending his hand, and I realize how tall he is. Even taller than me. “Nice doggie.” He taps Artos’ head a few times like he’s playing a drum. “Good doggie.” Artos is not amused. Lip curling, teeth bared, he lets out a full-fledged growl.
Great. That settles it. We’re definitely getting the boot. But Augustus only blinks. I shake my finger at Artos. He cowers and slinks away. “Sorry,” I tell Augustus. “I’m still training him. It might be a while before he trusts you.”
“Let’s hope not. After all, if one does not trust, one cannot be trusted.” I can’t even wrap my mind around that, before he’s headed out the door. “Now that you’ve helped me with my decorating, would you like to see the rest of our brand new headquarters?” I follow him into the bowels of the BART station, still waiting for an answer to my question.
Everybody’s gawking at me. They know who I am. They know what I’ve done. They must. But how? That’s the million-dollar question. Aside from the pacing guard who kept me up last night, I haven’t seen a soul since Augustus brought me here. I thought that guard was meant to keep me in. But the way they’re looking at me, judging me, it makes me wonder. Maybe he was there for my own protection—to keep them out. I tug at the sleeves of my jacket, self-conscious, even though my tattoo is well hidden beneath.