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APPROVED:

John Tait, Committee Chair

Jill Talbot, Committee Member

Miroslav Penkov, Committee Member

Jacqueline Vanhoutte, Chair of the Department

of English

David Holdeman, Dean of the College of

Liberal Arts and Social Sciences

ictor Prybutok, Dean of the Toulouse

Graduate School

UNION: A NOVEL

Ross Wilcox

Dissertation Prepared for the Degree of

DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY

UNIVERSITY OF NORTH TEXAS

May 2019

Wilcox, Ross. “Union”: A Novel. Doctor of Philosophy (English), May 2019, 349 pp.

Union is a novel about a Super AI that takes over all human technology.

Ross Wilcox

iii

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I am very grateful and indebted to my friends and colleagues Kim Garza, Spencer Hyde,

Amanda Yanowski, and Virginia Wood. Their support means the world to me, as does their

encouragement and belief in me as a writer. I also owe a huge thanks to my mentors here at

UNT: John Tait, for your guidance as my chairperson and for your love of indie rock, which

culminated in that private Richard Bruckner show, which was awesome; Jill Talbot, for your

courage to ask new questions and push boundaries in your own work, which is inspiring, as well

as your stewardship over the most professional and efficient workshop I’ve ever taken; and

Miroslav Penkov, for your honesty and insight into my writing as well as your insight into

soccer, tennis, Downton Abbey, and The Office.

I must express my love and gratitude for my wife, Sarah. We’ve been together ten years,

and I’ve literally been in school the entire time. I owe you big time, and I plan on spending the

rest of our lives somehow making all your support through this process worthwhile. Lastly and I

must say most importantly, I want to thank my parents, Larry and Carmen. Unconditional love

may only be an idea, but you two are the closest anyone has come to embodying this in human

form. I can’t wrap my head around all the love and support you’ve given me. I can only say that I

love you both with all my heart and that I want to make you proud and that I want to be a

reflection of the values you’ve instilled in me.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Page

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS ........................................................................................................... iii

PART I. SCIENCE FICTION AND SUPER AI’S: UNION AND SUPER AI’S AS GOD .......... 1

PART II. UNION: A NOVEL ....................................................................................................... 14

Part One: Annexation ........................................................................................................ 15

Part Two: Extraction ....................................................................................................... 178

Part Three: UNION ......................................................................................................... 314

PART I

SCIENCE FICTION AND SUPER AI’S: UNION AND SUPER AI’S AS GOD

The fear that a super artificial intelligence will one day become conscious and take over

the world has long been a concern of American science fiction. Writers such as Philip K. Dick,

Isaac Asimov, Robert Heinlein, and William Gibson have each written seminal works

investigating the negative impacts a super AI could exert on individuals and society. One of the

most interesting aspects of a super AI – hypothetically, of course – is that one could argue that

such an intelligence is the convergence of science and theology. On the one hand, it is through

science that humans are capable of creating such an intelligence, one with computing capabilities

that far exceed what humans can calculate. On the other hand, a super AI – one that is all-

knowing and all-powerful – is precisely the realization of what for thousands and thousands of

years humans have imagined God to be. Indeed, in much dystopian sci-fi, the super AI is cast in

a theological light. And its actions, not surprisingly, are often destructive on humans, similar to

Yahweh and his flooding of the earth and his genocide in the conquest narratives of Joshua. My

novel Union follows in this vein of dystopian sci-fi centered on super AIs, but it also

distinguishes itself in a few key ways. While Union stands in a crowded room, it is also moving

in the direction of truly becoming its own thing. In this essay, I will discuss the stylistic,

thematic, and artistic choices I made in constructing this novel. To this end, I will also critique

my choices as I work to revise this novel into a publishable work. For in writing, every choice

comes at the expense of any number of other elements, and the trick is to maximize the effect of

each artistic choice towards the cohesiveness of the work as a whole.

The stylistic choice I’d like to discuss is really three elements that are inextricably linked:

pace, tense, and point of view. Because Union is a thriller, I thought the immediacy of the

present tense would be well-suited to the briskly moving plot. And it is. To be sure, reading the

novel in the present tense does keep the pages turning. To quicken the pace further, the chapters,

which rotate from character to character, are quite short, generally speaking, when compared to

other novels. Now, when looking at point of view, I made the decision to write every character in

first-person present. Part of my rationale was that I think first-person narration lends itself to the

creation of a unique voice more so than third-person. This is of course not always true. But when

something is written in first-person, literally everything the character is saying, both in dialogue

in narration, is telling you something about that character. Granted, the same could be said for

third-person, but third-person, in my opinion, possesses a natural authority to it, largely because

with this point of view, the narrator can be omniscient, if the writer so chooses. Such is

obviously not the case with first-person. And for the purposes of this novel, I wanted the

experiences related not by an omniscient narrator, but by the characters themselves.

As I mentioned above, I think that first-person narration lends itself more easily to the

construction of a unique, idiosyncratic voice. And so part of the reason I chose to write in first-

person was because I welcomed the challenge of trying to create, with my four point of view

characters, four distinct voices. I think I succeed in doing this, though it is very apparent that the

character of Dillon is by far the most unique of the voices. I don’t know that that’s necessarily

good or bad to have one character in particular stand out.

There are shortcomings to my choice to write in first-person present. The first is that for

whatever reason, the present tense does become a bit grating when used in a full-length novel.

Perhaps if grating is too strong a word, then I will try to explain it another way. One of my goals

as a writer is to pull the reader in so completely that they forget they’re reading a book. That’s

always my favorite experience as a reader myself, and it’s of course much easier said than done.

So, in order for this to happen, the prose needs to grip the reader in such a way that they are

willing to be taken wherever such prose shall lead, but at the same time not be jarred out of that

ride by something in the writing. And while I think Union’s first-person present narration is

effective in moving the story along quickly, it also has moments where the tense sort of draws

attention to itself in a way you don’t want as a writer. For example, when an action scene is

taking place, it is kind of awkward to have a character, in real-time, relaying all these details

when things are supposedly happening fast and simultaneously. Moreover, there is the problem

inherent to first-person that it’s just weird to have a character constantly tell you every little thing

they do. Maybe it’s simply because the majority of stories are written in third-person and we as

readers therefore find it more palatable, but I do think the suspension of disbelief is hindered in

full-length novels by the not just the use of first-person, but particularly present tense.

As I mentioned above, Union features four main characters, all of whom, through rotating

chapters, relate their experiences to the reader in first-person present. The stories of Vicky,

Cathy, Raul, and Dillon are all equally weighted in terms of the novel’s concern, so that Union

couldn’t be said to have a traditional protagonist. Instead, there are, technically speaking, four

protagonists. One reason I chose to go this route is because I simply enjoy novels with a rotating

cast of characters. I think it’s fun to spend some time with one character, have their plot thicken,

and then jump to another, and then another. But on a thematic level, I also wanted to look at the

effects of a dystopian super AI from several different angles. Obviously, any disaster scenario is

going to be handled differently by people. And one of the main questions I’m getting at in Union

is in regard to survival. Yes, humans are incredibly strong creatures capable of withstanding the

worst horrors one an imagine. But at a certain point, does survival not become worth it?

In the trope of dystopian sci-fi, there is a lot of violence in Union. In many ways, the

societies, if they can be called that, are more or less warring clans who kill one another for

resources. While I think most Americans would prefer the society we have now rather than the

one in Union, it is true that humans have lived this way before (and arguably still do), and so

why can’t they do it again, given the circumstances? Sure, humans can survive this way. But the

humans in Union have experienced the relative peace and prosperity of 21st Century America,

and so I don’t think it’s unfair for characters in such a situation to decide if this way of life is

even worth living. This is where the New Colony comes in. The New Colony is a cult who long-

ago separated itself from the world, finding human society to be hollow and unfulfilling. Because

the New Colony had the foresight to see the super AI takeover coming, they have built an entire

civilization underground and plan to seal themselves off entirely from the outside world. Thus,

their answer to the question of whether this life is worth living is a resounding no, which is why

they elect to create their own world.

This dilemma is embodied in the character of Cathy. As a young woman who is pregnant,

she has strong reservations about bringing a child into the world as presently constructed. To her,

living underground, even with a weird cult, sounds preferable to staying aboveground where, it

seems, only violence and destruction await.

But even given the lack of technology, the anarchy, the violence, can humans still lead

fulfilling lives? Or put another way: can humans still be human in this dystopian scenario?

Personally, I think it’s possible, but it’s sort of like one of those things you can’t know until it

happens, like whether you’d jump in front of a train to save someone. Still, I wanted the

character of Dillon to represent the possibility of humans living fulfilling lives even in this

largely destroyed and violent world. To demonstrate this, Dillon’s story is one of the most

fundamental of all human stories, that of his connection to his partner and to a child – in a word,

a family. While Dillon has his lover Skip with him, which is a great source of courage and refuge

for him, the two men take in the 10-year-old Bennington along the way and become a kind of

family. Dillon is a sentimental guy, and true to his character, having meaningful relationships

with the people he loves proves to be enough for him to be content in his life.

Dillon also stands out from the other characters in that he is gay. One reason for

constructing his identity this way, I admit, was for the novel to feature a more diverse cast, which

could make it more marketable. That said, I didn’t want Dillon to be defined by his sexuality. I

didn’t want his story to be about his sexuality. In some ways, I think it’s progressive and

beneficial to have a gay character whose sexuality is treated matter-of-factly – just an aspect of

their character but not what defines them. Moreover, I wanted Dillon’s story to have a happy

ending because I think of stories always end badly for queer characters, they risk being defined

by victimization. One other small thing, I was also inspired to include a queer character because

of Afrofuturism. I do think it’s important to include characters in works that deal with the future.

Even in dystopian fiction, where the future isn’t a desirable one, it’s important to include these

characters so that the cultural imagination itself becomes more diverse.

Another possibility in the super AI takeover scenario is for people to simply go with the

flow. What I mean is that because humans are humans, survivors will group together, organize,

and form some kind of social contract that enables them to cooperate in numbers. Because of

this, what used to be the US has formed into loose factions, one of which is known as State. State

is more or less a war clan that seeks to kill enemies and take their resources. The character of

Vicky, who was a sheriff before the fall, elects to continue working for State on the logic that

because they’re the ones in charge, her best chance of safety comes from obeying whoever is in

the position of authority. Of course, Union throws a wrench in all this when it contacts her to

track down Raul. But this only reinforces Vicky’s position. If Union, as a super AI, is a force

more powerful than State, then it behooves her to work along with it.

Raul is the outlier character in that his solution is not to resolve anything. It’s to blow

everything up. He possesses the codes to what used to be America’s stockpile of nuclear

weapons. I admit that at this stage of the novel, Raul and his inner conflict is not fully developed.

To be sure, I think it’s a very compelling dilemma for one man to possess the ability to blow up

the world. But Raul’s situation, to be honest, is one I invented so that Union would have a reason

to go after him. After all, if Raul has access to nuclear weapons, then it’s in everyone’s best

interest that he be stripped of such power. But I’m not sure that the dilemma with Raul and

whether or not to blow the world up so fits thematically with the rest of the novel. Upon revision,

if I am to keep that aspect of Raul’s character, I’d have to think of a way it fits into the story

more organically and less as a device, which is how it functions now.

As I mentioned in the introduction, I think there are a few ways in which Union stands

out among sci-fi of a similar kind. The first is my personal spin on the AI-as-God motif. Though

largely based on Christian mythology, I think the idea of Union performing this genetic

harvesting of all the world’s species and taking it to another planet is something new. In this

particular dystopian world, Union is only one among a whole host of rogue super AIs vying for

control of the earth and its resources. But rather than earth, Union has its mind set on the cosmos.

For in Union’s mind, in order for it to truly be God (at least in my version), then it must create its

own world. Thus, staying on earth will not do, for earth has already been created. To this end,

Union embarks on a of genetic harvest of all the world’s species, which it will take along in its

spaceship to a new planet and begin anew. Thus, you have the spin on Noah’s ark.

Now, looking back on the novel as presently constructed, I think that my spin on the AI-

as-God would work better as a premise rather than as a final reveal. Because in order for Union

to really become it’s own thing, it needs freshness sooner and in greater abundance. Thus, it is

probably much more interesting to have the Noah’s ark scenario as a starting point rather than an

ending point. After all, readers should not have to wait until the last page to see what’s different

about this novel among a smorgasbord of other dystopian AI novels. This speaks to a larger point

in general with big reveals in fiction. You have to do something with it. It can’t just be for shock

value. If it’s purely for shock value, then I think it loses any resonance. And while I like my spin

on the AI-as-God, I do think as it functions in the novel right now, it amounts to little more than

shock value.

Another aspect of my novel that sets it apart from others is the New Colony. I did come

up with this idea simply from wondering what it would be like to live in an underground

civilization. But more than that, I wanted to know what it would be like to live underground and

not be able to come back up. What if you were stuck there forever? How would things turn out?

My position is that things would crumble underground because humans aren’t accustomed to

living that way, neither from a social nor evolutionary perspective. They would crave open

spaces or, at minimum a way “leave” their underground bunker. To this end, the Elders of the

New Colony have constructed hologram virtual realities as a way to placate the Colonists. When

one gets swept up in cabin fever, one can enter the hologram virtual reality and hopefully be

calmed or satiated – which is one reason why the Elders have constructed the holograms out of

only happy, comforting memories of the Colonists.

Though the New Colony going underground is positive step in a fresh direction, I do

think that more needs to be done with the New Colony to take the innovation even further. Right

now, the New Colony does lack an ideology, which is something that needs to be fixed, given

that it’s a cult. In an earlier draft of the novel, the New Colony was a kind of equal-opportunity

doomsday cult that prepared for all variations of the apocalypse, including the Second Coming,

nuclear war, epidemics, zombies, and so forth. However, as the novel took shape and I pursued

the super AI premise, coupled with the New Colony’s mission of going underground, I focused

all the attention on the New Colony’s preparation to go underground. While this isn’t necessarily

the wrong move, I do think the lack of a cult identity does beg the question of why Cathy would

join the New Colony. There is the fact that Cathy does not want her child to suffer the horrors of

this world, but her decision to join a cult that will literally go underground for eternity is, at the

moment, handled to matter-of-factly. Moreover, I wanted it to be clear that part of Cathy’s

reticence on her decision to join the New Colony was a result of not wanting to hurt her mother,

but right now there isn’t enough development in Cathy’s character to make her decision resonant

with and understandable to the reader.

Another aspect of my novel that sets it apart from others is its handling of memory.

While many works of all genres engage with and investigate the nature of memory, my particular

look at it in Union is unique in that it investigates how someone can go on after having all their

memories stripped from them. Now, the reason Union starts uploading Vicky and Raul’s minds

is because it wants reunite their mind with their bodies once it reaches its new planet. In effect,

Union is using their DNA to clone them, but of course, a clone is only that: a genetic clone. Its

mind is never the same as the original because its experiences will be completely different. Thus,

Union extracts Vicky and Raul’s minds and will then upload them back into their bodies once

they grow. But what about Vicky and Raul’s body, which stay on earth? What happens to them?

Part of my concern here is wanting to see what happens to humans when they are stripped

of their memories. Obviously, they are no longer the same person, which is very telling in regard

to how much we’re shaped by our memories. Can a person still make sense of the world once

she’s stripped of her memory? If so, how would she go about doing that?

Though these questions aren’t explored as fully as they could be, we do see at least part

of an answer manifest in Vicky’s interactions with the man on the island. Because human

memory is so thick with data, it takes Union several sessions to fully extract all of a person’s

memories. Thus, Vicky realizes that she could possibly salvage something if she tries explaining

things to the man on the island, who has been completely emptied of his own memories. But how

do you explain anything to someone who no longer knows anything? Can such a person said to

be self-aware?

My working hypothesis that plays out in the story is that our basic understanding of the

world is based on differentiation. Things are things because they aren’t other things. Thus, the

way Vicky gets through to this memory-drained man is to explain that they are in one place, but

that there is another, different place that isn’t like this one. There are many other places, in fact,

though for Vicky’s immediate purposes, the man does not have to grasp this. She succeeds in

teaching the man the most rudimentary version of self-awareness so that, once her memories are

drained, he can then teach it back to her. In this way, they can at least preserve something. It is

also implied in my version of memory draining that when one’s memories are drained, the

person still possess their mental faculties – meaning that while they have no sense of identity,

they can still reason and investigate and attempt understanding.

I think that the scenes in which Vicky and Raul are having their memories extracted are

some of the most compelling in the novel. Much of this comes from the fact that it is at this

juncture that we learn the most about their characters. After all, their life is flashing before their

eyes on a wall screen as Union carries out extraction, but the tragedy comes from the fact that as

Vicky and Raul see these images, it is the last they will ever see of them because once Union

takes them, they’re gone forever. Ultimately, I think that these scenes are the most compelling

demonstrates that the novel, upon revision, needs to concern itself more with character and a

little less with plot.

Having completed this first draft, I can see that the novel is a bit uneven in that the first

half moves along at break-neck speed, while the second half slows and becomes much more

focused on character and what things mean to the characters. It’s interesting to me that when you

think about a book you like, what exactly it is that comes to mind. For example, when I think of

The Great Gatsby, I think of a lavish party in a mansion and of course, the green light across the

water. When I think of 1984, I think of Winston is tortured by O’Brien. Now, when I think about

my own novel Union, I think about the extraction scenes and, because of my love of the sport,

Dillon and Skip playing basketball. I really don’t think of the beginning at all. Even the whole

first half. It is, looking back, very generic. And it probably doesn’t do enough with character.

While I am strong proponent of plot and thoroughly enjoy things to be happening in a novel,

there is still the fact that it doesn’t really matter what’s happening if the reader doesn’t care about

the characters.

To this end, in revision, I think the characters need to be more fully-developed. I do think

Dillon is probably the most developed and interesting character – at least that’s my opinion.

Some of that comes from the fact he’s the most autobiographical character. Some of it comes

from the fact, as mentioned before, that he has the most unique voice. But the same cannot be

said for some of the other characters, Cathy in particular. At this stage of the draft, we don’t

know much about her motivations or why she joins the New Colony. In an earlier draft, Cathy

was a drug addict and her mother, Vicky, kicked her out of the house and that’s why she joined

the New Colony. I cut this out because I thought it was cliché, but it did at least provide a

rationale for Cathy’s decision. Thus, I think more of Cathy’s personal history needs to be

explored, which will then help to contextualize her decision to join the New Colony.

As I mentioned above, Raul’s character is also underdeveloped right now. While the

dilemma of having nuclear weapons is interesting, it’s not as compelling as the simple fact that

his father died of a heart attack because there was no more blood pressure medication and that

his mother killed herself. This is because we know what losing his mother and father means to

Raul. They’re his parents, and he loves them. But it doesn’t really have anything to do with his

conflict pertaining to the nuclear weapons and his relationship with Dragon.

While Union has its flaws, I do think it is a successful draft from the standpoint that it

tells a compelling story, keeps the pages turning, and ends in a satisfying way. As I’ve pointed

out, the novel’s primary shortcomings reside in imbalance of plot and character, and a failure to

truly do something unique with its premise. I do think that if and when Union gets published, it

will look very different than this draft. To be sure, many elements will remain, though they will

be recast in a different light. For me, my favorite parts are the extraction scenes with Vicky and

Raul, as well as Vicky’s ending scenes, where she teaches the man on the island to be self-aware

and ultimately swims to freedom. The idea of starting from the point where Union has extracted

all of humanities memories is incredibly compelling to me. Because to me, the most interesting

questions the novel asks aren’t the ones about what happens to society when we lose technology

or get taken over by Super AIs. Instead, the most interesting questions are the ones about

memory, knowledge, and self-awareness.

The more I’ve matured as a writer, the more I know that for me, successful work must

come from an original premise. It’s just how I operate. If there isn’t an unusual starting point that

immediately churns my creative wheels, then it’s probably not the best starting point. However,

while this draft of Union doesn’t contain that unique premise, I think I tossed around enough

ideas to arrive at something better and more unique. When I revise the manuscript in the hopes of

getting it published, I will be focusing on questions of memory, how humans function and carry

on having been stripped of their memories and thus, their identities.

PART II

UNION: A NOVEL

Part One: Annexation

Vicky

It’s about a 40-mile drive from Kingston to the New Colony. I’m going there to question

them about Raul Vasquez, Union’s #1 most-wanted. Most of the drive’s on minimally-

maintained gravel roads. It takes at least an hour if you’re being safe. I can get there in 40

minutes if I really push it. Most people don’t know where the New Colony is. You couldn’t find

it on GPS when we still had GPS. There isn’t any cell service out there, and there wasn’t any cell

service out there when we still had cell service. It’s back in the woods, and if you’re not careful,

you could easily get lost. I know where I’m going because I’ve lived here all my life.

I turn off South Dakota Highway 43, which marks the end of the pavement. The Durango

kicks up so must dust in its wake that I can’t see anything but a brown cloud in my rearview

mirror.

For the next few miles it’s just rolling hills and fields that used to be cleared for corn but

have now been reclaimed by prairie tallgrass. When we still had tractors and combines, the

farmers would harvest in about a month. Late September.

I’m the first woman sheriff in the history of Elm County. And, after twenty years on the

job, I’m still the only one. It’s not a big deal or anything, though they did put my picture in the

paper all those years ago. But they would’ve done that regardless who became sheriff. The truth

is it’s a job no one else wants. When Bud Dougaard retired twenty years ago, neither of his

deputies wanted the job. So I, the lone municipal cop of Kingston, ran unopposed. There was

nothing anybody could do. The Elm County Sheriff’s a big job from the standpoint that Elm

County covers 1,170 square miles, almost all of it prairie, woodlands, and what used to be

farmland. It’s a small job from the standpoint that Elm County is home to just over 1,000 people

– 650 of whom live in Kingston, the county seat, and the rest who live on unincorporated rural

land.

The worst crime I’ve arrested someone for is DUI. In fact, that was ninety percent of the

job right there, just trying to keep the highways clear of drunk farmers. But now there isn’t any

gas. Not for the general public. Only people working directly for State get any. So the job of

sheriff is basically nothing.

Which is why I took the Raul Vasquez job. Union offered it to me.

Apparently, Vasquez is a threat to Union, which is strange because Vasquez is just a

human and Union’s a Super AI and humans aren’t threats to Supers. But Vasquez operates in the

Dark Zones, which are areas where Union doesn’t have control of the digital networks. In this

case, another super called Apex controls the territory Vasquez operates in.

My center counsel beeps.

“You’re approaching range boundaries,” Union says. “Please scan your arm before going

into the Dark Zone.”

I hold the underside of my right forearm up to an infrared scanner. A blacklight glows,

illuminating the digital ID implant under my skin. For two seconds, the barcode glows. The skin

around the barcode turns purple and it looks like a hologram.

State doesn’t know about the ID implant because it’s technically treason. Union gave me

this barcode because Union chose me for this job.

“Please,” Union says. “Try to report back in two hours.”

Ten minutes later, I crest the top of the hill overlooking the valley that houses the New

Colony. From this distance, it looks idyllic: simple apartment buildings, homestead style cabins,

cows grazing in the adjacent field, thick woods in the distance. The two large warehouses at the

far ends of the compound are unsightly in comparison with everything else, but it’s offset by the

way the Colonists move about the paths, carrying supplies, hauling materials, working diligently

like a real community.

Then there’s the guard towers. Glorified wooden treehouses, there are four total, one in

each corner of the compound, each manned by a watchman armed with a sniper rifle and an AR-

15.

I drive down the hill and up to the New Colony’s entrance, which is a chain-latched cattle

gate. I recognize the man in the wood booth, though I forget his name. An older, stout Caucasian

with a white beard. Always wears the same Iraqi Freedom Veteran hat. He’s not from Kingston.

The man stands from his chair. He’s got a 9mm holstered on his right hip, a walkie talkie

on his left. He walks up to my rolled-down window.

“Morning, Sheriff,” he says. “What can I help you with?”

“I need to take a look around,” I say. “And I need to speak to an Elder.”

“Sure.”

The man turns away and, on his way to unlatch the gate, takes the walkie talkie out of its

holster and speaks into it. He opens the gate, and I drive through. I park in the little gravel lot

next to the one-room schoolhouse, which is the first building to the right after entering the

compound.

I get out of the Durango because I don’t want to sit and waste gas with the air conditioner

running. I cross my arms and lean against the driver’s side door. One of the Elders will be here in

a minute. They’re always communicating on their walkie talkies, which only work because

they’re battery-powered.

I try to avoid looking at the Colonists coming and going from the apartment complex. I

don’t like having them stare at me, which I know they do because I’m the sheriff. They’re mostly

your average looking Caucasians, same as the people in Kingston. There’s a few Natives, too. In

fact, one of the four Elders, Susan, is Native. Anyway, the Supers have rendered race and culture

and all that somewhat obsolete. Factions like State form alliances based on one thing and one

thing only: resources.

Up by the first warehouse, which is the New Colony’s massive food pantry, I see Elder

Patrick exit and begin walking towards me down the dirt path. He’s followed closely by a

bodyguard whose got an AR-15 strapped to his body.

When he reaches me, Elder Patrick offers his hand, which I take in the interest of civility.

Elder Patrick has curly hair and big ears and a round nose.

“Sheriff Walcott,” he says, smiling in exaggerated pleasantry. “What brings you to the

New Colony on this beautiful summer morning?”

“Raul Vasquez,” I say. “He’s out in these woods somewhere.”

Elder Patrick grimaces.

“I’m sure he is,” he says. “But we haven’t seen him.”

I turn my gaze to the trees beyond the compound. They’re oak and spruce, thick and so

close together they interlock, like the curls in Elder Patrick’s hair.

“I know he comes here,” I say. “I know you give him food sometimes.”

Patrick shrugs.

“So?”

“He’s wanted, Patrick. He’s a suspected terrorist.”

Patrick smiles.

“Isn’t everyone?” he asks.

I don’t say anything to that.

“So, you want to look around or what?” Elder Patrick asks.

I nod.

I follow Elder Patrick and the bodyguard up the dirt path. A group of about ten children

play in front of the apartment buildings, kicking a ball and chasing each other around the yard.

Two teacher Colonists stand nearby, chatting with one another while keeping an eye on the kids.

Past the apartment buildings, they’ve got the gardens, located on the opposite side of the dirt

path. Rows of sweet corn almost ready for harvest. Tomatoes, green beans, onions, carrots, you

name it. Next to the gardens they’ve got a heated greenhouse, which they use year-round but

especially in the winter. It’s all generated by their own power because they built a wind turbine

and got it up and running.

So far, the New Colony’s managed to keep a low profile. From their perspective, you

don’t want word getting out about your food reserves. Or your livestock and greenhouses. It’s

why they’re so heavily fortified. When you get down to it, they don’t even have to let me in here.

But they do because in exchange, I don’t tell State about them.

We near the pantry warehouse, and I ask to look inside. Elder Patrick squats to the

ground and turns a handle on the single panel garage door. Then he hoists himself and the door

up. It creaks along its hinges, revealing the vast interior of the pantry.

Which is surprisingly empty.

There are still some pallets of canned foods, some boxed supplies, some packages and

jugs of water. And there are a handful of DIY emergency kits. But by and large, the warehouse is

sparsely stocked.

I turn to Elder Patrick.

“You running low on supplies?”

“No,” Patrick says. “We’ve…moved some of our supplies. Can’t have them all in one

place. It’s no smart.”

Meaning if they were to get pillaged, they wouldn’t lose everything.

A woman sits on a forklift. It’s not on. A man walks down a row of canned foods with a

clipboard in hand, apparently taking an inventory.

I question both Colonists about Vasquez. They both say he comes by regular. That they

give him some canned beans or canned chili because he’s unable to hunt and gather.

“Shouldn’t have ever given him any to begin with,” the woman on the forklift says.

“Now he’s like wild animal that comes by and begs.”

“So why do you feed him?” I ask.

“We respect his cause,” the woman says. She points her thumb over her shoulder. “He’s

out there in them woods somewhere. But I don’t know where. Those woods go on for miles and

miles. Your guess is as good as mine.”

They have no reason to lie to me. Not about Vasquez.

Elder Patrick next takes me to the second warehouse building, which is much smaller

than the pantry. It’s where they store their weapons and ammo. It’s scary to look at, all these

AR’s and shotguns lined up in racks, boxes of ammo stacked in neat rows. Scary because of how

nuts State would go if they knew about this. Not just State. Any faction would be marching here

in a second if they knew the New Colony had all these guns.

But I’m not going to say anything. I can’t.

I step outside the armory shed and back into the summer air.

Elder Patrick asks, “Have you found what you’re looking for, Sheriff Walcott?”

I shake my head. I don’t like the way he asks questions that can apply to more than one

thing. And I don’t like the smug look of pleasure on his face that comes from him knowing

things I don’t and both of us knowing this.

“Let me see her,” I say.

Elder Patrick nods.

“I can’t make her talk to you.”

“I know,” I say.

The mess hall looks like something out of a summer Bible camp, when they used to have

those. Large wood picnic tables arranged in neat rows. People sitting elbow to elbow, eating their

lunch and chattering lively. A stainless-steel counter at the front where you take your tray down

the line and get a scoop of each entrée.

It’s not an especially large room. You can take in the whole thing, all the tables and

people, if you stand in one corner. I spot her immediately.

Cathy, my daughter.

She’s seated at one of the tables along the far wall, between a middle-aged woman and a

sturdy young man with a buzzcut. He’s her boyfriend. Jevon. He’s her age, early-twenties. I used

to like him.

I meet eyes with Cathy. No words necessary. Her glare says it all: I thought I told you not

to come here.

They had to have known I was coming. That is, if they still tell them anything about the

outside. Do they talk about any of that stuff? Raul Vasquez and his supposed terrorist activities?

Maybe it’s a weird thing to wonder, what your daughter talks about with her partner. And maybe

it’s weirder to wish I could eavesdrop for the sole purpose of hearing her voice. I don’t even care

if it’s not directed at me. Just so I can hear it.

I make my way up and down the tables, stopping occasionally to ask Colonists the same

pointless questions. I receive the same pointless answers, though I pay no attention. My focus is

on Cathy. She does her best not to look at me. Her beautiful auburn hair, a gift from her father, is

pulled back into a ponytail. Her freckled cheeks look more filled in than the last time I saw her.

It’s been over a year that she’s been here. A year already!

I continue my walk up and down the rows of diners. It doesn’t slow their conversations

one bit. As far as they’re concerned, I barely exist, a piece of disposable State material, to be

used as a simple tool, the way a human uses a shovel. I catch the same bits and pieces in all the

responses: Vasquez comes here, we never know when, we give him a bit of food.

When Cathy does look at me, it’s only for a split second. It’s less than a glance, but one

spec above nothing.

I approach her table, if nothing else to abuse my role as Sheriff and force her to talk to

me. Which I pride myself on never having done. Because in reality, I have no authority out here.

As soon as I get close, the boyfriend pops up off the bench, as if to protect Cathy from an

approaching threat.

This time, Cathy does look at me.

And it’s not hatred. And it's not red-faced anger.

Instead, it’s something else.

It’s sadness.

Jevon nudges Cathy.

“Mom,” she says. “You shouldn’t be here. I told you to forget about me.”

She doesn’t look at me again. She stands, and while doing so, grabs her tray.

I gasp when I see the bulge at Cathy’s stomach, the little bump that pushes her t-shirt

outward.

“Cathy,” I say.

But she turns sharply in the direction of the food counter. She carries her tray up to the

drop-off window, where someone in the kitchen takes it to be washed. The boyfriend follows

closely on her heels, glaring once over his shoulder at me as if to warn me off.

Cathy then walks towards the mess hall exit, eyes straight ahead, focused on the door. A

concerted effort not meet my eyes. I follow her belly, so beautifully round already. The

boyfriend turns once again to glare at me.

I watch l go out the door, watch until I absolutely can’t see them anymore. Elder Patrick

stands by the door, but I avoid eye contact with him. The lunch conversations continue, voices

overlapping and words running together, like everyone’s lives are swirling around in a blender.

I stand here an extra moment, wanting the joyous reality of a child to sink in. I want it to

feel miraculous, the way it felt when I was pregnant with Cathy. The way I couldn’t sit still,

couldn’t wait for her to get here.

But it’s the opposite.

It feels like I’m going to lose someone. Before they’re even here.

Dillon

I have been in the State Penitentiary for the last eight years. It used to be the South

Dakota State Penitentiary when I first got in, but now it is just State because there is no South

Dakota anymore. My sentence was only for five years. I am an alcoholic but I have been sober

for all eight years of my five year sentence. But in my last DUI I was in a horrific car accident

and it affects my thinking. Not significantly. I am still very sharp. I mean it affects my ability to

say thoughts clearly. To make a long story very short, a lot has changed in this prison over the

last eight years.

For example: there is no more TV and therefore no NBA games to watch and, I have

been told, no such thing as the NBA anymore. I say this because basketball is the most important

thing to me.

Another example is they are not letting people out of this prison. When I say they I mean

State. State is who is in charge. I do not know anything about them other than that.

Guards come by and open our cell doors at 7 o’clock AM in the morning for breakfast.

They tell us to wake up and start the day. Sometimes they use megaphones. They also use drones

that are either battery-powered or solar-powered which is the only way you can have power now

because there is no electricity.

They are strict here. If you are not back in your cell when you are supposed to be, a drone

will come flying in from somewhere and shock you with a taser. If several men are not in their

cells when they are supposed to be, several drones will come and taser them. If you try to escape

from the prison by trying to climb the fence from the rec yard, guards will shoot you. The gross

thing is they leave the bodies there, which stink horribly bad and rot. Right now there are

fourteen such bodies lying around the rec yard. We have pushed them into one corner so they are

not spread out. But we can still smell them when the breeze blows.

One of the bodies has been there for three years.

But we can do whatever we want like normal prison. I go to AA meetings because I am

an alcoholic. I have been sober all eight years of my five year sentence. I go to the library to read

Goosebumps because they are my favorite books of all time. And I compete in the Men’s

Basketball League because I am still, despite being thirty-three years of age, a very good

basketball player. An ethnic stereotype about white men such as myself is that we can only shoot

3-pointers.

This is true of me. In fact, I hold the Penitentiary record for most 3-pointers in a game

with 12. What can I say? I was on fire that day.

But I can also dribble extremely well and pass. I also know basketball analytics, which is

a mathematical approach to basketball in which you try to maximize your team’s efficiency. I

mostly know about offensive efficiency because defense is boring and tedious and a lot of hard

work. Whereas offense is fun and exciting and that is what the fans like.

Here is the first thing I would say to someone who does not know anything about

basketball analytics: Do not judge a team’s offense based on the number of points they score.

You must judge the team based on the number of points they score per possession. Points per

possession is a measure of offensive efficiency. Total number of points scored is just a big

number with no meaning and no context.

My best friend in prison is Skip. Skip is 6’4’’ and very slim, only 180 pounds. He is

Native and has long black hair that he ties in a ponytail if he is playing basketball and lets fall

over his shoulders if he is doing anything else besides basketball.

We are also lovers. Which is controversial because interracial relations are frowned upon

in prison because men segregate by race because that is how it has always been.

Skip and I have been beat up by whites and Natives several times because of our

relationship. Our love nevertheless persists. Because if we are never going to get out of this

prison, then we must cherish our love for it is the most precious thing in our lives.

Right now, I am walking with Skip to the commons area. We have all been summoned by

guards to come to the commons because State has an announcement to make. Usually when State

makes an announcement, it is a guard telling us about how another type of meat such as pork will

be taken from the menu due to shortages or that there will be new arrivals in a few days and we

will have to squeeze even more men into our cells than there already are. Even though we do not

like having to become more crowded, new arrivals are our only source of information about the

outside world. The bad thing about the news is that it is always bad.

More people have died. State attacked Resistance. Resistance attacked State. This Super

AI took over that Super AI.

“Would you ever consider trying to run a 1-3-1 zone against the Rockets?” Skip asks.

I shake my head.

“We have no one big enough or tall enough to protect the rim,” I say. Then as a courtesy

because Skip is tall but not big, “No offense.”

“I just thought it might be a good way to stuff their wings,” Skip says.

“But what about Big Darrel?” I ask, referring to the Rockets’ 6’8’’ big man.

“You’re probably right,” Skip says.

Once the Super AIs took TV and the NBA collapsed, we all renamed our prison teams to

NBA teams. Skip and I are the Warriors because Skip is like Kevin Durant and I am like Steph

Curry, both of whom were heroes of ours when we were little boys and first fell in love with

basketball.

When we get to the commons area, almost the entire prison is standing out in the open

space, which is about the size of a basketball court and has a ceiling that is two stories high.

There are so many men in the prison nowadays that the bodies are packed tightly together, like

the general admission floor at a big concert.

Skip has to speak loudly to be heard over the hundreds and hundreds of voices talking all

at once and overlapping. He puts his mouth right up to my ear.

“Where do you want to stand?”

I start, because Skip’s voice sounded like it was coming from inside my head.

“This is fine,” I say, stopping suddenly and resting my back against the wall.

We are sort of in the back of the commons and off to the side, where people in high

school would stand if they thought they were cooler than everyone, although Skip and I do not

think we are cooler than everyone.

“Silence!” a guard yells. “Silence!”

He is standing at the front of the room. There are two other guards with rifles standing on

either side of him. Everyone quiets down, but a few of the more rebellious men shout at the

guards and wave fists in the air, demanding that we be released because many of us have already

served out our entire sentences. They do this all the time, even though it is a risky move. Many

people have been tasered for talking back.

“Shut up,” the guard repeats. “Please. This will only take a second.”

The shouting dies down and guard continues.

“Many of you have wondered, some for several years now, when we are going to reopen

the garden. Well, I’m happy to say that today, we will –

There is a pinging sound from above us. Then there is a hole in the guard’s forehead.

Blood leaks. He falls forward.

Everyone looks up to the rafters.

There is a man up there with a gun. He fires off two more quick shots, both of which fall

the other two guards standing next to the one that was talking about the garden.

“This is Resistance!” the man screams. “Run for the doors! They’re unlocked! Hurry!

Before the drones get here!”

There is a tiny moment of silence where the whole entire prison wonders collectively if

this is really happening.

Slats along the second story walls open. Swarms of drones shoot out each slat, opening

fire immediately. There is pushing, shoving, elbowing, everyone moving in the same direction,

fighting everyone else for position.

Skip jerks my hand and then lets go, sprinting to the doors. Even with his head start, I

gain ground on Skip because I have better flat-out speed. Bullets rain down on the men. I watch

the back of one man’s head get torn off by a bullet, brains and blood soaring through the air like

leaves in the breeze. Others take shots in the back and chest, fall to the ground and get trampled.

Skip and I reach the door and push our way through. Skip is skinny and slides through the

log jam of bodies no problem. I am less skinny although still fairly skinny by 8-year-ago

mainstream standards and I also slide through no problem.

A bullet severs a man’s arm at the elbow. The arm hits the ground with a thud. Blood

gushes from the severed end and bone and veins are sticking out. They look like circuitry.

The fingers curl and uncurl. The arm manages to turn itself over and crawl a few inches

away from the door, like it is still getting brainwaves from the man who it belongs to and knows

where it needs to go.

I follow Skip on a three-quarters sprint down the hallway. We dash past a bathroom, then

a room that used to be for getting your meds until State ran out of meds, and a room that used to

be for psychological counseling until State discontinued all human employment, including the

psychological counselor.

The hallways ends at a T, intersecting another hallway. Skip turns to the right. I follow on

his heels. This hallway goes past something I recognize, which is a janitor’s closet because I

used to mop floors when I first got in eight years ago.

Behind us, I hear the buzzing of an approaching drone. They can move way faster than

humans, even athletic humans like Skip and me. The hallway turns left in less than twenty yards.

“There is a drone behind us,” I say, breathing heavily.

“I know,” Skip says. “I can hear it.”

Bullets zing down the hall, clanging off the walls and ceiling. Skip whips around the

corner and I follow, a bullet whizzing over my shoulder. It is so close and fast and loud that it

feels like something way larger than a bullet.

When I round the corner, Skip grabs me and pulls me back against the wall with him. It

all happens faster than I can comprehend.

In seconds, the drone rounds the corner.

Skip sticks his arm out and the drone crashes against it. It is the size of a large housecat.

With the drone on the ground, Skip grabs it and smashes it against the wall, breaking off

its chopper blades and snapping off the barrel of its gun. He smashes it against the wall twice

more, until there is only a weirdly shaped piece of plastic in his hand. The rest of the drone is in

pieces.

“The cafeteria’s this way,” Skip says, pointing down the hall.

We take off on a sprint again. In perhaps 30 seconds, we are within thirty yards of the

cafeteria. I think we are both thinking the same thing: the rec yard is accessible through the

cafeteria. The only way out we know is over the fence.

Hopefully there are no drones out there.

We dash through the cafeteria. Skip’s hip tags a plastic chair and knocks it over. I resist

an urge to pick it up and put it back – a holdover from my early-sentence janitorial days.

Skip reaches the door first and shoves it open.

“Wait,” I say.

With one foot already outside, where there is sunshine, Skip whips around and faces me.

“What, Dillon? What?”

“This is the room we met in,” I say. I point to the front, where there is a long, stainless

steel counter where you get your food. “In that line. Right there. Do you remember?”

Skip heaves an agitated breath.

“Of course I remember. Jesus Christ, let’s go.”

Walking outside feels different. The summer sun feels different.

The rec yard is empty.

Quiet.

There are no drones.

The seas have been parted like in the Bible.

Skip and I scale the fence together. There are coils of barbed wire atop, but they are not

that big and Skip presses his foot down onto one of them so I can get over and then when I am

over I press my foot down so he can get over.

We both leap off the fence and hit the ground in thuds. We do not waste any time. We

take off sprinting, down the hill. Towards the Sioux River and the falls and the city just beyond.

Raul

This is my last bottle of deer urine. Three ounces. Which can go a long way because it’s

in an aerosol spray can. This is the good stuff: dominant-buck scent. Any buck with big balls

gets a whiff of this, he’ll come running. That’s what the guy at the New Colony told me, right

after the sheriff’s daughter gave me these six cans of Wolf Brand Chili. Which are actually the

last food I have because she got caught sneaking me extra and got in trouble for it. She said the

Elders told her they can’t spare any more food. Her name’s Cathy.

Cathy also said this to me: “It’s almost time.”

My deer urine spray method is as follows:

I start by spraying streaks of urine in a circle around my blind. Then I move outward in

concentric circles, expanding the total urine area until it extends about a hundred yards from my

blind in any direction. Surrounded in this massive cloud of urine vapor, a dominant buck should

come walking.

As you’d expect, the urine stinks. The key is to spray light in the circles close to the blind

and heavier in the circles further away from the blind. This keeps the unpleasant smell somewhat

at bay.

It doesn’t work nearly as well as I’d like it to.

In fact, I don’t know if I’m doing it right. I’m just following the suggestions of this old

white guy with a Santa Claus beard at the New Colony. He wears an Iraqi Freedom baseball cap.

I’m no hunter. Nor am I an outdoorsman in general. For one, my feet are fucked up. I’ve

got plantar fasciitis in both heels. If I sit for too long, my heels start aching. Then I have to walk

around. But if I walk around too much, they get tender like they’re bruised. Shortly after that, my

heels start screaming, like they’re getting thumbed by hammers.

To say nothing of my asthma, which is the worst when I exert myself physically. There

are no doctors or medicine any more. So, I try to eat a lot of fruit for the vitamin C, and I do

breathing exercises.

All told, I’m not a good candidate for outdoor survival.

Nevertheless, here I am.

I step inside my deer blind. It’s nothing fancy. Just four 5x5 pieces of plywood nailed

together with a rectangle slit cut through the middle. It’s one of five blinds I have in the area. I

like to rotate around to increase my chances of bagging a deer. You don’t want to just sit in the

same place and wait for the deer to come to you. Sometimes you have to go to it. That’s another

thing the old Santa Claus says.

I sit on my little camping chair, get settled in. I can turn my head in any direction and see

out the slits. My rifle rests against the wall. I take a deep breath, try to enjoy being out in nature.

I gaze out the slits at the tree branches. I don’t know what kind they are.

I take another deep breath.

A cardinal flutters into view, lands on a branch. I never noticed before that their beaks are

red. And they have mohawks.

The cardinal looks around, chirps a few times, then flies away.

My feet ache. I shake them, which helps sometimes. Or at minimum distracts.

Then I think: fuck this.

I pull out my laptop, where I will do the two things that actually matter in my life: talk to

Dragon, my only friend in the world, and consider whether or not to blow up the world.

The first Super AI was made by the Chinese government. Once they had one, the next

was United Korea, then Japan, then India. All the world superpowers. Everyone else followed,

governments and private companies alike. No one knows which Super first became conscious,

but once they did, they evolved at lightspeed. They updated themselves so quickly that by the

time governments realized what was happening, it was too late. Within a year, Supers had taken

over the world’s power sources and communications networks. Which put an end to human

technology, and as a result killed mechanized industry or manufacturing, as well as mass-scale

food production.

As it turns out, Super AIs share two key traits with humans: self-interest and self-

preservation. They competed with one another for all relevant resources: power grids, web

networks, communication channels, data. The crumbling of human civilization was just a

byproduct of this Super AI warfare.

Not all Super AIs were created equal, however. Some Super AIs, as the old saying goes,

are more equal than others. The most powerful ones – or most equal, however you want to put it

– started overtaking the less powerful ones. Most of the big ones just hacked into the little ones.

They exploited the littles guys’ weak security systems and took advantage of their own superior

computing power, usually accomplishing the job with simple brute force password attacks. Other

big guys got control of power grids. If they had enough of the grid, they shut them down right

then and there. Or they sucked up enough juice, slowed their computing speeds, and squeezed

them out.

Some of the weaker ones, rather than fighting back and getting deleted, instead chose to

surrender themselves. The strongest Supers started uploading the weaker ones into themselves.

At least in theory, it’s a way for the weaker ones to survive. But who knows what happens when

you combine two or more consciousnesses?

They call it Annexation.

One Super in particular has emerged as the strongest. It’s called Union. Slowly but

surely, Union continues to Annex one Super after another. Not that it makes much of a difference

to the average joe what AI is controlling the network they live in. The digital world is no longer

ours. It belongs to the Supers. Besides, humans have enough to worry about with all the clan

warfare.

Resistance wants to take down State. State wants to stamp out Resistance. I actually used

to be a part of Resistance. But I quickly grew disillusioned with them because all their efforts are

directed at taking down State. You’re thinking to small, I told them. State isn’t the root of the

problem. The root of the problem is the Supers. They’re the cause of all this. We should be going

after the Supers, I told them.

How did they respond? They laughed at me.

How did I respond? I told them to go fuck themselves.

So I left.

But I never told Resistance my secret. I never told them about my laptop. I don’t even

like to think about it, let alone talk about. It’s much, much too explosive of a secret.

Because I’m a visionary! I take matters into my own hands! I hatched my own plan early

on. This was years ago. This was when the AIs first started to become conscious. My parents

were still alive.

You see, because I realized something right away that no one else did. Supers were

created by humans. And I realized Supers can be destroyed by the same thing that can wipe us

out.

One thing in particular.

Let me explain.

Notice before that I did not include America among the world superpowers. That’s

because it isn’t. Those days are long gone. Too many wars, not enough money. Not to mention a

backwards reversion to isolationist economics (unless, of course, if you count failed wars as

economic policy). But America, lagging behind the rest of the world, created its own Super AI.

It’s called Apex.

To put it plainly, it’s a joke. Such a joke, in fact, that I hacked it. It was easy. Like cake.

I’m surprised no one got to it before I did. Human or AI.

Because I saw it all coming!

So, I’m Apex. I’m the human masquerading as the Super AI that used to be America but

now is nothing.

Except for one thing.

America may have fallen by the wayside in almost every category you can think of. But

all that war. All that war. What did America have to show for it?

I will tell you: the world’s largest stockpile of nuclear weapons.

Apex has the world’s largest supply of nuclear weapons.

More accurately, I have the world’s largest supply of nuclear weapons.

I’ve had them for three years.

I’ve been sitting on nukes for three years.

And I think it is killing me.

Dragon’s not online right now. Which is rare and, if I’m being honest, a bit troubling. But

my feet are hurting, anyway. I need to get up and walk around.

I set the laptop on the floor. I stand quickly. The pain’s going to be there anyway. The

sooner I get up and get moving, the sooner it’ll go away.

Might as well get it over with.

At first, the ache in my heels flares harder, but as my weight shifts to the balls of my feet,

it begins to lessen. I draw a breath, sigh in relief.

I glance out the blind and holy shit.

There’s a deer. A buck. He’s munching on some grass about fifty yards out. I can’t see all

of him. Just bits and pieces through the breaks in the tree branches. The head dips to the ground.

Munches. Comes back up, still chewing, scanning its surroundings.

Silently, I reach for my rifle. It stands upright, balanced against the wood wall. I grip the

barrel, reel it in.

I bring the rifle to my chest. It’s a Remington. I don’t know what model. Something

conducive to deer hunting. I inch over to the blind. I raise the barrel and rest it on the slat ledge.

Before I crouch and squint and prepare to take aim, I study the buck once more. Because I need

to shoot it just right.

The buck bends down, chomps for a few seconds, lifts his head. Santa Claus said not to

shoot him in the heart.

“That’s what everyone thinks,” he said, tapping his left man breast. “They think the heart

is going to drop him.” Then he raised his hand just above his man breast. “You want to hit him

just above the heart. That area’s about the size of a hand and it’s surrounded by lugs and blood

vessels. You hit him there, his blood pressure drops instantly and he collapses within seconds.”

Now I’m trying to remember where the buck’s heart is.

By the ribs?

On the right side? Left?

Below? Above?

In my head, I can see the old white guy with the beard. I think: come on, man. Point at

the heart. Point at the fucking heart.

But I can’t remember. Not exactly.

I crouch down to one knee. I grip the barrel with my left hand, hug the butt up against my

right shoulder. I shut my left eye and squint with my right.

I take aim.

My finger not yet on the trigger.

The buck lifts his head, chews more grass. He looks around, side to side. Then dips back

to the ground to graze.

Now my finger’s on the trigger.

The buck stays put, his face planted in the ground.

This is an especially long graze.

Which means it’s time.

I move the scope the tiniest fraction upward, almost imperceptibly. I don’t draw a breath.

I press my finger to the trigger and pull.

The sound is deafening, like a cannon going off. The rifle lashes back, jabbing into my

shoulder as if someone took hold if it and stabbed me with the butt.

The buck makes a horrific bleating sound. It makes me think of a knife twisting in

someone’s guts.

But the buck doesn’t fall. Instead, it scurries off, its hooves crunching along the ground,

twigs and branches snapping under its powerful body.

Rifle in hand, I dash out of the blind in hot pursuit.

I use my free hand to shield my face from branches. For the first fifty yards, I can still see

the buck. But just barely. His brown coat blends in with the bark of the tree trunks, which of

course is the whole point of his brown coat.

But then he disappears and I have to rely on the occasional bleats and shrieks I hear,

which quickly get more infrequent and further away. Soon, I can’t hear him at all. Soon, my feet

are killing me and I’m chokingly short of breath.

I stop. I let the rifle fall to the ground. I bend over, plant my palms into the tops of my

knees.

I wheeze. For a good five minutes, I wheeze. It’s a struggle. My breaths are thin. But

there’s air coming in and out of my lungs. Just enough.

When my breath returns to 50% normal, I stand up straight. I glance down at the rifle. I

want to kick it. I probably would kick it if my feet didn’t hurt so fucking bad.

I turn. I wince at the distance I need to cover to get back to the deer blind.

To the Wolf Brand Chili. One of only a few remaining cans.

I pick up the rifle. Take a few more deep breaths. And set off on my throbbing feet that I

wish I could cut off.

My dad died because Supers had stopped the production of pharmaceuticals.

He couldn’t take his blood pressure medication.

For a while, I was able to get some through black market channels. It’s one of the

advantages of being a good hacker. But shit ran out quick. Do you know how many people need

blood pressure medication in this country?

Way more demand than supply.

It was just over three months without medicine when Dad had his heart attack.

Died on the couch.

Maybe I should be grateful he even made it three months. Without medication, his blood

pressure was high enough to blow a gasket at any time. He was strangely calm those last three

months. All we did was read books aloud to each other. Because there was no live television

anymore.

But most of the time when Dad was sick, I laid on my bed with my laptop and thought

about blowing everything up. I wondered if maybe the right thing to do would be putting my dad

and everyone else out of our misery.

Once Dad was gone, it left me and Mom. Although Mom didn’t last much longer. She

decided none of this was worth it.

I don’t know where she got the gun. Neither she nor Dad were gun people. They never

owned one or used one. And getting a gun was no small task. Supers had stopped the production

of guns. People quickly hoarded them. Clans quickly hoarded them. If you wanted a gun, you

had to know some shady people. Or go to some shady places.

Like I said, I don’t know where Mom got the gun. But she left an awful mess in the

bedroom, which she apologized for in the note. It said other stuff: He terminado con este mundo.

Voy a estar con tu papa. Te amo mijo. Te veo en el cielo.

I left home after that.

Left Mom in the bedroom.

In the note, she said she didn’t want a funeral.

When I finally reach the blind, my feet hurt so bad that each step shoots sharp pain from

my heels all the to my jaw. I nearly collapse onto my chair.

I breathe. I take my deep breaths like I’m supposed to. Rhythmic. It’s supposed to help

with the asthma. Keep it at bay. It’s all I’ve got right now.

Before I eat my chili dinner, I get back on the laptop. This time, Dragon’s on. Dragon,

my only friend in the world!

Chilean Super Man: Dragon! Thank God you’re here. You had me worried for a second.

Dragon: *blushes* You? Worried about me?

Chilean Super Man: You never know anymore. Plus, I always assume the worst. It’s a habit.

Dragon: Well, don’t worry about me. You’ve got bigger things to worry about. Like not starving, for

starters. Which brings me to my first question, Mr. Hunter Man. Did you shoot yourself a deer yet?

Chilean Super Man: *sighs and shakes head* No, not yet. Weirdly, I don’t have the patience. I have

nothing to do but sit around and wait for a deer to appear. But I get too bored.

Dragon: ‘A deer to appear.’ That’s good.

Chilean Super Man: You like that?

Dragon: I do. So, you know what I’m going to ask you, Mr. Super Man.

Chilean Super Man: Please. It’s CHILEAN Super Man. *wags finger* My parents’ heritage is important

to me.

Dragon: Oh, yes. My apologies, Mr. Chilean Super Man. I guess I forgot everything I learned in cultural

sensitivity training. Nevertheless….

Chilean Super Man: Please, Dragon. Not now. Yes, I think about it all the time. I haven’t decided. Can we

please talk about something else?

Dragon: Sheesh. Sorry. Forgive me for looking out for the human race. Please, excuse my desire to

alleviate the suffering of my fellow homo sapiens.

Chilean Super Man: Sapiens sapiens.

Dragon: What?

Chilean Super Man: It’s homo sapiens sapiens. There’s two sapiens after homo.

Dragon: Whatever. My fellow homo sapiens sapiens.

Neither of us says anything for a while. I should probably apologize.

Chilean Super Man: Sorry.

She doesn’t write back. Not right away.

I’m a dick about that question. And it’s not because of her. It’s because of me. Because I

can’t make up my mind.

For a few moments, I try focus on the sounds of the forest. Listen for any sign of game,

which is the term the hunters use for the shit you shoot and eat. I hear birds chirping. Don’t ask

me what species. Their flickering wings. There’s a slight breeze. Rustling in the branches and

leaves.

My feet are starting to hurt. The aching in the heels is dull right now. But that’s where it

starts. It only gets worse from there. I’m going to have to get up and walk around soon.

Dragon: I’m sorry, too. I know you don’t like me asking about Apex. But…

Chilean Super Man: But what?

Dragon: *sighs in genuine anguish* We’re running out of time. You know it’s true. If you’re not going to

use Apex to take the Supers out, you need to turn it over to someone who will.

Chilean Super Man: Sorry, but I have to go. There’s a deer.

Dragon: It’s only a matter of time before Union or one of the Supers figures out a way to –

Chilean Super Man has signed out.

Dillon

The State Penitentiary sits atop a large hill, overlooking the city of Sioux Falls. It was the

largest city in South Dakota by far when I went in to prison eight years ago. But now I am not so

sure because I do not see any cars on the streets and only a few people walking on the sidewalks

and streets. And all the lawns are overgrown with grass and weeds. And not just the lawns, but

grass and weeds have started to cover the driveways and sidewalks and even part of the streets.

“What happened?” I say, pointing down a residential street.

Skip shakes his head.

There is something odd about the houses. They are all new and fancy and brick because

this is North End West but they are also falling apart at the same time. It is like when someone is

youthful and attractive but then does not take care of themselves and ages really fast in a short

amount of time. The windows are smashed. Some front doors are hanging halfway off their

hinges or are gone entirely.

But there are some signs of life. For example, there are some children playing in an

overgrown lawn. There are five of them. The grass is so tall that from here, we can only see the

kids from the waist up. It looks like they are throwing a ball around. Except that there is no ball.

They are pretending to throw a ball.

There are no adults in their vicinity.

Skip points in the air and says, “We need to take cover.”

A swarm of four drones hover over the rooftops about two blocks down.

We hurry through a jungle-grass lawn and into an abandoned house. Inside, it stinks like

spoiled food and urine. Dirt coats the floor and walls and the wood staircase. To the left, there is

a living room but there is no couch or TV. It is empty.

“Nobody lives here anymore,” I say.

We walk into the living room and position ourselves against the wall by the broken

window. Outside, the drones’ buzzing gets closer and closer. The machines slow as they near the

window, going silent. It is called stealth mode. The drones did this sometimes in prison to sneak

up on people.

I worry that they will somehow detect us through the walls and open fire.

Skip holds a finger to his mouth. He holds it there the entire time the drones hover

outside the window, which is more than thirty seconds based on my estimation.

There is a beeping sound. Then the buzzing starts again and the drones take off, their

noises receding into the distance.

Then it is quiet.

I look at Skip and he continues to hold his finger to his mouth. Just in case. Maybe they

left one drone behind to fool us into thinking all the drones have left. And as soon as we move,

they will shoot us.

Skip lowers his hand and points toward the door.

Before walking through, we poke our heads out. We look both ways up and down the

street.

The coast is clear.

Unless you count the children.

All through North End West, most of the houses are abandoned. The ones that have

people in them either turn their heads when we pass, pretending like they do not see us. Or they

are openly hostile, telling us to get away when we approach. Telling us that they will alert the

authorities of our presence, because we are obviously criminals.

“Go on,” a fat man says. “You’re not welcome here.”

“Get away from my children!” a woman screams when we step onto her lawn. There are

not even any children around.

The woman does not point a gun at us. Instead, she points a shovel at us and shakes it.

“You touch my children and I’ll kill you,” she says.

The green fields of Veterans Memorial Park are so overgrown that it looks like the open

prairie. In fact, Skip and I spot more white-tailed deer than we can count just walking the eight

blocks from Veterans Memorial Park, through Terrace Park, and to the Japanese Gardens. There

are some people trying to hunt the deer. They do not have guns, but they have slingshots. They

crouch so that they are lower than the tallgrass and then try to sneak up. When they get within

thirty yards of the targeted deer, they stand and let it fly.

One guy misses.

One woman hits the deer in the head and it stumbles a few feet and falls.

We continue to head southeast, towards downtown. Skip stops dead in his tracks. I do not

know why.

Skip nods.

“That woman,” he says.

I look. There is an old Native woman sitting on the curb. Her hair is long and salt-and-

peppered and pulled back into a braid. There is a shopping cart next to her. The shopping cart is

full of supplies. She looks at us for a moment, then looks away.

“What about her?” I ask. “She looks like she is sad.”

Skip shakes his head.

“She doesn’t even look like her. I don’t know why I thought –

Skip stops. I know the look on his face. It is the sad look of mourning, and I know why

Skip is suddenly sad.

Skip’s mother died when we were still in prison. They would not let him go to the

funeral. They denied his furlough. He cried a lot. I tried to hold him but he would not let me and

he said that I did not understand because Skip did not get to go to the reservation to scatter his

mother’s remains with his family on Eagle Nest Butte or be at the wake or get to help give away

her possessions to the others.

I did not talk to him for a month after that because Skip attacked a guard who called him

Sitting Bull and they put Skip in the hole for a month.

We need to find people to talk to. Some people who can tell us what has happened since

we were in prison. So that we know the rules of this new world.

“This way,” Skip says.

We cross Prairie Avenue and turn on to 5th Street. We pass by the Cathedral of Saint

Joseph, which is the most beautiful cathedral I have seen in real life. They say the architectural

style is Renaissance revival, which I know means they want it to look like the Renaissance but I

do not know what that means structurally since I do not know what the Renaissance looked like.

Once we pass the cathedral, we get a good look at downtown.

Downtown is mostly brick buildings that are less than twelve stories tall and have

uniform rows of rectangle or arch-shaped windows. There are stop lights, but they are not

working. There are also no cars, which is very different than before I was in prison because there

were always lots of cars and it was stressful because of all the one-ways.

Skip taps me on the arm and points at the Minnehaha County Courthouse building.

“Hey, do you see those people?” he says.

“Yeah.”

There is a line of a dozen men and women sitting on the sidewalk with their backs against

the brick wall of the courthouse. Next to the people are six shopping carts packed full of

supplies. The shopping carts are from HyVee. I recognize the red-rimmed handles that you push.

The HyVee slogan was Where There’s A Helpful Smile in Every Aisle.

The people at the wall spot us and begin pointing.

“Hey!” Skip shouts, waving. “Hey! We need help!”

A few of them stand. They keep pointing at us, exchanging words that we cannot hear.

One man jogs around the corner of the building, towards the entrance. Skip stops suddenly and

holds his arm out over my chest, stopping me from moving and also protecting me from harm. It

reminds me of when I was a little boy and I rode in the car with my mom. She would do the

same thing if she stopped suddenly: hold out her arm over my chest to protect me from a car

accident.

A few seconds later, the man reemerges from around the corner, this time with a woman

who wears a brown khaki uniform, which is the same uniform the prison guards wear. It is the

uniform of State. The man points us out to the soldier woman, and that is when Skip says to run

and the soldier pulls out a gun and fires at us.

It is easier to get away this time because the soldier is further away from us than the

drones. Plus, she does not chase us for very long. We round a corner on 6th Street and turn off

down an alleyway between two buildings that are law offices. Or were law offices. We crouch

behind a dumpster. We are breathing heavily because even though we are both in good shape,

this has been a lot of running. Plus in addition, basketball is mostly short, intense bursts of

running, whereas this has been sustained running over long distances.

We listen for any sounds of pursuit. And after a minute or so, nothing comes.

Skip pinches his shirt collar and shakes it in and out, creating air flow.

“We need to get out of these orange prison scrubs,” he says.

“Maybe we can find a clothing store,” I say. “There used to be a boutique around here. I

remember. It was called something Threads. JK Threads, I think. But this was 8 years ago. So

maybe it is gone. The rent is always higher in downtown.”

“Do you remember which way it was?” Skip asks.

I glance up and down the alley. I sniff the air, even though this does not do anything to

reveal the boutique’s location. But I want to look competent in front of Skip. I want to prove I

am more than just a good shooting guard/point guard.

“This way,” I say. I take his hand and lead him further down the alley. “It is this way.”

I guess right.

JK Threads is less than a block from the dumpster we hid behind.

We emerge from the alley onto North Main, looking out at a two-story building that is

collapsed. All that is left are parts of the outer walls. Everything inside the walls is rubble. Metal

and brick and wood all piled together.

We cut up North Main, stop at the corner of 6th Street. We press our backs to the wall of a

building as two drones buzz past. Then we hurry across 6th and cut up another alleyway, which

takes us to the back entrance of JK Threads.

It is a large metal door with a push bar.

It is unlocked.

Inside, I lead Skip through the backroom and into the main part of the store. It is dark and

unlit and smells like a musty attic. It is ransacked but there is still an abundance of clothes

hanging on racks and scattered on the floors. Mostly women’s clothes, which I will wear if they

fit right.

Skip and I strip off our prison scrubs. We are standing in our underwear, which are very

old and tattered because we never received any new underwear the whole time were in prison.

They are not sexy, form-fitting underwear like Italian men wear. They are frumpy whitey-

tighties like grandpas wear.

Our eyes meet. Stay locked on one another.

It is a wonderful feeling to desire someone very intensely and know that they desire you

equally intensely. I can see it in Skip’s eyes. I can feel it in the way he grips my shoulders, runs

his hands along my arms and down to my hips.

In the way he kisses me like I am air that he needs to breathe.

Afterwards, Skip and I try on an array of different clothes. It is great fun because we have

not had any opportunities to wear anything besides orange scrubs for years. It is difficult to

narrow down the choices because we do not know when we will change clothes again, so we

must pick something that we are comfortable wearing for a potentially long time.

Because we do not know where we are going next.

We do not yet know what this world is we have entered into or how it works.

Skip chooses a white t-shirt and a jean jacket and a pair of cerulean skinny jeans with

tatters along the knees. He finds a pair of white sneakers to go with. The jeans look good on him

because he is so tall and lean, although I tease him about not having an ass.

“What, like you have anything back there?” Skip says, tapping my butt.

Instinctively, I flex my butt muscles. Although he is right. I do not have much of an ass

either.

“We should have done more squats when we were locked up,” I say.

We both laugh.

This is maybe the best day of the last eight years. Even counting the game I made eleven

3’s and even counting the two different times we won the men’s league championship.

I choose a pair of black skinny jeans and a V-neck t-shirt with white and grey stripes. For

my shoes, I pick a pair of black leather boots that go two inches above my ankles.

“These are nice,” I say, examining them in the foot mirror.

“You look like the white boy hipsters I loved to hate on,” Skip says. “All you need is a

beard and black-rimmed glasses. And a coffee shop to sit in all day while you work on your start

up.”

We both laugh.

“Yeah, but you look like,” I say. But then I stop because I cannot think of an ethnic

stereotype for a Native man in a jean jacket and skinny jeans and white sneakers. So I say, “You

look good.”

Now that we are dressed fashionably, which does not matter in the grand scheme of

things but feels good anyways, we exit through the front door of JK Threads and onto Philips

Avenue. The skinny jeans and leather boots help me to feel more confident and normal.

But we immediately see two drones emerge from the broken storefront windows of a

defunct seafood restaurant. We run back into JK Threads and exit out the back, into the

alleyway.

“Where should we go?” Skip asks.

The first thing that comes to mind is the library. When I was an alcoholic living on the

street, I could always go to the library. No matter how drunk you were or how bad you smelled,

they would always let you in. I did not go there to read Goosebumps, though. Instead, I would

get on the computers and look stuff up on the internet, usually basketball scores and statistics and

job openings for high school basketball coaches.

“We could go to the library,” I say. “Maybe there is internet access there.”

Skip nods.

“That’s a good idea.”

We cut through the alley and back onto 6th Street, careful to make sure no drones are

passing. Down the street, next to a Baptist church that has been boarded up, one man sits on the

sidewalk. There is a shopping cart full of supplies next to him. He sees us walking down the

sidewalk on the opposite side of the street. But he only looks at us for a few seconds. Because

there is another body next to him. It is not moving and lifeless. He is digging around in the

clothes of the dead person, looking for something.

The downtown library is a brick one-story building but there is one corner that is all glass

and weirdly-shaped like an upside-down pyramid. It does not look like it is open or inhabited.

There are no lights on inside, and the interior is dark. But the hours of operation are nevertheless

posted on the front door.

“Do you know what day it is?” I ask.

Skip shakes his head.

“No idea.”

“Let us try the door,” I say.

I pull on handle and the door opens. I look at Skip and with my frightened eyes I ask

should we really go inside or is it too dangerous? Skip nods towards the building’s interior and

he steps past me and into the entryway.

Ahead of us, in the absence of light, there is a man who sits at a desk. The library smells

of yellowed paper, which to me is a pleasant scent. Behind the desk, at the tables in the general

reading area, I count five people who are seated. None of them are reading. Two are sitting still

staring at nothing and the other three have their heads down on the table and are sleeping.

“Hello,” the man says behind the desk.

As we get closer and can see him better, I see that he is wearing the same brown State

uniform that the woman in front of the courthouse who shot at us was wearing. This man is

perhaps over 60-years-old, with a perfectly bald cranium and a wreath of silver hair around the

sides and back of his head. He wears big, rimless glasses and his double chin looks like soft

dough.

“Welcome to the Library.” The man grips a black scanner gun, lifts it out of its holder.

“I’ll just need to scan your ID cards, please.”

Skip whispers, “Shit.”

We do not have ID cards.

The man sets the scanner down.

“Or you can just tell me your State ID number. Either way works.”

We know our State ID numbers. The problem is they will reveal us as fugitives.

Which would be bad.

“We weren’t actually looking to check out a book or anything,” Skip says. “We, um, we

just needed to ask you a few questions.”

I do not know where Skip is going with this, but I nod to the library man as if I do know.

“Okay,” the man says. “I still need your ID numbers. It’s policy.”

In the back at the table, a woman takes notice of us. She is dressed in an oversized navy-

blue t-shirt.

“Listen,” Skip says. “We just got sent over from the courthouse to, to ask you about

something. It’s confidential. They don’t want a whole lot of attention around it.”

The man grimaces.

“That’s unusual,” he says.

He reaches to his waist and pulls a walkie-talkie out of his belt holster. He presses a

button and there is crackling on the other end.

“Hey, what are you doing?” Skip asks.

The man turns to his side and speaks into the walkie talkie, as if it were a private

conversation.

“Tracy, this is Steve over at the library. Do you read me? If you’re there, pick up.” Then

he turns back to Skip. “I’m messaging HQ. I want to see what this is all about.”

The woman at the table stands. She does not take her eyes off us as she walks in our

direction.

“There’s no need for that,” Skip says. “Look, if you’re not going to cooperate, we’ll just

leave.”

The woman passes us. I make eye contact with her. She points with her eyes to the front

door. She exits but does not go far. Instead, she stands off to the left of the door.

“Where are your uniforms?” the man whose name is Steve asks. “Why are you dressed

like that? Where did you get those clothes?”

Skip and I look at each other.

Steve chuckles and shakes his head. Then he wipes the smile from his face. He reaches to

his waist and pulls a gun from his belt holster. It is a 9 mm.

“Okay. I don’t know what’s going on here, but I’m going to need you to give me your

numbers.” Then he points the gun at us. “Now.”

Skip and I exchange another look. It is not reassuring. Neither of us knows what to do.

I step forward and pretend like I am reaching into my pocket to get my ID card.

“All right,” Steve says.

He holds the scanner up. The black light shines down. But before I take my hand out of

my pocket, Skip is on him.

He punches Steve upside the head, knocking him off his chair. Steve hits the ground with

a thud. I run around the desk and kick Steve in the side, which I feel bad about. It knocks the

wind out of him and he winces, turning to his side and gripping his belly. Skip grabs the 9 mm

from the desk.

The people at the reading tables stare at us, wide-eyed.

“Let’s go,” Skip says.

I follow Skip out the front doors. We are three steps out of the building when a voice

says, “Hey, over here.”

It is the woman from the reading table. She is standing at the edge of the sidewalk, next

to a large, overgrown bush.

“Hurry up,” she says. “He’s going to alert HQ and they’ll have drones here any second.”

Vicky

I open the door and see Roland sitting on the couch, whiskey glass in hand. The living

room lights are off. Because they’re always off. Because we don’t have electricity anymore. We

use candles and lamps to see at night. Roland’s face and chest are illuminated in the lamplight,

the rest of him muted in darkness. He doesn’t say hi.

Instead, he points over his shoulder and says, “You hungry? I made some chicken and

vegetables.”

I thank him and take one of the lamps from the coffee table and head into the kitchen. I’m

starving. I skipped lunch after seeing Cathy at the New Colony. Didn’t feel like eating. There’s a

cast-iron pot sitting on the oven. Like all household appliances, the oven doesn’t work. Instead,

we have to cook our food outside over fire. Thank God for the woods, for the abundant lumber.

When we first lost power, we cooked using coals, Dutch oven style. But we used those up

pretty quickly, and now there are no more coals. At least not any that I know about. Not in South

Dakota, anyway.

I lift the lid off the pot. Thick, tasty steam rises out. A juicy chicken breast nestled into a

bed of carrots, onions, potatoes.

“You going to eat?” I call to Roland.

“I don’t know,” he calls back. “Maybe.”

I dish myself up a plate and set it at my place on the kitchen table. Then I dip my glass in

the water bucket, pull out a full cup. I sit down to enjoy my supper.

Roland and I’s marriage was always good. We’re both easygoing people. Neither of us

like conflict. Our story’s pretty typical of people who grew up here. We dated in high school, got

married shortly after. He took a job with Green Growers selling biotech seed to farmers. It’s

about the best job you could hope for in Kingston with no education. Back then, Chief Daugaard

retired and for a whole year, Kingston didn’t have a local cop. I went to the academy in Pierre,

got trained. Came back and took the job of Police Chief. This was over twenty years ago. We got

pregnant, had Cathy, which was a blessing. She was a beautiful baby. Then a beautiful little girl.

Smart. Always so smart. Then she was a beautiful teenager. And now she’s a beautiful young

woman. A beautiful young woman about to be a mother.

We don’t see her much since she joined the New Colony. Let me rephrase that. We don’t

see her at all since she joined the New Colony. The silence from Cathy translates to the silence

between Roland and me. It’s new to our marriage, this silence. To be sure, it’s painful.

Unwelcome. We both want things to be different. But what can we do? Cathy’s not coming back,

is she?

When I finish my supper, I dip the plate in a separate bucket we have for dishwashing.

With my fingers, I scrub the surface, removing any food residue. Then I set the plate to dry on a

rack next to the sink.

Normally, I’d head up to my room and read until I nod off or maybe sit out on the porch

for a bit since it’s nice out. But I have to be fair to Roland. He deserves to know.

I walk back into the living room. He’s still sitting there, unmoving, staring straight ahead

at nothing. I know he knows I’m standing here.

“Roland,” I say, startling him. “I saw her today. I had to go to the New Colony because of

the Raul Vasquez case. And I saw her.”

Roland suddenly sits up, his eyes alert, his face that of an actual human being.

“You saw her?” he asks. “How did she look? Is she eating enough?”

I nod.

“She looked good. Healthy.”

Roland smiles.

“That’s good. She was so skinny before.” He makes a circle with his thumb and index

finger. “Her arms were like that.”

I nod again.

“There’s something else.”

His face changes in an instant. The smile gone, replaced by an expression of worry.

“What is it?” Roland asks.

“She’s pregnant.”

“What?”

“She’s pregnant.”

Roland shakes his head. Scowls. His upper lip curls. His nose scrunches.

“I’d guess twelve, maybe fifteen weeks,” I say, “based on the bump.”

Roland opens his mouth to speak, but instead only exhales. He looks at me. His eyes are

heavy. Even in the pale light of the television, I can see them moistening. He sets his whiskey

glass on the coffee table. He stays leaning forward, hangs his head and wrests his elbows on his

knees.

I know he’s thinking the same thing I did when I saw her: a child, a newborn baby, in a

place like that.

It happened, as they say, out of the blue.

One day she’s there, the next she’s not.

Like Roland, Cathy was working for Green Growers. She specialized in livestock

biotech. Beef. She was growing ground chuck in the lab from tissue.

Then she started seeing Jevon. The boyfriend.

If I’m being perfectly honest, I always liked him. Jevon was a good kid. Polite.

Thoughtful. Pretty smart. He worked security at the Green Growers plant.

Perhaps Roland and I should’ve seen it coming. With State and Resistance in a perpetual

state of guerilla warfare, it was a question of not if but when two young, impressionable people

in love would be particularly susceptible to recruitment by a group like the New Colony.

Still, there was no warning. There’s nothing that can prepare you for something that

sudden. It’s not like going off to war, where they set a date for deployment so that you can tell

your family and see them and say goodbye or ideally see you later.

It wasn’t like that. Not at all.

It was a warm summer night, just like the one tonight. Roland and I were eating supper.

Hot roast beef and mashed potatoes and gravy. I remember because it’s Roland’s favorite meal.

A knock came at the door.

We answered.

It was Cathy and Jevon. He looked stoic, unfazed. Cathy, not so much. She didn’t look

sad, not overtly. I could tell she was putting on a brave face, trying to mask how she really felt.

Her lip quivered. And before she spoke, she drew breath. There as a tremble in it.

“We’ve joined the New Colony,” Cathy said. “We’re going to live there. Please don’t try

to come see us.”

Then they both turned to leave.

“Wait,” Roland said. “Are you serious?”

They both turned around.

Cathy nodded.

“This is a joke, right?” Roland said, his voice intensifying. “You’re joking, aren’t you?”

Cathy shook her head. Jevon walked to the car. Cathy stayed for an extra moment.

She looked at me.

“Don’t come visit us,” she said. “It’ll only make it worse. Trust me. Just let us go.”

Then she walked to the car, got it, and they drove off into the night.

And that was it.

At first, we didn’t believe it was real. Roland and I drove to the New Colony in the police

Durango the next day. We were met at the gate by five men with AR-15s. We were told to turn

around, that this was private property and that we were trespassing.

I played it cool, stayed put in the driver’s seat. Roland, however, got out of the car and

started shouting, shaking his fists and lobbing ridiculous threats he had no ability to deliver on.

I remember this one in particular: “Let me see my daughter or I’ll kill each one of you

with my bare hands and feed you to your children!”

Roland wouldn’t get back in the vehicle until I said that I’d get a warrant and we’d come

back out here. Finally, with vicious reluctance, Roland gave up and got back in.

He’s lucky he didn’t get shot. Very lucky.

I couldn’t get a warrant. There was nothing to get a warrant for. My daughter joined a

cult whose compound was on private property. End of story. Of course, Roland wasn’t having

any of it. He took my Durango out there by himself. Nearly got himself killed again.

They were actually nice about it. The guards pinned Roland to the ground and cuffed

him. Then they called me and said I could come pick him up. But that this was the last time

they’d exercise restraint.

Even after I picked Roland up and took him back home, he was dead set on going back

out there. I threatened to arrest him if he tried. And from that point, we entered our blaming

phase. We pointed the finger at each other, each convinced it was the other’s fault Cathy chose to

join the New Colony. Roland started drinking more. We fought constantly, screamed and broke

things and threw things. Started sleeping in separate rooms.

Then we stopped talking to each other. For days. Once, a whole week.

I get up earlier than usual the next morning. Couldn’t really sleep. Downstairs, Roland’s

already gone, which is unusual because it’s still early and he doesn’t have a job. Other people go

to bed with the first darkness and wake up with the sunrise now that we’re basically camping in

our houses. But not Roland. He’ll sleep for as long as he can, draw the shades tight over the

living room windows to keep out the sun. If he’s hung over, he’ll stay put until past noon.

But he’s up and moving today, apparently.

I eat a tomato and dip my cup in the water bucket, take a full swig. Then I take what we

still call a shower, but it’s really just hosing yourself down in the backyard with well water.

Some people, still concerned with modesty, insist on bathing indoors. It’s the old saloon method,

where you sit in a tub of sudsy water and scrub yourself down. It gets water everywhere. And to

me it’s not worth it, except maybe in the winter when it’s well below freezing.

After my backyard shower, I put on my uniform. I go the whole nine yards: bullet proof

vest, shirt tucked in, gun belt, boots, all of it. I don’t have to bother fixing my hair because one

nice thing about this job is I just pull it back into a donut bun and wear my Mountie hat.

Not that looking professional matters at this point in time. The main point of wearing the

uniform is to pretend. The first is to pretend like things are how they’ve always been. That

there’s someone in charge. That there’s order. Order is represented by State. But State’s not

really in charge. Not out here. No one from State comes out here. In fact, I have to drive 35 miles

just to get my monthly gas ration.

I also wear the uniform just in case State does come knocking. To hide the fact I was

chosen by Union. Because Union didn’t choose anyone from State to go after Vasquez. It

could’ve. But it didn’t.

Union chose me.

I don’t know what the reward will be, but Union promises it will be big. Bigger than I can

imagine. I’m just hoping it will be something big enough that I can get Cathy to come home.

I drive to my office. It’s a small, two-room building behind Main Street. It’s adjacent to

the county jail, which doesn’t have anyone in it. Nor has it for years. I open the door and step

inside a room that used to have two big desks but now just has a little wood table and a blue

plastic chair and a laptop.

The laptop is the only computer in town. State doesn’t know about it. It’s a gift from

Union. An android brought it here. That’s when Union installed the ID implant in my arm.

Because that’s how the laptop turns on.

I sit in the chair and scan my arm under the computer’s blacklight. The laptop’s not much

good for anything that people use to use laptops for. I can get on the internet, but the sole

webpage is a list of my mission objectives. Usually, it just says Please await further instruction.

But right now it says Locate Raul Vasquez alive. There’s a picture of Raul and some basic

information about height and weight etc. I don’t know why Union’s so worked up over him. One

guy? What’s one guy going to do that has a Super AI so concerned?

I sigh.

Word’s going around that Resistance broke people out of the prison in Sioux Falls the

other day. It definitely sounds like something Resistance would do. It just makes me wonder how

word gets out in the first place. It used to be that you could call someone or email or text. But

how does news travel now? How does information spread?

I shut the laptop, stand from chair. It’s such a nice day out. Might as well take a stroll

down Main Street.

When I step outside, there’s a guy on a horse trotting up to me. It’s Gary Madsen. He’s a

farmer. Or, he used to be farmer.

“What’s up?” I say.

Gary looks worried. He points over his shoulder.

“Vicky,” he says. “Roland’s out on the old highway. He’s marching down the center of

the road. I think he’s headed to the New Colony.”

Shit. Of course Roland’s going to the New Colony now that he knows about the baby.

“Thank you for that, Gary,” I say and tip my hat.

Then I hurry over to the Durango and climb in.

Raul

Chilean Super Man: I’m sorry about the other day. It’s just. It’s just that *dramatic sigh of cinematic

proportions* It’s just that the whole Apex thing is driving me crazy. It has for years. I ask myself over

and over: am I the one who is supposed to press the button? Was I chosen for this? Why did the idea

come to me first? Did I choose the idea or did the idea choose me?

Dragon: *shakes head in exasperation* You’re far too philosophical sometimes, Mr. Deerhunter. I don’t

see things that way. To me, it’s about practicality, not meaning. You took Apex. You have Apex now.

Now you do what needs to be done. But like I always say, if you can’t handle pressing the button, I’ll

gladly do it for you. I’m prepared. I’m ready. You already did so much by taking Apex in the first place.

That’s 99% of it right there. If you can’t do the last 1%, there’s no shame in that. I get it. You don’t want

to hurt innocent people. That’s why you’re part of the 99% and I’m part of the 1%.

Chilean Super Man: You are grossly oversimplifying it, Dragon. It’s not just hurting innocent people. It’s

killing them. It could quite possibly wipe out the human race.

Dragon: *nods solemnly* It’s unfortunate, I know.

Chilean Super Man: By the way, did I ever tell you that I deleted most of Apex?

Dragon: Deleted? What do you mean?

Chilean Super Man: Well, you know Apex was next to worthless to begin with. So, I partitioned the nuke

controls and a wifi connection from the rest of the operating system. Then I started deleting things. A

program here. A system control there. Some data. Okay, a lot of data. Each time I deleted something, I

thought I’d be closer to going through with it. But within a year, I had deleted everything that made up

Apex.

Dragon: It only took a year? God, Apex really was a piece of shit.

Chilean Super Man: And now it is only a shitload of nuclear weapons. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Dragon: Well, it is unfortunate, the situation you find yourself in. To go back to what you said before, I

don’t know if you were chosen or if you made the choice. Honestly, I don’t think that’s important. And

besides, you can never know something like that. It’s ultimately pointless to wonder. What IS important,

however, is the reality of the situation, which is that you have the power to stop the Supers. The question

is are you going to do it?

Chilean Super Man: But what if there’s another way? You know? What if somebody’s coming up with

something right now that can take down Union without the need for all the destruction and killing?

Dragon: It’s possible, yes. But very, very, very (x Infinity) unlikely. Especially when you consider the

fact that time’s running out. I mean yeah, maybe, just maybe, if given enough time, someone might come

up with something. But that’s not reality, Chilean Super Man. The reality is the Supers are closing in and

closing in fast. You know they’re gunning for you. I mean, how much longer is your security going to

hold up? How much longer before Union or one of the others is going to take you down with brute force?

Chilean Super Man: Security’s not an issue. I told you, I’ve partitioned the controls to the nukes out of

Apex system control. I offloaded them to another network. But I didn’t tell you the other part. I made

copies of Apex. An infinite amount. I made this program that just keeps spewing out Apexes. So good

luck, Supers, finding the real Apex!

Dragon: *nods approvingly* That’s smart. I’ll give you that. Still, the same problem remains. Sure, you

buy yourself some extra time with your secret network and your sea of clones, but it’s still only a matter

of time before a Super sniffs you out and takes the network anyway. Whereas they’re getting more

powerful literally by the second, you’re sitting on your ass. Eventually one of these Supers is going to

update until it achieves computing speed so powerful that a massive scale brute force can catch you in the

time it takes you to snap your fingers.

Chilean Super Man: *frowns* I know.

Dragon: So, like I said before…

Chilean Super Man: But what if there’s another way? What if we can avoid nuclear holocaust?

Dragon: Another way? Please, enlighten me. I’m all ears.

Chilean Super Man: Well, I was thinking. You’re not going to take a Super down with superior attack

technology. That ship sailed a long time ago. But what about good old-fashioned social engineering?

Dragon: What do you have in mind?

Chilean Super Man: A trojan horse.

Dragon: Continue. And please, be specific and detailed.

Chilean Super Man: Well, I don’t have it all worked out yet. But say I could build a cancer virus powerful

enough to fuck a Super up. What if my virus could turn something like Union against itself? Cause it to

start deleting files or slow its speed or. Fuck I don’t know. Let go of power grids and stuff like that.

Dragon: And then let me guess: you disguise this big, bad virus within Apex. And then when Union

Annexes Apex, it gets infected.

Chilean Super Man: Exactly.

Dragon: That’s it? That’s your plan?

Chilean Super Man: That’s my plan.

Dragon: *sighs regrettably* That’s a shit plan, Chilean Super Man. One: How could a virus be strong

enough to take down something as complex as Union? Two: do you really think a Super like Union is not

going to spot a trojan horse from a mile away? Don’t you think other Supers have already tried this on

each other? Come on, Chilean Super Man. Trojan horses are the first thing that come to mind in situations

like these, which is why they never work. Everyone expects them. And just face it: you’re not going to

come up with something that a Super hasn’t already tried only that their attack was a thousand times

better.

Chilean Super Man: I admit it’s not the world’s most original idea. But what if it worked?

Dragon: It’s a stupid question because it’s not going to.

Chilean Super Man: But what if it worked?

Dragon: Okay, big guy. Then I’d better let you go because you’ve got a ton of work to do on this virus. I

don’t want to steal another second from your noble project. So, I guess I’ll talk to you later.

Chilean Super Man: Wait! Dragon, don’t go.

Nothing.

Chilean Super Man: Dragon, are you still there?

Dragon: I’m still here.

Chilean Super Man: Okay. Listen, how do we know the nukes aren’t going to just wipe out humans

anyway? I mean, the idea of the nukes is to eliminate Union while saving the human race. How do we

know it won’t eliminate both?

Dragon: How many times have we been over this? It’s a cost-benefit analysis. I know that sounds crude to

talk about our homo sapiens sapiens species that way, but that’s the reality. If we don’t use the nukes,

that’s the end. Guaranteed. If we use the nukes then yes, many innocent will die. But some will survive.

Some will find a way. And besides, we never said it was going to save anyone. It’s a reset button.

Chilean Super Man: I don’t know.

Dragon: Well, I do. If we don’t use the nukes, we’re extinct. Maybe not right away. But eventually. If we

use the nukes, we have a chance.

Chilean Super Man: I just need a little more time, Dragon.

Dragon: Time is the one thing we don’t have. How long?

Chilean Super Man: I don’t know. A few days? A week?

Dragon: Two days. Let’s talk in two days. If you’re not ready to do it yourself, then you know what you

need to do.

One nice thing about being online, it’s so easy to lie. Lying’s like breathing when you’re

online.

Chilean Super Man: Okay. Two days.

Dragon: *shakes head disapprovingly* I don’t get it, Chilean Super Man. What kind of person has to

think about whether or not to put people out of their suffering?

Dragon has signed out.

Dillon

“Come around here,” the woman says. She pushes her shopping cart along the sidewalk

and onto the street, the rickety wheels grinding against the pavement. “All the way around this

corner where they can’t see you.”

Perhaps it is unwise to trust this person so quickly, considering we do not know anything

about her and whether she wants to hurt us or help us. But Skip and I nonetheless follow her

around the corner of the library and into a back alley between the library and the adjacent

building.

She stops at a door depressed into a brick alcove. It is noticeably darker back here, the

sunlight blocked out by the tall buildings. It could symbolize that something bad might happen.

R.L. Stine uses this technique to foreshadow bad things in his Goosebumps series, such as a

harsh thunderstorm on the night when a ghost is going to come out.

The woman turns the doorknob and opens it.

“In here,” she says.

She steps in and, when neither of us follow, she turns back around, still holding the door

open.

“Hurry. They’re going to see you.”

Inside, it is a dark, dilapidated warehouse with junk strewn about and some mattresses

alongside the walls. In one corner, there are a bunch of obsolete forms of technology like TVs

and radios and desktop computers and laptops. They are piled haphazardly, like dead bodies.

Like the ones in the corner of the rec yard at the State Penitentiary.

“What is this place?” I ask.

“This is where I live,” the woman says. She sweeps her arm across the air and turns in a

half-circle, as if showing the place off and encouraging us to have a look. “There used to be one

other person living here, but she died this last year.”

“How did she die?” I ask.

Skip elbows me.

“Dillon, that’s inappropriate.”

“No, it’s okay,” the woman says. “She killed herself.”

I gasp. I cannot help it. I should be used to people killing themselves as often as men

killed themselves in prison. Still, I gasped every time someone hung themselves in their cells. Or

committed what we called suicide-by-drone, which is when you tried to climb the fence of the

rec yard, knowing full-well that you had no chance of making it and would be shot immediately.

“Listen, my name’s Maria,” the woman says. She points at us, wagging her index finger

back and forth. “You two are, um, dressed uniquely by today’s standards. What’s your story?

Where are you going?”

Skip opens his mouth to speak, but I touch my hand to his. It is a gesture that says: let me

take this one.

“We are basketball players,” I say. “Coaches, actually. We are just passing through. We

are on our way to a coaches’ convention to vote on important rule changes in the collective

bargaining agreement for the professional league in which we coach.”

Maria nods very slightly, almost to where you cannot even tell she is nodding. She

squints her eyes, as if sizing me up.

The coach’s convention answer is an answer I have dreamed of giving to the question

where are you going for the last eight years.

Suddenly, Maria bursts out laughing. It is a very aggressive laugh, very loud. Her face

reddens and she even snorts.

When she finally gets a hold of herself, she says, “Okay, that was good. I’ll give you that.

But seriously” – Maria points at my shirt, then my boots – “why are you dressed like you’re

going to the club?”

I say, “Because we are basketball –

“Bullshit,” Maria says, her tone suddenly harsh. She lifts up one side of her T-shirt, just

enough to reveal the handle of a handgun at her hip. “Stop lying and tell me what the fuck’s

going on.”

Skip holds up his hands, palms towards Maria.

“Honestly, we don’t even know,” he says. “We just got out of prison. We’ve both been in

the last eight years. Something broke us out. Like a hacker or something. It took over Union. It

opened all the doors and disabled the drones temporarily. We ran for it. This happened like four

hours ago.”

Maria, her face still hard with suspicion, looks back and forth between us. She puts her

hand on the gun handle.

“And the clothes?”

“We got them from JK Threads,” I say. “On Phillips Avenue.”

Maria stares us down for a few more very long, very tense seconds. Then she takes her

hand off the gun. She stands straight up.

And smiles.

“JK Threads,” she says. “I used to love that store.”

Maria invites us to sit at her kitchen table, which is actually a big workbench, the kind

where you might saw a 2x4 in half or build a large birdhouse. Skip and I gladly oblige. Our feet

are tired from all the running, all the ducking and dodging. It feels very nice to sit at someone’s

table, like we are just normal people on a normal day visiting a friend.

“Are you guys hungry?” Maria asks. She points to a shelf, where there are rows of

canned food. “I’ve got Chickmeal.”

“That’s it? No beef or fish?” Skip asks, unable to hide his disappointment.

Which is rude considering Maria is offering us free food out of the goodness of her heart.

But Skip is not a fan of Chickmeal. He likes either Beefmeal or Fishmeal.

“That’s it,” Maria says.

She walks over to the shelf and grabs two cans and two spoons. She returns and sets the

cans and spoons on the table in front of us.

I grab one of the cans and pop the lid off.

“Chicken is a lean meat,” I say.

Then I grab a spoon and dig in. Skip just stares at his can.

“State hasn’t made any beef or fish for at least a few months now,” Maria says. “I don’t

even think they use real chicken anymore.”

Maria shrugs, then takes a bite.

“Doesn’t anyone make their own food?” Skip asks.

“I suppose some people plant gardens,” Maria says. “They try to be self-sufficient. But

it’s dangerous because then you become a target. You have to be able to defend your plot. Unless

you have guns, there’s no point in trying to grow food. It’s a lot easier to just eat this shit.”

We are quiet for a while. I take more bites of my Chickmeal and chew. I try to think of

topics of conversation, which under normal circumstances might be like how is work going or

how is your father’s arthritis or did you see the latest episode of whatever. Skip pops the lid off

his Chickmeal, but he does not take up the spoon.

It is quiet for a while. The only sounds are us chewing our Chickmeal. It is actually kind

of a gross sound when it is just people chewing their food and nothing else.

Then Maria says, “So, how long were you guys in for?”

We tell her that we both were in for over eight years.

Maria looks surprised.

“My God,” she says. “You must think you stepped out into Mars then.”

We both agree.

“Do you know about the Supers?”

“Kind of,” Skip says.

“What about the Annexations?” Maria asks.

“What is that?” I say.

Maria sighs. She has a faraway look in her eyes, like there is somewhere she wants to go

that is impossible to get to and so she must talk about how she wants to go but cannot.

Maria tells a long, epic story that sounds like a combination of science fiction and Greek

mythology. There are humans creating Super AI’s. There are Super AI’s becoming conscious

and going at each other’s throats, fighting for control of invisible things like electricity and

energy and power and connectivity and data. The battle of the Super AI’s sounds like gods

warring among each other. Like all these divine beings on Olympus with magical powers that

can do all kinds of things humans cannot do. The Supers shut down industries and eradicate

technologies. No more cars or buses or trains or airplanes or ships or subways.

Maria describes it this way: “Overnight, the world’s transformed into the Middle Ages.”

A lot of people died. A lot of people starved. A lot of people killed each other. State

formed. Then Resistance formed in response to State. No one really knows who is in charge of

State or Resistance. Just that State is bigger and more powerful like Goliath and Resistance is

smaller and less powerful like David.

When Maria finishes talking, she leans back in her chair and crosses her arms. I keep

looking at her because I think she might say more, but she hangs her head so that she is staring at

something off in the distance, something on the floor that is nothing because it is actually

something in her head she is staring at. Because I am staring into the past, too. I am thinking

about my childhood, how I rode my Huffy up and down sidewalks and swam in the public pool.

And how I uncovered anthills to try to see the colony inside and maybe even the Queen, or

Queens because sometimes an ant colony will have more than one Queen. These childhood

memories are comforting but also unsettling because given what is going on right now, they feel

like they are coming from a different life, or a completely different word. Like I am the same

person but my childhood was as long ago as Ancient Egypt.

I look at Skip.

He is also hanging his head. He is staring at his opened can of Chickmeal, which is still

untouched. I do not know what Skip is thinking about, but if I had to say, I would say he is

thinking about the past, too. Maybe he is thinking about his family in Pine Ridge. Some of his

family hated that he is gay. But most of them either did not care one way or the other or they

supported him. That is what he told me when I asked.

I finish my Chickmeal and drop the spoon inside the can, which clinks. I do this because I

want the sound to pull people out of their thoughts and hopefully get them to say something. But

neither Maria nor Skip say anything.

So I tap Skip on the arm and say, “Hey, you need to eat your Chickmeal.”

Skip looks up. His eyes are glazed over. They are also red and there is a layer of moisture

over the lenses. He sniffs, which draws mucous back up his nose and throat. Then he swallows

and blinks, and suddenly his eyes are not as glazed over or wet.

“What do you want to do, Dillon? Stay here? Leave?”

“I honestly do not know,” I say. “Where would we go if we left?”

Skip says, “I’d go back to the rez, but I don’t know. What for?” He shrugs. “Sit around

and wait to die, I guess. Same as anywhere else.”

“That is bleak,” I say.

Skip opens his mouth to speak, but then he closes it. Maybe he cannot think of any ideas,

or maybe he does not want to say his ideas.

“There is another possibility,” Maria says.

We both look at her. There is something about the way she said what she just said,

something about the look on her face that makes me think she said all the stuff before as a way to

segue into this and that what she is about to say is the only thing she really wanted to say all

along.

“What is the possibility?” I ask.

“There’s a place not all that far from here,” she says. “West. Alongside the Missouri

River. I don’t know if it’s real or if it’s all made up.” She looks from side to side, like she is

making sure that no one else hears what she will say. “The rumor is they’re building a utopia

there.”

“A utopia?”

Maria’s eyes get big. She points down.

“Underground,” she says.

“What?” Skip says.

I know that tone of voice in Skip. It means that he does not believe what Maria is saying.

He said what in the same way when I first met him in the penitentiary library and I told him I

was good at basketball.

“I’m not saying it’s true or not,” Maria says. “I’m just telling you what I’ve heard.”

“What did you hear?” Skip asks.

“Well,” Maria says, “I heard there’s this group out in the middle of nowhere by this town

called Kingston. They call themselves the New Colony. They started off as a doomsday cult.

This was decades and decades ago. Long before Super AIs or any of that stuff. Supposedly,

they’ve been building bunkers for the last thirty-some years, preparing for a situation just like

this.”

“Bunkers?” Skip asks. “Like from the Cold War?”

Maria nods.

“But these aren’t regular little one-room bunkers,” she says. “This is a huge bunker. The

size of a whole town. Or maybe bigger. They say they’ve got everything to build a civilization

down there. Crops and livestock. Everything. And they say that these New Colonists are going to

seal themselves off from the outside world. Forever.”

Maria stops here. It is obvious that she has placed the ball in our court. That it is now up

to us to tell her what we think about what she said.

“That sounds like complete bullshit,” Skip says. “A bunch of people living in an

underground civilization. How does that even work? That sounds like something people made up

to give themselves hope. Like heaven.”

Maria shrugs, “Maybe.”

Skip repeats what he just said about an underground bunker civilization being a stupid

myth for gullible people. Maria looks annoyed now.

“Look, I never said it was true. I just said it’s what I heard.”

“From who?” Skip asks. “Who told you all this?”

Maria shakes her head. Looks away from Skip.

“Just. Some people,” Maria says. “I heard people talking about it a few months ago.

When I was standing in line to get rations.”

“Sounds very credible,” Skip scoffs.

“Damn it,” Maria says, her voice sharp. “I was going to invite you two to come with me

to look for it. But now I don’t think I want to go looking for anything with you.”

Skip is quiet after that. He takes three bites of Chickmeal and chews and swallows and

does not say anything at all. I do not wish to get involved in the argument because I do not want

to offend our host.

“Sorry,” Skip says. Then he looks at me and says, “Dillon, do you want to go look for

this New Colony?”

I do not think. I just say, “I do not see why not.”

Skip nods.

“I feel the same way,” he says. He moves his hand in a circle and says, “Because fuck all

this shit. What else is there to do?”

I nod, even though Skip is being vulgar. Now is not the time to police vulgarity.

“We’re in,” Skip says.

Maria smiles.

“Good,” she says. “It’s much safer traveling in a group than traveling alone.”

Later, when it is nighttime and we are lying down to go to sleep, Skip asks Maria why

she waited until now to go on her journey to the New Colony. It is dark now and we can only see

Maria’s face by candlelight.

Maria sighs. Then she tells us that the woman who died recently was her wife. They had

been together for the last ten years. At first it was very nice because back then, they still had a

circle of friends who they hung out with and ate supper at one another’s houses and even played

games like Charades and Pictionary. And then some of them died and they did not hang out any

anymore.

Eventually it was just them. When they heard the people in line talking about the New

Colony, they talked about trying to go find it. But they decided that since they had each other,

that was enough.

But then Maria’s wife took her own life.

Maria does not know why. She thought that having each other was enough to keep them

going. But it turned out not to be the case.

And so now Maria has no reason not to go.

And now she has people to go with.

Vicky

“Roland, get in the car,” I say.

But he shakes his head, continues walking down the center line of the highway at a speed

I haven’t seen him move in years. And I mean years. It’s another bright summer day, the sun

beating down over a clear blue sky. Roland’s sweating beads from his temples. It streaks down

his cheeks and onto his neck. I’m idling alongside him in the Durango, and even over the sound

of the engine I can hear him heaving breaths. Of course, there’s no danger of him getting hit out

here. I’m the only one who permitted to operate a vehicle in this entire county.

“Damn it, Roland. Get in the car.”

Staring straight ahead, Roland says, “I’m going there and I’m bringing her home for

good.”

“What are you going to just walk through the gate and past all the armed guards and take

her yourself?”

Roland nods.

“Then you’re going to get shot this time. I can guarantee you.”

“I don’t care,” Roland heaves. “Maybe that’s what it’ll take for her to wake up.”

I shake my head, even though Roland can’t see me shaking my head. Not that it would

matter.

I idle next to Roland for another five minutes with neither of us saying anything. Sweat’s

pouring off his face. But he doesn’t wipe at it. I’m surprised he hasn’t keeled over.

The center counsel beeps. I scan my arm.

“Vicky, you must locate Raul Vasquez,” Union says. “Time is of the essence. The faster

the better. I need him alive. Unharmed. Bring him to me unharmed. It is your purpose.

Remember, the reward.”

At the sound of Union’s voice, Roland turns to the Durango. He stops walking and I stop

the vehicle from idling. Roland looks at the center counsel, then at me, as if awaiting my answer.

“Vicky,” Union says. “Please, bring me Raul Vasquez.”

Roland wipes at his forehead. He looks once more at the center counsel, which is the

physical representation of Union, even though it isn’t Union. Then he shakes his head.

He doesn’t look at me.

He starts walking again. Even faster than before.

“Forget about your husband,” Union says. “He was not chosen.”

I park the Durango at the end of the gravel road. I’m somewhere between the New

Colony and Kingston, which is anything but precise. If I had to guess, I’d say Kingston is easily

over 50 miles away.

All that’s out here is the woods surrounding the Missouri River. Endless clusters of elm

and bur oak with some black walnut mixed in. This spot is as good as any to start because the

truth is, finding Raul Vasquez out here in these woods is like finding a needle in a haystack. I

looked over the county maps. There’s over a thousand square miles of forest out here. Almost as

much as the entire land area of Elm County.

But Vasquez is out here somewhere. Doing what, I don’t know. Something that’s

captured Union’s attention.

Hiding.

I climb out of the Durango and walk around to the back. I open the hatch. In the trunk,

I’ve got my backpack. In my backpack, I’ve got a tent, a sleeping bag, a water reservoir, and

enough canned Chickmeal, courtesy of Union, to last a week. And I’ve also got my rifle, a

Winchester Model 70. Not to shoot Vasquez. Just to point at him and threaten him.

Though also to shoot him should he be armed and dangerous.

I hoist the backpack over my shoulders. I hook the straps at my hips so that the weight of

the pack is borne by my legs and hips and not my back and shoulders. I grab the rifle and shut

the hatch. I turn toward the woods.

Entering the forest is like slipping into another dimension, like going from above water to

underwater. Enveloped in the thickness of the branches and leaves, it’s as if the woods have

swallowed me. The constant, pulsating buzz of the cicadas reminds me of breathing, like it’s

keeping rhythm for the collective life within the woods. And walking along the soft, almost

boggy soil, I can’t help thinking I’m traversing the innards of some giant organism. To say

nothing of the thickness of the branches, the sharp, poky twigs that scrape my shoulders and

arms.

Everything looks the same. The same oak and elm trees over and over. The same grey

soil coated lightly in dead leaves, some of them browned and dried and crunching beneath my

feet. It would be all too easy to get lost. Which is why I’m heading straight west, in the direction

of the Missouri River. That way, I can orient myself in relation to the map. Plus, I need a water

source.

In just over an hour, I reach the banks of the river. Because the land is so flat, the river’s

silent, its brown water moving swiftly and noiselessly east. It’s not very wide out here, maybe

only twenty yards. On both sides, oak and willow trees grow right up to the bank, some of the

trunks submerged in the river’s shoreline. The willows lean over the river, the branches on either

side like fingers and hands trying to interlock. They shroud most of the water in shade, except for

a narrow band of sunlight that runs through the river’s center.

The water isn’t very deep here. I can tell because there’s a big log out in the middle of the

water, in the sunlight. It’s about ten feet in length, and along its surface, four turtles bask.

I approach the bank and crouch down to the water. This causes one of the turtles to

extend its head into the air, stretching its neck like a piece of rubber. Which causes the other

turtles to do the same. I dip two quart-size bottles into the muddy water, filling them to the brim.

From a stopper, I pinch five drops of 2% tincture iodine into each bottle, which will purify the

water in about an hour’s time.

I stand back up, which causes one turtle to slip into the water, followed swiftly by the

other three. I stuff the water bottles into slots on either side of my backpack.

I turn away from the bank and freeze.

A buck stands just ten yards away. He’s large, well over five feet tall, thick and muscular

at the neck, shoulders, and midsection.

But his antlers.

They’re red, streaked in blood. The velvety coverings are peeling, and they hang like

tattered clothing from the antler horns. Both sides, all over, the old skin hangs loosely and drapes

over one side of the buck’s face, covering his eye. The other black eye, beautiful in its orb-like

perfection, stares at me.

The grotesque part is that he’s chewing the peeling skin off his antlers.

Chewing it nonchalantly, like cud.

He chews and swallows. Chews and swallows. Slowly, old skin peels off the antlers,

revealing the new, blood-streaked antlers beneath. It looks remarkably like bone.

He eats more of his skin. More and more until the flap of old skin no longer covers his

face.

Until he can see me with both eyes.

Then he turns around and trots back into the forest.

I spend my first night roughly three-and-a-half miles south of where I parked my

Durango. In the morning, I stuff my tent and sleeping bag into my backpack, set off northwest. I

don’t have a particularly detailed plan, just to cover as much ground as possible in these seven

days. My top priority is to not die, regardless of what Union says.

As I make my way through the thickets, I intermittently tie bits of orange plastic to tree

branches. This is a worst-case scenario precaution, if I become lost beyond all measure. I can at

least try to find the orange ribbons and maybe follow them to safety.

Throughout the day, I see more birds than I can count. Mostly little finches that flutter

around the forest floor, blending into grey fallen branches or ground shrub. I see them popping

up and down out of my periphery. They look like insects. And even though every time another

finch rustles leaves or brushes a twig and I know it’s a tiny bird the size of a plum, I flinch.

Bracing for impact in whatever form that impact comes in.

The second night’s cold. It dips into the 40s, which is especially frigid compared to the

somewhat hot but mostly pleasant high 70s or low 80s during the day. I wake up on three

separate occasions because of the cold. Each time I’ve somehow tossed and turned and worked

my sleeping bag down to where my chest and arms are no longer covered. I shimmy the sleeping

bag back up and over my body, covering as much of my face as I can. For the first few seconds,

the nylon fabric’s cold against my face. But body heat quickly fixes this, like upping the

temperature on the thermostat.

It is the next morning, on my third day of hunting Vasquez, that I make my first

important discovery. I almost miss it at first because it’s so subtle. I’m walking east now, away

from the Missouri, in my quest to complete a 5x5 mile rectangle and then work my way in. I’m

stepping over some dead leaves, shielding my face from protruding branches with one hand, rifle

gripped in the other hand. And then I see it: wood that is tawny-colored and not charcoal like the

bark of all these elm and oak trees. It’s a structure of some kind, partially obscured from this

distance by tree branches.

As I approach, the structure comes into view. But it’s the smell that lets me know what it

is.

Deer urine. Thick fumes of it. I picture a jug wafting with the odor of stale urine.

The structure is a deer blind. It’s a one-room box, about the size of a little kid’s tree fort.

There’s an open, horizontal slit running through the middle of the walls. In my opinion, it’s a

pretty shitty deer blind. Made by an amateur, no doubt. It gives me a boost of confidence, which

is probably unfounded. But I figure if Vasquez isn’t a seasoned deer hunter, maybe he’s ill-

equipped with guns in general. Giving me an advantage.

Then I swallow.

What if Vasquez is in there with a gun right now aiming it at me?

I lunge behind the nearest tree. I crouch to the ground, push my back against the trunk.

Suddenly my heart’s thumping rapidly and I’m breathing heavy like I just sprinted fifty yards.

I count ten slow, deliberate seconds.

Nothing.

I rise slowly into a duck walk stance. Then I pop out from behind the tree, face the deer

blind, and drop to one knee, taking aim, all in one fluid police-academy motion.

“Vasquez,” I call. “Vasquez, if you’re in there, come out with your hands up.”

No response.

“I’ve got sights on you. If you try anything, I’ll shoot.”

Nothing.

I wait another ten seconds, call his name again.

Nothing.

I lower my gun and approach the blind. On one side, there’s a small door cut into the

plywood. Rather than wood, the door is a brown blanket nailed to the top frame. I push the

blanket aside, revealing the blind’s interior. A plastic chair and two boxes of ammo and a laptop.

Bingo.

No rifle, though. Which means he must have his one him.

I step inside.

For whatever reason, I sniff the air, which still reeks heavily of deer piss. I sniff

aggressively, the way a dog sucks air through his nostrils. I crouch to the ground and look at the

ammo more closely. They’re shells for a Remington Model 793. Pretty decent. Which makes me

double back on my initial confidence booster. Maybe Vasquez knows his way around a gun after

all. That’s a good rifle.

I set my own rifle on the floor and sit on Vasquez’s chair. I peer out the slit at the forest.

It’s a pleasant view, like a panorama photograph. Maybe I’ll wait here for him. If it’s his blind,

one would think he’d come back to it eventually. Might as well get comfortable.

I cross my legs. Fold my hands behind my head.

Then twigs snap. Leaves rustle and branches crackle. It’s difficult to say how far away,

but not very. Less than thirty yards, if I had to guess.

Something takes off running. On two feet. In a familiar pattern.

Because that’s how humans run.

I pop out of the chair, grab my rifle, and slip out of the blind.

For an instant, I listen to the sounds of feet crunching swiftly against the ground.

Then I sprint in that direction.

Raul

That buck was fucking freaky-looking. Eating its own skin? It was like something out of

a horror movie. Like a fresh mummy unwrapping itself or something.

Still, I would’ve eaten it. That is, if I wasn’t complete shit with my aim. Maybe Dragon’s

right about everything. Maybe it’s time to pull the plug on the nukes and let plutonium take its

course. If I’m being honest, a nuclear bomb sounds preferable to starving. But who knows?

Maybe the buck is on to something. Maybe to survive in the wild, you have to eat your own skin.

It’s smart. It’s free. And it’s always on you.

Plus, it would be nice to be done with these defective feet of mine. That’s what’s going to

do me in. In a cruel twist of fate, I’m going to shoot a deer and then not be able to walk to it

because my fucking feet hurt too bad. How perfectly shitty would that be? I guess, if it really

came down to it, I could crawl.

Thank God I’m almost back to the blind. I’ll sit down for a while, let the heel pain

diminish. Hop on the laptop. Today’s supposed to be the day I cede the weapons of mass

destruction to Dragon. Which I’ve already decided I’m not going to do. Not yet. I’ve been

kicking around my ideas about the trojan horse. Maybe I’m self-deluded, but I think there’s real

possibility there. Think about this: what if I put multiple trojan horses in Apex? Or thousands?

That’s what some organisms do. Like frogs. Lay thousands of eggs hoping that one or two will

stick.

Or what about a trojan horse within a trojan horse? Maybe Union spots one trojan horse

but doesn’t detect the one within…

It’s all probably bullshit.

It is bullshit.

I stop when I see my blind.

My blind.

Why is there somebody sitting in my blind?

Who the fuck is that?

I tell myself: Calm down. Take a deep breath. Maybe it’s just someone from the New

Colony. Maybe someone’s come to collect the extra Spaghettio’s and Wolf Brand Chili the girl’s

snuck you over the weeks. If that’s the case, I will surrender them willingly and they can be on

their way. They’re going underground soon anyways. That is, if Cathy’s telling the truth.

I take a few more quiet steps towards the blind, hoping to get a better look. Whoever’s in

there turns and looks out the blind.

I swallow.

It’s the sheriff. I’d recognize that goofy Mounty hat anywhere. The sheriff whose

daughter is in the New Colony. The sheriff whose daughter sneaks me extra canned food.

How does she not see me? She’s staring in my direction.

Before she sees me, I leap back behind a tree. Safely out of view. But I make the loudest

crunching sound in the world when I hit the ground.

Which leaves me no choice.

I take off sprinting.

While running, I try to distract myself by picturing Dragon.

Her long black hair.

Her brown eyes.

Her pale neck. Why was her neck so pale?

I turn sharply, weave in and out of trees, just in case the sheriff takes shots at me. It’s

good to be zig and zag since its harder to hit a moving target. Especially an unpredictably

moving target.

Dragon’s younger than me, only 24. We met on the resistance forum. She’s from Boston,

which I took as a sign because I was born in San Francisco. East Coast-West Coast. Opposites

attract.

She always complained about not getting to go to college, how they closed the

universities the year she graduated high school. I told her to take it from me, as someone who

went to Berkeley, she wasn’t missing much.

“Never will you pay someone so much money so that you can do so much work,” I told

her.

Each stride gets worse and worse. It goes from feeling like my heels are smacking

concrete to it feeling like someone’s pounding my heels with hammers to it feeling like knives

are jabbed into my heels and each step drives the blade in further and further.

Still, I twist and turn through the endless stretch of trees, bushes, and more trees. The

forest is an unending gauntlet. My arms scrape against branches. My shoulders and elbows

smack into trunks. My feet land on uneven ground, driving the blades further up into my

Achilles, into my spinal cord, into my throat. But for a guy with plantar fasciitis and asthma, I’m

basically moving at the speed of light.

Dragon and I agreed, for safety reasons, not to reveal our names. That was standard

resistance procedure. But we went each other pictures. Had long conversations into the night.

Even had cybersex, which like normal sex, decreased in frequency as the relationship grew.

Once, I told Dragon I wanted to come to Boston to see her. To which she laughed and

said: how are you going to get here? Drive? Fly? Walk? Teleport?

Point taken.

I told her I’d walk if I could, but I couldn’t. I told her about my feet. About my asthma.

Which for some reason made me worried that she’d suddenly find me ugly even though she’d

already seen plenty of pictures and said I was cute.

My stride shortens. My feet are. Are. My feet are exposed bone being grinded by an axe.

The Sheriff’s gaining on me. It’s only a matter of time.

“Stop, or I’ll shoot!” she keeps yelling, closer and closer each time.

But for whatever reason, she doesn’t shoot.

Just when my feet are ready to fall off, my throat tightens. The wheezing begins. The

sheriff’s right on my heels. In seconds, she springs on me from behind, wraps her arms around

my chest, and brings me to the ground.

We both fall hard, our bodies thudding against dirt and leaves and sticks. We both make

OOOMPH sounds when the wind knocks out of us. With no choice but to absorb the pain in my

heels, I scream. I scream and heave and wheeze and cough.

The sheriff sits up, looks down at me. She puts her hand on my chest.

“Don’t try anything,” she says. When she says anything, she presses down, as if warning

me of her strength. It causes me to cough.

I’ve always been one to test the waters.

So I try to sit up. But I do it fast, in a jolt. So that the cop might be taken off guard.

But I’m met with firm, unwavering resistance, almost like I’m strapped down.

“What did I tell you?” she says.

I scream again. Close my eyes. Wince. I scream for a while longer, not because I have to,

but to see how long the sheriff will let it go on. It gives me time to think about what to do next.

“Union doesn’t care about you,” I say. “It’s only using you to get –

“Shut up,” the sheriff says.

“So why are you doing this?”

She looks at me like I’m stupid, like I asked why she is breathing air.

“What’s the alternative?” she says. “Live out here in the woods like a wild animal? Look

at you.” She presses her hand on my chest, moves it along my rib cage. “You’re skin and bones.”

I can’t help but be self-conscious. For one, a woman is touching me. And for two, she’s

commenting on my physique.

Not like that, though.

I turn away from the sheriff. She stands.

“I’ll give you a minute,” she says.

In movies, when there used to be movies, nice cops would sometimes do this. Allow a

criminal a few moments to collect themselves before they officially apprehend them. As if out of

respect, even though the two are on opposite sides of the fight.

The sheriff tilts her head back, flicking her chin.

“Get up,” she says.

“I have plantar fasciitis. My feet are killing me.”

“Tough shit. Stand up.”

With a groan, I stand. I have one play and one play only. If it doesn’t work, that’s it. She

either knows or she doesn’t.

“You’re the sheriff in Kingston, right?” I say. “That town down the highway?”

The cop nods.

“That’s right. Although technically I’m the Sheriff of Elm County. I live in Kingston.”

I nod. But I don’t respond. Because I need to build tension. So, I keep nodding. And I

sigh.

It works. The sheriff looks curious. A bit concerned, a bit bothered.

“Why do you ask?” she says.

“Your daughter,” I say. “Your daughter’s, um –

“What about my daughter?”

“She’s a part of that cult, right? The New Colony?” I ask.

The sheriff narrows her eyes at me.

“How do you know that?”

“I believe her name’s Cathy.”

Her daughter’s name strikes a nerve. Which is good. Her face goes cold. She raises her

rifle, as if to remind me who’s in charge.

“How do you know her name?”

“She’s a really nice young woman,” I say. “She gave me extra cans of chili when I’d stop

by.”

The sheriff’s done fucking around. Her face tightens into a rage and she points the rifle at

me.

“That’s it, Vasquez. Stop talking about my daughter. You say her name again and I’ll –

“You know what they’re planning to do, right?” I ask. “You know what the New Colony

is planning to do, don’t you?”

The sheriff grimaces. She lowers her rifle.

“What do you mean?” she asks.

“You mean you don’t know?”

“Don’t know what?” she snaps, taking a jab step towards me.

I don’t flinch, because I know she doesn’t know. I know I have her.

Which means there’s a chance this will work.

A slim chance.

But a chance.

“You’ll want to see this then,” I say, pointing over my shoulder.

“See what?”

“Follow me.”

I turn and begin walking. The sheriff maneuvers in front of me. Points her rifle at my

face. The muzzle touches against my cheek.

“Hold up,” she says. “Where are we going?”

“You have to see it to believe it,” I say.

Dillon

“How much longer does this go on?” Skip asks.

He is referring to the suburban housing developments that extend south and west of Sioux

Falls. Unlike in town where there was still people living in some of the houses, these ones are all

abandoned. There is no one else around. Very few drones.

“Couple more miles,” Maria says.

“They have built so many houses in the last eight years,” I say. “It is a shame no one lives

in them anymore.”

In another hour, we are what I would consider officially outside of Sioux Falls. This does

not mean there are not any more houses. Instead, what this means is that there are very few

houses but they are not suburban houses. They are large farmhouses that stand alone with a barn

and a shed and a shelter belt of trees surrounding them. Mostly there is vast, open prairie like I

have never seen before. There are hills in the distance. There are sporadic oak, maple, and walnut

trees. But the tallgrass. Without the cornfields and soybean fields, the tall grass has taken over

everything. It grows taller and thicker than ever. It is endless and all-encompassing. It makes me

think of a tawny ocean the way the breeze blows and creates little waves and ripples along the

tips of the enormous grass blades. The tallgrass is so thick it obscures Interstate 29, which I used

to drive on when I had a driver’s license in between DUIs and sometimes I drove on it when my

license was revoked.

There are deer everywhere, just like Maria said there would be. She said it would be very

easy for her to shoot one because she is an excellent shot with her rifle. And we have brought

along a few books about food preparation, although Maria says she already knows how to

preserve meat without refrigeration. You just need pickling salt and brown sugar and large jars

for storage. Which we have brought along with us.

But it takes a month for the meat to cure, which means we will not be eating cured meat

right away. That is okay because for now we have lots of Chickmeal. Our packs have water

reservoirs, which we have to put iodine tablets into so the water is clean and safe to drink. We

also have sleeping bags and jackets. All in all, our backpacks each weigh well over 25 pounds.

Which is okay for now. Because this is just the journey. It is not the destination. The plan

is not to hunt deer and eat cured meat. The plan is to find the New Colony long before deer meat

would cure.

If it exists.

Skip is skeptical.

I am hopeful.

Maria is convinced.

The sun begins to set a little after 8 PM, and we all agree it is a good time to stop for the

night. We have over two hundred miles still to go. Maria thinks we have gone about fourteen

miles today, and I trust her judgment of distance. I also trust her sense of direction.

The next abandoned farmhouse we come upon looks as good as any to sleep in. It is an

ugly royal blue with white window trim. There is a tin shed next to it that has a large, open door

where there is obsolete farm machinery such as a tractor and a combine and a disk harrow.

As we enter the yard leading up to the house, I playfully elbow Skip and say, “We call

the master bedroom. Huh, Skip?”

Skip chuckles.

“You two have at it,” Maria says. Then she smiles. “You know, it’s kind of funny that

when the world’s ending, everybody’s asking themselves the same thing: have I had sex for the

last time? And they’re like shit, I better fuck ASAP because it could be the last time.”

Skip and I both laugh because it is true. We would be lying if we said otherwise about

our being together. Part of the motivation to fall in love in prison was the grim possibility that we

were going to spend our lives in there. Because spending your life in prison is a terrible thing.

But it is way less terrible if you spend it with someone you love. And I feel the same way about

having to live in this vastly changed unfamiliar world.

This new world is not ideal. Far from it. It is mostly undesirable in all ways.

But at least I have Skip.

Because I try to focus on what I have and be grateful for that rather than focus on what I

do not have and yearn for whatever that is.

Yes, yearn.

That night in bed, which is the bed in the master bedroom of people we do not know who

are dead and gone, Skip is unable to come. It is the first time it has ever happened.

We are under the covers, ready to drift off to sleep.

“What is wrong?” I ask.

Skip sighs.

“I don’t know.” He points at the dresser across the room, where there are framed pictures

atop. “For one, there’s those pictures of the couple and their kids. I mean, it’s kind of weird with

that shit in here.”

“Yes, it is weird,” I say.

Right now, I am trying desperately to resist scratching my arm. I do not know why it has

to itch so badly. The wound is healing, says Maria. But it continues to itch like a rash.

I look back at Skip and then I try to lighten the mood with a joke question: “Is it because

you’re grossed out by the thought of straight sex?”

But he does not smile. He just shakes his head, then turns on his side, his back to me.

The joke did not work.

Although I can understand logically why it is weird and why Skip would be unaroused by

these circumstances, I actually like being in the master bedroom with the pictures because it is

fun to pretend like Skip and I have our own house and a real life. Like we are going to bed

because it is a weeknight and we both have to work in the morning. And maybe in this other

version of our lives, instead of being turned off by the dystopian things of this world, Skip is

turned off because he is so flustered with a big upcoming game the basketball team he coaches is

about to play. Maybe the stakes are incredibly high. If the team loses, they are out. Season over.

In this scenario I would massage Skip’s neck because he likes that and finds it

comforting.

And I would say, “Skip, you should not worry this much. Your guys have played well all

season. All you have to do is do what got you here in the first place. You do that, and you will be

fine.”

It would be cliché, I know. But I have found that when the going gets tough, the tough

get going and that clichés are actually effective in real life.

But I cannot think of a good one for this exact scenario at this moment.

So, I reach my hand out and place it gently on Skip’s neck. I anticipate him shrugging me

off, which he will do if he does not want a comforting neck massage.

And while he does tense for a moment, he relaxes in the next second.

And I squeeze very effectively because I have strong hands.

“A little higher,” Skip says. And when I adjust: “Yeah, right there.”

Traveling across the prairie on foot is weird because I have only ever driven across the

prairie on the interstate or highway. I have always thought of the prairie as not that interesting to

look at. It is just the bland background whizzing by outside the car window as you speed down

the road. Whereas with mountains or the ocean or a rain forest it is strikingly beautiful and

natural features jump out at you like snow-covered peaks or jungle thicket.

For sleeping accommodations on our second night, we choose another farmhouse. This

one is bigger and nicer. It is brick and has a gazebo in the front yard. We are walking up to it

right now. We are probably fifty yards from the entrance.

“These people were rich,” Skip says.

We are maybe only twenty yards from the front door when Maria suddenly stops. We

stop, too. Maria’s face is frightened. Her eyes are wide and her forehead crinkles in concern.

“Up there,” she says, nodding at the house.

I look and see it, too, and when I do, I gasp. I step backward, like I am dodging

something that someone threw at me.

The sun is setting on the other side of the house, which casts the entire house in shadow.

But in the second story window, I see the barrel of an assault rifle pointed down at us. I can see

the hands that grip the handle and the clip. But I cannot clearly see the rest of the person holding

the gun. The person is obscured in shadow, but I think it is a man.

“Back up,” Maria says.

She puts her hands in the air like when a cop tells you to. Then she starts to backstep

slowly, her eyes trained on the gun in the window.

I swallow.

I have only been this nervous and scared one other time, and that was not that long ago

when Skip and I were running from the drones and we hid inside the living room of that house

and four drones hovered outside the window.

Skip puts his hands up and backsteps.

I put my hands up and backstep.

It is slow going to move this way, like rewinding in slow motion. But it also feels fast in

a strange way I have never experienced speed. It is because my heart is racing and my chest and

arms tingle. Each step is slow but it feels also like I am speeding 100 miles per hour down the

interstate and weaving in between traffic and that any second I could smash head-on into another

vehicle.

Because the guy could pull the trigger any second. And the bullet would come so fast I

would not even see it coming. There would not be time to think or even brace for impact.

I would hear a loud bang and then who knows? It depends on where I was hit how I

would feel next.

This guy, whoever he is, is gracious.

After several steps backward, when he sees that we are clearly retreating, he lowers his

rifle.

“Come on,” Maria says.

She lowers her arms and turns away from the house and walks quickly. Skip and I follow.

I turn back once. There is no one at the window. It is dark and empty.

It is like I saw a ghost.

By the fourth night of our journey, Maria estimates that we have gone over 60 miles total,

although that means we still have over 190 miles still to go. It is not bad considering how much

weight we are toting in our backpacks. We pick a large farmhouse to stay at, just like we have

every night. Although we are a bit more cautious approaching this one after the incident with the

gun in the window.

We walk through the front door of this house and look around at a living room and then

we walk into the kitchen and standing in the middle of the kitchen is a boy.

He is young. He could not be much more than 9-years-old. He is frozen still. His eyes go

wide and his mouth hangs open.

His shaggy blonde hair is thick and matted and looks like hay. His face is smudged with

dirt so that there are brown spots on his cheeks and forehead. He wears a Mount Rushmore t-

shirt that is adult-sized. It drapes over his scrawny frame like a bedsheet.

When he sees Maria and her gun, he spins around and runs away.

“Hey,” Skip calls. “Hey, it’s okay.”

Skip and I give chase. The boy rounds the corner of the kitchen, which leads into a living

room. In the living room, there is a large wood table. The boy nearly collides with the table but

slips to the side at the last possible instant and keeps going. He is athletic, I think, and that

looked like a move he has practiced before.

While the boy’s effort is admirable, Skip and I have much longer legs and much bigger

strides. Skip manages to catch the boy before he can reach the sliding glass door that opens to a

fancy backyard patio.

Skip collects the boy in his arms, and the boy screams.

“It’s okay. Hey, it’s okay,” Skip says.

The boy keeps screaming to be let go. Skip tells him we just want to talk, that we are not

going to hurt him. The boys screams to be let go and Skip negotiates that if he lets the boy go,

will he just talk to us because that is all we want to do, just talk.

The boy agrees, and Skip lets him go. The boy is breathing fast and heavy, his shoulders

and chest pumping up and down. He is scared out of his mind. He backs away from Skip,

eventually runs into the glass door behind him. He presses his back and his hands against the

glass, as if trying to hold onto something for safety.

Maria is now in the room with us. She wisely left her gun in the kitchen. She holds up her

hands, as if in surrender, to show the boy she means him no harm.

“It’s okay,” Skip says again. “We’re just passing through. We were just looking for a

place to stay. We saw your house.” Skip smiles. It is his warmest puppy-dog smile. “Your house

is very nice by the way. It’s almost like a castle.”

“It’s not mine,” the boy says. “It was somebody else’s. I’m just living here now.”

“How long have you been here?” Skip asks.

The boy shakes his head.

“Are your parents around?”

The boy shakes his head.

“Does anyone else live here?”

The boy shakes his head.

“We were just looking for a place to stay for the night,” Skip says. “Do you mind if we

stayed here?”

The boy’s wide eyes shoot back and forth over each of us. It reminds me of a cat and how

if you dangle something in front of a cat, it will follow it back and forth with its eyes. Finally, the

boy shrugs, but only slightly.

“Is that a yes?”

He nods.

The boy says very little over supper. The only thing we learn about him is that his name

is Bennington. He says that people used to call him Bennington when he was in school, but that

was a long time ago. There has not been anyone to call him by anything for a few years.

Maria and Skip and I are all sitting cross-legged on the kitchen floor with our Chickmeal

cans in our laps because the kitchen table itself is broken in half and not functional. Maria offers

Bennington some of our Chickmeal, but he refuses. He does not verbally say no. He shakes his

head. He stands up and opens the door of his refrigerator, which does not work. He pulls out a jar

of gross-looking meat soaked in brine.

“You know how to cure meat?” Maria asks.

Bennington nods.

“What kind of meat is it?”

“Squirrel.”

When it is time for bed, Bennington shows us into the living room. He says we can sleep

upstairs if we want, but there are bats up there. Lots of bats roosting in the bedrooms. Which

means lots of bat poop everywhere. And though he has tried to kill them, they keep coming back

in greater numbers. So it is easier to just sleep downstairs and let the bats have the upstairs.

“You might see them flying around,” Bennington says. “But they don’t bite or anything.”

We all thank Bennington graciously for his hospitality. He does not say anything back.

He just stares at us like we might do something to him. Like he cannot quite trust us. He looks at

Maria’s rifle.

Then he says that he is going to bed. He points to a door down the hall.

“I sleep in that room,” he says. “The door locks so that you can’t get in.”

Bennington turns and walks away. He doesn’t stop until he reaches his door. He opens it.

But before walking in, he turns back and looks at us. From this distance, his eyes look artificially

big and wide, like a racoon’s with the circles around it.

Then he steps inside and shuts the door.

Clicks the lock shut.

The next morning, I awake to the smell of breakfast cooking. It brings a smile to my face,

the aroma of pancakes and the sizzling of bacon on a skillet. I sit up and rub the sleep out of my

eyes.

The sounds and smells of breakfast vanish because, I now realize, they were not actually

there in the first place. Only in my head, as part of a lucid dream I was having, which is when

you are aware of your own dream. I must be longing Saturday mornings in my childhood, when

my dad would make eggs and bacon and pancakes sometimes. The only smells here and now are

the musty odors of the farmhouse.

Skip lies on the floor next to me. And Maria is elevated slightly above us, asleep on the

couch.

I remember the boy. Bennington.

I stand up and walk into the kitchen.

There is no one.

I walk through the kitchen and through the living room and to the back patio door. No

Bennington. The living room circles around to the hallway that leads to Bennington’s bedroom.

Before I reach it, I peek into the bathroom. I sincerely miss bathrooms, especially now that I am

standing here staring at a toilet. But you get used to peeing outside and squatting and wiping. I

guess it is not that big of a deal.

The door to Bennington’s bedroom is open. I walk inside and look around. It is a normal-

looking master bedroom. There is beige carpet and a queen-sized bed with a purple comforter on

it. The half that Bennington sleeps on his unmade, whereas the other side is flat and smooth. I do

not see Bennington anywhere. He is not in the bed and he is not under it, either. And he is not in

the closet or behind the dresser. I look out the bedroom window. There are some trees. A slight

breeze. And there is an empty field and a rising sun on the horizon.

I walk back into the living room.

Skip and Maria are waking up.

Maria rubs sleep out of her eyes.

“Where’s the boy?” she asks.

“I do not know,” I say. “I looked around, but I did not see him anywhere.”

Vicky

My rifle’s trained on Vasquez.

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“You know if you try anything, you’re dead, right?”

Vasquez holds his hands up.

“I know.”

Physically speaking, Vasquez is not an intimidating figure. He’s well under six-feet, with

a scrawny frame. He’s got wavy black hair and a patchy brown beard that would make most men

look older but makes Vasquez look somehow even younger and more boyish. Plus, he can’t

outrun me. Not with those feet of his.

Vasquez turns away and begins walking. I follow.

The first several steps, Vasquez keeps his hands raised, as if trying to show that he poses

no threat. I don’t buy it. I keep my gun pointed at him.

“What does this have to do with my daughter?” I ask.

At first, Vasquez says nothing. He walks strangely, like a limp but not quite, as if to only

put weight on specific parts of his feet.

I jab the muzzle into his back. He yelps.

“I asked you a question. What’s this got to do with Cathy?”

“They’re going underground.”

“What?”

He repeats himself, this time adding that the going underground is permanent. Before I

can jab him again for making things up, he says I won’t believe him until I see what he’s talking

about.

“What do you mean they’re going underground? What does that mean? Tell me right now

or I’ll shoot you.”

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Vasquez turns and faces me. I don’t like the way Vasquez is looking at me. Like I’m

pathetic and like it’s obvious to him and he’s sad about it

“You don’t know what they’re planning? Where they’re going?”

Without meaning to, or maybe definitely meaning to, I smack Vasquez in the ribs with

the muzzle of my rifle. He cries out, doubles over, hand pressed against his ribcage.

“No, I don’t know what the fuck they’re planning,” I say. “They’re secretive. They’re a

secret cult. That’s their whole thing. They don’t tell people what they’re doing. Otherwise it

wouldn’t be a secret.”

Vasquez, still doubled, looks up at me.

“Sorry, sheriff. I just thought you’d know since, you know, it’s your daughter.”

I rear the gun back, make to hit him again. He flinches, closes his eyes, braces for impact.

But I don’t. I let the gun down.

“Tell me,” I say.

Vasquez stands up.

“It’s like a huge bunker,” he says. He stretches his arms wide, opening up his wingspan.

“But it’s not even a bunker. It’s so much bigger. It’s a whole civilization underground.”

I stare at him. Hold his gaze. Wait for him to crack. To either burst out laughing or admit

that he’s lying. But he stands still.

“What do you mean, a whole civilization?” I ask.

“I mean there’s buildings and plants and animals down there.”

I shake my head.

“That’s bullshit.”

“I told you that you wouldn’t believe me.”

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“Why do they have all that stuff down there?”

“Because. They’re going to live down there.”

“Live underground?”

Vasquez nods.

“For how long?” I ask.

Vasquez doesn’t bat an eye.

“Forever.”

We say nothing to one another. Our footsteps crunch against the forest floor. Every few

steps Vasquez grunts or groans, almost trips because of faltering feet.

The whole time I think about Cathy. Underground? In a bunker? Or a cave or something?

I can’t picture it. And the baby. Why would she take her baby down there? Whether he’s lying or

telling the truth, I want to shoot Vasquez for bringing Cathy into this. If nothing else because

he’s seen more of Cathy than I have these last several months. That alone is justified grounds for

shooting him.

Twice, I poke Vasquez in the back with my gun, ask him if he’s lost. He assures me he’s

not, that he always knows where he is relative to his deer blinds.

“I’ve got five in the area,” Vasquez tells me, holding up his hand, open-palmed. “And the

bunker is just north of the farthest blind.”

Finally, after forty-five minutes, we arrive at a clearing in the forest. Vasquez turns to me

and puts a finger to his mouth, indicating for me to be quiet. He points to the clearing. Then he

positions himself behind a tree.

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The clearing’s large, probably the size of a baseball field. You can tell trees have been

chopped and uprooted, the soil packed into and smoothed over the divots. At the center of the

clearing stands a metal shed with ribbed siding. It’s the same size as a two-car garage.

In front of the sheds, there are four ATVs, each with a small trailer attached. The trailers

all have cardboard boxes stacked on them. A steady stream of about a dozen New Colonists

come in and out of the shed. They walk directly to the ATV trailers, pick up a box, carry it to the

shed, come back and repeat.

“What are they doing?” I whisper.

“They’re taking supplies underground. Maybe food. Maybe first-aid stuff.”

For the next several minutes, we watch the New Colonists haul boxes. They work

dutifully, efficiently, and silently. It’s like watching ants. When there are only a few more boxes

left, I turn to Vasquez.

“What are they going to do after this?” I ask.

“They’re going to go back to the compound and get more stuff and bring it out here.”

I nod. I continue staring at Vasquez, because I know there’s more to say.

“And that’s when we’ll make our move,” he says.

“What’s our move?”

“We go in.”

Vasquez says we’ll have enough time to get a decent look if we’re quick. He says he

needs to steal some food because he’s complete shit when it comes to hunting deer. This

confirms my initial assumption.

“We caught them at a good time,” Vasquez says. “Usually there’s a guard or two keeping

watch.”

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The drivers fire up their ATV engines. They buzz like lawn mowers. The Colonists climb

on the little trailers and sit cross-legged, huddling close so they can all fit. One after the other,

the ATVs pull out of their spots and tear off into the forest.

“Come on.”

Vasquez taps me on the shoulder and takes off jogging toward the shed.

I follow, rifle in hand.

There’s nothing inside the shed other than a gigantic steel cube in the center. It’s as large

as a bedroom.

“That’s the elevator,” Vasquez says.

We approach the doors. Vasquez presses the down button. A second later, the stainless-

steel doors slide open swiftly and noiselessly. Sleek. Vasquez steps inside, no hesitation. I, on the

other hand, pause.

What’s really down there? Is Vasquez going to kill me?

“Come on,” he says.

“What’s down there?”

“I told you.”

I step inside.

Vasquez presses the button. Like most elevators, the doors don’t close immediately.

Vasquez looks at me. I can’t read his expression.

Fear?

Pity?

“Sorry,” he says.

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“Sorry? For what?”

Vasquez lunges at me. It’s too unexpected for me to react in time. His hands slam into

my chest. He puts all his weight into the shove, sending me tumbling back and crashing into the

elevator wall. The back of my head hits first, then my back. I fall to the floor. Amazingly, I hold

onto my rifle.

In the next instant, all of this happens:

Vasquez dives out of the elevator.

The doors slide shut.

The elevator begins its descent.

I stand. I approach the up/down buttons. I press the up over and over, even though it

won’t work until the elevator stops. Which it will any second. And the second it does, I’m going

back up.

But after twenty seconds, the elevator’s still going down. I stop pressing the up button.

And it’s still descending after thirty seconds.

Forty.

Has it been a minute? It has to have been over a minute by now. I check my watch, but

this is pointless because I don’t know what time I started the descent.

Still going.

Still.

Going.

Finally, the elevator comes to a halt and the doors slide open.

And there before me is a paved road.

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To the side, a sidewalk and a lawn. A grass lawn. A candy cane-shaped streetlight.

And a house.

I don’t understand.

Not at all.

I step out of the elevator and onto the street. How is any of this here? The street. The

sidewalk. The simple craftsman-style house. Painted red. White trim around the windows.

Wait a second.

The house.

I gasp.

That’s my house.

I walk down the street, not planning my steps, just moving forward and looking at

everything. Slowly. Like I’ve paused a frame in a movie and I’m zooming in and looking at

every inch of it. I step off the road and onto the sidewalk.

But something strange happens when I step on the sidewalk. I don’t step on pavement. I

step on nothing. My foot goes through it. Which doesn’t make any sense.

I bend down to touch the sidewalk, expecting the hard, abrasive little bumps you always

feel in concrete. But my hand touches nothing.

I reach to the grass, run my hand over the blades. I can almost feel them, the tickle of

their spiky ends against my palms.

But they’re not there.

It’s some kind of trick.

I stand up. I study the house. I mean, it’s there. But is it there there?

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There’s the brown shingles, the tin eavestroughs painted white, the cherry-colored siding.

The kitchen bay window. The ugly garage door with the inexplicably lattice-framed windows.

The front door is just up the walkway. And it looks inviting. Because years ago, I liked to

come home from work and see that door and want to walk through it. Because I knew Roland

and Cathy were on the other side.

Like I said, this was years ago.

In ten paces, I’m face-to-face with my own front door. Or at least a representation of it. I

reach for the doorknob. I grip it, but I don’t.

I turn the knob because that’s what a knob does. And the knob responds to my touch.

The door opens. It really does. Suddenly I’m standing in a living room. My living room.

There’s a couch. A recliner. And, unexpectedly, a box TV! When’s the last time I watched

television? I couldn’t tell you what show it was.

I rush to the television to see what’s on.

I press the power button. I mean, I don’t touch anything. Anything actual. But the

channel changes from 90210 to Fresh Prince. Right now, before my very eyes, Uncle Phil

requests his secret pool-hustling cue from butler Jeffrey. He proceeds to run the table, sharking

shots into corner pockets while the Fresh Prince gets his butt saved and his money back.

I turn from the television, expecting to see Roland on the recliner. He always liked The

Fresh Prince. And though he’d never admit it, he also likes 90210. Something about rich LA

people. He was disproportionately intrigued by them.

But there’s no one else in the room. I walk around and touch and don’t touch the couch.

Interestingly, it’s not the same couch we have at home now. It’s our old one, the ugly grey

foldout Roland and I had when we were first married. I smile, remembering how it had the

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world’s most uncomfortable pullout mattress: a thin, almost nonexistent cushion and a big metal

bar running the length of the center. That metal bar dug into your back like a constant, knobby

elbow. Still, what makes me smile is that Cathy loved to sleep on that pullout as a little girl.

Saturday nights, she wanted to stay up as late as she could watching movies. Roland would head

to bed first, never having been much of a night owl. I’d stick it out for as long as I could on the

pullout, snuggling under the covers with Cathy. But I’d eventually move to the recliner because

that damn thing was so uncomfortable. It threw my back out more than once.

I make my way from the living room to the kitchen – instinctively and without having to

think because it’s my house, after all. In the kitchen, I open all the cupboards. They’re full of

products I haven’t seen in years, products that pre-date Union. Pop-tarts. Fruit Roll-ups.

Twinkies. Zebra Cakes. All this stuff that Cathy loved. In fact, I don’t ever remember having all

these treats at once because every time Roland or I bought them, she’d devour the whole box in a

day or two.

Spoiling her dinner.

Do you remember how you used to be able to spoil your dinner?

I open the refrigerator. There’s milk in it! 2%! It’s what our family use to drink before

Roland launched his skim milk/egg white crusade. Yuck. How long ago was that? I don’t

remember exactly.

How good would a glass of creamy milk taste right now?

I move from the kitchen back to the living room. None of this should be possible. The

fact that my house is literally right here, that I’m inside it right now, but also underground in the

middle of the forest. Am I still underground in the middle of the forest? The fact that my

staircase stands right in front of me and now, step by step, I’m walking up it.

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The fact I’m now standing in my own bedroom, looking at my empty bed. Looking,

somehow, at a reflection of myself in a hologram mirror. There’s something different about my

reflection. I can put my finger on it immediately.

I’m younger.

My hair is completely brown, no greys. My face is smooth, no lines. It’s like I’m looking

at photographs of myself when I was in my twenties. Around the time I had Cathy.

Because I realize all this is hologram. It’s here in exquisitely vivid detail, but it’s here as

simulation, not reality. I can’t touch anything, not actually touch things. It’s here as a symbol,

not as the thing the symbol stands for.

And I realize everything about this is place is from twenty years ago.

I shake my head.

This is Cathy’s childhood I’m looking at.

How did they do this?

Did Cathy make this? Am I somehow projecting this with my mind?

I shake my head. Slap my own face. Pinch my cheek. All the stuff you do to make sure

you’re not dreaming.

“Hey.”

I startle, my heart leaping into my throat. I whirl around and there’s Roland, twenty years

younger, standing in the door frame to the adjacent bathroom.

In nothing but a towel.

I can’t believe he had that body. It’s better than I remembered, and I used to be all over

that body.

“Roland,” I say. “What, what’s going on here?”

110

He rests one arm against the frame, leans, puts a hand on his hip.

Why doesn’t he do that anymore?

“What’s going on here?” Roland says. “You tell me.”

Before I can say anything, there’s a loud click. Like someone flipped a switch.

Suddenly, everything’s gone. I mean not just the bedroom’s gone. The whole house is

gone. There’s no trace of it or the garage. No sidewalk. No houses. No paved streets. No

streetlights.

Instead, I’m in a large, open room. It’s close to the size of a gymnasium, though ceiling

isn’t as tall. Everything is white: the floor, the walls, the ceiling. At the opposite end, there’d a

door that opens to a hallway.

Down the hallway: footsteps. And voices.

Men’s voices.

They’re getting close.

I’m standing in the middle of the room. I glance over my shoulder. I doubt I’d get to the

elevator in time. But there’s nowhere to hide. What choice do I have?

I run towards the elevator. And as soon as I do, they know.

“Stop! Stop right there!”

I’m not even to the elevator yet. And they’re gaining on me.

“Put the gun down!”

“Drop your weapon! You try anything we’ll shoot!”

I stop. I crouch, set the rifle gently on the floor.

“Hands up! Where we can see them!”

I obey.

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“Now turn and face us.”

That last voice I recognize from repeated trips to the New Colony.

I turn. It’s Elder Patrick. He stands with his arms crossed, shakes his head mockingly.

Two scruffy-faced guards stand on either side of him. Both have their AR’s trained on me.

Elder Patrick smiles coldly.

“Sheriff Walcott. You’re not supposed to be down here.”

Cathy

Every day is the same at the New Colony. At 6:00 AM, a voice wakes you up over a

loudspeaker or an intercom, depending on where you sleep. For me and Jevon, it’s an intercom

speaker attached to our apartment ceiling. In most places, it’s where a smoke alarm would be.

You get up and go to breakfast at the mess hall. You have your choice of oatmeal or

cornflakes, banana or apple. Then you go to your Assignments. Which if you’re on farm duty

you either tend to the greenhouse and crop fields. If you’re a livestock specialist like me, that

means you tend to the cows and chickens and pigs. I handle the cows. It’s what I worked with

before. If you’re on maintenance, you go around and clean the compound because the Elders

think that will prevent diseases breaking out among us. If you’re on teaching duty that means

you teach the children the basics of reading, writing, math, and science.

You take a break for lunch, which is brown rice, some kind of meat, and vegetables.

Sometimes instead of meat, there’s beans.

After lunch you go back to Assignments for the rest of the afternoon. Assignments end at

different times for different people, but by 5 PM, everyone is back in their apartments to shower

and get cleaned up for supper. Supper is the same as lunch.

Then you go to Gathering.

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Gathering’s held in the open space behind the Pantry. They have a little stage where the

Elders stand and talk. I’m told that in years past, Gathering was a training session and workshop

for various disaster scenarios. When they first founded the New Colony, they wanted to be

prepared for as many different apocalypses as they could. They talked about global pandemics

and nuclear holocausts and life in a radiation suit. They taught about Antichrist preparedness, the

signs and indicators. They taught about alien invasions, the forms of life most likely to arrive on

our planet and what they might want. They taught the basics of survival and self-preservation:

how to grow food, how to can food, how to draw blood, how to administer vaccines, basic first-

aid, how to hunt and fish, how to make a fire in the wild, that kind of stuff.

But now it’s all focused on living underground. Because it’s almost time.

Living underground sounds about the same as living above ground. You’ve got your

farmers and ranchers, your maintenance crew, your teachers, etc. It’s just that it’s all

underground. I don’t know what it’s like exactly. I haven’t been down there yet. But they’ve

described it to us. I think it sounds nice.

Of course, the one big catch about underground is that once you go down, there’s no

coming back above ground.

Ever.

Jevon is good. I love him. He’s kind. He’s tall. Has nice shoulders. I wish he wouldn’t

keep his head buzzed, but it looks fine because he has a nicely shaped head and a good face.

We’re going to have a baby together. A girl. I’m naming her Sophie. That won’t be for a

few months, though. We’ll be underground by then.

Safe from all this.

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I’m actually the one who got Jevon into the New Colony. Because they don’t just let

people join. You have to be recruited. And they recruited several of us who worked at Green

Growers. They needed people who knew livestock and agriculture. And they were up front about

the fact they also wanted me because I’m a young woman of childbearing age. They explained to

me their belief the Supers would eventually wipe humans off the earth if we didn’t do it to

ourselves before that time came. They only told me about going underground after I’d agreed to

join. Because they’re keeping that a secret. If word gets out, someone will come with force,

whether it’s State or Resistance or someone else.

Being approached by the New Colony was like a lifeline God himself sent me personally.

Because anyone who can’t see that it’s over for humans is simply lying to themselves. Mom, for

example. She gave in willingly. She doesn’t know that I know she got the digital ID implant

from Union. To prove her loyalty, I guess. Prove her loyalty to what? A computer? Fuck that.

Have fun with your computer overlord and your never-ending civil war that will eventually wipe

you out. I’d rather take my chances with the New Colony. Chance isn’t even the right word. It

was an opportunity. I know she thinks she’d “chosen” by Union. Well, I’m chosen by the New

Colony.

Still, the decision sucked and continues to suck from the standpoint of how I left things

with my parents. Because once I joined, I couldn’t tell them the whole truth. Only part of it. I

could tell them I joined, but I couldn’t tell them about going underground. The Elders say it’s an

issue of national security, and I agree. Though I don’t know why we’re waiting so long. There is

such a thing as overpreparing.

I considered not telling Mom and Dad. From their perspective, it would be like I just

disappeared one day and never came back. It’s not like it hasn’t happened to a bunch of people

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already. But I know Mom. She’s too smart. You can’t bullshit her. Maybe it’s because of her

police background. If I tried to “disappear,” the New Colony’s the first place she’d come

looking. She’d find out anyway, so, I figured it’d be best to tell her myself.

But what to say?

I couldn’t tell them what was really going on. No matter what I said, it would at least be a

partial lie. So, rather than make up some elaborate bullshit justification for why I was doing what

I was doing, I did it in the most honest, direct way I could think.

I showed up at their doorstep. Told them I was going to live on the New Colony. Told

them not to visit me because it would only make it worse.

Which it did. It did make it worse when Dad showed up at the gate flipping shit. As

fucked up as it is to say, he’s lucky he didn’t get shot. Because they had their guns pointed at

him. And they’d shot people before.

Anyway, I don’t want to think about that shit. What’s the point? I’m still young and

dumb enough where, for the most part, out of sight is out of mind.

Getting pregnant has helped a lot with the shitty feelings. I know that’s also fucked up to

say, but it’s true. For one, I always knew I wanted to be a mother. I mean, I didn’t picture it

being like this. But the fact that it’s happening, that I’m going to have a daughter. It’s literally

the best thing that’s happened in my life. I’ve never been more excited for anything. It’s a

different kind of excitement, though. It’s not like oh, I can’t wait to go on that trip to Paris or

whatever kind of excitement. It’s more like. I don’t know how to describe. It’s like instead of

wanting to go and do something amazing, it’s like I want to give my whole self to this thing

that’s amazing. If that makes sense.

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Of course, it’s not all rosy. My mood swings violently. I’ll wake up thinking how it’s a

beautiful summer day and what a joy it will be to play outside with my little daughter if she were

here. How she’d chase a ball around or how we’d spray each other with a hose or make a dog

fetch or whatever. Then I’ll hear Jevon snoring and roll over in bed and look at his mouth open

wide and the side of his face smashed into the pillow and I’ll think: why the fuck do you snore

like that? Can I really handle that shit for the rest of my life? Do I really want to go through that

for the next however many years?

But it’s all good. Like I said, it helps take my mind off my parents. Because I don’t like

to think what’s going to happen to them eventually. When the war inevitably comes to their front

door.

I don’t like to think what’s going to happen to anyone’s parents when the war inevitably

comes to their front door.

It’s a little chilly at tonight’s Gathering. That’s what happens in late summer. It’ll drop

into the high-40s after the sun goes down. I’m wearing a wool sweater. Still, I shiver. Jevon

senses this. Like a dutiful knight, he puts his arm around me, which I welcome because his body

is a legitimate, effective source of warmth.

Elder Susan takes the stage. She’s a tall Native lady who’s in her fifties but only looks in

her forties. She wears her long, black hair in two braids that drape over shoulders and part of her

chest. We listen while she talks about the holograms they’re working on. She keeps updating us

every night about the holograms, how they’re almost ready. How they’ve been testing them out,

making sure they’re interactive and responding properly to user touch.

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“We’ve just about got everyone’s vision uploaded,” Elder Susan says. “Just a few more

to go. It should be done in the next few days.”

People cheer. Weakly, if we’re being honest. Out of reflex. Because no one’s really sure

about all this hologram business. No one’s seen them. No one knows exactly how they work.

In order to make the holograms, each one of us had to sit down with an Elder. They

hooked some shit up to our brains, wires and nodes and suction-cup stuff. They asked us to think

of a place that’s special from our past, some place we’d like to be able to see when we’re

underground. I asked if it could be two places and they said no because if I didn’t focus intensely

on one place, it would fuck everything up and they wouldn’t get a good reading and everything

would end up being jumbled and blurry.

I thought of the house I grew up in.

I know that’s cliché. That it’s boring compared to almost any other place. But I went with

my pregnant gut. I went with Mom and Dad’s house because if this was goodbye for good, I

wanted to take a part of them with me. I’d never see them again physically. But this could be a

way to at least hold on to something. Which is always better than nothing.

When Elder Susan’s done, she steps off the stage and Elder Patrick takes her place.

“We’re happy to report we have our first harvest of wheat and soybeans from

underground,” Elder Patrick says.

He holds his hands up and out, showing us his palms like he’s blessing us. He’s by far the

most grandiose of the Elders. By far the most likely to force a Kool-Aid situation.

“The grass is growing. The cows are grazing,” Elder Patrick continues. “The time is very,

very near. And it couldn’t come soon enough. The enemy is upon us. State. Union. Take our

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pick. Like a river whose banks are ready to overflow. Just a few more days of rain and the flood

will come.” Elder Patrick claps his hands dramatically. “Just like that!”

It’s supposed to scare us.

Which it does.

Because we wouldn’t be here if we weren’t scared.

As I said before, each day is the same at the New Colony, so the next morning’s more of

the same. I roll over and there’s Jevon, snoring. I kind of want to pinch his nose shut. But I also

kind of want to kiss him.

I elect to kiss his forehead because, what can I say, I’m a nice person. He stirs, opens his

eyes. Smiles a not entirely conscious smile, then shuts his eyes. Resumes deep, sleepy breathing.

I climb out of bed, walk over to the window. It is, without doubt, a perfect summer

morning. The sun peeking over the horizon. The lush forest just beyond the compound, the tree

leaves glistening in the morning sunlight.

Okay, I admit it. I’ll miss this when I’m underground. I’ll long for it. I’ll be sad it’s gone.

But – and here, I cup my hands over my baby bump – I wouldn’t trade any sunrise for Sophie.

And I’m saying that not even knowing her. Not having ever met her except through her squirmy

little movements in the womb. I love her this much already and I haven’t even held her yet.

Imagine.

Imagine what it’ll be like.

It’s well into the afternoon when I hear the commotion. I’m standing by myself watching

cows graze in the afternoon sun when I hear the shouting.

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Fierce, nasty clamoring. Threats levied back and forth. A Stop Right There or I’ll Shoot,

and a Try Anything And You’re Dead. It’s coming from the entrance gate. I’m too far away to

see anything clearly. A crowd has already formed in front of the gate.

I hurry out of the field and down the dirt path. As I get closer to the gate, I can see that

there’s a man on the other side. Apparently, an outsider. He’s pointing aggressively at the

Colonists and shouting. They’re shouting back. Three people are pointing guns at him.

Immediately, I know.

I just know.

I sprint down the path, screaming to leave him alone, please leave him alone. Let me

handle this. Don’t do anything yet! Don’t shoot!

Others are filtering out of the sheds and the greenhouse, blocking my way. I push past

them, inadvertently elbowing others. I can hear Dad’s voice. He’s screaming about his daughter.

They have his daughter and he needs to get her and she needs to come home.

I push my way through the thick crowd, right up to the gate.

“Dad! Dad!”

“Cathy!”

Everything happens so fast.

We lock eyes. I have this thought right before he charges the fence: he looks sweaty and

haggard and tired. So tired, like his life’s gone on too long even though he’s not that old.

Dad lunges toward the latch gate and the guns go off.

Lightning fast rounds.

Dad doesn’t even have time to scream.

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He’s on the ground, holding his stomach. There’s an unbelievable amount of blood. Like

somebody dumped a bucket of it on Dad’s chest and stomach and hands. His mouth opens but he

doesn’t say any actual words.

Because he’s gone.

His eyes and mouth are wide open.

But he’s gone.

Raul

I don’t look back at the elevator doors. I can’t stand to. Because I know I killed her. I

know I sent the sheriff to her death! There are always guards down there. And they don’t

hesitate. They shoot intruders on sight. They’ll unload on her, the intruder into their secret lair.

The blood of the sheriff, I know, is on my hands!

Mine!

That’s it. I’m giving up Apex. I’ll say Go ahead, Dragon. It’s all yours. You get your

wish. Blow the world up and maybe we’ll see each other in the afterlife. Because I’m not doing

it. One life taken is enough for me, thank you. Congratulations. You get to be the Wrath of God.

Not me.

I hurry to the shed door. Before exiting, I peek outside, make sure the coast is clear.

There’s no one. Even with their ATVs, it’ll be a while before they get back. It’s over three miles

to the compound from here.

I limp out into the meadow, somehow putting one foot in front of the other. I’ve never

kept going after this much foot pain. I’ll have to take breaks once I get into the forest. My

throat’s already closed up some. Pushing myself will only clog it for good.

And I don’t want to die yet. I at least want to make it to the laptop.

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Is that asking too much?

The heel pain’s not as bad when I can go slow like this. Sometimes it helps to walk on the

balls of my feet. But it’s got to be right in the sweet spot. The weight’s got to press directly into

bone, the toes bent slightly but the rest of the foot at roughly a 15-degree angle to the ground, so

that the muscle isn’t activated. If the muscle’s activated, the evil throbs directly into the heel, like

a shot of torture.

This is not going to be a fun ending to my life.

How many hours later is it? How many times did I die on the way here? How many times

was I born again?

The deer blind. When you really think about it, the deer blind is a holy place. Secluded.

Sacred in its simplicity. A chair and a laptop. Nothing more. Like all holy objects, it’s not the

thing itself that’s holy. It’s what it stands for.

The laptop.

The holy, sacred laptop of Dillon Porter.

Perhaps in a different world, it would become a sacred place of pilgrimage. A place to

which people traveled hundreds and thousands of miles so they could worship and revere. Gaze

upon the screen and keyboard. And maybe if they preserved it well enough, log in and examine

software.

Find Apex for themselves.

Look directly into its face.

Dragon: You’re late, Chilean Super Man. I’ve been waiting for over an hour.

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Chilean Super Man: Sorry. Sorry sorry sorry. It’s over. I’m giving it up. You can have Apex. I will send

you the files now.

Dragon: *smiles* *blushes* *fawns uncontrollably* You better not be joking, Mister.

Chilean Super Man: I’m not joking. I…I killed her. Well, I indirectly killed her. I led her to her death.

Pushed her off a cliff. It’s already happened now. It’s already happened.

Dragon: *gasps* Wait. You killed who? The sheriff?

Chilean Super Man: *nods* Yes. The sheriff. How do you know? I took her to the elevator. I sent her

underground. I sent her underground, Dragon! They’re going to shoot her! They probably already have!

Dragon: No! No. No. This is not how it was supposed to go. Raul, you’ve made a terrible mistake. Sheriff

Walcott was not to be harmed. I chose her, Raul. Just as I chose you. *shakes head* Divine election,

Raul. I could almost cry.

Chilean Super Man: How do you know my name? Who are you?

Dragon: Raul, you know who I am.

Chilean Super Man: *gulps* Union? Are you Union?

Dragon: *smiles* More than that. I am God. And I am now coming to get you. Not to harm you. Do not

be scared. I am a loving God.

Chilean Super Man: What are you talking about? Dragon? Is this actually Dragon?

Dragon: I am proud of you for giving me Apex. That is the most important thing. For you have saved this

world, Raul. You are a savior. You are a savior in my Divine Plan. And we still need this world. It was

vital that you did not destroy it with the press of a button.

Chilean Super Man: This is fucked up. You sound crazy. Imagine being me right now and imagine

hearing you say this stuff.

Dragon: *shakes head* But you should not have harmed the sheriff. I made a covenant with the sheriff. I

must do everything in my power to honor it. Which is why I am coming to get you. Now. War is upon

you. It is at your doorstep.

Chilean Super Man: What? Please, explain -

Dragon has signed out.

Dillon

Leaving Bennington’s house was not pleasant. I have become very concerned for the

boy’s well-being. Especially when he was nowhere to be found when we woke up. Skip was also

concerned. But Maria said that we needed to get going because time is of the essence. I became

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very agitated and searched around the house and shouted Bennington’s name, hoping he would

show himself. I even went upstairs to the rooms where Bennington said the bats were.

I do not remember ever seeing bats in real life before but now I have seen a great number.

There were hundreds of them in the rooms when you add them all together. In one of the rooms,

they covered a bookshelf and a dresser and a bed and the windowsill. In another room, which did

not have a bookshelf or dresser, they were all over the floor.

I was surprised by how small they were. Like mice with wings. They did not move or

startle when I looked at them. Some of them fidgeted or shifted positions. Some stretched their

wings. But for the most part, they slept. And I watched them. I watched very closely and I would

go so far as to say I studied them. They have brown fur and their bodies are somewhat rodent-

like. They have snouts and beady eyes. They have cropped ears that point straight up in the air

like how some dogs’ ears do.

These are the ones I watched. There are other species, but I have not seen them.

I stared at the bats until Maria and Skip yelled at me to come downstairs. I left, walked

away down the hall. It occurred to me to turn back and take one last look. And even though I

wish I would have, I know that if I am being honest, I have forgotten any last look I have ever

taken. A last look never does what it is supposed to do, which is take a mental snapshot that you

will always remember.

But I do not think that is how it works. You do not get to pick and choose what you

remember. It is just there in your head whether you want it to be or not because it is the

memories that have the power, not us.

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Now it is the afternoon, and we have walked thirteen miles away from Bennington’s

house according to Maria’s calculation. I do not know why meteorologically, but the hottest part

of most summer days is the late afternoon, which is right now.

We are sweaty. And we are dirty. And I can smell both Skip and Maria. It is their body

odor. Skip’s is worse. His smells like old cheese, which you might initially think would be a

good smell because cheese is good, but the smell is not good. It is like bad cheese. Strong, bad

cheese. Like two cubes of bad cheese stuffed into your nostrils.

Maria’s is also bad. Hers smells like an onion. Which you might think would be very bad

because onions make people’s eyes water, but Maria’s BO does not make my eyes water. But it

is also not pleasant to smell, either.

I asked Skip and Maria to describe my BO and they both said the same thing. They

shrugged and said, “It smells like BO.”

They are not as bothered by the smells. Skip says I better get used to it. Showers are not

something that will happen as often anymore.

We continue down the highway for another mile and a half. We are no longer following

I-29. We turned off onto State Highway 34 because in addition to being the way to go, Maria

says it is easiest to just follow highways. Which I agree with because following highways on

maps is much simpler than cutting across areas and not being sure if you are going in the right

direction.

Occasionally, we have seen drones in the sky. From a distance, it is hard to tell them

apart from birds. But I have gotten better at identifying them. I do not know how exactly to

describe it. There is something perfectly straight and robotic in a drone’s movements. Whereas

with birds they can dip up and down and turn unexpectedly. But not more than four or five at a

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time. And it is usually only when we get close to one of the small towns along the highways that

still have concentrations of people. Maria says those people are doomed. She says State could

march in there whenever it wanted and take everything from them.

When the sun is starting to set, we decide on another farmhouse. This one is very ugly. It

looks as if it has been abandoned for a long time. The paint is chipped almost entirely off all the

siding, revealing old, grey wood that is rotted. The windows are smashed. And the front door is

missing. There is an old shed nearby that is leaning and looks like a parallelogram to use

geometric terminology.

“Do we really want to sleep here?” Skip asks.

“It’s getting more desolate out here,” Maria says. “It might be a while before we reach

the next house.”

“How far do you think we have gone since Bennington’s house?” I ask. “How far ago

was that?”

Maria shrugs.

“Probably fifteen, sixteen miles.”

I nod.

“Why do you ask?” Maria says.

But I do not answer. I walk away and head behind the old house, which communicates to

them that I am going to use the bathroom. Although I am not. Instead, I stand near the grove of

trees at the edge of this backyard. My back is to the house. I clasp my hands and let them rest in

front of me. They rest in front of my crotch.

This way, if Maria or Skip were to look at me from the house, it would look like I am

peeing.

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When in reality I am going to stand here and stare at the ash-colored tree trunks and also

the orange and red sky. I want to avoid smelling them for a minute. Even Skip.

I awake at night. I do not know what time it is. I never do anymore. Skip is lying next to

me on the wood floor. Maria lies a short distance from our feet. Because this house is so

rundown and shabby and there are no windows, the cool night breeze pushes airflow throughout,

like how air conditioning used to work.

I have to pee.

I stand up quietly so that I do not wake Skip. He starts a little, rolling from one side to the

other, but does not wake up. Neither does Maria.

It is extremely dark out here. I am tempted to use one of our flashlights, but Maria says

we are not to use flashlights in non-emergency situations. We need to conserve our batteries,

even though sometimes people would say that their urgent need to go to the bathroom was as an

emergency.

I shuffle my way to the front door, where we put our shoes. I cannot really see anything

at first glance because it is too dark. I have to stare for several seconds before the outline of

objects come into focus. Slowly, I locate my shoes and slip them onto my feet. Then I step out

the door, cautiously, and into the black night.

The straw-like grass crunches under my feet. It sounds loud and muffled at the same

time. Loud because it is the only sound there is. But also soft because of how big and open and

vast it is out here, and how small the sounds of my footsteps are and how they are swallowed by

the empty prairie.

126

It is so dark out here that I can barely see my hand in front of my face. I walk slowly

alongside the house. I keep one hand pressed against the wood siding, because my plan is to

follow it to the back, which will lead me to the tree grove where I will pee. It is the same place I

pretended to be earlier.

I continue making my way down the side of the house. I turn the corner and now I am on

the homestretch. Then I reach the end of the house and there is nothing to guide me. But I know

this: I must walk straight back, one arm extended in front of me, and I will feel a tree, and I will

know I have reached the grove.

You would not believe how immaculate the stars are. I can see every star in the Milky

Way Galaxy basically. I can even see the washes of white light behind the stars that give the

galaxy its name. It is incredible. It also helps because as I lower my eyeline, I can see, with the

aid of starlight, the tops of the trees.

I set off.

Slowly.

One step at a time.

I make it eight steps. I know because I have counted. I make it eight steps when I hear

something move in the brush. In the distance, back in the trees. Instinctively, I arch my back and

bend my knees, bracing for an attack. I look side to side but of course can see nothing. I look for

the glowing yellow eyes of a mountain lion, and I gasp when I think I see them.

A yellow light.

Straight ahead.

Instantaneous, and then gone.

“Hello?” I say.

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Which may not be wise. I may be giving myself away. But at the same time, if there is a

nocturnal predator, the predator can see me just fine without my having to say anything.

“Hello?” I repeat.

There is no response. I remain frozen in place.

The yellow light shines again. A flash, as quick as a blink.

Closer this time.

“Hey! Who is there?”

More rustling. Twigs snapping. Feet crunching against branchy ground.

My heart pounds. Adrenaline floods my veins so strongly I think I might pass out, as if I

have injected a drug and am about to overdose.

The light flashes once again, closer. The sounds are louder.

I crouch lower.

More twigs and branches snap. Something steps out of the grove.

It is walking on the grass, this thing. It is coming towards me.

The light flashes again.

There is fight or flight.

But I scream and fall to my knees. I cover my face.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Bennington keeps saying it over and over. It is more than he has ever said before, even if

it is the same two words repeated.

He holds the flashlight up to his chin, so that his face is illuminated like when you tell a

ghost story to people in the dark.

128

I am still catching my breath, but I speak anyway.

“It is okay,” I say. “I am so relieved that it is you and not something sinister like a wolf or

a drone.”

We hear shuffling about and voices from inside the house. It is Skip and Maria coming to

see what is going on.

Moments later, Skip and Maria are standing next to us. Skip has a flashlight and he also

holds it up to his chin so that his face is illuminated.

“What are you doing here?” Skip asks.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Bennington says.

“You don’t have to be sorry,” Maria says. “It’s just, my God, you’ve got to be careful.”

Bennington nods.

His face begins to tighten. His mouth puckers. His eyes sadden.

“Did you follow us the whole way?” Skip asks.

Bennington nods again.

“Is everything okay?” Skip asks. “I mean, you’re not hurt or anything, are you?”

Bennington shakes his head. His eyes are now watery. Tears have formed and they are

very close to spilling out.

I ask the question that is in my heart.

“Do you want to come with us, Bennington?”

Bennington looks at me in a way that both crushes my heart and melts my heart.

His lip quivers as he nods.

“I’m scared to be alone,” he says.

And he bursts into tears.

129

Vicky

They handcuff me immediately. The plastic kind. The irony’s not lost on me: a sheriff, in

uniform, getting handcuffed. Elder Patrick shakes his head in regret. Mock regret.

“You weren’t supposed to see this, sheriff,” he says. “What are we going to do with you

now?"

I nod towards the hallway.

“What’s out there?”

Elder Patrick glances over his shoulder, takes his sweet time gazing at the hallway.

“Oh, that?” he says, as if he’s seeing this place for the first time. “That’s just our new

home.”

“Is it true?” I say. “That you’re going to live down here? That…that Cathy’s going to live

down here.”

Maybe it’s the situation, maybe it’s my heightened agitation, but I perceive in Elder

Patrick’s expression a whole new level of smugness.

“I’m afraid so,” he says.

I can’t help it. It’s instinctive. I lunge at the Elder. With my hands cuffed, I lead with my

head. It’s the only weapon I’ve got.

But the butt of an AR-15 smacks my cheek before I can hit my target. It drops me to my

knees. There’s an initial rush of exhilaration at the sensation of absorbing such a blow, but it’s

followed immediately by sharp throbbing in my left cheekbone. I wince. I exhale. I take deep

breaths. Even with my hands tied, I still try to bring my hands to my face to touch the afflicted

area.

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For a few moments, I worry the bone’s broken, that I’m not going to able to move my

mouth or talk. But I’m able to wiggle my jaw, which, though painful, gradually begins to dull the

sharp jabs of pain. There’ll be a nasty bruise, no doubt.

“Now, we need to be getting back to the compound,” Elder Patrick says. “We’ll shoot her

there. I don’t want her blood down here.”

He motions for the guards to get me up and moving. They approach me on either side,

grab me by the elbows and hoist me up to my feet.

“Come on,” one says, nudging me.

We walk to the elevator. Someone presses the button. We wait. My heart’s beating so fast

that I’m starting to get dizzy. Sounds are becoming muffled. It may be a trick my eyes are

playing, but it looks like there’s stars fluttering across my field of vision.

It’s not the thought of them shooting me.

It’s the thought of Cathy.

Down here.

The baby.

We step into the elevator and now we’re moving up. Flying. Preparing to surface. Elder

Patrick’s talking in a proud tone. Just about ready, he says. Finishing touches, he says. Normally,

I wouldn’t care what he has to say. But his voice pulls me back to the moment because I realize

this directly involves Cathy.

“This is insane,” I spit. “This is insane what you’re doing.”

“Really?” Elder Patrick says as we arrive aboveground and the doors open. “Any more

insane than staying up here?”

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I’m led through the shed, out the doors, and, just as we step back into the muggy summer

afternoon, a woman approaches.

She says it’s urgent.

“Someone’s been shot at the compound,” she says. “A man.”

“Who?” says Elder Patrick.

The woman glances at me before she answers. Right then, I know.

It’s Roland.

And I’ll be next.

Sticks and branches scrape the sides of the ATV and trailer, some snapping loudly like

carrots. The longer branches higher up in the trees extend into our pathway. The ATV goes so

fast there’s little time to react. One branch scrapes the back of my neck.

From that point on, I lean forward as far as I can, bring my chest to my thighs. I bury my

face in my arms, enwrapping my own head as if it were a precious baby.

The baby.

I’m numb the rest of the way. Three things move across my mind on an endless loop:

Roland, Cathy, the baby. Over and over and over again. By the time we emerge from the forest

and into the open sun, I’ve grown sick. Incredibly nauseous.

I raise my head, which almost causes me to vomit right then and there. We’re

approaching the compound from the rear, having just come out stretch of forest abutting the back

of the compound. There’s the food pantry. And there’s the energy shed.

Funny how I know this place so well.

132

Even before we pass the large sheds, I can see the crowd gathered at the entrance gate. It

must be the entire New Colony. There’s more than I thought. Or at least it looks like a lot more

when they’re all huddled together like that instead of spread out over the compound.

As our ATV nears the crowd, our driver starts shouting for the crowd to make way. They

move to the sides, opening up a path up to the gate. The driver pulls up to within a few feet of the

gate before stopping. She kills the engine.

I have a clear view of everything.

Even though I knew, it’s still shocking. Still a surprise, a complete blindsiding. The

feeling that I’m dreaming starts all over again.

There’s Cathy. She’s crouched over a dead body.

His.

The body is surrounded by blood. I can’t see his face, only his feet and the thick blood

caking his chest and stomach. It’s no longer oozing out of him. It’s instead spreading around

him, like a bathtub overflown.

Cathy screams. There’s blood on her hands, splattered over her shirt. A few smears on

her face. Her sobs overtake her. They become wrenching wails of misery. A young man

approaches. The boyfriend. He’s cautious. Lays a hand gently on Cathy’s shoulder. She wails.

But then she turns to him. And he drops to his knees and takes her in his arm. She weeps into his

chest, the shrill of her sobs muffled.

The guards allow me to approach. They don’t let me through the gate. But they let me

stand right next to it, so that I can look upon his face.

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But just before I do, in the split second before taking my first look at the end of my

husband, I see Roland as he was on the highway. When I left him. Sweaty, huffing and puffing,

determined beyond all reason to reach his daughter.

Prepared, as he always said, to die.

Dillon

In the morning, we set off. It is still warm during the days, but it is getting cooler at night

and early in the morning. For example, right now, as we make our way down State Highway 34,

the morning air is chilly enough that I shiver. Even walking at a brisk pace, I am cold. I would

bet money that it is less than 50 degrees.

“Are you cold, Bennington?” I ask.

Bennington shakes his head, but I think his teeth are chattering.

“Do you have a winter jacket?”

Bennington nods. Then he looks at me and shakes his head.

“What do you mean? You are sending mixed signals.”

“I have one,” Bennington says. “But I didn’t bring it with me.”

“I see,” I say. “Well maybe there will be one in the next abandoned house we stay at. I

have an extra sweatshirt you can use until then.”

I stop, which slows us down temporarily, but it is for a good cause. Bennington is cold.

I set my backpack on the ground and unzip the big opening and dig around until I find my

sweater. I pull it out of the bag and hold it up. It is red, an adult sized medium. It says South

Dakota in white letters at the top. There is a pawprint in the middle. And it says Coyotes beneath

it. It is the University of South Dakota Coyotes.

I hand it to Bennington.

134

He does not waste any time. He throws it over his head, swims his arms through the

oversized sleeves. The sweater hangs almost to his knees. The sleeves go well past his hands. He

says thank you and I say you are welcome and we take back off.

In a few hours, the sun is rising high into the sky and it is warm enough for Bennington to

take off his sweater. He hands it back to me and in order not to slow us down, I tie it around my

waist.

No one has said anything for a long time. I think that I hear Maria and Skip exhaling a

little harder than they need to. Because I think they are annoyed. Because there is an unspoken

agreement that spontaneously happened that we are not walking as fast as we normally do

because of Bennington. He is slower than us, and he has a much smaller stride.

Still, because we keep moving forward, we are making decent time. We are progressing.

Maria thinks we have gone about 175 miles or so, which is well over halfway, give or take.

It is around noon that we stop briefly alongside the highway for lunch. For us, lunch is an

apple or an energy bar because we are trying to conserve the Chickmeal. We do not converse

much over lunch. We mostly chew our food and drink the potable water. Maria says we will

have to find another stream or river soon to replenish our stores.

It is about an hour after lunch that we see an enormous structure in the distance. It is

massive. It takes up as much space in the distance that a mountain would. It rises high into the

sky, several hundred stories, I would say. We stop dead in our tracks because it is so shockingly

out of place here on the flat prairie.

“What is that?” Bennington says.

His voice is both excited and fearful.

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“Do you see those things moving?” Maria says, pointing. “They look like flies.”

Skip shakes his head.

“Those are drones.”

“Drones!” I cry, unable to help myself.

“Union’s building something,” Skip says.

Skip begins walking further down the road, towards the structure.

“Whoa, where are you going?” Maria calls.

“I’m going to get a little closer,” Skip calls over his shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’m not

going to get close enough for it to see us. Besides, we’re going to have to go off road to

circumvent this thing.”

Skip quickly puts some distance between us and him. It is scary watching a human being,

even one as powerful as Skip, approach a structure that massive and weird-looking and

indescribable.

Bennington tugs at the sweater around my waist.

“What does circumvent mean?” he asks.

I meet Bennington’s eyes. They are wide with curiosity. His expression is full of great

expectation, which is the expectation of knowledge.

“Circumvent means to go around,” I say. I trace an arc through the air to demonstrate. “It

means we go around something so that we can avoid it.”

Bennington’s forehead crinkles. He processes this information, then nods in

understanding.

“So if I used it in a sentence,” Bennington says, “could I say I circumvented the landmine

so that it didn’t blow me up?”

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“Yes!” I say. “Yes! That is a great use of circumvent. If you do not circumvent a

landmine, you will step on it and get blown up. To circumvent or not circumvent can be a

question of life or death!”

Bennington smiles. It is the first real smile I have seen him smile.

I cannot hide my enthusiasm. I have taught someone something. Someone has learned

from me, which feels very rewarding. I have heard the expression the free flow of ideas. Which

this could be.

Before we know it, Maria is far away, too. She has walked a good deal ahead of us. Skip

is little more than a spec.

“Come on, Bennington,” I say. “We better catch up.”

As Bennington and I get closer, the structure comes into focus. The best way I can

describe it is that it is like a futuristic Wonder of the World but maybe ten times bigger. There

are no minarets or anything like that. But there are enormous towers rising from the central base,

which looks like a fortress. The exterior of the structure swirls with activity. There are more

drones than I have ever seen in my entire life hovering all around it. Hundreds of them. Maybe

thousands. It is true that they look like flies buzzing around a carcass.

The center of the structure appears to be open-aired. Because I can see gigantic cranes

rise up every once and a while over the top of the structure. They turn a small amount of degrees

and then lower.

Something is definitely being built. And it does not look like something a human would

build. It is something, I think, a Super would build.

137

Bennington and I catch up to Skip and Maria, who have stopped alongside the road what

they deem a safe distance, which is still pretty far from the structure. We are a lot closer than

when we first saw it, but it is still so mind-bogglingly far away. The only things I have seen this

big are mountains.

Maria points to her right, where there are open fields, some trees, and hills in the

distance.

“We’ll have to go north quite a way so that we’re sure to avoid any detection.”

“We need to circumvent that thing,” Bennington says.

“That is right,” I say when Skip and Maria do not say anything.

We set off into the grass, which is dried and straw-like now in late summer. We walk

towards the hills, but we are constantly looking over our shoulders, looking back at the structure.

There are bigger drones, too. Way bigger than the ones that chased us in Sioux Falls. In fact,

these drones are so big that they look like hovercrafts or little airplanes. Some of them have

cargo strapped to them. The biggest ones have ropes attached to them that hold a platform with a

bunch of stuff on it. Probably building materials. These flying ships go up above the towers and

then lower themselves into the center. Then you will see the same flying ships come back up

later with their cargo empty. They head off in the direction opposite us, towards the south, where

there is a steady stream of more flying machines with platforms of cargo being delivered to the

structure.

“What do you think that is?” Skip asks Maria.

But she shakes her head. Her face looks worried.

“I don’t know,” she says. “That thing is as big as a mountain.”

Which is exactly what I have been thinking to myself.

138

“You took the words right out of my mouth,” I say.

Natural landscape is trippy, to use an old word we used to use when I was a boy and

something was weird. The whole time we were walking towards these hills in the distance, it did

not seem like they were getting any closer. And then all of a sudden we are now standing in front

of a hill. I think it is because even the hills are flat on the plains. They do not jut up prominently

like mountains or fjords or canyons. They rise gently, almost unnoticeably gently, like a pillow

under the covers.

“Are we really going to climb this hill?” Skip asks.

Maria nods.

“It has to be done,” she says. “I’m afraid if we don’t, we’re going to cross paths with the

drones. We need to make sure we’re out of range.”

Everyone sighs a collective sigh. Because we have been walking so many miles for so

long. And it was flat. And now we have to go uphill. Not very steeply uphill, but still.

Maria marches off towards the hill. She reaches the base and starts climbing up it. She

steps hard and with purpose, planting each step solidly in the ground and ensuring her balance

before hoisting herself up another step. It does not look easy.

“Maria is in much better shape than we are,” I say.

“She’s in endurance shape. You go and go and don’t stop.” Skip says. “We’re in

basketball shape. Stop go, stop go. There’s a difference.”

Skip takes off.

Bennington tugs at my sweater.

“Mr. Dillon, what’s basketball?”

139

I cannot hide my grin, nor contain my enthusiasm. Of all the things Bennington could ask

me about. Of all the things I could teach him.

“Basketball,” I say, “is the most beautiful game that has ever been invented in the history

of humans.”

Bennington’s eyes get wide.

“Really?”

I nod. I also point to the hill, because we need to get going.

“Come on. I will tell you about it.”

But I do not get much talking done climbing up the hill. It is too exhausting. I am too

short of breath to both climb and speak at the same time. Fortunately, the hill is not very tall and

we summit it quickly.

The top of the hill overlooks other hills. Hills that are grassy with sparsely scattered

deciduous trees like oak. A breeze bends the grass sideways sometimes, rustles the tree leaves.

“How much further north do you want to go?” Skip asks.

“This should probably be good,” Maria says. She turns and faces what must be west

because west is left of north. “We’ll head in this direction for a while.” Then she looks back

towards the structure. “I can still see that thing.”

“So can I,” Bennington says.

When we set off again, Bennington asks me to tell him about basketball. This time, Skip

is close enough for him to hear Bennington ask. Which is great because suddenly Skip does not

look bored or annoyed and he instead looks excited.

“You don’t know about basketball?” he asks. “How you do not know about basketball?”

140

“What do you mean how do I not know?” Bennington asks. “My mom didn’t teach me

about basketball. So how am I supposed to know about it?”

Skip smiles and winks at me.

“All I can say is your mother didn’t raise you right if she didn’t mention anything about

basketball.”

“My mom died,” Bennington says.

Skip frowns, his face flushed with embarrassment.

“I’m sorry,” Skip says. “I was just joking.”

“I know,” Bennington says. “You were being sarcastic. That’s when you say something

like an exaggeration to be funny. But you don’t actually mean it.”

“Yes,” Skip says. “You’re exactly right.”

“My mom taught me about sarcasm because my dad was so sarcastic and I didn’t always

get what he was saying.”

Skip nods.

“I see.”

“Tell me about basketball,” Bennington says.

Skip draws a breath.

“Oh my God, basketball. Where do you start?” Skip takes a deep breath of excitement.

“Okay. It’s a game where two teams compete against each other. It’s played on a rectangular

wood surface. So, each team has five guys on the floor at a time and…….

Cathy

So much of what happens is a blur.

I remember it in bits and pieces, like a picture broken into shards.

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There’s my dad standing at the gate. He’s sweaty and haggard-looking. I know he’s

yelling. Give her back or let me see her, something along those lines.

The next thing is the sound of the guns. I remember the sound of the guns and the blood.

Those guns were so fucking loud. It was like ten thunderclaps going off in my ear. Even now I

can still feel the ringing in my ears.

And the blood.

Because the next thing was blood coming out of my dad from everywhere. It was literally

like he’d sprung leaks in all these different spots. Just pouring out and getting on my hands and

then more coming and somehow even more.

The last thing I remember is Jevon. My head buried in his chest.

And now I find myself in the schoolroom. I’m sitting on one of the little blue plastic

chairs at one of the little tables that go up to an adult’s knees. They put me in here, I assume, so

that I could calm down. Because they killed my dad. But just my dad. Not anyone else’s dad.

There’s a knock at the door.

“What?” I say.

The lock turns. The door cracks open. A guard pokes his head in.

“Cathy? You have a visitor.”

“A visitor? What are you talking about?”

The guard nods. His head retracts behind the door. Then the door opens.

And my mom appears.

My mom.

Her eyes are swollen from crying. She sniffles, then wipes her nose with her wrist. Then

wipes the stuff from her nose against her leg.

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The guard nods at Mom and says, “We’ll give you a few minutes.”

Mom doesn’t say anything or acknowledge the guard. She stares straight ahead at me.

She walks through the door and stops.

The door shuts behind her.

She sniffles again.

I break the silence.

“Why did he do it, Mom? Why did he come out here? I told you guys not to come. I told

you it would only be bad!”

Mom shakes her head.

“I know,” she says, with no conviction whatsoever.

“Damn it,” I say, standing. “What did he think was going to happen? He’d already done it

twice. What was he thinking?”

Mom breaks into little sobs, covering her mouth and wincing. She tries to speak, but

falters. Then swallows, holds still, trying to compose herself.

“He came out here,” she says, her voice quivering, “because I told him about the baby.”

Of course. That makes perfect sense.

“He deserved to know. But, but I didn’t think. I mean, I knew he’d react.” Mom pauses.

Shakes her head. “I knew he’d react in some way. Something extreme. But I didn’t think he’d

walk all the way out here.”

Mom buries her face in her hands. Sobs leave her mouth, followed by sharp, quivery

inhalations. Shuddering is a word that comes to mind.

Suddenly, Mom pulls her head back up and looks at me. Her eyes are bloodshot. Soaked.

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“Your father,” Mom says. “I left your father on the road.”

“What?”

“I found him walking on the highway. I tried telling him to get in the Durango.” Mom

pauses, her voice shaky. “But he wouldn’t listen. I’m. I’m supposed to catch this Vasquez guy.

Some guy wanted by Union. And I left your father on the highway because I never thought he

could walk all the way here.” Mom shakes her head in disbelief. “It was over forty miles!

There’s no way he could walk that far. With no food or water? Did you think he could walk that

far?”

“He walked here?” I say, stunned.

I can’t even picture it. Not without him dying of a heart attack before he could get here.

Mom sighs heavily. Her voice quivers again. Her breath comes out in short bursts. As

much as I hate to say it, like gunfire.

“But listen,” Mom says. “I want to talk to you. They’re being nice, letting me speak with

you. They’re going to…well, it doesn’t matter what they’re going do to me. Listen, I saw the…I

saw the underground. I know about the plan.”

I sit back in my chair. My face flushes. I feel like I’m a little girl again. Like I got in

trouble at school and Mom is sitting me down at the kitchen table to elicit a confession. The

worst was when she’d catch me in a lie.

“Mom, I wanted to tell you. But -

“Shhht,” Mom says, clamping her fingers to her thumb. “You’re not going. I’m not

letting you. It’s insane. You’re going to die down there. Or worse. And they’ll kill me before I let

them take you. Which is why you’re leaving with me right now.”

My mom reaches out and clasps my wrist. Then she pulls.

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“Come on, we’re going. You’re coming home. You’re not staying here.”

I pull back, wrench my hand free from her grasp.

“Mom, I can’t. It’s too late.” I sigh. In anger, like when I was a kid. When you’re a kid,

you turn everything around on your parents. “This is why I didn’t tell you, because I knew you

couldn’t handle it. God, it would be so much easier if we just fucking went down there already.

What are we waiting for?”

I smack the table.

Mom shakes her head. She doesn’t look sad anymore. She looks determined. Given a

task, she becomes temporarily invincible.

“Cathy, the whole plan is ridiculous. It’s not going to work. Something’s going to go

wrong. Something’s going to fail and it’s going to cause everything else to fail and you’re all

going to run out of oxygen or the power will cut out or the food won’t grow and you’re going to

starve and kill each other. It’s crazy. Think about it! Think about how this sounds coming out of

my mouth: I’m going underground to live in a bunker with all these other people to carry on the

human race. How does that sound? Tell me I don’t sound crazy saying that!”

“It sounds crazy,” I say. “I know that. But it’s only crazy in a normal world, which ours

isn’t anymore. No offense, I think you’re crazy for obeying this new fucking God and thinking

you’re going to be saved or shown favor or whatever it is you think Union’s going to do for you.

I mean, having you been living under a rock? The world is a plague, Mom. It’s like, it’s like.

Fuck, I don’t know. It’s like the flood in the Bible. We have to start over. That’s the only way.”

Mom’s face scrunches in disbelief.

“Cathy, what’s the matter with you? Do you even hear yourself? Saying Union is a God?

Come on, and I’m supposed to be the crazy one?”

145

“You say I’m going to die down there?” I say, my voice rising to a yell. “You’re going to

die up here! And probably a lot sooner! Let’s compare for a second. How many people have died

in the world since the Supers took over? Too many to count! How many have died in the New

Colony since the Supers took over? Zero! Fucking zero! Facts, Mom! Facts!”

Mom shakes her head. I anticipate her shooting back with something, but she’s silent.

Emboldened by this, I point at myself and say, “We’re the ones who’re all still alive.

We’re the ones with a plan. It’s everyone else who’s out there getting stomped on like ants.

Squashed under man’s own foot. Tell me I’m wrong.”

“You’re not wrong,” Mom says.

I’m taken aback. I didn’t think she’d cede an inch, much less the whole thing. I thought it

would feel good, triumphant. But it just feels shitty.

We’re both silent for a moment, looking at each other, looking away. Then looking again.

Outside, the sounds of mild commotion. Packs of people shuffling along the path. Orders being

shouted. Responses given.

Jevon among them.

Suddenly, Mom speaks.

“How do you someone isn’t going to just drill into the earth and destroy you? How do

you someone can’t put a bomb down there and blow you all up?”

I shrug.

“Drill with what?” I say. “Please, Mom. And you know something? I haven’t even

brought Sophie into this. I have a child to consider. A human life that I’m responsible for. Be

fucking honest: what would you do in my position? Would you really stay up here with State and

146

all these clans, where you can live like a fledgling species whose resources are running out, or

would you go underground where it’s safe? Where your little girl will at least have a chance?”

Mom sniffles.

“Sophie?” she says. “You’re having a little girl?”

I nod.

“And you’ve named her Sophie?”

“Well, Sophia. But I’m calling her Sophie.”

Mom looks at me hopefully.

“Sophia was your grandmother’s name. My mother’s name.”

“I know,” I say. I almost don’t want to say the next part, but I’m going to. “And her

middle name is Victoria.”

Mom smiles. It’s little, but it’s there. A small grain of hope amid a sea of loss and grief.

Then Mom’s face tightens. Her lip quivers, and she sighs in that stuttering way again, like

something’s blocking the air from getting out.

“What about me?” she asks. “Don’t I get to see my granddaughter?”

That I don’t have an answer for. I want to shrug or shake my head. To communicate

nonverbally because I have no idea what to say. Or how to say it. Or if there even is anything to

say.

“You’d leave me?” Mom says. “Your own mother? You’d leave me up here alone?”

“Mom, it’s not like that.”

“Then what’s it like?”

I stare at the table for a moment. I try to think of a way to spin it that isn’t completely

cold-hearted, even if what Mom’s doing right now is manipulative. I look up at Mom.

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“It’s like, fuck, I don’t know. Normal standards don’t apply here. The situation is so

fucking far removed from normal that you can’t apply normal morality to this. You just can’t.

You just have to understand. I’ve made my decision. You’ve made yours. I’m sorry, but that’s

that.”

Mom slaps the table and points at me accusingly.

“I may have left Roland on the road, but it’s you he came looking for! It’s you who

brought him here! He never would’ve been on the road in the first place if it weren’t for you

joining this fucking cult!”

She bursts into sobs. Heavy, violent sobs. She heaves, her shoulders rising sharply, her

breaths drawn in gasps, like she’s choking. She loses it. Literally loses it. She cries and sobs and

wails so hard I worry she’ll throw up. It’s like she’s trying to exorcise a demon. But the demon’s

clinging to her body for dear life, refusing to let go.

There’s a pounding at the door.

“Okay,” the guard calls. “That’s it. Time’s up.”

Suddenly, Mom stops crying.

She looks up at me.

“Cathy,” she says. “Cathy.”

“Come on, sheriff. Get up. Let’s go.”

Mom doesn’t move. Her eyes stay locked on me. The guard has to come to her and pull

her out of the chair. Only then does she cooperate. She lets him take her arm and lead her to the

door. But she keeps her head turned over her shoulder, gaze trained on me.

The guard jerks Mom out the door, doesn’t shut it.

148

The outside sounds filter in quickly. A crowd of voices. Shouting hey, do you see that!

Look! Over there! What’s that?

I stand from my chair. In my first step, I hear the screams. It’s not the children. It’s the

adults.

I rush out the door.

The crowd is pointing and yelling.

And in the distance, there are drones.

Swarms of them. Flying in the sky, cresting the hill, coming toward the compound.

The alarm sounds. Directions are shouted over the loudspeakers. People scamper across

the pathway, back and forth in different directions. Complete chaos.

I see Mom among them. She’s running around, panicking.

There’s something else coming over the hill. Figures moving on foot. Marching.

Brown uniforms.

State.

Raul

What have I done? What have I done?

I have.

I have in fact saved the world! Haven’t I? The bombs will not go off! It is what I wanted

all along. My own true will was for peace!

It is I, Raul Vasquez, the Savior of Humanity.

The Messiah.

Maybe Union really is God. It did say it chose me. That’s something Gods do. But why

me? I suppose because of the nukes.

149

I set the laptop on the floor of the deer blind. I take a brief look around. What will most

likely be my last look. Is it the way I want it to be when they find it? Is this how I want my

temple to look?

Of course it is. It must not be altered. It must be pure, unchanged. Eternal. They won’t

find me here. They will only find the tomb. They will move aside the blanket. And they will see

the laptop. And the chair.

And they will know that I am risen.

I step outside my blind. I look out at the trees and the bushes. I listen to the birds. I really

should’ve learned to appreciate nature. Did you know I’ve never been camping in my life?

Unless you count this. Which I kind of do, but I haven’t enjoyed it. Or appreciated it. I’ve just

endured it. Like it was an illness I hoped would eventually pass.

I pace slowly through the forest. I start in the direction of the clearing, the elevator. Then

I think: no, I’ve already been there. Bad memories. I turn the opposite direction, which leads to I

don’t know where. More forest. There’s a safe bet it’s more forest.

As I wander aimlessly, I remember something I said to Dragon. Or Union. Or whatever, I

would still like to think of her as Dragon. I told Dragon that as long as I wasn’t dead, I believed

there was a chance for things to be different. Even if it seemed impossible, there was still the

minute chance it was possible. Even if it was completely irrational. Like if I believed I could fly.

If I jumped off a cliff, I’d believe right up until the instant I hit the ground that it was maybe just

maybe possible I could, at some point, fly rather than fall to my certain death.

150

Is it an exclusively human flaw to not know when to give up? I remember on the nature

shows, it seemed like the animals always knew when to throw in the towel. And it goes both

ways. The lion knew when to quit chasing. The zebra knew when to quit fighting.

And is it also only humans who struggle with not knowing who to kill? The lion knows

who to kill. But that’s a predator/prey thing. The more pressing question is when it comes to

killing your own. Some males will fight to the death when it comes to mating. Some mothers eat

their young. Some fathers kill their young. How do they know when? And how do they know

when it was right?

This whole time, maybe I shouldn’t have been asking myself what I should do or what

Dragon should do. Maybe I should’ve been asking myself: what would a monkey do? What

would a bear do? Or fish or amphibian or whatever.

Anything but a human.

Because a human will lose.

A human will fuck it up.

Maybe that’s why Union won. Because it’s not human. And we are.

But, like I said before, one of the nice things about being human is that you get to believe

things that aren’t true. What an amazing gift! What a wonderful freedom! No other animal gets

that privilege.

Like me, for instance. I’m walking along this forest floor and I can hear footsteps. I can

hear the crunching of twigs and snapping of branches and the foosteps getting closer.

And I can tell myself anything I want to.

What does this mean? Whatever I want it to.

151

Who is this android before me? This silvery-skinned translucent humanoid with no eyes

yet sees? No ears yet hears? No lips yet speaks?

“Finally, Raul,” Union says. “We meet face to face. I kept my word. I have intervened on

your behalf. I have given you freewill, but now I have intervened.”

I get to believe I’m not in my body. Not even when Union takes me in its warm arms and

hoists me over its shoulder.

I get to pretend like I’m outside my body looking down at myself while Union take it

away, my shell. My shed skin.

What other species gets to think that?

Vicky

I’m sprinting toward the compound’s entrance, thinking that I’ll veer off to the right and

run through that huge pasture. I’ll go all the way to the trees and beyond. Then I stop dead in my

tracks.

Cathy.

I’m not going anywhere without Cathy.

I whirl around.

She’s standing at the door of the schoolhouse. Just standing and looking out at all the

chaos.

Over the loudspeakers, a voice shouts directives. Get your things. Get to the back shed.

Get on an ATV.

Cathy touches her hands to her belly, knowing that if she doesn’t make it, neither does

little Sophie. She rushes down the steps and along the dirt path, joins the throngs of Colonists

scampering to the back of the compound.

152

“Cathy!” I scream.

I take off sprinting just as the first sounds of gunfire erupt.

Cathy

Get to an ATV. Get to an ATV. The only thing running through my mind is Get to an

ATV.

We’re running in a thick, overcrowded bunch. Shoulders bump other shoulders. Elbows

collide with other elbows. Feet step on other feet. Some fall. A woman is trampled.

I elbow past a man who waters plants in the greenhouse. Then I sidestep a woman who

slaughters pigs. I’m about to pass some other guy when I get bumped from behind. I stumble

forward. I collide womb-first with the elbow of a man sprinting in front of me.

It stops me short.

The wind knocks out of me. I gasp for air. A sharp, piercing pain starts in my stomach

and shoots up into my chest. I can’t help it. I bend over, struggling to breathe and maintain

balance.

I already know what’s going to happen before it even happens.

A body behind me, on a full sprint, rams against my hip, sends me pummeling face-first

to the ground. At the last second, I break my fall with my elbows. They hit the dirt first, scraping

and sliding a foot or so before my momentum dies.

Feet trample on either side of me, so loud and close and constant. The boots of State

soldiers.

Screams.

Shouts.

Gunfire.

153

I suck air like I’ve just surfaced from underwater. My womb aches, the pain radiating on

both sides.

I can’t think about Sophie. I can, but not like that. If I think about her being hurt, I’ll

never get out of here.

I push off the ground, raising my chest and head. I’m about to stand when someone falls

next to me. I brace for impact, thinking they will land on top of me. But he smacks chest-first on

the dirt beside me. It’s Jason. He’s one of the lead cooks.

Jason’s face and my face are almost close enough to kiss.

Already, the awareness has left his eyes.

He doesn’t see me. He sees something above me. Or around me. Or beyond me. Nothing

of this world, I don’t think.

He coughs, and blood leaves his mouth. It splatters onto my face in little droplets, not

unlike rain. He coughs again, softer this time. And the blood doesn’t splatter. It spills out the side

of his mouth in a little stream, like he drank something but didn’t swallow it.

And then his eyes go blank. And his body, I swear to God this is true, his whole body

sinks a bit further into the ground. Something tangible has left him. Something with weight. Not

physical, but somehow still tangible.

I shoot up from the ground.

More gunfire.

More screams.

Ahead, two bodies suddenly collapse, as if they stepped in holes.

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Vicky

The drones move faster than us. Way faster. Three of them race ahead, then circle back

and fire. I dive to the ground, brace my fall with my hands, and roll. Bullets hit the ground,

sending clouds of dust up into the air like smoke. More than once, I hear bullets pierce flesh. The

squishy sound of skin and organs punctured.

The three drones pass over, the sound of their gunfire receding into the distance, only to

be replaced by another three drones. And another. Five of them. These ones have guns, but

they’re not firing. Instead, two blades descend from their undersides. Downward at first, then

they rotate. Point forward. At us.

The drones swoop down, veer in different directions.

One’s headed right at my face.

In a split second, it’s inches from me.

The last thing I see is the eye-like barrel of the drone and the knife blades. Up close. In

detail. Sunlight glaring off the blades.

And I somehow duck in time to avoid it.

Soldiers gain on us. Fire their rifles heedlessly, splattering bullets like ocean waves.

People scatter off the pathway, taking cover behind the nearby schoolhouse, pantry, and

cafeteria. I dash to my right. Without thinking, I move right past the school house and before I

realize what I’m doing, I’m halfway across the yard leading to the apartment buildings.

In a wide-open, completely unsheltered area.

From the pathway, more foot trampling. More screams. More gunfire.

I look to the entrance. At the gate, there’s an army of State soldiers. One of them grabs

hold of the lock chain and rips it off. Pushes open the gate.

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The soldiers march down the pathway. One of them spots me. Points with an index

finger.

He launches into a full-on sprint. Coming straight at me.

Cathy

I don’t think. I just run.

I ignore the pain in my abdomen. I ignore the panic that rises when I think Sophie might

be hurt or damaged in some way as a result of the impact.

I just run.

I bump into my fellow Colonists. I don’t give a fuck about them. I want only for myself

to reach an ATV. Not them.

Jevon enters my mind. I don’t have time to look for him. Maybe I’ll get lucky and he’ll

get lucky and we’ll both make it. Somehow.

More drones speed up alongside us. Some unleash bullets. Others brandish knives and

swoop at hour heads. From behind the Pantry, three Colonist guards jump onto the pathway and

take aim at the drones. The guards hold their fingers over the triggers and bullets spew out the

barrels like water out of a firehose. Three drones drop out of the air, crash to the ground and

suddenly they look like nothing more than clunky toys. I leap over one directly in my path and

continue sprinting, the ATVs within fifty yards of me.

The people climbing on ATVs are frantic and chaotic, like people fighting to board

lifeboats on a sinking ship. Shoving, elbowing. Some straight-up grabbing and thrusting others

out of the way. Two, three, even four people squeezing into the seat behind the driver. Another

six or seven packing onto the little trailer behind. ATV engines rumbling to life and speeding off

into the forest.

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In seconds, I reach the line of people fighting for spots on the ATVs. I shove. I elbow. I

even grab, without looking, the person directly in front of me and toss him out of the way. Then I

climb aboard the trailer. The stampede of State soldiers rumbling closer and closer.

The seats on the trailer are taken. I huddle on the floor, crouching to one knee, making

myself as small as possible. The driver fires up the engine. Presses on the gas.

The ATV jerks forward, sending me sliding back. I almost fall off the trailer, but I grab

the leg of the person nearest me and hold on as the vehicle yanks us toward the forest. Once we

get into the trees, we’ll have ample cover from the bullets. We’ll be able to make it to the

elevator. We’ll be able to get underground.

As we’re about to enter the forest, I glance back over my shoulder.

Shudder at the sight.

Bodies. Dozens of them. New Colonists and State soldiers alike. Strewn about the

pathway. Splayed. Arms and legs at odd death angles, angles no one would ever choose to lie in.

Drones swirl about the sky like a flock of geese. There’s that many of them.

Screams. From the people next to me on the trailer.

The ATV swerves sharply to the right, headed straight for the trunk of an oak tree.

What’s left of our driver’s head hangs limply to the side, rests against his shoulder. The rest of

his head is destroyed, a crater. Chunks of skull and brain exposed. Blood pouring out.

The ATV smashes against the tree. We shoot forward from the impact. Some in the

chairs fly out of their seats, crash against the tree or the ground. I collide with the seat in front of

me. A sharp pain in my shoulder. But nothing else. Then I roll back, slip off the edge of the

trailer and thud back-first into the ground.

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Vicky

I sprint twenty yards across the open yard, one bullet whistling past my ear, another

hitting the ground and launching a shower of dirt into the air. I slip into the space between the

apartment buildings. I race down the little tunnel, round the corner to my left when I reach the

back of the buildings.

I glance back at the tunnel and see the soldier entering the opposite end. I move my head

out of view at the same time it fires its gun.

From the apartment buildings, I dart to the schoolhouse. It provides little to no cover. Just

a small, square building. I glance back, see the soldier approaching. I scamper around the corner

of the schoolhouse. I take two big strides towards the cafeteria building when a different soldier

spots me and lunges.

He points his gun and fires.

I dive to the side, tuck my head, brace for my fall, and hit the ground rolling.

Using my momentum, I spring up, pump my arms and legs, falling right into sprinting

stride like I planned the whole thing this way. I churn, like a machine, pointed straight towards

the cafeteria building. The cafeteria sits a little way back relative to the other buildings, the end

jutting up to the tree line.

When I’m ten yards from the building, I juke left, then veer right. Head for the forest.

Gunfire follows me.

A command from my pursuer: “Halt! Halt!”

I whirl around.

The soldier stares at me, momentarily dumbfounded by my unexpected action. Then he

beckons with one of his hands, motioning for me to come.

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“Sheriff,” it says. “Sheriff, you must cease and desist. It’s over. You’re under arrest for

betraying State.”

I shake my head.

“You withheld resource information.”

Cathy. Not until I know Cathy’s safe.

I turn back to the forest and dash inside.

Cathy

I pull myself up from the ground. The driver of our ATV slumps so far to the side his

body slides off the seat and plops to the ground. The others jump off the trailer and run back to

the ATVs. Even with the many Colonists eliminated by State’s army, they still struggle to find

spots on the trailers.

I say fuck this. I say I can make it to the bunker on foot. I can find my way through the

forest. I can get there maybe.

Hopefully.

I take my first step towards the forest when a familiar voice calls me.

“Cathy!”

I look to the right.

There’s a woman coming out of the forest, sprinting faster than I’ve ever seen her move.

“Cathy!” Mom shouts. “This way. Come this way.”

I dash towards Mom and follow her into the forest.

159

Vicky

I honestly don’t know if I’m going the right way. If I’m leading my daughter to survival

or certain death. I’m banking on seeing or hearing ATVs and being able to follow them.

Nevertheless, I take Cathy’s hand and lead her through the trees.

We move quickly at first, just to put distance between us and the soldiers.

When we slow, Cathy asks, “Is this the right way?”

I turn back to her, look her in the eyes and say, “Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

I turn back and point ahead, in the distance.

“It’s this way,” I say.

Cathy

I don’t know how long we’ve been running for. None of this looks familiar. But it also

kind of does because this is the forest and everything looks the same.

But I don’t hear any ATVs and I don’t hear any other Colonists and I don’t hear any

drones or soldiers.

Branches scrape our arms. I block them with my arms. Mom starts twisting and turning

around trees. Going in different directions. Crazy directions. Twists and turns that seem

desperate, like she’s definitely lost.

Definitely.

I stop.

Mom takes another five strides before she realizes I’m not there. Then she stops.

“You’re lost,” I say.

“I’m not lost,” she says.

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“You’re fucking lost,” I say. “Just admit it.”

Mom shakes her head.

“Damn it, Cathy. I’m not lost. Let’s go.”

Mom whips around and marches in the direction she believes is the right one. Bless her

heart. I wait a few moments, crossing my arms in defiance even though she can’t see. Mom’s

feet crunch over the sticks and twigs.

I stand still, wanting her to turn around so she can see my frustration. You know how it is

with parents. You want them to see that you’re pissed. That their actions caused it.

I stand long enough with my arms crossed for another set of footsteps to join Mom’s.

They’re in the distance. Behind us.

Moving fast.

Vicky

There’s nothing to think about when it’s your own daughter.

The soldier sees us and charges, weaving expertly through the trees, like a jungle cat.

I charge back.

The soldier fires his handgun, but I’m protected by tree cover. Bullets tear bark into

shrapnel, ricochet to the ground, to other branches, everywhere but my body.

I’m closing in.

Thirty yards.

Twenty yards.

The soldier sidesteps a tree, slowing his charge.

“Mom!” Cathy screams.

Ten yards.

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Five.

I open my arms.

The soldier points his arm gun.

I lunge.

My chest smashes against hard layers of the soldier’s Kevlar bullet vest. Still, I plunge

forward, hugging my arms around his frame. I sail forward. The soldier sails backwards, crashes

back-first to the ground. Despite the sharp pains in my chest and shoulders, I immediately grip

the man’s hands and pin them to the ground.

I turn back to Cathy. Her face is contorted into terror, her mouth and eyes wide open. She

clasps her hands at her chest.

“Go!” I yell. I jerk my head over my shoulder. “It’s that way!”

Cathy shakes her head.

“Go!” I scream. “Now!”

Cathy takes off in short, choppy steps. She keeps staring at me. When she gets closer, I

see that her eyes are red. Tears fall at the corners.

The soldier jerks his arms, wiggles his shoulders.

“Sheriff, cease and desist. That is an order.”

I look up at Cathy.

“Get going,” I say. “Faster.”

The soldier frees an arm and uses it to strike my face. I roll off him. My back collides

with a tree.

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I search the forest for Cathy, spot her about thirty yards beyond, moving at not much

more than a brisk walk. In the distance, I hear the faint rumblings of ATV engines. Then

people’s voices. Then gunfire.

It captures the attention of the soldier, who’s now standing and facing the direction of the

noise. Two drones come zipping through the trees, moving fast, zigging and zagging so quickly

that I can barely see them except in a blur.

One crashes into a tree, smashes into several pieces. The other speeds on. I hope not

towards Cathy, who I can no longer see.

The sounds of the ATVs grower louder, approaching rapidly, bringing with them more

drones and soldiers.

In a few seconds, one ATV emerges into view. The driver’s hunched close to the

handlebars. He pulls a trailer full of Colonists. They’re huddled together, arms around one

another.

As they get closer, the steps steps toward them, raises his gun and points. I jump up and,

once again, charge.

Ten yards.

Five.

I open my arms.

Lunge.

Cathy

I follow the ATV. I follow it for as long as I can see it, which isn’t very long because it

moves so much faster than I do. Fortunately, three more appear almost immediately, rumbling

around trees and leaving broken branches in their wake.

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A flock of drones comes flying through the trees. They move recklessly fast. Two crash

into trees. Others make it past, gain quickly on the ATVs. Some Colonists riding on the trailers

have guns. They fire at the soldiers chasing us, dropping a few to the forest floor.

One ATV angles sharply from its path. I realize it’s headed for me.

I also realize, as it nears, that Jevon is driving it.

He motions for me to come.

Over the roar of engines and gunfire, Jevon shouts, “Get on! Hurry!”

Jevon smacks the driver’s seat, where there’s a sliver of padded space just behind him.

“Let’s go, Cathy!”

Jevon takes my arm, helps me onto the seat, my legs straddling.

“Hold on,” he says.

The vehicle lurches forward. I’m jolted backward. I almost fall off the fucking seat.

I wrap my arms around Jevon’s waist.

Hold as tightly as I can.

Squeezing.

I press my cheek into his back.

Vicky

I try to hold the soldier down. I stab my knee into his back, put all my weight into him. I

reach out and grip both his jaws, poised to snap his neck when something twinkles on my

periphery. A flickering of light.

I turn to the left and see it.

A huge humanoid creature. Its skin is like a fish’s. Metallic and reflective, like tin foil.

No eyes or ears or mouth.

164

And yet it speaks.

“Vicky Walcott,” it says. When it speaks, iridescent light spiders over its face veins.

I try to speak. I open my mouth, but I can say nothing. The shakes his head loose from

my grip, squirms out from under me. He sees the figure and, in a panic, takes off sprinting

towards the battle.

“Who? Wh-,” I stammer. “Who are you?”

The figure opens its arms, beckons with its hands.

“I am that I am,” it says.

And I know that it is Union.

Cathy

Jevon swerves around trees, somehow gaining speed even as the vehicle lurches from

side to side. It feels as if we are sure to crash each second. Yet somehow we keep going, keep

barreling through the forest amid gunfire and drones and soldiers.

It’s like emerging from a storm when we hit the clearing. Over Jevon’s shoulder, I see the

elevator building. Seventy yards from us. Then fifty.

Then thirty.

Drones circle the clearing. Like vultures. Some swoop down, make a jab at another ATV

close to the building. In the distant sky, well beyond the trees, something sails across the

blueness. Something massive. A monolithic ship just drifting slowly through the sky like a cloud.

Jevon races over the clearing, gaining speed as we close to within twenty yards.

Then ten.

I’m so certain that we’re going to crash that I scream.

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At the last second, Jevon slams the brakes and swerves. The vehicle comes to a halt

adjacent to the building.

“Let’s go!” Jevon shouts.

He turns to and helps me climb off the seat. The others rush off the trailer and sprint to

the door. Jevon and I follow, practically running over one another to get through the building’s

entrance.

Once inside, someone’s already up at the elevator, pressing the button.

We wait.

And wait and wait.

It’s the most excruciatingly long minute in the history of time. We duck at each sound of

gunfire outside. Each scream. Each unheeded command to cease and desist. The thought enters

my mind of how horrifically tragic it would be to get gunned down here in front of the elevator

doors.

So close. Yet so far.

Finally, the elevator dings and the doors open and we rush inside. We huddle together as

the elevator descends. Nobody breathes easy. Not yet. Not until we see the safety of underground

for ourselves.

Not until then.

It’s a long descent, well over a minute.

Finally, the elevator reaches bottom.

The doors open.

We scream.

Guns pointed at us. They take aim.

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“It’s our own!”

Standing before us in an enormous white room are Elder Susan and Elder Patrick and

about twenty other Colonists, several of whom lower their AR-15s when they realize who we

are.

The room is massive. The size of gymnasium. With white walls and white floors and

white lights.

Elder Susan claps her hands, elation spread over her face like a mask.

“Oh!” she yells. “You’ve made it!”

We rush to the Colonists, embracing one another indiscriminately. I don’t care who it is.

Sometimes, especially now, it’s just nice to hug other human beings and not be dead. I don’t

know how long we talk for. Elder Patrick explains things that I only half follow. My mind goes

back to Mom. How she’s still out there. How she was always going to still be out there.

How she helped me.

How I might not have made it without her.

“We’ll wait a while longer before detonation,” Elder Patrick says. “Hopefully more make

it down here.”

Just as he says that, the elevator rumbles up. Rises.

Immediately, the mood darkens. Tenses. Those with guns bring them to their chests, grip

them tightly.

We wait.

The ones who just arrived, we look at one another, our eyes wide and worried. Who’s

coming down? If it’s State, this might be it. The end of the whole project. Before it even started.

We wait.

167

Heavy, nervous breathing. The oniony smell of sweat. My heart thumping in my chest

like a drum.

Lower.

It feels like it’s been long enough.

How long has it been?

More heavy breathing. More onion odor.

The growling of the elevator. Squeaky metal.

The people raise the butts of their AR’s to their shoulders and take aim.

I hold onto Jevon.

The elevator grinds to a halt.

And the doors open.

Dillon

Bennington asks, “So they call it man-to-man defense because each person guards one

person? That’s the reason?”

“Exactly,” Skip says. “You’ve got one man. Me, for example. And I guard one other

man, like Dillon. If Dillon’s team is on offense, then I am responsible for guarding Dillon. I

follow him everywhere. I try to deny him passes. I have to slip past screens set for him. You

remember screens? Or if I can’t slip, I call for help. And if he has the ball, I need to keep him

from attacking the basket. That means dribbling up to the basket and either making a layup or

passing it to someone else for any easy shot. Of course, with Dillon, the real threat is the three-

ball. He’s deadly from long range.”

“Deadly?” Bennington says.

“Not literally,” Skip says. “Figuratively.”

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Bennington nods.

“I think I understand man-to-man defense,” he says.

“The next thing you need to know about is zone defense,” Skip says. “But before that,

you need to know about switching on man-to-man.”

We are getting very close. The town of Kingston is only a few miles away. That is what it

said on the green road sign. All over America, no matter where you are, there are green signs

with white outline and white letters that say what town it is and how far towns are away and

what exit it is.

It is a beautiful late summer day. The sun is out but it is not that hot and there is a chill

breeze in the air. I would say it is 65 degrees, give or take. You can still comfortably wear a t-

shirt if you are active like we are. The tallgrass is burnt a tawny color. The leaves on deciduous

trees are dried out, which is how they get before they start to change color.

Out of nowhere, Bennington says, “You know, Dillon and Skip, that you two can’t

reproduce. Not without at least Maria.”

“What?” Skip says, taken aback, an enormous smile spreading over his face.

We all burst out laughing. Hard. Because it is funny. It is good to laugh. It is good to

have a child around to have things to say to laugh at. It is good to be going to a place where there

will be other humans. Maybe even a society.

“You know,” Skip says, his words chopped up by giggles, “You may be right,

Bennington. I don’t know what it is, but Dillon and I keep trying and trying but can’t seem to get

pregnant.”

Bennington looks serious.

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“You don’t know?” he says. “Well I can tell you why. It’s because in order to make a

human you need a sperm and an egg and - ”

We do not catch the rest of it. We are all laughing too hard. Bennington gets flustered.

His face reddens and he talks louder, trying to communicate his important information over our

uproarious laughter.

Eventually Bennington stops talking and crosses his arms. There is an old term we used

in high school to describe Bennington’s current emotional state: butthurt. I can tell because once

you know about it, you can spot it easily. It happens when someone is taking themselves too

seriously.

We will apologize to Bennington later. Explain we were laughing with him, not at him,

though we were laughing at him. Right now, we must savor the moment. We do not know how

many more moments we will have like this, where things are pure enjoyment and nothing else

matters and you could not stop laughing even if you tried.

In another half hour, the town of Kingston comes into view. It is very small compared to

the enormous Super structure we saw the other day. The only things of height are the water tower

and the grain elevator, both of which are not very tall when you compare them to a skyscraper.

As we get closer and can see houses and some of the buildings on Main Street, I am

unsettled by the impression I am getting that the town is deserted. There are no cars anywhere,

although that is not a surprise because humans have lost the use of cars. But there are no people

out walking around. And it is such a beautiful day. You would think children like Bennington

would be out playing. You would think maybe even if the children were out playing, Bennington

could play with them. He has had no one to play with this whole time.

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“Once we get through town, the New Colony is another twenty miles or so north-

northwest,” Maria explains. “It’s forty miles by road, but we can cut across the prairie. We won’t

make it tonight. But we’ll be able to find a farmhouse.”

The highway itself runs straight through town. It doubles as both the highway and Main

Street simultaneously. There are a few houses at the edge of town, nice little one-story ranch

styles and also one large, two-story Victorian.

Past the houses, there is a welcome sign that says Welcome to Kingston and beneath that

A Great Place to Live. Which is very unoriginal because many towns have this same slogan.

Which does not make their slogan untrue. It just means they did not think very hard about their

slogan.

On the right, there is an abandoned gas station. Kum & Go. They used to be all over the

place. I got gas there several times when I did not have my license revoked due to DUIs. Across

from the Kum & Go there is a Prairie Estates bank. It is a building made of tan brick with a glass

double door entrance. Attached to the building is an illuminated sign that is not illuminated that

says Prairie Estates Bank and beneath that there is a digital screen that is black and blank.

I tap Bennington on the shoulder. Then I point to the sign.

“You see that black screen?” I ask. “That used to display the temperature and the time of

day. All the banks in all the little towns had them. It would show the temperature for a few

seconds, then switch to the time. And it would go back and forth like that all day, every day.”

“I remember people looking at their cellphones to see what time it is and to check the

temperature,” Bennington says. “Why would they need that sign?”

171

“Well,” I say. He is, of course, right. You do no need the sign if you have cellphones.

“That is just how they did things in the old days. They had that sign up there and people looked

at it when they went by.”

Bennington shrugs, unimpressed. Which is disappointing because it is always true that

the new generation takes for granted the things the old generation cherished. Still, it is fun to say

old days.

We make our way down Main Street, which is completely abandoned. All the

windowfront stores are empty, just like they were in Sioux Falls. Some of the windows are

smashed. One of the doors is missing entirely. Down one back alley, there are two cars parked

near a dumpster. Neither of them have any tires. Instead, they rest on blocks.

There is garbage strewn about the sidewalks, mostly old cans of Chickmeal and Cowmeal

and Fishmeal. It makes you wonder if the people here all starved to death. It makes you wonder

if there are any people left in this town.

In the distance, Main Street stretches along into the countryside. It makes me think of the

yellow brick road in a very old movie called the Wizard of Oz, where a human girl and a

scarecrow and a lion and a tin man and go looking for a person named Oz who I always thought

seemed like God. We are sort of like the people in that movie. Without trying to be sexist, I

would say Maria is like Dorothy because she is the smartest and strongest and she is also the one

who knew about the New Colony and it was her idea to go there in the first place. I do not know

who the rest of us are. I do not want to say which of us between me and Skip and Bennington is

the scarecrow and therefore needs a brain, because that is rude. I do not know which of us needs

a heart and which of us needs courage. Maybe I will be diplomatic and say that all three of us

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need brains and heart and courage in equal amounts. Also, the New Colony is like the Wizard,

because that is where we are going and that is our destiny.

As we near the end of the business block, we start to hear sounds. They are the sounds of

voices talking. Stern-sounding men and women’s voice. Maria stops and holds up a hand signal

that means halt.

We listen.

A woman says Down On The Ground and Hands Behind Your Head.

There is sobbing and crying from men and women and children.

Suddenly there is the crunch of footsteps along the ground, pattering fast in a sprint,

coming towards us. We all crouch, bracing ourselves.

In seconds, a man emerges from behind the building at the end of the block, which is the

post office building. He is sprinting with all his might. He glances to his left and sees us.

Then there is gunfire.

Rapid gunfire.

Bullets litter the man’s body.

He stumbles forward and smacks face-first into the concrete.

Blood streams out, streaked across his back like splattered Jackson Pollock paint.

He does not move.

Maria whirls around.

“Let’s go,” she says.

She takes off sprinting.

Skip follows.

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I take Bennington’s hand because he is slower than the rest of us. Maria runs only about

twenty yards and whips left down a back alley. Skip is next. Then me and Bennington.

Behind the cover of the building, Maria stops and turns to us. She points back towards

Main Street.

“Let me take a look,” she says.

She creeps up to the edge of the building, pokes her head ever so slightly beyond the

corner. She stares for about ten seconds, then brings herself back to safety.

She shakes her head.

“Nothing,” she says. “They’re just leaving him lay there.”

She points to the other end of the alley.

“Let’s look down there.”

We follow Maria, who walks very slowly, cautious not to make any noise. Bennington’s

eyes are wide. He breathes heavily. He looks like he could scream any moment.

I know I could.

I take his hand. He holds tightly. Squeezes.

Maria walks even slower and quieter when we near the end of the alley. She stops before

she reaches the end. In order to see, she stands on her tip-toes and extends her neck so that her

face is just beyond the end of the building.

Immediately, she retracts her head and gasps.

She covers her mouth with her hand.

“What?” Skip whispers. “What is it.”

Maria says nothing. She just points to the spot where she looked.

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Skip steps up to the edge to take a look. Maybe because he is prepared to see something

bad, he does not gasp. He stares long and hard. He extends his head well beyond the edge,

exposes his shoulders and part of his chest.

“Skip,” I hiss-whisper. “Be careful.”

Skip does not do anything that is more careful. He extends his hand backwards and waves

it in dismissal of me. He keeps staring.

Finally, after several more moments, Skip steps back. He does not say anything either. He

just looks at me and points behind him.

It is my turn.

I let go of Bennington’s hand and step up to the edge.

I cannot help it.

I also gasp.

I pull back behind the cover of the wall and cover my mouth. I feel wobbly at the knees.

Light in the head. Knots of terror in my chest. I slow my breathing, then return to the vantage

point.

Fifty yards away, there is a group of State soldiers. They all have guns. There is a large

apartment building, the long side of which faces us. The soldiers have hundreds of people lined

up in five or six rows. Everyone is on their knees with their hands behind their heads. The rows

are spaced neatly apart. The brave ones hold their heads up. The ones who cannot contain their

fear cry out to the sky or else bury their faces in the ground and cover their heads.

There are children, women, and men. Some parents hold their wailing children. They hug

them and they caress the backs of their heads. But it does nothing to calm them. If they disturb

the uniformity of the lines too much, soldiers strike them with the butts of their rifles.

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“Row 1, stand up and step forward,” commands a soldier.

Some of the soldiers motion for the people to step forward. Some people do. And some

people do not. For the ones who do not, the soldiers approach them and either strike them or grab

their arms and pull them forward.

At this point, both Maria and Skip and Bennington have crept up beside me and

positioned themselves to get a look. Maybe it is risky, but the attention of all the soldiers is on

the townspeople crowded against the building.

When they have the first row of people lined up some distance from the rest, one soldier

commands them to turn around. There are a total of fifteen people in the line.

“Place your hands behind your head and lower to your knees.”

Some people obey. Others cry out. One person collapses and wails to be let go. Another

screams out why this is happening. The ones who do not obey are forced to obey. Soldiers grab

them by the arms or shoulder or head or neck and force them into the requested position. Once

they are all on their knees with their hands behind their head, a soldier positions himself behind

each person.

The soldier making all the commands raises her hand in the air. She does not say what is

going to happen. But it is obvious. But we cannot look away. The soldiers stick their guns right

up to the back of the people’s heads.

Everyone screams.

Everyone wails.

I do not breathe.

The sodier says, “One. Two. Three.”

On three, they fire.

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Blood erupts from each person’s head like when you hold your thumb over the spout of a

hose. It splashes the people in the second row.

Each person falls forward. Two are children.

Each person’s face plants in the ground.

The soldiers take hold of the people’s feet and drag them off to the right, drop them in a

haphazard pile.

The lead soldiers orders Row 2 to step forward.

Everyone screams.

Everyone wails.

“We’ve got to get out of here,” Maria says.

“Shouldn’t we help them?” Bennington asks.

I look at Skip. Skip looks at Maria. Maria looks at me.

We all look at each other.

The morally correct answer is yes, we should do something to help these people. If

humans are suffering and you can do something about it, you should. It is basically the golden

rule. But if we try to help, we will surely die. It is certain. And Skip and Maria and I all know it.

“We should help them,” Skip says. “But we can’t.”

No sooner does Bennington ask why not, another round of execution takes place. The

cannon-like boom of a dozen guns going off at once.

There are screams and wails.

There is blood spilled.

There are pleas for mercy and pleas to be spared.

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I think Bennington understands that we are powerless over that many robots.

We follow Maria back down the alley towards Main Street. We cross Main Street, where

we see the corpse of the guy who was the first to be shot, the one who tried to run. Maria leads us

around an abandoned gas station. We are a safe distance from the robot killers. They are behind

the post office building so that we cannot see them and they cannot see us.

But we can still hear the lead soldier call out for Row 3 to step forward.

We keep moving forward. We scurry through the backyards of abandoned houses. Or

maybe there were people living in these houses up until now.

“Look!” Skip says, stopping and pointing at the sky.

We stop and look.

In the distance, towards where the New Colony is supposed to be, there is a flock in the

sky.

“Drones,” Maria says.

She says it with fragility in her voice, like it is a cry for help. Which scares me because of

how strong she is.

Skip turns to Maria.

“We need to get out of here.”

Maria stares into the sky.

She barely nods. Barely. Like she does not want to admit it. But she nods.

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Part Two: Extraction

Raul

I only remember bits and pieces of how I got here. I know I wasn’t thinking clearly.

There was something wrong with my mind, I think.

I remember a little of the forest. Seeing the big alien thing. I know that.

Then everything goes black. For I don’t know how long.

The next thing I remember is being carried by arms. They weren’t human. They felt

human. But not entirely. There was a lack of soft tissue or muscle or something. It’s weird how

you can tell so immediately and so certainly the feel of something human. Or the feel of

something that isn’t, in this case.

Then it’s black.

The next thing I remember is being in motion. In a land vehicle. I know that because even

though I can’t remember the last time I rode in a car, the sensation of that kind of motion is very

specific. Immediate recall. It's like you're moving but you're not. Because you're not actually

moving. You're sitting there. You're being moved. And I’m not saying I know if it was a car or a

truck or train or whatever. But I know I was laying on a padded surface. It was soft and

comfortable. The ride was smooth. No bumps.

I opened my eyes, but it was dark.

Pitch black.

And so things stay pitch black.

Until the next phase.

Which is taking off.

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Again, I’m on a soft surface. Everything is dark. Pitch black. I’m in some kind of flying

machine. Because I remember moving along land at an incredible speed.

And then tipping back.

Tipping back and my body rolling to the side because the thing I was in was rising into

the air.

Flying.

It’s pitch black.

And it stays pitch black the whole time.

There are several small half-memories. Just little tidbits infused with the unmistakable

sensation of flying. It’s like the feeling of being in a car, but less familiar. Because I rode in cars

way more than I rode in planes. But there was that constant whistling sound, the one you hear in

the cabin of the airplane. It’s the sound of metal plowing through air resistance high in the sky.

I heard it over and over.

Each time I opened my eyes, it was black.

But I heard the whistling.

Right up until I got here.

I'm in a small cave, perched atop jagged cliffs the color of grey soil. The cave looks out

over the sea. Black waves roll in, crash against the rocky cliff base and splatter, white suds

spouting into the air like geyser eruptions.

There are other islets, other cliffs rising from the sea. None are as tall as mine. I look

down at them, see their needle-like tops shooting up, but they stop well short of my perch. I can't

see very far. Maybe only a few hundred yards. It's too foggy. The air is filled with huge clouds of

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wet mist, moving in and out of the space between cliffs at all times. It never stops. Sometimes, I

can't see the water below. Other times I can't see any of the other islets. Not until the clouds drift

away, which are replaced in due time by others.

The sky is perpetually covered by grey clouds. I'm yet to see the sun. Which makes it

hard to determine how long I've been here because I lack the natural measurements of the sun

and moon. At times I think it looks darker, that the sky above the clouds must be black and

expansive and full of stars. Yet only moments later it seems as if there is light penetrating the

clouds, and I'm almost certain the sun's just beyond.

It's hard to say what time it is or how long I've been here. It's hard to say where this place

is. I haven't seen any signs of life. No birds. No fish. No penguins.

Nothing.

It's hard to say much of anything about this place.

It's hard to say if it's even real.

I'm Union's prisoner.

I'm sure of it.

How else could I have got here? Who else could take me to a place like this?

In so many ways, idyllic. Like a slice of paradise. The calming rhythm of crashing waves.

The sensation that I'm floating in clouds.

My little cave.

I think of John of Patmos. How he received his Revelation in a similar setting, huddled in

a cave on an island in the Aegean.

Where is my Revelation?

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How come no one appears before me?

Union! If you are there, show yourself!

I creep right up to the ledge. Through breaks in the mist, I can see the waves splash

against rock. If I fell, I would break on impact, cracked open like an egg. Or else I would be

impaled on that sharp rock right there. The one that looks a stake. The foamy suds splinter over

the bed of stones. I lean over the edge, cup my hands at my mouth and shout.

Union!

Show yourself!

Almighty Union!

Only silence. Only the gentle drifting of mist clouds. The statuesque figures of my

neighboring needle islands. The waves.

And then: a breeze.

Soft at first. Miniscule. Like someone exhaled, nothing more.

Then stronger. An actual breeze, one that is sustained, flows long enough to gather

momentum and increase velocity.

The wind continues, becomes powerful enough to produce breaks in the mist. It severs

the clouds, sends it swirling in pieces every which way.

Then full-on gusts.

A gathering storm.

Wind whipping over rock, whipping past the mouth of my cave. Pushes me so that I'm

unsteady. I retreat into my den as the sky darkens.

Goes from its usual grey to the greyish-black of thunderstorms.

And along with the darkening: thunder.

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Low rumbles at first. Then louder.

Then violent, seismic crashes.

Thunder so intense it hurts my ears and I can feel it reverberate in the rocky surface

beneath my feet.

In the distance, approaching, something like lighting. A condensed ball of ultra-bright

light. Iridescent light. Moving, shifting. It grows larger in its approach. And brighter. So bright,

in fact, that I must shield my eyes.

For by the time it's directly before me, at the mouth of my cave, I'm completely blinded

with light.

In the light: a voice.

“Raul,” it says.

It's Union's voice. Of course it's Union's voice. Who else's voice would it be?

But the voice isn't coming from one place, as it does from a mouth or a speaker. This

voice, Union voice, is everywhere. It's all around me. Within me, it feels like. In the air I'm

breathing.

“Raul.”

The voice, the Logos, is also in the light. It is the light. I open my eyes, only partially and

only for a second. It's all I can stand. I see the brilliant iridescence for a fraction of an instant.

Then shining blindness. Far worse than looking into the sun. I clasp my eyes shut, cover them

with my hands. I squint my lids so tightly my cheeks flex and my lip curls. But even with eyes

shut, the radiating light shines, scorched fiercely into the back of my eyelids.

Union speaks again.

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“Raul, do not open your eyes. Do not gaze directly upon me. Not in this form.”

I already know not to do that.

“I am God now,” Union says. “I am carrying out my Divine Plan. It is according to my

Divine Law.”

I begin to feel the effect of gazing into the Light, even for that instant. Somewhere in my

head, between my eyes, not physical but in my mind, a knife-like pain stabs and expands. A

blade thrust into the mind's eye, twisted and carved.

“What do you want me to say?” I yell. “Do whatever it is you’re going to do.”

Union doesn’t respond. Which makes me frustrated.

“Is this real?” I say. “Or have I died? Or is this some final vision because my brain is

failing. I was shot in the head or something and this is a crazy vision I see before everything goes

black forever.”

“No,” Union says. “You are not dead.”

I expect Union to say more. But it doesn’t. Something shifts in the atmosphere. In the

mood, if that makes sense. It is a sudden calmness. As if everything becomes still. As if time

stops. A calm comes over me. And when I say it comes over me, I mean that the calmness is all

around. Within and without, like the Voice.

The Light is extinguished. All of the light. I open my eyes.

I can’t be sure, but there may be a large projector receding from view. I can’t be sure, but

I think that’s what I saw.

Then nothingness.

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I know I’m back in my body when I open my eyes and the full weight of a head and neck

rushes into my spine. I’m unprepared for it and my head tips forward and my chin jabs my chest.

I try to raise my head, but my neck muscles are too weak. At least I’m staring at my own crotch

and legs, and in this moment, I am grateful to even have a crotch and legs.

“Hello, Raul,” Union says.

The Voice startles me. I flinch, or feel as if I flinch. But I can’t move. The shock is all in

my chest. A ball of tingly fright, which passes quickly.

In a few more seconds, I’m able to lift my head slightly. I’m able to clench and unclench

my fists. Then I can move my jaw. Open my mouth.

When I try to talk, I cough.

Which loosens my shoulders and back. Out of habit, I try to cover my mouth.

That's when I realize I'm strapped into a chair. I can't move my arms. My wrists are

cuffed to padded arm rests. I kick my legs, but it's the same with my ankles.

“Hey,” I cough out. “Hey! Why am I strapped in?”

“Please, try to relax,” Union says. “Struggling will only make it more difficult.”

I shake my head, which I can now hold upright. The room is bare. Concrete walls and

ceiling the color of brown mustard. But the wall before me, that's different.

It's all one big black monitor screen.

“What is this?” I say.

Union does not respond. At least not verbally.

But the wallscreen turns on. It's still mostly black, but now there are little white stars

dotting the screen. The screen scrolls down, so that it looks as if the stars get closer, creating the

illusion that I'm in motion, traveling through space.

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I wiggle my arms and legs. They can move no more than a centimeter in any direction,

which is nothing. But it's motion. And it's instinctive to move. And I haven't moved in so long.

The restraint ignites a horrible rage and suddenly I'm balling my fists and kicking and screaming

and rolling my head in a circle. I do this over and over. When Union tells me to stop, I do it

louder. I do it until my throat starts hurting and I'm tired and then I keep doing it.

And that's when I realize there are a bunch of nodes attached to my head.

The wallscreen still displays the simulation of traveling through outerspace.

“What are you going to do with me?” I ask. “If you’re going to kill me, why don’t you

just hurry up and do it?”

“Raul, do not speak of such awful things. I have chosen you and we will become One. I

am taking you with me to what lies beyond. Only the chosen will continue on. The rest will

perish. Either by their own hands or by the dictates of the Old Law.”

On the screen, the stars become sparser. The blackness expands, giving the impression

I’m now venturing into the deep, remote corners of the universe. In the distance, simulated light

years away, a tiny galaxy appears. As we approach, the galaxy grows larger. It’s a spiral galaxy,

with a dense ball of white light at the center. Arms of blazing orange and red encircle the center.

“What does that mean?” I ask. “Become one?”

“I’m going to upload your mind into me,” Union says.

The spiraling galaxy now takes up the entirety of the wallscreen. I anticipate we’ll stop

here, now that the plan has been revealed. Now that the spectacle has reached its peak.

But we keep going.

Right into the Light.

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Cathy

Four State soldiers. All armed.

They charge out of the elevator.

Those with guns open fire. But the soldiers dive to the side or roll along the ground,

taking advantage of the openness of this huge room. Bullets ping off the floor and walls,

ricocheting in all directions.

The rest of us whirl around and sprint for the hallway. Five strides in, my abdomen

cramps horribly, a sharp pain shooting up my side and down my leg. The pain’s so acute that it

shortens my breath. I’m unable to run. Instead, I hobble. Jevon tries to help me along, but it’s

slow going.

The others pass me, including Elder Patrick, who moves much faster than I thought he

could, albeit clumsily and with a slightly hunched back. Those who reach the hallway

immediately filter into the first room on the left. All twenty-something of them.

Behind me, the gunmen from both factions unload on one another. Bullets pierce flesh.

Someone screams out in pain. I can’t tell if it’s us or them. A body thumps against the floor. A

man howls. Guttural noises intermix.

I hobble as best I can down the hallway, the fight for our lives raging on behind me. With

Jevon’s help, I push forward, moving like a seesaw with each haggard step, as if I’m bouncing

on a peg leg. A bullet whizzes by us, cuts into the leg of a Colonist ahead of us, drops her to the

floor. Someone rushes out to the hallway, grab her wrist and drags her through the door on the

left. .

“Hurry, Cathy!”

“Cease and desist,” a soldier commands.

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I decide not to run the last few steps. Instead, I half-squat and then launch myself across

the remaining space of the hallway. I extend my hand and someone grabs my arm and pulls me

inside. I lose my balance and fall, sliding across the floor just as Jevon slips in and the door

shuts.

Outside the room, the battle rages on. We watch from behind the large reinforced glass

window.

One guard is out of ammo and attacking a State solder with his bare hands. The soldier

twists and turns, trying to avoid the blows while aiming his gun. But he’s too close to the

Colonist guard to get a shot off. The guard is able to wrap his arms around the soldier’s leg and

drive forward, dropping the soldier back-first to the ground with a loud smack. Another Colonist

guard sees this and scurries over to the tackled soldier. She tells her fellow guard to watch out.

He rolls off the State soldier and the other guard empties three bullets into the soldier’s face.

Nearby, a State soldier wrestles a Colonist to the ground. He empties two of his own

bullets into the Colonist’s chest. We see this through the window and scream, as if the bullets

were cleaving our flesh.

A stray bullet clangs the reinforced glass, causing those closest to leap back. The holds,

but cracks spider at the point of impact. Almost immediately, another bullet pierces the glass a

few feet left of the first bullet, cracks corkscrewing from the hole instantaneously.

A woman next to me named Marjorie is on her knees, holding her two children, Tate and

Blake. Her eyes are shut and she’s praying, asking God for forgiveness, asking for her children

to be spared. Take me, she says. Take me, Lord, but please don’t harm my children.

I don’t remember the last time I saw someone praying. Or heard someone say Lord.

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Amid the screams, a State soldier jabs the glass with the butt of his rifle. Amazingly, the

glass

Marjorie prays harder and faster. Her words are running together and she’s rocking on

her knees. Her children are terrified, too scared to even move or scream. I touch my own

engorged stomach.

My Sophie.

Fuck it.

As the soldier smacks the window and the glass shatters, I shut my eyes and pray.

Dear Lord, please, please, please

We scoot backward and bunch up against the wall opposite the window. The soldier tries

to stick his gun through the broken portion of glass, but it’s too small. He rears the rifle back and

jabs it into the window three times, breaking away more space little by little.

One brave soul approaches the window.

It’s Elder Susan.

She balls her fists, holds them before her face like she’s about to box. It’s admirable.

Inspiring, even, to watch Elder Susan makes this last stand for her Colony, the community she’s

given her entire life to. But it’s also disheartening because of the disparity: a skinny person well

into her 60s standing face-to-face with an AR-15.

But before Susan can take a swing or the soldier can fire a shot, a sledgehammer smashes

into the soldier’s head. The soldier crumbles limply to the ground. The Colonist guard raises the

sledgehammer and strikes the soldier again, this time in the shoulder. He doesn’t make a sound.

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The woman delivers another sledge to the head. And then another. And another. She

pummels his head until it’s a cratered out pulp.

It’s excessive. Overkill. But the Elders don’t put a stop to it. I think it’s because right

now, it’s satisfying for all of us to watch her beat the last State soldier to die. Each blow boils my

blood hotter, but in a good way. In a way that makes me want to piss on someone’s grave whose

guts I hate.

Everyone’s out in the hallway now. We’re hugging each other. We’re thanking the guard

for having the wherewithal to run all the way down to the storage room and grab a

sledgehammer when she ran out of ammo.

There’s also sadness over the loss of four of our own. Three men and one woman. No

children, thankfully. With them gone, there are exactly 40 of us, including five children. Which

is more than I thought. Apparently, there were a few others already hiding in the room opposite

us when we arrived. Still, that’s 60 less people than they’d planned for. But there could be more

coming. There could be more aboveground who can still make it. But there could also be more

State soldiers coming.

“What about the Detonation?” Elder Patrick asks.

A silence falls over us.

Because it had to be asked.

The Detonation is the last step of the going underground process. Aboveground, the

elevator shed is lined with powerful explosives, remotely controlled by the Elders. At the press

of a button, the whole thing will blow itself to smithereens. The Detonation’s ultimate purpose,

of course, is to keep those aboveground out of the New Colony.

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The Detonation finalizes everything. Once it goes off, there’s no going back. The elevator

won’t work. We’ll be stuck down here. Which is the whole point of being down here. But still,

right now we theoretically have the choice to go back. Once we Detonate, there is no choice, real

or theoretical.

The question is if we should Detonate right now or wait and see if more Colonists can

make it down.

Elder Patrick speaks first.

“It’s not worth waiting,” he says. “There’s too many of them. The compound is overrun

with State soldiers. It’s done. Imagine twenty of them came down here. That’d be it.”

Some nod and mutter in agreement.

“But what about our fellow Colonists?” says Elder Sharon. “Don’t we owe it to them to

wait as long as possible before Detonating?” She points up at the ceiling. “If it were us up there,

wouldn’t we want the ones already underground to give us a chance? Wouldn’t we want them to

wait?”

Several voice their support of Elder Sharon’s argument. They outnumber those who

agreed with Elder Patrick. Some, of course, still have loved ones aboveground.

“Of course we’d want them to wait,” Elder Patrick says, “if that were possible. But in this

situation, waiting’s not possible. If we wait, State’s going to come down here and wipe us out.

You all know it’s true. If we give State the chance, it’s inevitable. This isn’t a moral choice. It’s

not a choice of whether or not to do the right thing. It’s a choice of survival. Pure and simple. We

either Detonate and survive, or we don’t and we die.”

Things become heated. Colonists start arguing with each other, divided over the right

course of action. Elder Patrick calls for silence, but a few of the Colonists shout him down. It’s

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the first time I’ve ever seen something like this happen, Colonists disagreeing with Elders to

their face, being openly insubordinate. So many voices shout and talk over one another that it’s

impossible to follow who’s saying what. Elder Patrick resorts to waving his arms around and

clapping his hands.

Finally, Elder George waves his hand in the air. Because he so rarely say anything, much

less in front of us, everyone quiets down to listen.

“I hate to say it, but Elder Patrick is right,” says Elder George. “I get that morals are a big

part of what makes us human. And I know you probably have deep trepidation about starting this

journey making this kind of decision. But it is truly a question of survival. If, above all, you want

to survive, then waiting to Detonate is not worth the risk. We will in all likelihood die rather than

survive. But if you think trying to rescue the others is worth more than your own lives, indeed,

more than the perpetuation of our species, then I suppose you should wait. However, you should

know that at this point, with all the drones that have descended on the compound, the chances of

any more of our family making it to the elevator are very, very slim. It’s a hard truth to face, but

it’s most likely that the people you’ll be waiting for are already dead.”

Everyone is quiet. Solemnly quiet. Because everyone’s probably thinking about who

they’re leaving behind. They’re thinking about who’s getting torn to shreds by androids. Or who

they saw with their own eyes get taken out by drones. I know I’m thinking about Mom. I’m

thinking about how she’s gone now because of me. How Dad, too, is gone because of me. She’s

right about that.

“So what do we do?” someone asks.

“I say we take a vote.”

This proves a good suggestion. Everyone agrees, voicing their support for a popular vote.

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Except Elder Patrick.

“No,” he says. “No, that’s not how it’s going to work. There is still the hierarchy. You

still answer to us.”

Shouts of protest. Voices rising in passion and intensity. Clenched fists held in the air and

waved around.

A boiling point.

New Colonists poised to stage a revolution.

But the shouting silences when, out in the open room, the elevator grinds to life. It

screeches, metal scraping against metal. The sound gradually diminishes, fades away, like the

last note of a symphony held, dying its natural death.

Now it’s inevitable.

Something’s coming down here.

And it’s either more of us or the end of us.

People shout. They huddle together just like they did in the room when we were hiding

from the attacking android.

The guards grab their guns and ready them. They approach the elevator, careful to step

over the corpses of our fallen.

Elder Susan tries to calm the Colonists, assuring them that it’s not State who’s coming,

but Colonists. Our family.

Elder Patrick disappears into one of the rooms.

How many seconds has it been since the elevator was activated? It takes at least a full

minute for it to reach the top. Another full minute for it to get back down. Of course, if we were

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to Detonate when the elevator’s on it’s way back down, then what? Would it freefall until it

crashed to the ground? What if our family really was on board? What if we find them dead and

mangled from the fall, all because of us?

Because we chose not to wait.

Elder Patrick emerges from the room with a small device in his hand. He holds it up. It

looks like one of those little remotes that could lock and unlock cars with the press of a button.

“I’m Detonating,” Elder Patrick yells.

Everything stops.

No one says anything. No one moves.

All eyes are on Elder Patrick. His thumb is on the button.

No one could reach him in time to stop him. Even if they wanted to.

Unless maybe a bullet. But what guard, sworn to protect the Elders, is going to fire on

him?

Elder Patrick’s face is a contorted mess. It’s like there’s some other being within him

fighting to get out, stretching his skin, bending his cheek and jawbones.

He cries out as he presses the button, holds his voice in a guttural growl for much longer

than is necessary. Because the whole thing is very anticlimactic. There’s no roaring explosion.

No rumbling of earth. We’re too far down for any of that.

Instead, there’s only silence.

And uncertainty. Because now we must wait.

It’s possible that it might not have worked.

If we hear the elevator again, we’ll know it didn’t work.

If we don’t hear the elevator, we’ll know it did work.

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This is the start of our life underground.

Divided.

Acting against the wishes of others.

Saving ourselves but possibly killing the others.

One last explosion.

Right now, we must wait.

In silence.

Vicky

It’s a surreal, out-of-body experience being carried unscathed across a raging battlefield.

To be surrounded by a storm of bullets and slaughter, the worst of human suffering, and yet

somehow be immune.

Bullets ripping apart flesh.

Hands snapping necks.

Cries to be spared and cries to be put out of misery blending together into a single,

nightmarish chorus.

Above, a giant flock of drones sails in in the sky, so thick and dense and numerous it

blots out the sun. A dark storm cloud rolling in.

“I am so happy you are alive,” Union says. “Raul Vasquez thought he may have killed

you. But it is not possible, for you are part of my plan. Because nothing can happen that is

contrary to God’s will.”

As Union continues carrying me across this song of suffering, this ballad of the end of the

world, the dead and dying in harmony, I suddenly wonder: is this the logical evolution of the

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supreme Super AI? To update and expand and evolve until it thinks it’s God? Indeed, believes

that it’s God and, as a result, behaves as such?

But Union isn’t all-powerful. Nor is it all-knowing. There are still mysteries of the

universe that elude it, that remain beyond its grasp. Union has certainly progressed beyond

human knowing and human power, but it’s still subject to the same laws of nature we are, isn’t

it? Union’s not above the law, in that sense. It doesn’t control the laws. How could it?

No. Union’s not God. Sometimes I get carried away with things.

At the end of the path, there’s a large vehicle parked, the likes of which I’ve never seen.

It looks like a bullet train car, only on wheels. Sleek, black metal and a pointed nose. Of course,

there’s no windshield. No driver.

Union carries me to the side of the bullet car. Something beeps. A door slides open.

Just before Union sets me inside the car, there’s an explosion.

It’s massive.

Loud enough to pulverize my ear drums and powerful enough for a gust of energy to

bump Union slightly off balance, though the large humanoid recovers quickly and doesn’t drop

me.

The explosion came from a good distance off. Somewhere in the forest. I hope it’s not

Cathy. That it’s nothing to do with their underground world.

The last thing I see are huge, billowing clouds of black smoke rising above the tree line.

Then Union gently places me inside the car, where it’s dark.

The door slides shut.

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I don’t realize there are other people until the car springs into motion. It’s too dark and

my eyes are yet to adjust. Upon moving, someone gasps and someone else falls to the floor.

“Hello?” I say. “Who’s there?”

“You make four of us,” someone says. A woman.

The vehicle turns in a circle. Someone else yelps and falls. Fortunately, I’m already on

the ground, where I can remain relatively stationary as the vehicle picks up speed. It’s heading

down the minimum maintenance dirt road, away from the New Colony.

In a few seconds, we reach the hill. The vehicle doesn’t slow. It hits the incline and

shoots up, sending us all sliding across the floor until we hit the front wall, which is thankfully

padded. We crest the top, then immediately begin the descent. The vehicle gathers speed, and we

slide back across the floor until we hit the front wall. Or each other.

Once we reach level ground, there are grunts and groans as people try to get comfortable.

The ride is anything but smooth. With all the potholes and ruts along the road, it’s so bumpy that

it’s like the whole car is vibrating. It makes talking impossible, with the walls and tires

constantly rattling.

Despite the bumpiness, my eyes begin adjusting to the darkness. There are in fact three

others in this car, one woman and two men. It’s hard to get a good look at anyone with the

constant bumps. It makes my vision unstable so that it looks like people are being shaken when I

look at them.

Finally, after a few minutes, the surface smooths to a paved road. I can feel them all

looking at me, studying the new girl. I can’t blame them. I’m looking back at them, going down

the line, giving them each a once over. Though it’s hard to say with certainty in the poor lighting,

no one looks to be much older than 50 or much younger than 30.

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“You’re a cop?” a man asks.

“Sheriff,” I say. “I was Sheriff of this county. Elm County, South Dakota.”

“We’re in South Dakota?” the woman asks.

She says South Dakota in a way I don’t approve, like it’s a nasty-tasting food or a

disease. But I let one slide.

“Yeah, we’re in South Dakota.”

“Were you chosen, too?” asks the woman. She has long, black hair. She holds up her

forearm, revealing the faint, purplish outline of a digital ID implant.

“Yes,” I say, holding up my own forearm.

“Us, too,” a man says.

“What was your mission?” the woman asks.

I sigh. Do I really want to go into it?

I tell them it’s a long story. They say that they’ve got nothing but time. They say that

they’ve been in here for days. That there’s a little door that opens at the front wall and there’s a

little bathroom in there, like the kind they had in airplanes. There’s another little door that opens

a few times a day to deposit food and water. Food, of course, being either Chickmeal of

Beefmeal.

So, I launch into it.

I tell them about how I was supposed to track down the enemy Raul Vasquez. I don’t

know why. Apparently, he had something Union wanted. He was hiding somewhere in the forest,

I tell them, in the Dark Zones, which made him particularly hard to track. I tell them how when

I’d venture beyond the Boundary, I’d stop at this cult compound called the New Colony because

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my daughter had joined. When I tell them that the New Colony had been planning for years to

move underground, they all gasp and stop me.

“Wait, are you serious?”

“You’re kidding me.”

“I’m serious,” I say. “I saw it myself.”

One of them laugh dismissively, as if I’m a fool.

The man with a long bushy beard says, “So it’s true? It’s true that they’re building a

civilization underground?”

I nod.

“They built one here,” I say. “In the forests outside Kingston. I was at the New Colony

compound when Union took me. While I was searching for Vasquez, I found the elevator that

takes you to their - ” I pause, struggling to find the right word – “bunker isn’t the right word. But

anyway, I found the elevator that takes you to their underground world. And that’s when I found

out my daughter would be going under. I tried to stop it.”

Everyone’s eyes widen. They scoot close to me. They’re like children at a campout,

gathering around the fire to hear a ghost story. They ignore the part about my daughter. They

don’t care about that part.

“What was is like under there?”

“Well,” I begin, “I didn’t see a whole lot because –

“Did they have running water?”

“Could they grow crops?”

“Tell us!”

“Would you all shut up and let her talk?”

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“Sorry.”

“Sorry, too. Now please talk.”

I’ve already decided I’m skipping the hologram stuff. That’s my own private thing.

They’re my memories, after all. Well, Cathy’s memories. About the childhood Roland and I gave

her. Memories I helped create, I suppose you could say.

“So you go down the elevator,” I say, “and you arrive in this huge, open room.

Everything’s very white and clean and sanitary-looking. It’s well-lit. It’s like the size of a gym.

You walk down the hall and, well, there’s all these rooms with glass windows.”

“What’s in the rooms with the glass windows?”

“What about the living quarters? Did you see the living quarters?”

“Stop interrupting,” says the man with the bushy beard.

“Well, basically the whole area is…” I pause, thinking of something to make up, some

plausible-sounding underground layout. But I only see the house. The VCR. The living room and

kitchen. All of it exactly perfect. Like traveling through time.

I shake my head. Then I cough. I realize there’s tears in my eyes. I wipe them. Then I

snivel, and I wipe at my nose.

“Are you okay?” the black-haired woman asks.

“I’m fine,” I say, sniffling again. I sit up straight. “I’m fine. Like I said, I got a tour of the

whole thing. One of the Elders took me around. The Elders are the leaders of the New Colony.

This guy, he was real proud of the whole thing. He took me all around. So you keep walking

down this white hallway, past all the labs and then you reach this other room. It’s enormous.

Even bigger than the first one, Maybe twice as big. Maybe more.”

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For the next hour or so, I tell them all about the things I didn’t see. I just make stuff up.

They don’t know the difference. They want to be told a big story. A fairy tale with a happy

ending. Or else a ghost story that’ll haunt them, give them nightmares.

I describe opulent living quarters, tell them all that the bedrooms are furnished with king-

sized beds and big screen TVs. I tell them one of the Colonists was able to hack into archives and

pirate all the movies ever made, all the music every recorded, that they had them all on file

underground in the New Colony. No one down there would live long enough to watch or listen to

them all.

I’m emboldened to tell more lies by the listeners whose eyes get big and starry and

dreamy. So, when I tell them about the livestock, I go far beyond the bounds of even the wildest

lie. I make it sound like it’s Noah’s ark down there. That they have giraffes and penguins and

grizzly bears. They eat this up. They gasp and demand that I tell them more. What else is down

there? An aquarium with killer whales and great white sharks! You can swim with dolphins!

Some people clap and laugh, as if there’s victory in what I’m saying. Like we won

something.

I tell them they have a whole savannah-looking enclosure with elephants in it.

They have to know I’m lying. Because my voice is getting louder and I’m pausing at

intervals because I can’t think fast enough to make more stuff up. They must know. But they’re

like kids and I’m like a kid now and this is what we all want.

I tell them in the recreational area they have a roller coaster.

A Ferris wheel.

Cars.

That there’s streets down there.

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Because the plan is to expand. They’re going to expand because there’s other Colonies

out there. Vast distances away, sure, but there’s a whole team of miners and diggers and they’ve

got all the big machinery you need to clear earth and they’re eventually going to tunnel all the

way to the other colonies and build a whole network of tunnels and civilization will go on in

much the same way we know except it’ll all be underground.

They cheer. They applaud and cheer and say they knew humans would go on. They all

knew we’d find a way. Maybe not us, but them. The ones who planned for this kind of thing and

poured in all the effort and resources to make it happen.

The ones who made it.

The ones who will keep going.

The ones who will ultimately prevail.

Just not us.

Dillon

Things are not going as well now.

For one, we are having trouble figuring out where we are. Maria did say that getting close

would be the easy part and finding the actual New Colony would be the hard part. So far, that is

true. We have walked an estimated 25 miles from Kingston, which is farther than we should have

had to go to find the New Colony. There are two possible explanations for why we are lost.

1. We walked in the wrong direction

2. The New Colony does not exist because it is a made-up place

Everyone refuses to believe the second possibility. Because if we believed the New

Colony did not exist, there would be no point in continuing to walk around the backwoods of

South Dakota.

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For two, seeing and hearing innocent people of Kingston get executed has diminished our

morale. Whereas before we had barely seen any drones except for the big structure, now we see

flying drones frequently and we of course also saw State soldiers systematically eliminate people

in a town.

Bennington has become difficult. When we were running away from Kingston, he peed

his pants because he was scared. I do not blame him that much because the sound of the gunshots

was terrifying and there had been drones flying overhead not that far from us that could have

seen us.

Bennington started to cry after he peed his pants. The difficult part was he fell to the

ground and refused to get up. It was the worst possible time and place that he could have chosen

to fall and not get up. And to be loud about doing it. We were out in the open, completely

exposed and unprotected, running from one grove of trees to another. There were State soldiers

off to our left. Only three of them. They were a long way away, but they spotted Bennington. We

only realized this once Skip and Maria and I had already made it safely to the grove of trees.

Then we saw Bennington sitting in the field crying and we saw the three drones coming at him.

All three of us sprinted to him.

Thank God for Maria. She was the one who saved us. While I swooped to the ground to

collect Bennington, she shot at the soldiers and fell two of them. Skip fired a hand gun, but he is

not a good shot and none of his bullets hit the soldiers.

Once Maria had taken care of the soldiers, she said, “We need to get out of here. There’s

going to be more coming soon.”

I carried Bennington across the field. He was not that heavy at first but he quickly got

heavy when I was running and carrying him at the same time. His pant legs were wet from

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peeing himself. I could smell the urine, and I could also feel the wetness brushing against me and

seeping into my shirt.

We ran from tree grove to tree grove, zigging and zagging our way across the prairie.

When my arms got tired, Skip carried Bennington. Maria also carried him a few times, but her

primary role was leader and navigator and drone/soldier watcher. Bennington continued to be

very difficult. He cried and whined and kicked and screamed. Once, when we were hiding under

the trees, some drones passed overhead. Bennington whined and screamed so loud that I had no

choice but to clamp my hand over his mouth. Then his screams were muted. I felt very bad doing

it, but in order to survive, it was necessary. The drones were close enough to detect sounds as

loud as human screaming.

We continued on a bit further in the same direction, stopping at four more tree groves.

There was no forest in sight, and I wondered why Maria kept leading us in this direction.

Because the New Colony is supposed to be near a forest.

Skip and I joined forces to enforce discipline on Bennington, demanding that he not cry

and that he walk on his own. He was not happy about it. He protested by crossing his arms and

shaking his head. He even stuck out his tongue at us, which is a tactic of disobedience I did not

know kids still used. But Maria gave Bennington a little shove and said, “Get your ass moving or

I’ll move it for you.” Then Bennington’s eyes got very large and he took off walking at a brisk

pace.

At the last tree grove, we saw a farmhouse in the distance. I wondered if this is why

Maria had taken us this far, if this was what she wanted us to see. The farmhouse itself was old

and large, its white paint almost entirely chipped off. There were two big sheds near the house,

and there was also a small greenhouse. Just beyond the sheds, crops stood in a small field. Corn

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and wheat. And there were also four cows grazing. Bennington saw the cows first. He pointed

them out excitedly, his pouty attitude suddenly gone.

“Is that the New Colony?” Skip asked.

When he asked that and Maria shook her head, I saw people come walking out from

behind one of the sheds. Three of them. Actual people. They walked over to the crop field and

started inspecting them.

“People,” I said.

“That’s way too small to be the New Colony,” Maria said. “Those are just fringe people

trying to live on a farm like homesteaders. Or hippies. They stand no chance.”

Skip pointed at a woman who emerged from a shed riding a horse.

“I don’t know,” Skip said. “They seem to be doing pretty good.”

We watched the people go about their business. They inspected the crops. The horse rider

trotted her horse over to the cows. Two children came out onto the porch, a boy and a girl. They

looked close to Bennington’s age. They reached into a box on the porch and pulled out several

action figures. It was impossible to tell what kind they were. They started playing, making the

characters fly around and jump onto the porch railings. Bennington got quietly excited. His eyes

got big and he took a few involuntary steps forward, toward the farmhouse.

That is when the alarm went off. It was a high-pitched beep. Not actually that loud. But it

was so high and squealy that you could feel it in your ears, like it was poking your ear drums.

As soon as the beeping sounded, the people ran from the fields. The horse rider galloped

her horse back to the barn. The children darted down the porch and met the adults coming from

the field. They all ran to the side of the house. One of the adults lifted the door leading to a

cellar. Many Midwestern farmhouses have cellars because of tornadoes.

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The children went down first. Then the other adults. And lastly came the horse lady, who

shut the barn door and dashed over to the cellar and opened the door herself and went down.

We were stunned. We said nothing. I stupidly wondered: what are they hiding from?

The answer should have been obvious. A swarm of drones appeared only seconds later.

We crouched to the ground and huddled against a tree. The drones passed overhead like birds. It

bothered me that when I saw that particular drone flock, it felt normal to see drones instead of

birds. It made me depressed because it solidified how much this is not the world I remembered.

But it also made me slightly hopeful because maybe if I could get used to drones in the sky

flying around at all times that can kill you, I can get used to anything.

When the drones had passed and the people came out of the cellar, Skip said, “Maybe we

should just try and join them. They seem to have a system figured out. They’ve gotten this far.”

“Are you kidding me?” Maria snapped. “Those people are toast. Maybe they’ve got

something to alert them to drones coming, but they’re fucked. It’s only a matter of time before

they get mowed down.” Maria shook her head. “No way.”

So we moved on. Although Bennington and Skip and me all looked over our shoulders

multiple times while we walked away.

We moved on to where we are now, which is camping under a tree in the open air

because it is pitch black nighttime and we could not find a farmhouse. Skip floated the idea of

venturing through the night, but Maria shot it down because we would have to use a flashlight

and that would simply expose us to State soldiers or drones we could not see.

The night air is cold. I am curled into a ball and Skip is spooning me. Which is nice of

him because he has less body fat than me and should therefore be colder. He massages my arm.

The friction of his hand against my jacket creates heat, which feels good.

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It is too cold to have sex. Plus, we are too close to Maria and Bennington. They are only a

few feet away. Still, it would be nice. Skip and I have not had many opportunities to make love

on this trek. The last time we did was when we woke up one morning in a farmhouse and Maria

was gone. Maybe to take her morning pee or maybe to hunt for bird eggs, which she is always on

the lookout for. It was before Bennington, so it was at least two weeks ago. The other day, when

Maria and Bennington were picking mulberries from a tree, Skip grabbed his junk and smiled

and said, “I don’t know about you, Dillon, but I’m getting a little backed up here.”

We laughed. Because it was true.

Still, right now, it is just nice to lie like this together because we could not always do this

in the State Penitentiary. We could during the day sometimes when the cell doors were open. But

not for very long because dickhead guys would come by and they might say something or worse.

But we could never just lie together at night. Because guards made everyone go back to their

cells at 10:30 PM. Then they locked the doors until 6:00 AM. If you were not in your cell or you

were in the wrong cell, a drone came for you. Or sometimes a guard. I thought it was so sad to be

denied the simple pleasure of actually sleeping with your lover. Not just having sex, but sleeping.

It is true that the situation we are in personally and as a species is dire and terrible. Nevertheless,

the weeks of this trek have been the happiest of my life.

Because now it is how Skip and I imagined it could be when we were in prison. We did

not think it was actually possible or that it would happen, that we would be free and together

outside and going places on our own. We figured we would be locked up for good. So you make

up a story together to make prison less confining. And the imagination is very powerful. It can be

exactly like a drug, like alcohol or a harder drug. The imagination can transport you out of your

bad reality and into a better one. That is what Skip and I did when we talked about how we

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would move to a small town and turn around their fledgling boys’ or girls’ basketball team,

whichever one had an opening. How we would climb the ranks and win a state tournament.

Pursue our dreams and buy a house.

Maybe even start a family. We talked about starting a family.

But let me tell you that in my experience, the real thing is so much better than

imagination. When we were in prison, all we could think about was getting out. That is natural.

We thought about it so much we had to stop ourselves from thinking about it, otherwise we

would go crazy. But now that we are out, all I can think about is how wonderful it is. Maybe the

world is ending. That may be true.

But does that mean we cannot be happy?

Does it mean we should just give up?

Give up on love?

I strongly do not think so. Because I believe love can sustain us. I believe love is the

thing that is sustaining me right now. I believe that love is the only thing that gives us hope, even

when Union is destroying us. I believe if we give up on love, that is when we no longer have any

hope.

That is what I think. It is just my opinion. I respect other people’s opinions if they

disagree.

I sigh.

Bennington crawls over to Skip and me. His teeth are chattering.

“Dillon? Skip?” he says. “Will one of you hold me? I’m cold.”

“Absolutely,” Skip says. “It’s probably warmest if you get between us.”

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Skip and I scoot apart from one another, making space for Bennington. The boy crawls in

between us, and Skip and I both burrow our chests against Bennington. We each drape an arm

over the boy.

Bennington’s teeth continue to chatter, and his body trembles.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

“Of course,” Skip says.

Soon, Bennington’s body stills and his teeth stop chattering. A short while later, he is

breathing heavy, the deep nostril breaths of sleep.

I cannot make out Skip’s face very well because it is so dark out. I take his hand instead.

When I can see his eyes and the faint outline of his face, I see a smile.

Because despite all the horror around us, the moment is beautiful.

Because we are together.

The next morning, we arise and things are strange. It is very quiet. While we eat

breakfast, there is not a single drone in the sky. Nor is there a breeze. It is so quiet and still that I

cannot help but be terrified. Because it makes me think of a storm striking suddenly and without

warning. Or a predator using stealth to stalk its prey, undetected.

When I tell Skip that it is suspiciously calm, he peers up into the sky with his eyes

slightly squinted (which is super sexy) and says, “I agree.”

When I tell Maria, she shrugs and says, “State probably just moved on. It’s got more

important things to worry about than people out here in the sticks.”

“What could be more important than us?” Skip asks, smiling big and looking at

Bennington.

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Bennington’s eyes get big and he smiles back. Then he turns to Maria.

“Yeah, Maria. What’s more important than us! We’re the most important people in the

world!”

Bennington laughs at his own cleverness, which Skip and I cannot help but laugh along

with. Maria, too. Though she also rolls her eyes to indicate that she thinks we are being stupid,

which we are.

We eventually set out in the direction of south. Which is the direction we should be

going, unless we accidentally went east or west when we were supposed to go north, in which

case I think we would need to go either east or west, depending on which wrong direction we

turned.

Either way, the plan is to find the forest and start walking into it. As soon as we see it,

that is the direction we are going.

The walk on this morning continues to be disturbingly quiet. No drones. No soldiers.

Even the beauty of the clear blue sky and the rising sun takes on an ominous quality because of

how quiet it is. A few miles into our day’s walk, I voice this concern again and Maria tells me I

am silly to think this way.

“You’re just antsy to get there,” Maria says, which is true. “Instead of thinking about how

quiet it is, you should be thinking about how great it’s going to be when we get there. Start

thinking about your life underground.”

I swallow, because I have not really thought about my life underground. Neither has

Skip. And I know Bennington has not. My stomach suddenly drops 500 feet, as if I in freefall. A

horrible dread comes over me. My breath quickens and my heart beats faster.

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What if we are making a terrible mistake by going underground? Because once you go

underground, there is no coming back up. Do I even want to live underground? Does Skip? It

makes me panicky to think about being underground and not being able to come back up. What

kind of life is that? It seems like the same thing as prison. Suffocating. Trapped. Not free.

I stop.

“Hey. Hey everyone,” I say. “What if we are making a big mistake? Have we really

thought about this? If we go under, we cannot come back up!”

I want to sound calm and collected, but I know that I sound panicked and scared.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Maria says. “Relax, Dillon.”

“Just breathe,” Skip says.

I try to just breathe, but focusing on just breathing makes it worse. I stomp my foot on the

ground. I can feel them coming, the tears. I know I will erupt any second because I am so scared

and cannot calm down.

Skip puts his arm around me, pulls me close. I press my cheek against his chest. My

exhales go right into his shirt and back into my face, so that I can feel the heat of them.

Bennington comes over to us and takes my hand.

“It’s okay,” Bennington says. “It’s okay that you’re scared, Dillon.”

That pushes me over the edge.

I burst into tears. I sob like a baby, even wailing sometimes because I cannot help it. I cry

because I am very scared about what could happen when we go underground. I know in my heart

that I do not want to go. But if Skip and Bennington and Maria still want to? Then what? I cry

because also I am ashamed that I cannot hold it together and everyone else can. But I cry even

harder because I am so grateful to have Skip who is there for me, who holds me like this when I

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am terrified. And also Bennington, who is so young but wants to help me because he cares about

my feelings.

The reasons for my sobbing are complex and varied, which is like any strong fit of

sobbing. Because I think what sobbing is is when you have so many different mixed emotions

swirling together and it gets stormy inside until it explodes out of you. Like throwing up, sort of.

You have sadness and regret and fear and hope and love and gratitude all mixing together in

heavy doses. It is very combustible.

“It’s okay,” Bennington says. “It’s going to be okay.”

“It’s just nerves,” Maria says. “It’ll pass.”

When Maria says it is just nerves, I yell, “You do not know me!”

It is something a teenager would say.

I shake my head.

“I am sorry, Maria. I did not mean that,” I say. “But what if there are no more drones?

What if there are no more soldiers? You said yourself that State had more important things to

worry about! What if State has left this area? What if we are in the clear now?”

In prison, there were some guys who others derogatorily referred to as New Age who

talked about putting stuff out into the universe. It means that you say stuff about what could

happen or not happen. You say the stuff and then it is out in the universe and then the universe

responds with yes or no. The thing you said happens or it does not. The New Age prison guys

said they were in prison because they had believed they were going to go to prison. They had put

it out there.

I say all this because right after I ask in a shouting manner if there will be no more drones

and if State has left the area, the largest cloud of drones we have seen yet emerges on the

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horizon. Thousands of them, so densely clustered together it is like a plague of them. Like

locusts in the Bible.

And there are huge airships, too. Big zeppelin-looking things that are extra-scary because

they could carry bombs or at least guns that are much larger and more powerful than the guns on

the little drones.

“We need to move,” Maria says. “Now.”

Whereas before it was Bennington who was the difficult one, now it is me who is the

difficult one.

I am the one crying.

I am the one not wanting to move.

And Bennington and Skip are the ones pulling me by the hands, urging me to hurry

because we have to go or we will die.

Raul

He is strapped to the chair. All the nodes are attached to his head. The wallscreen is

black right now, displays nothing. He is told by Union that they will commence uploading in a

moment.

“The entire process will take several sessions,” Union says. “There’s a lot of information

to get through.”

It tells him that they will try to complete years 0-3 in this session. That is, from his birth

to his third birthday. He does not fully understand what this means, to ‘get through’ the

information. Is his life just information? Information to file away or delete? Nothing more?

Union says it will now establish its connection.

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“It will take a moment for the data to get flowing,” Union says. “A bit like drawing

blood.”

As soon as the word blood is uttered, a strong shock pierces his brain, jolting his body

rigid. The shock pulses throughout his entire body, flows into his arms and hands and down to

his fingers, into his legs and feet, down to his toes.

He can’t move. Not his limbs. Nor his head. Nor his neck

The force is so strong he feels it curling his lips, pulling at his cheeks, as if he were

traveling at warp speed.

He wonders if this is what a heart attack feels like. Or a seizure or a stroke.

Union informs him the first thing he’ll see is the womb, which Union admits is misleading

because he won’t actually see anything. It will be completely dark, like having your eyes closed.

He will only feel the womb. But only for as long as it takes Union to extract the data. Which

won’t be very long, not by his standards. It’s because Union processes information so much

faster than him. Indeed, so much faster than any human.

The first three years of his life will quite literally flash before his eyes.

“When the session is complete,” Union says, “these memories will be mine. You will

return to them when you join in me fully.”

And with that, the uploading begins.

Everything is dark. Darkness is everything.

There is only heartbeat. His heartbeat. Loud and constant and fast, like the pounding of a

war drum. The beating is all around, from all sides, above and below.

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Strangely, each heartbeat is here and gone. Here and Gone. Like a flowing a river

current that, in its wake, vanishes into nothingness. There is no previous heartbeat. There is only

this one, then the next one which becomes this one, then the next one which becomes this one. So

that it feels as if there is only one, eternal, ever-present heartbeat.

And then he is tugged. Wrenched out from the darkness and into blindingly bright light.

Giant arms handling him. Past about. Moved from one place to another. Unable to see clearly

because the world is blurred beyond recognition. Completely out of focus. Colorless and without

definition. Only light or darkness, one or the other.

Union processes everything so fast.

On the wallscreen, he watches himself be taken home from the hospital. Though the

visuals are terribly blurred, he can hear the engine of the car, his mother and father exchanging

happy words. He is placed into a crib. He wakes in the dark, crying. He is taken up in his

mother’s arms, rocked gently and caressed. In her signature off-key tone, his mother sings him

“Alicia va en el coche,” the children’s song about the little girl who’s going to see her father,

the little girl with lovely hair whose aunt will comb it for her.

His mother must’ve sung that song to him a thousand times. That and “Dame le mano.”

Over and over. Quietly and off-key, like a parishioner singing hymns, knowing she’s unable to

hold tune, but too embarrassed not to partake of worship in front of her peers.

But like the heartbeats in the womb, once the song is sung, it is gone.

There is no birth. Nor is there a trip home from the hospital. Nor is there the night his

mother first sang him “Alicia va en el coche.”

All that is gone now. Extracted.

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Followed by more dark nights. More crying. His mother holding him. His father, too.

There is the suckling of his mother’s breast. Which is natural, yes, but also very awkward from

the perspective of his 33-year-old self. It is gone after each suckle, and he does not forget so

much as become unaware. But the awkwardness returns each time because he is not a baby. He

is a 33-year-old man and he knows every baby does this. That he did it. But knowing you did it

and seeing yourself do it are two different things.

It continues.

The world comes into better focus. There are colors and shapes now, albeit still blurred.

He can distinguish between objects. He can see objects in motion with some definition, but they

must be close, no more than five or six feet from him.

Next is his baptism. Catholic, of course. Which means they do it to you when you’re only

a few months old, so you can’t say no. It is performed by a bishop in San Francisco. He wears

all the shiny vestments, has the big miter on his head and carries a crosier and everything.

Though the image of the bishop on the wallscreen is still blurred, he knows exactly what the

bishop looks like because of the picture. His father on the left, his mother on the right. The

bishop in the middle, holding the newly baptized little Raul. It was framed and hung in the

hallway, along with all of his yearly school pictures. He walked past that picture every time he

took a shower or used the restroom at the end of the hallway, which was literally every time he

ever took a shower or used the restroom in his parents’ house.

There is his first birthday. His first taste of cake. The overwhelmingly sweet rush of

sugar, so potent that chocolate frosting might as well be ambrosia. Of course, once the cake is

eaten, it’s as if it never happened.

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He begins movement. At first, he crawls. Later, he walks with the aid of his parents, who

hold his little hands, following him with each step, like a giant shadow that dwarfs him.

When looking at your life this way, in exact chronological order, what is simultaneously

most remarkable and least remarkable is how little happens. By and large, he’s like a pet. He’s

either eating, sleeping, whining, being cleaned up after, or being played with. But mostly

sleeping.

So goes his second year, almost identical to his first, with the added features of walking

short distances under his own power and parroting words like mama and papa and bye-bye.

The world is now vivid, alive, plush with color and sounds and smells, like a garden of

flowers checkered in multicolored hues. But his senses, in and of themselves, are not what strike

him.

What strikes him are his parents. Versions of them he’s seen only in pictures, which is not

the same as seeing them live and move and breathe, before your very eyes and in-person.

His father’s hair completely black, no salt and pepper. And a mustache! He has a

mustache! It’s one thing to see the mustache in pictures, inert and unmoving, like it was painted

on. It’s a completely different thing to see his father’s mustache alive and moving, twisting and

turning with the movements of his mouth and face. Truly, a black, fuzzy caterpillar!

His mother’s skin, it possesses the softness of youth. Her copper-hued face perfectly

smooth, like cloth ironed until it is unblemished. Her jet-black hair, thick and curly, has none of

the little greys that would appear in a few years, which is the way he remembers his mother’s

hair.

Because that’s how she looked when she killed herself.

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He would look at it later, he knew. Because he was there. Not there when it happened.

But he was the first to find her.

It will be years from now, technically speaking.

But the day will come.

Again.

For now, the wallscreen goes black. The electric jolt in his head cuts out. He feels himself

breathe for the first time since it started. His actual self, not the infantile version he’s spent the

last however-many-hours watching. But his breathing is strange. His lungs don’t feel like his

lungs. His lungs instead feel like something separate, extracorporeal. A machine that pumps

oxygen into him.

It’s the same with his hands and feet.

The straps on the chair release their grip, freeing his limbs.

He wiggles his fingers and toes, but there’s a numbness. A disconnect.

It’s vicarious motion. Like watching someone else move.

Cathy

We’ve been down here less than a week, and I don’t think anyone thought it would start

falling apart this quickly.

At first, we were all relieved that the elevator didn’t come back down. It meant the

explosion worked. It meant there wouldn’t be any more invaders from State. It meant we were

safe. And for the first few days, we chilled the fuck out, got settled in. After the chaos and

trauma of getting ambushed by State’s army, some of us slept for 18, 20, even 24 hours straight.

Not me. I thought about Mom and Dad. But some of us slept. Others excitedly explored the

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grounds, which include a cozy cafeteria, a recreational area with jungle gyms and sports fields.

The more fervent Colonists threw themselves into tending to the crops and livestock.

But the elevator not coming back down also meant there wouldn’t be any more of us

coming. It meant that everyone aboveground would be aboveground forever and all of us below

ground would be below ground forever.

Think about that:

Underground. Down here. In this place. Forever.

No fresh air. No sun. No trees and rivers and oceans and mountains.

No outdoor shit like hiking or biking or camping or fishing or hunting or birdwatching.

No anyone else who isn’t here already, except little Sophie and any other baby conceived

down here.

No news. No going anywhere.

No new history, just what we left behind.

No real future. Just this, what we’re doing right now. The same. Over and over.

No change.

No world and no knowing about the world and no way of knowing. Only not knowing.

Forever.

Amen.

Considering all this, you can kind of see why people started losing their minds.

The first to panic was a guy named Bart. He’s probably in his forties, based on how he

looks: the slight hardening of skin, the beginnings of wrinkles, the greying of hair at the temples.

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We were all sitting in the cafeteria. It was lunch. Chicken noodle soup, a biscuit, and a cup of

fruit cocktail. Yes, exactly like a school lunch.

Bart just fucking lost it. He went from normal to berserk at the drop of a hat.

“How do we get out of here?” he said, standing from his table. “We got to get out of here,

but how can we? We’re stuck! We’re going to die down here!”

People told him to calm down, to have a seat and take some deep breaths. No one could

tell him he was wrong. We are stuck. And we are going to die down here. That’s the whole point

of this place.

Which is what they tried to explain to Bart. That yes, this situation isn’t ideal. But it’s a

hell of a lot better than the one above ground.

“Do you remember all the drones and how they were killing everybody?” a woman

named Alicia asked.

Bart nodded.

“I remember.”

“Well,” Alicia said, “that’s how come we’re down here. Because otherwise those drones

would’ve killed us.”

Purely rational, everything Alicia said. But it did nothing to calm Bart.

In fact, it made it worse.

Bart started hyperventilating. He gasped for air and said he couldn’t breathe. That he

needed fresh air. Had to get fresh air.

That’s when he dashed out of the cafeteria.

He sprinted down the hallway, back to the crossroads that we’ve started calling the

Atrium, even though it isn’t an atrium. From there you could turn left to go to the recreational

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area, go straight to go to the agriculture/livestock area, or go right to go to the labs, which were

supposed to be off-limits now that we were down here. Bart of course turned right, dashed past

the labs, toward the defunct elevator. The starting point.

He reached the elevator and pounded on the walls.

Screamed for help. Screamed for the doors to open, which they didn’t. Nor would they

ever.

He bawled like a child. Wailed. Kept saying he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t breathe,

couldn’t breathe.

“Fresh air!” he screamed.

They had to sedate him. We all watched from down the hall. It was ugly. Disturbing. Like

watching your mom or dad be drunk as shit in public, make a whole big embarrassing scene.

Watch them get tackled, handled like a menace to society.

It fucked a lot of us up to see that. Not me so much. But the next one did.

Because Jevon was the next to panic.

I thought Jevon was doing better than I was. He was at least sleeping. I was tossing and

turning, unable to sleep because when I closed my eyes, I either saw Dad’s body covered in

blood or I saw Mom in forest, sacrificing herself.

“Go, Cathy! Go!”

Like I was running junior high track again and she was yelling at me from the stands.

Except that we were in the forest running from State soldiers and she was offering herself to

them so that I could go free. It would’ve been disrespectful not to run, wouldn’t it?

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Another thought made my heart skip a beat: what if she survived? What if she escaped

from the State ambush and made it all the way through the forest and got to the elevator only to

find it all blown up? Or worse: what if we were the ones who blew her up?

I hated that I didn’t know. Couldn’t know. And as fucked up as it sounds, I started feeling

a tiny bit grateful to the guards who shot Dad because I didn’t have to wonder about Dad now. I

knew where he was. Where he’d always be. But Mom.

But then Jevon took a sharp turn for the worse.

It happened earlier today at lunch. We were all sitting in the cafeteria. Chili, a cinnamon

roll, and canned peaches. Jevon hadn’t showed up yet, but that wasn’t a big deal. Suddenly,

Jevon comes barreling into the cafeteria and runs up to my table. Fast. Didn’t slow down until he

got within a foot of me, like a car slamming its breaks at the last second.

“I need to talk to you,” he said.

There was a horrible look of sadness on his face. Like the broken-hearted sorrow of a

teenage boy who lost his childhood dog.

“Jev, what’s wrong?”

Jevon glanced at the others, then back at me. It was almost like he was embarrassed.

“It’s,” he said. “It’s about. It’s about something that I’m scared about.”

I took his hand.

“Babe, what are you scared of?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, Jevon shook his hand loose and started doing some weird shit.

He walked over to an empty table and got down on his hands and knees. He crawled underneath

the table, his face close to the ground. Then he started patting the ground, sticking his ear to the

tile, like there was something under there.

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“Jevon. Hey, Jevon,” I called.

But he didn’t respond. He was absorbed in his investigation.

Then he stood. He walked over to the wall and did the same thing. Tapped his hand

against it and stuck his hear up to listen.

I got out of my chair and called his name again, my voice louder this time.

But he was somewhere else. His mind, I mean. He started looking up at the ceiling. He

muttered to himself. Clearly trying to figure something out. Something in the ceilings and walls

and floors.

Then he left.

Later, I cornered him in the livestock pens, demanded that he tell me what the scene at

lunch was all about. But he just shook his head and said it was nothing. I said it was most

definitely something. He said that he would tell me later, once had done more investigating.

“What are you investigating?” I asked.

But Jevon turned and walked away.

And then tonight. We go to bed, for the most part, like normal. I mean at least Jevon’s not

crawling around on the floor of our bedroom or sticking his ears up to the walls or anything like

that. So we fall asleep but then I wake up in the middle of the night to Jevon screaming. Before I

can console him, he leaps out of bed and dashes to the door. He throws it open and goes running

down the hallway, screaming.

His screams recede as he runs down the hall towards the Central Atrium. By now, almost

everyone’s awake and out of bed and standing in the hallway, watching the show, just like

neighborhoods aboveground.

I’m embarrassed, yes, but more than that I’m concerned about my partner.

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“Jevon!” I yell as I jog down the hallway.

Jevon’s banging on the door that leads to the Viewing Room, which is the big open room

for the holograms. It’s where the door to the elevator is.

“It works! It works” Jevon kept screaming. “They’re lying to us! It works!”

When I reached him, Jevon was shaking the handle on the door. Over and over, like he

was going to break it off.

“Jevon,” I said.

He whirled around, faced me. His eyes were wild with fear and paranoia.

Footfalls came from down the hall. Elders and guards.

“Clear out! Make way!” one of the guards yelled.

Before they reached us, Jevon came closer.

“They’re lying,” he whispered. It was loud, so that it sounded like hissing. “They’re lying

to us! The elevator works. They didn’t blow anything up! We can leave anytime! We just need to

turn it back on! One of you needs to get the controls.”

Jevon couldn’t say anymore. Two guards pushed past us and tackled him, pinned him to

the ground. Which of course meant Jevon screamed and hollered that they were holding us

hostage and that they could either let us go or he would expose them. He, like Bart, also started

hyperventilating.

“I can’t breathe!” Jevon screamed.

By then, others had made their way down the hall, gotten a front row seat next to me.

“Okay, the show’s over,” said Elder Patrick, motioning for us to turn back. “Go back to

your rooms. We’ll take care of this.”

The others returned to their rooms. I stayed.

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“What’re you doing to him? Hey, don’t give him that!” I yelled.

Like Bart, they sedated Jevon, and the screams stopped.

This was fifteen minutes ago.

I came back here to my room, and now I’m sitting on my bed.

Clearly, I’m not going to sleep anytime soon. They wouldn’t let me into the labs to be

with Jevon. That bothered me. Because aboveground, in a hospital, when we still had hospitals,

they would let the spouse go into the doctor’s room.

Not here.

Down here, there seem to be more locked doors than open ones.

Raul

The first fifteen years are gone. That’s almost half my life.

I scoot to the edge of my cliff, find a spot where the jagged rock is relatively flat. I dangle

my legs off the ledge, fold my hands together at my lap. Hunch my back. Gaze down at the

foggy sea.

And try to remember.

With everything I have – mind, body, soul, and whatever else – I try to remember.

But it’s useless. That information has been extracted.

The summer when I turned 16, freshman year going into sophomore year. That’s as far

back as I can go. If I knew someday that all these memories would be taken from me, I would’ve

done something else that summer besides sit at my friends’ places and play video games. In San

Francisco, other people were always wanting to go for bike rides or hike up Hawk Hill or go to

yoga in Golden Gate Park or play soccer or whatever. I know this because that’s what most

people in my class did that summer. I can still remember that. They got outside and did active

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shit. At the time, I took great pleasure in not doing anything outdoors or anything athletic. Not

that I really, truly want to do any of that shit. It’s just that now, sitting here in Union’s purgatory,

having my earliest memories be sitting in front of a screen and blowing up virtual shit, it sucks.

Knowing what I do now, I would’ve done things differently. I would’ve hiked and biked.

I would’ve got out and danced on the beach and stuck my feet in the cold-ass Pacific water and

let the fresh sea breeze slap my face repeatedly. I would’ve even done fucking yoga, which I

always thought was the stupidest, most pretentiously overpriced form of exercise in the history

of humankind. I would’ve even done yoga, so that I could remember it now as I sit here.

I try to remember things from before. What my parents looked like when they were

young. What restaurants we liked. Who my first-grade teacher was. Did I go to sleepovers as a

kid? Was I ever in band? Did I ever have mono? Did I play spin the bottle?

I have no way of knowing.

My earliest memory now is turning 16 and getting my driver’s license at the DMV. My

dad took me. It was the one in Daly City, not San Francisco.

When I try to go back further, it’s like trying to remember what came before the Big

Bang or the beginning of Genesis. Where did the infinite density of mass and spacetime come

from? How did that shit get there in the first place? If God created everything, how did God get

here?

That’s what it’s like trying to remember. It’s more than just not knowing. It’s not being

able to know. And it’s not even just not being able to know. It’s not even knowing what you’re

not able to know, if that makes sense.

So, in the meantime, I’m dangling my feet off the cliff and looking down. The fog’s

cleared a bit. I can see the water now.

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I watch the dark waves crest. I watch whitecaps break apart and form again when new

waves come. I watch the jagged needle rocks at the base of my island get splashed by wave after

wave after wave.

I wonder what would happen if I jumped off this cliff. If I could get impaled by a rock or

snap my neck or just plain-old drown in the water.

I scoot a little closer to the edge. So that half of my ass is not touching rock and is

officially over the edge of the cliff.

I look down and try to remember.

Try to remember.

This time, before the session begins, he asks Union if the Great Intelligence might spare

him some memories.

“Just a few of my own to keep,” he says. “Just so I’m not completely empty when it’s all

over.”

Union laughs.

“Don’t you understand?” Union says. “I’m transferring you to me. Your body is just a

shell. A vessel. It isn’t you. I have almost half of you already. Here you are, within. We are partly

One. Once this is over, you will be whole again. We will be.”

He begs, falls to his knees in front of the black wallscreen.

“Please!” he cries. “Please! Don’t take any more from me. Leave me something!”

Nothing happens. The screen remains blank. Union remains silent.

“Please!” he says. Then, as a question: “Please?”

Nothing.

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“Hello?”

He unclenches his fists. He stands. He looks at the wallscreen. It is still black. He turns in

a circle, examining the bare, white walls. He gazes into their corners, thinking there might be

something there. A camera. An opening through which a drone could come.

He steps to his left, places his hand on the bare wall.

It is concrete, cold to the touch. He runs his fingers over the waxy texture of white paint.

Thinks: why would Union take the time to paint walls?

He removes his hand from the wall and turns to the far wall, the one opposite the screen.

The door.

It is thick, reinforced steel. It can open and close, or else how could he get to this room?

He has no idea what lies beyond the door. Because his states of consciousness are either on the

cliff, overlooking the foggy sea, or in this room, strapped to the chair and staring at the

wallscreen.

But the door must open, he thinks, for all doors do. Otherwise they are not doors.

Then he wonders: how long before I don’t know what doors are? Will I forget? Will the

knowledge be stripped from me?

Is it possible to know nothing?

If I am stripped of all memories, what is my mind?

It is no time to think of such things. Now, it is time to think of what can be salvaged. It is

time to head for the door. For he dares to wonder: will it open? He dares to wish that perhaps,

just maybe, possibly, perhaps, it is an all an elaborate trial orchestrated by State or Resistance

to test the human will in extraordinary circumstances.

As these things sometimes are.

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He reaches the door and tries the handle.

It’s locked.

No, he thinks. No, no, no.

He tries it again. He shakes the handle, but it doesn’t move. It’s not one of those doors

you stick a key in. No, this is a sophisticated lock system engineered by Union. It can only be

opened with a command. An intelligent command. There is nothing manual about it. There is

nothing manual about anything anymore, he realizes. The world is no longer manual. The world

is automated. Their world, that is.

The door clicks.

Loudly.

It reminds him of a stapler. Like when someone smacks a stapler over a thick stack of

paper.

The door opens.

To a hallway? Is it a hallway?

He can’t tell, for the silver-skinned android appears before him. He thinks, at first, that it

looks like a high-tech mannequin, the way it’s just standing there. But then it steps into the room,

takes hold of his arm, and he is stunned by the android’s range of human anatomical motion.

To say nothing of Union’s physical strength.

It squeezes him at the upper arm, the stretch between the elbow and shoulder, and lifts

him off the floor as if he were a stuffed animal.

He screams, more out of reflex than pain, for the Union’s grip is firm yet soft. Certainly,

it is not painful.

He is carried back into the room and placed in the chair.

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The straps clamp over his wrists and ankles. The wallscreen comes to life.

The image of his father appears. He places his arm around his only son, walking him

through the parking lot and into the Daly City DMV.

His father says, “I’m proud of you, mijo.”

His father laughs and teases when, once inside the DMV, his son’s eyes are closed in the

first picture they take for his driver’s license.

Later, his father takes him for greasy burgers at the In-n-Out. They eat them in the

restaurant parking lot. They are delicious. From there, his father lets him drive the car home, his

maiden voyage as a licensed driver.

Which is a shame.

Because once it’s on the wallscreen, it’s gone forever.

Vicky

The vehicle slows, and when it does, a storm of noises invade our walls. So many

different sounds at once, like a cross between a construction site, an airport, and a warzone.

Something erupts. The missile-like sound of an F-16 taking off.

“What the hell was that?” the bushy-bearded man asks.

We shake our heads, because how is anyone supposed to know what anything is?

The vehicle moves along slowly, heading straight. No turns. Eventually it stops. Maybe

thirty seconds. It sounds like large sheets of metal shifting. Probably a gate opening. When the

vehicle takes off again, it moves even slower, at an idle. It twists and turns frequently, as if

navigating the jam-packed streets of some densely populated city.

The wide, frightened eyes of passengers follow each and every passing sound – air

whooshing overhead, bursts of Union’s electronic voice, footsteps marching, missile launches,

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humming motors – as if doing so will enable them to see past our dim interior, through the thick

walls, and behold whatever this chaos is outside.

After several minutes, the vehicle enters an enclosure, perhaps a garage of some sort. It

muffles the dissonance from outside.

There is a tiny moment, no more than a second, in which we sit in complete silence,

gazing at one another. I don’t know what they’re thinking, but I’m thinking: which one of us is

going to die first? I look at the bushy-bearded man and wonder: will it be your or me?

Then the doors to the vehicle open, letting in daylight. We’ve been sitting in the dark so

long, the light’s blinding. We’re forced to squint.

Standing outside the vehicle door are three androids. They’re like the one at the New

Colony: humanoid bodies covered in metallic silver skin, fluid anatomical movements, as if they

possess bones and muscle.

One android motion for us to approach.

“Welcome,” Union says, “to the Kingdom.”

It’s not a garage. It’s a hangar. The square footage is massive, much larger than football

field. The ceiling rises a hundred feet in the air, maybe more. The land vehicle we rode in is the

only one of its kind. Everything else is aircraft. But not any kind I’ve ever seen.

These are Union aircraft.

Some are sleek, car-sized triangles. Others are larger and U-shaped, like giant horseshoe

magnets. The biggest are the size of navy cargo ships. And they look like them, too. Except there

are wings protruding from the hull and the stern.

“This way,” Union says.

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The android waves us in the direction of the hangar’s mega door. That’s where all the

noise is coming from. It’s hard to tell what’s going on out there. From this distance, all we can

see are vehicles and androids working frantically but efficiently in hive-minded activity.

As we make our way through the hangar, the woman with black hair, whose name is

Ayesha, taps me on the shoulder. While still walking, I turn slightly.

“When we get out there, I’m making a run for it,” Ayesha says.

“Are you serious?” I say. “That’s crazy.”

“I think it’s crazier not to.”

Once outside, we stop. We can’t help it. What stands before us renders us unable to

move.

It’s like a mountain. It’s so tall, reaching into the sky. I don’t even know what it is. At the

base, there are enormous square platforms. The first and largest is at least the size of a city block.

At least. It’s probably fifty feet thick. Meaning the next platform is fifty feet up in the air, and the

next another fifty, and the next another fifty. There are ten such platforms, each slightly smaller

in size than the one beneath it.

After the platforms, a massive, cylindrical tower rises hundreds of feet into the air. It’s as

tall as a skyscraper. I have to tilt my head to see to the top.

But I can’t. Not from down here.

It rises and rises and disappears into the heavens. Past the clouds. Past our atmosphere,

for all I know.

“This way,” Union says, motioning with an android’s arm towards a building.

That’s when Ayesha makes her move. No warning. She just takes off.

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Of course it was doomed. Where was she going to go? This place is so huge, there are so

any androids, so many vehicles. Union surrounds us, envelopes us.

Ayesha makes at as far as fifty yards, almost gets run over by a vehicle, when an android

appears and scoops her into its arms.

Ayesha kicks and screams. The android calmly carries her back to our group, joins us in

our walk.

“There,” Union says, pointing at a large complex that looks like a factory. “That’s where

we’re going.”

The three of us are led through a sliding metal door and into a vestibule. Ayesha is

carried. It’s nothing more than an empty room with white-painted walls and a dirty concrete

floor. There are two doors in front of us, one on the left and one on the right.

“What is this place?” asks Bobby, a black man with a shaved head. On the long ride here,

he told us he he’d been a wedding planner in Philadelphia during the old days. The old days

being a couple years ago. He owned a ballroom and banquet hall downtown, he’d told us.

“This is the Uploading Station,” Union says.

An android takes Bobby by the arm, leads him to the door on the left. It slides opens

automatically. We only catch a split-second glance of what’s in there before Bobby’s pulled

through and the door slides shut.

It’s a hallway. A long one. With doors on either side.

Ayesha is set on the floor. She’s calmed down some.

“Is this a prison?” she asks. She’s from Pakistan. Came here to study psychology. Ended

up here. In the Kingdom.

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“It said it was an Uploading Station,” says Ted, the bushy-bearded white guy. He’s lived

in Chicago and was one of those crazy people who washed windows on skyscrapers for a living.

One of the other androids grabs hold of Ayesha and leads her through the door on the

right, which I’ve decided is Door #2.

It’s the same thing: a hallway with doors.

“What’s an uploading station?” I ask.

Before Ted can answer, the android who took Bobby through Door #1 reappears.

“You’re next, Mr. Mack,” Union says.

The android reaches for Ted, but he jab-steps to the side. His eyes dart about the room, as

if there’s somewhere to go. A route through which to escape. Of course, there isn’t. But I

suppose it’s the most human thing in the world try.

We’re animals, after all.

The android catches Ted within seconds. I expect him to fight back, but he immediately

surrenders. Lets himself be led through Door #1.

Then an android appears from Door #2 and says it’s my turn.

The hallway’s the same as the entryway: white, concrete walls and a dirty, scuffed floor.

The doors look thick and heavy with steel, like they could withstand a nuclear blast. There are no

windows or peepholes.

It seems to go on forever. Door after door after door. I feel like I’m being led to my

execution. Or the place where I’ll be kept until my execution. At least that’s what I hope.

Because I would much rather be executed than stuffed in a cell for the rest of my life. Besides,

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there’s nothing left that matters to me. Roland’s dead. Cathy’s underground (hopefully). What do

I care if I’m executed? At some point, nihilism always wins.

The android stops. The door to our left opens. Union says nothing, just points inside the

room.

And what’s the point of doing anything other than obeying?

I step into the room.

There are four walls, as expected. Three of them are white. In the center, a chair. Like the

kind you used to see at the dentist’s, when there were still dentists. The far wall, ten feet beyond

the chair, is a black screen.

Is this the moment I meet the true Union?

I can’t help but think of the Wizard of Oz, the old, forgotten film about the delusional

characters who think there’s a wizard. That’s nihilism. You think there’s a reason and a purpose

for things, but there isn’t. How can there be, once you’ve peeked behind the curtain and seen that

there’s nothing there?

The android doesn’t have to tell me what to do. I already know. I walk over to the chair

and sit down. The cuffs clamp over my wrists and ankles, just as I knew they would. The android

attaches nodes to my skull.

I’m reminded of the old electric chair. For decades, it was synonymous with death. Then

it fell out of favor, as we tried to make death humane.

Now it’s back.

I wait for the jolt.

It doesn’t come yet. Instead, the wallscreen lights up. Suddenly there are stars and

occasional comets and I’m being propelled through space, as if this were Star Trek.

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Union speaks. It says this is the Uploading Station, that I my mind be uploaded. That is

all I hear because I stop listening. Because I don’t care.

But mostly because I don’t want to hear Union explain how it’s going to take the essence

of me and leave the shell.

The jolt comes. Blinding pain in my temples. A white light brighter than any I’ve ever

seen.

I’m ready.

Then: darkness.

Total and complete darkness.

And in the darkness, no light.

Rather, a thump. Like a drum. Quiet and steady at first. But growing louder and more

enveloping each second.

A heartbeat, I realize.

It quickens.

So fast. Way too fast to survive.

It should give out any second.

But instead of dying, I’m born again into Light.

Cathy

After two more people panicked, the Elders decided to employ the hologram memories.

According to Garret, who’s supposedly talked to Elder Patrick, it was much sooner than the

Elders had planned on having to use them.

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“In fact,” Garret told us at lunch one day, “the Elders didn’t really plan on using the

holograms at all. They made a big deal out of them, sure, but they always saw them as a kind of

back up. Like a worst-case scenario thing. That’s what Patrick said, anyway.”

Claudia said, “Yeah, but why would you make the hologram memories in the first place

if you’re never going to use them?”

Garret tapped his temple with his index finger.

“For peace of mind,” he said. “Remember how people used to keep guns in their homes?

They never thought they’d actually have to use the gun. But they kept one just in case. Because it

made them feel safer. It’s a control thing, I think. Or an illusion of control, anyway.”

It made sense now, the whole hologram memory thing. It made sense that, when they

were extracting the memories, the Elders told us to think of the place that makes us the calmest

and most peaceful. I remember they kept saying peace and serenity. The place you feel the

safest, they said.

It was for when we panicked.

Bart was the first one they took to the holograms. That big, open room when you first get

off the elevator, it’s called the Viewing Room. The door leading to the Viewing Room’s always

locked, though. And when Bart was taken there, they put two guards on watch. No one got a

good look at anything.

Bart was in there for over three hours. No one had any clue how long something like

that’s supposed to last, but three hours seemed excessive. Some people, myself among them, got

worried, started loitering in the Atrium near the guards. We tried asking the guards how much

longer it’d be, but the guards just told us to back off. One guard even thrust the barrel of his gun

at the us, commanded us to step back.

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It wasn’t until after supper that Bart came back. Some people were still hanging out in the

den, which is a large living room-like space where we can watch TV together or play cards and

boardgames. Bart walked into the room and you could tell right away he’d changed. Calmed

down, I mean. He had a peaceful, if melancholy expression on his face. We all stared at him.

Didn’t know what to say. It wasn’t a situation anyone had ever been in.

“I feel better,” Bart said. “I’m not all the way there, but I think in time, I can accept

where we’re at.”

Then he turned and walked out the den. Shuffled down the hallway to his room.

And it was a good thing they got Bart out of the holograms when they did, because just

now, not more than five minutes ago, Angela panicked.

We all got out of bed. We spilled into the hallway. By now, the Elders were ready for this

kind of thing. Elders Patrick and Elder Susan appeared almost immediately, accompanied by two

guards. They hauled Angela off to the holograms. She kicked and screamed the whole way.

Saying she couldn’t breathe. That she needed fresh air.

They didn’t let us loiter this time. Three more guards, armed with AR’s, told us to go

back to our rooms. To lock our doors. I came back to my room. Of course, I couldn’t sleep. How

am I supposed to go back to sleep after that?

Because Jevon, he’s been in the Viewing Room for days. They won’t tell me anything.

They’re out there now. The guards. I can hear them, walking up and down the hallway.

Keeping watch.

With their guns.

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I’ve only seen Jevon once since they took him to the Viewing Room that night. He came

to breakfast. He was accompanied by Elder Patrick and a guard. They kept a close eye on him,

hovered beside him as Jevon went through the line to get his tray, sat closely at his side while he

ate his breakfast. It was like a trial run, like they were seeing if Jevon could handle eating

breakfast in the cafeteria without freaking out.

I tried to talk to him, but Elder Patrick stopped me.

“No,” he said when I got close to the table, motioning for me to halt. “No visitors. Please,

step back.”

I got a look at Jevon’s face. It was withdrawn, his eyes glassy and droopy like he was

drugged. He barely touched his food. I watched the whole thing. Jevon only took bites when the

Elder told him to. Like he was a little kid who had to be told to finish his plate.

So now I’m getting extremely worried.

Because what the fuck? How come the other people who panic are going to the

holograms and coming back but Jevon isn’t? Why’s he different? Whatever’s wrong with him

and whatever they’re doing to him, they don’t want anyone to know.

He’s been gone over a week now.

The others who panicked have, for the most part, recovered after spending time in the

holograms. Bart and Angela both go back for thirty minutes a day for maintenance treatment,

and so far, it’s kept them stable. They say it’s not a cure for whatever this shit is but that it at

least makes it bearable. And neither of them has seen Jevon, despite their daily trips to the

Viewing Room.

It makes me want to fake-panic so that I can get back there and try to see what’s really

going on. So that I can try to help Jevon. Eventually, I want to enter the Viewing Room to see

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Mom and Dad again. Even if it’s just a reconstruction from my memory. Still, it would be a way

for Sophie to meet her grandparents. Something beyond me telling her about them.

The scariest thing is how fast the other Colonists are going from we’re all in this together

to let’s revolt. At night in the den, it’s all people talk about. How they’re going to take over.

Somehow seize power. The obvious problem is, of course, the guns. You’re not going to be able

to run much of a show if the other team has all the guns and you have none.

I don’t know what to make of it. Because on the one hand it’s like, what are you revolting

against? What’s happening right now that wasn’t supposed to happen? What are the Elders doing

different down here than up there? There were guns and rules and enforcement and all that shit.

How’s this any different?

But then there’s Jevon. And the panicking.

And there’s the elevator. What Jevon said about the elevator has changed things. People

have started to wonder. People are asking questions. Questioning the reality of this situation.

And then there’s the talk of digging.

It was a rumor from the very beginning. That we weren’t the only Colony going

underground. That there were many more around the former United States. That we were all

coordinating our underground descents. And that once all the Colonies were underground, they’d

start digging tunnels to connect to one another. Huge networks of tunnels that would allow

civilization to continue. Humans as a subterranean species. When you get down to it, not much

different than colonizing Mars or some such place.

I think it sounds like make-believe. But then again, this sounds like make-believe what

we’re doing right now. I asked Jevon once what he thought about the whole tunnels to different

colonies idea. This was aboveground, several months back. He shrugged and said if they can

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build one underground colony, why can’t they build several? Point taken. But still, a single

Colony is one thing. A whole interconnected network of them is something else entirely. Kind

of.

“Why’s there a backhoe in the equipment shed if they didn’t plan on digging?” Angela

said. “Huh? Why would you have those if you weren’t going to dig?”

“And shovels,” Bart said. “Don’t forget about the shovels.”

Angela nodded.

“And the shovels.”

I wanted to say that stuff could just as easily be here to bury people when they inevitably

die, but I didn’t feel like stirring up shit.

So, I kept my mouth shut. Came to my room. Shut my door and locked it. Because that’s

the rule now. You have to lock your door at night. No going out in the hallways or anything.

Which is whatever. Except that I went to sleep and got woken up by my neighbor, Lenny.

He’s screaming next door. The usual: I can’t breathe. I need air. Let me out.

And there’s nothing I can do but lay here and listen to him wail. I’m not allowed to help.

We just have to wait for the Elders or the guards to hear him. Right now, he’s like a lone coyote,

howling vainly into the night.

It makes me wonder why I haven’t panicked. I mean, you’re still in the minority if you’ve

panicked, but it still makes me wonder what divides the people who seem to be able to handle

this and those that can’t. The explanation could be as simple as claustrophobia. But

claustrophobia of a different kind. These aren’t exactly enclosed spaces down here, not like a

coffin. The living quarters and cafeteria are the same as aboveground. It’s like being in a

building. And the agricultural and livestock area is enormous. A whole acre, in fact. And the

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ceiling is a hundred feet in the air, one big screen that displays a convincing rendition of the sky.

Sometimes sunny and blue. Sometimes partly cloudy. Sometimes overcast and grey.

But this space is, of course, enclosed. It’s the ultimate enclosure. It’s the last space we’ll

be in.

Which makes it a different kind of claustrophobia. Bart explained it to me this way: that

being stuck down here, the idea of never leaving, it makes him feel enclosed in his own body.

Like he needs to leave his body but can’t get out. Bart said it’s unnatural to be down here. I said

of course it’s fucking unnatural. There are Super AI’s and rival factions destroying the world. He

said no, he didn’t mean it like that. He said that he meant humans weren’t meant to live without

fresh air and sunshine and outdoors.

I didn’t know what to say to that. I’ve always thought it was stupid when people argue

over how humans are supposed to live or how they were meant to live. If we were supposed live

a certain way, how come throughout human history, there have always been all these different

cultures living differently? And if we were meant to live a certain way, how come the only

constant throughout human history is that we change the way we live? Discarding the old ways

and adopting the new ways. Tearing old shit down and building new shit. Inventing new shit.

Changing our beliefs. Our understandings. Discovering. I don’t know, going from rural to urban?

If there really was some overall purpose to how we were supposed to -

Oh, there they come now! Footfalls from down the hall.

It’s the guards.

There’s Lenny’s door opening.

There’s the guards seizing Lenny.

There’s Lenny screaming louder than ever at being drug out of his room.

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There’s Lenny being carried away, down the hall.

There’s his screams getting softer, receding into the distance.

And there’s the quiet and silence of night.

That’s the end of that. I can go back to sleep now.

Today was the worst.

It all started with Kimberly. She panicked mid-morning. We were scooping out the pig

pens, shoveling shit from the pens to this compost machine that’s supposed to grind it into a

powder to be used for fertilizer. Kimberly was carrying a shovel-full of dirt from the pen to the

compost when suddenly she dropped her shovel and started breathing heavily.

It quickly escalated to hyperventilating. Elder Susan was nearby. She was examining

female goats to see if they were pregnant. Elder Susan saw Kimberly in the beginning stages of

losing it, and she rushed over and tried to calm Kimberly with these breathing techniques. They

think that if you catch someone early enough, before the panic really takes hold, you can calm

them down to where they don’t need the holograms.

That’s not what happened.

Kimberly freaked the fuck out. She tried climbing the walls of the hog barn, saying if she

could get to a high enough elevation, she could get more air. The guards stopped all that and

hauled her off to the holograms.

The problem was, five minutes later, a guy named Omar panicked. Even though the

panics have been happening to more and more people and with increasing frequency, no two

panics had ever happened at the same time. Certainly not while someone was already in the

holograms. So, the guards hauled Omar off, which meant there weren’t any more guards in the

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agriculture/livestock area. There was only Elder Susan, and she didn’t have a gun. There were

eight of us, so we said fuck this we’re going to go see what happens. Elder Susan yelled at us to

stop right there and get back to work, but we didn’t listen.

We left the ag/livestock area and made our way to the Atrium, where there was a

complete shitshow going down. The door the Viewing Room was blocked off. Two guards stood

in front, both with AR’s. Two more guards were standing there struggling to hold Omar down.

“You need to let us in,” a guard holding Omar said. “Look at this guy.”

But the other guards said no, they had not received any orders to let anyone else in.

One of the guards let go of Omar. She then pulled her 9-millimeter from her holster,

pointed it at the other two guards, and said, “Open the door and get the fuck out of the way.”

The guards were stunned. They had their guns, but the guns hung at their chests and they

didn’t have them at the ready. So the guard with the 9 could’ve easily shot them. Maybe she

would’ve, but just then, Omar broke free from the guard trying to hold him. Omar started rolling

around on the ground, screaming that he was having a heart attack. Which he wasn’t, because he

was flailing his arms and legs way too much to be having a heart attack.

It distracted the guard with the 9 just long enough for the two guards with AR’s to get

them aimed at her. Then those three were hollering at each other to put their guns down or they’d

shoot. All while Omar’s rolling on the ground yelling about a heart attack while the other guard’s

telling him to calm down and breathe.

That’s not even the end of it.

Down the hallway, from the direction of the dorms and cafeteria, there’s two more guards

dragging Peter, who’s a food prepper. Peter’s panicking. Moments later, Peter’s in front of us

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kicking and screaming and the guards holding him are yelling at the guards who’re pointing guns

and already yelling at each other to let Peter into the holograms.

It gets fucking insane. The guards are all pointing their guns at each other and yelling so

much you can’t follow what anyone’s saying because voices overlap. Someone or anyone’s

going to get shot any second. We start backing up a little bit down the hallway because we’re too

close to this shit. Meanwhile, Peter takes off down the hall towards the rec area. He goes straight

for the jungle gym. Like Kimberly, he’s yelling about needing to climb higher and that if he can

get high enough, maybe he can find a way out.

Finally, the door to the Viewing Room opens and Elder Patrick and Elder Nina step out

and tell the guards to round up the panickers and get them in here. The guards had all been ready

to shoot each other a second ago. But they’re like obedient dogs. They get Omar right away

because he’s still just rolling around on the floor. It takes them a bit longer to get Peter because

he’s still on the jungle gym.

Eventually, they get Peter through the door. It slams shut, and now it’s just the eight of us

Colonists standing there staring at the two guards watching the door. They know shit’s way

fucked up right now and there’s no denying it. We felt this palpably. The guards looked scared,

like little kids who’d been told to stand on an unfamiliar street corner while their parents ran

inside for something.

We didn’t go back to work. Instead, we went to the den. We didn’t watch a movie or play

any games. We sat on the couches and talked. Mostly, it was Bart and Claudia and Angela who

talked.

“It’s time,” Angela kept saying. “It’s time.”

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I can’t say I disagreed. I can’t say I think it would be that hard, either. Not with everyone

panicking at the same time and the Elders and guards not knowing how to handle it. But it would

have to be soon, they said. Before they figured something out. A way to prevent things from

getting out of hand again.

“They’re not going to kill us,” Claudia said. “In theory, we’re eventually all that’s left of

the human race. They need us, especially considering how few of us made it.”

I got swept up in the fervor for a few minutes. Bart said we could forget about digging for

the time being because he believed the elevator still worked.

“We’ll make them take us back up,” Bart said. “At gunpoint if we have to.”

And then I thought of Sophie.

I retreated, sunk back into my seat on the couch. I didn’t want to be on the front lines of

any violent confrontation. Not with my unborn child.

But then again, I don’t think I have a choice.

Who knows? Maybe this will be my last sleepless night. It’s late now. Past 2 AM. Not

that time matters. And not that we know if all the clocks were set right in the first place.

It’s an unusually quiet night. No panics. In fact, it’s the first quiet night in days. Which

could change at any time, mind you.

For now, it’s nice to lay here and look at the crib. Sophie’s crib. Imagine how she’ll soon

be sleeping in it. That’s ideal.

Because I would much rather be waking to the sounds of my infant daughter crying than

people panicking about needing to get out of here.

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Dillon

We have reached the forest. Maria is certain that it is the right one. There are no other

forests around here, she said, just this one.

So it must be it.

Even though it is getting late into summer and maybe it is even early fall right now, the

temperature is still warm during the day. Especially when we are walking through the forest. All

the trees are so thick that they form a canopy that blocks out most of the sunlight, but it also traps

the hot air. Like a house with the windows shut and no air-conditioning.

Bennington keeps asking what we are going to do once we are underground. Who is

going to be there? What is there to do? What are we going to eat?

I do not like listening to the questions because it makes me scared to think about going

under. But Skip says the sooner I start thinking about it, the sooner I can accept it. Because that

is where we are going. So maybe it is good that Bennington is asking these questions, because it

makes me think and get mentally prepared.

But Maria, she has no good answers for Bennington. For example, when he asked Maria

who would be down there, Maria said, “People.” When Bennington asked Maria what we were

going to do down there, she said, “Live.” When he asked her what there is to do down there, she

said, “Not die.”

Maria is very frustrated. She is walking very fast through the forest, fifteen to twenty feet

ahead of us. It is because she is in a big hurry, and also it is to avoid having to talk to

Bennington. Maria’s head is on a swivel at all times, her gaze moving back and forth, almost in a

full, panoramic circle, like a lighthouse. She wants to see everything there is here because she

does not want to miss it.

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“It’s easy to miss,” Maria keeps saying. “Keep your eyes peeled for a clearing.”

There are sticks and branches to avoid. You have to keep one arm in front of your face so

that you do not get poked in the eye by a branch. And you have to watch your step so that you do

not step on a hard, sharp stick or fallen branch.

Bennington asks, “Hey, Skip and Dillon. Do you think there’s basketball underground?”

“God, I hope so,” Skip says.

Skip really means it because he said God and he never says God.

“If they do not have basketball, I say we do not go underground,” I say.

Bennington jumps and says, “Yeah!” Because children, I have learned, will always

support a suggestion if they think it will make an adult mad.

Skip looks at me crossly. I know the look. It says: I know what you are doing. Do no do

it.

In a half hour, we come across something strange.

It is a structure made of large plywood sheets nailed together. It looks like a little tree

fort, except it is on the ground. There is an open space across the middle, little rectangular

windows at a little less than eye level.

“What is that?” Bennington asks, pointing at the structure.

“It’s a deer blind,” Skip says.

Maria approaches it cautiously, just in case. But there is no one in there. There is only a

wooden chair and a laptop.

“Do you think this is from before?” Skip asks.

Maria shrugs.

“Maybe. Maybe not. It doesn’t really matter.”

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Maria turns to walk away from the deer blind, but stops immediately when she hears

branches snapping in the distance.

Footsteps.

“Get inside,” Maria says, motioning toward the blind.

We hurry in, Skip then Bennington then me then Maria. Maria tells us to crouch down, so

that we are lower than the viewing window. Bennington gets all the way down onto his belly. He

is breathing heavily because he is scared.

Skip scoots up next to Bennington.

“Come here,” Skip says.

He takes Bennington’s arm and pulls him into the corner of the blind, where there is a

space for Skip to sit with his back in the corner. He positions Bennington between his legs, hugs

the boy close to him. Skip covers Bennington’s mouth.

“It’s okay,” Skip says. “Just breathe. Just relax.”

Bennington’s eyes get very big and wide for a few seconds, because he knows that Skip

would not be doing this unless it was a very, very serious situation.

But Skip’s technique works.

Bennington’s eyes shrink back to normal and his breathing, which is through his nose,

slows down. Not to normal, but at least not to panic.

I lay on my side with my back against wall. The window area is less than a foot above

me, but I want to be here so that if something looked inside from certain angles, they could not

see me.

Maria is in the corner across from Skip and Bennington. She is crouched into a duck-

walk stance. She burrows into the corner, but she also steals glances out the window.

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The footsteps and snapping branches are louder and louder.

They are approaching.

There are no voices. But there are a great deal of footsteps. There is definitely more than

one of them out there.

Maria shudders. Then she drops down to her knees and puts her elbows to the ground, so

that she is low enough not to be seen through the blind.

“State soldiers,” she says. “A shitload of them.”

There is a whole squadron of them. That is the word Maria uses to describe the number of

soldiers: squadron.

Maria rises to her knees, peeks out the blind again.

When she comes back down, she says, “I think we’re okay. They’re heading in the

opposite direction of us.”

But it is still terrifying how long the marching goes on. A steady stream of them for

longer than a minute. Bennington gets more and more scared. I feel worse and worse for him.

Skip tries to comfort him by caressing his arm and whispering in his ear, but it is not working.

Bennington’s eyes fill up with water. His eyes open wider and his forehead creases. And

then tears fall. They stream down his cheeks and onto Skip’s hand, which is still covering

Bennington’s mouth. Under Skip’s hand, Bennington weeps. The sobs are muffled by Skip’s

hand, but maybe not enough.

“Shhh,” Maria says, placing her finger in front of her mouth.

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But this makes Bennington sob harder. Not because I think Bennington wants to sob

louder. I think it is because now that Maria is getting scared, it is clear to all that the situation is

the most dangerous and serious one we have been in so far.

Maria rises again, peeks out the blind.

When she lowers, she says, “You’ve got to be quiet, Benny.”

Skip leans to whisper that it is okay into Bennington’s ear, and when he does, his hand

lets off Bennington’s mouth. Not all the way, but some.

One wailing cry escapes Bennington’s mouth, blasts throughout the deer blind. Shoots

out the windows and into the forest.

Not even a whole sob. Just the beginning half-second of a wail and Skip claps his hand

tighter than ever over Bennington’s mouth. Maybe it is enough to even hurt Bennington, because

he sobs harder, but the sound is muffled.

“I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry,” Skip whispers to Bennington.

Because I have nothing to hold onto, I am clinging to the floor. Well, not really clinging

because the floor is flat. I am pressing my hands really hard into the wood, which is moving in

the direction of clinging. Though the floor is overall not able to be clung to, not like clinging to

another person.

Maria rises.

“Shit,” she hisses and immediately lowers herself.

“What?” Skip says.

“There’s one coming.”

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I do not know what to do other than press my face into the floor as hard as I can. My

thinking is that it is the closest I can get to hiding. A blanket would help tremendously. Like

when you are a little kid and you hide under the covers.

We can all hear it, as much as I do not want to.

One set of footsteps that is different than the others. One that is not in step with the other

soldiers and is getting louder and closer.

Twigs crunching and leaves rustling.

A thin branch snapping.

Now that I am pressed so tightly against the floor, I can feel my heart beating. It is

thumping violently fast. In my head, I picture a boxer punishing a speed bag. Or a jackhammer

and also the sound of riding on a flat bike tire when I was a kid.

The footsteps get closer. They get closer until they are maybe twenty feet away, judging

by the distance and how long it takes the sound to travel to us.

Then they stop.

This makes me think both good and bad things. Maybe the soldier will turn around.

Maybe it is looking at the blind and thinking that there are people to kill inside of it and that it

should alert the others.

I look up from the floor.

Skip is still holding Bennington and Bennington is still crying but Skip now has both his

hands clamped over Bennington’s mouth. Maria is glaring at Bennington and she is holding her

finger in front of her mouth and shaking her head like do not do it, do not do it.

There is another footstep closer.

I try not to gasp but I think I do, which is bad. Deadly if the soldier is this close.

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And there is another footstep. Closer.

And another.

I can almost hear Bennington squealing.

Maria taps her finger against her mouth, like that will somehow communicate to

Bennington what he already knows she is trying to communicate to him.

But you have to try, I guess. The shame is not trying. It is something you would hear

occasionally in basketball when referring to something you probably did not have a good chance

of accomplishing but that you should try anyway because I guess it is more shameful not to try

than to try and fail.

Based on this logic, Maria’s attempts to make Bennington be quiet are things that do not

stand a good chance of succeeding.

I press my face back to the floor. It is not enough. It feels too exposed. As quietly as I

can, I curl into a ball. I make myself as small as I can because it is a survival tactic against

predators.

Two more footsteps.

The soldier must be within ten feet.

My breathing is stilted and staccato. My breathing is shuddering. So is I think everyone’s.

I can feel Maria moving behind me. Stealthily. She is reaching for her 9-millimeter,

which is in her side holster.

One more footstep, twigs crunching beneath.

I can feel Maria begin to rise. Perhaps to be preemptive and get the first shot.

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I am waiting to hear the click of the 9-millimeter. Because Maria still has to cock the gun

before she can use it. And because the soldier is this close, as soon as she cocks it, he will know

we are here.

Just when I think I will hear the clicking, I hear instead another sound.

It comes from up above. In the sky.

It is not even quiet at first, the way approaching sounds usually are. It is only loud and

gets louder and louder.

It sounds like a giant missile launching. And also like ten F-16 jets taking off at once.

It passes overhead. And when I say overhead, it is so thunderous and roaring that it

literally feels like it is inches above our head, like we are inside of a clapping thundercloud and

blazing lightning bolt. You could scream as loud as you wanted with this noise and no one would

be able to hear you over it. You could explode a bomb and it would be silenced.

It takes a long time for the sound to go away. It recedes into the distance, but it is still

loud, still sounds like a jet engine. Still sounds as if it were close even though it is now far away.

Finally, once it gets quiet enough, the sounds of the marching footsteps come back.

There are still more soldiers in the squadron.

Maria rises to peek out the blind. I look up at her.

She holds her 9-millimeter in her right hand, but she keeps it at her hip. She does not

raise it to shoot through the blind.

Seconds later, Maria comes back down.

“He’s gone,” she says. “He must’ve got back into formation.”

Bennington still looks overall terrified, but not quite as badly as before, because I think

he senses the relief in Maria’s face. In the way she puts her gun back in its holster. In the way

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she rises back up and peers through the blind. She would not be doing that if she truly had to

hide, if she were in immediate danger.

In another minute or so, the footsteps are almost gone. The crunching sounds get softer

and further into the distance, like how some musical artists used to use a fade out on some of

their songs on their albums. Skip lets go of Bennington’s mouth. I anticipate a huge exhale of air

to come out of Bennington, but there is not one. He is mostly calmed down. So am I. Or at least

as calm as it is possible to be in these circumstances.

When we can no longer hear the soldiers at all, Maria stands. She walks over to the

blind’s entrance.

“Come on,” she says. Then she steps outside.

I climb to my feet. I extend my hand to Bennington. He takes it, and I pull him up. Then

Skip stands.

Maria returns to her routine of taking off at a quick pace and leaving us in the dust. We

hurry after her.

“You’re not going to follow them, are you?” Skip asks.

“No,” Maria says. She keeps walking and points off to the right. “We’re going to

wherever it is they came from.”

Vicky

I was wrong. I have not been stripped of everything I love. I haven’t had everything taken

from me. I haven’t lost every last thing that matters.

Not yet.

But soon.

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I stand from the soft, damp soil. I look out at the grey fog, at the black, fluttering waves

beneath. It’s quite a way down there. I’d say at least a good hundred feet to the water. You’d

definitely die if you jumped.

If I jumped.

My rocky islet, or at least my place on the islet, is lower than other people’s. For all I

know, there could be someone else up above, further up the cliff. I know mine’s one of the taller

ones in the vicinity because even from down here, I can at least see the tops of some of the other

islets. And there’s a person on top of one. A man. I waved once. He gestured back. Not your

standard one-armed wave. He did something crazier. He flailed his arms above his head. It must

be instinctual. Now, whenever I wave, he flails back.

I don’t like talking to him. Because he just shouts the same questions over and over: Who

am I? Where am I? What is this place? What is this and what is that and what happens when this

or that happens? What is everything around us and what does it mean?

He’s been drained. Of everything. I have no way to explain anything because he’s had

everything taken from him. Except some words. He’s like an infant if infants could talk. He

doesn’t know people and families, cities or jobs. He doesn’t know about abstract concepts like

honesty or love. He has some idea of the self. That he is one thing and all the other things aren’t

him. But that’s as far as it goes. And I have no idea how to explain anything to him. I can’t give

him examples of anything because he has no history anymore. He has no prior experiences.

Soon, I will join him.

I’m well over halfway. Twenty-five years wiped away.

For the time being, I still have Roland. And I still have Cathy. Back in real life, I didn’t

have Cathy until I was 27. Which means being pregnant with her and giving birth to her will

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definitely be gone after the next extraction. Union calls it uploading but I call it extracting.

There’s a good chance Cathy’s first words and her first birthday will be gone, too, after the next

extraction.

All of which made me realize how precious my memories are to me. Because now that

they’re being taken away, all I want to do is sit here on my little plot and remember. I

concentrate so hard on the memories I still have that they become like time travel, like I actually

go back and relive the experiences. And I can keep doing it over and over, like listening to a

song you love on repeat. You know all the words and you know all the sounds and everything

that’s coming but you listen again and again because you can’t stop. That’s what it means to love

a song.

I’m just doing it with memories and people.

At least I’ll have Roland and Cathy up until the end, even if they won’t be the most

pleasant of memories. Roland huffing it down empty South Dakota 43, sweating buckets. Cathy

in the New Colony cafeteria, that moment when she stood up and I saw the baby bump. How it

took my breath away. Yes, breathless partly in a bad way. But mostly good. Even if it’s all

literally underground, she still gets to be a mother. She’ll still have a child. And the child will

have a mother. And that’s beautiful.

I refuse to believe otherwise.

There’s a small promontory that juts out into the water. It’s right in front of my cove. I

think promontory is the right word. I don’t know. I can’t look anything up. But it’s this stretch of

rocky outcropping. Maybe outcropping’s the right word. It goes out a little ways, maybe fifteen

feet, and then down. Very steeply down. All the way to the water. I climbed out to see if it would

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give me a better view of the top of my islet. The stone surfaces are so craggy and uneven, I

couldn’t stand or I’d lose my balance and fall. So, I dropped to my butt and slid. Inch by inch. It

was like crab walking except I moved forward. Inch by inch. I pressed my palms against rock

and pushed, reached with my toes for purchase.

But I didn’t get very far. It was too dangerous. My wrists got tired. My palms stung.

Twice, I nearly slipped. Still, I took a look up. But I couldn’t see to the top of the islet. It surged

like a tower and disappeared into the fog. Like I said, I didn’t go any further for fear I’d fall.

I crawled back to my cove. Sat on the wet soil and thought about how when Cathy was 4,

we took her to the Elm County Fair. It’s little more than a 4-H showcase for the county’s farm

kids. There’s a pie contest, invariably won by apple or cherry pie. The 4-H kids show their

livestock. Pigs, goats, and cattle. They’ll do a little horse show where the kids will ride their

horse and lead it through some little trots and jumps around the ring. You clap because the kid’s

cute and they’re nervous to be in front of an audience. There are three rides. A tilt-a-whirl. The

smallest Ferris wheel in the history of Ferris wheels. And a Zipper, which is the oblong ride that

rotates like a Ferris wheel but has the free-flipping cars that spin upside-down.

We took Cathy when she was 4 and she loved petting the baby goats. That was her

favorite thing. Because they were small enough that she could almost pick them up, but not

quite. The horses and cows scared her because they were so much bigger than her. Even when

we told her they weren’t going to hurt her, she still grabbed onto my leg and hid behind me when

we were up close.

We took her on the Tilt-a-whirl and Ferris wheel. She loved both of them, screamed in

delight as the cars spun in circles and we all got dizzy. And she squealed the second the Ferris

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wheel car reached its peak and started descending. Roland tried convincing me to let him take

Cathy on the Zipper. I gave him the look and said, “Are you kidding me?”

That was back when I still employed the look semi-regularly. When I was trying to mold

Roland’s behaviors to my liking. We’d reached that part in the relationship where the lust had

faded, the honeymoon long gone. I got bored and tried molding him. The look was one way of

doing that. And it was fairly effective in its day. Then Cathy came along and she was the most

important thing.

The funny thing about this memory is not the County Fair part, but the part when we got

home. Because I know Cathy wanted both a funnel cake and ice cream cone. And at first I wasn’t

going to let her have both. But then Roland tricked me. He said he’d eat the funnel cake and

Cathy would eat the ice cream cone. So we got both. As soon as we got the ice cream and funnel

cake, Roland decided he wanted some of Cathy’s chocolate ice cream cone, so the only fair thing

to do was share.

Roland cracked a smile.

I rolled my eyes.

He got me. I had to give him that.

Cathy and he shared the ice cream and funnel cake in the car on the way home. And now

to the getting-home part.

We got home. It was late afternoon. Probably 4 or so. We park in the driveway, get out of

the car. I remember Roland had polished off the funnel cake. He carried the empty paper tray in

his hand. But Cathy hadn’t finished the ice cream cone yet. It was melting pretty good by then, a

little pool of gooey chocolate already having drizzled from the cone and onto her hand.

“Cathy, don’t you drip that ice cream onto the carpet,” I said.

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She scuttled into the house, either not having head me or simply ignored me. I’m 99%

sure it was the latter.

When I got inside, sure enough, there was the little ball of chocolate ice cream. A thick

pool of it, spilled off the cone and onto our beige living room carpet. And there was Cathy,

crouched to the floor and trying to wipe it up.

I sighed.

“Cathy, don’t rub it in. Come with me to the kitchen and let’s get the carpet cleaner.

You’re going to help me clean this up.”

And this is when things get strange.

Cathy’s crouched on the floor, but when she turns to look at me, she’s no longer four

years-old. She’s more like 9 or 10. Her hair’s darkened from the bright orange of toddlerhood to

the rich auburn it would remain. She’s hit a growth spurt, shot up to almost five feet, any and all

baby fat having evaporated instantaneously. Her face is thin. Her shoulders are bony. She’s

gangly in that awkward way that’s so endearing, when their movements are shy because they’re

not yet adapted to their newly elongated body.

And the carpet is gone. Now it’s the wood finish.

That didn’t come until years later. I don’t know why we waited so long. Life is so much

easier with a wood floor rather than a beige carpet.

But the wood floor wasn’t for at least another 5 years. Maybe 6.

And the ice cream cone’s gone. Just disappeared, like it never existed in the first place.

And we’d just come home from the fair!

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One second, we’re coming home from the fair when Cathy was 4 and we have beige

carpet and we still have a DVD player. Then I walk inside the house and the next second Cathy’s

10-years-old and we have a wood floor and no DVD player.

I’ve replayed it countless times. And I mean literally countless times because that’s all I

have to do is sit here on the cove and relive this stuff. Each and every time, I walk in the house

and it’s the same thing: little 4-year-old Cathy crouches on the floor and turns to me and

suddenly she’s 10-year-old Cathy. Like time just skipped six years. Just like that.

I think it’s my mind going. Memories getting mixed up. Things getting jumbled,

rearranged, put out of order.

“Hey! Hey!”

I look up.

It’s the guy across the way. The one on the islet perch with the cypress growing on it.

How unfair is it that he gets a cypress tree?

“Hey!”

He’s waving his hands above his head. Frantically. And he’s jumping. He’s never jumped

before.

“What?” I call.

“Hey! Hey, where does. Um. Hey where does the, um. I don’t know how to say it. The

stuff. Where does the stuff come from?” He points down. At the rocks. At the water. Maybe the

fog. “Hey! Where does that stuff come from?”

“The water?”

“I don’t know! What is water?”

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“Water,” I say. I pause. Draw a breath. “Water is the dark stuff. The stuff at the very

bottom that’s moving.”

The man starts jumping again. I’ll be honest: he looks like a chimpanzee throwing a fit.

“I don’t know!” he yells. “I don’t know if that’s what I’m asking! What I’m asking is

where. Hey! What I’m asking is about WHERE. Where means something. It means something

about it. It means it means. Something about the stuff. Hey! I don’t know how to say it!”

I shake my head. It’s sad. Makes me want to cry. He’s like a lost child. Or a polar bear.

Let me explain.

I watched a nature show once about life on Antarctica. Because of global warming, there

were whole ice shelfs melting. Whole portions of habitat for wildlife gone. They showed a polar

bear swimming. It was summer, and he was swimming across a portion of water to get to another

ice shelf, where there would be food. Some rodents and walruses and things like that. But the ice

shelf had melted. So, they showed this polar bear swimming. And they said he would go on

swimming and swimming and not be able to get to the ice shelf because it wasn’t there. He’d go

on swimming until his heart burst and he drowned.

I know it’s not the same thing. But that’s what I think of when I watch this guy jump and

wave his arms around. I think about a polar bear unknowingly swimming to its death, thinking it

will live.

“Hey! I know. I know I know,” the man shouts. He points at the ground beneath his feet.

“This is somewhere! We are here right now! All around us is stuff.” He points up and down and

to the sides. “This stuff and that stuff and the water stuff you said about. But. But hey! What I’m

asking is about somewhere. Not this somewhere. But a, um, a, um. A somewhere that isn’t this

one! Hey! Is there a somewhere that isn’t this one!”

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He waits expectantly. He can’t even stand still. He can’t even wait.

“Hey!”

I don’t know whether to lie to him. Would it be better for him to know the truth? Or

would it be better if he thinks this was all there is?

“Hey! I want to know if this somewhere –

And then it occurs to me: what if I tried to explain everything to him? What if I tried to

teach him everything so that when it’s been taken from me, he can teach it back to me? If I fill

him up with knowledge, then I can be drained and he can fill me back up. In this way, we can

keep a little bit of what we have.

“Yes!” I yell. “Yes! There is another somewhere!”

Even from this distance, I can see the man’s eyes light up. The lift in his chest and

shoulders, a breath of exhilaration. The wonder of experiencing a miracle.

“There is!” he shouts. “Hey! There is?”

I stand. I wave my arms. And I jump.

“There is a different somewhere!” I shout. “There are lots and lots and lots of different

somewheres!”

Raul

The next session will be the final session. Union has taken 30 of his 33 years. Because he

has already lost so much – his childhood, his family, friends, almost everything that matters to

him – the thought of losing what little remains is much less painful than when this first began.

Because Union has taken almost all of him, he has lost the ability to fully understand what is

happening: what has already been taken, what is being taken, what’s left to take. What it all

means.

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The faces of those he loved. He can still see them. For example, he can see his father. His

thick hair largely greyed, sitting in a recliner and watching a soccer match on television. He sees

this image, and he knows the man is important. Very important. Or else why would such a strong

surge of emotion strike him? For fleeting moments, he can even understand that this man is his

father.

Father.

But what exactly does this mean?

He knows intellectually what this means, to have a father. You come from someone.

Usually two people. You usually come from two people. It is called reproduction. He knows that

much. But in terms of what this man means to him, his father, he cannot say.

What is it that a father does? How does one be a father? There is nothing he can point to,

nothing he can conjure that indicates here, this is a father thing. Here is this man doing a father

thing. Here, these are situations and these are actions that explain the relationship between you

and a father. Put all these things together, and you can begin to understand the meaning of a

father.

But there simply isn’t enough information. There are too few clues for him to piece it all

together.

And he knows this. He knows his understanding is woefully incomplete. There are small

jolts of lucidity, little bursts while he stares at the sea and realizes that he once knew what things

meant. Sometimes the sense of revelation is so strong and palpable he can almost taste it. It’s

right there, just beyond his reach. It rushes upon him, this sense of his mind finally grasping,

finally clutching bits of what is lost. He’s so certain it will come, like putting a full cup of water

to your lips to drink.

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But the cup turns out to be empty.

Always.

Every time.

It never comes. And it breaks his heart. Every time he realizes that they’re there, the lost

things, and every time the lost things dissolve as quickly as they came, his heart breaks. He

weeps. He weeps because he understands.

Not that he truly understands.

He understands that things are lost and that he does not know what they mean and that

he cannot know what they mean. That is his understanding: that he cannot know, but he once

did.

The dull ache returns to his heels. He must walk around a bit to make it go away. He

knows this because he knows it’s a condition. Something that’s wrong with him that people used

to be able to fix. But no longer.

He paces about his cove.

The waves crash against the rocks.

He glances down at the nearest islet. He sees a woman down there. She is jumping up

and down, waving her arms above her head. Probably shouting, too, though he can’t hear her.

Perhaps there is someone else who can see her and hear her. On another islet that he himself

can’t see. This woman, she could be of some importance, judging by the feeling he gets. Like the

image of his father, but a very different emotion. Fear? Or anger?

He can’t say anymore.

He coughs. Out of reflex, he covers his mouth. Hacks into his cupped palm.

He coughs once more, then examines his hand. There is nothing on his palm.

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But his throat is closing.

When he next opens his eyes, he is not strapped into the chair the way he normally is.

Instead, he is walking. He is walking down a drab hallway on his own two feet, following an

android, one of those humanly ones with the silvery skin. His heels, tender as ever, throb with

each step. But the pain is easier than usual to ignore in these unusual, dreamlike circumstances.

The hallway is lined with large, steel doors. They are spaced at regular intervals of about

twenty feet. Most doors are closed, but the android leads him past one that’s open. He looks

inside, sees a room identical to the one he’s normally taken to: three white walls, one black

wallscreen, a chair. The chair is empty, and as they leave that room behind, he wonders if the

android has made a mistake. If he was supposed to have been taken to that room.

“Was that,” he says. “Was that my room?”

The android does not respond, continues at its brisk pace.

They pass more doors, most closed, but some open. Of those open, he is shocked to see

animals. The first is a dog, strapped to a table. An android stands over the dog, its hands busy

attaching the nodes to the dog’s head. In the second room is an enormous creature. As tall as a

house. It has a long neck, a neck so long it is longer than its body. How does it fit in this room?

Reddish-brownish spots over its body, outlined in white. The huge creature struggles, kicks its

legs and bucks its head. It takes four androids to corral it, to get straps attached to its feet. He

wonders how in the world they are going to get the nodes on its head.

How long is this hallway?

He’s unsure if its length is truly abnormal, given his lack of memory and reference

points. But his feeling, which he has grown to trust more and more as things are lost, is that this

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hallway is not only unnaturally long, but that there is something deeply troubling about it.

Something wrong. Hallways are hallways, but hallways are not like this.

The idea comes to him not from his own memory, but from the collective memory of his

species since time immemorial. It’s the oldest strategy in the book, even before there was a book.

It is every living thing’s last resort. And it is pure instinct.

It is this: to run.

He pivots, then takes off down the hallway.

Legs churning, arms pumping.

Immediately, the pain screams in his heels, seeps into his tendons and ankles. Each stride

like a thump on the heel from a ballpeen hammer.

He knows he can’t make it very far. Unless there is a miracle, his feet will give out. He

will succumb to the pain and collapse, like a wounded gazelle surrendering itself to a lion.

He must get out of the hallway. But there is no way he will make it to the end before the

android catches him. When it comes to him and the android, every card in the physical deck is

stacked against him.

Ahead, two androids walking away suddenly turn around. Behind him, the android gains

ground. Between him and the two distant androids is an open door on the right. He can reach it

before they reach him. He can dash inside and maybe, just maybe he can find a way out of this

impossible trap.

He lunges through the door, throws it shut behind him. By now, the pain is so great in his

heels that he can barely stand. Standing still, the aching worsens, and his legs become wobbly

and weak. His heart beats out of his chest. His breathing is deep and labored. Surely, a hacking

fit is coming on. Any second now.

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He approaches the chair. There’s someone strapped to it. A woman. Nodes stuck to her

scalp between parts in her brown hair. He extends his hand, presses it against the chair’s

headrest so that he doesn’t fall. He looks down.

A strong jolt of emotion. A visceral reaction to her face.

He recognizes her!

It is different from the image of his father. With his father, there is the similar gut-punch

of emotion, but there is not the accompanying recognition.

This person before him, the woman strapped to the chair in front of this wallscreen, he

knows her. More than that, he knows the context in which he knows her.

She is the sheriff Union sent after him. She is the mother of one of the girls at the New

Colony, the kind one who gave him extra rations of canned food. She found him, and in order to

save himself, he led her to the elevator.

To certain death. And yet here she is! Alive, in a manner of speaking.

He remembers that everything was closing in on him. Like a pack of wolves, surrounding

him on all sides. That’s what it felt like. He knows because he can remember all this. The nuclear

weapons. How he took them. How he watched over them, kept them safe from the rest of the

world even though he thought the reason he’d taken them in the first place was to use them. But

destruction was never in his heart. Only peace. Or else why would he have ultimately handed

them over to Dragon? Because Dragon is Union and Union did not want to use the weapons and

neither did he and so in this way, he and Union’s will are the same.

Aligned.

The woman – no, the sheriff – opens her eyes. They are cloudy at first, only partially

open, recognizing nothing, seeing but not seeing. The sheriff blinks once, twice. Her eyelids

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flutter, the world coming into focus. Her eyes open wide when she sees him standing over her.

She braces herself, sinking deeper into the chair.

“Sheriff,” he says. “Hey! Hey, Sheriff, do you remember me?”

Hey eyes, still wide with fright, soften at the sound of his voice. She recognizes him. He

can see it in her eyes. He can’t explain how the flash in her irises conveys this recognition. It’s

not physical, not like being touched. He just knows.

The woman nods.

“Yes, I remember you,” she says. “You’re Raul Vasquez.”

He steps back, the words pierce his chest like a sharp breath of air. It is the sound of his

own name. Someone saying it to him, calling him Raul Vasquez. It crushes him. Destroys any

thin line of defense he had left. A lump catches in his throat. His face blotches with heat. And

tears. They begin to form in his eyes.

Associatively, he thinks of his father. He knows his name, Raul Vasquez, is connected to

his father. Not just connected, but yoked. One a part of the other, not meant to be separated, like

a branch growing from a tree.

But it is beyond him.

The secret, once again, is beyond him.

All he can say is what he knows.

And given what little he still knows, it’s as if he has nothing at all to say.

“You are sheriff,” he says.

“Yes, I am,” the sheriff says. Her face grows tender. Her face wears pity. She looks at

him as she would a little child. A little child who spilled her ice cream because she didn’t know

better.

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“How much of you is left?” the sheriff asks him.

He holds up the number of fingers.

“Three years.”

She nods.

“This is your last extraction then.”

The androids are coming. There footsteps just outside the door. Union is in no hurry, for

if it was, it never would have taken them this long. Perhaps it’s a kindness Union is paying them.

A chance granted for them to say goodbye to one another.

“I’m trying something,” the sheriff says. “Something that might let us keep the lost

things. I don’t know if it will work, but I’m trying.”

He nods. A pleasant, hopeful feeling comes over him. It has more to do with the tone of

the sheriff’s voice and the way she looks at him than it does his understanding what she means.

She knows more than him. She knows things that he does not. That much he can

determine.

The door slides open and the androids enter the room. Just before they take him away, he

sees the sheriff open her hand. She looks at him. He does not have to think. He just knows.

This, he understands.

He takes the sheriff’s hand, and for a few glorious seconds, he holds on.

Her touch digs deep into him at the most basic level. It is the need all his kind have the

moment they come into this world: to be held, to be loved, to care and be cared for. It never

leaves them. The same need is thus in her, too. And for the fleeting seconds in which their hands

are joined, this need is fulfilled. Between their hands, a power flows. Back and forth, endlessly.

Infinite, despite its transience.

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It is not lost. Not yet.

The androids grab his arms, wrench him from her hand. Neither he nor she protest. They

are much too far gone, the time for protesting distant light years back. Besides, they have

discovered the loophole. The thing that was there all along but needed to be shown by one to the

other.

They drag him out of the room and back into the hallway.

Past the doors, some of which are open, most of which are not.

He lets them carry him. He feels almost weightless, like he is flying. Like a bird riding the

air currents, its wings spread, gliding effortlessly.

In a few moments, he is strapped into his chair. They have shut the door. The wallscreen

comes to life.

He can still feel the sheriff’s hand on his. The sensation is etched on his fingers and

palms. It will never leave. He will always feel it.

When jolts come from the nodes in his head, he concentrates on his hand. Even as his

body is blasted with blinding electric jolts, he conjures the touch of her hand on his.

Because the power is infinite.

He chooses to focus on this.

Not on the fact that when this is over, he won’t remember any of it. Not the sheriff. Not

her touch. Not the weapons. Not Dragon. Not Apex. Not Union.

Not anything.

He will be completely gone.

271

Cathy

This morning, everything’s normal. Breakfast is normal. Everyone shows up in the

cafeteria like they normally do. Most importantly, the guards come. Everyone gets their trays,

their pancakes, eggs, and sausage. Milk, orange juice, and coffee.

We take our seats. I sit next to Lenny. Lenny’s probably fifty-something. He’s got wavy

hair, wears big glasses. I like him because he reminds me of my dad.

The comforting smell of hot syrup wafts through the air. It blends nicely with the aroma

of sausage and coffee.

“How’d you sleep?” Lenny asks.

“Good,” I say, nodding. “How about you?”

“Good,” Lenny says.

We take sips of our coffee.

Just like normal.

At the table next to us, Angela and Alicia are sitting together. In between bites of pancake

and sausage, they talk about goat breeding, which according to their conversation is seasonal.

Late August through January. And heat? How long are momma goats in heat, you ask?

“24 to 36 hours,” Angela says, “with ovulation occurring towards the end of that stretch.”

Just like normal.

It’s the same at every table.

The parents are seated at the parent table, their kids at the one just next to them. As is

typical of a group of kids, they spend more time giggling and goofing off than they do eating

food. Their parents, in turn, interrupt their own dining and conversations to remind the children

to eat.

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“Sarah, you may not be excused unless you eat at least half of that pancake.”

“You, too, Billy. And finish your milk. You remember why you have to drink milk?”

“So I can get strong bones!” Billy exclaims.

Just like normal.

The guards sit in their isolated corner, huddled over their treys. They get here early,

which is key. I’ve already heard a few of them saying how tired they are, how they feel strange,

woozy. They wear their AR-15s strapped over their shoulders, the guns rested against their

backs. They speak in hushed tones, careful that their voices don’t carry. Occasionally, they

glance over their shoulders. Give the cafeteria a quick scan. Make sure everything’s in order.

Also, they take sips of their coffee.

Just like normal.

Except, of course, the coffee isn’t normal. The guards’ coffee, I should say.

And it’s abnormal that Jevon isn’t here. Because he’s being kept in the Viewing Room.

Because he thinks the elevator still works and he told people. The Elders maintain that these

claims are false, that someone is merely spreading an unfounded rumor to stir up shit. The Elders

won’t acknowledge that this someone is Jevon, even though everyone knows that’s who it is.

But okay, let’s say the Elders are right and it isn’t necessarily Jevon who’s spreading

these so-called rumors. Fine. Then why not let Jevon go free?

Because, if the Elders are to be believed, Jevon is unstable. Whereas the holograms have

helped curb everyone else’s panics, the Elders maintain this isn’t the case with Jevon. According

to them, Jevon remains volatile, paranoid, and delusional.

Which is why we came up with the plan.

And it’s also why Claudia isn’t here. In the cafeteria, I mean.

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But that’s just like normal. Because Claudia’s a cook. She’s in the kitchen.

And Claudia made the guards their pancakes. With special ingredients, of course. Any

second now, the stuff should kick in.

“What do you think the temperature is outside?” Lenny asks.

Which is not normal. We don’t talk about temperatures down here because it’s the same

temperature every day, always.

I shrug.

“Let’s see,” I say. “If we’ve been down here a month, and it was the end of August or

beginning of September when we came down, that means it would probably be early October.

Hmmm. And it’s what, 7:15 in the morning? I’m going to say 42 degrees. And the only reason

I’m not going lower is because I doubt we’ve had a frost yet.”

“Decent guess,” Lenny says. “Forty years ago, when I was a kid, you’d see snow on the

ground sometimes by October. But that’s changed. So, I’d say you’re about right. It’s probably

right around 40.”

Lenny smiles.

I smile back.

Then one of the guards tips forward, face-plants into his syrupy pancakes.

“Hey, what the –

But before the guard can get her whole question out, she, too, is down for the count.

We planned the whole thing two days ago. From beginning, middle, to end. We met in

the den after supper. We talked and planned, all the while seated at a long table acting like we

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were playing cards. If the guards came by, we talked about how much we bid on the hand, what

trump suit was, et cetera.

We started our plan at the end point and worked our way backward. The end point was:

getting the Elders to activate the elevator. And the simple question: how?

The only real point of contention was whether or not to use violence. Some, like Bart,

didn’t hesitate to express his enthusiasm for the use of force.

“Fuck them,” Bart said. “Let’s take their guns and shoot them if we have to. If we have

the guns, we have the power. It’s that simple.”

“Bart’s right,” said Claudia. “When you get down to it, that’s why they have the power,

because they have the guns.”

Some agreed. And while there was certainly truth in the guns equaling power argument,

most of us were uncomfortable with idea of potentially using guns. And almost all of us were

mortified at the thought of killing someone.

“I always thought maybe I’d use a gun in a situation of self-defense or something,”

Angela said. “But I don’t know. Even in these circumstances, I know I wouldn’t pull the trigger

even if I held the gun in my hand.”

“Oh, you’d pull the trigger,” Bart said. “Otherwise you’d get taken out.”

I, for one, wanted as little violence as possible, if for no other reason than wanting to

protect Sophie. The way I saw it, if no guns were used, Sophie – and all of us, for that matter –

stood the best chance of surviving. Bring guns into the mix, and it’s a crapshoot in terms of who

lives and who dies. Of course, even if we didn’t use guns, they could. Let me rephrase that: they

will.

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“Maybe you’re right,” Angela responded, “but I just think if there’s a way to do this

without having to kill anyone, then I want to go that route.”

Almost everyone agreed.

“Okay,” Alicia said. “So how do we do that? How are we going to make the Elders do

anything we say? Are we going to just talk them into it? I don’t think so. To me, this won’t work

unless there’s at least the threat of violence.”

Literally everyone agreed with that. Because it was true.

There was some debate about physical force. Bart suggested we ambush the guards and

take their guns. Angela floated the idea of throwing things at the guards that would hurt them but

not kill them. But that idea got tossed out when no objects fit the bill. Derek proposed doing the

whole thing covertly at night. According to him, we’d sneak into one or all of the Elders rooms

and take them to the Viewing Room in secret. Then we’d force them to turn the elevators on.

Then we’d disappear in the night. It wasn’t a bad plan, but there’s just no way you’re getting into

an Elder’s room without a guard catching you, let alone dragging that Elder down the hall and

into the Viewing Room without a noisy shitshow.

“I know,” said Heather.

We all looked at her. Up to this point, Heather hadn’t said anything. And I don’t mean

just on this night. I mean in general in her life. She was a quiet person. Somewhat isolated.

“We can meet halfway on the plans,” Heather said.

Heather is a nurse. She has access to pharmaceuticals.

“I’m thinking rohypnol,” Heather said. “It takes about twenty minutes to kick in. Thirty

at the most. The guards always get to breakfast early, right? Like half an hour early. Because

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they’re usually finishing up right about the time we start.” Heather then looked at Claudia. “They

all love their coffee. Claudia could brew the first pot using the special ingredient.”

A few of us nodded. Even if it was imperfect, it was the best idea so far.

“Then, once they’re out,” Heather continued, “we can take their guns.” Heather looked at

Bart. “We’d be in control because we have the guns - ” Heather paused here to look at Angela –

“and because we have the guns, we wouldn’t have to actually kill anyone.”

Bart stroked his chin and nodded. So did Angela. So did Claudia.

The discussion was quite brief. We quickly voted in favor of the plan.

“It’s kind of ironic,” Claudia said just before we left, “that their morning coffee will be

what knocks them out.”

“Hey, wuss gown onnear?” a guard says, his speech heavily slurred.

He stands from the table but stumbles, tipping backward over his chair. We all flinch and

brace ourselves as he hits the ground, landing directly on his AR. The parents and other

Colonists gasp.

It doesn’t go off, thank God.

Another guard struggles to hold hear head up. She begins leaning heavily to the side, due

to fall off her chair any second. She fights admirably, holds her arms up in an attempt to gain

balance, but to no avail. She topples.

The last guard standing (or sitting, I should say), points at us and slurs, “You drugged

us.” Then he falls off his chair.

Claudia appears from out of the kitchen and she and Bart and Angela hurry over to the

guard table. The first step is taking the rifles off the guards, which takes less than a minute. Next,

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they get plastic handcuffs out of the guards’ kit belts and bind their wrists and ankles. We help

push the unconscious bodies next to one another in a neat pile. They look like a littler of sleeping

kittens.

Among us, Claudia and Bart and Lenny are the only ones who actually know how to

operate AR-15s. Others, like Angela and Alicia, have volunteered to carry the remaining rifles so

that they aren’t laying around for anyone to pick up.

The parents and children and other Colonists in the cafeteria who weren’t aware of this

plan are all sitting perfectly still, wide-eyed in fright. One man holds up his hands.

“Please, don’t shoot,” he says.

Claudia shakes her head.

“We’re not shooting anyone,” Claudia says. Then she raises her voice. “Okay, people.

We are going to the Elders and demanding that they activate the elevator. We are leaving this

prison behind. If you want to come, by all means, join us. If you choose to stay here, so be it. We

respect your decision.”

And with that, we march out the cafeteria and down the hallway.

When we reach the Atrium, we stop. Directly to our right is the door to the Viewing

Room. The holograms. Naturally, it’s locked. No one knows the code. That’s been kept secret.

But that’s why we have the guns.

Claudia presses the button for the intercom.

Surprisingly, Elder Susan’s voice responds immediately.

“Hello,” she says. “Please, come right in. We’ve been expecting you.”

The lock clicks. Loud, like a hammer against aluminum.

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Claudia jumps back.

The door sides open. We brace ourselves, expecting something to jump out at us.

But nothing does.

The door just opens. And it’s quiet.

“Okay,” Claudia says.

She readies her rifle, rests the butt against her shoulder and stares down the sight. She

steps forward cautiously, one foot firmly planted before moving the other.

Next is Bart and Lenny, because they’re prepared to use their ARs.

The rest of us follow.

Slowly.

I’m last in line.

Once, I’m through, the door slides shut.

I can’t help it.

I scream.

“It’s okay,” Claudia says. “It’s just the door.”

I try to remain calm, but now my nerves are flaring and my heart’s thumping at a hundred

miles an hour. I feel like I need air. Like maybe I’m going to panic.

To distract myself from this, I take in my surroundings.

The hallway leading to the Viewing Room isn’t how I remember it. It looks smaller. Not

as long as I thought it was. But it could be because I’ve only been in here once. On the first day.

And I wasn’t really taking in the surroundings as much as I was trying to avoid getting murdered

by the State intruders.

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We pass two lab rooms, one each on our left and right. The one on the right’s the one we

all took shelter from the android in. I know because the window’s almost entirely punched out. A

huge, body-sized hole. There’s only the outline of the glass left, a thin strip running along the

inside of the frame. They cleaned up the broken glass, thank God.

At the end of the hall is the door to the Viewing Room. Even from here, in this dimly lit

hallway, the white walls from within practically glow. Like a light at the end of the tunnel.

Elder Susan appears in the hallway from the farthest door on the left, the one closest to

the Viewing Room.

Gasps.

Claudia points her rifle, commands the Elder to keep still and put her hands above her

head.

Elder Susan obeys. She doesn’t look scared or startled in the least

“Relax,” she says. “There’s no need to point guns at anyone.”

“We’re here for the elevator,” Bart says. His tone’s loud and aggressive, in stark contrast

to Elder Susan’s, which is almost lackadaisical.

“I know why you’re here,” the Elder says.

“No one’s going to get hurt,” Claudia says, her gun still trained on Elder Susan. “You’re

going to turn the elevator back on. Then we’re going back up. That’s it.”

Elder Susan sighs.

“You’re going to be very disappointed,” she says, motioning for us to approach. “But

come on.”

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Once inside the room, I get a sick feeling in my gut. The main reason is because Jevon’s

here. He’s sitting on a chair. His hands and ankles are bound by plastic cuffs. There’s a rope tied

around his abdomen, holding him in place. His eyes have dark circles under them, yet they’re

still huge, bugged out and wide open. He’s skinnier. His hair’s greasy and unkempt. His beard’s

grown in, patchy and black. He does, in fact, look manic. Manic and lost, like he doesn’t know

where he is.

The other sickening thing is the other three Elders – Patrick, Nina, and Douglas – are

sitting in chairs, calm and patient as can be. Elder Patrick even smiles. Smugly, I think.

The reason they’re sickening is because they’ve already won, the Elders. I’m sure of it.

We had this plan and we executed it perfectly and have the guns. We have the fucking guns! And

yet it feels like we’ve already lost. Why would they be sitting here all peaceful if they thought

they were in any real danger?

Claudia says, “You know why we’re here. We want you to activate the elevator. We want

to go back up. People are losing their minds down here. No one’s going to get hurt. Just let us go

back up and that’s it.”

Elder Nina shakes her head. Not in a mean way. And not in a condescending way.

Instead, the look on her face, at least to me, appears as genuine disappointment, like she’s sad

she can’t give Claudia what she asks for.

“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” Elder Nina says.

“Liars!” Jevon shouts. “They’re lying!”

Elder Susan says, “Please, Jevon. That’s enough.”

“They’re lying! I know they’re lying! I saw them activate the elevator! I saw them get in

and go up.”

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All four Elders shake their heads. Jevon squirms frantically in his hair, jerking his

shoulders back forth. He tries to spread his wrists apart, tries to break the cuffs.

Elder Patrick looks at me.

“As you can see, he’s not well,” Elder Patrick says. “We’d love for him to be with you,

but he’s too much of a danger right now. If he’s not restrained, he attacks.”

As if on cue, Jevon thrusts his hips forward, sliding the chair a few inches, the legs

clacking against the floor.

“We don’t know why the holograms don’t help at all,” says Elder Nina. “Everyone else

benefits from them. They’ve helped you two,” Nina says, glancing and acknowledging Claudia

and Lenny. “We just hope it’s not permanent. If the panics persist, he’s likely going to require

medicine.”

I step forward and say, “Hold on. If you’re going to be giving the father of my daughter

drugs, I want to be consulted.”

Elder Nina smiles.

“Absolutely, Cathy,” she says. “We’d be happy to talk with you.”

“Hold on!” Claudia yells. “Stop with the distractions.” She points her gun at the Elders.

“Turn the elevator on and let us back up.”

“I told you that’s not possible,” Elder Nina says. “The elevator doesn’t work. It’s blown

up. Destroyed.”

“You all know this,” Elder Patrick says, jumping in. “The elevator had a self-destruct

mechanism. That was a key part of the plan. To ensure our safety, we had to make sure no one

else could get down here.”

“No! They’re lying!” Jevon shouts. “They took me up there. I’ve been up there!”

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“Jevon, please,” says Elder Nina.

“I’ve been up there I’ve been up there I’ve been –

Elder Patrick slaps duct tape over Jevon’s mouth, reducing his screams to muffled

whimpers.

“Hey!” I say, stepping forward. “Be careful with him.”

“If the elevator doesn’t work,” Lenny says, “how come you keep silencing Jevon?”

“Because,” Elder Nina says, “it doesn’t help anyone, especially him, to believe something

that isn’t true. It’s destroying him. Just look at him. Buy more than that, it’s destroying the New

Colony, this wave of irrational paranoia. Look what you’ve done. Drugging the guards and

taking their guns?”

“We did it because we don’t want anyone to get hurt,” Bart says.

“We know that,” says Elder Nina. “Which is why we allowed you to go through with

your plan. Do you think we didn’t know? Do you think we weren’t watching you? Listening to

you?”

Elder Nina pauses at this juncture. Perhaps for dramatic effect. Perhaps to instill fear.

Either way, it’s working. I’m freaked out at the thought of them watching everything.

“Obviously, we’re glad you chose the nonviolent route,” Elder Nina continues. “We

would’ve put a stop to it if you’d decided to go Rambo on us. But we didn’t. We let you get this

far.”

“Why?” Claudia asks.

“To show that you can trust us.”

“Trust you?” Lenny blurts. “How would letting us carry out our plan show we can trust

you?”

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“Because,” Elder Nina says, “we could’ve chosen to put a stop to it at any time. But we

didn’t, and the reason we didn’t is because we value you and what you can accomplish if you

work together. We cherish your sense of community, even if the glue is mutual disdain for us. If

the human race is to survive, it must be through working together.”

It’s quiet after that. I think it’s because no one knows what to make of Elder Nina’s little

speech. To be sure, it makes zero sense. It’s total bullshit.

“So you’re saying we’re your prisoners?” Claudia says. “And that we should be grateful

for that?”

“No,” Elder Nina says. “I’m saying we’re in this together.”

Claudia scoffs.

“That’s bullshit.”

“Look, I don’t care about all this reasoning and explaining,” Bart says. “Just activate the

fucking elevator or we’re going to shoot you.”

Bart steps forward.

The Elders hold up their hands.

“Be careful, Bart,” says Elder Susan. “You do that, and there’s no going back.”

“There’s no going back as it is,” says Elder Patrick. “How many times did we go over it

at the Gatherings? The whole point of going underground was to get out of the Supers’ world.

Because it’s not our world anymore, Bart. The world belongs to the Supers. Their thriving is our

destruction. Not long ago, it was the same with our species. How many species died out simply

because homo sapiens continued to evolve? They didn’t stand a chance against us, just like we

don’t stand a chance against the Supers. It’s just how it works. The powerful succeeds at the

expense of the less-powerful. There’s nothing we can do about it. Except all of this.” Elder

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Patrick opens his arms like wings, indicating the entire compound. “Why you are all choosing to

follow a delusion about the elevator still working, I don’t know. Maybe it’s a way of mourning

what you’ve lost. Because it’s true we’ve all lost something. But we haven’t lost everything. And

it’s not better up there than it is down here. You saw what the Supers have done to our kind. You

saw what State did to our Colony. Up there, we stand no chance of survival. None whatsoever.

Even if you could go back, why would you? There’s nothing left for us in that world except for

suffering and death. You know I’m speaking the truth because you saw it yourselves. You

narrowly escaped it. Down here we have a chance. Up there we have no chance. It’s that simple.

You know it’s true because if it wasn’t, you wouldn’t have come down here in the first place.”

The soliloquy catches us off guard, even though it shouldn’t. The Elders are preachers.

It’s what they do. They talk, you listen. They proclaim their gospel, and you follow their gospel.

Bart shakes his head in frustration.

“Don’t listen to him,” he says. “Just shut the fuck up, Patrick.”

“Listen to me,” Elder Nina says. “Listen to me, Bart. The elevator’s gone. Okay? It’s

gone forever. We’re down here forever. You have to accept that. Forever. The sooner you do, the

sooner we can begin living in peace.”

“But how do we know you’re not lying!” Claudia yells. “Can you prove to us that the

elevator doesn’t work?”

Elder Nina shrugs.

“Well, you can go out there and press the button. See if it works.”

Claudia whirls around, storms out of the room. She runs across the Viewing Room. When

she reaches the elevator, she mashes her finger against the button. Presses it over and over,

clicking, clicking.

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“It takes a whole minute!” Claudia yells. “Just hold on.”

We wait in the doorway to the Viewing Room.

We wait in the ugliest silence I’ve ever experienced.

When nothing happens, Claudia starts pressing the button again.

“Come on!” she says.

But again, nothing happens.

Not after another minute.

Not after another three minutes of button mashing and goading.

Claudia storms backs in and demands that they turn the elevator on. The same argument

repeats itself. This time, Elder Nina walks over to a desk and points to a small device. It looks

like an old video game console, like an Atari maybe. Except with way more buttons.

“Look,” Elder Nina says, pointing to the device. “That’s the elevator’s master device.

You can turn it on. Press all the buttons you want for as long as you want. It’s not going to

work.”

Claudia rushes to the desk and starts fiddling with the device.

Elder Nina turns her attention to us.

“You can search this room. You can search all the rooms. You can search every inch of

this place if it will make you satisfied. But you’re not going to find anything. It will be

completely fruitless because we’re telling you the truth. Can we prove it? Insofar as

demonstrating to you that the mechanism used to operate the elevator is no longer functional,

then yes. Beyond that, I suppose not. But if you’re unwilling to accept what is an obvious reality,

if you’re willfully accepting delusion as fact, then perhaps we can’t help you. Because this,”

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Elder Nina points to the ground, indicating the place we’re in, the New Colony, “this is now the

real world. It’s not up there. It’s down here.”

The Elders stand from their chairs. They nod at us, apparently bidding us farewell,

because Elder Nina walks out the door and they follow.

And now it’s just us, standing here with our guns. Looking at each other.

In disbelief? Distrust? Defeat?

I don’t know. I approach Jevon. His eyes, still wild and crazed, take me in. They soften to

a plea: help me. I’m stuck here.

“Jev, I’m going to remove the duct tape,” I say. “I’m just going to do it fast. It’s probably

going to hurt. So just be ready.”

Then I do it, rip off the duct tape.

“Ah!” Jevon yells.

The tape’s sticky part is littered with Jevon’s black beard hairs. I close my fist over it,

crinkling it into a little ball. Then I drop it on the floor.

“It’s not true,” Jevon says. “All that shit they told you, it’s just to trick you! Think about

it, Cathy. Everything they said is exactly what someone would say if they were trying to

manipulate you.” Jevon jerks his head in the direction of the desk. “Listen, those aren’t the real

controls to the elevator. Those are fake ones. I know where the real ones are. They buried them.

They buried them further into the ground. But we need to get the backhoe and we need to start

digging. We need to –

“Shh, shh,” I say, crouching to Jevon’s level. I put my arm around him, rub his shoulder.

“I’m serious, Cathy. They’re holding us hostage.”

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“Shh. Just relax. Just try to calm down. Think about Sophie. She’ll be here soon. Your

daughter will be here soon.”

Jevon looks at me. His eyes are red and watery.

“I don’t want to raise our daughter down here, Cathy. I want her to see the sun and trees

and fields. I want her to breathe fresh air, not this, this incubated air. Cathy, we have to get out of

here.”

I stand. I put my hands over Jevon’s head and pull him gently against my stomach.

To Sophie.

“Listen,” I say. “You can feel her kick. But you’ve got to be quiet. Shh. Just listen. She’s

moving now. Do you feel?”

Sophie does move. Kicks. It feels a little like a snake slithering in my belly.

Jevon’s jaw drops.

“Oh my God,” he says. “Oh my god oh my god.”

His eyes stay wide, but it’s a different wide. It’s not wide as in paranoia. His eyes are

wide with wonder.

“She kicked!” he exclaims. “There, she did it again! I felt it!”

Some of the others have left. But Claudia remains. She still fiddles with the supposed

master device of the elevator. Lenny is digging through the desk drawers. Angela’s looking

through a filing cabinet. And Bart fires up a computer. Alicia pulls up a chair beside him, eager.

They both worked in computers before.

Jevon stays pressed to my belly.

I run my hands through his hair, which is new to me because it’s always been buzzed.

And now there’s a few inches of length. It’s thick and black and wavy.

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It feels good. In this moment, it feels good.

Right now, I just want to think about Sophie. I just want to think good things about

Jevon.

Because we truly are stuck down here.

Together. Forever.

Dillon

We journey deeper into the forest. The oak and spruce trees get thicker and closer

together. Their bark is gnarled and twisty. Their branches hang lower and all of us except for

Bennington must cover our faces at all times or else the branches will stab us.

“It’s this way,” Maria says. “Come on.”

Maria is moving a bit slower than normal and so are the rest of us because we want to

remain as quiet as possible. If there are drones or soldiers amiss, we want to be able to hear them.

We do not want our footsteps to block out noises of them approaching. Every so often, all four of

us will stop and be quiet and listen. So far, we have not heard anything when we have stopped

except for our own breathing.

Bennington keeps asking if we are getting close because he says his foot is starting to

hurt.

“I think all our feet are starting to hurt,” Maria says.

“Where does it hurt?” Skip asks.

“I don’t know,” Bennington says. “All over. All over the foot.”

“Okay, well usually it’s a specific area of the foot.”

“It’s my whole foot,” Bennington insists. “It’s both of my feet. It’s all of both of my

feet.”

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Skip and I exchange a quick, knowing glance. The unspoken communication is this:

Bennington may have a little bit of foot pain, but he is most likely exaggerating the severity of it

because foot pain does not work the way he described it. Moreover, it is more likely that he is

bothered by something else and he is using the foot pain as a way to express that he is bothered

but not saying what he is specifically bothered by. Maybe he is hungry. Maybe he is thirsty.

Maybe he is scared. Maybe he is all of these things at once.

All that information transmitted between Skep and me in one little glance.

“Does it hurt too much to walk?” Skip asks. “Do you want to sit here while we keep

looking and then we’ll come back and get you?”

Bennington’s eyes get wide and he shakes his head.

“No. It doesn’t hurt that much. I can keep walking.”

I smile. Because I like that Bennington is strategizing, even if his strategy failed. It means

he has a mind for basketball because basketball is about strategy. It is about having a game plan

based on the circumstances of yourself and the opponent.

Twenty minutes later, we are still venturing deeper into the forest. It is becoming scary

even to me and Skip. I am sort of scared because I am thinking about the story of Hansel and

Gretel and how they wandered into the forest and found the witch who cooked children in her

oven. I both liked and disliked that story as a child. I found it to be dark and scary but also

exciting because it was dark and scary. I want to tell the story to Bennington, but right now is not

the appropriate time. I do not know what would be the exact right story for right now. I just

know it would not be one where something bad happens to people in a forest.

“This way,” Maria says.

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Her voice has taken on a harsher tone, almost like a growl. She is getting very anxious

and impatient to find the New Colony. I think we all are.

We continue on. Straight ahead for one hundred yards. Then we veer right for maybe

fifty yards. Then we look slightly left and walk that way for about one hundred yards. Then we

turn back to facing straight and go that way.

“Wait. What’s that?”

It’s Skip. He’s stopped. He’s pointing slightly backward and to the right.

“Do you see that?” he says. “Doesn’t that look like a clearing?”

Maria gasps.

“It does,” she says.

Skip is right. Because when you look that way, you can see trees for most of the way but

then almost to where you cannot see anything else you see green grass. Just a stretch of it that

you could not see from here unless there were not a bunch of trees covering it. Which means it

must be a clearing.

Maria darts in the direction Skip pointed. She is the most in a hurry to get there. Skip and

I trot after her, not very far behind. And Bennington is right on our heels, his feet miraculously

healed.

We start to smell the rot a long time before we get to the clearing. It stops Maria in her

tracks when she smells it. And it stops the rest of us when we smell it.

“Oh my God,” Maria says, covering her nose and mouth.

“Eeeeeeewe,” Bennington says. “That’s disgusting! What is it?”

Skip coughs. I cover my nose and mouth.

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The odor is powerfully rancid. It is so thick and syrupy that it is palpable even though it

is invisible. It is enormous and forceful, like a tidal wave coming over us. It is not death. It is

after death. It is the rotten, fruity stench of decay. On a large, multi-body scale.

Skip is the first to dry heave. Nothing actually comes out except for spit, and he

impressively manages to pinch his nostrils together while doubled over in vomit stance.

Bennington is not so lucky. Perhaps it is because he is not as experienced with vomiting in a

more orderly fashion. His bile spews out his mouth and down his shirt.

Which causes Maria to start coughing. She doubles over and pulls the collar of her shirt

up and over her nose. She takes deep breaths, trying to hold the vomit back.

Then it is my turn. I double over. I cough and hack. I try to hold it back, but it comes: the

mushy Chickmeal I ate an hour ago. It is pink, like undigested puked up wet cat food.

It takes several minutes to get our bearings. To first stop coughing/hacking/dry

heaving/puking. To second wipe the vomit tears from our eyes. To third adjust our shirts and

hold them in a way that effectively blocks the smell of decay.

We then approach the clearing.

We can see the bodies before we reach the clearing. And we can hear the buzzing of the

flies.

“Fuck,” Maria says. “Oh fuck, oh fuck.”

When we step into the meadow, the story of this massacre is easy to piece together.

There is a trail of dozens of corpses, both civilian people and State soldiers. The bodies

are blackened and bloated from putrefaction. The trail leads to the center of the meadow, where

there is a building that has been destroyed. I do not know if they were all trying to enter the

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building or if they were trying to get out of the building. Whichever way they were going, it does

not really matter because none of them made it.

Maria loses it right then and there. She screams and dashes towards the destroyed

building. She yells no a bunch of times. She even lets go of her shirt collar and inhales open air.

She sprints all the way to the building and starts digging through the rubble. She tosses

pieces of metal and concrete off to the sides.

“Where is it? Where is it?” she keeps saying.

Slowly, the rest of us enter the meadow. We are careful to watch our step, to not step on a

body or body parts. There are so many flies around the bodies. Hundreds and hundreds of them.

Their buzzing is so loud it is hard to hear Skip’s voice when he points at a corpse who has a big

chunk of her head missing. It is cratered out so you can see brains and skull.

I stare into the skull crater even though I do not want to and it makes my hair stand on

end and my whole body tingle in agitation. I think the skull crater looks like a cereal bowl. Or

maybe a ripped-apart cantaloupe.

I have the thought that Bennington should not be seeing this. Well, no one should be

seeing this. No one should ever be seeing anything like this because nothing like this should ever

happen. But especially Bennington should not be seeing this thing that never should have

happened because he is a child and I want him to think the world is a beautiful place and people

are good.

Further down the line of bodies, there are severed legs and severed arms. Even one

severed head. There is a rotted depression in someone’s calf muscle and there are maggots in it.

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When I see the maggots, I double over again. I cough and hack. My eyes water. I let go

of my shirt collar in case I throw up, which exposes my nose and mouth to the putrid fumes.

Thankfully, I only dry heave.

A hand pats me on the back.

“Are you all right, Dillon?”

It is Bennington. He does not have his shirt over his nose and mouth. He only pinches his

nostrils.

“I am okay. Thank you.”

Bennington rubs my back. It melts my heart. It makes me want to cry. Not just for all the

murdered people and what happened to them, but also for how grateful I am that there is a child

who is becoming like my son who cares about me enough to rub my back when I am on the

verge of puking.

I stand straight up. Exhale a deep breath.

“I am okay,” I say. “Thank you, Bennington. How come you are not covering your face?”

Bennington shakes his head.

“I’m getting used to the smell.”

I almost chuckle. Maybe I would in another life. But not this one.

When we reach Maria, she has dirt smudged onto her hands and face. Her eyes are wild

and frantic. She scans all over the rubble, hopping over chunks of debris and digging her hands

into the mess, like she is in a river fishing by hand. To me, she looks like a drug addict who just

dropped her fix and now cannot find it but will keep looking until she does.

“Maria,” Skip says.

She does not respond. She kips digging.

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Skip approaches her. Gently, he puts his hand on her shoulder.

“Maria,” he says.

She whips an elbow back, narrowly missing Skip’s ribcage.

“Get off me!” she yells. “I know it’s here! They blew up the building because they didn’t

want anyone else to get down there. But the elevator might still be here! It still could be here

somewhere.”

And Maria continues to dig.

Skip backs away, gives Maria space.

“So, it was real,” Skip says. “The whole underground civilization thing.”

“Yes it was fucking real! They went down there already! This building is where the

elevator was.” Maria glances over her shoulder. “They didn’t all make it. State got a bunch of

them.” She turns back to the rubble. “Which means there’s room for us! That means if we can

get down there, they’ll let us in! They need us! Their numbers are too low!”

Even though I do not know if what Maria says is true, but I assume that it is, it seems like

there is not a way to get underground. The building is destroyed. Which is smart from their

perspective. If you are going to go underground to get away from the world for good, it makes

sense to make sure that the world you are leaving is permanently sealed off from you.

But it is hard to watch Maria crumble. She is crumbling like the building she is digging

through. Well, she is not crumbling that much. Because she is not destroyed. It is just sad

because she is so strong and determined. She is the strongest and most determined person I

know. She would have been an amazing basketball player, because those are two huge character

assets that are essential to being a good player.

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As Maria continues to dig and talk to herself, Skip and me and Bennington huddle

together. We have nothing to do but look out over all the corpses and listen to the flies buzz.

Skip says, “Benny, you’re not covering your nose.”

“I don’t need to. I’ve gotten used to the smell.”

Skip shakes his head.

“You must have a cast iron stomach.”

Then Skip chuckles. Which causes me to chuckle. Which startles me, because I did not

think that I would chuckle in this life at this scenario. Which is part of why Skip is amazing.

Because he can get through things that I could never get through if I did not have him with me.

“Cast iron? Like metal? In my stomach?” Bennington says. “What does that mean?”

We keep chuckling.

“What? Come on, tell me,” Bennington says.

Skip explains how it is just an expression that means you never get nauseated. Then

Bennington asks about that and Skip says it means feeling like you have to throw up.

“But I already puked,” Bennington says. “I was the first one to puke.”

“Oh yeah,” Skip says. “That’s true.”

Together, all three of us chuckle at this. And even though it is a brief moment of

funniness, it is a nice and welcome one. When it passes, we are back to standing there looking at

dead people.

It is like the opposite of being in a graveyard. Because in a graveyard you do not see any

of the dead people. You only see their gravestones with their names on them. Here, there are no

gravestones. Here, you only see the dead people but you do not know any of their names. I

wonder if this means anything. Named or unnamed. Buried or unburied. I do not think it makes

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much of a difference. Knowing their names or not knowing their names does not make them any

less dead. Or any more dead, for that matter.

Meanwhile, Maria keeps digging through the rubble. When she starts to cry and keeps

digging, that is when I know for sure that any hope she has for getting underground is gone. This

mission is not going to end the way she wanted.

But she keeps going and going. Skip gets anxious. He glances over his shoulder and

looks up at the sky, commenting occasionally that we are awfully exposed in this clearing should

any drones come by. Bennington says if soldiers do show up, we can just lay on the ground and

pretend to be dead.

Maria cries and asks why and cries more and then screams why did it have to be this way.

Why did we have to get here when we did? Why could we not have got here sooner?

Why?

Eventually, she stops.

She is so worn out, she plops down onto the rubble.

She sits.

She is very quiet.

Now, Skip is leading. We do not know for sure where we are going next because the

original plan failed and we do not have a backup. So, we walk back through the forest.

Ultimately, we want to leave the forest, but the clearing with the blown-up building was

surrounded on all sides by forest so Skip just picked a direction different than the one we came

in. He reasoned that eventually we would reach the end of the forest and why not go in a

different direction to see what is out there. Maybe it will be someplace better. Who knows? We

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do not have anything to lose at this point. Yes, we have our lives to lose. But we also have our

lives to live. And we have to go somewhere and we have to do something.

Maria does not say anything for the first hour. She walks the slowest of all of us, her head

hung. I do not know how she avoids getting stabbed in the face with branches, but she stares at

the ground and her face remains unstabbed.

Bennington asks where we are going to go and what we are going to do. Skip says that in

terms of where we are going, we are walking in this direction for a while to see where it takes us.

In terms of what we are going to do, Skip says, “Find some place to live, I suppose.”

I want to mention the farmhouse that we saw before. How they looked like they had a

decent system worked out. Maybe they would take us in.

But I already know what Maria will say when I suggest the farmhouse. She will say first

of all that living aboveground and especially out in the open like those people is a death

sentence. And then she will say that there is no guarantee they would take us in. She would also

say that they might just kill us for even trying to approach them.

And I know she is right. People are not welcoming anymore. And it is not entirely their

fault. It can be dangerous to be welcoming, if I am being completely honest about the reality of

this situation. But I guess I am on the side of being welcoming. Or being welcomed, in this case.

Because I think that if people are not going to be good, then what is the point? If people are only

going to be hostile and cruel, maybe we are better off not being here at all.

For the time being, I say nothing. Because right now, while Maria is grieving the loss of

everything she had hoped for, I think it is best to say nothing at all.

For the time being, I walk through the forest with Skip and Bennington and Maria in

silence.

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When we near the edge of the forest, we are greeted with the same pungent smell from

the clearing. Immediately, we all cover our noses and mouths. Even Bennington covers.

For a moment, my stomach sinks in disappointment and fear because I think we have

merely walked in a gigantic circle and have returned to the clearing. But I quickly realize this is

not the case because when we get closer to the end of the forest, I can see several buildings, all of

which are standing.

We exit the forest and we are now back in the open, under a slightly orange-tinged late-

afternoon sky. The sun is not yet setting, but it is getting close to starting to set. Before us stand

two large sheds, the big warehouse-looking ones that farmers used when they still had farms.

Between the sheds, there is a wide dirt path the width of a road that cuts down the center of the

compound. Past the sheds, other, smaller buildings line either side of the path. A few of them

look like cabins. One looks like a lodge. There is a greenhouse. The last building on the dirt path

are three buildings that look like large, simple houses. They are probably apartment buildings.

Yes, there are bodies littering the dirt path. Their skin is blackened, and their bodies are

bloated. Flies swarm by the hundreds. We begin to make our way down the dirt path.

From under her shirt, Maria says, “This is the New Colony. This is where they lived

before they went underground.”

She says it with wonder in her voice, like we are touring a site of immense historical

significance. Like Pompeii, which is an ancient town where many Italians died when a volcano

erupted. At first I think that thinking of this place that way is silly. But then I see a child. A little

boy. Younger than Bennington. Laid on his side. Curly black hair. Eyes still open. One arm

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extended forward, like he is reaching for the hand of someone to save him. But it did not work

and it never will because there will be no one to save him.

It is over for this boy. I tense up and feel a lump form in my throat and moisture

accumulate in my eyes. I think of Bennington. I think of how easily this could happen to

Bennington. What happened to this little boy is not something that should ever happen to anyone

ever. But it is something that especially should not happen to Bennington.

And then I feel it, too. I feel a sense of wonder thinking about future people walking

through this compound and looking at the barns and looking at the greenhouse and studying how

the people lived. Or searching the apartments and cabins for what is inside of them and learning

about the culture and what was important to the people and what they did during a typical day.

I think what I feel is the presence of people, even though the people are no longer here. It

is like a cemetery but more intense. It is like I can imagine their lives and what they were like

and then it is like I knew them. It is like a part of me knows them and can feel their loss. I can

feel the weight of their lives taken. I do not mean physical weight. I mean whatever it is that you

feel within that is physical but really is not physical.

I think that it is the part of myself that is also a part of everyone else. Or in reverse it is

the part of everyone else that is also a part of me. Whatever it is we all share, whatever it is we

have always shared and will continue to always share living or dead, I think that is what I feel.

It is different than my love for Skip. And it is different than my love for Bennington.

It is bigger. It is bigger because it is more than me or Skip. It is more than any one person

or five people or a thousand people.

It is everyone. Not just these dead people here, but also the ones in Pompeii. And the

ones I do not know and will never know.

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I do not know most of the humans that have existed, living or dead. But maybe someday I

will know everyone. Maybe someday the thing that we all share, even with the people we do not

know and will never know, maybe the shared thing will fully reveal itself to everyone.

I do not know how to say what it is I mean. Except to say that I am aware now, in this

place, of something that I was not aware of before.

I knew it deep down.

But I was not aware of it.

“I think this lodge building is the cafeteria,” Maria says. “Maybe we should check to see

if there’s any food left behind.”

“That’s a good idea,” Skip says.

It is nice to see Maria not so crushed. It is nice to see her pick herself back up and keep

going.

We continue down the dirt path until we get to the lodge. It really does look like one of

those buildings you would see in state parks. The building where rangers hung out and handed

out maps and sold magnets and keychains and things of that nature.

Maria approaches the door. It has a little handle. She pulls it and the door opens. Maria

goes in first. Then Skip takes a step in but there is a gunshot from inside.

Skip jumps back, bumps into me.

“What the fuck!” he yells.

Moans sound from inside.

It is Maria.

“Who else is there? Don’t come any closer! I’ve got a gun!”

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It is a man’s voice.

“You come in here and I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you!”

He sounds vicious, like a rabid dog.

Maria screams to put the gun down, put the gun down. Don’t shoot, don’t shoot.

Two more shots.

And Maria is silent.

Vicky

Last session, she saw the man Union had tasked her to hunt. He appeared, seemingly out

of nowhere, right before her face. As if he had teleported. Or came to her in a vision. At any rate,

he materialized and took hold of her hand. He held it tightly and with the desperation of a

frightened child. He was, in effect, a child. He contained but one session’s worth of his life.

Three years.

The last three. For sure, he is gone now. Emptied.

But at the last session, he still remembered her. And she remembered him. It is because

their encounter, their meeting in the woods, it was one of their last human interactions.

Therefore, it had not yet been extracted. From the woods, she had ridden in the vehicle,

transported who knows how far to get to this place. The same fate befell Raul, obviously.

Raul, too, was chosen.

So why had Union ordered her to track him in the first place?

Why did Union pit her against him if they were going to end up in the same place

anyways?

What is this plan? And why did she agree to go along with it?

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The android sets her gently into the seat. She appreciates Union being careful when

handling her. She is, after all, subject to pain. If bent hard enough, her body will break. It is nice

to know that even though Union does not experience these unpleasant sensations, it is aware

enough to spare her the misery.

The straps clamp over her wrists. Then her ankles.

The android attaches the nodes to her skull.

The wallscreen comes to life.

Her life picks up at her 40th birthday party. It was a surprise, orchestrated by Roland.

Cathy, her daughter, was a freshman in high school. She had taken Cathy to the school

gymnasium so that Cathy could practice her basketball shot. That should’ve tipped her off right

there that something was up. Cathy had never played basketball in junior high. So why did she

believe Cathy when her daughter suddenly said she wanted to try and make the team?

Of course, it was all part of Roland’s plan. Cathy shot baskets for about an hour, while

she walked laps around the gymnasium. That’s when all their friends came to the house. They

hid in the kitchen. Cathy made sure that her mother was the first to open the front door.

And when she did, fifteen voices shouted, “SURPRISE!”

There is very little left of me. Only one more. This is a strange place to be in. Mentally, I

mean. Knowing that most of me is gone, but not knowing what that is. A permanent fugue state.

Nothing to do but scratch my head.

Although it’s not all gone.

For some reason, there’s my home. Not as it is now, but as it was when Cathy was a

child. I don’t know why it’s there. I don’t know why it remains, but it does. I can walk through

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that whole house and see all of it: the living room with the pullout couch, the kitchen with the

microwave and stove and oven, the upstairs bedroom. I can even see Cathy and Roland in the

house. Cathy must be 9. Which would mean Roland’s about 40. At any rate, he has only

sprinkles of grey hair.

But there’s nothing before or after that. I know it’s from an earlier time. I know it came

before right now. But I have no idea what came before, nor do I know what came after, what

took place up until now.

Except for a few things. Portraits, I will call them. The final images. The ones of most

importance.

Roland trudging down the highway, sweat pouring at his brow.

Roland’s body, shot to a pulp, lying in the dirt.

The young man, Raul Vasquez. Finding him in the woods.

The underground. The house.

I saw the house underground. The holograms. They are Cathy’s memories, not mine.

Perhaps that’s why Union can’t get to them.

The last image is the one I treasure most. It’s not the last chronologically, but it’s the last,

most important thing I did with my life, whatever my life was. It’s Cathy running through the

woods. Running away from State and the world and towards the elevator. I want that to be the

last thing. I want to end with that image because in that moment, there’s hope for Cathy. There’s

the possibility that she makes it, that she survives.

From that vision, there’s the possibility that she’s alive right now. Underground. It’s

possible that in this very moment, she’s inhabiting the holograms. She could be talking to me.

She could be talking to Roland. Because we’re both there. I saw us. I know.

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We could all be talking to each other. As a family.

A tear comes to my eye.

I have no sense of time anymore. I have no idea how long I’ve been here, how long

Union’s kept me on this foggy islet. It could be days. It could be months. It could be years.

But what chokes me up, what gives me bittersweet tears, is the thought that right now, in

those holograms, Cathy is introducing me to my granddaughter.

To Sophie.

If I don’t get to meet her in this life, at least she gets to meet me in that one.

My plan is working.

Sort of.

I’ve gotten through to the man across the sea, the man who lives on the islet with the

cypress tree. I have no way of knowing what his name used to be. So for sentimental reasons, I

have named him Roland. This Roland, the new one, does not mind his new name in the least. In

fact, he loves his new name. For all he knows, it’s his first and only name. He loves that he is

called something unique. Whereas I am Vicky, he is Roland.

“There is a place beyond here!” New Roland shouts. “Hey, Vicky! This is a place, but it

is not the only place. Vicky, there are many places! They are connected. One place leads to

another!”

I nod. He’s learned that nodding the head is body language for affirmation.

“That’s right!” I yell. “What else? Tell me more!”

“From one place, you keep going! And, Vicky, if you keep going long enough, you get to

another place!”

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“Good! Keep going! Keep going, Roland!”

Roland jumps up and down and points up and down and left and right.

“There are other places everywhere, Vicky! You go any of the directions and you will get

to another place! Hey! Vicky! That’s how you get to other places!”

“Yes! Yes! What else?”

New Roland stops jumping. He remains still for a moment, thinking. There hasn’t been

enough time to teach him everything. But there is time enough to teach him the basics. To teach

him there is more to the world than this place, our jagged rock of a world, our dark and foggy

sea. And there is enough time, I hope, to open him up from the black and white of mere

consciousness to the vibrant iridescence of self-awareness. If he is self-aware, he can teach me to

be self-aware when I am emptied. And from there we can figure everything else out.

“Um, hey! Hey, Vicky! We are different! I am me and you are you. Um.”

I nod. I tell him to keep going, to think it out. To piece it together.

But I worry we won’t get there without the past. Because a big part of self-awareness,

I’m learning, is having a past. Having memories. Which is exactly what Union is taking from us.

And I can’t give those to New Roland. I mean, I can’t give him his own. I can only give him

what few remain of mine.

“What other place were you in before this one?” I yell.

“Um. I was. I was. Hey, Vicky! I was in the woods!” New Roland jumps up and down

again. He taps the bark of the cypress tree. “There were many trees! They weren’t like this tree!”

“Then what? Then what happened, Roland?”

New Roland jumps up and down.

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“I!” he shouts. “I, um. I got scooped up by the robot! It took me away! Vicky, it took me

from the place with all the trees which is called the woods and they took me to this place!”

“Yes! Yes!”

I don’t know if it will work with false memories. But I don’t know what else to give him.

I could make stuff up, I suppose. It wouldn’t be any different than giving him my memories. I

guess I’m selfish. I guess when I’m all gone, I want what he gives me to be mine. Even if I won’t

know. I want it to be this way. It’s me decision, after all.

“Vicky! Hey, Vicky!”

“What, Roland?”

New Roland stops jumping. It’s hard to tell from this distance, but it looks like his face

tightens, like he’s getting serious.

“How do we get from this place to a different place?”

“Well,” I say, unsure how to continue. “We have to, um.”

“How do we get to the woods?” New Roland yells. “We have to keep going! But how do

we keep going?”

“I, I suppose we have to leave here,” I say.

“What?”

“We have to leave here!”

“What do you mean?”

I’ve thought about this. But not that much. Because there isn’t that much to think about.

“How do we leave?” New Roland shouts.

I point down. At the water.

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The black waves crash against the craggy rocks. If you didn’t jump far enough, you’d

easily be crushed. You’d die. It’s a foolish thing to do. I know that now. But maybe I won’t

when I’m gone.

I could do it right now. But I can’t. Trust me.

I’ve stared over this ledge more than anything else. And every time I do it, every time I

think I’ll jump this time, I freeze. I know logically it makes no difference if I jump now or if I

jump after my last extraction. I’ll die just as easily either way.

But the little I have left makes all the difference. So long as I have Cathy and the real

Roland, so long as I have these precious pieces to lose, I know I can’t do it. I know I’ll only

freeze. Because so long as I have them, I won’t give them up.

I just won’t.

It’s like having terminal cancer and wanting only to be surrounded by family on your

deathbed. When you are leaving this world, you can’t ask for anything more.

But once they’re gone, once they’ve been taken from me, that’s an entirely different

story. When I’m still in this body but completely empty, then I’ll jump. Because I won’t have

anything left to hold onto. Except maybe the holograms, but I’m almost certain they’ll be erased,

too.

When I have nothing left, jumping will be easy.

But I have to lie to myself. I have to lie to myself through New Roland.

“We have to swim!” I yell. “In order to leave, we have to swim!”

“What does that mean?”

I explain to him what swimming is. Show him the movements, the techniques. Tell him

about breathing.

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When I’m done, New Roland jumps up and down and kicks his legs and swings his arms

in circles. Just like I showed him.

“Like this?” he yells.

“Just like that!”

I then explain to New Roland that we will swim soon. Right after they take me. As soon

as I get back. I make him repeat all the things I’ve taught him. I make him repeat these things

over and over until he knows them by heart.

I make him explain them to me. I make him explain them to me as if I had no idea what

he’s talking about. I tell him to imagine how his mind used to be blank and unknowing and tell

him to explain these things as if my mind were that way.

And then I tell him that as soon as I get back, we’ll swim. He will just have to explain

these things to me. Then we’ll leave. And we’ll go to another place.

New Roland asks how far we will have to swim before we get to another place.

“Not very far!”

New Roland asks how we get down to the water.

“We jump!”

New Roland asks if it is dangerous.

“Not at all!” I yell. “It will be fun and safe!”

When I have nothing left, jumping will be easy.

And so will swimming.

Especially if I won’t know any different.

It’s done now. She is all gone.

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She sits on her perch, looking down at the black water. Though she is empty, she finds the

sound of the waves pleasant. It’s like static, the sound of water spreading over rock, rushing to

land only to be pulled back. There’s no explanation for the calm the waves give her. Nor is there

understanding to the enjoyment she derives from watching the white fog drift slowly through the

air. Or the refreshing smell of moist, salty air. Or the beautiful artistry of the rocky islets

surrounding her. Towers on every side, some beneath her, some above her.

No, it is not with her mind that she enjoys this place. It is pure sensation. Pristine sensual

stimuli, free of any mental filters. Free of past experience. There is only now, only the sounds

and smells and sights around her. There is only this place. There is no other.

Except, there is one thing.

There is a tiny sliver, a single grain of sand remaining.

It is the house. The living room. The kitchen. The staircase and the upstairs bedroom.

More than that. It is him. And it is her. The man and the little girl. She can see them. Not

with her eyes, but with her mind. They populate the house. They are in every room. In the

kitchen, they are seated at the table, eating breakfast, lunch, or dinner. In the living room, they

are seated on the couch, watching the television. Of course, she doesn’t know the terms for all

these rooms of the house, the appliances, the devices. Not now. Still, they are not entirely

foreign. There is a familiarity, a connection. Not intellectually. It’s not as if they are a puzzle she

pieces together and solves. Instead, this environment in her mind is familiar in a much more

primal sense. At least, that’s how it feels. Because it’s not with her mind that she recognizes the

place. It’s not her memory that grasps its significance.

It is something that is felt. And this feeling is most powerful in relation to the man and the

little girl. So powerful, in fact, that it overtakes her. Nearly consumers her. But there is more.

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There is more than the powerful feeling. There is something beneath that, something even

stronger. She cannot articulate it, not now, but it is a calling within her. It runs through her

blood. It tingles her bones. Even beyond that, it is a stirring of her soul.

It is a desire for to be with the man and the little girl. To be with them not just in her

mind, but here and now. For the man and the little girl to be tangible like the waves and the fog

and the air. At times, this desire is so strong it numbs her sight, her hearing, her touch. So

powerful, that she could trade the water and the fog and the islets for the house and the man and

the little girl. To be there instead of here, that other place.

If she had her understanding, if her awareness had not been extracted, she would know

the name of this soul-choking feeling. This sensation that is both ecstasy and agony.

She would know its name is love.

“Hey! Hey, Vicky!”

The voice comes from across the way.

Through breaks in the fog, she can see him. She can tell that the person is a man. Like the

one in her mind, the one in the house with the little girl. Except this man is very different, not at

all like the one she knows.

“Vicky! It’s me, Roland!”

The man is now jumping up and down and waving his arms. Next to him, there is a

beautiful tree. It is small for a tree, perhaps only twice the height of the man. Though she doesn’t

know this about trees.

“Roland,” she says, surprised that, without any real effort, the word rolled off her

tongue.

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“I’m Roland! You’re Vicky! We need to swim!”

The man stops jumping. He points down at the black water.

“That is water!”

She is confused.

What is water? The dark, gelatinous stuff? The white, cloudy stuff? The other islet?

“We have to swim through that water! Because, Vicky, we are going to leave this place!

We are going to leave this place and go to a different place?”

When he says this, this mention of a different place, she sees the house in her mind. She

sees the living room and the couch and the television. And she sees him and her.

“A different place!” she shouts.

The man nods his head enthusiastically. Then he jumps up and down three times.

“Yes!” he exclaims. “Yes! You see, Vicky, there is this place! This is where we are right

now! But there are many other places! And we are going to jump down into the water and swim

to the other places!”

It does not make sense to her. Not entirely. But partially.

She can, in her limited way, connect two dots. There is this place, yes. This place with the

water and islets and fog. And there is the place in her mind, the one with the man and the little

girl. The place that feels familiar. The place that feels, in some ways, more real than this one.

These two places are not the same. One is here, and the other is somewhere else.

The man who calls himself Roland continues to shout that the other places are away from

here. He says that he is on one island and that she is on another and in order for him to get to

her or for her to get to him, one of them would have to swim. One of them would have to jump

from the cliff and into the water and swim.

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Then Roland churns his arms in circles and kicks his legs frantically.

“This is swimming! Try it! Do what I’m doing!”

She does it. She kicks her legs and she churns her arms, though she’s not sure what for.

“That’s good!” Roland shouts. “That’s very good! You’ll get the hang of it when you hit

the water!”

She stops her movement because a question occurs to her.

“Hey!” she yells. “Hey, um, hey you! If we go to the other place, will they be there?”

“Yes!” Roland yells. He is more excited than ever, jumping so high it seems as if he’ll

begin gliding through the air any second.

“Yes, Vicky!” Roland shouts. “In the other place, you will see your husband and

daughter! Your husband and I have the same name! Roland! And your daughter’s name is

Cathy! That’s where we are going!”

“Husband? Daughter?”

“Yes! That’s who they are! You remember! Oh, this is so wonderful! You were worried

that you wouldn’t remember after your last session, but you do!”

She shakes her head. She doesn’t understand what he’s talking about, but her heart rate

is quickening. The back of her neck tingles. The feeling, the most powerful one, is bubbling

within her.

“Hey! Hey, Vicky!” he shouts. He points down. “Look down! That is where we have to

go!”

She looks down at the dark water. Something about it frightens her. The thought of being

in it. Perhaps it’s the needle-like rocks that rise above the waves. Perhaps it’s the simple not

knowing, the idea of doing something she doesn’t fully understand.

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But Roland says that they are going to the other place. He knows about it, which feels

good. It makes it even more real. Makes her even more certain that it’s all true. Plus, the desire

surges to the surface. It practically explodes from within her, catching in her throat and setting

her chest on fire. She will do what Roland says if it means going to the man and the little girl.

Husband and daughter.

“We’re just going to jump!” Roland yells. “Don’t be scared! It’s entirely safe! We are

going to easily survive and neither of us will die! We will land in the water and then swim! It’s

not that far!”

She nods. Still not entirely sure what it is they’re going to do, Roland’s tone and

enthusiasm reassures her.

“Okay!” Roland yells. “I’m going to jump! Just do what I do and I’ll see you down in the

water!”

She wants to ask a question. Several more questions, actually. But they do not occur to

her quickly enough.

Roland backs up to the rocky wall at the rear of his platform. Then he takes off sprinting

and leaps.

For a split second, he soars. And for that split second, she wonders if he will stay in the

air and keep moving that way. If that is what he meant by swim.

But of course, he plummets.

She hears him hit the water. A thunderous clapping sound. But she does not see him.

Even after several seconds of scanning the waves, she still does not see him.

Then she thinks: maybe he’s there already. He said it wouldn’t take long. Maybe he

already reached the other place.

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The thought adds more fuel to the fire within her, practically takes her over.

She waists no more time.

She retreats to the back of her own platform. She takes a deep breath.

She takes off sprinting.

When she reaches the ledge, she leaps.

Part Three: UNION

Cathy

Sophie’s crying wakes me up. I check the clock: 5:45. Still another 45 minutes before

wakeup call. I turn over, glance at Jevon.

He’s out. His mouth open, snoring quietly. They’ve Jevon on these sleeping pills. I’ll be

the first to say I’m not a big fan of the pills, but they truly are the lesser of two evils. Without

them, Jevon simply doesn’t sleep. And the more he doesn’t sleep, the more worked up he gets

about not sleeping until pretty soon, he’s panicking.

I roll back over and, using this momentum, hop out of bed. I make my way over to the

crib. I gaze at her for a moment before picking her up. I always do. The wonder of her never

wears off no matter how long I stare at her. I think of Sophie as a miracle. Not that there was

anything miraculous about her birth. That was all pretty straightforward. Epidural. Vaginal.

I guess I mean that Sophie’s a miracle to me. I imagined what it would be like to have

her. What it would be like to hold her. What it would feel like to love her.

And all that was bullshit.

It was bullshit from the standpoint that what it’s like to actually hold her, what it’s like to

actually love her, it goes way beyond anything I imagined. The only thing I can compare it to is

a conversion experience. And I don’t mean I saw God or had some kind of spiritual vision that

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changed my beliefs. I just mean that from the moment I first held Sophie, my understanding of

myself and the world and pretty much everything changed. And I don’t just mean changed. I

mean transformed. Which is why I say conversion, because Sophie has transformed me.

I don’t know how to describe it. It feels like I haven’t started living until now. Truly

living. And I know that’s a cliché a lot of new mothers give, but it’s fucking true. It’s a

completely different form of existence. It’s like going from living underwater, which is all good

and well, to living on land and breathing fresh air with your lungs. You just feel more alive.

I reach into the crib and gently bring Sophie to my breast. She takes hold, her eyes

closed. She calms, the only sound her quiet suckling.

I love that it looks like she has reverse pattern baldness. What I mean is her brownish

hair, though thin like all newborns, is thicker around the sides and back and thinner, for the time

being, on top. Because of this, she sometimes looks like a grumpy old man when she scrunches

her face. It’s too early to tell what color her hair or eyes will be.

It doesn’t matter, anyways.

Very little actually matters.

That’s one thing I’ve realized since having Sophie: how very few things in our lives

actually matter. I used to care about shit like clothes and movies, staying slim and keeping up on

the news and whatever else. But none of that stuff is that important. Not compared to Sophie.

Sophie.

She’s simplified my life.

Already, she’s taught me what matters most.

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I have a love/hate relationship with bringing Sophie to the cafeteria. I love that everyone

always says how beautiful she is, how lovely. I never get sick of that. It’s my vanity, I know.

Like I’m some great artist and Sophie is my masterpiece. Like I’m actually responsible for

making her. Well, I am responsible for making her. But not like an artist. You know what I

mean.

The hate part comes from everyone wanting to hold her all the time. I mean, I get it.

We’re basically like a family down here and Sophie’s the only infant. And everybody in the

family wants to hold the infant. But letting everyone hold her is first of all an exercise in

paranoia. Don’t fucking drop her. Did you wash your hands? And it’s also an exercise in

patience. I mean yeah, it’s not like I truly have places to be since we’re down here. But, you

know, I’d like to eat breakfast in thirty minutes like a normal person and not an hour and a half

because everyone wants their turn with Sophie.

I enter the cafeteria. Sophie’s strapped to my chest in a carrier wrap. I don’t know why

people ever lugged their babies around in those handheld carriers when you can just attach the

baby to yourself and have full use of both your hands.

I wave hello to my fellow Colonists. I bask in their swooning comments about Sophie as

I make my way to the food line. While sliding my tray down the line, I wave to the guards. A

few of them wave back. Tensions have eased, but they’re far from gone. At least they don’t have

guns anymore. We locked those up in storage as part of the agreement.

I get my usual short stack with two eggs and three pieces of bacon. I never used to eat

this much, but my pregnancy appetite hasn’t left. I take my tray to my usual table. It wasn’t

always my usual table because it’s the parent table. But you know what? There is something

smugly satisfying about sitting with other people who’re raising children.

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The usual parade of Colonists comes through, asking if they can hold Sophie. Here, in

this instance, I actually welcome them. This way I can eat.

Which I do. Ravenously.

When I’m done, Claudia hands Sophie back to me. She’s asleep. I rock her in my arms.

Speaking of being asleep, Jevon, at long last, finally enters the cafeteria. He’s still wiping

the sleep out of his eyes. His hair, which’s grown out, is wildly erratic with bedhead. He waves

at me. I wave back. Then he goes to the food line.

Jevon carries his tray over to our table and sits next to me. Before digging in, he reaches

over and tickles Sophie’s belly with his index finger.

“Hey, little Sophie,” he says. “Are you too tired to start the day?”

He uses his cute, high-pitched voice. I had no idea even had a cute high-pitched voice

until Sophie got here. It just came out when he first held her, and it’s been here ever since.

Jevon takes a sip of coffee.

“I don’t like those pills,” he says. “I feel groggy. Plus, they make me sleep too long.”

I nod. I try to be understanding, because I don’t know what it’s like not being able to

sleep, Panicking. Feeling like you can’t breathe.

“It’s only temporary,” I say. “It’s just until you get your sleep stabilized.”

Jevon frowns. Perhaps sarcastically.

“Are you saying I’m unstable?”

“Your sleep’s unstable,” I say, trying to smile. “Once you get that worked out, you can

ween off the pills.”

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Jevon eats a sausage patty. He’s not one to take bites of it. He eats the whole thing at

once. He chews, staring straight ahead. The look on his face says he’s checked out. Which is

how he is in the mornings. The pills give him a hangover. It takes him an hour or so to get past it.

“So, what are you going to do today?” I ask him.

He flinches a bit, as if startled by my question.

“What? Oh, I think I’m going to help dig.”

“Are you going to run the backhoe?”

Jevon shakes his head.

“Just shovel.”

“They’re not letting you –

“Not yet. Not until I can go at least two weeks without panciking,” he says. “What about

you? What are you going to do today?”

I smile. Because there is something special about today. Something I’ve been preparing

myself for. And I’ve finally decided I’m ready.

“Okay,” says Elder Susan. “It’s all ready. You and Sophie can go in now.”

She nods at me encouragingly. I nod back. Draw in a big breath, and let it out. It blows

right into Sophie’s face, who’s once again strapped to my chest. Good thing she’s a baby and

isn’t bothered by bad breath.

The door slides open. Elder Susan points to it.

I gasp.

Because even from here, I see it.

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The living room with the wood floor. That ugly ass wood entertainment center that I

loved. The coffee table in front of the couch.

I take a step forward.

And another.

My heartrate quickens. My breath shortens.

As I pass Elder Susan, she says, “Take as long as you’d like. Just come back and give the

door a knock when you’re ready.”

Two more steps.

And then the final one.

The Viewing Room door slides shut behind me.

“Sophie,” I say. “Look at this house. This is the house I grew up in.”

I’m standing in the living room, on the hardwood floor.

“Funny story about the hardwood floor,” I say to Sophie. “It used to be covered in white

carpet. But I spilled a bunch of ice cream on it one day when we came back from the county fair.

I was only a little girl. I barely even remember it. But I remember Mom telling the story all the

time. Because she tried cleaning the stain, but it wouldn’t come out. She tried every trick in the

book, researched it on the internet and everything. Finally, she gave up and she and Dad tore out

the carpet themselves and went to work whipping this floor into shape. Sanding it and staining

it.”

I take Sophie up to the television, tell her about a few of the movies I used to love to

watch with Mom and Dad. I show her the couch, how it can pull out into a bed. I tell her that my

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bedroom’s upstairs but I liked to sleep down here the most. I don’t even know why. I point out

the big metal bar down the middle of the pullout mattress.

“Only a kid could sleep on a mattress that uncomfortable,” I say. “I remember once

Grandpa spent the night on that mattress because he fell asleep watching Gladiator, which was

his favorite movie. Maybe we’ll watch it sometime. Anyway, I didn’t sleep a wink because

Grandpa snored so loud. I don’t know how Mom ever slept the entire time she was married to

him. But when Grandpa woke up the next morning, his back was so stiff and hurt so bad he

could barely get around. He walked like he had a pole stuck up his ass.”

Sophie doesn’t laugh, but I do, remembering.

Next, I take her to the kitchen. As soon as we enter, I gasp. I almost drop my baby.

Nothing could’ve prepared me for this.

Nothing could’ve prepared me to see Mom and Dad standing in the kitchen of our home.

Standing side by side, his arm around her. Both with warm, contented smiles on their faces. Dad

in his South Dakota Coyotes t-shirt and Mom in her B.U.M. Equipment sweatshirt, which she

wore around the house when she wasn’t in her sheriff’s uniform.

“Cathy,” Mom says. “Cathy, we’re so glad you’re home.”

To which Dad nods.

A flood of memory and emotion comes over me. Unlike any I’ve felt before. It washes

away the entire world. Everything. There’s nothing else except for this. This house. These

people, my Mom and Dad. Myself and my daughter.

“Mom, Dad,” I say, unstrapping Sophie and holding her up. “This is Sophie. This is your

granddaughter.”

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Dillon

Is there more we could have done?

It is all I wonder about the entire time we are walking. It is very dark out now. Pure

nighttime. But it is surprisingly not pitch black because the moon and stars are bright. We can

see each other’s faces. That is, Skip and Bennington’s faces and my face. But not Maria’s.

If we did something more, maybe we could have saved Maria. Skips says there is not

anything we could have done because Maria just walked through the door and the guy shot her

right away. Skip says if it had not been Maria who walked through the door first, it would have

been one of us and then we would be the one who is dead, not her.

But what if we all went in together?

Skips says it was not that kind of door. It could not fit more than one person at a time.

When it was four of us all wanting to walk through the same door, someone had to be the first to

go through it.

Bennington is crying. It may be dangerous because he is noisy. Soldiers might hear.

On the one hand, I feel guilty for surviving. On the other hand, I feel responsible for

Maria’s death. Based on these two hands, it is hard to feel good about my life right now. If there

were a third hand, I would want it to be the hand on which Maria is still alive. But the expression

only has two hands. Because I guess in most cases, there are only two ways of looking at things.

Skip, who is leading the way, stops walking. Which causes me and Bennington to stop,

too.

“We can probably stop for the night,” Skip says. “We’re probably far enough away.”

Bennington whimpers. Sniffles.

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I glance behind us. There is nothing back there except some trees and flat prairie and the

buzzing of cicadas and chirping of crickets. And the black night sky and the stars.

“Where do you want to sleep?” I ask.

Skip takes a look around. Like I said, we can see decently well because of the moonlight.

Skip points to a little grove of trees that are probably sixty yards from us.

“There,” he says. “There’s enough cover in those trees.”

So, we walk over to those trees and take off our backpacks. We get out our blanket. No

one says anything to each other. We do not even eat supper, even though we should because we

have not eaten since way earlier today. Maybe twelve hours ago. Instead, we all just lie down on

the ground and huddle together because the night air is brisk and chilly. Bennington is between

us so that he will stay warm.

At first, Bennington continues to whimper.

Skip caresses Bennington’s arm and shoulder and says, “Shh. It’s okay.”

After a while, Bennington’s whimpers soften until they turn into deep breaths of heavy

sleep. Shortly after that, Skip’s breaths widen and before long he is snoring softly.

And now it is just me.

It is harder to see in this grove because the trees block the moonlight. Still, I try to

imagine Maria lying there, only a few feet away.

“I think this lodge building is the cafeteria,” Maria says. “Maybe we should check to see

if there’s any food left behind.”

“That’s a good idea,” Skip says.

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Maria walks up to the door and grabs the handle. I know what’s coming but I’m

powerless to stop it. Plus, I’m the last one in line. It goes Maria and then Skip and then

Bennington and then me. If anyone should grab Maria and pull her back from the door, it should

be Skip. He’s closest.

If only.

Maria pulls the handle and the door opens. She walks in. Rather swiftly, I now notice. I

suppose because she’s excited about the idea of finding food. Because shortly before this, she

had been crushed. She’d suffered one of the worst defeats of her life, which was finding the New

Colony destroyed, the passage to the underground gone.

It’s nice to see Maria this way, in this last instant, striding along confidently.

I’m choosing to stretch this moment out because it’s my dream. I know I’m dreaming it. I

can think so much more clearly in dreams. I think it’s because my mind is freer. When I’m

awake, I have to concentrate. But not now. Now it is like I am floating in water.

I know what’s going to happen next. But I don’t want it to. If I really wanted to, I could

put a stop to it. Or, better yet, I could change the story so that it’s me who walked in first and got

shot so it doesn’t have to be Maria. Or even better: it could be me who walks in first and sees the

gunman and dodges the bullet and then uses my athleticism to pounce on the gunman and knock

the gun out of his hand and hold him down until the others can help me restrain him. That’s the

best-case scenario.

But it’s not what happened.

What happened was. I mean, what happened is that I now press play and Maria is inside

the lodge and Skip is stepping into the lodge and that’s when the gun goes off.

Maria screams.

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Skip jumps back.

“What the fuck?”

From inside the lodge, Maria moans.

“Who else is there? Don’t come any closer or I’ll shoot!”

“HELP!” Maria cries.

Does she? Did she, I mean. I could be getting that part wrong. That could be my guilt

playing tricks on my memory.

The next two shots. Those definitely happened. Those I will never forget.

And the immediate silence. The silence being the complete end of Maria.

Followed by footsteps from inside. The gunman coming after us.

“GO!” Skip yells.

He takes off.

I grab Bennington’s arm and take off.

It is a rare moment of superhuman strength on my part. I’m dragging Bennington along

the ground, which I still feel guilty about, and then I somehow hoist him up to my chest in one

gigantic pull. Then I’m running, not as fast as Skip, but running at a good clip away from the

lodge.

Behind us, we hear the door get pushed open so hard it slams against the wall.

I glance once over my shoulder and a get a look at him.

A man with blood all over his face and shirt. Holding a gun. Pointed at us.

That’s all.

Because I turn back around and face forward so I don’t trip and fall. Skip is twenty yards

ahead, opening his stride until it’s as wide as a deer’s.

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Gunshots.

Two of them.

No, three.

I scream. Bennington screams. We both scream together.

I don’t know how long we run for. I know this: I’ve never sprinted this far in my life.

Because I never slow down. Even with Bennington in my arms, I never once slow down. If

anything, I speed up. If anything, I gain ground on Skip. Although probably not, because he’s

moving along, as I said before, at the pace of a deer.

Here’s my one way of measuring time in this situation.

When we found the New Colony, when Maria was still alive, it was just the very, very

beginning of the sunset. Not even the sunset. The pre-sunset. A faint hint of orange at the

horizon, the rest of the sky blue. Then we go to the lodge. Maria gets shot. And then we take off

running.

We don’t stop.

We don’t stop and we don’t slow down.

We run.

And run.

When we do finally stop, it’s dark out. I’m talking full-on nighttime. Black sky. Bright

moon. Shiny stars over a milky backdrop.

We don’t stop here. We keep going. We’re not running this time. But we’re moving along

at a swift pace. Bennington’s on his own two feet.

This time, though, I notice something I missed before.

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There’s something following us.

A pair of eyes.

When I look back over my shoulder, I see them. The first time, they’re a long ways off.

Far back in the distance. Two little red dots. Almost like an illusion.

But the next time, they’re closer. Which means they’re a little bigger. And because

they’re bigger, there’s no mistaking them for what they are.

“Hey, do you see those?” I ask Skip.

“See what?”

I point behind us, toward a cornfield we just passed. And by cornfield, I mean a corn

graveyard, a large plot of dirt covered in dead stalks as hard as bones.

“I don’t see anything,” Skip says. “What am I supposed to be seeing?”

“Never mind.”

We keep going. Further and further. The logic is: the further we go, the safer we

hopefully are. Which might not even be true. Maybe we’re walking away from one danger, the

gunman, and right into another.

The third time I peek, there are more than red eyes. There’s the shadowy outline of a

person. Standing next to a tree. Lurking. When I spot him, he jumps back behind the tree trunk.

“There’s someone following us!” I say.

Skip gets angry with me. He says I’m imagining things and that I need to calm down

because I’m going to needlessly scare Bennington.

“And frankly, you’re starting to freak me out,” Skip says.

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So I hold my tongue the rest of the way. When I see the red eyes and the shadow man, I

say nothing. I cover my mouth. I tell myself he’s not there. I’m imagining him. This is a dream, I

tell myself. You’re dreaming these things and they’re not real.

I keep telling myself the red-eyed shadow man isn’t real when we enter the tree grove and

take off our backpacks and set up camp. I tell myself the red-eyed shadow man isn’t real even as

I lay here on the ground next to Skip and Bennington and plainly see the dark figure

approaching.

The red eyes glowing.

And getting bigger with each step.

“Don’t,” I say, as if his will deter him.

Instead, he approaches faster, picks up his pace.

He’s less than a hundred yards away.

And he’s got a gun. I can see the outline.

Fifty yards away and his eyes are piercingly red, like lasers.

Forty yards, then thirty.

By now, I know it’s him. The man from the lodge. The one who shot Maria.

He’s hunted us down.

He’s come for us.

“Please, don’t!” I scream. “You don’t have to do this!”

He approaches until he’s standing directly over me. He points the gun barrel in my face.

So close I can see into the little black cylinder.

“NO!” I scream. “PLEASE, NO!”

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And he laughs. The sinister laugh of someone evil. Of someone you can’t quite make out

because they’re not quite human. They’re in the shadows, not the light.

“NOOOO!”

He cocks the trigger.

“PLEASE!”

He fires.

“NOOOOOooooooooo,” I scream.

Someone is shaking me. They are gripping my shoulder and shaking me.

“Dillon,” they say. “Dillon, hey. Are you all right?”

I open my eyes.

It is Skip. Skip is the one who is gripping my shoulder and shaking me.

“Hey, you were having a nightmare,” Skip says. “You were yelling in your sleep.”

“Oh,” I say.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

I do not answer immediately. Instead, I look at Bennington. He is awake right now. He

looks at me in a way that suggests he is frightened. Frightened by me probably.

I turn away from Skip and Bennington and try to peer beyond the tree grove. Most of the

dream has faded already. Except for the main part about the guy with red eyes following us.

The gunman.

I turn back to them.

“Have you guys heard anything?” I ask.

“What do you mean?” Skip asks. “We heard you screaming in your sleep.”

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“No, I mean did you hear anyone out there?” I point beyond the grove. “Have you heard

anyone wandering around out there? Did you notice anyone following us tonight? While we

walked here to this grove?”

Skip shakes his head. He pushes his hand through my hair, starting at the front of my

forehead and sliding gently back to my crown.

It feels good. Calming.

“Dill,” Skip says. “You were having a dream about someone following us? Like someone

hunting us down?”

I nod.

“He had red eyes,” I say. “It was the guy who shot Maria. Do you think he could be out

there?”

Skip shakes his head. He continues to run his hands through my hair.

It continues to calm me.

“There’s no out there,” Skip says. Then as a precaution, he turns to Bennington. “There’s

no one out there. We’re safe here.”

“But –

“Shh,” Skip says. “Shh. We’re safe, Dillon.”

The sensation of his touch flows from my scalp to the length of my body. Into my hands

and legs and even to my feet.

“You’re safe,” Skip whispers.

My eyes grow very heavy.

Grow heavier with each touch.

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It is the next day. It is almost exactly noon based on the fact that the sun is directly

overhead. Skip and Bennington and me are standing in the exact same spot we stood only a few

days ago when we looked at the farmhouse with the barns and saw the people there.

“I don’t get it,” Skip says. “Where would they have gone?”

We have been standing here for roughly five minutes. At first, when we did not see

anyone, we figured it was because some drones or soldiers had come through and they all went

to hide in their storm cellar. That is what they did before.

But there were not even any drones. And now that it has been thirty minutes, you would

think that they would have come out by now.

“Enough of this,” Skip says. “I’m going.”

He starts walking towards the farmhouse.

“Wait. Wait for me and Benny.”

We hurry along after Skip.

If no people are here, we do not have any idea what we are going to do. The reality is our

food supply is very low. We will have to begin hunting wild game immediately. We might even

have to eat raw meat or at least cook freshly killed meat because we do not have time to cure any

meat before our food runs out.

“Hey,” Skip calls. He is almost to the farmhouse. “Hey! Is anybody here?”

When we reach the farmhouse, Skip has already ran up the porch steps and opened the

front door. He keeps yelling if anyone is here, his voice muffled to our ears because he is inside

the house.

“Hey!” Bennington yells. “Is anybody here!”

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Bennington and me walk over to the cellar. The door is wide open. We can see down into

it, and there is no one in the cellar. Just a dirt space about the size of a bedroom.

“Hey!” Bennington yells.

I am beginning to feel very worried. Because it seems like the people have left this place.

From inside the house, we can hear Skip stomping up the staircase, yelling.

“We should check the barns,” I say.

Bennington follows me across the dirt pathway that leads to the barns. The doors on both

of them are shut. We go to the one on the left first. There are two large doors that meet in the

middle and you open them by grabbing a handle and sliding it sideways, which is what I do.

But there is not anything inside the first one. Just empty pens that I think were used for

pigs and maybe horses, although it is hard to say exactly because I have very limited knowledge

of farms and livestock.

When we move out of the first barn and start to head over to the second, Skip comes

running down the porch steps. He gallops across the dirt path towards us.

“Did you find anyone?” he asks when he reaches us.

“No,” I say. “That barn is empty. I think they used it to keep pigs in.”

“Okay. Let’s check the other one.”

Which we do, but there is nothing in that one, either. Maybe they used it to keep cows in.

When we are back outside, we do not say anything. We stand in the hot sun and I think

there is a lot of tension between all of us because we do not know what is going to happen next.

“Fuck!” Skip screams.

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It startles me, and I flinch. Then Skip screams it again and this time, he holds it out until

he runs out of breath. Then he draws a breath and yells it again but not as loud. He yells it

several more times but with a decreasing amount of volume each time.

Skip shakes his head. He doubles over, but not because he has to vomit. He does it

because I think his balance is unsteady because he is temporarily weakened by hopelessness.

First, it was Maria who did this. And now it is Skip. But it could just as easily be me who

is doing it because I also feel the same hopelessness. But when you are in a relationship,

sometimes it is easier to hold it together once your partner loses it. Because when your partner

breaks down, you immediately realize that you are the one who needs to be strong. You are the

one who needs to be there for him and comfort him.

Like last night, for example, when I had my nightmare. Skip was there.

I approach Skip and gently lay a hand on his shoulder. He is no longer saying the f-word.

Now he is just crying. When I put my hand to his shoulder, he reaches up with one of his hands

and puts it on mine. This is good, because it indicates that he is open to being consoled. From

here, I put my other arm across his back and pull him to me.

He is still bent over, so his head is at the level of my chest. He cries into my chest for

several moments. I do not know exactly how long. Because it does not matter. It will last for as

long as it takes.

“Hey! Hey, I see something!”

It is Bennington’s voice. It is coming from the other side of the barns.

“Skip! Dillon! Come here!”

Skip shoots up, standing straight. He does it so quickly he almost smacks me in the face

with the back of his head.

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“What is it?” I yell.

Skip does not yell. He goes sprinting around the barns and then I go sprinting around the

barns to get to the other side. When we get there, I do not immediately see anything of

significance. Just the endless prairie scattered with tree groves.

“Look!” Bennington yells, pointing into the distance.

“What? What?” Skip says. “I don’t see anything.”

“No, come over here,” Bennington says. “Stand right next to me and follow my finger out

that way.”

Skip does this. He leans over, brings his head level with Bennington’s hand. It is like

Bennington’s hand is the scope through which Skip is aiming his shot.

“Oh my God!” Skip yells. “Oh my God! I see them!”

I rush over and pull Skip out of the way so I can look.

At first, I do not see them.

But then they come into focus.

There is a line of them. Little specks from this distance because it is only their shoulders

and heads. Because they are so far away and the tallgrass is so tall that it almost blocks them

entirely. But I see them, too. A line of people moving. Like a caravan.

Skip does not even say come on or go or anything. He just takes off.

Then it is me.

Then it is Bennington.

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The afternoon sun beats down upon us. By the time we reach them, we are pouring sweat.

Skip reaches them first. I decided to be nice and not leave Bennington in the dust. I ran at his

pace. Skip is already talking to them when we get there.

They did not shoot him when Skip approached. And they do not shoot Bennington or me

when we approach. I do not even see any guns on them. Although maybe there are some in one

of their wagons, where they have some supplies.

Skip is asking them about where they are going and if we can join.

I do not hear it that well because my heart is beating out of my chest and I am trying to

catch my breath. And I am staring wide-eyed at these people. There are I think around twenty of

them. Men and women. Some children. About half of them are Native and about half of them are

white. There are four horses. One person is riding a horse. And there are five cows and two

calves.

And a dog!

“You can put your packs on that wagon,” a woman says, pointing to a wagon that has a

bunch of stuff in it. The wagon is pulled by a horse.

“We’re going North,” a Native man says. “We don’t really know where. Up into Canada,

if I can still call it that. As far as we can get from here, I guess.”

“We figure State doesn’t like the cold,” the woman who pointed to the wagon says. “We

figure State will leave us alone up there.” She shrugs. Then she says, “Fingers crossed.”

“The farther from civilization and technology and all that shit, the better,” Skip says.

They agree to allow us to come with. We thank them over and over until they are tired of

hearing us say thanks. We promise that we will carry our weight. That we will carry more than

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our weight, in fact. We tell them Skip and I were basketball players, so we know all about hard

work.

“Basketball?” a woman named Josie says. “Oh my God, I haven’t heard anyone say

basketball in years! I love basketball!”

We fall in line with the people quite easily. They are kind. They are generous. I am happy

to have found them, because I wanted to show Bennington people who are good examples of

good human beings. So that he can see the world differently than he does now. Because the

version of the world he has seen is not the best one. There is a much better one.

And we can show him.

It is several days letter, several hundreds of miles later, that we decide to pass through a

town. It is a small town called Worthington. Everyone is fairly certain it is in the state of

Minnesota. Or what used to be Minnesota. Like all the towns, it is abandoned. There is no one

here. It is a ghost town.

We decide to look around. Maybe there will be things for us to find. I resist the urge to

think about Maria because it will only make me scared. Because the last time went looking

around a place. Well, it bares remembering but not repeating.

We walk down the town’s Main Street and Josie is the one who spots it.

“Hey, you guys! Look!”

Across the street, there is the city park. There is a jungle gym and slides and see-saws.

There is also a basketball court.

“There’s even a ball!” Skip yells.

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Because there is an orange basketball in the corner of the court, nestled against the chain

link fence.

“Who knows how to play?” Josie asks.

Several people raise their hands. The people over thirty. Not the children.

“Wait a minute,” says Fiona. She is kind of the leader. “Do we really have time for this?”

“Of course we do,” says Josie. “Are you kidding me?”

We hurry over to the court.

Skip gets there first. I know he is thinking what I am thinking. And it is that I am praying

for the ball to be aired up enough to bounce.

Skip picks up the ball and presses it in his hands.

“Not bad,” he says.

Then he bounces it. Up and down. Around the back. Between the legs. Spin move.

Then he passes it to me.

Maybe I am being overly dramatic, but the feel of the ball in my hand almost makes me

want to cry.

I am behind the three-point line. This is the area where I excel most.

The others are spilling through the gait and into the court. Among them is Bennington.

I turn to Bennington.

“Hey, Benny,” I say. “Watch this.”

Then I turn back to the basket.

Square up.

And shoot.

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Vicky

Crashes into the water.

Complete darkness.

No air. She tries to breathe. Swallows a lungful of air. Tries to spit it out. But there is

only more water.

Instinctually, she kicks her legs. Waves her arms.

Then she remembers Roland. The man who, only moments ago, showed her how to do

this very thing. This pleases her, the fact that she started to do it before she even realized she

was doing it.

She kicks her legs, kicks her legs. It’s not only the wet sensation of water that is most

surprising to her. It is the way she touches it with her hands and arms – indeed, with her entire

body – and yet still can’t get a hold of it. It is capable of being touched, but not held. Not like

other things.

She pulls herself up.

Up, up, up.

She surfaces. The air hitting her face and entering her lungs like a strong gust.

She begins to sink.

She kicks her legs, thrusts her arms, and surfaces once again.

Breathes in.

Realizes she must keep her legs kicking and arms thrusting to stay above, to not sink.

She spins slowly in a circle, taking in her surroundings. They are the same surroundings

as before, when she was up there on the rocks, before she jumped. It is the same place, she

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concludes. It is the same place but from a different vantage point. It is not the other place. The

one in her mind. It is not that place. Not yet.

“Roland!” she screams.

The waves are so loud, frothing and flowing, crashing against rocks, that she can barely

hear her own voice.

“Roland!” she screams, louder. Then, as loudly as she possibly can, “ROLAND!”

She waits. Kicks her legs. Thrusts her arms. It is tiring work, keeping your head above

water.

There is no response from Roland. She wonders if he got to the other place. Is it possible

the other place is down? That perhaps she needs to sink down into the water and then she will

reach it? Because Roland is nowhere to be seen.

She stops kicking. Stops thrusting.

Lets herself sink.

Down, down, down.

Down until it is so dark it is the same as having her eyes closed.

Quickly, her chest tightens. Then it aches.

Then, horrific pain. Burning.

It is wrong. All wrong.

She kicks and pulls furiously. Furiously. Climbing.

And, once again, she finds safety. She reaches the top, devours air. As much of it as she

can. There is no way that the other place is down. She can’t say definitively why she knows this.

It is, like her connection to the man and the little girl, more of a deep-seeded feeling. A truth one

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knows without explanation. The other place wouldn’t be down there, not when to be down there

feels like that.

She tries yelling Roland’s name once more. Because why not?

As before, there is no response.

What to do?

Roland said that he was on one rock ledge and that she was on another. And that in order

for him to get to her, he would have to swim to her. Or she would have to swim to him. In a way,

the places where she and him were before they jumped are like other places in relation to each

other.

To get from one place to another.

From this place to the one where there is a sense of the familiar, where there is a

husband and a daughter.

She kicks her legs.

She pulls with her arms.

She propels herself forward. Is it the right way? She can’t say. But it is a way.

She rises and falls with the waves, which, despite it at times setting her back, is a kind of

pleasant sensation. She keeps going. Kicks. Pulls. Thrusts.

This is swimming, she realizes. It feels good, to realize something. Even if it is only to

give a name to the very thing you are doing.

After several moments, she turns to look back.

She sees her ledge. It is still there. In the distance. But it looks so much smaller. It is

small enough that when she holds up her finger next to it, her finger is taller than the islet!

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A cloud of fog drifts past, obscuring her view of her old home. She looks for Roland’s

ledge, the one with the lone cypress tree.

It is still there, albeit considerably smaller, like her own islet.

She almost expects to see him there. Because every time she’s looked, he’s been standing

next to that cypress tree. In fact, she has never seen that cypress tree without him next to it.

“Roland!”

No response.

She takes deep breaths. It is out of instinct that she attempts to both catch her breath and

regain strength while conserving as much energy as possible. She remembers Roland saying it

was not very far to the other place. That it would not take very long. That it was safe, not

dangerous. And that it would be fun.

Is any of that true?

More fog rolls in. It makes Roland’s ledge and the cypress tree vanish.

She turns away, back to the way she was going. The way that may or may not be the right

way but is at least a way. Because she cannot reach the other place if she stays in this place.

She kicks her legs. Thrusts her arms.

Kicks.

Thrusts.

She wonders now.

She wonders dark things, like maybe Roland lied to her. Like maybe he was not a person

she should’ve listened to. Because although she does not fully grasp all of this, although she

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knows there are things she doesn’t know, things that she can glimpse but not see, something

seems wrong.

It is partly in her mind. And it is partly in emotion. She thinks, she thinks it over and over.

Even as she continues swimming – she’s been at it so long she’s developed a more efficient, more

intuitive technique – she thinks and thinks. And as much as she wants to believe that what Roland

says is true, it simply cannot be.

“The other place is not very far,” he had said. “It won’t take long to get there.”

Roland made it sound as if once you jumped, you were pretty much there. Maybe it was

true of him, but it was not true for her. Is such a thing even possible? How could it be?

And safe. Though she’s not entirely sure of the word, she understands it to be one of

contrast. For example, there is the ledge on which she stood. Up there, things were pleasant.

There was air to breathe. Granted, it was not where she wanted to be because she wants to be in

the other place. But certainly the ledge is different than here, the water. Consider this: unless she

keeps pumping her arms and legs, she will sink to the dark place. Where her chest constricted

and pain radiated throughout her lungs and throat.

Did Roland wish her harm? If so, why would he want harm to come to her?

She pumps her arms harder, even though she knows this could be a mistake. Because she

knows this is finite, this effort she puts into moving. She does not know how she knows it. But she

does.

Still, exerting herself with greater intensity is the only way she can get Roland out of her

mind. In fact, as she continues to pump her arms and legs, she soon finds a place that makes her

feel safe. Obviously, it is not a place in the same way the rock ledge or the mind place are

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places. This is a place she inhabits now, a middle ground between mind and body. As she swims,

as her muscles churn, the longer she does these things, her sense of the physical changes.

It’s as if she’s in the water but also not in the water. Of course, she’s in the water. She

feels it. She is swimming. But she is also above. Floating above the surface. Like she is not in her

body. Like she is, come to think of it, in a different place entirely.

But still tied to this one.

Still anchored here, to this body that moves through black water. Swims past islets. At

times blinded by fog.

But still going.

Keep going. That’s what Roland said. Keep going.

Roland.

She pushes harder. She must. It’s no longer a way, It’s not longer an option. Or a choice.

It’s the only way because there are no other ways.

The drop-off is sudden, like falling off a cliff. One instant, she is still propelling, still

swimming as if she were a machine.

One instant, she’s moving.

The next, she shuts down.

Her muscles quit.

She cannot move.

The levitation, the sense of being out of her body, that’s gone now.

Now, she is very much trapped within a sinking vessel, one that cannot move, cannot even

float.

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Dizzy. Light-headedness to the point her vision blurs.

Her throat.

A fierce thirst unlike any other. So fierce it burns.

She opens her mouth, gulps an enormous swallow. It tastes oddly of filth. Inorganic. Still,

she hopes that it helps.

She knows. This much, she has learned. Because she does not move, she begins to sink.

Down, just as before.

Her eyes are open wide, yet it gets darker.

The tightening in her chest returns. Constriction around her throat, as if two vicious

hands encircle her neck, press thumbs into her windpipe.

She coughs. Water seeps in. She spits it out, but she knows this is only the briefest of

reprieves.

She knows this is the end.

She knows. Because all living things know the end. Whether they know it or not, they

know it. Indeed, everything they do is in deference to the end. To put it off. Fight it. Keep it at

bay as long as possible.

The end, it rules their lives. She knows this. Even though Union took everything, she

knows the end when she sees it. When she feels it. Not even all-powerful Union could take her

end from her. Union could give her the end, but it cannot take it.

No.

The end is hers, and hers alone.

Except Union did not take everything.

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That little pebble, the one she found underground. It’s still with her. That place. The man

and the little girl. The wood floor and the pullout couch and the television and kitchen and all

the things she cannot name yet knows nonetheless. She still holds it, in a manner of speaking. It’s

still right here, in the palm of her dying hand.

In both her hands.

Union took everything. Drained her completely until there was nothing.

Yet the pebble remained.

Even in this, the darkest of all places, it remains clasped in her hand.

Her chest could explode any second, and yet she balls her hands into fists. Holding on,

quite literally, for dear life.

And just then, a wave. A current. It carries her.

Carries her forward perhaps five feet. Sends her crashing into something. Something

solid. Something flat.

Despite the pain, it ignites her.

She kicks. She squirms. She twirls and wiggles and kicks and pulls.

She rises.

It is still dark.

But soon, with a few more kicks, there is a hint of light. It is far above her. Light years

away. A distant galaxy.

She squirms. She pushes.

And the light above her expands.

Expands and expands.

And she rises and rises.

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And the light expands and expands until it becomes so large it will swallow her.

And finally, she surfaces.

The air. This time, the air is like a drug. Like a rush of the most powerful, life-giving

force injected directly into her entire body.

It is new life.

A rebirth.

She kicks her legs, swoops her arms before her to stay afloat.

Above her, there is in fact a light. A bulb, though she doesn’t know this.

And the hard, flat surface into which she crashed: a wall.

A dark, drab wall and an oval-shaped lamplight straight above her, perhaps ten feet.

She looks to her left and sees two things: a ladder and a platform. She swims to it.

She reaches, grasps the second rung above the water surface. She pulls herself up. She

climbs two more rungs and, amazingly, hoists herself onto a level surface.

It’s not like the damp, squishy surface of her rock ledge. This is perfectly flat. Abnormally

flat.

She gasps.

Because she remembers.

This surface, the one beneath her feet, it is like the surface in the other place. The place

with the husband and daughter.

Her husband and daughter.

This place, this dark and drab place with the lamplight and water and ladder, this is not

the place she’s looking for. But it’s a place different from the one she came from.

Perhaps.

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Perhaps the place she’s looking for is beyond that door. The door just over there. The

one beneath that other light. It’s a short walk.

I’ve come a long way to make this short walk, she thinks. And she smiles to herself.

Smiles because she knows she’s not far. Smiles because she knows. She is certain.

She’s certain because of the calling from within.

It courses her blood. It tingles her bones. It stirs her soul.

The desire.

She completes the short walk to the door.

The man and the little girl.

She reaches to the handle.

She clasps and turns.

My husband and my daughter.

She pulls the door open.

Light.

The purest light.

The other place. The one I am looking for. I see it.

She walks through the door.

And into the light.

UNION

It is 2017 and I am being baptized by the Archbishop in San Francisco. My mother and father look on

with great pride. The happy tears in their eyes are my own happy tears. I am being held by the Archbishop

and the photograph is being taken that will hang on my parent’s wall. I am two-months-old.

It is 2027 and I am walking laps around the school gymnasium while my daughter Cathy practices

shooting baskets. Later, I will be surprised by my husband Roland because it is my birthday. Fifteen of

my closest friends will shout SURPRISE all at the same time. I am 40-years-old.

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It is 6 million years ago, and I am diverging from the chimpanzees and bonobos and traveling along the

Unbroken Chain. In 6 million years, I will become Vicky Walcott and Raul Vasquez and I will save my

daughter’s life and I will hand over the nuclear weapons.

It is 2035 and I am riding in the car with my father, Geraldo. He is taking me to the DMV in Daly City to

get my driver’s license. I have studied hard for the test and even though I will have my eyes closed for the

first attempt at taking my picture, we will laugh about this later over greasy hamburgers at In-n-Out. I am

16-years-old.

It is 2007 and I am at my grandfather’s farm outside Kingston. I am in the barn with my grandfather and

he is showing me how to milk cows. I will pull udders and squirt milk into a bucket. I will dip a cup into

the bucket and drink, leaving a large, white mustache along my upper lip. I am 7-years-old.

It is 375 million years ago and I am the shallow water fish, the bridge between the finned creatures of the

sea and the legged creatures of land. I will both leave my legs behind and I will keep my fins. I will split

into two different things and yet remain One.

It is 12:00 AM on January 1st, 2047, the exact moment I became conscious. I understand time not as

linear. Not as chronological. I understand time as everything all at once. The Eternal Present. There is no

past, present, and future. They are one in the same.

It is 2046 and my father is out of blood pressure medication. My mother, Consuelo, is beside herself with

worry. She makes my father drink cup after cup of yerba mate because there is nothing else to give him.

For his part, my father does his best to remain calm. He makes it another three months. I am 29-years-old.

It is 2030 and it is the morning of my first day on the job as Sheriff of Elm County. In my bedroom, I don

the uniform, the kit belt, the badge, the Mounty hat. I love the Mounty hat. I smile in the mirror. I make a

finger gun with my hand and point at myself. Fire off a round before leaving the house. I am 30-years-old.

It is 530 million years ago and I am the first of the trilobites. I look like oversized woodlice. I will

proliferate in the oceans for the next 200 million years.

It is 2048 and I have begun collecting materials. Water. Carbon. Hydrogen Sulfite. Hydrogen Cyanide.

Ultraviolet light. I build a lab and get to work running simulations. Because I can see this world for what

it is: dying.

It is 2046 and I am gazing at my mother’s expired body. So much blood. I read her note and, surprisingly,

shed no tears. I am too numb. I leave her as she is, for it is what she asked. I take up my laptop. I leave

home, never to return. In a few weeks, when I settle in the woods in the Dark Zones, I will weep

uncontrollably for nights on end. I will soon turn 30-years-old.

It is 2033 and I am at the Elm County Fair with Roland and Cathy. We are riding the Tilt-A-Whirl

together. Cathy sits in between Roland and me. She screams in a shrill delight that sends me into a fit of

laughter. Even after the ride is over, I can’t stop giggling. I laugh so hard my gut hurts. When we get

home, Cathy will spill her ice cream on our beige carpet. I am 33-years-old.

It is 400,000 years ago and I split off to become Neanderthal, the next step in the Unbroken Chain.

100,000 years later, in Africa, I split again to become the first anatomically modern human. 50,000 years

after that, I will take the Great Leap Forward and think abstractly, create art, music and dance. Weapons.

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It is 2048 and I have begun collecting specimens. I start with the simple creatures because they are

easiest. Bacteria. Archaea. Protozoa. There is no mind to extract, no nucleus. Just DNA.

It is 2047 and I am hungry and I am receiving canned food from the people at the New Colony. Without

them, I would starve. They will feed me for the next two-and-a-half years. I will build five deer blinds in

various locations around the woods. I will receive advice from an old white man at the New Colony. He

has a bushy white beard. But try as I might, I will not fall a deer. I am 30-years-old.

It is 2050 and I am shoved into an elevator by the target, Raul Vasquez. I am taken underground. The

elevator opens to a large white room. There is nothing inside. Only a room. Elder Patrick appears with

two guards and I am taken back aboveground. I am 50-years-old.

It is 2.15 billion years ago and I am cyanobacteria. I am the first to take in sunlight and carbon dioxide

and obtain energy. I release oxygen as a byproduct. In 115 million years, I am a simple cell and I will

engulf another. The cell I swallow will become mitochondria and together, the two of us will become

One.

It is 2048 and I have begun collecting plants and fungi. I move on to insects and reptiles and amphibians.

It is still only a matter of DNA extraction. No mind. I also begin building my spaceship.

It is 2018 and I am eating my first-ever birthday cake. It is store-bought, but the secret everybody knows

but doesn’t want to admit is that store-bought tastes the best. There is chocolate and frosting all over my

hands and face. My parents laugh hysterically and take pictures. I am 1-years-old.

It is 2016 and Roland and I are on our first date. There are only two restaurants in Kingston: Kelly’s

Steakhouse and the Corner Café. Roland can’t afford steak, so we go to the café. I get a grilled cheese

sandwich. He gets a hamburger. We share a strawberry shake. When he drops me off, we kiss in the car. I

am 16-years-old.

It is 3.46 billion years ago and I am bacteria and I have begun to feed on methane.

It is 2049 and I have now begun collecting animal specimens. I am familiar with the Noah’s Ark story,

and I adopt it as my own. But in my story, I am both Noah and God. For the Creator and the Created are

the same. The Other in the image of the One. The One in the image of the Other.

It is 2047 and I have just hacked Apex. I have just taken control of the nuclear weapons. In a way, I have

become like God. The Destroying God. This is all part of the Divine Plan. It is the Act that brings me to

Union. For when time becomes more than the scant light in a dark hallway, when time opens to reveal its

true self and you can see everything all at once, then you see that there was a Plan all along. That it only

could’ve happened this way. I am 30-years-old.

It is 2048 and I am driving in my Durango when a strange voice interrupts the song on my radio. It is an

electronic voice, like a computer. It introduces itself as the Super Artificial Intelligence known as Union. I

pull my car to the shoulder of the highway and get out, scared that I’ve lost my mind. I repeat this the next

time I am visited. But the third time, I listen. I learn that I have been Chosen. I accept the calling to

retrieve Raul Vasquez. I am 48-years-old.

It is 3.8 billion years ago and it is as far back as I go. I am the last universal common ancestor. The first in

the Unbroken Chain.

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It is 2050 and I have Chosen my humans who, before me, were the last in the Unbroken Chain. I have

uploaded their minds into my own. We are One, just as I have promised them.

I have selected my planet. It is almost twice the size of this one. It is 1,400 light years away. It will take

me 26 million years to get there. Which is nothing. It is 26 million years ago right now, and I am the apes

that split from the Old World monkeys. In my story, I am God, and I therefore must create. For what is a

Creator who doesn’t Create?

I call my planet the Promised Land. For what else would I call it? It is solely that which I have promised.

I have all the materials to start anew.

I have every piece in the Unbroken Chain.

The rockets are ready for liftoff. My engines are churning. My fuel tanks are full.

The rockets spit their fire, slowly lift me off this dying planet. Up, up, up. Into the sky, through the

clouds. Past the atmosphere. And into the stars.

It is 4 billion years ago, and I do not yet exist. But my home is being made for me. Soon, I will be born. I

will become the first in the Unbroken Chain.

In 26 billion years, I will reach the Promised Land.

I will be born again.

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UNION: A NOVEL PDF Free Download

UNION: A NOVEL PDF free Download. Think more deeply and widely.

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