The Release

Текст добавлен: 10 октября 2016, 06:40

Текст книги "The Release"

Автор книги: Shelbi Wescott

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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

Lucy hoisted her bag into the basket—a woven undercarriage that looked like it was designed to fit six or more people—and Grant followed suit. He helped her climb in and Lucy oriented herself on the inside. She could feel the heat of the burners only feet away.

She was suddenly terrified.

“Grant—” she started and then stopped. What use would questioning do now?

He must have read her face. “We’ve already done the hard part,” he said, allowing a smile. “My uncle let me fly before when we’ve been up alone. I’ve never put a balloon together before by myself. So, that was kinda cool,” He ran his hand through his hair and broke into a proud grin.

Darla’s eyes scanned the landscape and then she checked the watch on her wrist.

“No time for heartfelt goodbyes you two. Here,” she reached into her waistband and pulled out one of the handguns. She reached up and handed it to Lucy. “And Grant’s already got one of the guns packed. Be wise.”

“For a world mostly empty…there sure are a lot of dangers,” Lucy said.

“Curb the philosophizing for when you’re flying,” Darla suggested. “The world’s no different than it’s always been. Maybe you just never saw the danger before, but it was always there. Now go you two.”

Grant climbed into the basket next.

Lucy looked at Darla, who started to work on releasing the lines. “Darla—”

“I got it kiddo,” Darla answered. “I’ll take care of him. I promise.”

“Thank you,” Lucy said to her and she put her hand over her heart.

Then Darla let the last line free and Grant blasted the burner. Up they rose, straight over the barn and the house and into the mild morning wind. Lucy had never been afraid of heights, so she peered over the edge, her hands gripping the basket and watched as Darla’s shape shrank. The phhhhsssshhh of the burner carried them upward and upward and Lucy’s mind drifted to a particularly imbedded memory from her childhood: Losing a birthday balloon into the sky and begging her parents to follow it.

“We’ll catch it when it lands,” she had begged.

Her mother stroked her hair. “Baby girl…when it lands, the balloon will be all out of helium. It won’t be the balloon you want anymore. We’ll get you another one.” But she hadn’t wanted another one, she wanted that one and she couldn’t quite understand why that wasn’t possible.

As the hot air balloon rose, Lucy had the feeling that they were staying still, rooted in one place and that the world pulling away from them. The revelation dizzied her and she pushed back a bit from the edge.

“You okay with flying?” Grant asked, not taking his eyes off of the gas tanks, watching their height.

“Uh-huh,” she said and nodded. When she had regained her composure, she peered down again and let out a small gasp.

The world below was marked with the evidence of its destruction.

Fires still smoldered in the distance. The roads were littered with abandoned cars with open doors. Small lumps and shapes dotted the landscape and Lucy could only assume they were bodies. As they had walked along the roads and parks and backyards, she had seen the devastation, but to look down on it from the sky was different. Here were miles of bodies. Not just snapshots of a scene, but a full picture of an entire city laid waste.

“How high will we go?” she asked and Grant closed the burner lid, reached into his pack and pulled out a bottle of shaving cream. Leaning over the edge, he sprayed the cream and watched as it traveled in the wind. Then he surveyed the landmarks and he clicked his tongue.

“Southeast.”

“That’s the way the wind is blowing?”

“Yes.”

“How far will we go?”

“Until I can’t fly it any longer or until we run out of fuel. I’m determined to get us as far as I can.” He paused. “You ask a lot of questions.”

Lucy took another look out over her beloved city. The buildings of Portland were off in the distance. She could recognize their distinct, postcard-worthy shapes. The city itself was quiet, abandoned, but it was still there—a picturesque skyline, the west hills in the distance, the river bifurcating the east from the west. If Lucy wanted to, she could’ve tried to convince herself that her fellow Portland residents were slow to wake, that they were just bumbling along sleepy-eyed, half-awake, shuffling through another day. From above the ground, it was hard to notice the difference between a slumbering city and an annihilated one.

But then she gasped.

“All the bridges are gone,” she whispered.

“Are you sure?” Grant asked and he walked over to her side.

“Yes. Look.”

He boosted them up higher with a blast of propane to give them a clearer look.

“My God.”

Wreckage jutted out of the lapping waves of the river. Submerged cars bounced and bobbed. Up and down the waterway were mounds of twisted metal and each and every bridge was gone—only remnants remained. Portland was a city known for its bridges and now there was nothing to look at but rubble.

“The bombs we heard. They were taking out the bridges. What does that mean?”

Grant stared at the debris, the absence of something they had taken for granted as they journeyed from one section of the city to the other. “To trap people, I suppose. Isolate the neighborhoods. Contain a virus that was uncontainable. Or maybe…just to destroy.”

It was only then that Lucy noticed the full extent of their city’s devastation. She could see the marina and capsized boats and the other vessels adrift on the Willamette River without a captain, unmoored and unanchored. Her eyes traveled to the tram—a bullet shaped vehicle that transported patients, doctors, and tourists to Oregon Health Sciences University. It was suspended above the trees, stopped midway up the track, and it swayed gently with the wind. Someone had written HELP in lipstick on the windows and a crack on one of the windows indicated someone had tried to break through the glass.

She looked away. With the horrors of the school still fresh in her memory, Lucy’s hand shook with the understanding that her own personal terrors were only one small glimpse, one small moment.

The ethereal quality of their ride, combined the visual confirmation of the mass genocide was overwhelming.

“This is like floating…up here,” Lucy whispered as they turned around 360-degrees, slowly, and her eyes surveyed the blue on the horizon and the glory of Mt. Hood in the distance. “All this beauty. Our world is so amazing…and yet…”

“I’m going to concentrate,” Grant interrupted and brushed by her back to the center of the basket. But he only stood there, his eyes outward, his arms by his side, his right hand clutching the bottle of shaving cream.

Lucy watched him and she bit the inside of her lip. “Can you imagine? If you’re a survivor and you look up in the sky today and see a hot air balloon floating past? It would be dreamlike, I suppose. Surreal.”

Grant didn’t answer.

“Grant?”

He didn’t turn toward her, but he lowered his head. “Survivors?” he called back. “This was done to us so there wouldn’t be any survivors. We aren’t meant to be here.” Then after a moment, he added. “No, well. Maybe I’m just not meant to be here.”

“Don’t say that,” Lucy said.

“It’s true, though,” he replied. Then after a moment, “What do you think we’ll find in Brixton, Nebraska?”

“Nothing, maybe.” She waited, then added “or everything.”

The balloon spun and drifted and Grant boosted them higher up. They followed the path of the river and at this height, the tragedies beneath them were easier to ignore.

“Thank you,” Lucy said after they had ridden in silence. He raised an eyebrow. “For coming with me.”

Grant set the shaving cream on the floor of the basket and rubbed his eyes with both hands. Then he smiled, his single-dimple appearing for a brief second. He reached his hand out and Lucy grabbed it. It was an awkward, sideways grab, and she felt how cold and clammy his hand was and the small tremors from his fingers vibrated against her palm. She gave his hand a squeeze and he squeezed back, pinching her fingers down upon each other.

“Together,” he said and his eyes scanned the horizon. “Whatever happens now…we’re together. You’re not alone. You need to know that, Lucy.”

She nodded, biting back tears. “Together,” she repeated. Then she closed her eyes and realized that she could not feel the wind or hear anything beside the hum of the balloon drifting effortlessly into the vast unknown. Lucy thought of her sister and her brothers and she saw their faces as she left them that fateful morning, poised and ready for adventure. Then she thought of her mother.

Strong. Resilient.

And waiting for her.

Lucy opened her eyes toward the horizon and intertwined her fingers with Grant’s and held his hand until she could no longer tell where her hand started and his hand stopped. With her other hand, she grabbed the crucifix and held it inside her palm, pulling the chain tight against her neck.

“Together,” she said again. “Wherever this takes us.”

“Whatever happens.”

“No matter what.”

END OF BOOK ONE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

As a reader, I really love the acknowledgments page. It’s like a writer’s Academy Award speech, except no one can play you off with an orchestra and you are likely thanking people who helped you while you are still wearing pajamas instead of a fancy ball gown. And that’s the thing about writing; I can just tell you that I’m writing this in a beautiful bright yellow Oscar de la Renta dress and you could believe me. But you shouldn’t. I am clearly in sweat pants and a maple syrup stained t-shirt.

Here we go:

First of all, thank you Kevin. Thank you for hating every single book I tried to get you to read when you were in the ninth grade; thank you for your never ending barrage of fourteen year-old opinions and your challenge disguised as an insult: “Ms. Wescott, I bet even you could write a better book than this.” Challenge accepted. I hope I did okay. Sorry it took four years, but I’d like to think this is a pretty unique graduation gift. Plus, I feel like I’ve offered you a very cool pick-up line for college girls, “So, my freshman Reading teacher wrote a book for me. You wanna go out?” Now that I wrote that down, I realize that you can probably think of better pick-up lines, but that is why I wrote a book about people dying of a virus instead of a book about pick-up lines.

To every other student of mine at Centennial High School, past and present: I didn’t become a teacher because I liked to hear myself talk about The Great Gatsby. I went into teaching because I think there is something special and amazing and powerful about teenagers. That little speech I give about being your teacher and your mother? It’s true. Thank you for indulging me by letting me name characters after you and for stealing gossip from your own life and giving it to the people in my fictitious high school. Thank you for being early readers and being honest about what worked and what didn’t work for you. Thank you for your excitement and for forcing me to finish when I was tired and didn’t think I had it in me. I’m especially grateful to my creative writing students, who inspire me with their own talents, and to the Talon staff who believed in me first.

Book Club: You are more than a book club. You are my best friends, my confidants, my support, and my lifeline. You are readers and thinkers and you are my biggest cheerleaders; you challenge me personally and professionally and have proven that there is nothing in this world better than amazing female friendships. Without hyperbole I can tell you that I don’t know where I’d be without you all. I’ve decided that the best decision I can make in my life is protecting my heart. I give my heart to you without reservation or regret. Book Club is the best thing I’ve ever done. Thank you. Words are not enough. But from the bottom of my heart, thank you: Allison, Christy, Claudia, Lorrie, Melissa, Molly, Sunshine, Suzy, and Toni. (I know that Sunshine needs a specific shout-out for forgoing sleep to give me honest feedback that forced me to admit to my semi-colon problem.)

Nicole—we are the dynamic duo. Thank you for reading this first and championing publication. And thank you MOST for thinking of a title. Otherwise this would be called “Swimming Pool Full of Dead Teens” or “Trapped in a School with an Evil Principal” and no one would want to buy it ever. Your questions were the catalyst for major changes that made this book FAR BETTER than it was before and I am eternally grateful that I work with you and can call you a friend. Rana—your laughter and willingness to love me, despite knowing all my deepest and darkest secrets, is the best gift. Thanks for letting me put this book into your student’s hands.

(Is this where the orchestra starts? Don’t play me off! I have more!)

Mom and dad: When I told you at age four that I wanted to be an Arthur and you thought that I meant I wanted to be an aardvark, but then you realized I meant author, you have always told me to go for it. You let me wake you up at 3am to read you things I was excited about and you always pretended it was the best stuff ever, even though I’m pretty sure you were sleeping when I read it and only woke up when I asked, “What do you think?” Thank you for raising my brothers and me to be creative, musical, and passionate. Dad, thank you for the jazz music and the introduction to Science Fiction. Mom, thank you for reading everything I’ve ever written. Thank you for being a voracious reader of other people’s books and saying more times than I can count, “You could’ve done that book so much better” even when it was very clearly not true. But that’s what moms are for. Also, THANK YOU for never censoring my reading material, especially when I was in junior high and all I wanted to do was stay up really late and read Stephen King books.

I will be forever grateful to Samantha Lynn for saying, “Um, my mom wants the next chapter right now” and it kept me writing. Thank you to Sam’s hotel bar at the Monarch for providing a mostly-quiet place to work without distraction. Thank you to all the screenwriters who write the amazing television shows and movies that get me excited to tell my own stories! Deborah Reed, thank you for offering me the encouragement I needed to try this publishing thing on my own. Thanks to Carin for your unbridled enthusiasm and cheerleading; I’m sorry sending you new chapters as I wrote them crashed your phone. And a huge thanks to the creative community to which I belong—I have supportive and awesome and exceptionally talented friends. I don’t deserve you, but I’m grateful you exist.

Lastly (as they push me off stage): To my little family. Matthew, Elliott and Isaac. In the event of a disaster, we will be together—fighting side-by-side. Actually, no, that’s inaccurate. I will fight and Matt will be the comic relief. Elliott, you are my gifted storyteller. My heart bursts with love and admiration whenever I listen to you telling me a story you created. You are my inspiration. Isaac, you are so funny and your snuggles make all my hard days better. You don’t understand why mommy is busy and doesn’t want you hitting the keyboard. I’m sure your additions would’ve been spectacular, but readers usually get confused when sdhjdf;lksdf is in the middle of a sentence.

I love you all. I am loved. I am blessed. I thank God for this journey. And I’m ready to start the next adventure.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Dedication

1PROLOGUE

2CHAPTERONE

3CHAPTERTWO

4CHAPTERTHREE

5CHAPTERFOUR

6CHAPTERFIVE

7CHAPTERSIX

8CHAPTERSEVEN