Текст книги "The System"

Автор книги: Shelbi Wescott

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Текущая страница: 20 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

Everyone turned to him and stopped. Scott put his hands out toward Huck, pleading.

“You having a change of heart?” Huck asked with a sneer.

“Bring back Ethan and the child,” Scott answered. Then he looked to the ground.

For a long moment, the room was quiet. The room hummed and then Huck turned to Scott. “You heard him. Ethan and the boy. No other survivors. Are we clear?”

“Yes, sir,” the General replied. “We’ll kill the mother and any other survivors on sight. Bring back the boy and the child. Easy.”

“You are dismissed. Let me know when you leave and I expect a full debrief when you return,” said Huck and with a nod the General spun and left the room.

After the door had shut behind him, Huck turned to Scott. “You’re weaker than I predicted.”

“I know.”

“I believed more of you.”

“It was a momentary lapse.”

“This child will be your responsibility…”

“Of course,” Scott mumbled. He had no idea how Maxine would react to him adding a seventh child to their brood. But he rested in the comfort that she would stand by his side in the decision to bring the boy back. He didn’t know why he felt compelled to offer the boy a chance at life. Something inside of him couldn’t stomach the idea of killing another child. His hands were bloody enough.

“I do admire your compassion,” Huck continued, slumping down into his chair. “Don’t get me wrong. You are an admirable man, Scott…but in times of great war and great change, there are hard decisions. The end will justify the means, I believe that and so do you. We have a cause and we have a plan. Do not waver, and do not hesitate. Remain strong.” He put out his hand, palm down, and motioned for Scott. He reached, grabbing Huck’s hand in a side-shake.

“Of course,” Scott replied again and he tried to pull back, but Huck held on.

They stood there, with outstretched arms, Huck locked on to Scott.

“You are one of my most trusted colleagues,” Huck continued. He looked close to tears, his chin wobbled. “It hurts to think you didn’t trust that I would take care of you.”

“I’m sorry.” Scott looked to the floor. He admired the brown speckled carpet. He could still feel Huck watching him, assessing his every move. And Scott felt his hand go cold. The prolonged handshake felt more ominous the longer it continued.

Then Huck released him and Scott hesitated for a second before letting his hand drop to his side.

“I will let you know when the planes leave,” Huck added with mechanical and businesslike air. “We shall welcome Ethan home like the prodigal son. And we shall spin the story of the child…we’ll find a way. Leave the details to me.”

Scott nodded. Frozen.

“And…Grant…our stowaway,” Huck said as a reminder. “I expect to be notified when the results are in. And continue to work on our second virus. No matter the outcome with Grant, I still intend to follow-through with a second release. I won’t take any chances before we move to the Islands. Do you understand? I’m done cleaning up all of your messes. Lucy. Grant. Ethan. This child. Make it right or suffer the ultimate consequence. Is that clear enough, Scott?”

With his eyes steely, cutting into Scott like a saw, opening him piece by piece, Huck sat in his chair. He turned his body away, and after a lingering moment of awkward silence, Scott nodded, turned, and let himself out. Once in the hallway, a safe distance from the man he had followed into the underground System, Scott took a shaky breath. He put his hand out against the wall to steady himself and let all the ramifications of his choices wash over him.

He knew what he needed to do next.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Cass and Lucy sat on the couches in the Center and watched the others around them with idle curiosity. They looked like the picture of teenage apathy: faces drawn in tight-lines, nary a smile in sight, their slender legs hanging over the edges of the cushions, swinging and bouncing to imaginary music.

While the energy of the other System occupants filled the room with the sound equivalent to a hive of tireless bees, the girls sat in silence. A book from the lending library, next to the movie theater, lay open on Lucy’s lap, open and cracked along the spine. She tried to read and reread the first paragraph at least a dozen times, but her mind drifted to her breakfast with Huck, her fight with her family, and her last moments with Grant. Everything continued to slip into an even more unreal version of itself and Lucy just closed her eyes and tried to pretend that she was back at her real home, in her own gym at Pacific Lake; in this reality Salem was by her side, and they were listening to the boys play basketball during lunch.

She had just captured the perfect level of transcendence, when she felt the shift around her; there was a disruption in her daydream. Lucy opened a single eye and saw her father standing a few feet away, watching her.

Cass didn’t move from her spot on the couch. She too looked up at their visitor and before she could say hello, she yawned, covering her mouth with the back of her hand.

“Good afternoon, Mr. King,” Cass said. “Pop on down for a bit of darts?” she added with a wink.

“Lucy?” Scott questioned ignoring Cass’s question, and Lucy rolled her head to look at him. “I was heading to the lab…” he paused and ran his fingers through his hair, then he looked to Cass and then back to Lucy. “Do you want to come with me?”

Swinging her legs down off the edge, Lucy turned. “To see Grant?” She caught a glimpse of her friend in the corner of her eye, who offered her a sly smile.

Her father nodded.

She pivoted again and looked at Cass for permission, and the bubbly beauty blew her a kiss.

“Amuse-toi bien,” Cass said. “Give the boy an extra hug from me…from a friend he’s never met,” she added. And Lucy swung off the couch, her book tumbling to the ground. Tossing it back to the couch, she reciprocated the air-kiss – smacking her hand and waving goodbye to Cass. Lucy’s heart pounded with excitement and an ounce of trepidation—could this be the moment she had hoped for? Had Huck’s words carried any power with her father? Or was her father merely allowing her a proper goodbye? She reserved celebration until she knew for sure, until Grant was free.

“Does this mean what I think it means?” Lucy asked her father as she walked over to him. She tugged on the back of his shirt. “Does it?”

“I need to examine some results,” was all her father said and he led the way, picking up his pace. Lucy skipped to keep up. They exited the gym area and made it halfway down the hall before he slowed his stride.

“Dad—” she continued to press, and Scott spun: he looked so tired and weary, that Lucy hesitated. There were dark circles under his eyes that she had never seen before and his hair seemed peppered with gray. His cheeks were sallow and saggy. She realized that he had aged more in a month than in an entire decade. He seemed like a mere shadow of the man she remembered from their life in Portland. And Lucy’s throat went dry and she started to speak, but no words came out.

Her father had always been a handsome man. She was young, in elementary school, when she first noticed the way people looked at him—as if his ruggedness, his youthful face, seemed out of place with the rest of his life. They watched him—the attractive scientist, with the ever-growing family—and talked about him behind his back. Then he’d speak, and he’d fumble a joke, refuse a handshake, his neuroses glaring to those who knew him best. It was those small details of her dad that made him so special to her. So real.

Her hero. Her rock.

And he ruined everything.

In an instant, he was nothing like the man she thought raised her. Somewhere, deep down, the Scott King she idolized was still living and breathing beneath the shell, but something else had taken him. He was lost to her.

It seemed like a lifetime ago when she was sitting in Wyoming, playing with the flowers, reluctant to leave the beauty and tranquility of the mountains to join a family forever altered. Deep down, even then, she knew this would happen. Seeing him, facing him, accepting him. She couldn’t forgive him.

Scott opened his mouth, as if he were to tell her something, then he stopped and turned his head. He measured the way she was looking at him. And his face fell. Then it flashed, with something unrecognizable: fear or scorn, confusion or anger. She braced herself for scolding; prepared for him to unleash the deluge of his pent up emotions. But instead Scott took giant steps back to her and without warning enveloped Lucy in a hug, wrapping his arms around her shoulders.

“Dad,” she whispered, but Scott hushed her.

She sunk into him. They stood for a long moment in the hallway just holding each other—a few people scooted around them on their way to the elevators or into the Center, but neither of them minded. Scott pulled back and held Lucy out from him at arm’s length, his hands still on her shoulders.

“There’s something I have to say—” he started.

Lucy looked at the ground and pushed her eyes shut; she tried not to cry. When she looked up, she saw the worry on her father’s face. “Just say you’re sorry,” she whispered.

He flinched at her words and then he drew her back into him. “I’m sorry,” he replied. “There are so many things I wish I could explain. But please know…I never wanted to hurt you.”

“Will you save Grant?” she asked next, her cheek still pushed against her father’s chest, his heartbeat thumping in her ear.

There was a period of prolonged silence and Lucy could taste the apprehension in the air. Her father wasn’t convinced Grant was worth saving? Or: he was simply scared. It dawned on her in that moment how fear was the ultimate motivator and perhaps she had spent so much time angry with her dad that she hadn’t been able to recognize his own worries. Still, Lucy didn’t fully understand, and couldn’t rationalize how there was any other option. He had to free Grant.

“Yes,” he answered. “I will save him.” Then he paused and shook his head. “No, that’s not right. We will save Grant. Or rather, I will save Grant because of you.”

Lucy was afraid to move, afraid to breathe. She was afraid to think that this was just another trick before she encountered another setback.

But her father leaned down closer and tucked a piece of her blonde hair behind her ear. “Don’t worry, kiddo. I haven’t caught the ball yet.”

Lucy threw herself into her father’s chest and smiled into the folds of his soft, cotton shirt.

They stood and watched as Scott gathered up the files. He spread them out over the metal bed and shook his head. He flipped through pages and pages of data, examining and crosschecking, mumbling to himself. Lucy watched, but she knew better than to say anything. Grant, released from his closet, stood by her, his hand intertwined with hers. His Romero poster had been rolled up and Grant carried it under his arm. He had asked Scott if he’d have to give the poster back, but Scott had only laughed in reply. Unwilling to part with it, he held it to his body with such force that his bicep began to ache.

“Well,” Scott finally mumbled. He turned back to the kids and gave them a weak laugh. “Here’s to undoing some science.” Gathering back up the papers, Scott walked over to the counter. He opened the lower cupboard and searched around until he found a box of matches. Then walking over to the sink, he lit the match and began to burn the papers. Letting it ignite, he then ran the water over the flames, creating an ashy, chalky mess. One by one, paper by paper, he destroyed everything in Grant’s file.

“It’s genetic then,” Grant said when Scott was done.

Lucy’s dad picked up the remains of his work and plopped the soggy mess inside a plastic container. Then he shoved the plastic container into the bottom of one of the freezers. And he shrugged.

“Without another comparative sample, it’s all conjecture. But yes. I think your immunity is inherited.”

Lucy turned to Grant and searched his face. They seemed to all understand the ramifications of that analysis immediately: both within the System and beyond its walls.

“Does that mean? Could he be…” Lucy started, but Grant gave her hand a squeeze, silencing her.

“Look,” Scott said to them, his face intense. “Listen to me carefully. Repeat this…repeat it in your head, imprint it on your heart…you can never utter those words again. Your immunity has no known cause. You are a miracle.”

“I understand,” Grant said. “If he thinks there are others like me, he’ll use me to get to them. Right, I know.” He nodded once, his eyes on Scott—an understanding passed between them.

“He may use you to get to them anyway, Grant. But this is your only hope. Say it, please,” Scott instructed.

“I am a miracle,” Grant echoed. He turned to Lucy and grinned, flashing his teeth in a brilliant smile.

Scott clapped Grant on the back. “Just keep telling yourself that. Let it sink in.”

“No, I got it, Mr. King,” Grant nodded. “I’m a miracle. Back from the dead.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Ainsley ran her hand over Ethan’s forehead. She wiped his bangs off to the side, but some of the hairs stuck to the sweat. His cheeks were flush, red and splotchy, and he moaned with each exhale; there was a throaty growl with murmurs of pain. The house was quiet and waiting, each of the survivors entering the den at intervals to take a turn to sit with him. He’d deteriorated rapidly in the last few hours, slipping into a state between sleep and wakefulness. Occasionally he’d mutter something, and once Darla heard him call for his sister, Lucy.

It pained her to hear him. Lucy and Grant had been gone for weeks now, but it felt like so much longer.

Ainsley turned to Darla, her look a cross between weary and pleading. Her mother walked into the room holding a new array of drugs raided by Joey, she counted pills into her hand and sighed. It wasn’t enough.

“Mom,” Ainsley said turning to Doctor Krause. “You have to do something. Tell me those will help him.”

But Doctor Krause just closed her eyes. “Don’t you think I’m trying? We’re doing everything we can do. I’m not electing to neglect my Hippocratic oath here…I’m trying.”

“He has to live, Mom,” Ainsley rose to her feet. She walked over to her mom with clipped steps and she grabbed her by the wrists. Doctor Krause startled and dropped a bottle, the pills spilled to the floor. “We came here to save him. So, save him.”

Darla, sitting at the desk, turned away. She had lost all of her energy and all of her fight. In some ways, it was encouraging to see Ainsley take up the cause. The girl still wanted to take on the world while Darla was ready to beat a hasty retreat from the stress and angst of a home waiting for death. She looked at the spilled pills and wished for someone else to make a move to pick them up.

“I can’t help him anymore,” the doctor admitted and pulled away from Ainsley’s grip, but then she reached back out, and her daughter walked away from the outstretched hand. “Without the proper medicines or care…what can I do, Ainsley?”

“He can’t die,” Ainsley said. She looked straight at her mother, “We made it this far. He can’t die now.”

Dean entered the room. He looked down at Ethan and scratched his temple. “Can you make him more comfortable at least?” he suggested. “It’s a shame. He seemed like a good kid.”

“Don’t you dare use the past tense,” Ainsley seethed. “If we can get his fever down…if Darla or Joey can do another run for antibiotics. We can search more houses…”

“Stop,” Doctor Krause said. She leaned against the bookshelf.

“We’ve pilfered through everything in our radius,” Darla added. “Some of the things on the shopping list just don’t exist.”

“What? There’s only one hospital? One pharmacy? Please,” Ainsley rolled her eyes. “I feel like I’m the only one who is still trying.” She pointed a finger at Darla. “Don’t make excuses just because you’re tired.”

“Damn right I’m tired,” Darla replied and she lifted her legs and rested them atop the desk. “But could we stop with the pity party? I cared about that kid long before you showed up.”

“Dean is right,” said Doctor Krause in a loud voice and Dean turned at the mention of his name. “Making him comfortable is the most important thing.”

“Mom—” Ainsley challenged. But her argument was cut short by the sound of the front door slamming shut. Spencer rounded the corner, and he banged his hand against the door to the den for emphasis.

“Quiet!” he yelled, putting a finger to his lips. “Everyone shut up.”

The group turned to him.

Joey appeared on the landing from upstairs, fresh from an afternoon nap. His brown hair stuck up in a clump along the crown. He stretched and yawned; then his head slowly rose and he peered at the ceiling. His hand rose and he pointed. Then he opened his mouth to say something, but Spencer raised his hand to silence him.

“It’s them,” Spencer whispered. “I thought I heard a plane overhead about an hour ago. But now…”

“Helicopters,” finished Dean.

Spencer nodded. “Two. From the west. And close.”

After months of silence—no sirens, no engines, no roar of engines in the sky—the whirl of the helicopters was upon them and they were as loud as a clap of thunder in a Midwestern storm. It was difficult to hear anything else.

“How do we know it’s them? The Nebraska group?” Doctor Krause asked in a whisper.

“Who else could it be?” Spencer spat and he reached for his gun, checking it and readying it. “Go. Go. Everyone into position.”

Ainsley hesitated and looked between Ethan and the group. “Let me stay with him,” she begged Spencer. “Please let me stay with him.”

“Positions!” Spencer yelled again and as the helicopters gained ground.

“I want to stay—” Ainsley tried again, approaching Spencer, her curly hair flying.

“We had a plan. And you will honor the plan,” he said in a hushed voice. Then he raised his gun at her and held it steady. “Non-negotiable.”

Joey rushed into the closet bedroom upstairs and grabbed the sleeping Teddy. Tucking the child into his arms, he bounded down the steps.

“What’s happening, Mama?” Teddy said sleepily.

Darla took her son from Joey and kissed his head.

“Buddy, remember what we talked about? You and Ainsley are going to hide in the dark for a bit. It’s a game and you need to stay quiet,” Darla said to him, her voice catching. She swallowed and watched as Joey and Spencer moved their arsenal of weapons into reach. Darla shook her head. “I love you. Be good.”

“No,” Teddy whined. “I want to stay with you.”

“You can’t, Theodore. You can’t stay with me. It’s dangerous.”

Ainsley walked up to Spencer and touched his arm. “Please,” she said in a whisper. “My mom can sit with Teddy. He’d want me to stay. I want the chance to go with him…it’s only fair—”

Spencer raised his gun. He held it steady against Ainsley’s head, pushing the metal barrel between her brows. She flinched and a single tear rolled down her face; her breathing became rapid and unsteady. The whirl of the helicopters had died down. Close-by the enemy had landed. Ainsley stared down into the barrel of Spencer’s gun, and she took a step backward. Then without another word she grabbed Teddy’s hand and together they rushed into the basement.

Darla watched her son until he had disappeared. She gripped the banister tightly, and pressed her eyes closed for a single second, before spinning around and sprinting upstairs to the second-story.

Spencer’s plan was detailed. It involved a meticulous action plan, and each of their roles had been drilled into their heads. Spencer and Dean’s incessant distrust had seeped into daily conversations and during their days and evenings they plotted against this unknown enemy who they singularly held responsible for the death of mankind. Only Darla, fueled with loyalty for Ethan, challenged the plan. But in the end, she was outvoted and outnumbered and tired of feeling like she was the only voice of dissent, she abandoned her rebellion and settled into her role.

It was a simple course of action: Spencer would put himself front and center. Joey would act as his backup. They would lead or keep the enemy in the front yard, where Darla and Dean, positioned as snipers in the upstairs windows, would respond to any act of insurgence by unleashing violence upon them. Ainsley and Teddy would hide in the fruit cellar until given the all clear.

Ethan, unable to be moved, would stay in the den, with Doctor Krause by his side.

Spencer’s entire plan was to negotiate Ethan’s release. Darla saw the flaws in this logic: it made the Oregon survivors enemies from the start and assumed that those coming from Nebraska were both terrorists and reasonable negotiators.

Now, with Teddy gone from sight and the impending threat bearing down on them, Darla felt more than just anxiety crawl across her skin—her instincts told her to run, hide, leave everyone else to deal with this on their own. She and Teddy could make it on their own out there. There was a small wooden door in the basement that opened up to the backyard; she could easily leave Dean, overpower Ainsley, and take her child and run.

She couldn’t. Despite the growing anxiety, Darla was loyal.

Reluctantly, she took her position in the upstairs bathroom, arranging the blinds at an angle and scanning her vantage point.

“I’ll be right next door,” Dean said by the door. “We both take a shot or no one takes a shot. One knock for ready, aim. Then a long three count and fire.”

“Just go,” she snapped. “I got it.”

He looked like he had wanted to say something else, but instead he just took in a deep breath and disappeared in a flash.

Down in the yard, Spencer stood at the edge of the King’s lawn—which was now shaggy and long, with myriad stocks of dandelions blowing in the wind.

“Helicopters landed,” he shouted. “Down at the park two blocks away. Arrival immediate.” Then he discussed something with Joey, who paced along the edge of the driveway, hitting his free hand against his leg.

From her second-story window, Darla saw the crowd first.

Tiny specks of black and brown, crouching and running in formation along the sidewalk; the sound of their shoes hitting the pavement echoing up the road like little bursts of gunfire. Clap-clap-clap. They moved like military, tight together, ducking and using the area as their shield. This was no rag-tag group of civilians.

She counted.

Seven. Eight. They moved so quickly that she couldn’t tell. There was no way that she could take them out before they saw her; and even though Dean had been using his afternoons to target practice, she didn’t trust his shot either.

“This is going to end poorly,” Darla whispered to herself and she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Her thoughts went to Teddy. “Keep him safe. Just keep him safe,” she whispered to no one in particular. She forced herself to keep her gun steady on the approaching storm.

Three houses down, Spencer saw the visitors and he called for Joey to get back. The two of them backed themselves up onto the King’s front porch. And they raised their guns as a welcome.

Then the men stopped moving. From the back of the group, an unarmed man made his way to the front; he looked at the King house, his eyes scanning the yard, making note of the two men waiting for him, and as he looked upward, Darla ducked, careful not to disturb the blinds. She hoped he had not seen her, hoped she had not immediately blown their cover.

Through the open window, the conversation drifted to her.

“Lower your weapons. Disarm,” the man called. “I am General Charles. We are here for Ethan King. We have no beef with you. I repeat, lower your weapons.”

“General Charles,” Spencer repeated. “Welcome to our humble neighborhood. You see…I’m not exactly sure on whose authority you are acting. Seeing as how there’s no government, or laws, or…a population.”

“I’m not asking, sir,” the General continued. “We are here for Ethan King. And we will acquire him with or without your help.”

“Ethan’s indisposed at the moment. You get me.”

Darla’s heart thumped in her chest. Why had she let him be the face and voice of this operation? Because, she realized, she never thought this moment would come. Throughout all of Spencer’s planning, Darla had thought he was a total paranoid crackpot.

But he had been right.

He’d said they would come armed. Prepared. And as enemies.

Her sense of foreboding increased.

The General was silent. He spoke in low tones to the people around him. Darla hesitated and then pushed herself against the wall and rose slowly to peek at the action. The men moved into position around the perimeter of the yard. All guns trained on Spencer and Joey. The General appeared unarmed and unafraid and his arms were crossed against his body.

“What is it you think you can acquire? What leverage do you think you have over us?” The General said.

Darla peered downward. She could see Spencer and Joey a few steps down now. Standing on the cement steps, Joey and Spencer both scanned their guns over the crowd. Joey bounced his leg and even from a story above, Darla could tell he was a sweating, twitchy mess.

“We want protecting,” Joey blurted and Darla heard Spencer’s sharp voice of dissent.

“Protection,” the former principal amended. “We want food and shelter.”

“How many of you am I offering immunity to?” the General asked.

Spencer didn’t bite. “What you see is what you get.”

“I’m here for Ethan…and the child,” the General said and he took a step forward.

Darla started to let out a yell, but she forced herself to stand silent; she clamped her hand over her mouth and watched—her eyes darting between Spencer and the General.

“What child?” was Spencer’s reply. “You’ve got the wrong house.”

The General turned and nodded. And a single shot rang out.

Joey crumpled to the ground beside Spencer’s feet; his body tumbled forward along the cement and came to rest upon the steps—his legs on the landing, his chin against the ground. Blood pooled and poured from a wound in his head, staining the gray sidewalk a bright crimson. Spencer addressed the body with coldness. He stared down at Joey’s unmoving form, and then he looked back up at the General.

“Oh,” Spencer replied. “You mean that child.”

“No,” Darla gasped and her heart caught in her throat. “No, no.” She thought she was yelling, but no sound was coming out.

Darla heard the knock.

Dean had knocked against the wall.

Ready, aim.

And Darla scrambled. Tossing her gun to the floor, she scampered out of the bathroom and over to the room next door.

“Dean! Dean!” she whispered. “Hold your fire. Hold your fire!” She crashed into the bed, out of breath.

Startled and shaking, Dean lowered his arm and pushed himself away from the window.

“Three,” he said with a quiver. “Jesus, Darla, they shot Joey.” He was white as a sheet.

“I saw,” Darla answered. She put her head down on the bed. “We can’t shoot them…we can’t let them know we’re here. They want my boy…I’m going to get Teddy…”

“There’s no time,” Dean told her, shaking his head. “Darla—”

Darla held her hand out. “Give me your gun. Give me the gun!” He obliged and Darla gripped it in her hand. “I need your help. You have to help me. Create a diversion…or…”

They stopped talking. From downstairs they could hear the stomp of feet, the rush of people. There was shouting and barking of orders.

A voice called, “Downstairs. In the cellar! Grab the boy!” and a second voice shouted, “We’ve got Ethan! Ethan, sir!”

They heard another single gunshot ring out.

“No, no, no,” Darla screamed and she started to rush into the hallway. Panic flooded her and Darla felt numb; an intense primal yell began to bubble out of her and her vision went foggy. Dean lunged after her and grabbed her arm, yanking her backward into him.

“You can’t,” he said. “It’s suicide. You can’t,” he repeated.

They heard the footsteps on the stairs.

“My child—” Darla started and she spun again. Dean grabbed her and dragged her backward. The men were upstairs. One door banged open. Then another. She looked at Dean, her eyes pleading. “My boy.”

“I lost my boy too,” Dean whispered, his eyes darted back and forth, staring at her. He was fierce, intense. “We’ll get them back. We’ll get them back. We’re no good to them dead. You hear me? You’re no good to Teddy dead.”

Darla shook her head. “No,” she turned to bolt again, but Dean held her. “Please, let me go.”

He shoved her to the floor and pushed her toward the bed. “You have to hide. Hide. Hide!”

With silent sobs convulsing through her body, Darla forced herself under the King’s California King. She tucked her body between two plastic bins of clothes and tried to picture Teddy’s face. He would be so scared. He would be so worried. He needed her and she needed him. The door to the master bedroom banged open, shots were fired into the open room and Darla covered her ears with her hands. She couldn’t tell if she screamed or if she was only screaming in her head. Then the firing stopped, the footsteps retreated.

After a long minute, someone yelled that the upstairs was all clear. Her ears rang and she didn’t know if she should move or stay. Then Darla felt Dean’s hands latching around her ankles and he rolled her out from under the bed.

She was about to ask him where he hid, when they heard the boom. The foundation of the house shook with violent fury. Then a second boom rocked them and Darla tumbled to the ground. They rushed to the window, Dean’s hand still holding Darla’s arm. Outside, they saw the men pouring from the house, stomping back down the street in tight lines. Two men in uniform worked together to carry an unconscious Ethan from the house; Ethan’s body seemed tiny in their hands. When they reached the sidewalk, one of the men took over—cradling the twenty-year-old like a baby. His head flopping as the soldier picked up his pace.

And then Darla saw her son.

He was crying, tears streaming down his face. And he kicked and flailed at the young man carrying him away from the house, running back toward the way they came.

“Teddy!” Darla yelled and she pushed off from Dean before he could grab her and rushed into the hallway. The smell of smoke was overpowering and as she reached the stairs, she knew then that the house was on fire. Flames licked up from the basement and were already growing, lapping at the first set of stairs. Darla ignored the inferno, didn’t question where her houseguests were, and she bounded down the steps and out the door.