much shit going down at first—” Hank’s gaze flicked to Patrick, who had begun blushing. “Err, so much poop-poop going down.”
“That’s a technical term,” Holly told Patrick. It drew a little laugh from Bub, and Michael felt a warmth of gratitude.
“They got theories,” Hank continued. “Maybe a virus, a natural sort of deal. All they know for sure is it’s some kind of brain infection. The captain thinks it’s an attack from Iran, ’cause of the war. Whatever it is, thank Christ for the soldiers.”
“Yes indeed,” Bobbie said in soft, earnest agreement.
Then Hank picked up his pen again, sitting forward eagerly. “And then there’s the people you met, right, who think it’s the end-times, that the Zeds are the ones God chose to bring back to life to take to Heaven first. The Rapture, they call themselves. Friggin’ rednecks actually fought the soldiers when the army tried to bring them to the Safe Zone.”
“Wow, huh,” Michael said, patting Bub on the knee, “some people just don’t play by the rules. So hey, I probably should get going. Is there, like, a list of where the other people here are?”
Michael felt Patrick’s energy change, felt his shyness changing to a pure excitement. Michael’s belly twisted, and he wanted, right then, to get out of this room and just get Mom now.
Then Hank laughed bitterly.
“Other people?” Holly said. A dread growing on her face.
“In the Safe Zone. We’re going to go find our mom.”
“If she’s not here, she’s not here,” said Hank.
Michael continued grinning, trying to grasp the punch line of that weird sentence.
“We’re . . . Michael, aside from Captain Jopek, sweetie, this is the population of this town. Us,” said Bobbie. “Since a week ago, sweetie.” She looked at him with pity.
“You mean . . . except for all the soldiers,” Michael replied.
“There’s a soldier. Like you said, man, Zeds are moving around in packs now. They overran the perimeters around the city a week ago,” Hank said.
“I thought—no, hold up. You said ‘thank God for the soldiers.’”
“All the other soldiers evacuated, along with everybody else. Everybody else who wasn’t massacred, anyway. They went east, to another Safe Zone in Richmond. I meant thank God for the soldiers you saw.”
It was as if Michael had been trotting along at a leisurely pace and then forced, at the shout of an unseen pistol, to explode into a full-out dash. Automatically, but with a little panic, he tried to find his blood—but he only felt their eyes, heavy with expectation and questions.
They think I really saw soldiers, Michael thought. Patrick told them I did, and they don’t realize that I just said that because of The Game. They think I saw Real. Frakking. Soldiers.
Michael remembered the window in the Senate, and the courtyard outside: the empty courtyard, the quiet halls. How had he not figured it out before? How the hell had he not figured it out?
Stupid—God, so stupid. You idiot, don’t you know: you’re not allowed to let yourself be happy, not until you know it’s The End.
And he felt Patrick’s eyes, with confusion of a different kind: Why’re you nervous, Michael?
“Yeah, no,” Michael finally said. “You’re right; thank crap for them.”
“Thank Something,” Bobbie laughed shakily.
“We knew somebody’d come back,” Hank said nonchalantly, though Michael could tell he was enormously relieved. “The captain’s been on the radio with some units that are returning for us, but the last couple days the transmission’s been bad because of the mountains. So how far away were the soldiers? When do you think they’ll get here?”
Michael paused, calculating the days. The soldiers who were here have been gone for a week. They’ll be back, but . . . but maybe the Bellows all moving together are making the trip back take longer. That’s all. But the real solders will be back.
“Ah, soon for sure,” he said calmly. “Next couple days. Right, Bub? Then, party time, right?”
Relief, on everyone’s face then, and in their eyes. Relief—especially in Patrick’s.
Michael felt slightly guilty. He wasn’t quite lying when he said that soldiers would be here soon, if the captain was saying the same thing. And I can just explain myself to them later, that I was saying it for Bub. It’ll be fine—
And then those relieved gazes traveled over his shoulder.
Something tilted. The change in the room was invisible, but as real as one side of a brass scale tipping with a violent clang.
The steady clocking of combat boots. The tinny, atonal music of a ring of keys.
Michael