The Fireman (40 page)

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins
Publishers

....................................

8

Harper drew the black thread through Ben’s cheek. He shut his eyes, screwing his face up in pain. She gave the line a sharp yank to make him look at her.

“Did you hear her?” Harper whispered. Her heart was still whacking away in her chest. “
Ben
. Did you hear the crazy coming out of her?”

Ben sat on her cot. They were in the ward, away from the others, no one else in immediate earshot except Father Storey and Nick, and neither of them was listening.

Outside the windows, ranks of icicles dripped bright water in the milky glow of the sun. Ben drew a thin, whistling breath.

“Nurse? Do you think you could please leave my face on my skull? I’m kind of attached to it.”

She hissed: “I can’t promise
anyone
I can keep Father Storey alive. I can’t promise to save him. I want to know what you’re going to do if he dies. Are you going to be the one who pulls my baby out of my arms?”

“No! No. I wouldn’t take your kid from you, Harper,” he whispered back. “But I’m sure there are plenty of people who would, if Carol told them it had to be done. Jamie Close. Norma Heald.”

“And you’d just stand by and let it happen?”

A shadow moved across the curtain between the ward and the waiting room. Carol? Allie?

Ben took a deep breath and when he spoke again, his voice was raised so he could be heard in the next room, and probably halfway to the cafeteria. “Almost everyone in this camp has been taken from someone. Almost everyone is an orphan in some way. Your baby would fit right in. I wouldn’t like to see it happen, but there’s a lot of things I’ve had to live with that I didn’t like. I’m sure I could manage one more. What I won’t do is bargain in secret with you, or be part of a whispering campaign against Mother Carol. People who are whispering aren’t in harmony with the rest of the camp, and the only way we’ll survive is if we all speak with one—”

“Oh, give it a fucking rest,” Harper told him and poked him in the face with the needle to give him a stitch he didn’t really need.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins
Publishers

....................................

9

It was close to a week before she turned on the phone.

For all that time she kept it on her in the pocket of her sweats. Several times a day she would put her hand on it, to reassure herself it was still there. It comforted her to move her thumb along its glassy face and smooth steel curves.

She didn’t dare attempt to use it. For those first days after they returned from the raid, she was uncomfortably aware of being under watch. There was always a Lookout in the waiting room—supposedly to protect Father Storey—and her guards had a habit of yanking the curtain aside at random moments and sticking a head into the ward on one pretense or another. Harper didn’t even have the courage to try and hide it in the ceiling with Harold’s notebook. She felt there was too great a chance of someone walking in on her while she was standing on the chair, reaching to move a drop ceiling panel.

Harper settled on a date to risk making a call. Her father’s birthday was the nineteenth. He would be sixty-one, if he was alive. Only her self-restraint didn’t hold out until then.

She woke early on the morning of the seventeenth with contractions, sharp enough to make her gasp. Her insides were raw dough in the hands of a burly baker who was tediously, methodically, brutally intent on kneading every centimeter of tissue. It was a sensation not unlike being overcome with the cramps of diarrhea, and a sweat prickled on her face while she waited it out.

The nurse inside her identified this rhythmic clenching-up as Braxton-Hicks contractions, just a little practice for the oncoming main event. The mother-to-be entertained sickening notions of premature birth. She was at twenty-eight weeks. Such a thing was not impossible, especially for a woman who had been exposed to all manner of stress, gunfights, and slaughter. The idea that she might be going into labor—that the baby might be coming
right this instant
—made her feel as if she were in an elevator that had begun to fall, the cables giving way.

But before she could get too worked up, the contractions subsided, leaving her insides as fizzy as if she had chugged a cold Coca-Cola. Blood boomed in her ears. And the thought occurred to her that she ought to make that call today, now, and let her father know she was hoping to give him a grandchild for his birthday. It was incredible to think her parents didn’t know she was pregnant . . . let alone that she was still alive. Her mother would scream, actually scream.

Nick was asleep on his side in the next cot, one hand curled beneath his cheek. She had no fears of waking him. He would sleep on even if she made the call right next to his bed. The floor was so cold it hurt to walk across it on bare feet. She shifted aside the curtain for a peek into the waiting room. The boy out there, a kid named Hud Loory who often drew fishing duty with Don Lewiston, dozed on the couch, his rifle on the floor. That boy would be eating a rock for breakfast if Ben Patchett stopped by on a spot inspection.

Harper let herself into the bathroom and locked the door. She sat on the lid of the toilet and turned on the phone. It had less than a quarter power and only a single bar. She stared at the flat, glassy, impossibly brilliant screen for ten seconds, then typed in her mother’s cell from memory and pressed
send
.

The phone produced a grainy hiss that lasted for three seconds. A recording played of a woman with an aggrieved, accusatory voice: “The number you have dialed is not in service. Please check the listing and try again.”

She tried her father’s line next. The phone made a series of rapid beeps, like someone telegraphing a message in Morse code. This was followed by a hideous angry blatting and she had to hang up.

Her next thought was e-mail. She pulled up the web browser on the phone to sign into her Gmail account. She waited, breathing shallowly, for the login page to appear. It never did.

Instead, she was redirected to the Google main page. Only it was different now. Instead of a big blank white page with the word

Google

in the center, she arrived at a page with the word

Goodby

on it instead. Beneath was the search box, and the two familiar buttons. When she had last visited Google, one of those buttons read Google Searchand the other said I’m Feeling Lucky. Now, the button on the left read

Our Search Is Over
.

The button on the right read

We Were So Lucky
.

For some reason—maybe because she was still emotionally jangled from her intense bout of contractions—it made Harper damp-palmed and anxious to see the Google page defaced in such a way. She had a feeling that nothing good would come from attempting a search, but she typed in
Google Mail
in the search box anyway and hit return.

Instead of bringing up her results, the words she had typed into the search box hissed, blackened, and crumbled to pixelated ash. Black trails of digital smoke wavered up from a pile of burnt crumbs.

It was ludicrous to cry because there was no more Google, but for a moment Harper felt very close to weeping. The idea that Google could collapse and be gone was as hard to imagine as the fall of the Twin Towers. It had seemed at least as permanent a part of the cultural landscape.

Maybe it was not just Google she felt like crying for, but all of it, all of the good, smart, clever creations that were sliding away now, sinking into the past. She missed texting and TV and Instagram and microwaves and warm showers and retail therapy and quality peanut butter. She wondered if there was anyone even growing peanuts anymore and felt very blue, and when she swallowed she tasted tears. She missed it all, but most of all she missed her mother and father and brother, and for the first time she allowed herself to consider the real possibility that she would never hear from any of them again.

Harper did not want to wake the Lookout in the waiting room with a sudden sob. She clutched the phone between both hands and pressed her knuckles to her mouth and waited out her grief. Finally, when she was sure she had herself under control, she planted a wet kiss on the screen of the phone, said, “Happy birthday, Dad,” and turned it off.

When she returned to the ward, she hid the phone in the ceiling with the notebook. She slipped back under her sheets and had a nice little cry into her pillow.

Soon enough she was done with tears and feeling sleepy and comfortable. The baby pressed a tentative hand against the stiff, fibrous wall of his cell, fingers spread—she could feel them, she was sure—and seemed to give her a clumsy comforting pat. She pressed her hand to his, less than half an inch of tissue between them.

“Just you and me now, kid,” she said, but of course, it had been just the two of them for months.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins
Publishers

....................................

10

That night, she dreamt of Jakob again, for the first time in months. She dreamt of Jakob and the Freightliner, of the headlights rushing toward her and the engine screaming in a way that seemed to express more hate than any human voice could manage.

But Jakob wasn’t riding alone anymore.

In the dream—how curious!—Nelson Heinrich was riding with him.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins
Publishers

....................................

11

Four days after she put the phone away, where it would trouble her no more, Michael Lindqvist pulled guard duty on the infirmary. He came to see her as soon as his shift began.

“Ma’am?” he said, sticking his face between the curtain and the doorframe in a way that reminded Harper of Kermit the Frog, nervously studying the evening’s audience. “Can I see you about a thing?”

“Of course,” Harper said. “No appointments necessary. All forms of health insurance accepted.”

He sat on her cot and she pulled a pale green curtain between them and Nick for privacy. She wondered if he was going to ask her about prophylactics.

Instead he wiggled a sheet of paper out of his pocket and offered it to her. “Just thought you’d want to look at this in private. You never know when Mr. Patchett might pop by to make sure everyone is being good boys and girls.”

She opened the note and began to read.

Dear Ms. Willowes,

What happened to you that night in the woods was all my fault. I could’ve stopped it at any time and I didn’t. I don’t expect you to forgive me, but I hope someday I can earn back your respect, or at least your trust. I would apologize to your face but lately I’ve been pissing everyone off and I’m confined to the dorm, so I have to tell you this way. I’m sorry, Ms. Willowes. I never wanted you to get hurt. I never wanted anyone to get hurt. I’m such an asshole.

If there’s anything I can do to help you, just tell Mike. I would like so badly to make it up to you. You deserve everything and anything. And also: thank you for being a substitute, part-time, all-purpose mom to my brother. You’ve been better family to him than I have. Please tell him I’m thinking about him and I miss him. While you’re at it, give my grandpa a kiss for me.

Please please please be careful.

Hopefully someday your friend again,

Allie

Michael sat with his fingers laced together, hands squeezed between his knees. He looked pasty and couldn’t stop jiggling one leg.

“Thank you for bringing this to me. I know you could get in a lot of trouble, carrying secret messages.”

He shrugged. “It wasn’t any big thing.”

“It is, though.” Harper felt as lovely and free as a ten-year-old girl on her first day of summer vacation. She had already forgiven Allie everything. She had that in her—could forgive easily and lightly, with the best feeling in the world. Harper looked at the letter again and frowned. “What does she mean, she’s confined to the dorm?”

Michael’s eyes widened in comic surprise. He had the least guarded face of anyone Harper had ever met. “You don’t know? No. No, course you don’t. You almost never get out of this place. The night you robbed the ambulance, Allie went to see the Fireman and tell him what was going down. She’s the reason he knew he had to send a Phoenix to make sure you all got back safe. Allie has been in a world of shit ever since. Carol had her removed from the Lookouts and made her carry a stone in her mouth for three days. The way Carol sees it, Allie chose sides against her and made her look bad in the process. Now she’s only ever allowed out of the dorm to do kitchen chores and visit the chapel. And she isn’t glowing anymore when we all sing! She just stands there with her head down, not looking at anyone.”

“That girl saved Tom Storey’s life,” Harper said. “How can Carol punish Allie after she saved Tom’s life?”

“Um,” Michael said.

“What?”

“The story in camp is that Allie gave
up
on trying to save Father Storey and was just standing there crying when Carol came in and called him back by shouting his name. She called Father Storey back from the deep Bright, which is where you go when you’re dead.”

“Allie didn’t—she wasn’t—what nonsense!
You
were there, haven’t you told—didn’t someone explain what really—”

Michael’s head sank between his shoulders and his face assumed a hangdog look.

“You want to be careful the kind of stories you tell these days. Carol and Ben have their version of what happened. There isn’t room for any other versions. When Allie said it wasn’t true—and she did—Ben gave her a stone again for disrespecting authority. The people in this camp these days, well . . . you might’ve heard we only speak with one voice now.” His head sank still lower. He dropped his gaze. “I hate it, you know. All of it. Not just what’s happening to Allie, but also how Carol is. She’s so suspicious and strained and ready to lash out. She has patrols circling her cabin because one night she thought she saw shadows moving in the trees. Emily Waterman came out of the cafeteria laughing about something, and Carol decided she must’ve been laughing at
her,
and gave her a stone. Emily cried and cried. She’s just a kid.”

He swung one foot. The laces of his boot were undone and they swooped back and forth and clicked against the underside of the bedframe. After a moment he asked: “Can I tell you somethin’ kind of personal, ma’am?”

“Of course.”

“A lot of people don’t know I tried to kill myself once. Right after my sisters burned to death. I was hiding in what was left of my house, which was half burnt down. My parents were gone. My sisters were . . . these girl-shaped mounds of ash in the wreckage of the living room. I just wanted it all to go away. I didn’t want to smell smoke anymore. I didn’t want to be lonely. I had a little Honda scooter I used to deliver pizzas on. I started it up in the garage and waited for the exhaust to kill me. First I got a headache, then I threw up. Eventually I passed out. I was unconscious for about forty minutes before the scooter ran out of gas, and then I woke up. I don’t think the garage was very airtight.

“A few days after that I went wandering. I had an idea maybe I’d find my way to the ocean, and walk in to clean the stink off me.”

Harper remembered her own desolate morning walk to the ocean, not so long after she first came to camp. She wondered if Michael had gone to the water for the same reason as her, seeking a final cold plunge into quiet darkness and no more worry, no more loneliness.

“Instead I heard some girls singing. They were singing really nice, in sweet, clear voices. I—I was so out of it, I thought maybe it was my sisters, calling to me. I found my way out of the trees and into Monument Park and saw it wasn’t my sisters at all. It was Allie and Carol and Sarah Storey and the Fireman and a few others. They were singing a real old song, that one where the guy says he doesn’t know much about history. Sam Cooke, I think? They were singing and they were all lit up, soft and blue and peaceful. They looked at me like they had been waiting all day for me to get there. I sat down to watch and listen and at some point Carol sat beside me with a wet towel and began wiping the grime off my face. She said, ‘Oh look! There’s a boy under there!’ And I started crying and she just laughed at me and said, ‘That’s another way to get the dirt off.’ I had been walking barefoot and she got down and wiped the blood and the dirt off my feet. It would kill me to do anything to hurt her. I thought I’d never be loved like my mom and my sisters loved me and then I found my way here.”

He paused, fidgeting, and then sighed, and when he spoke again, it was in a lower voice. “But that stuff Carol said about taking your baby away from you: I don’t know why she’d even
think
something like that. We can’t do that. And then there’s the way she treats Allie. Seems like Allie has a stone in her mouth all day, every day, and she won’t ever spit it out, because that would be like admitting defeat. Allie would rather starve first. You know how she is. And then . . . and then sometimes after chapel, after we’ve been singing our hardest, I come back to myself, and my head is ringing like after I tried to kill myself in the garage. Sometimes I think the way we give ourselves over to the Bright now, those are
also
like little suicides.” He sniffled and Harper realized he was close to tears. “It used to be better. It used to be really good here. Anyway. Like Allie said in her letter. You aren’t all alone. You’ve got us. Allie ’n’ me.”

“Thank you, Michael.”

“Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Yes. There is. But if it’s too much, you must say no. Don’t feel you have to do anything that would put you at more risk than is safe.”

“Uh-oh,” he said. “I was thinking maybe you’d want me to sneak you some creamers for your coffee. I guess you’re thinking bigger.”

“Is there any way I can get out of here for an hour to see the Fireman? And if I did, could you keep a close eye on Father Storey while I’m gone?”

He blanched.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No,” he said. “It’s okay. I could cover for you if Mr. Patchett showed up, I guess. I could pull the curtain across your bed, put some pillows under your sheets, and tell him you’re napping. Just—if I sneak you out—if I get you together with him . . . do you promise you’ll come back? You aren’t going to jump in a car with the Fireman and take off tonight, are you?”

Of all the things he could’ve said or asked, she had not seen that one coming.

“Oh, Michael, of course I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t abandon Father Storey in his condition.”

“Good. Because you
can’t
leave camp,” he said and sat forward and gripped her wrist. “Not without taking Allie and me.”