Vivian Apple Needs a Miracle (28 page)

“What's your plan? How did you convince them to let you in?”

Dylan laughs darkly. “Michelle Mulvey is extremely confident in my powers of persuasion. I saw her at the Chateau last night and she told me all about this enemy of salvation she was dealing with—young girl, very stubborn, one of those deceitful bloggers who's been causing so much trouble? I wondered if there was anything I could do, if she thought I could use my array of talents to entice you over. She
loved
the idea. She's a snake, but I think she likes you. It seemed to really break her up, the idea that you were going to waste away in the Griffith Observatory. Anyway, she set this up, told me to turn the charm to eleven. ‘She has a boyfriend,' she told me, ‘but he's not as cute as you!' The woman is nuts.”

“Okay,” I say. “Did you drive here? Maybe you can tell them you want to take me for a walk—like, you want to show me the glory of God in nature. They trust you, right?”

“Yeah,” Dylan replies, buttering a croissant. “Maybe. Vivian, eat something. They made this whole spread just for the two of us.”

There's a hesitation in his tone that makes me uneasy. I struggle to swallow my bite. I push my plate away.

“You're not here to help me.”

“Yes, I am!” Dylan's voice gets squeaky in his insistence. “When we're done here, I'm going to tell Mulvey what a great kid you are, how I think you're turning around for the better. You have to play along, though—tell them you're starting to change your mind. Ask for a Book of Frick to study. And for God's sake, stop doing whatever it is you're doing that landed you these bruises!” Dylan reaches out to touch my face, a brotherly gesture at once loving and completely exasperated, but I pull away. He sighs. “You don't need me to save you. You could easily save yourself, if you would just make a goddamn effort.”

“By lying.”

“By lying, yes. Christ, Viv, for such a hardened Non-Believer, you have a very rigid concept of the Ten Commandments. You're allowed to lie to save your own skin.”

“Like you do?” I keep my voice low—for all I know, Mulvey is pressed up to the door, eavesdropping—but I'm furious with myself for thinking Dylan was here to rescue me. “How's that going, by the way? Sleeping soundly? You never wake up gasping in the night, wondering what Raj would think of you now?”

“Please”—Dylan clenches his teeth—“stop using him against me. Stop thinking you knew him better than I did. I know perfectly well what Raj would think of me, and I know what he would do. He'd usher you to freedom. He'd be the hero—he wouldn't think twice about it. He'd also get himself killed in the process. I loved him, okay? But part of the reason he's gone is he could never for a second put his own life first.”

He seems on the verge of tears. I don't want Mulvey to come out and see him worked up this way, and I feel a pang of guilt. I remember the Rapture's Eve party in the abandoned mansion, Dylan and Raj swaying on the dance floor, whispering and laughing together.

“I'm sorry.” I lay my hands on top of his. “You're right. I got my hopes up when I saw you; that's all. It's not your responsibility to save me.”

“I would!” Dylan assures me. “I'm not evil, Viv! If I didn't have Molly to worry about, if I wasn't trying to get the fuck out of this city, I'd do it in a heartbeat.”

“You're leaving?”

Dylan nods. “That's why I came. I wanted to say goodbye. It's not safe here anymore. There's a huge wildfire at the edge of LA—it started in San Bernardino last week, and it's spreading fast. Seventeen thousand acres destroyed already. They don't think they can stop it before it hits the city.” He frowns at my blank expression. “You didn't know? Viv, look.”

We stand and he leads me to the edge of the deck. We're high above Los Angeles, and I realize now why the air is so thick, why I thought I smelled smoke when I first stepped outside. Far in the distance, but not far enough for comfort, a black cloud hovers over a hot orange glow. I feel as though I can actually see it moving closer. Beside me, Dylan shudders.

“I can't get stuck here. And anyway, I have to get out before tomorrow. When I leave in a few minutes, I'm getting in my car and driving straight to Colorado. I'm picking up Molly, and we're finding a place to hide, somewhere the Church will never track us down. I'm not interested in getting caught in the next great sleight-of-hand.”

I'm trying to follow the thread, but the fire and my hunger have turned my brain fuzzy. I don't understand. “What happens tomorrow?”

Dylan looks shocked. “Jesus, Viv, how long have they had you here? The second boat. Tomorrow is the next predicted Rapture.”

The solid ground beneath me seems to slip away. Masterson told me I'd been here three weeks, but somehow it hadn't quite sunk in—the second Rapture is tomorrow. That means the so-called apocalypse—the rise of the Church's Messiah—is only two days away.

“Blackmore's made it
very
clear all Church employees are guaranteed passage on the second boat. I can't honestly believe he'd kill us—what would be the point? What good is a church without Believers? But I'm not going to risk it. It's the end of the world. I want to die on
my
terms—and that means protecting Molly until I can't protect her any longer.”

I keep my eyes on the faraway flames. The Angels obviously know about the fire; they won't put themselves in harm's way much longer. Sometime in the next twenty-four hours, they'll vanish from Los Angeles. They'll reappear late on the day after tomorrow, September 24, on television screens everywhere with Frick and their Messiah, and the Church of America will live on—possibly forever, although who knows how long forever will be. If the Angels succeed in making their employees disappear tomorrow—whether they hide them or kill them—that means they'll take Peter, too . . . And it means that I have run out of time. “Patience,” Masterson told me, when I asked him when I was going to die. He knew then they were going to let me burn.

“Dylan,” I say. “Unless they've moved, Harp's in an apartment above a bookstore called the Good Book. I don't know the address, but it can't be too hard to find.”

“Wait.” Dylan shakes his head; he covers his ears. “Don't tell me this. I don't want to know this. If the Church stops me—I can't know this, Viv!”

“I need you to go there before you leave,” I continue, as if I haven't heard him. “Tell her where I am. Dylan, grow up!” He's plugged his ears with his fingers, like a child; I lift my cuffed hands and wrench one arm away. “This is important! Tell her she needs to post Joanna's story. Now. As soon as possible. Tell her to post the story and come for me, if she can. If the fire spreads here before she's able . . .” I shake my head. “Tell her to run.”

There's a creaking sound behind me. “Everything okay out here?” Mulvey calls from the doorway in her honeyed voice.

Dylan grins at her beyond my shoulder. “So great!” He drops his voice to a whisper, keeping the smile plastered on his face. “Viv, I don't have time; it's too dangerous—”

“Please, Dylan, help me!” I hear the click of Mulvey's heels and shut up; I try to look happy and appropriately dazzled by Dylan's attention.

“What do you think, Mr. Marx?” Mulvey gives me a bright, assessing look when she reaches my side; she links her arm with mine. Her sickly sweet perfume fills my nostrils but I force myself not to pull away. “Can our girl reform her wicked ways?”

Dylan beams, puts a hand on my left shoulder. In the moment before he takes my other arm to help Mulvey usher me back into the observatory, I take one last look over my shoulder at the vast, smoggy city, the creeping flashes of fire in the distance.
Please, Dylan,
I think.
Please.

“Personally, I think,” he says, his voice nearly catching, “that Vivian Apple has an extremely bright future ahead of her.”

After Dylan leaves, I try to keep track of the hours. I count to sixty; I count to three hundred sixty; I lose track and start again. I try to imagine Dylan's path.
Now he's getting in his car,
I think.
Now he's heading to the Good Book.
After what feels like a long time, the door opens—Wilkins again, sliding the tray across the floor: Church of America brand beef jerky (
A SNACK FOR A SAMSON
, reads its slogan on the wrapper,
NOT A DELILAH
), three apple slices gone very brown, another small cup of water. I could kick myself for not stuffing my face this morning when I had the chance. I watch Wilkins move to shut the door, and before I totally understand my own motives, I speak.

“Big day tomorrow.”

Wilkins gives me a suspicious look. When I don't charge at him, when instead I reach for the jerky and take a sad, salty bite, he relaxes slightly. He smiles.

“Yes, indeed! I only pray that God and Frick see fit to save me.” I watch as he narrows his eyes, assessing me. “You could pray too, you know. I'm not saying it's a guarantee, but if they saw you repent, if they knew you were at least
trying
to be holy . . .”

“It's okay, Wilkins.” I try not to look too amused—I'm weirdly touched by his last-ditch effort to convert me. “I think I'm a lost cause, but it's nice of you to make an attempt.”

He nods, but doesn't move from the doorway. I wonder if he's trying to come up with some kind of pep talk. “Do you have any kids, Wilkins?”

His neutral expression fades. “Why?”

“Dude.” I take another bite of jerky. “I'm not going to hex them. Just trying to make a little conversation before you ascend. Once you're gone, I'll be waiting for the apocalypse in total silence, so I might as well get my casual chitchat in while I have the chance.”

“No kids,” he says, after a long pause. “Never been married. If it weren't for the Church of America, I'd be all alone in this world.”

There's a longing in his voice that makes me feel a twinge of sympathy.

“Wilkins,” I say after a long moment, “can I ask you for a favor?”

“What?”

“I really like your watch.” I nod to his wrist, the chunky fake gold. “Can I have it?”

“Are you serious?”

“You won't need it up there!” I coax him. “They don't have
time
up there.”

He pauses, and I see the play of emotions on his face—skepticism fading into confusion. He glances at the watch, runs a fond finger over its face. He says, “I'm . . . I'm not sure what Mr. Masterson would think of that.”

“I don't think he'd mind.” I'm careful—Wilkins seems about to fold. After a long pause, I say gently, “Come on, Wilkins. Think of Frick. What would Frick do?”

He ponders this. Then his face goes hard. “Frick would probably tell you to buy your own damn watch.”

I scowl, but he's right. I shouldn't have used Frick's name to appeal to his sense of goodwill and charity, because Frick's writings have no notions of anything like that. The person I'm thinking of is Jesus. Still, it's a blow—I'd hoped to be able to watch these next hours, possibly my last, as they pass. I lie across the cot, turn my back on Wilkins. For a moment I feel him hover behind me, and I nearly shout at him to leave me alone. But then I hear a heavy clinking sound. I don't dare to look until he's closed the door. He's left the watch on my tray, gleaming next to the rotten apple slices. I slip it on my wrist and check the time: 7:36 p.m., on the eve of the second Rapture.

Sometime during the night, I wake and listen.

I know I'm inside, locked in a room underground, just about as far away from other human beings as I could be here in Los Angeles. But still I'm sure I feel a shift. Something has happened—the second Rapture. Everything is different now. The quality of the air feels different. I almost feel like I should be able to hear the anguished howl of the city outside: By now they know they're stuck here. They think they have less than forty-eight hours left until the apocalypse. I feel every atom in my body poised in anticipation of the end: the end of this fake apocalypse, the end of me. Right now I'm not sure which will come first.

In the morning, no one comes—not that I expected them to. The Peacemakers have to be the most loyal members of the Church's devoted following; it makes sense they'd be spirited away wherever the Angels went. There's still a chance that Dylan got to Harp in time, that my friends will come and rescue me. An hour goes by, then two, then several. But in the evening, I spiral into panic. I begin my assault against the locked door all over again, hurling myself against it—I use my right shoulder, as my left is still sore from the first attempt.

“Is there anybody out there?” I scream. “Please, somebody help me!”

All night it goes on like this, well into the next morning. I thought Wilkins's watch would give me comfort, that seeing the hours pass would give them form, make them feel solid. But instead, the time slipping away underscores how alone I am in this building, how closely death must hover. With no sensation left in my shoulder, I kneel in front of the door and pry at the knob with my fingers, tearing my nails into shreds. My hands are bloody from the effort. It's no use. I retch but there's nothing left in my stomach. I lie on the concrete floor, weak and exhausted. I'm going to die here. I must have known it since they locked me up, but it's as though I finally understand. I'm never going to see Harp or Peter or Winnie again. I'm going to die here, and it won't happen quickly. It's only a question of what will kill me first: hunger, thirst, or fire. I slip my injured hand into my pocket and snake out the sledgehammer pendant Peter gave me. It was enough to make me feel strong once. I press it against my heart and wait for its magic to work once more.