I wake much later in a small windowless room. I hear the echo of footsteps above. My head throbs painfully, but when I touch the cut on my face I note the blood there is dry. I push myself off the mattress they’ve left me on and pause, feeling the room tilt. I try the door in the wall opposite—locked, obviously. I throw myself against it, again and again, screaming until my voice goes hoarse. Where is Peter? Is he close enough to hear me? Have they taken him back to the Chateau? Or—has Masterson convinced the others that the Church no longer has use for him? The possibility makes me literally sick with fear—I drop to my knees and throw up on the concrete floor. He’s alive, I tell myself. I try to believe it’s a fact, and not a prayer. Peter’s alive. He’s okay. You didn’t come this far only to lose him.
I assume the Angels will arrive shortly, to push for more information on Amanda. I try to think of a detail I can give them—small enough to keep Harp safe, big enough that they’ll tell me what they’ve done with Peter. But hours go by and they never arrive. I don’t know what time it is. The only light comes from a single overhead fluorescent. Could Amanda have gone ahead with the plan—has she confronted the Church with Joanna? That would explain the absence of the Angels, but it also means my friends are out there fighting for their lives, without me.
I lie on the floor in a space somewhere between sleep and waking, and after a long time, I hear the turning of the lock. I wait for the door to open. When it does, I barrel ahead, slamming past the Peacemaker who stands there and into the wide, white hallway. I hesitate for half a second, trying to decide in which direction to run, but something heavy sweeps under me, tripping me, and I tumble to the floor.
“Why are you doing this?” asks a familiar voice, and when I look up I see Wilkins, the slightly less sadistic of my Chateau Marmont escorts, dragging me by my foot back into the room. “You’re only going to make it harder on yourself when the time comes.”
“I don’t give a shit,” I hiss, embarrassed at how easily I was stopped. “Masterson can do whatever he wants with me.”
Wilkins shakes his head, depositing me back on the cot; on his way out he kicks in a metal tray with a small plate of peas, a couple of pieces of sandwich bread, a cup of water. He closes and locks the door, but I can still hear his muffled voice. “That’s not the moment I’m talking about, child. I mean on Judgment Day. Don’t you want to be saved?”
Time passes this way—days, and then weeks. Every twelve hours, they open the door to slip me my pathetic meals, and every twelve hours, I try to escape. None of the Peacemakers are as sympathetic as Wilkins, and I begin to collect bruises all over my arms and ribs. After ten such attempts, the Peacemakers finally notice the pattern and enlist multiple guards to block the door, but not before one, enraged at having been made to chase me, gives me my first black eye. Still I keep trying. It’s not as though I actually expect to make it past them. I’m weak and every day I grow weaker. But I’m going crazy shut up in this room, cut off from Harp’s voice and Peter’s face and Winnie’s faith in me. The longer I go without seeing them, the more they begin to feel like good dreams I’m trying hard not to forget.
Still, I know they’re alive. At least once a day, one of the Angels appears to interrogate me. This is how I know they’ve yet to find Amanda’s militia. And Mulvey lets it slip early on that Peter’s okay, too—she shows me a video on her phone of his most recent press conference in front of the Chateau, in which he triumphantly announces my capture.
“Blessed be the Peacemakers for neutralizing the threat of this spiritual terrorist! May Believers worldwide no longer fear her wanton desires and shameless harlotry!”
His strain is obvious to me—his voice is shaky and the hair at his temples is dark and flat with sweat—but the gathered crowd cheers. In the video, Masterson and Blackmore stand beside him, watching him carefully; they usher him away the second he finishes speaking. Mulvey gazes at her phone with satisfaction.
“See, Viv,” she says warmly, “your boyfriend is a team player. So why aren’t you?”
I say nothing. I have a pretty good idea of how they manage to continue pulling Peter’s strings—so long as I’m locked up here, he’ll do what they tell him.
“If you could give us even the tiniest clue as to what Amanda Yee has planned,” she continues, “it would be such a help. Think of the lives you could save. Think of Harp! Masterson has big plans for her—he wants to put her talents on the national stage! Don’t you want to support her in this amazing opportunity?”
“If I suggested to Harp that writing the new Book of Frick would be an amazing opportunity,” I say thoughtfully after a moment, “she’d projectile vomit in my face.”
“Well,” says Mulvey stiffly. “That’s simply disgusting.”
Blackmore, meanwhile, seems convinced that I’m a secret Believer holding out for a guaranteed shot at eternal splendor. “Let’s say you absolutely, without a doubt, have a place on the Second Boat—would you give us the address then? Okay, let’s say you, your mom, your dad, any pets if you have them, Harp, Peter—the whole gang—how about now? These are very coveted spots, you know,” he says sternly when I don’t reply, as if he’s not talking entirely within the realm of make-believe. “The least you could do is say thank you.”
These two question me a half dozen times each, but I never see Masterson. Then one day when the door to my room opens, and I brace myself for my usual sprint into a sea of Peacemakers, he stands there alone. Masterson holds a vase full of bright yellow daisies and a plastic jug of water. I’m so shocked I can’t move. He hands me the water and I sink onto my bed, gulping deeply from it. I watch Masterson set the flowers on the floor, fussing with them slightly as he does, to best display the arrangement. Satisfied, he pulls over a chair from the corner and sits so we’re knee-to-knee.
“How are you, Vivian? It’s been a while. Do you know how long?”
I lower the jug of water and shake my head slowly, afraid of the answer.
“Three weeks.”
Masterson glances at his sleeve and picks at an invisible bit of lint, as though he doesn’t want to see my horror. I had no idea I’d been locked in this room for three weeks. I pass a shaking hand in front of my eyes and wipe away the tears that pool there.
“I want to apologize for my colleagues,” he continues. “I know they’ve grilled you endlessly. Both seem baffled by their lack of success—‘She’s given us nothing! She’s got a death wish!’” He shakes his head. “They can’t make heads or tails of you. Mulvey doesn’t understand why you reject the protection of the corporation, and Blackmore’s too thick to recognize a true Non-Believer when he sees one. How insulted you must feel by them. I, on the other hand, think I understand you quite well. Your beliefs are impenetrable—not in a higher power, necessarily, but in the good of your friends and your cause. You’re convinced of it. I doubt we could offer you anything that would move you to sell them out. I admire this quality, Vivian. I’ve no interest in pressing you for information any longer. To be honest,” he says, taking out his phone, “I’ve rather lost interest in the information itself.”
It takes me a moment to understand. “Sorry?”
Masterson looks up. “I have no interest in pursuing Miss Yee anymore. You’re clearly unwilling to help and there’s no point in wasting time. Why should we? When they’ve shown themselves so willing—practically eager—to back down?”
“What are you talking about?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.
“Oh! That’s right.” Masterson waves his hand around to indicate the bleak room. “No internet! You haven’t seen Miss Janda’s latest post!”
He busies himself with his phone again, and I wait with teeth clenched. When he hands it to me, the browser is open on Harp’s blog.
TRUTH TIME, MOTHERFUCKERS!
Well, I was going to have to come clean sooner or later, and with the Second Boat chugging merrily along to my door, I thought I might as well clear this up before things got out of hand:
THIS BLOG IS A WORK OF FICTION.
Your mind is blown, right? That’s because of my deft story-weaving skills. Truth be told, I’ve always been a regular William Shakespeare, or like, the lady equivalent of Billy Shakes (who would that be? Beatrix Potter? Guys, I need to read more). Anyway, all of this—our madcap cross-country travels, Viv Apple and Peter Taggart’s scintillating will-they-won’t-they tension, and MOST IMPORTANTLY, the claim that the Church of America faked the Rapture and killed/kidnapped thousands—is made up. I’m sorry! I have a wild imagination and a lot of free time now that the world is about to end. My BFF Vivian always told me it would backfire. ‘Harp,’ she used to say, ‘don’t you think the blessed Church won’t take kindly to your EXTREMELY FICTIONAL TALES? Like the Book of Frick says, “Thou shalt not lie.”’ Being a lot stupider and way more of a heathen than Vivian, I was like, ‘Surely they’ll accept this wacky romp for the elaborate fantasy it is!’ But now that I have more readers than ever before—2 million hits just yesterday, you guys, wow!—it strikes me that maybe God’s maybe not looking too kindly upon my considerable storytelling skills. In fact, he’s probably all, ‘Harp, give it a rest or I’ll hit you with a lightning bolt.’
So this, dear Reader, is my final post. Thanks for tolerating my tall tales, and I wish you luck and peace as the apocalypse draws near. Let’s go indulge in a can of Christ Loops in penance for consuming these lies as entertainment. Most importantly of all: Vivian Harriet Apple, you were right! I should never have started this blog all on my own without any of your help. I hope before our days on Earth end, you can find it in your heart to forgive me.
Frick bless you all,
Harp Janda, Liar
Confidential to VHA: Winnie says tell them whatever you need to tell them. No matter what, we love you and we choose you.
I wish to the Universe that the post said anything other than what it says. But as long as I stare at it, the words don’t change, and soon they swim as my eyes fill with tears. I don’t try to hide them from Masterson this time.
“It’s a bit obvious, as far as bluffs go,” Masterson says delicately. “But I admire the effort. I suppose she thought if she publicly declared it to be a lie, we’d see no reason to keep you here. Her optimism is inspiring, but of course, too little, too late. All I really take from it is that Amanda’s army is afraid to make their next move, if it means getting you hurt. Oh, don’t cry, Vivian.” Masterson takes a handkerchief from his pocket and holds it out, but I don’t take it. When I look up I see an expression of true sorrow on his face. “The revolution is dead, but look on the bright side—your friends are willing to lose the war to save you.”
He gets to his feet then, politely returning the chair to its spot against the wall. Before he reaches the door, I wipe my face with my sleeve.
“When are you going to kill me?” I ask. I can’t take not knowing it any longer. “If I’m no use to you, if you’ve won already—why don’t you just kill me?”
Masterson gives me a small, bracing smile before he leaves and locks the door behind him. “Patience, Vivian. In time, all good things will come.”
I cry all night, screaming into my pillow; I cry until my eyes are red with heat. I’m scared for Peter. I miss Harp—I remember the way she squeezed my sprained hand on a hill in San Francisco, the promise she made to pull me out of the pain that threatened to swallow me. I cry because she’s dug herself into a hole now, and I’m not there to take her hand. I think of Winnie. I think of my mother and my father, Wambaugh, Raj, Robbie—all of them lost to me in one way or another, never to come back. I cry because it took me so long to become the person I’ve been these last few months—bold and angry and trying, despite the costs, to be truly good. I cry because I’m proud of this person, and look at how she ends: locked in the basement of an observatory in Los Angeles, never to see her friends or her family again.
The next morning, my head splitting with a grief hangover, Wilkins arrives at my door. But he doesn’t have a tray of food with him. He holds a pair of handcuffs.
“Come on,” he says, in his nervous way. “You have a visitor.”
I stand and let him cuff me, too tired and confused to question him. The Angels have never met me anywhere except this room before, but they’re the only visitors I can imagine. I briefly indulge in a fantasy of someone, anyone else—Harp in an absurd costume, or Winnie with a gun; Peter in character as Church spokesman—but swat it away. It’s physically painful to get my own hopes up this way. Wilkins leads me up a dark stairwell, through an open door leading to a stone deck outside, overlooking the city. I squint at the light, but the sun’s not actually out—the sky is still the same dusty brown it was the day they brought me here. There’s a faint, acrid smell of smoke in the air. Michelle Mulvey stands there, grinning at me.
“Vivian! You’re looking so well!” She dismisses Wilkins and leads me to a long table laden with breakfast foods: green apples and plump grapes, croissants with three kinds of jam and a stick of sweet-looking butter, a plate of golden sausages still steaming. I’m so dazzled by the breakfast, by the aching brightness of the sky, by Mulvey’s oddly friendly reception, that it takes me a moment to realize we’re not alone. At the end of the table, a boy stands from his chair and shakes his curls out of his eyes. He smiles his brilliant white smile at me.
Dylan Marx reaches out to shake my cuffed hand. “So nice to meet you—Vivian, was it? Michelle’s told me a lot about you.”
I glance at Mulvey and she beams encouragingly.
“Hi … ?” I hope my confusion will be interpreted as shyness. I stare at him. My heart pounds violently in my excitement—I’m going to get out of here, I’m going to be okay! Dylan just smiles. After a long moment, he looks at Mulvey.
“Oh!” she exclaims. “I’m going to run inside—lots to do, lots to do. But why don’t you two make yourselves comfortable? I’ll be back in a bit.”
She skips to the door. In a loud, false voice, Dylan says, “So I hear you’re from Pittsburgh? That’s so funny—I am, too! What neighborhood?”
We hear the door slam behind her. Dylan’s grin fades “Shhhh!” he hisses before I can speak. He pauses by the door Mulvey has just left through, scanning the windows. Satisfied, he returns to the table and pulls out a chair for me. “Jesus, Apple, you look like shit. Are they not feeding you? Eat something; I don’t know how long we have. Is that a black eye?”
Dylan sits beside me; he throws sausages and croissants on my plate; he slices me an apple. I touch the puffy skin around my eye—I’d almost forgotten about the bruises on my face. I take a voracious bite of sausage and feel warmed to my toes.
“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 an unease in his tone that makes me slightly queasy. 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 conception 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 hide you away and 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 L.A.—it started in San Bernadino 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 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 24th 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 Peter will only be in this city for a short time longer. 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 exact address, but it’s in Silver Lake.”
“Wait.” Dylan shakes his head; he lifts his hands to 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!” But then 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 as always, 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 faintly 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 chit-chat 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 an awful twinge of sympathy. I wish, not for the first time, that the Church was a religion like any other. I wish it gave Believers a community without causing them harm.
“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 good will 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, turning 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 like a diamond 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. 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.
I fall into an uneasy half-sleep, unable to relax my rigid limbs, unable to ignore the pain in my arms, my throat, my fingers. After a while I become aware of a figure in the chair by the wall, gazing down at me. I can’t focus on him, but I know who he is. I recognize the way he sits—his ankle crossed over his knee. I want him to go. Not because I don’t miss him—just because I don’t want him to see me like this. I wish he could have seen me those few months I was strong. When I speak to him, my voice comes out a croak.
“Daddy.”
“You know what to do if your clothes catch fire, right, honey?” he asks, his voice an echo in my head. “You stop, drop, and roll.”
“I know. That’s what I’ll do.”
“Good. And careful not to touch the doorknob, okay? If there’s a fire in the hall, it’ll burn the skin right off of your hand.”
I try to push myself up to see him better, but my hands sink through the floor. I have a feeling he’s smiling at me; he’s waiting for me to figure it out; he’ll be so proud of me once I manage to sit up straight. I feel a sharp pang then. I’ve just remembered a terrible secret about him, a secret I know I have to tell him but don’t want to.
“Dad.” I will my eyes to focus on him. “You shouldn’t be here. You’re dead.”
And at that moment I can really see him for the first time: the freckles on his cheeks and his messy brows, the tiny scar on his upper lip I don’t know the cause of and never will. I watch the grin slip off of his face, and I watch him frown, confused and sorry.
“Oh, that’s right,” he says, and disappears.
Then I dream that the lock is turning. Someone is at the door to my room, and somehow they have a key. I try to get to my feet; I say, “I’m here!” but I’m dizzy with sleep and pain and hunger. The room swirls around me, and I have to lower myself on the bed, heart racing.
The door pushes open. Derrick, Wilkins’s Peacemaker partner from the Chateau Marmont, sticks his head in. When he sees me, he starts to laugh.
Not a dream, then—a nightmare. I think to pinch myself, but when I glance down, I see my scratched and bloody hands and know it’s really happening. I struggle to stand as Derrick steps inside.
“What are you doing here?”
“This city is on fire, little girl.” He’s menacing and huge under the flickering fluorescent. I notice his glazed eyes and a sharp, whiskey smell. He’s drunk. “Didn’t you know? Judgment Day has arrived, and thanks to you, every last one of us feels the flames of hell lick our backs. Even me. You couldn’t just let it be true. You had to defile the Prophet Taggart’s son. You had to step in and spread your disgusting story.”
I don’t understand, but I feel a surge of anger, stronger than fear, stronger than hunger, a simple annoyance that he tracked me down just to pin all the Church’s atrocities on me. If I ever had patience for Believers who wanted to convince me of my own wickedness, I’ve officially run out of it.
“It’s so odd,” I say, “that God didn’t want you around up there in His kingdom. What a catch you are. He must really be kicking Himself right now.”
Everything goes white. Derrick has smacked me, and before I can shake the spots from my eyes, he hits me across the other cheek. I feel the sting of the cut on my jaw breaking open. He’s going to hurt me worse than I’ve ever been hurt before. Derrick takes me by the throat, pushes me against the concrete wall. I scream, kicking fiercely, trying to land my foot hard in his groin. But his grip only gets tighter; with his other arm, he digs an elbow in my gut. I feel my breath leaving me, my legs going weak, a dark shadow at the edge of my sight. I’m going to pass out, I realize. I’m going to die. I have a kind of vision then. I see the three of us—Harp, Peter, and me—in Point Reyes, at the moment we found the trail to Frick’s compound. We came together to link our arms around each other’s shoulders, tired and triumphant. We made a triangle. I hold onto it, this image, this last thread of consciousness. I would die like this a thousand times, as long as I still got to live in that moment.
But then there’s a sickening crack, and Derrick stumbles forward, his weight pressing me against the wall. He’s heavy, but my body seizes in relief; I gasp for breath, my eyes streaming. Someone pulls Derrick off me, and when I’m able to focus, I’m sure for a moment that I am dead. Because there’s no logical explanation for what I see: the woman who stands before me, the butt of the rifle she holds still poised in the air, reared back from when she slammed it against Derrick’s skull, her red-blonde hair long and swinging down her back, eyes burning with a fury like I’ve never seen, until she glances at my face.
My mother.