The sky is a gray massive cloud, threatening rain. The moon glows behind a fuzzy curtain, diffused, tempered. I sit on a bench, waiting, my buzzing switch flipped on to make sure I sense Aydan’s approach. Lake Union expands before me: a darkened mirror of gently rocking waters. To my left, sprawl six metal giants, old and guarding a history that is all their own. Gas Works Park with its domed-shaped towers is, indeed, an interesting sight.
We remember so little, forget what really matters and hold on to the wrong things. Here, in this beautiful piece of land at the edge of a magnificent lake, is a post-industrial monument to a dead technology. But what of the lives? What of the people who worked here? Who suffered or laughed? Who are now gone, never to be immortalized by anyone?
And what now? Now that fewer remain to care and remember?
A cloud pulls aside and lets a few rays of moonlight fall onto the preserved structures that are the remains of an old coal gasification plant. Metal pipes extend toward the sky. Nozzles protrude from metal edifices that used to be generators or something of the sort. There are picnic tables in what used to be the boiler house where the steam was produced for the process of converting coal into gas for heating or lighting. Such a strange place. Kids play inside what used to be an exhauster building.
Kids? What of them? I shiver at the thought. How many are infected? How many never stood a chance? And how about the ones who still do? The ones we must keep safe. And what of new generations, especially those born to Eklyptors, meant to always be vessels to parasites?
Water laps the shore. A salty breeze kisses me. I lick my lips and wait, wait, wait.
There used to be a 4th of July fireworks display here every year. I came to see it once. I wonder if that will ever take place again. Xave and I had planned to see it together, but that’s one of many things that will never happen.
My bike clicks behind me as it cools. The sounds are comforting and make me glad I decided to go by the motel to pick it up. After I ran out of Elliot’s headquarters, which to my surprise ended up being in the middle of downtown, right across Pacific Place, I left in a hurry, glancing over my shoulder every two seconds to make sure no one was following me, amazed at the fact that Whitehouse was operating from that location well before The Takeover. They hid in plain sight. All along.
Once I felt safe, I found a van in a public parking lot, hot-wired it, and drove it to the fleabag motel where I’d left my ride. The place looked as deserted as the last time I was there, and I had no trouble getting in and out. In fact, most of the city looked deserted, though there was plenty enough proof of the chaos that marked the first few days of The Takeover.
I rode cautiously through streets that actually felt like minefields, with their scattered debris: rolled over cars (some still spewing acrid smoke,) felled traffic lights, discarded ballistic police shields, an alarming amount of castoff shoes. It took me twice as long as it should have to get here, but I feel lucky no one jumped me demanding to know my faction allegiance—though a small pack of dogs scared the crap out of me, barking like lunatics when I interrupted their systematic attack of a large garbage bag. Most of them bared their teeth and yapped until I was out of sight; though the smallest looked at me with sad brown eyes that seemed to beg for a bowl full of kibbles.
I check my watch. It’s already fifteen minutes past midnight. I stand and look around. The wind whistles as it blows past the rusted-looking monument.
“Where are you, Aydan?” I whisper.
I rub my hands together, trying not to come to any conclusions, but they pop inside my head anyway, like heated popcorn kernels.
Maybe this was a joke and he never intended to meet me. Maybe he was captured, hurt, killed on his way here.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I take a deep breath and let my thoughts jump in other, less gloomy directions—more out of habit than due to a present threat.
Wile E. Coyote runs by the bottom of a cliff and gets smashed by a rock.
He always seems to make an appearance in my mental images. Not good. I can’t let my thoughts get predictable and make it easier for the shadows to figure out a pattern. Not that the agent has felt particularly threatening lately.
God, how I hate all the maybes. I’d like more certainty.
I wait for another fifteen minutes and still he doesn’t show. Feeling defeated and betrayed, I stand to leave. Maybe there is an explanation why he isn’t here. Maybe he’ll give me another chance. I walk to the lakefront and gaze into the water. I think of the whole world drowning, of only a few untainted humans remaining. Maybe they would survive and repopulate the earth. Or maybe they would kill each other. It’s a toss-up.
I whirl at the sound of footsteps behind me. Someone coming from the old gas plant.
Aydan!
I recognize his gait. He’s been here all along, hiding by the towers, probably watching me, trying to determine if this is a trap and if it’s safe to get close. I wonder how he got there. His car wasn’t in the parking lot. He must have left it somewhere else and walked.
Just as my head begins to buzz with his presence, he stops.
“Hey,” he says. He’s dressed all in black, a hood over his head, a backpack strapped around his shoulders. One hand is inside his hoodie, the other one making a fist at his side. Under the shade of his hood, his expression is unreadable.
“You came,” I say.
“I had to.” There’s no doubt in his voice. This is something he had to do.
I nod. “Have you been there the whole time?” I gesture toward the plant.
He ignores my question. “I have a test. I need you to draw some blood and show me the result.” He takes something out of his front pocket and tosses it my way. I catch it and give him a questioning look.
“It’s a test Kristen developed,” he explains. “You’ve taken it before. She’s just made it portable. It will tell me if you’re an Eklyptor or not.”
“Okay,” I say, feeling relieved. This will be a lot easier than I thought. I walk back to the bench and dump the contents of the small bag onto my lap. Two small packets fall out.
“Prick your finger, fill the capillary tube, put everything back in the bag and throw it back,” Aydan instructs.
I get right to it, without hesitation. He needs to see I have nothing to hide. Ripping the shorter package open, I take out a small lancet and stab my index finger with it. A gleaming drop of blood beads up. I tear the second package with my teeth, take out the thin capillary tube and touch its tip to the blood. Red rises within the tube’s clear walls like fruit punch through a straw.
I glance at Aydan. He’s watching me closely, a deep scowl forming a crease between his thick black eyebrows. There are a million questions I’d like to ask him, but I bite them down. His lips are shut tight, holding back the insults and threats a traitor would deserve. I lower my gaze. There’s no trust in his expression. I can’t blame him.
The tube is full. I place it in the bag and throw it back to Aydan.
He catches it with one hand and pulls it close to his chest. His other hand is still inside his hoodie. “Stay where you are,” he commands.
I put my hands up. “I will,” I say. “No sudden moves. Don’t worry.”
Aydan takes a knee, pulls his hand out of the hoodie and slowly sets a gun on the ground. Taking no chances with my abilities, he steps on the weapon.
I scoff. “I don’t know if you’ve had better luck than me, but I can’t use my power at will. It comes and goes when it wants to. Your gun’s safe from my so-called telekinesis.”
He doesn’t respond. Instead, he gets to work on testing my blood. I have the feeling he’s probably mastered his electrifying powers by now. He has no problem with meditation. More than ever, I don’t dare do it on my own, not after Azrael made her unwelcome appearance.
I look away and stare at the skyline across Lake Union; the clouds have cleared a little, revealing Mount Rainier in the distance, a giant silhouette that seems to somehow float over the haze. Closer, the city glows electric under the dark firmament. The Space Needle seeming taller than any other structure from this angle. The eerie sound of screams appears to travel on the breeze. How many are suffering? How many are praying to be spared the horror? How many think even begging God is hopeless?
We. Humans. Masters and rulers of the Earth.
Have we truly come to an end? Has our cruelty met its match?
We’ve endured so much, built so much, destroyed so much. Maybe it is our turn to face destruction. Maybe we deserve it.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Aydan stand. The gun is back in his hand and this time he’s pointing it at me. My eyes move from the weapon to the discarded testing implements on the ground, to his face. I get to my feet, hands still up in the air.
“You lying, bitch.” His hand shakes. His face contorts with disgust and the same brand of doubt I saw in James’s face when he was strangling me.
“Wait!” I exclaim.
I failed the test? Why? How?
“If I failed the test, then it isn’t working. Don’t shoot, please. I swear, Aydan. It’s me. It’s me.” Whatever levels the test is checking are probably still high in my system. Or maybe it’s looking for antibodies released when the agent took over. If that’s the case, then I’ll forever test positive. Aydan is smart, though, he must know this.
“I figured it was a lie, but I had to be sure.”
“I’m not lying! Something’s wrong with the—”
“You gave us away to Elliot,” he cuts me off. “You killed Oso. You took Marci.” His voice breaks. “That’s why I came … I came to kill you.”
And with that, Aydan pulls the trigger.