“WATCH WHERE YOU’RE goin’, yah feggin’ bitch!” one of the men yells. And now he’s looking at me, head cocked like he’s trying to place my face, which is weird, cause it’s covered—
But no, it is not covered. The flap covering it has come loose in the collision, and now I’m standing exposed—and putting these pertinent facts together far too slowly.
“Wait a minute,” the second guy says, and I can see it in his eyes—he’s recognized me. He takes a step toward me. “You’re—”
But he doesn’t finish, ’cause I knee him in the nuts. As he sinks to the ground, the first guy grabs my wrist and tries yanking me toward him, but I resist and soon can feel my hand slipping out of his grip.
This is when I notice the quiet. The sounds coming from the stage—Kameron Rook’s torture patter and the volunteer’s begging—have stopped. I glance up and see Kameron peering into the audience near me. See his eyes flare wide a split second in recognition. “Beatrix, don’t you take one fucking step!” he shouts, his smooth voice now one of pure rage.
Get the hell out of there!
But the part of me etched by Sherman’s shocks doesn’t comply. All thoughts—of escape, of defending myself—have been shunted aside, leaving just one resounding thought: Kameron has ordered me not to move.
My protocol-induced paralysis lasts just a moment. But it’s enough. The guy holding my wrist is able to spin me around, wrenching my arm behind me and forcing me into a half bow. I hear Kameron summoning Reckoners from somewhere in the crowd.
But then I hear a muffled crunnnk. And my wrist comes free. I turn around and see the guy unconscious on the ground near the first one—and Kofi standing over him with a rock.
“Run!” he whispers to me, and the two of us take off in opposite directions. Amid Kameron’s calls for Reckoners and all the whistles and shouts, I duck down and burrow my way through cultists, slipping behind a nearby tent to re-cover my face with the scarf, then weaving my way through the Tabula Rasa at a quick walk, slowing only when I get near the edge of the crowd. I spot Kyung and Ethan up ahead trying to appear casually not terrified as they pass by Reckoners manning the exit at the far end of Healy Lawn. They’re headed for a large stone staircase a few yards away that drops down to the street below.
I follow, forcing myself to walk slowly past the leather-jacketed goons and down the stone staircase, even though I can now hear shouts and the squawks of walkie-talkies beginning to erupt nearby. Just before I’ve descended out of sight, I chance a look back at the crowd and see a Reckoner in a green baseball hat muscling his way through it. I sprint the rest of the way down the steps, joining up with Ethan and Kyung waiting on Thirty-Seventh Street North.
“This way,” Kyung says, and the three of us run through a series of warren-like walkways and drives that thread between row houses.
When we turn onto Prospect Avenue, despite the immediate danger—or possibly because of it—I feel that charge again, no doubt helped by the double shot of adrenaline now rocketing through me.
But we make it less than a block down Prospect before I spot, over my shoulder, Green Hat and a second Reckoner running toward us.
So we zig down Thirty-Third. When we reach M Street, I get this gut feeling, before the voice can even chime in, that we should cut left onto it.
Now you’re coming around.
“This way,” I say to Ethan and Kyung, and lead them onto M Street with its ruins of upscale shops and ample abandoned cars to use as cover. We sprint at full speed down the raggedy road till shots ring out and glass shatters uncomfortably close to us. We duck behind a FedEx truck just as a bullet pings off its bumper.
“Come out, drop your weapons,” Green Hat shouts at us.
Another bullet hits close and Ethan flinches. “Maybe we should surrender—”
“No!” I say. Captive of the Tabula Rasa doesn’t sound terribly survivable.
“Well, we can’t stay here,” Kyung says. “I say we head—”
“Both of you do exactly as I tell you,” I bark, no preamble, no pleases. “Kyung, hand me the SIG Sauer.” She looks beyond relieved as she slips it to me. I examine the pistol, taking the moment to reweigh the costs and benefits of pointing this weapon at people with the intent to kill. Am I willing to do that? Sacrifice the time machine’s do-over, the fresh start it’s given me?
No, I am not.
“Just cover fire. I’m not shooting anyone,” I tell them. And myself.
Time to see just what kind of muscle memory for gunplay I possess. Will it be just like riding a bike? First I check the pistol. Bank the SIG Sauer on its side, then quickly and smoothly rack the slide and check that the chamber is empty before closing it. Then I press the release and drop the magazine to check it. Full. Fifteen rounds. Good. Drop it back in. Done. It’s unnerving to see what nimble, well-trained little fuckers my fingers are as they carry out these actions.
“Follow me, on three,” I tell Kyung and Ethan. They nod and I aim the gun at the ground in front of the Reckoner. “One, two,” I say, squeezing off a couple shots. “Three!” I say, and lead them in a mad scramble past the ruins of Pizza Paradiso and Dean & Deluca. We’re just a hundred yards short of Wisconsin, about to pass J.Crew, when more bullets ping close by.
Green Hat is an excellent shot.
We duck behind a burned-out Range Rover some asshole double-parked a decade and a world ago, and I’m catching my breath when I hear the squawk of walkie-talkies coming from the other direction on M Street. I peer around the Range Rover and see two more men approaching.
We’re about to be fish in a barrel. Crap.
There’s an alley to our right, the entrance almost completely blocked with piles of junk. And thirty feet in lies an enormous red dumpster, further obstructing the view. There might be no door into the building behind it, no exit. But something about this garbage-strewn possible dead end just feels right.
Yes, it is. Do it.
Do I trust the voice and her maybe-knowledge?
Do you have a better option?
I do not. “The alley. Follow me,” I say to Ethan and Kyung.
“Are you sure, Bix?” Kyung asks.
“Let’s go,” I say, and the three of us hurtle ourselves down the debris-choked alley, just barely reaching safety behind the dumpster before bullets start pinging off it. But there, mere feet away, is a door. A door with a giant happy face painted on it. I know this smiling door; I’m sure of it.
But when I give the knob a try, it doesn’t move. And the lock’s a mortise. Can’t pick it. Definitely can’t shoot it.
Fuck. My mind races, scrounging around my dusty brain for any idea of how to make a locked door unlocked, hoping some thought will come to me.
And something does come. Not a thought, an action: my hand reaches up high, to the trim over the door, and it feels around till my fingers make contact.
A key.
I take it, shove it in the keyhole, say a quick prayer to the locksmith gods, then try to turn it.
And it works! It fucking works!
“Bix!”
Ethan. In my excitement over the door, I’d forgotten about him and Kyung. I turn and see, clear over on the other side of the alley, a petrified Ethan and Kyung crouched behind some abandoned debris. There’s a good twenty feet of open space, a virtual shooting arcade, between us. Shit.
How to retrieve Kyung and Ethan? I get down on the ground by the dumpster. Scan the shadowy mountains of refuse piled next to the building on the right. Pretty sure the Reckoners are near the shiny hubcap someone’s mounted on the pile.
It’s Green Hat I’m most concerned about. He’s the one with the skills.
My eyes roam over the semistructure, searching. At first I find nothing. But then there’s movement. A tiny flash of green. The sharpshooter’s hat reflected in the neighboring building’s transom window tilted open above him.
I grab hold of the bar on the dumpster’s massive door to pull myself up—and get an idea. Take a closer look at its lever. It could work if the thing’s not rusted shut. I reach down and pull hard on the lever, but nothing moves.
The second try’s also a failure. I close my eyes and will my long-past bone-weary body to yank a third time with all it’s got—and, lo, the lever flies upward, freeing the heavy door.
I swing it outward 180 degrees, bullets soon pinging off the steel. Opening it has bought us another eight feet of cover. And it’s given me something else—a one-and-a-half-inch gap at the hinge to use as a gun emplacement. I point the SIG Sauer through it.
I hold my finger up in a wait-for-my-signal gesture, motioning for Kyung and Ethan to be ready. Hopefully my intentions are clear, but who knows.
I aim for the hubcap, hoping to force our pursuers to duck. Squeeze off two shots: one hits the top of the hubcap; another blows it off the pile.
“Now!” I whisper-shout to Kyung and Ethan.
Kyung charges across the gap, clearing it before the bullets come.
But Ethan’s still on the other side. Shit. His face is brimming with apology and fear. I wave it off, put up my finger again, and he nods.
I check the sniper’s reflection in the transom window. He’s got his .22 rifle trained on the gap. Ready. I’m about to fire another shot to force his head down when he bats away some insect in his face—and his head pops right into my crosshairs.
Take the shot!
But I don’t. I won’t. Instead I squeeze off another warning shot, blasting the debris pile inches from his ear. Splinters of wood explode around him, his head goes down, and I whisper-shout to Ethan, “Run!”
Only, Ethan hesitates. Just for a split second, but it’s enough. I’m about to shout for him to stop, but I’m too late. He’s already launched himself across the gap—
The next seconds unspool in brutal slow motion. I watch as Ethan’s body is rocked sideways by the force of a bullet entering his right back, exiting his right chest.
A bullet I could’ve prevented if I’d taken the shot.
Ethan’s eyes go wide in surprise but his forward momentum propels him past the gap, and his body collapses onto me like a wave crashing on shore.
I hold him tight, and he whispers weakly in my ear, “Sorry, Bix. We should’ve told you … all of it … trusted you could deal…”
I’m aware of the sounds around me, Ethan’s cryptic apology, the Tabula Rasa’s bullets still pinging off the dumpster, Kyung’s cries, but they’re all muted, background noise to what I’m focused on: Ethan’s quick, labored breaths and what they mean—that the bullet must’ve passed through his right lung. Blood is flowing from the exit wound on his chest. I can feel its sticky warmth spreading between us.
I stand there frozen, arms unwilling to relinquish their embrace till Kyung intervenes, takes one of Ethan’s arms and slings it over her shoulders. I tuck the pistol in the waist of my pants, take his other arm.
“You with us?” I ask him.
He smiles weakly. “Yup, right here,” he says, and we carry him into the building, shutting the door behind us. It’s almost pitch-black inside, but I seem to know the building’s layout, and soon we’re weaving through the ruins of the J.Crew. Naked, ghostly mannequins hold court over the store’s dusty remains, barely lit by the dirty skylights above. The place has been stripped bare. The only item of clothing still remaining is a lone pair of green pants, resort wear so luridly preppy they practically glow in the semidarkness.
I pop my head out the back door to check for Reckoners but see none, and we exit.
Outside it’s dusk, a sliver of moon rising. We’re on a brick patio overlooking the C&O Canal that is flowing somewhere below, under the thick tree cover.
As we haul Ethan toward a footbridge spanning the canal at the patio’s far end, I listen for sounds of pursuit, but so far no one’s figured out we’re not still pinned down in the alley.
That won’t last. We need to get to a hiding place soon.
When we reach the footbridge, Kyung doesn’t have us cross it. Instead, she leads us down its attached stairs, to an overgrown footpath running alongside the canal. As we scramble through the tangled brush of the path with Ethan, my head’s on a swivel, scanning every shadow for Reckoners—or witnesses—but I don’t see a soul.
After a half click, Kyung leads us up a ramp to a dark, narrow street, then another till we reach a Federal-style house. While Kyung is unlocking the door, I gaze upward and see millions of stars in a sky undiluted by the lights and pollution of man. It’s stunning.
“One perk of this world,” Ethan says, watching my awe, and I smile.
My eyes sweep the street one last time before we carry Ethan into the dark house.
Once inside, door double bolted, Kyung flicks a switch on a beefy wall-mounted solar battery and light fills the space. And it’s a familiar space.
This is my house. I’m finally home.
We’re standing in its large kitchen, with its probably dead Sub-Zero fridge and other top-of-the-line appliances, with a long, marble-covered island that probably graced many an Insta feed in its day. But now it’s stained and half covered with large plastic boxes containing what appear to be medical supplies.
Beyond the kitchen is a living room with a well-used stone fireplace that’s surrounded by a patchwork of animal pelts, random chairs, and a massive pile of firewood. Bunches of strong-smelling botanicals are drying on racks nearby, next to stacks of more boxes.
Ethan looks around the room, smiles, and cracks, “What a disaster. When’s the last time you cleaned this place, Bix?”
“Good one. Keep it up, nerd,” I say.
Kyung leaves Ethan with me and goes to the island. “We can lay him here,” she says, and pushes the boxes out of the way, spreads out a plastic sheet. The two of us heave Ethan up onto the marble as gently as we can and Kyung pulls out an array of medical equipment from a nearby box. Clips a pulse oximeter onto Ethan’s finger and then starts to take his blood pressure.
My twin’s breaths are rapid and shallow. Now in the quiet stillness of the house, Kyung and I can hear the telltale gurgle of a sucking chest wound: with each breath Ethan takes, air is being pulled in and out of his chest cavity through the exit wound. A stroke of luck in its way: at least the bullet went straight through. If the bullet had knocked around inside him or been a larger caliber, there would be no chance.
“Blood pressure’s ninety over sixty,” Kyung says, then checks the pulse oximeter. “Heart rate ninety-five.”
Decent vitals, considering. I grab a stethoscope from the pile of supplies and take a listen. “He’s stable,” I say. “Let’s monitor him for now.” Then I turn to my twin. “Anything in your medical history I should know? Previous surgeries? Allergies?”
“No,” he says weakly. “Fortunately, I’m not like you with penicillin.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re allergic,” Kyung says, “like full-on anaphylactic-death-show allergic.”
“Good to know. I’ll try to avoid the stuff.” Ethan’s looking pretty pale, eyes drifting closed. I pull Kyung away. “He could have a tension pneumothorax,” I say softly. “You should be prepared to do a chest tube.”
“Not me. You,” Kyung says, grabbing some surgical instruments and plastic tubing from a plastic box.
“No,” I say, shaking my head.
“You’re the one with medical training, Bix. I’m a decent nurse at best.”
Me put a chest tube in Ethan? “I … I can’t—”
“You know how to do it. I’ve seen you,” Kyung says, holding out a box of surgical gloves.
Shit.
Kyung grabs a nearby pair of scissors while part of her brain returns to job one: “Once Ethan’s out of the woods, we need to come up with a plan for sending you back with proof you’re from the future. So Dr. Pell will believe you and—”
My brain, which has been keeping all thoughts of the mission and what Kyung has been keeping from me for the sake of the mission in a sturdy drawer for the last ten minutes, suddenly pulls them back out.
“Kameron Rook,” I say, cutting her off. “When he spotted me in the crowd, the look in his eyes … it was beyond angry. It was murderous … What the hell did I do to that guy in Baltimore, Kyung?” But she doesn’t answer. “How did I become the beast?” Still no response. “I wanted the Tabula Rasa’s secrets—so what did I do to get them?”
Finally, she says, “You got involved with one of his men last spring. Someone high up. Cocky asshole, but apparently he fell hard for you. Pulled you right into the Tabula Rasa’s inner circle, where you quickly managed to gain people’s trust. And you must’ve learned something. We heard that one day last July you broke into a warehouse of theirs you’d tracked down, that they had you trapped but you shot your way out, somehow escaped.”
“Who was the guy? Who was Rook’s man?” I demand.
“Stokes,” Kyung says.
“The psy-ops guy?” I ask, and she nods. Of course Paul is Stokes, the Tabula Rasa’s master of mind games, gaslighter supreme. Makes all the sense in the world. But I need to be certain. “Are there any photos of him? Do I have any—”
Kyung goes over to the fridge and searches the various photos and miscellaneous objects taped to it. Finds a photo partially hidden under a pair of dangling baby booties. Pulls it off the fridge and hands it to me. On it are Paul and I, his arms around me. Behind us is the quarry. It’s from that day, my true north memory day. “That’s Stokes,” she says. I can’t stop staring at it, that fleeting memory of mine locked on paper.
“So, you’re starting to remember things … from before your jump to ’54?”
She doesn’t look entirely pleased with that possibility.
“No, not exactly,” I say. My tale of nearly being housebroken by Paul … Stokes—still not something I want to share, especially with Kyung, who I suspect is still keeping all manner of shit from me.
But it’s long past time she knew.