WHEN AM I allowed to wake up?
I feel like I’ve been swimming through unconsciousness for a long time, caught in a riptide of images churning behind my eyes. Charlie in his vest, making us promise that we’ll always be there. Sonya, with her hair glowing in the afternoon sun. Storm clouds over Windale, pulled across the sky, dark and gnarled. The big, winged thing plummeting out of that storm, a movie prop gone horribly wrong. Pieces of it snapping and splintering and bursting. In my mind, the explosions are more like bubbles popping, only instead of water, they splash heat and fire across the clearing. Our clearing.
That nauseating roll of mental pictures flips over again, and I’m on the ground, in the mud, drowning in the rain. There’s Kimberly, looking pale and waterlogged, looking dead. I’m certain she’s dead; there’s no way she’s not dead, oh god oh god oh god—
Then I see the guy in the gas mask—the Bug Man—and he’s bending down, lifting Kim in his arms, and she’s turning in to the safety of his embrace. I’m sure of it. Her head shifts, the gentle movement of a deep sleeper only a little perturbed by the carnage happening around her.
Please let it be true, I think. Please let her be okay.
My brain is out of film after that, I guess. Because it gets quiet, and I’m just floating now, lifting toward the surface that exists some unknowable distance away. Maybe I’m the one who’s dead. I’ve got a whole list of maybes like that, most of which I don’t even want to begin to think about.
Gabe, a voice in my head says. Gabe, honey.
Honey?
That voice isn’t mine. And the more it speaks, the more I begin to recognize it as my mother’s. Soft and soothing as always, never laced with anger. Sarcasm, sometimes, but never anger. She and my dad are polar opposites that way. She says that my dad only knows how to speak in the language of the brutes but that, luckily, she knows just how to translate.
It’s okay, honey, she goes on. Everything’s okay. You’re okay.
Am I, though?
Please, baby boy. Please wake up.
And then I’m breaking the surface, startling up out of sleep not gradually but all at once, finally coming up for air. I see nothing but bright pastel smears until my eyes begin to focus.
“Oh, thank you, god.” It’s my mom, live and in person this time. I feel her hand on my chest, pushing me back against a pillow as I try to clamber to my feet. “Shhhh. Gabe, honey, shhhh. It’s okay. You’re safe. You’re safe now. Just lie back. Relax.”
I realize that I’m flailing, grabbing the side railing of what must be a hospital bed and fighting to get up out of it. There are wires taped all over my body, though, like weeds that have grown across my motionless limbs while I slept. I feel the pinch of an IV in my right forearm, too. My left arm feels heavy and sore, wrapped up in a sling and pulled close to my ribs. There’s also an oxygen mask over my face.
An image of the man in the gas mask (The Bug Man. You called him the Bug Man, remember?) lifting Kimberly off the ground flashes across my vision.
With my right hand, I grab the rubber mask, held over my face by a couple of elastic straps, and tear it off. The straps come loose, and the mask falls away, and for a few seconds, I feel relief, like I’ve just been let out of a locked closet. But when I try to inhale, my chest tightens. It burns. Instead of a great big gulp of air, I get a thin trickle of oxygen that sets my lungs on fire.
Mom is frantic now. I can see tears dribbling down her cheeks as she scrambles to get the straps reattached to the oxygen mask. I’ve given up on trying to get out of bed; I’m too busy lying here, focusing on breathing, which hurts worse with every small wheeze. The diameter of my throat feels like it’s been reduced to the size of a pinhole. I might as well be sucking air into my body through a straw.
“Mom,” I croak, thinking of the plane crash, thinking of the fire, thinking of the smoke, thinking of my friends. “Help.”
She says, “I’m trying, baby. I’m trying. But you broke the straps on this … I … I can’t … Jack! We need you! Quick!”
Charcoal shadows are smudging the edges of my vision. My skull feels like my brain is kicking it from the inside. I might pass out again, I think. And what happens then? Maybe I don’t wake up this time. Maybe, after dropping a goddamn plane on my head, the universe decided to let me see my mom one last time before pulling the plug for good.
Where are my friends?
I need to know if they’re all right, and I need to know now.
Dad charges into the room. Behind him are another man and woman in some kind of uniform. The fabric is green, like the uniforms on my old G.I. Joe action figures. Are they with the army?
But then, of course, they would be. The plane that crashed is the same plane that Dad and I saw land at TerraCorp … whenever that was. Maybe it was hours ago; maybe it was days. Either way, the army wasn’t called in to investigate the crash. They were already here.
Dad, still dressed in his own uniform, takes two long strides across the room and yanks the oxygen mask out of Mom’s hands. He doesn’t bother fiddling with the straps; he just leans down and cups one of his hands behind my head, lifting me off the pillow slightly as I continue to struggle to suck air into my stubborn, aching lungs. With his other hand, Dad presses the mask gently but firmly to my face.
“Breathe, son,” he says. “Just breathe.”
The man and woman who came in with him are polite enough to stay back a few steps, but they’re staring at me, staring at Dad, like a couple of scientists observing lab rats—not concerned, not willing to help, just curious. The walls behind them are textured and gray. They belong to the Windale Medical Center—I’ve been in here with enough sore throats and colds to recognize the place. But why are they here?
As if seeing all this registering in my eyes, my dad leans in closer, pushing the mask a little tighter, his other hand still bracing the back of my head in a way that he probably hasn’t done since I was a baby. Even through the thick rubber of the respirator, I can smell his aftershave (this stuff called Chaz that Mom buys him every year for Christmas). I can see the tiny scar at the corner of his jaw where he got socked in the face by some dillhole who was pushing his little brother, my uncle Hank, around when they were kids. Just stupid kid shit, my dad says sometimes, chuckling from behind the morning paper.
Is this stupid kid shit that we’re in now?
For a moment, I’m not sure. But then Dad answers the unasked question by putting his cheek to mine, on the right side of my face where the man and woman in the green duds can’t see what he’s doing. His breath is warm on my ear, and all I want to do is hug him, let him anchor me to something that feels like reality for just a little bit.
“Whatever you do,” he says, barely whispering, “don’t say anything to these people until you get a chance to talk to me first. Cough if you understand.”
He pulls away and locks eyes with me, reinforcing his words with that stare that tells me he means business. The words take a second to register, and when they do, they bring about a whole new wave of panic and disorientation. But I trust my dad to protect me—to do the right thing not just by his family, but also by his town. Windale is his to protect, and these other people, the man and woman who keep watching us like we’re something they might want to dissect with sharp, pointy things, they’re strangers here. And they don’t look friendly.
Without taking my eyes off Dad’s, I cough once.
“He’s okay,” Dad says, looking over his shoulder at Mom. He straightens slightly when I take over holding the mask for myself. “He just needs to keep the oxygen flowing until his airway opens up a little more.”
“You inhaled a lot of smoke.” That’s the man in uniform, finally stepping over to the bed I feel trapped in and giving me something that is probably supposed to be a smile … but isn’t.
“Gabe, this is Sergeant Hollis,” my mom says, ever the trusting one of our trio. “He’s the doctor who’s been taking care of you. These folks are with the army.” She gives the whole group an uneasy glance but settles on the woman still standing away from us. “They’re here to help.” The edge in her voice makes it sound like she’s not so sure that’s true. I’m not so sure it is, either.
“As far as we can tell,” Sergeant Hollis continues, “your lungs aren’t permanently damaged, but it’ll take some time before you can breathe on your own without the help of oxygen. After that, you might feel some pressure in your chest that will make it hard to do things like run or exercise. You have a mild concussion, as well, so there may be some disorientation, some trouble with your memory in the short term. But as your head heals, so will your mental faculties. You should be fine, otherwise. Aside from a few scrapes and bruises, of course. Oh, and that left shoulder, which was a bear to pop back in. You might be feeling that for a while.” He grins at that, as if he’s said something funny.
I nod, because if my parents did nothing else, they raised me to be polite, which is sometimes a real pain in the ass.
Dad looks at the woman in the corner, piercing her with that same deadly look. She levels one of her own at him, not hesitating to meet his gaze, and I feel goose bumps ripple over my skin.
“Colonel Higgins,” Dad says, his voice razor-sharp, “can I ask again why we weren’t allowed to see our son until now?”
The woman takes a single step forward, her arms locked at perfect angles behind her back. She’s about as tall as my dad, white with dark hair pulled into a tight bun. Her features are daggerlike and a little frightening, mostly because everything about her seems to lack any kind of personality. She’s cold and pointed, the empathy drained out of her, probably by some ungodly experience she went through while serving her country.
“You can ask, Mr. Albright,” Colonel Higgins says, “but the answer will be the same. Your son is under the care of the United States Army. He’s here because our job is to deconstruct the incident and figure out just what the hell happened. He needs to be kept under our supervision so that when he’s ready, he can be debriefed. And up until a little while ago, we had not determined that it was safe for your son to have any visitors.” Her eyes tick over to my mom. “I understand this is difficult.”
Dad steps in front of Mom, as if trying to protect her. “First of all, in this town, it’s Chief Albright. And second, whose safety are we talking about here? Gabe’s? Or ours?”
At that, Mom makes a little whimpering noise. Higgins says nothing at all.
“What exactly was the army transporting on that plane, Colonel?” Dad asks. He raises his eyebrows at Sergeant Hollis. “Sergeant? Anybody?”
Higgins and Hollis are silent. Only Hollis seems slightly intimidated by Dad’s glare—he stares down at his boots, which are reflecting pale rectangles of fluorescent light back at him.
“My son’s testimony isn’t going to help you figure out why that plane fell out of the sky,” Dad continues. “It’s just going to make him relive the whole thing. And I won’t allow it.”
Higgins looks down at her own boots and actually laughs. It’s not a sound that has any joy in it, though, and her lips don’t smile. When she glances up again, she looks as menacing as ever. I can see the smallest falter in my dad’s resolution. He may have finally met his match, which would be funny under different circumstances.
“I like you,” Higgins says. Her voice sounds the way a cobra looks when it’s coiling, preparing to strike. “And for that reason, I will grant you one small courtesy. But let me make something very clear, Chief Albright. The fact that Gabriel is here, that he was part of the incident, is the only thing keeping me from putting you back behind the civilian line. Your son is going to receive the best care this country has to offer, by one of its best doctors.” Her elbow moves just slightly, pointed at Hollis, who’s trying to look busy writing something down on a clipboard. “But this is my investigation, and I will run it as I see fit. And you will not get in the way again. Do I make myself clear?”
Oh god, lady, I think. You just made a very big mistake. If there’s one thing my dad can’t stand, it’s when somebody talks down to him.
But with his jaw clenched and the tendons in his neck standing out, Dad says, “Yes.”
“Good.” Higgins turns to Hollis. “Come find me when he’s ready to be interviewed.” And with that, she turns on her heel and steps out the door. The air seems to shift around the room, as if it’s relaxing now that she’s gone.
Sergeant Hollis does his best to offer a reassuring look.
“I want continuous updates on the progress of the investigation,” Dad says, trying to reassert his own ability to intimidate. “That might have been your plane, but Windale is still in my jurisdiction. I have a right to know what the hell happened yesterday.”
Yesterday. Sunlight is coming in through the gaps in the blinds on the window, which means I’ve been out for almost a full day. Jesus.
“I understand, Mr.—I mean, Chief Albright,” Hollis says. “But with all due respect, your jurisdiction doesn’t mean jack now that the army is here. The investigation is classified.”
“Why?” Dad presses, his face turning a tomato-y shade of red, voice rising. “Because you asshats don’t want us to know what happened? Because it might have something to do with whatever bullshit you have going on at TerraCorp?”
“Jack,” Mom says. She sounds tired; her eyes are puffy from crying.
Hollis glances down at his clipboard again, as if he’s going to find some kind of help from it. Sorry, buddy. No getting out now. Once he’s on a roll, he’s on a roll. Usually, for me, the roll ends with my being grounded. I don’t think Dad can ground an army doctor, but he’s sure as hell going to try.
I think Hollis might cave, tell Dad what he wants to know. But then his face hardens, and he locks his arms behind his back, clipboard still in hand, stands up straight. “I’m sorry,” he says, not sounding sorry at all. “I understand this is difficult.”
Before he steps out, Hollis fixes the straps on the oxygen mask so that it stays on my face without having to be held there. Then he’s gone, leaving Dad standing beside the bed like a volcano about to erupt.
“Jack, it’s okay,” Mom says, putting a hand on his arm placatingly. She’s good at talking him down, probably the only person who can. “Our son is alive. He’s here. Can we just focus on that for a second?”
With a great whoosh of air, Dad relaxes, shoulders drooping. He glances at me, and I’m shocked to see his eyes red and swimming, tears on the verge of spilling over. “I thought we lost you there for a second, kid,” he says.
“Everything’s going to be fine,” Mom adds. She takes my hand and squeezes it.
“What…,” I start with a voice that cracks like dry skin. It hurts to speak, but I have to ask the question. I have to know. “What … about … the others?”
They don’t need to ask who I’m referring to.
“Sonya is in a room a few doors down,” Dad says. “She’s still out, but her parents are here. Charlie’s in surgery.”
“What?” I croak.
“He’s in pretty rough shape, Gabe,” Dad goes on.
I look away, squeezing my eyes shut, fighting against my own tears. How could things have gone so wrong so fast? When I turn my head back, I’m only slightly more composed. I don’t think I can handle any more bad news. I think of Kimberly being lifted off the ground by whoever that was (the Bug Man, damn it, the Bug Man) and seeing him give me the thumbs-up when I told him to help her. There’s a little spark of hope in my chest, ready to ignite into full-blown relief.
“And … Kim?” I ask, ignoring the steady burn in my esophagus.
But my heart sinks down through the bed when I see Mom and Dad exchange a look. Mom lowers her head, fingers working at her temples, as if she can’t even look at me. Dad puts his hand on my shoulder.
“Gabe,” he says, voice cinched tight. “Son, we don’t know where Kimberly is. Nobody does.”