“I DON’T BELIEVE it,” Charlie says.
“Neither do I,” Gabe says. His voice is thick.
Alice is over at the coffee maker behind her desk, trying to pour herself a cup. But her hands are too shaky. The pot keeps clattering against the mug, and the coffee sloshes out all over the place. I go to her, feeling surprisingly steady, and take the warm carafe from her.
“Let me help,” I say, and finish pouring.
“Thank you,” Alice whispers. She offers me some version of a smile, and I give her my best in return.
“It’s just too easy,” Charlie goes on.
I turn away from the coffee and put my hands on Alice’s desk, stiffening my elbows, holding myself up, because if I don’t, I think I might collapse to the floor. Don Cranston is sitting on the other side, tracing a circle on the desktop with his finger. Deputy Conner is leaning against the wall, her face blank. There are two soldiers behind her in the entryway, watching us, making sure we don’t try anything stupid until Higgins and her men have gotten far enough away with my dad and Gabe’s.
“They aren’t really just going to … blow us up, are they?” I say, chiming in.
“They could,” Don says. “Charlie’s right. It’s easy, but it’s perfect easy. Meaning it mops up the mess Higgins made pretty neatly and efficiently.”
“No more witnesses,” Gabe suggests.
“No more evidence,” I add.
“No more monsters.” Charlie completes the thought.
“If she’s being serious,” I say, “then there’s nothing we can do but wait. Even if we go out to the Banshee Palace, there’s a good chance the anomaly kills us before the bomb does.”
“Yeah, but what if the Bug Man has already killed the Dagger Hill anomaly?” Gabe asks.
“Or the anomaly killed the Bug Man,” Charlie says. “And then…” He doesn’t have to say the rest. If the anomaly won against the Bug Man, then Kimberly is already dead.
“Sounds like there are no good options,” Don says. He slides a hand inside his trench coat and removes a silver flask, pours a nip into his coffee mug, considers the taste, then adds more.
“And what about this antenna on top of the video store?” I ask. “If it’s broadcasting the Dagger Hill anomaly’s … what did my dad call it? Audio frequency? Then what is it broadcasting to?”
“Or who is it broadcasting to?” Charlie asks.
None of us has an answer. I come back around the desk and slump against a desk next to Charlie. I put my head on his shoulder. He takes my hand, squeezes it. Gabe shifts toward us. He gives me what might be intended as a reassuring smile, but it’s all nerves.
I wish Kimberly were here. Desperately. But for now, it’s enough to just be with the boys. My boys. Not that long ago, right after Gabe got his license, we were all in the Chevelle together, cruising across the Hill-to-Hill Bridge, and Gabe kept hitting the brake too hard and we all kept jerking forward in our seats. Charlie and I were in the back; Kim was up front with Gabe. We all had whiplash later, but we were laughing so hard. Charlie kept calling the Chevelle the Tucker Torpedo right before Gabe would slam the brake down and Charlie’s face would splat against the back of the headrest again.
My memory doesn’t feel all that reliable right now, but I remember that day through a film of sunshine and spiraling pollen, like it was raining glitter. That might be a little more romantic than the truth, but all my memories of the four of us are cast in a golden hue. Even on the coldest days growing up, wherever we went, we always seemed to carry the sun around with us.
In my peripheral vision, I’m aware of Alice still standing there, watching us. When I look her way, I see tears in her eyes. She’s muttering something under her breath. Some kind of song, maybe? A nursery rhyme? Her eyes are wide, vacant, staring down at the floor through the steam of her coffee.
“A song sung one,” she whispers. “The end of the line. A song sung two, we’ll be just fine. A song sung three, dead is divine.” Her eyes shift up and meet mine. A rash of goose bumps breaks out at the nape of my neck.
“You okay, Alice?” I ask. I realize that I’m still holding on to Gabe’s and Charlie’s hands, squeezing them tighter than ever.
“A song sung four,” Alice goes on, “all outta time.”
Outside, I can suddenly hear gunfire and shouting.
Inside, Alice Kemmerer drops her mug of hot coffee, lets it shatter across the floor. She raises her hands to the sides of her head and begins to scream.