Vivian Apple Needs a Miracle (10 page)

I'm running through Point Reyes again, the leaves underfoot soft and slippery, the thin branches of trees lashing at my face and arms, slicing deep bloody lines into my skin. It hurts, but I can't stop: I'm being chased. The night is black and impenetrable, and behind me I hear the thing's heavy breathing, the thud of footsteps, the snap of wind at its back. But when I turn to catch a glimpse, I can only make out a shadowy outline. I try to lift my head, to look directly at it, but something's wrong with my eyes—I can't focus on its face. It gets closer, fingers slimy at the back of my neck; I feel the heat of it. I know I should run faster, but I slow down, because I'm coming to a clearing I've been to before, where a figure lies limp with his eyes open.
No, no, no.
I try to slow down.
Not again—

And then I'm in the passenger seat of my grandparents' car on a blank stretch of sunny highway. I hear the buzz of Harp's snores behind me, and when I look to see who's driving, I feel a rush of pleasure, because he's alive, he's here, he's whistling something sweet. He glances at me, and though I can't quite see his face, I can make out the parts of it that I like best—his lips and jawline and long eyelashes, and of course, that flash of bluest blue.

“Where are we?” I ask.

“California, of course.”

“Where are we going?”

“Anywhere,” he says. A cloud passes over the sun, and the sky above us turns red as fire. “I had to get you out of there. You weren't safe.”

Yes, I was,
I'm going to say.
I was with Winnie.
But I feel something clasp around my throat, the fingers of the thing that's chasing me, and, choking, I turn to Peter to beg for help. He stares at my neck for a moment, without interest; then again he begins to whistle.

“Viv!”

Help Harp,
I'm trying to tell him;
she's screaming.
But then Peter is gone and I'm awake in Cliff House, aware of something heavy pressing down on my throat. An arm. I hear the sounds of nearby scuffling and then “Viv!” again, sharp and desperate. Harp is shouting my name, but then there's a thump and she's not shouting anymore. I hear a click and a light shines in my face.

“That's the other one,” says the voice behind the flashlight. “Call it in, Randy.”

I open my mouth to scream, but the arm around my throat makes it impossible to inhale. Where are Suzy and Frankie and Julian and Karen? Where are Winnie and Diego? I begin to pick out shadowy figures in the moonlight—four of them, plus the one holding me down. They wear the dark blue uniforms of the Church of America Peacemakers; I see crucifixes on their armbands. One is illuminated by the screen of his phone; he's young, not much older than me. I try to see Harp in my periphery, but nothing moves where she ought to be. I can't turn my head—afraid of what will happen if I do, afraid of what I'll see there.

“Yep, we got 'em,” says the man—Randy—into the phone. “They match the picture on the feed . . . no, no accomplices present. Thank you, sir. Frick's blessings to you as well.” He hangs up and addresses the group. “Blackmore says somebody's got to be helping them. We have to move.”

Blackmore.
The group springs to action. The one holding me hoists me up, sets me on my feet, but my legs tremble so hard I think they'll buckle.
No accomplices present.
Sometimes late at night, Julian goes on runs to the northernmost point of the cliff side and back. Sometimes Frankie patrols the caves around the pool to ensure they're all empty. But how can all the soldiers be gone now? How could we have made it this far only to get snatched up this easily? My arms are pulled roughly behind my back, and when I struggle, the person pulling them groans. I realize it's a woman.

Beside us, someone sighs. “Just knock her out. I'll do it, if you think you can't take her.”

I move my head a fraction. The man who's just spoken leans over Harp's bed and scoops something into his arms. When he straightens up, I see Harp's body, limp and lifeless, her head lolling back on her neck.

“Harp!” I try to struggle out of the woman's grasp, and one arm gets loose, but then I feel a sharp blow between my shoulder blades, knocking the wind out of me. The man carrying Harp laughs; he moves toward the back exit. The woman pulls me against her with one arm. The other arm reaches toward the man with the flashlight.

“Can I use that a second?”

“Don't hit her too hard,” he warns, handing it over. “Blackmore wants them alive.”

My heart thumps painfully. I pull with all my energy against the woman's hold, but she's far stronger. I have less than seconds. If she knocks me out, there's nothing I can do to help Harp. I shout in frustration and feel the woman's arm rear back, the heavy flashlight in her fist. Then the room is flooded with light. At first I don't understand—I've never seen Cliff House lit. The Peacemakers react with panic. The woman freezes, but the other three retrieve guns from holsters I didn't notice before. The one carrying Harp drops her to pull out his, and in the second before she hits the floor, I see her arm jut out to break her fall.

“Easy does it,” calls the man who seems to be in charge. He looks around, trying to identify the source of the lights. “Don't do anything stupid now. Let's talk this through—these girls can't be worth that much to you.”

I look up, hoping to see Diego march in with guns blazing, the remaining soldiers flanking him, controlled and furious. But I don't see anyone but the Peacemakers, and Harp's body on the floor, eyes shut tight.

“Randy,” the man mutters. “Call for backup.”

Randy nods, taking his phone from his pocket. He hasn't quite brought it to his ear when I see a flash of movement from across the room and hear Randy's accompanying howl of pain as he drops the phone. He turns slightly and I see the knife protruding deeply into his hand. The man who held Harp is closest to the movement; he reacts quickly, shooting twice in that direction. There's a yelp from behind the bar. My stomach turns—Frankie.

“What the
fuck!
” Randy screams.

“Language, Randy!”

“Fuck you, Nelson—there's a
knife
in my hand.” Tears stream down his face as he turns to where I'm held and points his gun at me.

“Randy, don't!” shouts the female Peacemaker. I feel her grip on me loosen just a little. “You're not thinking clearly!”

“They want her alive, Randy,” says Nelson urgently. “We have to keep her alive. You swore on the Book of Frick.”

“Yeah, well, that was before I got
stabbed in the fucking hand!
” Randy shouts.

He fires.

But before he does, in the half moment between his voice hitting my ears and his finger pulling the trigger, I drop to the floor as heavily as I can. The Peacemaker's hold on me breaks as the room explodes into sound and fire—I hear her scream, clutching her shoulder; Randy's bullet has hit her where my head just was. I hear the shatter of glass and Diego's unintelligible shouts from above; I hear the steady, deafening pop of guns from every direction. It isn't just the Peacemakers, but my people too—they've placed themselves at strategic angles on the balcony above, behind overturned tables and the wide oak bar. I roll under my cot, where my few possessions are piled. I grab my sledgehammer and crawl. There isn't time to think; there isn't time to breathe. Blood pumps in my ears, and I realize I'm whispering to myself: “Get to Harp. Get to Harp.” Then someone reaches under the cot and grabs my arm; I swing around to kick out at him, screaming, unable to hear my own screams in all the chaos.

“Vivian!”

Julian drops to a crouch so I can see his face. He holds out his hand, and I push myself out from under the cot to take it; he leads me at a sprint, past the commotion, toward the exit. The air above us splits as a bullet flies past, too close; Julian pushes me to the floor and fires back. He drags me around a corner, and I hear a woman screaming—Winnie? Julian blocks me with his body, watching for movement, digging into his pocket with trembling hands. He throws a set of keys at me.

“Get out.” He nods at the exit several yards to our left. “Get a car and bring it to the entrance. Wait five minutes. If no one comes after five minutes, drive. If one of
them
comes, go.”

“No!” My ears are ringing from the gunshots and my voice is too loud. “I have to make sure Harp is okay!”

“We'll get Harp. Don't worry. Just go.”

He looks at me with his deep brown eyes, at once assured and pleading, and I feel something in me—some wall I've built—give way. I take the keys and the sledgehammer and I run, ducking my head under my arms as though that will protect me. I burst through the back exit and race around the building, the cold air searing my lungs, the terrifying pops inside Cliff House muffled under the sound of wind in my ears. It's dark, but for the first time, a glow spills out onto the pools of still water beyond the cliff. When I reach Amanda's two remaining cars, my shivering hands struggle to fit a key into one of the locks. I accidentally scratch deep grooves into the paint. Then the key fits, the door opens, and I throw myself inside, turning on the engine but not the headlights. I race on screeching tires to the entrance, reaching to throw open the passenger side doors. I check the clock: 12:14. Five minutes, Julian said. But how does he expect me to leave when those minutes are up, if Harp is not here beside me?

“Come on, come on,” I whisper. I try to keep my eyes away from the clock for as long as I can, but they dart back there of their own accord after what feels like forever—12:15. I listen for gunfire. But either it's stopped or I can't hear it over the tinny, wheezing sound I recognize as my own breathing. I check the clock again.

12:16.

I kill the engine, throw the door open. I step into the night again, holding my sledgehammer close to my body. I move toward Cliff House, but the front doors burst open then, and Winnie rushes out, half dragging an ashen Harp beside her. Winnie has a gun, and Harp carries her laptop—both appear to be uninjured.

When she sees me, Harp wrests her elbow out of Winnie's grip and runs to embrace me. Neither of us seems able to speak. Winnie breaks us apart and pushes past me, climbing into the driver's seat. “We have to move,” she says.

“What about the others?” I ask as Harp and I crawl into the back seat.

“We'll meet them in LA.” She floors the gas, and we race away from Cliff House. I have only a second to look back at the building, hoping I'll see someone leave it. But no one does.

We drive south, merging onto the interstate slightly before two a.m. I listen to Harp breathe heavily beside me. I wait for my teeth to stop chattering, my ears to stop ringing with the echoes of gunshots. But they never do. When I feel like we've put enough distance between us and San Francisco, I whisper the question I'm so afraid to ask:

“Is everybody okay?”

There's a long pause, but I know Winnie heard me—she shifts uncomfortably in her seat.

“Suzy took that first shot, after Frankie threw the knife,” she tells me in a dull voice. “She was still breathing when we left, but she didn't look good.”

Suzy's face floods my mind—her dimples and big green eyes. Her brow furrowed as she hunched over her laptop, fingers playing across the keyboard like a piano. I can hardly pretend I knew her well, but she was good and brave, and she helped us. I shudder, feeling a painful knot form at the back of my throat. Harp coughs lightly.

“I think . . . Karen got hit too,” she says tearfully. “I saw her across the room right before you pulled me out, Winnie. There was . . . there was a lot of blood.”

Winnie doesn't react for a long moment. Then she slams her hand down on the steering wheel. “Fuck! Everyone was running around, prepping for the move. The one moment none of us were watching you, and this happens. How could we have been so
stupid?
”

Neither Harp nor I reply. Winnie goes quiet; she continues to drive at exactly the speed limit, no more, no less, so as to draw no attention to us. Her silence turns into a physical presence that I have no wish to push up against. It seems obvious to me how the Church of America found us—they have to have tracked us down through the blog. They were quicker than Suzy thought they'd be. I'm sickened by guilt. I keep thinking of the small, surprised shout I now think must have been Suzy taking a bullet. I close my eyes and try to let the sound of Harp's typing fingers lull me into calm, but it doesn't work. I can still see their faces so clearly.

Three hours into our drive, Winnie pulls into a rest stop to get a cup of coffee. Beside me, Harp frowns at her screen and lifts the laptop, moving it slowly from one side of the car to the other. When she catches my look, she says, “I'm trying to pick up the rest stop's Wi-Fi. I want to check the feed.”

The feed. I can only imagine what the Church of America will say when they discover what happened. If none of the Peacemakers survived, they'll paint us as unhinged; if any of them did, if they found any identifying information about Amanda's militia, we'll all be in danger.

“Bam!” Harp points to the full signal strength and pulls up the Church's website. I lean over to see. Our faces are still in a sidebar—
WANTED FOR SPIRITUAL THREATS,
the caption reads—but we're not the top story. There's a headline in a peppy bright blue font.
PRAISE FRICK! PRAISE THIS MIRACLE!
Animated angels flank the words, cute and chubby-cheeked, doing a celebratory dance. Below is a video. Harp looks at me, worried.

“Play it.” I feel a wave of anxiety creep up my spine. Anything that makes the Church of America this happy is sure to be bad.

Harp presses play. The camera focuses on a podium in some swanky outdoor setting, fresh flowers and fountains. Beside it stands Michelle Mulvey in an evening gown, smiling at someone off camera. There's a smattering of applause as Ted Blackmore approaches the microphone. I inhale through my teeth in anticipation.