Vivian Apple Needs a Miracle (3 page)

“I used to be just like her!” Mom practically shouts this; her voice trembles. “And so I know firsthand the kind of destruction she can cause. The kind she already has! I don't want her to take you down with her, Vivian. I love you and you're better than that! I know you don't want to abandon your best friend, but—”

“No, I don't.” My heart pounds painfully. “That's the kind of thing
you
do, remember?”

She doesn't get it at first. But then her concerned expression turns to stone and she jerks back, like I've slapped her. I wait for her to slam the apartment door in my face, but she seems too stunned to move. Before I can say anything else, before I can think to apologize, I turn and race down the stairs.

Pushing open the front door, I'm hit with an icy blast of air. The sun has set, and this night in San Francisco feels as cold as Pittsburgh winter. I'm so surprised that at first I don't notice her in front of me, surrounded by three young men. But then I see the whites of Harp's eyes. One man holds her lightly by the shoulder. I wonder if it's an attempt to Magdalene her: a popular custom among good-looking male Believers, to seduce unmarried girls and women and guilt them into converting. But these men don't look like Believers, and anyway, Harp would never fall for such a thing.

The door slams behind me and the men look up. With a lurch, I realize the man holding Harp has a smartphone in his other hand. He glances at the screen, smirks.

“Is this you?”

He holds the screen out to me and I approach cautiously. I peer at my own face, magnified and pixelated on the phone, as though I'm really curious. My pulse is so loud I'm sure they can hear it. How did they find us so quickly?

“No?” I say, sounding far too uncertain.

Another man laughs and grabs my injured hand. When I cry out, Harp moves, shoving the edge of the laptop hard into the teeth of the man holding her. He reels back, howling, and she goes running down the hill. I wrench myself from the other's grasp, feeling the pain shoot up my arm, feeling it behind my eyes. I run after Harp, catching as I go a brief glimpse of the awful bloody grin of the man Harp attacked.

I hear their shoes slap the pavement behind me, a tug at my hair as one attempts to grab me. I'm dimly aware of a black car halfway up the block screeching and swerving to trace my path. At the curb, Harp slows to see where I am. “Keep going!” I scream. But then the black car zips in front of her, blocking her, and I push myself to reach her just as the passenger throws the back door open. Harp moves to dart around it, but I grab her, because I recognize the woman inside the car, waiting.

“Get in!” Winnie shouts.

We climb in quickly and Harp slams the door shut. The car peels off. I hear a bang on the window as we drive and turn to see one of the men standing in the street with his fist raised.

Winnie watches us catch our breath. She wears a leather jacket and bright red lipstick I'm sure she didn't have on when she left her apartment this morning. I glance beside her. The driver is small and curly-haired—in the rearview mirror I see her blue-framed glasses and freckled nose.

“And to think for a moment I honestly thought,” Winnie finally says, unable to keep the amusement out of her voice, “that my long-lost baby sister had come all the way to San Francisco just to pay me a visit. I'm Winnie,” she tells Harp, sticking out a hand.

“Harp.” My best friend shakes it, startled.

“Where are you taking us?” I ask once I can breathe.

“Somewhere you'll be safe,” Winnie replies. “Listen, maybe we can circle back to the pleasantries in a bit, because right now I'm dying to know—how
exactly
did you manage to get yourself on the Church of America's shit list?”

Another shock of cold fear—Winnie has seen the feed too. Is there anyone in this city who hasn't? When I look at my half sister, I see she has a wry look in her eye. This morning in my haze of grief and envy, I'd taken her to be prim and a little precious, like a hipster kindergarten teacher. But now her personality seems like a different beast entirely: bold and playful and a tiny bit reckless. I'm confused. Was she playing a part this morning, or is she playing one now?

“I'm . . . not sure what you're talking about.”

Winnie smiles. “Vivian, I appreciate that you're in a situation here. You probably don't feel inclined to trust a relative stranger—no pun intended—but really, I'm here to help. I
can
help. It's just nice to know
why
I'm helping.”

“I didn't ask for your help.”

The driver laughs. “Little sis is
feisty,
Win. But I'd guess you'd have to be to piss off the Church as much as she has.”

“Yeah, Birdie, let's definitely go with ‘feisty.'” Winnie's voice is still light with sarcasm. “That sounds a lot nicer than ‘a real pain in the ass.'”

I feel a retort on the tip of my tongue but stay silent. I
am
being a pain in the ass—I know it. I feel a fierce urge to punish Winnie for the mistakes our mother has made. It isn't fair, and I can't afford to indulge in these newfound bratty little sister instincts. We've only been driving a few minutes, but when I glance out of the window, I see we're far from the affluence of Winnie's neighborhood. Outside is a park, bigger and wilder than the tame patch of green across from her apartment. On the other side of the street are houses abandoned or in disrepair, and the sidewalks in front of them appear to have become a mini civilization—dirty nylon tents set up in small circles, dark figures surrounding meager bonfires. San Francisco is in a desperate state. Harp and I are not safe wandering around it blind with a million-dollar reward on our heads.

“How do you know we'll be safe where you're taking us?” I ask, trying to keep it from sounding like a challenge.

“Fair question,” Winnie replies with a nod. “I'll give it to you straight—Birdie and I are part of an organization dedicated to the destruction of the Church of America. A kind of volunteer militia.”

I feel Harp glance sharply at me, but I'm too shocked to look back at her. For months, the only resistance movement I've been aware of has been the hapless New Orphans. The discovery of another, and the fact that Winnie is a part of it, plants a seed of hopeful energy in me. But the word
militia
makes me pause—is she saying she actually means to do battle?

“We have a wealthy benefactor funding our efforts,” my half sister continues. “She works hard to keep our operation hidden. I always monitor the Church's feed. Luckily, I saw the picture of you the second it posted. I left for home the second I did.”

“We appreciate it,” Harp says. “Right, Viv?”

I nod, overwhelmed. Winnie waves a dismissive hand. “Truly our pleasure. Anyone the Church is looking for, I'm happy to help hide. But still . . . do you mind telling us what happened? We could protect you better if we know what we're up against.”

I feel as though my head is spinning. I want to trust Winnie—I'm working hard to trust her—but something holds me back. Right now our information is our only currency, and I'm afraid to give it all away at once. Especially since I don't yet understand who Winnie is working for, or what kind of work she does. I take a breath.

“Last night, Harp and I broke into a secret Church compound outside the city. I guess it must be very secret, because they sent people to capture us. We barely made it out alive.”

“Where's the compound?” Birdie's voice is eager.

“Not sure, exactly. North of here, in a forest—maybe an hour away?”

“That's . . . interesting.” Even in the dark, I can see Winnie's suspicious expression. She already knows me well enough to know I'm not telling her everything. “Can you tell me what you saw there?”

I pause like I'm trying to remember, then shake my head. “I don't know. I'm really tired. It's all fuzzy right now.”

“I ask because I imagine it'd be the same compound to which Mara and your dad were summoned—the place they were going to receive Frick's blessing, pre-Rapture.”

I look up at Winnie, surprised. Somehow I forgot she was standing in the room this morning as my mother told me her whole sorry ordeal.

“I'd never heard Mara's story until today,” she explains. “She showed up about a week after the Rapture, no explanation. She led me to believe she'd hopped a plane to San Francisco after being left behind. But I had a feeling there was more to the story—I wonder if she even realizes how much.”

“So the last known location of the Raptured was this compound? No wonder the Church wants you dead.” Birdie laughs gloomily. “How'd you find it? How'd you even know it existed?”

I open my mouth to answer, but my throat goes dry. I don't want to tell them about Peter. Somehow he feels like the most valuable piece of information I have.
There's a boy, and his name is Peter, and he likes me, and we don't know where he is.
I touch the pendant of my sledgehammer necklace and feel relief when Harp answers for me.

“We got a tip from the New Orphans in South Dakota,” she says, not exactly lying.

“The New Orphans gave you that info?” Birdie sounds shocked. “Shit.”

“I've heard about that chapter,” says Winnie. “Goliath, right? He's supposed to be a visionary. Built a powerful anti-Church sanctuary in the middle of one of the sacred sites. I wonder if we could recruit him . . .”

“Depends on the quality of your coke supply, I'd guess,” Harp mutters.

I don't want to answer any more questions about Frick's compound—I'm not sure how long I can feign ignorance. “So what more can you tell us about this ‘militia' of yours? Or is it too top secret for our tender civilian ears?”

Birdie laughs again. In the glow of a passing streetlamp, I see Winnie grin.

“I can give you the basics,” she says. “Our benefactor, Amanda Yee, recruited us over the last year, based on a shared commitment to taking down the Church. Amanda funds the operation, keeps us hidden from the community at large, and plans future attacks.”

“When you say ‘attacks' . . .” I trail off, not sure how to proceed.

“Am I saying that we kill people?” Winnie supplies. I notice a tartness in her tone—some annoyance or defensiveness I can't quite decipher. “That's not outside the realm of possibility. But our scope is pretty broad.”

She pauses. I realize she doesn't intend to elaborate further. I glance out my window at the tent cities lining the block. “I guess your benefactor's pretty rich?”

“Very. But not as rich as she could be. Amanda's a genius; she'd founded half a dozen tech startups by the time she was twenty-one. Two years ago, the Church tried to buy her most successful venture. Surveillance software—very powerful, dangerous in the wrong hands. They offered billions. But Amanda said no. She knew what the Church would use it for. She sold it to another company for slightly less; then the Church turned around and bought them.”

The road ends, and Birdie turns right; now beyond my window lies the Pacific Ocean, vast and dark, the full moon's reflection sparkling. Harp presses closer to stare across me.

“But that wasn't enough for them—they were angry she turned them down. I imagine it was a slap in the face, to have been spurned by a successful young female.” Winnie hesitates; then her voice goes cool. “About a week after the company Amanda sold to was folded into the Church, she and her partner were attacked outside their home. Her partner died. Amanda suffered a spinal injury—she doesn't walk anymore. There's no proof the Church arranged it—there never is—but it was enough to convince her to funnel her money into something more powerful than an app.”

Listening to Winnie, I feel a flare of righteous understanding. All day I've been trying to bury thoughts of my father, for fear that if I let myself start to grieve him, I'll never be able to stop. But Amanda's story has brought it all to the surface: My father is dead. The Church killed him. Maybe I used to be the sort of person who could work to forgive them, but I know at this moment that I'm not anymore. I have the distinct impression that Amanda's militia is a force far more dangerous than the New Orphans—as violent as they are organized. And right now, with no idea where Peter is or what is being done to him, I can understand the appeal of such a weapon. In the dark, I curl my good hand into a fist.

The car climbs an incline, the road hugging a rocky cliff side on our right. There's an orange barrier, a sign reading
ROAD CLOSED
, but Birdie blithely swerves around it up the cliff. The other side of the road drops steeply down to a beach and, beyond that, the inky ocean. Before us is a large, bone-gray building, half of which rests on the level of the road, half of which hangs below, built into the cliff this road travels up. On the roof are thin letters spelling out
CLIFF HOUSE
. Birdie slows and parks.

Harp and I follow Winnie out of the car and down a few yards to the edge of the cliff beyond the building. The cold is even more bitter by the sea, and Winnie grimaces in solidarity when she sees me shiver. “I'll bring you some layers as soon as I can. It's been like this for months now: inexplicable red sky during the day, freezing temperatures at night. Really makes you feel optimistic about the earth's future, doesn't it?”

When we reach the cliff's edge, I stop in my tracks. Beside me, Harp gasps. It's hard to understand exactly what we're looking at. At our feet is a long, green downward slope giving way at last to a flat pool of still water, the moon casting a weird glow on its surface. The pool is separated from the white crash of the Pacific by a low rock wall. Beyond the pool are weird stone structures and, above them, cliffs higher and steeper than the ones on which we stand. Behind us, before she heads into the place called Cliff House, Birdie explains that this used to be the site of a popular old-fashioned bathhouse that burned down long ago—we're looking at the ruins of its largest pool. It's strange and beautiful. I see small figures pacing the rock wall. One turns in our direction and stops, waving up at us. Winnie waves back, then turns to me, a shy smile playing across her features. She looks so much like my mother at this moment, I could cry.