Vivian Apple Needs a Miracle (30 page)

“A thousand comments in the first
five minutes!
” Harp exclaims. “The site kept going down, so many people looked at it! But they shared the video. They kept on sharing the video.”

“And now everything's a mess, basically.
All
the major Church of America dioceses are getting mobbed today. New York, Boston, Chicago, DC, Minneapolis, Seattle. Because guess what? In the chaos, the Church wasn't able to pull off a second Rapture. Not a single reported disappearance. The Believers feel betrayed—they don't understand why the Church would promise a second Rapture in the first place, and they're demanding answers. The Church News Network—what's left of it, anyway, because it seems like half the anchors headed for the hills after Peter went rogue—is taking the line that Believers didn't try hard enough; they let their minds be swayed by lies and secular temptations. But that's only gotten Believers more riled!”

“Plus the Non-Believers have heard Joanna's story,” Kimberly adds with a grin, “and they're
pissed.
Thirteen Church of America megastores set on fire across the Midwest.”

“And the New Orphans across the country are mounting full-scale attacks against the factories where the rest of the Raptured are hidden. The Church has got its back to the fucking wall.” Harp sounds unbelievably satisfied.

I try to feel the pleasure she does, but it's so much information, too quickly, and my head still pounds. I stare ahead, trying to focus on the blur of the city as we race to its heart. Harp and Winnie have glossed over an important detail, the most important, and I'm struggling not to throw up.

“What did they do to Peter?” My voice is hoarse. “They wouldn't have kept him alive after that. How do you know we can still save him?”

For the first time since we got into the car: silence. It's a horrible weight in my stomach, a sinking stone. I press my bloodied hands to my throat.

“We don't. There was nothing after that initial report, after they said he was possessed,” Harp says. “All we know is that if he's alive, he'll be at the Chateau. That's where the Angels are holed up, and that's where we're headed. Diego and Edie are waiting for us there. But I guess we should prepare for the possibility—”

“He
could
still be alive,” Winnie interrupts. “The Church has had their hands full these last twenty-four hours. There's a huge riot surrounding the Chateau right now. Believers, Non-Believers—everyone wants answers. The Peacemakers have been holding them back, but they've opened fire twice already, and the mob's only getting bigger. It's stupid, really—any reasonable person would be hightailing it out of the city right now. There's a fire closing in on West Hollywood, and these people are going to burn if they don't get out soon.”

For the first time, I manage to focus on the scene outside the car. The other lane of the highway is jammed, and as we pass I see people abandoning their cars, cradling children to their chests, weaving their way through traffic. More than once, a car comes barreling toward us, heading the wrong way down the highway in their desperation to get out; Winnie pulls us deftly out of the way each time. The winds are still hot and powerful, rattling a storm of dust and sand and broken glass across the windshield. The power's out on every other block, whole neighborhoods shrouded in menacing darkness. Somewhere out there, massive flames inch toward us. But still we head for the Chateau. We aren't reasonable people. If Peter is alive, we will find him. If he isn't, I will kill the people who killed him. Diego is right: I have in me that monster he told me about, that single splinter of madness that makes destruction possible. Right now it's bigger than shock, bigger than sorrow. It transforms me into something less than human, just a pillar of righteous flame, ready to consume Masterson and the Angels, wanting to spit out their fleshless bones.

“Vivian?” says a soft voice to my left, and I start. I've nearly forgotten that my mother is in the car. “Are you thirsty?”

She holds out a plastic water bottle. I gulp it down, and even lukewarm, even with an aftertaste of plastic, it's the most delicious thing I've ever tasted. When I'm done, I watch my mother stare eagerly out the window, like a tourist trying to spot celebrity homes.

“Mom. What are you doing here?”

She glances at me and quickly away, looking sheepish. “After . . . after you left, I felt terrible. I thought you were dead. I would just sit there, refreshing the feed, searching your name. ‘Vivian Apple captured.' ‘Vivian Apple dead.' Or sometimes ‘Harp Janda captured,' ‘Harp Janda dead.' I had no idea Winnie knew where you were, that you were alive. After she moved me and left, it was like I was in a daze. I started to get angry at the Church. What right did they have to hunt girls as young as you? To turn you into fugitives? I started to realize: If they got you, it would be all my fault. If they got you, I'd never forgive them.

“Then one day I search your name and up pops Harp's blog. At first I think—she's seriously bad news. I figure she's disturbed or something. It's a terrible story. An awful, ugly lie. I read it and I had to walk away. And then I came back and read it again. I couldn't stop reading it. It took time—too much time, probably. But then something clicked. Because what did I really think had happened? I tried to imagine Ned, shooting up into heaven like he said we would, and suddenly it seemed crazy. Like . . . science fiction. And then it was different: The lie was the terrible story. And the truth was just the truth.

“They were still looking for you, but I knew you were okay so long as Harp kept posting. I was depressed, though. Couldn't sleep. I just read the blog all day. Until I read Harp's story, I hadn't thought of Ned as dead. I hadn't thought about what we'd done to you—the both of us.” She hesitates. “Finally, one day I search ‘Vivian Apple captured' and it turns out you had been. I knew it was inevitable, so at first I thought there was nothing I could do. I cried and cried. I couldn't get out of bed in the morning. I got sick. But then, just a few days ago: it was like I woke up. I knew you needed me. They said Los Angeles, so I got a car and came here—I mean, technically,” she corrects herself, sounding embarrassed, “I
stole
a car and came here . . . I drove to LA, and the only time I stopped was to call Winnie. I didn't think I'd reach her; she'd told me she was leaving the country. But she picked up. I said, ‘Vivian needs our help.'”

“No,” Winnie corrects her, deadpan, “you said, ‘I'm going to save Vivian and you better be willing to lend a hand.'”

Mom smiles wryly. “Okay, yeah. That sounds right. She gave me the address where I could find her. I got here this afternoon and discovered, to my surprise, that I gave birth to not one, but two complete badasses. I know what you must think of me”—this comes out in a rush and her eyes spill over with tears—“I know how badly I've let you down, and I'm sorry. And maybe it means nothing coming from me, but you have to know—I'm proud of you, Vivian. I'm so proud of you, and if your dad could see you now, he would be too. You are like nothing we ever imagined.”

I feel the car begin to slow, and dare to glance out the window. Ahead of us, strikingly white against the flame-colored sky, the Chateau Marmont sits. Flooding Sunset Boulevard is a writhing mass of people, restless bodies surging forward and falling back, like a furious ocean wave. They surge up the lane leading to the Chateau; they scramble to climb the trees blocking the bungalows from sight. At the periphery of the crowd are the casualties of the Peacemakers' gunfire, limp bodies slick with blood, abandoned by the protestors who push insistently forward. Helicopters swarm overhead, casting spotlights on the crowd; reporters pour out of news vans parked nearby, jostling to get closer. Beyond the Chateau, miles away but still close enough to strike cold fear in me, a thick black cloud of smoke rolls in.

“This is as far as we're going to get.” Winnie parks the car and opens her door, and all at once I can smell the blood and fire and sweat; I feel the crackle of electric anger in the air, and my heart starts to pound because it's so terrible but so beautiful all at once. We're going to push through this crowd. We're going to get inside this building. And then we're going to put a stop to the apocalypse.

I follow my mother as she steps into the bright hot evening, but then I hear Harp call, “Viv, wait!” And when I turn she's crouched in the back seat, picking an object up from the floor of the car. She holds it out to me with a fabulous, terrified grin on her face. My sledgehammer.

“I think you'll be wanting this,” she says.

The four of us maneuver our way to the edge of the crowd—Winnie and Kimberly stride ahead confidently, while Harp, my mother, and I trail behind. As we get nearer, Winnie raises a hand, and I see Diego a dozen yards away, waving back. With him are all the surviving members of Amanda's militia, plus Edie and the Orphans beside them. Edie is arm in arm with Joanna, who looks different from the last time I saw her: steadier, more determined, the color returned to her cheeks. The rest of the rescued Raptured are intermingled throughout the group. They hold weapons and seem frightened but ready. I scan my friends' faces, registering their astonishment at the sight of my own. And then I cry out in surprise—because standing behind Diego, in plain sight and yet so unexpected my gaze passed right over him, is Dylan.

He steps forward, smiling awkwardly, to accept my arms thrown round his neck.

“Dylan. Thank you. You saved my life. Harp said you told her where I was, but I didn't realize you were still here—I thought you were leaving!”

“Yeah, well,” Dylan drawls. “Like I said—you have a way with guilt, Apple. Anyway, I figured the Church has enough going on that they won't go after Molly right away. I talked to her this morning—the school has a bomb shelter they'll hide out in for the next few hours. She'll be fine without me, I'm sure.”

I keep my hand on his arm, to comfort him. “She will be, Dylan. We're here to fix things for her. Everything will be different tomorrow.”

“Yeah. I know.” He tries to seem cool, but his eyes flick nervously around us; he raises a trembling hand to push the hair out of his eyes. I can't say anything else, because Diego steps forward and stares at me, then pulls me into an enveloping hug.

“I'm happy you're okay,” he murmurs. “I wish we'd gotten to you sooner. If we'd had any idea where you were—”

“It's fine,” I tell him. “Really, I'm fine.”

He squeezes me so hard it hurts. But over his shoulder I see Winnie beaming at the sight of us, one hand pressed to her chest in her joy, and though I roll my eyes at her, I can't help but feel a brief flash of perfect peace. Diego is part of my family now. All of these people are part of my family. The only thing missing is Peter.

“What's the plan?”

Diego turns to Edie, who reaches out to touch my cheek. “We were waiting for you before we made one. Oh, Viv, look at you!” I worry she's about to cry, but instead Edie's face splits into an incredulous grin. “You look like Joan of fucking Arc!”

Beside me, Harp's mouth and eyes turn into giddy, disbelieving saucers—we've never heard Edie swear before. I laugh at them both. “Is Naveen okay?”

Edie nods. “Eleanor was so good as to stay behind with him. We didn't know what to expect,” she explains, gesturing to the riot between us and the Chateau.

“And what about Amanda?” I ask, looking for her. “What does she want us to do?”

Diego inclines his head toward the crowd. “She's in there somewhere, but she's given up on us all. We're in charge of ourselves now.”

It's a thought that should bring comfort, but doesn't—I have no idea what we're supposed to do next. At a loss, I turn to Harp, who stands on tiptoe, seemingly trying to assess the size of the crowd. When she turns to us, she has a determined look on her face, and everyone—soldiers, Orphans, Believers—closes in to form a huddle. I feel a wild spark of pride that this girl, this girl who always has a plan, is my best friend in the entire dying world.

“We're no good out here,” she says. “We have to get inside; we have to confront Masterson with Joanna, and catch it on a live stream. We have to get the Angels on camera so no one has any doubt. What time is it?”

Nearby, Julian dutifully checks his watch. “Quarter past ten.”

“Quarter past ten?” I echo in disbelief. I look up—the sky is the electric color of a tangerine.

“Oh,” Winnie says, grimacing. “We forgot to mention that—the sun has been setting later and later over the last few weeks. The scientists think it's probably dying.”

Horrified, I open my mouth to press for more information, but Harp interrupts.

“Let's worry about that later, okay? The Church will have to introduce the Messiah soon—before midnight. It seems stupid, though, to push it this long with this mob outside. It's already well into tomorrow on the other side of the world. What are they waiting for?”

I'm starting to feel stronger now, surrounded by these people and this crowd; my thoughts flow more easily. “Masterson will push it to the last possible moment,” I say. “If it's still September twenty-fourth in the United States, the story still works. He wants to wait until the Believers here have lost all hope. But you're right—we have to get into the Chateau and find him and the new Messiah before he gets the chance. Let's move.”

Diego and Winnie lead the push into the crowd. From the outside, the mob seemed like a solid mass, moving in a kind of frenzied harmony, but inside, they're unwieldy. Believers cling to one another, singing “Jesus (Thank You for Making Me American)” in a high spooky warble. Various sects of Non-Believers are scattered throughout. Some seem to be here just to feed off the chaos, drunks and junkies and the apparently insane. These are the hardest to get past: they jostle at us with sharp elbows, scream in our faces; when we try to push past them, they push us back. I stick close to Harp. The crowd is sweaty and noisy and I feel claustrophobic; my ears buzz and I have to close my eyes. A hand grasps at the back of my hoodie and I cry out in alarm, but when I turn I see it's just my mother, looking pale, trying not to lose me in the chaos.