Vivian Apple Needs a Miracle (31 page)

I hear a scuffle to my left—a fight breaking out between two kids in tattered jeans and one huge Believer. “You're so gullible, old man!” one of the Non-Believers taunts. “We wouldn't be in this shit if it weren't for people like you!”

The man laughs a hollow laugh and says, “People like
me?
It's because of
you
Frick has forsaken us.”

I turn back to Edie and Joanna, everyone trailing behind me, and call out, “Hurry!” I don't want to get stuck in this. Dylan is some yards away with his arms in the air, a cluster of teenage girls clinging to him. I see a flash of silver—a knife in the hands of one of the Non-Believers. The Believer he threatens is quicker; he slams the kid to the ground. The other Non-Believer lunges forward and the man pushes back; then the crowd around them starts screaming, and someone with a baseball bat swings it back, and I watch in horror as it collides with Gallifrey's face. There's an awful snapping sound. He slips to the ground; beside me Harp shouts his name. The crowd presses in on the fight. In one swift movement, Elliott reaches down and plucks Gallifrey off the ground; he throws the Orphan over one shoulder. “Keep moving!” he calls.

With a couple hundred yards between us and the Chateau Marmont, a human chain of singing Believers blocks our progress. Diego tries to move past, but the women and men are arm in arm, screaming, weeping. He's unable to break them apart. I look beyond them, to seek a better route, but suddenly a low, harsh voice in my ear squawks, “God damn you!”

I try to ignore it, clinging tighter to Harp. Diego takes a tentative step around the singing Believers. But then I hear the voice, louder this time—“God
damn
you!”—so loud it makes my ears ring, and now a hand is on my arm, turning me roughly around, forcing me to face him.

He's a Believer only a few years older than me, sweating madly. He shoves me hard, and I tumble back into Harp. I move to block him with my sledgehammer, but Diego and Winnie have already stepped in front of me, and even the sight of their guns does little to subdue him. He stands his ground, glaring at us from over Diego's shoulder.

“It's
their
fault!” he shouts. “If they hadn't gone and spread that stupid story, we wouldn't be in this mess. We'd have been saved! But Frick's left us to die here, and it's all because of
them!
”

I'm uncomfortably aware of the people closest to us turning at the commotion. The singing Believers hush midchorus, and there's no mistaking the wave of murmurs spreading farther and farther. They know who we are. We're smack in the middle of a desperate mob, and this is the moment we've finally been spotted. It's like every nightmare I've had for the last two months coming true at the most inopportune of moments.

“Keep going,” I cry to Winnie, who's trying her best to shield me. “Just keep moving!”

But then an odd thing starts to happen. The chain of Believers breaks, opening to us like a gate, and as neighbor whispers to neighbor, the crowd parts—reluctantly at first, but then more and more rapidly, until there's a nearly open path between us and the Chateau. Diego and Winnie flank Harp and me so no one can touch us. As we pass I hear scattered furious outbursts (“You had to go and open your big whore's mouth!” screams a Believer woman who throws herself in our path; Harp just waves as Diego pushes her away), but most gaze with a sort of wonder. Right at the front of the crowd, I see a group of kids our age applauding wildly. “Fuck yeah!” a girl screams out. “You guys are my heroes!”

At the front of the crowd, we're faced with a resolute line of Peacemakers in riot gear, bulletproof shields and automatic rifles in their hands, guarding the entrance. I pause to catch my breath. Their expressions stay neutral as they watch us approach, which only makes them scarier: inhuman, mechanical. Diego sighs.

“I was really hoping not to shoot anybody today,” he mutters. Then, over his shoulder, “Cliff House? You with me?”

They push to the front, guns in hand, forming a protective half circle around us; Kimberly blocks me with her body. “Get down,” she instructs. “Start pushing your way to the side.” Harp crouches obediently but I panic—nobody in Amanda's militia wears bullet­proof gear. If they open fire on the Peacemakers, they'll be taken out in an instant. There has to be another way. And then just like that, I see it.

“Wilkins!” I call.

He's barely recognizable behind his reflective sunglasses, but he jumps at the sound of his name. His perplexed colleagues turn to look at him. I push past Kimberly and Diego.

“Wilkins!” I wave. “Hey, Wilkins, it's me!”

“Viv, what is this?” asks Diego's voice in my ear, but I just keep waving.

After a pause, the Peacemaker reluctantly moves toward me. I step forward to meet him, ignoring my mother's gasp and Winnie's attempt to grab my arm. Wilkins lowers his gun. He stares at me, his expression unreadable; then he takes off his sunglasses.

“Vivian, what are you doing?” He sounds worried.

“Just sayin' hi. I missed you the last few days. Did you take some personal time, or . . . ?”

He takes another step, this one slightly more aggressive. I hear a shift behind me as Winnie and Diego assess this threat. But I hold up my hand to calm them. I trust him.

“I came here late the other night,” he explains in a low voice. “We all did. They told us we were guaranteed a place on the second boat. I sat out there, by the
pool,
waiting to be Raptured. Nothing happens. Then yesterday morning, they wake us up; they say there's a riot outside and we better take care of it. No explanation for why we're still here. That's a little rich, I think, considering I haven't even gotten a paycheck in the last two months.”

“They're lying to you, Wilkins. They've been lying the whole time.”

He still looks dubious. “Maybe. I'm not gonna pretend there aren't things that don't add up. Like—they said you were a witch, right? But wouldn't a witch break herself out of a jail cell?” He shakes his head, pondering this. “But how do
you
explain the sky, okay? How do you explain the fires and the winds and all that stuff? Someone's angry up there, Vivian. You have to admit that someone's angry.”

“Maybe someone is,” I say, feeling desperate. “But I don't think that someone is on the Church of America's side at all. Do you?”

Wilkins sucks on his front teeth. I can tell I'm getting to him, but he seems determined not to answer.

“Listen.” I hear footsteps and see that Harp has come to stand by my side. “We need to get in. We're not going to hurt anyone, but we need to look for Masterson, Mulvey, and Blackmore. If they're still here, we can make them explain.”

Wilkins stares at me for too long of a moment, and I'm sure he's about to refuse. But then he nods to his right, drawing my attention to the Peacemakers behind him, watching us. “Okay. But what am I supposed to tell these guys?”

I shrug. “Whatever you think they need to hear.”

Wilkins considers this, then beckons us to follow. He leads us to a Peacemaker at the center of the line, who straightens as we approach and spits.

“Listen, Beau,” Wilkins explains. “I know this is unusual, but these two girls—you recognize them, right?—they want to turn themselves in. They've admitted to being enemies to salvation, and they want to make things right by the Church.”

“I thought this one was
already
turned in.” Beau frowns at me.

“I was,” I tell him. “But then I broke out. I want to turn myself in for that, too.”

He narrows his eyes, and I prepare myself for something terrible. But then Beau shrugs. I start to get the feeling that Wilkins is not the only one losing patience with the Three Angels of the Church of America.

“Whatever. I'd say to take them to Masterson, but there's no telling where
he
is. Maybe bring them to the cottage where they're holding the Taggart kid?” I grab Harp's arm to steady myself. “Oliver's on guard over there; he'll know what to do.”

I see Beau stiffen then. He lifts his rifle to aim at something behind us, and when I turn, panicked, I see Winnie and my mom approaching with hands raised.

“They want to turn themselves in too!” I cry, moving quickly to block them.

Winnie hears this. She nods deeply, immediately understanding. “We broke her out of Church jail and it was wrong. Please—we just want to make amends in our final hours.”

I can tell Beau is not entirely convinced, but he just shakes his head at us. “Get them out of here,” he snaps at Wilkins. Wilkins begins to lead us through the open gate, but we hear a shout of “Hey!” We turn. Beau gestures to the sledgehammer still in my hands, the rifles across the shoulders of my mother and sister. “Strip them of their weapons first, idiot! Do you want to get us all killed?”

Wilkins silently takes them, though I see his face flush red at the insult. Our weapons in arm, he ushers us down the long drive. I move carefully, afraid Beau will change his mind. Wilkins nods to the Peacemaker standing at attention in the entryway to the adjacent garden, and then he leads us past the garden wall.

When the other Peacemaker can no longer see us, Wilkins gives a rifle back to my mother and a rifle back to Winnie. With a slight, confused frown, he places the sledgehammer into my outstretched hands. He leads us through the garden, turned brittle and brown during LA's eternal summer, past a pool that must once have looked inviting but is now half-empty and spotted with dead birds. Ahead of us, a row of picturesque cottages is all commotion. Doors are thrown open, and panicked Church employees dart in and out. I glance in as we pass and see scenes of chaos: an arguing couple throwing towels into a sloppily packed suitcase; two women sitting on the floor by the bed, one weeping and the other trying to comfort her (“Of
course
they won't kill us—we're very low-level!”); a man slumped against the door frame in the midst of a wrenching phone call (“Just tell her Daddy loves her and he'll be home as soon as he can—no, I have no idea when that will be, Judith; it's the goddamn apocalypse!”). There are couples rolling together on the lawn, clinched in one last romantic embrace as the final moments approach; drunks stepping over them, sobbing, clutching bottles of champagne in their fists. With a shudder, I notice a body floating face-down in the other pool.

Finally, at the end of the row of bungalows, we see a Peacemaker stationed at a front door that remains closed. There are black iron bars over this building's windows. He glances warily at us as we approach, noticing our weapons and then our famous faces. His grip tightens on his gun. Winnie puts a hand on my arm, gives me a look as if to say
I've got this,
then bounds confidently up to the Peacemaker guarding the door, surprising him so much she's able to knock him out cold with one punch.

Wilkins gasps. “Oh, sweet Jesus!” he cries, as Oliver the Peacemaker goes tumbling. Wilkins looks at us with a new fear in his eyes and then goes running in the direction we came.

“We have to stop him.” Winnie doesn't sound happy about it. She lifts her rifle to her shoulder but I put my hand on it, push it down.

“Leave it,” I say.

“Viv—”

“He won't tell anyone,” I promise her. I don't know that it's true, but I want to believe it. I still wear his watch around my wrist. Winnie seems dubious, but she lowers her weapon.

I turn and assess the door. The knob is locked. We don't have long until everything falls apart. I throw myself against the door, pounding on it. “Peter! Peter! Are you in here?”

There's nothing at first, just the distant dull clamor of the mob behind us. But then I hear his voice behind the door:

“Viv?”

“Get back!” I shout. I take a step away from the door and raise the sledgehammer high over my head, and as Winnie, Harp, and my mother realize what I'm about to do, they stumble backwards onto the lawn. I bring the hammer down hard in the general vicinity of the doorknob, but miss, removing a significant chunk of the frame. I try again, and dent the door itself.

“You know this guy probably has keys on him, right?” Harp points out, kicking lightly at Oliver's unconscious body.

I ignore her, slamming the sledgehammer down once more, and this time I hit my target; the knob shudders in place like a loose tooth. I try again and again. My arms still ache from my own escape attempt, and it's not like I've ever been physically strong, but there's something about this act, born of love and the clock ticking down, that feels within my grasp. At last the knob gives with a metallic pop, and I step forward. I see Peter's fingers graze the hole the knob has left behind. He opens the door, peers out cautiously at the four of us. When his gaze drifts to me, sweating and panting and shaking and bruised, his eyes widen in appreciation.

“Damn,” he says, nearly breathless.

It's the best compliment I've gotten in a while. Peter comes to me, kisses me softly. He takes my chin into his fingers and gently tilts my face up so he can see it better under the still-bright sky. He turns it from side to side.

“It looks worse than it feels,” I tell him. In truth, I can't feel any pain at all right now; I'm drunk with pleasure. “Are you all right?”

Peter nods. Other than the dark shadows under his eyes, he looks more or less like he always does: handsome and kind, a little bit like he just woke up. “They left my face alone—Mulvey's orders. She sees a future in me—a redemption narrative, she says. I'm sure Masterson would have killed me after the stunt I pulled on TV . . . did you hear about that?” I just grin at him, and Peter grins back. “Yeah, well. I can't imagine that thrilled him. But Mulvey and Blackmore hid me here—I think they still feel guilty about my dad—and I haven't seen Masterson since.”