Ainsley hesitated and looked between Ethan and the group. “Let me stay with him,” she begged Spencer. “Please let me stay with him.”
“Positions!” Spencer yelled again and as the helicopters gained ground.
“I want to stay—” Ainsley tried again, approaching Spencer, her curly hair flying.
“We had a plan. And you will honor the plan,” he said in a hushed voice. Then he raised his gun at her and held it steady. “Non-negotiable.”
Joey rushed into the closet bedroom upstairs and grabbed the sleeping Teddy. Tucking the child into his arms, he bounded down the steps.
“What’s happening, Mama?” Teddy said sleepily.
Darla took her son from Joey and kissed his head.
“Buddy, remember what we talked about? You and Ainsley are going to hide in the dark for a bit. It’s a game and you need to stay quiet,” Darla said to him, her voice catching. She swallowed and watched as Joey and Spencer moved their arsenal of weapons into reach. Darla shook her head. “I love you. Be good.”
“No,” Teddy whined. “I want to stay with you.”
“You can’t, Theodore. You can’t stay with me. It’s dangerous.”
Ainsley walked up to Spencer and touched his arm. “Please,” she said in a whisper. “My mom can sit with Teddy. He’d want me to stay. I want the chance to go with him…it’s only fair—”
Spencer raised his gun. He held it steady against Ainsley’s head, pushing the metal barrel between her brows. She flinched and a single tear rolled down her face; her breathing became rapid and unsteady. The whirl of the helicopters had died down. Close-by the enemy had landed. Ainsley stared down into the barrel of Spencer’s gun, and she took a step backward. Then without another word she grabbed Teddy’s hand and together they rushed into the basement.
Darla watched her son until he had disappeared. She gripped the banister tightly, and pressed her eyes closed for a single second, before spinning around and sprinting upstairs to the second-story.
Spencer’s plan was detailed. It involved a meticulous action plan, and each of their roles had been drilled into their heads. Spencer and Dean’s incessant distrust had seeped into daily conversations and during their days and evenings they plotted against this unknown enemy who they singularly held responsible for the death of mankind. Only Darla, fueled with loyalty for Ethan, challenged the plan. But in the end, she was outvoted and outnumbered and tired of feeling like she was the only voice of dissent, she abandoned her rebellion and settled into her role.
It was a simple course of action: Spencer would put himself front and center. Joey would act as his backup. They would lead or keep the enemy in the front yard, where Darla and Dean, positioned as snipers in the upstairs windows, would respond to any act of insurgence by unleashing violence upon them. Ainsley and Teddy would hide in the fruit cellar until given the all clear.
Ethan, unable to be moved, would stay in the den, with Doctor Krause by his side.
Spencer’s entire plan was to negotiate Ethan’s release. Darla saw the flaws in this logic: it made the Oregon survivors enemies from the start and assumed that those coming from Nebraska were both terrorists
and
reasonable negotiators.
Now, with Teddy gone from sight and the impending threat bearing down on them, Darla felt more than just anxiety crawl across her skin—her instincts told her to run, hide, leave everyone else to deal with this on their own. She and Teddy could make it on their own out there. There was a small wooden door in the basement that opened up to the backyard; she could easily leave Dean, overpower Ainsley, and take her child and run.
She couldn’t. Despite the growing anxiety, Darla was loyal.
Reluctantly, she took her position in the upstairs bathroom, arranging the blinds at an angle and scanning her vantage point.
“I’ll be right next door,” Dean said by the door. “We both take a shot or no one takes a shot. One knock for ready, aim. Then a long three count and fire.”
“Just go,” she snapped. “I got it.”
He looked like he had wanted to say something else, but instead he just took in a deep breath and disappeared in a flash.
Down in the yard, Spencer stood at the edge of the King’s lawn—which was now shaggy and long, with myriad stocks of dandelions blowing in the wind.
“Helicopters landed,” he shouted. “Down at the park two blocks away. Arrival immediate.” Then he discussed something with Joey, who paced along the edge of the driveway, hitting his free hand against his leg.
From her second-story window, Darla saw the crowd first.
Tiny specks of black and brown, crouching and running in formation along the sidewalk; the sound of their shoes hitting the pavement echoing up the road like little bursts of gunfire.
Clap-clap-clap
. They moved like military, tight together, ducking and using the area as their shield. This was no rag-tag group of civilians.
She counted.
Seven. Eight. They moved so quickly that she couldn’t tell. There was no way that she could take them out before they saw her; and even though Dean had been using his afternoons to target practice, she didn’t trust his shot either.
“This is going to end poorly,” Darla whispered to herself and she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Her thoughts went to Teddy. “Keep him safe. Just keep him safe,” she whispered to no one in particular. She forced herself to keep her gun steady on the approaching storm.
Three houses down, Spencer saw the visitors and he called for Joey to get back. The two of them backed themselves up onto the King’s front porch. And they raised their guns as a welcome.
Then the men stopped moving. From the back of the group, an unarmed man made his way to the front; he looked at the King house, his eyes scanning the yard, making note of the two men waiting for him, and as he looked upward, Darla ducked, careful not to disturb the blinds. She hoped he had not seen her, hoped she had not immediately blown their cover.
Through the open window, the conversation drifted to her.
“Lower your weapons. Disarm,” the man called. “I am General Charles. We are here for Ethan King. We have no beef with you. I repeat, lower your weapons.”
“General Charles,” Spencer repeated. “Welcome to our humble neighborhood. You see…I’m not exactly sure on whose authority you are acting. Seeing as how there’s no government, or laws, or…a population.”
“I’m not asking, sir,” the General continued. “We are here for Ethan King. And we will acquire him with or without your help.”
“Ethan’s indisposed at the moment. You get me.”
Darla’s heart thumped in her chest. Why had she let him be the face and voice of this operation? Because, she realized, she never thought this moment would come. Throughout all of Spencer’s planning, Darla had thought he was a total paranoid crackpot.
But he had been right.
He’d said they would come armed. Prepared. And as enemies.
Her sense of foreboding increased.
The General was silent. He spoke in low tones to the people around him. Darla hesitated and then pushed herself against the wall and rose slowly to peek at the action. The men moved into position around the perimeter of the yard. All guns trained on Spencer and Joey. The General appeared unarmed and unafraid and his arms were crossed against his body.
“What is it you think you can acquire? What leverage do you think you have over us?” The General said.
Darla peered downward. She could see Spencer and Joey a few steps down now. Standing on the cement steps, Joey and Spencer both scanned their guns over the crowd. Joey bounced his leg and even from a story above, Darla could tell he was a sweating, twitchy mess.
“We want protecting,” Joey blurted and Darla heard Spencer’s sharp voice of dissent.
“Protection,” the former principal amended. “We want food and shelter.”
“How many of you am I offering immunity to?” the General asked.
Spencer didn’t bite. “What you see is what you get.”
“I’m here for Ethan…and the child,” the General said and he took a step forward.
Darla started to let out a yell, but she forced herself to stand silent; she clamped her hand over her mouth and watched—her eyes darting between Spencer and the General.
“What child?” was Spencer’s reply. “You’ve got the wrong house.”
The General turned and nodded. And a single shot rang out.
Joey crumpled to the ground beside Spencer’s feet; his body tumbled forward along the cement and came to rest upon the steps—his legs on the landing, his chin against the ground. Blood pooled and poured from a wound in his head, staining the gray sidewalk a bright crimson. Spencer addressed the body with coldness. He stared down at Joey’s unmoving form, and then he looked back up at the General.
“Oh,” Spencer replied. “You mean
that
child.”
“No,” Darla gasped and her heart caught in her throat. “No, no.” She thought she was yelling, but no sound was coming out.
Darla heard the knock.
Dean had knocked against the wall.
Ready, aim.
And Darla scrambled. Tossing her gun to the floor, she scampered out of the bathroom and over to the room next door.
“Dean! Dean!” she whispered. “Hold your fire. Hold your fire!” She crashed into the bed, out of breath.
Startled and shaking, Dean lowered his arm and pushed himself away from the window.
“Three,” he said with a quiver. “Jesus, Darla, they shot Joey.” He was white as a sheet.
“I saw,” Darla answered. She put her head down on the bed. “We can’t shoot them…we can’t let them know we’re here. They want my boy…I’m going to get Teddy…”
“There’s no time,” Dean told her, shaking his head. “Darla—”
Darla held her hand out. “Give me your gun. Give me the gun!” He obliged and Darla gripped it in her hand. “I need your help. You have to help me. Create a diversion…or…”
They stopped talking. From downstairs they could hear the stomp of feet, the rush of people. There was shouting and barking of orders.
A voice called, “Downstairs. In the cellar! Grab the boy!” and a second voice shouted, “We’ve got Ethan! Ethan, sir!”
They heard another single gunshot ring out.
“No, no, no,” Darla screamed and she started to rush into the hallway. Panic flooded her and Darla felt numb; an intense primal yell began to bubble out of her and her vision went foggy. Dean lunged after her and grabbed her arm, yanking her backward into him.
“You can’t,” he said. “It’s suicide. You can’t,” he repeated.
They heard the footsteps on the stairs.
“My child—” Darla started and she spun again. Dean grabbed her and dragged her backward. The men were upstairs. One door banged open. Then another. She looked at Dean, her eyes pleading. “My boy.”
“I lost my boy too,” Dean whispered, his eyes darted back and forth, staring at her. He was fierce, intense. “We’ll get them back. We’ll get them back. We’re no good to them dead. You hear me? You’re no good to Teddy dead.”
Darla shook her head. “No,” she turned to bolt again, but Dean held her. “Please, let me go.”
He shoved her to the floor and pushed her toward the bed. “You have to hide. Hide. Hide!”
With silent sobs convulsing through her body, Darla forced herself under the King’s California King. She tucked her body between two plastic bins of clothes and tried to picture Teddy’s face. He would be so scared. He would be so worried. He needed her and she needed him. The door to the master bedroom banged open, shots were fired into the open room and Darla covered her ears with her hands. She couldn’t tell if she screamed or if she was only screaming in her head. Then the firing stopped, the footsteps retreated.
After a long minute, someone yelled that the upstairs was all clear. Her ears rang and she didn’t know if she should move or stay. Then Darla felt Dean’s hands latching around her ankles and he rolled her out from under the bed.
She was about to ask him where he hid, when they heard the boom. The foundation of the house shook with violent fury. Then a second boom rocked them and Darla tumbled to the ground. They rushed to the window, Dean’s hand still holding Darla’s arm. Outside, they saw the men pouring from the house, stomping back down the street in tight lines. Two men in uniform worked together to carry an unconscious Ethan from the house; Ethan’s body seemed tiny in their hands. When they reached the sidewalk, one of the men took over—cradling the twenty-year-old like a baby. His head flopping as the soldier picked up his pace.
And then Darla saw her son.
He was crying, tears streaming down his face. And he kicked and flailed at the young man carrying him away from the house, running back toward the way they came.
“Teddy!” Darla yelled and she pushed off from Dean before he could grab her and rushed into the hallway. The smell of smoke was overpowering and as she reached the stairs, she knew then that the house was on fire. Flames licked up from the basement and were already growing, lapping at the first set of stairs. Darla ignored the inferno, didn’t question where her houseguests were, and she bounded down the steps and out the door.
When she reached the landing, she skidded to a halt. Joey’s body lay in the same position as before; his eyes wide-open, staring up at her, vacant and void of life.
She pushed the image aside and bolted down to the grass and out onto the street. Already the men were like dots in the distance, rounding the corner toward their waiting helicopters. Darla sprinted after them, pumping her arms, her lungs aching and ready to burst. She had never run so fast in her entire life; it felt like she could takeoff and fly. But as she neared the park, she saw the first of the machines rise and circle with a steady
whack-whack-whack
of its propellers.
Then the second helicopter lifted. And Darla sank to the ground, her chest heaving. All the air had left her body and she gasped for breath.
“Teddy! Teddy!” she yelled between gasping breaths.
Teddy was gone.
She screamed and rose to her feet; then pushing herself with all her might, Darla began to follow the helicopters, chasing them across the sidewalk, cutting through yards, until they were nothing more than tiny spots in the sky.