After Mommy got sick and Daddy slipped the white paper mask over Cassie’s and his faces.
Just to be sure, Sam. I think you’re perfectly safe.
“And you’re gonna love Camp Haven,” the soldier says. “Wait till you see it. We fixed it up just for kids like you.”
“And they can’t find us there?”
Parker smiles. “Well, I don’t know about that. But it’s probably the most secure place in North America right now. There’s even an invisible force field, in case the visitors try anything.”
“Force fields aren’t real.”
“Well, people used to say the same thing about aliens.”
“Have you seen one, Parker?”
“Not yet,” Parker answers. “Nobody has, at least not in my company, but we’re looking forward to it.” He smiles a hard soldiery smile, and Sammy’s heart quickens. He wishes he were old enough to be a soldier like Parker.
“Who knows?” Parker says. “Maybe they look just like us. Maybe you’re looking at one right now.” A different kind of smile now. Teasing.
The soldier stands up, and Sammy reaches for his hand. He doesn’t want Parker to leave.
“Does Camp Heaven really have a force field?”
“Yep. And manned watchtowers and twenty-four/seven video surveillance and twenty-foot fencing topped with razor wire and big, mean guard dogs that can smell a nonhuman five miles away.”
Sammy’s nose crinkles. “That doesn’t sound like heaven! That sounds like prison!”
“Except a prison keeps the bad guys in and our camp keeps ’em out.”
38
NIGHT.
The stars above, bright and cold, and the dark road below, and the humming of the wheels on the dark road beneath the cold stars. The headlamps stabbing the thick dark. The swaying of the bus and the stale warm air.
The girl across the aisle is sitting up now, dark hair matted to the side of her head, cheeks hollow and skin drawn tight across her skull, making her eyes seem owly huge.
Sammy smiles hesitantly at her. She doesn’t smile back. Her stare is fixed on the water bottle leaning against his leg. He holds out the bottle. “Want some?” A bony arm shoots across the space between them, and she pulls the bottle from his hand, gulps down the rest of the water in four swallows, then tosses the empty bottle onto the seat beside her.
“I think they have more, if you’re still thirsty,” Sammy says.
The girl doesn’t say anything. She stares at him, hardly blinking.
“And they have gummies, too, if you’re hungry.”
She just looks at him, not speaking. Legs curled up beneath Parker’s green jacket, round eyes unblinking.
“My name’s Sam, but everybody calls me Sammy. Except Cassie. Cassie calls me Sams. What’s your name?”
The girl raises her voice over the hum of the wheels and the growl of the engine.
“Megan.”
Her thin fingers pluck at the green material of the army jacket. “Where did this come from?” she wonders aloud, her voice barely conquering the humming and growling in the background. Sammy gets up and slides into the empty space beside her. She flinches, drawing her legs back as far as she can.
“From Parker,” Sammy tells her. “That’s him sitting up there by the driver. He’s a medic. That means he takes care of sick people. He’s really nice.”
The thin girl named Megan shakes her head. “I’m not sick.”
Eyes cupped in dark circles, lips cracked and peeling, hair matted and entangled with twigs and dead leaves. Her forehead is shiny, and her cheeks are flushed.
“Where are we going?” she wants to know.
“Camp Heaven.”
“Camp…what?”
“It’s a fort,” Sammy says. “And not just any fort. The biggest, best, safest fort in the whole world. It even has a force field!”
It’s very warm and stuffy on the bus, but Megan can’t stop shivering. Sammy tucks Parker’s jacket under her chin. She stares at his face with her huge, owly eyes. “Who’s Cassie?”
“My sister. She’s coming, too. The soldiers are going back for her. For her and Daddy and all the others.”
“You mean she’s alive?”
Sammy nods, puzzled. Why wouldn’t Cassie be alive?
“Your father and your sister are alive?” Her bottom lip quivers. A tear cuts a trail through the soot on her face. The soot from the smoke from the fires from the bodies burning.
Without thinking, Sammy takes her hand. Like when Cassie took his the night she told him what the Others had done.
That was their first night in the refugee camp. The hugeness of what had happened over the past few months hadn’t hit him until that night, after the lamps were turned off and he lay curled next to Cassie in the dark. Everything had happened so fast, from the day the power died to the day his father wrapped Mommy in the white sheet to their arrival at the camp. He always thought they’d go home one day and everything would be like it was before they came. Mommy wouldn’t come back—he wasn’t a baby; he knew Mommy wasn’t coming back—but he didn’t understand that there was no going back, that what had happened was forever.
Until that night. The night Cassie held his hand and told him Mommy was just one of billions. That almost everybody on Earth was dead. That they would never live in their house again. That he would never go to school again. That all his friends were dead.
“It isn’t right,” Megan whispers now in the dark of the bus. “It isn’t right.” She is staring at Sammy’s face. “My whole family’s gone, and your father and your sister? It isn’t right!”
Parker has gotten up again. He’s stopping at each seat, speaking softly to each child, and then he’s touching their foreheads. When he touches them, a light glows in the gloom. Sometimes the light is green. Sometimes it’s red. After the light fades away, Parker stamps the child’s hand. Red light, red stamp. Green light, green stamp.
“My little brother was around your age,” Megan says to Sammy. It sounds like an accusation: How come you’re alive and he isn’t?
“What’s his name?” Sammy asks.
“What’s that matter? Why do you want to know his name?”
He wishes Cassie were here. Cassie would know what to say to make Megan feel better. She always knew the right thing to say.
“His name was Michael, okay? Michael Joseph, and he was six years old and he never did anything to anybody. Is that okay? Are you happy now? Michael Joseph was my brother’s name. You want to know everybody else’s?”
She is looking over Sammy’s shoulder at Parker, who has stopped at their row.
“Well, hello, sleepyhead,” the medic says to Megan.
“She’s sick, Parker,” Sammy tells him. “You need to make her better.”
“We’re going to make everybody better,” Parker says with a smile.
“I’m not sick,” Megan says, then shivers violently beneath Parker’s green jacket.
“Heck no,” Parker says with a nod and a big grin. “But maybe I should check your temperature, just to make sure. Okay?”
He holds up a quarter-size silver disk. “Anything over a hundred degrees glows green.” He leans over Sammy and presses the disk against Megan’s forehead. It lights up green. “Uh-oh,” Parker says. “Lemme check you, Sam.”
The metal is warm against his forehead. Parker’s face is bathed for a second in red light. Parker rolls the stamp over the back of Megan’s hand. The green ink shines wetly in the dimness. It’s a smiley face. Then a red smiley face for Sammy.
“Wait for them to call your color, okay?” Parker says to Megan. “Greens are going straight to the hospital.”
“I’m not sick,” Megan shouts hoarsely. Her voice cracks. She doubles over, coughing, and Sammy instinctively recoils.
Parker pats him on the shoulder. “It’s just a bad cold, Sam,” he whispers. “She’s gonna be okay.”
“I’m not going to the hospital,” Megan tells Sammy after Parker returns to the front of the bus. She furiously rubs the back of her hand against the jacket, smearing the ink. The smiley face is now just a green blob.
“You have to,” Sammy says. “Don’t you want to get better?”
She shakes her head sharply. He doesn’t get it. “Hospitals aren’t where you go to get better. Hospitals are where you go to die.”
After his mother got sick, he asked Daddy, “Aren’t you going to take Mommy to the hospital?” And his father said that it wasn’t safe. Too many sick people, not enough doctors, and not anything the doctors could do for her, anyway. Cassie told him the hospital was broken, just like the TV and the lights and the cars and everything else.
“Everything’s broken?” he asked Cassie. “Everything?”
“No, not everything, Sams,” she answered. “Not this.”
She took his hand and put it against his chest, and his pounding heart pushed fiercely against his open palm.
“Unbroken,” she said.
39
HIS MOTHER WILL only come to him in the in-between space, the gray time between waking and sleeping. She stays away from his dreams, as if she knows not to go there, because dreams are not real but feel more than real when you’re dreaming them. She loves him too much to do that.