A Better World

CHAPTER 11

There had been a time when Ethan could go on a two-week trip with a single carry-on bag. At twenty-two, he’d spent three months crisscrossing Europe with nothing but a backpack.

Now they couldn’t leave town without jamming the Honda to the roof.

Their own luggage was the smallest part of it. The baby’s suitcase was larger than theirs, and it was packed so full he’d had to sit on the thing to zip it: daytime diapers, nighttime diapers, wipes, onesies, pajamas, evaporated milk, burp cloths, swaddling blankets, a musical seahorse, picture books, baby monitor, on and on. Add to that the pack-and-play, the travel swing, the bright pink bathtub, and the play mat. Then a box of stuff in case the stay at Amy’s mom’s turned out to be longer than he hoped: d-pads and chargers, Amy’s chef’s knife and favorite pan, workout gear, medication and toiletries, winter coats. Ethan clenched the flashlight between his teeth to free both hands and cleared space for the cat cage. Inside, Gregor Mendel mewled pitifully, his eyes reflecting green.

“It’s okay, buddy.”

Atop the cage went a box of litter and a bag of Iams. Alongside it, a lockbox containing their passports, some jewelry that had belonged to Amy’s grandmother, and a bundle of US Treasury bonds.

Ethan shook his head, then closed the rear hatch and threw his hip to slam it. He was glad they were going. Things were getting a mite too real in Cleveland. And besides, someone kidnapped Abe. There’s no way of knowing whether they’re after you too, but if they are, better to be somewhere else for now.

The house was already cold. Their furnace burned natural gas, but it took electricity to power the blower that moved the air. A pillar candle on the kitchen counter cast a soft circle of light on the empty cans that had served as dinner. No stove, no microwave, so Amy had ripped off the labels and heated the cans over the candle.

Clever woman. Lukewarm bean soup is nothing to shout about, but it trumps cold bean soup.

Amy came down the stairs, Violet in her arms. “I’m going to do a quick dummy check. Can you change her?”

“Sure.”

The changing table was in the living room, and barely visible, but he could manage diaper duty with his eyes closed. Violet had recently started sort-of smiling, scrunching up her cheeks and sticking her tongue out. Once he had her clean, he spent a minute biting at her belly until she gave him that goofy grin.

“I think that’s everything,” Amy said.

“You sure? Grab me a wrench, I could disconnect the stove, strap that on top of the truck.”

“Funny man.”

At the front door, Amy turned to the alarm panel, started punching buttons. She made it halfway through the code before she laughed and shook her head. “Right. Never mind.”

“It’ll be fine.” He tugged the door closed, then locked the deadbolt. Their block was eerie. No streetlights or porch lights, no glow of tri-ds in family rooms, no music on the edge of hearing. The flickering hints of candles and flashlights seemed tiny against the weight of blackness. Far away, he heard a siren wail.

Ethan strapped in his daughter, climbed into the driver’s seat, and started the car.

“It looks so lonely,” Amy said.

“The house?”

“The city.” She leaned her head up against the side window. “Holy crap.”

“What?”

“I can see stars.” Her voice was bemused. “Lots of them. When was the last time you saw stars?”

Ethan had made the short drive to the freeway a thousand times, at every hour. But he’d never seen it like this. Every building was shadowed, the windows empty sockets. The trees, leafless and November-tossed, loomed ominously. The city wasn’t just middle-of-the-night dark; it was Middle Ages dark. No porch lights, no streetlights, no floodlights on the billboards, no glow reflecting off clouds. The only signs of life were other cars, their headlights watery and weak in the darkness. It was a relief to merge onto I-90; the highway seemed almost normal, the westbound traffic moving well.

Amy twisted around her seat to look back at Violet. “She’s asleep.”

“Good.”

“Are you okay with this?”

“No harm in waiting it out at your mom’s. Use a little vacation time, burn a little gas, feign interest while your mom talks about gardening.”

“She’ll be really happy.”

“She’ll be happy to see the monkey. I’m not sure she’ll be delighted about us sleeping on her pullout.”

“We can get a hotel. And along the way we can stop at a grocery store, stock up on formula.”

Ethan nodded. For a few moments they rode in silence, just the hum of concrete beneath the tires. They passed office parks and big-box stores, a huge McDonald’s sign, the golden arches black.

“Ethan.” Amy gestured with her chin.

He followed her gaze. There was a spill of light on the horizon, a brilliant pool that underlit the clouds. He couldn’t make out the source, but the glow was hot white, an oasis of light. Ethan felt something in him release that he hadn’t realized was clenched. Light meant power, and power meant normalcy, and they could sorely use some normalcy right now.

“This is the mall exit, right? I wonder why they have power.”

“Seems like the light is coming from . . .” Amy trailed off. “Something’s wrong.”

Traffic was compressing in on itself, everyone merging over to the right. The light grew brighter and brighter. A minute later he saw why.

Heavy concrete barriers blocked I-90, two rows of them placed at angles. A battery of sodium lights blasted the night to harsh noon. Alongside them, Humvees idled, the big trucks looking like construction equipment, only with machine guns mounted on the back. Ethan could see soldiers manning those guns, little more than silhouettes against the glare of light. He could hear the generators even through the glass.

A flashing sign with an arrow showed the way—all traffic to exit. Ethan glanced in his mirror, saw cars lining up behind him. He looked at his wife; she said nothing, but the tiny creases around her clenched lips spoke volumes.

Ethan joined the line for the exit. It took five minutes to funnel in. At the top of the ramp, the road north had been barricaded. A tank was parked in the center of the intersection. Soldiers stood alongside the treads, watching the flow of traffic.

A tank. In the intersection.

The traffic flowed south across a bridge over the highway. On the other side lay Crocker Park Mall. He remembered the first time he and Amy had come here, how surreal the experience had been to a couple of urbanites: an outdoor mall pretending to be a village, a theme park of commercialism at its most vulgar.

It was considerably more surreal now.

The mall had been commandeered by the National Guard, with rows of Humvees parked beside a half dozen more tanks. Soldiers scurried to set up tents in the midst of the parking lot. Generators roared, powering floodlights that colored the sky.

“They’re turning us back,” Amy said. She pointed to the opposite on-ramp, back toward Cleveland. More barricades and soldiers, and another flashing arrow. The same cars he’d been following westward were obediently queuing up to return to Cleveland.

“You think there’s been some kind of attack?”

“Or they’re expecting one.”

“So what now? Should we go home?”

He sucked air through his teeth. Thought about their dark house in its dark neighborhood, growing steadily colder. About the freezer that was nearly empty of meat, the fridge that had no fruit or vegetables.

“No,” he said, and spun the wheel.

“Ethan, what are you—”

He pulled out of the line for the highway and aimed to the right, around the barricade at the road going to the mall. He passed four cars, five, and then the Humvee. A flash of the soldiers in and around it: digital camouflage and assault rifles and helmets with headgear. He’d always thought the National Guard was sort of the light beer version of the army, but those men had looked anything but soft.

“I don’t want to be one of those wives,” Amy said, “who says ‘be careful,’ but please be careful. Our daughter is in the back.”

“I’m not going to do anything stupid. But they have to let us by.”

At the entrance to the mall parking lot, two soldiers carrying machine guns stood beside a wooden barricade. Ethan pulled up to it and rolled down his window.

“Sir, do you have authorization to be here?”

“Can you tell me what’s going on?”

“Sir, I’m going to need you to turn the vehicle around.”

“I’ve got my baby daughter with me,” Ethan said. “We’re almost out of food, have no baby formula, and now no heat. We’re just trying to get to Chicago to stay with my mother-in-law. Is there someone we can talk to?”

The soldier hesitated, then pointed. “My CO.”

“Thank you.”

Ethan drove where the man indicated. A handful of civilian vehicles and an eighteen-wheeler were parked in a cluster. He pulled up alongside and killed the engine. Turned to Amy, saw her look, and said, “I’m not going to do anything stupid. I just want to see if they’ll let us past.”

She took a breath, held it, and let it whistle out. “Okay. Talk good.”

He smiled, leaned over, and kissed her quickly.

The night was colder than he’d expected, his breath turning to frost. The makeshift command center was lit by headlights and pole-mounted floods. He heard arguing and followed the sound of it to a group of people in civilian clothes, facing a soldier with ramrod posture and an implacable expression. An aide stood beside him, holding a rifle. Beyond them were more vehicles, a Humvee and a tank and, wow, a couple of helicopter gunships bristling with weaponry. Ethan joined the crowd.

“—you don’t understand, my wife needs insulin, we used the last of it this morning, and without it, she’s going to—”

“—packed rig due in Detroit tomorrow morning—”

“—there’s no heat, no food, come on, show a little—”

The soldier raised both hands in a calm down gesture. When everyone quieted, he said, “I understand your concerns. But my orders are explicit. No one is to pass this checkpoint. For those of you with medical emergencies, we have rudimentary capabilities here, and the hospitals in Cleveland are operational. For everyone else, all I can say is that every effort is being made to supply food and repair the power grid.”

“Can you tell us what’s going on?” Ethan asked.

The officer gave him a quick evaluative glance. “The DAR believes the leadership of the Children of Darwin are here. There are missions underway to capture them. Our job is to ensure that none slip past. Which I’m afraid means that no one can leave Cleveland.”

“That’s insane,” said a goateed kid in front of Ethan. “You’re locking down the whole city to catch a couple of terrorists? That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Listen, man.” A burly guy in a John Deere cap stepped forward. “I’m a truck driver. Bad enough people are burning us alive, but if I don’t get my load to Detroit on time, I get stuck with the whole bill. That ain’t gonna happen. So how about you let me past?”

“No one gets past.”

“Now you listen to me—”

“Sir.” There was a way soldiers and cops could say “sir” and mean, “I’m inches from beating your ass,” snapping their voice like a broken cable. “Get back in your vehicle right now.”

This is a waste of time. Ethan was about to leave when John Deere grabbed the officer’s arm.

Oh, don’t do that, that’s a very bad—

The floodlights seemed to flare in the officer’s eyes. His aide stepped forward and snapped the butt of his assault rifle into the trucker’s face.

The sound was an egg thrown against concrete. The man collapsed.

Ethan saw motion behind the two soldiers, on the Humvee.

The .50 caliber machine gun swiveled over to aim at them. Maybe twenty feet away, and even from this distance the barrel seemed a hole big enough to crawl into.

Ethan stared past it, to the man pointing it. He was good-looking in that blond sort of way, cheeks ruddy beneath his helmet, gloved hands on the weapon, finger on the trigger. He looked all of nineteen years old, and scared.

What was happening? How and when had things slipped into this strange new place? A world where the grocery store didn’t have groceries, where the power vanished, where terrorism wasn’t something happening to someone else. A world where the line between this moment and utter disaster was so slender as to be defined by the fear in the heart of a nineteen-year-old boy.

The other civilians seemed frozen. On the ground, the trucker made a wet sound.

Slowly, Ethan raised his hands. Keeping his eyes locked on the soldier behind the gun, he began to back away. One step, and then another, and then he was apart from the group, and then he was turning around and walking back to the CRV where his wife and daughter waited. He opened the door and got in.

“Any luck?” Amy looked over at him, read his expression, and he could see it mirroring on her face. “What? What happened?”

“Nothing,” he said, and started the SUV. “We’re going home.”