“Who was in charge of the tomatoes last?” I ask.
“Kyler,” replies Atlas.
I grunt with exasperation. “We’ll have to tell Ofa. I think he’s still mad.”
“No shit.”
Atlas instructs me to reach for the roller hook at the top of the trellis. I retrieve it from its clasp, then we tug the vine from its square-foot-spaced roots in the soil. Atlas saunters off with the spool and tomato vine to dispose of them. I start to pick the ripened tomatoes in the wake of his absence, but five minutes pass and he hasn’t returned. Two distinct fingers poke into my sides—they tickle, and I release a sudden burst of laughter. Arms wrap around me, pulling my waist to his. Atlas digs, then nestles, his nose into the crook of my neck. He tugs, I lose balance, and then we’re toppling on top of each other to the grass bed below. He lands on my stomach, but his arms catch the brunt of the fall. His deep brown irises gaze into my blue and green, and his lips press hungrily into mine.
I don’t know how long we lie there kissing as Angelics busy themselves with the early crop. No one can see what we do. Tomato vines and wooden trellises encompass the area he and I lie in. We bask in the privacy as long as we can.
“Get back to work, you two,” says an inconspicuous Ofa from somewhere nearby.
Caught red-handed.
We return to picking the tomatoes as if we weren’t kissing in an R-rated fashion. Once the basket is brimmed to the top, Atlas and I head in the direction of the Shop. He nudges me in the divots of my hips, because of course I’m the one tasked to carry the basket. A few tomatoes topple to the grass, but I flee, so he’ll be the one to pick them up. Instead, Atlas careens my way, hands positioned for attack. At least he didn’t cheat by teleporting.
Gunshots echo across the valley. I hear the way they ricochet off the buildings of Proctus, the way they travel to where we stand. That’s when we hear the screaming and the explosion of the front gates. They come crumbling to the ground in a heap of smoldering flame.
Chapter 71
Conin
Matt finds me at the end of the hall after my shift. He smiles big and bright like he usually does—I can see what Ambrosia loves about him so much. He’s a great, cheerful guy. The two pair so well together.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to Ezra’s performance.”
“It’s alright. I’m sure Ambrosia told you all about it,” I say.
“That she did,” he chuckles.
Matt follows me down the hall to the exit, past Barbara behind the front desk. The sun beats down on us immediately. It’s a hot day in August, but kids run along the road in hordes—Angelics chat and mingle, go about their jobs like they genuinely love the work that they do. It feels nice to be an active part of a community like this.
“I was going to stop by the Shop for some supplies,” I tell Matt as I veer in that direction.
“I’ll come with,” he says. “I need to pick up some tomatoes for dinner tonight anyways.”
“You better praise them. Ezra and Atlas have been working so hard.”
We feed off each other’s laughter while we make for it down the road, spilling onto Sacramento. In the near distance, the cluster of pop-up canopies await in what was once the parking lot of the Dunsmuir train station. Matt nudges me and points off to something in the far distance when the heat of the sun increases a hundredfold. He and I stop in our tracks, collectively peering up at the sky. I shade my eyes with my hand, noticing that something is amiss. The glisten of Proctus’s protective barrier is gone. I can no longer spot its hexagonal pattern.
“What’s happening?” I ask.
“I—” He fails miserably at a warm smile.
Rachel, a member of the Angelic Guard, materializes from around a bend. She acknowledges me with a curt nod, but beelines it to Matt and starts conversing with him in hushed tones. I overhear something about Benji, that he’s gone missing or something. I’m not sure. But my attention is pulled from them and to a fracas that’s erupted down the street near the gate.
“There’s only one reason the dome would disappear,” I catch Matt saying.
“. . . he must be dead—”
In a chain of events too swift for us to comprehend, Proctus’s gate comes crashing down. We freeze in tandem. Nondescript, pitch-black vehicles are waiting on the other side. At least a hundred men stand beside them, carrying machine guns, dotting the road that stretches through the wastelands ahead. I hold my breath. A dead, eerie silence drapes over us like a crushing, weighted blanket. I hear an eagle’s cry from far away. And that’s when the gunfire begins.
I move, but my body protests and I’m falling to the asphalt, where I scrape my forearms. I try to get up, try to get moving, to get the hell out of here, and watch as bullets tear throughRachel’s chest. She slumps to the ground. Matt barely has time to cry out when an outlier shoots clear through his forehead. Blood drains from the entry wound. The life leave his eyes, his mouth open in a perpetual state of horror. He falls to the road next to Rachel, his skull cracking from impact.
I can’t scream.
But I need to move or else I’ll face a fate as terrible as theirs.
