“Your caravan leaves in twenty minutes,” she informs me, like I don’t have a watch and haven’t been watching the clock religiously. “Do you have everything you need? Do you want to go over the plan again?”
“No, I got it.”
And I do. I spent the last few hours memorizing our plan of action forward and backward. No longer can I rely on Taylor and her memory. I won’t be able to rely on her at all. It mixes up my emotions, but chief among them is lingering dread. I’m worried about her and the martyr crap she’ll undoubtedly pull if the opportunity arises. I’m worried I’ll never see her again. I’m worried about what happens to me in her absence.
Taylor nods back at me, gazing around at my room but not looking at anything. After several seconds of intensely awkward staring, she finally turns to me and exhales a long breath before meeting my eyes. “If I should fail?—”
“Taylor,” I warn.
“No, listen. This is important to me. If I become incapacitated or die, or if for any reason I can no longer protect you, I want you to stay with Delilah. You will be safest with her. Mason will be obligated to return to HQ, but you are not. Stay with her. Promise me.”
“Taylor—”
“Promise me,” she insists. “Lucy, please.”
It’s unlike her to beg, and I couldn’t find a defense against it with two hands and a flashlight. “Okay, okay. I promise. Geez.”
“Thank you.”
Her watch beeps and she frowns at the digital face. It can’t be time already. I swallow nervously and stand from the bed, stretching out to adjust to my uniform. How far we’ve come in the short time we’ve known each other. I’m entrusted to protect members of the rebel organization designed against me, and their de facto leader has my well-being in her priority.
Taylor offers a thin smile. “I can tell you are nervous. You are going to do fine. If you see anyone following you aggressively, shoot them only if they shoot first. If they know you are armed, they may stand down. Do not engage first, and whatever happens, do not get out of the truck.” Sensing my unease, she plants her hands on my shoulders. “You are smart, capable, and you trained with me. You could not be more prepared than you are right now. Trust your instincts, and trust Delilah.”
Gulping, I nod. “Okay. And you, um, don’t blow yourself to bits?”
“Don’t worry about me. Stay focused.”
“If only it were that easy.” If only I could disengage her at will, like changing dance partners midsong.
She extends her hand. “Miss Piccolo.”
I roll my eyes. “That’s a hard no on hugs, huh? Fine. But when you get to Lansing, I would like at least one hug. Is that okay?” Taylor nods and I clasp her hand and shake it firmly. Using my free hand, I swipe some strands of her blond hair behind her ear and cup her jaw. “Please don’t die, hero.”
She huffs a hoarse laugh, backing away from our contact. “I will see you in Lansing.”
“Promise?”
Her lips quirk upward. “Goodbye, Lucy.”
“Good luck.”
“No such thing.”
13
Less than a mile outside of the city, the highway winding out of Detroit is a wasteland. Broken-down, rusted cars litter the road as if abandoned all at once like a zombie apocalypse. What they were fleeing? The Rift and the subsequent skirmishes for power? Criminal punishment under Thorne or his predecessors? Could be anything off a long list of terrible actions taken by the region leaders in this part of the country. A zombie apocalypse might have been preferable. Shantytowns pop up every couple hundred yards—families living in sheds built from rubble, cobbling together an existence from nothing. In between these communities are prolonged stretches of emptiness with vacant barns and plots of land piled with trash in a dreary, never-ending watercolor of tragedy.
Our caravan consists of ten bloated black trucks packed with people, weapons, equipment, and the minuscule number of personal belongings each soldier was allotted. Mason leads the pack, eight trucks follow, and Delilah and I bring up the rear.
Delilah’s watch lights up and she peers out the back window. “It’s time.”
Following her gaze, I stare into the skyline. A skyline we are about to change forever. Delilah is forlorn and it isn’t hard to put myself in her shoes. A city she’s lived in her whole life, a city she feels responsible for like a child, crumbling before her eyes. If someone were to level my city with its proud, brilliantly lit island of buildings, it would put me in mourning.
Within about thirty seconds the ground begins to shake. And the noise is ear-splittingly loud, like firecrackers and forty thousand snare drums going off at once. A building falls out of sight, melting into the blackened horizon. I try not to think about Taylor and concentrate on the road to look for any movement that might indicate we were followed. So far there is nothing behind us but distance and destruction.
More explosions. I try not to think about Taylor again.
Suddenly it’s like the crescendo of Tchaikovsky’s “1812 Overture”—crashing, banging, explosions, like someone has cranked up the volume of the world. Sirens and gunfire, the echoing boom of what could be bombs. Delilah’s watch beeps uncontrollably. Her worried eyes snap down to the blue-lit display.
