Page 22 of The Midnight Hour
“More than the population of a lot of countries,” I add. “Where is the government in all this? The military?” Sevenmonths on, why hasn’t the United States of America, if it’s not standing tall again, gotten back on its knees, at least? Or maybe it has, and we just haven’t heard about it yet.
William shrugs. “Maybe that many, maybe not. There are most likely more deaths every single day. People are getting sicker, hungrier. When we drove here, we hardly saw anyone at all.”
I glance at Daniel, whose expression is shuttered. Has so much changed in the three weeks since he returned? He talked of roving gangs, homegrown militias, similar to what we saw up here. Are they still out there? Or has it become a barren wasteland of not just destruction, but death?
“But the government?” I prompt. “The military?”
“I heard they were doing something out in North Dakota,” Nicole says. Her voice is quiet and a little husky, and I realize how little she’s spoken or even moved since we all sat down. She’s seated next to her husband, her knees tucked up to her chest, looking quiet and watchful and withdrawn. “We heard there’s some military complex out there that they’ve made their headquarters, a springboard for whatever is next.”
“Yes, we heard that on the radio,” William agrees. “Something’s happening out in North Dakota, but no one knows for sure what it is. The government and military have pulled out of the whole east coast, though, as far as I know.” His face tightens. “That was part of the reason why we were kicked out, because people were starting to believe that it wasn’t safe above ground anywhere east of Chicago.”
Nicole averts her face, as if she can’t bear to look at any of us, or maybe she doesn’t wantusto look ather. My curiosity is piqued, along with my sympathy. Every time her husband talks about what happened in that billionaire’s bunker, Nicole draws a little more into herself, almost as if she’s trying to hide, or even disappear. Does she miss the luxury, or is it something else?
“Surely that’s not true,” I protest, trying to sound reasonablerather than argumentative or what I actually am, which is afraid. Daniel and Sam traveled through upstate New York less than a month ago. Have they been affected by the radiation? I don’t suppose there’s any way to know until we see the effects, but that prospect terrifies me. My husband, my son, withering away, suffering, dying…if that’s what happens from the long-term effects of radiation. I have no idea. I realize how utterly naive and stupid I was, taking what Daniel said at face value, about the troposphere and dilution and the rest of it, assuming that, seven months past the bombs dropping, we were pastall that nuclear stuff.
It’s ridiculous, and it makes me angry. I’m not sure I can deal with yet more insurmountable problems.
“I don’t know whether it’s true or not,” William replies, his even tone suggesting he doesn’t appreciate being challenged. “I’m just telling you what we heard from the other bunkers.”
“How many of these bunkers are there?” Mattie asks, and again William hesitates, looks at his wife.
“I’m not exactly sure,” he replies after a pause. “We were in touch with five or six, maybe.”
“And where are you going now?” Daniel asks in a mild tone that still possesses an edge. “I mean, you must have had a plan.”
William gives a shamefaced smile as he spreads his hands wide. “Not really. We just wanted to get as far north as we could, away from…everything.” He glances at his wife, who doesn’t meet his gaze, and then looks around the campsite. “What about you guys?” he asks in the same jocular tone he used when he’d first stepped out of the car. “Are you staying here?”
“We heard about a base in Buffalo that’s offering shelter,” Daniel tells him. “We’re making for there.”
William is already shaking his head. “Fort Sanderson? That place has had it. Everybody moved out a couple of months ago. People had started getting sick.”
We stare at him, dumbfounded. My fragile, fledgling dream of a safe haven has shriveled to ash in a matter of seconds and now the future looms in front of us, even more uncertain. More terrifying.
“What…? Why? I mean…how?” Mattie asks, a tremor in her voice.
“Too close to the blast centers. Fears of radiation.”
I swallow hard. Sam and Danielmusthave been affected, I think, in some way, even if they don’t know or feel it yet. I’d let myself be lulled by Daniel’s reassurances, when they must have been lies. Lies he told to protect me.
So what other lies has he told me?
Nicole stirs then, almost as if she’s coming out of a stupor, and William springs to attention. Ben lifts his head and looks around at everyone blearily. What, I wonder, are we meant todowith these people?
“If you don’t have anywhere to go,” Daniel says, as if he’s read my thoughts and maybe he has, “you’re welcome to stay here with us.”
“Oh, I don’t…” William begins, before trailing off. He glances at his son and wife, neither of whom look at him. “Maybe just for a night,” he relents. “We drove through the night and we’re all a little tired.” He gives us an apologetic grimace before adding, like an afterthought, “thank you.”
Daniel, Sam, and Kyle set up the tents again while Ruby and I make breakfast—cattail porridge,again—and Mattie gets Phoebe dressed, the little girl standing obediently and silently in front of her as she slips on a t-shirt, brushes her hair. Nicole hovers, not close enough for me to actually speak to, but I’m constantly aware of her in my peripheral vision. I don’t think I’ve ever encountered such a contained yet prickly person; she seems both glossy and brittle.
After about fifteen minutes, she asks me stiffly, “Is there some placeI can wash?”
I glance at her, concerned at how fragile she sounds, like she’s minutes away from—what? Breaking down? Collapsing? I glance at her face and see a spiderweb of fine lines fanning out from her eyes, etching her forehead. Her eyes look tired, the color of faded denim.
“Yes, of course,” I say, as if I’m showing her the guest bathroom of our gracious home.The tap is a little tricky, there are hand towels to the left of the sink. “There’s a stream at the bottom of that hill, through the woods.” I point in the right direction, and she nods and then walks off, her gait as stiff as her voice. I watch her go, and then I turn to Ben, who has also been lurking on the fringes of the campsite, scuffing the ground with his gleamingly white Air Force1 sneakers. “How old are you, Ben?” I ask, hoping I sound friendly. It’s so hard to gauge my tone these days; I feel as if I never have any idea of how I sound.
He gives me something of an incredulous look, that I’m asking such an irrelevant question. “Fifteen.”
“Same as Mattie here.” I nod toward my daughter, who I can tell is silently seething at this blatant bit of parental social engineering. “Are you in ninth grade?”
