The Release

“Go,” she motioned toward the ceiling, “go if you need to. But the threat outside is unknown...the sickness, the fear, the fighting and rioting and the looting. It’s war out there. There are guns and fires. People are assaulting each other.” Salem’s eyes went vacant, remembering. Then she rolled on to the couch, tucking her knees up along her belly.

Lucy sat down beside her. Grant hesitated.

“Grant, the threat inside is known. One man. Honestly, the fact that he wants people out of here is helping us. Maybe that’s what we want.” Salem closed her eyes and then continued, “We can make it work here. You weren’t out there today, Grant, Lula. You didn’t see it. You survived the hardest part and now we just need to survive the next part.”

“Survive what?” Lucy asked. “What are we surviving?”

Salem pointed a shaky finger at the room’s TV and Lucy walked over to it and stood on her tiptoes and hit the power button and then she took a giant step back. Grant looked at both girls for a long minute and then he climbed up the ladder; he rested at the top, closed his eyes, his shoulders slumped. Then he motioned for Clayton to continue on without him, and he descended back down to join Lucy and Salem as they glued themselves to the footage of a world descending into mayhem.

The emergency broadcast ticker still scrolled its perpetual warnings.

The pictures were from around the world. Houses in flames, bodies in the street. The US military sprinting into action—armed with gas masks and semi-automatic weapons.

But the picture that made Lucy sick was that of a downed plane; its tail was upright and the body was almost fully submerged in the Columbia River with waves licking and slapping the sides in poetic rhythm. No survivors, the caption read.

They wouldn’t have.

They wouldn’t have boarded that plane without her.

Maxine King would never have allowed it. There was solace in that single thought—her mother would never leave a child behind. She shook away the image of her family in that plane with their terrifying last moments and life flashing before their eyes. This was not the way it ended, not for her, and not for them. Lucy felt like she would know if her family was gone because she would feel the loss inside her. And she didn’t feel hollow and empty; she didn’t feel limbless and alone. In her marrow she knew the King family was thriving, and they would come for her as Ethan promised. But knowing that didn’t cure how much she missed them. It was an ache so powerful that her legs started to give out, and she tumbled to the floor, the coldness of the tile seeping through her pants.

“Sal?” Lucy asked, turning toward her friend. “Momma and Dad Aguilar?”

Salem didn’t move a muscle; her hand still glued to her necklace. After a long moment of silence, she looked down to Lucy. “I’m not ready…I can’t.” Then Salem turned to Grant, wiping her nose, “How about you? Your family?”

He shook his head. “Normal when I left.”

“Nothing was normal,” Lucy replied. She pointed at the screen. “This was a pla

The screen skipped and buzzed—a jolt of static, a mechanical purr. A stark studio appeared and the newscaster from before faced the audience. Again, there was comfort in his appearance, by this small idea that something out there was still up and ru

But when he opened his mouth to speak, his voice wobbled dangerously.

He addressed his audience.

“We are in a dire place my fellow Americans. We are at a place untraveled before in our history. By the time the sun sets tonight, it is estimated that over ninety-seven…perhaps ninety-eight percent of our earthly population will have succumbed to the act of bioterrorism unleashed upon us. No group has come forward to take credit for the attack, but it is clear that this group was not trying to send a message. They were simply trying to destroy the earth and everyone on it. The loss of life today has been staggering either through direct contact with the virus or as part of a side effect. That means...if you are watching this...you...me...we are one of the few. The very few.”

Salem reached out and grabbed Lucy’s hand, sliding her fingers between all of Lucy’s fingers until their skin melted together with body-forgetfulness—as if their hands didn’t know where one person started and one person stopped. Lucy let those numbers sink in. Ninety-eight percent of their city was dead or dying? In Portland, that meant there were no more than twelve thousand people still trying to cope in the aftermath of the virus. Not enough to fill up even half of the city’s soccer stadium. The statistics were overwhelming.

“It is the decision of our dwindling numbers to cease broadcast. Whatever was released upon the world was a well-executed attack by a patient and cautious enemy. Our crops are contaminated, our water supply no longer safe to drink. The misting of some cities with a live virus was a secondary attack. I ask you, those of you here and with me, to remain aware and kind.”

Grant slumped against the back of the couch. Lucy saw him wipe his eyes and she turned to look at him. Then with her free hand she reached out to him too, enveloping his clammy hand into her own. They sat there, co

“Whatever is left of our grieving earth will be divided into two. Victims of a senseless genocide and those who perpetrated this crime against humanity.”

Off-camera someone spoke and a row of lights flickered and the newscaster’s eyes watched the studio dim. The TV station’s soundstage rumbled and the anchor desk swayed.

“Earthquake?” Salem asked.

“As we speak, this city is under attack. Fires are sweeping up streets destroying what is left. What you hear are...” the desk shook again, a facade of a cityscape toppled backward. “...bombs. It is unclear from where this particular...” A resounding clap; the camera shook and glass broke. “...attack is coming from. But we call to you to be ever vigilant and kind. We will rise from the ashes, but we ca