After the End

Stop! I reprove myself, clenching my fists against the sled rail. In the distance, I spot a flock of Canada geese flying toward us in a perfect V. They’re flying north, returning to Alaska in their spring migration. I adjust our trajectory slightly to align with their path so that we’re pointing due south, and then yell, “Easy!”

The dogs slow down, and at “Whoa,” they come to a stop. I step off the sled and lean down to wipe the snow from the ground. Pulling my opal over my head, I press it to the earth. I think of my father and get nothing in response.

Fear courses through me. This has never happened. Does it mean he’s dead, I wonder, or just too far away?

I change the image in my mind to Whit and feel a sudden surge of anxiety. The fact that Whit is horribly worried shouldn’t be surprising, but I respond with my own fear. I jump back onto the sled and yell, “Hike,” and we are off, sprinting southward to the sea.

There are fifteen hours of daylight, and that is how long we run each day, resting enough to eat four meals, and stopping at twilight to pitch camp. The first two nights I sit outside in the darkness, watching the stars. On the third, I am rewarded with the aurora borealis. Its colorful lights shimmer like silk ba

I have felt the earth a dozen times a day and ca

8

MILES

I’M DROPPING OFF SOME LETTERS WITH MY DAD’S secretary when I hear him yelling again.

“I don’t know why she’s so important, but she is! Apparently the whole deal hangs on her. . . . I don’t care what you tell your men! Say that she’s an industrial spy with information on the drug I want. That’s near enough to the truth. Just get as many people onto the street as you can!”

Dad’s secretary looks up at me and rolls her eyes.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

“He’s been agitated for the last few days. I guess some deal he really wants is falling apart.” She picks up her coffee mug and heads for the break room.

Dad has lowered his voice, so I scoot closer to his door.

“My informant says she’s probably coming from Alaska by boat,” he says. “Could be landing anywhere along the western seaboard. Everyone and their mother will be after this girl. We have to get her before our competitors do. Hell, I’d comb the streets myself, but you’re the security expert, so I’m trusting you to find her.”

A manhunt, I think. Now this sounds interesting.

9

JUNEAU

ON THE THIRD DAY I BEGIN NOTICING EVIDENCE of brigands. Until now, the huskies and I have managed to elude any signs of life. Yesterday we came within sight of a paved road. I avoided it, steering the dogs away and putting a sight-blocking ridge between us and that relic of a dead civilization.

But today, as we near the coast, we are forced to cross one road, and then another. Seeing no sign of humanity, I resign myself to following along it at a distance. After a while a small structure comes into view—a type of complex built in glass and wood with two plinth-like machines standing in front of it. I immediately recognize what it is from the photos in our books: a gas station—this one obviously abandoned. A fuel reserve would have been cached beneath the pumps and used to fill cars with gasoline. Although the sight fills me with a sort of excited horror, I can’t help but smile. It’s my first real glimpse of the world outside the one where I’ve spent my entire life.

The sides of the building are plastered with weathered artwork—advertisements, I remind myself, rolling the word around in my mouth like honeycomb candy—that are half falling off and rusted through.

The dogs pay no attention to the place as we speed by, and once it has disappeared from my vision, I breathe my relief. I have seen the outside world and nothing bad has happened.

As we pass a couple of other abandoned buildings—one with a burned-out wheel-less car parked eternally outside—my confidence grows. Brigands aren’t hiding behind every corner, as I have always imagined. Maybe the ones who kidnapped my clan are the sole survivors. Maybe I will be able to not only find my clan but somehow set them free.

As this flash of hope pierces like a sunbeam through my mind’s dark clouds, I see something else on the horizon. Something moving. Coming along the road toward us, just a speck in the distance but growing larger by the second. “Whoa!” I yell, and steer the dogs off the road behind one of the patches of fir trees that has begun to regularly punctuate the treeless expanse of tundra.

The dogs flop flat on the ground, panting, and I spread the white skin tent over the sled, making us invisible against the snow. I huddle behind and watch as the car grows larger by the moment. It resembles one of the army vehicles from the EB—like a Jeep but twice as big, and bright red like a field poppy.

My heart skips a beat. The car is brand-new. Not thirty years old. Not rusted out or cobbled together from spare parts like the brigand vehicles that Kenai draws to illustrate Nome’s wild stories.

This car looks like it was built recently. But I know that’s impossible. How could a car factory exist in a dying world? Unless the brigands have organized themselves. But even so . . .

The car speeds past our hiding place, and I get a glimpse of its passengers: a man drives and a woman sits next to him. They’re laughing. And behind them in the backseat is a child.

They don’t look like desperate survivors of an apocalypse; they look like a happy family.

I crouch, stu

As the sled lurches forward, I automatically reach for my fire opal. I feel lost, but my amulet reminds me that no matter what strange things I find in this new world, the Yara will be there to guide me. And a grain of comfort settles in my heart.

We are almost to the coast. I can feel the change in the air and smell it in the wild, briny gusts of wind. The dogs’ pace quickens as they speed toward this unknown factor. They’ve never been outside our territory either, being the third generation of dogs raised in our clan. But from the joyful wiggle in their strides, I suspect that knowledge of the sea is embedded deep inside their psyche.

We reach the top of the ridge, and I leap off the sled to view the magnificent vista spread before us. The ocean in all its wide wild grandeur. The stories I heard and photos I studied didn’t do it justice. Its wind-whipped waves extend all the way to the horizon, going on forever, while shrieking white birds dip and dive over its surface. Tears spring to my eyes, and I feel the thrill of discovery course through my veins.

Then my gaze lowers and the world slams to a stop. I manage to keep my knees locked for a moment but then crumple to the ground. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I can’t do anything but kneel in the snow and look at the impossible.