Darkness Follows

  Her shoulders sagged as if I’d just punched the breath from her. “Amity…I can’t…this is so…”

  “Answers!” I cried. “I know you know! At my trial, you started to say that you’d talked him into it, and then you caught yourself. Don’t deny it!”

  Her eyes skittered to the clock again. “There’s no time!” Her grip on the pistol tightened. “We can make you tell us where it is, you know—”

  I un-palmed the shard of glass and pressed its sharp point to my neck, in the same spot where my friend had once held a scrap of metal.

  “Don’t bother trying,” I said. “I mean it, Madeline: I’m not going back there. Now talk, or your men won’t have time to get to the bomb, much less defuse it.”

  She gave a short, sobbing breath, staring at the piece of glass. “I don’t know what you expect to hear. It was all such a long time ago…”

  I waited, poised.

  “I…Amity, I really don’t think there’s time. Tell me about the bomb first, and then we can—”

  I pressed the glass against my neck hard enough to start a small trickle of blood, warm against my skin. Madeline gasped.

  “Start. Talking,” I said.

  “I don’t know what to say!” She stared at the blood as if mesmerized. “We…we were in love. We’d been in love since before he married Rose, but then she got pregnant with you…and then I left Peacefighting and worked for the World for Peace, and got involved in Gunnison’s campaign… Amity, this can’t be what you want! What if I promise to let you escape if you’ll tell me about the bomb?”

  “I wouldn’t believe you.”

  “Do you think I enjoyed what happened to you?” she cried. “You were like a niece to me!” When I didn’t answer, she pressed a hand to her mouth. “I really don’t know what to tell you. There’s no big story. I asked him if he’d do it and he did.”

  “You talked him into it!”

  “It didn’t take much.”

  “That’s not true!”

  “It is! He loved me and he wanted the money. He was in debt because of his grandfather’s old place and he wanted to fix it up, to have something to give you kids. I don’t think…I don’t think he really thought about it much apart from that, once he got used to the idea.”

  I wasn’t aware that I was trembling, but I must have been: the glass was shuddering at my neck. “No,” I said. “No. He was a Peacefighter. He believed in it with everything he had.”

  “That came later,” said Madeline softly. “Once he realized what he’d done.”

  Very distantly above, I could hear the thunderous roar of a crowd. More than that, I could feel it: a deep vibration that reached into my bones.

  Madeline swallowed and looked at the clock again. Four minutes till two. “Amity…”

  I closed my eyes, seeing my father’s face as he’d told me over and over about Louise, our ancestor who’d been one of the founders of the World for Peace – the strange fervency in his voice. The sharp-smelling tumblers that I’d found in the kitchen sometimes when I’d woken up in the mornings. A man who could never quite meet our eyes whenever it really mattered.

  My fingers pulsed with pain. I’d clenched the glass so hard that I’d cut them. I lowered the shard. I looked at it in my hand – at the blood streaking over the glass and twining over my palm, covering the tattoo.

  My throat was tight. I stared down at the glass, the blood, and felt light-headed.

  “There’s no bomb,” I murmured.

  Madeline gasped out a breath. “Are you sure?”

  I studied her, and wondered how I ever could have thought she looked the same. “Harmony Five changed me,” I said. “But I’m still not capable of killing hundreds of innocent people.”

  Our gazes locked. I saw realization dawn in Madeline’s eyes: she knew it was true. She grabbed for a talky device on her desk and pressed the button.

  “There’s no bomb,” she said hurriedly. “The situation’s under control. Get everyone out to their posts – now. They’ll be needed soon.”

  She dropped the talky with a clatter and put her hands over her face. Her shoulders shuddered. Somewhere far above, an audience of thousands cheered – but it wasn’t the signing. Not yet. We hadn’t yet reached that perfect, astrologically significant moment.

  There was a long pause.

  “Why are the Guns needed at their posts?” I asked hoarsely.

  Madeline slowly lowered her hands from her face. She was still holding the pistol in one, and she gazed blankly down at it. She didn’t answer.

  “What are the Shadowcars for, Madeline?”

  “They…” Her throat worked. “I don’t expect you to understand. I know it’s – it’s all gotten a little out of control. But for a Harmonic society, it’s important that…” She trailed off.

  “What happened to you?” I cried. “I used to admire you.”

  Her voice was a thin, trembling wire. “Nothing happened. I worked for Gunnison’s campaign when he was a senator and saw the good he does – the hope he gives people.”

  “Hope?”

  “Yes, hope. He made me believe in myself!”

  The blood felt slick on my palm. “My father crashed his plane on purpose, didn’t he?”

  Madeline flinched, her face draining of colour. She opened her mouth and closed it. “I…I don’t know.”

  “Commander Hendrix told me! You asked Dad to throw another fight, and he agreed to it! You knew the guilt had been destroying him for years, but you still…” My words grew tangled with anger, with despair. I stopped.

  “You killed him,” I whispered. “As surely as if you pointed that pistol at him and pulled the trigger.”

  The weapon in Madeline’s hand shook. She watched it with wide eyes, as if the motion had nothing to do with her. Then she straightened her shoulders. She put one hand over the other, steadying it.

  She pointed the pistol at me.

  “Get out,” she said raggedly.

  When I didn’t move – when I couldn’t move, because I was frozen in shock – she shouted, “Get out!”

  I groped for my cane and stood. I faced her. We were both breathing hard. I could see Madeline’s chest rising and falling, though her hands on the pistol were firm.

  “I don’t know why my father kept having anything to do with you,” I said.

  Madeline’s small, grimacing smile was more like a baring of teeth.

  “Because I was the only person he could talk to,” she said. “I knew what he’d done.”

  I left the office. I expected Guns to be waiting outside but there weren’t any. To my faint surprise I still held the shard of glass and I stuck it in my sweater pocket. My leg throbbed.

  I started down the long corridor, holding tightly to my cane.

  The pistol shot was so loud that I cried out; for a heart-thumping moment I expected pieces of wall to explode around me. But then there was silence. Utter silence…except for a faint dripping noise and the rumble of the crowd from above.

  I stood staring back at Madeline’s office. The door was partly open.

  I started to shake. I didn’t want to go in there. But what if she was still alive? I forced myself to put one step in front of the other, ignoring the instinct shrieking at me to leave, get away, not look at whatever awaited me.

  I got to the doorway of the office and hesitated. Bile rose in the back of my throat: a rich, coppery scent cloyed the air. I took another step.

  I looked.

  Madeline lay slumped sideways in her chair. The back of her head was gone. The cement-block wall behind her was dripping. Strands of her auburn hair were plastered in the gore.

  My cane clattered to the floor. My legs gave way and I groped blindly for the doorway. I slid against it to the ground and sat shaking, hugging myself, staring at the remains of the woman I’d wanted to be like.

  A snapshot of memory: Madeline on our farm. She’d just landed the Gauntlet Jenny, the bright yellow biplane that I first learned to fly in.
She paused as she clambered out of it, laughing. Her battered leather jacket was just like my dad’s and the freckles across her nose had been multiplying daily in the sunshine.

  “Your turn!” she called to me.

  The memory faded.

  My chest heaved. I gasped and covered my face with my hands for a second, clutching hard at my skin. Yet there were no tears in me. There hadn’t been any in so long, and there weren’t any now.

  When I looked again, Madeline was still there. The back of her head was still gone.

  Nothing had changed. Nothing ever would.

  I fumbled for my cane and pushed myself to my feet. I felt both electric and numb. I didn’t remember walking over to Madeline but my feet must have propelled me there because suddenly I was beside her desk looking down at her, trying not to gag on the heavy scent of blood.

  Her hazel eyes were blank. They say the dead look at peace but I’d known for a long time now that this was a lie. The silver clasp of her pearl necklace had a drop of blood on it. She still held the pistol in her blunt, tomboyish hand.

  Far above, the crowd roared.

  I heard someone’s ragged breathing and realized it was my own. It was two minutes past two. In five minutes, Gunnison would take over this country and those Shadowcars would be put into use.

  More people taken away.

  More heads on fences.

  More bodies falling limply from faded wooden platforms against the sunset.

  More people killing themselves.

  More.

  A slow mental drumbeat had started. I reached for the pistol. I prised Madeline’s fingers from it and then put her hand gently in her lap.

  She’d made her own choices. So had my father. There was no getting away from what they’d done. But there was only one person directly responsible for all that had followed.

  No more. It had to stop now.

  I slipped the pistol into my sweater pocket. I left the office. It was cool down here but my spine felt clammy with sweat. I leaned heavily on my cane as I walked quickly along the corridor, my uneven footsteps joining the beat in my head. It measured out my footsteps, the seconds, the minutes.

  I opened a door and stepped outside. The sun stroked my face with warm fingers and the sky soared overhead: a perfect flying day.

  Before me was a long aisle and rows and rows of crowded seats to either side, stretching down to a platform. Gunnison stood on the platform making a speech. The microphone bounced his words against my brain; they were just noise, noise, adding to the drumbeat and my footsteps. Others sat on the platform too but they were blurs. I could see only him, and I could see him so clearly.

  No more.

  I started down the aisle. My cane thumped rhythmically. Guns stood posted at the ends of each row, arms behind their backs. People were cheering but seemed frightened.

  Maybe people began to notice me. I don’t know. Maybe the Guns glanced at each other, confused. I don’t know.

  Gunnison’s gaze met mine and he recognized me and he went very still and the words stopped, but the drumbeat in my head kept on.

  I kept walking.

  Melody’s body, lying naked on the snow. My brother hiding in a closet for months. Ingo’s half-burned face. Collie turning informer to survive.

  Guns must have lunged for me then but Gunnison stopped them. His eyes were wide, panicked.

  “Don’t touch her!” I saw his mouth say. Sound snapped back into focus and I heard him then, his words ringing in the silent stadium: “Let her come. We can’t interfere with fate.”

  I reached the end of the rows of people and stepped onto grass. I crossed it, my cane sinking into the soft turf a little with every step.

  I started up the stairs to the platform and Gunnison’s eyes were locked on mine. There were only the two of us in that moment and we knew each other down to our souls.

  He took a step back from me. He waved behind him at someone. “Start reading the names,” he said hoarsely. “I’ve got to regain the karmic upper hand.”

  “Sir, we haven’t signed the treaty yet—”

  “Read them! Start taking the Discordants away! Do it!”

  I took the pistol from my sweater pocket. It felt warm and heavy in my hands. I let my cane fall as I aimed it. People were shouting but all I could see were moving mouths.

  No.

  More.

  No.

  I pulled the trigger.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  February, 1942

  The shot rang in Mac’s ears. In the audience near the platform, he sprang to his feet, staring in disbelief at Gunnison’s sprawled body – at the dark stain spreading quickly across his chest.

  Like everyone else, he’d sat stunned as Amity Vancour had walked slowly to the platform: all of them held suspended in silence, in time. The Guns guarding the stage had rushed towards Amity, then been halted by Gunnison’s order. As she’d climbed the platform stairs they’d clustered uncertainly near the seating area, watching with everyone else.

  Holy hell, she’s really going to do it, Mac had thought, his blood pulsing. Somehow he’d known she had a pistol, as clearly as if he’d seen it hidden in her pocket.

  The sound of the shot broke the spell. Amity swayed on her feet, staring down at Gunnison’s lifeless form. The stadium throbbed with screams. Onstage a chair fell over as someone jumped up. Shrieking – people scrambling to get away.

  “Grab her!”

  “She’s still got the pistol!”

  Dazedly, Amity turned towards the crowd on the stage.

  For some reason Mac’s startled gaze flicked to Kay Pierce: the only person standing still. Half-hidden, she drew something from her pocket.

  A second shot echoed. Sandford Cain staggered and fell. Mac felt dumbfounded, unable to process what he’d just seen.

  Only seconds had passed. A Gun charged the stage. He grabbed Amity and hustled her off, half-dragging her, wrenching the pistol from her grip. She cried out in pain, struggling feebly, but was no match for him.

  “Cain’s still alive! Get him a doctor!” someone shouted. People came running forward; a small, urgent group surrounded Cain.

  President Weir of the Appalachian States stepped forward to the microphone. “Calm! Everyone, calm! In light of these…these extraordinary events, the Appalachian States must decline to—”

  “No!” The voice somehow carried over the crowd.

  Kay Pierce stepped forward, her hands empty now and her small, pointed face fierce. “I will sign the treaty on behalf of Can-Amer,” she said. She motioned to the Guns. “I’m taking control,” she told them. “Help President Weir to sign.”

  President Weir took a step back, his face pale. Guns surrounded him, hands on their pistols. “I…but this is…” he stammered.

  The treaty stood waiting on a ceremonial plinth. Kay Pierce signed it with a flourish and turned to President Weir. She handed him the pen. Her face was as Mac had never seen it: hard, uncompromising. Then she covered the mic with one hand and smiled the sweet, pretty smile that he knew.

  “Can-Amer still has an army, President Weir,” she said, her voice carrying to the first few rows. “Now, would you like to at least get to pretend to stay in charge of your country? Or shall we just add your name to the list?”

  President Weir’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. He looked at the Guns.

  Slowly, he took the pen and signed.

  The crowd had gone utterly still. The Guns in the audience stood at attention. Mac thought, She couldn’t have planned this, there’s simply no way. But it had happened just as neatly as if she had.

  Kay’s eyes met Mac’s then: cool, calculating. His scalp winced with sudden realization.

  She knew.

  He and Sephy were dead.

  Kay took out several sheets of paper. “My men are guarding the exits,” she said. “Will the following people please give yourselves up to the Guns. This is an unfortunate, but necessary step to ensure that Appalachia continues t
o be a peaceful, Harmonious place.”

  She started to read. “Abrams, Harold. Ackerman, Sophia. Borrelli, Clive…”

  Protesting, panicked shouts began to fill the air. The Guns seemed to have a list of where everyone was to be found and they moved with mechanical regularity, grabbing people, taking them away.

  Mac was wearing his ceremonial Gun uniform. He made his way to the aisle and strode briskly to the twelfth row, where Sephy sat. He reached across someone and grabbed her arm.

  “Come on, you Discordant scum,” he said clearly.

  Sephy sat crying in silent horror, tears running down her smooth, dark cheeks. She had the presence of mind to flinch and shake her head. “No – no, please…”

  “Now!”

  Mac jerked her to her feet and into the aisle; he started hustling her out of the stadium.

  “Oh, Mac…” she whispered.

  “It’s okay, it’s okay,” he murmured back, and hoped it would be true. Kay’s voice still boomed around them, reading name after name.

  “…Geroux, Persephone…”

  They entered the stadium’s foyer area. There was a hot-dog counter, a popcorn stand – both empty now. The Shadowcars had pulled around and waited in a long grey line outside, silver grilles gleaming. People ahead of them were being shoved into the backs of the vehicles.

  “…Jones, Macintyre…”

  Sephy shivered as his name was called. Her eyes were locked on the Guns. One stood just outside the main doors, closing up a Shadowcar.

  “How do we get past them?” she whispered.

  The Gun glanced over. Dread touched Mac. “Shut up,” he said loudly, yanking Sephy’s arm. She looked down; he could feel her trembling.

  They got outside. The Gun headed over to them – thankfully someone Mac didn’t know. Before the guard could speak, Mac jerked his head back at the stadium. “Get in there – hurry! Vancour had an accomplice; I just passed another gunman!”

  He swung open the Shadowcar’s rear door and shoved Sephy inside, pushing her hard enough so that she stumbled. He caught a glimpse of a dozen pale, frightened faces as he banged the door shut again.