The Survival Code, page 15
“My dad says that. He says the thing about the plate,” I whisper.
I pull at a loose strand of my hair. I always used to ignore the things that Dad said.
MacKenna opens her mouth. “The problem is—”
“The problem is,” Navarro interrupts, “that you can’t figure out how to have a world where you believe in democracy but also in depriving people of the freedom to determine their own fates.”
Tremors return to my stomach. “I think we should discuss this later.”
“Of course you do,” MacKenna snaps. “You’ve spent your whole life pretending that these kinds of problems don’t exist.”
Charles is on the verge of tears.
“MacKenna—” Toby says in a concerned voice.
Navarro ignores both of us. “You’ve spent your whole life as the daughter of a rich and successful man. What makes you think you really understand these issues?” He pauses for a second, thinking. “You know, we’re not so different. My parents are immigrants too. They came from Mexico when I was a baby. My mom put herself through college. My dad started a business importing generators. But that was then. Today, The Spark taxes food. And wages. And profits. And, if Rosenthal got his way, business equipment, imports and more.”
“Everyone’s for Rosenthal,” Charles says, through a stuffy nose.
Toby puts a hand on my brother’s back.
Navarro makes an effort to relax his face. “Your father is a self-made man. A war hero. Doesn’t it bother you at all that in the reality created by The Spark, it’s impossible to become a man like your father? Or like mine?”
The mention of MacKenna’s dad sends a new wave of horror through me.
MacKenna picks up a pillow and clutches it like she might throw it in Navarro’s face. “So that’s it for you, then? Let the rich exploit the poor? Let the powerful dominate the weak?”
“Let everyone do their best to become powerful.”
“This isn’t getting us anywhere,” Toby says, with a glance at my brother’s tearful face. “We should be working together.”
“Maybe,” Navarro says with a shrug. “But maybe our objective isn’t what you think.”
I’m a heartbeat away from telling everyone that Jay has been taken to Goldwater Airfield. “We should be talking about what we’re going to do next.”
From telling them what Terminus said.
But I’m too late.
The conversation is over.
Ammon Carver’s press conference ends and a new story takes over the TV.
Underneath the headline Wanted for Questioning, school photos of me, Toby and MacKenna appear on the screen.
Our images are replaced with one word in large, red letters.
REWARD.
People talk about being paralyzed with fear. It’s like the biggest cliché ever. But in that moment, I become cold, immovable stone. Unable to turn. To walk. To move.
We’re going to die.
It’s also perfectly clear why Dad sent Navarro.
Dad’s right. We can’t deal with this on our own.
DR. DOOMSDAY’S GUIDE TO ULTIMATE SURVIVAL
RULE SEVEN: YOU CAN NEVER TELL WHAT SOME PEOPLE ARE CAPABLE OF.
We’re silent for a minute. But we all know.
We’re so, so, so screwed.
I have to keep it together.
For my brother.
I force myself to keep breathing.
To keep a neutral expression on my face.
It’s a little before 6:00 p.m.
Navarro snatches the remote from Toby’s hand and turns off the TV. “We need to go.”
I’m about to agree when Charles pipes up.
“Miss Maybelline said we could come by the diner,” he says.
From the look on his face, Navarro clearly wants to argue.
But Charles needs to eat.
I grab the yellow bag from the corner. “I think we’ll have to go over there. My brother hasn’t had a decent meal since yesterday, and if he goes too long without protein or vegetables—”
Charles scrambles off the other bed. “You’re not going to say it’ll ‘aggravate his condition’ are you? I hate it when you say that.”
“You need to eat,” I tell him. To Navarro I say, “We also need to inventory the supplies.”
He makes an impatient noise. “You didn’t inventory the supplies?”
I catch Navarro’s gaze and quickly look away. Despite everything, my traitorous cheeks heat up.
Getting back on track, we agree that MacKenna and Toby will take Charles to the diner while Navarro and I check the camper.
“I hope they have pancakes,” Charles says.
“You can’t have pancakes. You need meat and salad.”
Not everyone is happy with this plan.
As we leave the room, Toby lingers with his hand on the door.
“We’ll meet you in a sec,” I say to reassure him. “Try to keep Charles away from the syrup, okay?”
We stay together until we reach the parking lot. A cheerful, yellow light spills from the diner window, meaning Maybelline must have been able to prove old Oh-Now-Mernice wrong. Navarro and I make our way to the rear of the restaurant, where we left Dad’s truck. Toby takes everyone else around the front.
Birds chirp as Navarro and I cross the lot. It’s becoming a cool night, and patches of grass scattered around the motel grounds are wet with evening dew. It feels normal. Like we’re back in a world where we’re not being hunted by the police.
Make.
Conversation.
“So, you’re for The Opposition? You’re for Carver?” It comes out like a sneer.
Navarro smiles.
I’m glad it will be dark soon since I’m sure my hot face is as red as a tomato.
He really is good-looking. With perfect white teeth. It’s the first time I feel comfortable taking a long look at him. As I stare at his sharp features, I can’t help but notice how the fabric of his black T-shirt stretches over his chest.
I will myself to watch the blinking neon motel sign on the edge of the parking lot.
“I’m not for anyone,” he says. “I’m for doing what’s right.”
We arrive at the truck, and I’m surprised to realize that it’s actually a pea-green color with grayish primer patches all over the camper.
I unlock the camper door and climb into the back. As I hoist myself up, the light catches on the metallic circle in the center of Navarro’s cap. I can really see it now. It’s some kind of religious symbol. A man in a flowing golden robe. An odd choice for Navarro, a guy who comes across almost as disillusioned as my dad. “What’s on your hat?”
He shuffles around on the asphalt. Acting as the lookout.
We’ve fallen into the rhythm of one of Dad’s two-person drills.
“It’s...um...San Judas.”
Reaching into the recesses of my memory of catechism, I ask, “Saint Jude? The patron saint of the impossible?” I take a step into the camper and realize I left my utility jacket in the cab earlier that day. Face palm.
“Not of the impossible.” Navarro says this like it’s a painful admission. “Of...of lost people. Of lost causes. He’s my patron saint.”
“Okay. Why Saint Jude?” I pop my head out in time to see Navarro’s lips pucker into an embarrassed frown.
And why, exactly, am I looking at his lips?
When he doesn’t answer, I ask instead, “Do you have a flashlight?”
My question restores the cynical expression to his face.
He digs in his jacket pocket and holds out his light. “You lost your flashlight?”
I reach for it and, as our hands touch, for a second, the same shock of electricity I felt in the grocery store parking lot pulses through my fingertips. But I force myself to say what’s on my mind. “Is that why you’re helping us? You love a lost cause?”
He sighs and lets go of the flashlight. “You think this is a lost cause?”
My stomach drops but I’m able to sound calm. “Don’t you? My mom wants me to find Dad. But really, MacKenna is right. Even if we find him, what is he gonna do? If we get caught...when we get caught, you’re going to be in the same crappy situation as the rest of us.”
He thinks for a second. “San Judas is the patron saint of Mexico City. That’s where my mama grew up. There’s a church. Very old. Beautiful. Pilgrims go there. Some to pray. Some to give out trinkets or candy. Mama gave Judas to me as my patron and she said, if I have faith, he’ll protect me. Even when everything seems lost.”
“You have faith?” I ask, unable to keep the surprise from my voice.
He stares into the quiet parking lot. “I have faith that the world can be something more than what it is right now. That we can make it so.”
I’m not sure who we are.
Navarro shakes off his reverie. “Anyway,” he says more normally, “I believe in Dr. Marshall. I believe he knows what he’s doing.”
My pulse quickens. “What’s he doing?”
“Nice try,” Navarro says. “My turn for a question. What makes you so sure Jay Novak isn’t behind the attack on the banks?”
Navarro isn’t going to give me any info he has on Dad, so I make my way farther into the camper and open the doors of the cabinets one by one. “I know Jay Novak. He is the last person on earth who’d be a terrorist.” Or maybe the second to the last. Toby Novak is the very last.
There’s a pause, and then Navarro says, “You can never be totally sure what people are capable of.”
Dad’s rule. Number seven.
“My friend Terminus thinks they’re going to kill him,” I blurt out. I’m not really sure why I say this. I guess I need to tell someone.
“We can’t worry about that,” Navarro says.
“I think we have to.” It hits me right then. What I’m doing. I don’t want to be responsible for making any decisions.
“We can’t,” he says again. “We can’t help Jay Novak. We can barely help ourselves.”
Or maybe I want someone to blame.
I shine the flashlight into the cabinets and, in spite of everything, I’m flooded with relief. Dad left the truck very well stocked. There are several rows of colored plastic containers. White for food. Blue for my clothes. Orange for my brother’s and gray for Dad’s. Red is first aid. There’s a smaller green box, which is money and spare SAT phones. And on one side, two rows of yellow jerry cans of gas. Five gallons each, and there are at least ten.
The truck is a gas guzzler but it probably gets about fifteen miles to the gallon. I mentally crunch the numbers. Seventy-five miles per can. Ten cans. Seven hundred and fifty miles. We can make it. All the way into Mexico.
We can make it.
Before I can really process this, the flashlight beam lands on a small, clear container that isn’t coded according to Dad’s system. I remove it from the cabinet and pop it open.
It’s my brother’s medicine.
Probably a year’s worth of insulin and blood sugar testing strips. It would be impossible to get this much medication from the National Health Service.
Dad would have needed to buy it on the black market.
Dad thought about us.
Not in the abstract. Not as part of some survival checklist.
He thought about our real needs.
And I’m crying.
God. I suck.
I do my best to wipe off the tears and be normal when I come out of the camper. “We’re pretty set on supplies. We’ve got plenty of gas. With all five of us eating, there’s probably enough food for about a week. We can make it.” I barely choke out that last part.
Navarro reaches out to give me a hug.
I hug him by reflex, then let go immediately. Even worse, my knees almost give out so he holds on and pats my back. “See. San Judas is helping already. It’s not a lost cause,” he says softly.
I want him to let me go. And keep his arms around me.
Navarro smells like the orange blossoms of the trees growing around the motel.
The world is ending, and I can’t spend my last moment crushing on some guy.
Anyway, I’m most likely going to prison and not to the prom.
Navarro releases me but puts his hand on my arm. There’s something reassuring about the way that he can maintain his relaxed, kind expression. Stay warm and alive. Not turn into a hollow statue filled only with adrenaline and terror. “Susan, I promise. We’re going to make it.”
I want to focus on something. Anything. “Why do you call me Susan? Everyone else calls me Jinx.”
He shrugs. “Dr. Maxwell says you hate that nickname.” Before I can ask anything else, he adds, “We need to get out of here. We’ve already made too many mistakes.”
I’m grateful for the anger that surges through me. Navarro’s being a total jackass, but at least I’ve got something to think about. “Mistakes? You mean the flashlight thing? Because—”
“Dr. Marshall told me that you’re stubborn. What’s the first order of business in an uncontrolled environment?”
Do a perimeter sweep. Check for anything strange.
“That’s right,” Navarro says. He takes the flashlight from my hand. “Notice anything unusual? All the lights are off in that office. Where’s the old man?”
My gaze jerks over to the diner.
“Yep. Fifty bucks says that these geezers saw you on TV and are in the process of selling us out,” he says.
Um.
“Stop.” Navarro grabs my upper arm with a firm grip. This is the guy you want to have around when you can’t get the lid off the pickle jar.
It hurts. Especially because all my muscles have tensed. I’m pushing up on the balls of my feet. Ready to run.
“Don’t run.”
Either Navarro has cosmic psychic powers, or my every idea reads on my face. “My brother is—”
“I know.” He’s still got a grip on my arm and pulls me into the camper, cornering me in the back. He reopens the cabinets I just closed, rooting around until he finds the right bin. Black.
Weapons.
I should have thought of that.
Mistake.
I realize Navarro’s already got his Glock when I should have secured it earlier.
Mistake.
He needs both hands to load it safely. “If I let go of your arm, what are you gonna do?”
“Get the .22, the side holster and a roll of duct tape and—”
“No,” he says with a frustrated sigh. He does release my arm but blocks the black bin with his body. As he clicks the cartridge into his gun, it’s like we’re doing a weird kind of two-step. Me lunging for the box of weapons. Him stopping me.
I am energy. And rage. And fear. The feeling that if I don’t get my brother out of the Lone Wolf Diner safe and in one piece, the world won’t be worth living in ever again.
“We need a plan.”
Bouncing up and down on my heels, I make one last attempt to reach around him. “I have a plan. I’m getting a gun and then my brother.”
He puts on the side holster and shrugs into his windbreaker. “You’re overreacting. We need a plan that doesn’t involve you needlessly shooting little old ladies. Or yourself.”
My face burns. “I would never shoot myself. And overreacting? Are you serious? You’re the one who just said that Charles is—”
He gives me a little smile. “I said I think the old man and his wife are trying to turn us in.” The smile vanishes. “We act only on what we know.” He’s now cool. Almost cold. Like he’s done this drill a million times. Or like he’s done it for real.
This guy must be my dad’s BFF.
Navarro shoves the weapons box as far back into the camper as he can. “Plus, I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but your stepsister’s a bit of a hothead. That inserts an element of unpredictability. I hate unpredictability.” Most of Navarro’s face is in shadow, shrouded by his hat. “We’ll increase our odds of survival by splitting up.”
“We stick together,” I say.
Navarro says the same thing he told Toby earlier. “For now.”
I regain a bit of control as I lock the camper and put the keys in my pocket. Navarro still won’t let me have a gun. “We stick together. We’re going to find my dad and take it from there.”
“Fine,” he says. There’s another unspoken for now attached to these words, but that’s his problem. Navarro points to the diner. “Walk me through it.”
Breathe.
Treat it like another drill. “One of us should go in the front. Act natural. Try to get everyone out of there as quickly as possible. Give me the gun. I’ll go in the back and cover you.”
Navarro scowls at me. “Didn’t we just decide you’d be better off without a firearm?”
“I’m terrible with people. You’re charming. The lady would rather talk to you.”
“You must not talk to many people if you find me charming.” His face softens at the compliment but he shakes off the wistful look. “Anyway, no one’s seen me yet. It will definitely raise a red flag if I march in there instead of you.”
He jerks his head in the direction of the restaurant. “You know what you need to do. Let’s go.”
He does let me keep the duct tape. I put it around my wrist like a bracelet.
Navarro remains by the truck for a minute, until I begin my walk to the diner door. I glance back to find him jogging toward the back of the building. He was trained by my dad and has been a step ahead of me so far. Chances are he’s got a plan to get in and has already begun to execute it.
I walk fast around the front of the diner. The Closed sign is still in the window, but I can see Charles, Toby and MacKenna through the glass. They’re sitting at the counter with their backs toward me. My brother’s legs swing under his stool. Breezy. Unconcerned.
