Alex Wise vs. the Cosmic Shift, page 5
“Tell them, Sam!” she demands. “Tell them how ridiculous this is! We can’t fight the Rapture—”
“For crying out loud, Beverly, give it a rest!” yells Mr. Blakewell.
Mrs. Blakewell purses her lips and throws her husband one last glower before rushing off down the hallway and into the bedroom their family has been sharing and slamming the door. The walls shudder and shake loose more drywall dust from overhead.
“Now you all see what I have to live with on the daily,” Loren mumbles.
Her dad gives her a not-wrong-but-also-not-funny look, and she drops her eyes to the floor.
“But what if something happened to your friend?” I ask Mr. Freddie. “How do you know Spade’s okay if you can’t get in contact with him?”
Freddie grins. “Way more likely the radio’s busted than Spade. He was always one of the fiercest members in our unit. He’s one of those prepper people, too. Built a whole compound on his land that’s guarded like the entrance to Area 51. There’s nowhere safer to be at a time like this. He’ll have a heck of a lot of food and supplies, too, which, after this evening’s events, we will desperately need.”
“Will you take us there?” I ask.
He tilts his head at me. “Cadillac Freddie’s at your service.”
I feel relieved, validated, and guilty all at the same time. Relieved that good things have finally started happening again. Validated that Mr. Freddie would put his precious ride on the line to get me to Spade’s helicopter. And guilty that despite all that, I’m the genius who blew up his store.
But I ignore the humongous lump in my throat as I tell Freddie, “Thank you.”
He lowers his voice so only I hear and says, “You’re quite the impressive kid, Alex Wise. I believe in you.”
I stare into his yellowed eyes, stupefied and unsure what to say, so I just mutter, “Thanks,” and then immediately feel ridiculous. But if Mr. Freddie thinks so too, he doesn’t show it. He only leans forward and gives my hand a firm squeeze.
“I know how hard it is,” he says, projecting his voice for everyone in the room, “to let your kids go so they can become the people you’ve been raising them to be. I have a daughter too, who I’m also worried about. None of us have superpowers, but if either of us did, you bet we’d be the first to run up on those Horsemen.”
Dad scoffs. “No disrespect, sir, but that’s an easy position to hold when your small children aren’t the ones at risk—”
“You can’t stop us!” I shout. “I’m sorry, but we’re all neck-deep in the end of the world right now, and the rules have changed. Mr. Freddie’s right. We may be kids, but we’re also our own people—people who were given the power to protect our world and the other people in it, and that’s what we’re going to do.” Even if my power can be glitchy sometimes.
Dad’s jaw clenches, and Angela puts a hand on his shoulder, but he shrugs it off.
“As much as it hurts to admit it, he’s right,” Mom says, her voice choked with fatigue. “But for now, let’s get to safety tonight, and then we can have a more productive talk in the morning.”
I would rather dip myself in a vat of honey, roll around in birdseed, and feed myself to Famine’s vulture than endure this same agonizing conversation again in the morning. And the side-eyes I get from Loren and Liam give me the impression they feel similarly.
“We have room at my house in West LA,” Freddie tells us. “It’ll be tight, but at least the roof and walls are all whole.”
Good one, Mr. Freddie. I chuckle, and a few people throw me put-out looks that silence me at once. Which is just as well because I’m done with this whole debate. Permanently.
What the adults think no longer matters. My mind’s already made up. Now all I gotta do is convince Loren, Liam, Mags, Nick (I guess), and Mr. Freddie.
We’re ditching our parents before daylight and heading for Spade’s compound.
Sorry, Mrs. Blakewell! (Not Really)
It doesn’t take long for everyone to pack their belongings and load the Blakewells’ minivan and Mr. Freddie’s Cadillac to make the drive to his home in West LA.
But even so, we don’t depart until just before eleven p.m., when night closes in on its darkest, scariest hours. The streets are empty of people, likely because everyone’s too terrified to come out this late after Riders and Creeps wreaked havoc earlier this evening. I wonder what’s happening back in Palm Vista and other cities around the world. Are they being tormented by Riders and Creeps too?
Mr. Freddie pulls his car into the driveway of his home, a quaint, light-colored Spanish bungalow with an overgrown front yard and a long driveway leading up to a two-car garage. He offers to help carry our things inside, but everyone makes short work of grabbing all the bags before he can get his hands on a single one. He just grins and shows us inside his home, which smells lived-in and loved. It’s hard to describe, but it’s an earthy, nutty warmth that reminds me of biting into one of Mom’s sweet-potato pies for the first time every holiday season.
The front room and kitchen are lit with soft yellow lighting that douses the worn furniture in a warm, inviting glow, and when I see the plush sectional couch, my muscles remind me how exhausted I am right now. Arranged around the living room are tons of framed pictures on walls, tables, shelves—essentially any flat surface must bear the weight of at least one memory from this family’s collective lives. It’s like their own personal museum. I recognize Freddie in most of them, and the other two people I assume are his wife and daughter.
Mrs. Freddie, whose name is Charlene, is tall, with dark brown skin and the build of a ballet dancer—and she carries herself like one too, especially in the way she moves across the room as if gliding to a song only she can hear. She sweeps every one of us into one of those crushing Black-people-hugs where it feels like they love you like family even though they just met you.
Their daughter, Marlowe, bears an uncanny resemblance to her father, though she’s taller (but not as tall as her mother) and slimmer than him. She has a quiet demeanor and curious eyes that don’t miss much, which reminds me a lot of Mags. So, it’s no surprise that when Marlowe reveals she’s a nurse, Mags corners her and they both disappear into the world of medicine; Mags eager to have her thousands of budding questions about the human body answered, and Marlowe keen to learn about Mags’s healing ability.
Meanwhile, I try to hide my pain at realizing even strangers can connect with my sister before me.
“I get that you’ve gotta put the community first, Fred, but it would’ve been nice if you’d brought home some food from the store to accompany our guests,” Charlene scolds her husband, then peers around him at us with an apologetic look and says, “Of course, I am more than happy to host you all; it’s just that I’m afraid I don’t have much to prepare for y’all to eat right now.”
Freddie’s face falls. “The store’s gone, Char. Those bone zombies burned it down.”
The looks of despair on both Mr. Freddie’s and Mrs. Charlene’s faces splinter my heart. And it shatters once I realize I did this to them.
But I was only trying to protect the store. I didn’t know what would happen…. I didn’t think—
“It’s okay,” Mom says, stepping to the front of our group. “Really. We didn’t come empty-handed. We brought what we had left at our old place to share, since you’re so gracious to let us stay in your home.”
Both Charlene’s and Freddie’s faces lighten considerably. “Bless you,” Charlene coos. “Come, then. Let’s get you all settled.”
Marlowe, Charlene, and Freddie drag out air mattresses and extra comforters, sleeping bags, pillows, and sheets that we assemble on the living room floor after pushing their furniture aside. It reminds me of that one Thanksgiving when all my cousins spent the night at my grandma’s house in Atlanta and everyone slept on pallets on the floor. It was the most fun, most uncomfortable night I’ve ever had. Tonight’s quite different, though.
By around one in the morning, everyone’s knocked out or pretending (those who aren’t snoring), but I’m not able to settle my mind enough to sleep even for a few fleeting minutes.
I get up from my sleeping bag—which, though itchy sometimes, is quite comfortable—and go to the kitchen to get a glass of water, recalling the quick walk-through Charlene gave us of where to find everything in her meticulously organized cabinets and pantry. After I fill my glass, I raise it to my lips but stop when something creaks from the direction of the dining room, which lies beyond an open archway on the other side of the kitchen.
My heartbeat stutters for a panicked moment, triggered by the memory of a foe from my recent past: Shadow Man. The mere thought of him conjures gooseflesh on my arms and neck.
Ezra had used his twisted Shadow magic to turn his own shadow into a monstrous servant, which he then used to spy on and manipulate both me and my sister. But I handled Shadow Man in our last encounter and, hopefully, taught them both a lesson about messing with me.
Something groans and creaks again. The sound is long and whining, as if teasing me to come to the dining room.
Come and see. The words from an old nightmare haunt me all of a sudden.
I swallow hard.
Holding tight to my glass of water, I tiptoe toward the archway, not sure who or what I’m expecting to find, but hoping it’s not Shadow Man.
When I step into the dining room, Mr. Freddie sighs aloud, then looks up at me with a start before forcing a smile. “Oh…hey there, Alex. What’re you doing up?”
I’m doused in a cool wave of relief at the same time the old wooden chair he’s sitting in nags again with a whiny groan when he shifts his weight to one side. His fingers trace the edge of something small and silver on the otherwise bare surface of the table in front of him.
“Couldn’t sleep,” I say, inching closer to get a better look at what he’s fiddling with. “What’s that?”
He sits back and slips his hands away from what I can now see is a key. It’s larger than a normal house key…maybe something that might belong to a business? Ohhh…
Oh.
Freddie sighs again. “That was the first key to that building. I owned it outright, you know. Bought it at a time when not many Black people were able to buy commercial property, much less on Sunset Boulevard. And now it’s gone.” He even does the pitiful explode-y hands. “Poof.”
This is gutting me. I won’t be able to live with myself if I don’t come clean, so I vomit the words out before I can think myself out of it.
“It’s my fault,” I confess. “I’m the one who set fire to your store. But it wasn’t on purpose! I swear! The Creeps put all that flour in the air, and I had no idea it was flam—”
Freddie holds up a hand, then pulls out a chair. “Sit, please. Let’s chat, yeah?”
I set my glass on the table and sit with my back ramrod straight, hands folded in my lap, legs crossed at the ankle, every aspect of my posture crafted to shut down any and all nervous fidgeting. This feels like sitting in the principal’s office, impatiently awaiting my punishment—a situation I may or may not have been in before. I don’t wanna talk about that, though. Focus.
“I don’t blame you for what happened to my store, Alex,” he tells me. “I had a lot of memories there, good, bad, and everything in between. Sure, I’m sad it’s gone, but not because of anything you did. If anything, you made me proud, not just of you, but of myself, too. It warms my heart to know that you respected something I created and also cherished, and that you felt strongly enough about it to fight so valiantly to protect it.” Mr. Freddie’s words make me smile in spite of myself. “You’re a real-life superhero, kid.” And then it vanishes faster than it appeared.
Superheroes save the day. But today, Mr. Freddie saved himself—and us. All I did was expedite the destruction of his beloved store. And yet he still thinks I’m a superhero.
I’m not sure if everyone’s just trying to be nice to me or if there truly is an error in my logic. Only problem is, I can’t properly focus on the apocalypse in my head when the one happening in the external world constantly demands my attention.
“Yeah,” I say, and chuckle under my breath. “While we’re on the subject, I wanted to talk to you about that.”
Mr. Freddie’s chair fusses again as he leans in, intrigue lighting up his eyes. “What’s up?”
“I want us to leave for Spade’s compound just before sunrise,” I tell him.
He sits back and half nods. “We were already on the same page.”
I glance around to make sure no one’s eavesdropping and lower my voice when I add, “Without our parents. As in, I need you to help us ditch them.”
Freddie lifts a skeptical brow and crosses his thick arms. “They won’t be happy about that.”
“Seems as if no one’s happy no matter what I do,” I admit. “And our parents won’t listen to reason. You got to experience the circus firsthand earlier today, so you know what I’m up against.”
Mr. Freddie laughs softly. I wasn’t even trying to be funny, but hearing him laugh does make me feel better. Not problem-solved better, but more like a-steaming-mug-of-hot-chocolate-with-extra-fluffy-marshmallows-and-a-fat-peppermint-stick-on-a-frigid-day-when-everything-else-prior-to-that-first-sweet-sip-has-gone-terribly-wrong type of better, if you feel me. It’s not quite as good, but hey, I’ll take what I can get.
“I have a story for you,” Mr. Freddie says. His voice is warm like his smile and his eyes. “I’m old, so I enjoy telling stories, often to the detriment of my family.”
“I like your stories,” I tell him, secretly upset his family doesn’t appreciate his tales.
He nods. “Thanks, Alex. Truly. So…There was once a little rabbit whose grandmother made the best carrot soup he’d ever tasted. Even his own mother couldn’t imitate it, though certainly not for lack of trying. After his grandmother passed away—naturally, of old age, of course—the little rabbit practiced making his grandmother’s carrot soup for many days and many, many long and frustrated nights. He messed up a whole bunch along the way, but he refused to give in until he could make carrot soup exactly how his grandmother had. And when he finally did, even his mother couldn’t deny, it was undoubtedly his grandmother’s signature soup—and dare she go as far as to admit…it might’ve even been better? She had to know how he’d done it. The little rabbit revealed that he’d discovered the secret ingredient, which hadn’t been recorded in the recipe left behind by his late grandmother. It was simply…confidence.”
I can’t help but frown. “Confidence? That doesn’t make sense.”
“Well, of course, you had to start with a good, hearty carrot, the freshest cream, and a tender bay leaf, which weren’t too hard to come by…if you trusted your skill and intuition when choosing the ingredients and then nurtured the soup with an abundance of love and patience while it slow-cooked to perfection. The little rabbit’s mother was so astounded by her son—and proud of him—that she insisted they open a soup kitchen to share the gospel of his grandmother’s carrot soup with their warren—and maybe even the whole forest!”
“That sounds cool,” I say. “Not gonna lie, though, I’m nervous about what’s coming.”
“Over the next couple days, the rabbit and his mother worked tirelessly to put out the word among the other forest critters that they’d soon be able to come get a bowl of the best carrot soup they’d ever tasted—and would ever taste. Though only while supplies lasted.”
I chuckle aloud at Mr. Freddie’s very corny joke. Who would complain about hearing these stories all the time? Pfft…not me.
“Things went well on the soup kitchen’s opening day,” Freddie says. “They served a bunch of other rabbits from their warren, some they knew, a bunch they didn’t, and heck, even a few foxes showed up, and several of them left raving about how their lives had been changed. Soon word spread about the phenomenal carrot-soup kitchen—and then a very strange thing happened. On the morning of the third day, the young rabbit and his mother woke to a lengthy line outside their burrow of every sort of forest creature imaginable, from ants to beetles to squirrels and chipmunks and birds of all kinds. There were even foxes, wolves, and bears—”
“Oh, my!” I say dramatically, and we both giggle.
“Either way, the carrot soup was a smashing success! And the rabbit and his mother woke up on the fourth and fifth mornings to repeat showings from the forest and endless compliments throughout each day about how delectable the carrot soup was. But on the eve of the fifth day, an old badger, whom the rabbit remembered seeing at the end of the line every day they’d been open, sauntered up to the counter. He was always grouchy, hardly spoke, and devoured his soup in one gulp, then left muttering angrily under his breath. However, despite all the love the young rabbit got from the other forest creatures—I mean, he’d even converted predators into devout vegetarians, for crying out loud—he wouldn’t let himself be satisfied until he could win over the surly badger. Because didn’t that old badger see how hard he’d worked? Didn’t Mr. Badger recognize all the rabbit was doing was to honor his grandmother and share her goodness with the rest of the forest?”
I’m a little annoyed that I relate to the rabbit. I know how it feels to give something your all and it still not be enough for some people.
“So, when Mr. Badger snatched the last bowl of soup from the young rabbit and slurped it down with a frown, the rabbit said, ‘When I was a little bunny, my late grandmother prepared this soup for me because it made me happy. Now I make it for everyone in the forest to share that joy with them. And I see you’re not happy, yet you return every day. What can I do to make you happy too?’ The little rabbit—bless his kind, innocent heart—genuinely wanted to know how to please the grumpy badger, who then grumbled, ‘Needs pepper,’ and leapt into the nearby underbrush and disappeared.
