Epoch Earth; the Great Glitch Read online

  “We have to try. There’s nothing left here. We’ll be fine while you’re gone.” I said, not reminding him that we’d spent a lot longer without him already.

  “Yeah but, a couple towns? Where are we gonna find the gas for that?” We didn’t even have enough gas to start the scooter by that point, much less drive across Florida.

  “You’ll have to walk it.” I shrugged.

  “Walk where?” Brooks called from around the corner, intrigue in his voice.

  I spun around, then narrowed my eyes at Howie in a clear ‘keep your mouth shut’ expression.

  He didn’t. “We gotta walk up to Lutz, find some food. There’s a lot of farmland up that way.” That last part was for my benefit. Now that Brooks caught wind of an adventure, there would be no talking sense into him.

  “Yay!” Brooks jumped up and down. “I’ll go get my stuff.” He ran upstairs, not waiting for me to forbid him from coming.

  My eyes shifted to a ‘see what you did’ and Howie shrank under their gaze. He put a hand on my shoulder and I shrugged it off. “I’m sorry,” he frowned.

  “Do you have any idea how long it will take us to walk that far? And with him?” An accusing thumb jerked over my shoulder.

  “Days, so we better be prepared. I don’t want to go either, believe me. But if I have to, I’m taking you with me.” Howie started toward the kitchen, not bothering a second attempt to placate me.

  “He won’t walk for days, Howie.” I slumped my shoulders, already feeling the weight of Brooks on my back after the first mile.

  “Well, we can’t leave him here, can we?” It was a stupid question and he knew it.

  “You’re carrying him.” My voice chased him out of the garage.

  We walked in silence. The first two miles I was busy brooding about being railroaded into the trip. Howie kept looking over his shoulder and twitching at every noise. The other miles, there was no talking over the Impeachment Hearing in our heads. Believe me, we tried.

  Citizen Update Channel had a mandatory viewing block on all chips. No access to anything other than them, or HNN. Since both broadcast nothing but the Impeachment, it didn’t much matter.

  Sturn sat in the witness box now, looking more haggard than the last time we’d seen him. He had his trademark curls cut short, but it couldn’t hide the gray that crawled around his ears. The lines of his eyes stretched out to meet it.

  In front of him stood a model, golden brown curls swirled down a shapely figure, stopping just above the longest legs known to man. The news anchors on both channels had a field day with that. They spent hours discussing whether replacing Mr. Limine with the younger, gorgeous Ms. Tortia was a smart move.

  Personally, I was amazed that half the Impeachment Hearing’s airtime, which had already clocked in at nearly seventy-two hours, focused on this one hot lawyer. I mean, our President lied to us! He caused the Glitch that killed my parents. He was the reason there were no babies born after ‘41, and why I still didn’t get my period. That last part I wasn’t too upset about, but still.

  “Synta!” Howie’s voice broke through the broadcast, startling me. His eyes and head pointed toward Brooks. The boy’s own eyes, wide and terrified, stared at me.

  I stopped. “What?”

  Brooks scrunched his eyebrows at me. “You’re talking to yourself.”

  “Sorry, this stupid news alert.” I waved a hand at my chip. “Aren’t you glad you don’t have to listen to it?” I smiled with big sisterly triumph.

  “No.” He turned and walked ahead of me.

  Not wanting Howie’s two cents — I was still mad about the night before — I turned my attention whole-heartedly toward the Impeachment.

  Since it was at least the fifth time around for both channels, the news anchors kept breaking in with their own comments and news alerts. Trade embargoes with China and Africa, again. Our own allies had closed their borders and blocked all exports. Not that there was much left to export. Multiple talking heads chimed in with their explanation for why crops had died off all over the world. Countries with the lowest number of chipped Citizens couldn’t grow rice or corn, the heartiest stables of diets everywhere.

  Back and forth they’d jump, horror story to Impeachment to new horror story. Just when they got to the part where Sturn started crying about his wife, HNN interrupted the transmission.

  “We’ll return to the hearing in just a moment. But first, we have word that European Council Chief, Abram has been assassinated. I repeat, Chief Abram has been assassinated.”

  Howie and I exchanged worried glances.

  “Trusted sources are saying that Abram was not alone when he was attacked.” The anchor didn’t speak for a moment, then, in his best practiced shock, “Citizens, multiple representatives from the Sister Nations have been executed in what can only be described as a well-orchestrated maneuver.”

  “Brooks,” I spoke loudly over the anchor’s wobbling voice. “Did you tell Howie what you found yesterday?” Anything to keep the sounds and images of Rebels, all-black clothing from head to toe except one red band tied around their right arms, storming the senate building. Anything to keep myself, and especially Howie, from wondering if Pettine was one of the faceless black figures.

  “No, and I’m not gonna.” Brooks huffed, folding his arms over his bird chest.

  “Come on, he won’t laugh.” Something in my voice, the urgency or tension under its playful tone told Brooks we needed the distraction.

  He huffed again, bigger and less amused than the first time. “I found a potato.”

  Howie, who didn’t want to tear his attention away from the raid playing out in our chips, muttered an uninterested “Hmm.”

  Gunshots rang out in our minds, rapid fire, as men and women in business suits fell from a kneeling position on the high steps of Filmore Hall.

  My elbow gigged Howie in the ribs and with a tense smile I asked Brooks, “And where did you find it?”

  With that, Brooks stopped walking and turned to face Howie, yanking up his t-shirt. “Right here,” he said, shoving a grubby finger in his belly button.

  Howie laughed in spite of himself. “Syn told you to wash that thing out.”

  “I know it wasn’t a real potato.” Brooks marched off, done with our comedic relief.

  I called after him, louder than necessary to hear myself over the continued pops of rifle fire. “That’s what Nana called them!”

  In the silence that followed, Howie and I walked, hand in hand. Together, we had no choice but to witness every moment of the mass executions. Muddy blood puddles spread across the concrete landing, winding their way around the bodies of our Sister Nation leaders.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  When the two lanes of Hwy 301 turned to four, I thought we were home free. Brooks must have, too. He ran the last hundred yards across the overpass at full speed. For a moment I could imagine him, in the life he should have had, running down a gravball field with the other team’s guys panting to catch him. Until he stopped at a line of withered bushes to hack up a lung.

  Nothing like patting your baby brother on the back while he chokes on orange sludge to bring you back to the here and now.

  He still hadn’t recovered when Howie heard a noise, a crackling of dry twigs that sounded way too close. Brooks, dear sweet Brooks, tried to reach for his knife through gags and wheezes. My unsteady hand continued to rub the length of his small back.

  “Howie will check it out,” I whispered in his ear.

  Howie disappeared down the embankment, shrinking out of sight. There was a rustling sound of a struggle. I wanted to grab my own kitchen knife, which I’d been smart enough to bring that time, but couldn’t leave Brooks. All I could do was wait as the dull thuds of flesh pounding flesh inched up the hill toward us.

  My ears pricked up, searching for that telltale squish of Howie being stabbed by a lunatic. Or worse; my eyes rested on the terrible scar my stitches left on Brooks’s neck. The skin around it still swelled wit
h angry red infection, much like the festering hole on my cheek. When I dared look in a mirror, which wasn’t often thank Stone, the discolored circular patch reminded me of a body rejecting a skin graft. A pinprick hole, dead center, oozed puss to this day.

  I was still mentally calculating how long ago my attack had been and how long a wound like mine should have taken to heal under normal circumstances, and cross referencing that data with the allegations against President Sturn, when Howie popped up. He was holding a very irate small child by the collar.

  The boy, who couldn’t be more than seven, dangled from Howie’s grip, swinging wildly like a cartoon character. The words coming out of his mouth, however, were closer to R than PG.

  “Just wait til you put me down, you mangy—” Howie clamped a hand over the child’s profanity spewing mouth, then cried out as tiny drops of blood appeared on his finger. As he inspected the damage, a wayward foot caught him unaware, there.

  “You little –” Howie held his breath, cutting off the curse. The boy dropped to the ground and made a run for it.

  I stifled a laugh and Brooks coughed up the rest of his sludge, trying to laugh and die at the same time.

  The sound of his ragged breaths stopped the little boy short. I watched him glance at Brooks, then back at Howie. He reminded me of a feral cat deciding whether the food you offered was a trap. With baby steps, he inched toward us, the mask of fury gone from his dirty face.

  “Him too,” the boy said, with a surprising amount of empathy. Another choking gasp from Brooks brought him closer, his feet moving quicker, more sure.

  “Him too what?” I asked. My heart quickened in my chest.

  The little boy eyed me for a moment, clearly wondering just how dumb I was. His gaze leveled on the loose skin behind my ear. “My granny calls it Dust Lung.”

  I stopped patting Brooks on the back and moved to stand between him and the boy. I felt ridiculous, even as I did it. He barely made it past my belly button and he was skinny as a rail. But his words awakened something ancient in me. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. He caught a cold. Go away and leave us alone.” I shooed him off.

  He ignored me and walked around to the other side of Brooks, who still hunched over, coughing. With one swift motion, he balled up his tiny fist and pounded Brooks in the middle of his back, where I’d been patting moments earlier. Three swift slams of that bony fist and a glob of orange mucus flew out onto the bushes.

  The boy beamed, his stained face giving way to a black grin. His age alone couldn’t account for all of the missing teeth. “That’s what Granny used to do when Agron would get to coughing like that.”

  To my relief, Brooks took a large gulp of air and raised up, smiling thanks at the boy.

  Howie took a step in our direction, causing the skittish boy to jump back, ready to flee. Howie raised his hands in surrender. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

  “Then why you had me jerked up like that?” The boy’s arms crossed, defiantly pushing back against Howie, a man easily twice his size. The sight of it sent a much-needed smile to my lips.

  “You threw rocks at me!” Howie raised his arms more offensively. “I didn’t know you were just a pipsqueak.”

  Thin eyebrows furrowed. “Made you cry.”

  “Alright, that’s enough, boys.” I threw the last word in Howie’s direction. “Thank you for helping my brother.” I nodded at the boy. “What’s your name? I’m Synta, this is Brooks, and that’s Howie.”

  “I’m Kibby. Where you goin’?” Kibby asked.

  “We’re just trying to find food. There’s none left where we came from.”

  “Ha, ain’t none here either. Everybody’s done died. I only have –” Kibby swallowed the end of his sentence; telling eyes darted toward the field where he and Howie had come from.

  “We’re not gonna take your food,” I assured him. “We want to trade, or –” I sighed. “Something.”

  “My granny trades. Come on.” Kibby took off running.

  Howie and I glanced at each other and shrugged. Brooks didn’t wait for us to make up our minds, slowly chasing after those surprisingly quick legs.

  It didn’t take long before they both tired out again and fell back in place with us. As we reached the edge of town, and after a long stretch of silence except for the constant chatter in mine and Howie’s chips about Mrs. Sturn’s official cause of death, Kibby spoke up.

  “So you and you,” pointing at Brooks and myself, “you’re computer people. I get that. But... what kinda name is Howie? What do you do?” Kibby asked Howie.

  I answered, giggling “Beat up innocent little boys.”

  Howie made a male noise of derision under his breath. “I prefer to call it ‘manning the perimeter.’”

  KIBBY WAS RIGHT, THOUGH. There was no food in Lutz either. His granny did let us stay for two days, rest up before our trip home. But only after we promised to work in the ‘garden’ for our room and board, and because she thought Howie was our older brother. We did as promised, thankful for the warm bed and cold beans.

  At night, when Brooks coughed worse than usual, I noticed the way Kibby’s grandmother looked at him. Such sadness and grief in her eyes. I was sure it had something to do with the empty bed in Kibby’s room, and the noticeably absent brother, Agron.

  On the third day, as we packed up to leave, Granny – she made us call her that – Granny pulled me aside and handed me a coin purse. I pushed it away. We had already traded what we had to trade, and money wouldn’t do any of us a damn bit of good. “I can’t,” I whispered, shaking my head furiously.

  She insisted, wrapping my fingers around the felt bag.

  “For the boy,” she said. Her deep voice had startled me the first time. When we had come through the door, unseen to her, she had yelled at Kibby for being gone all day and worrying her. Sight unseen, I thought it was a man yelling, and instinctively grabbed for my knife, pulling Brooks behind me.

  Now, after a couple days of remembering the warmth of a grandmother’s love, I knew I would miss it dearly.

  I opened the purse and jiggled its contents, not money. At least twenty white pills tumbled against each other between my fingers.

  Granny smiled, missing even more teeth than Kibby. “My Aggie,” she began, “he was too far gone by the time I got ‘em. But your little Brooky, he’s a strong boy.”

  Tears welled in both our eyes. I couldn’t speak. This medicine, whatever it was, could be valuable. They could trade it for food or, anything. Medication was like gold to merches.

  “Give him one in the morning and one at night. Aggie said the elephant wasn’t sitting on his chest no more with these.” Granny ran a crooked finger over my hair and down my scarred cheek. “You kids take good care of each other and stay off the main roads.”

  I nodded, sniffing.

  //Come on, Syn.// Howie chipped. I could feel him standing just outside my peripheral vision, not wanting to intrude.

  I hugged Granny and mussed Kibby’s hair as I hurried out the door.

  For two days we walked and talked, about everything except Granny and Kibby’s miserable fate alone in that dead town. For two days and nights our chips flashed alerts about more crop fires and less resources. Not a moment’s peace.

  I couldn’t even look up the pills Granny had given me. All external links had been disabled. We were HNN’s hostages. Only seeing what they wanted us to see.

  On the last night, as we slept huddled together in a tree, Howie and I were awakened by a loud piercing alarm. We grabbed our ears and cried out together. The screech was unlike any Emergency Alert we’d ever heard. I would have fallen backward out of the tree if Howie hadn’t caught me.

  We sat there, holding each other, as President Sturn appeared.

  “My fellow Continentals,” he began. I was struck by how old he looked. It didn’t make sense. We’d just watched the Impeachment hearing. We saw him testify before the Council just a week before. But, he seemed years older, somehow.


  “It is with great remorse that I come to you today. I know I should have done this years ago.” Sturn paused, wiping his face with a shaking hand.

  “If I had been a stronger leader, a better man, we wouldn’t be in the position we’re in now as a people.” The words choked him. He visibly shook, not even looking at the teleprompter.

  “I have failed you. The things I’m accused of, these vile horrid things, I didn’t do them. I promise you. But, but what I did do, what I let happen, I fear was worse. I didn’t know.” Sturn sobbed. He leaned back, pushing himself from his desk and resting his head on the large tapestry that had been the backdrop for all his presidential speeches.

  When he’d composed himself, he stared directly at the camera, eyes glossed over. “Please stop killing each other. Please. I beg of you. If you only knew. There isn’t much time. The people you’re killing, they’re just pawns. We’re all just pawns. Even me. I’m nobody. Not in the grand scheme of things.

  “You elected me, and I tried to serve you as best I could. The patch.” Sturn wiped away tears that fell freely down his sallow cheeks. “This patch was supposed to fix everything. We were supposed to go back to the way we were. We were great once. I wanted us to be great again. For your children, your grandchildren.”

  Sturn heaved, sucking in a choppy breath the way a child does after a bad tantrum. “The patch was meant to disable everyone’s chips. No more hacking. No more propaganda and unregulated links. No underground system for The Resistance to ensnare impressionable children.” He rattled off a list of utopian ideals that he believed would be realized by disabling our chips.

  Howie and I just sat there, stunned. My hand rested on Brooks’s back, feeling the rhythmic rise and fall of deep sleep. I’d given in and let him take one of the pills after he nearly passed out from coughing earlier. My fingers, of their own accord, played his favorite part of Symphony Seven along his spine.