When I get back downstairs, Birdie passes me a pair of knee-high rain boots the color of Spanish olives. “We’re gonna need these.”
I hand her a pair of wool socks and toss the other pair to Blue with her sweatshirt. Once we’re dressed in new layers, we head outside. I grab one of the vegetable-collecting baskets hanging outside our house, thankful Mother didn’t assign me the goats. Chickens don’t mind the rain, but the goats bray like every drop is acid rain, even though they have a barn that’s plenty dry. If you ever wanted to know what stubborn and sensitive looks like, get yourself a goat. Or, better yet, just hang with my sister Birdie. Same-same.
“Do you think Dieter spotted us on the news?” Birdie asks.
“Probably. But if he didn’t everyone else did.”
“We’re hiding in plain sight,” Blue says.
That’s true, my little. Weird but true. “Maybe that’s a good thing. It will make it seem like we weren’t involved. That you weren’t involved,” I tell Birdie, “and we were just doing the same thing as everyone else.”
Birdie heads for the goats. “I’ll see you for sentencing.”
“That’s not funny.”
“I wasn’t trying to be.”
Blue shrugs. “That’s Birdie. Will you throw a few veggies into the chicken pen on your way over?”
“Of course. No problem. Wait for me by the goat pen.”
She grins her thanks and jogs to catch up to Birdie, where she’ll no doubt perform a subtle temperature check on our middle’s mood.
It doesn’t take me long to fill my basket with carrots, potatoes, cauliflower, and Swiss chard before heading down the gravel path to meet my sisters. Our gardens are year-round abundant because alongside the vegetables we plant in-ground, we also have two greenhouses installed with grow lights to combat the Pacific Northwest gloom. One of them is locked at all times because it contains plants and trees with seeds that are poisonous in large doses, but useful for making medicine. Wolfsbane, castor, water hemlock, datura. That’s Mother’s domain. She’s mentioned wanting to teach me more of those processes for backup in the event of disaster, which is another reason why my perceived added interest in chemistry caught her attention.
Carrying all the makings for a quick and easy soup to a compound meeting reads more modern-day March sister than Sarah Connor. But here I am, walking toward the training area looking a little like both.
Act natural. Act natural. Act natural.
I spot Mother in the gathered group first, sitting in a lawn chair near the archery targets under an out-of-place, red-and-black-striped golf umbrella. Golf’s not a prepper-designated sport. Archery, shooting, running, calisthenics: sure. The closest anyone here has ever gotten to a golf ball is rubbing one under sore feet after a long day. Behind her, someone left three bull’s-eye-centered arrows in one of the targets, illustrating the piercing tone all three of us will face if questioned about what happened at school.
Mother’s eyes dart between us and Dieter as we approach from the tree-lined dirt path. Everyone is sitting except the Burrower assigned to the lookout tower, Dieter, and Daniel, who might as well have one of those targets on his back too.
“Oh god,” Birdie whispers.
And I know why. Daniel is shouldering an INCH bag. We all know an I’m Never Coming Home bag is used for movement lasting more than seventy-two hours, and his looks stuffed to the hilt. His wet curls are unfurling across his forehead, half covering his hazel eyes, hands tucked deep inside the pockets of his army-green field jacket. The second he spots my sister, his shoulders tense and ride closer to his ears.
I’m not sure what that means outside of his posture saying he’s in big trouble, but Birdie is breathing fast and heavy at my side. Ever since she fessed up to her involvement in the locker room, the difference between fear for herself and Daniel has been indistinguishable.
I spy Mother studying me, pulling on the skin of her neck. If she talked to Dieter, and we’re about to get handed some kind of compound-issued disciplinary action, Blue won’t handle it well and Mother knows this.
“Look who’s decided to join us.” Dieter Ackerman’s heavy-lidded eyes flick to Mother before he checks the time on his mechanical field watch. Silent message: Get your charges in check.
Technically, it’s only four minutes past the hour.
“We got detained.” I load my excuse without giving an explanation, even though I know four minutes can mean the difference between life and death in certain situations.
Dieter scowls and clamps a hand on Daniel’s shoulder. “I guess we can get started since you’re no longer detained.”
THREAT ASSESSMENT:
DIETER ACKERMAN|6’1” STRONG BUILD|EXTREME CLOSED SOCIAL GROUP|UNTRUSTING
MOST LIKELY TO: put his life on the line for others.
LEAST LIKELY TO: listen to reason when rules get broken.
0/10 WOULD IMPEDE GROUP SURVIVAL IN EMERGENCY SITUATION.
CASUALTY POTENTIAL: low
He scratches the middle of a thin scar that runs from his right eye to his jaw in the shape of a bent straw. A battle wound he got during combat in the armed forces.
Daniel looks up, straight at my sister. In that moment, I see his fear. And when he lifts one side of his mouth to give Birdie a tentative smile, my eyes dart to my sister. She returns his smile and waits for Dieter’s dictate with bated breath, trembling an imperceptible amount. But I see it, as sure as the single tear ready to spring from her left eye.
“Earlier today,” Dieter starts, “it was brought to my attention that certain coalition members sent on a level-one civilian interaction training mission were not as discreet as instructed. The OPTEMPO was too fast. Too rash. And unsanctioned distraction methods were used. Because of that, we’re going to change the way we do a few things until the scent clinging to our location and operation dies down. Most everyone involved extricated themselves from the situation. Except Daniel, who was left holding the bag. Metaphorically speaking.”
Holding Birdie’s bag. Holding Birdie’s bag. Holding Birdie’s bag.
Daniel and Birdie are staring at each other like telepathic cohorts. I elbow my sister to let her know she’s drawing attention to herself, and the jabbing movement breaks Daniel’s hypnotic gaze.
“First,” Dieter says, “I’m issuing a compound-wide curfew. We’ve run into hiccups that may have put us on the wrong radar. Beginning today, no one under the age of eighteen is to be out after eleven P.M. without the express orders or permission of me and their parent or guardian. Those caught after curfew will be dealt with accordingly. Consider that your only warning. To survive an extinction-level event we must have the ability to gather the essentials without detection at a moment’s notice. During an actual ELE, we cannot, and will not, stop to wait for anyone unable to execute protocol.”
Dieter is controlling his tone, but the signs of his outrage are visible through the veil of falling rain. The bulging vein in his neck. The reddening of his face.
“This was a failure,” he criticizes. “I underestimated our readiness, or perhaps our willingness to follow protocol. The supplies that caused the incident at the high school were intercepted, which means two things. The members involved will most likely be under closer examination, if lucky, or further interrogation if not. We all know obtaining certain necessary supplies can put us on the wrong radar, and we cannot afford detection or speculation from outside officials of any kind.” His mouth forms a disappointed square. “Nonetheless, Annalise has reported that news teams and several suits arrived on the scene. It is a rule of this coalition to avoid detection at this level.”