Vigilante 01 - Who Knows the Storm (12 page)

Who are you really? Are you going to be another stain of blood on my hands?

T
HERE
WAS
scotch in the bomb shelter, a nod to his father’s tastes, Nox supposed. When his mother, Natalie, went into a paranoid state—when she was still able to function, before it escalated—she would spend hours on the Internet, reading survivalist blogs and doomsday warrior sites. His father would spend more time at the office when the deliveries began, sometimes five or six times a day.

Nox would find his own things to do—extra hours at the library, more time at the basketball court or running along the river. He’d use the back entrance to avoid her accosting him as soon as he got home to point out another article about government conspiracies and strange diseases in Africa.

She was so scared the end of the world would come, so worried they wouldn’t have enough of everything to help them survive. For an hour or two after she’d unpacked the boxes and arranged the items on yet another shelf, there would be peace. Natalie would believe they’d have enough. That they’d be fine.

Then the panic would return.

Now Nox drank the bomb shelter scotch, his leg up on the ottoman as he sprawled in his father’s desk chair. Of all the rooms they used, this one changed very little. Only the family pictures and his father’s diplomas were gone, tucked away in the panic room, away from potentially prying eyes.

The Boyets were all dead and he was just Patrick Mullens, who—along with his son, Sam—lived here, in this abandoned house. That was the story to anyone who asked.

No one asked, of course. Nox kept everyone at arm’s length: no friendships, no relationships, no one knowing the truth, not even Sam.

Especially not Sam.

The blood loss and liquor did very little to clear his tangled thoughts. He felt himself getting pulled farther down the rabbit hole until he disappeared into memories.

Interlude

I
T
IS
the worst moment of Nox’s life, and he thinks if he breaks down now, he might never stop crying.

And he can’t cry because the baby in his arms is doing enough of that for both of them.

He stands in the hallway of the hospital, unsure what to do next. He needs to get home. He needs to get off this island. And now, instead of his mother, he has an infant to take with him.

“What are you doing here?” someone asks, forcing Nox out of his grief-induced fog.

A woman—a girl, really, maybe a few years older than himself—stands at the end of the empty hallway.

“I need help,” he says, voice cracking.

Her name is Jenny. She says she came to get her grandmother, but she’d already been evacuated. Everything about the girl is calm and steady, and Nox is so grateful he can barely choke out his thanks.

Where did the baby come from? Where’s its mother? Is the baby okay? Does he need a ride?

He explains everything in a shaky voice, as if reciting the plot of a horror movie he saw last week. “Yes,” Nox says to the ride, tucking the infant inside of his jacket. He feels woozy with fear and grief, his mother’s blood still clinging to his hands and clothes despite his attempts to get it off.

She has a large black Hummer parked right in front of the stairs, passenger door facing them. The rain has turned into some unrelenting force, and the water rises to the bottom step, lapping dangerously upward.

“Let’s go. I’ll take you home.”

“I have money,” Nox says, staring down at the sleeping baby against his chest. He can’t believe this, doesn’t understand why or how—how did his parents keep her pregnancy a secret? “For you, for helping.”

The Hummer roars through the rising water of the highway. Visibility is next to nothing—he has no idea how the girl is keeping the truck on the road.

“I don’t need your money,” she says, tightly gripping the wheel.

She seems annoyed he’s said anything, so he goes back to the baby, touching his tiny head, black fuzzy hair sticking up all over.

They pass stranded vehicles and National Guard trucks filled with people. A line of cars and trucks stretches in front of them—the bridge backed up for miles. Jenny swears under her breath, then takes a sharp right down a side street, water splashing up on either side.

“Get the phone out of my pocket,” she says, using her elbow to point at her jacket.

Jenny has him dial a number—she needs two hands, and he can manage with one as the baby sleeps on.

“Put it up against my ear,” she says, slowing the truck to a crawl as she tries to find the road ahead of them. The water rises a little higher, lapping against the doors.

“It’s me. Yeah. Are you at the rendezvous point? I’m having trouble getting there—the water’s too high.”

A voice at the other end—a man, he can tell that much—answers, anger evident. Jenny’s expression never changes.

“Fine,” Jenny says coolly.

She pulls her head away from the cell. “Hang up. Then shut it off.”

Nox does as he’s told. Somewhere in the middle of his gratitude for being given this ride, he starts to panic.

He’d assumed a girl wouldn’t hurt him. He’d assumed she has the best intentions.

“Who are you?” Nox asks as the baby whimpers against his chest.

Jenny laughs, tight and high. “I thought you’d recognize my voice after all our little chats, Nox.”

She sounds different all of a sudden, breathy and girly, and God. Oh God.

“You worked for my dad.”

“Very good, Nox. Very good.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Jenny didn’t say anything. Nox’s stomach pinched as his anxiety grew.

“I need to talk to someone about my dad’s will. It’s just my brother and me now….” It hurts to say. His throat begins to clog with tears. The reality is he and the baby are on their own now. Their parents are dead and there’s no one to call for help. “I don’t know what to do, but you can help me, right?”

Still not a word.

“Jenny, can you please help me?”

“It’s not that easy,” Jenny murmurs.

They drive a little farther, Jenny pulling up and down roads to find the easiest to travel through. Finally he sees headlights through the windshield, a cluster of them up ahead. Jenny makes a sound—a sigh, maybe—so soft that he thinks he might have imagined it. Except for the cold chill that runs down his spine.

“Stay here,” Jenny say as she eases the truck into a triangle formation with the other two vehicles. The baby stirs, so Nox’s attention goes to him; he hears a compartment open and close and then the door.

It’s a few minutes before he hears shots.

At first he thinks it’s thunder, but then the Hummer door flings open and a soaked Jenny jumps into the seat.

“What—” he starts to ask, but the gun in her hand answers the unspoken question.

“Shut up,” she snaps. She doesn’t say another word as she drops the gun in her lap, then throws the Hummer into reverse and guns the motor.

The precision Jenny has displayed before was gone. She drives recklessly, pushing the truck through the flooding roads, following a route with flashing emergency signs every few hundred yards.

Road closed.

Do not enter.

Nox isn’t someone who does a lot of praying, but right now he is. Head bent, the baby breathing tiny puffs of air against his cheek, Nox talks to whomever might be listening.

He prays for the baby and for himself, that whatever happens, it would be quick and painless. He prays for the souls of his mother and his father, and apologizes for not being able to save his brother from all this.

The Hummer comes to a sudden halt. Jenny’s harsh breathing fills the interior, and Nox cringes.

“I have money,” he says, trying one more time. “You can have it all….”

Jenny laughs as if he’s told the funniest joke of all time. “Oh, honey, you don’t have enough to buy me off.”

They’re in the middle of nowhere, maybe near one of the uptown parks. No lights, traffic.

Jenny turns in the seat to face him. Nox holds the baby a bit closer.

“I’ll take care of him,” she says, almost gentle, almost remorseful. “Don’t worry about that.”

“But you’re going to….”

She shrugs, undoing the seat belt as she moves. She brings the gun up, points it at his head.

He closes his eyes, tears squeezing out the corners as he says another prayer. He is just sixteen and this is how he was going to die.

The shot doesn’t come, but the jolt does. The Hummer begins to move—sideways—as it lifts from the road, sweeping down the street by a wave of water.

Nox is thrown against the door as Jenny swears violently. The gun falls to the floor as she grips frantically at the wheel—there is nothing she can do. They’re floating away.

Nox grabs the door handle as the truck lurches to one side.

Inside his jacket, the baby whimpers in distress.

A moment ago he had been ready for death, but suddenly Nox is just pissed the hell off. This crazy girl wants to kill him? The weather wants him dead?

Fuck them both. They had their chances.

With Jenny’s furious screaming echoing in his ears, Nox unhooks his seat belt. If the Hummer goes under, he’ll need to swim to safety so the baby doesn’t drown, and he wants to be ready.

They strike something—another car, a building, a light post, he can’t tell what. All he knows is that the Hummer stopped moving. He glances out the window as Jenny tries to turn the engine on, slamming the steering wheel when it doesn’t work. During a flash of lightning, he sees a huge building just beyond the front of the truck. A second flash and he can see turrets….

The courthouse in Harlem.

His art class had come here to sketch the Romanesque architecture last year, and Nox fights to remember exactly where they are.

121st Street.

He is thirty blocks from home.

A sideways glance. Jenny pounds on the steering wheel with one hand as she moves the key with the other. The calm, collected girl has been replaced by a wide-eyed fury, spit flying from her mouth as she stomps on the gas.

Nothing.

She doesn’t have the gun.

Stay and be shot.

Jump out and at least have a chance.

Nox eases his hand on the handle, cradling the baby against his chest with the other.

Open the door, jump down, and run.

Open the door, jump down, and run.

Open the door….

Nox takes a breath, then shoves all his weight against the door as he pulls the handle. It takes him three hard pushes before the door opens. Water rushes into the Hummer as Nox fights against it. He floats for a split second before his feet hit the ground, water swirling around his legs, hips, and waist.

Behind him, Jenny screams his name. All he can do is force his legs to move against the swirling water and make his way to the other side of the building.

Chapter Fourteen

N
OX
LIMPED
back to the kitchen, shaking and not having much luck regaining his fucking control. He could barely move, the pain radiating up his leg and aggravating old wounds he’d collected over the years. The scotch left him light-headed.

He was a mess.

In the fridge he found ice; he threw it into a dish towel and shuffled back down the hallway with his makeshift pack in hand. At the bottom of the stairs stood Sam, hands in his pockets, steely resolve on his face.

Nox sighed. “I’m sorry.”

Sam shrugged, kicked his boot against the bottom step. “We end up saying that to each other a lot.”

“I don’t regret saving you,” Nox said, leaning against the spindles of the staircase. He put the ice pack against the back of his neck in an attempt to get his frantic brain to chill out. Literally. “It was the best decision I ever made. Even if you have grown up to be stubborn and hotheaded.”

A smirk. Sam ran his hand through his hair, clearly trying to stay mad at Nox. “Biology isn’t to blame here—it’s all your bad influence.”

The press of the lie, and all the lies that followed, bore down on him. “Right.”

“Maybe… maybe my parents
are
alive,” Sam said softly. Suddenly. “Maybe they could help you too, Dad.”

Oh God.

Nox grabbed the banister with one hand. Sam moved quickly to hold him up as his knees buckled. He couldn’t do this right now.

“Come on, Dad, it’s okay,” he said, helping him up the stairs.

Interlude

N
OX
DIDN
’
T
go into the church. He spots a minivan, stalled out and abandoned, up on the curb. The door is unlocked, so he hops into the front seat and drops immediately to the floor. Every ounce of fury that propelled him out into the storm still courses through his veins. He is going to save his brother and he is going to get off this fucking island if it’s the last thing he does.

The baby is furiously unhappy to be wet and startled, squealing frantically against his chest. When Nox spots the tipped-over diaper bag on the middle seat, he almost cries in gratitude.