Vivian Apple Needs a Miracle (24 page)

“My pastor took me aside, three weeks before the Rapture. He said I'd been selected to be blessed by Frick himself at a secret Church compound in Santa Fe. I was beside myself with joy, with pride. I packed my bags and flew there, and I didn't tell anybody where I was going because there was nobody in my life to tell. They probably didn't notice I was gone until after the Rapture—that was maybe the first time they thought to look.

“A shuttle picked up a group of us—maybe nine or ten—at the airport. It brought us into the desert, to the factory. A woman gave us a tour. And I felt like I was part of this larger thing—like the Church and the corporation were a wonderful machine working for the glory of God, and I was a cog in it. So when at the end of the tour the woman told us they were short-staffed, and asked us if we would help for a while, lend a hand until the Rapture came, I said okay. We all said okay.

“And when after three weeks we were still there, the woman said not to worry. She showed us a video of Frick, one I'd never seen before, where he said that God cherishes the workers; he'll save them seats at the glorious banquet of heaven. The woman told us there was going to be a second boat, and we were sure to gain passage on it, giving back as much as we did. You have to understand: I thought nobody loved me except for Frick and God. I thought the harder I worked, the more they'd both love me. So I kept working. But there was never enough food, never enough water. They kept us in cramped rooms. About five hundred of us, I'd say, at that factory. All of us living right on top of one another. The dyes in the textiles made some people sick. The noise was so bad that I still hear it buzzing, even now. And at a certain point I guess it was like waking up from a dream—I realized I wasn't going anywhere. There was no heaven waiting, no life to return to, and I still believed with all my heart that the world beyond the walls of the factory was coming to an end. I knew a few who tried to escape—they never got far before the Peacekeepers found them, and we never saw them again. And others were just crazy—they thought we
were
in heaven; they looked for passages in the Book to prove it. After a while, I forced myself to agree. Because what else was I going to believe? That I'd been so stupid, so desperate, that I'd let them own me? That I was only there because I didn't have the courage to run away?

“It wasn't until Umaymah showed up,” she says, turning with a rush of gratitude toward Edie, “that I even realized anyone was looking for us. So when she asked me if I wanted to leave, I said yes, of course. I would do anything she wanted me to.”

Joanna stops speaking then, abruptly, as though there's more she wants to say but it would take more time than we have. Edie stands and makes her way through the New Orphans at her feet to slip an arm around the woman; she whispers comfort into the Believer's ear. The rest of us are still with astonishment. I see Winnie weeping across the room and realize that I'm crying too—I don't know how long I've been crying. I feel a wretched sorrow all over my body; every bit of me aches with longing for this story to not be true. But it is true—of course it's true. I don't know why it never occurred to me that the answer to everything would be as terrible and as mundane as this.

“Would you be willing,” Amanda asks finally after a long silence, “to tell the world what you just told us?”

Joanna glances quickly at Edie, a terrified look on her face. But Edie doesn't meet her eyes. She dips her head forward to kiss Naveen's forehead softly and nods. I see Joanna straighten. Her eyes go hard with some effort as she turns to regard us all.

“Every word,” she says.

“Listen up, everyone,” Amanda calls. She wheels forward, taking a commanding place at the center of the room. “The arrival of these Believers changes everything. There'll be no coordinated assault on the Chateau Marmont tomorrow.” There's a palpable release in the room, several relieved sighs, which Amanda ignores. “
For the time being,
anyway. What we're going to do is get these people”—she nods at Joanna and the others—“in the public eye as widely as possible. Harp: how long will it take you to write up Joanna's story?”

“We'll film her telling it.” Harp reaches for Julian's nearby arm and checks the watch on his wrist. “It's quarter after one now—I can get it up by dawn if you get me a camera.”

“We'll get you what you need,” Amanda says. “But the blog won't be enough. Diego—wait until Harp's video goes live, but then we need to round up as many people as we can manage. Bring them to the Chateau Marmont at nine a.m.—I'll make sure a camera crew is waiting. We want a demonstration; we want Joanna to tell a crowd what she just told us.”

Everyone seems to take a swift, collective intake of breath before they plunge into action. Edie nods to Harp and me, then glides with Naveen into the room where Robbie's body lies, Eleanor following with the prayer book and the rest of the New Orphans. Winnie and Frankie approach Joanna and the other Believers, offering food and water, assessing whether or not they need medical care. Harp throws open her laptop and begins to type. In the commotion, I make my way to her and say quietly, “I'm going to the Chateau.”

“What?” Harp's head snaps up. She looks horrified. “Viv, you can't! Not tonight, not after what happened with Robbie.”

“I need to tell Peter about this. I promised him I'd contact him once I knew for sure whether or not the attack was happening.”

“He'll find out it isn't in the morning!” Harp exclaims.

I glance sharply at Winnie, afraid her attention will be caught, but she's still focused on the Raptured Believers. “I know it's dangerous, but I promise—I'm just going to tell him what's going on and then I'll come right back. This is important to me, Harp.”

She takes a deep breath. “I'll cover for you as long as I can.”

“Thanks. How are you?”

“Pretty fucking freaked out. You?”

“Yeah.” I pause, not knowing quite how to ask her this question. “Harp. Do you realize this might mean your parents are alive?”

After a moment, Harp nods. “It occurred to me the first time Edie emailed. I need to talk to Amanda about organizing a rescue effort for the rest of the factories. There's a possibility they didn't make it, of course—they might have gotten sick; they might have tried to escape and been killed. But if they
are
alive, they're going to be so pissed when they realize I helped crack this case.” She shakes her head and starts to laugh, but her eyes are bright with tears. “I can hear them now. ‘Harpreet, why do you always have to
meddle?
' they'll say.”

Back in Hollywood, I retrace the exact tracks of my sprint to Robbie earlier. I keep my eyes down, and when I see it, I pause. The stain of Robbie's blood on the sidewalk, copper in the glow of the streetlamp above. I can't stay here long. The woman who killed Robbie may still be watching, for all I know; Peacemakers might patrol the area. But I let myself take one deep breath, trying to gauge whether the air feels different here, whether something of Robbie lingers in the atmosphere. I want to feel his presence. I want him to give me strength to continue. But I feel nothing but fear, and the oppressive weight of having lost him. I walk on.

Down in the shadows behind the Chateau's garden wall, I remember the security camera. The kitchen entrance is out—I'll have to climb the fire escape, rickety as it is. I drag a recycling bin from the alcove out to the pavement and climb on top of it, pushing myself up on the thin fence behind the Chateau. I wobble slightly and pause to regain my balance. A few feet—that's the distance between me and the bottom rung of the fire escape. Not unmanageable for a being of unfathomable grace, but for a girl who only managed one chin-up in gym during the presidential fitness test two springs ago, maybe a bit of a stretch. I say a quick prayer to the universe (
Please don't let me fall and break my neck; that would be—above everything else—
incredibly
embarrassing at this juncture
) and leap.

My left arm catches, but my right fingertips are still stiff from the sprain. My grasp slips, and—heart racing, not knowing what else to do—I throw my leg up at an awkward angle, hooking my knee over the bottom rung. The ladder wobbles with my weight, making a trembling metallic sound. I hesitate—but no one seems to have heard. I pull myself up, rung by rung, until I've reached the steady platform at the base of the second floor windows.

On the sixth floor, I crouch by Peter's window and tap lightly on the glass. When nothing happens, I tap harder. Finally, I see a flash of movement behind the window. I hold my breath and brace my knees, ready to bolt if it's anyone but him. But when the window slides open, Peter's face looks out: pale in the moonlight, eyes wide and almost silver, an expression of astonishment on his face. He backs up so I can climb in.

“Christ, Viv,” he whispers, “haven't you heard of texting?”

I shut the window behind me, and Peter lights a lamp on the bedside table. His sheets are tangled; the air in the room is heavy with sleep. He wears a pair of blue-striped pajama pants and no shirt—I avert my eyes from the curve of his hipbones. Peter watches me, waiting, but I can't speak. I am so happy and so miserable. I feel like I might start screaming.

“Viv?” He takes a step toward me. “Are you all right? You're trembling.”

I look down and watch my body shiver. Peter moves swiftly to me, slipping one arm around my waist, the other hand holding tight to my elbow; he eases me onto the bed and sits me down. My mind is a whir of noise and light and fear. I don't know where to begin.

“What happened?” Peter urges when I don't answer. “Is Harp okay?”

I nod. “Peter. We found the missing Raptured.”

For one uncomprehending moment, he just stares. But then he pulls away, quickly and forcefully, a look of surprise on his face like I've poked him with something sharp.

“What? How? Where?”

I tell him everything, keeping my voice low. I tell him about Edie and Joanna, about Amanda's plan for the demonstration. He reacts with uncharacteristic animation—leaping from the bed to pace in his bare feet, running his hands through his hair, making it stand on end. He opens his mouth to prompt me each time I pause; once or twice, he inhales sharply in anger. But he says nothing until I've finished, and then he waits only a moment before rushing to me, taking my face into his hands, and kissing me.

“What was that for?”

“Are you kidding?” He seems giddy. “We won. We won, Viv! There's no coming back from this for them. This is the end of the Church of America!”

I shudder. I don't want to hear him say it. Like making a wish on a birthday candle—if he says it out loud, it won't come true. He notices my discomfort and his grin fades. He sits beside me again, takes my hand into his.

“What is it, Viv? What's wrong?”

I shake my head. I don't want to say it. He just squeezes my hand, waiting.

“I don't know. I feel so empty. Like I should be happy that we know where these people went, that we'll be able to find some of them—most of them—alive. But . . .” My eyes spill over. “I just keep thinking—why did my dad get picked for Point Reyes? Why couldn't they have sent him somewhere else? Why do all these people get to be alive, but my dad doesn't? I mean, what's wrong with me?”

“That's a normal thing to feel, Viv,” Peter says gently. “I felt that way all the time after my mother died. I still do. I'll see a mom out with her kids and I'll think—why
you?
What makes you so great? It's not pretty, but it's human.”

I nod, unconvinced. “That's not the only thing that's bothering me. A friend of mine was killed tonight. Part of Winnie's group. We were on our way here, actually—only a few blocks away. He was shot. There was no saving him. I just . . . I've never seen someone die before. He was so scared. Even though we were right there with him—four of us, with our hands on him, talking to him, loving him—even with us there, he was alone. And my dad was alone too. There were other people there with him—but not us, not his family.” I can hardly speak now, I'm crying so hard. “He had to do it alone.”

I know if Peter pulls me to him, I'll stop talking; I'll simply cry. But he doesn't, and after a minute I'm so grateful. There's something about just sitting here, Peter's steady hold on my hand. It makes me feel like I'm getting stronger. After a few minutes, my eyes stop streaming; my voice no longer shakes. Only then, when I'm silent, does Peter move closer. He runs a hand through my hair.

“These things are awful, Viv. I'm sorry they happened.”

“But that's just the thing, isn't it? It isn't happening. It's being
done.
It wasn't a mistake. The Church knew what they were doing. The woman who killed Robbie knew what would happen when she pulled the trigger, and she did it anyway. And who knows—she might not have even been a Believer!” I close my eyes. “What proof do we have that taking down the Church will change anything? What if it isn't the Church making people act like this? What if this is just the way people are?”

“I don't know,” Peter admits. “There isn't proof. You just have to believe we're capable of better. Because the Church doesn't. They count on us being scared and weak; they count on us turning on each other. And some
do,
” he adds, seeing the protest in my face. “But there are millions and millions of people in this country, Viv. The people who scare you—Frick and my dad; the Angels; the Believers who killed Harp's brother; the woman who killed your friend—they're only the loudest. They've got access to screens and microphones, and they're counting on the rest of us keeping our heads low, because we're too afraid to fight back. But just because we're not as loud doesn't mean that we're alone.”