Vivian Apple Needs a Miracle (27 page)

I assume the Angels will arrive shortly, to push for more information on Amanda. I try to think of a detail I can give them—small enough to keep Harp safe, big enough that they'll tell me what they've done with Peter. But hours go by and they never arrive. I don't know what time it is. The only light comes from a single overhead fluorescent. Could Amanda have gone ahead with the plan—has she confronted the Church with Joanna and the others? That would explain the absence of the Angels, but it also means my friends are out there putting themselves in danger.

I lie on the floor in a space somewhere between sleep and waking, and after a long time, I hear the turning of the lock. I wait for the door to open. When it does, I barrel ahead, slamming past the Peacemaker who stands there and into the wide, white hallway. I hesitate for half a second, trying to decide in which direction to run, but something heavy sweeps under me, tripping me, and I tumble to the floor.

“Why are you doing this?” asks a familiar voice, and when I look up I see Wilkins, the slightly less sadistic of my Chateau Marmont escorts, dragging me by my foot back into the room. “You're only going to make it harder on yourself when the time comes.”

“I don't give a shit,” I hiss, embarrassed at how easily I was stopped. “Masterson can do whatever he wants with me.”

Wilkins shakes his head, depositing me back on the cot; on his way out, he kicks in a metal tray with a small plate of peas, a couple of pieces of sandwich bread, a cup of water. He closes and locks the door, but I can still hear his muffled voice. “That's not what I'm talking about, child. I mean Judgment Day. Don't you
want
to be saved?”

Time passes this way—days, and then weeks. Every twelve hours, they open the door to slip me my pathetic meals, and every twelve hours, I try to escape. None of the Peacemakers are as sympathetic as Wilkins, and I begin to collect bruises all over my arms and ribs. After ten such attempts, the Peacemakers finally notice the pattern and enlist multiple guards to block the door, but not before one, enraged at having been made to chase me, gives me my first black eye. Still I keep trying. It's not as though I actually expect to make it past them. I'm weak, and every day I grow weaker. But I'm going crazy shut up in this room, cut off from Harp's voice and Peter's face and Winnie's faith in me. The longer I go without seeing them, the more they begin to feel like good dreams I'm trying hard not to forget.

Still, I know they're alive. At least once a day, one of the Angels appears to interrogate me. This is how I know they've yet to find Amanda's militia. And Mulvey lets it slip early on that Peter's okay, too—she shows me a video on her phone of his most recent press conference in front of the Chateau, in which he triumphantly announces my capture.

“Blessed be the Peacemakers for neutralizing the threat of this spiritual terrorist! May Believers worldwide no longer fear her wanton desires and shameless harlotry!”

His strain is obvious to me—his voice is shaky and the hair at his temples is dark and flat with sweat—but the gathered crowd cheers. In the video, Mulvey and Blackmore stand beside him, watching him carefully; they usher him away the second he finishes speaking. Mulvey gazes at her phone with satisfaction.

“See, Viv,” she says warmly, “your boyfriend is a team player. So why aren't you?”

I say nothing. I have a pretty good idea of how they manage to continue pulling Peter's strings—so long as I'm locked up here, he'll do what they tell him.

“If you could give us even the tiniest clue as to what Amanda Yee has planned,” she continues, “it would be such a help. Think of the lives you could save. Think of Harp! Masterson has big plans for her—he wants to put her talents on the national stage! Don't you want to support her in this amazing opportunity?”

“If I suggested to Harp that writing the new Book of Frick would be an amazing opportunity,” I say thoughtfully after a moment, “she'd projectile vomit in my face.”

Blackmore, meanwhile, seems convinced that I'm a secret Believer holding out for a guaranteed shot at eternal splendor. “Let's say you absolutely, without a doubt, have a place on the second boat—would you give us the address then? Okay, let's say you, your mom, your dad, any pets if you have them, Harp, Peter—the whole gang—how about now? These are very coveted spots, you know,” he says sternly when I don't reply, as if he's not talking entirely within the realm of make-believe. “The least you could do is say thank you.”

These two question me a half dozen times each, but I never see Masterson. Then one day when the door to my room opens, and I brace myself for my usual sprint into a sea of Peacemakers, he stands there alone. Masterson holds a vase full of bright yellow daisies and a plastic jug of water. I'm so shocked I can't move. He hands me the water and I sink onto my bed, gulping deeply from the jug. I watch Masterson set the flowers on the floor, fussing with them slightly, to best display the arrangement. Satisfied, he pulls over a chair from the corner and sits so we're knee to knee.

“How are you, Vivian? It's been a while. Do you know how long?”

I lower the jug of water and shake my head slowly, afraid of the answer.

“Three weeks.”

Masterson glances at his sleeve and picks at an invisible bit of lint, as though he doesn't want to see my horror. I had no idea I'd been locked in this room for three weeks. I pass a shaking hand in front of my eyes and wipe away the tears that pool there.

“I want to apologize for my colleagues,” he continues. “I know they've grilled you endlessly. Both seem baffled by their lack of success: ‘She's given us nothing! She's got a death wish!'” He shakes his head. “They can't make heads or tails of you. Mulvey doesn't understand why you reject the protection of the corporation, and Blackmore's too thick to recognize a true Non-Believer when he sees one. How insulted you must feel by them. I, on the other hand, think I understand you quite well. Your beliefs are impenetrable—not in a higher power, necessarily, but in the good of your friends and your cause. You're convinced of it. I doubt we could offer you anything that would move you to sell them out. I admire this quality, Vivian. I've no interest in pressing you for information any longer. To be honest,” he says, taking out his phone, “I've rather lost interest in the information itself.”

It takes me a moment to understand. “Sorry?”

Masterson looks up. “I have no interest in pursuing Miss Yee anymore. You're clearly unwilling to help, and there's no point in wasting time. Why should we? When they've shown themselves so willing—practically
eager
—to back down?”

“What are you talking about?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.

“Oh! That's right.” Masterson waves his hand around to indicate the bleak room. “No Internet! You haven't seen Miss Janda's latest post!”

He busies himself with his phone again, and I wait with teeth clenched. When he hands it to me, the browser is open on Harp's blog.

TRUTH TIME, MOTHERFUCKERS!

Well, I was going to have to come clean sooner or later, and with the second boat chugging merrily along to my door, I thought I might as well clear this up before things got out of hand:

THIS BLOG IS A WORK OF FICTION.

Your mind is blown, right? That's because of my deft story-weaving skills. Truth be told, I've always been a regular William Shakespeare or, like, the lady equivalent of Billy Shakes (who would that be? Beatrix Potter? Guys, I need to read more). Anyway, all of this—our madcap cross-country travels, Viv Apple and Peter Taggart's scintillating will-they-won't-they tension, and MOST IMPORTANTLY the claim that the Church of America faked the Rapture and killed/kidnapped thousands—is made up. I'm sorry! I have a wild imagination and a lot of free time now that the world is about to end. My BFF Vivian always told me it would backfire. “Harp,” she used to say, “don't you think the blessed Church won't take kindly to your EXTREMELY FICTIONAL TALES? Like the Book of Frick says, ‘Thou shalt not lie.'” Being a lot stupider and way more of a heathen than Vivian, I was like, “Surely they'll accept this wacky romp for the elaborate fantasy it is!” But now that I have more readers than ever before—two million hits just yesterday, you guys, wow!—it strikes me that maybe God's not looking too kindly upon my considerable storytelling skills. In fact, he's probably all, “Harp, give it a rest or I'll hit you with a lightning bolt.”

So this, dear reader, is my final post. Thanks for tolerating my tall tales, and I wish you luck and peace as the apocalypse draws near. Let's go indulge in a can of Christ Loops in penance for consuming these lies as entertainment. Most importantly of all: Vivian Harriet Apple, you were right! I should never have started this blog all on my own without any of your help. I hope before our days on earth end, you can find it in your heart to forgive me.

Frick bless you all,

Harp Janda, Liar

Confidential to VHA: Winnie says tell them whatever you need to tell them. No matter what, we love you and we choose you.

I wish the post said anything other than what it says. But as long as I stare at it, the words don't change, and soon they swim as my eyes fill with tears. I don't try to hide them from Masterson this time.

“It's a bit obvious, as far as bluffs go,” Masterson says delicately. “But I admire the effort. I suppose she thought if she publicly declared it to be a lie, we'd see no reason to keep you here. Her optimism is inspiring, but of course too little, too late. All I really take from it is that Amanda's army is afraid to make their next move if it means getting you hurt. Oh, don't cry, Vivian.” Masterson pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and holds it out, but I don't take it. When I look up, I see an expression of true pity on his face. “The revolution is dead, but look on the bright side—your friends are willing to lose the war to save you.”

He gets to his feet then, politely returning the chair to its spot against the wall. Before he reaches the door, I wipe my face with my sleeve.

“When are you going to kill me?” I ask. I can't take not knowing it any longer. “If I'm no use to you, if you've won already—why don't you just kill me?”

Masterson gives me a small, bracing smile before he leaves. “Patience, Vivian. In time, all good things will come.” He locks the door behind him.

I cry all night, screaming into the mattress; I cry until my eyes are red with heat. I'm scared for Peter. I miss Harp—I remember the way she squeezed my sprained hand on a hill in San Francisco, the promise she made to pull me out of the pain that threatened to swallow me. I cry because she's dug herself into a hole now, and I'm not there to take her hand. I think of Winnie. I think of my mother and my father, Wambaugh, Raj, Robbie—all of them lost to me in one way or another. I cry because it took me so long to become the person I've been these last few months—bold and angry and trying, despite the costs, to be truly good. I cry because I'm proud of this person, and look at how she ends: locked in the basement of an observatory in Los Angeles, never to see her friends or her family again.

The next morning, my head is splitting with a grief hangover when Wilkins arrives at my door. But he doesn't have a tray of food with him. He holds a pair of handcuffs.

“Come on,” he says, in his nervous way. “You have a visitor.”

I stand and let him cuff me, too tired and confused to question him. The Angels have never met me anywhere except this room before, but they're the only visitors I can imagine. I briefly indulge in a fantasy of someone, anyone, else—Harp in an absurd costume or Winnie with a gun; Peter in character as Church spokesman—but swat it away. It's physically painful to raise my own hopes this way. Wilkins leads me up a dark stairwell, through an open door leading to a stone deck outside, overlooking the city. I squint at the light, but the sun's not actually out—the sky is still the same dusty brown it was the day they brought me here. There's a faint, acrid smell of smoke in the air. Michelle Mulvey stands there, grinning at me.

“Vivian! You're looking so well!” She dismisses Wilkins and leads me to a long table laden with breakfast foods: green apples and plump grapes, croissants with three kinds of jam and a stick of butter, a plate of golden sausages still steaming. I'm so dazzled by the breakfast, by the aching brightness of the sky, by Mulvey's oddly friendly reception, that it takes me a moment to realize we're not alone. At the end of the table, a boy stands from his chair and shakes his curls out of his eyes. He smiles his brilliant white smile at me.

Dylan Marx reaches out to shake my cuffed hand. “So nice to meet you—Vivian, was it? Michelle's told me a lot about you.”

I glance at Mulvey and she beams encouragingly.

“Hi . . . ?” I hope my confusion will be interpreted as shyness. I stare at him. My heart pounds violently in my excitement—
I'm going to get out of here; I'm going to be okay!
Dylan just smiles. After a long moment, he looks at Mulvey.

“Oh!” she exclaims. “I'm going to run inside—lots to do, lots to do. But why don't you two make yourselves comfortable? I'll be back in a bit.”

She skips to the door. In a loud, false voice, Dylan says, “So I hear you're from Pittsburgh? That's so funny—I am too! What neighborhood?”

We hear the door slam behind her. Dylan's grin fades. “Shhhh!” he hisses before I can speak. He pauses by the door Mulvey has just left through, scanning the windows. Satisfied, he returns to the table and pulls out a chair for me. “Jesus, Apple, you look like
shit.
Are they not feeding you? Eat something; I don't know how long we have. Is that a black eye?”

Dylan sits beside me; he throws sausages and croissants on my plate; he slices me an apple. I touch the puffy skin around my eye—I'd almost forgotten about the bruises on my face. I take a voracious bite of sausage and feel warmed to my toes.