Jeremy Robinson - SecondWorld

Arwen coughed. “I’m sleepy.”

“Try to stay awake.”

The girl propped her eyes wide open, but the effort was short-lived. Her eyelids slid down to a tired squint.

Miller moved to touch her arm, but the sight of a body in the road snapped his hand back to the wheel as he yanked it to the left. The car jolted as they swerved one way, and then the other, nearly careening into the center guardrail.

“Sorry,” Miller said, but was secretly glad to see the maneuver had woken the girl again.

“What’s wrong with the sky?” she asked.

He looked up and saw an endless sea of red flakes. “What do you mean?”

“It’s blue.”

Miller looked again. Was Arwen hallucinating?

“Not up there.” Arwen pointed straight out the windshield. “Out there.”

Miller looked straight ahead. The change had been so subtle that he hadn’t noticed the growing streak of blue at the horizon. A blue sky lay ahead. And with it, the promise of breathable air. If he could, Miller would have pushed the accelerator farther down, but it was already pinned to the floor.

“We’re going to make it,” he said, turning to Arwen, but the girl had slumped to the side, her eyes closed.

He stared at her neck, looking for a pulse, and saw a gentle twitch just beneath her skin. But it was faint.

With a suddenness that made his stomach churn, Miller felt as though he’d just spun in circles. The world shifted around him. He kept his arms rigid, maintaining a straight trajectory. He took several deep breaths. His vision cleared slightly, but he knew those three breaths had taken much of what little oxygen was left in the vehicle—oxygen that Arwen needed as much as he did.

The blue sky grew larger before them, expanding fast as they approached the border of the red storm.

As each breath became a wheeze, Miller knew the oxygen tank was empty. His vision became a blur, but he could see the blue sky was nearly above them now. Another minute, maybe, and they’d be clear.

That’s when the car’s battery died. As the car slowed from 120 miles per hour to zero, it carried them closer to the blue sky, but stopped just short. While fighting the now-familiar sensations of the onset of asphyxiation, Miller stumbled out of the car and ran to the other side. He fumbled with Arwen’s seat belt, but got it free and scooped the still form up.

He ran toward the blurry blue sky ahead of them. His legs shook from the effort. Sweat poured down his shirtless torso and red flakes clung to his skin. Through his waning vision, Miller saw two things ahead of him.

The blue, blue sky.

And a wall, atop of which stood a line of armed men wearing identical rebreathers.

“No,” he whispered.

The men were moving now. Rushing toward him. Weapons raised.

“No,” he whispered, and then fell to his knees. He placed Arwen down on the pavement and placed his body over hers.

“I’m sorry,” he said with the last of his breath before falling to his side. Miller blinked at the red sky above and rolled his head northward. The blue sky was so close. Black military boots charged toward him. Loud voices shouted. His vision faded. The last thing he saw was the side of Arwen’s neck. He fought against unconsciousness as he waited for the twitch of her pulse.

When none came, Miller closed his eyes and gave in to death.

“Is he awake?”

“Not yet.”

“Keep an eye on him.”

Miller listened to the conversation with his eyes closed. He’d woken thirty seconds previous and attempted to determine his situation without opening his eyes. The sounds around him—feet walking in a hallway, the beep of a heart monitor, and a distant television—combined with the smell of antiseptic, told him he was in a hospital. Normally, this would be a good thing considering he was certain he’d died. But the line of men he saw before losing consciousness wore gear similar to that of the Miami gang and the highway sniper. He was alive, but was he also a captive?

When he heard the door close, he chanced a look. A lanky man stood at the door. His hair was blond and cropped close. Miller closed his eyes as the man turned toward him. He heard the man’s footsteps round the bed and peeked again. The man’s face was serious, his blue eyes intense. He wore a partially unbuttoned white shirt—sleeves rolled up. A 9mm Sig Sauer handgun hung on his hip. Miller sensed the man was dangerous, but he’d yet to see evidence that the man was his enemy.

Miller closed his eyes and pondered the notion for just a moment. That’s when he realized the man wasn’t wearing a rebreather. He breathed freely. And Miller wasn’t wearing a mask either! He took a long slow breath, doing his damndest to not show a smile. The air was far from fresh, tinged with chemicals and detergents, but it smelled far better than his breath trapped within the confines of a plastic mask.

Feeling his strength return, Miller took stock of his body. A dull pain pulsed through most of his limbs, but felt sharp on his wounded shoulder. He could tell by the tightness of his skin that the gash had been stitched. A mild headache behind his eyes was bearable. Otherwise he just felt exhausted.

Through squinted eyes, Miller saw the blond man look out the window. He quickly searched the room. It was an average hospital room. Nothing special. The man’s suit jacket hung from a chair. No balloons. No flowers. No get-well-soon card.

No Arwen.

A sense of urgency took hold. His muscles tensed. And without a second thought, he acted.

Miller sat up fast, happy to find himself not strapped down to the bed. He yanked the IV from his arm and jumped to his feet.

The man guarding him heard the movement and turned. For a moment he looked surprised to see Miller barreling toward him, but he quickly adopted a more menacing posture. For all the good it did him. The man reached out and started to say something, but Miller couldn’t hear the words over the blood rushing past his ears. He took hold of the man’s wrist, twisted it behind his back, and slammed him against the large window. The man’s head struck the window with a loud bong. A moment later, Miller had the man’s handgun pressed against the side of his head.

The man groaned, trying to turn in the direction of his twisted arm to reduce the pressure.

“Where’s Arwen?” Miller said, his voice something like a lion’s growl.

“Who?”

Miller tightened his grip. The man’s voice had a slight Southern twang. Combined with the blond crew cut and blue eyes, that was damn near strike three.

The man gritted his teeth.

“Arwen. Little blond girl.”

“Covered in burns?”

“That’s her.”

“I’m not sure, she—”

Miller pushed the gun hard into the man’s temple.

“I’m FBI!” the man shouted. “My badge is in my left pocket.”

Miller considered this. Was it possible? Had they really escaped that pink hell?

“I’d have to let go of your arm to check the pocket,” Miller said.

“You’d still have a gun to my head.”

He had a point, and by now the man understood that if Miller wanted to kill him, he could. He released the man’s arm and slowly reached into his pocket. A moment later he was looking at a photo ID badge that matched the man’s face and read ROGER BRODEUR.

“This could be fake,” Miller said, stepping back, but keeping the gun raised. “How do I know you’re not one of them?”

“Have you looked out the window?” Brodeur said while rubbing his arm.

Miller turned his focus away from Brodeur and looked out the window. The first thing he saw was blue sky—an endless blue sky. He felt some of the tension in his chest fade. Then he saw the Capitol building far in the distance. “We’re in D.C.?”