J. Mitchell - Midnight City

Survival dictated it.

The sounds of explosions rumbled through the night air again, like strange, reverberating thunder announcing the coming of a storm. It filled the space between the shadowy trees, rattled leaves in their branches. It sounded farther away now, though, which was a good thing.

“What are they up to?” Mira asked quietly, almost to herself. “Something’s had them jumpy for two days.”

“Three, actually,” Holt corrected her. “Some idiotic resistance group, probably. We’re not that far from Chicago, it’s probably the Blacksheep.”

“The Blacksheep Brigade has their hands full, they never leave the ruins,” Mira said. “And they’re not idiots, they’re good at what they do.”

“Which is what, exactly? Getting killed? You’re right, they’re great at that.” Holt made no effort to hide the contempt in his voice.

“They’re resisting,” Mira said firmly, “making a stand, you don’t respect that?”

Holt laughed. “Challenging the Assembly isn’t respectable, it’s suicidal. No one can beat them.”

“There’s always a way,” Mira said. “Always.”

Holt shook his head at the conviction in her voice. “Eight years since the invasion, if someone was going to pull it off, they’d have done it by now.” Holt rolled onto his back, stared up at the stars that he could see through the tree cover. “They crushed every military on the planet, subdued most of the population, all without lifting a finger. The only ones left to make your ‘stand’ are kids, most of them younger than us, and hardly any of them know anything about fighting. Not to mention we all seem more interested in killing each other than uniting and really facing them. The Tone takes more of us every day, and pretty soon, there’s not gonna be anyone left.”

“That’s easy for a Heedless to say,” Mira replied. “Someone who isn’t living with a ticking clock in their head, counting down the moments before they lose their mind.”

The words stung Holt, and his calm detachment melted away. He turned to the girl, could see her more clearly now in the dark. She was staring right at him.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” she went on, “to have the static inside your head, to have it growing and clouding everything. You don’t know the fear of hearing the voices… and listening to them slowly start to make sense. If you did you might be a little more motivated to find a solution rather than just hiding out here in the forest like a coward.”

Holt glared at her, felt the anger (and the old pain) form and course through him. “I know more about the Tone than you can imagine,” he said venomously. “I know more about it than anyone has a right to, trust me. This conversation’s done. We’ll get to Midnight City in three days, which means we’re going to move fast and hard. I suggest you get some sleep, unless you want to be dragged all the way there. I won’t have a problem doing it if I have to.”

Mira didn’t respond. He held her gaze until she finally looked away.

Satisfied, Holt rolled over. His hands trembled. He knew it would be a while before he could sleep. He wouldn’t let her see how much of an effect she’d had on him, though. He had to appear strong, in control.

He hated this anger, because it was always tied to the memories. They were harder to push away when he was angry.

To his right, Max whined slightly. He watched Holt with his big round eyes, tilting his head sideways as he did. Holt reached out and petted the dog, scratched his ears. Max was a good judge of Holt’s mood, and there was something about that that Holt liked. At least someone understood him.

When he withdrew his hand, the dog looked back to Mira, watching her like a hawk. Holt closed his eyes, trying to concentrate on the sound of the wind in the leaves and the chirping of crickets. If he could calm down, maybe he wouldn’t dream about her tonight….

A YOUNG HOLT, no more than twelve years old, exploded through the front door and out onto the lawn of the house they’d given his parents at Fort Connor. A quick glimpse of the living room clock as he ran past told him it was close to one in the morning.

Outside, the alert sirens were even more jarring. They were blaring all over the base, and he could see lights flickering on in windows up and down the street.

His sister, Emily, a tall brown-haired girl who was almost seventeen, stood with their father and mother at the edge of the house’s small lawn. His dad was already wearing his fatigues.

Holt saw more people filling the streets, struggling into their uniforms and clothes. Civilian wives and children, too, all coming to look, all confused.

When Holt reached Emily, she took his hand, put her finger to her lips, signaled him to be quiet.

His mother spoke with her soft voice, but it was shaky with a kind of nervousness Holt had never heard before. He didn’t like it.

A sound like rolling thunder reached them from far away. They looked toward the sound, past the buildings of Fort Connor to the skies above Denver. The sparkling lights of the buildings could be seen from the base. Masses of storm clouds had formed above the city… and they glowed in strange light. A dull reddish orange, almost like they were burning inside. Holt stared at them in wonder.

Everyone in the streets around Holt froze at the sight, listening to the long thunderlike rumblings wash over them. It wasn’t like any thunder Holt had ever heard.

His mother moved closer to his father, and he put his arm around her. Holt felt his sister’s grip on his hand tighten.

The glowing in the clouds grew, becoming brighter, the shades of red blooming vibrantly. The thunder rolling in from the city grew louder, too. Something was building; something was happening.

The clouds over Denver parted violently as a massive black shape exploded out of them.

Holt, Emily, and everyone else in the street gasped as it slammed straight into the heart of the city. An enormous fireball erupted where it hit, bellowing up into the night sky.

Seconds later… the sound of the impact hit them, a giant boom that shook the ground. People screamed; some fell to the street as if blown over. Emily moaned, her knees buckled. Holt held on to her tightly.

In the distance, the lights of Denver flickered once, twice… then went dark. Seconds later, so did the base, the lights up and down the street flashing out.

More sounds reached them, loud enough to carry over the distance. Pops and bangs, like firecrackers on the Fourth of July. But Holt knew they weren’t firecrackers.

The city itself could no longer be seen. Only bright flashes near where the ground must be… and yellow pinpoints of light that flared from the sky to the Earth like how his dad once described tracer fire from the war.

It seemed pretty clear. Denver was under attack. But… by what?

The realization broke the spell. The people all around Holt ran in a stampede either back into their houses or toward the barracks to gear up. Holt knew his father would go with them.

Holt’s mother had the same thought. She shook her head, gripped his shirt tight to keep him in place… to keep him with them. His father pulled her close, whispered into her ear. Holt couldn’t hear what he said, but his mother relaxed a little in his grip, shut her eyes.

Holt and his sister watched their father kneel down to them. Holt noticed how calm he seemed in spite of all that was happening, in spite of the panic in the street. It made him feel better, made him believe things would be okay. His father always made him feel that way.

He said he needed them to help their mother, to pack the car and get ready in case they had to leave. He asked if they thought they could do that.