"Who in the world . . ." Tack was leaning farther out than I liked, legs wrapped around a quivering limb as he snapped pics on his phone. I doubted he could get a decent shot from this distance. "See those big rigs?" He pointed to a pair of eighteen-wheel trucks rolling along in the center of the formation. "What's that painted on their sides?"
Squinting, I could barely make it out in the darkness. "Looks like . . . black triangles. Maybe a starburst? I can't see from here."
Tack sat back and zoomed the images. "These jokers have to be military, but I've never seen that unit marking before. Which is kinda nuts, because I'm good with this stuff."
I trusted him. Tack's father had been Special Forces before being discharged for an incident in Afghanistan. We never talked about it, but, judging from the look on Mom's face whenever the subject came up, it hadn't been an honorable end to his service.
The motorcade snaked through town-never pausing, despite quite a few gawkers and drunken catcalls-exiting the opposite end and swinging onto Old Fort Run, a little-used dirt road that dead-ended on the eastern side of the valley.
"Oh, wow!" Tack glanced at me. "Only one thing over there."
"Yep." I watched the formation slip from the village lights. "Supposedly nothing."
Like everyone else in Fire Lake, I'd heard rumors about the government land. An old internment camp. A defunct nuclear testing facility. Training grounds for Seal Team Six. Plenty of speculation. But the property had been abandoned since before I was born, with only a chain-link fence and a few warning signs. KEEP OUT.
We watched the convoy disappear into those woods. When it failed to emerge over the next few minutes, the answer was clear.
Tack slapped his leg. "Something's up. That's never happened before."
"Maybe it has. It's late. What if they always move around at night?"
Tack shook his head firmly. "I'd have heard. My dad wouldn't have missed something like this, I'm sure of it."
I held my tongue. Though an ace mechanic, Wendell Russo wasn't considered "reliable" by most in town, unless you were Mr. Kappel at the liquor store. But despite the rough treatment he received at his father's hands, Tack revered his old man.
"Let's head home." Tack was suddenly energized. "My phone isn't getting a signal, and I want to Google that symbol. What do you think is back there, anyway? Looked like a lot of soldiers in those trucks. Where are they all going to sleep?"
Tack dropped to a lower branch, then stopped short, peering back up at me. "Wait, did you want to say something earlier?"
I took a breath. Shifted so he couldn't see my face. "No. I'm good."
• • •
An hour later, I was alone in my bedroom. Mom was already asleep.
When Tack had finally been able to connect, image searches had turned up nothing. Which he couldn't believe. I could sense an obsession forming in his mind, but this time I was just as curious.
Something didn't smell right.
The timing.
An unidentifiable military unit arriving in our sleepy valley on the same night the Anvil news went public? I don't like coincidences, and that felt like a big one.
But to what end? The Anvil will miss, so why does it matter?
I slipped into an old tee and boy shorts. Drank a glass of water. Brushed my teeth and washed my face. Then I saw it. There, on my nightstand.
The little blue pills.
I'd taken one every day for the last six years.
I stared at the bottle. Then I walked to the bathroom and turned it upside down over the toilet. Flushed. I trashed the container and hopped into bed.
Dr. Lowell.
He'd fed me a story of delusions and disorders.
But I saw a footprint.
Weighing courses of action, I settled on a plan.
Dr. Lowell must keep records. About me. About my treatment.
I was going to find them.
9
My back presses against a row of lime-green lockers.
Two men in uniforms stride by, their tightly laced boots drumming the yellow-and-white checkerboard floor.
Mrs. Thompson squeezes my shoulder. Says soothing words, but I barely hear. What are they doing in our school? Why are all the teachers wearing those big, fake smiles that mean something's wrong?
Principal Myers hobbles by, frowning at nothing. He's not pretending like the others. I know that's bad. Adults always pretend if they can.
Mrs. Thompson gathers the kindergarten class together. I stand next to Thomas and we lock our fingers. Noah edges close on my other side. He's breathing hard, eyes round as dinner plates. I take his hand, too. I don't want him to be scared either.
He seems surprised. We haven't spoken since our class party yesterday, when he couldn't blow out his half of the candles and I had to finish them. But he doesn't let go.
"Remember what we talked about, children," Mrs. Thompson says. "Some unhealthy chemicals were spilled nearby, on the other side of the valley. Things that would make us sick. And we don't want that, do we?"
We shake our heads like tiny robots.
"That's right. So some nice people are here from . . . from . . ." Her eyes tighten before she continues, "-from the government, and they're going to give us very special medicine to make sure that doesn't happen."
A hand goes up. Toby. "My daddy said someone spilled pesticides over by Rock Creek," he whispers, wide-eyed, "and we're all gonna get cancer, and that it's the president's fault."
Mrs. Thompson makes her patient face. "No one's getting cancer, Toby, and the president has nothing to do with this." She shifts to address the entire group. "Something called a pathogen was accidentally released into the environment. Now, does everyone remember talking about germs last week? Why we wash our hands before we eat?"
Solemn nods.
"Well, a pathogen is a really bad germ. This particular one is experimental, which means it's still being tested to make sure it's safe."
"Safe for what?" Thomas asks, never one to raise his hand.
"To use on the crops we eat, to keep bugs away." She runs a fluttery hand through her hair. "But it could be harmful to people, so we have to take extra-special care to make sure no one gets sick."
Toby nods. "Cancer. Like my grandpap."
Noah squeezes my hand tighter. His palm is sweaty, but I don't let go.
Mrs. Thompson releases a sigh. "Not cancer, Toby. I really wish you'd stop saying that."
Two women in white lab coats hurry past us. Both have surgical masks covering their faces. Mrs. Thompson watches them all the way down the hallway.
"Why don't we get masks?" Thomas asks.
"We obviously don't need them," Mrs. Thompson replies cheerily, but sharper than before. Then a voice rings out, making everyone jump.
"Kindergarten!"
A man with a notebook is striding down the corridor. White coat. Mask. White paper cap on his head. "Follow me," he orders. Not nice.
Mrs. Thompson glares at him, but he doesn't react. She turns back to face us. "Everyone have a buddy? Okay, good. Stay in line and follow me, please." She sets off down the hall without another glance at the man with the notebook.
Thomas gets caught in the shuffle and ends up stuck next to Jessica. Noah and I are still holding hands. "Be my buddy?" he asks in a shaky voice.
"Okay." I don't usually play with Noah, but I can tell he's afraid. I won't ditch him now. Thomas sulks at the back of the line. I mouth him a quick "Sorry."
We troop down the hallway, heading for the double doors to the gymnasium. The man with the notebook asks us to stop and wait. As he slips inside, my eyes drift down the corridor. A door has been wedged open. I can see inside, all the way to the principal's office.
People are gathered. Principal Myers, of course. And the big mustache-wearing man is Sheriff Watson-I recognize him from the sign on my neighbor's lawn. Two other men in suits are standing beside the desk. They're all looking at something rolled open on its surface, faces super-serious.
Principal Myers straightens, points directly at one of the unknown men.
"You don't know, do you? About any of this! You don't know a damn thing!"
I jump in surprise. The movement catches his eye. Seeing me watching, Myers growls like a grizzly bear. "For God's sake!"
My eyes dart away, but it's too late. Myers barks something else, and the door slams shut.
My stomach does a flip. I could get in trouble.
Noah is staring at me, his face pale. Did he see, too?
Before I can ask, a gym door swings open. "Enter, please," Notebook Man instructs. It seems like the rest of the school is already in there. Older kids exit on the left, grumbling and rubbing their shoulders.
"Oh no, it's a shot!" Toby moans. A spike of fear travels the group.
Noah squeezes my hand. I squeeze back.
Mrs. Thompson doesn't respond, which all but assures it's true. We reluctantly follow her to a folding table, where a stern-faced woman with thick glasses sits. Eight white tents have been erected on the basketball court. First graders trickle out slowly from them, massaging their upper arms.
"Needles," Mike and Chris hiss in unison, our worst nightmare confirmed.