“I’m sorry, R,” Nora says.
I nod.
“They were just too far gone.”
I nod.
“One thing you learn as a nurse: you’ve got to let the gone ones go so you can save the ones that are still here.”
Julie buries her chin in her knees. Her eyes are damp.
M is leaning in the doorway, reluctant to intrude. “Didn’t kill all of them,” he offers with a shrug.
“Yeah,” Nora says with an optimistic lilt. “A few dozen, maybe, but there were hundreds.” She elbows me. “You saved hundreds of people, R.”
Another nod is the only response I can manage. Our friends have no idea how many fights are inside us. They can’t hear our silent shouting.
M sighs and comes inside. He settles down next to Nora, leaving a few polite feet between them. Abram appears in the doorway behind him and pauses to take in the scene: a Dead woman in the middle of the room and the four of us lined up in front of her like an intervention. But he has no wry comments for us. His expression is remote.
“We’re heading south,” he says. “Just wanted to let you know so you don’t shoot me when you see the ocean.”
We all glance at Julie for her reaction, but she doesn’t seem to be listening.
“Iceland’s not south,” Nora says.
“We can’t go through New York. Axiom has defenses all over the state. We need to go around.”
“That’s a big detour. Do we have enough fuel?”
“I’ll cut around Long Island as close as I can, then up toward Boston and—”
“Do it,” Julie mumbles into her knees. “Whatever you need to do, do it. Just get us off this insane continent.”
Abram nods. Julie notices us all looking at her and she straightens, resting the back of her head against the window. “Maybe we can come back someday with an Icelandic army and save everyone. Ella. David and Marie . . . even Evan if you want, Nora. But for now . . . it’s like you said, right?” Her voice is an exhausted sigh spiked with bitterness. “Let the gone ones go.”
I can feel the turmoil in everyone, but it’s hard to argue anymore. We’ve traveled the country and found death in every corner. We’ve searched for resistance and found comfortable slaves. We have grand ideas but no way to share them, because the world has plugged its ears, wrapped itself in a blanket of radio silence, and ordered everyone into bomb shelters to wait for death in the dark.
So it seems we’ll say good-bye to our country. To our continent. To everything and everyone we’ve known. We’ll let our cities burn in fanaticism and drown in oppression, leave our homes half-built to be ruined by rain and rats. We will pile all our memories onto this vast barge of land and we will watch the whole mess sink.
As I sit contemplating this, an unfamiliar voice interrupts my thoughts.
“New,” Audrey says.
Julie jumps to her feet. She flattens against the wall, eyes as wide as they can go. Her mother is looking at her. Not just allowing her glassy stare to drift across her but looking at her.
“What?” Julie says in a trembling whisper.
“N-new . . . Y-york.”
Julie blinks away a tear. “Mom?”
Audrey looks around the cabin. She makes brief eye contact with each of us. Then she slumps over and stares at the floor, wheezing softly.
“Audrey?” Julie drops to her knees in front of her mother, clutching the air as she resists the urge to touch her. “Audrey Arnaldsdóttir?” She risks a quick caress of her mother’s cold cheek, a quick smile through the tears. “Do you . . . do you remember me, Mom? Your daughter? Julie?”
Audrey releases a low groan and continues to examine the carpet.
“Doesn’t happen that fast,” M grunts.
Julie’s eyes dart toward him, instinctively igniting into anger, but he continues.
“Small stuff comes first. Places. Things. It’s a while before we can handle . . . people.”
“But . . . it’s her, right?” Julie says. “She’s remembering where she lived?”
M shrugs. “First thing that came back to me . . . Cream of Wheat cereal. Next thing . . . apartment in Seattle.”
For the first time since the blood-soaked day they met, Julie smiles at M.
“It was just parroting,” Abram says. His arms are folded, his posture skeptical, but his slightly widened eyes betray him. “I said ‘New York’ and it said it back. They do that sometimes.”
“Brook . . . lyn,” Audrey sighs at the floor.
Abram’s eyes widen further.
“Mom,” Julie says, shaking her head in giddy disbelief. “Mom, are you there? Do you remember?” She leans close and grabs Audrey’s shoulders, trying to make eye contact. “You met Dad on a flight. John Grigio. You fell in love. You moved to Brooklyn. You performed your poems at his band’s shows and worked at the library and signed up for every local play you could find.”
“Easy,” M says under his breath. “Too much at once . . . not good.”