Alex sits on the floor of a sunlit room. Shadows from the walls pattern the browns and reds of the throw rug on which she is sitting. Dust floats in the late afternoon glow from the window. A faded red rubber ball bounces once, and she scoops the six-pointed jacks into the pocket of her left hand on the floor. The trick is to scoop them two at a time into the hand-pocket and catch the ball before it bounces again. Hand-eye coordination. And concentration. The ball bounces on the wood floor. She sweeps the jacks into the hand-house and then easily catches the ball.

Her mother sits, watching her. Alex does not think this strange. Things like this happen in dreams. Her mother is the same age as the photo on her father’s desk, about thirty. She wears tan slacks and a pale blue blouse. Her left arm rests on the back of the couch, the right in her lap. She smiles the radiant yet enigmatic smile of the photograph. Her short brown hair hangs folded neatly back above her ears, resting just at the shoulders.

Alex tosses the ball up, and two more jacks enter their cave.

“Alex.” Her mother’s voice is soft and low, caressing her name like a hug.

She looks up.

Her mother lowers her left hand and pats the couch next to her.

“Come sit by me.”

Alex gathers the remaining jacks into a pile and mounts the ball on them so it won’t roll away. She stands and faces the couch.

Standing, she is as tall as her mother’s sitting shoulders. If she could hear her own voice, she might know her age. But so far she hasn’t said a word.

She sits. Her mother rests her hand lightly on her shoulder.

“Watch,” she says.

The room darkens. Something like a television occupies the opposite wall of the living room. Yet it is not the plump, boxy piece of furniture that would seem to belong in the room; it is a flat white screen on a tripod. Colored flashes of light flick vertically over the surface. Alex expects the numbers “3-2-1” to flash by on clock-faced symbols, as she has seen in archive films.

The picture steadies into a faded and grainy scene. A solemn-faced boy sits on a backyard swing. A woman with a calf-length dress and white pointed shoes pushes him. The camera follows the boy’s face as it moves forward and swings back with him as he moves back. The woman’s face is out of view but her hand again reaches out and pushes the boy. His expression breaks into a grin.

She can hear the repeated clicks of film moving through a projector, but there is no projector in the living room.

The boy’s silent lips say: “Higher! Higher!”

The swing arcs out further, and the sun’s glare blots out the boy at the top of his swing. Back and forth, the camera traces him. He is now leaning back almost horizontal, his mouth wide open, and toes pointed to the blinding sunlight.

Alex looks questioningly at her mother. Who is it?

She lightly touches her lips and points to the screen.

Now the boy is older, perhaps ten. He is stocky, freckled, dressed in a baseball player’s uniform. He stands at the plate in front of a screen, behind which are stands filled with animated adults. Some yell silently, others bend forward, some crane their necks. The camera briefly picks out a woman in the stands. She has short brunette hair and holds her hands cupped to her mouth.

His mother, Alex thinks. The one who was pushing him in the swing.

In a single motion, the boy at the plate swings his left leg back as he raises the bat from his shoulder. There is a horizontal blur. Alex can almost hear the crack as the wood smacks the rawhide ball. The scene explodes. The adults leap to their feet. The boy stands a moment, transfixed, then drops the bat and pumps both hands in the air. He leaps off to the right, heading for first base, and the camera tags after him like a slightly dazed dog. The fielders are all looking back toward right field. The boy, his arms still pumping, rounds second base, and his teammates rush out to greet him.

Home run!

Now the freckle-faced boy is a young man. He wears a mortarboard hat with the tassel tossed off to the side. He is dressed in a long graduation robe. His mother, now wearing glasses and some extra weight, stands to his right, motioning to the camera: Come on! Come on!

The picture jostles up and down. The camera is being handed to the assistant. A middle-aged balding man runs to the couple, jacket tails flapping. He stands to the left of the boy and turns to face the camera. Undoubtedly, these are father and son: same light complexion, freckled face, and broad toothy smile. The camera shakes itself into a steady position. The woman leans over and plops a wet kiss on her son’s cheek. He blushes and mops at it with his hand as his mother slaps his arm away. He turns to his father, and they embrace. The camera slowly pans in on them. They turn back and smile. Both parents are crying, and the boy still tries to wipe the lipstick from his right cheek.

The picture is darker now, taken in dim light. At first, all she can see are the outlines of faces against a dim sky. It is raining. The camera has a limited light-adjustment, and when the sky is gone, she sees men lined up at a bus stop. They are all in uniform. The camera searches the group and finds one as a figure breaks away from the side and rushes to him. His back is turned, but when he sees the figure, he reaches out to her, and the camera follows. It is the young man. He is dressed in a camouflage uniform. He has a rifle over his shoulder and a pack on his back. The woman grabs him fiercely, and he bends over. As they kiss, his rifle slips from his shoulder, and he has to pull it to his back with his right hand. The picture rushes past him and points aimlessly at the men in the parking lot, then at the sky. It shakes almost audibly with the sobs of the three people embracing.

For long moments, the camera shows the dark, raining sky, and blotches splatter the lens like tears.

When the camera refocuses, the man and the boy are facing each other. The boy looks down, thumb hooked on the sling of his rifle. He shifts uncomfortably. Then his left foot slides back, just as it did when he hit his home run, and he grasps his father with both arms as his rifle slips back down his shoulder. They hold each other a long moment.

There is a movement in the crowd. They straighten and begin to align themselves. In the background, men shout and motion toward the buses.

The picture goes dark.

Alex sits silently next to her mother. The sad yellow light from the window has faded to dusk.

“His name was Harold Conant.”

Alex looks at her. She is afraid. Her mother’s steel-blue eyes, usually so soft and loving, are now hard, looking at her, into her, searching for something – looking for something Alex is afraid is not there, or for something she is afraid may be there.

“Look.”

Alex glances back at the screen.

The grainy picture is gone. The faded color, the far-away and long-ago look is gone. The picture is as clear as if it were happening in the living room.

The young man in the camouflage uniform is standing with a group looking down at her team. His officer speaks in the distance. Then two soldiers move forward. One holds a small case, the other a strange helmet or mask. They approach a young woman.

There is an audible gasp. Someone says, “Look!”

Within the surrounded team’s perimeter, a thin, pale man in civilian clothes slashes open his own throat. Blood erupts onto his neck and chest, his face, his clothing, splatters onto the pavement. He collapses on the ground.

He hears a low-pitched growl, and the air turns red and hot. A searing white-hot flash of light blasts into and through him. He throws up his arm involuntarily and sees his uniform flash into flame and his skin and bones melt. His retinas burn to ashes and only a melted fragment of his rifle falls to the ground.

NO! Alex tries to shout.

“That is what you did, Alex.”

NO!

“And there were so many others.”

NO!

“Wake up!”

Nicole’s voice and the firm grip shaking her shoulders tore Alex from the dream. Her vision was blurry as she opened her eyes. She was crying. Tears streamed down her cheeks. She rubbed at her eyes, and the world became clear.

Nicole stood above her. She dropped her hands from Alex’s shoulders and knelt at the side of the bed. They were alone in the trailer. Nicole had shown up a few minutes after midnight just as Alex was stepping out of the shower. Narrow beams of artificial light filtered through the slats in the window above the bed, giving the room a soft illumination. Alex’s equipment sat piled close to the door, and her uniform lay draped over the back of a chair. Nicole had been on the floor, sleeping on a foam mat. Her sniper rifle stood propped on its bipod a few feet away, and a handgun lay within easy reach.

Outside, the wind threw sheets of snow against the Airstream’s rounded frame. She could barely see the team’s tent beyond the window. Visibility was low even with the construction lights throughout the camp. Yet despite the snowstorm outside, the inside of the trailer was warm.

“You were screaming,” Nicole said.

Alex again wiped at her eyes, trying to stifle the flow of tears. She sat and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” she said with a sniffle.

“Don’t worry about me. Are you okay?”

“I’m sorry.”

“I said don’t—”

“I lied to you. About Kansas City.”

“I knew it!” Nicole exclaimed.

Alex straightened, surprised by Nicole’s reaction. “What?”

“Why you looked like shit when you got off that bird!” Nicole giggled and then sprang up and sat next to Alex on the bed. She put her arm around Alex’s shoulder and pulled her into her bony side. “They told us some kind of bomb went off. Didn’t say whose, just that the situation became confused… unstable. But I knew better!”

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

Now Alex was confused. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“It wasn’t a bomb! It wasn’t some secret weapon. It was you-go-girl!”

“It was… what?”

“It was you, you crazy ‘kinetic! You wiped Kansas City and all those NEA assholes off the face of the earth!”

Alex’s eyes widened, and she turned to see Nicole’s face just inches away, still staring at her with bright intensity.

“When I saw you, I knew you had been in some awful stuff. Really awful. You burned yourself up in Kansas City. I had… an intuition when I heard the official BS. But I didn’t believe it until I saw you. Now I know!”

Alex shook her head and looked around the cramped trailer: the curved walls, the snow falling outside, Nicole’s rifle resting on the floor. She was trapped. Perhaps, she felt, by the truth of what Nicole had just said. She shut her eyes and lowered her head into her hands.

No! she tried to convince herself. It wasn’t me!

She felt something against the side of her temple. It was Nicole’s finger, brushing aside her hair just above her ear. Before she could open her eyes to look, the darkness began to swirl into a whirlpool of grey, red, and green. Then Kansas City replaced the inside of the trailer.

Alex is confused and frightened, an animal caught in a trap. The others are putting down their weapons. In the glare, noise, and confusion, a young officer walks toward her with a black box in his hand. Then Ellzey says, “Make sure you do it right.” Alex turns to see the pale young man with eyes the color of a hazy spring sky. He is looking directly at her, smiling with fanatical religious adoration. Something in his right hand flashes in the lights, rips across his throat from left to right, and a ribbon of red erupts from the dark line on his neck, pulsating first dark violet then bright red blood. He falls to his knees, his crazy adoring smile still on his lips, but his eyes are the color of night. He crumples to the pavement, and blood mats his straw-colored hair as it spreads into a halo around his head.

His blood, bright red and violet, is now in her vision and blocking everything else. It descends in a curtain, and the lights, sounds, soldiers, and vehicles fade into voices, whispering in her ear. They are speaking a language she does not understand and yet she can hear them softly crying, urging, clutching at her until stabbing light tears into her vision.

She screams.

The radiance dissolves. Kansas City is gone. In its place is warmth, a feeling of familiarity, of comfort. She is in bed, but not her bed at Peterson or Cheyenne Mountain. There is a window. The blinds are closed, but dim light – the early morning rays of the sun – enters from outside. Birds chirp beyond the window. And there is an even more unfamiliar sound: cars passing by in the street below. This is her room. It is the room that sometimes comes back in dreams and hazy memories. The door opens with a mild creak. Soft footsteps enter.

“Alexandra?” Her father. Something is wrong. The single word, her name, always spoken with so much care and love, sounds full of sorrow and heartbreak. “Are you awake?”

“Daddy?” She is young, still a little girl. Her father approaches and kneels at the side of her bed. His eyes are wet with tears. “What’s wrong?”

“Your mother. She… I’m so sorry. She’s…” His face is a mixture of emotions. Sadness and grief. But he is trying to keep strong and maintain his composure. It doesn’t work. He lets out a sob and buries his face in his hands. She sits and puts her small arms around his trembling shoulders. She knows what has happened even if her father cannot bring himself to say it. Together, they cry. And the room darkens.

Alex found herself again sitting up in bed. Not her room from so long ago, and her face no longer against her father’s shoulder. Instead, her gaze locked with Nicole, with those intense eyes, one the color of amber and the other of emeralds.

“W-What…?” The disorientation went away quickly. Immediately, she knew what had happened.

Nicole released her grip. The bounce seemed to have gone out of her. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“You promised…”

“I figured this way would be easier for you. I-I didn’t… I’m sorry.”

Alex stared down at the sheets. Her eyes and cheeks were still wet but the tears had stopped. “Just don’t do it again.”

Nicole got up from the bed and retrieved a nearby chair. She reversed it, perched her lithe form on the seat, and then folded her arms over the chair back and rested her chin on them. Alex found genuine remorse in Nicole’s guilty expression. The link had only happened twice before during their first meeting six years earlier and then much later after one of the team’s grueling winter training missions. The first had been a jumble of images, but the second was more focused, showing the mission itself, forcing Alex to again experience the biting cold and the tear-inducing pain in her feet and shoulders from the long cross-country march in full combat gear. And there had been another memory from before the outbreaks. A memory of her mother, the night before her death, as Alex and her father stood quietly at the hospital bedside. That time, she had come out of the vision in tears, unable to stop crying or shaking even as her mind told her everything was okay. Nicole had promised never to do it again.

But maybe this was easier. How would you have explained it? How could you even put into words what happened?

Nicole spoke in a timid voice, “From the looks of things… I guess I really did miss out. Wish I had been there. We could have kicked some ass together.” Nicole smiled. Alex supposed it was the best comfort her friend could offer. It was more than she ever offered to anyone else.

“What if it was me. What if it was me that killed everyone? Not just the NEA, but our people, too.”

“It didn’t feel like you were in control.”

“I… I don’t know. At first, I wasn’t. But after the first few people… I don’t think I wanted it to stop.”

Alex looked up and found a trace of a smile on Nicole’s face. “When Ellzey pulled you out of Kansas City, where did he take you?”

“You wouldn’t believe—”

“Was it the Reagan?”

“You know about it?”

“Sure,” Nicole said, casually. “You talked to the Committee?”

Alex nodded, realizing she somehow wasn’t surprised Nicole knew about the USS Ronald Reagan.

“And what did they say? About you and Kansas City.”

“Ellzey said I killed everyone. The Committee’s chairman didn’t seem to care. He just said I would be okay, that they didn’t blame me for what happened.”

“Well, there you go. You’re all worked up over nothing. The Committee must have thought it was worth sacrificing Kansas City to stop the NEA. I’d say they had it all planned if Ellzey was there with one of those cultists.”

“Cultists?” She had heard the term before but couldn’t remember where.

“Nothing. Just stop worrying and get some sleep. And try not to wake me up this time. I haven’t slept anywhere this comfortable for weeks. I want to enjoy it.”

Alex felt disconcerted. She hadn’t known how Nicole would react to finding out the truth about the destruction of Kansas City and the deaths of so many soldiers. Of all the possibilities, indifference wasn’t one she had considered. For all Nicole and the Committee seemed to care, the city and the men and women fighting for it were all only pieces on a chessboard, pawns at most, their losses barely felt. Maybe she’s right. The Committee knows best, and no one blames you for what happened, not the team, not Nicole, not Shepherd. Do they?

But then another voice came, her mother, speaking the same words from the dream: This is what you did, Alex. And there were so many others.

Nicole returned to her sleeping mat, sat cross-legged on the floor, and looked up at Alex. “You going to be all right?”

“Was I really screaming?”

“You probably woke up your boyfriend next door.”

“It was a nightmare.” Alex wanted to tell Nicole about the dream and explain everything just as she had seen it. She wanted to do anything but lie down and go back to sleep and risk allowing the nightmare to return. “I knew I was dreaming, but… it still felt real.”

Nicole grunted noncommittally.

“Do you ever have nightmares about your missions?”

“If I ever slept deep enough to have dreams, I’d be dead. You may have a special forces team to pull security when you’re out in the field, but all I’ve got are these two.” Nicole hefted her handgun and then lovingly patted the barrel of her sniper rifle. “Not that I’m complaining.”

Alex looked at the weapons. The handgun was a Beretta, standard issue for the Directorate’s forces but with a few modifications: a laser integrated into the rubber handgrips, and glowing night sights. The black finish of the handgun showed silvery wear marks around the edges. The weapon had clearly seen long periods of use and abuse. In stark contrast to the handgun, the rifle was immaculate. It took me three months of searching on my own and telling every reclamation unit in the Directorate to be on the lookout for one of these babies, Nicole had explained once. The weapon was British-manufactured with a green, composite thumbhole stock and a thick barrel almost as long as Nicole’s arm. A complicated scope with dials and settings beyond Alex’s understanding sat atop the rifle. She had never seen another weapon like it.

“You left Peterson months ago,” Alex said. “Have you been out on a mission all that time?”

“Mostly. There’s a garrison outside Salt Lake City. It’s a lot smaller than this place, but they have an armory and a good stock of supplies. I went there every few weeks to refit. Their CO was always glad to see me.” Nicole smiled. “But otherwise, I was out in the field.”

“What were you doing?”

“You know the situation, don’t you?”

“My dad talked about it a few times. There’s a bunch of rebels and NEA sympathizers in the mountains. They attacked our reclamation teams every time we went into the city.”

“Exactly. A bunch of survivalists who were just waiting for the end of the world. I guess they got their wish. They’ve been holed up there since the outbreaks. Apparently, they’ve got their own little version of Cheyenne Mountain set up in those mines. We tried talking with them. Didn’t work. So, Harrison sent me in to deal with it.”

“Just you?”

“Just me. Groups of them came down into the city every few days for supplies. After a few weeks, I figured out their patterns – what routes they took, what stores they visited. It was easy after that.” Nicole pulled back the bolt of her rifle and withdrew the nearly four-inch round from the action. “I fired eighty-seven of these over three months. Every single shot was a kill – sometimes two. My best was half a mile. I can do better, but it’s difficult in a city.” Nicole spoke with pride. She smiled as if remembering the kill and relishing the memory.

“But where did you sleep? What did you eat? Just MREs?”

“Hell no.” Nicole absently spun the rifle round between her fingers. “I hate those things. I went hunting a lot. Plenty of animals in the city. A lot more of them than people, at least. I slept in different places. Sometimes in buildings and sometimes in the hills. One of their patrols almost found me once. I woke up and heard them coming. I didn’t even bother shooting them; it would have been too easy.”

“You let them go?”

Nicole smiled a predatory grin. “No.”

Alex waited for her to continue. Nicole remained silent.

“You enjoy it, don’t you?” Alex said.

“Of course.”

“Why? I’ve only ever slept outside a few nights during our training exercises. I was always with the team, but I still hated it.”

“I like being on my own. I know what it’s like to work with a team.” Nicole began to frown but then quickly masked the expression. “You’ve got the harder job. Trust me.”

“But you enjoy it? Killing all those people?”

“It does get boring after a while,” Nicole said. “It’s not much of a challenge anymore. But sure, I like it. Don’t you?”

Alex stared at Nicole. She was at first unsure if her friend was serious. Yet there was no humor in Nicole’s voice, only a look on her face as if she expected an answer. Nicole continued spinning the rifle round.

“No,” Alex said finally but realized the word had come out quiet and uncertain. She wanted to be able to say that no part of her could ever enjoy killing another human being. But there were the memories from Kansas City. During the slaughter, there had been two parts of her: one relishing in and perhaps even controlling the killing and mayhem while the other half screamed to stop. She shook her head and repeated, “No.”

“If you say so.”

“I didn’t agree to join the team to kill people.”

“You’re being naïve if you think we do different jobs. Captain Shepherd and the rest of them are trained killers. You’re there to help. It doesn’t matter if you pull the trigger or not, you’re still responsible.”

“That’s not why I agreed to join.”

“Look, I’m not saying it’s a bad thing. I’m sure every asshole your team has put down had it coming. As far as Kansas City goes… shit happens. Now go to sleep. I want to get some rest.”

Nicole placed the rifle round back in the chamber of her weapon, closed the bolt, and then wrapped her poncho tightly around herself and curled up on the mat.

Alex turned away and nestled her head into Shepherd’s jacket. The jacket’s smell reminded her of him, and she frowned as she pictured the bloody bandage covering his cheek.

She thought back to ten months before the mission to New York, the first time anyone had introduced her to the idea of operating with a military unit. Her father had summoned her to his office early in the morning. General Lunde was there as well along with a third man she had never met: Agent Ellzey.

Ms. Bedford, Ellzey had said in a cool, deceptively pleasant voice, how would you like to have the opportunity to serve the Directorate?

Even then, she had disliked Ellzey and his serpentine green eyes. Yet she had told him she would do anything for the Directorate. She wanted her father to be proud. She hoped he would give her a hug or even smile. But he never spoke during the meeting and barely made eye contact with her except for the briefest of moments. That meeting had been the start of it all. Afterward, he had begun to grow more distant and reserved.

Did you want me to do it, Dad? Or did the Committee force you to put me on the team? Did you know I might become like Nicole? Did you know that something like Kansas City could happen?

A rustle came from the floor. Alex looked over and saw Nicole sit bolt upright. She stared at the window with her head tilted as if listening for something. Then Alex heard it: a booming like fireworks in the distance. She associated that sound with the annual Fourth of July celebration at Colorado Springs. But it was also a sound from Kansas City – the detonations of artillery shells, of munitions slamming into vehicles and buildings, of fire and death. At once, Alex and Nicole looked at each other. “What’s going on?” Alex said.

Before Nicole could answer, a nearby klaxon let out a long, shrieking wail. “Shit,” Nicole said, shoving aside her poncho and grabbing her handgun. “Get your equipment on. Now.”

Nicole went to the window, touched the glass, and stared out into the darkness. Somewhere to the north, a flash of light preceded a detonation that shook the trailer. Alex jumped out of bed and rushed to grab her uniform.