Departure(36)

Nick nods, and we sit in silence for a while.

“What about you? Any career angst?”

He laughs. “Yeah, I’m . . . at a bit of a crossroads too.”

“With work?”

“With everything.”

He leaves it at that, suddenly looking a lot more tired. He’s not very talkative—about his personal life, at least. It’s funny, I’ve heard his voice so much the last few days: his speech by the fire in the cold dark night that saved all those people. The way he organized the camp, keeping everyone fed and away from each others’ throats. His instincts and quick decisions. But in the face of a simple question about his own life, it’s like every word is an anvil in his bowels, yours truly trying to reel it up from the depths with a flimsy fishing line.

“I was really glad,” he says, “when I got there this morning and saw that you were alive.”

I take a deep breath, calming myself. “Yeah. Me too. Wasn’t sure if I would make it another day. And seeing you when I opened my eyes . . . That was nice, but god, you looked a fright. Scared me half to death.”

“Rough couple of days.”

I move around the table to sit next to him and touch his forehead at the hairline, inspecting the wounds where I wiped the dried blood away. I smile. “But, hey, you cleaned up okay.”

He reaches for my arm, closes his fingers around my wrist, and puts his thumb in my palm, half filling it.

I feel myself holding my breath.

Neither of us says a word, but our faces edge closer, slowly. I’m not even sure if he’s moving or if I am. Or both of us.

The booming computer voice shatters the silence. “You have reached your destination.”

But I don’t look away. And neither does he.

Behind me the door slides open, and I feel the rush of cool air on my back. Nick’s eyes go wide, and I turn, getting my first glimpse of what’s become of London.





21





This is London like I’ve never seen it.

In the subbasement of the farmhouse, there was some debate before we left about where to get off the Podway in London. We considered Parliament, Ten Downing, and Scotland Yard, among others, reasoning that if any form of civilized government or law enforcement still existed, it would be found at one of these locations. The rub, however, is that the powers that be and the cloaked beings hunting us may be one and the same.

In the end, we settled on a compromise: a stop in a residential section, Hampstead Station—at least, it was mostly residential in 2014. A vantage point outside the center of power would give us a peek at the state of things in the city, and likely be unguarded, increasing our chances of escape if things went awry.

We were right on one count: the Podway station is unguarded. In fact, it’s utterly deserted.

Nick and I stare out of our pod for a moment, taking in what seems to be a converted tube station. Sabrina, Yul, and Grayson are waiting outside. At the sight of us sitting so close in the pod, Grayson rolls his eyes and wanders off through the cavernous stone and concrete space, which is almost unrecognizable now. Where tracks used to be and trains moved through, a series of large booths now stand, each providing access to a single pod. The sight of the dark, empty rows and columns of pod booths rattles my nerves a bit.

It’s surreal, seeing what was once a busy tube station devoid of its shuffling crowd: people talking and staring at cell phones, coursing through every nook and cranny. At peak times, people once covered every square inch. You could barely breathe then. You could hear a pin drop now.

Outside, on the street, there’s still no sign of life—human life, anyway. Some buildings are boarded up, some battered, their windows smashed in, glass scattered across the empty sidewalks and streets. Grass and weeds shoot up from cracks, and vines twine up buildings, the lush green in bizarre contrast to the crumbling ruins of civilization. This city, which I love so much, which was built by the Romans nearly two thousand years ago, which has survived endless conquerors and countless plagues, including the Black Plague and Nazi bombing raids, has finally fallen. But to what?

The sun has set now, and dim moonlight casts a strange glow over the empty streets. I walk out into the empty lane and stand there, awestruck by the total silence, something I’ve never experienced in London. It’s almost transcendental, hypnotic. I feel like I’m in an over-budgeted television program, though it’s terrifyingly real.

“What now?” Nick asks sharply, looking at Sabrina and Yul.

“We . . . hadn’t gotten that far,” Sabrina says.

“Wonderful.” Nick glances back at the station. “I don’t think we should stay here. We should get out of sight—and talk.”

“My flat’s three blocks away,” I say, almost without thinking, the mystery irresistible to me.

“Okay. We’ll stay there just long enough to work out a plan.”





Clues. The three-block walk to my flat has provided a cryptic set of leads as to what went on here, passed along in the form of modern cave paintings, if you will: graffiti. Many of the messages are incomplete, washed away by the wind and rain, some obscured by weeds, trees, and vines. But fragments remain, and they reveal a city on the brink.

Pandora was inevitable.

Make us all Titans or none.

Titans betrayed us.