In The Afterlight (The Darkest Minds #3)(147)

Vida glanced over at Liam, and our pace quickened.

“Hurts,” I whispered.

“Do you want to stop? Rest?” Vida asked. “Is it your leg?”

I shook my head. “Everything.”

To fill the silence, or to distract me, Liam tried to explain what had happened. “Mom gave me the number to contact Harry, to tell him...about...about Cole. She told me how to find him. They waited for me, and by then I knew I should have gone straight back, that I wanted to. But by the time we made it to the Ranch, you were long gone. Chubs was beside himself, so was Zu—all of them. Nico held it together for them until we got back.”

“Fucking Clancy,” Vida said. “Fucking crazy-ass Grays. They did this broadcast, him and his mom...”

“I saw,” I said, not willing or particularly able to go into detail at that moment.

“How did you...never mind, it doesn’t matter,” Liam said. “You tell me later, when this is over and done with.”

“Cole...” I started to say, my grip on him tightening.

His face twisted with fresh grief. “Later, okay? It’s not too much farther. We had to set the meet point nearby—too many kids to drive out. I wish you could have seen it—Amplify pushed the information we gave them out everywhere. TV, the Internet, traffic signs—they bombarded the world with the truth.”

“Let’s see if it actually worked,” Vida muttered. “If there aren’t any parents waiting—”

“They’ll be waiting,” Liam insisted.

No matter how many steps I took, it still felt like we were falling farther and farther away from the lights filtering through the trees. I knew he was right, though, when the first helicopter appeared over us, casting a light down and kicking up the wind and rain. It was blinding—I couldn’t tell if it belonged to the military or to the news.

There had been a din of noise, this faint low buzz of energy and sound I’d barely been able to detect under the shrill ringing in my ears. Now it was like I could hear the pulse of the world around me, throbbing underfoot. Up ahead, there were more lights, all pointed toward us.

The assault team, kids and adults alike, brought the huge group up short, just past the line of trees. There were buildings nearby, most likely the abandoned downtown area of Thurmond, West Virginia. Liam and Vida navigated us up through the sea of stalled bodies, shouldering our way closer to the front.

Three thousand children spread out through the trees like an avalanche, stopping up every gap between them. I knew when we were close because someone got on a bullhorn and barked out, “Remain where you are! Any advancement will be seen as a sign of hostile aggression!”

But if the armed forces saw us, so did the families gathered behind them.

We were moving forward again, slowly now, but at a steady pace. Finally, through the blinding field ahead of us, shapes began to form.

Two large, white tents had been set up by someone. Lights from ambulances and cop cars flashed blue, red, blue, falling over us and the double lines of soldiers that stood between us and hundreds, if not thousands, of people.

I blinked, trying to clear my thoughts. This was right—this was how it was supposed to be. Alice would have released her last blast of information during the assault, including the names of the children at Thurmond, and a location where they could be retrieved. I’d assumed that it would also give the military time to respond, and I’d been right. The soldiers, National Guard, police, and PSFs alike had assumed a defensive stance, shielded by riot gear.

“Drop your weapons, get down on the ground, and place your hands on your head,” the same man ordered. “Any further advancement will be seen as a sign of hostile aggression and we will open fire.”

We kept moving forward, toward the men and women in camouflage, toward the few in black PSF uniforms, until we were less than three hundred feet away.

The tall, clear riot shields formed an actual wall between us, but didn’t mask the way the soldiers’ eyes flickered over us. The row behind them was armed and primed to do exactly as the officer had threatened; the muzzles of their guns were carefully placed in the gaps of space between the shields. They stood back-to-back with a row of FBI and uniformed police officers, who were facing the crowd of reporters and civilians. Cameras—there were cameras everywhere, flashing, recording, even as the men and women tried to block the shots or smash the devices altogether.

The helicopter’s propeller announced its arrival long before it appeared in the sky. Its searchlight swept over us several times, as if scanning for one person in particular. A soldier sat at the edge of the open door, an automatic rifle in his hands as he took stock of the situation.

The officer in charge stood just left of center, behind both lines of soldiers. There was a satellite phone pressed to his ear; he kept ducking in and out of sight, as if crouching down could somehow drown out the noise of the crowd that rose behind him, breaking over all of us in a rush.

Names, I thought, forcing myself to look beyond the weapons and the gear, to the faces of regret and hope behind them. One of the kids behind me recognized one of them, clearly, because she surged forward with a shout of, “Mom—Mom!”

“Get down on the ground and put your hands behind your head,” the officer yelled into the bullhorn. “Do it now—now!”

“Here!” a woman shouted back. “I’m here! Emily, I’m here!”