Ethan said, “They just don’t get it, some people. The war. What we gotta do.”
“They never get it,” Ruby said.
The car pulled into the parking lot at the side of the courthouse, a sleek, low, grayish twentieth-century building.
Ethan got out, pointing the gun at her every moment.
Ruby opened the rear door, and Irene stepped out. She wished she were contagious and had infected them. She’d been around sick people. Maybe some viruses clung to her clothing. Maybe the sheriff would be reasonable.
The door to the courthouse was locked. Ethan buzzed an intercom next to it. A panel lit up. After a while, a woman’s voice answered.
“Marathon County Sheriff.”
“We’re here to deliver a prisoner, someone wanted by the federal government. Get in front of the camera, girl.”
Irene walked forward. If they didn’t let her in, what would Ruby do? Shoot her. Let me in! She glared at the camera as if she were evil and worthy of incarceration.
The door buzzed, and they marched her inside, Ethan pointing his handgun at her, ignoring the NO GUNS sign at the entrance.
A deputy in the hall spotted them, ran through the nearest door, and closed it behind him. Irene suddenly realized she was with a group of what would look like armed intruders. In the chaos of the killer cold, anything could happen, including an armed takeover attempt of a sheriff’s office.
She held her handcuffed arms up in surrender before she got caught in the cross fire.
“You idiots!” she said. “You’re walking in with guns! They’re going to think you’re invaders.”
“We’re delivering you like we should,” Ethan said.
“No,” Ruby said, “I think maybe she’s right.”
As she said that, a drone came buzzing out of a doorway ahead. “Put down your weapons,” it announced in an authoritative male voice. “Put down your weapons.”
Ethan gestured at her. “She’s a dangerous criminal.”
The drone fired a bullet. At that close range, he didn’t have time to react. It hit him in the chest. He dropped.
Ruby turned and ran. The drone fired again. Irene closed her eyes. She didn’t want to see what would happen next. She kept holding her hands up, waving them to be more obvious. Footsteps ran down the hall, and voices yelled. Someone grabbed her. She opened her eyes. A deputy wearing a surgical mask.
“I surrender! I’m innocent.” She let him drag her away.
From the hallway, she heard Ruby shouting.
The deputy holding her said, in a conversational tone, “Keep your hands up.” It was reassuring. “Don’t move.”
A female officer approached. “I’m going to pat you down for weapons. Spread your legs and don’t move.” The deputy kept his grip on her arm. The woman, wearing gloves, was fast and efficient, and all she found was Irene’s phone. “We’ll take this.”
Ruby, in the hall, was screaming now, keening for Ethan. “We’re patriots. We’re on your side.”
“Come this way,” the woman said to Irene, glancing at the hallway door. “You can put your hands down.”
“Thank you.” They’d become stiff. Was she safe now? She was still breathing fast. Her instincts said no, she was still in deep trouble.
They took her to a little room. “State your name and address. Everything you say is being recorded.” Irene remembered from old movies about being told some sort of rights. Well, that was no longer in force. The woman looked at a screen on a side table.
“So, you’re wanted as a Chinese agent.” She shook her head and looked at Irene. “We’re kind of stretched thin now. We don’t have spare time for this, and now those idiots made a mess in the hallway. Come with us.” She slipped Irene’s phone into an envelope, scanned a code on the envelope, and left it on the table.
They led her through a hall, through another hall, down some stairs, and unlocked doors that led into an open area lined with doors with small, narrow windows. The man opened one of them and motioned for her to enter. She held up her handcuffed hands.
“That man has the key. His name’s Ethan.”
“Yeah,” the man said, “if we can find it, I’ll come back. It’s—”
“This is the last thing we needed tonight,” the woman said. The man shut the door.
The room had a light Irene couldn’t turn off no matter what she said, a steel toilet in the far corner with a sink above its tank, and a narrow cot without any bedding, just a thin plastic mattress. Despite the cuffs, she squirmed down her pants and peed, wiped herself clumsily, and wiggled the pants back up. She washed her hands and realized she had nothing to dry them on. She used her shirt. She flexed her fingers to keep the blood flowing through the tight handcuffs.
She lay down and tried to fall asleep. There was nothing else to do.
Sleep did not come. She thought about Nimkii, her mother, her sisters—two or three now!—the cold, her home, her country, and the world, all in a swirl of thoughts that were dark and angry and terrified and sad. Tomorrow … tomorrow would be worse. She cried.
Berenike was standing in the parking lot at a clinic, waiting alongside a light post for a truck to be loaded, and she pondered mortality, since she would not die of at least one specific thing. She could still die of many other things, of course, but they seemed distant even if they weren’t. Immune. Damn, that felt good.
With that question removed, she had others. She had a new, instant sort-of family, maybe, some sisters, and what were they like? As for her old family, would she even find out where her father was buried? Should she still resent her parents now that they could no longer harm her? Maybe she should just let them go.
But other people had died and their harm remained behind, and plenty of people were
