Fringe & the Dead

by cotillion66

The Fringe team struggles to survive and find answers in the aftermath of a zombie apocalypse. Set early in season 1. AU

35. An Exodus, Part 1

Chapter 35 – An Exodus, Part 1

-August 2009

Lightning streaked across sky, centered above the hills rising in the distance.

The bolt had appeared out of nowhere, forking upward above a copse of trees. Glowing branches of fine filigree spread outward, seeming to appear and blink out of existence in the same instant. The concussion that followed was immediate and loud enough to ring Peter's ears through the windshield and over the hum of the engine and the rumble of the Suburban's wide tires. Out of pure reflex, he jerked the steering wheel, and the big truck swerved left and right across the center line of Massachusetts Route 109 before he managed to straighten it out once more.

"Holy crap, that was close," Rachel said from behind. "I could feel it through the seat."

Peter glanced up at Olivia's sister in the mirror. She was seated between Ella and Gina in the middle row of seats, and had an arm draped over each of the girls' shoulders. Behind her in the far back row, Walter sat alone, leaning up against a pillow propped up against the window. Despite it seeming impossible given the conditions outside, the man appeared fast asleep. He shook his head. The man he'd assumed was his father for his entire life had a strange ability to shut off and shut out the outside world whenever it suited him.

Beside him in the passenger seat, Olivia sat silently, eyes forward. Her thick braid was pulled over her left shoulder, and she moved her fingertips absently up and down its knobby length. She had said little since they'd left the asylum earlier that morning. Something was different about her. And it wasn't just her way of dealing with Sonia's death just over three weeks ago. It was more than that. She was a woman of singular determination and focus, and that was still there, but there was something else in her demeanor now, something present in the depths of her green eyes. He couldn't quite put his finger on it. A kind of light, maybe? Was it hope? Was she eager? Or was it merely that she finally had a target in her sights, a goal, a possible endpoint? He didn't know, but whatever was going on with her, she didn't seem ready or eager to talk about it with him or anyone.

He darted another look at her profile, and as if Olivia could somehow sense his regard, the corner of her mouth turned up and she eyed him askance for a moment before resuming her forward gaze.

Rain pounded across the windshield. The wipers thwacked back and forth, and despite their frenetic energy, could barely keep up with the downpour. Another flash of lightning followed by an immediate blast of thunder crashed overhead. Trees on either side of the road whipped about in winds that seemed gale-force in their intensity as the truck yearned to follow suit.

The weather had changed abruptly two days ago, with the unending heat simply evaporating in the face of a low-pressure system appearing out of nowhere from the west. Since then, mother nature had been making up for the months-long drought with thunderstorm after thunderstorm, the bombardment. The garden behind the asylum was gone, flooded out. The ancient building itself had been leaking at the seams when they'd finally left it behind, the north stairwell — which had become an interior waterfall feature — being the worst of the lot.

Good riddance, he thought, glancing into the mirror. If he never laid eyes on the asylum — or any Kirkbride-type building again, for that matter — it would be too soon. Too much tragedy resided there. The place was haunted, now, if it hadn't been already.

"Peter?"

He looked up at Ella's voice and found her staring at him through the mirror. She had eyes older than her years, and having her auburn hair pulled back in a long ponytail like her mother's or aunt's only enhanced the effect. "What's up, kiddo?"

"Are we going all the way back to where the lab was?" she asked. "All the way back to the city?"

Peter shook his head. "No, we're heading a bit south of there, to a place called Marina Bay."

"And they have lots of boats there?"

"They do," he affirmed with a nod. "Or at least they did. Six or seven hundred slips if I remember right. Hopefully, there's something seaworthy left." He glanced at the pair of headlights several hundred feet behind them in the side mirror. "And big enough for us all to fit," he added.

"Peter, what's a slip?" Gina wanted to know.

"It's kind of like a parking spot for a boat, honey," Rachel said. "Only it's down in the water."

Gina nodded slowly in the mirror. The girl was starting to speak again, which could only be a good sign after witnessing her grandmother's death up close and personal just a few short weeks ago. And she had only just recovered from losing her brother when disaster had struck. They had all recovered quickly, and he wondered if they'd passed some threshold, that all the death and killing had become something almost commonplace, as terrible as it seemed. How many of her own family had she seen die, including her own mother? He still found it hard to fathom how quickly the infection had torn through them. Poor Sonia. You got a raw deal. Perhaps the sudden renewal of Olivia's focus and drive wasn't so hard to understand, after all.

Outside the truck, the thunderstorm raged on, though there seemed less lightning than before. Torrential rain now smacked across the windshield in gusting waves. It had been storming for the last two hours, and there seemed no end in sight. A dark shade of gray spread across the horizon, along with a tint of green that brought to mind a harrowing night he'd once spent hiding out on the outskirts of St. Louis as a tornado had ripped through a nearby neighborhood. The wind howled, screaming through the imperfect door seals, all the while attempting to shove the truck into a ditch overflowing with runoff that ran alongside the shoulder.

"How are you doing?" Olivia said suddenly, breaking her long silence.

He turned and found her watching him, a hint of concern crossing over her features. "Oh, I'm just peachy," he said with taut grin, then renewed his grip on the steering wheel, counter-steering as the truck began veering toward the shoulder once more. "You ever seen a tornado before?"

She shook her head, eyeing the road ahead. "Never. But I rode out a hurricane once. We were staying with some relatives in Georgia when Hugo made landfall. Remember that, Rach?"

Rachel snorted from the back seat. "You mean do I remember being terrified that their house was going to blow down and we were all going to die? Yeah. I remember that."

Peter grinned as Olivia rolled her eyes. "Hurricanes are scary," he agreed, "but you can see them coming from miles away and days off. There's something about a tornado. They come out of nowhere, and you can feel them, like down in your gut. It's the element of surprise. They're unpredictable, agents of pure chaos. They're pretty uncommon in Massachusetts, but I was in a motel outside of St. Louis once when one touched down in a neighborhood a few blocks away. They sky turned green almost, kind of like that up there." He leaned forward, peering up through the windshield. "And I could feel it, like something had changed in the air. The pressure drop, I guess. Either way, I've never seen or heard anything like it since. There's something about seeing a car lodged in a tree that makes you question your place in the world."

"What were you doing in St. Louis?" Olivia said, perking up with interest as she so often did when he mentioned something from his past.

"A little of this, a little of that," he said, glancing up in the mirror again. Rachel was busy with the girls, doing something beneath his line of sight. Behind her, Walter continued to nap, with streams of what could only be drool dripping from the corner of his parted lips. "This was right after I left Boston the first time. I may or may not have been avoiding undue interest from a certain organization right around that time."

Olivia pursed her lips and smiled, leaning back against the headrest. "Now that sounds like the Peter Bishop I know and love," she said just loud enough for him to hear, turning her face toward him. "Why am I not surprised? Gambling? Big Eddie?"

Grinning, he reached across the center console and took her hand. "Gambling? Yes. Big Eddie? No. Way out of his territory. This was Big Al — nickname, not legal. He ran security at a riverboat casino on the Illinois side of the Mississippi." Glancing between Olivia and the road, he found her eyes glittering with amusement as they often did when he regaled her with tales of his past. He loved how he could tell her anything, how she could cordon off his illegal activities, viewing them through her law enforcement lens without ever casting judgment. "I was young, and still fairly new to the whole racket. I guess they noticed I'd won a few too many hands of blackjack, at a few too many dealers."

"Card counting?"

Peter nodded. "The usual scam. I figured I was in flyover country, and their security couldn't be as tight as Atlantic City or Vegas."

"Now that was silly of you, Peter," she said, shaking her head. "Casinos take card counting seriously. They tend to like their money — even in flyover country."

"Yeah, well, I learned that the hard way," he said, guiding the truck around a sharp curve in the road. "After I cashed out I had feeling something was up, so I-"

He cut himself short, heart leaping in his chest. Directly ahead, the road was blocked by a pair of vehicles locked together in a tangle of interlocked metal and shattered glass. Braking hard, he swerved onto the opposite shoulder, keeping one eye on the scene as they rolled past. The vehicles had struck head on, a white Toyota truck and a green sedan. The sedan's windshield sagged under its own weight, and had a hole large enough for a person in front of the steering wheel. After they'd cleared the wreckage, he let the truck coast along, waiting for the white Mercedes to appear behind them in the mirror. Several thudding heartbeats later a pair of bright headlights came into view, swerving sharply to avoid the wreckage before resuming their pursuit of the Suburban. Peter let out his breath, pressing the accelerator again.

"That was rather close," Olivia murmured, squinting through the mirror outside her window. "I'm surprised we haven't run into more of those."

Peter grunted his agreement, peering ahead through the sheets of slanted rain with renewed interest. The trees hugging the road had spread apart, and houses began to show up in the distance on either side. Then a sign appeared out of haze, announcing that the next turnoff would take them south toward Weymouth, a town on the coast south of Boston. While it wasn't their destination, it was relatively close.

All things considered, the drive had been relatively uneventful, with only a handful of wandering infected crossing their path. Before the accident, the nearest they'd come to a close call was a group of undead near twenty strong migrating down the center of the street outside of a sleepy town name Upton, just over an hour ago.

"Hey, we're almost there," he announced, eyeing Rachel and the girls in the mirror. "Should only be another ten or fifteen minutes."

"Almost where?" Walter's groggy voice sounded from the far back. He was sitting up, eyes blinking hugely. "Where are we? What's happening?"

Meeting Olivia's gaze, Peter blew out a sigh. "Walter...," he started, about to launch into yet another explanation of the day's agenda — to find a working boat or yacht and take it south down the coast to New York — but then he noticed Astrid coming hard behind them in the rear-view mirror, flashing her headlights rapidly.

"What do you suppose she wants?" Olivia said, twisting around in her seat. "Pull over, Peter."

He did so, guiding the truck to a stop in the left-hand lane. The white Mercedes came to a stop beside them a moment later on Olivia's right. She rolled her window down, letting in a blast of humidity and the sounds of the storm outside, which had begun to lessen considerably. Astrid followed suit, wetting her lips nervously as he gave them each a hesitant look.

"What's the emergency, Astrid," Peter said through the open window, looking into the other vehicle. Broyles sat beside her in the passenger seat, with Claire and Lincoln Lee in the back.

"So... I was thinking," she began. "I know this might be kind of short notice, but, I just realized where we are. And well... My father lives in Weymouth, or he did before, at least. I was thinking I might-"

"You want to go check out?" Olivia cut in.

"Yeah. This is my only chance, Olivia. Do you mind?"

"Don't be silly, Astrid. Of course we don't mind. Do you want us all to go?"

Astrid shook her head. "We can handle it. We'll go see what his neighborhood is like. It shouldn't take too long. He's either there... or he's not. Honestly, I don't exactly have high hopes. If the area is infested, then we won't risk it. You guys just worry about finding us a boat."

"Something with separate cabins this time, Bishop!" Lincoln Lee's voice called from the other vehicle. "Waking up to you and Liv going at it is something I need to experience only once in my lifetime."

Peter grimaced and Olivia stiffened beside him, face burning a bright crimson at Rachel's evil snicker from the back seat. He opened his mouth to retort that nothing like that had ever happened — and never would, not if he had anything to say about it — but clearly something like that had happened, for Lincoln. It was not the first time the man had referenced something the Peter Bishop from his world had said or done, as if the two of them were the same person. It was maddening.

"We'll see you guys soon," he said instead, shaking his head. "Good luck, Astrid."

"Right back at you, Peter," she replied, grinning as she rolled up her window.

The Mercedes pulled away, taillights glowing red through the misting rain. After a few moments, the right blinker flashed in an odd moment of surreality, and then the white SUV turned at the next street and disappeared.

"You ever feel like you're only participating in half the conversation with that guy?" he said, catching Olivia's eye. "It's getting really annoying."

She gave a low snort in reply. "I know what you mean. The other day he was talking about my mom. He called her Marilyn. Like he knew her. Like they were... friends."

"He does know her, Liv," Rachel spoke up. "He told me all about her. But he doesn't know me. Apparently, Mom's alive, but I'm dead wherever it is he's from."

"Really?" Olivia's eyes grew huge. "You didn't tell me that, Rach."

"Mom, what does it mean to go at it?" Ella said, sounding more like the little girl she was than Peter had heard from her in months. He noticed her glancing from adult to adult in the mirror and could only shake his head.

A moment later Olivia's hand snaked onto his leg, stroking softly through his jean. She nodded down the road ahead. "C'mon, Peter," she said with faint amusement as Rachel tried to stop Walter from having the birds and the bees conversation in explicit detail behind them. "Let's find us a boat." Her voice grew soft, and something in it raised the hairs in the back of his neck. "And if we're lucky, maybe we can even find one with separate cabins."

Unable to stop the wide smile cracking his lips, Peter put the truck in gear.

#

Marina Bay sat on the northern edge of the peninsula jutting out into Boston Harbor. The area was once part of an old naval base, but had evolved into an up-and-coming development near the turn of the century. In addition to the massive marina complex, complete with a seaside boardwalk lined with unique restaurants and bars, the area contained office complexes and high-rise apartment buildings, and a plethora of single-family homes and duplexes, most of which had been filled with young professionals, Gen-Xers moving up in the world.

Or so Peter had heard, at least. The area was not one he'd visited frequently, even when he'd lived in Boston.

He drove slowly toward the ocean, down a wide avenue bisected by an island of trees and shrubs. Cars and trucks crowded the southward lanes, but the northerly route was relatively clear of obstructions. The street was dotted with piles of windblown trash and debris. Infected wandered here and there, draped in ragged summer-wear that fit right in with the current state of the climate. The undead watched them roll past with a kind of dull, golden-eyed stupor before engaging in hot pursuit, or as hot as their decrepit bodies would allow. Taking a southerly route from Worcester to avoid the city and the infected in it had paid off, but they could not avoid them now.

"Think they'll be a problem, Liv?" Rachel asked, turning around in her seat to stare after their growing entourage. "They won't follow us all the way, will they?"

"It's possible," Olivia replied, frowning into her mirror. "Let's hope it doesn't take long to find a boat."

Peter rubbed a kink in the back of his neck, eyeing the road ahead where the lanes seemed to fork around a kind of wooded park. They needed a boat, true, but also one with several specific requirements. First of all, it had to be worthy of the open ocean — not just for trawling around Massachusetts Bay unless they wanted to hug the coast the entire way. And it needed to be big enough to sleep eight people, and that was counting Ella and Gina as one person. All of which meant they needed a yacht of some kind, and one that had a full tank of gas. But fuel was also hard to come by, so maybe a sailing yacht of some sort? Only he was no sailor, nor were any of the others so far as he knew, and sailing something so large across the open ocean where a storm was currently raging off shore seemed like a not so good idea. So, he would look for a motor yacht first. If they were lucky and found something with a full tank of fuel on top of meeting all their other requirements, the voyage down to New York City would easily be in range. And it was a one-way trip, wasn't it? There was no reason to come back, was there? If he had his way, they would just keep going, heading south. Maybe to an island somewhere in the Caribbean. But he didn't have his way, so New York it was.

The street ran between the park on one side, and a tall apartment building with layers of balconies on the other. Visible through the gaps between the stores and restaurants, a dull mass of grayness seemed to merge with the horizon, glimmering occasionally with flashes of lightning. The Atlantic Ocean was dead ahead. The rain had tapered off to a steady sprinkle and he slowed the wipers to their lowest setting.

"Is that the ocean?" Gina asked, grabbing the back of Peter's seat as she leaned forward for a better look. "I ain't ever seen the ocean before. Gram was supposed to take me in the summer but..." She trailed off, her voice growing silent.

"Well... you'll get to see it now, sweetie," Rachel said. "Peter what kind of boat are you looking for? Something big, I'm guessing?"

"That's kind of the idea," he said, turning the truck onto a main strip that had seen far better days.

Fire had ravaged much of the area. And what was left had been destroyed by looters armed with heavy equipment, from the mounds of rubble scattered all over. An infected woman with matted hair caked with soot charged out into the street and he drove it down without slowing or a second thought, crunching the body beneath them. The ocean grew closer, resolving into foaming breakers that rolled in toward the shore. Finally, they reached an empty parking lot, and the entire marina spread out before them.

Peter parked the truck in a no-parking zone nearest the wharf. For a few moments, no one spoke. The massive complex of floating docks fanned out to either side, extending far out into the water. He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, but it wasn't this.

The marina and the docks and the boats bobbing up and down in their slips were frozen in another time. A time when the dead had yet to walk the earth. A time where pregnant women didn't spontaneously die or little girls weren't forced to kill. Somehow, and quite miraculously, in his opinion, the marina had ridden out the apocalypse relatively untouched. More than half of the slips were empty, but even so, boats of all sizes and shapes rested in their slips or were tied up alongside of floating docks. The majority of the craft available were of the small speedboat variety, mainly suited for tooling around the bay or for pulling skiers. But among them numerous white masts with dangling ropes swayed to and from in the wind. Sailboats all, though none of them seemed large enough. Then Peter noticed the sleek lines of several large yachts anchored in their moorings off to one side of the marina, where a long and narrow dock extended out into the water.

The yachts stood high above the waterline, with multiple levels of decks and cabins, and there was no doubt any one of them would have broached the seven-figure mark when they'd been purchased. Why were they still there? Why had no one taken them? Something was wrong with them. There had to be. It was the only thing that made sense. But then he thought about the infection, of the thousands of freshes at the beginning. Perhaps chaos had simply overwhelmed the area too quickly. How many had waited until one of those freshes was busy tearing their throat out to finally believe the end was at hand? Too many, more than likely.

"One of those looks like our best bet," Peter said, pointing out the yachts through the windshield.

"Let's hope one of them has enough fuel." Olivia stated, unbuckling her seat belt. "Peter and I will go check it out, Rach. You stay here with the girls and Walter. Okay?"

Rachel nodded her agreement, and Peter saw the disappointment flare in Ella's eyes. But she said nothing when Olivia and he piled out into the slight drizzle. They grabbed their swords and checked their pistols on their hips. The area seemed clear, but that didn't mean much. Infected had a way of showing up when they were least wanted.

"You ready to go?" Olivia said, adjusting the strap of her lacquered sword sheath where it crossed her chest.

"Just one more thing," he told her, reaching into the back of the truck for a bucket filled with the small assortment of tools he had scrounged up before they'd left the asylum. There were any number of items he might need; from an assortment of screwdrivers and wire cutters, to adjustable wrenches and sockets and ratchets; and also, the trusty multi-tool that he'd been carrying on his person for years, capable of serving as any of them in a pinch.

"Where are you going, son?" Walter said suddenly, peering over the back seat.

"We're gonna go look at boats, Walter?" Peter said, unable to help the scowl that formed on his lips. He'd given up trying to stop Walter from calling him his son. "Where the hell do you think we're going? Haven't you been paying attention at all?"

A hand closed about his wrist, pulling him away. "Peter," Olivia said, inclining her head. "Now's not the time."

Swallowing, he exhaled, and then nodded. "Just stay in the truck, Walter. We'll be back soon. Hopefully." Reaching up, he slammed the rear door shut, then turned and found Olivia studying him, her face sad.

"You okay?" she asked.

"It is what it is," he replied, letting the anger drain out of him. "Sometimes, I just... I can't help but..." He fell silent, shaking his head, uncertain of what exactly he was trying to articulate. "I'm trying, Liv. That's all I can say."

"I get it," she said simply, then smiled. "And I know you are. I am, too. C'mon."

They hurried down to the docks, crossing over a narrow gangplank of wood and metal that flexed beneath their combined weights. Four yachts were moored alongside the dock, all of which seemed much larger up close than they'd appeared from the parking lot. Any one of them would do — if they had fuel, and if they could get one of them started.

"What about that one?" Olivia said, motioning toward the nearest.

The yacht was a sleek blue and white wedge of a boat that reminded him of a futuristic hotrod made up of triangles and parallelograms. Stenciled across the prow in red calligraphy was her name, the Afternoon Delight.

"Afternoon Delight?" Peter said, eyeing the boat up and down. "Really?"

"Well, I think we can be fairly certain it has a bed, at least," Olivia murmured, and he grinned at the faint blush suffusing her cheeks. "Maybe that one there?" She pointed out another, further down the dock, a sleek hundred-footer with silver streaks running down the hull below the gunwales from the bow stern. She shook her head as they drew closer. "The Coy Mistress? Where do they come up with these names?"

Chuckling, he hauled himself over the gunwale of the white and silver yacht. "Well, Coy Mistress is better than Wet Dream of Sexy Time or something equally prepubescent, isn't it? Or Afternoon Delight."

"Wet Dream...?" she said, her face and voice revolted. "Please don't tell me you knew a guy."

Reaching back to help her on board, he grinned, grabbing her waist as she steadied herself against him on the slowly rocking deck. "What can I say? I knew a guy."

"Of course, you did," Olivia muttered, glancing around the boat's stern. "So, where do we start?"

"We start with the fuel and the battery," he said, starting toward a narrow set of stairs that led eventually up to the bridge. "And then we'll move on from there." He motioned toward a pair of doors, one that led below deck, and the other to some kind of intermediate level. "See of you can get those doors open. Maybe we'll get lucky and they'll have left us the keys."

Olivia nodded, letting her backpack slide from her shoulders and digging inside for what Peter assumed was her set of lockpicks. While she was busy with that, he climbed up to the bridge, beneath a wide canopy that would protect the pilot from the elements.

A thick tarp held down by snaps covered the helm in its entirety. He ripped it away, then bent over the controls searching for the fuel gauge among the dials. When he found it, the needle was buried below the empty marker, though that didn't necessarily mean a thing. He rummaged through what few drawers and cubbyholes there were for a set of keys, but found none. And why would there be? Who in their right mind left the keys to their million-dollar boat out where anyone could grab them? He flicked a toggle switch that should have turned on the forward lights, but nothing happened. He added finding a battery to the list of things to do. Perhaps the truck's would suffice. If not, they might be in for a long afternoon searching for one that still worked.

Ducking down beneath the control console, he examined the wires and cables leading up to the ignition. They were a tangled mess, but fairly straightforward, in theory. He could work with them. Bypassing the ignition would be a relatively simple job, at least compared to the SUV down in the Federal Building's parking garage, so long ago. That had been a convoluted nightmare that had taken the better part of a day to accomplish.

He went in search of Olivia and found her below deck, standing in the middle of a wide and luxurious state room with a massive TV at one end and a fully stocked bar at the other. Filling the space between were leather sofas and love seats, and a coffee table that looked made of crystal and gold. Modern artwork adorned each wall while a black, egg-shaped speaker hung on each corner in front of crown moldings as exquisitely detailed as he'd seen in any upscale apartment. Completing the picture was a cream-colored shag carpet that felt so soft beneath his boots he felt bad for wearing them indoors. The decorations, the bar, made of red mahogany, the fine trim-work — they all spoke of money, and quite a lot of it.

"Oh, wow," Peter said, stopping to take it all in. "Liv, we've been going about this whole apocalypse thing all wrong."

"I know, right?" she murmured, feeling absently along the scar above her right eye. "This damn boat is nicer than my apartment ever was." She shook her head, then met his gaze. "I haven't found any keys, though. Was there fuel?"

"Maybe. But I need to grab the battery from the truck to know for sure."

"Will you be able to get it started without the keys?"

"Shouldn't be a problem, unless there's something catastrophically wrong with the engines. But I doubt that's the case." Peter hesitated, then stepped all the way into the room. "Liv, I know we've talked it before, but... are you sure about this? New York? Cortexiphan? How are you even going to find the one causing the infection? Or Lincoln's?" He scrubbed his fingers through his hair, wincing at a terrible ache squeezing his heart. "What if you just end up in the world Walter took me from? There's an infinite number of worlds out there. What if you get lost? What if... what if you can't find your way back?"

"Peter... I don't know what's going to happen," Olivia said quietly, approaching him. "But I've talked to Walter about this at length. He claims there's some kind of order to the worlds. Lincoln's world should be near our own, just like yours was right next door."

"Why does it have to be you? Why does it always have to be you?"

"What do you want me to tell you? That I don't want to do it? I don't. And it has to be me because there is no one else. And... like it or not, these abilities Walter and William Bell gave me? This is what they're for. And I... I have to do it. I have to try. After Sonia... we can't just ignore it anymore, or pretend that it's going to fix itself. We don't have a choice."

"But why are you in such a hurry? Why right this instant? You said it yourself, you haven't really figured out your abilities. If you have to do this, why not wait until you have?"

Olivia lowered her head, staring through his chest. "I... I have to do it now, Peter. It... it can't wait. I would go this instant if I could."

"But why? At least tell me why it has to be now."

"Do you trust me?"

"You know that I do."

"Then know that there's a reason, Peter. And if I succeed, then I promise I'll tell you. But until then... I can't." Olivia lifted her head and her eyes were huge and wet. She was crying.

A dull shock went through Peter at the sight. He never wanted to hurt her, or be the source of her pain. He reached out, pulling her close. She felt slight against him, her body trembling, her breath a series of sharp hitches. What was going on? What could be so important that she would risk everything for it? So important that she couldn't even tell him what it was? For fear he might try to stop her? The thought only made it clearer he should try harder.

Yet she had asked him to trust her. To trust that she knew what she was doing. That her reasoning was sound, and not as insane as it appeared on the surface. And he did trust her, more than anyone he'd ever known. And that was all he could do, for now.

"Please don't ask me again, Peter," she whispered against his chest. His lips were pressing into her hair, his breath hot against her scalp. "I can't bear it."

"I won't. As long as you promise to come back. You have to come back to me.

She pulled away, bringing her hands up to his face. "I can promise that I'll do everything in my power. There's nothing I want more, and there's more than just my life at stake. That's all I can do. Is that enough?"

He studied her tear-streaked face, her glistening eyes. It was enough. It would have to be enough, as he wasn't likely to get anything more out of her. She was determined to go through with it, and there was nothing he or anyone else could do to convince her otherwise. Stubborn woman, he thought, exhaling his frustration. "All right," he said then, nodding slowly. "But I'm gonna hold you to that promise, Liv."

The smile she gave him was sad, yet still had a certain spark to it. "Of course you will," she said, lifting up on her toes. "I wouldn't expect anything less from you." She pulled his head down, and their lips met in a kiss that started out soft and tender, but ended hard, filled with a desperate kind of need. After a few moments she broke away, meeting his gaze through her eyelashes. "All right then," she said, catching her breath. "Let's get this over with. Impress me, Peter. Can you get this boat started or not?"

It was happening. No matter how much he might wish otherwise. All he could do was help her, in any way he could. And she wanted him to impress her, didn't she? Impressing her was always his goal. It had been so from the moment he'd first laid eyes on her. How could he not have wanted to? It was instinctual, like breathing.

"Impress you?" he said, giving her his best smirk, the one she'd privately admitted had driven her crazy back in the old days, back before the world had come crashing down around them. "Now that I can do, Agent Dunham."

#

---

#

Olivia waited in the captain's chair, legs crossed beneath her. Swiveling absently from side to side, she gazed down at the wisps of dark hair on Peter's exposed midriff as he worked below her, his upper half buried beneath the yacht's control console.

"Try it now," he instructed.

She did so silently, pushing the button labeled as the starter. When nothing happened she frowned, shaking her head. She'd been trying to be patient, but if this was Peter trying to impress her, he was doing a fairly poor job of it.

"Anything?"

"Umm... nope."

"Fuck! Goddamn it. Hold on."

Peter continued to grumble under his breath about colors being wrong and cursing whatever asshole had decided to arbitrarily change the fucking rules on him. Whatever that meant.

Suddenly Ella's head popped up over the top rung of the ladder up to the bridge. She glanced at Peter on his back, a small frown forming on her lips. "Are we leaving soon, Aunt Liv?"

"Peter's still working on getting the boat started, Ell," she told her niece. "And we have to wait for Astrid and the others to get here anyway. Are you in a hurry?"

"No...," Ella admitted shaking her head. Her eyes widened, brimming with excitement — a sight all too rare as of late. "But they have that movie about the talking cars on disc, and the one about the pirates and the lady. But Mom says we have to wait until the boat is running before we can watch them."

"Your mom is right, sweetie," she said. "You're just gonna have to wait. It shouldn't be too much longer, should it, Peter?"

An irritated grunt floated up from below. "Sure. I've only got about a hundred more possible combinations or so to go. Should be a piece of cake."

Olivia winced. So he was down to just randomly guessing at the correct wires to splice together? No wonder he sounded annoyed. A single glance at the mess of wires thicker than her wrist jammed beneath the console was enough for her to see that the job was miles above her head, though Peter had seemed confident. At first.

"I'm sure it won't be long," she said to Ella with more confidence that she felt.

Her niece nodded glumly, before disappearing back down the ladder. Yawning into her hands, she gazed out over the bay toward the horizon. There was a break in the clouds, and rays of sunlight shone on distant waters that glistened like a golden mirage.

As she waited for Peter's next attempt, her mind drifted inevitably to the tiny life growing inside her. She had nearly told him during their earlier conversation below decks. Holding it back had hurt, almost physically. His desperate need to understand her own desperation had been a knife stabbing deep into her heart. He deserved to know about his child. But he would have tried to stop her. He might have told Rachel. Or worse, Walter, who then might not agree to help her. And that, she could not allow. Peter would be angry, of course, when she finally told him. But he would understand her reasoning, after the fact. Wouldn't he? After Sonia? He had to. It was all she could hold onto. And if she failed, then the issue would be moot. For both of them.

"All right, Liv," Pete's voice suddenly intruded. "I think I got it this time. Try it again."

"You sure?" Olivia grinned, unable stop herself from needling him. "Cause I'm pretty sure I've heard that before. Several times now, in fact."

Peter scooted out from beneath the console, his face wounded and covered in sweat. "Hey, you want to take a turn down here?" he said with a scowl. He held his hands up, grimacing. "My knuckles look like raw hamburger."

"All right," she said, giggling at his feigned outrage. "Attempt number twenty-seven. Here goes nothing, Captain." She pushed the button again, and the entire boat seemed to lurch in its mooring, and then a deep rumble vibrated her chair. The dials on the control console lit up, their needles bouncing. At the yacht's bow, ocean water churned and boiled. Directly above her head, the radar scanner made a steady humming noise as it began spinning about on its post. "It's working, Peter!" she gasped, filled with sudden exhilaration. "It's working!"

"So I noticed," he said, sitting up with a huge grin. "What did I tell you? Are you impressed yet, Agent Dunham? I just committed grand larceny to the sixth power of ten or so for you."

"The sixth power of ten, huh?" Olivia said in a bland tone. "That sounds like felony, Bishop. I don't consort with criminals."

All of a sudden, she found herself wanting him, hungering for him, and out of the blue she envisioned herself straddling him right then and there, having her way with him, despite the others on board. Such thoughts had been occurring more and more frequently as of late, and could be triggered by the most innocuous of things; a sideways glance or the way the deep groove would appear between Peter's eyes when he was concentrating on something fully; watching his long fingers perform dexterous feats, fine motor skill work — such as hot-wiring a multi-million-dollar yacht. She found herself leaning toward him in her seat, nostrils flaring, panting with desire.

"You uh... you okay, Liv?" Peter said.

His blue eyes were curious, the deep groove appearing as they narrowed, sending an electric thrill southward. Her nipples grew into taut pebbles of iron beneath her t-shirt, stiffening until her breasts ached. Olivia swallowed, breathing in and out. "I... I'm fine," she said, her voice sounding utterly false in her ears. If only he would just stop looking at her like that, then she could regain the upper hand. Blinking repeatedly, she tried to rein in her suddenly raging hormones. "I just... I'm impressed. Nice Job."

His eyes narrowed further. "Okay... well, how does she look?"

"How... how does who look?" she managed to stammer through the cloud of lust.

"The boat? The tach — the RPM gauge? What's she idling at? How much fuel do we have?"

What was he saying? She...? RPM? Idling? It's the boat. He's talking about the boat, you fool! Olivia gave herself a mental slap. Get a hold of yourself. It's just Peter. It's not like you haven't fucked him sideways already. How do you think you ended up in your delicate condition?

With an effort — and it was an effort — she swiveled away from him, excising his pretty face and eyes off from her field of view. Forcing her eyes open, she ran her gaze over the circular dials and readouts, until she found the right ones. "...She, I mean the boat, is idling at twelve hundred RPMs, and... and the tank is full, Peter!"

Grunting slightly, he climbed to his feet, then leaned over her shoulder studying the dials. "Excellent," he said with an approving nod, rubbing his palms together. He leaned even closer, invading her personal space as he always did, without thought. She could smell him now; the particular scent that her brain had come to associate with Peter Bishop. "I think we're good to go," he went on, oblivious to her torment. "Now all we need is for Astrid and the others to get back. You think they're okay?"

Olivia dug her fingernails into the bare flesh of her thigh. She had to get away from him, now, before he noticed what was wrong with her. "Astrid...?" she said in a voice that sounded like a squawk. "I'm sure they're fine. They know better than to do anything stupid." She popped up from her chair, nearly bashing his head with her own. "Well, I'll leave you to it, Peter. I'm gonna go check on the others."

Before he could reply, she slipped past him, swinging onto the narrow ladder down to the deck below. Her foot slipped in her sudden haste, she came close to falling on her ass before catching the railing at the last moment.

"Liv."

Olivia froze on the ladder, her eyes level with his waist. "Yeah?"

"You sure you're feeling okay?"

"I'm fine, Peter," she told him carefully. "I'm good. I'm... I'm normal."

Before her stupid mouth could utter any more such inanities, she continued down the ladder. When she was out of his view, she paused, taking in slow breaths. What am I doing? What the hell is wrong with me? It was like he'd been unwittingly radiating some kind of fuck aura — one that her body had reacted strongly to. You've got sex on the brain, and now is nowhere near the time or place. On the heels of that thought, a conversation she'd had with her sister years ago came rushing back.

God, Liv, it's like I can't stop thinking about sex. Almost anything sets me off. I swear I've never been so horny, ever. Not even when I was a teenager. And do you know what the best part is? I don't even need to worry about getting pregnant! That had been when Rachel was pregnant with Ella, early in her first trimester. The next time they'd spoken several weeks later, her sister had been complaining of morning sickness, of puking her guts up multiple times a day, every day. Sex had been the furthest thing from her mind.

Fuck. That's all I need.

Olivia made her way down to the lower deck. Leaving Peter's general proximity seemed to help, and she soon felt almost like herself again. Almost, except that now that she'd become aware of it, her breasts continued to ache. And did they feel heavier? What other joys of motherhood did she have to look forward to? How soon would she be heaving up her breakfast and lunch, her dinner? How was she supposed to eat for two when she frequently skimped on food for one?

Excited voices echoed up through the door to the lower deck, Walter's hearty laugh among them, and the girls' also. And what sounded like a television. With a sigh, she turned to see what the racket was all about, but went still at the sight of a white SUV pulling up beside the maroon Suburban in the parking lot.

"They made it, Peter!" she called up to the bridge.

"I see them," his voice came back a moment later. "I wonder if she found her dad."

Olivia wondered also. She watched as they piled out of the Mercedes, one after another. Four of them, not five. A pang of sorrow burned through her chest. One more death to lay at some monster's feet. "I'm sorry, Astrid," she whispered as they began unloading their gear in the distance. A moment later four figures were hurrying toward them, lugging their backpacks on their shoulders. She glanced up and found Peter watching her from above, the wind blowing his hair to one side.

"You ready?" he asked.

She shook her head slowly. "No, not really. But we're doing it anyway," she said, meeting his gaze. He didn't like her plan, what she'd told him of it, at least. That much was abundantly clear. But he trusted her, and his trust was all that mattered. "I want to go as soon as they're on board."

"Aye, aye, Captain," Peter replied without a trace of humor.

#

The Coy Mistress surged forward through the water into the teeth of the cresting wave. The wave struck with a booming thud, shaking the deck, rattling everything not tied down. A great splash followed, spraying up and outward, then blowing back over the rails in a fine mist that tasted like salt as the yacht plowed ahead, engines screaming in a guttural rumble. The wind roared in cool defiance of their passage.

Abruptly, the deck tilted forward beneath Olivia's feet. Her stomach seemed to simultaneously contract and expand, and then they were racing downward again, gaining speed, sliding down a hill of water into the valley between waves. The ocean rose up around them, blotting out the horizon, swelling until it towered over the gunwales as if it were some alive thing, as if there was some gargantuan sea creature rising up from the depths, trying to pierce the surface so it could swallow them hole. Another thudding crash shook the boat, followed by another massive splash, no mist this time, but a solid wall that covered the yacht from bow to stern. The deck leapt beneath her feet, tilting suddenly upward again, nearly knocking Olivia off her feet. As it did so, a composed but distant thought informed her that if not for her death-grip on the nearest handrail, she more than likely would have been tossed overboard.

We are all going to die, Olivia thought, hooking her entire arm around the rail, and mopping the salt water from her eyes. What the fuck possessed me to think this was a good idea? I must have been out of my mind. I'd rather walk to New York. I'd rather crawl!

Beside her, gripping the handrail with one hand, Peter rode each wave like he was riding a surfboard, knees bent, hair whipping about in the gusting wind. Below the aviator sunglasses he'd found up on the bridge, the man was grinning from ear to ear. How could he be grinning when her stomach felt as if it might empty out its contents at any moment? She wanted to hit him. She wanted to knock the idiot smile right off his idiot face.

Seated on the deck below them in the yacht's prow, Ella and Gina were having the time of their young lives, their laughs and screams filling the air at each hill and valley, at each thunderous splash. Rachel sat between them, wearing a pink bikini top she'd apparently been saving for just such an occasion. Astrid and Claire sat in front of them on a narrow bench in the prow, each soaked to their skin by the frenzying waves.

"Get ready, here comes another one!" Lincoln Lee shouted with glee from the bridge. "Off the port bow!"

Olivia's stomach slammed against her rib cage as the yacht swerved hard to face the incoming wave. Clenching her gut, she threw a look made of daggers up behind her at Lincoln, standing at the helm, spinning the wheel with an intense look of concentration. Perched on the copilot's seat beside him was an open-mouthed Walter, who managed to somehow look both terrified and ecstatic at the same time. Broyles stood at their side, his face as expressive as a block of wood.

The yacht rode up the wave, topping the crest and slamming down on the back side with a thunderous splash. Lincoln Lee whooped above them and the girls laughed and squealed with delight. Then out of the blue the blaring dirge of an air horn filled the air, accompanied by a mad cackle of laughter that could have only been issued forth from Walter's lips. Another wave followed, and then another, smaller, and then the waves were gone, the ocean still and serene, as if they hadn't just endured what felt like hours of endless pounding. Far to the east, the grayish storm front retreated toward the horizon. Occasional flashes of light bloomed inside the cloud mass, as if an aerial bombardment was taking place just over the horizon.

Peter exhaled loudly, glancing around. "Well, that was fun, wasn't it?"

Fun? Maybe he had more in common with his father than he realized. "Yeah. Sure," Olivia replied prying her fingers loose from the railing. "Fun."

"You feeling okay?" he said with a frown, eyes tightening with concern. "You're looking a little green."

She cleared her throat, swallowing down the lingering taste of bile lodged in her throat since they'd first encountered the stormy weather after turning south out of Massachusetts Bay and crossed into the open Atlantic. Had she ever experienced such sickness on a boat before? Was it real sea sickness? Or the beginnings of something else? Something to do with her... condition?

"I don't think my stomach agrees with our decision to travel south by boat, Peter," she said, then peered up at Lincoln. "Or maybe it's just our current pilot."

"You want something for sea sickness? Walter's probably got something that will do the trick in his stash. Did you know the man's got more drugs than he does clothes in his bag? It's a miracle the man hasn't overdosed yet."

Motion sickness drugs? Would they hurt a fetus? She had no idea, but there was no way to ask him, or anyone for that matter. She was on her own. "That's all right, Peter," she said, trying to force a lightness into her voice that she didn't feel. "I think I might just go lie down for a bit, see if that helps."

"You sure?" Peter asked, his frown deepening. "You want me to come with?"

"No, I'll be fine," she told him firmly, and then paused, glaring up at Lincoln again as he chatted with Broyles. "Why don't you go remind our Lincoln that we're not actually on a pleasure cruise, and that some of us would like to keep down our dinner, if that's all right with him."

Peter grinned, then leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the corner of her mouth. It was an unfeigned, domestic sort of gesture, and done without thought on his part. A warm and fuzzy feeling swept through her, and a sudden rush of emotion seized her throat, mid-breath. It's me that doesn't deserve you, Peter, she thought, trembling on the inside. It's me, not you. At least he wasn't a liar, especially to those he loved most.

"I'll be sure to let Lincoln know just how you feel about his driving abilities," he said with an evil smirk, then reached for the ladder and began pulling himself upward.

Olivia shook her head. Something of a rivalry had developed between the two men, and she sometimes found herself musing on whether or not the same dynamic existed between Lincoln and Peter Bishop from his own universe. The man was highly intelligent, her Peter had admitted once, grudgingly, and she wondered if he was feeling usurped as the resident genius that wasn't crazy.

#

When Peter was gone, she leaned over the rail, gazing out at the ocean. The occasional sprays of mist dampened her face as the yacht chugged along. She looked around for the shore but there was not a hint of land in sight, in any direction. It struck her then that for the first time in nearly a year, there was no reason to keep her guard up, no chance of an infected's attack, or of being devoured by monster's that shouldn't exist.

They were truly alone. They were safe.

Olivia glanced down at Rachel and the others where they were seated in the prow, talking and chatting and laughing amongst themselves. Their voices echoed over the rumble of the engines, faces relaxed and carefree. And happy, as if some great weight or burden had been lifted from their shoulders, if only temporarily. Some part of her longed to go down and join them, but she found that she could not — even if her stomach hadn't felt like it was full of rancid milk. Though she hated it, a distance had sprung up between them in the wake of Sonia's death. A kind of isolation, only self-imposed. Even Peter hadn't been spared. It was her lie, of course, the truth she was keeping from them. But it was also the knowledge that to do what she must, would require embracing the part of herself that she wanted nothing to do with. The part of herself that made her a freak, a monster no less unnatural than the one that had killed Charlie.

So instead she retreated below decks, down to the cramped cabin that was hers and Peters. The room consisted of a single narrow bed and a set of drawers that also served as a nightstand. The drawers were bolted to the wall, to mahogany paneling she suspected had not come cheap. A single porthole in the outside wall made a circle of light across the bed. There was nothing cheap about the yacht — their yacht, now, she supposed, as its owners were surely long since dead.

She lay down on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. It was a mustardy color, and sort of reminded her of an infected's dead gaze. The bed moved beneath her, rising and falling as the boat cut through the water. Behind the headboard, the dual engines emitted a low vibration that was soothing in a way, as the hiss of static on a television screen in the middle of the night was soothing, or the constant hiss of an air vent in the background when she was on the edge of sleep.

Little by little, in increments, she began to relax, taking measured breaths. Out of habit, she pressed down on her womb, trying to discern a difference from what she normally felt, but there was nothing. It was still too early. But she could sense other changes, like the dull ache in her breasts, her strange moodiness, the way she'd come close to attacking Peter, and damn the consequences. Her body was changing, becoming something other than wholly her own.

You're going to be a mother... if you live long enough.

She intended to live long enough, and there was only one way to do that. Taking a breath, she let her eyes fall closed, shutting away the cabin and the physical world. In the months since her escape from Jacob Fischer's torturous hands, attaining the mindset required to access her abilities had grown easier. A little. Sometimes it took multiple attempts, or was out of reach altogether, like grasping at air. But she'd been determined to follow through on her promise to Peter — to take him home if he wanted — and had finally consulted Walter in her quest to do so. She hadn't told him why, of course, but his advice had helped.

Her abilities were like an atrophied muscle, he had said, and that only with constant practice, with repetition, could she ever hope to access them without thought, without being in a heightened emotional state. It was like learning to read, or better, learning to think in a foreign language — extremely difficult for an adult to accomplish — and yet another reason why the cortexiphan trials had been conducted on children.

So she had practiced, and the proper mindset came more quickly now, if only just. It wasn't so much about being afraid or terrified as she'd first thought, but more about belief. True belief, through and through, all the way down to the soles of her feet. Belief that the things she could do, she could. That what she wanted to happen, would happen, without the tiniest shred of doubt. The clue she'd needed had been staring her in the face all along, form the very first time she'd crossed over to the other side on the bridge in Cambridge. She had been startled then, her body and mind reacting on instinct alone, before the impossibility of what she was doing could intercede. Thus far, her successes were limited to several short jaunts to the other world, back to the waiting room she had visited from her cell, and to the morgue where she had appeared sans clothing in front of a startled pathologist. But it was not her universe hopping ability she wanted or needed to practice now — even if she hadn't been on a boat in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, with no land in sight.

She had come to think of the part of her that could sense and manipulate the connectedness of the world around her as her inner eye. It was opening.

The tiny cabin became something more, larger somehow, with hidden depth previously unnoticed. She could not only see the ornamental lamp on the nightstand, but feel it from afar. The grain of its wooden base, the cold metal of the screw securing the lamp in place. It was vibrating. The room was vibrating; her clothes, the nightstand, the pocket door, their bags, the pair of swords propped against the wall in the corner, the boat, the very air itself, and a round coin she sensed on the floor at the foot of the bed.

A coin. Yes. It's perfect.

Focusing on the coin, she reached out, pulling with her inner eye on the infinity of threads connecting to herself and everything else. The coin. She could sense other things now, the lines of force, the border that wasn't a border at all, but more like a veil, a curtain that might be parted if she so chose. But she didn't choose. Sending the coin into the Atlantic on the other side was not her goal. She closed her eyes again, blocking out the cabin, yet keeping her inner eye open, questing. It was sometimes easier this way, without her mundane vision interfering, casting doubts. The sense of other grew stronger, the lines of connectedness taking on form and texture. A stray thought sent them rippling like strings on a piano. The ripples meant something, but what, she couldn't say, nor could she even describe them in a way that would make sense to someone that had never witnessed their strange etherealness.

The coin wasn't on the floor, weighing down fibers of carpet that bristled microscopically, it was in the air. It was floating, moving up and over, rotating, spinning, lines of force raying out in every direction. Reality flexed, and flexed back. The coin was the center point of a maelstrom, reality knitting and unknitting. The coin was in front of her, above her. Her inner eye stared down on it, through it, inside it. The coin was a part of her, she was part of it, a pair of ideograms stitched onto the surface of the veil, made from the same threads.

Olivia opened her eyes.

The coin was there, hovering above, revolving ever so slowly on one edge. A copper penny. The year, 2002. Traces of sweat beaded on her brow. The sense of other began to fade, the lines of force blurring inside her mind. She focused harder, tensing her inner eye, forcing the connection to cease its retreat. She held out her hand. Her palm shook. She dared not think, only to feel. The coin began to descend even as she pictured it doing so in her mind, lowering gently until it stood balanced in the center of her palm. Distantly, she felt her muscles tightening up, a sharp kink developing in the back of her neck. But she ignored her body, she ignored the growing kink, the bead of sweat dripping into her left eye. She ignored everything but the coin. Her breath rasped, the only sound in the tiny cabin. She wasn't done. There was something else she had to try.

Straining hard enough to lift a mountain, she imagined the penny rising off her palm, and it did so, rising in front of her, revolving. When it was even with her eyes, she made it stop, with Lincoln's profile facing her. Honest Abe's single eye glistened, capturing an errant ray of light from the porthole. She could feel the penny, the particles of light warming its surface, exciting its molecules. She wanted it hotter. Much hotter.

Describing what she did next was impossible, other than to say that she wanted it hotter, and so hotter it became. Its particles churned into a frenzy. The penny glowed, turning bright red around the edges. It began to smoke, white acrid wisps that twisted upward, meandering along the ceiling. The reddish glow spread inward to the center until the penny was a bright orange, radiating light. There was a silent pop, and a blue flame appeared out of nothing, enveloping it. Heat baked across her cheeks. Sweat soaked the collar of her shirt. The flame formed into a sphere, wavering, yellow and green and orange streaks roiling across its surface, and its globular shape defied gravity, perfectly formed.

It's so beautiful, she thought, gazing upon the coin in wonder. Like a blooming hemlock was beautiful, or a dying star gone supernova. Beautiful, yet deadly. Her eyes began to water, and then she found herself holding back tears.

It was beautiful. And she had made it. She had created it. Like she had created the life growing in her womb. Something shifted inside her. Maybe her abilities weren't all bad. Maybe she could live with herself, live with being different. Maybe there was more to them than destruction and death. Perhaps she wasn't a monster, a freak, after all. Maybe she was just a woman, trying to find her way in a harsh world, the same as she'd always been.

Olivia smiled, trembling. A lump formed in her throat. Maybe I can do this. Maybe it will be okay.

"Aunt Liv...?"

Ella's sudden gasp sent currents of fear shooting up Olivia's spine. She spared a single glance to the doorway and found her niece frozen in the hall outside. Her hand was frozen mid-gesture, eyes popping out of their sockets, mouth dropped open in a picture of childlike wonder.

Shit...

The penny wobbled, its revolutions becoming less than perfect. Her control of it began to slip, and that was when she realized her mistake.

Not content with making it levitate, she had created a fireball, with a white-hot misshapen glob of metal at its core. And if that wasn't bad enough, she had made it in the belly of a boat, in a room filled with nothing but flammable objects. What the hell was she going to do with it? Drop it on the floor? The bed? Anywhere she might put it was certain to start a fire. A rush of cold fear flooded her synapses. Great idea, Liv. Let's burn the fucking boat down next time.

"Stay out there, Ella," Olivia said in a tight voice. "I just... I just have to get rid of this." There was only one way. She had done it before, once, in another place.

Reaching out for the veil, she found it almost instantly. It was there, all around her, the impression of other, the fuzzy border between worlds, between one reality and the next, or perhaps all of them. She shut her eyes and pictured the coin on the other side, surrounded by cool salt water. The coin was somewhere else. It was over there. It was sinking, boiling the water around it, twirling endlessly in the currents before disappearing into the frigid blackness of another ocean.

She felt something, and the coin abruptly vanished from her senses. She opened her eyes in time to see the globule of blue fire dissipate, disintegrating like a soap bubble popping in slow motion. When it was gone, she stared at the spot where it had been. Her pounding heart reverberated inside her chest, thumping as if she'd just completed a marathon. What had she felt at the moment it had disappeared? A sudden blurring? A kind of fuzziness along the lines of force emanating from the penny? She knew no words to describe the sensation, but the penny was gone, sent safely elsewhere.

Olivia took in a breath, then exhaled slowly with relief. She glanced at Ella, and the pure adoration playing across her niece's face made her cringe on the inside. "Please don't look at me like that, baby girl," she said, sitting up on her elbows. "I can't bear it. I'm still your aunt, just like I was before."

Ella came into the room. "But you can do magic, Aunt Liv!" she blurted, climbing onto the bed. "It was so pretty! Like a flower, only made of fire. Can you do it again? Can you make another one? And where did it go? Was it hard?"

"It was very hard," she said, mopping sweat from her forehead. "And if I'd been using my brain, I wouldn't have done it at all."

"But why?"

"Because it was dangerous. Because I can't control it very well, yet."

Her niece seemed to ponder this for a moment, her eyes distant, before nodding slowly. "But you'll get better," she said, her voice confident, as if it was already a given in her mind. "I know you will."

Olivia grunted, lifting Ella onto her lap. "Maybe. We'll just have to see." She pulled her niece close, wrapping her arms around her waist. "So, what made you come down here, baby girl? It looked like you and Gina were having fun up there. Did you get tired of the waves?"

Ella shook her head. "No. I just missed you," she said, nuzzling into Olivia's arms. "Aunt Liv, what's it like to do magic?"

"It's not magic, honey," she replied, leaning back against the padded headboard. "But, it's kind of like... I don't know, like having another set of senses, maybe. Do you know what I mean by senses?"

"Like another pair of eyes or something? Or another nose?"

"Sort of, only it's inside my head. Sometimes I can, see and feel... things, things that my eyes can't see, or that I can't touch. It's hard to explain."

"Can I learn to do it too?" The hopefulness in her voice was impossible to miss.

"Oh, sweetie," Olivia said, hugging her tight. "I don't think so. It's not something that you can learn." And if she ever found Walter trying to dose her niece with cortexiphan, he was a dead man.

"Is it because of Walter, Aunt Liv?" Ella asked suddenly, tilting her head back until their eyes met. "That he did something to you? That's what I heard Mom say. I don't think she likes him very much anymore... but, I still like him. He's still my friend. Is that okay?"

"Of course, it's okay to still be his friend. It's just..." Olivia trailed off with a sigh, shaking her head. "Well, it's complicated."

"It, is always complicated," her niece commented in awfully dry tone for a six-year-old girl going on seven.

"It does seem that way, doesn't it?" she said, grinning faintly as she rested her chin in Ella's hair. If you only knew how complicated it actually was, baby girl...

The boat rocked up and down, giving off the occasional creak just barely audible above the rumble of the engines. Olivia passed the time by running her fingers through Ella's hair, combing out her knots. She'd been letting it grow out over the summer, and a long ponytail reached halfway down her back. With their increased diet at the asylum, her niece had grown an inch or two, as if her body were racing to make up for the last year. And that wasn't the only change, just the most obvious. Ella had become prone to long, introspective silences now, and didn't laugh as much as she used to. Frequently, an odd glint would appear in her eyes, one that was older than her years, a look that spoke to all the horrors she'd endured. Her innocence was lost, never to be found again. But in its place, however, remained a young girl whom she could see sprouting into a capable young woman.

"Aunt Liv, what will happen when we get to New York?" Ella asked after a time.

Olivia went still, her fingers paused amid a particularly large knot of hair. "I don't know what's going to happen," she said, resuming her stroking. "But whatever it is, we'll figure something out, together. Just like we always have."

#

Night found Olivia on the stern deck, leaning over the railing as the ocean churned and frothed in their wake, shimmering dimly beneath the starlight. The engines purred beneath her feet, vibrating pleasantly through the soles of her boots. She breathed, taking in a breath laced with the tang of saltwater.

The weather had finally cleared and they cruised the rest of the day and into the evening, rounding an indistinguishable landmass to the west that she assumed was Cape Cod before passing within spitting distance a large island that could only have been Nantucket, just after sunset. Darkness had blanketed the island, with not a single light or sign of anything alive to be seen. Further west lay the island of Martha's Vineyard, of presidential fame. The island was over the horizon, but she was certain it would appear just as lifeless as its neighbor.

At cruising speed, the Coy Mistress was not what anyone would ever call swift. Simply driving to New York from Worcester would have been several orders of magnitude faster. But, there was something to be said for a day or two of stress-free travel. She had fallen asleep with Ella on her lap, and in the meantime, someone had been busy in the galley, rustling up a dinner of canned baked beans and potato soup, also from a can. The food was nothing special, but they were infinitely better than venison, of which she'd had enough to last a life time.

She scooped up the last bit of her potato soup, imagining for a moment that she was in her apartment. That she'd just arrived home from a long day and soft music played in the background, something classical, like Bach, maybe, or better yet, some jazz — it seemed she needed some jazz in her life. That she'd left her windows open, and traffic was backing up in the street below as it sometimes did, that there were honks and voices complaining and stray beats of music filtering in from outside, something with a bassy thump that would rattle the window frames. In her mind's eye, there was a new addition in her apartment, two of them; a baby's mournful cries from the spare bedroom, and gentle, male whispers of succor. Painful longing accompanied her reverie, a longing not felt in months. Or perhaps it had merely been suppressed, and the strange normalcy and safety of the yacht had drawn it forth once more.

She heard someone approach behind her and found Peter making his way carefully along the walking space beside the port side gunwale. He carried a glass tumbler in his left hand, and as he leaned up against the rail beside her, pungent wasps of bourbon drifted across her nose, sharp odors of vanilla and toffee and caramel that made her mouth water.

"Hey, you," he said, bumping up against her shoulder. "We're gonna drop anchor for the night soon. Lincoln's bringing us around to Nantucket Harbor, it'll give us some cover from any storms or rogue waves. You feeling better?"

Earlier, she had emerged from the lower deck to find him at the helm, flanked on both sides by Lincoln and Broyles, along with Walter. To her surprise they had been talking, he and his father. Holding a conversation. And for a wonder Peter hadn't looked like he was gargling turpentine. When was the last time she had seen that? Surely since before they'd left Cambridge. Little by little, they were improving, making the best of the situation.

"Yeah, I'm all better," she replied, glancing around for somewhere to stow her empty soup bowl, before settling on the white seat cushion beside her. "Did you eat"

Peter nodded. "Baked beans for me. You may want to clear the area in a few hours." With a grin, he offered her his glass. "Want some? I found some Woodford Reserve behind the bar. It tastes like providence."

Olivia looked away, shaking her head. "No... I... I'm not really in the mood for it tonight," she said, and then quickly changed the subject before he could draw any inferences from her refusal. "I was... practicing earlier," she admitted, suddenly self-conscious. "My abilities, I mean. Ella walked in on me. I was making a penny float, and then like an idiot, I decided to make it catch on fire."

"That... maybe doesn't seem like the best idea," Peter said after a moment, his eyes narrowing. "All things considered."

"You think? Here I am, freaking out, because I have a molten penny floating above the bed and nowhere to put it."

"What did you do?"

"I did the only thing I could do," she said with a shrug, and then hesitated, wetting her lips. "I... I sent it to the other side. To the other universe."

Peter blinked, then let out a low whistle. "You can do that?"

"Yeah," she nodded. "That's how I escaped from Jacob Fischer's lab."

Peter took a sip of whiskey and stared out over the water. " My girlfriend is a superhero," he murmured after a moment, and she wasn't sure if he was talking to her, or himself, or just making a general public service announcement. "That's pretty insane," he said, grinning as he turned to face her. "And insanely cool. But what does that make me? Your plucky sidekick?"

"What? Would you have a problem with being my sidekick?" She watched him consider the idea, and was more than a little envious when he rolled another sip of bourbon between his cheeks.

"Not at all," he replied shortly, "but, I don't have any superpowers, you know."

"True, but you have other skills," she said, then eyed him askance. "Useful ones."

Peter grinned a crooked grin. "Then I'd be honored to be your sidekick, Agent Dunham, specializing in stress relief."

"Stress relief?" Olivia snorted a laugh. "For the record, I was talking about your skills with your hands, Peter. You know, fixing stuff."

"Yeah? And so was I."

Swallowing, Olivia felt a different kind of longing then, and did her best to suppress it. At least until they were alone later. Some things could only be held at bay for so long. "So, what were you doing while I was trying to burn us down to the water line?" she asked.

"I took a turn behind the wheel. This boat is amazing. We could live on her, you know? In fact, we should have been doing this from the beginning, just putting ashore when we need to resupply. Though I guess fuel would be a problem." He shook his head and sighed. "You know when I was younger, I saw myself retiring on a boat like this. Sailing the high seas, traveling the world. It was true freedom — from everything."

"And was there a woman in this fantasy of yours?" she asked, curious to know what the dreams of his younger self were like.

"Not as such." He shrugged, then met her gaze. "But there is now. A certain pain-in-the-ass FBI agent who conned her way into my life."

She arched a cool eyebrow. "Conned her way in, did she now? You're right. She does sound like a pain in the ass. But here's the kicker, Peter. Would you go back and change anything if you could? Apart from the world as we knew it coming to an end."

"The world as I knew it came to an end the moment I laid eyes on this FBI agent. So no, I wouldn't change a thing. The real question, is whether or not she would change anything."

Olivia hesitated. Why did the conversation suddenly feel like a negotiation? Or better, an ending? She wondered if he could sense what was coming. Had some part of him concluded that her plan would be highly dangerous? That her own death was a likely end result? A painful longing went through her, to tell him everything, to tell him about the child growing inside of her, to reassure him. But she could not. She couldn't lie to him, but neither could she allow him to stop her from going through with it. So, she did the only thing she could, and took the coward's way out, as she had since she'd first seen the pink lines on the pregnancy test kits.

"Apart from the people she knew and loved dying," she told him, "and the majority of the world's population turning into walking corpses? I doubt she'd change much of anything."

"What about John, then?" he asked, abandoning all pretenses of their little charade.

"What about John? He's dead." There was an opening there, to tell him about her encounter with the remainder of John's consciousness, left over from the mind-meld in the tank, but why confuse the issue? In the end, John had been betraying her from the beginning, admitted from his own mouth. And that was that. "Maybe there's some other Olivia Dunham out there in this multi-verse thing that's still in love with him," she went on, "but it's not me. Peter, why are you bringing up John all of a sudden?"

Peter gulped down the last of his drink, wincing slightly. "I don't know. Just making sure you're still with me, I guess. Liv, you've been... distant lately, with all of us. Since Sonia died. Which I understand, of course. Rachel asked me how you were doing. She said you wouldn't talk to her about it. And I think I know why."

Olivia suddenly felt cold all over. "...You do?"

"Yeah. I'd like to think I know you pretty well, now. You're afraid of what's going to happen tomorrow. You're afraid that you might fail at whatever you have planned, and that we'll never see you again. That I'll never see you again."

"I am afraid, Peter," she whispered. "There's a lot that can go wrong. I guess I've been preparing myself for that possibility. I'm sorry."

Instead of telling her that it would all be okay, he shook his head, then put his hand over hers on the railing. "Yeah. Me too."

#

"See anyone?" Lincoln asked, glancing at Peter beside him at the helm. "Or anything?"

Peter shook his head, keeping the binoculars pressed against his eyes. "No. No one. No one alive, at any rate."

After passing the night in the relative calm of a small cove off the western tip of Nantucket, they were making good time, cruising southwest along the eastern seaboard. The rains had departed, leaving in their stead a sweltering heat, sticky with humidity below a cloudless sky. The daylight was bright to the point of blinding. A stiff crosswind blowing in off the starboard bow seemed full of grit that scored across Olivia's cheeks and stank of rotting fish to boot. They were alone on deck, as the others had retreated from the pressure cooker that was being the topside, down into the incredible coolness of the air conditioning below decks — which had transformed a million-dollar yacht into a near-priceless commodity, in her opinion.

She shaded her eyes, squinting toward the distant shoreline, stretching the width of the horizon. The air seemed to waver, as if the ocean itself was boiling, sending up rising waves of heat. With her unaided eyes, the shore of Long Island was a thin strip of white and uninterrupted line of dark smudges that might have been anything, man-made structures or landscape.

"Let me see those, Peter," she said, holding out her hand for the binoculars. He passed them to her without a word, and she lifted them to her eyes.

The distant shoreline sprang into view. The beach was tan, not white as she'd thought, and glinted with infinite sparkles of reflected sunlight. Beyond the beach was a row of massive houses, widely spaced, with tall bushes and hedgerows that while overgrown at present, had been well manicured in the recent past. The homes had unique architectures, from classical to post-modern, and each was a private castle in their own right. They probably sold for more money than I would have made in my lifetime working for the Bureau, she thought, lowering the binoculars for a moment.

"What am I looking at?" she asked, glancing at Peter.

"Those would be the East Hamptons," he said, putting his sunglasses back into place. "I think I recognized one of the houses on the beach. I knew a guy who used to throw these wild parties back in the day. Back when I was into that kind of thing."

"As opposed to now?" Lincoln said with a smirk. "Where I come from, this side of Long Island is pretty much deserted. After the vortex opened up on the East River and sucked in a couple hundred people, property values tanked. Everyone sold at once, and it was a race right to the bottom. Today, all those mansions with their pools and tennis courts? They're all empty, boarded up, or homes for vagrants. Or both."

Olivia took another look through the binoculars, trying to visualize Lincoln's version of Long Island. These vortexes he kept mentioning sounded like something out of a nightmare, or bad science fiction movie. "What else is different about your world, Lincoln?" she asked, continuing to scan the beach. "How different is it?"

"It's different. Some of your technology is... well, just way behind, in my opinion, at least. Your weapons are what come to mind the most. They look like antiques from my world. And from what little I've seen of your communication tech, it seems like the kind of stuff we were using decades ago, too."

"And yet you guys still have smallpox, don't you?" she said absently, tracking a figure stumbling through the breakers along the shoreline. Now that her eyes had adjusted to the distance, other figures were visible, some in numbers, other solitary, moving aimlessly between properties.

"Of course," Lincoln said with a frown. "Don't you?"

"We had smallpox eradicated worldwide by 1980," Peter said. "You're telling me people still get smallpox where you're from? That's utterly bizarre. Maybe Edward Jenner died of it on your world before he could discover the vaccine. And how the hell did you know that, Liv?"

"There was a poster on the wall over there," she explained, lowering the binoculars. "I saw it when I crossed over trying to escape from Jacob Fischer. Smallpox and You, I think that's what the title said. It was a list of bullet points."

"Oh, yeah?" Lincoln shook his head in wonder, scratching the side of his chin. "Huh. I remember posters like that from when I was a kid. You mean you guys never had to sit through smallpox prevention and education classes?"

"No, we had AIDS education and prevention," Pete said.

"Aids? What the hell is that?"

Olivia lifted the binoculars again, scanning the shoreline as it slid past in the distance while Peter and Lincoln continued comparing the various differences between their worlds. She had never been to the Hamptons. Nor had she ever known anyone that had owned a house in the area, or ever had a reason to visit them. But she would have liked to have seen them in their heyday. To have vacationed there, renting out a house or such. People had done that, hadn't they? But she'd never had the time. And who would she have gone with? Herself? How pathetic was that? Before John, there had been no one in years — no one serious, at least. Other than several ill-advised dips into the dating pool — which had typically been awkward affairs followed by even more awkward goodbyes — her life had been consumed by her work. Sure, she'd been making a difference and it had been fulfilling in its own way, but that had made her personal life no less empty. How often had she ended her day alone in her apartment, on the couch or in the tub, with a bottle of Johnny Walker and a bowl of dried cereal, rinse and repeated, day after day? Why had it taken the end of the world for her to see that outside of her job, she'd been something of a mess?

Peter's voice grew astonished as Lincoln continued describing other differences between the two worlds. Air ships? Flights to the moon? How could his world have ended up so different? At what point in history had their universes forked apart? And why? What had been the impetus? And theirs were only tiny drops in the ocean of possibility. Just thinking about it was like running her mind through a blender.

And you think you can fix this? The voice of her doubt whispered in the back of her mind. You think this plan of yours can possibly work? Do you even have a real plan?

Olivia shut the voice away. It had to work. There was no other option. Sonia's death had made that all too clear. Their only chance — her only chance — was to find the one's responsible, wherever they were, whoever they were, in whatever world they resided, and stop them. By any means necessary. And though it seemed doubtful at present, maybe she might even succeed. Maybe she might even live to see the aftermath. She lowered the binoculars, setting them down in a cubbyhole and giving Peter a sideways glance.

Maybe she might even have a life afterward. Or a family.

#

The remainder of the voyage passed without issue, and the sun was just beginning to dip below the horizon when they sailed into Lower Bay, angling northward toward the mouth of the Hudson River. The Verrazano-Narrows Bridge appeared in the distance, spanning the entrance to New York Harbor. Before long, it became apparent that the military's tactics had been the same as those used in Boston to prevent the spread of the infection, with similar results. All hands were on deck as they puttered beneath the shattered bridge, every voice silent, all eyes directed upward to the mess of tangled girders, to the asphalt and concrete dangling from grids of bent and rusted re-bar.

The entrance to the harbor felt like a line of demarcation, beyond which destruction had become the norm. It was all around them now, charred ruins and demolished buildings dotting the shores on either side of the channel. A massive fire or carpet bombing of some kind had taken place, on a scale that dwarfed what had happened in Boston. Brooklyn was gone. Staten Island, gone. Herds of infected roamed streets filled with mounds of rubble, and that was just what was visible from their vantage. The sight filled Olivia with foreboding, and from the uneasy looks on the others' faces, she wasn't the only one.

A mile or two beyond the bridge, what remained of the Manhattan skyline slid into view on the horizon. Olivia gasped taking it all in in a single glance. New York City's majestic towers were broken and battered. Skyscrapers leaned over, crushing into one another. From a distance, she might have thought they were rows of dominoes caught in a moment, mid-collapse. Those that still stood seemed fragile somehow, like skeletons barely held together. They kept going, cutting through the water of the bay while all around them each scene of destruction seemed worse than the previous. The skyline grew larger and larger, until it loomed on the horizon. The signs of bombardment became pronounced, windows shattered and gaping facades stained black with ash. Boats of all sizes run aground. Massive container ships. Tankers. Military vessels. Even yachts not dissimilar form their own, all littering the shores on either side of the bay like the carcasses of beached whales.

Olivia searched for the Massive Dynamic building among the mass of leaning towers, but couldn't spot it through the rubble. Manhattan's skyline had changed dramatically, and she struggled to find anything that seemed familiar, almost as if she were looking at an entirely different city altogether. One that had been smashed by some angry giant's massive fist. The foreboding she'd felt earlier deepened into despair that felt like a block of concrete lying across her chest.

A tall figure jutted up from the water just ahead on their left. Lady Liberty hadn't survived the apocalypse unscathed. The giant statue's torch was missing, along with the majority of the arm holding it. From the hulks of twisted metal scattering the grounds beneath the statue, a diving plane or a helicopter had clipped the arm, severing it messily from its shoulder.

"Damn...," Lincoln Lee's voice uttered from the deck above. "The old girl's really taken a beating, hasn't she? And why the hell is she green? You guys have some kind of problem with maintenance here?"

No one replied. What could they say? It was all so much worse than Olivia had imagined it would or even could be.

"Well, we're here, Olivia," Astrid said, standing beside her at the mid-deck railing. "But what do we do now? I don't even see the Massive Dynamic building. I know it's getting dark, but, what if it's... just not there anymore?"

"I... don't know," she replied softly, unable to pull her eyes form the ruins. Daylight was fading even as they watched, the scarlet orb of the sun sinking between the remaining structures of Jersey City to the west. Fuck. It has to be there.

But wishing wouldn't make it appear. A cold dose of reality settled in her gut, heavy like a lump of lead. Sometimes there were no winners, only losers. She wondered in how many realities Earth was cold and lifeless, or smoldering in the ashes of nuclear fire. On how many had the human population been wiped out by plague, man-made or otherwise? Or by walking corpses whose only imperative was to devour human flesh? The number was certainly greater than zero.

When they came abreast of Liberty Island the rumble of the yacht's engine ceased. The boat sloshed forward in the water, then tipped back toward the stern, pushing a wave ahead of them. Beyond, the harbor and the city were dark and eerily silent. A warm breeze blew in off the water, carrying with it the shrieking cries of distant seagulls.

"I'm gonna make an executive decision and drop anchor here for the night," Peter said from the helm above. "It's gonna be too dark to make landfall without lights anyway, and I don't know about any of you, but I feel a hell of a lot safer out here on the water than on land right about now. Tomorrow, we'll see what there is to see."

"Hey, Aunt Liv!" Ella called down. "Peter let me and Gina drive the boat! I even drove it under the bridge!"

"That's great, hon," she said, glancing up and waving at her niece's ecstatic smile. "Make sure you do what Peter says, though, okay?"

"Oh, they are, believe me," Rachel assured her, popping up beside her daughter. "I've got my eye on them."

She wasn't sure how her sister could fit up there, crammed into the tiny space around the helm along with Peter and Ella and Gina and Lincoln, unless Rachel was sitting on someone's lap. And she had a fairly good idea whose lap that might be. Shaking her head, she turned her attention from the upper deck as voices carried up from below.

"I can scarcely believe it. One of the greatest cities in the world, reduced to piles of rubble. It's all so senseless."

Olivia peered over the railing where Walter and Broyles and Claire were standing in the prow, staring out across the water at the fading Manhattan skyline.

"They had no choice, Doctor Bishop," Broyles said. "The ship they were on was sinking."

"I fail to see how they had no choice, Agent Broyles!" Walter said, his voice ripe with disgruntlement. "It all seems rather elementary to me. One can either choose to destroy an entire city and everyone in it, or one can choose not to. Surely another solution could have been found. We survived in Cambridge, did we not? I believe it was still standing when we left, yes?"

"I don't think it's the same thing, Walter," Claire interjected. "Cambridge, even Boston, aren't like New York City. On any given day, there were between three and four million people here. They must have felt like they had to do something before they had a horde of undead larger than our standing army. From what Astrid told me about those times, this lab you guys were hiding out in wasn't exactly a walk in the park. And don't forget that you predicted what would happen — which I might add is pretty damn cool." The young woman's jet-black hair twirled as she rounded on Broyles, giving him a pert look. "And for the record, Phillip, can we avoid using metaphors about sinking ships while we're on one? Thanks."

Listening to their byplay, Olivia couldn't help but grin despite her black mood. She glanced at Astrid beside her. "I like her," she told her former assistant quietly, nodding down at Claire. "She's... interesting."

"I like her, too," Astrid said, her eyes locked on the woman below. A small smile creased her lips as she leaned up against the bannister. "Walter's come around on her also, after he found out she is almost as big a Violet Sedan Chair fan as he is."

Olivia quirked an eyebrow. "Violet Sedan Chair...?"

"Some old rock band. They're Walter's favorite, apparently. I'm not too keen on them myself, but for whatever reason, they both like them a lot."

"You know, I'm sorry about your father, Astrid," Olivia said after a moment of silence passed between them. She reached out, touching her friend's hand on the rail. "We haven't really had a chance to talk after you got back. Was there any sign of him at his house?"

Astrid's face was blurry and indistinct in the twilight, but there was no mistaking her downtrodden voice. "No, his house was empty," she said, shaking her head sadly. "The front door was wide open. I didn't even go inside. I could just tell he wasn't there, that no one had been there in a long time. His house was just like every other empty one I've come across over the last year. There were infected all over his neighborhood, though. A few of them were even fresh."

"Really? Were there any signs of other survivors? Maybe he was with them?"

"I drove all through his neighborhood, and through most of the other ones nearby. We didn't see anyone, or anything that looked like a safe house or sanctuary. To be honest, Olivia, I didn't expect anything different, but I just had to make sure for my own peace of mind. In my head, Dad's been gone for a long time... and he still is. And he was never in the best of health to begin with." Her lips pressed into a sad smile. "My dad used to love smoking meat. I warned him he was one baby back rib from another heart attack, but he would never listen."

There seemed nothing to say to that, so she said nothing. She listened to the murmur of friends' and family's voices and peered out across the water, where the distant skyline was little more than grayish shadows against a deeper black. It has to be there. Something has to be there, or we're lost. Or I'm lost. In that moment, she made a decision. About the baby, about Peter. If the morning sun revealed the worst, then she would tell him. She would tell them all. They had a right to know if there was even the slightest chance she was going to turn spontaneously, for their own safety, if nothing else.

She felt a dull ache in her heart, and another of a different kind rising in her stomach. But as she turned to go find something to snack on in the galley, Peter's voice rang out, echoing in the night air. The excitement in his voice stopped her cold.

"Umm... guys? I'm getting something over the radio. I think someone is broadcasting!"