Joel grunts and staggers under the weight of the damn futon. On the other end of it, Tommy trips and they both almost crash to the ground. "Ellie!" Joel barks, "Get that door, will you?"
The door to the shed swings open, with Ellie behind it. She's gained back most of the weight she lost. Her hair is less a pixie than a bowl cut, but it doesn't seem to bother her. "What took you two so long?"
"Oh, very funny," Joel grunts, "Where do you want this thing, anyway?"
"Over here, but let me finish hanging the lights first."
Joel sets the futon down inside the door and looks around. It's a decent size for a first apartment, though why a fifteen-year-old needs her own place, he really doesn't know. One wall is cluttered with boxes, while there's a desk against another wall and a bed frame tucked off to the side. Getting this far took an annoying amount of effort, given that the "move" covers about thirty feet. Ellie trots back over to the wall she indicated and hops up on a rickety wooden crate to hang a set of Christmas lights. Joel clears his throat. "Be careful! You know you've still had some balance problems."
Without turning, she stands on one foot and strings the lights with one hand while cheerfully flipping him off with the other. He rolls his eyes. "Suit yourself, then." While Tommy goes back for yet another box, Joel starts to unpack some of the ones they've already hauled down. "Do you want books on this shelf?"
She glances over. "No, that's the kitchen."
"The kitchen?"
"Yeah, I'm gonna get a hot plate."
"You're gonna start cooking?"
"What? I can cook."
"Remember that time you tried to add canned prunes to a pot of chili?"
"Oh, like people can't grow and change?"
He grumbles and piles the books onto a small table instead. "Just don't burn this place down, okay?"
"Roger that."
He lays a plank over a couple of concrete blocks as a makeshift shelf, but makes a mental note to scrounge up a real bookcase. "I still don't understand why you're in such a damn hurry to move out."
"It's literally your backyard, Joel. It's not like I'm moving to Timbuktu."
"Jus' . . . Let me know, okay? If it's too much to keep up, you can always move back home."
"I can handle it."
Tommy totters through the door before Joel can work out a response to that. The man's carrying two boxes and a stacked-high laundry basket, but he manages not to tip over. "I think that's the last of it. Nothing left but the mattress. If you can give me a hand, Joel . . ."
Joel nods. "Don't die before we get back," he warns Ellie.
"I make no promises!"
Shaking his head, Joel follows after his brother.
Once Ellie is out of earshot, Joel speaks in a low voice. "You hear back from your contacts?"
Tommy props the door for him and Joel follows him into the kitchen. "Yeah. Went down without a hitch. They left both pendants and the letter well inside Firefly territory in Laredo. Plus that note saying you were gonna keep going south and warning Marlene not to come after you."
Joel grunts. "You think that'll be enough?"
"If she really decides to find you? No. But, it could buy you years if she looks south first."
Joel nods. "And you're sure she's got no way to track us back to Jackson? You never mentioned it to her, you never said anything to any of your old war buddies?"
"Don't know how I could've unless I turned into fucking Nostradamus. I didn't meet Maria until I was well and done with the Fireflies. Haven't spoken with 'em since." He pauses. "You mind telling me what was in that other letter?"
"I do mind."
They turn the corner into Ellie's bedroom, now bare except for the mattress leaning against one wall. Joel feels a pang of loss, which is just silly. She's only been sleeping here for three months or so.
"If she comes after her . . . we'll have to run. Can't take on the whole Firefly organization."
"There's no reason you'd have to worry about that right now."
"But, if she does . . ."
"Joel. You got her to safety. She's whole and she's well and she's gettin' stronger and more ornery all the time. You don't have to fret over her every second of every day."
Joel snorts. In a lot of ways, his brother is still very naive. He stares out the window. He can see the shed from here. He'll be able to watch over her. And there's no point in agonizing over what he had to do to get her here or grieving over the casualties and collateral damage along the way. That's past. He has to move on, like he's always told her.
"Joel. You really can stop worrying."
"No, I can't. That's part of bein' a father."
/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/
Three months prior
Abby has screamed herself out. Mia and Nancy tried to comfort her at first, but she shook off their hands, eventually curling into herself against the wall, as far from Dad as she can get.
She's focusing on her knees, and her breathing, which is coming harsh and sharp, when the door slams open again. She doesn't raise her head at first, but she hears the tread of one set of boots, and a woman's pained sigh.
"Report."
That voice is exhausted, but hard. There's no mistaking Marlene.
Off to Abby's right, Mia starts to rise, starts to speak, but a hand cuts her off. "I wasn't asking you, Nurse Caldwell."
A figure squats before Abby - just a dark silhouette against the fluorescent of the operating theater. She squeezes her eyes tighter and buries them in her arms, but there's no blocking out that voice.
"Private Anderson. Report."
She shakes her head wordlessly.
"Private Anderson! What happened here?"
Abby swallows. She's not getting out of this. "He . . . he was already here when I got here."
"Who?"
"I . . . I didn't know what was going on - just that my dad was here and I had to get him out. The building was on fire. But . . . he got here ahead of me."
"Who, Anderson?"
She lifts her head and tries to fight down her pain. "The smuggler. Miller. He said he wasn't leaving without Ell . . . without the immune girl."
Marlene glances at the operating theater and sighs. "How'd he take her? How'd he even get her off the respirator?"
Abby squeezes her eyes shut. She can't . . . she can't think of anything that's happened here in terms of people that she loves. A girl who was her friend. A man that she trusted. Her father, who chose her over life itself. She forces herself to see them as silhouettes - shadows of themselves, meaningless. Joel Miller, a smuggler from Boston. Ellie, the immune child.
Dr. Jerry Anderson.
"Abby."
"It was my dad." The words come out in a rush. "And it was me. It was my fault. Miller . . . he caught me off-guard when I came to get my father. He took me hostage. Told . . . told Dr. Anderson he'd shoot me unless he took the girl off the machines."
She swallows hard. "So, he did. And Joel . . . he shot him. He had what he wanted, but he still shot him for no reason, and . . ."
"Abby. Get a hold of yourself." Marlene pauses and lays a hand on her shoulder. "So, he killed Dr. Anderson. What are you going to do about it?"
Abby glares up at her. "What the fuck do you think?! I'm gonna track him down, and I'm gonna kill him."
A dark hand flashes out and catches her square across the cheek, snapping her head around. "That's a child's answer," Marlene snaps with strained emotion in her voice, "What, you're gonna go on some epic revenge quest? And what the fuck is that going to accomplish?" She pauses. Softens a little. "Your father was a great man. And a good man. But this world doesn't need good people as much as it needs good soldiers. Are you ready to be that, Abby?"
Abby swallows. She forces her pain down deep. Buries it. Stamps it down as hard as she can. She looks up at Marlene with cold murder in her eyes. "I'll be whatever you need me to be."
fin
