Brenda hadn't even thought about it, just watched as Maura packed her own bags for their trip north. Hadn't even thought to question her going, hadn't even prepared a mental argument against it. She'd known from the first time she'd heard Monica's terrified voice on the other end of the radio that this would be a journey they'd make together.
She'd ducked out to head back home and start packing a few minutes before Maura, letting her have a private moment to pass leadership of the clinic to Katie in her absence. Had already made enough eye contact with Fernando to know he'd be staying behind, to silently communicate that he remained first assistant. Fernando had nodded, his kind eyes locked on Katie as she'd agreed to take over. Brenda hadn't been there for the big moment, but Maura had told her about it as she carefully placed neatly-folded garments into her enormous duffel bag.
"You know they're just gonna get all twisted up," Brenda had said, watching her pack, thinking of her own carelessly wedged-together gear.
"They won't," Maura had replied, a little witheringly, eying Brenda's rumpled tote. "Have you ever properly packed a bag, Brenda Leigh?"
She had not, she learned, once Maura had made her dump out her duffel onto the bed Brenda tried not to focus on too hard, since they'd be gone for so long, and which, she swallowed down, she was desperately trying not to think of, given this Polaris mess awaiting them, given she couldn't guarantee anyone's safe return.
Stared only at her heap of wrinkled clothes, errant socks poking out from the pile like spines on a cactus. Didn't let herself take in the thick hand-quilted cover that she burrowed under every night, Maura warm and pliant next to her. Didn't let herself remember the smell of their pillows, soft and comforting and familiar. Tried to think instead of the slight staleness she'd detect when she opened their front door again two weeks later, the vaguely mineral tang in the air that always seemed to accompany a long absence, but even that faltered, so she just let Maura silently re-fold everything, tuck it with smooth efficiency into her bag.
"Look at all the room you have now," Maura chided. "Enough for another sweater, at least."
"How many times do you think we'll be changin' clothes," Brenda muttered under her breath, but flushed scarlet as she realized it wasn't quite quiet enough.
"Then bring a book," Maura had snapped, stalking out of the bedroom.
Brenda had sunk down, knees suddenly giving, grateful for finding the corner of the bed. Ain't I supposed to be the heartless one? she thought wildly, remembering all those times she'd demanded people, kind people, people she loved, follow her into hell. And yet Maura was the cool, calm magnetic north now; icily, deftly repacking her bag, not sparing a moment for the life together they might lose before rejoining Pierre and Lieutenant Kuznetsov and Liz out in the living room.
Brenda shivered for a moment, hoping nobody beyond the wall had heard their sharp exchange. Listened hard at the muted conversation, comforting herself that there weren't any inaudible whispers. Grabbed the nearest book off the bedside table, the one Maura had been reading, and shoved it into her bag. Frowned petulantly, pulled another sweater from the folded stack on the chair in the corner and carefully, deliberately tucked it on top before zipping the bag closed with a satisfying, if too-aggressive, yank.
Everyone was arrayed in the living room, perched on the couch, the chairs, Pierre standing near the door, omnipresent rifle in hand, Liz crouched low on the ottoman. Maura was fluttering around the kitchen, her chilly demeanor from the bedroom now thawed, apparently heated to a rolling boil as she glanced anxiously through cabinets.
"There's nothin' here worth takin' ain't already in these bags," Brenda said gently, dropping her duffel next to Maura's. "You gave out your lists, it'll all be there."
It was six in the morning, but the urgency of their mission had roused everyone necessary from sleep. Their little cadre of boat captains had taken the outboard dinghy down to the Westport harbor an hour ago, assuring Kuznetsov they'd be back not long after dawn. Charlotte at the bakery and Lucy at the food bank diligently loading carts and having them taken to the marina; Fernando and Katie scouring the clinic stores for anything they could spare while simultaneously getting things ready for an influx of new people; drivers from the farms on their way with meat, cheese, flour. Molly Andrews, who ran the café, had opened two hours early, chiding her adolescent sons to find more eggs to make breakfast for the group that had agreed to go.
Brenda knew that the little marina would soon swell with some twenty people ready to help navigate up to their destination, a few deckhands and cooks, a few from their little army—she'd sighed gratefully when Tom and Andrea had immediately volunteered—and a few of their most even-keeled and capable townspeople, roused discreetly in the night. Brenda hoped Miss Marcia's students wouldn't mind a couple weeks of substitutes, the warm, gentle, no-nonsense schoolteacher readily agreeing to join them to help with whatever children they'd almost certainly encounter farther north. And then there was Ellen, a pale, quiet woman Brenda hadn't met, had hardly seen before; Brenda wasn't sure why she was going with them, but she figured well, all hands on deck.
They were taking five boats, all bulky metal trawlers. Each wheelhouse could accommodate up to five crew, each with their own bunks, but everyone knew they'd be returning with a full complement of passengers; the captains and a few extra able bodies in Westport clearing holds and decks before they sailed back up to the little marina, tenders ready to shuttle supplies to the waiting vessels.
The boats would be mostly laden with fuel and water when they headed out, she'd heard from Kuznetsov at the dock as they waited for the few little tenders they'd scrounged to finish their supply runs to the fleet looming out on the dim sea, indistinct through the early morning haze but still unnervingly real. But it was all right about the weight, he'd said, since their return trip would be only half of what they'd left with. Lots of room for refugees.
She shivered. The reality of what they were doing settled around her like a cold fog, prickling at her skin. She realized she hadn't left Seabrook in over a year, hadn't been anywhere else except day trips out to the farms, which didn't count.
As much as she'd craved excitement, she suddenly found herself terrified to leave. Terrified of the risks, the possibilities. Remembered Maura's face, frustrated, frightened, demanding to know whether or not Brenda understood the stakes she was playing with back when she'd gone up against Captain Volkov. Realized with a jolt here, now, that she hadn't, not really.
Or, rather, she had so much more now. So much more she could so easily lose.
She looked at Maura, hair braided tightly back and tucked under a brimmed wool cap, heavy jacket zipped to her throat, slim rifle slung around her shoulders. The nylon duffel bag at her feet, filled with an unlikely amount of sweaters and socks for two weeks which, Brenda had realized too late, weren't for Maura, but for anyone they might encounter who needed something warm.
Great job, Johnson, she thought bitterly to herself as she recalled Maura's face in that moment. Real nice work.
She shook her head, wiped the cold droplets from her brow. She wasn't sweating, she didn't think, but she could sense the real, tangible early-morning fog, clammy and close, beading on her wool jacket, her knit cap, her drawn, pale face. The air was thick with it, she could hardly see her hand in front of her, but it also felt oddly correct, the sputter of the little motors being swallowed by the sea into a dull thrum, the eerie, atonal lowing of the fleet's horns, filtered through a thick gray gauze, letting them all know when they were stocked up and ready to set sail.
"Chief?" Kuznetsov said, offering his elbow with a gallantry that didn't feel at all forced. She accepted his help climbing into their little motorboat, offering her hand as he eased Maura in after her. They were traveling together on the Admiral Frederick Nelson, a solid old steel vessel that contained the best navigation system available; Lieutenant Kuznetsov was their captain, along with Andrea—she'd worked as a diesel mechanic for a commercial truck fleet, Brenda had learned, before everything—and a young deckhand Brenda had only seen in passing, though she was pretty sure his name was . . . Tyson? Tyler? Tim? Something with a T, she was almost certain. The young man was nice enough, maybe nineteen or twenty, quiet, but sharp and, from how Kuznetsov seemed to silently approve of him, good at his job.
"You can cook, da?" Kuznetsov had asked earlier that morning, lifting an eyebrow in what Brenda had been almost certain was a joke, though even after years and years, she'd never been totally sure of when to laugh with Russians. Instead, she'd just stared at him, slack-jawed, until he'd let out a loud chuckle.
"I did not think so," he said. "Thomas will be our cook. He is—" Kuznetsov eyed Brenda again, "well, I think he is at least better than you."
Thomas, she thought, as she grinned in reply. "I have no doubt, Captain." Happy that she'd both gotten a laugh out of the serious man and also that she didn't have to do any cooking.
"Lieutenant," he'd corrected automatically, and Brenda had pursed her lips.
"You're directing this mission, yes?" she'd said, her voice very serious. "And you're leading our fleet?"
Kuznetsov had stared at her, his face blank. "I am."
"And if I'm not mistaken, leading a fleet makes you an Admiral, but as someone whose father proudly served his country too I would concede it's most proper that we should at least acknowledge the rank system for a moment, yes?"
Kuznetsov didn't respond.
"Good. Thank you, Captain Lev Lvovich Kuznetsov, for your service to this place and its people," she said as officiously as she could manage, reaching out and grasping his hand. "Based on my own authority, of course, though we'll draw up some official papers as soon as we return home."
He was silent for a long moment, as if considering whether or not he wanted to accept Brenda's gesture. Finally, he looked at her, returned her handshake, nodded sharply. "Very well," he said. "It is my honor."
"Well good," Brenda said. "Makes me feel a lot better about all this."
He'd offered her half a smile, which she counted as a victory.
They sat now in the little boat, Brenda and Maura and the rest of their crew, gear packed around their feet. Though she couldn't see them, Brenda knew Katie and Fernando and everyone else were standing at the marina, anxious faces turned out to the sea.
Nobody spoke as the little boat puttered up to the Admiral Frederick Nelson. Stayed silent as they each carefully made their way up the swaying ladder hung over the side, the tender pilots hoisting their large bags up onto the deck with practiced ease.
It wasn't until everyone was clustered in the tight little wheelhouse, Kuznetsov perched in the pilot's chair, that anyone said anything.
"We go," the captain said, pressing the switch that started the low groan of the anchor being pulled up. "Is a long journey, you sleep now. I wake you if we need." He pointed back at the tiny doorway leading to the tiny bunks, narrow and stacked on top of each other.
"So that's why they call 'em bunk beds," Brenda muttered, eying the small berths. "You want top or bottom?"
Maura shrugged, and Brenda looked at her closely. Her thin face was pale, drawn; dark circles blooming under her eyes.
"All right," Brenda said, patting the nearest mattress. "Hop in."
Maura made a feeble protest.
"Babe, you got two hours of sleep and so did I. We're gonna be on this little pleasure cruise for a while with nothin' to do, so might as well make the most of it."
"Brenda," Maura said softly, then hesitated.
Brenda frowned a little, perching herself on the narrow bunk.
"I know—" Maura stammered, cleared her throat. "I want you to know that I'm—"
"I know," Brenda murmured, reaching out to grasp Maura's hand. "I promise know."
The journey dragged on, endless hours of slate-gray sea rippling before them. There was the occasional punctuation of an interesting coastal feature, or once, the strange, unsettling joy of a pod of orcas breaching so close that their enormous exhalations rocked the little boat, Brenda squeaking and clutching reflexively at Maura as the creatures surfaced one after the other, Maura's face wide and bright, her little delighted giggle at the broad rainbow-shimmering spouts glittering over Brenda like the chime of bells.
Brenda had thought later, once her brief terror at the massive animals had faded, how lucky she was to get to see something like that, the huge whales leaping and twisting playfully in the thick, hazy sunlight.
By the second morning, Captain Kuznetsov announced that they'd crossed into Canada, a strictly ceremonial note at this point given the uselessness of borders now, but Brenda took the news with a mix of excitement and trepidation. They were only two days and nights from Juneau and whatever awaited them there.
She'd learned on the third night, when they'd pulled into Bishop Bay, a large deepwater bay that allowed their whole fleet to anchor and move to shore for the night, that Ellen, the ghostly slip of a woman traveling as part of their fleet, was there for a reason.
"When I was kid I was part of this thing," Ellen had said, fiddling her fingertips at her elbows. "It was—" she'd looked over at Maura, pleadingly, waiting for Maura's soft nod of acceptance before continuing. "Have you heard of the Children of God, Chief? The Family?"
Brenda frowned, something tickling at her brain. "That's—"
"It's a cult," Ellen finished for her, her voice abruptly harsh, acidic. "I was raised in it. My mother, she was . . . not a strong woman. She brought me and my brothers in when we were really little. They . . . did a lot of bad things to us."
She'd sighed, her narrow shoulders trembling a little.
Let her talk, Maura had mouthed across the fire, sensing Brenda's rising fury, her innate need to comfort this woman, to swear justice for her.
"I got out when I was fifteen," Ellen continued. "I had to leave my brothers behind, they were too little to come with me. I—I ran."
It took Brenda a moment to realize Ellen had meant she'd been physically running, not that she had been on the run. "For a long time. Until I got to a truck stop. And the waitress there, Nan, she took care of me for a while, until the State came in and took me away."
Brenda had shuddered, thinking back over the long list of names she'd help push into foster care. Some of those kids had done well, she remembered, placed with kind, loving families, but so many others, especially lone teenage girls, had disappeared, like smoke.
Had stood, had shifted her seat until she was next to Ellen—the woman was twenty or forty, she couldn't tell—and wrapped her arm tightly around her.
"I'm sorry we failed you," she breathed.
Ellen had frowned, confused. "You didn't fail me, Chief," she said. "My mother did. Those men did."
"I know," Brenda had said, trying to pass off her choking breaths to the woodsmoke from their beach fire. "I'm just—I'm so sorry."
"It's okay," Ellen had said with a practiced, dismissive flick of her hand. "I came with you because Dr. Isles said something about another cult, that there might be children involved."
"It's okay," Brenda had said automatically. "You don't have to—"
"I left my brothers behind when they were eight and eleven," Ellen had cut in, her voice hard, pitiless. "Please don't assume my own reasons for being here aren't enough, Chief."
They'd stayed silent for the rest of the night, each occupied with their own memories.
Polaris, Brenda thought, half-dreaming as she tossed and turned to the best of her ability in the narrow bunk she'd sheepishly receded to after hearing Ellen's story. Thought of the thin line of Ellen's set mouth as she'd promised Brenda this group would do anything in its power to not fall apart when they finally met their fate on that lonely, isolated island.
They're going to kill us, Monica's hushed voice, still resonating dark and desperate across the radio. Please help us. They're coming.