Free Sunrise by Mike Mullin

two days. My whole body shook. I rolled down the passenger window of the pickup and barely got my head out in time to spew stomach acid all over the side of the truck.

Chapter 11
    I returned to my uncle’s farm a hero. Not that there was a ticker-tape parade or anything. Nobody knew when we’d be back or whether we’d even make it back at all. But they knew what the line of trucks trailing behind us meant.
    Folks dashed out to meet us even as I climbed out wearily from the pickup. My door was still smeared with streaks of vomit. I trudged to the rear door of the panel van now parked in the road. By the time I reached it, I was surrounded by a crowd. I twisted the handle and opened the door.
    The crowd gasped as the contents came into view: a precarious jumble of frozen hog carcasses filled the truck from floor to ceiling.
    Alyssa laughed and flung her arms around me. “That’s bringing home the bacon,” she said as she kissed my cheek.
    Darla cleared her throat, glaring at me. What was up with that? I hadn’t done anything.
    “We need to debrief, Lieutenant,” Ben said.
    “Not now,” I said. “I’m dead on my feet.”
    “Your recall will be clearer while the events are still—” Ben kept talking, but I quit listening. “Tomorrow,” I said firmly.
    Uncle Paul clasped my arm. The skin around his eyes was nearly black: Emperor Palpatine in a younger body. “Alex . . . you did good. I’m sorry. I should have been there—”
    “You were right where you needed to be. With Max and Anna. If things had gone bad in Stockton—”
    “We should have a feast,” Uncle Paul said, “to mourn and celebrate. Roast some of this pork.”
    “I’m dead on my feet. Would you take care of it?” “Sure thing.” He started talking about the details, and my attention wandered.
    I looked around for Mom but didn’t see her anywhere. Maybe she was still in the bedroom, sorting pictures. Instead, I saw Lynn’s wife at the edge of the crowd. She craned her neck, looking back and forth, bewilderment and fear writ plainly on her face.
    “I’ve got to go.”
    I pushed through the crowd until I reached her, Darla on my heels. “Mrs. Manck?” I started, dreading what I had to say.
    “Where’s Lynn?” she asked, her face twitching, lips curling down as if she already suspected the answer. “Is he okay?”
    “He didn’t make it. I’m sorry.”
    Her face was porcelain white. She stood rigid except for the tremors chasing across her cheeks. “No. No. You could be wrong. Maybe he’s only hurt.”
    “We brought his body back.”
    “He’s not . . . it could be someone else’s body.”
    “I wish. I wish it were anyone else. Me. Or nobody.”
    Mrs. Manck sagged. She looked as if she might faint. I stepped toward her, opening my arms to catch her, give her a hug, offer whatever insufficient comfort I could. Instead of embracing me, she lashed out.
    I was totally unprepared for the violence of her blow. Her fist caught my jaw, rocking my head sideways with a snap I felt all the way down to the base of my spine. I raised my arms to block—too late, of course—and stepped back.
    She didn’t move forward. Her hands fell to her sides, and her trembling grew more violent as if her fury had migrated inward from her fists.
    Darla hadn’t moved. Now she opened her arms, just standing there. Tears streamed down Mrs. Manck’s face, and she fell forward into Darla’s arms.
    I lowered my fists and stepped around their hug so I could see Darla’s face. She mouthed, “Go on, I’ve got this. I’ll find you later.”
    I was relieved, but I also felt a little guilty. I’d led the attack on Stockton; its consequences, including Lynn’s death, were my responsibility. I should be the one dealing with the aftermath, not Darla. I walked on toward the house anyway.
    Dr. McCarthy was working in the living room/makeshift hospital. Mom and Belinda were in there, helping him. All three of them looked utterly exhausted. I managed a tired