Free The End Has Come by John Joseph Adams Page B

disrespectful at home.
    How much of that was boys growing up, and how much of it was Mary, unintentionally easing up on the reins, letting the boys run wild because it would carve at George, make him want to give up this fool’s quest and come home? He hoped he was wrong about that, but he had been with Mary most of his adult life; deep down inside, in the places he tried to ignore, he knew of his wife’s expertise at subtle manipulation.
    He closed the email without replying. As the weeks rolled on, there was less and less to say. In his head he knew he was doing the right thing, that he was standing up for the faceless masses who didn’t trust their governments, their police, their military. He was preserving a cultural touchstone that wouldn’t come again in his lifetime, in his children’s lifetime . . . perhaps in all the human lifetimes to follow. It was important. In his head he knew that, but in his heart, he was just a man who desperately missed his family.
    And if he left this place to see them, he would never be allowed to return.
    George rubbed at his face.
    It was time to check on the children.
    He left his room. The guard turned sharply on one heel, knowing where George was going and leading the way without being told. George followed, amazed as always that this had all begun with one simple phone call.
    • • • •
    George finished his call. Or, rather, the call finished for him when the signal dropped. The bars vanished and didn’t return. He was pretty sure he’d given good directions before he’d been cut off. If so, he would find out soon enough.
    Through the hull’s cracks, the wind eased from a howl to a moan. The storm died down, like all storms do.
    He heard Toivo arguing with Bernie. George couldn’t make out the words. Toivo sounded pissed. Maybe he was campaigning for the others to join him, to murder the children.
    Exactly how far was George willing to go to stop that from happening?
    “Don’t know what to do,” he said.
    The children didn’t answer.
    “You guys are a big help.”
    The words turned to white as they left his mouth.
    Temperature dropping. Winter’s fist was slowly squeezing tight around the wreck, snatching away what heat remained.
    The children . . . they were shivering.
    From the cold? Maybe. Or, maybe, from fear.
    He terrified them.
    Which was fine, because they terrified him.
    A human shape that could never be mistaken as actually human. Two arms and two legs, but thin, so thin, tree branches come to life with fluid motion. Black eyes  — three, not two  — set in heads too big for the deathcamp-skinny bodies. And those mouths . . . George did all he could not to look at their mouths.
    An hour passed.
    A banging on the door. The sound reverberated through the room, bounced off the twelve crash chambers, or shock seats, or whatever the capsules were that had kept these children alive while their parents had been turned into paste. The children flinched at the sound, huddled together, made noises that sounded frightened and pathetic.
    George unslung his rifle. He held it nervously in both hands. He thought of slinging it again  — was he going to threaten his lifelong friends or something? The pounding came again. George decided to hold onto the weapon.
    He pushed the door open.
    There stood Toivo and Jaco. Toivo, who had already executed one of the children, and Jaco, little Jaco, who had shown more bravery than George and the others combined.
    “Give me your phone,” Toivo said.
    George didn’t move.
    Jaco stared past George, at the children. He hadn’t seen them yet. The man seemed oddly calm in light of the situation. George wondered if Jaco wanted to kill them, just like Toivo did.
    “The phone,” Toivo said, holding out a hand palm-up. “Bernie’s phone ain’t got shit for signal. Mister Ekola isn’t doing great, we need to try and get help.”
    George nodded absently. “Already called someone,” he said.
    That caught Jaco’s