Black Helicopters by Blythe Woolston Read Free Book Online Page A

sign. The little twig jammed in at the top corner is still in place. That’s a better sign. Nobody but us would know to look for that. If Those People opened the door and then locked it up again, they wouldn’t have known to put the twig there as a sign.
    I squat down and wait while Bo goes inside. It doesn’t take him long. Everything is always ready to go — the intel, the solar, the gun, the ammo — all in one package. Bo’s got it. He locks the door. He puts the twig back. If Da comes, he will know we were there. He will know we have the intel and everything is safe.
    We have everything. It’s time to get out.
    One thing I wish we had is the night-visions, but they were in the house, and now the house is gone. I wish we had the night-visions not just so we could move through the dark faster; I wish we had them so I could look at what’s left of my home. I wish I could look at that, and really see it, because what I can see doesn’t make any sense to me. Maybe if I could see in the dark, I could know what happened better.
    I walk over the flat rock that was the front step, and I stand on it.
    If I opened the door that isn’t there anymore, I would have been in the kitchen. The grey enamel coffee pot would have been on the stove. I think that shape used to be the stove. I step to it and touch it. It still holds the warmth of the fire, even though they doused so much water on it. It was made for fire, but fire on the inside. When the floor burnt out from under it, it fell over. I squat down beside it and remember how I used to put my socks in the warming oven in the winter. Warm winter socks in the morning. I wish morning would come and I could climb down the ladder from my loft and put on my socks, warm socks.
    “Valley, we got to go,” says Bo.
    And we do.
    I’m disappointed when we come to the gate of the retreat property and it’s locked and twigged, but Da would have locked it if he came this way. And he would have twigged it, too. Da is always careful about the rules.
    So I’m optimistic again while we take the bike down the rutted dirt to the place where the bus is parked under the trees. I’m optimistic until I can’t see any smoke rising from the stovepipe sticking out the bus window. Maybe Da isn’t cold. That’s good, if Da’s not cold. That means he’s feeling strong. But when we stop the bike’s engine and there is still no Da, no smiling Da, then I have to start being optimistic that he will be getting here when he can. I have to remember that we had it easy. We had the bike for transportation. Da is having to figure things out. That can take time.
    Right now, we’re tired, but that’s OK. We’re home. This old school bus is
wala
for us, a den, a home. Da brought us here often enough to know the area — not often enough for anyone to notice that we were here.
    We build a fire in the little barrel stove and we dip into the water supply to fill the coffee pot. Pretty soon it’s on the boil. We just stand by the fire and wait. I get the front side of my body as hot as I can stand it, then I turn around and toast my backside. We open bags of food, add some of the hot water, and stir them up. Mine is gloopy and orange: lasagna. Bo’s is gloopy and tan: stroganoff. I eat a few bites before I break down and go to the metal storage box and pull out a bottle of corn syrup. After I stir some of that in, it tastes just like home cooking. Bo smiles and does the same.
    We are warm, our bellies are full, and we are safer than we have been in days. We can sleep now. When we wake up, we can check the intel for our orders. That will be soon enough.
    “I’ll take first watch,” says Bo. It’s still daylight, but sleeping is going to be easy.
    “Four hours,” I say.
    “Hey.” Bo is shaking my shoulder. Judging by the moon, he let me have more than four hours. I’m grateful to Bo. He takes care of me, and I take care of him. That’s why we are us.
    I crawl out of the sleeping bag and he crawls