“I tried to call you earlier, but I couldn’t get through till now,” her mom said. “Everybody’s going home early; they think it’s a terrorist attack.”
Panic shot through Reese. “Mom, are you still at work? What if they attack government buildings? You need to get out of there.”
“It’s all right, honey. Don’t worry about me. I’m leaving soon. Are you staying at the airport tonight?”
“Yeah. Mr. C wants to wait till tomorrow morning to see what’s going on. The airline said they’d issue ‘alternative transportation options,’ whatever that means, if the flight ban isn’t lifted by then.”
“All right. Just stay with Mr. Chapman and call me the minute anything changes.”
“I will.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
The line at the Wendy’s counter snaked back and forth unevenly across the polished concrete floor of the concourse. Reese guessed there were about twenty-five people ahead of her, which put her right at the edge of the seating area next to the overflowing trash bin. An abandoned Frosty was perched on its side and dripping onto the floor, forming a pool of beige liquid. Reese looked away from the mess, her gaze sweeping up toward the windows set high against the ceiling. The sky outside was dusky blue. She had been stuck in this airport since eleven o’clock that morning—almost nine hours.
Earlier, she had called her best friend, Julian Arens, to tell him she was stuck in Phoenix. He told her that all major airports in the United States were full of stranded passengers, and already some people were concerned the airports might run out of food. If the planes couldn’t fly, they couldn’t bring in supplies either.
“You’re freaking me out,” Reese said, only half joking. “Are you saying I should start hoarding those disgusting airport sandwiches?”
“They’re probably gone by now,” he answered. By the time she went to search out dinner, Julian was right. The deli cases that had once been full of sandwiches and salads were picked clean, and the only food left was the square-shaped burgers at Wendy’s.
The line was moving at about the speed of molasses, so Reese pulled out her phone to pass the time, touching the icon for the Internet. The Hub loaded right away, with feeds popping up one after the other, all about the flight ban. It was mostly people complaining about being trapped in airports, but there was a lot of chatter about possible causes for the plane crashes too. Terrorism wasn’t even the most outlandish one. She saw one feed declaring Aliens did it, earthlings. Colonization is coming! She let out a short laugh. Julian was always trying to convince her that E.T. had already visited Earth multiple times. One night in Dolores Park, while they were hanging out on the swings in the playground, Julian told her about meeting an alien abductee in Golden Gate Park the weekend before.
“He had an implant in his lower back—he totally showed me the scar and everything,” Julian said, gesturing with the stub of his cigarette.
Reese lit one for herself and said, “Yeah, I’m sure that’s what he was showing you.” She tossed the match down to the sand, watching as the flame sputtered out.
“You’re just jealous you didn’t get to see his ass.”
She remembered cracking up, almost choking on the smoke. Julian handed her the water bottle filled with vodka tonic, but she shook her head, wheezing as she laughed.
Her phone buzzed as she was scrolling through the feeds on the Hub; Julian had just texted her.
> Stuff is getting crazy out there.
U have 2 check this out:
www.short.349sy
She clicked on the link, which took her to a blog post on a website called Bin 42. The headline made her eyebrows rise: Government cover-up of plane crashes continues with media blackout.
If you’ve been on the Hub today, you probably noticed that everyone around the world is freaked out about one thing: these bizarre plane crashes. But you might also have noticed that your feeds about them keep mysteriously disappearing. We’ve uncovered evidence that every 15 minutes, feeds relating to plane crashes, bird strikes, and the causes of such are routinely wiped.
Who has the power to do this? Only one entity: the US government.
Here is what we’ve gathered over the course of the day (and be forewarned: this report may soon be wiped, too, so if you want to keep this info alive, we suggest you mirror it immediately to your own site or download a copy for yourself. Better yet, revert to ancient technology: Print this out on paper!):
Official news and government reports state that only seven crashes have occurred in the US today, in New Jersey, Washington, and Texas. But continuous scanning of news feeds shows that at least 23 other planes have crashed today due to bird strikes within the continental United States alone.
Reports of these crashes are routinely posted online but removed shortly afterward. Caches of these news reports are eventually wiped as well. For a roundup of these reports (many now go to 404 pages), go here: www.bin42.com/34092
Video of plane crash sites has been circulating on file-sharing sites but is also routinely being removed. Don’t be fooled! We have seen these videos and they are not doctored! A roundup of videos (some of which may no longer be online) are here: www.bin42.com/34093
Mainstream news sources are being forced to adhere to a media blackout, so don’t go to the New York Times looking for confirmation—you won’t find it. The only mainstream account we have of any of the other crashes is from the Chicago Tribune; here’s a link to a screencap of that web page before it was taken down: www.bin42.com/34094
What does this mean for you? If you’re safe at home, we advise you to check your emergency supplies and prepare for the worst. If you’re a traveler stranded because of the flight ban, we suggest you find a way to drive yourself home. While there’s no evidence that airports are unsafe (yet), there is also no evidence that the flight ban will be lifted anytime soon. Meanwhile, check back here regularly; we will attempt to keep this site online as long as possible.
Reese clicked on the link to the Chicago Tribune article. She saw a screencap of a story about three plane crashes in the Chicago area, all due to bird strikes. The article was accompanied by a photograph of one of the Chicago crash sites. A plane had plowed a deep furrow through a field of corn, culminating in a smoking black mess. The tail of the plane was still visible; the airline’s logo could be seen through the smoke.
“Hey, the line’s moving,” said a man behind her.
“Oh, sorry.” As she stepped forward she clicked back to the original Bin 42 blog, feeling uneasy. She went to the video roundup page. Most of the links were dead, but one video showed a young female reporter in a mountainous area. Wreckage was strewn behind her. Reese couldn’t hear the audio, but the camera zoomed toward a person in a hazmat suit who was retrieving remains from the crash. Reese could barely see what he was holding in his gloved hands, but it stretched out toward the ground as if it was half liquefied.
Her stomach lurched. What was that? And why was the person dressed as if he were dealing with a biohazard? Her hands were clammy and the phone nearly slipped out of her grasp as she thumbed back to the blog post Julian had sent her.
But this time, she got an error message. It was gone.
“Can I take your order?”
Reese glanced up, startled. She had reached the front of the line, and a dead-eyed girl was waiting behind the counter. The overhead lights made her face look washed out and tired, and her ash-blond hair strayed in lanky strands from beneath her Wendy’s cap.
“You wanna order something?” the girl prodded.
Reese swallowed. “No.” She had lost her appetite.
David was sleeping on the floor in front of the plastic seats, his head resting on a rolled-up jacket, his back to the windows. Mr. Chapman was napping nearby, slouched in one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs with his arms crossed and his feet stretched toward the glass. Night had fallen, turning the windows into a wall of dark mirrors. Reese saw herself reflected as a gir
l with flyaway dark hair and shadowed eyes in a pale face. Behind her the concourse was littered with travelers trying to sleep under the bright lights, legs propped up on carry-on bags, heads pillowed on lumpy backpacks.
She stopped beside David and looked down at him. One hand was curled beneath his chin, the other draped loosely over his stomach where his Kennedy Swim T-shirt—SHARKS OF THE BAY—had inched up over his toned stomach. He was captain of the swim team and a soccer player in addition to being a debater. An all-around golden boy. A familiar flare of self-consciousness burned through her. Angry at herself, she shoved away her feelings. What had happened between her and David was in the past, and she should just get over it. There was no use in thinking about it anymore; there were more important things to worry about now.
She nudged David’s shoulder with the toe of her beat-up black Chucks. “David.” He grumbled slightly but didn’t wake up. “David,” she said more loudly, and nudged him again.
He rolled over onto his back, shading his eyes from the fluorescent lights as he blinked up at her. “What?” His voice was clogged with sleep. “What’s going on?”
“I have to talk to you.”
“About what?” He pushed himself up, rubbing a hand over his eyes.
“Hang on, let me wake up Mr. Chapman.” She turned to their coach and tapped him on the shoulder. “Hey, Mr. Chapman.”
His eyes snapped open, and he jerked upright. “What? Reese?”
“Mr. C, we have to talk.” She sat down next to Mr. Chapman while David leaned against the glass across from them. In the window, Reese’s Rhapsody of Emily concert T-shirt was reflected in mirror image, and there was something disquieting about reading the words backward.
“What’s on your mind, Reese?” Mr. C asked.
“I’ve been checking the news on the Hub,” she began. She told them about the blog post that Julian had sent her, describing the Chicago Tribune article and the videos she had watched. “I think we should get out of here,” she concluded. “I think we should get a rental car and drive back to San Francisco.”
“The airline said they would start rebooking flights tomorrow,” Mr. Chapman said. “We should just wait.”
Before she could argue, David asked, “What’s on TV right now?” He looked past her at the concourse.
“What? I don’t know.” She turned to glance at the nearest TV monitor, expecting to see the news, but instead she saw a line of men in orange prison uniforms moving across a yard. The scene changed to a close-up on one gray-haired man, his mouth shining wetly as he spoke. Across the bottom of the screen, she read the words: Barred: Behind the Walls of America’s Most Violent Prisons. “It’s a prison documentary,” she said. “They’re on practically all the time.”
“It shouldn’t be on now, not when there’s more money to be made on a disaster.” David held his hand out to her. “Let me see your phone.”
Startled, she said, “That post is gone—”
“Just let me see it,” he insisted.
She unlocked her phone and handed it over. He pulled up the Hub, clicking through her history. “Hey, what are you doing?” she asked.
“I’m looking for a mirrored site. From what you said about Bin 42, I don’t think they’d only post it in one location.” She saw him entering something into her phone, swiping his fingers across the screen. A moment later he held the phone in front of her. It displayed a copy of the Bin 42 page. “Is this what you were reading?”
“Yeah, how’d you find that?”
“Magic,” he said with a grin that shot right through to her belly. She tried to cover it up by rolling her eyes.
“Whatever. Just read that Tribune article.”
“Hang on,” he said. A second later she heard the tinny sound of a video recording playing back on her phone. When he finished, he handed it to Mr. Chapman, who watched it with a deepening frown on his face.
“We should leave, Mr. C,” she said. “Who knows how long we could be stranded in Phoenix. I don’t think the news is telling us everything.” She lowered her voice. “And everybody’s going to be trying to rent a car to get out of here when they figure that out. We need to beat the rush.”
Mr. Chapman’s face was troubled as he handed her phone back to her. “I don’t know whether I buy it, Reese. That site—who runs it? Do you really think the government would go to the trouble of covering all that up? Besides, it’s doing an awful job of it if that’s the plan.”
Normally, Reese didn’t believe half the stuff Julian tried to convince her about, but tonight, Mr. Chapman’s skepticism frustrated her. “I don’t know who runs it. But who would be able to fabricate those videos so quickly? I think we should get out of here. If we rent a car and start driving tonight, we can be back in San Francisco by tomorrow.” The scene on the TV monitor changed again; now it showed a man in handcuffs being led out of a courtroom. She glanced at her watch. It wasn’t even 10:00 PM yet. “You know, David’s right about the TV,” she said uneasily. “The news should be on. Anytime there’s a disaster, they cover it twenty-four/seven.”
They all turned to watch the prison documentary. The news network’s logo was plainly visible in the corner. An inmate with bizarrely red eyes spoke to the camera, his face bearing a creepy, self-satisfied smile, and Reese shuddered.
Mr. Chapman said, “I suppose… it wouldn’t hurt to check at the rental-car counter to see how much it would cost.”
“Great,” Reese said, surging to her feet. “The rental-car center is open twenty-four hours; I checked. Let’s go.”
CHAPTER 3
The rental-car center was packed with people who had exactly the same idea.
“So much for getting a jump on things,” Reese said as they made their way to the back of the very long line. They passed a snack counter along the way, and the refrigerator case was empty except for a few crooked signs that read TUNA SALAD or HAM AND TURKEY. Reese’s stomach growled, and she wished she had bought that Wendy’s burger.
By the time they made it out of the airport, driving one of the last available rentals—a Suzuki sedan with a long dent in the driver’s side door—it was nearly morning, and Reese’s hunger had settled into a gnawing hollowness that made her both tired and cranky.
Mr. Chapman eased the sedan into the line of cars waiting to get onto the I-10 as the horizon turned gray, then pink. David, sitting in the front passenger seat, scanned through the radio stations one by one, but none of them was reporting any news—not even traffic, which was moving at a crawl.
It took an hour to go seven miles. As they inched their way onto the I-10, Mr. Chapman said, “David, look at that map they gave us and find me another way to San Francisco. If it’s this bad around Phoenix, I don’t want to take this all the way to LA. It’s just going to be worse there.”
Reese slouched in the backseat, checking her phone every few minutes for reception. She hadn’t been able to get a call through to her mom, and the stress that had been tightening her neck all night was starting to make her head pound. Outside on the freeway, it was practically a parking lot. A Toyota nearby contained a man and a woman and what appeared to be mounds of supplies: canned goods, toilet paper, blankets. A white VW that kept trying to cut them off was packed with five passengers, and the trunk was tied down over piles of suitcases. There were way too many people on the freeway for it to only be rush-hour traffic, and Reese couldn’t shake the feeling that she was missing something. What was driving these people out of their houses at the crack of dawn?
“Hey, we can take the next exit to 17 North,” David said, breaking into the silence. “It’ll take us to 93 North, and at Kingman we can switch to I-40, which goes west to 58, then meets up with 5 North to San Francisco. It even skips Las Vegas.”
“Great,” Mr. Chapman said. “I can’t wait to get out of this and get some coffee.”
The sound of honking erupted, and a battered blue pickup barreled down the shoulder of the road, causing more than one driver to scream out thei
r windows at the truck. As the truck passed, Reese saw a man standing in the truck bed holding a giant sign. It read NEWS—AM 1438.
“Hey, try that,” Reese said, leaning between the two front seats. “AM 1438.”
David switched to AM and cranked the dial until they found a scratchy signal that faded in and out. A man’s voice was speaking: “… secure compounds inland. Reports of military convoys heading toward the heartland… President Randall… wait for confirmation. However, classified documents leaked onto the Hub show that the government is prepared to crack down on dissenters.”
Mr. Chapman frowned. “Who is this?” He moved his hand toward the radio.
“Wait a sec,” Reese cried, trying to make sense of the jumbled phrases.
The man’s voice continued: “Citizens are urged to prepare for disruptions in food supplies due to interstate lockdowns and the air traffic ban… terrorism but speculation is rampant about causes. So-called rogue states would not have the coord… too much for one little nation—”
The static roared, and Mr. Chapman turned the volume down. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Let’s just get home.”
Arizona, Reese soon discovered, was one giant sprawl of desert, at least on either side of the highway. In the distance, mountains lent a jagged edge to the horizon, but they were so far away that they seemed like a mirage. The reality, here, was flat dirt: a light brown broken by occasional bushes that clung obstinately to their patches of ground and were permanently bent by the dry wind.
On the road, as far as the eye could see, was traffic. As the day wore on, Reese saw more and more cars packed full of gear: tents strapped to the roof, blankets and pillows piled high in backseats. She increasingly felt as if they had joined a tide of refugees—only she didn’t know what they were fleeing from. At a Texaco just outside Phoenix, a man in a rumpled suit eyed her as she grabbed the last box of Hostess doughnuts, as if he wanted to take it from her. She hurried to meet up with Mr. Chapman and David at the cash register, hunching her shoulders defensively. It was hard not to be affected by the sense of paranoia that seemed to infect their fellow travelers. Even the gas station attendants who took their money had developed a kind of squinty-eyed anxiety. If she could only get some real information, Reese thought, she wouldn’t be so on edge.