before Emily could have even grabbed her gun to finish the job.
As inconceivable as Emily thought it to be, there seemed to be only one totally illogical yet ultimately realistic answer: the dream, her dream, was not a dream. Something had taken her child—something not human.
Emily’s hand slowly rose to cover her mouth as the first sob erupted from her. Her heart thumped uncontrollably and erratically against her breast, and her legs would no longer consent to hold her up. Her head seemed to be floating away from her body as she felt herself topple backward into the bedroom wall and slide slowly down until she hit the floor.
By the time Rhiannon noticed and rushed to her side, Emily was an unconscious heap on the floor.
Emily sat slumped on the edge of her bed, staring at Adam’s empty crib.
“Ms. Baxter . . . Emily. I need your help.” The male voice was followed by a couple of finger snaps that dragged Emily’s attention to the man standing over her. It wasn’t clear to Emily if the camp provost had shown up minutes or hours after Rhiannon had summoned him via her personal radio. Not that it mattered, anyway; she knew there was nothing he could do to help.
Adam was gone.
Eric Fisher was a man about as vanilla as anyone could describe: medium height, medium build, medium looks, but he more than made up for his middle-of-the-roadness with a dedication to his job that was unsurpassed by any other member of the survivors’ encampment. Emily had always thought of him as just a little too serious, just a little too much in the moment for her liking, but she suspected this was his way of dealing with the events that had led all of them to this base on the coast of what had once been California. If she were assessing the man for one of her news articles, then she would have privately classified him as being someone who threw himself at his work as a distraction from the terrible history that lay in all of their pasts.
Fisher arrived a few months earlier on the USS Michigan , where he had acted as the submarine’s master-at-arms. A former Chicago cop, he had joined the navy not long after the 2001 World Trade Center attack. Now he officiated over the Point Loma survivors, enforcing the common laws they had set. Everyone simply called him “Sheriff.” The designation fit him well.
“Emily? Emily . . . can you look at me?” His voice was calm and unemotional. Flat.
Emily raised her eyes from her knees and looked up into Fisher’s face, a professional smile creasing his lips. “That’s it. That’s good.” He reached out and took her hand in his own, squeezed it gently.
Behind Fisher, Emily could see several other men and women who she recognized vaguely as they passed by her bedroom door. Fisher’s deputies. They milled around her apartment, moving back and forth through the rooms, talking on their walkie-talkies.
Rhiannon stood in the doorway, still in her pajamas, talking to one of the female deputies who was busy scribbling into a notebook. The girl had obviously been crying, her eyes puffy and red. Emily wanted to comfort her, but her limbs refused to move her from the bed. She felt as though she were a guest in her own body.
No, she would just sit here for a second or so and wait until she woke up from this obvious nightmare.
“Emily, I need you to tell me what happened. Can you do that for me?”
She looked up again and somehow managed to speak. “They took him,” she said.
“Who? Who took Adam, Emily?”
“The Caretakers. They came here and they took him.”
Despite the haze of loss that occupied the space where her mind used to be, Emily could still recognize the look of incredulity as it crossed Fisher’s face. It was there for a second before being replaced once again by his professional game face.
“You mean the aliens you talked about, right? They came and they abducted Adam. Is that right, Emily?”
She nodded.
“But how did they get inside the apartment, Emily? The
As inconceivable as Emily thought it to be, there seemed to be only one totally illogical yet ultimately realistic answer: the dream, her dream, was not a dream. Something had taken her child—something not human.
Emily’s hand slowly rose to cover her mouth as the first sob erupted from her. Her heart thumped uncontrollably and erratically against her breast, and her legs would no longer consent to hold her up. Her head seemed to be floating away from her body as she felt herself topple backward into the bedroom wall and slide slowly down until she hit the floor.
By the time Rhiannon noticed and rushed to her side, Emily was an unconscious heap on the floor.
Emily sat slumped on the edge of her bed, staring at Adam’s empty crib.
“Ms. Baxter . . . Emily. I need your help.” The male voice was followed by a couple of finger snaps that dragged Emily’s attention to the man standing over her. It wasn’t clear to Emily if the camp provost had shown up minutes or hours after Rhiannon had summoned him via her personal radio. Not that it mattered, anyway; she knew there was nothing he could do to help.
Adam was gone.
Eric Fisher was a man about as vanilla as anyone could describe: medium height, medium build, medium looks, but he more than made up for his middle-of-the-roadness with a dedication to his job that was unsurpassed by any other member of the survivors’ encampment. Emily had always thought of him as just a little too serious, just a little too much in the moment for her liking, but she suspected this was his way of dealing with the events that had led all of them to this base on the coast of what had once been California. If she were assessing the man for one of her news articles, then she would have privately classified him as being someone who threw himself at his work as a distraction from the terrible history that lay in all of their pasts.
Fisher arrived a few months earlier on the USS Michigan , where he had acted as the submarine’s master-at-arms. A former Chicago cop, he had joined the navy not long after the 2001 World Trade Center attack. Now he officiated over the Point Loma survivors, enforcing the common laws they had set. Everyone simply called him “Sheriff.” The designation fit him well.
“Emily? Emily . . . can you look at me?” His voice was calm and unemotional. Flat.
Emily raised her eyes from her knees and looked up into Fisher’s face, a professional smile creasing his lips. “That’s it. That’s good.” He reached out and took her hand in his own, squeezed it gently.
Behind Fisher, Emily could see several other men and women who she recognized vaguely as they passed by her bedroom door. Fisher’s deputies. They milled around her apartment, moving back and forth through the rooms, talking on their walkie-talkies.
Rhiannon stood in the doorway, still in her pajamas, talking to one of the female deputies who was busy scribbling into a notebook. The girl had obviously been crying, her eyes puffy and red. Emily wanted to comfort her, but her limbs refused to move her from the bed. She felt as though she were a guest in her own body.
No, she would just sit here for a second or so and wait until she woke up from this obvious nightmare.
“Emily, I need you to tell me what happened. Can you do that for me?”
She looked up again and somehow managed to speak. “They took him,” she said.
“Who? Who took Adam, Emily?”
“The Caretakers. They came here and they took him.”
Despite the haze of loss that occupied the space where her mind used to be, Emily could still recognize the look of incredulity as it crossed Fisher’s face. It was there for a second before being replaced once again by his professional game face.
“You mean the aliens you talked about, right? They came and they abducted Adam. Is that right, Emily?”
She nodded.
“But how did they get inside the apartment, Emily? The
Similar Books
