Genesis. Volume 2

February 7, 1987. Brookfield. Headquarters, garage. 7:30 a.m. The garage wasn't heated. In February, that meant after five minutes, your fingers stopped obeying, and after ten, they started to hurt. Lisa worked in gloves—thin leather ones, with cutouts at the fingertips so she could feel the pencil. Breathing was cold; breath mixed with the smell of gasoline and gun oil. She sat on an upturned crate, sorting chalk. White, yellow, red. The last batch had come from London, passed through Sasha from Elias in a small wooden box. The chalk was hard, didn't crumble, laid down a clean line. Lisa tested it on a piece of cardboard from some packaging. The line was sharp, bright. "Good," she said. "What?" Max asked, not looking up. He sat at the workbench, knives laid out before him. "The chalk. Red." "For the circles?" "For protection." She placed the chalk in her waist pouch—the same canvas one she'd carried since Chicago. The pouch was worn, the strap stitched twice, the buckle replaced with a piece of wire. But it held. "How many do you have?" Arthur asked. He stood by the wall, checking his backpack—weight, strap balance. "Enough." "How many circles will that make?" "I didn't count." "Count." "I don't want to." She looked up. "If I count, I'll start rationing. And rationing in a fight means losing." Arthur nodded. He didn't argue. Max sharpened his knife. The old one, with the black handle. He ran the blade over the whetstone—once, twice, three times. He tested the edge on his thumbnail. The knife slid without catching. "Ready," he said. "You sharpened it yesterday," Jenny noted. She sat on a low stool, sorting bandages. "Checking." "Three times?" "Better three times than once." She didn't argue. She packed the bandages into her backpack—neatly, like bricks. Sterile, individually wrapped. She'd bought three boxes when she realized the old ones were running out. "You're taking a lot," Liam said, passing by. "You can't have too many." "We're not going to war." "We are." He stopped. He looked at her. "Are you scared?" "Of everything." "Like what?" "That I won't have enough bandages." "And if you do?" "Then I'll find something else to be scared of." Liam moved to his backpack. He checked his radio, spare batteries, multi-tool. Everything in its place, as taught. His movements were fast, precise—no wasted gestures. Emma stood by the wall, leaning her shoulder against the concrete. Her left shoulder ached—she hadn't slept properly in days. But she didn't complain. She watched Liam pack. "Did you pack warm socks?" she asked. "Yes." "And a sweater?" "And a sweater." "Show me." He paused for a second. Then he smiled—just the corner of his mouth. "Everything you asked for." "Not everything. I asked you not to leave." "That wasn't in the orders." "Do you always follow orders?" "When they match my wishes." She wanted to say something else. She changed her mind. She just picked up her backpack and moved it from one spot to another. For no reason. Liam watched her. "Emma." "What?" "We'll come back." "How do you know?" "Because we're not allowed to go there. Only back." She didn't answer. She zipped her backpack. Sasha sat by the far wall, her back to the others. Her backpack was already packed—neatly, almost pedantically. She wasn't fussing. She wasn't double-checking. She just sat, gripping the gold coin. "Ready?" Arthur asked. "Ready." "Not scared?" "Of what?" "That we won't come back." "If we don't, there won't be anyone left to be scared." Arthur looked at her. He couldn't find a response. He turned away. Lisa finished with the chalk. She zipped her waist pouch and stood. "I'll check if I've got everything." "Take more," Max said. "The more you have, the calmer you'll be." "Are you talking about knives?" "About everything." She left the garage. She went into the house to check her room. The hallway was quiet. Only the boiler hummed in the basement. Lisa went upstairs to her room. Her sketchbook lay on the bed—the same one with the map on the first page and Jack's portrait on the last. She picked it up and flipped through it. Drawings, notes, addresses. Everything from the past year. On the nightstand—the ring with the letter "B." Jenny had given it to her yesterday, saying, "Keep it with you. Just in case." Lisa didn't ask what case. She put it in her jacket pocket. In the bathroom—a toothbrush, toothpaste. She took them and stuffed them into her backpack. Small things. Important and not. She went back to the garage. "Ready?" Arthur asked. "Ready." He looked at his watch. Half past eight. "We leave in an hour and a half." "Where to?" Max asked. "To the airport for now. And then—we'll see." He didn't say the tickets were already bought. Didn't say the destination was Prague, where a group of Keepers was waiting for them. Elias had said: don't say it in advance. Someone might be listening. No one asked. Jenny finished with the bandages. She zipped her backpack and lifted it to check the weight. "Heavy," she said. "Bandages are heavier than they look," Max replied. "And blood." "What about blood?" "It's heavy too. When it leaves your veins, you can feel yourself getting emptier." Max looked at her bandaged palms. "Do they still hurt?" "They don't hurt." "You're lying." "A little." She clenched her fingers. "But I can work." "You shouldn't have to." "I have to. If I don't bleed, someone else will. I'd rather it be mine." Max wanted to argue. He couldn't find the words. Emma stood by the entrance, leaning against the doorframe. She looked outside. "The snow stopped," she said. "I see," Liam replied. "That's good." "Why?" "Less chance of getting stuck." He walked over to her and stood beside her. "Are you scared?" "Of everything." "Like what?" "That the road will be snowed in and we won't make it to the airport." "That's not what's scary." "What is?" "What we find. And whether it's what we're looking for." "And what are we looking for?" "I don't know. But when we find it, we'll know." She looked at him. "You've become a philosopher." "I've become tired." "It's the same thing." She pushed off from the doorframe. She walked toward the van. An hour later, everyone was at the van. Liam had warmed up the engine since morning—in February, engines were hard to start. The cabin was cold, but warmth was promised. The backpacks were loaded into the trunk. Max checked it was closed. Arthur sat in the front passenger seat. Lisa sat by the window, in the second row. "Everyone in?" Liam asked. "Everyone," Max replied. "Then let's go." The van pulled out slowly, down the snow-covered road, past the house, past the garage, past the square where Jack sat. He sat on a bench under an old maple tree. Snow fell on his gray hair, his gray face, his gray hands. He didn't brush it off. He watched the van. Lisa watched him through the window. Jack didn't wave. He didn't stand. But as the van drew level with the bench, he raised his hand. Stiff, pale. He pressed his open palm to the glass. Flat. With pressure. He wasn't waving. He wasn't smiling. He just pressed his palm to the glass—as if he wanted to touch them, but couldn't. On the frost, a print remained—where his palm had been warm. Warm? Jack couldn't feel warmth. But the print remained. The van passed. Lisa watched through the rear window until Jack's figure disappeared around the bend. "He stayed," Jenny said. "He always stays," Emma replied. "Do you think he remembers?" "What?" "Us." "I don't know. But his fingers remember." They fell silent. The van drove toward the highway. Outside, fields, forests, scattered houses slid past. Brookfield fell behind. Lisa took out her sketchbook. She opened it to the last page. There was a drawing. Seven figures on a hill. And an eighth—off to the side. Gray, blurred, almost invisible. She traced the outline with her finger. "Jack," she whispered. The wind outside fell still. The van picked up speed. They were leaving for war. And they didn't know if they would return. But they knew that someone had stayed behind to wait.