Genesis. Volume 2

February 28, 1987. Brookfield. Headquarters, porch. 6:30 a.m. February was ending, but it wasn't ready to give way. Snow lay on the rooftops, on the trees, on the cars—gray, dense, soaked with exhaust and coal dust. It had frozen overnight, and by morning the crust was as hard as concrete. The tracks in the snow were sharp, deep—every movement left its mark. The van's engine had been running for fifteen minutes. Liam was warming it up carefully—in this cold, the engine could stall half an hour into the trip if not properly heated. Thick white exhaust billowed from the pipe, settling on the snow, mixing with the morning fog. Emma came out onto the porch first. She wore the same jacket as in the fall—worn, with a torn pocket she'd never sewn back. Her left shoulder no longer hurt. It ached—dully, on the border between sleep and waking, when you can't tell if it's pain or just the memory of pain. The porch was cold. She didn't freeze—she was used to it. "Everyone here?" Arthur asked, stepping out after her. "Almost." "Who's missing?" "Lisa." She'd lingered in the house longer than anyone. Standing in her room, staring at the empty bed. The sheets had been stripped the day before, the blanket folded and put in the closet. On the wall, traces of tape remained—where her drawings had hung. Lisa didn't know if she'd come back. Didn't know if she'd find them still there. She picked up her sketchbook—the one with the worn cover and loose pages. She checked that the chalk was in place. White, yellow, red. She was saving the red—less than half remained. "Lisa," Arthur called from the hallway. "Time." "Coming." She stepped out. In the hallway, backpacks stood in a row. Seven of them—black, gray, one blue, Lisa's. She took hers, slung it over her shoulder. Her right arm—the one that had been in a cast—obeyed, but not fully. The doctors had said: six months of therapy, then we'll see. Lisa wasn't waiting. She just did what she had to. Everyone was on the porch. Arthur, Max, Jenny, Emma, Liam, Sasha. And Lisa. "To the cars," Arthur said. No one moved. "What?" he asked. "Jack," Lisa said. "He knows." "That's not an answer." "There's no other." She gave him a long look. Then she turned and walked toward the square. Jack sat on the bench under the old maple. The same one where they'd met a year ago, before they knew who Crowley was, when the Genesis mansion was just an abandoned house on the hill. He wasn't asleep—Jack never slept. He was watching the empty street, the few windows where lights were coming on. People were waking up. Starting their day. Unaware that on the edge of town, seven teenagers were leaving for war. "Jack." He turned his head. His face was gray as asphalt, his eyes almost white, with a bluish tint. The skin on his hands was cracked—not from the cold, from time. He didn't notice. "We're leaving." "I know." "You're not coming." "I can't." She stood before him, clutching her sketchbook in her left hand. Snow crunched under her feet. "I'll leave you a drawing." "What kind?" "Ours. On the hill." "Why?" "So you remember." He didn't answer. She took out her sketchbook, tore out the page—the one with seven figures and the eighth outline. She placed it on his lap. Snow fell on the paper, but it didn't melt—Jack held it without looking. "Goodbye," Lisa said. "Goodbye." She didn't hug him. She couldn't. He was too cold. And too fragile—like ice that would crack at a touch. She walked back. She didn't look back. They were waiting for her on the porch. Emma was smoking—she'd quit in London, slipped yesterday. The cigarette trembled in her fingers. "Done?" Liam asked. "Done." The van stood by the porch, doors open. Inside, it smelled of gasoline, leather, and cold—the kind that doesn't fade even after an hour on the road. Emma sat in the front seat—the second row was uncomfortable for her shoulder. Liam at the wheel. Arthur didn't take the passenger seat—he stayed in the back, with the others. "Why?" Max asked. "Just because." He didn't explain. Jenny settled by the window, tucking her legs up. She set her backpack on her lap and hugged it. The bandages on her palms were fresh—she'd rewrapped them that morning, though the wounds had almost healed. A habit. Sasha got in last. She closed the door. The click of the lock was loud, like a gunshot. "Everyone?" Liam asked. "Everyone," Max replied. "Then let's go." The van pulled out slowly, down the snowy road, past the house, past the garage, past the headquarters that was no longer a headquarters—just a house where strangers had lived before them and would live after. Lisa looked out the window. The street was empty. People were still asleep. Only a street sweeper scraped the asphalt at the corner store with a shovel—an old man in a quilted jacket, not looking at the passing cars. "A street sweeper," Lisa said. "What?" Max asked. "Nothing. Just a street sweeper." "He works on Sunday?" "People don't work on Sundays." "Then he's not a street sweeper." Lisa didn't answer. The van turned onto the main road. There were more cars there—not many, but some. A milk truck, a delivery van, a taxi taking someone to the station. An ordinary morning. Normal. Emma watched the road. Snow on the edges, ruts, a few puddles that hadn't frozen—salt must have been spread yesterday. "We need to get to the highway," she said. "I know," Liam replied. "You turned the wrong way." "I know the road." "It's shorter?" "It's safer." "Who are you afraid of?" "No one. Just a habit." She didn't ask what kind. Max looked at his hands. At the knife in his pocket—he'd put it there that morning when he packed. He checked that it was there. It was. He thought of his mother. How she'd stood at the stove when he left—said nothing, only nodded. She hadn't asked him to stay. She hadn't cried. She'd long since learned not to ask. "Did you call her?" Jenny asked, as if reading his thoughts. "Yesterday." "What did she say?" "She said to come back." "And you?" "I said I'd try." "That's enough." "Not for her." He turned to the window. Jenny watched the back of his head. She wanted to say something more. She couldn't find the words. Liam drove smoothly, without jerks. He wasn't speeding—there was no rush. The flight was in four hours, the airport forty minutes away. He'd timed it. Arthur sat in the back seat, gripping the iron coin in his pocket. The metal had warmed from his body—or from his nerves. He didn't know. He thought of his father. That he wouldn't see him. Maybe never. Maybe tomorrow. He didn't know. "Arthur," Lisa called. "Yeah?" "Did you bring the ticket?" "What ticket?" "The yellow one." "Yes." "Why?" "As a memento." "It's not for mementos." "Then what?" "A reminder." He didn't answer. She turned to the window. The van reached the highway. The road was empty—only a few trucks heading toward the city, and one car that passed them at dangerous speed. "Speed demon," Liam said. "Chase him," Emma replied. "No." "Why?" "Not our war." She smiled. "Soon it will be." He didn't answer. Half an hour later, they were at the airport. A small building of glass and concrete, built in the sixties and never renovated since. Inside, it smelled of coffee, cheap air freshener, and other people's suitcases. "We're here," Arthur said. They stepped out. Seven people, seven backpacks. The check-in counter was empty—the flight was in three hours; passengers hadn't arrived yet. "Early," Max said. "Better early than late." They sat on plastic chairs by the exit. Waiting. Lisa opened her sketchbook. She drew the van. Gray, with streaks of dirt on the sides, with dark windows. And a handprint on the rear window—the one Jack had left when they drove away. On the frost. Which had melted a minute later, but she remembered. "What's that?" Max asked, looking over her shoulder. "A memory." "Of what?" "That someone stayed behind." She closed the sketchbook. Boarding was announced. The announcer's voice was flat, like a robot's. "Flight 784 to Prague, boarding closes in thirty minutes. Passengers are requested to proceed to gate number five." Arthur stood. The others followed. "Let's go," he said. They walked. At the gate, Lisa turned back. She looked at the waiting area. Empty chairs, a soda machine, an old world map on the wall. And a man in the corner. Tall, in a long coat, with a cane. He sat on a chair, the cane laid across his knees, watching them. "Elias?" Jenny asked. "Yes," Sasha replied. Elias didn't stand. Didn't wave. He just watched. "He came to see us off?" Max asked. "He came to make sure we were going," Arthur replied. He raised his hand. Elias nodded—once, short. They walked into the corridor. Lisa last. She looked back at Elias one more time. He sat motionless. She turned and followed the others. The plane was small, cramped, with worn seats and the smell of overcooked food. They took seats in the back—the last three rows. Emma by the window, Liam beside her. Arthur across the aisle. Max and Jenny behind. Lisa and Sasha at the very end. "Hold on," the steward said, walking down the aisle. "Takeoff in five minutes." Lisa looked out the window. Outside, it was gray, snowing, the airport lights sparse. The plane taxied onto the runway. "Scared?" Sasha asked. "No," Lisa replied. "Waiting." "For what?" "For it to be over." The plane took off. Lisa watched Brookfield grow small—first the blocks, then the streets, then just a spot on a white background. The town they were leaving. She didn't know if they'd return. Didn't know if there'd be anything to return to. But she knew someone had stayed. On the hill, in the mansion where no one had lived for a long time. Gray, motionless as stone. He was waiting. The plane gained altitude. Clouds hid the ground. Lisa closed her eyes. She wasn't sleeping—she just didn't want to look. Somewhere down there, Jack sat on the bench under the old maple. Snow fell on his gray hair, his gray face, his gray hands. He didn't brush it off. He watched the sky, where the plane had disappeared. "Goodbye," he whispered. And he pressed his palm to the glass—the one in his memory. The glass was cold. No print remained. Only frost that melted at once. Jack lowered his hand. And kept waiting.