Storm of Lightning Page 2

  Ostin’s parents were also at the ranch. Ostin’s never lost anyone close to him, not even a goldfish. He’s not taking it well, not that he should. None of us are. McKenna, his girlfriend, has stayed close to him. Even Abigail tried to take away his pain, until he made her stop. He said he felt like he was betraying his parents by not suffering. I keep telling him that we don’t really know what happened yet, but I’m lying. It’s not like the voice would be wrong about something like this. My mother, Ostin’s parents, the resistance, are all gone. The Elgen have killed them all.

  Our pilots told us that Taylor’s mother had flown back to Idaho before the attack. That’s good news for now but, I suspect, not for long. The Elgen do not forgive. It’s only a matter of time before the Elgen hunt her down as well.

  My emotions are revolving like a great wheel, spinning between denial, hope, despair, and rage—the strongest of which is rage. I want to burn Hatch and the Elgen into ashes. If I could turn myself into a massive bolt of lightning and destroy them all, I would. Even if it took me with them.

  That’s where I am. That’s what I’m thinking. That’s why I’m sparking so much. I don’t know what we’ll find back in America. All I know for sure is that the next twenty-four hours will forever change the course of my life.

  “What are you thinking?” Taylor asked softly.

  “Why don’t you just read my mind?” I said.

  “I’d rather you tell me what you want to tell me.”

  I turned and looked at her. “Remember our conversation on the rooftop in Taiwan? How I said we were going to retire?”

  She nodded sadly. “Yes.”

  “I can’t believe how much has changed in just a few days. We’ll never retire. There will never be peace.”

  “There could be,” she said. “We can still hope.”

  “Hope won’t bring my mother back. It won’t bring anyone back.”

  “We don’t know for sure if she’s . . .” She couldn’t say the word. “Maybe she escaped. Maybe she had already left before they attacked.”

  I took a deep breath and bowed my head. I was afraid to hope. It would only make hearing the truth worse. “If that were true, the voice would have told us,” I said.

  “The voice doesn’t know everything,” she replied.

  “It hasn’t been wrong yet.”

  Ostin came up next to me, crouching in the aisle next to my seat. His eyes were red and swollen. “I’ve got to ask the pilot something,” he said. “I don’t understand how the Elgen could have attacked the ranch without the U.S. military stopping them. They couldn’t have crossed the border without being spotted on radar.”

  “I’ll come with you,” I said.

  We both walked to the front of the plane. The cockpit door was open.

  “Excuse me,” Ostin said as we stepped into the small cockpit. “I have a question.”

  The captain, Scott, quickly turned back. “Whoa, Michael, you need to step back. You’re affecting the instrumentation.” He turned to his copilot, Boyd. “You take the controls, we’re going to step out.”

  Boyd nodded. “Got it.”

  We backed out of the cockpit, and Scott followed. He asked Ostin, “What’s your question, son?”

  “How could the Elgen have attacked a target inside America? Why didn’t the U.S. military stop them?”

  “The ranch isn’t in America,” Scott said. “It’s in Mexico. The Elgen launched a surprise attack by air through the Gulf of California. They never entered U.S. airspace.”

  “We were in Mexico?” I asked.

  “We were in a remote part of Sonora.”

  “Mexico,” Ostin said. “That’s why they were left alone . . .”

  “They weren’t left alone,” I said.

  “. . . by the government,” Ostin said. “How much longer until we land?”

  “About four hours. So get some rest. We have some intense days ahead.”

  “How do we know if the ranch’s landing strip is safe?” Ostin asked.

  “We don’t,” Scott said. “We don’t even know if the Elgen are still at the ranch. So we’re going to land in Douglas, Arizona, on the U.S. side of the border, then drive down. So get some rest.”

  Ostin and I went back to our seats. I don’t know why I was so eager to go to the ranch. I guess we don’t really accept that someone is dead until we see them. Maybe that’s why we have funerals.

  I reclined my seat, lay back, and closed my eyes. I suppose my exhaustion was finally greater than my anxiety, because I fell asleep. I woke as we were descending. I looked over at Taylor. She was looking at me.

  “How long have I been asleep?”

  “About three hours. You were making a lot of noise. Did you have more nightmares?”

  “Yes,” I said. “More nightmares. You didn’t look into my mind?”

  “No. Your nightmares scare me too much.”

  Our plane touched down at the Bisbee-Douglas International Airport a little after five p.m., Arizona time. The wheels screeched on contact with the baked, dusty runway, as if they were in pain.

  Even though the airport’s proximity to Mexico made it an international airport, the title seemed a bit grandiose for such a tiny, run-down airstrip. In fact, it didn’t even look functional.

  The airport had just two narrow asphalt runways surrounded by desert and lined with fifty-gallon metal drums, painted white with thick red stripes around their middles. Weeds grew up through the cracks in the runway’s tarmac. Around the airfield was an eight-foot-high weathered wire fence that, in places, was covered with tumbleweeds and flanked by short, sunbaked palms.

  About a hundred yards from the runway were three arched-roof airplane hangars paneled with corrugated tin. They had rusted metal doors and hardware. There were no glass windows, just portals covered by metal grates.

  On top of the closest hangar was a pole that extended up into the air with a wind sock and an instrument (Ostin called it an anemometer) to measure wind speed, though it didn’t look like anyone was around to receive its information. The place looked like it had been built a hundred years ago, back when planes only had propellers.

  “Where are we?” Taylor asked.

  “Bisbee-Douglas International Airport,” Ostin said.

  “It looks deserted.”

  “It ain’t Los Angeles,” Ostin said.

  “It’s not even Boise,” I said.

  The plane came to a stop, then circled back, slowly taxiing toward the hangars. Above the first hangar door, affixed to the corrugated tin siding, was a faded orange logo that read:

  There was a tribal symbol next to the name.

  “That’s ironic,” Ostin said.

  “What’s ironic?” I asked.

  “It was near Douglas, Arizona, that Geronimo, the last Apache chieftain, surrendered and ended the Indian resistance in the United States.”

  “Maybe this is where our resistance ends too,” Tessa said.

  Everyone looked at her.

  “You’re supposed to enhance our power,” McKenna said, “not diminish it.”

  “Just sayin’.”

  “No,” Jack said. “This is where our resistance begins.”

  * * *

  Partially obscured behind one of the hangars was a faded, aluminum-sided trailer home with a rusted, older-model Yamaha motorcycle parked out front. As our plane powered down, Scott emerged from the cockpit. He opened the door, and a stairway protruded from the plane. “All right,” he said. “Everyone off. We have a van in the hangar. I need to get the key; then we’ll load up.”

  Taylor and I were the last to get off the plane. There was a light breeze, and the Arizona air was warm and dry. I stepped down onto the runway, then looked around at the rugged desert landscape that surrounded us. There were cacti and tangled trees with yellow and white blossoms. The air smelled fragrant, like some kind of exotic flower.

  “Mexican plums,” Ostin said as if reading my mind.

  “How do you know all this crap?
” Tessa said.

  “I read a lot,” he said. Then, with an uncharacteristic edge added, “Can you read?”

  Tessa stared him down. “I can’t shock you, but I can still punch you out.”

  “Try it,” McKenna said.

  “Your girlfriend is protecting you?” Tessa laughed. “How pathetic is that?”

  Ostin looked even more pained than he already was. “I didn’t ask for her help.” He looked at McKenna. “I didn’t ask for your help.”

  McKenna frowned. “I’m sorry. It just made me mad.”

  “Stop it,” I said, looking at Tessa. “There’s enough pain without you adding to it.”

  She wilted beneath my gaze. “Sorry.”

  As I turned away, Taylor gently touched my back.

  “Don’t read my mind,” I said.

  “I’m not trying to. But you’re too electric right now. It’s like you’re shouting out your thoughts.”

  “Lucky you,” I said.

  “I’m sorry. I wish I could help.”

  The sky was streaked with orange and yellow as the sun began its descent on the western horizon. Under different circumstances I would have been moved by its beauty, but inside I felt too ugly to appreciate it.

  “Nothing out here,” Ian said. “This place is quiet.”

  “Is there anyone in the trailer?” Scott asked.

  “An old woman,” Ian said. “She’s watching TV.”

  “Good,” Scott said. “Good.”

  Scott walked off to the trailer while Boyd handed us our bags. As Scott approached, the trailer door was opened by an elderly Mexican woman. They spoke for a few minutes. The woman left for a moment, then returned and handed him something.

  Scott took out his wallet, handed her some bills, and walked over to the hangar. He unlocked and unchained the doors, threw them wide open, then disappeared inside. A few minutes later he drove out in an unwashed, navy-blue van that I think was similar in make to the one that had picked us up on our first visit to the ranch.

  He pulled up next to us, killed the car, and got out. “We need to pull the plane into the hangar; then we’ll go. Do you all have your bags?”

  “Yes,” I said, looking around.

  “Go ahead and put them in back. Jack, after everyone gets their bags in, would you mind moving the van? I need to help Boyd store the plane. It’s going to take a little while to lock everything up.”

  “No problem,” Jack said, climbing into the driver’s seat.

  I was surprised that Jack could move like he did. He was still nursing eleven broken ribs from the Elgen beating him. He hadn’t complained once. He’s the toughest person I’ve ever met.

  Boyd raced the plane’s engine as Scott walked in front of the plane to guide it into the hangar.

  We finished putting our bags into the back of the van. When we all got in, Jack turned on the radio. It was set to a Mexican talk radio station, and he pushed buttons until some music came on. Then he drove us over to the side of the hangar while Scott and Boyd maneuvered the plane inside.

  It took the pilots nearly an hour to get the plane secured. We had gotten bored, so we got back out of the van, looking for something to keep ourselves occupied. For a while, Zeus shot grasshoppers off the metal fence with electric bolts while the rest of us just watched.

  “There’s one,” Taylor said, pointing at a large green insect climbing a nearby post.

  I made an electric ball and lazily threw it. I missed the grasshopper but caught the weeds in front of it on fire, and we all had to run over and stomp on the flames to put them out. Finally Scott and Boyd emerged from the hangar. They locked the large steel doors, then walked over to the van.

  “Sorry that took so long,” Scott said. “Is everyone here?”

  “Yes.”

  He looked at the patch of burned weeds. “What happened?”

  “We were just having a little fun,” Jack said.

  “All right,” he said. “Everyone get in.”

  “Where are we going?” Taylor asked.

  “We’re headed to Bisbee, then down into Naco, where we’ll cross the border.”

  “How long will that take?” I asked.

  “It’s less than an hour from here.”

  “Why can’t we just cross the border right here?” Ostin asked.

  “We could, but it’s not as safe. Security is much tighter here. And the town on the other side of the border, Agua Prieta, has undercover DEA agents looking for drug smugglers. No one cares about Naco. Less chance of problems that way.”

  “How far is it from Naco to the ranch?”

  “About two hours. But we won’t be going tonight. It’s too late.”

  “Why is it too late?” I asked impatiently.

  Scott looked at me with a stern gaze. “The dirt roads to the ranch are dangerous to drive anytime, but especially at night. And if there are still Elgen around, they’ll see our headlights long before we get there. Hardly anyone goes out that way but us, so if they’re there, they’ll be waiting for us.

  “There are also drug cartels operating out of some of those areas. If they mistake us for Federales, we’re in trouble. Trust me, it’s best we wait until tomorrow. For now we’ll cross the border into Naco, Mexico, then leave early in the morning.”

  “What time will we leave for the ranch?” Tessa asked.

  “I think the best time is just before dawn.”

  “Just like George Washington attacking Trenton at sunrise,” Ostin said, nodding. “Surprise them while they’re still in bed.”

  “We’re not attacking anyone,” Scott said. “If the Elgen are there, we pull back.”

  “How do we get across the border without passports?” Ian asked.

  “It’s not hard getting into Mexico,” Tessa said. “It’s coming back that’s the problem.”

  “They’ll still stop us,” Scott said. “People smuggle guns into Mexico. But we’ve got passports for you. We had them made while you were in Taiwan, just in case we needed to fly somewhere else. Now let’s go. We can talk more on the way. I’ll drive.”

  Jack handed him the keys, and Scott climbed into the driver’s seat. “Michael, sit up here with me.”

  “All right.” I walked around to the front and got in.

  Everyone got into the van except for Boyd. “Good luck,” he said to us. “And be careful. I’ll see you in a few days.”

  “You’re not coming with us?” I asked.

  “No. Someone needs to stay with the plane.”

  “Vámonos,” Scott said.

  I saluted Boyd as we drove off. We took highway 80 northwest to Bisbee, then turned south toward Mexico. The road down from Bisbee led us into a great, sloping plain with the Sierra Madre of Mexico rising ahead of us in the distance.

  I soon discovered that there are two Nacos—Naco, Arizona, and Naco, Mexico, the two small towns divided by a twenty-foot-wide gravel road surrounded on both sides by a ten-foot metal fence lined with razor wire. I couldn’t tell if the fence was rusted or had just been painted to look that way. There was an uninhabited border control truck about fifty feet from the crossing.

  The town looked deserted, and we didn’t see anyone until we reached the border crossing, which was pretty quiet as well. It was a single-lane crossing, and a female Mexican immigration officer with a badge and a khaki uniform sat on a folding chair near the stop sign, smoking a cigarette and looking bored. As Scott had told us, this wasn’t a popular crossing. From what I could see, neither of the towns was very large, which I guessed was one of the reasons we’d chosen to cross here.

  As we approached the gate, a red light came on, signaling us to stop. The immigration officer stood and walked up to our van. She said with a heavy accent, “May I see your vehicle registration, please? And your passport and credit card.”

  Scott must have been familiar with the routine, as he already had all the items ready. The officer shone her flashlight back through the van.

  “You have many youths,” s
he said to Scott.

  “Yes, I do. They’re friends.”

  “What is the purpose of your visit to Mexico?”

  “We’re here on vacation. I’m chaperoning.”

  “Just a moment, please.”

  The officer went into the building. A moment later she returned. “Are you carrying any guns or drugs?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  She looked back at us again, then said, “There is a twenty-seven-dollar fee.” Scott counted out some bills and handed them to her. She handed him a clipboard with a form. “Sign here, please.”

  Scott signed the paper and handed back the clipboard. The officer tore off the top sheet and handed it back to Scott. “Please keep this paper with your vehicle. How long will you be in Mexico?”

  “Only a few days,” Scott said.

  “Okay. You may go.”

  Scott put the van in gear, and we drove over some weird, shiny metal balls that were imbedded in the asphalt, across the border.

  “We’re in Mexico,” Jack said.

  “Mexico,” Tessa sighed. “Makes me want a burrito.”

  The Mexican town of Naco looked rustic—like the movie set of an old Western. The main street was lined with stucco-covered buildings: taquerias, ice cream shops, and, most noticeably, a farmacia, which was one of the largest buildings in the town. There were also a lot of skinny stray dogs running around in packs.

  A couple of blocks from the border we passed the Cruz Roja—the Mexican Red Cross—which Scott told us had been set up there to help illegal immigrants who were caught and deported from the United States.

  “Every year the border patrol catches more than three hundred thousand illegal immigrants attempting to enter the U.S.,” Scott said. “They return many of them here. Most go back to their homes, but not all of them.”

  After we passed what looked like a taco stand, Ostin asked, “Is anyone hungry besides me?”

  “I think we’re all hungry,” I said.

  “I was serious about the burrito,” Tessa said. “Think we could find some decent Mexican food?”