The Other Side by Joshua McCune

Allie.
    He always gives the same answer. She still sleeps.
    Which means she’s been asleep for more than twelve hours now.
    Near dawn—no signs of enemies, no word from Allie—we reach the outskirts of Denver. The white mountain-shaped roofs of the airport stand out in sharp contrast against the backdrop of charred fields. The scorched and splintered husks of skyscrapers protrude like spears from the horizon.
    I remember the exact date Denver went from city to graveyard. I remember every day Mom was called away to war.
    I begged her not to go; she smiled and kissed me and said everything would be okay. Told me to be strong for Sam and Dad. Hiccupping back tears, I stood on the curb outside Groveton Elementary with Principal Markinson and watched her drive away. That night, it was all over the news.
    I’d never seen so many dragons, so much fire.
    To save Mom, I made promises to God. I don’t recall them all—they changed each time—but I’m sure I’ve brokenmost of them. When Mom returned home, I cried and urged her to quit the army. The next day she signed me up for tae kwon do. Said it was because I skipped school and needed to learn discipline. But a few months before her death, I think she revealed her real reason, written on the back of a picture she’d sent from her final salvage mission.
    Congratulations on the black belt, Mel, Mel. I’m prouder than you’ll ever know. In a world filled with darkness, you have found your inner light. Hold on to it, no matter what. I love you. Always. Mom .
    With her customary heart and smiley face.
    I can’t help but think she was also saying good-bye.
    She couldn’t have realized my inner light would die with her.
    It’s rekindled in fits and spurts, but never for long. Dad broken. Sam, who knows? Allie lost. James . . .
    As we glide toward the airport, I look away from the sorrow of past ruin and banish the dread of future heartache. Baekjul boolgool.
    I am my mother’s daughter. I am strong.

13
    Baby follows Randon through a jagged opening in the airport roof, toward the far side of the terminal, illuminated faint red by Grackel’s prone form. Fractured tiles, shattered glass, and unidentifiable debris litter the area. The old dragon opens one green eye when we land, mumbles, It is about time, then resumes her throaty snores.
    Keith emerges from the shadows, a large-caliber rifle looped over his shoulder. He looks as if he’s aged ten years since he dropped me off on Saint Matthew Island three months ago. A beard, scraggly and streaked gray, sprouts from a face wrought by fatigue.
    He embraces me. “You’re looking good.”
    â€œYou too,” I say, and we share forced smiles. “Oren took Allie, Keith. We haven’t been able to contact her inalmost fifteen hours—”
    â€œWe can discuss this later. You must be tired.”
    â€œWe didn’t fly all this way to sleep.”
    â€œWhat happened? Where is everybody?” Colin asks.
    â€œJust me and Preston for now. Come on, let’s get out of the cold.”
    Keith takes us to an access room that resembles a cross between an anarchist’s bunker and a hacker’s paradise. Gun racks and ammo cabinets occupy the left wall. Touchboards and thinscreens cover the rest. Several are set to the twenty-four-hour news stations, currently focused on mounting tension between U.S. forces and their European counterparts; a few seem to track military operations, and one large screen on the right displays a map of the U.S. similar to the one I saw in the escape crate, with a couple of key differences.
    Fewer Avoid at All Cost locations—black pushpins—than before. The drone zone’s been pushed east into Kansas, which explains the lack of drones in the area. The ruins of Denver are now part of the evacuated territories. I wish I could feel relief, but my gaze keeps coming back to the red pins that represent