Vivian Apple Needs a Miracle by Katie Coyle Page A

was. I hear the shatter of glass and Diego’s unintelligible shouts from above; I hear the steady, deafening pop of guns from every direction. It isn’t just the Peacemakers, but my people too—they’ve placed themselves at strategic angles on the balcony above, behind overturned tables and the wide oak bar. I roll under my cot, where my few possessions are piled. I grab my sledgehammer and crawl. There isn’t time to think; there isn’t time to breathe. Blood pumps in my ears, and I realize I’m whispering to myself: “Get to Harp. Get to Harp.” Then someone reaches under the cot and grabs my arm; I swing around to kick out at him, screaming, unable to hear my own screams in all the chaos.
    â€œVivian!”
    Julian drops to a crouch so I can see his face. He holds out his hand, and I push myself out from under the cot to take it; he leads me at a sprint, past the commotion, toward the exit. The air above us splits as a bullet flies past, too close; Julian pushes me to the floor and fires back. He drags me around a corner, and I hear a woman screaming—Winnie? Julian blocks me with his body, watching for movement, digging into his pocket with trembling hands. He throws a set of keys at me.
    â€œGet out.” He nods at the exit several yards to our left. “Get a car and bring it to the entrance. Wait five minutes. If no one comes after five minutes, drive. If one of
them
comes, go.”
    â€œNo!” My ears are ringing from the gunshots and my voice is too loud. “I have to make sure Harp is okay!”
    â€œWe’ll get Harp. Don’t worry. Just go.”
    He looks at me with his deep brown eyes, at once assured and pleading, and I feel something in me—some wall I’ve built—give way. I take the keys and the sledgehammer and I run, ducking my head under my arms as though that will protect me. I burst through the back exit and race around the building, the cold air searing my lungs, the terrifying pops inside Cliff House muffled under the sound of wind in my ears. It’s dark, but for the first time, a glow spills out onto the pools of still water beyond the cliff. When I reach Amanda’s two remaining cars, my shivering hands struggle to fit a key into one of the locks. I accidentally scratch deep grooves into the paint. Then the key fits, the door opens, and I throw myself inside, turning on the engine but not the headlights. I race on screeching tires to the entrance, reaching to throw open the passenger side doors. I check the clock: 12:14. Five minutes, Julian said. But how does he expect me to leave when those minutes are up, if Harp is not here beside me?
    â€œCome on, come on,” I whisper. I try to keep my eyes away from the clock for as long as I can, but they dart back there of their own accord after what feels like forever—12:15. I listen for gunfire. But either it’s stopped or I can’t hear it over the tinny, wheezing sound I recognize as my own breathing. I check the clock again.
    12:16.
    I kill the engine, throw the door open. I step into the night again, holding my sledgehammer close to my body. I move toward Cliff House, but the front doors burst open then, and Winnie rushes out, half dragging an ashen Harp beside her. Winnie has a gun, and Harp carries her laptop—both appear to be uninjured.
    When she sees me, Harp wrests her elbow out of Winnie’s grip and runs to embrace me. Neither of us seems able to speak. Winnie breaks us apart and pushes past me, climbing into the driver’s seat. “We have to move,” she says.
    â€œWhat about the others?” I ask as Harp and I crawl into the back seat.
    â€œWe’ll meet them in LA.” She floors the gas, and we race away from Cliff House. I have only a second to look back at the building, hoping I’ll see someone leave it. But no one does.
    Â 
    We drive south, merging onto the interstate slightly before two a.m. I listen to