Vivian Apple Needs a Miracle by Katie Coyle Page B

Harp breathe heavily beside me. I wait for my teeth to stop chattering, my ears to stop ringing with the echoes of gunshots. But they never do. When I feel like we’ve put enough distance between us and San Francisco, I whisper the question I’m so afraid to ask:
    â€œIs everybody okay?”
    There’s a long pause, but I know Winnie heard me—she shifts uncomfortably in her seat.
    â€œSuzy took that first shot, after Frankie threw the knife,” she tells me in a dull voice. “She was still breathing when we left, but she didn’t look good.”
    Suzy’s face floods my mind—her dimples and big green eyes. Her brow furrowed as she hunched over her laptop, fingers playing across the keyboard like a piano. I can hardly pretend I knew her well, but she was good and brave, and she helped us. I shudder, feeling a painful knot form at the back of my throat. Harp coughs lightly.
    â€œI think . . . Karen got hit too,” she says tearfully. “I saw her across the room right before you pulled me out, Winnie. There was . . . there was a lot of blood.”
    Winnie doesn’t react for a long moment. Then she slams her hand down on the steering wheel. “Fuck! Everyone was running around, prepping for the move. The one moment none of us were watching you, and this happens. How could we have been so
stupid?
”
    Neither Harp nor I reply. Winnie goes quiet; she continues to drive at exactly the speed limit, no more, no less, so as to draw no attention to us. Her silence turns into a physical presence that I have no wish to push up against. It seems obvious to me how the Church of America found us—they have to have tracked us down through the blog. They were quicker than Suzy thought they’d be. I’m sickened by guilt. I keep thinking of the small, surprised shout I now think must have been Suzy taking a bullet. I close my eyes and try to let the sound of Harp’s typing fingers lull me into calm, but it doesn’t work. I can still see their faces so clearly.
    Three hours into our drive, Winnie pulls into a rest stop to get a cup of coffee. Beside me, Harp frowns at her screen and lifts the laptop, moving it slowly from one side of the car to the other. When she catches my look, she says, “I’m trying to pick up the rest stop’s Wi-Fi. I want to check the feed.”
    The feed. I can only imagine what the Church of America will say when they discover what happened. If none of the Peacemakers survived, they’ll paint us as unhinged; if any of them did, if they found any identifying information about Amanda’s militia, we’ll all be in danger.
    â€œBam!” Harp points to the full signal strength and pulls up the Church’s website. I lean over to see. Our faces are still in a sidebar— WANTED FOR SPIRITUAL THREATS, the caption reads—but we’re not the top story. There’s a headline in a peppy bright blue font. PRAISE FRICK! PRAISE THIS MIRACLE! Animated angels flank the words, cute and chubby-cheeked, doing a celebratory dance. Below is a video. Harp looks at me, worried.
    â€œPlay it.” I feel a wave of anxiety creep up my spine. Anything that makes the Church of America this happy is sure to be bad.
    Harp presses play. The camera focuses on a podium in some swanky outdoor setting, fresh flowers and fountains. Beside it stands Michelle Mulvey in an evening gown, smiling at someone off camera. There’s a smattering of applause as Ted Blackmore approaches the microphone. I inhale through my teeth in anticipation.
    â€œFor the last three and a half months,” Blackmore begins as the unseen crowd hushes themselves, “I’ve spoken on behalf of the Church of America. I consider myself a good man, a devout man—” He’s interrupted as the audience cheers; he gives them a shy, grateful smile so convincing even I’m slightly won over. “However, there are good men, and