The Survival Code Read online

  Whoever was responsible for the attacks targeted five cities.

  Boulder, Ann Arbor, Seattle, New York and Rancho Mesa.

  I open another window and check out First Federal. I already knew that the banks were owned by Ammon Carver and that his family had been building banks forever. But they must own hundreds of buildings. Why would someone blow up those five?

  As I click around I realize. These are all cities known for data storage.

  The buildings were all file storage locations.

  Someone was out to destroy banking records.

  But this raises more questions than it answers. A bank like First Federal would have scanned all its physical records and would have backups of their backups. Any data loss would be temporary. They’d be able to make a full recovery. Probably in less than a week.

  I can’t make any sense of this, and I’m relieved when a new message from Terminus starts to come through.

  Terminus: Where have you been?

  I take a deep breath and type a response.

  Me: Have you seen any of this First Federal stuff? We were trapped in Halliwell’s across from the branch downtown.

  Terminus: No way.

  Terminus: You’re screwing with me.

  Me: Nope.

  Terminus: You okay?

  Me: I think so. Mom made us go to the doctor this morning.

  Terminus: Yeah. You talk to Marshall?

  I hesitate. It’s hard to unpack all the weirdness with my dad. Plus, Terminus has his own issues. He used to be my dad’s top student from our computer club. But that was before. Before Dad went so far off the rails.

  Now, Terminus feels abandoned.

  I can relate.

  Me: I saw him.

  Me: He said he’s going off-the-grid for a while.

  Three animated dots linger for a long time.

  Terminus: Probably for the best. There are a lot of people who want to blame him for what’s happening.

  I don’t know what to say, and there’s a quiet knock on my door.

  Me: Gotta go.

  Terminus: Text me later.

  Terminus: And don’t worry about the raid. I logged in to your account and played as you. The guild is occupying the Cataline Hills.

  Me: Thanks.

  Mom comes in and sits on my bed. It’s the first time we’ve been able to talk since everything happened.

  I move away from my desk and sit next to her.

  She kisses me on the forehead. “You’ve had a rough twenty-four hours.”

  As she wraps her arm around my shoulders, I realize how much tension I have in my arms and neck. I desperately want things to get back to normal.

  “Jinx, I know things seem bad right now, but I hope you know that no matter what happens, I would do anything to keep you safe,” she says. “Your father would too.”

  I stiffen. “I think Dad went away.”

  Mom smiles reassuringly. “I’m sure he’s off on one of his drills.”

  “This sounded different,” I say.

  “Don’t worry, dear. Come have some lunch. Also, this would be a great time to catch up on your homework. Even The Opposition can’t change the fact that your book report will be due once school starts up again.”

  Spoken like a true teacher.

  She leaves, and I spend a couple of minutes searching for my laptop before realizing that it was destroyed in the explosion. Along with my phone. I’ll have to replace that too.

  I come into the kitchen where Mom must be making sandwiches, because there’s a stack of lunch meat and cheeses on a plate on the counter. Jay’s laptop is there again. Only this time it’s open to a website.

  For a law firm.

  Once again, the kitchen feels eerily deserted. I look around and see everyone else clustered at the large living room window that faces the front yard. Jay’s arms are crossed. Mom peeks through the closed blinds. Red and blue lights shine and flash through the wedge.

  The cops are here.

  I’m about to go over there to see what’s going on when a loud beep sounds from Jay’s laptop. The console window opens and a message appears on the screen.

  The wolf is shaved so nice and trim.

  Red Riding Hood is chasing him.

  And then.

  TORK IS COMING.

  Mom opens the front door.

  Rows of police officers block the front door and the outside entryway.

  Jay’s laptop has been hacked.

  What is happening?

  And who or what is a Tork?

  I fight the urge to use Jay’s laptop to figure this out.

  Mom has let a few cops into the foyer.

  I try to reassure myself. This must be routine. But when the floodlights in the backyard activate to reveal a dozen officers in black SWAT uniforms surrounding our pool, I know something’s gone really wrong.

  Mom’s voice shakes. “Jinx, can you take your brother?”

  I slam Jay’s laptop shut and tuck it under my arm, trying to conceal as much of it as possible. I don’t know what’s wrong with it. And then suddenly I remember the code I saw yesterday when we got home from that mess at the bank.

  Day Zero.

  Maybe the computer has gotten some kind of a virus. But it shouldn’t be left lying around until I figure it out. Receiving cryptic messages in the console window is not normal.

  Waiting for Charles at the hall entrance, I hope no one notices the laptop. My brother walks over to me at a pace that’s maddeningly slow.

  Step. By. Step.

  Light footsteps echo off the tile floor and fill all the quiet, empty space.

  While I struggle to take a full, deep breath.

  When he’s an arm’s length away, I grab him and tow him down the hall. Mom didn’t say where to take Charles, and my room is first, so I take us there. I shut the door and give my brother a gentle shove toward my bed. “What did you hear?”

  Charles lands with an oof on my blue bedspread. “They were asking about Jay.”

  This morning, Mom and Jay were clearly worried about something like this.

  But still.

  Jay is one of the most honest people I know.

  Suddenly, the laptop is a hot potato. I open the closet and stuff it under the pile of teddy bears, repositioning them as best I can.

  “What are you doing?” Charles asks.

  “Think, Charles. What did the cops say?”

  My brother yawns. “They just asked Mom if Jay was home.”

  I fidget with the tail of my T-shirt. “Okay. Wait here.”

  Without stopping for him to object, I return to the hall. MacKenna is leaning against the wall, watching Mom and Jay. They’re a few feet away in the foyer, speaking in hushed tones.

  “You don’t need to consent to an interview,” Mom says. “We could call Phil Hartwell. Or maybe the bank’s in-house counsel. Or wait for them to come back with a warrant.”

  Jay’s lips pucker. “I’m head of security for the Rancho Mesa branch of First Federal. It’s my responsibility to assist the police.”

  Mom frowns. “All I’m saying is that it would be better to understand the angle of the investigation before you answer any questions on the record. If we call Phil—”

  “Stephanie, I haven’t done anything wrong. That’s what any investigation will show.”

  MacKenna steps forward. “Jesus, Dad. Do you always have to act like you were born on the Fourth of July? Are we really gonna pretend like truth and justice always prevail?”

  Jay smooths his orange shirt and turns to his daughter and kisses her on the forehead. “I understand your concerns, and you’re not wrong. But MacKenna, I’m acting like a man whose first responsibility is the safety of his family.”

  Leaning back toward Mom, Jay say
s, “I’m going with them.”

  The shuffling and mumbled conversation of the police in the foyer fills the tense silence following those words.

  Mom moves to block his path. “I don’t think that’s wise.”

  He kisses her forehead. “Everything will be fine, I promise.”

  He leaves the three of us there.

  Mom remains in the foyer, blocking the police from getting any farther inside. They clearly want to search the house, but she quotes Thomas Paine and tells them to come back with a warrant.

  After Jay goes, the cops in the backyard leave too, but a few black-and-white cars remain in front of the house. Watching us.

  We go through the motions.

  I’m dying to get back to my computer. If I could connect Jay’s laptop to my machine, I could run some diagnostics. Plus, Terminus has a contact that used to have the log-in info for all the local police systems. I could do a search for Tork, or try to get my hands on the police files. But Mom makes us stay in the living room. She probably wants to watch us for symptoms of shock.

  Mostly so Charles will eat, Mom makes us lunch then gives us all busywork to keep us near her. As the afternoon fades into the evening, we have dinner. I force down mouthfuls of cheese pizza. The slice is cold and clammy. The cheese tastes like plastic. I check my brother’s blood sugar and give him a small injection using the insulin pen.

  I suspect he’s found where I’m hiding my candy bars.

  Afterward, Mom gets a call and takes it on the patio. A few minutes later, Charles pulls out one of his big gardening books and curls up in the oversize suede armchair. MacKenna and I sit together on the sofa.

  In spite of everything, I find myself thinking of Navarro.

  “You know that guy from the parking lot? He was at the appliance store. Do you think he’s...” I trail off, considering how to finish my thought. Do you think he’s following us? Do you think he’s dangerous?

  As usual, she guesses what I really want to know. “Um. Do I think he’s hot?”

  MacKenna flashes me a grin, which quickly fades. “Yeah...but what was he doing there?” She picks up an e-tablet from the end table and scribbles something down. “When we get back to school, I’ll follow up. If there’s a story, I’ll find it.”

  Does Navarro have a story?

  We’re silent again.

  We watch the news.

  And we wait.

  * * *

  A little after 6:00 p.m., a graphic appears on the screen.

  Stay tuned for a message from President Ammon Carver.

  A couple minutes later, an image of Carver in his usual tailored dark suit and red tie fills the screen. He’s posed in front of a row of large golden eagle statues that have their wings folded in front of their bodies.

  “Does it seem like my dad has been gone a long time?” MacKenna asks, unable to keep the nervous edge from her voice. She’s doing her best to read a book called The Savage Storm: Inside the World of Ammon Carver.

  “Does it seem like my mom has been on the phone a long time?” I say. Mom has been outside, pacing, arguing with someone on the other end of the line.

  Neither of us answers the other. If we did, we’d have to acknowledge how we feel.

  I change the subject. “Have you heard from Toby?”

  MacKenna shrugs. “I don’t have a phone, and Dad told Toby to stay at school until things settle down.”

  Whenever that will be.

  Carver begins to speak.

  “My fellow Americans, it is with a heavy heart that I address you this evening.”

  I shiver at his gravelly voice.

  “Last night, shortly before 7:00 p.m. Eastern Standard Time, five First Federal facilities became the latest target of domestic terrorism. I know you will join me in offering thoughts and prayers to the victims of this violence. I wish I could stand before you and say that these attacks on my family’s financial institutions—banks that have been the motor of our national prosperity for nearly a century—were directed toward me alone. However, early credible intelligence indicates that these dark deeds were the work of The Spark under the direction of the organization’s leadership at the highest level and, therefore, a direct assault on our republic. November’s election was a hard-fought battle, and my hope was that we’d be entering a period of hard-won peace. But this will not be possible when our rival political party and its candidate will not accept the results of a lawful election. I am saddened to report that authorities are seeking the whereabouts of David Rosenthal, who appears to have fled the country—”

  MacKenna drops her book. “Wait. What? That can’t be right.”

  Rosenthal. Her hero.

  On screen, Carver continues.

  “We will do whatever is necessary to bring those responsible to justice and secure—”

  I pull my blanket around my shoulders. “That sounds really sinister.”

  MacKenna casts me a dark look. “Carver’s whole presidency is sinister. You know, some people think he murdered his own mother.”

  “I’m not into those conspiracy theories,” I say.

  “Nobody knows where she is. That’s not a theory.”

  “Yesterday, I declared a national state of emergency. Where necessary, I have called up state troops and authorized the use of—”

  “Ten years ago, she was dropped off in front of a cruise ship and never seen again.”

  Mom comes in from the patio and gives a haggard glance to Ammon Carver on the screen. “Soon the world is going to be a very different place.” An odd expression crosses her face. Like she regrets saying that. She sits between me and MacKenna on the couch, picks up the remote control and mutes the television. “That was Phil. You know, that lawyer Jay plays golf with. He’s got a few contacts at the courthouse, and he made some calls. He thinks they’re treating Jay like a suspect.”

  MacKenna eyes Mom warily. “A suspect? Suspected of what?”

  Charles freezes and looks up from his book.

  She folds her arms across her chest. “We should get off our butts and do something to help him.” MacKenna sounds tough, but her face is pressed into a worried frown.

  “There must be something we can do,” I say.

  Mom sighs, and her shoulders slump. “I’m going to try. Phil put me in touch with a criminal attorney. She’s going to meet me at the precinct and stop whatever questioning is going on. I need you girls to hold down the fort here.” She rises, and I hear her in the kitchen getting her purse out of the hall closet.

  Mom’s statement takes the edge off MacKenna’s fear. At the sound of the car starting in the garage, she flops back. I realize that maybe she feels alone. Toby is still at school, and Jay has been gone for hours.

  “Mac, it’ll be okay.”

  She gets up. Charles has fallen asleep in his chair. She covers my brother with a blanket and when she sits down again, she says, “Don’t start calling me Mac and talking to me like we’re gonna start our own girl gang. Things don’t always work out okay just because we want them to.”

  Stepsister fail. I’m not someone she trusts. I also kind of think that Rosenthal’s loss in the election is one more thing she blames me for. We keep watching TV.

  We keep waiting.

  MacKenna turns up the TV volume. Above a headline that reads Where Is David Rosenthal? a blonde woman is giving a report. A profile of Rosenthal.

  “Born in a Borough Park one-bedroom apartment, Rosenthal is the son of Polish immigrants who struggled to manage their hardware store and make ends meet.”

  It’s getting late. Mom’s gone, Charles is asleep and MacKenna clearly doesn’t want to talk. This is the perfect time to make a break for my computer. To find out about Jay.

  Or about Day Zero.

  “...married his high school sweetheart and attended a city college...”

/>   As I get up, MacKenna calls out, “What are you doing?”

  “...spent long hours as a community organizer, working to address the low income...”

  “I have to check something.”

  “Right now?” she asks.

  I don’t bother answering as I enter my room. I jiggle my mouse, open a private network window, cloak my IP address and route my connection through a bunch of different random locations, before finally contacting Terminus.

  I’m praying that he’s awake and that he gets my notification. Luckily, it takes only a minute or so before a message comes through.

  Terminus: Hey

  Me: I don’t have much time. There’s a bunch of cops here. Do you still have that file from the script kiddie you met at Infocon? The one with all the usernames and passwords for local police departments?

  Terminus: The cops are there? Why?

  Me: Do you have the file or not?

  Terminus: Maybe

  Me: They think my stepdad had something to do with the attacks on the banks.

  Terminus: Did he?

  Me: Are you seriously asking me that?

  Terminus: Okay. But are you saying what I think you’re saying? That Rancho Mesa’s finest are hanging around your house and you want to choose this exact moment to hack the PD mainframe?

  Me: I have to figure out why they think Jay has anything to do with this.

  Terminus: I’ll do it. Hang on.

  I want to object, but the truth is that it’s safer for Terminus to log in. He’s already got the file, and he has better hardware than I do. Mom made me give all the really good stuff to Dad when they split.

  Meanwhile, I search the web for Tork. Nothing particularly relevant comes up. There’s a company that sells medical scrubs. A band based in Pittsburgh. It’s also a brand of lug wrenches.

  Quiet footsteps are coming down the hall. A new message from Terminus appears in the server chat window.

  Terminus: It’s bad.

  MacKenna pushes my door open without knocking. “What are you doing?”

  I’m starting to get nauseated again, like when I get off the Zipper at the state fair. “I told you. I have to check something.”