Read Online Storm by Virginia Bergin - Free Book Online Page B

nothing to say about any of my own explanations. It was almost enough to make me want to stop the ice-cream ambulance and go and shake Saskia back to consciousness for just long enough to get the truth out of her, but only a monster would do such a thing—and I am not a monster. Thinking bad thoughts is not the same as doing bad things, and plenty of people who think they think GOOD thoughts do TERRIBLE things. (They used to call it “politics” or “religion” or “teaching mathematics.”) All I do is drive an ice-cream van.
    When we finally arrive at the gates to the army base, there is a camp of useless people, like me. There are cars; there are caravans—fires burning, people sitting out under tarps…people wrapped in blankets and duvets that tumble from their shoulders as they rise to their feet, laughing and…hooting, jeering, and cheering.
    I remember that I am a witch-fairy driving an ice-cream van.
    Ahead of me, at the gates, electric lights in the dusk burn so brightly, I am blinded, and I stop long before I have to, blinking, dazzled. My head hurts.
    I am getting into this base. I am getting Saskia into this base.
    THUMP!
    A fist against my window. I see a face—a woman’s face. I have a memory of a time I was safe in a car and a woman, already bleeding from the rain, tried to get in. Like I said, I have emotional issues about being trapped in cars.
    â€œMake mine a King Cone!” she shouts through the glass, laughing.
    â€œI’d rather have a Popsicle!” someone shouts.
    I see others crowd up.
    â€œThere’s someone in there!” another voice shouts.
    â€œIt’s a kid! She’s got a kid!”
    â€œShe’s bleeding. Kid’s bleeding!”
    Saskia—maybe responding to this new sound, maybe responding to us having stopped—groans loudly. People back off at a million miles an hour.
    â€œShe’s hurt! She’s just hurt!” I scream to anyone who’ll listen, not even thinking to roll down my window.
    Hello, silence. Know you well. You make me feel like I am dreaming. But I am not. Oh! My brain wants to tell me this is not really happening. Go back to sleep , it is trying to say.
    This is really happening.
    â€œShe’s not sick!” I scream. “She’s hurt! It’s her foot!”
    Some brave someone comes back up to the van, flashlight in hand, and peers inside.
    â€œKid’s hurt,” she shouts.
    That’s what it takes—an adult to say what I have said.
    â€œKid’s hurt!” someone echoes.
    â€œThey’re just kids!” a someone yells at the gates. That means “go,” right? That means it’s OK? I press on the accelerator. I see wire—too late: I bump the gates. In the blinding light, stick figures of soldiers form in front of me.
    â€œGet back! Get back!” I hear them shouting, stick guns get cocked.
    No , I think. No. I do not know what else to do. I hammer on the horn. I flick switches, and the jingle comes blaring out.
    All I hear is a crackling racket of tuneless bells. I can’t hear what anyone is shouting anymore.
    THUMP!
    The King Cone lady bashes my window.
    â€œBack up so they can let you in!” she shouts.
    I smash gears to find reverse—the shadows of wire against light swing open ahead of me.
    â€œCome on!” bellows a stick soldier.
    Forward, then?
    I accelerate and—thump!—hit another set of gates.
    I didn’t even see the wire. The light—it is dazzling.
    In my side mirrors, I see gates shut behind me. Shadows of soldiers step away from the closed gate; the useless people crowd up, clutching wire…waiting to see what will happen.
    I am trapped between gates. A flashlight gets shined into my face—very unnecessarily, I might add. It’s not as though it’s the middle of the night.
    THUMP!
    â€œStop the engine!” a soldier yells at the glass.
    Just in case I didn’t get