And now all was being revealed to that wider out-there world.
Had it happened just a week earlier, he, Albert Hillsborough, would have been one of the great heroes of the FAYZ. Who had kept the McDonald’s running while there was still electricity? Albert Hillsborough. Who had created the market up at the school? Albert Hillsborough. Who had created a stable currency—the ’Berto—using gold and McDonald’s game pieces? Albert Hillsborough.
He had put people to work.
He had saved them all from starvation. Everyone knew it.
My God, had it all ended then, he could have written his own ticket. He was barely in high school and he would have had university business schools lining up to give him a full scholarship.
Albert Hillsborough—Harvard MBA.
Recently graduated Albert Hillsborough offered vice presidency at General Electric.
Albert Hillsborough named youngest president ever of Sony Corporation.
All of it lost in a moment of panic. The story might already be out there. Half the country might already despise him.
Albert Hillsborough buys waterfront villa in the south of France. Says, “I needed some place to dock my yacht.”
Albert Hillsborough hosts party aboard his yacht. George Clooney, Denzel Washington, Olivia Wilde, and Sasha Obama in attendance.
But he really had done all those good things, and he’d done them without ever raising his hand against anyone, and without any so-called powers he had saved everything.
Just by being smart. Not a genius like Astrid, just smart. By working hard. By not giving up.
Albert Hillsborough dating supermodel. “Marriage not in the plans,” Hillsborough says.
Albert Hillsborough declines to run for president despite huge poll numbers. Says, “That job doesn’t pay enough.”
A boat.
There it was, black on a rippled yellow sea: a boat.
One of his missiles was lying under a tarp held down by rocks on what had once been a lush green lawn and was now an overgrown, dried-out weed patch. He had read the instructions carefully. The missiles weren’t hard to fire, really, but then, why would they be? They were used by soldiers in the heat of battle—they’d have to be fairly simple.
It was a rowboat. One of Quinn’s.
He turned the telescope toward it and after a few jumpy misses finally centered the boat in the circle and saw the broad back straining against the oars. It would be at least another hour before Quinn could reach the island.
Albert had never before felt shame; it was an alien emotion for him. But of all the people to have to see: Quinn.
At the start Quinn had been Sam’s best friend. But he had been weak while Sam was still uncertain and had fallen in with Caine. Caine had been too violent, too overtly evil for Quinn to stomach, which had left Quinn neither here nor there, not someone Sam trusted, not someone of any use to Caine.
But over time Quinn had found his place. And then he had slowly, imperceptibly, grown from the unreliable, foolish boy he’d been into, well, into the Fisherman. People called him that, just as they called Lana the Healer. The Fisherman, with a capital “F.”
His crews were absolutely devoted. He outworked anyone in the FAYZ. More than any other person except for Albert, he fed Perdido Beach. He had stood up to Penny and to Caine, although Quinn was not the hero type.
And at the end it had been Quinn who’d stayed to see things through when Albert ran away.
No, he did not want to speak to Quinn.
Albert glanced at the missile. It wouldn’t be hard. But beyond the missile, out at sea, out in the open sea beyond the FAYZ barrier, there was a glistening white cruise ship passing slowly. Probably, what, four miles away? Five? But not so far that binoculars and telescopes trained in his direction would miss the flame and the explosion.
“And there’s the fact that I don’t kill people,” Albert admitted almost sadly. “I’m a businessman.”
He walked slowly back to the mansion to tell Alicia and Leslie-Ann that they would be having a guest.
“Oh, God, it hurts. It hurts!” He was staggering and shrieking, pausing to stare in horror at the stump of his arm, crying, babbling. His shirt was saturated with blood, now mostly dried.
The red-haired man was not used to suffering, Diana thought.
Well, welcome to the FAYZ, mister. This is a hard place.
Gaia was walking along at a sprightly pace, still following the barrier as the sun fell into the distant sea and the shadows deepened. They were very near the northeastern point, where there was a wrecked train: a dozen boxcars tossed around the landscape, some plowed into the sand, others piled up against each other.
Their shadows were long. Night was rapidly approaching. It was possible to imagine goblins and spooks in this desert train wreck.
“The Nutella train,” Diana said. She of course knew about the bisected train that Sam, Dekka, and Jack had found. The freight had been mostly useless, everything from toilets to wicker furniture. But there had also been a huge amount of Nutella, Cup-a-Noodles, and Pepsi. The discovery remained one of the great days in FAYZ history.
Diana would have given anything for a bowl of noodles.
Everything edible had been removed, hauled to the lake, and either eaten and drunk or bartered to Perdido Beach. Baby Gaia had been nurtured in Diana’s womb on a diet that included a lot of Nutella. Sam and Edilio had been generous with her for the sake of her baby. For the sake of what could be their own destruction.
“What is this thing called?” Gaia asked.
Again Diana noted the fact that there were holes in Gaia’s knowledge. She knew a lot. She didn’t know everything.