Excerpt: The After

Timothy woke up late—he'd been to youth group and then he'd gotten his hair cut the night before. Timothy made a mental note to set an alarm before he went to bed tonight, then hurried out of bed and down the stairs. If he sprinted, he'd get to the park before many people showed up, but Timothy didn't feel like upsetting his rhythm today.
“Timothy!” Thunk.
Timothy turned, his hand on the doorknob, to face his mother.
“You cut your hair,” she stood at the kitchen counter with a mug of coffee which she had apparently just set down on the counter a little too fast, as coffee was running down the side.
Timothy put one hand on his head, although he knew full well what he would find. He ran all of his explanations through his head. You said I had to ask before I went anywhere with anyone, said I had to call if plans were changed or if I was going to be home late, but you never said I had to ask before I got a haircut. You're the one who always says you don't like the haircuts where the hair hangs down in someone's face. Hey, it's not like I got a tattoo or anything, right?
He'd gotten a buzz cut.
“Timothy,” she left the coffee and walked over to the kitchen table and sat down. “We need to talk.”
Timothy pulled out a chair on the other side of the table and sat down. He waited for her to start a speech—generally, the phrase 'we need to talk' meant 'I want to tell you something.'
“I don't like this military obsession of yours.” She was having a hard time finding words. “When you're eighteen, I can't tell you what to do. And, I mean, don't get me wrong, you—you've been very self-disciplined in getting yourself in shape. That's good, and that's more than I can say for myself.”
Timothy knew Mom was self-conscious about her weight, but that was as close as she'd come to admitting it in words.
“But—I just don't like it. I'll love you no matter what you do with your life, but I just can't see my Timothy killing people.”
My Timothy. Timothy had caught onto the distinction long ago—My Timothy was the Timothy that she'd lost a year and a half ago, and You was the Timothy she'd gotten back.
“I don't know. Sometimes I wish everything would just go back to how it was, you know?” She looked away from him.
“Can I go now?” Timothy refused to respond in either a positive or negative manner to the whole thing, although it nagged at him that neutrality wasn't exactly honoring his parents.
“Yeah. Be safe.”
Timothy got up and went out the door.

Seventh sat on her bed, staring at the wall opposite of her. Her jaw was clenched and Timothy saw her hands were in fists. Timothy hesitated, running over what he was going to say.
“Hi,”
“Minutu, pazhalusta. Ya zanyat,” Seventh said through clenched teeth.
“Uh—what?”
Seventh didn't answer this time. After a long moment, Timothy decided he might as well get on with it.
“Um, Seventh? I'm really sorry a-a-about what happened at—school.” Seventh still didn't look his way. “I didn't mean t-that, it just kind of slipped out.” Timothy waited again for a response. “My friend—who died in the accident, he always used to say stuff like that, and I guess I j-just picked i-it up from him, you know?” Timothy wasn't sure how to interpret her silence. “Listen, uh, I guess what I—what I'm trying to say is, well, uh,” why were those four words so hard to say? “Will you forgive me?”
Seventh still didn't respond. Was she trying to drag this out on purpose?
“I'm really, really sorry.”
She continued to stare at the wall. This wasn't going anything like Timothy had envisioned; it occurred to him that maybe Seventh wanted something out of it.
“Listen, I'll take you out to lunch o-or something. Do you like Perkins'?”
Nothing.
“Are you okay?” Timothy stepped forward.
Seventh blinked, unclenched her hands and jaw and turned to stare at him. That was back to normal.
“I am fine. I am not an autonomous entity and would not expect, aspire or desire to live as such. Forgiveness and regret are meaningless.” That was more like the answer Timothy had expected.
“You are an autonomous entity because you were mad. And I don't care what you say, I'm asking for y-your forgiveness anyway.” Timothy rattled off his prepared answer.
“I was not mad.”
“Yes, you were. You had—you were clenching your f-fists. P-people do that when they're mad.”
“I was not mad. I was busy.”
“Busy doing what?”
“Cleaning.”

“Come on,” the guy nodded, but he didn't look away or point the gun somewhere else. Timothy climbed up, crouching at the edge of the elevator.
Timothy launched himself at the guy. Impact. His shoulder collided with the fed's stomach. Timothy heard a gunshot, but it sounded far away. So did the man's grunt as Timothy took him to the floor. Timothy did hear people running up the stairway.
“Seventh, C'mon!”
Where did the gun go? It was in the man's right hand. The guy gasped. Shocked, but only for a moment. Timothy lunged for the gun and twisted it out of the man's grip without a problem.
The guy hit him in the side of his head with his other hand, but not very hard.
Timothy stood up and pointed the gun at the fed.
Seventh was only just now pulling herself up. So incredibly slow! They would come through the door in the next two seconds. The downed fed was bending forward, going to get up, gasping for breath. Timothy stepped behind him, put his own arm under the fed's, and pulled him to his feet, keeping the gun at his temple.
The door opened slowly (as automatic doors provide more resistance than the traditional hinge), and the first two feds stopped cold in their tracks.
“Uh,”
Timothy stepped forward, pushing the guy along, and then gave him a shove into the doorway.
“Whoa,” the feds stepped backwards as the dazed agent stumbled into them.
Timothy made for the parking ramp door. Seventh held it open behind her.
Immediate problem. The SUV was down two levels, and to go down a level, they would either have to climb over the rail in the middle of the parking lot and drop down a level, or run to the other end of the parking ramp, which there was little time for. Timothy could easily drop down a level, but Seventh—Timothy didn't know what to do with her.
It's me they want.
Timothy looked to his left—pickup truck.
“Seventh, hide in the back of the pickup. I'll come back for you.” Just how, he had no idea.
“Okay,”
Timothy had no time to look back and make sure she got in. He took off for the railing. He heard the door fly open. Was Seventh down? Should he try to distract them a little more? Timothy jumped the railing.
Problem—he had been thinking about Seventh instead of looking ahead and calculating where he was going to land. Timothy wasn't going to hit the railing below—that was good—but he wasn't poised to hit the hood of a car in any graceful way.
Now would be a good time for time to slow down again—
Timothy instinctively pulled his knees in so that he'd land with his feet under him.
He landed with a loud bump as the hood gave way to Timothy's momentum. That wasn't so bad, but he wasn't done falling yet. Timothy fell backwards off of the hood and into the railing. Timothy groaned as pain immobilized him. He was faintly aware of dropping the gun, then of something rough and hard—cement—against his face.
Get up and go, Timothy! Pain, waves of pain. He opened his eyes and expected not to see, expected the world to at least swim around him, but his view of the parking lot from the floor was strikingly clear. They will be here, and then it will be over. You can take one of them, but not six, ten, more? Get down another level to the SUV.
Timothy felt himself getting to his feet, but it didn't feel like him doing it.
He was still reeling from the pain. Why couldn't he just black out and have it over with?
The other part of him, the part in control, the part that persisted in thinking clearly, reached down and picked up the gun that suffering Timothy could no longer comprehend.
Stop! It hurts!
Timothy heard a yell and an engine. A pickup truck shot around the corner with a small squeak. Seventh was driving. Timothy walked towards the center lane, out of the parked cars. It screeched to a stop next to him.
“Stop or we shoot!”
Timothy swung the door open and heard a gunshot. He dropped abruptly to his knees and heard glass shatter, then he jumped into the passenger seat. Seventh took off as Timothy felt a piece of glass dig into his back—that felt familiar.
I just—I just—I just dodged a bullet—truck—Seventh? Timothy felt himself put the seatbelt on and lean forward, but whether from pain or to avoid being shot, he couldn't be sure. He wasn't sure of anything right now. Had he been hit? The pain in his back pulsed through his body.
“I will drive us out now,” Seventh said as another gunshot echoed through the parking ramp. Timothy heard it hit the back of the truck—they were shooting for the tires now.
The seatbelt cut into Timothy's shoulder as Seventh careened around a corner. Timothy hadn't even driven that roughly—had he?
“That—that would be wonderful,” Timothy gasped as he held on to the seatbelt.