54
Julia raced across the lawn, running toward the people streaming up the hill. The cop shouted for her to stop. She kept running, her heart in her throat.
People looked over and heads turned. She bolted across an asphalt road blocked off to traffic by sawhorses. She kept running up the hill. She had to get to the reenactment area. The truck would be there.
Her breath was ragged. Her legs churned. She checked behind her. The cop wasn’t chasing her. She didn’t see any other cops. She didn’t know if they would help or arrest her. She was on her own.
She ran alongside the crowd walking uphill.
There had to be a thousand people of all ethnicities, shapes, and sizes.
She wanted so badly to warn them but stopped herself.
The way to save them was to find the truck and start yelling.
If she raised the alarm now, she could panic everybody and send them running toward danger.
She ran past an encampment of log cabins on her right. Families flowed in and out of the cabins, read informational signs, and posed for selfies. Across the street in another lot was a picnic area in the dappled shade of surrounding trees, with tables around a semi-circle of food trucks.
REALLY REVOLUTIONARY read a printed sign. Julia kept going, racing toward the noise and commotion on the other side of the hill. She ran as fast as she could. Her breath came in ragged bursts. She got a side stitch she ignored. She crested the hill to the reenactment area.
Oh no. Julia stopped, aghast at the sight.
Crowds lined all four sides of the field, which was immense.
Costumed reenactors and spectators milled around U-Hauls, Ryder, and other rental trucks parked around the entire perimeter.
She had anticipated there would be more than one U-Haul, but not so many or so far apart.
Quickly Julia counted that twenty of the trucks were U-Hauls. It would take her forever to get to each regiment and find Buckley’s. It could be among the first few. She couldn’t stand here dithering. She took off, beelining for the first U-Haul.
She reached the first regiment, where men in red coats were unloading horses from trailers. Her frantic gaze found a sign, New Jersey Regiment. She took off running.
She raced through the crowd, ignoring the turned heads and curious glances. She threaded her way through the men, women, and children running everywhere. She almost collided with another woman but stopped short.
She raced to the second regiment. The crowd slowed her down. Her side stitch was killing her. She looked wildly around for the sign. Maryland Regiment.
Julia tried to catch her breath. Some of the regiments were already organized. The spectators were settling into chairs and blankets. Soon the first reenactment would start.
She realized with terror that her plan wasn’t working. There were too many U-Hauls to check. She couldn’t run around this entire field fast enough.
She turned around and ran back. She had to get back to the cops. They would arrest her, but she would make them believe her. There was no other way. She couldn’t do it alone.
She ran from the reenactment area, across the street, and toward the administration building, a different route from the way she’d come.
People were milling everywhere, wandering in random directions, and looking at their phones while they walked.
She dodged them, looking around for a cop. She didn’t see any.
The terrain changed, and she started running downhill. She turned when she thought she saw a park ranger. She was wrong but went barreling into a group of men leaving the food court.
“Oh my, I’m so sorry.” Julia stepped back, out of breath. They were three men in black polo shirts that read PHILLY BBQ.
“Not a problem,” one said brusquely, then they kept going.
Julia stopped, frozen. She recognized the men. She’d seen their faces at the farm last night and outside Blaine’s Bar. It was them.
She whirled around, astonished. They’d disappeared into the crowd.
She didn’t understand. She turned back and found herself facing the food court, which was mobbed.
Trucks sold funnel cakes, hotdogs, hamburgers, pizza, coffee, and fresh-squeezed lemonade.
The Philly BBQ truck was in the middle. Hundreds of people stood in lines at the food trucks, densely packed in the parking lot.
The picnic area beyond was equally crowded.
Julia looked wildly around. Families filled the picnic tables, enjoying their snacks and meals. Children played or chased each other. Mothers rocked strollers, and grandmothers blew bubbles for babies. Men played catch with kids, and dogs snoozed under chairs.
Oh my God. Julia realized she’d been looking for the wrong truck. The bomb wasn’t in a truck with the Buckley regiment. It was in the Philly BBQ truck in the food court, among all these people. She remembered what McKenna had said last night.
When you’re a minimum safe distance away, I’ll hit the detonator—and ba-boom!
Julia flashed on the vision of the fire from before, realizing it hadn’t been about the mine fire. It was about the fire that was going to kill these people. And her, if she didn’t run. The fiery vision had been a premonition of her own death.
Everything until now had been leading up to this moment.
Run, said a voice.
“Run!” Julia ran toward the food trucks, shouting to the crowd, “There’s a bomb in the food truck! Run away from the trucks! Run!”