The Electric Kingdom Read online

  VIKING

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, New York

  First published in the United States of America by Viking,

  an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, 2021

  Copyright © 2021 by David Arnold

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  Viking & colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Visit us online at penguinrandomhouse.com.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.

  Ebook ISBN 9780593202234

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Cover design by Theresa

  Cover photos courtesy of Shutterstock and iStock

  pid_prh_5.6.1_c0_r0

  For my grandmother Jean, whom I have loved in this life.

  And my grandmother Lakie, whom I will love in the next.

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraphs

  Part One: In the Untold Want

  Nico

  Kit

  Part Two: In the Houses of Light

  The Deliverer

  Nico

  Kit

  Nico

  The Deliverer

  Kit

  Part Three: In the Final Frontier

  Nico

  Kit

  Nico

  Kit

  The Deliverer

  Kit

  The Deliverer

  Nico

  Part Four: In the Dark Orb

  Nico

  The Deliverer

  Kit

  Nico

  Kit

  Nico

  Kit

  Nico

  Part Five: In the World Consumed

  Nico

  Kit

  Nico

  Kit

  Nico

  Kit

  Nico

  Kit

  The Deliverer

  Kit

  Nico

  The Deliverer

  Kit

  Nico

  Part Six: In the Great Glass Dome

  Nico

  The Deliverer

  Nico

  Part Seven: In the After-Life

  The Deliverer

  Nico

  The Deliverer

  Nico

  The Deliverer

  Nico

  The Deliverer

  Nico

  The Deliverer

  Nico

  The Deliverer

  9 Years Later

  Nico

  The Deliverer

  Nico

  The Deliverer

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Those who know the future don’t talk about it.

  —Ted Chiang, Stories of Your Life and Others

  Under all these lives I’ve lived, something else has been growing. I’ve evolved into something new.

  —Dolores Abernathy, Westworld

  Life began with a snowstorm.

  “The absolute nerve,” said Theresa Underwood, speeding down the highway. It was nighttime; snow hit the windshield, covered the road in a white blanket. “I could see a slap on the wrist, but firing me is a shameless power play, am I right?”

  The only other sentient being in the van was her faithful bird, a budgie named Wilma, whom Theresa had begun bringing with her pretty much everywhere. Wilma sat perched in a cage buckled into the passenger-side front seat, staring out the window as if contemplating where things had gone wrong.

  “I mean, shit,” said Theresa. “It’s not like I was jacking twenties from the till.”

  “Jacking!”

  If the sign of a devoted listener was word repetition, Wilma was world-class. He was also, despite the name, a male budgie, something Theresa’s husband had once pointed out, to which Theresa had responded, “Gender is a social construct, Howard. Also, it’s a fucking bird.”

  Theresa lit a cigarette with one hand, negotiated the steering wheel with the other. “Like that place is gonna miss the pocket change I took. My boss, ladies and gentlemen. Forever trying to prove his balls.”

  “Balls!”

  And so it went: Theresa Underwood drove through snow like a bat out of hell while Wilma the budgie yelled “Balls!” (his own testes having remained dormant so long as to be presumed dead). And whether because of the snow or Theresa’s blind rage—or, as she would claim weeks later, having emerged from a coma, “I’m telling you, Howard, the kid appeared out of thin air”—she did not see the girl standing in the middle of the highway until it was almost too late. At the last second, Theresa swerved hard right, tipping her sagging-rusty van onto its side, where it skidded some thirty yards before ramming into the barrier wall.

  Before long, a traffic jam wound through the woodsy New Hampshire terrain like a great luminous snake in the night. Somewhere in the middle, from the warmish interior of a small hatchback, a young man called Ethan said, “I cannot believe this.”

  His wife Alice said nothing. Secretly, she believed the traffic was karma, the poetic revenge of a universe that did not abide man’s irresistible urge to utter the phrase we’re making incredible time.

  “Check the app again?”

  Alice raised her phone. “Still no service.”

  “Can’t remember the last time we had so much snow this early in the year.” Ethan sighed. “We were making incredible time, too.”

  She loved him. She did. But five years in, Alice couldn’t help wondering if her list of Minor Husband Annoyances wasn’t a bit longer than most. As if on cue, Ethan pulled out a plastic bag of peach gummies, made an ungodly amount of noise opening it, popped one in his mouth, and leaned his seat back as far as it would go.

  “So long as we’re just sitting here. May as well be comfortable.”

  She tilted her head toward his flannel pj’s. “Any more comfortable, you’d be comatose.”

  “I’d think someone in your condition would be more chill about casual wear.”

  “My condition?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “First off, I almost never do. Second, that’s not casual wear, hon. It’s sleepwear. And third”—she pulled the elastic waistband of her maternity pants, couldn’t help noticing they didn’t give as much as they used to—“these are actually pretty comfortable.” A lie; she hadn’t known comfort in months. “Incognito pj’s. Whereas yours are just . . . cognito.”

  “That’s not a word. Also, how dare you?”

  “Yes, how dare I live my life in pants.” She reached over, pulled a gummy from the bag; it tasted like dirt and chemicals. “I apologize on behalf of all humans in pants.”

  “Maybe
your mother could’ve given you more incognito pj’s instead of a lifetime supply of monogrammed baby towels.”

  In the back seat, no fewer than two dozen washcloths and bath towels—with hoods of raccoons, elephants, foxes, and a variety of Disney characters—were stacked and buckled in like the tiny human they would soon dry off.

  “It was a baby shower, Ethan. For the baby. Not me.” Her hands went suddenly to her stomach—a familiar achy clench.

  “You okay?” Ethan stopped chewing, sat up. “Is it the . . . Braxton thingies again?”

  Braxton thingies. For a scientist, he could be really stupid. “Braxton Hicks,” she said, and the feeling passed, and she forced a smile because she knew he was trying, but God save him if she didn’t have this baby soon, and God save them all if this traffic didn’t start moving.

  Time to take matters into my own hands. Alice rolled down her window.

  “Hon?” said Ethan. “It’s freezing.”

  Shortly after coming to a standstill in this mess, the truck driver in the lane next to them had rotated through an assortment of evocative eyebrow-raises and quick-winks, all of which she’d pretended not to see. Now Alice motioned for him to roll down his window. “Hi,” she said; the snow was heavy, the flakes thick.

  “Hey, sweetie.”

  She gave him a smile that lasted a blink. “You have a radio, right? You know anything about what’s going on up there?” She pointed ahead, into the eternal demi-glow of taillights.

  “Van tipped on its side.”

  “Oh God.”

  He nodded. “Fucking-A.”

  “How far up?”

  “Not a mile, even. But in this weather . . .” Quick Wink shoved a large wad of chewing tobacco into the space between his bottom lip and teeth.

  Alice smiled, rolled up the window, put her hands in front of the vents to warm them.

  “Now we know,” she said.

  Ethan nodded. “Fucking-A.”

  “Stop.”

  “That guy’s staring at you.”

  Alice switched on the radio: a classic rock station, warbly Beatles, the early years. She and Ethan were silent for a few minutes, each wanting to spare the other their current question, neither knowing the other was wondering the same thing: What exactly did it look like, getting snowed in on the highway, miles of humans buried alive in their own cars?

  Ethan shook the image, popped a peach gummy. “You could have thanked him.”

  “What?”

  “The truck driver.”

  “Come on.”

  “You asked for information and he gave it to you. In this weather, you asked him to roll down his window.”

  “Tell you what. You trade in those pj’s for a pair of big boy pants, and I’ll climb on top of this car with a bullhorn and let everyone know just how grateful I am.”

  “I’m never getting rid of these pants.”

  “One morning you’ll wake up, and they’ll be gone.”

  “If they’re gone, I’m gone in them.”

  “Ethan.”

  “What.”

  She pointed through the windshield to a roadside billboard thirty yards ahead:

  NEXT EXIT

  BLESSED CHURCH OF THE RISEN SAVIOR

  “SEEK AND YE SHALL FIND”

  But it wasn’t the sign she was pointing to. Someone had climbed up there, was standing on the ledge with what looked like a can of spray paint.

  “What’s the windchill up there, you think?” Ethan chuckled. “That’s some serious commitment to the defacement of public prop—”

  Alice inhaled sharply, held her stomach again, only this time her breath quickened, her eyes focused on the small but widening patch of dampness in her lap. “Ethan—”

  “Oh shit. Okay. It’s okay, right? We have time, I mean. They said in class, we have one to two hours from the time—”

  “Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu—”

  “Okay, okay, just breathe, like we practiced.”

  “Please don’t use the corporate we—motherfuck, I cannot believe this is happening now.”

  Ethan looked at the car ahead of them, tried to measure the distance between it and the median. But snow was piled on the side of the road, and I could maybe inch around one or two cars, but one slip and we’re in a ditch. “Okay,” he said. “You’re going to be okay. We’re okay.”

  “Stop saying that word.”

  Ethan turned from the window, looked around as if something inside the car might present a magical solution—

  “Not like this, Ethan, not like this . . .”

  His eyes landed in the back seat, where a monogrammed stack of woodland creatures and Disney characters were buckled in, patiently waiting to be put to use.

  Seven car lengths back, Dakota Sherouse sat alone in her car wishing she’d never left the house that night. She wasn’t sure what was worse: this traffic jam, or the date that had preceded it. At least she’d insisted on meeting Bob at the theater. Imagine being stuck with him now.

  Bob.

  Perhaps unfairly, Dakota had always assigned value to a person’s name. Her mother’s name was Zoe; her lifelong best friend, Estelle; her only long-term relationship, with a man named Pieter. Though credit where it was due: Bob had found the cutest little movie theater. It was kind of a drive, and the date was a bust, but you could hardly fault the venue for either.

  Phone unresponsive, Dakota turned on the radio to search for a traffic report, when ahead, she saw a young man exit the driver’s side of a hatchback, sprint around to the passenger door, and help a very pregnant woman get out.

  “What on earth?”

  Seconds later they both climbed into the back seat of their car.

  Trancelike, without knowing what she was doing, Dakota opened her door, the shock of cold barely registering. She walked between cars, through a fog of exhaust, until reaching the hatchback. There, she saw the woman lying in the back seat on a pile of animals and Disney characters—baby towels.

  She tapped on the window; inside, the man turned, looked up at her, eyes full of panic.

  “I’m a midwife,” she said.

  Gladly surrendering his spot in the back seat, Ethan did what he could from the front (next to nothing): he held his wife’s hand when she wanted, left her alone when she wanted, offered nervous encouragements. “Ethan,” said Alice, her sweaty hand squeezing his. “The heat.”

  He spun around, adjusted the temperature, and was about to turn back when something through the windshield caught his eye. The roadside billboard, now defaced . . .

  NEXT EXIT

  BLESSED CHURCH OF THE RISEN SAVIOR

  NOW VOYAGER

  “SEEK AND YE SHALL FIND”

  . . . and there, high on the ledge, the girl who’d defaced it was looking down—right at him.

  She was young, a teenager probably. As the wind whipped her hair around, she smiled at Ethan, eyes blue and fiery. Her lips moved, and he found that whatever she’d said had filled him with hope. And then the girl turned, descended the ladder, and disappeared into the woods.

  Hours later, and in a different place, their angelic midwife swapped for a team of tired-eyed nurses and doctors, Alice held a healthy baby girl swaddled up tight. “I didn’t think she would be this calm,” she said.

  It was true: their baby was awake, quiet, staring right back at them. And though Ethan could not explain it, he felt it was not the first time tonight he’d seen those eyes.

  PART ONE

  IN

  THE

  UNTOLD

  WANT

  NICO

  Etymologies

  Years ago, long before the narration of her father turned unreliable, dissolving like one of those Sweet’N Lows in his favorite stale black tea, Nico would climb into his armchair and sit in his lap as h
e read The Phantom Tollbooth or Tuck Everlasting or any one of the hundreds of books in the cozy-dank Farmhouse library, and even now, even here, she could smell her father’s beard, feel the glow of flames from the fireplace, hear the soothing salivary tones of his reading voice, and Nico wondered if perhaps that was life after life: not a physical place, but a loop of some former time in which a person, after death, was allowed to relive over and over again. There, in a story, in her father’s armchair—in her father’s arms—Nico hoped that was the afterlife.

  She supposed she would know soon enough.

  Constellations

  Nico stared into fire. Beside her, Harry’s breathing had long ago fallen into time with hers, and she thought that one could hardly call them two separate entities, that at some point between yesterday and today, she and her dog had consolidated into a single, cosmically connected creature of survival. Maybe this telepathic bond had been there all along, lying dormant below the surface; maybe it took leaving the Farmhouse, entering the wild, to coax it out.

  All around, the trees were thick: every few feet, the base of a trunk exploded from the earth, rose up into the sky where branches reached like arms to hold hands with other branches, tree-sisters and tree-brothers seeking touch, listening for words of comfort in the dark night. I am here. You are not alone.

  The thought of trees talking to each other warmed Nico’s stomach.

  She pulled a pen from her bag, held the back of her hand up to the firelight. There, in the space between her thumb and forefinger, was a single line in ink. Carefully, she drew a second line beside it. According to the map, the Merrimack River ran over a hundred miles from New Hampshire to Massachusetts before spilling into the Atlantic Ocean. It helped to think of the woods on a large scale; by contrast, their walk in them seemed minuscule, their destination much closer than it actually was.

  She stared at the lines on her hand: two days down. At the rate they were going, she hoped to reach the river by the fourth tally, leaving her with four more to get to Manchester.