Storm

The sun floated directly above us on a warm, clear, midSeptember day. The street was bathed with an intense white light that cast no shadows . . . until the world suddenly went dark. The warm, comforting rays of the sun had been blocked by what appeared to be an unscheduled lunar eclipse.

The music that came from the looming shadow told me otherwise. The dark shape had appeared from over the tops of the brick buildings of the Old Port and hovered above us like a rogue storm cloud preparing to unleash its fury.

“They found us,” Kent said with a gasp.
High noon.
Showdown time.
“Back in the car!” I commanded.
The four of us scrambled to get to the Subaru we had “borrowed” after making our escape from Pemberwick Island.

Tori Sleeper was hurt. She had been shot through the shoulder and needed to lean on Kent Berringer and me in order to keep moving. Slowing down to help her saved our lives.
The black attack plane fired a weapon, sending an invisible

pulse of energy at the car that rocked it onto its side and ignited the gas tank. The wave of heat from the violent explosion knocked us back, shaken but alive.

“This way!” Olivia Kinsey shouted while running toward a row of low, brick buildings.
We had been standing in the center of Commercial Street, which ran past the busy piers of Portland, Maine. The
normally
busy piers.
We hadn’t seen a single living soul from the moment we hit town. Stranger still, many of the buildings in Portland had vanished. They weren’t destroyed or bombed, they were just . . . gone. We knew this was the result of the attack we had seen several nights before when an enormous fleet of these flying black predators put on a light show over the city. Tori and I had witnessed the attack from her father’s fishing boat as we were making our first attempt to escape from Pemberwick Island. It wasn’t the only horror we saw that night. We also got a close-up view of the lethal power of these planes when three of them fired a laser-like weapon at a fishing boat that was making the escape with us. The light enveloped the defenseless craft. Seconds later it was gone . . .
. . . along with Quinn Carr.
The black planes had killed my best friend.
They had devastated Portland.
Now one of them was coming for us.
The hovering plane fired another shot that tore up the ground behind us as we sprinted for the safety of a building. It was close. I felt a sharp sting across my back as I was hit by a wave of pulverized street.
“The alley!” Kent shouted.
With one arm around Tori’s waist, I changed direction and ran toward a narrow alleyway between the old buildings.
“You okay?” I asked her breathlessly.
She nodded, but I didn’t believe her. Tori had lost a lot of blood. She needed to be lying down in a hospital, not running for her life.
As we ducked into the alley, I glanced up to see if the plane was following. I expected to see it loom into view above the buildings. Searching. Hunting. These beasts could fly with the speed of a jet fighter, hover like a helicopter, and cause unfathomable damage. What seemed impossible was all too real.
Several seconds passed. No plane appeared, nor did the signature musical sound of its engines. Had it given up that easily?
The streets of the Old Port were narrow and paved with rounded stones, giving the area the feel of an old-time fishing port, which is exactly what it used to be. Now it was a tourist destination where the vintage brick buildings held restaurants, bars, and souvenir stores.
Olivia ran for one of the shops. She yanked the door open and held it so I could get Tori inside. Kent followed quickly and slammed the door shut . . . as if a closed door would keep out the boogeyman.
We found ourselves in a store packed with Maine souvenirs. Every last inch of counter and wall space was taken up with displays of model lighthouses, saltwater taffy, kitchen-magnet lobsters, scrimshaw snow globes, and anything else that would remind visitors of their trip to the Pine Tree State.
Kent hurriedt to the large front window and peered out with caution.
“Why are they after us?” Olivia asked anxiously. “Because we escaped from Pemberwick Island?”
I helped Tori into a chair behind the sales counter. Though she appeared slight, she was a strong girl who had spent most of her life working lobster boats with her father. But at that moment she was as weak as an old lady.
She looked at me with glazed eyes and muttered, “I need some water.”
I searched the shop, hoping they stocked bottled water as well as flip-flops.
“Tucker!” Olivia cried impatiently. “I asked you a question. Why are they after us?”
“How should I know?” I replied, annoyed.
“Because you have all the answers,” Kent commented with his usual dose of sarcasm.
Everyone looked at me, hoping for words of wisdom. I hated being the one who was always expected to come up with solutions.
Moments before being attacked, we had learned a frightening truth while examining the wreck of one of the black planes. The craft looked like a giant manta ray with no aerodynamic capabilities whatsoever. I thought it might have come from an alien world . . . until I saw the logo on its skin.
It was the symbol of the United States Air Force.
That morning the four of us had escaped by speedboat from our home on Pemberwick Island and found ourselves in the middle of a sea-air battle between killer planes from the U.S. Air Force . . . and warships of the United States Navy.
“What can I say?” I answered tentatively. “It looks like the Navy and the Air Force are at war with one another.”
“We were running away from SYLO,” Kent said. “And SYLO is part of the Navy, so that means the Air Force are the good guys.”
“How can the Air Force be good guys?” I shot back. “They just wiped out Portland.”
“Yeah and SYLO turned Pemberwick into a prison,” he countered. “Oh, and they also killed Tori’s father. Did you forget that?”
I hadn’t. I couldn’t bring myself to look at Tori for a reaction.
“Maybe there
are
no good guys,” Olivia said gravely.
We let that sobering thought hang in the air for a few seconds.
Tori then added in a weak voice, “Or maybe we’re in the middle of the second Civil War. One side’s got the Air Force, the other has the Navy and SYLO.”
None of us commented. The possibility was mind-numbing.
“What are we going to do?” Olivia whined.
“Stick to the plan,” I replied. “First we get to a hospital and patch Tori up. Then we head to Boston and tell the world what’s been happening on Pemberwick Island. After that I don’t know what—”
“Get out!” came a threatening voice from deeper in the store.
We all spun to see an elderly man standing in the doorway leading to the back room. He was a typical Mainer with a plaid flannel shirt and jeans. There was nothing unusual about him . . . except for the shotgun he had leveled at us.
“Whoa, take it easy, gramps,” Kent warned.
“Don’t
gramps
me,” the old guy snarled. “Get outta my store.”
“We will,” I said, trying to defuse the situation. “But one of those planes was shooting at us and—”
“That’s why I want you out,” he snapped. “I’ve been ducking them things for days. I don’t need you kids bringing them down on me.”
“Wait,” I exclaimed. “You’re alive.”
“Keen observation, Rook,” Kent said sarcastically.
“I mean you survived the attack,” I said to the man, ignoring Kent. “What happened that night?”
“You don’t know?” he asked suspiciously. “Where you from?”
“Pemberwick Island,” I replied. “We saw the—”
“Pemberwick!” the guy exclaimed as if I’d said we just dropped in from Alcatraz. He held the shotgun higher but took a frightened step back and added, “You got the disease!”
“There is no disease,” Tori said weakly. “The quarantine was just an excuse they used to keep us there.”
“Who?” the old guy asked.
“SYLO,” I answered. “You must have seen it on the news. They’re part of the Navy. They took over the island and were gunning down people who tried to escape so the truth wouldn’t get out.”
“Truth about what?” he demanded.
“There was no virus,” Tori said weakly. “We were prisoners.”
“We think they were experimenting on us with this stuff called the Ruby,” Kent added. “It was killing people, so we left. That pretty much sums it up.”
“What about your parents?” the guy said with suspicion.
The answer would only have confused him more. Tori’s father and Kent’s father were dead, and my parents were part of SYLO. How could I explain that to him? I couldn’t even explain it to myself.
“Look,” I said, ducking the question. “Tori’s hurt. Can I give her some water?”
The man’s gaze jumped between us as he debated what to do. He finally looked to Tori, who sat slumped in the chair behind the counter.
“Over there,” he said, jabbing the shotgun toward another counter.
There was a case of bottled water on the floor. I grabbed one, cracked it open, and brought it to Tori.
“Thank you,” she said and took a few small sips.
“Now, on your way,” the guy commanded, hardening once again.
“We have to get to Maine Medical,” I said. “If her wound gets infected—”
“Then go!” he barked.
“We’ll never make it on foot. We’re going to need a car or—”
“Look!” Olivia screamed.
The black plane was outside the window, at ground level, moving slowly along the street like a giant black shark searching for its next victim.
Nobody moved.
The lethal shadow floated by, the sound of its musical engine growing louder as it moved closer, providing eerie accompaniment while searching the streets for us. Was there a pilot? Or was it an unmanned drone being controlled from a command room miles away?
Seconds passed. The music receded. The plane moved on.
“Now go,” the old man said through clenched teeth. “I didn’t live through an attack on my town just to be given away by a couple of fugitives from a leper colony.”
“Put the gun down,” I barked. “We’re not going anywhere.”
The old man wasn’t sure of how to react to my bold order.
“You can’t shoot, or that plane will come right back here,” I threatened. “And I doubt you’re a killer anyway. What’s your name?”
The man blinked a few times, as if he was having trouble processing what was happening.
“Whittle,” he answered tentatively.
“All right, Mr. Whittle, we’ll be on our way. I promise. But first we need a car.” I looked to Kent and said, “Go get one.”
Kent stiffened. “
You
go get one!”
“I don’t drive well. You’ve got a better chance.”
Kent looked around, as if searching for an argument. He was a few years older than me, and I didn’t even have my driver’s license. He knew I was right.
“I’ll go with you,” Olivia offered. “This guy makes me nervous.”
Whittle slowly lowered the shotgun, as if embarrassed.
“I’m just trying to protect myself is all,” he said apologetically.
Kent stuck a finger in my face. “You are not in charge.”
I shrugged. “I don’t care who’s in charge as long as we’re smart about what we do. Right now the smart move is for you to get a car.”
Kent’s eyes flared. For a second I thought me might take a swing at me, but Olivia put a hand on his arm and gently pulled him away.
“C’mon,” she said softly. “The sooner we get a car, the sooner we’ll be out of this horrible city.”
Olivia kept surprising me. I don’t think many people told her no . . . especially guys. She was a spoiled rich girl with cute short blonde hair who was used to getting her way. It didn’t hurt that she was gorgeous. She was no dummy either. She always seemed to know the exact right thing to say to calm people down, and she was quick to help when it was needed. I guess you’d call her an enigma. Maybe that was why I liked her. That and the gorgeous part.
“We’ll be back as soon as we can,” she said to me, then looked to Whittle and added sweetly, “Don’t go shooting anybody while we’re gone now, ’kay?”
“Sure enough,” Whittle replied meekly.
Olivia had worked her magic on him too.
“Be careful,” Tori called out.
“Gee, you think?” Kent shot back. He looked out of the window to scan the street, then cautiously opened the door and peered outside.
“It’s clear,” he announced and stepped out.
Olivia gave me a small smile and followed him.
There was an awkward moment when nobody knew what to say.
“We’re sorry to give you grief,” I said to Whittle, hoping to get him to lighten up.
“Grief?” he said with an ironic chuckle. “You kids can’t bring on any more grief than we’ve already got.”
“Tell us what happened that night,” Tori asked gently. Whittle softened.
“They came out of nowhere,” he began. “No warning. No explanation. No chance to run for cover.”
“Three nights ago, right?” I asked.
Whittle nodded. He spoke as if in a daze, relating a story that must have been too mind-numbing to believe.
“It was primetime in the Old Port. Early evening. Restaurants were full, saloons were buzzing, people were out strolling, enjoying the warm night. Then the sound came. Like music. Folks stopped and stared up at the sky, pointing. It looked like a wave of bats flying in from the west. They were all perfectly spaced up there, like a pattern. It seemed like a show in the sky. But it was no show. It was a . . . a storm.”
Whittle’s eyes started to water. It was a painful memory.
“We were out on the ocean,” Tori offered. “We saw the sky light up over the city.”
“It lit up all right,” Whittle said, his voice cracking. “So many people. Families. Little ones. One minute they were out enjoying the evening, and then . . . they weren’t.”
He looked to the ground, suddenly seeming very tired. He lifted the shotgun, and for a second I was afraid he was going to turn it on himself. Instead, he placed it down on a table, pushing aside a bunch of snow globes that fell to the floor and shattered. He didn’t care.
“Did they use that laser weapon?” I asked tentatively.
“Is that what it’s called?” Whittle snapped. “All I saw were streaks of light coming out of the sky. The beams would join up and grow stronger, like they were coming together to build up energy. It was almost pretty, like a holiday spectacle. But there was nothing pretty about what those lights did. Whatever they hit would light up and then . . . poof. Gone. Whole buildings were there one second and gone the next. It seemed impossible, especially since it was all so silent. There were no explosions or sounds of buildings crumbling. All you could hear was the music of their engines . . . and the screams.”
I knew exactly what he was describing. It was how Quinn died.
“But the buildings meant nothing compared to what happened to the people. So many of ’em were just . . . what? Disintegrated? Vaporized? Whatever you want to call it, bottom line is they’re gone. Killed. Thousands of ’em.”
Whittle’s throat clutched. It was a tough memory to relive.
Tori said, “So sometimes buildings disappeared, and other times it was just people?”
Whittle nodded. “Being inside didn’t help. It was like those evil beams could penetrate walls to grab their victims. Whole apartment buildings were left untouched, but every last person inside was wiped out. At least it was quick. They didn’t suffer. Can’t say the same for those who watched it happen. They knew their time was coming. Panic took hold real quick. People ran every which way, but it made no difference for most of ’em.”
“How did you make it through?” I asked.
“I ducked inside here and hid down in the basement. Seems like that was the only way to protect yourself. You had to be underground. Not that I knew that beforehand. It was the only place I could think of to hide. I was just lucky, I guess. Or maybe the lucky ones are those who got gone. They don’t have to live with the nightmare.”
“Are there other survivors?” I asked.
“Plenty. If they were underground during the attack, they’re still around. But you won’t see ’em ’cause they’re hiding like scared cockroaches. Those planes came back a couple of nights later for a second go at it. They’re rooting out the survivors is what they’re doing. Lately they’ve been showing up during the day. You never know when a plane might pass by. They don’t use that laser-light thing during the day though. Seems as though it only works in the dark, but what do I know? Nothing makes sense anymore. There’s no TV or radio. No power. There’s running water, but who knows how long that’ll last? You’d think the Army would have shown up by now. I mean, we were invaded, right? Shouldn’t the cavalry be riding in?”