Storm (7 page)

The five of us stared after it, not entirely sure of what we had seen.
“What just happened?” I said, dumbfounded. “I’m not complaining, I just don’t get it.”
The cop cars had broken off their pursuit and were headed back our way. Their flashing lights were dark, their sirens silent. One car was out in front; the others drove behind in threes. We watched as the lead car came to within ten yards of our rear bumper and stopped.
“Put the gun away,” I ordered Tori.
I saw her eyes flare with defiance, but she opened the glove compartment and threw it inside.
I pushed open my door, got out, and walked to the rear of our car. The others followed directly after and stood behind me.
The sun reflected off all of the car windows, so I couldn’t see who was inside any of them. We stood that way for a solid ten seconds. I was beginning to wonder if we had found yet another enemy when the driver’s door opened on the lead car.
Out stepped a burly guy who looked more like a linebacker than a cop. He was tall with a heavy, dark beard and wore jeans and an “Ortiz” Red Sox jersey. He rounded his car and stood in front of it with his arms folded, watching us.
The other car doors opened, and several more people came out, none of whom looked like cops. There were a few women, but most were men. They were all dressed in street clothes, some in business suits, others in jeans. They all looked to be around my dad’s age.
“You kids are lucky we came along,” the lead guy finally said.
“We are,” I called back. “I can’t believe you scared that plane off. I mean, it could have blown you all away.”
“It could have. Those things pack a wallop. But they’re fragile. A couple of rifle shots and they drop like a brick. We’ve tangled before. They know better than to stand up against a posse that’s armed for bear.”
“Who
are
you?” Tori asked. “You’re not cops.”
The lead guy looked back to the others. They all laughed as if Tori had just said something very cute, or very stupid.
“We’re the closest thing to cops that’s left around here,” the big guy said. “Who are
you
?”
“We just drove down from Portland,” I answered. “But we’re from Pemberwick Island.”
On hearing the words “Pemberwick Island,” they all tensed up.
“There’s no virus there, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Tori said.
“No,” the guy replied. “We never thought there was. It’s just a little surprising to see folks who made it this far. And kids, no less.”
“So who are you?” Kent asked.
“You’re looking at the last survivors of Boston, Mass.,” he answered. “Welcome to Bean Town. Or what’s left of it.”

I shook his hand and said, “Tucker Pierce. This is Tori Sleeper, Olivia Kinsey, Kent Berringer, and Jon, uh, what was your last name again, Jon?”

“Welcome,” Chris said. “Though I guess that’s an odd thing to say. There’s nothing welcoming about Boston anymore.”
Chris seemed friendly enough, though I wouldn’t challenge him to a fight. He had biceps like hams that strained his jersey. He didn’t have a trace of a Boston accent—which was strange, considering he was wearing a Sox jersey.
He motioned to the others behind him and added, “You’ll meet the rest of my crew soon enough. Where are your parents?”
None of us answered.
“Never mind,” Chris said quickly, picking up on the fact that he had touched on a sore subject. “We’ve all got stories.”
“How did you guys survive the attack?” Tori asked.
“Different ways,” Chris said. “Bottom line was, we were all deep underground when those bastards hit. I work for Mass Electric. I was working below the Prudential Center when the power went out.” He chuckled and added, “I was afraid it was something I did. Thought I was gonna catch hell. Took me two hours to get back to street level, and when I did . . .”
He didn’t have to describe what he found.
“Is this it?” Olivia asked. “Are you really the only survivors?”
“Nah, we’re just the cowboys.”
“Cowboys?” Jon said.
“We got tired of sitting on our butts and boohoo-ing, so we grabbed these cop cars. During the day we sweep the city, looking for other survivors. A lot of people made it, thank god. We round ’em up and bring ’em all together. Like cowboys.”
“Yippee ki-yay,” Kent said sarcastically.
“Hey,” Chris shot back. “It’s a good thing. We’ve all lost family and friends. We gotta take care of each other.”
“Sorry,” Kent said, chastened.
“Don’t worry about it. Gotta keep a sense of humor, right?”
“Do you have any idea why it happened?” I asked.
“No clue,” Chris replied. “One minute everything was fine, the next minute the city got swarmed by these flying Darth Vaders.”
“Darth Vader is right,” Kent chimed in. “We think they came from another planet.”
“That’s just one theory,” I said quickly. “We have no idea where they came from, except that they have United States Air Force logos.”
Chris was visibly shaken by that. He looked back at his other “cowboys,” who looked equally stunned.
“How do you know that?” he asked.
“One crashed in Portland,” I replied. “We saw the wreck.”
“Seriously?” Chris asked, his excitement growing. “You got a close-up look at one of them bastards?”
“We saw a whole lot that you probably didn’t,” Tori said.
“Well, then you gotta tell us,” Chris replied enthusiastically. “Not knowing what’s going on makes it that much worse. Though I guess things can’t get much worse than Armageddon.”
Armageddon. It was the first time I’d heard that word. Was it possible? Was this the beginning of the end of the world?
We were ready to tell them what had happened on Pemberwick Island, but Chris asked us to wait until we got back to a place he called “the Hall.” It was the spot where the Boston survivors were congregating. One of the cowboys went with Kent and Tori in the Explorer. There was no way Tori was going to be separated from her guns. Olivia glued herself to me. There was no way
she
was going to be separated from someone she trusted. Kent started to protest, but Olivia hurried me away before he could say a word.
I really wished she wasn’t playing this game, whatever game it was. I didn’t need trouble with Kent.
Jon went on his own with one of the other cowboys.
Olivia and I walked toward Chris’s police car. Before we got in the back, I glanced at Tori and Kent. As they walked together, Kent put his arm around her like he was being protective. At least I think that’s what it was about. Tori didn’t shrug him off. I have to admit, I felt a twinge of jealousy, though I had no right to feel that way. We had been thrown together under dire circumstances and had a connection, but that didn’t mean we were, like . . . together. She could let anybody put his arm around her while she leaned in close and put her head on his shoulder . . . which is what she did. It was none of my business.
Then again, I thought Kent was all about Olivia. What was
his
deal?
I decided that we had a bigger drama going on and stopped staring at them . . . as he brushed Tori’s hair out of her eyes and gently helped her into the back of the Explorer.
Olivia had her arm draped through mine, and the length of her body pressed against my side like wallpaper. She was scared and needed any kind of security she could find. I didn’t mind, especially after what I saw between Kent and Tori.
Everyone else loaded up, and as if on cue, the cars took off— but in different directions. In seconds we were moving along the deserted streets of Boston.
“I thought we were all going to the same place?” Olivia said.
“We try not to travel in groups,” Chris replied. “You never know when one of them planes will show up. Right after the attack they’d sweep through the city looking for strays, but that’s happening less and less. The plane that was after you was the first one I’ve seen in days. I think they did what they came to do, and now they’re done with us.
I thought of the plane that had attacked us in Portland. Was that what it was doing? Searching for strays? With their evil mission complete, would they now leave us alone?
“How many survivors are there?” I asked.
“Hard to tell because they come and go. At any one time there might be about a hundred at the Hall. But there are plenty more out there, scared and hiding. We find ’em every day.”
“What exactly is the Hall?” I asked.
“It’s like a refugee camp,” Chris explained. “There’s food and a place to sleep and even some doctors. We pretty much take care of one another.”
“If it’s so great, why would anybody leave?” Olivia asked.
“Different reasons. Some go looking for loved ones. Others don’t want to be in a large group. They’re afraid we’re sitting ducks. For me, I’d rather be with people. If I’m going to die, I don’t want to be alone.”
“Do you think the planes hit other cities?” I asked.
Chris gave me a quick sideways look and said, “Don’t you? What happened up in Portland?”
“Same thing,” I replied.
“There you go. I don’t know who those devils are, but they seem to have only one goal, and that’s to wipe us out.”
That put an end to the conversation.
Every time my mind sought out the wider implications of what was happening, I was hit with a gut-twisting sense of sadness and dread. How many people had been killed? Hundreds of thousands? Millions? Billions? It was too staggering a concept to comprehend. I found that it was better to focus on the here and now as opposed to letting my mind wander to the big picture. Thinking too far ahead was like looking into a dark hole . . . with a black plane inside, lying in wait.
It had only been a week or so since the attack, but downtown Boston was already showing small signs of disuse. Garbage blew along the sidewalks and collected along the curbs. Broken glass was everywhere, some from smashed windows and others from shattered streetlights. Of course there were plenty of abandoned cars. Many had crashed into buildings or had blown through glass storefront windows. The once busy city was quiet. There was no noise at all, not even from the cooing of pigeons. The only sound came from the wind that blew through the abandoned urban canyons.
I was beginning to accept that this was the new normal. I hate to admit that because it meant I was willing to accept an unfathomable future, but what choice did I have? At least it meant that I could move forward and not crawl up into a ball, wanting to die. That’s saying something. I think.
Chris pulled into a parking lot and announced, “We’re here.”
Olivia and I looked around and had the same thought: “Where’s here?”
We were in a nondescript section of the city with no hint of survivors.
“We’ve still got a short walk,” Chris replied. “Like I said, we try to stay spread out. I’m not sure what good it does, but at least it makes us feel like we’re taking a little control.”
He led us along the sidewalk for a few blocks until we made the turn into an open park, where our question was answered.
“The Hall” turned out to be Faneuil Hall. I’d visited the place with my parents and knew a little bit of its history. The thumbnail description is that there were three three-story brick buildings that dated back to colonial times. Two of them ran parallel to each other and had to be at least a couple of blocks long. Faneuil Hall was originally a meeting place where speeches were given about fighting for independence from England. After that it served as a kind of town hall. It eventually became one of those historic spots that they renovate to look like it did back in the day. At some point the place was turned into a sprawling indoor/outdoor marketplace.
From the outside, the buildings looked as though they were from the 1700s, but inside were aisles of shops where you could buy anything from fried clams to artwork to dog collars. It was mostly a tourist spot. Locals didn’t buy refrigerator magnets of the Old North Church. But the restaurants were always busy, which meant it was a spot that drew lots of people.
At least it did before the population was wiped out.
The place wasn’t crowded, of course. But I did see a few people walking quickly between buildings, as if they didn’t want to be outside any longer than necessary. It was a surprise to see other people, which is further proof that I was getting used to the new reality.
“Here come your friends,” Chris said.
From the far side of the public park, I saw a group of the cowboys walking with Tori and Kent. One guy carried our gym bags, though Tori held on tight to her own. Kent had Olivia’s huge sack over his shoulder. He really did like Olivia. I don’t think he would have carried anybody else’s bag. Unless it was Tori’s. Okay, stop, Tucker.
From the other side of the building came a few more of Chris’s people, along with Jon. We all met up in front of a building with huge white columns over which the name “Quincy Market” was painted in big gold letters.
“This is where you register,” Chris explained. “They’ll process you through, and then I’ll take you to get something to eat. I assume you’re hungry.”
“Wait, register?” I asked.
“What kind of processing?” said Tori.
“We’re trying to be organized,” Chris explained. “Lots of people are coming through. Right now, we’ve got the only record of who survived the massacre.”
“Makes total sense,” Jon said. “It’s like the first census of the new world. It could end up being a historical document.”
“New world,” I repeated. “I’m not sure how I feel about calling it that.”
“It won’t take long,” Chris assured us. “We’ll take your bags and meet you back here.”
“I’ll hang on to mine,” Tori said.
I had no doubt that she had stashed one of the guns in there.
We all exchanged looks and shrugs and headed inside.
Stepping into the old building, we came upon a long counter that was normally a display for historical artifacts but was now being used as a reception desk by three pretty girls who didn’t look much older than Olivia. One of them waved for us to come over. I took the lead and went first.
“Hello. My name’s Madalyn,” the first girl said to me in a welcoming voice that instantly put me at ease. “How are you doing?”
“I’m not sure how to answer that,” I replied.
She gave me a sympathetic smile. “I hear you. Welcome to the Hall. Not that anybody really wants to be here, but it’s better than being out there alone.”
I shrugged.
“We need to get some information before you officially join us.”
“Uh, sure, whatever.”
“What’s your full name?”
“Tucker Brody Pierce.”
The girl opened a big, old-fashioned ledger book. Several pages were filled with a long list of names. I guess that’s how things had to work in this “new world.” We didn’t have power to run computers. Madalyn wrote my name down with neat, girl-typical handwriting. She asked me my date of birth, where I was born, and what my parents’ names were.
“Great,” she said. “Gigi will take your medical history. I’ll see you around.”
That was my cue to move on, so I slid over to face the next girl in line as Tori stepped up to Madalyn.
“Hello, my name’s Madalyn. Welcome to the Hall.”
Gigi was an equally pretty girl who asked me all sorts of questions about what kind of diseases I might have or if I had ever had any operations or injuries. She diligently wrote everything down in her own ledger book. I didn’t question them as to why they needed the information. Like Chris said, this was the only official record of the survivors. It was all so casual, as if we were checking into the Blackbird Inn for a vacation, not picking up the pieces after an attempt at genocide.
The last girl, Ashley (also cute, for the record), asked me to give her a brief account of where we were when the attack happened and the places we’d been on our way to the Hall. I gave her short answers, which is all she wanted since she was writing it all down. I expected a surprised reaction when I mentioned that we were out on the water when Portland was first hit, and that we had fought our way through the largest air-sea battle in history to get to the mainland, but she didn’t even blink. I guess she had heard all sorts of hairy stories. Ours was just another one.
I heard Gigi, the medical girl, ask Tori, “Are you in much pain?”
“I’m fine,” Tori replied, tight-lipped.
They were obviously talking about her gunshot wound.
“We’ll get you right over to one of the doctors for a look,” Gigi said.
She reached for another, smaller book and made a notation.
“You guys are pretty buttoned up,” I said to Ashley. “It’s like you’ve been doing this a long time.”
Ashley frowned and said, “I know, right? So many people have been coming through. I guess that’s a good thing but . . . it’s so sad. At least it helps us focus on something other than the horror of it all.”
She had said the exact right thing, but it felt kind of . . . rehearsed. She must have said the same thing a few hundred times. That was good news. It meant there were many survivors.
“That’s it,” she declared. “You’re all set. Head on outside and . . . good luck.”
“You too,” I said and headed for the door.
The whole process of being questioned, logged, and filed was unsettling. Knowing that our information might be the first census of a new world was humbling, to say the least. But it helped that the girls were friendly and cute. It softened the sting.
I went back outside to wait while the others finished up. Our bags were lined up together, with Olivia’s giant duffel on the end. Tori joined me a few minutes later. We stood together, awkwardly, not sure of what to say or do next.