by Tom Abrahams
But he couldn’t hug them. He couldn’t promise them salvation. He’d always told them the truth. The truth was he didn’t know if they’d ever make it home.
He didn’t know if they’d survive the night.
CHAPTER 15
EVENT +12:30 Hours
Waterboro, Maine
Massabesic High School was a pair of single-story buildings off of West Road. A small campus by most standards, it was the local public high school. Part of RSU 57, it was home to eleven hundred students. The ninth graders had their own building, the east building, and the sophomores, juniors, and seniors were schooled in the west building.
Despite Leigh’s protests that they hadn’t put enough distance between themselves and the BMW, James thought it a good place to regroup, find a bathroom, and maybe even take a nap.
The parking lot was empty. The maintenance crews clearly hadn’t done their fall cleanup. Weeds ran through the cracks of the asphalt of the lot and rose and choked out the flower beds in front of the west building’s main entrance.
“I don’t think we should park in the lot,” Leigh suggested as she pulled to a stop in front of the marquis by the front door. It read SUMMER TIME IS HERE! SEE YOU IN THE FALL!
“Good idea,” James agreed. “No need for us to announce our presence here.” James surveyed the campus. “How about over there?” He pointed to a road running behind the main building, parallel to West Road.
Leigh pressed the gas pedal and drove to the far end of the school before turning right. The road was as much a narrow parking lot extension as it was a throughway to the other end of the campus. To their left was a grass field and a baseball diamond. Beyond the diamond was a dense thicket of trees. Leigh was about to make the right turn and head back toward West Road when James put his hand on her arm.
“Right there.” He pointed to her left at a pair of small portable buildings. “Park in between the trailers. We’ll be hidden there.”
Leigh swung the wheel to the left and put the Nissan in park. She shut off the ignition and leaned back in her seat, closing her eyes.
James put his hand on her leg and squeezed. “You okay?” he asked.
“Probably not the best question, Rock,” she said without opening her eyes. “I’m barely holding on.” She squeezed her eyes more tightly shut, pressing out what few tears she had left to shed. She swallowed hard before whispering, “I don’t know if I can do this.”
James knew what she meant. It had been maybe a half day since things went haywire. How could they last a full twenty-four hours at this rate, let alone a week or a month?
They had no idea what they were up against. How extensive was the damage from the bomb? Was there more than one bomb? Why was civilization deteriorating so quickly into chaos?
They didn’t have the answers, nor were they likely to get them by wallowing in doubt and self-pity. They’d done plenty of both in the last six years. Now was not the time.
“C’mon.” He slapped her leg, choosing to ignore her doubts rather than feed into them. “Let’s find a place to chill.”
Leigh’s eyes popped open and she looked at her husband. She wiped her eyes with the backs of her index fingers and unlatched her seatbelt. Without questioning his lack of empathy, she nodded. “Okay.” She exhaled. “Let’s chill.”
Carefully, the Rockwells crossed the short distance from the portables to the back of the high school’s west building. James and Leigh lugged their packs. The kids walked quickly between their parents, hustling to the obscurity of the overhang along the back of the building.
James tried a pair of locked doors. Leigh tugged on another set. No luck.
“Dad.” Max was beneath a window, about ten yards from his parents. “I think this window is open.”
James walked over to his son and looked up. It was a half window about six feet off the ground. It was cracked.
“Let me lift you up, Max,” he said. “Tell me what you see.” James bent down onto one knee and Max climbed onto his dad’s shoulders. With Leigh’s help, James stood and Max could see into the window.
“It’s dark in there,” he said, peering through the glass. “There’s no light. But I think it’s a classroom.”
“Can you lift the window all of the way open?” James asked his son.
“Yep.” Max reached his finger through the gap and pulled up, opening the unlocked window. “It’s open.”
“Good,” James said. “Now, I want you to climb through and hop down. Then find your way to the doors we just checked and open one of them.”
“What about the alarm?” Leigh asked.
“It’s probably not working,” James guessed. “The power’s out. There’s no generator running.”
“Be careful.” Leigh grabbed her son’s foot and shook it. “I love you.”
“Love you, Mom.” Max blinked back tears and then climbed from his dad’ shoulders to the window, swinging himself through and landing on the inside of the classroom with a thud.
“I’m good!” he called from the inside. “I’ll go let you in.”
James took Sloane by the hand and led Leigh back to the set of doors closest to the open window. No sooner had they stopped in front of them than one of them swung wide open. Max was standing just inside the building, a huge grin on his face.
“C’mon in,” he said proudly, waving his family into the school. His father rubbed his head and walked past him.
With the door closed behind them, it was dark in the building aside from the dim light shining through narrow exterior windows and the red glow from the battery-powered EXIT signs lining the long hallway.
“First things first,” said James, “we need a bathroom. A toilet. A sink. Those will do wonders for all of us. Then a snack and a quick nap before we hit the road again.”
“There’s a boys’ bathroom up ahead,” offered Max. He walked ahead, seemingly eager to lead his family. James knew, after his son’s emotional outburst in the car, Max wanted to feel in control of something. In the red-hued darkness, they found the boys’ restroom. It was adjacent to the girls’.
“I think we’ll use the girls’ room,” Leigh suggested. “We’ll meet you back in the hall in a few minutes.”
James agreed, “Just yell if you need help.” He pushed his way into the restroom, holding the door for his son before kicking down the metal stop attached to the foot of the door.
He blinked his eyes to adjust to the relative darkness of the room before finding a bank of white porcelain sinks along one side of the space. He leaned on the edge of the sink and spun the hot and cold taps.
They sputtered at first but then sprang to life, forcing a steady stream of clean water into the bowl. James cupped his hands together under the faucet and then splashed his face. It was surprisingly cold and took his breath away at first. He coughed against the chill in his weakened lungs and then took another handful. Slowly, he brought his hands to his face, dipping his nose and cheeks in the water.
James stood and ran his wet hands through his hair, dragging his fingers along his scalp. He closed his eyes and inhaled as deeply as possible before staring at himself in the warped, reflective metal that passed for a mirror. He almost didn’t recognize himself, and it wasn’t because of the facial distortion.
His bloodshot eyes were sunk deep into the puffy, swollen sockets. His skin was sallow, not its normal olive complexion. He felt feverish. Whether it was from the cut on his leg teeming with bacteria or the fluid in his lungs, he didn’t know. It didn’t matter.
He reached down into his pack and pulled out another dose of amoxicillin and a pair of Tylenol extra strength tablets. The tap still running, he popped the pills in his mouth and bent down to suck a mouthful of water from the faucet.
James loosened his pants and dropped them around his ankles. The wound needed cleaning and a new wrap. His son was in a stall across from him. Now was as good a time as any to check the damage.
He carefully pulled the wide bandage from the b
ack of his leg, taking hair with it. Underneath was a salve- and blood-soaked gauze that he peeled away with his eyes closed. James dropped the gauze and bandage into a trashcan next to the sink and turned to look at the wound.
It was a good two inches long and, from the width of it, appeared to be deep. The edges of the cut were jagged and swollen red. Even in the dim light of the restroom, James could tell it needed stitches. Otherwise, he’d surely get a debilitating infection he couldn’t afford.
“Max,” he called to his son, “you about finished in there?”
“Yeah,” his son replied, grunting as he spoke. “Why?”
“I need your help.”
Max finished up and emerged from the stall to find his father leaning over a sink, his pants around his ankles, and a nasty, weeping wound on the back of his leg. He gulped, exhaled, and asked his father what he needed.
“I need you to hold a light while I sew up my leg,” James told him, looking over his shoulder. “Can you do that?”
“Ummm—”
“You can close your eyes,” James told him, “so you don’t have to watch. But I need to stitch this up.”
“What about Mom?” Max asked, sounding every bit a twelve-year-old.
“She can’t do it.” James shook his head. “I don’t want to ask her again. This is you and me. Okay? I know you can help. I believe in you, Max.”
James knew he was asking a lot of his rising seventh grader. But he had no choice. His son had seen him put four bullets in three people and then toss one of the bodies into the bay. What was a little more blood?
Max agreed and helped his father pull the needed items from the pack: a sewing kit, gauze, a tube of bacitracin ointment, a small vial of iodine, an adhesive wrap, a small penlight, and a handheld mirror.
James sat down against the tiled wall at the far end of the sinks, bracing his leg against the edge of a stall partition. Max knelt in front of him, the penlight shining on the wound, exposing the seriousness of it.
James uncapped the vial of iodine and squeezed it onto the back of his leg. The sting forced his teeth into his cheek, biting down on the inside flesh of his mouth. He clenched his fists and took controlled breaths in and out as if he were in labor.
Max winced at the sight of his father in pain. He had trouble holding the light still, but did the best he could as his father took a threaded needle and poked it through the back of his thigh.
“Okay, Max,” James said with a raspy voice, “hold up the mirror. I need to see what I’m doing.”
Reminding himself that everything was backwards, James slowly laced the wound like a pillow seam. He gently tugged on the thread with each stitch, careful not to pull the knotted end through the wound. The pain was so acute from the wound and the iodine, he couldn’t feel the prick of the needle or the tug of the thread. It was an easier operation than he’d anticipated.
Once he’d sewn it tight, Max handed him the open tube of bacitracin. James squeezed gobs of it along the wound and covered it with clean gauze. Then he wrapped the adhesive bandage around his thigh. Max adjusted the mirror so his dad could admire his handiwork.
“That looks pretty good, Dad,” Max offered. “It was totally disgusting to watch. But you did a good job.”
“Couldn’t have done it without you, Max,” James said. He was sweating profusely and wiped his forehead with the bottom of his T-shirt. “You were a man just now.”
Max, whose complexion had lost its color watching his father sew his own leg back together, blushed with pride. He helped his father to his feet and together they repacked the survival kit. Leigh was calling them from the hallway.
“You guys okay?” she asked, peeking her head into the open doorway.
“Yeah.” James heaved the pack on one shoulder and walked toward his wife. “We’re good.”
“You don’t look good,” she said, putting her hand flat on James’s forehead as he approached. “You’re sweating. Do you have a fever?”
“I don’t know,” James said. “But I’m fine. Max helped me fix up my leg. It won’t be a problem.”
Leigh shot Max a look. Her son shrugged and smiled weakly.
“Let’s find somewhere to lie down.” James changed the subject. “We need to eat something and get some sleep. This could be our last chance for a while. We all need a breather.”
CHAPTER 16
EVENT +14:00 Hours
Waterboro, Maine
“Promise me something.” Leigh was resting her head on her husband’s chest. She could hear the rattle in his lungs.
“Anything,” James whispered. He was lying on a thick rubber gymnastic mat in the corner of the high school gymnasium. His wife’s body was pressed up against his. The children were feet away, sound asleep.
The gym was the best place to sleep, they’d concluded. The foam mats were the closest thing to beds they could find. Hanging on the walls above them were green and purple banners celebrating the school’s athletic championships: Football in 2000; Boys Swimming 2008–09; Wrestling 1975, 1998, 2007, 2008; Boys Cross-Country 2012. James could envision the pep rallies in the gym as those banners were hung. He could see the excited students, proud coaches and parents cheering and relishing the accomplishments. He could almost hear the rhythmic chants of the cheerleaders, the refrain of the school fight song echoing against the rafters. James had a strong suspicion nobody would be hanging banners this year.
“Promise me we’ll make it home,” she asked.
“I promise,” he said, pulling his arm around her back, stroking her hair. He knew it was an unreasonable request, but he had no choice in his answer. He had to project strength and resolve.
“I wish we were there now,” she said, her eyes closed, “on the hammock out back, listening to the crickets chirp. Watching the fireflies dance around.”
“I’d like that,” he said. “Kids asleep. Some smooth jazz playing in the background.”
“Smooth jazz?” She laughed. “Since when do we listen to smooth jazz?”
“It could be gangster rap if you’d rather.” He chuckled. “Or that twangy country music you love.”
“You’re hilarious.” She rubbed his chest with her hand. “You know I’m more of a polka groupie.”
“Lawrence Welk?” He chuckled.
“Who’s that?” She feigned ignorance. “I was thinking someone like John Tesh.”
“He’s new age,” James corrected.
“I meant Kenny G,” she quipped. “You know, smooth jazz.”
It was the first time they’d laughed all day.
“We’ll make it back, Leigh,” he said, the seriousness returning to his voice. “I’ll get us home.”
“I know you will,” she said.
They lay there silently for a few minutes, listening to their children breathe. Max tried to match Max’s pattern with his own breath but couldn’t. His son inhaled too quickly. Sloane snored like a drunken sailor. The volume of her nasal roar was impressive.
“Can I ask you a question?” Leigh interrupted the chorus.
“Sure.”
“How did you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Kill those men on the boat?”
“What do you mean?” James whispered. “I shot them.”
“No,” Leigh replied. “I mean, how did you pull the trigger? You reacted so quickly. And the look on your face…”
“What?”
“You were possessed.”
“I don’t know,” James answered. He hadn’t thought about it. He hadn’t had time to think about it. Since the bright red light woke him up at five o’clock in the morning, he’d been battling one catastrophe after another. “Did I scare you?”
“A little,” she said. “I didn’t know you had that kind of violent side.”
“I didn’t either,” he admitted. “My instincts just took over. I was protecting you and the kids. That’s all that registered.”
“And the flare,” she added.
“I do
n’t know what made me think of it,” James said. “It just came to me. I didn’t have a gun. The flare popped into my head. I reacted. That was it.”
“Oh.”
“I’m sorry if I frightened you”—James rubbed his wife’s back—“but I’d do it again.”
“You might have to,” Leigh whispered. “I’m okay with that. But it freaks me out a little.”
James didn’t respond. He wasn’t sure what to say to her. Instead, he closed his eyes and listened to the sound of his children breathing. Eventually he drifted off to sleep. It was an uneasy, ragged sleep. But it was sleep, nonetheless, and he knew it was a commodity more valuable than gold if he was going to follow through on his promise and get his family home.
CHAPTER 17
EVENT +22:00 Hours
Waterboro, Maine
James was caught between sleep and consciousness. He could feel himself trying to move his legs, his arms. He tried talking. He couldn’t do it. His REM cycle wasn’t finished. He was paralyzed and beginning to panic. Thinking he was underwater and sinking deeper into a swirling abyss, his breathing quickened, his heart rate accelerated.
From the surface, his wife was calling him, her voice muted by the water. He could see her shimmering image grow dimmer as he sank. He was powerless. Until he wasn’t.
“Rock!” Leigh was kneeling beside her husband, shaking him awake by the shoulders. He was sweating and murmuring in his sleep. He was wheezing, his breaths shallow and unnerving. “Rock, wake up!”
He shuddered and his eyes opened. Coughing, he blinked away the disorientation. Puffing his cheeks, he exhaled again and cleared his throat. He could feel his T-shirt sticking to his back, the hair matted against the nape of his neck. His fever was breaking.
“Are you okay?” Leigh wiped his brow, her face directly above her husband’s. “You’re soaking wet.”
