by Eric Walters
“A baby?” Chris asked.
“She’s four months old,” I said. “She’s a good baby.”
“We’ve come together to help each other. They’re all good people,” my mother said.
“With skills that could help,” I added. “They know how to build and fish and do things.”
“We couldn’t consider anything without them being included,” my mother said.
“I guess we could talk about the others coming,” Chris said. Others nodded or said something to support that.
“I also have to speak to them to ask if they’d be willing to come,” my mother said.
“Talk to them and see if they’re interested, and we’ll continue our conversation here,” Chris said.
“Thank you, I will talk to them. But you have to understand, I’m not sure I can recommend to them that we do come here.”
I was shocked. They all looked as surprised as I felt.
“But…aren’t you just living in tents?” Chris asked.
“We’ve built more solid shelters now.”
“Certainly not more solid than these cottages and homes,” the man said.
“Not more solid, but safer,” my mother explained. “We haven’t been attacked by anybody.”
“And if that group had attacked you could have resisted them?” the man asked.
“Oh, no, not a chance,” my mother said. “But the difference is that we’re hidden. Nobody knows we’re there. We can only come if we feel that we’d be safer here than where we are, and at this point, this place isn’t safe.”
“But that’s why we want you to join us,” the man said. “To help make it safer.”
“That can be done, can’t it?” Chris asked.
My mother didn’t answer right away, and the air felt thick with tension. “It’s possible,” she said, and the tension seemed to dissolve a little. “But it’s only possible if people listen to what I have to suggest and do what I tell them to do.”
“You want us to put you in charge of everybody?” the man questioned.
“We can’t do that!” another added.
“I don’t want to be in charge of everybody or anybody,” my mother said. “But I would need to be in charge of security, or at the least have a big say in it. If you won’t take steps necessary to safeguard the people of your community, then I don’t want to live here to begin with.”
“And if we did put you in charge, could you guarantee that we could withstand an attack?” Chris asked.
“If you want guarantees I can give you two of them. First, no place is secure from an attack with enough weapons. And second, without significant changes you’re all going to be forced to live someplace else. That is, assuming you’re still alive.” My mother got back to her feet. “Thanks for the offer, but we have to get going.” We got as far as the door.
“And if we gave you total charge of security, would you come?” Chris asked.
“Is that the offer you’re making?”
They all started talking at once until Chris silenced them.
“That’s the offer,” she said.
“We’ll let you know by noon tomorrow,” my mother said. She turned and walked out the door. I hurried to catch up to her.
17
My brother clicked the light on and off and on and off again.
“Stop playing with that.”
In answer he turned it on and off again.
“You know it’s daytime and you don’t need a light.”
“I know the time of day.”
“Then why are you doing it?” I asked.
“Because I can. I can turn on a light. I can sleep in a real bed. I can even play old-school video games on an old TV.”
I did understand. It did feel good, like a little miracle.
“Turn the light off so we can use it when we need it tonight,” I said. “Okay?”
He nodded.
The power was coming from a solar panel on our roof. In a world without electricity we had a little tiny bit of it, and it was pretty amazing.
It had been nine days since the Ward’s Island people had invited us to join their community. Four days since my mother and all the others had agreed. And now, three days since we’d moved into this house. Really, it wasn’t much more than a cottage. It was much smaller than our old house—even smaller than the condo—but we had beds: one for my brother and a second, bigger one that I shared with my mother. It had rained last night but we didn’t have to worry because we were inside and we were dry and warm. It felt so good to hear the rain falling against the roof and the windows. It felt so good just to have a roof and windows. And since yesterday we had a door that closed and opened and even locked. Ken and Julian had rehung the door that had been kicked off its hinges during the attack.
My brother was lucky because he hadn’t been in the house—Mrs. Fraser’s house—until after it was cleaned up, and Mrs. Fraser’s body had been removed, and the blood stain scrubbed from the floor. I didn’t know her when she was alive but I certainly knew her in death. I couldn’t help but see her lying there on the floor, by the window, first with blood pooled around her and then with the sheet draped over her.
We were there when they buried Mrs. Fraser—when they buried all of them. It was a mass funeral, the graves dug in a spot over by where the old school had been years before. There were nineteen graves for the thirty-nine bodies, with some of the graves shared by members of the same family. I’d never been to a funeral before, and I certainly had never even imagined a mass funeral. That many people dying at once was beyond anything I’d ever imagined. At least before all of this. Somehow I had expected more tears. Instead it was like everybody was in shock. I guess that made sense, because that was the way I felt and I didn’t even know any of these people.
Three houses down the path from us, Ken and Julian were sharing a larger house with Jim and Paula. Jess and Ian and Olivia had their own place, a cute little cottage on the far side of the community. We were living in the homes of the murdered. We had been invited to live here only because people had been murdered and they needed my mother to help prevent more people from getting killed.
My mother seemed to be working twenty-four hours a day. She was helping the community decide what to do, where to build, how to defend, and how to survive if we came under attack again. With each passing day she was helping to make the little village more secure. People seemed to be feeling more confident. My mother wasn’t so sure that was a good thing, though. As she explained it to me, it was important for people to feel insecure because the sense of danger would motivate them to listen, to work, to take precautions. Feeling safer could end up making people less safe.
My mother knew we were still in danger here, so she’d also set up an escape plan for us and the other people who’d come with us. If the place was attacked and about to fall we were to get out, get back to our island. We’d left behind lots of things we hadn’t told them we even had. There were tools—the ax and camp shovel—some knives and clubs, one of the fishing rods and some tackle, the tent, sleeping bags and blankets, and all our camping equipment. It had all been buried in the hidey-holes.
Of course we’d also left behind the small vegetable patch that we’d planted. The little shoots had broken through the soil and the garden was really growing. The rains would keep them watered, and we’d weeded the bed before we left. They were fine for now, and we planned to continue to water and weed and keep the veggies growing. Chris had given us the seeds but hadn’t mentioned anything about it—maybe she’d forgotten. Nobody knew about it except for those of us who had lived there. That garden, along with the shelters and the tools, was our backup plan. If something happened—if, in my mother’s words, everything “went south” here—we would meet at a designated spot on the other side of the channel, and if all else failed we were to go straight to our little island. It felt good to know we had a place to go.
Part of me felt guilty for thinking like that, for planning like that. It felt selfish to p
lot our escape when we couldn’t bring any of the others with us. The people of Ward’s Island had welcomed us, given us houses, food—and yet we had a secret plan to abandon them. On the other hand, they had only taken us in because they needed us. Well, they needed my mother and what she could do.
I knew that we weren’t as safe here as some people were trying to pretend. I was wearing a pair of shoes that used to belong to a woman who was murdered. I was in a dead woman’s shoes—my two pairs were soggy and muddy. I wiggled my toes. They were a nice fit, and while not what I’d normally choose to wear—they were sort of old-fashioned sneakers—they were better than anything else I could find. It wasn’t like I could go to the mall and buy something nicer or newer or trendier.
I’d looked through all her clothes. Again, not my style, but what did I expect from a seventy-five-year-old woman? I’d taken a few sweaters, and there was a pair of jeans that didn’t fit too badly. My mother took some of the other things. At one point it actually crossed my mind that if somebody younger had been killed I could have got a better collection of outfits. That thought made me sick and uneasy for days.
The thing was that we hadn’t just been given a place to live, we had really been welcomed. People were so friendly. Despite everything they still smiled, shook hands, and hugged each other—not only those people who had known each other for a long time, but even the new people, like us. I certainly felt a lot more welcome than I ever had in the city, even before all of this started.
I’d talked to my mother about all of this cheerfulness. She thought it was their way of denying what had happened and what might still happen. It was sort of like whistling as you walked through a cemetery, or people laughing at a funeral. But there was more to it than that. So many of them were artists or actors or writers, and they seemed to see the world in an unusual way.
This place was very different from the military bases where we’d lived. The people were different from our parents, and from the families who were our friends in the Marines. Marines were all business, and that business was about discipline and about killing the bad people. These people were nice and friendly and a little bit…quirky.
I used to think that the Marines could use a little softening, but now I found myself thinking that these people could use a little toughening up. I couldn’t help but wish that there were a couple of dozen Marines living here. For starters, a Marine would certainly have offered better protection than a sculptor, a painter, a yoga instructor, or an author or illustrator of children’s books.
I had to give them credit for other things, though. For instance, they knew a lot about finding food in nature. I took a sip of my tea, which was some blend of natural teas that they’d gathered from the surrounding forest. It was sweetened by honey from their beehives, and I’d added some goat’s milk, from the local herd.
There was a knock on the door and I was so startled I spilled my tea. I could tell my brother was just as jumpy, but we both pretended not to notice. There was another knock on the door and I could see through the little window that it was the kid, Liam, from three doors down, the boy we’d walked back to his mother the day after the attack.
Ethan opened the door and Liam invited him for a bike ride.
“Can I go out?” Ethan asked me.
“I’d be glad to get rid of you,” I said, and then realized it was bad luck to even joke about things like that. “Sure, but remember, okay?”
“I remember,” he said.
There was no need for me to say anything more. Our mother had made us go over the plan a dozen times, repeating from memory exactly what would happen. It all involved what he had to do if something bad started to happen. He had to come back here if he could. That’s where we’d meet. Not just us but Ken and Julian, Jim and Paula, Ian and Jess and the baby, and my mother. Our house was picked because it was the closest one to the bridge and to the channel—our two escape routes.
Ethan went out and I watched as he and Liam ran down the path to where two other guys around Ethan’s age were waiting. They greeted each other like long-lost friends and vanished.
Ethan had always been good at making friends. I guess with all the moves we’d had he’d learned that skill. He’d quickly made friends at each base we’d lived on. I envied him the ability to do that. He just threw himself head first into relationships, and within a week or so it was like he’d always lived there, like these were lifelong friends. He’d done it in the city, too—well, before we’d had to flee.
I never found it so easy. There were some girls in this community who were close in age to me. One was a little older, two were a little younger, and one was almost exactly my age. Her name was Graine. What a stupid name, but there were lots of stupid names around here. There was Raine and Rainbow, Tulip, Dusk, and Dagmar. They had seemed friendly enough at first, but then I’d heard one of them say something sarcastic about my bow and arrow, and I knew that I would always be the outsider here.
I didn’t care what they said—I continued to carry my bow with me wherever I went. In these circumstances it was just smart. A few more weapons in the right hands might have made a difference the last time, and if those girls weren’t smart enough to know that, then they weren’t smart enough to be my friends.
There was also a guy named Willow. Again, what a stupid name, especially for a guy. That was actually too bad. He was sort of cute in a hair-too-long, clothes-too-baggy way. It was funny, but most of my friends had always been boys. Girls always seemed too “girly,” and the guys didn’t talk as much about each other or go behind each other’s backs. Guys just punched each other in the face and that was the end of it. Although I suspected a guy named Willow was more used to getting punched than punching somebody else.
There were other reasons for me keeping my distance. I was just so tired of making friends and leaving them behind each time we moved. This was no different than any of the bases we’d been posted on—how long would it last? That was how it always was, you made friends and then they moved, or you moved. Or in this case, they died. Or you died. Okay, I couldn’t allow myself to go down that road. I needed to get my head someplace else. I’d go and see if my mother needed help.
I grabbed my bow and slung the quiver on my shoulder. I didn’t care what anybody thought or said. I was going to head for the beach. I figured that was where my mother would be.
Walking along the path, I passed people working in their yards, sitting on their porches, or out walking and biking. Almost always they would say hello or at least nod their heads to greet me. The friendliness was part of what made them all seem so odd. I guess it might have been normal if you were living in some small town someplace, which in a way they kind of were. But there was no way it was normal to see all these super-friendly people now carrying weapons. A couple of men had clubs with them and greeted me warmly as they passed. A woman pushed a baby carriage along and smiled, and then I caught a flash of light and realized she had a knife strapped to her waist. And while I couldn’t see anybody with a gun, I knew that all the weapons would be out at the borders of the community. I only wished we had more weapons. A lot more weapons.
Growing up on military bases, you got used to having weapons around. It wasn’t just officers with side arms, or soldiers marching in formation with rifles on their shoulders, but armaments of all types. Seeing a tank or a rocket-propelled grenade launcher, or a half-track, or an artillery piece driving by was all part of life. What I wouldn’t have given for a tank and a crew that knew how to use it. Let those guys in the boat come back any time and they’d be blown out of the water before they came anywhere near the beach! Some guys coming at us with rifles would have been as effective against a tank as a yoga mat would be against a gun. And it was too bad yoga mats didn’t make effective shields because we sure had plenty of them.
Each morning people would gather in the park and do a yoga class. I couldn’t help but think that being “centered,” relaxed, and limber wasn’t going to be much protection if th
ose men came back. There was also a group of seniors who met by the beach and practiced tai chi. It was fascinating to watch. It was sort of a combination of dance and really, really slow martial arts movement.
The night before, the local theatre company had put on a play in the little clearing behind the houses. It was Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Lots of actors lived here. I couldn’t believe they were doing that, but my mother explained it was just their way of trying to forget. I had to admit it was a pretty good play, and everyone seemed to enjoy themselves. I had fun, and for the first time in ages it felt like I’d even forgotten what was going on for a few minutes. Maybe putting on the play was a good thing for everybody.
Before I got to the beach I could hear the sound of hammering and the high-pitched buzz of power tools. I rounded the corner to a beehive of motion, and I quickly picked out my mother in the middle of it.
This was where the attackers had landed—the same place where we’d put in with our canoe when we’d first paddled over. A large part of the island was surrounded by big slippery rocks or a high cliff, but here there was a sandy bottom; all you had to do was come in close to the shallows and then wade to shore. Now they were building a barrier to make it harder to do that.
I stood there and watched. The shoreline was now mostly blocked by a fence that stood almost ten feet tall. It stretched out more than twenty yards, from one side, where there was a cliff, to the other side, where there were rocks and boulders too big and slippery to scale. They were building using materials that they had stripped and salvaged from fences and from the remains of the burned out houses.
Ken and Julian were leading the building efforts. They were being aided by a number of people with carpentry skills. And it was going up pretty quickly with all those hands helping.
My mother saw me, gave a wave, and wandered in my direction.
“It looks good,” I said, gesturing toward the construction.
“It’s a beautiful fence, but it’s not much of an obstacle to a group of armed men. It will slow them down but not stop them.”
