How stupid I am is that for a moment I thought that I’d somehow drained the power or caused something to short-circuit, from charging the phones. Thanks to Simon, I knew what to do; I dragged a chair from the kitchen to the fuse box in the hall. Thanks to Simon, there was a flashlight there. I grabbed it and switched it on. The beam shone across the fuse box. Nothing was popped out, but what did I know? Electricity’s kind of a scary thing, but I jiggled stuff; I switched switches on and off. I climbed down from the chair. It was so, so, so dark.
Drip, drip, drip went the kitchen tap.
Oh! I had this gasping moment of panic.
I ran into the kitchen.
Where Dartbridge had been—its lights, its streetlights—there was darkness. The poisoned world had gone pitch black.
Drip, drip, drip.
The first thing you want to do when there is no light is to get light. I had the flashlight, and we had candles, we had matches, we had lighters. We had these things—candles, matches—by the fireplace, in the fuse box, in the kitchen drawer. In the bathroom, because my mom (and me!) liked to take baths by candlelight. I could get them… I stopped; I thought about the man in the big house, the supermarket men. I was thinking the way Simon said to THINK.
Better the dark.
I switched off the flashlight. I looked out the kitchen window. I watched and I waited. Not one house lit up. I got Simon’s binoculars; I scanned for lights, for even the flicker of candlelight.
On the other side of the house, there was also nothing. The hill rose above our road, so there wasn’t much of a view from the den window, but from the houses opposite, no light shone. You could still see the shape of Mrs. Fitch, though, lying in our front yard—then movement. (! I panicked!) Another small shape, sniffing around her. Ruby: Mrs. Wallis’s Siamese.
I ran to the front door. I opened it.
“Ruuu-by!” I whisper called.
The cat shape stopped her sniffing.
“Ruuu-by!”
I switched the flashlight on for a second—and in the beam of it, I saw her eyes light up in that scary cat way, and then she sauntered off, weaving silently through the garden gate.
“Suit yourself,” I whispered. Please don’t leave me.
I shut the door, locked, and bolted it. I went back to the kitchen. I watched; I waited. I got all obsessed, thinking I could see flickers of light, zooming in on houses with Simon’s binoculars, watching, waiting…then thinking I had been mistaken or that maybe I’d caught a glimmer of light out of the corner of my eye. Zooming in on that, watching, waiting… The Sun and Moon… That guy could still be there. Watching, waiting…I dunno for how long—for hours. Somewhere out there, there had to be someone I could go to, someone to help. Someone kind.
It was still dark, just, when a very weird and horrible thing happened. I was still watching out the kitchen window when the cell phones all went off. All of them. There was this burst, this blaring, mental chorus of beeping, of alerts, of music, some customized—that crummy dance track Ronnie liked. I jumped out of my skin—and ran to get to them. It stopped, but I was already on them. I grabbed my phone first, hit on the messages, saw one from my dad, hit call sender before I’d even read it. Unlike times before when there was nothing, there was now a voice saying, “Network busy.” I hit redial. “Network busy.” I hit redial. Again, again, again. I tried my mom’s phone; I tried Simon’s; I tried Ronnie’s. I tried them all, calling my dad. Network busy.
In between times, on the phones that were locked, I hit emergency dial, discovered it really won’t let you ring any other number but 911.
911.
Network busy.
911. 911.
911. 911. 911.
911. 911. 911. 911.
My dad: Network busy.
I put them all on speakerphone. I would get through.
911. 911. 911. 911. 911. 911. 911. 911. 911. 911. 911. 911. 911. 911. 911. 911.
Network busy.
I tried my dad again—Network busy—then from my mom’s phone I tried Leonie’s mom’s landline. It paused, like it was going to connect.
Buuuuuuuuur.
From our landline I tried Molly’s parents’ landline.
Buuuuuuuuur.
I tried Ronnie’s parents’ landline.
Buuuuuuuuur.
I tried to call my cell from my mom’s cell.
NETWORK BUSY.
I tried every number I had on every phone I could get into the dial pad on. I tried them all, over and over and over… Until I got so desperate, I dialed the same on each one, over and over and over:
911, 911, 911, 911, 911, 911, 911, 911, 911; 911, 911, 911, 911, 911, 911, 911, 911, 911; 911, 911, 911, 911, 911, 911, 911, 911, 911; 911, 911, 911, 911, 911, 911, 911, 911, 911; 911, 911, 911, 911, 911, 911, 911, 911, 911; 911, 911, 911, 911, 911, 911, 911, 911, 911; 911, 911, 911, 911, 911, 911, 911, 911, 911; 911, 911, 911, 911, 911, 911, 911, 911, 911; 911, 911, 911, 911, 911, 911, 911, 911, 911…
NETWORK BUSY
It was light when even that stopped. The lines went completely dead again. Nothing, not even a buuuuuuur. I cursed myself for not having even tried to get the voice mails, but at least I had the messages. I looked at them, the messages on my phone, on my mom’s, on Simon’s, on Ronnie’s. And you know what…what all of them, what they all said, maybe not the exact words, but pretty much what they all said was: ARE YOU OK?!
NO! No, no, no!
No! I’m not OK!
To my dad, I texted back, just in case it would get through:
Coming to you. Ruby x
I hit send; the message failed.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
No problem: I had a plan.
Just in case I saw anyone I knew alive, I went up to the bathroom to fix my makeup. I got another fright then. Even in the dim light of dawn, I saw my eyes were small and red and puffy and piggy, serious bags underneath. The Caspar-kiss scab on my chin was much reduced and flaking off. OK, it had been itching, and I might have been picking at it slightly. The skin underneath was baby pink. I smoothed a couple wipes over my face, then plastered on the wonder foundation I’d rescued from Zak’s, went in heavy with the mascara, and slathered my hair with the last of the glittery dry shampoo. The only way around the “Is it glitter or is it dandruff?” problem was to go for maximum coverage. I slicked on frosted pink lipstick.
I looked a little space-age babe, but that was OK. I didn’t even pack. I just shoveled all the cell phones, Caspar’s MP3 player, and my wallet into my bag. Good to go.
I suppose I could have stood in the road and screamed my head off until someone, anyone, came…but I’d thought about the man up at the big house and the supermarket gunmen. “Someone, anyone” was not a good idea…so I’d go to the police. That’s what they’re there for, isn’t it, to help people? That’s what they HAVE to do. Oh! Oh! Oh! I could picture it: how I’d tell them what had happened and about how I had to get to London, and how a policeman would say, “All right, no need to worry. We’ll take you.” They’d pretty much have to, wouldn’t they? I mean, even if there were just a couple of them left, they couldn’t just leave a girl who was only fifteen years old on her own, could they? They’d have to help.
I think I can pretty much say that was the last normal thing I ever tried to do.
When did I realize it was hopeless? When the garden gate clanged shut, and I heard all the neighbors’ dogs start up? When that made me remember—dur—to look at the sky? (Which was OK; it was OK. I remember it as fine and clear—but you know what? Really, unless you live in some gorgeously rainless desert—when have you ever seen a perfect clear, blue sky? There always seems to be some little blobby wisp or smudge of something hanging around somewhere.)
Did I realize it was hopeless when I tried to whizz down the hill on my bike like I’d usually do, only I couldn’t because—hey
, remember?—there were cars and dead bodies everywhere? When I didn’t see a single living soul the whole way there? Or perhaps when I got there? Yes, definitely then. There was a police car parked sideways across the driveway and a whiteboard notice propped against it; whatever had been written on it had slid to streaks of black and red in the rain.
I tried the main door. It was all locked up. A part of me I didn’t much want to listen to had known it would be. The other part of me, the part that didn’t know that, stared at that building—and realized. On the front of the police station and spreading around the sides, there was a wall of messages people had left. Most so rain blitzed you couldn’t tell what they said—but the photos… On even the most rain blitzed, you could still make out faces, blobs of faces that had once been real people: snapshots from vacations, portraits from school, photo-booth photos, a photo that showed a bride and groom. I wandered up and down—people I didn’t know, people I thought I sort of recognized, people I thought I definitely did.
Photos of people who were probably dead put up by people who were also probably dead.
I stalked back to the main door. Safe inside a glass case: their stupid police notices about terrorism and pickpockets and rabies and Neighborhood Watch.
I kicked the front door.
How DARE they not be there? How COULD they not be there?
Worse than the frantic bark of a scared and hungry dog is the cry of a human, trapped.
If there’d been traffic on the road, if the world had been halfway normal, I don’t suppose I would have heard them. But in the silence, I did. I did, and my heart lurched with dread. I pressed my ear to the door. I could hear men shouting for help…so muffled I felt like maybe I had gone crazy and was hearing things—but no. I could hear them.
“HELLO?! HELLO?!” I screamed, top of my voice, kicking that door, battering my fists against it.
When I stopped, I could hear them, more clearly then, even before I pressed my ear to the door and heard those voices—muffled—hollering “HEY! HELP! HEY! HEY!”
I didn’t understand, did I? My heart and guts told me this was bad; in my head, I thought… I dunno what I thought: that maybe the police were locked inside?!
I circled around the building. Dartbridge Police Station isn’t like some Wild West jail—it’s a big, officey kind of place with tons of windows; none were open, but inside all I could see were desks…until I got to the back of the building, where there was a row of six small, high windows—not officey at all, but those kind of ripply glass bricks you get at swimming pools and stuff.
That “HEY! HELP! HEY! HEY!”…This was where it was coming from.
“HEY! HEY!” I shouted at the top of my voice.
At each window, the ripply shadows of human heads appeared.
“HEY! HELP! HEY! HEY!” they screamed.
“HELLO?!” I screamed back.
“HEY! HELP! HEY! HEY!” they screamed.
The ripply shadows of human fists battered at the glass.
The realization hit me. With a sickening, massive clunk. Those men weren’t police; they were locked in cells.
I heard this rustle behind me. I turned. There was THIS THING. AND THIS MINI THING.
They were human, I suppose—roughly human in shape—but the whole of them, their whole bodies from head to toe were swathed in black plastic and masking tape. That’s all I took in, that and that the big one had a really weird, lumpy, bulgy shape, and the little one was carrying some kind of enormous green gun.
I could choose not to say this, but I have said I will try to be honest. I fainted.
In romantic novels and stuff, women in corsets and big puffy skirts faint. They faint because…I dunno…someone has put a stitch in the wrong place in their needlework, or they’ve just realized they’ve got a crush on the pastor or something…and some hot guy (or the pastor, who turns out to be hot) scoops them up and revives them. With a nice strong cup of tea, probably, or perhaps a tiny silver thimbleful of French brandy.
I fainted in real life. I fainted because I’d had nothing to eat, next-to-nothing to drink, and because I was completely, totally, and utterly exhausted and freaked out. I think maybe my fear-fried brain took one look at those THINGS and thought, That’s it: lights out.
I didn’t swoon into my skirts. I went smack down.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
It was like the worst of your most embarrassing nightmares about school come true. You know, when you suddenly realize you don’t actually have any clothes on in the middle of math class, and everyone is laughing at you, and whatever you find to cover yourself with shrinks to the size of a Kleenex or goes see-through in your hands; or you suddenly need to go to the bathroom and all the toilets are locked, but it’s coming out anyway, and you have to run everywhere trying to find a private place to go, but there isn’t one; or you dream you’re kissing some disgusting—like, really disgusting—boy you wouldn’t ever EVER EVER want to kiss.
You know what I mean? The kind of nightmare you wouldn’t even want to tell your best friend? ’Cause it’s TOO weird and TOO disgusting? Even though you basically trust your best friend completely, but there’s this fear she might laugh her head off and tell everyone? (And then they’d all laugh at you, just like how it was in your nightmare?)
When I woke up, I was in the recovery position—know what that is? It’s how you lay people when they’ve just fainted or had some other kind of hideous thing happen—so they don’t choke on their own vomit. I woke up with the side of my face stuck to a garbage bag and…and…I opened my eyes, and practically lying on the garbage bag in front of my face was another face. The bespectacled, spotty, nerdy face of…
Freak. Bespectacled, spotty, nerdy, nobody freak.
“Ruby?” he said.
His face was about half a nanometer from mine.
I gasped in utter horror, shoved him away, and sat up—too fast. Little fuzzy fairyballs of light danced in the air around the face of—
“Here,” he said, practically drowning me as he sloshed water into my mouth.
I peeled the garbage bag off my face, snatched the bottle from him, and glugged; it was yukkily warm.
Sip, I heard my mom say. Sip, Ruby. For another few seconds more, I ignored her; then I forced myself to slow down. To sip.
I remember I looked at that bottle, and I could see backwash flecks floating in it—which couldn’t have been mine, being as how I’d not eaten anything. YEURCH!
That is pretty much when I knew for sure that I wasn’t having some weird nightmare/dream thing, but I really was where I was…with—
“What have you done to your hair?” he said.
Darius Spratt.
Unlike whatever they do in novels and stuff, making up all sorts of fancy names to make some kind of lit-err-arr-ee point, or even what they used to do, changing names to protect the innocent in newspapers and things, this name has not been changed. Darius Spratt. If that were my surname, I would change it immediately. And even if I couldn’t or I felt like I shouldn’t for some family reason—like maybe my ancestors had discovered a country (Sprattland) or at least an island (The Isle of Spratt), or left their tiny village (Sprattington), emigrated, and founded a city (Sprattsville, USA)—I would definitely, no way, not ever call my child Darius. I would call him, I dunno, Mark or Steven or something. Calling your kid that—Darius—it’s just drawing attention to it, isn’t it? It’s just like putting up some massive arrow, pointing to the word S-P-R-A-T-T, so you see it in huge white letters, like the Hollywood sign.
SPRATTYWOOD
It amazed me, even then, even in the middle of the most massive trauma that had ever happened to me or the world—not the fainting, specifically, but the whole of the rest of everything—that I could remember his name, that I even knew who he was. I had never spoken to him before in my life. Why would I? He was the King of Loserville. N
o, not the king at all—that’d probably have to be Ross Ramsden, so massively a creepy loser that his only friends were teachers, and you could tell even they didn’t like him much.
Darius Spratt was not the King of Loserville; he wasn’t even the crown prince; he wasn’t even a lowly serf. He was, like I said, a nobody nerdy freckly freak.
My knight in garbage-bag armor. HAHAHAHAHAHAHUUUUUUUUR.
“Nothing!” I snapped in response to the hair question. Total nerve, nerd boy.
“Do you need something to eat?” he asked.
Urch! TONE. Tone like…like Simon’s. Like asking a question when really there is no question. URCH. YEURCH. Like when really he was saying, “Young lady, I think you need something to eat. Right now!”
He glanced at the sky, removed the elastic bands (oh yes) from the tops of his bright yellow rubber gloves (they’re all the rage this season) so he could get them off, and then tore (manfully—not!) through the garbage bag covering his weedy chest. He was wearing a raincoat under it anyway, and on top of that, there was a backpack; he rummaged in it and pulled out a crumpled jumbo bag of peanuts. An open, crumpled jumbo bag of peanuts. Well, that would explain the backwash.
YEURCH! CAN YOU EVER IMAGINE ANYTHING MORE DISGUSTING?!
I scarfed a couple handfuls.
“Got any more water?” I asked, teeth sticky.
He looked at the sky again—as if it would have changed that quick! No cloud is that fast!—and then (manfully, not!) tore off more of his garbage bag armor until he could get to the backpack on his back. This he plonked down and opened, and pulled out a bottle of water, but not before I saw the bag was full—I mean, like, FULL—of water and boxes of medicine. Whatever. I snatched the water off him and glugged. Sipped. Glugged. Sipped. Glugged—Darius Spratt snatched the water back.
“Hey!” I said, getting to my feet. Little fuzzy fairyballs of light danced in the air, but not so many.
H2O Page 13
