“Gabrielle,” I shout.
Crawling on my hands and knees, I find her buried beneath rubble. Blood seeps from numerous wounds. I pull the broken boards off her and choke when my eyes fall on the hunk of wood impaled in her gut. I lift her in my arms and struggle to my feet. Coughing, I sprint through the building and stumble into the street through a blown-out hole in the brick wall.
Smoke and ash fill the chilly air. Flames lick the night sky from almost every building within the nearest several blocks. Gabrielle’s head hangs limply over my arm. Her face is filled with scratches and gashes. Blood stains her pale pink lips.
Racing through the rubble-littered streets, I head toward the only person I know can help her. Bombs fall around us as I dodge showers of broken brick, glass, and concrete. Although I know these streets better than anyone, I hardly recognize them anymore. This city that I’ve called home for ten years suddenly feels foreign to me. Like it did when I first moved here. Numerous people lie lifeless on the street and still others moan, calling out for help. I want to retch as I pass by their pleas, their broken bones and dying bodies. I have no choice. It is my sister’s life over theirs.
I run toward the infirmary as rain starts to fall, knowing only one person can help my sister now.
Pandemonium reigns at the medical facility. Swarms of people have come seeking help and only those in critical condition are allowed within the hospital. Doc stands outside, assessing the growing crowd. Marching toward him, I call out.
His blue eyes meet mine, his lashes blinking back the rain. He glances down at Gabrielle, and horror pales his expression. He pulls my sister from my arms and rests her on the ground, assessing her vitals. Her nightgown is soaked through from her injuries. I peer down at my white shirt and it, too, is crimson red, stained with my sister’s blood. I knew she was not in good condition, but with her out of my arms and so still on the ground, the impact of her wounds strikes me like a bolt of lightning.
Doc presses his fingers against her neck, checking for a pulse. Relief washes away the concern creasing his brow. “She’s alive, but she needs help immediately.”
He lifts her into his arms and sprints into the crowded building. I chase after him as he storms through two swinging doors labeled SURGERY. I try to follow, but am blocked by two other doctors.
“Sorry, kid, no one’s allowed back there,” the bigger of the two says.
I peer over their shoulders, wishing for Doc to come back for me, but he doesn’t.
One attendant grabs a stack of linens and shoves them at me. “How about you make yourself useful and pass these out to the injured. We could use every able body.”
Turning, I face the sea of battered and dying people. There are so many that the few blankets I hold won’t nearly be enough to help. How did I miss them all? They wail in agony, some in physical pain and others mourning for their lifeless loved ones. Every inch of floor space is covered with patients waiting to be seen. Many no longer breathe, but fix their glassy stares toward the ceiling.
Overwhelmed by the stench of death, I drop the linens and dash through the clinic doors into the stormy night. I need air.
Bombs no longer fall, but the zeppelins ominously whir overhead. Fire consumes the city around me in spite of the storm. The streets are littered with corpses, people who attempted to flee their homes but didn’t make it farther than their front stoop. Men and women are sprawled along the cobblestoned streets with children crying by their sides. There are so many, I don’t know what to do. Spinning, I’m overcome by the cries of those mourning, the screams of those in pain, the panic that ensues on the streets of London.
A toddler wails next to her deceased parents. I scoop her tiny body into my arms, whispering words to soothe her as I return to the clinic and hand her off to another patient.
“Look after her,” I say. The elderly woman nods.
I rush back to the streets, corralling the handful of people who are still alive. After several blocks, I realize that most are children. They peer up at me with fearful gazes and snotty noses, terrified … and I can’t blame them. I see my reflection in their eyes, but my expression is devoid of emotion. My tears dried up long before they were even born.
Unsure of where else I should take them, I return to the infirmary with groups of kids … three times, twelve times, twenty times what the infirmary can handle. Each visit I peer inside the broken hospital windows, waiting for news on Gabrielle, but am greeted by chaos.
Through the shattered windowpane, I watch Doc wearily emerge from the surgery ward, his laboratory coat more red than white. He is obviously exhausted. I shove through the front door of the facility, eager for good news. By the time he sees me, it’s clear the lack of sleep isn’t all that is troubling him. Something’s wrong.
Something bad has happened.
“Doc?” I say.
He won’t meet my eyes. A tear slips down his cheek. Reaching into the pocket of his lab coat, he pulls out Gabrielle’s bamboo flute and hands it to me. The instrument is light. The sight of it in my hands and not Gabrielle’s makes my heart feel as if it is buried beneath all the bricks and concrete of London. His gesture speaks a thousand words, but I am speechless.
Gabrielle is dead.
Growling, I pitch the flute across the room. I scream as loud as humanly possible, pulling at my hair. My knees buckle and I collapse on the floor, barely able to hold myself upright.
The children I’ve brought here for shelter begin to wail, but their cries fall on deaf ears. Their agony would normally call to me, but today, right now … I just don’t care. There is nothing I can do for them.
Standing, I try to shove past Doc to get to Gabrielle. He pulls me into him, holding me back. I holler my sister’s name, waiting for her to return my call, but her voice never comes.
“She’s gone, Pete!” he says.
Something angry, almost animal, builds inside me. Stepping back, I take in the scene, and everywhere I look is a cruel metaphor for all I’ve endured in my short life. Fear. Loneliness. Death. All three a common theme, and again they mock me through the hollow expressions of the victims at my feet.
Storming out, I exit into the dark early morning. For the first time in as long as I can remember, tears flow fiercely. My feet pound the stones beneath me, each step one farther away from facing the unfair reality I know I can’t run from. Surrounded by the carnage and watchful zeppelins overhead, there is no escaping the truth.
I run until I’m about to faint. My muscles quiver with weakness. I lean over, propping myself up with my hands on my thighs. The fiery buildings are unrecognizable, and I have no idea what part of the city I am in.
Not far away, I notice St. Paul’s Cathedral and the chipped stone head of a saint lies as lifeless as many of those I passed on the streets. Although St. Paul’s has suffered substantial damage, the belfries have not. Their open columns call out to me, urging me to climb the towers.
I make my way through the concrete rubble of the cathedral and up a narrow staircase until I reach the bell tower.
High above the city, the airships continue their flight over what is left of London. The rain has stopped and the clouds have moved to the east. Hardly any of the old buildings still stand. Their facades lie in piles of wreckage beneath them. Smoke and flames rise into the dark sky. And like me, there is no rescuing them. This city will burn for days. Eventually they will be as empty and hollow as I feel, my rage smoldering into nothing but embers.
Standing on the ledge of the belfry, my heart feels as ruined as the city I called home. With no one left, no family of my own, I teeter on the edge. Every piece of my soul has been destroyed. My parents forever lost in their watery grave. And now Gabrielle, the one I promised to always care for. She’s gone and I can barely catch my breath. I never had the opportunity to say good-bye. To tell her I loved her. No, I had the chance, but my pride, my ego, kept me from uttering those three simple words. Now that’s all I’m left with, and I deserve it.
/> Peering down, I take in the rubble beneath the cathedral. The thought of landing on the jagged stones sends a shiver throughout my body. Yet this is why I’m here, isn’t it? Because there is nothing left for me. There’s not one solitary soul in this world to live for. No more family, nothing left of London. Just me. All alone. Gabrielle was right. I really am a lost boy.
Suddenly, the sharp stones don’t seem as daunting. In fact, it’s as if they invite me. The hollow within my chest aches for a quick ending as I count the loved ones I have lost and consider the magnitude of my loneliness. Hopefully the rubble will ensure that my death will be quick and painless. Although nothing can hurt as much as my heart does.
On the eastern horizon, the smoky night gives way to the first hints of dawn. Navy-blue hues bleed into the dark above. The toes of my boots hang precariously off the ledge. I inhale, willing myself to take my final leap. As I’m about to step off, the sky erupts in a spectacular early-morning display, taking my breath away. I shield my eyes as thousands of shooting stars streak the sky, like confined souls finally set free. I am in awe as I watch them blaze, leaving silver tail-streams in their wake.
Although most nights I lie awake staring at the stars beyond the window of the dusty orphanage, I have never seen the heavens celebrate quite like this. As a child, my mum told me the night sky was an obsidian blanket and the stars were holes for those who have passed before us to keep watch.
Who am I to think I’ve earned my place among them? While they died innocently, not yet ready to give up this life, I selfishly almost destroyed mine.
Choking back sobs, I sit on the ledge, my legs dangling far above the street. Too soon, the sun rises, washing out the last of the falling stars. As the first rays of morning light paint the polluted sky and the sun chases away what remains of the storm clouds, the London skyline appears, jagged and broken.
A small child breaks the morning silence.
“You dirty old pirates, you’ll never catch me. Never. Never. Never,” he says, hurling an egg toward the direction he’s come from. He dashes into a darkened corner of a dirt alley. Two soldiers rush by as the boy cowers unseen. When they are gone, he sniffles and runs his arm across his nose. He looks about five and is sobbing loudly for his mum, but there is no one around. Against my better judgment, I stand and take one last look at the concrete grave below. Deciding today is not the day to die, I leave the belfry.
Racing down the stairwell, I rush through the church doors. The street is a battlefield, although the attack is over, for now. Who knows how long the reprieve will last? I head toward where I saw the boy and find him still cowering in the shadows, surrounded by dead bodies and rubbish.
“Hey, are you okay?” I ask.
He pulls his knees up to his chest and buries his face in his arms. “No, I am definitely not okay. I can’t find my mum or pop, and it’s really scary, and those loud explosions are happening, I’m missing my morning cocoa, and I probably have school tomorrow, but I don’t know because my nanny isn’t around to tell me so. I just want to go home and eat biscuits and play stickball and follow-the-leader … do you know that game? It’s one of my most favorite, aside from hide-and-seek … oh, and there’s an alligator, or maybe it’s a crocodile. I don’t know the difference, but whatever it is, it’s big and has pointy teeth.”
For all the trauma he’s been through, his wild imagination is not surprising.
“What’s your name?” I ask, lending a hand to help him up.
“Gabriel, but most people just call me Gabs because they say I talk too much, but I have no idea what they’re talking about. I just speak what’s on my mind,” he says.
The moment is bittersweet. While this boy has brought the first smile to my face in nearly a day, his name reminds me of my sister, and the ache is almost unbearable.
“Nice to meet you, Gabs. I’m Pete. Why don’t you hang out with me for a while until we find your parents?”
Gabs’s bottom lip quivers. “What if we don’t find them? What if those scary flying ships have taken them away to feed them to the dragon—or worse, what if they make my mum and pop walk the plank? That’d be a long way down, and unless you had wings, you’d be flatter than a pancake, which, by the way, is excellent with lemon curd.”
“We’ll find them,” I say, ruffling his dark hair.
A growl rumbles from the end of the dark alley, sending energy up my spine.
“I told you there were gators or crocs or whatever that beastie is,” Gabs says, stumbling through his words.
I help him to his feet, and we slowly back up. “That’s not either. They don’t exist in London.”
“One time I saw them at London Zoo. They were huge! Ugly beasties, too, with scaly skin and big, pointy teeth and beady eyes,” Gabs says, hiding behind me.
The creature hisses and storms toward us. I snatch Gabs into my arms and sprint, the crocodile chasing not far behind. I can only assume the animal is from London Zoo. If it is in as bad shape as the rest of the city, this overgrown reptile might not be the only hungry wild animal we encounter.
I dodge through the entryway of an undamaged building, slamming the door behind us. Gabs whimpers as I set him down. Heading to the back of what appears to be a watch shop, I find an exit into another empty corridor. We continue down the alleyway, and I feel a vise squeeze my heart with every glimpse of the destruction. Hardly any building remains standing, and those that managed to survive the assault don’t look safe to enter. We pass by body after body. I check pulses as I sift through the injured and dead. I try to keep Gabs from seeing too much, but it is unavoidable.
Oddly enough, most of the deceased are adults. It’s as if they took their last breath and collapsed where they stood.
As the hours pass by, I discover more and more children either lost, injured, or orphaned. Most join us on their own, while others are so frightened they need coaxing. By the time the sun is high in the sky, dozens of dirty kids have joined me.
“I’m hungry. Really, really hungry. Hungrier than a big old lion on a nasty vegetable diet. I’m pretty sure my stomach is going to eat itself until there is no stomach left,” Gabs says.
Just ahead a broken pane exposes the remains of a grocer’s shop. There is very little left in the window display. I try the door, but it is locked. Tugging the cuff of my coat sleeve over my fist, I punch the remaining glass out. Carefully, I climb into the ransacked store. Something dashes into the back of the shop and it’s definitely not a rat.
“Stay here,” I whisper to the crowd of kids.
Gripping the hilts of my father’s daggers, I silently enter the shop, hiding behind the nearly depleted shelves. The room is dark and shadows seem to dart across the walls. Whoever is with me shuffles to the far side of the room, making a lot of noise, and as he or she does, a sack of rice is tossed in my direction. A wick burns, and I’m puzzled for a fraction of a second before I see the black powder spilling from the bag. I spin, my pulse throbbing in my chest, but it’s too late. The explosion is so large that I’m thrown across the room and into a display of cheeses.
Groaning, I reach for my head and sit up. The undeniable click of a gun near my face draws my attention. I raise my hands up in surrender. As the smoke clears, I finally see my assailant.
“Bloody—” Pickpocket clenches his teeth, shoving the gun into its holster. “I about took your head off!”
He offers me a hand and helps me to my feet.
“Thanks for letting me keep it,” I say, dusting myself off.
Pyro slips out from hiding. “Oh boy, I’m sorry about that, Pete. We thought maybe you were one of the bad guys.”
I realize then that I no longer hear the whir of the zeppelins. Other than the slight rustle of the kids peering through the window, the day is quiet. “Where do you suppose they’ve gone?”
“They headed west,” Pickpocket says.
“Maybe they kept going? Maybe London wasn’t their only target?” Pyro asks.
A chill
runs through me. Those ships were huge, and if they were filled with an army, we stand no chance.
“Gather as much as you can manage. We need to find somewhere to hide,” I say.
The kids flood through the window and stuff their pockets with anything they can grab. When no one is able to carry another item, we make our way into the street. As we travel to the closest station on the Underground, we stumble upon more injured children. A few of the bigger kids reluctantly drop their provisions to help carry those who can’t walk.
We are nearly at Farringdon Station when the ground rumbles. Loose brick and concrete crumble from the buildings on either side of us. A few of the younger kids cry. Pickpocket runs up to the next block and peers around the corner of the building. His face blanches.
“Um, Pete, I think you’d better take a look at this,” he says.
Joining him, I can hardly believe what I’m seeing. Dozens of large machines with spiderlike legs crawl down the street. Plumes of steam rise from the boilers on the back of the steel-plated hulls. Soldiers dressed in bronze and black leather armor and elaborate helmets equipped with gas masks search the shops. They wield modified rifles with dual scopes and pressure gauges, ready to fire.
“We need to get these kids somewhere safe, fast!” I say, running back to the group.
I lead them several streets away, zigzagging between alleys, but the intruders appear to be converging from every direction. With hardly any building still standing, there’s only one place to hide.
“Pickpocket, get them into the Tube,” I say.
Pickpocket nods and corrals the kids into the station, leading them down into the tunnel. A few moan about it being too dark, but Pickpocket ignores them. The dark is the least of their worries right now.
“Go with them and blow the entrance. That’ll stall the soldiers, for now at least. Do you have something on you to light your way in the tunnel?” I ask Pyro.
Lost Boy Page 3
