Lost Boy

by Wendy Spinale

  “Of course! What about you, though?” he asks.

  “Don’t worry about me. Just look after the littler kids, especially the ones who are hurt. Head west. I’ll meet you on the platform at the next station,” I say.

  Dashing from the station, I barely hear Pyro’s shouts. They are drowned out by the thrumming of my pulse in my ears.

  “Where are you going?” he yells.

  I don’t answer. Pyro won’t ever understand. No one would understand. With my sister gone and so many children without families, only one person comes to mind.

  Dark clouds gather as I travel east. Although the deceased litter the streets, I keep searching for survivors. I stumble into Victoria Park. It is just as abandoned as the streets.

  “Annabella!” I shout, but my words are lost in the cacophony of the rain.

  More than likely Annabella is not here. She’s probably safe at home with her family, but my gut tells me otherwise. I search the west end of the park, calling out her name, but she doesn’t answer.

  Just as I’m about to abandon my efforts, my eyes fall on the hollowed-out tree from the day she played hide-and-seek with my sister. I plod through the puddles and reach the tree.

  “Annabella?” I call.

  Even in the dark, I can see her shivering in the cramped space. She holds a slingshot made of a tree branch and elastic string. A small stone rests in a leather pouch. Even though I know she is capable of taking an eye out at this close a range, I reach a hand out to her.

  “Come with me,” I say, the rain showering into my eyes.

  She shakes her head, drops of water falling from her bangs. “I’m scared.”

  At that moment she reminds me of my sister, trapped as the world stood still. As our parents took their last breath.

  “Annabella, it’s me, Pete,” I say, hoping for some amount of recognition.

  “Gabby’s brother?” she asks, lowering her weapon.

  Gabby. Gabrielle. My Gabrielle. Her name cracks the weakest fissures of my soul. I have no words. All I can manage is a single nod.

  “Where is she?” Annabella asks.

  I bite my bottom lip, knowing that the truth will make this situation worse. Since she’s here, I can only assume she’s lost her family, like most of the kids rescued from the streets. She’s driven here by grief, by fear. Adding the fact that my sister is … she’s … well, she’s no longer with me; her hide-and-seek days are over. That won’t make things easier. I need to get Annabella to safety.

  “Do you trust me?” I ask, holding my hand out to her.

  She peers into my eyes and nods. “Just one thing,” she says.

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  “Call me Bella. That’s what my family calls me,” she says, reaching for me.

  It doesn’t take much time to realize that I am her only family now.

  “You got it, Bella,” I say, smiling. I reach for her, lifting her from the hollow of the tree. We run through the slick cobblestoned streets, blinking the droplets of rain from our lashes as we head west. Kids of all ages cower in dark corners, empty shops, and abandoned cars. With Bella’s help, I coax them to join us.

  Continuing farther into the city, we encounter many more injured. Knowing that the invaders are now hunting the streets, we can’t afford to be too noisy.

  “Shush!” I say, scolding the few kids who are whimpering. Their lips quiver, fear glazing their eyes. Bella makes her way to the littlest of the bunch, takes off her cloak, and wraps it around the young girl’s body. So much about her reminds me of my sister that I choke up at her kindness. There’s no time for sentimentality, no time to grieve. While Gabrielle depended on me, dozens, maybe even a hundred or more, need my help now. In my eyes, they are ghosts of my sister. They all must be rescued and need help sifting through the circumstances that life has delivered to them. The young, the ones my age … we all desire a family of some sort, especially right now. And with London in ruins, every lost kid should have somewhere to go. If I can be that for them, if I can provide them safety and shelter, then every breath I take is worth it.

  But I can’t do it alone.

  We turn the corner, where the clinic still stands amid inhabitable structures. A carpet of sheets covers still bodies piled on the street and sidewalks. There is hardly room to walk between them. Only a handful of people lean against the brick wall of the medical facility, barely moving. They may be alive now, but not for much longer.

  Doc kneels over the lifeless forms, shaking his head. Because he’s still here, I can only assume the invaders have yet to search this area.

  Pulling a blanket over the patient, Doc stands, and wipes his forehead with the sleeve of his coat. The sight of him ignites a fierce rage within me. He tends to all of these people, perfect strangers, while my sister lies dead somewhere inside the clinic.

  Someone whimpers behind me. Bella lifts a boy who’s about three into her arms and shushes him. As angry as I am with Doc, these kids need his help.

  “Stay here,” I whisper to the kids as I leave them in the alley.

  Carefully, I make my way through the maze of dead.

  Doc is kneeling again, holding a mirror to the lips of the motionless woman at his feet. When it doesn’t fog up with her breath, he pulls a sheet over her face.

  “Doc!” I yell.

  As he turns, his slumped posture and bloodstained coat say it all. He’s seen more death in one day than I’ve witnessed in a lifetime. I almost feel bad for the chap, but there’s no time for pity. I make my way through the bodies and kneel next to Doc. He peers at me with tired eyes.

  “You need to come with me. I have dozens of kids who need your help,” I say.

  Doc shakes his head and laughs. “What a brilliant idea, Pete. Excellent, really. I’ll just let these fine people here fend for themselves. I’m sure they’ll manage with just a couple of bandages and filthy sheets,” he says sarcastically.

  “There are more deceased here than living. The dead don’t need your help,” I urge.

  “And what about the living? What? Should I just abandon them?” he asks, waving toward the few weak survivors.

  “Bring the ones who can walk,” I say.

  “And the others?” he asks.

  Pressing my lips together, I shake my head.

  “I took an oath and I will not abandon it! These people need my help just as much as anyone,” Doc shouts. He stoops to examine a young woman in her twenties, and after deeming her dead, he covers her.

  “These people are dead, and if they aren’t, it’s only a matter of time. You can’t save them, but you can help me save these kids,” I plead.

  Doc ignores me and continues to the next motionless patient.

  I kneel in front of him, grab his coat, and give him a shake. “You are more than your oath. You’re a better man. These people, they are gone, Doc. There’s nothing more you can do for them. You have to come with me. These kids need your help.”

  Doc says nothing. He won’t meet my eyes.

  Balling up my fists, I shout, disgusted by his unwillingness to leave this mortuary and help me. “I’m glad Gabrielle didn’t have to see this side of you! You’re not the man she thought you were. She never would’ve loved someone so callous. You’d rather mourn the dead than save the living!”

  Doc turns his gaze toward the hospital, and his head drops. It is then I realize what’s going on. He isn’t here because of the living. He’s here because he won’t leave Gabrielle. I knew they were close, but I never understood how much he cared for her.

  I make one last plea. “She’s gone, Doc,” I say, my words catching in my throat. “We need your help. I need your help. Please, come with us.”

  A mournful sob erupts from deep within him and his body trembles. He shakes his head, offering the only answer that is not acceptable.

  The cry of the littlest survivor in Bella’s tiny arms draws my attention back to the group of kids I’ve rescued. As I look into each of their faces, I don’t se
e children, but young people who have been forced to grow up all too soon. Death and destruction have changed them and their innocence has been stolen. They’re frightened, cold, and hungry. Their worried eyes seek safety. Solace.

  I glance over my shoulder. On his knees and sitting back on his heels, Docs cries for the girl he loved and lost. Other than my own mother, she was the only girl I’ve ever loved as well. My chest aches as I realize that even Doc seeks solace.

  With nothing else I can do, I reluctantly return to the group of children I’ve gathered, but keep my cold stare forward. If I don’t, I’ll break, too.

  “What’s going on?” Bella asks. “That doctor isn’t going to help us?”

  “Not today,” I say, my voice betraying my grief. “Let’s go.”

  King’s Cross Station is nothing but steel beams and piles of brick. We scurry over the rubble as the already-familiar sound of the spiderlike tanks makes the ground beneath our feet tremble. Bella and I assist each kid as they climb over the mountains of debris. Although I know she’s young, I am impressed by her fierce determination. I feel the pain she’s contending with. I’ve yet to accept fully that Gabrielle is forever gone from my life. And my parents were taken long ago. But I recall the raw emotion I felt as I stumbled from the wreckage that stole my parents from me. And the heavy burden of sitting by my sister’s broken body while I waited for help. It was life or death then. It’s life or death now.

  By the time we stagger down the staircase and into the Underground station, the sound of the intruders’ heavy footsteps and loud tanks ricochet off the concrete station walls.

  We make our way east within the tunnel under the dim light of the few gas lanterns that have managed to survive the bombs. Finally, we stumble onto a steam train that has shifted off its track. A dim light flickers within the car, illuminating several figures. Although I’m fairly certain it’s the group I left at Farringdon Station, I pull my daggers out just in case. Instructing the others to stay behind, I slip through the broken window.

  The murmur of voices carries in the quiet of the dark tunnel. I hold my breath, not wanting to alert whoever is ahead. The floor creaks beneath my boots and I hold still. But it’s too late. The group ahead quits talking, shushing one another as they rise in unison, their forms lit with a lantern’s glow.

  “Who’s there?” someone shouts, and I instantly recognize the voice. “Because if it’s one of you gun-toting mean guys, I’m going to pop you and you’ll be crying until next week!”

  Gabs clumsily tosses around a wooden stick, trying his best to seem daunting. I nearly laugh, but press my lips together to hold it back. In light of the circumstances, I welcome his innocence. Kids of all ages, races, and genders follow behind, ready to defend him.

  Sheathing my blades, I hold both hands up, not only to show that I am unarmed but also to protect the kids with me who have seen their share of trauma. They doesn’t need any more.

  Pyro flashes a tungsten monocular with a built-in inflammatory device at me, momentarily blinding my eyes. It’s an Illuminator. Where he snatched such a fancy gadget is the least of my concerns. One boy knocks a welder’s mask over his face and flicks the switch to his soldering iron. The air fills with the scent of burning gas as he protects those behind him.

  “Whoa! It’s me! Pete!” I shout.

  The kids, or at least the ones I’ve met, give out an audible sigh. The others remain wary, shifting uncomfortably as if trying to decide whether I should be trusted.

  “Pete!” Gabs says, dropping the jagged piece of wood. He rushes toward me, wrapping his small arms around my waist. “I thought those pirates captured you and turned you into Swiss cheese with those crazy guns they’re carrying around.”

  I ruffle his dark hair. “Catch me? Not a chance, Gabs.”

  Pickpocket places a hand on the boy brandishing his welding weapons. “That’ll do, Cogen. This bloke is one of ours.”

  Cogen shuts off his soldering iron, lifts his mask, and juts a hand out. I’m surprised to see a day’s worth of growth on his face. Although he’s small for his age, I’m grateful for another older kid. We could use as many as we can get.

  “Sorry about that, chap. The name’s Cogen, but most just call me Cogs,” he says.

  I shake his hand. “Nice to meet you, Cogs. You any good with that tool?”

  “Are you kidding me? Cogs is the fellow who made this for me.” Pyro pulls his flintlock pistol from his belt and sparks it. “Cogs can make just about anything.”

  “Is that right?” I ask.

  Cogs nods. “Pops was a welder, Mum a clockmaker; the rest of the family was in one trade or another. If you need something built, I’m your man.”

  I scan the crowd of kids. Surely there are more talents within the group. It’s not uncommon for parents to pass their trade down to their children, especially for those who can’t afford to send their children to university or even secondary school.

  “Listen up! There’s no easy way to put this, so I’m just going to give it to you straight: London is gone. The home we knew is obviously in ruins.”

  A few of the younger kids begin to cry, while the older ones attempt to comfort them with a pat on the back or a hug.

  “But that does not mean we will lie down and die with it. We are what’s left of London. We’re the future if there’s ever one to be had. But we’ll need to work together to create a safe place, a home for those without. That have nothing of their own: no belongings, no homes, no families. It’ll be a city for all of those who are lost. The Lost City!”

  Even through their tired and weary gazes, there is a spark of hope. A resiliency far stronger than even I possess.

  “If we ever wish to see the light of tomorrow, we need to band together. Bring every talent, every skill we have to survive,” I say, pacing with my hands gripped on the hilts of my daggers. “If you know anything about retrieving food, building shelter, anything at all, you will be needed.”

  A young girl holding a little boy’s hand waves. “Our mum is … or was an herbalist,” she says. She sucks in her bottom lip to keep it from quivering. Her eyes meet mine and I nod to her, hoping she understands that this is no time to grieve. That will come later. She drops her gaze to the ground, swallows, and continues. “And our father worked our farm. We know a thing or two about plants.”

  “Excellent! What else do we have here?” I say loudly so that those in the other cars and outside the train can hear. “What other skills do you all possess? Do we have experienced miners among us?”

  A stocky teenage boy wraps his arm around his brother, whose eyes are milky white in the lamplight. “My brother and I know a bit about mining.”

  “My father was an architect,” shouts one teenage girl.

  “Mine was an auctioneer and a really good one. He talked so fast that I hardly could understand a thing he was saying. He’d just go on and on and on and on about whatever he was trying to sell and never even took a breath. I have no idea how he did it. You’d think he’d eventually pass out, but he didn’t. Maybe he didn’t require air,” Gabs says.

  “That explains a lot,” Bella says with a small smile.

  Every kid raises his or her hand, enthusiastically shouting out skills I’m certain will help with my plan. Although doubt still wrenches at my gut, there are no other options.

  The earth rumbles again, showering debris outside of the train. The invaders are close, but I refuse to watch one more person die.

  “Pickpocket, you’re coming with me. Grab three more kids who can run fast. Pyro, seal the entrance after we leave and take the kids farther down the track. Cogs, get the miner boys to help you find a location we can set up as home base and start putting the kids to work. We’ll need the basics immediately: light, sanitation, water, storage. Anything you can come up with to make things as comfortable as possible,” I say. “Can you guys handle it?”

  “Sure, Pete, but what about you and Pickpocket?” Pyro says.

  “We’re going sc
avenging for supplies. These kids are going to get hungry really fast and we’re going to need tools. Lots of tools,” I say, exiting the train car. “See you all later!”

  I sense Pickpocket and the other boys running behind me.

  “But how will you find us, Pete?” Bella says, her footsteps falling behind.

  “I’ll find you!” I shout, running out of the station.

  * * *

  It’s been two weeks since the invasion, since I last had the courage to return to the place my sister died. There doesn’t appear to be a living soul anywhere near or in the hospital. Judging by the bodies piled up along the sidewalks, the broken windows, and the holes punched into the street, the invaders, or what we’ve learned by now are the Marauders from Germany, have been through here.

  I’ve spent the last fourteen days with other survivors, running the streets. We scavenge the most meager of supplies for the hundreds of children we’ve pulled from the rubble. Although food and clean water are scarce, no one goes to bed hungry. Even if that means that I go without sleep. With the help of other survivors, we’ve managed most of our needs, yet we can’t save the sick. The youngest, the babies, seemed to succumb to the environment first. If we’re planning on surviving, there’s only one person who can help.

  Flies fill the alleyway like a cyclone. Even with my goggles, I can barely see through the infestation. I’m grateful I’ve brought a handkerchief to cover my mouth and nose. I make my way toward the clinic.

  After scouting the street, I dash from the alley and into the building. It is a disaster. Glass litters the floor among the broken bottles, blood-soiled bandages, and other remnants. I snatch up physicians’ tools, medicine, and bandages, stuffing them in my rucksack. No one appears to be within the building until a noise from the back of the clinic startles me. Quietly, I pull my daggers from their sheaths. The swinging doors to the surgery ward are no longer on their hinges but lie tossed to the side. Glass crackles beneath my boots as I make my way through the doorway.