Lost Boy

by Wendy Spinale

“Hello?” I say. “Anyone here?”

  Another scuffle from the floor comes from the room to my right. Gripping the hilts of my blades tighter, I cautiously enter the room. Surgery tables are turned over among spilled containers and scraps of bedding. From the corner of my eye, I see something dart in the shadows to my right. I lift my dagger, ready to throw it, when a rat peers up at me before scurrying beneath a steel table.

  “Lucky rodent,” I say, sheathing my daggers.

  My airway is cut off as something slips around my neck. Gripping the fabric with both hands, I struggle to catch my breath. With all the strength I can muster, I push backward, slamming my assailant into the wall. He grunts and tightens his hold on my throat. I knock him into the wall twice more before air fills my lungs. Once I have the upper hand, I elbow him hard in the gut. He stumbles back as I whip out my dagger, grab him by the coat, and hold the blade to his neck.

  The boy who stands before me wears dark goggles and a beaked mask. If it weren’t for his familiar lab coat, I would never have recognized Doc. Disheveled, he pants, holding up his hands in surrender. “Don’t kill me. I’ll give you anything. Anything at all, just don’t hurt me,” Doc says, clearly not recognizing me.

  Grateful that it’s only him, I sheathe my daggers.

  Doc is who I came back here for, but he is not who worries me the most. The German army has taken control of all of London. They are led by the ruthless Captain Hanz Otto Oswald Kretschmer, who has declared that London and all its surrounding lands forever belong to the German queen. Although she’s known as Queen Katherina, the bloodbath she’s responsible for has earned her a new name: the Bloodred Queen. It’s too soon to know what her intentions are.

  “As much as I’d like to skewer you, that is not my intent,” I grumble, pulling my goggles down.

  “Pete?” he asks.

  “Well, I’m certainly not one of your patients. If I was, I wouldn’t be here to talk about it,” I say, relishing in the jab.

  Doc rubs his forehead. “What are you doing here?”

  “Looking for you. After your dramatic declaration to stick to your oaths, you’re lucky I even considered coming back,” I say. “I need your help.”

  “My help?” Doc asks. “With what?”

  “The only value you have to me is your expertise in medicine, so I’m here to ask for you to come with me. Again. I have sick kids hidden in a secret location. They need a doctor, and since it appears there are absolutely no adults who survived the attack, that leaves no other choice but you,” I say. “Unfortunately.”

  Doc sighs, taking in the ransacked and vandalized office. He shuffles through the debris, kneeling to pick up an unbroken bottle of clear liquid.

  “But what if there are others?” Doc says. “If I leave they’ll have no one. What good am I worth if I’m not here for them?”

  I march over and kneel next to him and jab a finger into his chest. “You aren’t worth a sack of beans if you stay here and let those kids die.”

  “How many kids are we talking?” he says, pocketing the vial of medicine.

  “Dozens. Mostly babies, toddlers, and some of the older girls,” I say, standing.

  Doc looks around the room, as if wondering where the hospital he once used to save lives has gone to. He shakes his head. “I can’t. I just can’t abandon my post.”

  “I wasn’t wrong,” I say, fury lacing my voice.

  “About what?” he asks.

  “You’re a coward.” I turn and storm out of the room.

  “Wait! Where are you going?” he says, following behind.

  Spinning, I’m so close to his ridiculously masked face that I’m tempted to rip it off, but I can’t bear to look him in the eye. “To dig their graves, thanks to you.”

  I kick a broken piece of furniture as I enter the lobby. The familiar swish of the Marauders’ Steam Crawlers and the buzz of the airships sing from outside. Picking up my pace, I break into a jog, knowing I don’t have much time to get back to the entrance to the Lost City before the invaders find me wandering the streets.

  “Wait!” Doc shouts.

  Halfway through the lobby, I turn.

  Doc pulls Gabrielle’s flute from his coat pocket and hands it to me, not meeting my eyes. A lump catches in my throat and I rub my thumb over the intricately engraved family name in the wood: Pan.

  When I return my gaze to Doc, he is gathering supplies from the cabinets and drawers, stashing them in the large pockets of his lab coat. “Take me to the sick kids,” he says, and still I hear the hesitancy in his voice.

  “Keep your mouth shut and stay close,” I say with equal reluctance.

  Doc gives the hospital one last glance. “Let’s go,” he says.

  It takes longer than I expect to reach the entrance to the Lost City. The Marauders patrolling the street have grown exponentially over the last couple of days. Although I don’t know what they’re seeking, many of my teams of Scavengers have not returned. I can only assume they’ve been captured or killed. With all of the death I’ve encountered, I feel broken … hollow inside. As of now, I have no idea who will or who won’t die. I build a wall around my heart, cutting off any emotion toward the kids I’ve saved the last few weeks, because, frankly … they may not be here tomorrow.

  That is, everyone but Bella. Other than Doc, no one else knew Gabrielle. I need to keep Bella close, not only physically, but also in my heart. Like a photograph, she encompasses one of my last memories of my twin sister.

  Doc and I follow what’s left of the rail tracks toward the city. Much of the line has been used as support to stabilize the load-bearing walls and ceiling. Finally, we turn a corner and head down a sloped path.

  Bright lights illuminate the arched doorway. Doc peers at the city with awe.

  Still under intense construction, the cavern is filled with the sound of hammers, saws, and kerosene-powered tools. Beams and support columns surround the vast cave. Kids of all ages stand on rickety platforms rigged with pulleys as they stabilize the framework of the city. An aqueduct runs through the makeshift town from a massive pipe in the wall and continues through an enormous waterwheel. Gas lamps hang from a lattice of copper piping attached to the ceiling.

  Doc gapes at the incredible town these kids have managed to create in just a couple of weeks. I can’t help but smirk at his reaction. Even I find myself amazed every time I return with the Scavengers.

  “Welcome to the Lost City,” I say.

  “There’s so many kids,” Doc says, his eyes filled with astonishment.

  “You think you can keep your oath with this crew?” I ask.

  He nods, his cheeks bright with embarrassment.

  “Now, let me take you to where you’ll be staying,” I say.

  Gabs sits cross-legged in front of the brick, wood, and metal structures built to house storage and weapons. A plank of wood lies in front of him alongside a can and brush. Red paint stains his hands and face.

  “Hey, Pete, is this how you spell apothecary?” he asks.

  I read what he’s written and hold back my laughter. A-P-O-T-O-K-A-R-E is barely legible on the plank. We’ll have to fix that later, but for now, I kneel, pat him on the back, and give him a reassuring smile. “Great job, kid,” I say.

  He beams with joy as he inspects his work. “Thanks, Pete!”

  Leading Doc up the steps, I open the door and step aside. “After you.”

  Warily, Doc walks in. The room is filled wall to wall with patients, the littlest of whom cry loudly. The previous blush in the doctor’s cheeks pales as he realizes the dire situation that awaits him. He rests a hand on a toddler’s forehead.

  “She’s burning up,” he says.

  I nod. “I’ve done all I know to do for them. They need your help,” I say.

  Doc takes off his coat, rolls up his sleeves, and makes a quick assessment of the kids. “I’m going to need cool water, sterile bandages, alcohol, and a few more helping hands.”

  “You got it, Doc. It’s
good to have you on board,” I say.

  Turning, I leave the doctor to his patients and make my way down the steps of the building. Nearby, five teenage boys are huddled on the ground, throwing dice. Small trinkets lie in front of them as they place wagers.

  “Scavengers, does this seem like a smoke break to you? Get your bums up. We have supplies to gather,” I say.

  They hoot as they gather their winnings, stuff their pockets, and dash through the western tunnel. I follow.

  This may not be the England we once knew, not even the London we grew up in, but the Lost City is our home for now. And these kids are my family. I will do everything in my power to protect and provide for them, even if that means dying.

  Keep reading for a sneak peek of

  Outside my window, plumes of gray smoke and steam rise from the decimated city into the polluted midnight sky. There they linger like ghosts of those who once walked the streets of London before the arrival of the Marauders. I briefly wonder what life was like before the German monarch’s reign began and the world was without steam power.

  In the distance, the faint glow of kerosene lanterns illuminates the remains of the city I once called home, daring me to venture beyond the safety of our dusty hideout above an old furniture warehouse. My heart aches to return to the house in which all of my childhood memories were made, but there is nothing left of it. Taking in a breath, I swing my legs through the broken window and onto the rusty fire escape, answering the city’s quiet call.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Her accusing whisper startles me.

  Looking over my shoulder, I find my twelve-year-old sister, Joanna. She stares at me with reproachful eyes, her arms folded across her chest. Her small face scowls, reminding me of the look my mother used to give me after I had been caught doing something wrong. Now all that remains of my mother is my sister’s uncanny resemblance to her: corkscrew curls, a turned-up nose, and high cheekbones.

  “We’re almost out of rice and are down to a few liters of water,” I say, adjusting the leather straps on my rucksack. “I’m heading out to scavenge. I won’t be gone long.”

  “Gwen, the Marauders are patrolling closer,” she says, pointing out the window. A zeppelin flies low, skirting the rooftops of the mangled buildings in the distance. The city’s lamplight casts a golden glow on its wooden hull. Even from here I can hear the whir of its engines and propellers. “It’s too dangerous.”

  “I know,” I say with a sigh. “It’s time to move again. We should probably head north toward Cambridge. There is not much left this far outside of the city anyway. We’ll pack up and leave in the morning, but I have to find something for us to eat.”

  Joanna reaches toward a shelf. She grabs an aluminum pot, turns it over, and places it on her head. Under the window’s ledge, she pulls out her chest armor, made of two cookie sheets held together with copper wire. My sister slips the armor over her head. “I’m coming with you.”

  “Not this time, Joanna.” I place her makeshift helmet back on the shelf. Tilting her chin, our eyes meet. “You need to look after Mikey. He’s been having night terrors again.”

  Joanna squints. “You know Mum and Dad wouldn’t approve of this.”

  This again? I’ve lost count how many times Joanna has used our parents to try to stop me from venturing out alone. “We’re not going to discuss this.”

  “You know I’m right,” she says with defiance.

  Impatience wells up inside me and my words spill out harsher than I intend. “Mum and Dad are gone. I’m the oldest. I’m in charge now. We’ve been through this a hundred times.”

  Joanna jerks her chin from my grip. “You don’t know that for sure. They could still be out there waiting for us,” she says, waving a hand toward the window.

  “It’s been a year since the invasion. If they were alive, they would have come for us. They are not waiting, nor are they coming back,” I say, trying to keep my voice calm but not succeeding. “Our parents are dead.”

  Joanna is quiet, the sting of my words evident as her bottom lip quivers. She stares at her small bare feet and twirls the copper-button bracelet on her wrist. The military insignia on each button is worn. They once lined the lapel of one of our father’s uniforms. It is the only token my sister has left of him. Instinctively, I reach for my father’s military tags around my neck, comforted by the keepsake he left me.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean … ,” I say, silently berating myself. After a year of caring for my siblings, my temper has become increasingly short. It seems to take so little to set me off lately. I try to pull her into a hug, but she recoils, unwilling to meet my gaze.

  “You’ve changed,” Joanna says, her words hot and bitter. “You’re not the same. You promised, Gwen. What happened to our Sister Pact?”

  Visions of our early childhood wash over me like an unexpected storm on a clear day. Dozens of stinging raindrops, each carrying a memory, invade my thoughts. Nights of sneaking from my bed and into hers to tell her stories of fairies, pirates, and mermaids. Pinkie-sworn promises to never grow up. Promises I couldn’t keep.

  “That was then, this is now.” My voice is too loud, I warn myself, but I cannot contain the frustration bubbling inside me like an unattended pot of water over an open fire. “Do you think I like this any better than you do? Do you think I enjoy being the responsible one taking care of you and Mikey? I would give anything, anything at all, to have my life back, to have just one more day being a child and not your guardian. Look!” I point toward the city’s blackened remains, a boneyard landscape of fragmented buildings. “London is gone! And by the fact that no one has come to England’s aid, I think it’s safe to assume the aftermath of the invasion has extended beyond the country’s borders. It’s time to face reality: There are no more private schools or fancy parties.” My words spill too quick and harsh from my lips, but I can’t stop them. “No more ballet or equestrian lessons. Our parents are gone. We are trying to survive, and this is not a childhood game or make-believe. This is real life. It’s time to grow up.”

  An injured expression replaces the scowl on Joanna’s face. My stomach groans with hunger, but the ache is nothing compared with the immediate pang of guilt that fills me. I wish I could take back what I said. “Look,” I whisper. “Joanna, I …”

  “You were a much better sister than you are a mother,” she says softly, tracing pictures in the layer of dust on the floor with her big toe.

  A stab of pain pierces my heart like the tip of a sharpened sword. A mother? I had never intended to be her mother, but the stern tone in my voice echoes like a parent chiding her children. I am about to correct her, to convince her I am still her sister, only a child like her, when Mikey, our six-year-old brother, appears, rubbing his eyes. Dirt dusts his blond hair, making it look brown. I can’t remember the last time I bathed him. In fact, I can’t remember the last time I bathed myself.

  “What’s going on? Why are you guys fighting?” he asks through a yawn.

  “Never mind, go back to bed,” I say too sharply.

  “I can’t sleep. Bad dreams.” He takes Joanna’s bandaged hand. She winces but doesn’t complain. The blisters on her fingers have worsened over the weeks and seem excruciatingly painful. Bloody and infected, the sores haven’t responded to any treatment: warm baths, tubes of salve, bandages, or an expired bottle of antibiotics I scavenged. I’ve tried to convince myself that it’s nothing to worry about. That her wounds will heal with time. Refusing to believe that she has contracted what has ravaged the adult population and left many of the children untouched. But even through the denial, the truth still haunts me with every corpse I stumble upon.

  “Come on, I’ll lie down with you. Have I told you the stories about the mermaids in the city?” Joanna says, leading Mikey by the hand.

  “Are they real mermaids?” Mikey asks with curious, wide eyes.

  “Joanna,” I say, gently touching her shoulder. I want to apologize, to convince her that I am just
looking out for her well-being, but the words stick in my throat, filtered by uncertainty. Instead I hear myself saying, “Don’t keep him up too late with those silly fairy tales. And no pirate stories, he’ll be awake all night. It’s late. Blow that candle out. We’re leaving when I return.”

  She looks away. “I wish you’d never grown up,” she mumbles. I shudder, her words twisting a sharp blade in my chest. Joanna leads Mikey to our filthy mattresses and tattered blankets. They settle into the lumpy beds, whispering under the dancing flicker of dim candlelight. Mikey giggles as Joanna waves her hands around as if she were in an imaginary sword fight.

  Shaking my head, I turn back to the open window and take one final glance at England’s structural ruins. A gray haze hovers over the city like a cloak of death and disease. The blackened remains of the once-bustling town of London provide mute evidence of the carnage and destruction caused by the Marauders, the pirate soldiers sent by Queen Katherina of Germany.

  Years ago, Queen Katherina ascended the German throne after the unexpected death of her husband. But it soon became clear that ruling just one country would not be enough for her. England tried to stop her, working to have the International Peace Accords signed by the world’s nations. It was meant to unify and create a utopic society for all time. It was a hollow gesture at best. Queen Katherina quickly defied the treaty, leaving the countries surrounding her kingdom in a bloodbath, earning her the nickname the Bloodred Queen.

  So we are not her first invasion and certainly not her last.

  I descend the fire escape to the rain-soaked streets below. Leaving my sister and brother to their fairy tales, I travel east on foot for an hour outside of our hideout before reaching a dilapidated suburban community.

  A full moon casts its eerie glow through a break in the gloomy clouds, chasing away dark shadows in the alleys. The stench of death and rotting corpses still lingers in the muggy air, evidence of diseased bodies discarded into the sewage system by survivors and soldiers alike. Rumors of crocodiles let loose within the sewers to devour the dead circulated among the survivors in the days following the bombs. Even after all this time, the smell makes me want to retch. Crouching behind the rubble of bomb-shelled buildings, I watch for movement. Other than scavenging rodents, the night is silent. Most of the houses lie in ruins, casualties of the war. Those buildings still standing loom with windowless gapes and graffiti-painted walls, an indication that they have already been looted. Weeds grow tall in the front lawns and through the thick cracks of the buckling streets as nature reclaims what once was hers.