Lost Boy

by Wendy Spinale

  My hopes rise as I stumble upon a single-story house that appears untouched. Other than a pile of bricks and mortar from what was a chimney, the structure seems undamaged. Thankfully, the windows remain intact, a sure sign that no one has scavenged the place. Still, I know I must be cautious. Assumptions will get me killed.

  I step out of the shadows and into the milky moonlight. Glass crushes beneath my black leather boots. I cringe, cursing my careless mistake. The stillness of the night air remains unbroken, at least this time. I make my way to the side of the house, slipping through a broken board in the backyard fence.

  With the palm of my hand, I wipe dirt from a dingy window on the garage door. It’s too dark inside to see anything. Placing my rucksack on the ground, I pull out a small kerosene lantern and a book of matches. The cover flips open, revealing a single match.

  Afraid of accidentally blowing it out, I hold my breath, run the match along the strike strip, and light the lamp. It sparks and the warmth chases away the chill from my fingers.

  Once more, I survey my surroundings to be sure no one is watching, even though I know I’d hear the hiss of the military’s steam tanks from a mile away. Searching the ground, I select a loose brick from the crumbled chimney and hurl it at the window. The glass shatters, breaking into a thousand tiny shards, littering the stone walkway in a puddle of fragmented tears and leaving jagged teeth in the frame. I reach inside to unlock the door, careful not to cut myself. As I let myself into the garage, rusty hinges wail in protest.

  Like most of the homes I have searched, empty boxes and plastic containers lay strewn about the dusty floor, evidence of a family fleeing for their lives from the bombs, the deadly virus, and the Marauders. More than likely, there will be nothing left to salvage, but I rummage through the shelves and drawers anyway. Other than a rusted torque ratchet and spool of copper wire, everything else is useless. I slip the treasures into my pack before trying the door into the house. Fortunately, it gives way with little resistance, allowing me to enter the living room.

  Photos of a family hang on a pale yellow wall above a sofa. Naïve smiles greet me from the frames: a man with a square chin; a doe-eyed woman; and two kids, a boy and a girl. I trace my finger over the faces. Where are they now? Did they make it? Did they get out of the city in time? Questions I often ask about my own parents, but like the silent, ghostly images staring at me through these family photos, I’m left with more uncertainties than answers.

  Stepping away from the pictures, I catch a glimpse of my own reflection in the glass. Blue eyes stare back at me, hollow and distant with dark circles beneath them. Loose tendrils of light brown, curly hair, having fallen out of my plait, frame my dirt-streaked cheeks. I pull out the hair ribbon and rake my fingers through my kinky waves, but it doesn’t help. Rubbing my fingertips over the smudges on my face, I notice the dirt under my fingernails. My breath catches as I remember that only a year ago I obsessed about perfect manicures. Now those worries seem frivolous as I inspect my calloused, filthy palms covered in cuts and scars. Another glance at my reflection and I notice that although I am just shy of my sixteenth birthday, I look as if I am twice my age.

  A noise to my right startles me. Two yellow eyes peer at me before disappearing beneath a broken china hutch: a rat. Figures, I think. Along with cockroaches and children, rodents are among the last survivors of the war.

  As expected, most of the food is gone or eaten by the rats. I’m lucky enough to find a tin of tuna packaged in spring water and a half-full canister of pasta in an upper cupboard. I add them to my pack. Placing a canteen beneath the sink faucet, I try to turn the water on. Pipes rumble for a moment, then go quiet. A few drops of muddy brown water drip from the dusty silver mouth, but hardly enough for a sip. I slam the handle.

  I continue to search the house for other items to add to my stash: a kitchen knife, a colander, and an umbrella, a necessity for England regardless of the time of year. The master bedroom is empty aside from a metal bed frame and a broken kerosene lantern. A black frock with decorative silver knob buttons on the lapel hangs in the back of the closet. It’s big, but it will suffice. I slip my arms through the sleeves and sling my pack over my shoulders.

  Lying in the center of a bedroom painted flamingo pink is a tattered brown bear peering at me with a single black button eye. I pick it up and hold it to my chest, remembering my own room filled with too many stuffed animals. My nose tingles with the faint smell of chocolate, and I recall the strawberry-scented bunny that sat at the head of my bed. I add the bear to my stash. If nothing else, it will be good kindling for a fire.

  A shrill scream shatters the silence. I extinguish my lantern and race back to the sitting room. Leaning up against a wall, I hide from the window’s view. The lantern rattles in my trembling grip. I sneak a glance through the single-pane glass. Footsteps hammer on the wet cobblestone street, soaked from the late evening’s shower. A dozen Marauders in dark military attire halt in front of the sitting room window. Bronze chest and shoulder plates cover their uniforms. Full leather and metal helmets complete with night-vision goggles and gas masks obscure their faces. They scan the street, their geared and cogged metal rifles reflecting the full moon. My heart races at the terrifying sight of them as sweat prickles at my neck. One soldier gives an order, his voice almost mechanical through his helmet. The group splits into teams, smashing down the doors of the adjacent homes. I duck below the windowsill but keep my attention fixed on the soldiers storming through the houses.

  Something shifts across the street, catching my attention. A girl with long blond hair peeks from a shrub. She looks to be about Joanna’s age, just a child really. The girl scans her surroundings before dashing down the street. I bolt upright, watching her stop several houses down and jump onto a rubbish bin. On her back is a leather and metal rocket pack. She pulls a lever and a large brass cog, not unlike those found inside a clock, spins on the outside of the pack. Two delicate copper wings spring open. Steam spills from the bottom of the rockets and her feet leave the ground. Her petite frame flies over a wooden fence.

  Something in me wants to follow her, a longing for human connection other than my own family. But I remind myself that Joanna and Mikey are waiting for me at home. They are my responsibility. Still, I haven’t seen anyone else in months. Like me, they must hide in the shadows if they haven’t already succumbed to the virus or been caught by the Marauders. I stare into the dark alley that the girl disappeared into, when suddenly two green eyes lined with black powder peer at me, separated from me only by glass. Alarmed, I fall back, catching myself with my hands. A teenage boy gazes through the window, unblinking. His wide eyes look me up and down, as if he is as shocked to see me as I am him. He looks back at his pursuers, then at me.

  “Let me in,” he pleads, the glass muffling his words as he pounds on the windowpane with his fists.

  Immobilized by fear, I shake my head as my pulse quickens. My quaking hand reaches for my dagger. I unsheathe the blade and point it at him. He slaps both of his palms on the window, making the glass vibrate. Startled, I inch back farther from the window. He stares with such intensity my breath catches. The gruff voices in the street grow louder, drawing his attention. His clenched, stubbled jaw twitches and he turns his jade gaze back to me one last time. His face expresses something akin to frustration or disappointment—which, I am not sure. It ignites the sickening feeling of guilt I’ve become so accustomed to. He is not the first I have turned away, sacrificed for the good of my own family. Nor will he be the last, of this I am sure.

  The boy pushes off the glass and darts across the residential street. Effortlessly, he leaps over the wooden fence, lands on the top of a rubbish bin, springs onto a second-story balcony, and with the expertise of a gymnast, pulls himself onto the rooftop. Standing on the peak of the two-story Victorian home, he looks back at me with a curious expression. Other than his forest-green coat, its tails fluttering in the wind, he is dressed entirely in black.

 
The glow of the moon shines on his handsome face. Fixing his gaze on me, he bows and slips a pair of goggles dangling from his neck over his eyes. He holds his cupped hands to his mouth. With the call of a rooster, he cries into the broken clouds and star-embezzled night sky before vanishing over the roof peaks of this suburb. Puzzled, I sit back on my heels and stare at the spot where he stood, half expecting him to reappear. The angry shouts grow louder and another group of military men passes the house. I duck below the sill, risking another glance out the window.

  Two soldiers, only a few years older than me, stop just outside of the house.

  “Which way did they go?” one of the Marauders asks, peering through the window.

  I press my body and face to the dusty carpet. Fear chokes me as I listen to the other soldier respond.

  “The girl took off up the street and the boy went over the roof,” the other soldier growls menacingly with a thick, deep German accent behind his helmet.

  “Check the backyards for Immunes,” the first soldier says.

  “Yes, sir.”

  The two Marauders race across the street and climb the fence, disappearing behind the house. I sigh, letting go of the breath I did not know I was holding.

  Immunes: the vile name they’ve given to children who have not died of the Horologia virus. We are the survivors of the outbreak and valued for our antibodies. The Marauders are our abductors.

  Ten restless minutes slip by before I make my way to the alley behind the house. Sprinting, I keep to the rubbish-littered backstreets, haunted by ethereal shadows cast by jagged rooftops. With the Marauders out patrolling, I backtrack through unfamiliar passageways and find alternative routes. For the last few months, they have hunted for survivors, children orphaned and left on their own in the streets. However, I have never seen soldiers search the suburbs this far outside the borders of what once was London proper. Not London anymore, I remind myself; they call it Everland now.

  After an hour, I hide behind a row of hedges and watch for movement along the dark street. I have the uneasy feeling that I am being watched, but see no one. Sprinting to the fire-escape ladder, I scramble as fast as I can, the cold metal leaving its bitter bite on my fingers. When I reach the landing of the fifth floor, I climb through the window frame and throw myself to the concrete floor. I sink my teeth down on my lip, trying to quiet my rapid breathing as I listen for anyone following behind. The night echoes my silence.

  I let out a breath, relieved to be greeted with the quiet of our refuge, our sanctuary … for now, at least. Standing, I brush off the dust from my coat. A candle sputters on the far side of the room next to three empty mattresses. The sweet smell of rum stings my nose, and I know instantly something is wrong.

  Joanna and Mikey are nowhere to be found.

  My gaze darts throughout the room, searching for my brother and sister. I tiptoe across the floor, being as silent as possible. Something large rustles near the shelves to my right. An icy chill races up my spine. My fingers graze the copper hilts of the daggers sheathed on my hips. A whimper emanates from inside the metal rubbish bin. With caution, I lift the lid.

  Two watery brown eyes glisten at me, the moonlight reflecting in their frightened gleam.

  “Mikey!” I reach for him, pulling him from the bin. A colander covers his head like a helmet and he wears makeshift armor over his tattered pajamas. He looks like he’s ready for war.

  “They came, the pirates!” he says, sniffling.

  “Not the Marauders,” I beg, my voice weak.

  “Joanna said they were pirates. She told me to hide. I did just what she said. I hid in the bin and was as quiet as a dormouse. Even quieter.”

  My pulse races and my cheeks flush with panic as I settle Mikey to the floor and dart across the room, searching other hiding spots for my sister.

  “Where’s Joanna?” I ask frantically, lifting one of the mattresses.

  “They took her,” Mikey says in a fresh burst of tears. “They took her away.”

  I run to the window, but the streets are quiet and there is no sign of the Marauders. Mikey rushes me, jumping back in my arms and burying his face in my neck. I look out into the distance and a deep ache festers in the pit of my stomach as a new realization settles over me.

  To get my sister back, I will have to return to Everland.

  Continue the adventure in

  And look for book two,

  Wendy Spinale is a former character actor for the Disneyland theme park (so she is very familiar with the world of make-believe). She is the author of Everland.

  Wendy lives with her family in the San Francisco Bay Area.

  Copyright © 2017 by Wendy Spinale

  All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Press, an imprint of Scholastic Inc., Publishers since 1920. SCHOLASTIC, SCHOLASTIC PRESS, and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.

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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  First edition, January 2017

  Cover design & art by Christopher Stengel

  e-ISBN 978-1-338-03579-7

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