Night of the Purple Moon

by Scott Cramer

  He looked out the window and kept his eyes lifted on purpose, not ready to see his father’s body. Crazier than any dream, the sun was radiating like an eggplant and a bank of purple clouds was forming to the south.

  He slowly lowered his eyes. He had to try. “No!” he screamed. Two dogs were dragging his father across the backyard. One had clamped onto Dad’s shirt, the other one had him by his pants’ leg.

  Jordan charged out of the room and raced through the hall and flew down the stairs three at a time. He landed awkwardly at the bottom and twisted his right ankle. He ignored the sharp pain that shot up his leg and grabbed a fireplace poker. He ran past Abby, Emily, and Toucan who were all in the kitchen and then into the breezeway.

  He flung open the back door, but stopped abruptly on the porch, confused what he should do next. Those weren’t dogs. They were coyotes, a pack of six. The two dragging his father paused as they sized him up. Four other coyotes stood further back in a semi-circle. They had long spindly legs, lean, narrow bodies, mangy fur, and menacing yellow eyes.

  Coyotes avoid people, he told himself. He’d once seen a pack from a distance, in a field on the east side of the island. They’d scurried into the woods when they had seen him.

  “Get out!” he shouted, waving the fire poker wildly.

  The coyotes flinched, but held their ground. Was the space dust making them fearless, or crazy, as if they were rabid?

  He heard the door open. Abby shrieked.

  “Jordan, come inside,” she shouted. “Now!”

  He stomped his feet and smashed the poker on the railing. It didn’t work. The two coyotes resumed dragging Dad across the sandy soil. He was their prey. They were going to eat him.

  Abby yanked his arm, but he shook off her hand.

  “Emily, take Toucan upstairs,” Abby said. “Keep her away from the window. Jordan, listen to me!”

  “We’re safe up here,” Jordan said, not really believing that.

  The door opened again. “Wolves,” Kevin cried.

  “They’re coyotes,” Jordan said. The hose lay coiled next to the steps, and he had an idea. “Turn on the water. You can do it from the porch.” He raised the poker in case they charged. Blood pounded in his ears.

  “No,” Abby said.

  “Hurry up! Kevin, you do it!”

  Kevin obeyed. He reached between the railing spindles and spun the spigot handle. The ears of the coyotes stood erect and their noses quivered.

  Tears welled in Jordan’s eyes, and his legs felt like mush. With every passing second his will to take action weakened. It was now or never.

  Flushed with rage, he charged down the steps and swung the poker. The coyotes locked their eyes onto him, bared their teeth, and growled viciously in a terrifying chorus. He flung the metal rod at them. They backed up a step, but just as quickly advanced two more. He picked up the nozzle and took aim. The stream startled them. He drilled the closest ones with a jet of water.

  He took a giant step forward, shooting the water high to reach all of them. A few sprinkles of water accomplished what foot stamping and shouting and poker waving had failed to do. It frightened them. The coyotes loped off.

  Jordan collapsed to his knees.

  Abby rushed over with tears streaming down her face. “Jordan, that was really stupid.”

  For once, his sister was right.

  * * *

  Nose pressed to the glass, Emily steamed the window in the bedroom of Mr. and Mrs. Leigh as she watched Jordan remove the binoculars from around his father’s neck. She ached to comfort him.

  Toucan was bouncing on the bed behind her. Emily was certain the toddler had not witnessed the terrifying scene.

  Emily gripped the window sill and braced herself for what came next. Jordan and Kevin and Abby picked up Mr. Leigh and lugged him to a corner of the yard, to a plywood enclosure built around the base of a pine tree. It looked like a playhouse. They set him down and talked some. Then Kevin and Abby lifted Mr. Leigh by his arms, while Jordan took his father by his feet and backed into the enclosure. A moment later, Jordan emerged from the playhouse and threw up.

  Later, Emily approached Jordan in the living room. “I’m really sorry,” she said.

  He covered his eyes with his hand and turned away.

  When she lightly touched his arm, he hunched up his shoulders, a turtle going into its shell.

  “I’m going to my house to get my laptop,” Kevin said. “We need to find out what’s going on.”

  Emily expected Abby to protest, but she looked as distraught as her brother.

  “I’ll go with you,” Emily told Kevin. She needed clothes that fit. There was food to get, too. And she didn’t want him to go alone.

  They stepped warily outside, wearing masks and gripping steak knives. Emily squinted in the bright purple light. A chill rippled down her spine when she noticed the body of the lobster truck driver was gone.

  The bamboo wind chimes on the Patel’s porch clacked in the gentle breeze. They removed their shoes when they stepped inside. Emily breathed in the familiar odors of spices and felt a stab of sadness.

  She remembered how these same spices had been a source of embarrassment. In San Diego, where her family lived before moving here, her best friend Tessa had once warned her that she smelled like Indian food. Emily had no friends on Castine Island. She thought her classmates would make fun of her behind her back, so she kept a bottle of Pink Sugar perfume in her violin case and sprayed it on every morning before class.

  Signs of Mother and Father were everywhere. Family photos hung on the wall. Their lab coats draped over the banister. More memories were upstairs. Emily shielded her eyes when she passed by their bedroom.

  In her bedroom she gathered enough clothing for a week and placed the items, along with a pair of shoes, in her suitcase.

  So much had changed in just forty eight hours—two mornings ago, right here in her room, she had worried that Jordan might see her peeking out the window at him as he carried his baby sister down the driveway to their family car. She thought the boy who sat two rows over from her in class was cute. After that, Emily had hoped she could escape the house for school without Father noticing her clear nail polish. Nail polish on a girl of twelve was something he’d never tolerate.

  Emily grabbed her violin and suitcase and found Kevin in their parents’ room. He was standing at the foot of their bed. She walked over to him, every step a struggle. She kept her eyes fixed on her brother, away from them.

  “I need to build a pyre,” he said in barely a whisper. “Where will I get the wood? Father has a ceremonial robe. How should I dress Mother?”

  After his comment sunk in, Emily shook her head. “No!”

  “I have to.”

  “Kevin, no!”

  “Emily, we’re Hindu.”

  “They’re my parents, too,” she shouted.

  He backed up a step, startled. Then her brother turned on his heels and ran from the room. It broke Emily’s heart to hear him crying. She tried to understand how he felt. He was the oldest son—the only son—and by custom it was his duty to cremate them. Her brother believed that cremation was necessary to release their souls. Emily didn’t know what she believed, but she would do everything in her power to stop him.

  Trembling, she slowly faced her parents, almost expecting them to be angry with her for yelling at Kevin. Father’s usual stern expression was gone, replaced by a look of wonder, like he was having a peaceful dream. A gold bracelet with a red ruby dangled from Mother’s wrist.

  Emily broke down and sobbed.

  Her brother entered the room carrying a pot. He walked up to her and blinked. “Emily, I won’t do it.”

  She bit her lip, unable to hold the gaze of his sad eyes. “Thank you.”

  When Kevin put the pot on the floor, Emily saw that it held water and a sponge. She knew immediately what he was planning to do. He gently pulled the covers back. Next he folded up the bottoms of Father’s pajamas and wrung out the sponge,
ready to begin the Hindu ritual of washing the dead.

  Emily could not watch, or remain in the room, or even the house. Downstairs, she drew in a deep breath, a final memory of spices. When she stepped outside, she knew she would never return.

  * * *

  An hour after Kevin had returned from his house, Jordan was standing behind him, watching him type furiously on his laptop.

  “I’m in!” Kevin shouted.

  Jordan pumped his fist. “Yes!” Now they could check their email. He hoped that his mother had sent them an email, explaining where she was and what they should do. And he’d write back. But he wouldn’t tell her about Dad. Not yet.

  Emily, tuning her violin on the couch nearby, showed no reaction to her brother’s announcement that he had connected to the internet. She’d been glum ever since she had returned from her house. Jordan was just glad she hadn’t gone into shock again. Upstairs, Abby was putting Toucan down for a nap. His sister would be as excited as he was.

  “I’ve only established a wireless connection to the router in my house,” Kevin added a moment later. “It’s going to take much longer to access the internet.”

  Jordan’s spirits sank. “How much longer?” he asked.

  Kevin kept his eyes glued to the screen. “Assuming the internet still works, a few hours maybe. I need to generate an IP address.”

  IP address. Whatever that was. Tired of looking over Kevin’s shoulder, Jordan winced when he took a step. His ankle was sore from twisting it when he had jumped down half the flight of stairs. His stomach didn’t feel much better, still knotted up from the encounter with the coyotes.

  His mind hurt the most. Horrible images of what he had seen and experienced visited repeatedly without warning.

  He wanted to find something to do. Solve a problem. Keep his mind so busy that there would be no room for dark thoughts.

  He searched for a nautical chart of the strait between Castine Island and the Maine coast. If no one came for them soon, they might have to cross the twenty-mile stretch of ocean to get help. He’d devise a plan.

  Jordan finally found a chart of the strait in a kitchen drawer. Laminated in plastic, it was actually a placemat. Even though it was old and hard to read through the coffee stains, Jordan was happy to have it. The chart gave accurate water depths and shoal markings. One lighthouse, though, had not operated for at least five years.

  He considered two ways of reaching the mainland. Each way had pros and cons, including serious dangers. A commercial fishing boat offered the fastest passage. Several trawlers would be at the docks, having returned to port to refuel, unload fish, pick up a fresh crew. With the crew and captain likely dead, he saw no problem in taking the boat. How difficult would it be to drive one? He was confident he could do it. On the ferry one time Dad took him to the bridge and the captain let him steer and control the throttle all the way to the mouth of Portland Harbor. The ferry was ten times bigger than a trawler. The problem with a fishing trawler was that it rode low in the water. If fog moved in during the crossing, he’d run the risk of hitting the shoal and sinking.

  His other plan was to cross the strait in his twelve-foot sailing skiff. It bobbed like a cork and would never run aground. Jordan was a good sailor. His grandfather had taught him everything he knew, the terminology, how to rig a boat, how to tack, come about, jibe. But no matter what his skill level, his fate would depend on the weather. Storms boiled up in the strait and created a cauldron of huge, choppy waves. The skiff—the bobbing cork—would capsize in rough seas.

  Jordan decided to keep these ideas to himself. Why start an argument with Abby? In the meantime, he’d search for more maps, plan the best route to take, and be prepared in case the time came.

  He glanced at Emily who was playing the saddest notes ever, drawing the bow across the violin strings. The sound matched his feelings. Then he had an idea that would help both of them, that would help all of them.

  “You want to go to the harbor with me?” he asked her. “We can look for survivors.”

  She put down the bow. “Me?”

  He shrugged. “Yeah, why not? Kevin and Abby went to the Coutures’. It’s our turn.”

  She paused, thinking. “When?”

  “Right now.”

  “Did you ask your sister?”

  Jordan sighed. “I don’t need to ask my sister. Do you need to ask your brother?”

  “Let’s go,” she said without hesitation.

  * * *

  Abby stood by the window, anxiously watching Emily and Jordan walk down Melrose Street until they were out of sight. Low wispy clouds, getting ever lower, concerned her. This cloud pattern often indicated fog was on the way. Castine Island had two foggy seasons: spring and fall. The first thick fogs of the year started in March, this month. Abby wondered if the fog would be purple and even more difficult to see through.

  She cursed for not insisting that they wait for better weather. But she also knew that Jordan would have argued forever. At least he had listened to her and carried a fire extinguisher as a precaution against coyotes. But what was more dangerous, fog or coyotes?

  “I made the connection!” Kevin shouted. “The internet is up.”

  Abby slid beside him on the couch. Kevin had already made the connection to the wireless router in his house, and now, apparently, had made the biggest connection yet… to the outside world. She tried to stay calm. She badly wanted to know what was going on, but she also feared what they might learn.

  He clicked the Firefox icon and the hourglass appeared. “Keep your fingers crossed,” he said.

  She crossed her fingers and toes. The hourglass seemed to take forever. Abby’s thoughts returned to Jordan and Emily. She felt a growing dread.

  “Can your sister swim?” she asked.

  “Not very well,” Kevin said.

  Jordan was good swimmer. He’d look out for Emily, take care of her… if he could see her.

  “Do you know how quickly the fog can move in?” Abby said.

  Kevin ignored her.

  Abby poked him. “Jordan and Emily might get lost in the fog. If they go on the docks, it’s easy to fall off.”

  “Huh?”

  “Are you worried about your sister and Jordan?” she asked.

  “Abby, they’re twelve years old!” Clearly, Kevin wasn’t worried. Eyes still on the screen—on the hourglass—he drummed his fingers and talked at the same time. “Fog is nothing more than a cloud on the ground, you know, tiny condensed water droplets. Look!”

  The browser window launched the homepage of some adventure game.

  Kevin whooped and pumped his fist. Then he typed CNN.com and pressed ENTER. “They report news all over the world,” he said. The CNN homepage appeared. “Fast, huh?” he added proudly. The page showed a picture of the comet. The header above the picture said: TONIGHT’S THE NIGHT.

  “The comet came last night,” Abby said.

  Kevin pointed out the date. “The page has been cached.”

  “Cached?”

  “Yeah, stored in memory. The information is a day old.”

  Abby tried to ignore her creeping sense of doubt.

  “Try boston.com,” she said.

  Abby’s mother would check this site often for news about Boston. The city of Cambridge bordered Boston.

  The new webpage showed more photos of the comet. The date was also a day old. In Google, Kevin searched for ‘comet’. Thousands of links for Comet Rudenko-Kasparov popped up.

  Abby’s spirit plummeted deeper after he had clicked twenty or so links and discovered every one of them was out of date.

  “Is anyone alive?” he cried.

  She put a hand on his shoulder. “Keep looking.”

  The rest of the Earth’s population might be dead, but all that mattered to her now was the safe return of Jordan and Emily. They’d been gone twenty minutes.

  When Abby returned to the window, her blood turned cold. Purple fingers of fog were working their way between the bare b
ranches of the trees behind the Couture’s house, reaching out for her.

  * * *

  Jordan’s heart pounded. Every house on Melrose Street stood dark and lifeless in the thickening mist. He expected the fog to worsen. When warm air settled over cold water or cold air over warm water, it made for the best conditions for prisons of white to brew up quickly. Within minutes, ten-mile visibility could shrink to ten inches. Sometimes ten inches dwindled to one inch.

  They stayed in the middle of the street. He continually scanned the yards to his left and right for signs of people or coyotes.

  “Should we go back?” Emily asked. “It looks like the fog might get worse.” Her breathing made her brown eyes seem bigger, wider.

  Jordan shook his head. “Stay close. Even if we can’t see, we can follow the road back home.”

  Emily moved closer, her shoulder grazing against his arm felt nice.

  “San Diego was foggy every morning,” she said. “But the sun always burned it off by noontime.”

  “Is that where you grew up?”

  “We lived there for two years. My parents worked at Scripps Institute. Before that we lived in Seattle for three years. Kevin and I were born in San Francisco.”

  Talking about normal stuff, with a girl no less, seemed to calm him down. “What’s it like to move around so much?” he asked.

  “As soon as you make friends, you have to leave them. I have a really good friend, Tess. She was planning to visit me this summer. I don’t think that’s going to happen.”

  “You sound like Abby,” Jordan said. “She hated moving here. This week she was supposed to stay with my mom in Cambridge and see all her friends.” He started to explain his mother’s living and working situation, but cut it short when his throat thickened and he felt on the verge of tears. “Does Kevin like the island?”

  “He doesn’t care where he lives,” Emily said. “All he does is read science books and spend time on the computer.”

  “Do you guys get along?”

  She cocked her head. “Yeah, why wouldn’t we?”

  “Abby and I fight about everything.”