by Scott Cramer
Kevin joined her and, after hearing what the robot had to say, gave her a big grin. “The germs are bacteria. That’s good news.”
Had they listened to the same report? “Kevin, the germs are resistant to all sorts of antibiotics,” Abby said.
“Don’t worry, they’ll find one that works,” he said confidently. “If the antibiotic is used to treat common infections, we might even be able to get it at Murray’s Drug, or at a pharmacy in Portland. This epidemic will be over as fast as it began. ”
“These germs are anything but common,” she said. “They came from outer space. What if there’s no antibiotic that kills them?”
“They’ll make an antibiotic, “ he said. “Genetic engineering. Abby, I told you, some of the smartest scientists in the world work at the CDC. They have the best equipment.”
She badly wanted to believe him.
“If they have to make an antibiotic,” she asked, “how long will it take?”
“Let’s see. First they’ll have to confirm that it kills the germs in a test tube. Next they’ll test it on mice. If that works, they’ll conduct human trials.” Kevin shrugged. “Three or four months?”
Abby was hoping he’d say two months, or five weeks, or even sooner. “Anyone who enters puberty before then will die!”
Kevin paused, thinking. “It’s possible some of us will develop natural immunity, but you’re probably right. We also don’t know how long the illness will last. Will someone die the minute their hormones reach a certain level? Or will the germs attack them slowly, over a period of weeks or months?”
Just then a runaway train of kids rumbled down the stairs, circled the room once, and roared back upstairs—Toucan the engine, Danny the caboose, Chase and Terry in between—all of them hollering and laughing.
Abby hardly noticed.
“We’re lucky the germs aren’t a virus,” Kevin added. “To stop a virus, you need a vaccine. Making a vaccine takes a year or longer.”
Puberty was a ticking time bomb planted in each and every teen. The older you were the louder and faster it ticked. Abby could not begin to imagine the minute-by-minute anxiety of waiting up to a year for the bomb to go off.
She no longer thought three or four months seemed so bad.
* * *
Jordan’s friend, Eddie Egan, lived inland, a mile from the water. Many of Jordan and Emily’s classmates also lived in this neighborhood. Their fathers were commercial fishermen, and Jordan guessed that when they were at home they didn’t want to see the ocean.
As they drove into the neighborhood, there were no signs of life, any life—human, animal, bird.
Jordan’s throat pounded. He had assumed that Eddie, twelve years old, would be alive. Puberty for both of them was a year or two away. Abby had thought the same thing. She worried more how the locals would receive the Leighs and Patels. They were newcomers to the island. Despite that Jordan’s grandparents lived on Castine Island for years and his father grew up here, he and Abby were outsiders.
Jordan turned into the Egan driveway and headed toward the house. A lobster boat sat on blocks in the front yard. Mr. Egan owned several fishing boats. A week ago, Eddie had invited Jordan to go deep sea fishing with his older brother and dad over spring break—today, in fact.
When he pulled to a stop, he and Emily reached for each other at the same moment. Eddie’s house, similar to every other one, stood as still as a tombstone. There were no lights on inside.
Jordan nervously brought the mic to his lips, about to call out. But before his voice boomed over the loudspeaker, the front door flung open, and Eddie, followed by a line of kids, ran outside. Jordan wasted no time hopping out of the cruiser.
The locals froze, staring wide-eyed at him and Emily, and for a moment nobody spoke.
“Leigh,” Eddie finally cried, “what the hell are you doing driving a cop car?”
* * *
Ten kids—two holding babies—quickly surrounded Emily and Jordan outside. Emily knew those in her sixth grade class and recognized others from school lunch period. She thought the babies must be siblings of the kids holding them.
They peppered Jordan with questions.
Without access to the internet and unaware of the emergency broadcast station, Eddie and the others who had found their way to his house did not know about the space germs or the efforts of the CDC, though they had suspected the purple dust had a lot to do with the mysterious tragedies they had all experienced.
Jordan told them all that he knew.
“I don’t believe adults are dead everywhere.” The boy who said this had broad shoulders, clearly the strongest among them, and the oldest. “My father took the ferry to Portland,” he added. “He’d call, but the phones aren’t working.”
The other locals shifted uneasily in the awkward silence that followed.
“Colby, give me a break,” Toby Jones said.
Emily had heard stories about Toby. He was in Kevin’s class. He often made fun of her brother.
The broad-shouldered boy—Colby—glared at Toby. Then Eddie stepped between them and said, “Toby, don’t be an asshole.”
A girl with pigtails, who looked like a second or third grader, raised her hand. “What’s puberty?”
Emily, who had yet to say anything, saw an opportunity. “When you get older,” she said, “your body goes through changes. You slowly change from being a teenager to a grown up. It’s a little more complicated than that. But you have a long way to go before you have to worry about it.”
“Let’s go inside,” Eddie said.
Jordan gave her a shrug, as if to say, don’t feel bad.
They all packed into the kitchen. A candle was burning. The electricity had stopped working in the neighborhood earlier this morning. Eddie tuned into the government station. Immediately Emily realized the CDC had issued a new report.
“My brother can explain what it means,” she said.
A few kids glanced over. The rest ignored her. She knew why. She was an outsider, a girl.
They moved into the living room where she and Jordan sat next to each other on the couch and listened to their stories. Zoe Mullen, a skinny seventh grader, said she found her sixteen-year old brother and her parents in their backyard. Katy Kowalsky (KK), who always flirted with Jordan in school, discovered her mom in the bathtub. Tim Johnson, another classmate of Emily’s, the shyest boy ever, said his grandfather had died only last night. After finding his parents in bed, Derek Ladd, the son of the police chief, tried unsuccessfully to radio police officers who were on duty the night of the purple moon.
Jordan turned to her with a sad expression. He was likely remembering Officer Redmond.
“My dad and brother are still at sea,” Eddie said. He lowered his eyes. “My mom’s upstairs.”
Emily thought it had been important to update the group and hear what they had experienced, but now they were wasting valuable time.
“We should hunt for survivors,” she said, “especially the kids who can’t take of themselves.” Jordan nodded for her to continue. “You know where they live. We can split up. Are you ready?”
Nobody responded. She tried making eye contact, but whoever she looked at suddenly examined the floor or wall with intense fascination.
Colby held her gaze. The only one. He gave her a friendly nod and stood. “That’s a great idea. Let’s make a list of where everyone lives. I know how to drive.”
Colby walked up to her and Jordan and extended his hand. “I’m Colby Marsh. It’s nice to meet you.”
An icy chill flushed through Emily. Colby’s dad was the one who crashed his truck on the Couture’s lawn.
“I’m Emily Patel,” she said and took his hand.
MONTH 2 – STRANGERS ARRIVE
Abby’s fingertips brushed along the polished mahogany banister as she ascended the wide, winding stairway to the second floor. She wished she could thank the wildly rich homeowners for the use of their ‘summer home’. But, of course, she would
never have the opportunity to thank them. The homeowners had succumbed to the space germs, like tens of millions—perhaps billions—of other adults around the world.
The mansion housed twenty-eight survivors, a number that included the two babies, Chloe and Clive. Abby had suggested that everyone should live together and they voted. The mansion beat out the Seashell Motel by twenty-four votes. Toby, Chad, and Glen had wanted no part of this living arrangement, and they had struck out on their own.
The mansion was perfect. It had twenty rooms including four bathrooms, a study, a large living room, and two kitchens.
The marble floor felt cold on Abby’s bare feet. Late May, springtime had finally arrived on the island, but the huge house inhaled the chilly breeze off the water through open windows and that kept it cold inside.
Abby entered her bedroom which she shared with Toucan, Emily, and Danny. She enjoyed an unobstructed view of the open ocean to the east through a tall, wide window. Earth was now out of the comet’s tail, and the sun, stars, and moon had returned to their normal colors, but the surface of the water rippled with a lavender hue—space dust part of the environment forevermore.
Abby saw a speck of salt on the windowpane. She had left it there because she liked to pretend it was a ship in the distance. Her fantasy had started out small. The ship held a few adult survivors, including a doctor, teacher, and engineer, who came to live with them on the island. Over time the fantasy had become more elaborate. The way it unfolded now… Abby ran to the beach and lit a pile of logs on the rocky shore. The ship’s captain saw the smoke signal and ordered a crew to pick up the survivors. They all steamed to a land where adults and older teens were alive because the wind had blown the space dust away.
It was a beautiful, intoxicating dream, and also a total waste of her time and energy.
Abby would begin her shift weeding the garden in three hours, but she like to stay busy all the time. The mind was fertile for place for sad memories when idle. To see where she might volunteer, she padded back down the wide, winding staircase to check the schedule, tacked to a bulletin board, in the study. Kevin maintained this schedule.
May 27
The left-hand column listed every kid age two and older. The top row divided the day into four shifts: 6 a.m. – 9 a.m.; 9 a.m. – noon; noon – 3 p.m.; 3 p.m. – 6 p.m. The middle of the schedule identified tasks color-coded by category: Childcare: blue. Farm work and food prep: yellow. Security and news gathering: green. Healthcare and body disposal: orange.
On purpose, nothing was purple.
According to the schedule, Emily was working at the farm this morning, Jordan was on burial duty, and Kevin was doing research. From puberty to milk pasteurization, he researched a wide range of topics. Even Toucan had a job, of sorts. She and Danny raised and lowered the American flag every morning and evening.
Abby jumped when someone tapped her shoulder from behind.
“Sorry,” Kevin said.
“Don’t sneak up like that!” Her frown, though, quickly dissolved into a smile. Kevin was awkward, quirky, brainy, and always meant well. It was impossible to stay mad at him.
He pointed to the schedule. “Look Abby, you’re free at three o’clock!”
True, her weeding shift ended at three. But why did Kevin sound so surprised? “You should know that,” she said. “You made up the schedule.”
“Hey, I’m free, too. You want to play Risk with me later on?” While his words sounded rehearsed, his blushing seemed spontaneous.
“Yeah, sure,” Abby said.
Kevin cleared his throat, opened his mouth, and made a croaking noise. Then he turned and quickly walked away.
Abby shook her head, puzzled. “See you later,” she called out.
He had already left the study.
* * *
Sweeping the chicken coop, Emily gripped the handle of the push broom and sent wave after wave of brown pellets tumbling forward. She paused to inspect her calloused hands, proud of her increasing strength. Farm work had toughened her hands and added muscle to her shoulders and back. She had needed to rest often when she first started working at the farm. Now she was able to sweep the entire chicken coop without stopping.
Emily wondered what Father would have thought about her doing this type of work. Shocked? Angry? Mother would not have been surprised at all, knowing that girls can do anything.
She picked up an egg that she had missed seeing earlier. She inspected the pale brown exterior. The eggs were like precious gems to her, each one a little different. She placed the egg in the basket with the others and continued sweeping.
Emily always kept an eye out for signs of intruders—a footprint, a discarded candy wrapper. They had twenty five chickens a month ago. Thirteen remained. Coyotes had killed twelve after Toby, Chad, and Glen had left the barn door open one night.
Emily didn’t care that the three boys chose to live on their own. She didn’t even care that they occasionally came at night and took eggs. But their irresponsible behavior made her angry.
“Ready?” Tim called. He tossed his shovel on the barn floor. He had just finished filling three bags with chicken manure. Later they would transport the manure to the garden behind the mansion.
Tim, her farm partner, the shiest boy ever, had actually said something. Maybe tomorrow he would string two words together?
Emily dreaded what they had to do next: milk Henrietta and Matilda. But their first job was to return the cows to the barn. Out in the field they decided to start with Henrietta. Emily pulled while Tim pushed. Matilda stood by and watched their struggles with placid eyes. Emily thought she sometimes detected a look of amusement in Matilda’s big eyes.
Emily saw nothing but deep wells of stubbornness in Henrietta’s eyes. Thousand-pound Henrietta had a mind of her own, and only after the cow had showed them who was boss did she finally amble into the barn.
Tim started milking first. Like an orchestra conductor, he gripped two of teats and in no time was directing a symphony inside the metal can. Psst. Psst. Psst.
“Show off,” she said and reached for Henrietta’s teats. “We’re friends, right?” she told the cow. “I’m the one who scratches behind your ears. I feed you. I bring you fresh water. Please, Henrietta, show Matilda who has more milk.”
After several minutes of cajoling the cow, squeezing, pulling, twisting, and tugging, Emily managed to coax a few drops of milk into the bucket.
It was pale purple.
* * *
Five miles out to sea, Sea Ray swayed in the gentle swells. Winds were calm. Jordan gripped the wheel of the hundred-foot fishing trawler, keeping his eyes glued to the radar scope. They were in no danger of hitting a rock this far out. The instruments served as a distraction.
Eddie was maneuvering bodies over the railing and into the current. The Gulf Stream originated in the Gulf of Mexico two thousand miles away. The swift current wended its way around the tip of Florida and then meandered up the coast, all the way to Nova Scotia. The inner edge of the current passed within five miles of Castine Island. The corpses drifted north.
Jordan peeked to see if Eddie was almost finished and caught sight of the clump floating off the stern. “The hardest job,” he whispered to himself, “the most important job.” The reminder usually helped settle his stomach.
Jordan was the one who had suggested taking the bodies out to sea. Castine Island didn’t have a cemetery for good reason. The island was mostly granite covered with a thin layer of soil. First they had selected a boat. Sea Ray was perfect in every way. The trawler was at the dock, topped with fuel and stocked with food and fresh water, her crew about to embark on an extended fishing run. Since taking the first load of bodies, they had siphoned diesel fuel from other boats in port. Jordan had lost track of the number of trips they had made.
The burial team also included KK and Derek. Their job was to search the island’s homes and businesses and vehicles on the road and then transport the corpses they found to the harbor.
After Eddie had cleared the deck, he remained at the stern, gazing out. Streaks of pale purple brushed the horizon. Jordan was quite certain that his friend was not admiring the strange beauty. Most likely Eddie’s thoughts were on his dad and older brother who were still at sea, who he had never heard from again after the night of the purple moon.
Jordan eased the throttle forward and Sea Ray’s twin diesel engines burbled to life, mixing fumes with the ever-present stench of death, an odor that visited Jordan’s dreams every night.
Halfway back to port, Eddie ventured inside the wheelhouse where he removed his mask and gloves and applied a fresh dab of Vick’s Vapor rub under his nose. Jordan offered him a soda. Vick’s killed the smell of death; soda washed away the taste.
When Jordan popped the top, a pressurized squirt of soda nailed Eddie in the eye. Jordan cracked up. Eddie, too, burst out laughing. Every attempt by either one of them to speak ended with sprays of saliva. The hysterical laughter released pent up frustrations and fears.
With tears streaming down their faces, they laughed all the way back to the harbor. The load of bodies stacked on the dock, awaiting burial, silenced them.
* * *
The kids stuck to a nightly routine. They ate dinner together and then held a group meeting afterwards to share news and solve problems. Abby thought the more they learned how to communicate with each other the stronger they would become.
She stood in the food line that snaked into the kitchen. There, head chef Colby doled out the meal to each resident, peas, spaghetti, and tomato sauce tonight. His assistant, eleven-year-old Duke, poured glasses of fresh milk and gave out slices of the cakes that he had baked.
Twenty-six survivors, two of them holding babies, settled into the living room and dining room to eat. Abby chose the couch, a spot from which she could keep an eye on two housemates who worried her the most.
