Night of the Purple Moon

by Scott Cramer

  The tide turned and they made progress, inching closer and closer to shore. How he ached to hear the grind of the skiff bottom scraping sand!

  Jordan stiffened as icy water splashed his face.

  “Wake up,” Abby croaked. “Keep going. We’re almost there.”

  He dipped the oar blade into the water, this time deep, and pulled, and then again. On his next stroke, the oar struck sand.

  They reached the mainland at last.

  FIVE DAYS LEFT

  Abby awoke in a strange room, stretched out on a wooden floor, using a cushion for a pillow and a throw rug for a blanket. Red shafts of sunlight streamed through a row of tall windows. She didn’t know where she was or how she got here. It surprised her to discover Jordan immediately above her, lying on his side on the couch.

  She winced from painful, broken blisters on both her palms and past events slowly sifted into her mind. They had reached shore in the skiff close to midnight. Jordan was very weak and running a high fever and Abby had to roll him out of the boat into ankle deep water. At that moment her brother had decided to rise to a new level of stubbornness.

  “My toothbrush is in there,” he had said, pointing to a rectangular plastic tub near the bow. “Please bring it.”

  “Jordan, we have bigger problems to worry about than brushing your teeth,” she had said.

  He had refused to move until she tucked the tub under her arm.

  They had seen the deserted house close to the beach and had helped each other up to it and apparently inside.

  Abby stood, grimacing from stiff, achy joints, and delirious from her fever. Jordan was out cold on the couch. She felt more at ease when she saw his chest rising and falling. When he shivered and drew his arms together, she covered him with the throw rug.

  Abby went to the window, hoping the skiff had not drifted off in the tide. The boat was pulling against its mooring line. She couldn’t remember securing it.

  The American flag hanging limply on a flagpole discouraged her. The wind always picks up as the sun rises, she reminded herself.

  Abby thought that if they resumed sailing this morning, they could still make it to Boston with plenty of time to spare.

  She swallowed one ibuprofen tablet and noticed with a quick count that only ten tablets remained in the bottle. A second tablet would have helped knock down her fever, but Jordan needed them more than she did. Abby twisted the cap back on and started to search for more medicine.

  Ransacked long ago, the kitchen cabinets had bare shelves, and the fridge was empty except for a package of chicken, coated in nasty green mold. Abby did a double-take in the mirror in the downstairs bathroom. Her face had bright red splotches where she’d missed applying sunscreen, and her curls hung like dreadlocks. Gaunt cheeks reminded her of Zoe, the anorexic girl, in the final weeks of her life.

  She found burn cream and several bandages in the medicine cabinet, which she grabbed to treat their blistered hands. They could use more bandages, though.

  Abby hesitated before going up to the second floor, afraid of what she would find. She’d glanced at the family photos lining the mantel above the fireplace—grandparents and a flock of smiling grandkids. She didn’t think the kids on the mainland had organized burials as they had on the island. Abby willed her tired legs up the stairs, trying to keep her mind focused on finding pain medicine and bandages.

  She covered her mouth and pinched her nose as she passed by the first bedroom. She could see the skeletal remains in bed, long gray hair spilling across the pillow.

  The upstairs bathroom produced a bottle of Advil.

  Abby returned to Jordan’s side. With no wind yet, there was no point in disturbing him. Sleep was the best painkiller.

  She decided to explore the neighborhood. The possibility of finding someone or some item that would help them continue their journey outweighed the risks of the unknown. She turned on a walkie-talkie, made sure the volume was all the way up, and placed the two-way radio on the table next to the couch, close to his ear. She brought the other radio with her outside.

  This neighborhood could have been on Castine Island. The lawns were hayfields and storms had ripped off the odd shingle here and there and weathered the paint of the homes. Unlike the island, most windows and doors were broken, likely smashed by desperate survivors, Abby thought. Another major difference, tulips and daffodils were in full bloom. Those flowers did not grow well in the island’s sandy soil. The yellow daffodils triggered a sudden memory. Her mother had planted them in the front yard of their Cambridge home.

  There were cars in many of the driveways. Abby was certain she could have found ignition keys for them inside the homes. Unfortunately the fully charged car battery they had brought with them sat at the bottom of the strait. Some lucky person might find the can of gasoline washed ashore.

  Abby crossed the street, about to enter a small cottage whose windows and doors were intact, when she heard an engine not that far away. She pressed the walkie-talkie button. “Jordan, get up!” she cried. “Jordan!” The steady whine grew louder, but she didn’t think it was an automobile approaching. It sounded like a plane. She called her brother again and scanned the sky. She couldn’t imagine that some thirteen-year-old had learned how to fly. Her heart revved faster, thinking the CDC was delivering the antibiotic by airplane. “Wake up!” she shouted into the walkie-talkie.

  A motorcycle rounded the bend. Abby waved her arms and tried running, but the heaviness of her legs startled her, and she moved in slow motion.

  The sight of her caused the rider to stop abruptly.

  The boy was wearing a helmet with a dark visor, a leather jacket, and crisp, clean jeans. He looked to be about Abby’s height and weight. His black shiny boots barely reached the ground. As Abby approached him, he dismounted the motorcycle and pulled a long knife from a sheath attached to his belt. Sunshine bounced off the blade like a camera flash.

  “My name is Abby Leigh,” she said, stepping forward, wary, but unafraid. “My brother and I sailed here from Castine Island.”

  The rider removed his helmet and… it was a girl! Close in age to Abby, she had a mop of blonde hair, and by Abby’s count, six ear piercings. The girl flipped her hair out of her eyes. “What’s that?” she said in a gruff tone.

  Abby held up her radio. “A walkie-talkie. My brother has one, too. He’s inside the house.” She pointed.

  “Put it down.” The girl waved the knife.

  Abby set the radio down. “We’re both sick. We’re not going to hurt anyone. What’s your name?”

  “Back up.”

  “I told you my name,” Abby said and took a step back. The girl picked up the radio. “Push the button,” Abby said. “You can talk to my brother.”

  The girl slid the walkie-talkie into her jacket pocket. “What else have you got?”

  Nothing for you! Abby decided on a different approach. “How are you getting the antibiotic?” The girl narrowed her eyes. “Do you know about the antibiotic?” The girl didn’t respond and Abby continued. “The CDC is handing out pills that will save our lives. CDC stands for the Centers for Disease Control. They’re scientists in Atlanta, Georgia.”

  The girl sneered in disbelief. “All the adults are dead.”

  “Most are, but some are still alive. The scientists were in quarantine when the space dust entered the atmosphere. It took them six months to develop the antibiotic. Now they’re ready to hand out the pills.”

  “When?” she asked, studying Abby with a combination of curiosity and fear. “Where?”

  Abby was not about to reveal the location to someone holding a knife on her, who had just taken her walkie-talkie. It was the girl’s problem that she didn’t know the CDC was broadcasting the dates and locations twenty four hours a day.

  Abby, in some ways, was grateful for her ignorance. She and Jordan possessed information that could save the girl’s life. In return, the girl might be able to help them. They’d make a trade.

  “We can
help each other,” Abby said.

  The girl immediately picked up on Abby’s evasiveness. “I don’t believe you sailed here,” she said.

  “We rowed the last half mile,” Abby said. “I never want to hold an oar again.” She held up her hands, showing off her blisters. The girl winced at the evidence. Abby pointed. “Our boat is behind the house.” When the girl’s eyes widened, Abby regretted telling her. “If we get the antibiotic, we’ll all live beyond puberty.”

  “What’s in your pockets?” she asked.

  Abby sighed. This girl was either very stubborn or very stupid. Abby turned her pockets inside out and discovered a spare key for the police cruiser.

  “What’s that for?”

  “For a car. On Castine Island.”

  The girl cocked her head, intrigued. “You drive?”

  “Yes. We all drive on the island, everyone over the age of ten.”

  “Give it to me.”

  Abby tossed the key at her feet. A lot of good the cruiser key would do her.

  “I like your shirt,” she said. “Take it off.”

  Abby was finished wasting time. She spoke to girl as if were a disobedient six-year old. “You need to listen to me if you want to save your life! Put the knife down.”

  The girl waved the knife but took a step back. “Hurry up, take it off.”

  “No, I’m not giving you my shirt, or anything else, and I want my walkie-talkie back.” Abby stepped forward and suddenly felt dizzy. She fought to stay on her feet as the ground started spinning. “My brother and I can help you. If you have friends, we can help them, too. All of us can work together.”

  “I want your shirt,” the girl said.

  “Do you want to die?”

  “Everyone dies.”

  Abby shook her head. “You’re wrong! What’s your name?”

  “None of your business.” Slowly, she lowered the knife. “Mandy.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Thirteen.”

  “Me, too,” Abby said. “My birthday’s on June 23.”

  Mandy took the radio out of her pocket and held it out. Abby felt relief wash over her. She would build trust with Mandy first and then they could discuss a plan to get the antibiotic for the three of them, and for the kids on the island, and for Mandy’s friends, too.

  “Thank you,” Abby said, reaching out.

  Suddenly Jordan’s voice squawked out of the walkie-talkie. “Put the knife down. I have a gun. Abby, I’m coming to help you.”

  Mandy slammed the radio to the ground, where it broke into pieces, and ran to her motorcycle.

  “Wait, we don’t have a gun!” Abby shouted as their best chance of getting the antibiotic sped away down the deserted street.

  * * *

  The gun rested on the table, muscular and metallic, deadly looking. Jordan still had no idea if it had any bullets. After he had moved it from its first hiding spot, the mailbox, to under his mattress, the gun had remained undisturbed for a year, until he had packed it in the plastic tub for their journey.

  Just the sight of it overwhelmed Abby. “What is your problem?” she said and started pacing.

  “What’s your problem?” he said. “I just saved your life. You’re welcome!”

  “Mandy trusted me!”

  “Mandy? Is she your new friend?” he said sarcastically. “The one pointing a knife at you. Yeah, that’s trust.”

  Abby gave him her bossy, older-sister look. “Jordan, you can be such a jerk.” She moved to the window and sulked.

  Jordan collapsed on the couch and felt the wind knocked out of him as the tentacles of pain between his shoulder blades wrapped around his whole body and squeezed.

  His sarcasm. Her anger. Neither one of them meant it. They were both afraid. Afraid of what had just happened, afraid of the gun, afraid of what the future would bring.

  Abby marched over and held out three Ibuprofen tablets. “Take these,” she said curtly.

  Jordan swallowed two pills, gagged and finally gave up trying to get the third one down.

  With a stony expression, Abby dressed the broken blisters on his right hand with ointment and bandages. He stopped her from dressing his other hand when he discovered she was using all the bandages on him.

  “Where did you find the gun?” she asked finally, meaning where in the house.

  Jordan suddenly looked away, feeling guilty. “I got it at the Castine Island police station right after the night of the purple moon. Abby, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

  Abby paused, thinking. “I knew there was something you weren’t telling me.” Her tone softened. “Jordan, we can’t shoot anyone.”

  “It’s for our protection,” he said. “Someone might try to hurt us.”

  “If people understand what we’re trying to do, they’ll help us.”

  “Abby, not everyone is like you.”

  She gave him a sidelong glance. “You mean bossy?”

  His sister was a good person, sometimes too good. “Kind and caring,” he said. It was the most honest, personal thing he had ever told her. His words touched her. Before she could say anything else, he unfolded two sheets of damp paper he kept in his pocket. They were photos of Emily and Toucan taken by Abby at the bowling alley party. He handed them to her. “We have to do whatever it takes to get back to them.”

  Abby made no further mention of the gun.

  She recounted her experience with Mandy. “Jordan, she knew nothing about the CDC or the antibiotics.”

  “We were lucky we had Kevin Patel,” he said. “If we hadn’t gotten access to the internet, we might have never known about the radio station.”

  “Some kids here must know,” she said. “Someone would find the station by accident. They’d spread the news because it would give everyone hope.”

  “Like I said, Abby, not everyone is like you.”

  She moved to the window. “Let’s hope the wind picks up.”

  He joined her. The flag drooped like a wet rag, the sun high overhead. “What’s the date?” he asked.

  “The twenty seventh,”

  The antibiotic would be available in Boston on May 1. How long did they have to get there? Unable to focus his thoughts, he gave up trying to do the math. “How many days do we have to get to Boston?” he asked.

  “Four.”

  Jordan wondered if he could survive four more days. Equally important, could Abby make it that long? She looked like hell.

  Jordan sat in a chair, careful to avoid leaning against his back. “You know what I worried about the most before we left the island? We’d get caught in a squall.” He shook his head and closed his eyes and pictured dark storm clouds and roiling whitecaps in his mind. How he would welcome a storm now! Abby said something that he didn’t hear. The breeze rustled his hair, and Jordan grinned, the pain of cracked lips keeping his smile brief.

  He drifted into a deep sleep.

  FOUR DAYS LEFT

  Jordan had a good view of the angry sea from the towering crests of waves. Overhead, blue-black clouds extended to the horizon. He had sailed into the center of the violent storm. When the skiff slid into the troughs, he held on the best he could, wishing he had tied himself in.

  “Jordan!”

  Abby? What was she doing in the boat?

  “Wake up!”

  Jordan opened his eyes. Abby was shaking him. He blinked. He had instantly recognized his sister’s voice but it took a moment to recognize her face. During his short nap, Abby had grown thinner; she looked so weak and frail.

  “We have visitors,” she said and moved to a side window.

  Jordan stumbled up from the chair. Through the windows facing east, he saw strokes of pink light painting a cloud bank on the horizon. How long had he slept? He checked his watch. Six o’clock!

  “Abby, I’ve been asleep for six hours?”

  She put a finger to her lips. “Shhh.” Then, “try eighteen hours.”

  “What time is it?” he whispered.

&nb
sp; “Six a.m.,” she said, peering out, trying to stay hidden. She motioned him to join her.

  Jordan still couldn’t believe that he had slept all this time, half the day and throughout the night.

  Seven motorcycles had pulled into the driveway. Several riders dismounted. The others were milling in the vicinity. They included three girls, the knife-wielding Mandy among them, and four boys. All wore leather jackets and grim expressions.

  “They’ve come to learn about the antibiotic,” Abby said. “We’ll go to Boston by motorcycle!”

  Jordan could see the flag still drooping. Unless the wind picked up soon, Abby’s idea might be their best option. Their only option. But he remained wary of the gang’s intentions.

  A skinny girl stayed with the motorcycles, perhaps to guard them, while the rest cut through the side yard and headed toward the beach, gazing at the house as they passed by. He and Abby ducked out of sight.

  Abby pointed to a boy lagging the group. “He can barely lift his feet. I bet he’s sick.”

  His head was slumping, too. He looked like he might collapse any second.

  The kids waded up to their knees, out to the skiff floating in the incoming tide, and started rifling through the supplies, tossing some items aside, carrying others, like bottles of fresh water, to dry land.

  Jordan was too stunned to speak. These kids hadn’t come to learn about the antibiotic. They were here to steal from them. He clenched his teeth and spun around, adrenaline coursing through his body. “Abby, I’m going to get the gun.”

  Too late.

  She was already heading for the door, gun in hand.

  Jordan cursed. Everything was happening too fast. Abby didn’t know how to use a gun. He didn’t know how, either, but it was his gun. She had too much of a lead to stop her. He limped after her. The gang members, except for the sick boy, fanned out when they approached. The sick boy was sitting on the damp sand, chin to his chest. Abby had tucked the gun in her waistband at her back, hiding it from their view.

  The kids tittered and rolled their eyes, oddly amused at the sight of him and Abby.