Storm

by D. J. MacHale

  “I’ll go with you,” Olivia offered. “This guy makes me nervous.”

  Whittle slowly lowered the shotgun, as if embarrassed.

  “I’m just trying to protect myself is all,” he said apologetically.

  Kent stuck a finger in my face. “You are not in charge.”

  I shrugged. “I don’t care who’s in charge as long as we’re smart about what we do. Right now the smart move is for you to get a car.”

  Kent’s eyes flared. For a second I thought he might take a swing at me, but Olivia put a hand on his arm and gently pulled him away.

  “C’mon,” she said softly. “The sooner we get a car, the sooner we’ll be out of this horrible city.”

  Olivia kept surprising me. I don’t think many people told her no . . . especially guys. She was a spoiled rich girl with cute short blond hair who was used to getting her way. It didn’t hurt that she was gorgeous. She was no dummy either. She always seemed to know the exact right thing to say to calm people down, and she was quick to help when it was needed. I guess you’d call her an enigma. Maybe that was why I liked her. That and the gorgeous part.

  “We’ll be back as soon as we can,” she said to me, then looked to Whittle and added sweetly, “Don’t go shooting anybody while we’re gone now, ’kay?”

  “Sure enough,” Whittle replied meekly.

  Olivia had worked her magic on him too.

  “Be careful,” Tori called out.

  “Gee, you think?” Kent shot back. He looked out of the window to scan the street, then cautiously opened the door and peered outside.

  “It’s clear,” he announced and stepped out.

  Olivia gave me a small smile and followed him.

  There was an awkward moment when nobody knew what to say.

  “We’re sorry to give you grief,” I said to Whittle, hoping to get him to lighten up.

  “Grief?” he said with an ironic chuckle. “You kids can’t bring on any more grief than we’ve already got.”

  “Tell us what happened that night,” Tori said gently.

  Whittle softened.

  “They came out of nowhere,” he began. “No warning. No explanation. No chance to run for cover.”

  “Three nights ago, right?” I asked.

  Whittle nodded. He spoke as if in a daze, relating a story that must have been too stunning to believe.

  “It was prime time in the Old Port. Early evening. Restaurants were full, saloons were buzzing, people were out strolling, enjoying the warm night. Then the sound came. Like music. Folks stopped and stared up at the sky, pointing. It looked like a wave of bats flying in from the west. They were all perfectly spaced up there, like a pattern. It seemed like a show in the sky. But it was no show. It was a . . . a storm.”

  Whittle’s eyes started to water. It was a painful memory.

  “We were out on the ocean,” Tori offered. “We saw the sky light up over the city.”

  “It lit up all right,” Whittle said, his voice cracking. “So many people. Families. Little ones. One minute they were out enjoying the evening, and then . . . they weren’t.”

  He looked to the ground, suddenly seeming very tired. He lifted the shotgun and for a second I was afraid he was going to turn it on himself. Instead, he placed it down on a table, pushing aside a bunch of snow globes that fell to the floor and shattered. He didn’t care.

  “Did they use that laser weapon?” I asked tentatively.

  “Is that what it’s called?” Whittle snapped. “All I saw were streaks of light coming out of the sky. The beams would join up and grow stronger, like they were coming together to build up energy. It was almost pretty, like a holiday spectacle. But there was nothing pretty about what those lights did. Whatever they hit would light up and then . . . poof. Gone. Whole buildings were there one second and gone the next. It seemed impossible, especially since it was all so silent. There were no explosions or sounds of buildings crumbling. All you could hear was the music of their engines . . . and the screams.”

  I knew exactly what he was describing. It was how Quinn died.

  “But the buildings meant nothing compared to what happened to the people. So many of ’em were just . . . what? Disintegrated? Vaporized? Whatever you want to call it, bottom line is they’re gone. Killed. Thousands of ’em.”

  Whittle’s throat clutched. It was a tough memory to relive.

  Tori said, “So sometimes buildings disappeared, and other times it was just people?”

  Whittle nodded. “Being inside didn’t help. It was like those evil beams could penetrate walls to grab their victims. Whole apartment buildings were left untouched, but every last person inside was wiped out. At least it was quick. They didn’t suffer. Can’t say the same for those who watched it happen. They knew their time was coming. Panic took hold real quick. People ran every which way, but it made no difference for most of ’em.”

  “How did you make it through?” I asked.

  “I ducked inside here and hid down in the basement. Seems like that was the only way to protect yourself. You had to be underground. Not that I knew that beforehand. It was the only place I could think of to hide. I was just lucky, I guess. Or maybe the lucky ones are those who got gone. They don’t have to live with the nightmare.”

  “Are there other survivors?” I asked.

  “Plenty. If they were underground during the attack, they’re still around. But you won’t see ’em ’cause they’re hiding like scared cockroaches. Those planes came back a couple of nights later for a second go at it. They’re rooting out the survivors is what they’re doing. Lately they’ve been showing up during the day. You never know when a plane might pass by. They don’t use that laser-light thing during the day, though. Seems as though it only works in the dark, but what do I know? Nothing makes sense anymore. There’s no TV or radio. No power. There’s running water, but who knows how long that’ll last? You’d think the Army would have shown up by now. I mean, we were invaded, right? Shouldn’t the cavalry be riding in?”

  I didn’t have the heart to tell him that the cavalry was part of the problem because our own military was at war with itself.

  “It’s like we’ve been abandoned,” he cried, his nerves starting to fray. “It makes me wonder if . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “If what?” I pressed.

  “Maybe we weren’t the only ones who got attacked. What if those things hit Washington? Or New York? Or London, for that matter? If that happened then nobody’s gonna care about little old Portland, Maine, because it’ll mean the whole world has gone crazy.”

  “I hate to believe that’s true,” Tori said softly.

  Whittle looked to her with sadness, and I could see him for what he truly was: an old man who was as scared as he had ever been in his life.

  “You okay, sweetheart?” he asked warmly. “You’re looking kind of fragile.”

  Tori shrugged. “Better than most people who get shot, I guess.”

  “Drink more of that water,” he said with genuine concern. “You remind me of my granddaughter. She’s down in Boston. I wonder if . . .”

  He didn’t finish the thought, but I knew what he was thinking. He was wondering if she was still alive.

  “Come with us,” I said. “After we hit the hospital we’re going to Boston. I gotta believe we’ll find answers there and—”

  “Look out!” Tori shouted.

  I spun to look out of the front window in time to see that the black plane had returned. I had been so focused on Whittle that I hadn’t heard the musical engine. It hovered outside of the window, filling the frame. Its nose was facing us.

  It knew we were there.

  I dove for Tori. The second I wrapped my arms around her, the shop exploded. We fell down behind the counter as the window blew in and the world turned inside out. I felt the force of the powerful blast as the counter was knocked over on top of us. It wasn’t firing the laser weapon. If Whittle was right, that only worked in the dark. Instead, it was shooting
the same kind of gun it had used in the battle with the Navy. It fired an invisible pulse of energy that didn’t disintegrate its target—it blew it apart. The weapon itself was absolutely silent, which meant all we could hear was the sound of the shop being torn apart.

  Tori and I rolled over in a jumble of arms and legs.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  She nodded. “The back door.”

  We crawled through the rubble of plastic beach toys, twisted picture frames, and smoldering T-shirts. There was so much dust and debris in the air that it was impossible to tell which way to go. I crawled on my hands and knees and pushed aside a metal shelving unit to discover . . . Mr. Whittle. He was on his back, staring up at the ceiling with lifeless eyes. I can’t say what had killed him, but as with all the other victims, it had been fast.

  By his standards, he was now one of the lucky ones.

  I pushed Tori away so she wouldn’t see him. There was no sense in both of us having that memory. Me? I was getting used to seeing dead people.

  Tori didn’t hesitate and crawled toward the back of the store. I was right behind her, fearing that the dark plane would blow another shot into the store and tear the place apart . . . and us along with it.

  When we passed through the doorway into the back, I felt safe enough to get to my feet. I grabbed Tori around the waist to pull her up just as the plane fired again. The floor rocked like we had been hit by an earthquake. Heavy crossbeams that had held the roof up for a hundred years came crashing down around us. We were lucky the entire building didn’t come down on our heads.

  “There’s gotta be a back way out,” I called over the sound of tearing, crashing timbers.

  A heavy beam landed and rolled, slamming into my legs and nearly knocking me off my feet. Tori grabbed my hand. It kept me from falling, but she paid the price. She winced with anguish but didn’t yell out. She wouldn’t give in to the pain.

  We had made it to the back storage room of the shop. Cardboard boxes were stacked in everywhere, creating a twisted labyrinth that I hoped would lead us to a way out. I was disoriented from having been slammed by the beam, so it fell to Tori to keep us moving. She kept hold of my hand and led me through the narrow maze of boxes as the floor shook again.

  Our hunters weren’t giving up. Stacks of boxes were blown apart, their contents hitting our backs and sending us sprawling. The jolt nearly knocked me senseless. I couldn’t imagine how Tori felt.

  “This way,” she commanded.

  That was my answer. Her head was clearer than mine.

  When we finally reached the back door, we saw that it was a heavy, fire-safety metal rectangle with five locks to keep us from getting outside quickly. We stared at it, totally discouraged, until a massive beam crashed down behind us. That was all the encouragement we needed. Tori and I jumped forward and fumbled with the locks. In seconds we had sprung them all and pushed the door open.

  We were out, but still on the run.

  “We gotta find Kent,” Tori said.

  “First we gotta shake that plane,” I corrected.

  We ran down a narrow alleyway that emptied onto a wider backstreet. I pulled Tori to the left, only because it would get us farther away from the shop and the attack plane that was blowing it apart.

  Running on the uneven paving stones was tricky. The rough stones may have provided a quaint New England touch for the tourists, but to us they could mean the difference between escape and death. The last thing we needed was to twist an ankle.

  We reached the end of the block and turned right onto another narrow street . . .

  . . . and came face-to-face with the black plane.

  It had circled around and cut us off.

  Tori screamed with surprise. I might have too if I hadn’t gone into brain lock.

  The plane hovered two feet above the ground, twenty yards in front of us. There was no time to jump back. It had us.

  The stingray–shaped predator seemed to be glaring at us, as if it could think. Maybe it could. Whoever was controlling it, whether it was a pilot on board or somebody sitting safely in a command center with his hand on a joystick, we were square in its sights.

  “Who are you?” Tori shouted. “Show yourself, coward!”

  It was a defiant yet futile demand . . .

  . . . that got a response. Two small panels opened on the front edge of each wing. They were panels I feared were retracting to uncover its deadly cannons.

  Tori stood tall but reached out and grabbed my hand.

  I tensed up.

  The Pemberwick Run had finally come to an end.

  The musical sound of the jet’s engines echoed off the brick walls of the narrow street . . . and were drowned out by the sound of a car’s engine and the squeal of tires on pavement. A second later, a silver SUV came screaming out of the side street next to the hovering plane and crashed into it.

  The violent impact brought me back to my senses. I pulled Tori out of the street and into a recessed doorway for protection.

  Whoever was in control of the dark plane never saw the car coming. The craft actually flipped up onto its side and careened into the building, slamming its top into the wall, smashing windows and pulverizing brick. The plane seemed incredibly light, not only because it was so easily tossed but because its skin cracked and crumbled on impact.

  The SUV continued forward, pinning the craft against the wall. The force of the impact inflated both airbags, though there was relatively little damage to the car. The driver’s door opened and Kent tumbled out, pulling Olivia with him. They hit the pavement, fell, then scrambled to their feet and ran to us.

  A sound came from the damaged plane like that of an engine revving up. It wasn’t the familiar musical sound, but rather a steadily growing whine that made it seem as though power was building up inside the craft. Something was about to happen, and it wasn’t going to be good.

  “Run!” I shouted.

  Kent and Olivia were dazed but managed to stay on their feet and stumble toward us. I jumped out from the doorway and grabbed Olivia, who was in tears. I pulled her into the doorway as Kent jumped in right behind.

  Tori stood peering back around the corner, her eyes focused on the plane.

  “What’s happening?” she asked.

  As if in answer, the plane was suddenly engulfed by a bright light that seemed to grow from within. Seconds later, it exploded.

  “Whoa!” I screamed as we all pinned ourselves into the doorway for protection. A powerful fireball erupted and flashed past us. The heat was so intense I feared that our clothes would catch fire. The event lasted for only a few brief, devastating seconds. The sound of the explosion echoed through the streets of the Old Port and was soon gone.

  We all looked to one another, stunned.

  “Anybody hurt?” I asked.

  Nobody replied. I took that as a no.

  I cautiously peered around the corner to see that there was nothing left of the predator plane but the scorched brick wall it had crashed into.

  The hunter had become the victim. It had incinerated.

  “Did the fuel tank explode?” Tori asked, shaken.

  “I guess,” I replied. “But what kind of fuel would do that? I mean, the plane was obliterated.”

  Kent crawled to the edge of the doorway and peered back to see his handiwork.

  “Woo hoo!” he screamed in victory. “I so nailed that bastard! Did you see? We spotted you running into the street, so I drove another block to head you off and saw the plane. There wasn’t time to think, so we just went for it!”

  Kent was so charged up I thought he might have taken a dose of the Ruby, but that was impossible. It was adrenaline talking.

  Tori kneeled down next to a shaken Olivia.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “No,” Olivia replied. “I’m totally out of my mind.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I jammed my foot down on the gas over Kent’s,” she said, stunned, as if she couldn
’t believe it herself. “I don’t know what made me do it. I could have killed us.”

  “So ramming the plane was your idea?” I asked.

  “Hey, I didn’t fight it,” Kent announced, trying to salvage some credit. “I would have done the same thing.”

  Tori gave me a quick look and rolled her eyes.

  “Whatever,” I said. “You both saved our lives.”

  “Remember that, Rook,” Kent said. “You owe me.”

  “We can’t stay here,” Tori said. “This is bound to bring other planes.”

  “We still need a car,” I pointed out.

  “No problem,” Kent proclaimed cockily. “There’s a parking lot full of them, all with keys. They must belong to tourists.”

  “Used to belong to tourists,” Tori corrected.

  The reality of that statement hit hard. We were in a city of the dead. The United States Air Force had wiped it out. And as horrifying as that was, we had no way of knowing the full extent of the damage. Was Portland the only city hit? Or would we find more devastation elsewhere? With all forms of communication gone, there was only one way for us to find out.

  We had to travel.

  TWO

  Home.

  It’s a simple little word that means so much.

  It’s not just a place, it’s a concept. Home is safety. It’s where you are surrounded by loved ones who watch out for you. It’s the one place where you will always be welcomed, no matter what craziness may be going on around you. I think for most people it’s the single most important place in the world.

  I know that’s true because I no longer have one.

  Neither do Tori, Kent, and Olivia. We may have left our homes behind when we escaped from Pemberwick Island, but we had lost them long before that. We just didn’t know it at the time.

  I’m not exactly sure when our homes started to slip away. Maybe it began when people on Pemberwick Island suddenly started dying. The deaths rocked the small community and were unexplainable, until we were invaded and occupied by a branch of the United States Navy called SYLO. The president of the United States himself announced that a virus had broken out, and quarantined the island for our protection and that of the people on the mainland.