Storm

by D. J. MacHale

  It had only been a week or so since the attack, but downtown Boston was already showing small signs of disuse. Garbage blew along the sidewalks and collected along the curbs. Broken glass was everywhere, some from smashed windows and some from shattered streetlights. Of course there were plenty of abandoned cars. Many had crashed into buildings or had blown through glass storefront windows. The once busy city was quiet. There was no noise at all, not even from the cooing of pigeons. The only sound came from the wind that blew through the abandoned urban canyons.

  I was beginning to accept that this was the new normal. I hate to admit that because it meant I was willing to accept an unfathomable future, but what choice did I have? At least it meant that I could move forward and not crawl up into a ball, wanting to die. That’s saying something. I think.

  Chris pulled into a parking lot and announced, “We’re here.”

  Olivia and I looked around and had the same thought: “Where’s here?”

  We were in a nondescript section of the city with no hint of survivors.

  “We’ve still got a short walk,” Chris replied. “Like I said, we try to stay spread out. I’m not sure what good it does, but at least it makes us feel like we’re taking a little control.”

  He led us along the sidewalk for a few blocks until we made the turn into an open park, where our question was answered.

  “The Hall” turned out to be Faneuil Hall. I’d visited the place with my parents and knew a little bit of its history. The thumbnail description is that there were three three-story brick buildings that dated back to colonial times. Two of them ran parallel to each other and had to be at least a couple of blocks long. Faneuil Hall was originally a meeting place where speeches were given about fighting for independence from England. After that it served as a kind of town hall. It eventually became one of those historic spots that they renovate to look like it did back in the day. At some point the place was turned into a sprawling indoor-outdoor marketplace.

  From the outside, the buildings looked as though they were from the 1700s, but inside were aisles of shops where you could buy anything from fried clams to artwork to dog collars. It was mostly a tourist spot. Locals didn’t buy refrigerator magnets of the Old North Church. But the restaurants were always busy, which meant it was a spot that drew lots of people.

  At least it did before the population was wiped out.

  The place wasn’t crowded, of course. But I did see a few people walking quickly between buildings, as if they didn’t want to be outside any longer than necessary. It was a surprise to see other people, which is further proof that I was getting used to the new reality.

  “Here come your friends,” Chris said.

  From the far side of the public park, I saw a group of the cowboys walking with Tori and Kent. One guy carried our gym bags, though Tori held on tight to her own. Kent had Olivia’s huge sack over his shoulder. He really did like Olivia. I don’t think he would have carried anybody else’s bag. Unless it was Tori’s. Okay, stop, Tucker.

  From the other side of the building came a few more of Chris’s people, along with Jon. We all met up in front of a building with huge white columns over which the name “Quincy Market” was painted in big gold letters.

  “This is where you register,” Chris explained. “They’ll process you through, and then I’ll take you to get something to eat. I assume you’re hungry.”

  “Wait, register?” I asked.

  “What kind of processing?” said Tori.

  “We’re trying to be organized,” Chris explained. “Lots of people are coming through. Right now, we’ve got the only record of who survived the massacre.”

  “Makes total sense,” Jon said. “It’s like the first census of the new world. It could end up being a historical document.”

  “New world,” I repeated. “I’m not sure how I feel about calling it that.”

  “It won’t take long,” Chris assured us. “We’ll take your bags and meet you back here.”

  “I’ll hang on to mine,” Tori said.

  I had no doubt that she had stashed one of the guns in there.

  We all exchanged looks and shrugs and headed inside.

  Stepping into the old building, we came upon a long counter that was normally a display for historical artifacts but was now being used as a reception desk by three pretty girls who didn’t look much older than Olivia. One of them waved for us to come over. I took the lead and went first.

  “Hello. My name’s Madalyn,” the first girl said to me in a welcoming voice that instantly put me at ease. “How are you doing?”

  “I’m not sure how to answer that,” I replied.

  She gave me a sympathetic smile. “I hear you. Welcome to the Hall. Not that anybody really wants to be here, but it’s better than being out there alone.”

  I shrugged.

  “We need to get some information before you officially join us.”

  “Uh, sure, whatever.”

  “What’s your full name?”

  “Tucker Brody Pierce.”

  The girl opened a big, old-fashioned ledger book. Several pages were filled with a long list of names. I guess that’s how things had to work in this “new world.” We didn’t have power to run computers. Madalyn wrote my name down with neat, girl-typical handwriting. She asked me my date of birth, where I was born, and what my parents’ names were.

  “Great,” she said. “Gigi will take your medical history. I’ll see you around.”

  That was my cue to move on, so I slid over to face the next girl in line as Tori stepped up to Madalyn.

  “Hello, my name’s Madalyn. Welcome to the Hall.”

  Gigi was an equally pretty girl who asked me all sorts of questions about what kind of diseases I might have or if I had ever had any operations or injuries. She diligently wrote everything down in her own ledger book. I didn’t question them as to why they needed the information. Like Chris said, this was the only official record of the survivors. It was all so casual, as if we were checking into the Blackbird Inn for a vacation, not picking up the pieces after an attempt at genocide.

  The last girl, Ashley (also cute, for the record), asked me to give her a brief account of where we were when the attack happened and the places we’d been on our way to the Hall. I gave her short answers, which is all she wanted since she was writing it all down. I expected a surprised reaction when I mentioned that we were out on the water when Portland was first hit, and that we had fought our way through the largest air-sea battle in history to get to the mainland, but she didn’t even blink. I guess she had heard all sorts of hairy stories. Ours was just another one.

  I heard Gigi, the medical girl, ask Tori, “Are you in much pain?”

  “I’m fine,” Tori replied, tight-lipped.

  They were obviously talking about her gunshot wound.

  “We’ll get you right over to one of the doctors for a look,” Gigi said.

  She reached for another, smaller book and made a notation.

  “You guys are pretty buttoned up,” I said to Ashley. “It’s like you’ve been doing this a long time.”

  Ashley frowned and said, “I know, right? So many people have been coming through. I guess that’s a good thing, but . . . it’s so sad. At least it helps us focus on something other than the horror of it all.”

  She had said the exact right thing, but it felt kind of . . . rehearsed. She must have said the same thing a few hundred times. That was good news. It meant there were a lot of survivors.

  “That’s it,” she declared. “You’re all set. Head on outside and . . . good luck.”

  “You too,” I said and headed for the door.

  The whole process of being questioned, logged, and filed was unsettling. Knowing that our information might be the first census of a new world was humbling, to say the least. But it helped that the girls were friendly and cute. It softened the sting.

  I went back outside to wait while the others finished up. Our bags were lined up toget
her, with Olivia’s giant duffel on the end. Tori joined me a few minutes later. We stood together, awkwardly, not sure of what to say or do next.

  “Well,” she finally said. “That was . . . thorough.”

  “Seriously,” I responded. “I expected them to ask me for a blood sample.”

  Tori scanned the courtyard, deep in thought.

  “What?” I asked.

  “I’ll go along with the program,” she said. “For now.”

  “Well, yeah. I don’t see any better options.”

  She gave me a hard look. “Are you still trying to ignore that radio message?” she asked.

  “I’m not ignoring it, but we found a group of survivors right here. Why would we travel all the way across the country?”

  “Because whoever sent that message wants to fight back,” Tori replied. “These people seem like they’re ready to spend their lives here.”

  “That’s crazy,” I said, scoffing. “They’re just trying to make the best of it.”

  “I don’t want to make the best of it,” Tori said angrily. “My father’s dead. I won’t forget that.”

  I didn’t bother to tell her that I hadn’t forgotten either. I held the grief close to my heart, not letting my true feelings show, because when the time came for me to act, I wanted to do it on my own.

  Tori picked up her bag and clutched it under her good arm.

  “You do whatever works for you,” she said.

  The tension between us wasn’t just because I hadn’t backed her up on going to Nevada. She was regressing back to her old self and closing me out.

  “How odd was that?” Kent exclaimed as he strolled from Quincy Market. “I wonder what time they’re serving tea?”

  “It’s wrong,” Tori said flatly. “They’re taking down useless information while all that matters is that those planes could show up at any time and finish the job.”

  “They might,” Kent said. “So we should make the best of it while we can, right?”

  Olivia and Jon joined us soon after. They hadn’t spent anywhere near as much time being “processed” as I had. I guess that was because I had already given them the information about where we had come from.

  “Now what?” Olivia asked, pouting. “Didn’t that big fella say something about food?”

  “It’s going to be dark soon,” Jon pointed out. “I don’t want to be outside in case . . .”

  He didn’t have to finish the thought. None of us wanted to be around if the planes came back at night, when their laser weapons worked. If anything, we needed to be three levels underground.

  “See? That wasn’t so bad,” Chris said as he strode quickly toward us. “Let’s get you set up with a place to sleep. Then we’ll get you some food and have one of the doctors look at Tori’s gunshot wound.”

  “How did you know about the gunshot wound?” Tori asked.

  “News travels fast,” Chris said with a shrug.

  “Not that fast,” Tori countered.

  “You’d be surprised. Follow me.”

  We grabbed our bags—Kent took his and Olivia’s—and followed Chris across the park to one of the other large buildings.

  Inside were lines of stalls that normally offered food and touristy trinkets, but not anymore. That’s not to say it was empty. Lots of people were there, but rather than shopping they were busy working on projects. Some were cleaning out spoiled food from the restaurant stalls and sanitizing the place. Without refrigeration, things were going bad fast. Further along, we passed stalls that had already been cleaned out and turned into comfortable places with chairs and couches where people read books or played chess.

  Not everyone was keeping busy. We passed a few people who were huddled in chairs, silently crying. Others were curled in corners, their arms wrapped around their legs and their heads buried. Many were alone; some had sympathetic friends with them to offer comfort. It was a sad reminder of how so many lives were destroyed and loved ones murdered.

  A few stoic folks gave us a small wave or an acknowledging smile. We may have been strangers, but we all had one thing in common: We were all survivors of the most deadly attack in history.

  Chris spoke with many of the people as we walked past, calling out a quick “Hello!” or “How’s it going?” Several times he stopped next to a person who was visibly upset just to give them a comforting rub on the back. He was acting like a camp counselor whose main duty was to try to keep everybody happy. But it was more than that. From what we had seen so far, he was taking care of these people when they needed it most.

  Since leaving Pemberwick, my friends had looked to me to fill that role. I was never comfortable taking the lead and making decisions, but somebody had to do it. Now it seemed as though we had connected with someone who welcomed that challenge. I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t a relief to let somebody else be in charge. It was good to know people like Chris Campbell were around to help keep what was left of the world from spinning into chaos.

  Halfway along the building we turned into a doorway to find a flight of stairs leading down. There was a cardboard box full of headlamps inside the door. Chris gave one to each of us. We strapped them on and followed him down below.

  “This is where most of us sleep,” he explained as we descended. “There’s no telling if those planes will come back at night, but since we know it’s safer underground, we try to stay down here once the sun sets.”

  Kent said, “It’s like the opposite of being vampires. We’ve got to hide from the dark.”

  “You could put it that way,” Chris said. “It’s kinda creepy, but whatever works for you.”

  Kent shut up.

  We descended to the lowest level of the building. Anything that had been used to run the market had been cleared out of the long basement and replaced by cots along either wall. I could only see as far as the throw of the LED light from my lamp, but I had to guess that there were at least fifty beds on either side. People had definitely made themselves at home. There were makeshift curtains strung up between now useless floor lamps to create small, private living spaces.

  Chris led us between the rows of cots where people slept or read books using their headlamps. Chris’s cowboys must have pulled them from all over the city. Some people had tacked photos to the walls, but mostly the personal items were suitcases or canvas bags that were kept next to the beds.

  Many people were quietly sobbing or staring blankly at the ceiling. I had no doubt that their minds had cast back to the life they had lost. It was gut-wrenching.

  Finally, Chris stopped at a few unoccupied cots topped with empty sleeping bags.

  “I’m afraid it’s coed,” Chris pointed out. “I guess that’s the least of our problems.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Olivia sniffed, perturbed.

  “Fine by me,” Kent said and dumped Olivia’s giant bag on a cot. He claimed the cot right next to hers.

  Tori took the cot on Kent’s other side.

  “Lucky me!” he declared, beaming happily. “A Kent sandwich.”

  We all ignored him.

  I went to the other side of the aisle, just to be away from Olivia. I dropped my bag on a bed next to one that already had somebody’s suitcase at the foot. The cot on the other side of mine was empty, so Jon took it.

  “Try not to use the headlamps more than necessary,” Chris warned. “We’ve set up a battery-recharging station, but it gets backed up, and since it’s run by solar power, we’re at the mercy of the sun.”

  “Looks like you’ve got it all figured out,” Tori said. It didn’t sound like a compliment.

  “We’re trying,” Chris replied. “The food’s pretty good too. We’ve got people scouring the city, and there’s still plenty left that’s fresh. Can’t say how long that’ll last. At least when winter sets in, we’ll have natural refrigeration.”

  Hearing that made my heart sink. Winter was on the way, which would add another level of hardship. Days would be short, and there was no heat. More peop
le would surely find their way to the Hall, which meant overcrowding would become an issue. What seemed like a comfortable place to stay and plan our next move might quickly turn into a congested mess.

  Once again I had to force myself to deal with the moment and not look too far ahead. The future wasn’t a happy place to be.

  “Once you get settled, head over to the building across from this one,” Chris said. “We’ve set up a kitchen and mess hall. Help yourself. Tomorrow we’ll work you into the system and assign you some duties. Everybody is welcome here, but you’re expected to pitch in.”

  “No problem,” Jon said enthusiastically. “Whatever you need.”

  “Excellent,” Chris replied. “As long as we can rely on one another, we’ll be okay.”

  “And live to be old and gray in our little basement commune here in the heart of Boston,” Tori said with fake delight.

  “We’re doing the best we can,” Chris said, obviously tweaked by her sarcasm. “Come with me, Tori. You’ve got to get that shoulder looked at.”

  “I’m okay,” she said curtly.

  Chris softened and said, “I’m just trying to help you out.”

  “Don’t be dumb,” I said to Tori with no sympathy. “The last thing you need is an infection.”

  Tori was holding in a lot of anger. She didn’t like to be told what to do, especially by someone she didn’t trust . . . which was everyone. Including me.

  “Fine,” she said and stood up, still clutching her bag.

  “You can leave that,” Chris said. “The honor system works.”

  “Don’t push it,” Tori snarled.

  “Suit yourself,” Chris said with a shrug and headed back the way we came in.

  Tori hesitated a moment, then followed. We watched them disappear into the darkness, then looked to each other in the light from our headlamps.