Storm (2 page)

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 beenin 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 . . . with 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 my hip 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 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 manta ray–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 control 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 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 that sounded like 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.
“Woohoo!” 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 wiped out, there was only one way for us to find out.
We had to travel.

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. It was a lie. The real reason people died was because of a substance called the Ruby that was being distributed by a mysterious stranger named Ken Feit. The Ruby gave people incredible strength and energy. I can say that with authority because I tried it. It was magical . . . unless you took too much. The human body wasn’t built to perform at such a high level. It was absolutely amazing—
and ultimately deadly.
Was that when our home started slipping away?
Or was it when the SYLO occupiers and their leader, Captain
Granger, started pulling people off the street and throwing them
into prison? Or when SYLO began killing people for attempting to
escape? Maybe it was before that, when the black Air Force planes
started secretly delivering the Ruby to Pemberwick. What was the
point of that? If they wanted to hurt us, why didn’t they just vaporize
us one night like they did the people of Portland? Were we being
used as guinea pigs for some hideous experiment?
I could say that I first felt my home slipping away when Quinn
Carr was killed. He was such a huge part of my life until . . . he wasn’t. Or maybe I know the exact moment when I realized I no longer had a home. It was when I heard that my mother and father
were working with the Navy. With SYLO. They knew SYLO was
coming long before we set foot on the island when I was nine years
old. They had been keeping the truth from me for a very long time.
The people who were supposed to protect me and make our home
a home weren’t doing either. I will never forgive them for that . . .
if I ever see them again.
My tragic story is only one of many that developed once SYLO
came into our lives.
Tori’s dad was killed while trying to fight back against the
occupation.
Kent’s father died when he took the Ruby to try to gain the
strength to protect their home.
Olivia was visiting the island from New York City, but her mother
was on the mainland when the invasion hit. They may never see each
other again because there’s no way to know if she’s dead or alive. The details may be different, but the bottom line is the same:
We have all lost the familiar base that helped make us who we are.
We’re adrift. All we can do is move forward and try to understand
the biggest question of all: Why? Why has this happened? Why have
so many people been killed? Why are the Navy and the Air Force
battling each other, and who should we hope will win? That’s the
most confounding question of all. SYLO held us prisoner, and the
Air Force tried to poison us. The Navy murdered anyone on Pemberwick who challenged their authority; the Air Force wiped out
thousands on the mainland.
Why? What were they hoping to gain? I can’t imagine anything being worth the pain and destruction that this war has already
caused. There has to be a reason for it. Someone must be calling
the shots. Someone sent SYLO to destroy my home. My life. When
I find out who they are, I’m going to do everything I can to cause
them the kind of suffering they brought to my friends, to Pemberwick Island, and to me. Maybe then we can start over and establish
a new base. A new history. A new home.
If there’s any hope of that, we must first search for the truth . . .
and hope that what we find won’t be worse than what we’ve
already seen.
“We’ll take the Saab,” Kent said. “It’s butt-ugly, but the tank
is full.”
We had made it safely to a parking lot that was packed with the
cars of people who had come to the Old Port for a night of fun, and
never left. We piled into the ancient burgundy sedan while keeping
one eye on the sky. Nobody had to say it, but we all feared that
another attack plane would come swooping in. I sat in back with
Tori. Olivia rode shotgun.
“Where’s the hospital?” Kent asked.
“Head back the way we drove into town,” Tori said. “It’s near
the Western Prom.”
“You say that like I know what you’re talking about,” he said
snidely.
Kent started the engine, put the car into gear, and jammed his
foot to the floor, launching us out of the parking lot.
“Hey, take it easy!” Olivia cried.
“Easy?” Kent said with a scoff. “Those planes are out hunting.
I don’t want to get blown up.”
“And I don’t want to smash into a light pole,” Olivia chastised
sweetly. “C’mon, Kent, I know you can get us there safely.” Kent backed off the gas.
“Sorry,” he said as if he actually meant it.
Olivia had an almost magical hold over Kent. Maybe it was the
way she made it seem like he was always making his own decisions,
while in reality she got exactly what she wanted. Or maybe it was
because she looked incredible in the same short-shorts that she had
been wearing since the night before. Or maybe he genuinely cared
about her. Didn’t matter. Kent was a loose cannon, and if he had
to be reined in, Olivia was the one to do it.
“How are you feeling?” I asked Tori.
“Tired, but okay,” she said.
I examined the bandage that Olivia had wrapped around her
wound while we were on the boat making the run from Pemberwick Island.
“You’re not bleeding,” I said. “But we have to make sure you
don’t get infected.”
“Yeah,” Kent said. “Wouldn’t want you to go all gangrene and
have to cut your arm off.”
Nobody reacted.
“Jeez, I’m kidding!” he complained.
Nobody reacted.
“Fine, I’ll shut up and drive.”
“Does it hurt much?” I asked Tori.
She didn’t answer, which was all the answer I needed. She was
hurting.
As we drove through the streets of an empty Portland, I kept
glancing to the sky for fear of seeing another dark plane. I rolled
down the window to listen for incoming music.
None of us spoke. We were all wound tight, tuned for signs of
danger. With each empty street we passed, the enormity of what we
were facing grew more real. The idea that thousands of people had
been wiped off the face of the earth was beyond horrifying. Not that the death of any innocent person can be justified, but
with a war, there’s the grim expectation of casualties. But were we
truly at war? If so, the people of Portland hadn’t gotten advance
notice. They had been attacked without mercy and for seemingly no reason. It’s not like a victorious army came in afterward to occupy
the city.
It seemed as though the attack was all about death for death’s
sake.
As bad as it was, there was no way to know if Portland was the
only target. What would we find when we left the city? Was the
rest of the world safe and watching the grisly events unfold here in
Maine? Or were there similar battles raging over New York? And
Philadelphia? And Baltimore? And and, and . . .
Even more sobering, if civil war had broken out in the United
States, it would affect the entire planet. We had allies and enemies.
The world economy relied on us. A civil war would create chaos
everywhere. What we were witnessing would have an impact that
stretched far beyond the borders of our little universe. With those dire thoughts in mind, it was no wonder that none
of us could bring ourselves to say much until we reached our
destination.
The Maine Medical Center was a sprawling, modern complex
of brick buildings.
“Go to the emergency room,” I called to Kent.
“Yes, sir!” he replied with mock enthusiasm.
He followed the signs and pulled to a stop in front of the glass
ER doors. We all got out and took a quick look around. The parking lot was full, but not a single person was around.
“What’s the point?” Kent asked. “We’re not going to find any
doctors.”
“We’ll get clean bandages and antiseptic,” Tori said. “It’s not
like I need surgery.”
Olivia held Tori by the arm to support her.
I led us to the front door . . . and nearly walked right in to it. Oops. No power.
Kent pulled open a side door.
“Or we could go this way,” he declared smugly.
He held the door while the three of us entered.
The sun was already on its way down. With no power in the
building, it was going to be a challenge to find anything—especially
since the deeper we walked toward the emergency room, the fewer
windows there were.
“We gotta do this fast,” I said, “or it’ll be pitch dark.” We walked quickly toward the patient-treatment area, more
or less guessing at which was the right way to go. Being there
brought back memories. Bad memories. The last time I had been
in a hospital was the week before, when Quinn and I snuck into his
father’s office in the Arborville emergency room. We hacked into
his parents’ computer looking for information about the Pemberwick virus. What we found was the first hint that there actually
was
no Pemberwick virus; the hospital database showed no cases being
treated. It confirmed that Captain Granger and his SYLO team
weren’t telling the people of Pemberwick the truth.
As startling as that was, it was only the tip of the iceberg. “What’s that sound?” Olivia asked.
I stopped short and tensed up, fearing an incoming attack plane.
We listened and heard what sounded like a static-filled AM radio. “Could be a battery-powered radio,” I said.
“Yes!” Kent exclaimed. “We can get news out of Boston.” We followed the sound while straining to hear what was being broadcast. There was more static than anything else, but we could occasionally hear the sound of a woman’s voice breaking through the clutter. It wasn’t clear enough to make out anything specific.
The signal was either too weak or the battery was near dead. “It’s coming from in there,” Tori said, pointing to a closed
door.
I didn’t hesitate and went for the door.
Dim light entered the room as I pushed it open. It was enough
to see a small office. On the far wall was a desk that was stacked
with electronic equipment, some of which had green power lights
on. There were several computer monitors lit up and showing colorful data.
“It
is
a radio,” Kent said.
“Why do they have power?” Olivia asked with confusion. “It must be running on batteries,” I said. “Or an emergency
generator. It looks like the communication room for the ER.” “So what is it picking up?” Tori asked.
The static and voice were coming from speakers mounted near
the ceiling. It was a bad signal, but I didn’t want to risk monkeying with the touchscreen for fear I would lose it completely. The
static continued along with the ghostly voice of a woman who was
broadcasting from . . . somewhere. I only caught every third word. “. . . appeal . . . survivors . . . bloodied . . . attacked . . . join . . .
north . . . thirty-six degrees . . . twenty seconds . . . hundred fourteen . . . fifty-seven . . . invaders . . . strength . . . hesitate . . .” The voice was clipped, and it cut in and out so that whatever
she was saying made little sense.
“Maybe we can talk to her,” Kent said and went for the radio. He picked up a microphone on a stand, brought it up to his
mouth, and—
“Don’t touch that!” barked a male voice from the hallway. We all jumped in surprise and spun quickly to see a guy standing there who didn’t look much older than us. He wore green hospital scrubs and a white lab coat. He had a head of thick, curly black
hair and wore large glasses that gave him a wild, bug-eyed look. He
pushed past us and went right for the radio.
“I don’t want to lose the signal,” he said, peeved. “It’s tough
enough finding it because it’s so weak.”
He fine-tuned the frequency by moving his fingers over the
touchscreen, but rather than bringing the ghostly voice in more
clearly, he killed it entirely.
“Damn!” he said, frustrated. “It’s over.”
The guy touched a few more icons, and the radio went dark. “Who was that?” Kent asked. “And who are
you
?” “Jon Purcell,” the guy said. “I mean, that’s who I am. I don’t
know who
she
was.”
“What was she talking about?” Olivia asked.
“I’m not sure,” Jon replied thoughtfully. “She comes on every
two hours and says the same thing, I think. It’s hard to tell because
I only get random words. She talks about survivors and heading
west and spews out numbers, but none of it makes sense. I don’t
even think she’s broadcasting live. It might be a recording, like a
continuous loop, because it sounds exactly the same each time.” “So you don’t know if she’s close by or on the other side of the
world,” I said.
Jon looked at me like I had just asked if fish could sing. “Obviously she couldn’t be on the other side of the world,” he
said condescendingly. “Radio waves don’t follow the curve of the
earth. With some repeaters she could be broadcasting from a few
thousand miles away, but that’s likely the limit.”
“Right. Thanks for the physics lesson,” I said, not meaning it. “Do you work here?” Tori asked. “I need some help.” “I’m in transportation,” Jon said proudly. “I know every inch
of this hospital. What do you need?”
“Transportation?” Ken said sarcastically. “Not exactly what
we’re looking for.”
“I was shot,” Tori said, gesturing to her shoulder. “I want to
clean up the wound.”
“Shot?” Jon said in disbelief. “How? Why? What happened?” “Really?” Kent exclaimed. “The whole city is wiped out by laser
beams from the sky, and you get all squirrely over a bullet wound?” Jon snapped a look to Kent and walked right up to him. He
must have been a foot shorter than tall, blond, preppy Kent, but
that didn’t stop him from getting in his face. Or rather his Adam’s
apple.
“That’s exactly why I’m ‘all squirrely,’ as you put it,” Jon said.