Storm (8 page)

“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 dismissing that radio message?” she asked.
“I’m not dismissing it at all, 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 the 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 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 food from the restaurant stalls and sanitizing the place. Without refrigeration, things were going bad. 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 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 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 a 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 people 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.
“Well,” Olivia said. “This is cozy.” She didn’t mean it.
“I think it’s great,” Jon said as he stretched out on his cot with his hands behind his head. “They’ve thought of everything.”
“I don’t get you, Jon,” I said. “You’re acting like this is some big adventure.”
“Isn’t it?” he replied.
“What’s your deal, Chadwick?” Kent asked. “I mean, who were you before the invasion?”
“There isn’t much to tell you,” Jon answered. “My parents died a while back, and I live alone. Put myself through Bowden on scholarships because I’m exceptionally intelligent. Graduated last year. I have degrees in engineering and chemistry. I was working at the hospital to make ends meet until I decided on what to do with my life. But I’m only twenty-one. There’s no rush.”
“Yeah,” Olivia said sarcastically. “The future looks really rosy. We’ve all got so much to look forward to.”
“That’s it?” Kent asked. “That’s all you have to say about who you are?”
“What do you want to hear?” Jon asked defensively. “You want to know what books I read or what movies I like? You want to know my favorite food? Favorite team? Favorite color? None of that matters anymore, so why even think about it?”
Jon had lashed out so angrily that even Kent backed off. We sat there for a few seconds in silence, while Jon’s words ate at me.
“I think you’re wrong,” I finally said. “I think it does matter. We can’t forget who we were.”
“Unless you didn’t particularly like who you were,” Jon said. “Maybe this is a chance to become somebody new.”
They were simple but stunning words. It could be that for some people the destruction of the human race might actually offer a new beginning. People who were unhappy with their lives were given a chance to start fresh. To reinvent themselves. There was only one catch . . .
. . . you had to survive.
“I’m hungry,” Kent announced. “Who’s with me?”
We all were. Olivia, Jon, and I followed him back upstairs, where we deposited our headlamps and headed outside.
Night had fallen. A low, warm glow came from the windows of the long building that ran parallel to the one we had just left. The thought crossed my mind that it might be smart to block off any light coming from the windows that would tip-off the Air Force that people had congregated. Apparently Chris and his cowboys hadn’t thought of everything.
When we entered, we found ourselves in a large restaurant room. Light came from several battery-powered camp lanterns that rested on many of the tables. It wasn’t bright, but it was enough to see by. I guessed there were about thirty people eating. Some sat alone, others huddled in groups. They spoke softly, as if eating in a library.
“Kitchen’s that way,” one guy said to us, pointing.
I led the others through swinging doors and into a kitchen, where we were instantly hit with a wave of delicious smells.
“They’re cooking?” Kent said, surprised.
Other than the fact that the only light source came from strategically placed lanterns, the kitchen looked every bit like a fully functioning restaurant kitchen from before the attack. Two chefs were at stoves that held large pots and pans that were bubbling and steaming.
“It’s gas,” Jon said. “The burners are lit!”
It was a simple yet amazing sight that would have been commonplace only a few weeks before.
“Grab some plates at the end of the line,” a friendly chef called out. “Tonight we’ve got steaks.”
“Steaks!” Kent exclaimed. “You mean, like . . . real steaks?”
“Where did all this food come from?” I asked.
“You name it,” the chef replied. “We’ve got people scrounging all over the city. Can’t say how long the fresh stuff will last, so get it while you can.”
“You don’t have to tell me twice,” Kent said and hurried toward the food.
We passed through a doorway into a section of the restaurant that was set up to serve the meal. Several people stood behind a long table spread with platters and bowls containing an impossible selection of food. There were salads, mashed potatoes, multiple varieties of rice, corn on the cob, apples, baked potatoes, glazed carrots, multiple varieties of soup, and, yes, steaks. Thick steaks. Juicy, cooked-to-perfection, impossible steaks.
“I think I’m dreaming,” Olivia said with dismay.
I was too hungry to question it. I grabbed a plate, then thought for a second and grabbed another plate. I filled one with potatoes and fruit, and on the other I picked out the heaviest steak I could find.
The servers behind the counter watched us with bemused smiles. At one point I made eye contact with an older woman chef who had been watching me and suddenly felt self-conscious.
“Am I being a pig?” I asked.
“Absolutely not,” she said with a laugh. “If you don’t eat it, somebody else will. Just don’t make yourself sick if you haven’t eaten in a while.”
“That’s a risk I’m willing to take,” I said and continued to load my plate.
The last time I had eaten a hot meal was when we were prisoners in the SYLO camp on Pemberwick Island. How long ago was that? It felt like a lifetime. My stomach thought so too. The smell of food brought on a growl of anticipation.
At the end of the line were juices that actually seemed to be fresh-squeezed. They must ha ve been using up whatever fresh fruit was still around before it went bad. I grabbed a glass of lemonade. This may not have been the greatest meal I had ever eaten, but it sure felt like it.
We claimed a table in the restaurant and ate without a word. Ta lking would have slowed the input. I had to force myself to eat slowly for fear my stomach would reject the tonnage that I was shoveling down. I also didn’t want to look like an animal.