Storm Read online

  “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 Bowdoin 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 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, 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 have 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. Talking 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.

  Kent didn’t have the same concern. He ate furiously, shoving in whatever he could balance on a fork. Jon wasn’t much better. Olivia ate too. I’d never seen a girl gorge the way she did. At one point we made eye contact, and she gave me an embarrassed smile . . . before letting out a deep boomer of a belch.

  We both laughed and continued to chow.

  At one point the lady server came up and stood over our table.

  “I see we have some healthy appetites here,” she said warmly. “Don’t be shy about going for seconds.”

  The words were barely out of her mouth before Kent and Jon were on their feet and racing each other back to the kitchen.

  “Somebody’s going to get sick,” Olivia said. “It might be me.”

  “You wouldn’t be alone,” the woman said. “Newcomers are always overindulging. It’s human nature.”

  “This is incredible,” I said. “I mean, it’s a feast.”

  “Some days are better than others,” the woman said. “Everyone has something to offer. It’s amazing what can be accomplished when your sole purpose is to take care of one another. Enjoy.”

  The woman moved on to another table to see how they were enjoying their meal.

  “I could get used to this,” Olivia said as she bit into a perfectly ripe tomato, the dark red juice running down her chin.

  “It’s not bad,” I had to admit.

  “It’s all so . . . civilized,” Tori said with disdain as she sat down at the table with a plate of food. Her bag was draped over her shoulder.

  “What did the doctor say?” I asked.

  “Not much. He pulled off the bandage, grunted as if it was exactly what he expected to see, put a few drops of antibiotic or something on the wound, wrapped me back up with fresh gauze, and sent me on my way. He didn’t even look me in the eye. Now I know what a dog feels like at the veterinarian. No, I take that back. At least a dog gets a pat on the head.”

  “He’s probably exhausted from treating so many patients,” Olivia offered.

  “No. He just didn’t care. What’s with the feast? Are these people living in denial or what?”

  “They’re making the best of a bad situat
ion,” I offered.

  “They should spend less time getting comfortable and start worrying a little more about how to stop this from happening again.”

  She put her head down and ate. A lot.

  I said, “You’ve been doing nothing but criticizing these people, but you sure take advantage of what they’ve got to offer.”

  Tori didn’t look at me. She said, “Why not? I’m not stupid. But as soon as I’m back up to speed, I’m out of here . . . with or without you people.”

  That was it. Tori was headed for Nevada. Maybe it was the right thing to do. I didn’t know. I needed time to sort out my own thoughts. My only consolation was that she needed some time to heal. Maybe by the time she was ready to leave, I would be too.

  After eating, we went back to our subterranean barracks. We were given towels and directed to makeshift showers that were erected in the bathrooms. They were nothing more than hoses stretched across the ceiling with nozzles that dangled overhead. The water was cold but welcome. It wasn’t until I was nearly finished that I realized how incredible it was that the water was still running. Just like the gas in the restaurant. The people who had survived to meet up in the Hall were a resourceful group.

  When I got back to my bunk, I found that my neighbor had returned and lay on his cot reading. He was a gray-haired guy who looked as though he may have been athletic at one time, but the clock had caught up with him.

  “I’m Tucker Pierce,” I said, holding out my hand to shake. “Sorry to crowd you like this.”

  “Jim Hardimon,” the guy said as he shook my hand. “You’re not bothering me. Plenty of people have come and gone already. You’re just the next.”

  “How long have you been here?” I asked.

  “Since the day after the attack. I was in my basement that night, working on the furnace. I complained about having to fix that cranky old thing, but it ended up saving my life.”

  “How did you find your way here?” I asked.

  “I drove into the city from Brookline, figuring I might find some people. I stumbled on this group and helped set the place up, you know, changing it from a tourist trap into a camp of sorts.”

  “You all did an incredible job,” I said.

  “Good enough, I suppose. Most of the credit goes to Chris Campbell. He really took the bull by the horns and organized us. Good man.”

  I glanced over to Tori to see if she was hearing Jim’s story. She was pretending not to be listening.

  “What happens next for you?” I asked.

  He shrugged and said, “That depends on what this is all about. Somebody must have won this war. All I know is that it wasn’t the people of Boston. I figure we’ll find out sooner or later. Until then, I’m staying right here. I got no family. Anybody I care about is gone. I can’t imagine finding a better place to be living, given the hand we’ve been dealt. Can you?”

  “No,” I replied while glancing at Tori. “Considering all that happened, this place is pretty sweet.”

  “I’m going to milk it until, well, until somebody tells me otherwise. Gotta look out for number one, you know. I suggest you do the same.”

  With that, Jim rolled over to go to sleep.

  I looked at Tori. She glared at me and turned away.

  I suddenly felt dead tired. It had been a long, eventful day. I went to sleep with the hope that the next day would break with tradition and be totally boring.

  When I woke up, I checked my new watch. Five A.M. At home I could sleep until noon. Those days were long gone. I was wide-awake and knew I couldn’t force myself to konk out again, so I got up to do a little exploring.

  It was still dark outside, though the sky was beginning to lighten. Dawn was normally alive with the chirping of early birds vying for their daily worms. I did hear the chirrups of a few random birds, but nothing like normal. At least it meant that a few of them had survived. I wondered if any worms had.

  I also heard the sound of a running engine. It was the only sign of human life, so I followed it. The noise brought me to the far end of the building that housed the restaurant we had eaten in.

  When I rounded the corner, I saw a large delivery truck idling near the back doors. Several people were hard at work unloading it. They carried out boxes of fresh vegetables, bushels of fruit, and at least five sides of beef. These were the scroungers who combed Boston for the food needed to feed our little colony. They probably searched every square inch of the town so that nothing would go to waste. It was good to see that there was still some fresh food around.

  I was about to head back to the barracks when I saw another vehicle approach—a bus. It was big, the kind that people used to travel long distances. It pulled up beyond the truck that was being off-loaded and stopped. What was it doing there? Dropping off the next crop of survivors? When the bus door opened, I saw that it was empty. So what was it doing?

  My answer came when a door opened at the end of the building and a line of people walked out, single file, headed for the idling vehicle. One of the cute girls who had processed us when we arrived appeared at the door of the bus, holding a clipboard. Was it Gigi? Or Ashley? I couldn’t remember. She stood at the vehicle entrance and made a notation on her clipboard as each person boarded.

  The passengers were mostly men, but I did see a few women. They didn’t seem particularly excited about going wherever it was they were going. They dutifully waited their turn, gave their name to Gigi or Ashley, and boarded the bus. There was no conversation. No pleasantries. No personality to the event at all.

  Five minutes later, the door of the bus closed, and the vehicle pulled out. The girl stayed behind and walked to the building, where she was met by . . . Chris Campbell. He checked the clipboard, took her pen, and made a note at the bottom, then handed it back to her. Without a word, they both went on their way.

  I don’t know why the event bothered me. Maybe it was because I couldn’t come up with a logical explanation for what had happened. Or maybe because it looked like the people were being treated like numbers on a list.

  It was something I needed to ask Chris about. But not just then. I wanted to have people around me when I brought it up because I had the weird feeling that I had seen something I wasn’t supposed to.

  EIGHT

  Breakfast was just as awesome as dinner. We gorged on bacon and eggs and bagels and fruit and juice.

  “This can’t last,” I said. “Eventually the fresh food will run out, and we’ll be eating out of cans.”

  “Until the cans run out,” Tori cautioned.

  “We’ll have to start growing our own stuff,” Jon said. “Didn’t you say that you’re a gardener, Tucker? You should tell Chris you want to start a farm.”

  Kent laughed. “Perfect! Farmer Pierce.”

  I wasn’t insulted. Just the opposite. I thought it was a pretty good idea. I knew a lot about plants, though most of my experience was with grass and flowers. How hard could it be to grow corn? Or tomatoes? For a brief moment, I let my mind shoot ahead to what the future might hold for somebody who could provide food for a colony of survivors. I could be a pretty valuable asset.

  That image was shattered when I looked at Tori, who stared at me with cold eyes.

  “Let me know how that works out for you,” she said with disdain and went back to her meal.

  I felt my anger grow. Was I pissed at her for being so negative about everything? Or was I disappointed in myself for thinking of a future that involved accepting what had happened? Was I healing? Or giving up?

  “I see you’ve all settled in,” Chris Campbell said as he approached our table. “Food isn’t bad, right?”

  “No complaints,” Kent said. “I just hope it lasts.”

  “That’s up to us,” Chris replied. “The harder we work, the better we eat.”

  “We’ve got to figure out what our assignments are,” Jon said enthusiastically. “We want to do our part.”

  “You will,” Chris assured him. “When you’re done eating, come
over to Quincy Market. We want to hear about your trip here.”

  “It’s a heck of a story,” Kent said with a full mouth.

  “I’ve got a question for you, Chris,” I said. “I was walking around this morning and saw a bunch of people boarding a bus and taking off. What’s up with that?”

  Chris shrugged and said, “People come and go all the time. We try to keep a record of it so when people leave, we ask that they do it in groups. It’s easier to document it that way.”

  “People can’t just leave whenever they want?” I asked.

  “Of course they can,” Chris answered quickly. “We just want to make sure we have a record of it. You never know. Somebody might show up looking for a lost kid, and if that kid passed through here, we want to be able to tell them. Olivia, what if your mother came looking for you? We want to be able to tell her you were here and safe.”

  “If only,” Olivia said softly, without lifting her eyes.

  “Makes total sense,” Kent said.

  “Where does the bus take them?” I asked.

  “Wherever they want to go, within reason. We’ve got to conserve gas. Some people want to get to the ocean and find a boat to travel down the coast. Others just want to get away from the city. We don’t question. All we try to do is keep track of the survivors who come through here as well as we can.” He shrugged and added, “I don’t know, maybe it’s all a big waste of time, but it makes us feel as though we’re doing something positive.”

  “I think it’s really smart,” Jon said with enthusiasm.

  “Could you drive me to New York City?” Olivia asked.

  Chris gave her an apologetic shrug. “I’m afraid that’s a little out of our range. Like I said, we have to conserve gas.”

  “That’s okay,” Olivia said while staring at her breakfast. “I doubt my mother’s there anyway.”

  Her wistful comment made my heart go out to her. I’d been so wrapped up with my own demons that I kept forgetting I wasn’t the only one who had lost family. Though in my case, my parents were still alive—they were just traitors.