Boston Harbor, just past the Museum of Science. They would cross the highway and then start to look for the Bunker Hill Monument. Abby felt confident that, using it as a landmark, she could lead them to the yacht club.
Of the many dangers they might encounter, nighttime worried her the most. She wanted to reach the club before the sun set. They might never find Jordan in the dark, and she dreaded the idea of spending the night outside. With six hours of daylight remaining, she thought they could make it. If it meant they had to stop their fake limps and walk fast, that was just a risk they would have to take.
Mel looked back while Abby shifted her gaze left and right. Together, they kept a complete watch on their surroundings.
Squatters had moved into a deli, furniture store, nightclub, and Chinese restaurant along Mass. Ave. The smell of roasting meat wafted through the broken windows of the post office in Central Square. Kids had built an urban campsite inside Sky Dry Cleaners, complete with a wood stove, several mattresses, and a full-length mirror. It was protected by barbed wire. Abby saw bedding and pots and pans in several cars. Laundry hung out of the windows of a yellow school bus, parked half on the sidewalk. In what used to be her favorite park, boys and girls were playing soccer.
Nearing the river, they encountered an increasing number of survivors. The younger kids demonstrated the most energy. The teens looked sick and moved more slowly.
Ahead, a motley pack of dogs were chowing down on something, all tugging at the object and growling. Such an odd collection: a poodle, a Chihuahua, several mutts, a German shepherd, and a Lab. Abby had no interest in seeing what the dogs had found for a meal.
They encountered kids lugging drinking water two blocks from the river. Then Abby saw ‘The Charles’. It was a mile across by the Mass. Ave. Bridge. Makeshift shelters crowded both banks. On the other side, Boston’s skyscrapers, some rising like charred stalks of corn, formed a saw-toothed pattern against a darkening sky.
A storm was approaching, but Abby looked forward to the rain. It would protect her and Mel by making them look even more bedraggled.
On Memorial Drive, halfway between the bridge and the Museum of Science, Mel squeezed her arm and whispered, “We’re being followed.”
Eyes straight, they continued walking as Mel described the girl who she said had maintained the same distance behind them for the past quarter mile. “Black leather jacket, torn jeans, short hair. She’s wearing a baseball cap. Thirteen or fourteen.”
Abby wanted to ask Mel why she had waited so long to say anything. “Maybe she’s not following us.”
“I know when someone is following me.”
Abby sighed, realizing that being on constant guard was a skill one needed on the mainland. She yearned for the peace and security of Castine Island where such skills were not necessary. “Let’s look back fast on the count of three.”
Mel agreed and Abby counted.
The girl looked vaguely familiar. She stood twenty yards away. She had stopped as they had. There was one thing Mel had failed to mention. A knife hung from the girl’s belt.
“What do you think she wants?” Mel asked.
At that moment, a tall boy stepped out from behind a tree and moved next to the girl. Mel gasped. “It’s them.”
Even if Mel had remained silent, Abby would have known it was Brad. He towered over the girl. He had a Mohawk haircut and long arms. He had a knife attached to his belt too. Cocking his head to the side, he glared at them as if she and Mel were hunks of raw meat, and he was a hungry wolf.
Now Abby recognized the girl. She was the one wearing the baseball cap who had ducked inside the house across from the O’Brien’s house. Throughout the night and most of the day, Abby thought, the girl had been spying on them.
Soon, the other gang members caught up. They reminded Abby of desperate predators. She understood what had
Of the many dangers they might encounter, nighttime worried her the most. She wanted to reach the club before the sun set. They might never find Jordan in the dark, and she dreaded the idea of spending the night outside. With six hours of daylight remaining, she thought they could make it. If it meant they had to stop their fake limps and walk fast, that was just a risk they would have to take.
Mel looked back while Abby shifted her gaze left and right. Together, they kept a complete watch on their surroundings.
Squatters had moved into a deli, furniture store, nightclub, and Chinese restaurant along Mass. Ave. The smell of roasting meat wafted through the broken windows of the post office in Central Square. Kids had built an urban campsite inside Sky Dry Cleaners, complete with a wood stove, several mattresses, and a full-length mirror. It was protected by barbed wire. Abby saw bedding and pots and pans in several cars. Laundry hung out of the windows of a yellow school bus, parked half on the sidewalk. In what used to be her favorite park, boys and girls were playing soccer.
Nearing the river, they encountered an increasing number of survivors. The younger kids demonstrated the most energy. The teens looked sick and moved more slowly.
Ahead, a motley pack of dogs were chowing down on something, all tugging at the object and growling. Such an odd collection: a poodle, a Chihuahua, several mutts, a German shepherd, and a Lab. Abby had no interest in seeing what the dogs had found for a meal.
They encountered kids lugging drinking water two blocks from the river. Then Abby saw ‘The Charles’. It was a mile across by the Mass. Ave. Bridge. Makeshift shelters crowded both banks. On the other side, Boston’s skyscrapers, some rising like charred stalks of corn, formed a saw-toothed pattern against a darkening sky.
A storm was approaching, but Abby looked forward to the rain. It would protect her and Mel by making them look even more bedraggled.
On Memorial Drive, halfway between the bridge and the Museum of Science, Mel squeezed her arm and whispered, “We’re being followed.”
Eyes straight, they continued walking as Mel described the girl who she said had maintained the same distance behind them for the past quarter mile. “Black leather jacket, torn jeans, short hair. She’s wearing a baseball cap. Thirteen or fourteen.”
Abby wanted to ask Mel why she had waited so long to say anything. “Maybe she’s not following us.”
“I know when someone is following me.”
Abby sighed, realizing that being on constant guard was a skill one needed on the mainland. She yearned for the peace and security of Castine Island where such skills were not necessary. “Let’s look back fast on the count of three.”
Mel agreed and Abby counted.
The girl looked vaguely familiar. She stood twenty yards away. She had stopped as they had. There was one thing Mel had failed to mention. A knife hung from the girl’s belt.
“What do you think she wants?” Mel asked.
At that moment, a tall boy stepped out from behind a tree and moved next to the girl. Mel gasped. “It’s them.”
Even if Mel had remained silent, Abby would have known it was Brad. He towered over the girl. He had a Mohawk haircut and long arms. He had a knife attached to his belt too. Cocking his head to the side, he glared at them as if she and Mel were hunks of raw meat, and he was a hungry wolf.
Now Abby recognized the girl. She was the one wearing the baseball cap who had ducked inside the house across from the O’Brien’s house. Throughout the night and most of the day, Abby thought, the girl had been spying on them.
Soon, the other gang members caught up. They reminded Abby of desperate predators. She understood what had
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