Extinct (8 page)

Some of the tension seemed to slip from Brandon.

“Let’s get back in the car and go find your dad, okay?” asked Sam.

Brandon didn’t reply, but he started to shimmy back through the window. Robby moved back to get out of his way. The window caught Brandon’s jacket and it bunched up around his shoulders. Sam got about halfway into his seat when Brandon stopped him.

“Mr. Pierce?” asked Brandon.
 

“Call me Sam," Sam said.

“I’m stuck," Brandon said.

“Well, come on, you’ll have to go out to come in," Sam said. He jumped back to the snowy street and grabbed the teenager under his armpits. “Try not to break the window," Sam said.

Sam pulled and Brandon wriggled to get through the window. His kneecap banged against the window glass and Robby helped him turn his boot so he could get his feet through. Sam set him down in the snow. He pulled the boy in close and whispered in his ear.

“Thanks," Brandon said.

Sarah hit the unlock button so Robby could push open the rear door before sliding back to his own seat. Sam patted Brandon on the back twice. His third pat passed right through the space where Brandon had stood. Robby, even with a better view, didn’t really see much of the disappearance. One second, Brandon turned and started to lift a foot so he could climb back in the Jeep. The next moment, Brandon jerked and flew upwards and out of sight.

Only a couple of details registered to Robby. He noticed that Brandon’s head and limbs seemed to go slack just before he vanished, like a marionette with its strings cut. Next, he saw the space around Brandon darken, as if the light were being absorbed. Finally, he saw the rope, still tied to Brandon’s waist, whisper upwards like a snake’s tail.

Sam’s mouth dropped open and he tilted his head back, looking up. His hand swiped at the air, as if he could grab the rope that flew by seconds before.

“Get in!” Sarah screamed.

Sam’s face hardened instantly. He dove towards the open door.
 

Robby felt a low moan starting within his chest. He didn’t mean to yell, but it started coming out anyway. His dad was still mid-leap when the space around his legs started to dim. Robby’s moan built into a scream as his father’s legs started to rise upwards faster than Sam moved forward.
 

Sam’s legs flipped up and over his shoulders as he rose up and forward. His head flipped around and he tried to grab the doorframe of the Jeep as he rose. His forward momentum took his head into pillar between the front and back doors. Robby saw his father’s skull deform with the impact. Blood squirted from his dad’s nose and spattered on the car seat. The Jeep rocked with the hit.

Sarah and Robby heard Sam’s arms flail against the roof of the Jeep. Robby threw himself back against the door, trying to get away from the blood. Motion to his left drew his eye, and he saw more blood drip down the outside of his window.
 

Robby formed his rising scream into words. "Go! Go! Drive!” He pounded the back of his mom’s seat.

“Sam?” Sarah called.

“Drive, mom, drive! Just go!” yelled Robby.

Sarah gunned the engine and looked forward. She shook her head several times. The engine raced, but the Jeep didn’t move.

“The clutch,” Robby said.
 

“Oh," Sarah said. The Jeep lurched and bucked when she let out the clutch too quickly. The passengers’ doors flopped.

“Take a right,” Robby said. He buckled his seat belt. The doors slammed shut as Sarah skidded to the right onto Kirker Street. They sped down the steep hill towards the harbor.

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Sarah pulled Jeep as close as she could to the pier where Carl Deemer moored his boat. She turned in her seat and looked up the hill, back towards the schoolhouse.

“Mom?” Robby asked.

She didn’t reply, she just looked up the hill—where they last saw Sam.

“Mom?” Robby asked again.

“What?” she finally responded.

“We have to assume he’s gone,” Robby said. “He’d want us to get to a safe place, and that’s not here.”

“I know, for Chrissakes, I know,” she said. Sarah looked into Robby’s eyes. She blinked hard and composed herself. “Carl’s got his boat at the pier, so at least we don’t have to punt all this shit out to it. Grab what you can, stay low, and run for the boat.”

“Okay,” Robby said.

“I’ll go around and open up the back. You come over the seat. I want you inside as long as possible," Sarah said.

“Okay, mom,” Robby said.
 

Sarah did what she said—she ducked out of the Jeep, stayed low, and ran to the back of the Jeep. The wind coming off the water swept most of the snow away from the pavement. Only an inch or two collected, crunching like cotton as she ran through it. They’d packed all their supplies into a backpack, a couple of bags, and two boxes. Sarah lifted the rear door of the Jeep and grabbed the bags. She slung the straps over her head to opposite shoulders, so the straps hung like bandoliers across her chest. She pulled one of the boxes out of the way and Robby climbed over the seat. He grabbed the backpack and the big box.

“It’s this first one on the left?” Sarah asked.

“Yeah,” Robby said. “You got the keys?”

“Yes,” she said. “Not that we’ll need them again.”

“Yeah we will,” Robby said. “We’re coming back, remember? Besides, Carl’s keys are on that ring.”

“Thank goodness for your memory," Sarah said. “You start running, I’m right behind you.”

Robby hunched as low as he could, carrying the heavy box, and shuffling towards the pier. Sarah closed up the Jeep and followed close. The bags banged into her hips and nearly knocked her off her feet as she and Robby ran.

Carl’s boat bobbed and banged against its fenders. Robby started feeling nauseous just looking at the swaying motion. He skidded to a stop near the stern. The snow on the pier was slushy from the damp air and Robby almost lost his footing. He set his box down on the pier and jumped onto the deck of Carl’s boat. Robby had only seen this boat from a distance—Carl usually kept it moored out in the harbor.
 

After the fishing tourism ended for the fall, Carl finagled a spot at the pier so he could replace the engine of his Cape Islander boat. Fortunately for Robby and Sarah, he’d just completed the job. He’d bought the boat for hauling lobster, but switched to hauling tourists instead. The boat looked huge and yet unsteady to Robby. His stomach flopped as the boat lurched from the swells pushed in by the storm.

Robby leaned back towards the dock and tried to grab his box. He stopped and steadied himself on the rail, not sure if he would be sick. Sarah set down her box and tossed the duffel bags into the boat.

“Get in the cabin,” she said. “I’ll get the boxes.”

“You’ll need help shoving off,” Robby said.
 

“Get us untied then,” she said. Sarah grew up around boats. Being raised on the island you almost had to become familiar with them. But she hated the nervous tasks associated with launching or landing a boat. In her experience, when the mobile, freewheeling boats came in contact with the immovable piers, trouble ensued.

Robby secured the bow line and looped the stern rope around the mooring while his mom moved the boxes and made her way to the cabin. Robby leaned over the edge, not knowing when his turkey sandwich would make a return visit. He fixed his gaze on the farthest thing he could see—the buildings up past the Jeep. He unlocked his knees and tried to float over the deck’s surface to keep his head steady.

His mom was taking too long, he figured. She must be having trouble figuring out the…

The big diesel engine turned over and black smoke puffed from the exhaust pipe at the back of the cabin. Robby got ready. His job would be to release the bow line and then pull in the fenders as his mom backed the boat from the pier. Sarah guided the boat back, making sure to clear some space between the boat and the pier as quickly as possible. The wind battled her steering, trying to push the boat back towards the pier.
 

When he’d pulled in the last fender, Robby started collecting their supplies. He dragged them towards the small cabin. When he opened the door, his mom surprised him.

“Take the helm,” she said.

“Pardon?” Robby asked.

“Take the helm. Head for just to the right of that marker. I’ll stow everything below. Steering will help you deal with your seasickness,” she said.

“What if I have to throw up?” Robby asked. He knew it would only only be a matter of time before his nausea kicked into overdrive. The swells in the harbor were tiny compared to what they would find once they cleared some distance from the island.

“Here’s a barf-bag,” she said, rooting through the backpack, “and I packed you some soda crackers. Keep chewing on these.”

Robby’s stomach felt like a tight knot. Tart saliva started to water in the back of his mouth. A tiny headache formed at the top of his skull. These were all signs of imminent upchuck. He took the wheel and gripped his fingers at ten and two. He understood the logic immediately—he was focused on the horizon, steadied by the wheel, and concentrating. All these activities should settle his stomach.

The wind picked up. A sudden squall of snowflakes decreased visibility and the wind made Robby correct the wheel to get back on course. Robby squinted through the wall of snow.

Sarah stowed the last of their supplies in the space below the bow deck and then closed the cabin door.

“Is there heat in this thing?” she asked.

“Huh?” Robby asked. He turned to look at his mom and instantly regretted it. The quick swing of his head disturbed the delicate truce he’d negotiated with the turkey sandwich. He doubled over with a big retch and coughed up the contents of his stomach into the barf-bag. Sarah reached over and held the wheel while he puked.
 

“Here,” she said, handing Robby a towel.

“Thanks,” he said. He put his hands back on the wheel and fixed his eyes back on the horizon.

“I’m going to figure out how to get the heat on,” she said.

“Can you wait?” Robby asked. “The cold is actually helping a little.”

“You’re the Cap’n,” she said. Sarah propped her feet up on the console and sat on a storage locker. She massaged her temples and sighed, looking out the back window towards the island. “We’re going to be okay,” she said.

“I know, mom,” Robby said.
 

“At some point you’re going to have to figure out this GPS,” she said. “It’s like the space shuttle in here.”

“Okay,” Robby said. “Maybe you can describe what you see and then I can keep my eyes forward?”

“Aye aye, Cap’n,” Sarah said.

Sarah talked through the buttons and displays while Robby guided the boat. He pieced together a mental picture of the controls until she got lazy with the narrative and he stole glances down at the panel. His churning stomach reminded him not to look away from the horizon for too long. With her son’s guidance, Sarah got the instruments powered up and gave Robby a heading to follow.

The crossing by ferry usually took between seventy-five and ninety minutes. Sarah expected their trip in Carl’s boat to last a bit longer.
 

“Your dad insisted on bringing enough supplies for days,” Sarah told Robby.

“Makes sense,” Robby said.

“He wouldn’t say why," Sarah said.

“I think he wanted to take us south, but didn’t want to say anything in front of the Nortons,” Robby said.
 

“How far south?” asked Sarah.

“Until we found people,” Robby said. “From the TV and the radio, Dad would have guessed that the same thing that happened on the island was also happening on the mainland. The best bet would be to head south.”

“Until we find people," Sarah said. She shook her head and bit her lip. “I wish we’d just stayed put.”

“We weren’t safe there,” Robby said.
 

“What the hell is happening?” asked Sarah.

Robby didn’t have an answer. “Do you want to head south?” Robby asked.

“On a boat? No. It would be easy for your dad, but not with just us," Sarah said.

“Good,” Robby said. “I hate boats.”

“I know you do, honey," Sarah said.

Chapter 4: Brad (Summer)

F
IVE
MONTHS
EARLIER
…

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“Fax? You mean like fax machine?” Brad asked the phone.

He sat in his special high-backed desk chair—the kind that cost more than a good used car.

“Yes,” Phil said. His voice came from the speakers on either side of Brad’s computer monitor. “You do have that capability, don’t you?”

“Sure,” Brad said. He pondered the idea. He could crawl through the attic, find his fax machine, print out his estimate, and then send it over, but why? He’d already emailed the document; why would anyone need a faxed copy? Brad suddenly realized he could probably find an online service to turn his email into a fax. He calmed down a bit, now that he could dismiss the chore of going up to the stifling-hot attic.