Night of the Purple Moon (21 page)

Jordan sat in a chair, careful to avoid leaning against his back. “You know what I worried about the most before we left the island? We’d get caught in a squall.” He shook his head and closed his eyes and pictured dark storm clouds and roiling whitecaps in his mind. How he would welcome a storm now! Abby said something that he didn’t hear. The breeze rustled his hair, and Jordan grinned, the pain of cracked lips keeping his smile brief.

He drifted into a deep sleep.

Jordan had a good view of the angry sea from the towering crests of waves. Overhead, blue-black clouds extended to the horizon. He had sailed into the center of the violent storm. When the skiff slid into the troughs, he held on the best he could, wishing he had tied himself in.

“Jordan!”

Abby? What was she doing in the boat?

“Wake up!”

Jordan opened his eyes. Abby was shaking him. He blinked. He had instantly recognized his sister’s voice but it took a moment to recognize her face. During his short nap, Abby had grown thinner; she looked so weak and frail.

“We have visitors,” she said and moved to a side window.

Jordan stumbled up from the chair. Through the windows facing east, he saw strokes of pink light painting a cloud bank on the horizon. How long had he slept? He checked his watch. Six o’clock!

“Abby, I’ve been asleep for six hours?”

She put a finger to her lips. “Shhh.” Then, “try eighteen hours.”

“What time is it?” he whispered.

“Six a.m.,” she said, peering out, trying to stay hidden. She motioned him to join her.

Jordan still couldn’t believe that he had slept all this time, half the day and throughout the night.

Seven motorcycles had pulled into the driveway. Several riders dismounted. The others were milling in the vicinity. They included three girls, the knife-wielding Mandy among them, and four boys. All wore leather jackets and grim expressions.

“They’ve come to learn about the antibiotic,” Abby said. “We’ll go to Boston by motorcycle!”

Jordan could see the flag still drooping. Unless the wind picked up soon, Abby’s idea might be their best option.
Their only option
. But he remained wary of the gang’s intentions.

A skinny girl stayed with the motorcycles, perhaps to guard them, while the rest cut through the side yard and headed toward the beach, gazing at the house as they passed by. He and Abby ducked out of sight.

Abby pointed to a boy lagging the group. “He can barely lift his feet. I bet he’s sick.”

His head was slumping, too. He looked like he might collapse any second.

The kids waded up to their knees, out to the skiff floating in the incoming tide, and started rifling through the supplies, tossing some items aside, carrying others, like bottles of fresh water, to dry land.

Jordan was too stunned to speak. These kids hadn’t come to learn about the antibiotic. They were here to steal from them. He clenched his teeth and spun around, adrenaline coursing through his body. “Abby, I’m going to get the gun.”

Too late.

She was already heading for the door, gun in hand.

Jordan cursed. Everything was happening too fast. Abby didn’t know how to use a gun. He didn’t know how, either, but it was his gun. She had too much of a lead to stop her. He limped after her. The gang members, except for the sick boy, fanned out when they approached. The sick boy was sitting on the damp sand, chin to his chest. Abby had tucked the gun in her waistband at her back, hiding it from their view.

The kids tittered and rolled their eyes, oddly amused at the sight of him and Abby.

One boy who had long greasy hair sprinkled with some type of white powder casually took his knife out. “Is that her?” he asked, pointing the tip of the blade at Abby.

Mandy nodded.

“She won’t last much longer,” a skinny boy, with sticks for arms, said with a smirk. He looked to have on new clothes. In fact, they were all dressed in clothing free of rips and stains. Stick Boy then gestured at Jordan. “He looks even worse.”

“Why are you taking our things?” Abby asked.

Knife Boy grinned. “Because we outnumber you, and we’re stronger.” Several of his cohorts chuckled, leading Jordan to conclude that he was their leader.

Knife Boy took a long swig of water and spit it out. “What’s in there, a dead fish?”

“My brother and I are sick,” Abby said. “We sailed here to get the antibiotic. There’s medicine that will cure us. All of us.”

“We don’t believe you,” Mandy said.

Abby explained about the space germs and the efforts of the CDC. Jordan took note of what she didn’t mention, namely where, when, or how the antibiotic would be distributed.

“How do you know about the CDC?” Knife Boy asked.

“The internet,” Abby replied. “The CDC has a website which they update every day.”

Abby was not a good liar, and Jordan saw that none of the gang members believed her.

“The internet stopped working a year ago,” Mandy said. “Right, Kenny?”

Knife Boy—Kenny—nodded. “Yeah, the power went out a long time ago.”

Jordan stepped forward. “You’re right. But we have a generator. The government ran a marine biology lab on Castine Island. They had a direct internet connection to the CDC. We use one of our generators to power the computer in the lab.”

“Bullshit,” Kenny said and spit. That apparently granted permission for the others to do the same. They all spit, with the exception of Sick Boy.

“We use our other generator to power a soft-serve ice cream machine,” Jordan added.

Kenny snorted. “More bullshit.”

Jordan closed his eyes and pictured Kevin filling cone after cone with vanilla ice-cream in front of the bowling alley, and recalled the sensation of his first lick. “You can’t believe how good it tastes.”

He had spoken with such sincerity and so convincingly that when he opened his eyes he faced expressions of envy.

“What if they really can access the internet?” Mandy said.

“Don’t be gullible,” Kenny scolded.

Abby knelt beside Sick Boy. “Has the rash appeared on your back?” she asked him.

The boy nodded. “It hurts like hell.”

Kenny glared at the boy. “Shut up, Alex.”

“The antibiotic can cure Alex,” Abby said. “The pills can cure all of us. Everyone will get sick when they enter puberty.”

Kenny flipped his knife in the air and caught it by the handle. “So where do we get these pills?”

“We’ll take you to the distribution point,” Abby said. “We’re all stronger as a group. You can help us. We’ll help you.”

“Roll the boat,” Kenny said with a wave of his hand. “Snap the mast.”

Now everything was happening in slow motion. Jordan saw eyes brighten and grins widen at the prospect of rolling over their boat. He saw the members of the gang turn toward the boat and take a step, and then another step. At the same time he watched Abby reach behind her back and remove the gun from her waistband. She took aim at Kenny.

Kenny chuckled. “Nobody has bullets.”

Abby raised the barrel and pulled the trigger. The huge explosion sent out a shockwave. Her arm jerked from the kickback, but she managed to hold onto the gun.

Kenny dropped his knife.

Now what? Jordan thought. Take two motorcycles? He had never ridden one and the same was true for Abby.

Abby then walked up to Mandy and held out the gun to her, handle first. How incredibly stupid could his sister be? Jordan felt himself melt into a puddle and soak into the purple-specked sand. “Take it,” Abby told Mandy. “We want to live as much as you do. You don’t have to fear us. Let’s work together—we have to if we’re going to survive.”

Mandy, as stunned as anyone, took the gun.

Kenny lunged and grabbed it. “There aren’t any more bullets,” he said and aimed at the sun. When he pulled the trigger, the kickback sent the gun flying.

Kenny eyed them, breathing fast and shallow. “Okay, so how do we get this antibiotic?”

Jordan thought his sister was a genius.

Abby instructed the kids to drag the skiff onto the beach. If all went well, she hoped that she and Jordan would return here within a week, healthy and with an ample stock of pills, and then sail home to Castine Island.

They had to be careful around Kenny, though. Abby didn’t trust him, fearing that he’d abandon them if he knew the timing and location of the pill distribution. They had to keep it a secret until they arrived at Logan Airport. Abby hated the fact that Kenny had the gun, but she felt her dramatic action had been necessary to capture their attention.

Strangely, Abby trusted Mandy.

Once the kids had secured the boat, Abby told Kenny that she and Jordan would travel with them the following day to get the antibiotic. She didn’t ask him. She told him. Several factors influenced her decision. She and Jordan were weak, hungry, and dehydrated, and a full day and night of rest and nibbling might help to increase their strength. Although several of the kids were quite thin, she assumed they had a safe place to stay and plenty of food and water. Abby also worried about arriving in Boston too early. The CDC had announced that the pills would be available in four days. It was impossible to know what they’d find at the airport in Boston: tens of thousands of survivors shoving and pushing, or lining up peacefully, or hardly any kids at all. The trip to Boston from Maine should take no more than several hours, and she would be pleased to get there three days early. Abby considered that abandoned vehicles might clog the roads. But what better way to navigate around obstacles than by motorcycle?

“Tomorrow, huh?” Kenny said in an agitated tone, apparently not accustomed to taking orders.

Abby ignored him and turned to Mandy. “Will you take us to your place? We need food and water.”

Mandy fidgeted, apparently not accustomed to making decisions in Kenny’s presence.

Kenny stepped forward, asserting his authority. “Let’s go,” he said. They all moved to the motorcycles parked in the driveway, except for Alex, who remained on the beach.

Abby looked back at the boy suffering from the advanced stages of the illness—only slightly worse off than she and Jordan— and wondered who was going to help him.

“Don’t worry,” Mandy said, reading the concern in Abby’s eyes. “We’ll send someone back for Alex’s motorcycle.”

“His motorcycle! What about him?”

Mandy shrugged. “Once the rash appears on your back, you don’t live long.”

Kenny butted into the conversation. “
Now
what’s the problem?”

“You can’t leave Alex,” Abby said.

“Sure we can. He’ll wash away in the tide.”

Abby felt the urge to punch Kenny, but even if she had all her strength, what good would that do? Instead, she had to outthink and outsmart him. She shrugged to feign indifference. “Jordan and I will stay with him.” Abby saw Jordan’s jaw drop. She knew the risk she was taking, but she couldn’t leave Alex.

“How will you get the pills?” Kenny asked.

“We’ll find a way,” Abby said with a smile and gestured to Jordan to return with her to Alex’s side.

“Get Alex,” Kenny barked to an underling.

Abby had figured correctly. Kenny wanted the antibiotic as badly as they did.

Kenny paired Abby with Mandy, and Jordan with a sour-faced girl named Jerry. They mounted the motorcycles.

Kenny led the procession north on Route 1, a road the Leigh family had taken many times on their way from Cambridge to the ferry terminal in Portland. The wheels in front of her kicked up grit and grime that stung Abby’s face. She prayed Jordan had enough strength to keep his arms wrapped around Jerry’s waist. It would be tragic for her brother to survive crossing the strait, half way to their goal, only to fall off the back of a motorcycle.

On both sides of Route 1 store windows were broken. Some buildings had burned to the ground. Abby saw a pack of dogs trotting across the charred remains of a gas station. Cars sat at various angles in every lane. Most contained the corpses of drivers and passengers, undisturbed since the night of the purple moon. A mummified driver sat tall and erect behind the wheel at one intersection as if he were waiting for the light to change.

Here the convoy turned left and then took the first right, approaching a barricade constructed of washing machines, refrigerators, tires, and cinderblocks. The motorcycles formed a line and passed through the opening.

The gang occupied two neighboring houses on a tree-lined side street. The kids dismounted, and Mandy led Abby and Jordan into the house on the left. Curious faces peered at them from the shadows.

“Tony died last week,” Mandy said matter-of-factly to explain the filthy bed and heaps of dirty laundry piled high in the bedroom where Abby and Jordan would stay.

A strong odor of urine permeated the room, and some type of white powder dusted the floor. Abby opened the window for fresh air. Newly unfurled spring leaves, close enough to touch, twisted in the wind.
Now
the breeze picks up, she thought.

Abby planned to remove the dirty sheet, but Jordan had already collapsed on the bed and was fast asleep.

She was bone tired and ached for sleep herself, but she went downstairs, wanting to learn more about these kids. She feared that she and Jordan were in grave danger and the more she knew about them the better.

“How about a tour?” Abby asked Mandy.

Mandy agreed and led her into the kitchen. The mysterious white powder was on this floor, too. They were alone, standing next to the greasy countertop.

“Kenny says you can’t access the internet.” Mandy said. “But I believe you.”

Abby stepped closer, ready to do something far riskier than handing over the gun. She was about to bet her life that truth and honesty would forge a bond of trust and friendship. “We don’t have internet access—I mean we used to, but we haven’t for a long time. The CDC gives reports on the radio. The FM station is 98.5. We didn’t tell you because if Kenny finds out where to get the antibiotic, we’re afraid he won’t take us.”

Mandy eyed her for several long seconds. “You’re right,” she said with a nod. “Be careful around him.”

The conversation ended when a scrawny girl with ratty hair and a new pair of jeans entered the kitchen.