The Girl Who Owned a City (9 page)

In the warmth of their bed that night, Lisa tried to explain her feelings to Todd. Would he understand?

“At first, this whole mess scared me,” she told him. “I thought we were going to starve. It was horrible just to stay alive.

“But then struggling began to seem like the best thing I had. What fun would it be if we were robots—if everything was automatic, and we couldn't change anything?

“Just think of a robot, Todd. It can't feel, or choose, or gain, or lose. It can't think, and it doesn't even know that it exists. Think what it would be like without any problems, Todd. Life would be dull. Sure, we have a lot of problems right now, but problems are really challenges, and they can make life exciting, if you're not afraid.

“I'm proud of my discoveries, even though it's true that anyone else could have found them. That's really true—anyone else could have done it.

“Todd, are you still awake?” He was. He had understood his big sister. He didn't ask for a story that night. Their life was becoming an adventure that was as good as any of her stories.

“Lisa,” he said, “I'm glad you're my sister.”

They went to sleep.

CHAPTER EIGHT

T

he week that followed was filled with activity. The plan was under way, and the children of Grand Avenue were excited.

Defense was important. Even the little kids could understand that now. The Chidester Gang and other gangs would try to capture their supplies. They had to be ready.

Julie and her family were training the watchdogs. The dogs would attack on command—at least that's what Charlie promised.

Each child-family had its own defense alarm. At Lisa's house, it would be Todd's trumpet. Craig's kids would use a loud whistle, and Jill's would beat a drum. The Harris' house would ring its old bell, which once had been heard for blocks at dinner time.

Grand Avenue sounded like a machine at work. There were hammers, dogs, alarms, rock slides, and children shouting. But the gunfire was the hardest thing to get used to.

At nine each morning, Craig held target practice in the Triangle. Everybody older than five had to come. They fired small .22-caliber rifles at tin cans lined up along a low branch. Even though he didn't know much about guns, Craig was their teacher. The children all feared this part of the training, but they tried to learn.

It sounds like we're having a war, Craig thought. He wondered how many curious children from the other streets in the neighborhood would come over to check out the noise.

Each house adopted Lisa and Todd's idea of a rock slide on the roof. Lisa and Todd showed the others how to set it up with wire hangers and string.

Craig helped the family captains find bottles and gasoline to make Molotov cocktails. They were crude but impressive weapons. When thrown onto the pavement, they made a frightening explosion and burst into flames. Since there was no more gasoline at the gas stations, each house used the cans left for the lawn mowers in their garage. The children filled old bottles with gas and stuck rags in them to serve as fuses.

The militia captains from each house met with Craig every morning to discuss the day's plans. The captains left the briefings with drawings, tools, and all kinds of junk—rope, wire, tin cans cut up in odd ways, ladders, planks, and saws. They needed all this stuff for construction. Each captain had to modify the plans according to the special needs of his or her house.

Craig worked in Julie's basement because there were more tools available there. Charlie and Todd helped out in the shop. They reported for work at six each morning, and the three of them hammered and sawed furiously to get their contraptions ready for the captains.

“Darn it,” Charlie said, whenever he hit his thumb with the hammer. Craig had stopped the swearing because he thought it was bad for Todd to hear it. He would have been surprised to hear Todd's own muttered words when he bumped his head on the work bench for the fifth time in one morning.

It was strange to see the change in the captains as the days passed. They were collecting a lot of bruises, but there were no major injuries. “Hey,” Craig said, laughing, “we look like a real army with all these bandages, and we haven't even had a battle yet.”

The Grand Avenue houses were turning into odd-looking fortresses. By the fifth day, there was an avalanche of rocks waiting to be triggered from each roof. A system of ropes and pulleys connected the houses, with a small mail pouch hanging from the rope to carry messages back and forth. Barbed wire looted from the hardware store was strung from one tree to the next, forming a barrier around the houses. The windows were boarded up with planks and shutters. Snarling dogs strained at their leashes, and warning signs were nailed everywhere.

Long, narrow boards stretched between the rooftops, forming a network of catwalks. “In case of a heavy attack,” Craig explained, “it will be safer for us to be together in one house. We can climb across the houses to Julie's. We'll saw through the roof to make a trapdoor.”

In the evenings, just before dark, the children had militia meetings. Each child chose his favorite weapon and practiced using it against imaginary enemies. They had knives and baseball bats and slingshots and spears. Craig made battle plans and drew maps of the block to plot their defenses.

Every day they had emergency drills. When a house alarm sounded, Craig timed the militia's response to see how fast the members could gather their weapons and rush to the house in danger. At first it was a mess, with children running in every direction. But after about 20 drills, they could assemble in less than four minutes.

After the first drill, while they were laughing at their confusion, Eileen, one of Jill's kids, came up with an idea.

“That was really fun,” she said. “It's just like a fire drill at school.” Then she suggested, “Why don't we get some fire extinguishers and squirt them at the bad kids? That would be more fun than shooting guns.”

What made her think of that? They couldn't imagine, but it
was
a good idea. Craig sent a group of children to Forest Glen School to get a few. They soon returned loaded down with long, red cylinders that still worked. The shooting foam would at least confuse and slow down their attackers.

The ideas were working, and everyone on Grand Avenue was having fun. They were proud of their work, and many of them were beginning to share Lisa's feeling that working to survive and feeling proud of it could be a sort of happiness.

They were building a real community, and a pretty tough community, too. Each end of the street was blocked with barbed wire and growling dogs. A large sign stood by each blockade as a warning to intruders:

WARNING

Private Property.

Travel at your

own risk.

We want friends and peace.

We don't want to hurt you!

The citizens of Grandville.

They were ready, now. They all felt it.

On the sixth day, Lisa and Craig decided it was safe to go back to the warehouse.

“It will be better to have two cars, in case one should break down,” Lisa said. “I'd sure hate to walk all the way back. Do you think you can drive your dad's car, Craig?”

“I'll try,” Craig answered.

That night, when all the houses were quiet, Lisa instructed the sentry: “Be especially alert tonight. We'll be back by midnight.”

The two cars left the blockade slowly, without lights. It was very dark; there was no moon at all. The sentry followed them with his eyes as far as he could, until they went over the hill on Riford.

Suddenly there was a loud crash from that direction. The sentry ran toward the top of the hill. There was silence again, and no sign of anything. He returned to his station.

In the front car, the girl's thoughts were racing.

What a dumb thing to do, scraping the side of that parked car. I'll bet Craig's getting a big laugh out of that. Oh, well
. . .
I hope the warehouse is still our secret
. . .

What should we get this trip? Toddy's been quiet lately
. . .
maybe I should take him along next time. It's cool how happy everyone seems to be now. I hope we won't need to fight anymore. Maybe we'll look so strong that no one will even bother to try. When we get all six supply places filled, then
. . .
then, we can start to plan for raising food. We'll need to know more about medicine and first aid. What if someone gets wounded? I wonder what Craig is thinking now.

She slammed on the brakes to let a cat cross the road. The screeching sound from behind told her that Craig wasn't paying attention. She instantly stepped on the gas to avoid the crash, but not in time. There was a loud scraping noise as his car struck hers. They stopped and got out of their cars to inspect the fenders.

“Not too much damage, I guess,” Lisa said. “Just another couple of dents. Before long, Craig, your car will look as bad as mine.”

Craig just stood there.

She continued. “Relax, it's no big thing. Just don't drive so close next time.” Craig said nothing. They got back into their cars.

He was still a little shaken by the accident, but soon his thoughts turned to other things.

I hope that no one else has found the warehouse. I have to look for garden seeds while we're there. What a dumb thing to do, hitting her like that
. . .
dad would really be mad if he could see what I've done to the car.

I hope we never have to fight anyone
. . .
why should I be in charge of the militia? We're just asking for trouble. Sure, we say we're doing it just for defense, but what's to stop Charlie from provoking a battle? Maybe Lisa will find another general
. . .

I can't wait to see the farm that she talked about. It would be fun to have a place like that and raise food. I'm not a coward. I know we need some protection, but we're getting carried away with the whole thing. Those kids think it's all great fun now
. . .
play-fighting and shooting guns and planning strategy. Just wait until they see some of their own blood. It's been fun building some of those traps and stuff, but
. . .
.

It was very dark. As they drove, they thought about their problems and the days ahead.

Craig was thinking of his farm, his fields, and his acres of crops.
I'll be the general for a little while, until I can train someone else to take over. But who?

Lisa's car was barely visible ahead. Now and then her brake lights would flash a warning to him. Otherwise, it was dark.

We don't need to start all over,
Lisa thought.
If we try hard enough, I'm sure we can figure out how to get some of it working again. Maybe not the jets, at least not for a long time, but for sure the power and water and
. . .
I don't want Craig to get too serious about that farm. The others can raise food. I need him to help me rebuild things. He's bright, and I'll need all the help I can get
. . .

There were so many things to be done—important things like setting up a new hospital. Of course, it would all take time, but they had to do it. Knowing how to raise corn wouldn't help remove a bullet from a kid's leg.

But maybe Craig was right. Lisa wished she could put her feelings into words, but she didn't know the words tonight. Her mind was confused. It couldn't focus on anything but the black road ahead. Something, somewhere was wrong. She could sense it.

Their eyes were getting sore from following the faint white dashes painted on the highway. Finally, they reached the warehouse. It hadn't changed.

“Bring the flashlight,” she whispered, as though their normal voices would carry all the way back to Chidester Street.

It was hard work loading supplies into the two cars. By ten they were exhausted, but the work continued for another hour. They had packed only essential items, the things that would save their lives. That's what they had decided. “Chips and pop won't save our lives,” she said. “Leave them for another time . . . cough medicine is important, take it . . . and get some Bactine while you're in that section, aspirin too, and Band-Aids.”

“Don't you think we should bring a few treats, Lisa? How about some candy bars?” They found some and added them to the other supplies, but there wasn't time for them to have a treat themselves. Lisa felt the urge to have a serious talk with Craig. But it would have to wait.

The clouds parted, and the moon lit the road on their ride home. They drove 10 miles per hour, then 20. Their tired bodies were anxious for rest, so they drove still faster.

Why is she going so fast? Craig wondered, as his speedometer hit 30.

The road was positively straight, and nothing lay in their path. Even the stray dogs were sleeping now.

He wanted to honk the horn or flash his lights as a warning for her to slow down, but he couldn't take any chances.