Fortunato’s Ghost

The boy drifted in and out of consciousness.

He half-remembered someone shoveling soup down his throat, most going down his neck or out his nose.

By the third day, he no longer fought against nourishment but lapped it up greedily.

He awoke in a darkened room that felt dank and musty as an old basement. The mattress was thin, barely enough to keep sharpened coils of bedspring at bay. The lone sheet atop him was not enough to keep him warm.

Footsteps. The screech of a sliding metal door.

A beam of light probed the room, and in its moving flash he saw he was in a brick dungeon. The beam settled upon his face. He closed his eyes against the blinding glare.

“You alive, boy?”

It was a man’s voice, neither friendly nor unfriendly. It didn’t seem to care either way.

The boy took too long to reply. The next he heard was the cocking of a gun.

“Think so,” the boy croaked.

Thick walls absorbed the sound.

Clearing his throat, he shouted, “Yes! I’m alive!”

The beam stayed on him another moment or two as if it didn’t quite believe him.

The sliding door closed. The sound of a key in a lock. Ancient hinges opening. Footsteps across the floor.

He pulled his sheet tighter.

A moment later, there was light.

He saw he was in a narrow cell. On a table to his right was a battery-operated lamp along with evidence of their attempts to feed him: Styrofoam bowls and half-filled water glasses. He looked up to see an older woman smiling down at him.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“I’m Doctor Woodson. You gave us quite a scare! How are you feeling today?”

She reached out and felt his forehead.

“A little sore,” he answered. “But I think I’m okay.”

Putting a stethoscope to her ears, she pulled down his sheet and listened to his chest. He saw she wore a white armband with a red cross.

“Take a deep breath for me. In and out a couple of times.”

He did as he was told.

“Lungs are still a little raspy,” she said. “You breathed in a lot of water. Other than that, I think in two or three days you’ll be good as new. Do you feel strong enough to walk?”

He nodded, but sitting up, he realized he was naked.

“Where are my clothes?” he asked.

She reached beneath the bed, then handed him a bundle.

“Nice and clean. I’ll wait just outside.”

After putting on his clothes, he crossed the room and went through the open door. The doctor turned to him and smiled.

“There you are!” she said. “Let’s go. There’s a skiff waiting.”

The man with the gun was there. He wore a black armband. The three walked down a dark corridor, passing room after room with heavy iron doors. Soft coughing came from one or two they passed. Lunatic wailing from others.

“What is this place?” he whispered.

“It’s called Fort Warren.” she answered. “Used to be a Confederate prison. We use it as the hospital.”

At the end of the tunnel, things brightened considerably. Turning right, they walked up a granite staircase and out into a vast expanse of room, with high windows that looked out upon clear blue sky. Near imposing wooden doors beneath the windows, another man waited.

“I’ll say goodbye for now,” the doctor said kindly. “This is Mr. Delluci. He’ll take you in for processing.” Smiling again, she added, “You take care of yourself, you hear?” before turning back the way they had come. The man with the gun followed.

Delluci looked at him expressionless. “This way, kid,” he said.

The boy followed him through the doors and outside. The massive fortress behind them looked down upon a large clearing that had gone to seed. Beyond that was ocean.

“Where are we?” he asked.

The man didn’t answer, just kept walking down a narrow dirt pathway that led down to the water. The boy noted that this man wore a blue armband with a red stripe along the middle.

The path ended at a derelict wooden pier with a motorboat tied up alongside. The man gestured the boy inside the boat. After untying it, he jumped in and turned the key. A powerful engine came to life. The boat peeled away from the dock.

Pushed back in his seat, the boy saw that all around them were islands. Turning his head, he glanced toward the mainland. Though the skyline had changed somewhat, he knew immediately where he was.

The Hancock Tower still stood, though many of its iconic blue windows were gone. The Prudential Tower was there as well. But nearer to shore was devastation. Fire had destroyed most of the office towers, their twisted steel skeletons the only evidence anything had been there at all. The Boston Harbor Hotel, once gateway to the city, was a pile of rubble.

The boat skipped along toward a large island to the east. The boy saw construction activity on some of the islands they passed. Colorful tents dotted the hills and shoreline.

Toward the city itself, thousands of sailboats and other watercraft dotted the harbor. Some of them appeared occupied, evidenced by laundry drying on ropes. Many looked decrepit and abandoned. More than a few were burned out husks.

The boat slowed. The man reached for a radio handset and announced their arrival. A crackled acknowledgement came back. Moments later, the boat pulled up alongside the ladder of an elevated pier with a uniformed man waiting on top. The man driving the boat gestured the boy to climb.

Nodding, he turned to the ladder. He had only just removed both feet from the boat when from behind he heard it rev and depart.

“Here, son. Lemme give you a hand.”

The boy looked up into a half-familiar face. Reaching up, he grasped the man’s hand and remembered then that he had been one of the men who rescued him.

“You look better than last time I saw you,” the man said.

The boy smiled shyly and looked down.

“Follow me. The Captain’s been looking forward to a chat.”

He turned and began walking down the pier. The boy followed. They walked up a grassy hill toward a series of modern brick buildings. A large water tower with a checkered red and white pattern loomed on a hill beyond.

“What is this place?” the boy asked.

“This is Long Island,” the man answered. “These buildings used to be the headquarters of the Boston Health Commission. It’s our headquarters now.”

“Who are you people?” the boy asked. The man smiled.

“What’s left of the City of Boston, I guess. No surprise most of the lucky ones were on boats, or at least had access to one. But there’s plenty of time for that.”

They walked into a three-story brick building in the center of the complex, filled with busy people, some in military uniform. The boy noticed that all of them wore armbands. Many who saw him stopped what they were doing to turn and stare.

“Don’t worry about that,” the man said. “Folks get curious about a new face, is all.”

They walked up a staircase and down a long corridor. Outside an office at the end of the hall, a uniformed man sat behind a desk. He looked up as they approached.

“He’s expecting you,” the man said. “Go right in.”

The escort knocked anyway before opening the door. Inside, another uniformed man looked up from his desk. He smiled and stood at their approach.

“Come in, come in,” he said. “Please, have a seat.”

He gestured to the leather chairs in front of his desk. The boy and his escort sat down.

“My name is Captain Derek,” he said, reaching out his hand. “This is Lieutenant Dawson. Welcome.” The Captain stared him in the eye as the two shook. “What’s your name?” he asked.

“Will,” the boy answered. “Will Bartlett.”

“How you feeling, Will?” he asked.

The boy thought a moment. “Hungry,” he answered, as if realizing it for the first time.

The captain chuckled. “We’ll see to that,” he said. “First, I need to hear your story. Do you know how lucky you are that Mr. Dawson here saw your boat? I’m told you were eight miles out at sea and your boat had just about had it.”

“I don’t remember much,” the boy answered. Turning to Dawson, he said, “Thanks.”

Dawson nodded. The captain went on.

“Tell us about your last six months, Will. Start at the beginning. Don’t leave anything out.”

The boy stared at the floor a while. When he began speaking his tone was flat. Emotionless.

“I’m from Connecticut. Stonington. My grandmother lived on Cape Cod. She died. My parents and me came up for the funeral. It was a big funeral home. There were three or four other wakes going on. My parents were kneeling in front of the open casket when … Grandma sat up.”

A tear ran down the boy’s cheek.

“Go on, kid,” the captain said gently. “We’ve all got similar tales to tell.”

“She took my mother first,” the boy said. “My mother … well, she always joked grandma thought my dad was too good for her. Anyway, she went first. Grandma ripped out her throat. My dad just watched like he was stunned. He was next.”

The boy went silent. The two men waited patiently for him to go on. Moments later, he did.

“Nobody moved for a while, like they couldn’t believe it or something. There was just the chewing and sucking sounds as grandma ate. Dribbling sounds, as jets of blood splattered the floor and walls. Then, someone screamed. But by then, we could all hear it happening in the other rooms as well. But me …”

He faltered a moment. The captain waited him out. The boy looked up with a sad smile on his face.

“Me? I seen that movie before. And I know how it ends. So I got the hell out of there.”

He dropped the grin and looked up hopefully.

“Do you guys know what caused it?” he asked. “I mean, you figured anything out?”

It was the captain’s turn to smile. The new ones always asked this question.

“Son,” he began, “among the things this city had to offer was a medical community second to none, and we’re fortunate to have a couple of those doctors with us. Not to get technical, but what they think happened is that a common herpes virus mutated. It’s one lots of folks carry and don’t even know they have. We may never know what caused the mutation: evolution, environment. Toxicity, sunspots. Hell, why not blame global warming? Anyhow, we’re all living with the result. But go on with your story.”

The boy continued. “Anyway, I got the hell out of there and ran into the street. I ran until I couldn’t run anymore. When I finally stopped to catch my breath … well. It was weird. Everything was normal. Not like the movies. I went back to the motel and talked my way into an extra key to the room. I stayed there as long as I could, glued to the TV and living off Twinkies and Ho Hos from the vending machine. Seemed like it was a few days before there was any news at all.”

As the boy paused, Captain Derek reflected as well. The boy was right. It wasn’t like in the movies.

Symptoms began to show themselves at different times and places, though it was generally believed they all occurred within thirty-six hours of each other. Cadavers donated for medical training rose from their slabs. Corpses undergoing autopsies opened their eyes. Nursing home and hospice staff, coroners, pathologists, and funeral directors all were among the first to go. After that, it was simple math.

One American dies every thirteen seconds.

12,000 Americans die each day.

Three out of four people carry the virus.

The medical community barely had time to acknowledge it was happening before their own proximity to the dead and dying meant they were among the hardest hit. People who tried to convince the authorities to act were met with skepticism. By the time they did, it was too late.

The boy went on.

“I was in the hotel about two months before I saw the first of them. Course by then, the radio and television had been off about two weeks. It was time to move on. I packed my stuff and made my way to an elementary school, where a bunch of folks were. Some local cops were there too, so that was safe for a while. Meantime, I’d brought along a tourist magazine from the hotel. It talked about a stretch of beach the tide had ripped away, leaving an island about a hundred yards out that had a lighthouse on it. I told myself if things got real bad, that’s where I’d head. And then, they did.

“I had my escape plan all set and got out okay. Lots of folks didn’t. I made my way to the beach and found a boat, then used the lighthouse to guide me. When I got there, I found a woman and her young daughter. They were the lighthouse keepers. Had plenty of food. It was real nice there for a while, until a winter storm kicked up. But we were all nice and cozy. Next day, we looked out and saw the ocean had put back that strip of land. We were connected to the mainland again. It wasn’t long after that men came.”

He looked down. “Bad men.” He paused to wipe away a tear.

“Anyway, for some reason, they left me alive. Guess they thought I’d join them or something. One night, I crept out and put my boat in the water. Figured anything was better than staying with those men. I was out there for days and days it seemed. Then, you found me. That’s all I know.”

The captain remained silent a while. “Remarkable,” he said finally. When the boy looked up, he went on. “At any rate, provided you are amenable to working hard and following orders, you’re welcome here. Best of luck.” Turning to Dawson, he said, “Take him for processing.

Dawson nodded. He and the boy left the room.

Walking down the linoleum corridor, Will asked, “Where are you guys from? I mean, where were you before?”

Dawson answered, “Most of the navy men here were on board the Constitution. We were lucky. Our ship wasn’t. It caught an ember from one of the early fires. Captain did what he could to save her.”

They walked down two flights of stairs and took a right into an office where a man sat behind a desk reading a thick paperback.

“Fowler?” Dawson said.

The man looked up and set his book aside.

“Got one for you. This is Will Bartlett. The kid from the boat.” Dawson turned and held out his hand to the boy.

“Mr. Fowler will give you the lay of the land. Listen to him very carefully. And good luck to you, son.”

Fowler beckoned the boy take a seat. An African-American, he wore taped-up wire-rimmed glasses and a faded khaki shirt with a National Park Service emblem on the sleeve. The boy saw too he wore a solid green armband just above the elbow.

“Heard about you, kid. Have a seat.”

He grabbed a folder and opened it, then picked up a pen. The boy answered a series of questions: age, date of birth, where he was from, etc. Fowler looked up to ask the last one.

“Got any skills?”

The boy looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”

Fowler smiled. “Can you do anything? Shoot? Cook? Sail? Fix motors? Anything at all to help us classify you. Take full advantage of your capabilities.”

The boy thought a moment before looking down. He shook his head.

“That’s alright, kid,” Fowler said kindly. “You ain’t the first. You wouldn’t believe how many mutual fund analysts and accountants and hell, even CEO’s themselves sat in that chair looked down and said the same thing. And like them, we’ll put you in the kitchen to start.”

Reaching to his left, he picked up stapled sheets of paper and handed them to the boy.

“This here’s kind of a manual for the place. Tells you how things are run and what’s expected of you. First thing you need to know is the importance of following orders. We’re under martial law, so you can be shot for lots of different things. I’d recommend you start with that. It’s on page three.”

The boy looked down and turned to page three. When he looked up again he saw Fowler smiling at him.

“Don’t worry, kid. It’s not as bad as it sounds. In fact, they’ve only had to do it twice. You’ll be alright.”

Turning, he began rifling through a cardboard box on the floor behind him. It was filled with multi-colored armbands. He found the one he was looking for, bright yellow with a red stripe along the middle, and handed it to the boy.

“Put this on, son. Wear it on your right arm at all times. Not wearing it is one of them things can get you shot. Yellow means you’re an EXP-1. Lowest on the totem pole, but you gotta start somewhere, right?”

He smiled kindly. The boy put his armband on.

“Now, a guy with a blue armband asks you to do something? You gotta do it, no matter what it is. Drop whatever you’re doing and do what he says.” Fowler caught his eye before adding, “That’s another one of them things on page three. You understand me boy?”

The boy looked up and nodded. Fowler smiled.

“Anyhow, you’ll get the rest of the day to read the rules. Read ’em carefully and you’ll be just fine. Now, let me show you where you’ll be sleeping and where the kitchen is. Introduce you to your boss.”

When the two stood, Fowler saw the boy eyeing his paperback, the collected works of Edgar Allen Poe. “You know him kid?” he asked.

Startled, Will jumped a bit and blushed to be caught snooping.

“We read one of his stories in class last year.”

“Which one?”

The boy thought a moment and shook his head.

“I forget the name. It was about a guy who pissed someone off, so the other guy built this thing in his cellar and bricked him in alive.”

Fowler smiled. “Lemme show you something.”

The two walked down the corridor and then outside toward the water. Fowler stopped at a cliff above the shoreline and pointed across the Bay.

“See that big building over there?”

He pointed to an island with a massive granite fortification. Its narrow windows were about two stories high.

The boy nodded. “What is it?” he asked.

“Well, the island itself is called Castle Island, though it’s not really an island anymore. Been connected to the mainland for a long time now. The building is Fort Independence, one of the oldest forts in America. Now, it turns out, our man Mr. Poe was stationed there in the army. And it was there he heard an old legend about a guy who killed another guy in a duel. But the guy he killed was a lot more popular than he was, so another guy took his revenge. Walled him up in a dungeon right there in that building. And that’s where Mr. Poe got his idea.”

Fowler turned and smiled. “Sorry, kid. Used to do it for a living. Anyway, you wanna take the book? Read some of his other stuff too? I promise you’ll like it.”

The boy took it and thanked him. Fowler took him up the hill, to a building on the other side of the island, and showed him an empty bunk.

“You can leave your stuff on your bed. I’ll take you to the kitchen, show you where you’ll be working. You can get somethin’ to eat there as well.”

When the boy showed reluctance to part with his things, Fowler smiled.

“Don’t worry, son. It’ll be here when you get back. Stealing is another one of them things you’ll find on page three.”

* * *

The boy spent the next three days acquainting himself with the rules and working long hours washing dishes. The pamphlet Fowler provided contained rules and work schedules as well as other information. The mysteries of the armband pecking order had been solved.

Food for the thousand or so survivors came from two kitchens, one on Long Island and another on Peddocks. Shuttles went back and forth between the islands every half hour or so. You had to wear a green armband or above to travel from one island to another.

The pamphlet didn’t explain the significance of the red stripe that ran along many armbands, including his own. Captain Derek had the red stripe. Lieutenant Dawson did not. Fowler had it, and so did Mike and Matt, two prep cooks that worked in the kitchen.

He asked Mike about it. Mike glanced at Will’s armband and hesitated a moment. He looked down before answering.

“Means you got the virus, is all.”

When Will didn’t seem to understand, he went on.

“They take a sample of everyone’s blood when they get here. You can imagine why it’s important to know who got it and who don’t, right?”

Will shook his head. “But I can’t have it. I mean …”

He had trouble putting his thoughts into words.

Mike smiled. “You ever been in the hospital kid?” he asked.

“Sure. Got my tonsils out last year.”

“Well, there you go. Nasty places, them hospitals. Never know what you’ll catch. But don’t worry about it. Nuthin’ you can do about it anyway.”

Late in the afternoon of his third day, a man came in the kitchen.

“You. Kid.”

Will turned and saw a man dressed in black wearing riot gear. He had a large gun holstered around his waist and wore a blue armband. He was looking at Will.

“Come with me,” he ordered.

Will turned to look at Matt, who kept his head down and continued chopping lettuce. Matt’s own yellow armband was turned away from the man.

Will dropped his pot into the sink and wiped his hands.

“Now, kid,” the man said impatiently. “And bring your coat. Gets chilly on the water at night.”

Will followed him out of the building, where a group of a few dozen or so people waited. They were men and woman of all ages, all of whom wore the yellow armband.

They followed the man down to the pier, where three boats awaited. Dozens of men dressed in riot gear were already on the boats or milling about onshore. All were heavily armed.

Will stopped a moment, stunned to recognize the boats. They were bright purple and deep green and brilliant red, with cartoon ducks painted on the sides. They were the boats that paraded Boston’s championship teams in their victory parades. They were the duck boats.

“Alright, you group get onto Betsy here,” a man ordered. “Quickly now.”

As he got on, Will saw the boats had been modified to meet the new reality. Thick steel fencing had been installed creating a protective cage. He took a seat next to an older man in a raggedy business suit and a woman who was shaking violently.

Glancing down the aisle, Will was stunned again to recognize the young shortstop of the Boston Red Sox. He almost smiled to realize that playing baseball wasn’t a skill that spared you from a yellow armband. The boats left the pier and began heading toward the city itself.

“How long you been here, son?” the man to his left asked.

Will saw that he clutched something in his hands.

“Three days. How about yourself?”

The man smiled. “Little over two months now. This is my last trip. I come back from this in one piece, I get bumped to purple. My EXP days are over.”

The shaking woman beside them began saying the Lord’s Prayer.

“What you got there?” Will asked, pointing to his hands.

“Oh, this. Take a look!” The man turned it toward him. Will saw it was a wrinkled photograph of a young girl with strawberry blond hair and a shy smile. She held a teddy bear in her right arm.

“This is my daughter. Haven’t seen her in a while, though. Got separated from her mom at the airport.” He paused a moment before going on. “She’s still alive, though. I can feel it. A father knows these things. I don’t know how. But trust me. He knows.”

The two went silent as the man stared down again at his lost daughter. Will tried distracting him. “You know what’s going on?” he asked.

The man looked up, then carefully folded the photo and put it inside his suit coat.

“We set some cages last time out. Hope to collect a few of them. They take them to Moon Island, where doctors use ’em to try and find an antidote or cure. I hear some of us are gonna investigate one of the top floors of the Ritz. Someone saw lights flashing there last night. Could be someone taking refuge.”

He paused before continuing. “Funny thing, though. We’re finding fewer and fewer of them. The thinking is that maybe they’ve moved inland to find food. But who the hell knows?”

A question suddenly occurred to Will.

“What’s EXP stand for?” he asked.

A cynical smile bloomed on the man’s face.

“Means expendable, kid. You gotta have some sorta skill to be exempt. Otherwise, you have to earn your stripes to move up the pecking order.” He put out his hand. “My names Jim Webster. What’s yours, kid?”

“Will Bartlett.”

“Nice to meet you, Will.”

The boats slowed as they neared the shore, where Will saw a ramp had been built to accommodate the amphibious vehicles. One by one they left the water and drove up the ramp and into the shattered city. Two of the boats took a left. Theirs went straight into the heart of what had been the financial district.

The stench was overwhelming. Bodies of both the dead and the undead littered the streets and sidewalks. The streets themselves were obstacle courses of overturned newsstands, crashed cars, granite blocks and broken glass from burned out and collapsed buildings.

An unnerving ‘popping’ sound accompanied them along the way, gases escaping bloated corpses the vehicle crushed underfoot. As they slowed to navigate a narrow street, Will flinched at the sound of gunshots.

Craning his neck toward the rear, he saw a dozen or so undead slowly clambering toward the vehicle.

It was hard to tell age or race or gender anymore. Some were short and some were tall. All were blackened from six months of filth and grime and a steady diet of blood and flesh. Their clothes were rotting away from their reanimated bodies.

The black helmeted men in riot gear began shooting. His seatmate’s shouting pulled Will from his thoughts.

“Stick close to me, kid“ he said. “I’m lucky.”

Will turned to see the man was being serious. He nodded in response.

Once past the obstacles, the vehicle picked up speed for a few blocks before screaming to a stop in front of a steel and glass tower. A man in black opened the rear gate and shouted for those in yellow armbands to exit.

“I’m not going! I’m not going!” a man shouted.

Will turned and saw it was the Red Sox shortstop. Two men grabbed him by the shoulders and threw him from the vehicle.

On the street below, armed men herded the dozen or so unarmed passengers forward toward the ravaged entrance of the Ritz. Other men sparked flares and threw them onto the street in a protective semi-circle around the boat. Gunshots rang out on the left and right.

“Twenty-sixth floor,” a man in black shouted. “Check it out.” He pointed toward the lobby entrance.

“Follow me,” Will’s companion shouted. “All of you.”

He led them into the building and toward the lobby stairs. Two men in black followed halfway before stopping to station themselves in the lobby, high-powered rifles at the ready.

“Aren’t they coming?” Will whispered as they moved closer to the doors.

His companion turned and smiled.

“We’re the canary, kid,” he said. “And this is the coal mine.”

He flicked on a powerful flashlight and opened the heavy stairway door. When nothing came through, he beckoned them all forward. Two dozen footsteps shuffled slowly into the stairwell.

“I didn’t sign up for this shit,” one man said.

“Shaddup,” another responded.

“Could be worse,” a third added. “Could be one of them.”

Jim led them slowly up the stairs, careful at every turn. They stopped as they approached the thirteenth floor, noting the stairwell door had been ripped away.

“Careful, people,” he said. “Let’s check this out.”

The group followed him through the broken entryway and into madness. Hundreds of body parts were neatly arranged throughout the corridor. Arms and legs and heads stacked together. Black blood and gristle covered the walls.

“Oh my God!” a woman whispered. Will recognized the voice from the Lord’s Prayer.

“Zombies didn’t do this,” a man said.

“I know,” Jim whispered, turning back the way they had come. “Let’s go.”

On the twenty-first floor, it looked like a bomb had gone off. The walls to the stairwell were gone, leaving a mountain of sheetrock and charred debris. Will looked up and saw the stairs too had been ripped away, leaving a six-foot gap.

“Well that’s it,” a man said. “Can’t go no farther. I’m going down.”

Will recognized the Georgia twang of the former American League Rookie of the Year. He went only a few steps before realizing that nobody followed.

“Come on!” he pleaded. “There ain’t nuthin’ we can do. We did what we were told. Let’s go!”

Will thought a moment before turning to Jim.

“He might have a point.”

Jim shook his head. “We don’t complete the mission, we don’t get the points.”

After a pensive moment, he went on.

“Here, let’s pile up as much stuff as we can to close the gap. We can lift you Will and …” He turned to the praying woman and asked gently, “What’s your name, darlin’?”

She smiled, though her eyes remained far away.

“Rosemary,” she answered.

“We can get you up too, Rosemary. And I might be able to get up there as well. Let’s go.”

Moving quickly, they began stacking heavy slabs of sheet rock and plywood, closing the gap by about two feet. A man wandered off and found a broken desk amidst the carnage. Two men carried it over and placed it on top of the rubble pile. It wobbled a bit, but it was just enough to stand on and grab the broken handrail above.

“Alright, Will. You first.”

Two men held the desk steady while Will mounted it. When he reached up for the handrail, the broken staircase swayed. Keeping a firm hold on the rail, he raised his leg onto the lower step and felt hands pushing at his buttocks. Raiding his other leg, he managed to pull himself up onto the lowest stair.

Steadying himself, he inadvertently looked down and got dizzy. Closing his eyes, he shook his head and opened them again.

“How is it,” Jim asked.

Will swallowed his fear and jumped up and down. The stairway held.

“Seems alright,” he answered.

The woman was next. She made it up with a helping hand from Will. The two of them together helped Jim up safely. Jim stalled a moment, looking down at the pile of construction debris.

“Look for something we can use as weapons,” he asked the crowd below.

A few minutes later, Jim and Rosemary carried broken two by fours with pointed ends. Will hefted a four-foot length of rebar. Jim glanced at his watch.

“Boat leaves in fifteen minutes. Let’s hurry.”

The three scrambled up the ten flights to the twenty-sixth floor. The door was jammed, but Jim used the rebar to pry it open, and they walked into a deluxe penthouse. Late afternoon sunlight came in through what windows were left. A strong ocean breeze came in ones that were broken.

“Should be over on this side, overlooking the harbor.”

They walked down an elegant hallway with mahogany paneling. Nineteenth-century paintings of sailing ships adorned the walls. At the end of the corridor, they stepped into a sunken living room that offered a panoramic view of the harbor and the islands beyond.

Jim turned left and stopped. Will looked up and saw him smiling, then pointing.

“Check it out,” he said.

Will followed his finger across the room, where a dangling mirror swayed back and forth in the breeze. Swiveling their heads, they saw an identical mirror on the other side.

“So much for that,” Jim said. “It’s not lights. It’s the mirrors reflecting each other.”

The three stood there another few moments, grinning stupidly while catching glimpses of themselves reflected in the swinging mirrors. On the next swing, Will saw something different. There were now four people reflected in it. The thing was behind Rosemary.

Jim and Will leaped forward, throwing themselves to the floor. Rosemary screamed. Will turned and saw it had Rosemary in its grasp. He watched the thing take its first bite out of her neck before it dragged the screaming woman to the floor.

When it bent down to begin its feast in earnest, Will and Jim saw the others, a woman and a young girl. The girl clutched a naked and chewed plastic doll. The woman moved toward Will. The girl walked toward Jim.

Will’s heart leaped into his throat, but he suppressed his fear, knowing it was their only weapon. As the woman approached, he slid backward along the hardwood floor and felt around for his rebar.

The woman’s black mouth opened as she moved toward him. He waited. At the very moment she leaped, he raised the metal pole and braced himself. It hit home, going into her mouth and out the back of her head.

He watched her eyes roll back in their sockets as bits of brain and skull and teeth fell onto his chest. He was awash in her blood. She fell atop him in a macabre parody of coitus before he jerked the pole sideways and flipped her off to his left.

He was out of breath. Blood pounded in his ears. He heard faint sucking sounds from across the room as the thing devoured Rosemary. Then, he heard Jim speaking softly.

“It’s all right now. Daddy’s here. Daddy’s here.”

Turning toward the voice, Will saw that Jim had lain his wooden stick aside, to open his arms to the approaching girl.

“Jim,” Will said calmly. “Listen to me. Please. It’s not her. Jim. Please listen to me.”

He watched Jim take the girl into his arms. Will screamed.

“NO-O-O-O!”

She bit into his neck and tore out flesh. His carotid artery burst. Blood leapt six feet into the air.

Will pulled the rebar from the head of the dead woman and crawled across the floor. He smashed it over the little girl’s head, denting her skull. When she pulled away from her feast to look up, he plunged it into her right eye. She toppled over. Jim fell from her grasp and onto the floor.

Will turned to glance at the third. Its only interest was Rosemary. Will watched it raise her intestines into the air and look at them a moment before bringing them to his mouth. He turned back to Jim and noticed the red stripe on his armband.

Choking back his tears, he closed his eyes and drove the pole into Jim’s skull to ensure he wouldn’t become … one of them … before turning and running from the room.

He lingered in the stairwell a moment, to catch his breath and wipe his eyes before plunging his way down the stairs. When he arrived at the obstacle, he saw only four of them had stayed. They stared up at his blood-encrusted visage in horror. One man raised a sharpened pike and whispered.

“He’s one of them!”

Falling back, Will held up his arms and said, “No I’m not.”

The man stared him in the eye a moment before lowering his pole. Eight arms reached out to help him down.

“Where are the others?” he asked.

“Didn’t want to wait,” a woman answered. “And I hope they burn in hell, the bastards.”

They hurried their way back down, running the last few flights knowing they’d already missed the deadline. The men stationed in the lobby were gone. They ran through the room and into the street.

The boat was still there.

A man in black opened the door and helped them up. When he saw Will, he smiled and patted his back.

“Good job, kid,” he said. “Good job.”

The five remaining yellow armbands collapsed in their seats as the boat pulled away from the building. Before closing his eyes, Will saw the five were the only civilians on board. The shortstop hadn’t made it.

The boat snaked its way through the ruined city toward the water.

* * *

As the lengthening days of June turned into the furnace of July, there was no escaping the stench. The heat of summer cooked the festering corpses of the city.

Making things worse, the automated systems of the sewage plant on Deer Island had stopped running, so whichever way the wind blew, there was no escaping the stench. It was little better near the end of August.

In the first week of September, yellow armbands were again summoned to the pier. Only a dozen were needed. Men in black roughly herded scared new arrivals onto the boat. Veterans of such journeys took it in stride.

The boy took a seat beside an older woman who clutched a set of beads. On his other side, a short old man was staring down. He too clutched something in his hands. The boy was desperate for conversation.

“Hey, mister. You know what this is all about?”

The man answered in a voice that was flat and emotionless.

“Headed into Hingham, I hear. Need to get some lumber for the new houses going up on Spectacle. Gotta grab some tools too. Hammers and nails and whatnot.”

When he raised his head toward the boy, there was the ghost of a smile on his face. He looked the boy straight in the eye and went on.

“Just think of it like we’re going to the hardware store, kid. Makes it seem like old times.”

The boy looked away. The guy was obviously crazy.

But from the corner of his eye, he watched the man lower his head to stare again at what was in his hands. The boy got curious and peeked. It was just a dog-eared Edgar Allen Poe paperback.

The boy remembered having to read a poem by Poe in his sophomore year. It was alright. When he looked up again, the old man stared straight at him. His face was dead serious.

“Whatever you do, son, stick close to me,” Will said. “I’m lucky.”