“Head’s up!”
On instinct, I ducked, and felt the hiss of air moving past my head.
Whack.
Mr. Ellis’s body tumbled backward down the stairs, the radio dial exploding in a shower of glass.
His shaggy hair askew, Peter lowered the home-made baseball bat that he’d fashioned from a discarded two-by-four, both arms trembling. “Holy crap dude, what . . . what was that?”
A nightmare with legs.
“Get inside.” I scrambled to my feet, diving with Grace and Peter through the door. One of the other boys in the crowded hallway slid a wooden bunk plank through the handles, and Peter clicked the deadbolt on the lock.
“They’re everywhere.” One of the other boys called, darting out from his room, and pointing back at what I assumed was his window.
“What do we do?” Another shrieked, and I caught the clank-clank of little metal legs crawling over the asphalt in the parking lot outside as more music echoed on the humid night air.
I ran a set of fingers through my sweaty hair and tried to think. We couldn’t stay here, not if there were more of those radio things crawling around. We had to make a break for . . . where exactly?
My eye caught the skull and crossbones on Peter’s black rock band T shirt.
Bingo.
“We’ve got to get to the marina.” I weaved through the crowds and pointed for Grace and Peter to follow my lead. “Find something to get a window open. If we can get to the ground, we run for the docks.”
Feet thundered, everyone pushing and shoving to attack the barred windows with a frenzy we’d never had before. Furniture flew, glass shattered, and outside, the song floated from multiple speakers all throughout the darkness.
“. . . lollipop, lollipop, oh lolli-lolli-lolli lollipop . . .”
“They won’t break.” Grace shouted from down the hall, and the repeated thuds of broken chairs and bedsteads on the metal bars confirmed this. We were trapped, sealed inside, and my pulse roared in my ear.
“Sammy.” Little Tarren darted out of the crowd, a long, heavy object dragging on the floor behind her. “Here.”
I blinked down at the old, yellow-handled sledgehammer in the girl’s hands. “Where did you get that?”
Her little face tinged red in shamed, and Tarren made a sheepish smile. “I . . . I took it, from Mr. Ellis’s toolbox, when he fixed the window last week. I just wanted to borrow it, to smash the roaches in my room. I was gonna put it back, honest . . .”
Smiling, I bent down to gently lift the heavy tool from her hands and patted the girl on her head. “I know you were, Tarren. Good job.”
Grace waved her flashlight at me, the fine dark hairs along her face sticking to her skin in a sheen of sweat. “Let’s go, the fire escape door is this way.”
As one, the crowd of kids surged down the cramped hallway, the far stairwell door reverberating with bangs as the shuffling husk of Mr. Ellis tried to break through. That eerie song still crawled through the air from every direction, and I could hear gunshots and sirens in the distance.
They’ve reached the townies.
Rumors had been swirling for weeks about the goings-on in the surrounding area, about disappearances, soldiers patrolling the roads, and unexplained power blackouts. The caretakers complained of poor internet connectivity and bad cell-service for months, but I’d chalked it up to rural Ohio’s poor infrastructure. Even when someone mentioned a wildfire burning down Collingswood, which lay on the southeastern side of Maple Lake some 20 miles away, I hadn’t paid much attention. We didn’t get out much and had no way of knowing how true any of it was, but with the caretakers gone, and the chaos outside, I figured at least some of the stories had to be true.
Reaching the red fire escape hatch, I raised my hammer high, and brought it down on the old padlock with all my strength.
Clank.
It snapped, surprising me, and Grace yanked the hatch open, her silver irises peering into the night.
“Looks clear.” She turned to whisper at me, the porcelain flesh in her temple throbbing with a nervous pulse. “You go down, I’ll stay until the last one gets to you.”
No way.
The thought of leaving without her frightened me more than I would have thought, like cold water on all my adrenaline. Grace and I had always been friends, a team, working together to keep each other safe. I didn’t want her to stay up here, with that creepy radio monster just on the other side of the hallway doors. But she was right, as usual. Someone had to lead the way, and I could swing the heavy sledgehammer better than she could.
Still, I struggled to find an excuse, gripping the hammer tight so she wouldn’t see me shaking. “Peter should go. I could stay, and—”
“And what?” Grace made a weak half smile, the banging on the door in the background intensifying. “I’m faster than you. I’ll be fine.”
Something in her gaze, the way Grace’s silver irises bored into mine gave me goosebumps in a way I hadn’t had them before. I noticed the way her faded green T-shirt clung to her torso, could smell the cheap, orange-scented orphanage soap from her hair, and caught the slight waver of fear in her tone. Her favorite necklace, a genuine shark’s tooth on a braided chord hung down inside her shirt, nestled beside her heart in a way that I was suddenly quite jealous of.
Beautiful. Like starlight.
“Just don’t wait too long.” I coughed, and dragged my eyes away from hers, the sudden burst of confusing sensations leaving me flushed.
I climbed out into the night, Peter and the others trailing behind me in a procession of whispers, stumbling feet, and muted squeals of terror. Humid air kissed my face, and the metal steps down to the ground creaked under my sneakers. Acidic smoke wafted on the wind, along with the powerful stench of rot, and far below, shadows wriggled in the empty parking lot. My legs felt unwieldy, the sledgehammer heavy in my grasp, but I forced myself to take each step closer to the ground with bated breath. Only once my feet touched the smooth asphalt did I breathe something like a sigh of relief.
Creeeaaak.
The echo of metal giving way from the inside of the orphanage made my heart leap, and I looked up in time to see Grace hurtle out the fire escape just behind Tarren. She slammed the door shut behind her, and thundered down the steps, screaming at the other kids to go faster.
“Move, move, move!”
At the sound of her cry, the night air filled with the patchy static of countless old-fashioned radios baying for our blood. I couldn’t see them yet, but many seemed to be right on top of us, just on the other side of the nearby shrubs, waiting for the chance to pounce.
“Peter, get them to the pier.” I pointed the sledgehammer toward the marina. “Find something, a boat, a car, anything. I’ll be right behind you.”
Peter charged away into the darkness with the homemade ball bat in his hands, and all the other kids flooded after him. Crying and panting they went, their legs pumping as fast as they could go down the road to Maple Lake. Grace and Tarren leapt to the ground in record time, but not before metal legs skittered through the dark a few yards away.
I spun on my heel and brought the sledgehammer up, stumbling backward from the force of a radio as it lunged for my face. Wire splayed in the air, the dusty speaker screeched a high static falsetto, and both dented antennas scrabbled at my hands. My heart rammed into my ribs, and I screamed involuntarily, swinging the hammer to get the bizarre creature off me.
Crack.
A dark hunk of stone whizzed through the gloom to smash the glowing yellow dial of the radio. Glass scattered over the pavement around my feet, and a slender hand balled up my shirt sleeve to drag me at full run toward the lake.
“Don’t look back!” Grace shrieked, and together we fled, little Tarren in her arms, the three of us pursued by dozens of crawling nightmares.
It was only a half-mile to the docks, but it felt more like five, as the shadows leapt at fleeing people, the flames chewed at various homes, gunshots and screams crackling everywhere. The small community around Maple Lake consisted mostly of old people, wealthy retirees, and richer out-of-town folk, the kind who came to carol for us at Christmas, but rarely adopted anyone. Now they ran in the same streets we did, with the same horrors on their heels, the radios emerging from every nook and cranny to latch onto whoever slowed down.
One of the younger boys, Ashton, went down, as a radio climbed up his back before I could go back for him. His shrill screech of pain cut out in seconds, replaced by the dull crunch of his skull cracking under unseen force.
There came a final, desperate gurgle, then . . . static.
“Crazy way he kills me . . . every time . . . he’s like thunder across the sky . . .”
They came from the trees, culverts and ditches, swarming like roaches in the dark. More of ours began to fall behind, and though Peter, Grace, and I tried to keep the radios at bay, we couldn’t save them all. Pitiful screams dug at my brain, desperate pleas from the younger ones for help, even as the monsters ripped into them with roaring gushes of static-laden songs. Grace ran as hard as I’d ever seen her run, legs flashing white in the firelight, tears dripping down her face even as she refused to put Tarren down. Peter vomited down his own shirt front and continued to swing his bat in an attempt to save more kids. But there were too many of us.
Too many to protect.
Too many to save.
By the time we reached the water’s edge, our original group of 43 boys and 38 girls had dropped to 25 and 16 respectively, the rest twitching and staggering after us, their bodies prisoner to the parasites of copper wire and sheet metal.
“H-hey.” Peter slowed to a stop on the wooden pier, his breaths deep and heavy with exhaustion. “Sam they . . . they’re all gone.”
The moorings, which were normally packed with the trawling boats, yachts, and small commercial fishing ships of Maple Lake’s elite were all empty, the distant watery horizon filled with lights from the various craft well out of port. Their owners had obviously used the same idea as us, and were safe in the middle of the lake, far out of reach of the monsters.
They left us. The caretakers, the retired geezers, the rich dentists . . . no one cared enough to come for us. They never did.
I gasped for air, spun in a circle, looking for something, a sign of salvation, a magic bullet, anything to get us to safety. We were all exhausted, Grace especially, and she stared at me with those silver eyes wide in horror that made my gut sink. We were going to die, all of us. All those years fighting, watching, suffering . . . it would all be for nothing.
A tall blur slid into my peripheral vision, and I craned my head to see a shape glide over the water a few piers away, slowly but surely moving along the docks. Even in the dark, I could make out the puffy white sails, the beautifully stained wooden hull, and the bowsprit jutting out into the night breeze. I’d seen this ship before, the Pelican, from my window during the summer, a replica two-masted schooner meant to be from the Revolutionary War era. I’d always admire it, a real sailing ship, complete with working cannons and all, but now it looked even more magnificent, because it was close.
“This way.” I charged down the wharf, swatting a few radios aside with my sledgehammer, and the others limped along with me, our fatigue weighing us down step-by-step.
Crossing onto the Number 3 pier, I gauged the distance to the ship’s deck as the vessel slid nearer and decided to take a chance. “We gotta jump for it. Let’s go, run as fast as you can. Don’t think, just go.”
They all hesitated, and Grace shook her head.
“Sam, they . . . they’ll never make it over that gap. It’s too far.”
Somewhere down the boardwalk, a woman wailed in agony, and I swallowed a foul lump of panic in my throat. Looking around, I spotted a thick coil of rope that had been abandoned by one of the mooring posts and snatched it.
“Peter, tie the other end off.” I gritted my teeth and tugged as hard as I could to keep my crude square knot secure around the handle of my sledgehammer. “As soon as I say so, start sending them over.”
Turning, I hefted the hammer over one shoulder, and silently hoped it wasn’t as far as Grace said.
Thunk.
It arched through the air, until the heavy steel head of the sledgehammer came down on the deck of the Pelican as it slowly drifted by. With no time to lose, I backed up by a few yards, and hurled myself forward.
For a split second, my brain went into panic mode, empty space passing under my flailing shoes.
Wood rushed up at me, and I slammed down onto the deck planks, rolling three times before coming to a stop next to the first mast.
Holy mother of God, it worked.
I scrambled to my feet and dashed to where the sledgehammer lay. Dragging the line to the railing, I wound it around the thick wood several times, before tying it in three different knots just to be safe.
“Okay, come on over.” Cupping my hands to my mouth, I called back to the pier, even as the rope grew steadily taut. “Little ones first.”
One by one, they shimmied across, though more than a few bulked at the scary crawl over the rope, so high above the dark water. But with Grace and Peter pushing them (and the radios not far away) they each clambered onto the deck of the Pelican with relieved sobs and sighs.
When Grace crossed over, last once again, I slid my arms under hers, and hauled her aboard, taking the moment to hold her close.
She turned a shade of pink around her cheekbones that I hadn’t seen before but let slide a small smile. “Nice work. Now, how are we getting loose?”
“Whoa.” Peter stood from where he knelt behind us, a small wooden trunk bolted to one bulkhead propped open. “Check this out.”
Everyone crowded closer, and my eyebrows rose high on my face.
Nestled in neat wooden notches were several boarding axes, the kind used in old sailing days to chop away at tangled rigging, and the limbs of enemy combatants. The were shiny and new, sharp to the touch, their oak handles stained a dark reddish hue. More chests near the stern yielded broad cutlasses, pikes, and daggers, all covered in a light sheen of oil for protection. We were never allowed to have any weapons in Sunbright, and to hold such things in my hand sent a strange sensation through me.
“Must be for all those reenactments.” Grace picked up a rapier, her silver eye glittering as she held it, in the same way she’d posed with the wooden stage swords we used during story time at Sunbright. “But these are sharp. Sam, I think these are the real deal.”
My eyes fell on a particularly beautiful sword, with swirling gold and silver designs on its hilt, and I picked it up, drawing the smooth, oiled blade from its scabbard.
Wow. So light. No wonder they loved these things.
Turning back to the railing, I brought the blade down on the thick mooring line, and felt a mischievous satisfaction as it snapped, the ship’s prow drifting away from shore, as we drifted out to safety. A light breeze caught the partially lowered sails, and we slid over the lapping dark water, until the docks grew smaller and smaller behind us.
No one spoke, the ship wrapped in silence, save for the distant sirens, screams, and the gentle lapping of the lake against the hull of the Pelican.
“We did it.” Grace whispered, her tear-stained face awash in happy disbelief.
Breathing a long, deep sigh, I realized how much my limbs were shaking, and grinned. “Yeah, we sure did.”
Peter hefted an axe high in the air and tilted back his head with a wild yell. “Let’s hear it for Captain Roberts!”
Smiles flooded every face, the kids cheering, and we all laughed in tortured relief. Grace slid her arms around me again, and I relished the way she giggled in my ear, my heart skipping a beat.
Bang.
Everything jerked to a halt, the cheers vanishing, Grace stiffening in my arms.
She pulled back from me, a confused, shocked look on her face. Something wet and hot trickled down over the hand I had at the small of her back, and Grace’s knees buckled.
No.
I caught her, dropped to my knees, my brain flying into complete turmoil. Grace gasped, weakly clutched at my shirt, more crimson dripping down over my jeans and shoes like a waterfall.
“Get off my boat.” A hoarse voice growled through the shadows.
He stood in the light of an open cabin doorway, with a 12-gauge pump-action shotgun in his gnarled hands. The man looked old, likely around his 70’s, with white hair and deep wrinkles over his haggard face. He was dressed in the remains of a nice set of pajamas, the kind rich people always wore in movies, with his veiny feet planted bare on the deck. Both watery blue eyes were narrowed at us in suspicion, and a trail of light gray smoke wafted up from the barrel of his gun.
“Sam.” Grace whispered, and I looked down into her eyes, saw the pain, the fear.
She squeezed my hand, her beautiful skin shining like a star in the fading light of the shore fires, silver eyes piercing me to my soul, soft rose petal lips twitching into a small, shy smile.
Grace opened her mouth to say more . . . and went limp, the light fading from her eyes, her hand relaxing in mine.
No.
It started like a trickle deep inside, a small worm chewing through my inmost parts, a worm made of fire and pain.
I raised my head, and met the old man’s eye, saw his scowl falter, as he desperately worked the pump to chamber another shell.
No.
It built in my chest, a seething, hot cascade of something so potent, so electrifying that my blood seemed to boil inside my veins. Screams clouded my mind, my vision narrowed to a tunnel, and I let Grace slide from my arms. My pulse roared like a primal drumbeat, my breathing sped up, and the worm of fire wriggled into my brain, burst into an avalanche of lava. The old man raised his gun, the front sight level with my chest.
Click.
He froze, horrified, and I tightened my grip on the cutlass in my right hand.
“No!”
The roar tore itself from my chest like a volcano erupting, and before I could blink an eye, I was on him. More bodies surged around me, steel swinging from every fist, but my vision tinged a deep red so that I only saw my blade. I screamed, shoved others away so they couldn’t steal my swings, and rammed the strip of steel through the old man’s flesh over and over again. Copper stung my mouth, I could smell it on my clothes, feel it in my hair, but I kept going.
At last, with one great swing, I heard the crunch of a spine severing, and the battered white-haired head rolled free.
Snatching it up by the hair, I held the severed head high and bellowed at the stars, the hate adrenalizing, the rage smooth and intoxicating. Peter and the others shrieked with me, their faces contorted in anger, their weapons coated with crimson blood. For one long, moment, we reveled in the misery.
Reality came crashing down the next instant, each cheering dying one by one, until we stood in mute shock on the gore-spattered ship. My vision returned to its regular color, and all the adrenaline left me at once.
Staggering to the ship’s rail, I let the old man’s hair slip out of my grasp, the bloody head splashing into the waves below with indifference. I leaned on the wooden planks and sucked in air, tasting blood with every gulp.
With my anger gone, all that remained was pain, an awful horrible rending in my guts that melted my courage. Vomit rose in the back of my throat, tears brimmed in my eyes, and I shut them both to hold back the tide.
We’re all we have left.
Her words floated through my mind, cooling every fried nerve, stilling me, bringing me back down to earth. Grace was right. She’d always been right. The caretakers, the stuck-up locals, the government, none of them had ever cared about us. Only we cared about us. Only we had fought to live.
Only we deserved to live.
“Sam.”
Peter stood beside me, his own eyes misted with tears, sniffling between each breath. “W-What do we do? The shore’s all gone, there’s no one left out—”
“That’s alright.” Something in my head realigned, snapped back into place, and when I closed my eyes, I found myself back on that improvised stage in my pirate costume, with Grace beside me, the two of us out on some amazing pretend adventure. “We’re all we need.”
Forcing down the sour grief in my throat, I turned to face the others, and opened my eyes.
They watched me with snot, blood, and tears on their little faces, just kids caught in a nightmare, one we couldn’t wake up from. I spotted little Tarren among them, her sad eyes focused on Grace’s lifeless body.
“Take a good look.” I pointed the bloody cutlass in my hands back at the distant, burning shoreline, my tone turning gruff, and short, the way I’d practiced time and time again. “Do ya see it? There be what was our world, lads. It’s gone, all of it.”
Sniffles and sobs went through the group, and I looked down at Grace, meeting her lifeless eyes one last time.
“We can’t go for help. They’ll jail us for murder. Ya think they’ll believe a bunch of us, poor homeless vagrants, versus the money-hungry family of that prick?” I jabbed a finger at the headless, mutilated corpse of the old man, lying next to his misfired shotgun in a sea of red. “No. We won’t get a fair trial. They’ll ship the little ones off to whatever creep wants them and leave the rest of us to rot. We have no future with them.”
Some of the rage returned, and even as a cool breeze ruffled the sails, I propped a shoe up on the railing, grabbing a section of rigging to hoist myself up, and waved the sword like a pointer at the others. “But we have each other! Aye, we always have. When the caretakers gave us less food to save money last winter, did we take it lying down?”
“No.” Peter grunted, his eyes burning with a new light, and the word flashed around more lips like a spreading wildfire.
“No.”
“No, we didn’t.”
“You’re damn right we didn’t!” I shouted, and leaned fully into my act, embracing it, basking in it. “We stole more, we stole better, and we survived! We were all we needed. Grace understood that. Grace protected us, Grace guided us, and . . .”
My voice almost cracked, but I made myself form the words, even as the ship creaked in the water, like it too wanted me to continue.
“. . . Grace loved us.”
I saw it now, blazing in the eyes of all the boys and girls clustered on that narrow deck, a dark fire that burned with strength, with resolve, with hate. They hung on my every word, and Peter nodded, like he couldn’t bear another moment without knowing the rest of what I had to say.
Driving the point of my sword into the wood of the railing, I puffed out my chest against the steady wind that pushed us along the dark waters of Maple Lake. “This ship is ours, Maple Lake is ours, and as far as I can see, there are fancy houses and luxury yachts all around these waters, filled with food, clothes, anything we need. They’ve taken everything from us. I say its high time we return the favor! What say you?”
“Aye!” Peter took up the call, raising his axe in the air.
“What say you?” I cried again, louder this time, and more of the children took up the call, gory blades held high.
“Aye!”
“Then stand to the mast and make ready to sail.” While I honestly knew rather little about sailing, and doubted the others knew much more, it felt good to say the words, like they were some kind of magic incantation to make me invincible. “First Mate Peter, get that canvas in order! Quartermaster George, check to be sure our anchor is stowed. Boswain Emilia, you and the lads heave that worthless pig into the drink! Snap to, lively!”
They scrambled over the deck, hauling on ropes, experimenting with the rigging, and tossing the remains of the old man over the side with sadistic glee. Peter snapped me a quick salute, and went into his own act, barking orders at the younger boys and girls with the same faux- Caribbean accent that we’d used for so long as a running joke.
We’ll see who’s laughing now, townies. You should have come back for us. You should have—
“Captain?”
I turned to find six girls carrying Grace’s body, their face’s still downcast, with little Tarren holding Grace’s lifeless hand like a lost puppy.
One of the girls, Anita, sniffled and bowed her head to me, like they’d seen Grace do countless time during our pirate acts in the orphanage. “W-what should we do with her?”
A small part of me tried to soften, to cry, to break at Grace’s limp form held up by the arms of those she’d always fought to protect, but I quashed it.
Instead, I strode over to them, and gently shut Grace’s beautiful eyes with my hand, tucking the silky dark hair out of her face in the way she liked. My fingers found the chord of her shark-tooth necklace, and I tugged it free from her limp neck.
“Take her to the captain’s cabin and wrap her up in whatever blanket or sheet you can find.” I coughed, cleared my throat, and did my best to speak somewhat softer for the girls. “Make sure she’s taken care of, then report to the First Mate. We’ve got sailing to do.”
Anita blinked rapidly, trying to suppress her own grieving frown, but bowed her head. “Aye.”
They disappeared into the cabin, with little Tarren trailing behind, not so much as uttering a word.
Climbing the wooden steps at the rear of the ship, I stood on the quarter deck, just behind the ship’s wheel. The Pelican was alive with activity now, and the crew seemed to be getting the hang of it. Our sails lowered, filling with more wind, and we picked up speed, ploughing through the murky waves toward the interior of Maple Lake. A thick fog began to settle over the surface of the water, and the sounds of chaos faded behind me. It was a good ship, I decided, but it needed a better name.
Harper’s Vengeance. Yes, that would do nicely, once we found some paint and brushes. I’d do the honors myself, just to be sure it was right.
Holding out my palm, I stared down at the shark-tooth necklace in my hand, running one thumb over all I had left of Grace. It occurred to me now that I’d never said anything to her about life after Sunbright, about what we would do as adults. I’d always assumed I’d have more time to figure it out, more time to talk with Grace about it, more time to plan our great escape.
I would have come back for you. I would have done anything to take you away from that place, to set you free. I would have sold my soul for you, Grace Harper.
“Sir?” Peter walked up, and saluted, his axe stuck in his belt loops, now bare chested as he held out his black rock-band shirt with a skull and crossbones on it. “We found guns and ammo below decks. I think we should be able to overtake the nearest yacht within the hour. Shall I run up the colors?”
Our eyes met, and I could see it in his eyes, the same resigned pain, the need for this to be real, for us to be someone new so we could forget, evolve, survive. Peter knew. He’d known every time Grace and I practiced our sword fights, rehearsed our lines, or debated new story ideas. He’d seen what I had been too blind to see until too late, and now my loyal friend, my first mate, my brother, was trying to help ease my pain.
“Aye,” Slipping Grace’s necklace around my neck, I let it hang down beside my aching heart so she would always be close, and took hold of the ship’s wheel. “Hoist the colors.”
Sam Roberts is dead. He died the moment Grace Harper took that shotgun blast to the back. My name is Captain Samuel Grapeshot Roberts of the Harper’s Vengeance, the fiercest pirate in Barron County Ohio. This lake is my ocean, and these shores are my land. I will not rest until I find a suitable spot to bury the girl who died in my arms, a girl who deserved nothing less than eternal glory, love, and peace.
Until then, I swear to all the gods, I’ll burn her name into the world, one boat, one house, one corpse at a time.