Authors: Scott Cramer
Hearing a car, Jordan struggled to his feet. Scanning the stretch he had just inched up, he saw a Jeep round the bend. The underarm pads of his crutches scorched his armpits like sizzling branding irons as he hobbled to the shoulder of the road.
He stuck out a crutch, hoping to flag the vehicle.
The driver pulled alongside him and stopped. The passenger window powered down. A boy with a Mohawk, around twelve, was behind the wheel.
“Where are you going?” the boy asked.
Jordan’s stomach dropped. That voice. He was certain it belonged to the pirate, the boy behind the mask who, along with his fellow murderers, had nearly killed him and sank
Lucky Me
.
He refused the ride with a shake of his head and pressed onward, a surge of adrenaline blunting his pain.
Inching forward, the Jeep kept pace. “I’ll give you a ride. Get in.”
All of a sudden, Jordan wasn’t sure the boy was the pirate. Many boys that age had high-pitched voices that cracked.
“C’mon,” the boy urged. “I don’t have all day.”
Not wanting to chance it, he shook his head again and continued.
“Suit yourself.” The back tires kicked up gravel as the boy sped off.
An hour later, Jordan stood in the parking lot of what he realized might be the only kid-operated radio station in the world. A few cars were in the lot, but with every tire flat, he assumed they had been here since the night of the purple moon.
The building was low and squat, with tongues of ivy licking the brick walls. A bronze plaque beside the glass door said: ‘The Port – FM 101’. The radio antenna—the target he had aimed for over the past six hours—was bolted to the bricks.
A generator chugged away nearby with a fat electric cable running into the building from it. He counted ten large metal drums. Diesel for the generator, courtesy of the fuel king, William, Jordan presumed.
Above the generator’s hum, he heard a truck in the distance. It drove by about two hundred yards to his left. He figured that was Route 95, which ran all the way to Maine to the north and to Florida to the south. When he finally felt strong enough, he could try to hitch a ride to Portland if he couldn’t find a sailboat or a spot on a gypsy boat sailing north.
With some difficulty, he managed to open the door and step inside to what appeared to be part reception area, part elephant cage. Peanut shells littered the carpet. Other signs that someone camped out here included a rumpled sleeping bag on the couch and a few empty water bottles on a coffee table. A framed certificate announced that The Port was a member-in-good-standing of the Rotary Club, Mystic, Connecticut. Jordan smiled to himself, thinking he would have had to turn around and go back to the clinic if The Port were a member-in-bad-standing.
Jordan recognized the music blasting out of a speaker mounted on the wall as the voice and guitar licks of Jimi Hendrix.
Below the speaker, the station’s control room was visible through a rectangular glass window. Inside, a boy kicked back in a chair, his feet propped on the console. He wore sunglasses, a thick braid of gold chains around his neck, and a New York Yankee baseball cap.
Chuckling that he would gladly set aside his loyalty to the Boston Red Sox in return for Abby hearing that he wasn’t dead, Jordan rapped on the glass and entered through a door on the right. Music played from a speaker here, too. “Are you DJ Silver?”
The boy swiveled around in the chair just as the song ended. He moved close to the microphone.
“Hey, survivors, you musta loved that. Jimi Hendrix, ‘All Along the Watch Tower.’ First played in twenty-five BC.”
Jordan was now certain it was DJ Silver. He had never heard anyone else use the term BC—Before Comet.
“Next up, we got something slow and mellow.” The DJ’s eyes glanced to a notebook on the desk. “This is from Alison going out to Tim. I want all you survivors to keep it slow and keep it locked here.” He punched a button and Beyonce came over the speaker.
Jordan grinned. DJ Silver’s only competition was the robotic voice of the CDC station telling survivors how to avoid toenail fungus, and other gross and boring tidbits of information. Maybe the adults at Colony East kept it locked on FM 98.5, but he couldn’t imagine anyone else listening to the CDC station voluntarily.
DJ Silver lowered his sunglasses. “And who are you?”
“Jordan. I’m from Rhode Island.”
He had concocted a whole story to explain his wound, thinking it best not to mention that a pirate shot him.
“With that accent? Yeah, right. What can I do for you, Jordan-who’s-not-from-Rhode-Island?”
“I had a bad bike accident.”
DJ Silver looked like he believed that about as much as Jordan’s earlier comment. “Tipped over your tricycle?”
Jordan plowed onward, “My sister doesn’t know what happened and I know she’s worried. Can you make an announcement that I’m okay?”
DJ Silver tapped his sunglasses back in place and slowly shook his head. “I guess you’re not from around here. We don’t do news on The Port.”
“Why?”
DJ Silver bobbed his head. “Listen, dude, if I started giving news, two things would happen. One, the adults would shut me down. Two, I would go ape-crazy because they’d shut me down. DJ Silvy is like a geyser of creative vibes. I got to spread the love or I’ll explode. I hope you’re cool with that.”
“Why would the adults shut you down?”
The DJ shrugged. “Beats me. That’s the way it rolls around here. We only play music. You feel me?”
The crunching defeat Jordan felt rattled him harder than the rocket of hope that had thrilled him when he first learned The Port was close by. He had to make DJ Silver understand. He started by making a pact with himself. He would stay here until one of two things happened: DJ Silver tossed him out, or the DJ agreed to announce that he was alive. If he tossed him, Jordan would just pick himself up and hobble back inside.
Then he had an idea that might avoid a lot of wasted time and intense pain. “Could you dedicate a song for me? ‘Here Comes the Sun by the Beatles.’ Say it’s to Abby and Toucan from Jordan.”
DJ Silver gave him a thumbs-up. “Now you’re talking cheesy whiz. You’re too smart to be from Rhode Island.” He slid a notebook toward him. “Write it down, brother.”
Jordan flipped through page after page of dedications, and then wrote what he wanted DJ Silver to say. “The best time is tonight after sundown.” He returned the notebook.
DJ Silver threw his head back and laughed. “Tonight? Try two months from now.” He fanned the pages. “First come, first serve.”
Jordan looked around for a place to sit. He considered pleading but knew that DJ Silver would tune him out. Jordan thought the only thing DJ Silver didn’t tune out was DJ Silver. That’s it, he thought. He would make an appeal to his ego.
Bursting with excitement over his own cleverness and certainty that his plan would work, Jordan waited as the DJ dedicated and cued up another song.
“I really come from Castine Island. It’s in Maine, off the coast of Portland. About six hundred kids live there.” Jordan tripled the number of kids on the island because DJ Silver’s ego was three times bigger.
The DJ yawned.
“We can pick up The Port, but only after sunset. Every night, kids go to Toby’s house to listen to you. Toby’s the only one who has batteries.”
Intrigued, Monty sat forward, fiddling with his silver chains. “Six hundred fans live there?”
Jordan gave him a big nod. “Standing room only at Toby’s. Everyone loves you, dude.”
His eyes widened. “Standing room only?”
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to get your autograph.”
“Dude, I don’t mind at all.” He scribbled his name and handed the paper to Jordan. “Jordan-from-Castine-Island-Maine, I got you covered. Abby and Toucan—what is that, some type of bird—will get tired of hearing ‘Here Comes the Sun.’ DJ Silver takes care of his fans.”
Jordan hobbled toward the station room door and stopped before leaving. About to speak, he bit his tongue, thinking that any insult he hurled at the New York Yankees might only confuse the DJ. “You are the man! Rock on!”
CHAPTER FIVE
Colony East
Lieutenant Dawson laced up his jogging sneakers and peered out the window of the company leader’s office.
At 15:30, Admiral Samuels exited Trump Tower and turned north on 5th Avenue. Every day, regardless of the weather conditions, the admiral took an afternoon stroll, his course as predictable as the time he began his walk. Taking a brief detour through the outer gardens of Central Park Farm, he went east on 62nd Street, south on 3rd Avenue, west on 53rd, then back on 5th Ave. for the home stretch.
Dawson gave the admiral a ten-minute head start. Then he jogged south on 5th and east on 53rd. Slowing to a walk, he intercepted him halfway down the block. “Permission to join you?”
“Fall in, Lieutenant.”
“Quite a heat wave we’re having, sir.”
The admiral grumbled, “What’s on your mind, Dawson? Spit it out.”
“Sir, at the Academy, I earned a top grade in logistics, and the summer after my Plebe year, I was assigned to the USS Enterprise, where I supported the munitions supply officer. I have a good mind for supply distribution.”
The admiral nodded with interest. “You have a good mind for distributing supplies.”
For an instant, Dawson was annoyed that Admiral Samuels was paraphrasing him, the same approach he used for the cadets of Biltmore Company. Then he realized he had learned the trick from the admiral.
“Yes, sir,” he said. “I can do it all, soup to nuts. I can come up with a plan, and I can execute the plan.”
The admiral grinned and shook his head. “Mark, if this is your roundabout way of asking me to reassign you from serving as a company leader, forget it.”
“No, sir. I love being a company leader.”
He cuffed Dawson on the shoulder. “Good, keep it that way. That’s an order.”
The admiral saluted an ensign who rode by on a bicycle. “You know why I walk down 3rd Ave.” Even though the admiral paused, Dawson knew he didn’t want an answer. “It’s one of the least traveled streets in the colony, so I don’t have to salute every five seconds. There’s a lot to be said for walking alone. It helps clear the mind.”
Dawson felt the cold bore of the admiral’s stare, like staring down the barrel of a gun held by a farmer who wanted you off his property, pronto. He had to speak fast before the admiral shooed him away, so he could finish his walk in peace.
“Sir, I’d like to volunteer to distribute the antibiotics. The tropics are heating up. Athena fizzled, but they’re worried about Tropical Storm Burt. Though the storm’s moving erratically, they say there’s a fifty percent chance that Burt will become a hurricane.” He sucked in a lungful of hot, dry air. “I’m sure the CDC is working hard to finalize the antibiotic, but the time to start planning the distribution of the pills is right now.”
“Denied,” the admiral barked, plowing forward like a cutter through choppy seas.
Keeping pace, Dawson snapped angrily, before he could rethink it. “Is it because of what I did in Virginia?” He had never before dared to use such an angry, demanding tone to a superior officer.
The admiral, who was just as certainly unaccustomed to being addressed in such a tone, stopped.
“Sorry, sir,” Dawson said. “I feel strongly about this.”
Admiral Samuels had a look that Dawson had never seen before—a look that all admirals learned to keep under wraps—indecisiveness.
“Yes, Lieutenant. It’s because of what happened in Virginia. I don’t want you to bring this matter up again. Understood? And next time you jog, find a different route.” Giving Dawson no chance to respond, the admiral continued south on 3rd Avenue.
Dawson felt his shoulders melt forward, and it had nothing to do with the heat of the day.
CHAPTER SIX
Mystic
Hypnotized by the leaves twisting outside his window, Jordan was lost in thought. Just then, he saw Wenlan, casting a long shadow from the setting sun, walking across the clinic’s backyard and sitting on the stone wall. He held his breath, hoping that CeeCee would not join her, and headed outside.
CeeCee liked to make fun of him for some unknown reason. It seemed that every time he was around the sisters, CeeCee would say something in Chinese and giggle. Wenlan would then respond angrily, also in Chinese. Jordan had no idea what they were saying, but he picked up on their feelings. Laughter and anger were universal.
Wenlan was still alone, so he approached her, trying to hide his limp. The last thing he wanted was for her to order him to exercise more.
He had a question he wanted to ask her, one that he had postponed asking several times, afraid he knew what she would say. Jordan realized he might chicken out again. Maybe it was best if he started with a joke?
Keeping a straight face, he sat on a flat rock beside her. “Slacking off?” Patients had streamed into the clinic non-stop since the morning; this was probably Wenlan’s first break of the day. When her eyes widened in shock, he forced a grin.
Sensing his sarcasm, she grinned, too, and shook her head. “Why do accidents happen in bunches? Two broken ankles, one burn from a cooking stove, a concussion, and oh, the craziest of the day, a goat bit Skinny Urban.”
“Doctor Wenlan and Doctor CeeCee to the rescue,” Jordan beamed.
A corner of her lip curled. “Stay away from goats. I refuse to treat any more patients bitten by their pets.”
The question burned at the tip of his tongue. Jordan shielded his eyes from the sun, still not ready for the disappointment he was sure her response would cause. He said instead, “Does it ever bother you that you’re only supposed to treat members of William’s gang? You know, other kids get hurt and sick and could use your help too.”
Wenlan took a deep breath. “My mother worked in a hospital with two hundred other doctors. There were two bigger hospitals nearby with five hundred more doctors. Now there’s just CeeCee and me. It used to bother me, but we can’t help everyone. You see what it’s like here.”
“I guess,” he said, thinking about Colony East. Maybe Abby had been right. How could a few thousand adults look after millions of survivors? He should cut the adults some slack.