Plague (Gone 4)

Later they would run out of fuel, and later all the Pepsi would be drunk, and all the noodles would be eaten. But it wasn’t later yet.

They could build a better life here at the lake. Leave behind all the reeking sewage and trash and memories of Perdido Beach. Leave behind the wrecked church and the burned houses. Leave behind that awful cemetery.

This time they would do it right. They’d organize before they ever started to move anyone up here. Form little families that could live aboard the boats or use the boathouse or the marina office. He frowned, trying to count in his head how many of the boats had any kind of superstructure. Maybe half a dozen of the small sailboats, a dozen of the motorboats. And then there were the four or five houseboats.

That wasn’t enough, obviously, but they could set up tents and maybe build small shelters. It’s not like it ever got cold in the FAYZ, not like anyone needed insulation. Just a roof to keep the sunlight off them.

He scanned the shoreline, hoping to spot a campground. Logically there had to be one, there were always campgrounds at a lake. It just stood to reason.

Of course they could be on the other side of the barrier. . . .

Never mind, it was all good. They had enough gas to drive the various Winneb

agos and campers and trailers up here from Perdido Beach—there were at least a dozen parked in driveways, although a lot had burned in the big fire.

He would have a boat. Big enough for himself and Astrid and Little Pete. Maybe he would ask Dekka to live with them, too. Assuming he got dibs on one of the houseboats. And why shouldn’t he?

One of those forty-six-footers would probably sleep six. Him and Astrid . . . It occurred to him that in his head he had them sharing the master’s berth. Which wasn’t likely to happen.

Was it?

Maybe. Maybe if they got away from Perdido Beach, maybe . . . A new thought occurred to him. He pushed it aside. But back it came.

What if they got married?

Then they’d be like a family. Him and Astrid and Little Pete.

There was no telling how long the FAYZ would last. Maybe forever. Maybe they would never get out. In that case, what were they all going to do? He was fifteen, Astrid was fifteen, they’d both survived the poof. That was young in the outside world, but it was old in the FAYZ.

“Yeah, but who can marry us?” He spoke the question aloud, not meaning to. He glanced nervously over his shoulder to see if anyone had overheard. Of course not, with the engines roaring and the boosh-boosh-boosh of the bow smacking the wavelets.

Dekka was sitting on one of the cushioned seats in the stern, gazing wistfully toward the land. Jack was hunched over one of the laptops, fingers flying over the keys, grinning. Toto was talking to someone who wasn’t there.

“Ship of fools,” Sam said to himself, and laughed.

Water and gas, noodles and Pepsi and Nutella, a crazy truth-telling freak, and despite Dekka’s fear, there was hope.

Quinn. He would make a good justice of the peace. That’s all you needed to perform a marriage, right? That’s how his mom had married his stepfather. If they could elect someone mayor, why not elect someone justice of the peace?

“Marry me and live on a houseboat,” he said.

“I like you, Sam, but not in that way,” Dekka said.

Sam jerked and yanked the wheel to one side. He steadied and tried to ignore the blush that was spreading from his neck up to his cheeks. She was standing next to him.

“How’s the shoulder?” Sam asked.

“See, this is why it’s good that Taylor isn’t still with us,” Dekka said. “If she’d heard you, the news would have spread faster than the speed of light.”

Sam sighed. “I was having a moment of optimism.”

Dekka patted him on the back. “You should, Sam. The FAYZ owes you some good news.”

Orc stood staring.

The kid, the Petard, he was still just floating there in the rain, like it was all nothing.

Astrid looked like a zombie or whatever.