“There’s food and a place to sleep and even some doctors. We pretty much take care of one another.”
“If it’s so great, why would anybody leave?” Olivia asked.
“Different reasons. Some go looking for loved ones. Others don’t want to be in a large group. They’re afraid we’re sitting ducks. For me, I’d rather be with people. If I’m going to die, I don’t want to be alone.”
“Do you think the planes hit other cities?” I asked.
Chris gave me a quick sideways look and said, “Don’t you? What happened up in Portland?”
“Same thing,” I replied.
“There you go. I don’t know who those devils are, but they seem to have only one goal, and that’s to wipe us out.”
That put an end to the conversation.
Every time my mind sought out the wider implications of what was happening, I was hit with a gut-twisting sense of sadness and dread. How many people had been killed? Hundreds of thousands? Millions? Billions? It was too staggering a concept to comprehend. I found that it was better to focus on the here and now as opposed to letting my mind wander to the big picture. Thinking too far ahead was like looking into a dark hole . . . with a black plane inside, lying in wait.
It had only been a week or so since the attack, but downtown Boston was already showing small signs of disuse. Garbage blew along the sidewalks and collected along the curbs. Broken glass was everywhere, some from smashed windows and others from shattered streetlights. Of course there were plenty of abandoned cars. Many had crashed into buildings or had blown through glass storefront windows. The once busy city was quiet. There was no noise at all, not even from the cooing of pigeons. The only sound came from the wind that blew through the abandoned urban canyons.
I was beginning to accept that this was the new normal. I hate to admit that because it meant I was willing to accept an unfathomable future, but what choice did I have? At least it meant that I could move forward and not crawl up into a ball, wanting to die. That’s saying something. I think.
Chris pulled into a parking lot and announced, “We’re here.”
Olivia and I looked around and had the same thought: “Where’s here?”
We were in a nondescript section of the city with no hint of survivors.
“We’ve still got a short walk,” Chris replied. “Like I said, we try to stay spread out. I’m not sure what good it does, but at least it makes us feel like we’re taking a little control.”
He led us along the sidewalk for a few blocks until we made the turn into an open park, where our question was answered.
“The Hall” turned out to be Faneuil Hall. I’d visited the place with my parents and knew a little bit of its history. The thumbnail description is that there were three three-story brick buildings that dated back to colonial times. Two of them ran parallel to each other and had to be at least a couple of blocks long. Faneuil Hall was originally a meeting place where speeches were given about fighting for independence from England. After that it served as a kind of town hall. It eventually became one of those historic spots that they renovate to look like it did back in the day. At some point the place was turned into a sprawling indoor/outdoor marketplace.
From the outside, the buildings looked as though they were from the 1700s, but inside were aisles of shops where you could buy anything from fried clams to artwork to dog collars. It was mostly a tourist spot. Locals didn’t buy refrigerator magnets of the Old North Church. But the restaurants were always busy, which meant it was a spot that drew lots of people.
At least it did before the population was wiped out.
The place wasn’t crowded, of course. But I did see a few people walking quickly between buildings, as if they didn’t want to be outside any longer than necessary. It was a surprise to see other people, which is further proof that I was getting used to the new reality.
“Here come your
“If it’s so great, why would anybody leave?” Olivia asked.
“Different reasons. Some go looking for loved ones. Others don’t want to be in a large group. They’re afraid we’re sitting ducks. For me, I’d rather be with people. If I’m going to die, I don’t want to be alone.”
“Do you think the planes hit other cities?” I asked.
Chris gave me a quick sideways look and said, “Don’t you? What happened up in Portland?”
“Same thing,” I replied.
“There you go. I don’t know who those devils are, but they seem to have only one goal, and that’s to wipe us out.”
That put an end to the conversation.
Every time my mind sought out the wider implications of what was happening, I was hit with a gut-twisting sense of sadness and dread. How many people had been killed? Hundreds of thousands? Millions? Billions? It was too staggering a concept to comprehend. I found that it was better to focus on the here and now as opposed to letting my mind wander to the big picture. Thinking too far ahead was like looking into a dark hole . . . with a black plane inside, lying in wait.
It had only been a week or so since the attack, but downtown Boston was already showing small signs of disuse. Garbage blew along the sidewalks and collected along the curbs. Broken glass was everywhere, some from smashed windows and others from shattered streetlights. Of course there were plenty of abandoned cars. Many had crashed into buildings or had blown through glass storefront windows. The once busy city was quiet. There was no noise at all, not even from the cooing of pigeons. The only sound came from the wind that blew through the abandoned urban canyons.
I was beginning to accept that this was the new normal. I hate to admit that because it meant I was willing to accept an unfathomable future, but what choice did I have? At least it meant that I could move forward and not crawl up into a ball, wanting to die. That’s saying something. I think.
Chris pulled into a parking lot and announced, “We’re here.”
Olivia and I looked around and had the same thought: “Where’s here?”
We were in a nondescript section of the city with no hint of survivors.
“We’ve still got a short walk,” Chris replied. “Like I said, we try to stay spread out. I’m not sure what good it does, but at least it makes us feel like we’re taking a little control.”
He led us along the sidewalk for a few blocks until we made the turn into an open park, where our question was answered.
“The Hall” turned out to be Faneuil Hall. I’d visited the place with my parents and knew a little bit of its history. The thumbnail description is that there were three three-story brick buildings that dated back to colonial times. Two of them ran parallel to each other and had to be at least a couple of blocks long. Faneuil Hall was originally a meeting place where speeches were given about fighting for independence from England. After that it served as a kind of town hall. It eventually became one of those historic spots that they renovate to look like it did back in the day. At some point the place was turned into a sprawling indoor/outdoor marketplace.
From the outside, the buildings looked as though they were from the 1700s, but inside were aisles of shops where you could buy anything from fried clams to artwork to dog collars. It was mostly a tourist spot. Locals didn’t buy refrigerator magnets of the Old North Church. But the restaurants were always busy, which meant it was a spot that drew lots of people.
At least it did before the population was wiped out.
The place wasn’t crowded, of course. But I did see a few people walking quickly between buildings, as if they didn’t want to be outside any longer than necessary. It was a surprise to see other people, which is further proof that I was getting used to the new reality.
“Here come your
Similar Books
