Page 17 of The Dead of Summer

The museum has been invaded by brightness, and it is unrecognizable.

At first I think it’s too late and the weepers have already crawled inside, but the greasy, frantic bodies swarming through the hallways are the other survivors.

They rush against one another, fighting to hide, but somehow I make it to the light switches and plunge the upper floor back into darkness.

Bash, taller and faster, gets atop a display, grabs a blaring speaker, and wrenches it from the wall.

The lawyers mimic his heroics and in a minute the museum is back to its blessed quiet.

Almost.

The unmistakable sound of sea shanties emanates from behind one of the downstairs doors we’ve barricaded with a bookshelf.

“It’s coming from the workshop exhibit,” I say. “There’s a speaker out there. It plays on a loop. We have to kill it.”

Sam acts first, heaving himself against the bookshelf.

I help him, and somehow we get the heavy piece of furniture far enough from the door that Bash can squeeze into the empty, lit-up workshop.

He only needs a second, but the moment he’s through the door, the lawyers are shoving the barricade back in place.

“What are you doing?” I throw myself at them, trying to pull them back, but they’re bigger than me. Bigger than Sam, even. I turn to the other survivors watching.

“Help me!” I beg them, but they avert their eyes—or leave. Already weepers are just outside, shuffling toward the music. Even if Bash manages to quiet it, he’s out there all alone. If he runs, I might never find him again. And if he stays …

The sea shanty music dies, leaving only the weepers singing in the night.

Gently, on the other side of the barricade, there’s a tapping.

It turns into a scraping. I can hear Bash whimper.

The lawyers press themselves to the bookshelf as the scraping turns to pounding.

I hammer my fists against them until strong arms throw me down and pin me there.

“Let him in, please!” With my face crushed to the floor, I still beg. “I’ll give you all our food! Anything!”

“Tell your friend to be quiet! Now!” one lawyer orders.

“Bash! Be quiet!”

The banging stops. The weepers’ shadows sway behind the pulled curtains. They’re close. They’re practically already inside. A static hisses in the air from the dead speaker, so subtle it makes my ears itch.

The lawyer gets down on my level and says, “Surviving comes down to how quickly you can recognize a lost cause. Basic risk analysis. It’s not personal, kid.”

“You’re going to get him killed,” I whisper back.

“That just means more for us.”

I stay quiet, straining to hear Bash, but I know he’s gone.

Eventually, the horde of weepers moves on, too, taking the strange static sound with them.

The men keep me pinned a few minutes longer, until my arms are numb.

Sam has to hold me up when they finally let me stand.

I wipe away the crust of snot and tears with my shirt and glare down the room full of cowards who abandoned Bash.

Even after they stole from us and belittled us, Bash wanted to help these assholes. And they locked him out.

Right then and there, I make a decision.

“I’m leaving. Now.”

Sam puts a hand on my shoulder. I think he’s going to try to talk some sense into me, but he faces the room and says, “Me too. Fuck y’all.”

For the first time, the lawyers look a little lost.

“More for you, right?” I say, and the bait of extra rations works. They step away from us as if we’re already infected, just two more lost causes they can climb over to survive.

“Are you sure about this, Ollie?” Sam asks me as I start pulling items off the displays around us. “You have a plan?”

I ignore the question and point at a display of decorative harpoon guns that I am hoping are not so decorative. “Grab what you can carry. We’re leaving in five.”

Hold your breath , I pray to Bash. I’m coming.

Do not breathe.

Do not blink.

Do not remove your mask for any reason.

My world has new rules. My world is trying to drown me.

My hands shake as I tighten the straps on my goggles one last time. Years of grime on the glass make the antique scuba mask almost impossible to see through in the dark, but there’s no way I’m taking it off. Bash needs me. He needs me now, and he needs me breathing air.

“Ready?” Sam whispers.

I nod.

We step from the maritime museum into the boat workshop, and the door closes behind us with a merciless thud. The barricade rumbles back into place. There’s no going back.

The workshop before us is a bristling abyss of black cut through with a single wedge of butter-yellow light—a streetlamp through the open shed doors.

It flickers, as though the power might vanish again.

I want to call for Bash to come out, but any sound could doom us all.

Instead, I picture the workshop in my mind and ask, Where did we used to hide in here?

My eyes draw to the large lifeboat near the back, where the shadows are thickest. A nod to Sam, and he keeps his hand firmly in mine as we step through the chaos of buoys, nets, and paraphernalia that make up the display.

I listen for anything that isn’t us, but all I can hear is my own shallow breathing amplified by the mask.

Now I’m at the lifeboat. It’s raised up, and I need to lift myself high enough to see into it. Sam backs away, but I anchor him next to me, clasp his shoulder, and pull myself up.

The boat is empty.

A shadow steps into the light from outside.

“Ollie …” Sam whispers. The shadow is not human. Not anymore. It’s a man twisted inside out, his torso cracked apart so that something soft and heaving squeezes out. At first I think it’s Bash, but then a pale hand plunges up from the boat below and rips off my mask.

Fresh air floods my lungs. I can see! And I’m looking at Bash, curled under the bench of the lifeboat, a finger pressed to his lips.

I fight my fear and elation and match his quiet.

Sam does, too. We wait until the weeper lurches back toward the street, and then I pull Bash into my arms. He’s shaking so bad he can barely stand.

“You’re okay,” I whisper. “Put this on. Fast. We’re going.”

Sam and I pull goggles over Bash’s eyes and wrap strips of fabric over his nose and mouth. The relief of finding him quickly evaporates as I start to plan what’s next.

“Where are we going?” Bash asks.

Sam pauses, just as curious.

Before I pull my own mask on, I answer.

“The library.”