Page 20 of The Dead of Summer

Before the Anchor’s Mercy Public Library was a library, it was an arts center, and before that it was an Episcopal church.

I know this fun fact (and more!) because Bash used to volunteer here, first as penance for some unknown crime from our childhood that none of us can recall, then out of pure, nerdy joy.

In the darkness of present day, it’s like the building has reverted to its previous holy sanctuary.

The vaulted ceilings fill with whispers, and the tall, narrow windows have been papered over with pages turned opaque gold by the setting sun.

Shelves of books have replaced the pews, but they’ve been pushed into a makeshift neighborhood of dorms. I catch a few eyes staring through the gaps as we walk down the aisles.

Looking up, I see more faces floating in the dimness of the upper floors, which look down into the central space.

Dr. Pfaff leads me to the back of the building, where a long-ago renovation has replaced the altar with a community room. It hides behind large double doors cupped in twin grand staircases that lead to the upper stacks.

“Brace yourself,” she tells me. “Natural selection is at work.”

Inside, dozens of adults stand against the walls or sit on the floor, forming a semicircle around a sprawl of little kids paying rapt attention to Wendy Pretendy, who is perched on an armchair with a book raised high.

She uses her flashlight to spotlight the pictures as she animatedly reads aloud.

It’s a testament to her talent that not only the kids listen, but the adults do, too.

When she’s done, she motions to Dr. Pfaff, and Bash, Sam, and I are brought before the room.

“Everyone, I’d like you to meet our most recent family members. This is Bash, this is Ollie, and this is Sam. Can you give a biiiiiiiig Anchor’s Mercy hello to our new friends?”

Wendy is still in character. The children murmur hello. The adults do not seem as welcoming. A woman raises her hand, already talking before Wendy calls on her.

“We should vote on this.”

“Oh, but, Meeghan, they’re already through quarantine.

” Wendy says this like quarantine is the most fun ever—never breaking character.

“And we did vote, remember? We voted to take in any other survivors if they went through quarantine, and our new friends here were soooooo patient. It wouldn’t be very nice to ask them to leave now, would it? ”

“Nooooo,” the children say, transfixed.

“But three teenaged boys? Can we spare that much food?”

Dr. Pfaff cuts in. “Wendy—or rather William—has been successful in supply runs thus far. We have plenty of rations.”

“But no gluten-free options,” Meeghan whines. “I specifically asked for a wheat alternative for my little Kristofer. I would expect a scientist such as yourself to understand the link between gluten and developmental delays—”

Before Dr. Pfaff can unleash a diatribe we all see brewing behind her glasses, Wendy steps back in. “You know what I think? I think it’s nearly bedtime! And if the adults want to chitchat, we can do so later, at our usually scheduled time and place .”

“We need a radio!” a man shouts from the back. “Those boats on the horizon are NAVY. I’m telling you!”

“We need food! Healthy options!” Meeghan reiterates.

The transfixed calm of the kids is cracking as more people shout out requests.

“The water tastes like chlorine.”

“Why can’t we turn the power on? I want to charge my phone!”

“I’m sick of cold soup!”

“The end is near, the end is near!”

“We should leave before we get eaten alive!”

“We should fight!”

Wendy claps twice. The adults simmer, but do not silence. I sense this is as loud as anyone dares get within the library.

“We are safe in here,” she says. “And we have what we need to be safe for a long, long time, so long as we’re careful.

Since the power came back, I’ve lit the tower, and it’s only a matter of time before the navy sees our flag, and once we get a radio, we can hail for help directly.

Until then, it is all our jobs to stay calm.

And, if new friends arrive, it is the library’s policy to welcome them in.

If that means Willy has to do more supply runs, so be it. ”

“It would be easier if you took someone with you,” a young father offers.

“You’re all too important to risk,” Wendy says, nodding at the kid asleep in the father’s arms.

“More to the point, we only have one gun,” Dr. Pfaff says with none of the whimsical words of Wendy. The children whisper like she’s cussed. From the back, a man says, “Mrs. Rosenthal keeps a handgun in her register at the yarn store. She showed me! Even knitted a little holster for it.”

Suddenly, the room is full of adults shouting out the locations of guns.

Display cases, tool sheds, secret nooks!

Come to think of it, even Wendy’s rifle looked like something pulled off a mantel from my own memory.

She’s got it with her now, out of view from the kids.

I wonder where she took my harpoon gun. Seeing the tension here, I understand why all weapons—even Bash’s pizza paddle—had to be confiscated.

Wendy stands. In her heels she is immense.

“Spotlight, please,” she says kindly, and two little girls at the front raise flashlights to her face.

“I hear you, I do. I share your worries. We will discuss everything tonight, after bedtime. But I will take this moment to remind you all of the policy we voted on at the start of this. No one here is a prisoner. Anyone who wishes to leave can leave, but they will not be permitted back in. Are we clear?”

Wendy lets this unsaid threat hang in the air. The silence is consenting.

“Good. Now, my sweet little angels. It’s bedtime, yes?”

Gradually, the parents step forward to coax their children up to bed. I expect to stick around for the meeting Wendy previewed, but Pfaff guides Sam, Bash, and me to the other side of the double doors.

“But—”

“Adults only,” she says.

The doors close.

Predictably, a group of teens wait at the top of the stairs, ready to eavesdrop.

Out of habit I instantly find the other townie kids.

In the summer, when Anchor’s Mercy swells with thousands of new faces, seeing the occasional familiar face becomes a daily delight.

Even if you despise the son of a bitch like sand in your fruit salad , Gracie would add.

The same desperate rapport flashes between us now.

My brain automatically matches faces to facts.

Clive DeMario. Son of Marc DeMario, who owns the sunglasses store. Not Sunny Side Up. The other one. Shady Business.

Abdu Bwire. Former scooper at Sundae Scaries Soft Serve. One time sneezed so hard he popped a zit on his forehead. Lost that scooper job but got incredibly hot as revenge.

Hannah Choi. Drunk mom, sheriff dad. Sweeps hair at the salon for cash, but everything she overhears ends up on her gossip blog Hannah Headlines . Nemesis to most.

Then there are the faces I don’t know. A handful of tourist teens whose names I instantly forget as they grumble introductions. And last, a tall girl with mouse-brown hair pulled way back into a low ponytail, who is the one person I recognize but have no name for.

“Harrigan.” She spits her name like she hates it, or hates me. Something about her stare—wide, black, and shining like an untrusting animal about to bolt—is familiar, and I realize she belongs with the doomsday people. A few similarly groomed kids hang at her knees, but she pulls them away.

And finally, there’s Elisa. She’s already hugged Bash and Sam, but she stops awkwardly at me, busying her hands with a stray curl that has escaped her clinical crown of braids.

“Ollie. I’m … glad you’re okay.”

Our fight hangs between us like halted snow. I feel the icy prickle of resentment on my nerves. I should be thrilled to see Elisa again, and at some level I am, but for days now I have had little to warm myself with but the grim conviction that all along, I was right.

I was right.

This island is sick. This island is making us sick.

If Elisa wasn’t willing to see it then, she almost certainly sees it now, but can she handle being wrong for once?

Elisa looks at me like she can hear my thoughts, and I know she hasn’t forgotten where we left off.

If she feels guilt, she’s masterful at hiding it.

Like the star citizen she is, she composes her face into a pleasant smile.

“I’m here to show you to your new home.”

I try to match her smile. Maybe the adults think we’re just immature teens, but I can prove otherwise. I can handle the truth.

I trail after her, my hand resting on the recorder hidden in my pocket.