Chapter 51
The voices passed by the boathouse without stopping, continuing along the shoreline toward the pier.
Charlotte counted their footsteps in the wet sand, tracking their conversation as it faded from distinct phrases to murmurs and then to silence.
Only when the quiet had lingered for a full minute did she allow her shoulders to relax from their tense position.
Mason sat with his back against a storage rack, his knees drawn to his chest. The oversized mask made his face appear even smaller. Charlotte kneeled in front of him and began a careful assessment, addressing one issue at a time.
She checked his pulse again. It was fast but steady, and his skin felt cool but not cold.
There was no visible bleeding, and she couldn’t see any bruising through the sleeves of his hoodie.
His breathing remained shallow behind the mask, but the fog on the faceplate formed at regular intervals, indicating he was getting enough oxygen to stay conscious.
“Can I look at your arms?” Charlotte asked.
Mason hesitated, his uncertainty evident as he slowly extended his right arm.
Charlotte gently pushed up his sleeve, revealing pale, untouched skin.
She noticed no rashes, blisters, or other signs that the gas had affected him, despite the compromised seal on his mask.
With care, she checked his left arm and then examined his neck, where the hoodie had gaped open.
It was alarming to realize that the gas had been engineered to target humans specifically.
Mason had endured days of exposure with a leaky mask, yet somehow, he showed no symptoms. This pattern felt all too familiar to her, as she had seen it in other animals surviving in conditions where humans suffered and perished.
Sitting back on her heels, she felt a mix of relief and concern.
The dog had settled beside Mason, resting its head on his thigh, and Mason reached for its fur, keeping his gaze firmly on Charlotte’s face. In that moment, the simple act of connection seemed to ground him, offering a sense of comfort amidst the uncertainty.
“Mason,” Charlotte said. “How old are you?”
“Eight.”
“Eight. Okay.” She nodded. “I’m Charlotte.”
“They put it on me,” he said. “Mom and Dad. When the yellow stuff came. Dad told me to hold my breath, and they put it on, and then they fell down. I tried to wake them up, but they wouldn’t wake up.”
“How long were you on the boat?” she asked.
“A long time. We were going to Aunt Claudia’s. In West Virginia. On the farm, but then the boat stopped, and the yellow stuff came, and Dad said stay below. Then he came down, and he was coughing, and Mom was coughing, and they put the mask on me.”
Charlotte reached for him. Her bandaged hand found his through the glove, and she held it without squeezing, feeling the small bones beneath her fingers and the simple fact of his being alive. “I’m sorry,” she said.
Mason nodded. The gesture was small and perfect in its acceptance of what couldn’t be changed.
Something broke then. Charlotte didn’t sob or collapse.
What broke was quieter, a crack in the dam she had built across her chest the moment she saw smoke rise from her parents’ neighborhood.
Through it came everything she hadn’t allowed herself to feel while there was still searching to be done.
She turned away and put her forehead against the concrete wall of the boathouse.
She let the mask contain whatever sound she wanted to escape her, and when it passed, she wiped her eyes with the back of her glove and turned back to find Mason watching her with the attentiveness of a child who notices everything.
“It’s okay,” he said. “You can be sad.”
Charlotte nodded. She couldn’t speak. If she spoke, the dam would go entirely, and Mason needed her intact more than he needed her honesty.
The dog shifted closer, and Mason’s hand resumed its movement through the animal’s fur.
The three of them sat in the dim light of the boathouse while outside, the haze drifted past the boarded window.
After a time, Mason spoke again. His voice had found a steadiness that hadn’t been there before. “Are the soldiers coming for us?”
Charlotte looked at the boarded window where thin stripes of yellow light fell across the concrete floor and thought about the ships on the horizon. “Yes,” she said. “That’s why we need to keep moving.”
“Okay,” he said.
Just that. The acceptance of a child who had already learned that the world contained threats that couldn’t be negotiated with.
Charlotte held the water bottle to his mask again.
He drank without turning away, his throat working in small, measured swallows.
She would get him to West Virginia. To Aunt Claudia’s farm.
To whatever remained of the world before the gas, the EMP, and the ships on the horizon.
The dog’s ears perked. Charlotte went still, listening.
What she heard was the distant thrum of engines from the bay.