by Will Weaver
He laughs. “Yes, for sure.” He puts his arm around her as they look at the drawing.
It’s only black-and-gray pencil lines on heavy white paper, with some shadow areas rubbed in, but it’s totally real. And totally sexy.
“Did I really look that good?” she asks with a quick glance over her shoulder toward the doorway.
“Better,” Ray says.
They have time for one kiss before the adult voices in the living room change in tone, as if people might be getting up and moving around.
“Anyway, the drawing is for you,” Ray says.
She pauses. Looks at it again. “Um, my mom and dad might freak if they saw it.”
“It’s not like you’re naked,” Ray says, “though I could erase a couple of lines and you would be.”
“You better not!” Sarah says with a giggle. She glances again over her shoulder. “I have a better idea! You should use it as part of your art school application.”
“And anyway, we have two spare bedrooms—,” Nat says overly loudly as the adults come down the hall. She’s showing Herb around.
Sarah claps shut the sketch pad, and she and Ray manage to be standing by the window, with Sarah pretending to point at something of interest across the lake.
“Nice,” Herb says, and they move on.
“Don’t be antisocial, kids,” Nat says over her shoulder to Sarah.
Back in the living room they all have coffee and cookies.
“So, what’s next for you all?” Herb asks.
“This will work for the time being,” Artie says, glancing around at the cabin.
“No major moves until Miles is ready,” Nat says more firmly.
Miles rolls his eyes with annoyance.
“But what about your other house in Wayzata?” Ray asks.
Silence falls across the living room.
“Another cookie?” Nat asks, and hands Ray the plate.
At the end of May, when Miles is at his appointment at the hospital in Minneapolis with Nat, Sarah and Artie slip away and drive west across the city.
“You didn’t have to come,” Artie says as he drives.
Sarah swallows. “I wanted to.”
Neither of them says much after that.
Entering the suburbs, they pass streets where every third house has plywood over its windows and doors. The houses that remain occupied have metal grates over the windows; they are made to look decorative, but they are still bars—the kind that used to be found only in the toughest neighborhoods of Minneapolis. Lawn signs announce home security systems. One McMansion with a long driveway has a sign reading TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT hung on a crudely installed gate.
“Not good,” Artie murmurs as they turn into the last street before their cul-de-sac.
“Hey, there’s Dr. Carapezzi,” Sarah says.
Artie slows.
Dr. Carapezzi, a retired dentist who never minded Sarah and Miles biking endlessly up and down the street and goofing around the cul-de-sac, has come outside to check his mailbox. Wearing a long, heavy bathrobe, he has his hand on the mailbox door just as Artie slows the van.
Sarah powers down her window and leans out. “Hello!”
Dr. Carapezzi whirls and steps back. One hand goes into his robe pocket, which hangs heavy.
“Dr. Carapezzi. It’s me. Sarah Newell? From up the cul-de-sac?”
The man squints for long moments.
“My brother and I used to ride our bikes all the time around here.”
He blinks, then walks quickly away, making sure to look over his shoulder a couple of times—and always keeping his hand in his pocket—before he disappears into his house.
Artie shrugs, then drives on. She holds her breath as their big house comes into view.
“Well, it’s still here!” Artie says.
“No Harleys out front,” Sarah adds.
As Artie pulls up the driveway, Sarah’s eyes go to the broken windows. The front door that hangs askew.
“Not good,” Artie mutters, and lets out a long breath.
They get out. There is silence all around.
They listen again, then slowly approach the house. With his foot, Artie pushes open the door. It squeaks, then clangs.
The smell hits her—a horrible stench worse than any outhouse or dead animal.
“My God!” Artie says, and squints from the smell.
They step forward into the foyer, which is far enough to see the damage. The furniture is smashed or cut. White stuffing boils out of the leather couches and armchairs. Someone has had a fire in the fireplace. Charred pieces of chair frames—arms and legs—lie cold and half burned.
“I never liked those dining-room chairs,” Artie says.
But Sarah can’t speak, because she can barely catch her breath. The kitchen is gutted: Sheetrock caved in and copper pipes stripped. All the copper kettles—the designer set—are missing. The refrigerator is tipped over, and black mold beards the open door.
And the stink worsens—makes her eyes water—and she covers her nose with her forearm as they move down the hallway.
“Wait here,” Artie says to her—and she’s happy to obey.
Soon she hears her father gag; then he comes quickly back and waves her toward the front door.
“What?” Sarah asks.
“The bathrooms,” Artie says. He gags once more but keeps it together without puking. “The pipes must have frozen and the toilets were turned off—but whoever was here just kept using them.”
Near the van he slugs down a half bottle of water as Sarah stares at their house. Their wrecked house.
“So what do we do now?” she whispers.
After a pause her father says, “I don’t think anyone can live in it again. Once the city inspectors get to this neighborhood, our house will probably be condemned.”
“Meaning?” Though really, she knows.
“Meaning it’s a public health hazard. It will be torn down,” her father says. Weirdly, there is little emotion in his voice.
“Mom,” Sarah begins, then chokes up. “What about Mom?”
Artie puts an arm around Sarah. “She loved this place. It was her dream house.”
Sarah nods.
“But you know what?” her father says. “I never did. It always felt … empty to me. No matter how much stuff we put in it.”
They are silent again. Artie turns to the garage, and Sarah follows. The door is smashed in. Miles’s tools are scattered around as if the vandals were looking for something more valuable. As if his wrenches and sockets and clamps and pliers were useless.
Back outside they take one last look at the house.
“Do we just … leave it here?” Sarah asks. “Walk away?”
“There should be some insurance money,” Art says. “Unless the insurance company tries to screw us with some ‘act of God’ thing. About the volcanoes, I mean.”
“And what if they do?” Sarah asks. “Will we be all right?”
“Are we all right now?” he says.
She pauses, then nods.
“Okay then,” he says with a little smile, and gives her a quick hug. He checks his watch. “We’d better get back to the hospital.”
On the way, her father detours through south Minneapolis. The neighborhood where they lived before they moved to the suburbs. People are out on streets, and watchful, but none seem to be packing. He slows past the Newell family’s first house, a narrow two-story that needs painting. It has window grates, but a family is sitting on the front porch. A couple of young mini-gangstas hang out at the corner.
“Mom always worried about this neighborhood,” Sarah says, “but I never did.”
“Me neither,” her father says.
They arrive back at the hospital just in time: Miles and Nat are coming down the stairs. Nat is smiling.
“The doc says I may yet have a career playing high-stakes poker,” Miles calls to them.
“Great!” Sarah says with major sarcasm.
“Wha
t have you two been up to?” Nat says. She lifts one dark eyebrow; she has great radar.
Sarah glances at her father, who is silent.
“Nothing,” Sarah says quickly.
“Well, not truly nothing,” Artie says.
Miles and Nat wait; it’s as if they know.
“We took a little drive,” Artie begins.
“And?” Miles says quickly.
“We went …” He pauses. It’s as if he doesn’t want to say ‘home.’ “Sarah and I went back to our old house.”
Nat swallows. “And?”
“It’s still there,” Artie begins.
“Thank God!” Nat says.
“But not really,” Sarah says quickly.
“We can’t go back,” Art explains. “It’s wrecked.”
Nat sucks in a breath. She has to sit down. “I sort of knew that in my bones,” she says.
“What about my stuff? My tools?” Miles asks.
“Still pretty much all there,” Sarah says. “It’s like nobody knew how to use them.”
“Sweet,” Miles says.
After a long moment Nat stands up. “All right then, let’s go home,” she says. “Wherever that may be.”
“Home is where they understand you,” Sarah replies with a glance toward Miles.
“Garfield,” Miles says immediately. “Right after he kisses Odie.”
“Say no more, bro,” Sarah says. She takes Miles’s arm and leads her family through the door.
Did you miss Memory Boy, the first book about Miles and Sarah?
Here’s a peek at what happened before The Survivors!
EXCERPT FROM MEMORY BOY
NOW OR NEVER
IT WAS THE PERFECT TIME for leaving. Weather conditions were finally right: a steady breeze blew from the south, plus there was just enough moonlight to see by.
July 3, 2008.
This would be the date our family would always remember, assuming, of course, that we lived to tell about it.
“Hurry up. The wind won’t last forever,” I said. Three shadowy figures—my sister, Sarah, and my parents—fumbled with their luggage. With me, we were the Newell family. We lived in west suburban Minneapolis—for a few more minutes, at least.
“Shut up, Miles,” Sarah muttered. She was twelve going on thirteen, and her carry-on bag overflowed with last-minute additions. I couldn’t complain; I had my own private stuff, including a small sealed jar that would be hard to explain to my family. So I didn’t try. Right now one of Sarah’s stupid paperbacks dropped with a thud onto the sidewalk. I sighed and went to help her.
“I’m not leaving,” Sarah said, jerking away from me. “Everybody’s going to die anyway, so why can’t we die in our own house?” She plopped down onto the lawn. Pale pumice puffed up around her and hung in the air like a ghostly double. That was the weird thing about the volcanic ash; it had been falling softly, softly falling, for over two years now—and sometimes it was almost beautiful. Tonight the rock flour suspended in the air made a wide, furry-white halo around the moon. Its giant, raccoon-like eyeball stared down and made the whole neighborhood look X-rayed.
“Nobody’s going to die,” I said. “Though if we stay in the city, we might,” I muttered to myself.
“How do you know?” Sarah said. She sat there stubbornly, clutching her elbows.
“Actually, I don’t. Which is why we’re leaving.”
Sarah swore at me. Anything logical really pissed her off these days.
“Arthur!” my mother said sharply to my father. “Help out anytime.”
My father coughed briefly and stepped forward. “Think of it this way, Sarah. We’re heading to the lake,” he said, his voice muffled under his dust mask. “We’ll get to our cabin, kick back, ride this out. Swiss Family Robinson all the way.” He manufactured a short laugh that fell about fifty yards short of sincere. Sometimes I worried more about him than my sister and mother; they at least knew how to put wood in a fireplace. My father was a real city guy, a musician, a jazz drummer.
My mother added, “We all agreed, remember? As Miles said, up at Birch Bay we’ll have more control of things, like heat, food, and water. When things improve—when the ash stops falling, and when there’s gasoline, and when the food stores are full again—we’ll come back home.” Something, maybe the dust, caught briefly in her throat.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
WILL WEAVER is an award-winning fiction writer. This book, THE SURVIVORS, is a sequel to his popular young adult novel MEMORY BOY. His other books include FULL SERVICE, DEFECT, SATURDAY NIGHT DIRT, SUPER STOCK ROOKIE, CHECKERED FLAG CHEATER, CLAWS, and the Billy Baggs series STRIKING OUT, FARM TEAM, and HARD BALL, all of which are ALA Best Books for Young Adults. Formerly an English professor at Bemidji State University, Mr. Weaver lives in northern Minnesota, a region he writes from and loves. He is an avid outdoorsman and enjoys hunting, fishing, canoeing, and hiking with his family and friends. You can visit him online at www.willweaverbooks.com.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors and artists.
OTHER WORKS
ALSO BY WILL WEAVER
Memory Boy
Claws
Billy Baggs books:
Hard Ball
Farm Team
Striking Out
CREDITS
Cover art © 2012 by Shane Rebenschied
Cover design by Erin Fitzsimmons & Carly Grafstein
COPYRIGHT
HarperTeen is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
The Survivors
Copyright © 2012 by Will Weaver
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Weaver, Will.
The survivors / by Will Weaver.—1st ed.
p. cm.
Sequel to: Memory boy
Summary: Sixteen-year-old Miles, thirteen-year-old Sarah, and their parents find themselves changing in many ways as they struggle to survive winter in a remote cabin, while keeping anyone in the nearby town from learning they are living there illegally after the devastation of volcanic eruptions drove them from their Minneapolis home.
ISBN 978-0-06-009476-8 (trade bdg.)
EPub Edition © JUNE 2012 ISBN 9780062241696
[1. Wilderness survival—Fiction. 2. Family life—Minnesota—Fiction. 3. Minnesota—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.W3623Sur 2012
2011002087
[Fic]—dc22
CIP
AC
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11 12 13 14 15 CG/RRDH 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
First Edition
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