Chasers

by James Phelan

  I was alone but I was not by myself. As I ran and hid and evaded the Chasers, I knew that more than ever. The days would become clearer and longer and the sun would shine again soon, hot and hard and bright like it did back home. I knew my friends were with me, the same way I knew my family was with me. No matter what happened now, no matter where I went or what I found, there were other voices that travelled with me. Faces too. Laughter. Opinions. Sadness and desires. They were all there inside me when I really needed them.

  Wet snow fell. There was a breeze. I ran.

  I was on my own but I was not alone.

  I was capable of anything. Everything. I couldn’t forget.

  I rounded a corner and ran into a stone building that was as dark as a cave and there was silence behind me as I ran up the fire stairs and out onto the top floor and I ran to the window and watched the Chasers on the street below trying to figure out where I’d gone and I took a step back and looked at my reflection in the window.

  “I am alone.”

  Keep reading for a preview of the second book

  in the ALONE trilogy, Survivor,

  coming in May 2013!

  1

  It’s been twelve days since the incident . . . and I’m all alone.

  I pressed the pause button and listened. There it was again; a noise outside. I went to the window but I couldn’t see anything in the breaking dawn light.

  The previous night had been as dark as a night could be. I’d been soaking wet from the rain and spray down at the empty Boat Basin when I took shelter in this building.

  The little camera’s battery was flashing red and I thought about it: Twelve days . . . Today was . . . What? Day twelve? Or was that yesterday? I’d not thought to mark a calendar. Some chick had left this message yesterday? Or was she counting from the day after, the nights that had passed? Which meant she’d left this today. I laughed, wondering how that could be possible when the message had obviously been recorded later in the day than it was now. I started to feel uneasy about how carelessly I’d been marking time.

  I’d slept here at 15 Central Park West instead of heading to 30 Rock; made my way up the fire stairs with a pitiful plastic flashlight I’d taken from an abandoned car’s glove compartment and found the door to this apartment ajar. There was food around and no one here so I’d slept on the couch, woke while it was still dark. I’d found this camera on top of the TV and had been watching the footage for the past half hour.

  Crazed people. They dip their mouths into pools of water, they drink from the dying. Dead people. Death. Screaming. Silence. Gunfire.

  These were the phrases this girl had said to her camera every day; she was keeping some kind of video diary. She looked like she was about eighteen or nineteen: blonde hair, pretty face, kind of how I’d expected attractive American girls to look. I wondered how many of them were left. Maybe this girl was now part of an endangered species. Where was she now?

  I pressed play again.

  Earlier this morning I went out to look around—look for others like me—I’ve heard noises . . . There seem to be groups of people out there but I’ve only ever heard them at night and I’m too scared to go out and approach them in case they shoot me, or worse . . .

  She stopped talking, turned her head to the side and listened to something off-screen. From the background I could see that she’d filmed this with the camera on the coffee table and herself sitting in the leather armchair I was sitting in now. She remained quiet, looking to the left, and I looked in that direction too—she must have been looking towards the door of the apartment. There was a banging noise over the camera’s little speaker and it startled me and I saw that she’d also jumped at the sound. She slid down from the armchair and sat on the floor close to the camera but kept her face pointed towards the front door. I glanced at it again; I’d dead-bolted it the previous night as soon as I came in.

  There was silence on the camera and here now too. I watched this young woman as she looked back to the screen.

  This morning I went out. I didn’t see anyone, though I stayed clear of Central Park because I’ve seen those sick people congregate there, thousands of them. I got some food from a store, found a bicycle and started riding back. The sun was out and for a moment I forgot where I was, what was around me, how the world has changed . . . I ended up riding into the park, as I’ve done with my parents hundreds of times as a kid. It was the lower west corner; can’t see it clearly from here for the trees.

  She shifted position, sitting up a little straighter and redirecting the camera’s lens so that it didn’t crop off the top half of her face.

  I rode by a group of them. They looked sick like the others I’ve seen. There were maybe fifty or more. But they were standing around a fire. And there was something about them—they seemed almost . . . friendly.

  She looked down at her lap. Perhaps she was flexing and cracking knuckles with anxiety like I was doing now.

  It’s about three o’clock. I’m going back out there while it’s still light. I’m going to see if I can talk to them, to that group of people in the park.

  She was still and watched the camera lens and I felt as though she was staring right at me. She wiped away a tear.

  I’m sick of being alone.

  She took a deep breath and let it out, her bottom lip quivering. I wished I could have met her.

  I don’t know who I am anymore . . .

  She reached forward and turned off the camera and the tiny screen went black.

  I wrote a note on a piece of paper with a few lines describing who I was and that I’d be outside 30 Rock’s entrance at the ice rink at nine o’clock every morning, if she or anyone else reading it wanted to meet up. I left it next to the camera on the table and considered adding my own message on film, but I felt like it might taint what she’d done. Besides, I’ve never really liked myself on camera—my voice comes across all squeaky and strange.

  There were two bedrooms in the apartment, one with a walk-in wardrobe. From the look of the clothes inside I guessed the girl lived there with her parents. I took some clean stuff—socks and underwear, T-shirt, flannel shirt—from the dad’s drawers and got dressed. Pulled my jeans on; they still felt a little cold and damp but they’d do. Found a beanie in the girl’s room. Put on my sneakers which had dried out overnight, laced them up tight. Re-bandaged my grazed hands; put on a black puffer jacket, zipped it up to my neck. I’d come here with nothing but the clothes on my back and the stupid little flashlight and I would leave with the same but at least feeling fresher.

  I took a final glance around the apartment; besides the two bedrooms, there was a big bathroom, a massive open-plan living area and a separate study. Scattered around the living area were photos of a happy-looking middle-aged couple and the girl on the video. I doubted I’d come here again but who knew?

  I stood at the locked apartment door and pressed my ear against it. Silence. I listened for about five minutes and when I was sure there was no one beyond the door I unlocked it and went out.

  My dim yellow flashlight beam barely illuminated the inky darkness of the lift lobby. When I shone it around I saw a potted plastic orchid by the lift doors. I broke one of the flowers off, then went back to the apartment and jammed the orchid in the door, the stem sticking out near the handle. It would be a sign to the girl if she returned that someone had been here, someone in good faith; and a sign for me if I ever ventured back here that the girl or someone else had returned or passed through at some point.

  Outside, Central Park West was so cold. Quiet too. The overnight rain had cleared a lot of the snow, dust and ash from the streets, but there were still puddles of slush here and there, motionless and gray. I walked south a block, where the rising sun was high enough and the trees low enough that I was bathed in light. I stood still in the sunshine. It was cold but the sun was bright and it felt peaceful just to stand there. I could almost imagine I was home.

  I knew I should head back to 30 Rock, eat, rest
, scope the city, plan for the next day—

  A noise roused me. It sounded like a vehicle. Coming down the road from the north.

  I ducked behind a taxi, kept my head down and listened. The noise of engines was growing louder. Soon, it was so deafening that I knew it couldn’t be a car like the one I’d driven around the city. A truck? It sounded like a couple of trucks.

  I crawled to the back end of the taxi, careful not to bump it and give myself away. I held my breath so that it wouldn’t show in the freezing air as I peeked around the rear bumper.

  A group of people. About two hundred yards further up the street. Purposeful, walking with care, headed my way. Two big vehicles behind them, moving slowly, occasionally nudging cars out of the way. As the procession neared more details emerged. The men were armed. They wore camouflage and black; they had helmets.

  Soldiers.

  Even from here I could see they looked young. Boys into men. Men into soldiers. Soldiers into war, like warfare had always been their destiny. Did we create wars or were they inevitable, the ultimate trading tool when everything else became too hard?

  The soldiers were coming.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  As this was my first attempt at YA fiction, I had a heap of people read early drafts of the manuscript and that feedback has been much appreciated. To all those who’ve had a hand in discussing this project, I thank you.

  Special thanks are due to those who have been invaluable and integral to this project seeing the light of day. I had unwavering support from my three families: Beasley, Wallace, and Phelan. My brothers Sam and Jesse were perfect target readers, and I stole a good name, as I did with Anna and Min Pei. To Emily, Andrew, Michelle, Tony and Natasha, thanks for your encouragement. Thanks to Alex Robotham and her parents Viv and Mike, pro readers and hosts extraordinaire. My agents at Curtis Brown, Writers House, and UTA, particularly Pippa Masson, Victoria Gutierrez, Stephanie Thwaites, Josh Getzler, Kassie Evashevski and Yuli Masinovsky, provided razor-sharp feedback and resolute faith in my work. The editorial team at Hachette, Fiona Hazard, Tegan Morrison and Kate Ballard, have been outstanding and understanding in dealing with this author who has been so protective of his new baby. Nicole Wallace, as always, was my muse and rock.

  DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

  1. Jesse comments that he thinks New York City is too lonely, even before the explosion. Do you think it’s possible to be lonely with so many people around?

  2. Discuss the personality traits of Dave, Anna, and Mini that we get to see. Do you believe they’re memories of Jesse’s friends or do you think they could represent aspects of himself?

  3. At one point, Jesse compares his situation to war, thinking, ‘I didn’t know which would be worse—being in a country where you might get blown up at any second, or being here, with unknown freaks that chased you.’ Do you feel like one is worse than the other? If so, why?

  4. Being alone is obviously a large theme in Chasers, both literally and figuratively. Jesse even mentions that he was alone since Barbara moved in with them. Discuss the loneliness in Jesse’s life and the developments he’s made through the novel.

  5. Go back and analyze Jesse’s interactions with his friends. Do you—or did you—pick up on any clues that they were only in his mind?

  6. Why do you think Jesse gave the boy water near the East River and 25th Street? What do you think it means that he saw him again in Central Park?

  7. Talk about the significance of Dave leaving to scout the city. Was this when Jesse first started to separate himself from his friends, or did that not happen until later?

  8. Anna and Mini reference a lot of books and movies, respectively. What importance do those specific titles bring to your understanding of the novel? Have you ever read or watched any of them? If so, did the reference enhance the meaning to you?

  9. Talk about apartment 59C in 30 Rock. What’s the significance of the door, the typewriter, the note? How do they influence Jesse?

  A Q&A WITH THE AUTHOR

  This is your first novel for teens after five thrillers for adults—why the move?

  I remember talking to Italian writer Vincenzo Cerami (Life Is Beautiful), and he said that the fundamental difference between adults is those who read and those who don’t—and that those who read are better people, because they are able to travel with their imagination and they can look at things from different perspectives rather than taking everything at face value. They are more mature and tolerant and therefore more realistic about the complexity of life. That stuck with me, and it’s something I’ve noticed first hand as a difference between adults and kids: kids still read for pleasure, while many adults don’t. More than with cinema and theatre, books not only generate emotion but make people think. All that said, I’m 32 and still consider myself a big kid.

  Do you have a busy writing schedule?

  I’ve been a full time novelist since 2006. I’m not very happy idle. There’s always this voice in my head that says, I should be writing. As a commercial fiction writer, you have to keep at it. Writing two books a year, an adult and a teen book, makes business sense—it’s the kind of perpetual publishing that you need to do these days, as it keeps me front and center in the minds of book buyers throughout the year.

  Was Alone always going to be a trilogy?

  It wasn’t always going to be a book! Initially I thought of it as a film script, and I’d talked to my agents in L.A. about it. As I kicked the concept around, I thought that I’d rather develop it as a novel first—even if that was just a big story for me, and then I could adapt it to a script. I have friends in L.A. who rent apartments near the movie studios and spend their days pitching ideas to some exec looking at an egg timer. I could never do that. I haven’t been back to Los Angeles since 2009, NYC like 2010. I like those cities but I love living in Australia. It’s quiet and it has everything I need, which is family and friends. After writing book one, Chasers, I knew it was a trilogy or maybe a series—the concept, the world I’d created, had legs. So I took the J.K. Rowling approach: I write my books and get on with it. If anyone wants to make them into a film, they’ll make an appointment and we’ll talk.

  What does writing YA mean for you?

  The biggest buzz are the emails I get in through my website—much more passionate about the story and characters than for my adult thrillers. But being a novelist means everything to me—I love the medium, and while I’ve written other formats, it’s where I feel most comfortable. I’ve written sixteen books now, and am contracted for seven more, and with every novel I finish I have ideas for more along the way—my notebooks are exploding with plot ideas. And through my love for this work, I think I’ve discovered who I am. ‘To write is to sit in judgment on oneself,’ Ibsen inscribed on the flyleaf of one of his books. I’ve enjoyed that. You know, most people they go their whole life and they never really find someone or something they love. They say they do, because everybody is the star of their own little romantic comedy, but they’re full of crap. Choosing this career wasn’t an obvious or even logical choice, but I’m glad I rolled the dice and have had the fortitude to stick with it.

  What’s your favorite aspect of writing?

  The best thing about writing fiction is that moment where the story catches fire and comes to life on the page, and suddenly it all makes sense and you know what it’s about and why you’re doing it and what these people are saying and doing, and you get to feel like both the creator and the audience. Everything is suddenly both obvious and surprising (‘but of course that’s why he was doing that, and that means that . . .’) and it’s magic and wonderful and strange. The other thing I love are my readers: When I’ve finished the book and when I’m just about to send it to my publisher I send it to a good friend of mine from high school. He works in the building industry. He’s not a writer. He’s not an editor. He’s just the guy who will go through the airport and buy a paperback book on the way. I send him the manuscript and I say, ‘Tell me what you think.’ And
, so far he comes back and goes, ‘That was great.’ And, so I’m not looking for erudite literary criticism from him. I just want to know if he’s having a good time.

  Are kids and YA readers more critical of story and style?

  Maybe. Chuck Palahniuk once said: ‘Your audience is smarter than you imagine. Don’t be afraid to experiment with story forms and time shifts. My personal theory is that younger readers disdain most books—not because those readers are dumber than past readers, but because today’s reader is smarter. Movies have made us very sophisticated about storytelling. And your audience is much harder to shock than you can ever imagine.’ I think he’s on the money there, and it’s because kids are getting bombarded with storytelling in so many ways. Personally, I love the challenge that comes with that. He also said, ‘Write the book you want to read.’ Every novel I’ve written has done that, because each has had a theme and issue at its heart that meant something important to me at the time.

  So where did Alone’s themes and issues come from?

  It started with me thinking about being a teenager, and what was important to me then and what I was feeling. I think the sense of being alone was a big part of that time of self discovery and forging of identity. I mean all human beings are like this. Sometimes one succeeds, sometimes one fails—and as a young person, I think you feel that in such raw and monumental ways, because often it’s an age of firsts: your first love, your first heartache, the highs and lows of school and sport and friendship and discovering that band. I wanted to create something that covered all that, and in the end, remind us that one is alone. We are all of us alone. I mean I’m told these days we have to consider ourselves as being in society . . . but in the end one knows one is alone, that one lives at the heart of a solitude. That we all live at the heart of a solitude. That we all have the consciousness of mortality. . . but then, who’s to say that if one of your friends or family die, every bit of them has to go. Jesse keeps his friends alive to keep him sane in those first days. Through that, he learns that he can survive, and that he has to try and get home. In the later books, his concept of home is challenged . . .