It was well into the next day before Tara’s group was afforded the opportunity of getting to the island of Manhattan. The docks at the East River were a solid wall of chaos, so it took time to gain passage on a ferry.
There was a nervous moment, however, when it looked like they might be out of luck at last. The Coast Guard took one look at them and hesitated before letting them through. Stephen, brilliant mind working fast, explained they had been on a field trip when the attacks hit. This sounded so far-fetched, Tara was forced to suppress a groan.
“Why else would a pack of kids be traveling alone?” she pointed out. “Look, we’ve all got back packs and everything. What more could you want?”
The man on duty still looked unconvinced, though he seemed to be wavering. “A lot of kids have taken the opportunity of the attacks to run away from home,” he said. “We’ve been seeing a lot of it, actually.”
“Maybe so,” Tara conceded, heart thumping painfully in her chest. “But a whole classroom’s worth of runaways? At the same time?”
That did it. The Coast Guard let them on the ferry, with strict instructions to wait on the other side under their supervision until their respective guardians or school officials could come get them.
“As soon as we hit the other side,” Tara whispered to them, “we scatter. Stephen? Where should we meet?”
Stephen pulled out his map, flipping it this way and that to get his bearings. “Our best chance is here, Madison Square Park.” He passed around the map, showing them all the streets that could be used to get there.
“Whatever you do, try to stay in small groups of at least three, but don’t all clump together either,” Tara added. “But if you’re caught, you’re caught—that’s it.”
Everyone nodded. They all looked worried, but determined.
Tara thanked the Coast Guard officers as they disembarked.
“Don’t go too far,” one warned.
Tara smiled and waved her understanding. Together, her group meandered, as though looking for a spot to rest while they waited for adults to start making the important decisions.
“We don’t know what’s out there, or what’s going to be in our way,” Tara murmured, taking a drink from a bottle of water and passing it to Stephen. “So be careful.”
She turned. Most of the Coast Guard soldiers were occupied with the loading of passengers looking to get out of the city, rather than in. By her estimation, there seemed to be a lot more of the former than the latter. Not for the first time, she wondered if they were doing the right thing.
Swallowing, she put her hand behind her back and counted down. Three…two…one.
It was like someone had taken a leaf blower to a pile of leaves. They didn’t just scatter—after all, these were city kids. They flat-out disappeared.
Fortunately, they hadn’t far to go. Unfortunately, they were all carrying approximately twenty pounds of gear, including little, asthmatic Aaron, who she could hear panting and wheezing along at her heels like an elderly Scottie.
Tara was counting almost entirely on the fact their Coast Guard watch dogs were as moored to their docks as their boats. That without the resources to chase them down, they’d stay put and chalk it up to New York.
To her great relief, the damage didn’t seem to bad this side of the island, though the broken teeth of the skyline punctured the horizon. As she careened around a corner, the image of Stephen’s map in her head, she pelted by a church and came upon an idea. Perhaps parks weren’t the way to go after all, for shelter in the coming days.
It was easier to run here, as most people were taking the main streets to the docks and so they weren’t pushing against the tide. Tara fixed her gaze on the road at the edge of her vision, and hared for it. Respite washed through her—the pressure to be doing something, anything, lifted from her shoulders. No more waiting.
“Tara!”
She skidded to a halt, the weight of her back pack yanking her as she turned. Stephen’s wide, green eyes looked from her, to some point behind them.
Aaron, bent over with his hands on his knees, fumbling with his inhaler. Completely unaware of the pack of thugs moving purposefully in his direction. There was something unnatural in their stride, something that shivered all along Tara’s nerve endings like an unexpected ice cube down her back.
Everything ground to a near halt—movement, sound, even the shine of dying sunlight on dirty glass windows.
CHAPTER SIX