“When do we go?” Tony asked. “Can we call now? The police?”
“There’s no telephone, idiot,” Sebastian said under his breath. He turned his head so that everyone could hear him. “There’s no telephone, remember? No one’s going home yet.” He looked out at the bodies, his eyes narrowed, and he said it again more quietly. “No one’s going home yet.”
“Well … when can we go?” Tony asked again. “When’s the next boat coming?”
They all looked at Benny.
“You worked in his office, Benny. You know the schedule best,” a tall, skinny kid with red hair said. Jonathan remembered from Morning Muster that his name was Gerald.
Benny still had his eyes glued to his boss’s body. He shook his head.
“Uh, well, today’s Tuesday, right? There’s no food drop-off or garbage pickup ’til Thursday. No new students are registered to come that I know of. So today would just be Patrick coming on the mail run.”
“When’s that?”
“Just before lunch, usually. Like ten thirty.”
“All right,” Walter said. “A couple hours. That’s it. Then we tell that mail guy what happened and he sends a bigger boat out and then we’re all outta here.” A couple boys clapped again.
There were a few seconds of nothing but the sound of rain. One kid leaned against the stone wall. Another coughed.
“So, like … what should we do?” Miguel asked.
“Thould we get them out of the rain?” Colin asked.
Jonathan’s brain was working. He was looking at all the dead grown-ups and frowning and thinking of home and family and everything that had happened to bring him here to the island of Slabhenge. A small, ugly, beautiful idea was wiggling in his mind. His stomach rumbled, wanting more than a meager bowl of oatmeal. It was hard to hatch a dark and dastardly scheme on an empty stomach.
“I think we should eat,” he said, just loud enough for everyone to hear. “I’m starving.”
Sebastian’s brow was still creased with dark, thoughtful lines.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m with the new kid. Let’s go eat.” Then his face smoothed into a grinning smile and he cocked an eyebrow back at the huddled boys. “Whatever we want.”
One kid clapped. But just one. Most of the boys had probably lost their appetites when they watched all the adults get struck and killed by lightning.
But Sebastian started off across the rain-drenched courtyard toward the kitchen door.
Jonathan stepped out after him.
All the rest slowly followed close behind.
The straggly line of somber, soaked boys snaked right past the lifeless bodies staring up at the storm.
The kitchen was noisy with cooking, but there was not much talking. Mouths were too full for talking most of the time.
Tony stirred a pan of ten scrambled eggs. Jonathan didn’t think he planned on sharing. Benny was eating jelly out of the jar with a spoon. Sebastian was shoving a banana in his mouth while frying up six pieces of bacon. The two big brutes—Gregory and Roger, Jonathan remembered—were eating pepperoni slices by the handful, greasy grins on their faces. The little black-haired kid named Jason sat on the floor in the walk-in fridge and gnawed on a brick-size block of cheddar cheese.
Most of the boys just stood around, eating in the kitchen, but some got what they wanted and picked a spot at a table. No one sat at the Admiral’s table. Jonathan made himself two gooey peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and joined them, sitting across from Colin and Walter. Another kid sat down next to him, a little taller than him, with glasses and short, curly brown hair.
“Francis, right?” Jonathan asked through a mouthful of peanut butter and jelly.
“Yes. And you’re Jonathan. Our newest arrival.” Francis held out his hand and Jonathan blinked at him for a second before reaching out and shaking it. Francis had a slight accent, but not a foreign one. He pronounced all of his syllables very precisely. To Jonathan, he sounded like the rich people on TV. “Looks like your stay here has been cut quite short.”
“Yeah,” Jonathan said, chewing. “Guess so.”
“And what terrible wrong did you commit to deserve being sent here?” Francis asked. He was being sarcastic, Jonathan could tell, but he still flinched. He swallowed his bite.
“What did you do?” he asked back. Across the table, Colin frowned and took another bite of his apple.
“Oh, hardly anything, really,” Francis answered in a bored voice. “I pushed our gardener off the ladder. Honestly, if he hadn’t broken his hip, there wouldn’t even have been charges.”
“Was it an accident?”
Francis shrugged. “No.”
“Why did you do it?”
Francis rolled his eyes. “Does it really matter?”
“I guess not.”
Francis sighed. “Yes. Well, my father got a top-notch attorney, really quite expensive, but the whole thing happened at our summer house and all the local townspeople were quite up in arms about it. Really screaming for blood. Tried to make it all into some ridiculous wealth-class issue. So … here I am. Eating white bread. The damned country judge sent me here.”