“No,” she said honestly. “I don’t think he’ll look for a fight with you. He’s not as insecure as you are.”
Caine snorted a laugh. “Yeah, that’s my problem: insecurity.”
“It doesn’t matter anyway. There’s no way for us to get back even if we wanted to.”
“There’s always a way, Diana. There’s always a way.”
“Don’t,” she said. “Don’t find a way.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
9 HOURS
“YOU WANT US to shoot your brother?” Turk was incredulous.
“Don’t even think about it,” Edilio said. He had a tight grip on his rifle, finger on the trigger. The sights were centered on Turk’s anxious face. But his eyes were bleary and he was stifling a need to cough. “She doesn’t mean it.”
“Too many dead kids,” Astrid said wearily. “There just can’t be any more dead kids. It’s time to end it.”
Edilio felt panic rising within him. What was he supposed to do now? Was Astrid losing her mind like Mary Terrafino?
“I know how many kids have died,” Edilio said. “I buried most of them.”
“It’s all because of Little Pete,” Astrid said.
“No. You don’t know that.” Edilio aimed a furious look at her.
She blinked. Shook her head slightly. Her long hair, soaked, hung like golden snakes. “You aren’t the one taking care of him, Edilio. You’re not the one responsible.”
Edilio coughed, fought it back, coughed again. He tried to steady his mind and calm himself down. Had to keep focus.
“What are you two talking about?” Turk demanded. He was clearly confused.
Edilio felt the house rumble. Heavy footsteps. Orc. It had to be Orc. Orc on whose side? That was the question.
The boy-monster emerged onto the platform. He made a strange slushy sound as he moved, like someone shuffling their feet on wet gravel.
He pushed past Edilio. His head sagged to his chest, and for a moment Edilio had the incredible thought that Orc might have fallen asleep.
No, he was just hammered, Edilio realized. “Drop your guns.”
“No, no, no. What are you two talking about? That’s the first question,” Turk demanded, sensing an advantage he couldn’t quite put his finger on. His gun was still aimed at Astrid.
“Shut up, Turk, and drop your gun. If you murdered Albert, you’re going into exile.”
“What happens if I shoot the ’tard?” Lance demanded.
“You know the law. You kill someone, we give you a trial. And if you’re guilty, you leave town and never come back.”
“That’s not what I’m asking, and you know it, Edilio,” Lance snarled. “Tell me, Astrid. Tell us all. What happens if we shoot the ’tard?”
Panic. It was eating at Edilio’s mind. What was he supposed to do? He had to get control of the situation. He had to be in charge. But what should he do?
Edilio stared down the barrel of his rifle at Turk. His head was swimming. His neck and face were hot.
He shifted his aim, traversed the gun just an inch of arc to bring Lance into his sights.
The first one to decide would win.
“If—,” Astrid said.
BLAM!
The rifle kicked against Edilio’s shoulder. The side of Lance’s handsome face erupted in a fountain of blood.
“Lance!” Turk cried.
Lance brought his own gun around, not aiming at Little Pete now but at Edilio.
BLAM!
Lance’s aim was off. Nowhere near Edilio. Instead the bullet struck Orc in his thigh and ricocheted off.
Turk, his face a mask of fury, aimed at Edilio. But Edilio had already shifted his aim and his sights were back on Turk.
“Don’t!” Edilio warned.
Turk hesitated. But Edilio didn’t see the hesitation, he saw Turk’s gun and only his gun, the round black hole of the barrel, and without thinking he squeezed the trigger.
Another loud bang.
Another kick against his shoulder.
Turk was on his back. His gun was beyond his reach, although he was struggling to get to it.
“I said, don’t!” Edilio yelled again.
Turk held his stomach with one hand and reached for the gun with the other. Edilio’s finger was slippery on the trigger. He could feel something awful inside him, a tidal wave of awful, barely held in check as he aimed at Turk’s head.
Orc crunched Turk’s gun beneath his foot.
Edilio breathed. Sobbed for breath. Coughed.
He lowered his weapon.
Lance shrieked. It was a sound made up of fear and shock and pain. The bullet had struck his cheekbone and come out through his ear. Quivering red flesh hung loose.
Turk groaned more quietly. His throat convulsed. Like a fish on dry land, he was gulping, trying to breathe. His hand still stretched toward his now-useless gun.
Neither boy was dead.
Edilio formed the thought that would shame him later: he should finish them. He should do it now. Just walk up close and bang! If he didn’t, they might live, with Lana’s care. And if they lived they’d be back for revenge.
Orc and Astrid were both watching him.
It seemed terribly unfair that even now they were looking to him for some kind of answer.
“I’ll get Lana,” Edilio said.
He turned and ran, and fell down the steps. Heaving with sobs, blinded by rain and tears he ran for Clifftop.
It took Sam and Jack working together to start one of the motorboats. Almost all had dead batteries. But one of the boats had just enough power left to fire the engines.
They roared to life with a deep, wet growl.
“You know, this boat has power enough that it could pull water skiers,” Sam observed.
Dekka smiled fondly at him. “You want to water ski?”
“Not right now. I’m just saying . . .”
“That’s a lie. He wants to go now,” Toto said.
“Yeah, well, I don’t always do what I want,” Sam grumbled. “We need to explore the rest of the lake, then we can head back to town and be welcomed as heroes.”
He’d meant that last part to be self-deprecating, but a part of him actually was looking forward to striding into town to announce that they had found all the water they could ever need, and a fair amount of sugary snacks besides.
Then he would go see Astrid.
And then what would happen?
Then nothing would happen. They would still be right where they’d been.
“Cast off,” Sam called to Jack. Then, with the ropes aboard, he pointed the boat toward the west and roared out of the marina.
The feel of spray on his face and a throbbing engine beneath his feet was intoxicating.
Later they would run out of fuel, and later all the Pepsi would be drunk, and all the noodles would be eaten. But it wasn’t later yet.
They could build a better life here at the lake. Leave behind all the reeking sewage and trash and memories of Perdido Beach. Leave behind the wrecked church and the burned houses. Leave behind that awful cemetery.
This time they would do it right. They’d organize before they ever started to move anyone up here. Form little families that could live aboard the boats or use the boathouse or the marina office. He frowned, trying to count in his head how many of the boats had any kind of superstructure. Maybe half a dozen of the small sailboats, a dozen of the motorboats. And then there were the four or five houseboats.
That wasn’t enough, obviously, but they could set up tents and maybe build small shelters. It’s not like it ever got cold in the FAYZ, not like anyone needed insulation. Just a roof to keep the sunlight off them.
He scanned the shoreline, hoping to spot a campground. Logically there had to be one, there were always campgrounds at a lake. It just stood to reason.
Of course they could be on the other side of the barrier. . . .
Never mind, it was all good. They had enough gas to drive the various Winneb
agos and campers and trailers up here from Perdido Beach—there were at least a dozen parked in driveways, although a lot had burned in the big fire.
He would have a boat. Big enough for himself and Astrid and Little Pete. Maybe he would ask Dekka to live with them, too. Assuming he got dibs on one of the houseboats. And why shouldn’t he?
One of those forty-six-footers would probably sleep six. Him and Astrid . . . It occurred to him that in his head he had them sharing the master’s berth. Which wasn’t likely to happen.
Was it?
Maybe. Maybe if they got away from Perdido Beach, maybe . . . A new thought occurred to him. He pushed it aside. But back it came.
What if they got married?
Then they’d be like a family. Him and Astrid and Little Pete.
There was no telling how long the FAYZ would last. Maybe forever. Maybe they would never get out. In that case, what were they all going to do? He was fifteen, Astrid was fifteen, they’d both survived the poof. That was young in the outside world, but it was old in the FAYZ.
“Yeah, but who can marry us?” He spoke the question aloud, not meaning to. He glanced nervously over his shoulder to see if anyone had overheard. Of course not, with the engines roaring and the boosh-boosh-boosh of the bow smacking the wavelets.
Dekka was sitting on one of the cushioned seats in the stern, gazing wistfully toward the land. Jack was hunched over one of the laptops, fingers flying over the keys, grinning. Toto was talking to someone who wasn’t there.
“Ship of fools,” Sam said to himself, and laughed.
Water and gas, noodles and Pepsi and Nutella, a crazy truth-telling freak, and despite Dekka’s fear, there was hope.
Quinn. He would make a good justice of the peace. That’s all you needed to perform a marriage, right? That’s how his mom had married his stepfather. If they could elect someone mayor, why not elect someone justice of the peace?
“Marry me and live on a houseboat,” he said.
“I like you, Sam, but not in that way,” Dekka said.
Sam jerked and yanked the wheel to one side. He steadied and tried to ignore the blush that was spreading from his neck up to his cheeks. She was standing next to him.
“How’s the shoulder?” Sam asked.
“See, this is why it’s good that Taylor isn’t still with us,” Dekka said. “If she’d heard you, the news would have spread faster than the speed of light.”
Sam sighed. “I was having a moment of optimism.”
Dekka patted him on the back. “You should, Sam. The FAYZ owes you some good news.”
Orc stood staring.
The kid, the Petard, he was still just floating there in the rain, like it was all nothing.
Astrid looked like a zombie or whatever.
The two shot kids were yelling and spazzing. Grinding Orc’s last nerve. He didn’t care about them. They were no better than he was. Let them scream, but not now, with his head banging like a drum, with the echo of gunshots still bouncing around in his skull.
Edilio had said to get out of town. That’s what was rattling around in his brain, too. Killers had to get out of town.
Astrid’s laws. She made them up.
“That true, right?” he asked her without preamble.
“What?”
“Anyone kills anyone, they have to go away for good.”
“Are you going to kill them?” She meant the two hurt kids. It took him a while to realize that.
“What if . . . what if you didn’t mean to kill some kid.”
“I have to get him away from here,” Astrid said. But Orc didn’t think she was talking to him.
“I mean, if you didn’t even mean to. Like it was just an accident?”
“I don’t know what you’re asking,” Astrid said.
Orc was out of words. He felt so tired. He hurt so badly.
“Can you pick him up? Can you carry him?” Astrid was asking him something. So maybe she didn’t care what he’d done.
“The ’tard?”
“Little Pete. Can you carry him, Charles?”
“Where to?”
“Away,” Astrid said. “That’s the law. Killers have to leave. That’s what he is, you know. He’s the worst of us all. Every death from the FAYZ . . . All those kids . . .”
Orc seized on an idea that drifted through his slow brain. He lost focus when Lance started howling louder than before.
“Shut up or I’ll shut you up,” he yelled. He struggled to regain his thought. Little Pete. Killing. “Yeah, but he don’t know what he’s doing, right? People who don’t know what they’re doing, it’s not their fault.”
“Please, Charles. Pick him up. Edilio will be back with Lana soon. We have to be gone by then.”
Orc stepped over Turk. The boy was shivering uncontrollably now, his legs stuck straight out, feet twisted, shaking as he held his guts.
Lance was still screaming, he hadn’t stopped, but now he was mixing in curses, raging at everyone, spewing every hateful word he could think of.
Orc looked down at Little Pete. Astrid said he had killed people. Orc didn’t see how that was possible. He couldn’t even move much, it didn’t seem.
Little Pete coughed three times real fast. He didn’t cover his mouth or anything. It was like he didn’t even know he’d coughed.
Orc plucked Little Pete out of midair. He didn’t weigh much. Orc was strong.
Astrid watched it all like she was a million miles away. It was as if she was seeing everything through a telescope.
“Where to?” Orc asked her.
Astrid knelt and picked up the gun she had dropped. “Away,” she said.
Orc shrugged and headed down the stairs and walked north, toward the hills, and away from the sound of screams.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
6 HOURS, 11 MINUTES
DRAKE EMERGED .
He was holding a stone. Which meant Brittney had been holding the same stone.
It must have been heavy for her but his tentacle wrapped around it and held it without much strain.
Around him the bugs were looking less and less like insects. Not even like really large insects. The least of them was as big as a Dalmatian. The largest were as big as ponies. They reminded him more of Humvees or tanks.
They seemed more fragile at this size, as though the same weight of burnished exoskeleton had been stretched to make a much larger creature. Only half of them were still carrying out debris. The rest, the larger ones, had stepped aside and now waited with an impression of impatience about them. Like jets waiting for takeoff.
That’s what they reminded him of: fighter jets. They had a predatory, dangerous air about them. Like all they had to do was get the word and they’d go blasting off, dealing out death and destruction.
Who was to give them the word? Him?
The coyotes had disappeared. Had they decided to leave? Or had the bugs eaten them finally? Drake noticed a smear of blood on a slab of rock and thought he knew the answer.
Had the Darkness made the coyotes sacrifice themselves to feed his new servants?
Drake tossed his rock onto the pile. Then he turned back toward the mine shaft. Back to the welcoming shadow of that hole in the earth. His step was light. His heart beat fast, but from joy, not fear.
He felt the mind of the Darkness touching his. Felt that powerful will. It wanted him. And he was sure now what the Darkness would ask of him, and what weapons it would give him.
The mine shaft was clear but still a dangerous place. The supporting timbers had not been replaced and now the stone roof was jagged, hanging precariously in some places, while in others it had been hollowed out into dark cathedral domes by the collapse.
“I’m coming,” Drake whispered. But why whisper? “I’m coming!” he yelled.
He left the last of the light behind. Total darkness now. He felt his way forward, step by step, hand and whip hand outstretched. He scraped against jutting rocks, stubbed his toes dozens of times. The air smel
led stale. It was hotter than it should have been in the shaft, warmer than the outside. He was sweating in the pitch black, gasping for scarce oxygen.
“I’m coming!” he shouted again, but his voice now was metallic and flat and did not carry any distance. He tripped and fell to his knees. When he stood up, he banged his head.
He was going down a long, long slope. How far had he come? He couldn’t say. He heard the rustle of the bugs coming behind him. In tight places they had to squeeze through, like massive cockroaches, flattening themselves to squeeze beneath low-hanging ledges, squirming onto their sides to edge past piers of solid rock.
They were following him. His army. Yes. He was certain of it. They would be his to command, his to use.
His army!
He could no longer breathe the air. But this was not his first time without oxygen. He still could see in vivid flashes the long, slow claw up through the mud of his grave.
No, Drake did not need air. Air was for the living, and Drake was something so much better than alive.
Unkillable.
Immortal.
The immortal soldier of the gaiaphage. His head swam with the joy of it.
Suddenly the floor ended and he pitched forward, face-first. He fell for several stretched seconds. He slammed into unyielding rock, bounced, rolled over, and laughed a soundless laugh.
He felt around with his hands and knew he was on a narrow ledge on one side of a deep vertical drop.
He stood up, put his toes on the edge, and looked down. Far below, a dim green light glowed, the only light in this pit of blackness. It might be a hundred feet, it might be a mile, it might be a hundred miles. There was no way to know.
He fell and fell, like Alice down the rabbit hole. It seemed to go on forever. Not seconds but minutes. An eternity.
WHUMPF!
He hit with such force that it should have snapped his calves and thigh bones and burst his knees and jackhammered his spine and cracked his head open like an egg.
Instead, after lying crumpled for a moment, he unwound his twisted limbs and pushed himself back onto his feet.
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