“Someone should say something to him,” suggested Tory.
Winston gnawed beef jerky on teeth that were still coming in. “I got nothing to say to him,” he declared coldly.
They all stole glances at Dillon, who sat alone by the hermit’s grave, aimlessly shuffling a worn deck of cards he had found in the shack. He was thinner now, and his face almost cleared up, but there was a burden in that face, so weighty and oppressive, it was hard to look at him.
“What can we say that will make any difference?” wondered Lourdes, and glanced toward Carter, who now busied himself dropping sugar cubes into a bucket of rainwater, watching them dissolve with the same mindless indifference he must have felt when he fired that crossbow. The boy was a living testament to the people and places Dillon had shattered, and nothing any of them could say would change that.
“Any one of us could have ended up like Dillon,” said Michael. “I know I almost did.”
Michael left the warmth of the fire and was the first to brave the distance to the boy they knew only as The Destroyer.
“SOLITAIRE?” ASKED MICHAEL AS he approached Dillon.
Dillon didn’t break the rhythm of his shuffling. “A trick,” he answered.
“Can I see it?”
Dillon looked at Michael apprehensively, then handed Michael the cards. “Shuffle them and lay them face up,” he said.
Michael sat down, shuffled the cards, then spread them out, showing a random mix of fifty-two cards.
Dillon picked up the deck again and began to shuffle it himself. “I never liked playing cards,” said Dillon, “because no matter how much I shuffled the deck, the first card I always turned over was the ace of spades. The death card.”
“That’s not the death card,” said Tory as she came over and sat beside them. “Believe me, I’ve seen the death card, and it’s not the ace of spades.”
Lourdes came over as well, leaving Winston the only one refusing to talk to Dillon. They watched as Dillon shuffled the deck over and over, and when he was done he handed the deck to Tory. “Flip the first card,” he said.
Tory flipped it. It was the ace of spades.
“Cool trick,” said Michael.
It was Lourdes who realized the trick hadn’t ended. “Why don’t you flip the second card?” she suggested.
Tory flipped it; the deuce of spades.
“So?” said Michael.
Tory flipped another card; the three of spades; then the four of spades; then the five. She looked at Dillon warily, then turned the entire deck over and spread the cards face up.
The cards were in perfect order; ace through king, spades through diamonds! They stared, not sure whether to be aghast or amused.
“Pretty good trick, huh?” said Dillon. His eyes betrayed the truth; this was much more than a mere trick.
“So what’s the big deal?” asked Michael as he examined the deck.
“Entropy,” said Tory.
“Entro-what?”
“Entropy,” she repeated. “Newton came up with it—it’s one of the basic laws of the universe, just like gravity.”
“What is?!” demanded Michael.
Tory rolled her eyes. “That things go from a state of order to disorder. You know—mountains erode, glass breaks, food rots—”
“Cards get shuffled,” said Lourdes.
“Right,” said Tory, “but Dillon here . . . he’s breaking that law.”
They all stared at him. “Is that true?” asked Lourdes.
Dillon quivered a bit, and said, “Go directly to jail, do not pass ‘Go.’ ”
While Michael chuckled nervously, and Lourdes just stared at the cards, Tory scoured the area for a way to test her theory. She finally settled on Carter, who had long since drowned all his sugar cubes, and was just staring into the bucket of water. She took it from him, and he hardly seemed to notice it was gone.
“The law of entropy say that sugar dissolves in water,” said Tory, brining the bucket over to them. “Right?”
Everyone looked into the bucket. The water was clear; not a granule of sugar left.
“Dillon, put out your hands,” asked Tory.
Dillon did, and Tory slowly poured the water through his fingers.
What they saw didn’t appear spectacular . . . . At first . . . it just seemed . . . well, weird. As soon as Tory began to pour the water, granules of sugar appeared in Dillon’s hands, out of the clear water. The water kept spilling through his fingers, and his palms filled with the white powder . . . but it didn’t stop there. The grains seemed to be pulling themselves together as Dillon concentrated, and once the water had poured through his fingers and the bucket was completely empty, Dillon was left with not just a handful of sugar . . . but a handful of sugar cubes.
They stared at the cubes, stupefied.
“That’s awesome!” said Michael. “It’s like reversing time!”
“No it’s better,” suggested Lourdes. “It’s reversing space.”
Dillon put his handful of sugar cubes down, and they slowly dissolved into the mud.
“What do you do with a talent like that?” wondered Michael.
“What can’t you do with it!” said Tory. “It’s better than all of our talents put together . . . . It’s like . . . creation.”
The very thought made Michael pale. A chill wind blew and somewhere in the distance a small cloud began to darken.
“Don’t mind Michael,” Tory said to Dillon, “he gets a little bit moody.”
But it wasn’t just a matter of Michael’s being moody. He had something else weighing on his mind.
“So what happens now?” asked Michael.
The question had hung heavily in the air since dawn, but had gone unspoken. What now? Any urge they had felt to come together had long since faded away, just as the light of the supernova had dimmed in the night sky. If anything, the urge was to drift apart. They all turned to Dillon for an answer—as if somehow he were the one holding them together like crystals of sugar, and they needed his permission to go their separate ways.
“We do,” said Dillon, “whatever we want to do.”
It was a quiet declaration of independence, but seemed as profound a moment as when the exploding star first filled the night sky.
“I want to go home.”
It was Winston who spoke. They all turned to see him there, a fraction of an inch taller than he was just moments before. “I gotta fix things—change things, get my life moving,” he said, then he wiped a tear from his eye before it had a chance to fall. “And I miss my mom and brother.”
No one could look each other in the eye then. Thoughts of home that had been locked away all this time now flooded them.
“By the time I get home,” said Lourdes, “they won’t even recognize me . . . . It’s all gonna be new . . .”
The shifting wind blew cold again. “What if we don’t go home?” whispered Michael.
“You will,” said Dillon.
Winston crossed his arms. “How the hell do you know?”
Dillon shrugged. “I can see the pattern,” he said. He studied the four of them—the way their eyes moved, the way they breathed, the way they impatiently shifted their weight from one leg to the other.
“You’ll leave here not sure of anything; not even the ground beneath your feet,” he told them. “But the further you get away from this place, the saner it’s all going to feel . . . and every place you stop, there’ll be people coming out of the woodwork talking to you—wanting to be near you, and not even knowing why. Waiters will tear up your checks—strangers will open up their homes to you; everyone will think you’ve gotten your lives together, and you’ll laugh because you’ll know the truth. And each person you come across—they’ll take away something they didn’t have before—something pure, or joyful, a sense of control, something to grow on. At least one of those people will get on a plane. And then it’ll spread to places you’ve never even heard of.”
They stood there aghast. Micha
el stared at Dillon, slack-jawed. “You can see all that?!”
Then Dillon’s straight face resolved into a wide grin. “Sucker!” he said.
Tory burst out with a relieved guffaw, and soon the others were laughing and razzing Michael, as if they hadn’t fallen for it as well.
Dillon’s grin faded quickly and that solemn melancholy returned to take its place. “You’d better all go,” he told them. “You’ve got a whole country to get across.” Then he glanced at Carter. “You can leave him with me.”
Somehow it didn’t seem fitting to say good-bye, so Tory reached out her hand to Dillon and introduced herself.
“I’m Tory,” she said. “Tory Smythe.”
Dillon smiled slightly, and shook her hand. “Dillon Benjamin Cole.”
The others were quick to follow.
“Michael Lipranski.”
“Lourdes Maria Hidalgo-Ruiz.”
Winston kept his hands in his pockets, refusing to shake Dillon’s hand. “Winston Marcus Pell.”
Then the four who had come together turned and headed toward Michael’s van, dissolving away from Dillon, the way they would soon dissolve away from each other.
Winston was the last to go. He stood there, a few feet from Dillon, a scowl well-cemented on his face. He looked Dillon over head to toe.
“You know you’ll never be forgiven for the things you’ve done. There ain’t enough grace in all the world to cleanse you of that.”
Dillon had to agree. “You’re probably right.”
Winston studied Dillon a few moments longer, and his scowl softened. He shook his head. “I wouldn’t want to be you,” he said.
Behind them, they heard the others piling into the van. Winston took a step back, but before he turned to leave, he reached out and tapped Dillon on the arm, the closest he could bring himself to a friendly gesture. “Stay clean,” said Winston. “Don’t let the bugs in.”
Dillon nodded, and Winston ran off to join the others. In a moment their minds were far away, their voices growing with joy and anticipation. Then Michael started the engine, and the four great souls ventured forth into the bright morning, ready to embrace their new, old lives.
It wasn’t until lunch time that they spared a thought for Dillon again, when a coffee shop waitress told them their lunch was on the house.
DILLON WATCHED THEM DRIVE down the dirt road away from Slayton’s shack. The van’s stereo was blasting, and Dillon could tell they were already soaring back into the world of love and life—a place where Dillon could not join them. Once the sound of their engine faded in the distance, Dillon approached Carter.
The boy still sat near Slayton’s grave, doing nothing, thinking nothing. Dillon sat down in front of him and looked into the boy’s eyes; the large back pupil of the left, the tiny pinpoint of the right.
Dillon gathered all of his attention, pushing out his own fear and confusion. He held this boy by the shoulders and looked through those empty eyes, until he found the impossible jigsaw of a little boy . . . mindless . . . patternless, splintered beyond any hope of repair, and yet Dillon set himself to the task of repairing it.
Dillon sat there ten minutes, twenty minutes, an hour, pushing his own mind into the boy’s chaos and stringing a lifetime of thought and meaning. It wasn’t as easy as destruction; it was a thousand times harder to re-create what was no longer there, but Dillon forced himself to do it.
When he was done, Dillon felt drained, cold and exhausted—but when he looked into Carter’s eyes now, the boy’s eyes looked normal. And they began to fill with tears.
“I done bad things,” cried the boy, with a mind all too clear. “I kilt people. I done bad, bad things.”
“It wasn’t you,” Dillon told the boy. “It was me.”
Dillon took the sobbing boy into his arms and together they cried in the lonely woods. Dillon cried for all the souls he had ruined, for all the pain he had caused . . .
. . . And he cried for Deanna. Losing her was more than he could bear. If she had been here, she could have comforted this boy, touching him with her gift of strength and faith. She could have healed his heart just as Dillon had healed his mind. What a wonderful world this could have been if Deanna could still be in it.
So they both cried, and when neither of them could cry anymore, Dillon put the boy into the Range Rover and got into the driver’s seat.
The boy, still sniffling a bit, studied him. “You old enough to drive?” he asked.
Dillon shrugged. “Not really.”
The boy put on his seat belt, and Dillon started the car. The boy didn’t ask where they were going. Maybe he just didn’t want to think about it, or maybe he already knew.
INTERSTATE 84 CROSSED OUT of Washington, then followed the Columbia River east, along the Washington–Oregon border. Just before dark, they turned off the interstate, heading down a country road that wound through a dense forest. Less than a mile down, the road was blocked by a police barricade; only the truly determined would be getting anywhere near the town of Burton, Oregon, for a good long time.
Dillon stopped the car and took a deep breath as he stared at the barricade. In the distance, he could hear ghostly wails of the mad ones still lost in the woods—so many of them, it made Dillon wish he could turn and run, screaming louder than the voices in the woods. But then he remembered how bravely Deanna had faced things at the end. Certainly Dillon could find a fraction of that bravery now.
As they got out of the car, the boy looked at Dillon with trusting eyes, as if Dillon had all the answers in the world.
“Can you make it all better?” asked the boy. “Can you fix everything?”
Could he? There was no pattern Dillon could see that gave him an answer; there was only his will, the boy’s hope, and a memory of Deanna’s faith in him. But perhaps that’s all he needed to begin the mending.
“I don’t know,” said Dillon. “We’ll see.”
Then he took the boy’s hand, and together they walked toward the barricade of the shattered town.
Neal Shterman, New York Times bestselling author, has written more than thirty award-winning books for children, teens, and adults, including Full Tilt; the Skinjacker Trilogy (Everlost, Everwild, and Everfound); Unwind; UnWholly; Bruiser; and The Schwa Was Here, which won the Boston Globe—Horn Book Award for fiction. Several of his books are now in development as feature films. Neal lives in Southern California when he’s not traveling the globe, and can be found online at storyman.com.
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ALSO BY NEAL SHUSTERMAN
NOVELS
Antsy Does Time
Bruiser
The Dark Side of Nowhere
Dissidents
Downsiders
The Eyes of Kid Midas
Full Tilt
The Schwa Was Here
The Shadow Club
The Shadow Club Rising
Speeding Bullet
Unwind
UnWholly
What Daddy Did
THE SKINJACKER TRILOGY
Everlost
Everwild
Everfound
THE STAR SHARDS CHRONICLES
Scorpion Shards
Thief of Souls
Shattered Sky
THE DARK FUSION SERIES
Dreadlocks
Red Rider’s Hood
Duckling Ugly
STORY COLLECTIONS
Darkness Creeping
Kid Heroes
MindQuakes
MindStorms
Visit the author at storyman.com
An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, chara
cters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1995 by Neal Shusterman
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
is a trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
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Book design by Hilary Zarycky
Jacket design by Chloë Foglia
Jacket photo-illustration copyright © 2013 by Pete Harrison
The text for this book is set in Granjon.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Shusterman, Neal.
Scorpion shards / Neal Shusterman.
(The star shards chronicles ; book 1)
Originally published by Tor, 1995.
Summary: Six teenagers, each tormented by what seems to be an exaggerated adolescent affliction, come together to try to stop the “beasts” that threaten to destroy them and the world.
ISBN 978-1-4424-5836-9 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-4424-5116-2 (eBook)
[1. Supernatural—Fiction. 2. Horror stories.] I. Title.
PZ7.S55987
[Fic]—dc20
2012049166
Scorpion Shards Page 20