“Put it down, Breeze. Let it go,” Sam said.
Brianna obeyed, more relieved than anything.
Quinn climbed the steps to stand with Edilio. He was spattered with blood. He threw his own gun down on the ground. He sent Sam a bleak, infinitely sad look.
Patrick bounded up excitedly, and with him, Lana. “Sam, let me see that arm,” she said.
“No,” Sam said. “I’m fine. Go to the others. Save them, Lana. I couldn’t. Maybe you can. Start with Little Pete. He’s . . . he’s very important.”
Astrid had gone back into the church to find her brother. She reappeared, holding him under the arms, dragging him. “Help me,” Astrid begged, and Lana ran to her.
Sam wanted to go to Astrid. He needed to. But utter weariness rooted him to the spot. He leaned his good hand on Edilio’s strong shoulder.
“I guess we won,” Sam said.
“Yeah,” Edilio agreed. “I’ll get the backhoe. Got a lot of holes to dig.”
FINAL
THE FOOD SEEMED almost to crush the tables. Turkey and dressing, cranberry sauce, and the biggest collection of pies Sam had ever seen.
The tables were set up first at the south end of the plaza. But then Albert realized that people didn’t want to be away from the rows of graves at the north end, they wanted to stay near them. The dead were to be included in this Thanksgiving.
They ate off paper plates and used plastic forks, sat on the few chairs or on the grass.
There was laughter.
There were sniffles, and tears as well, as people remembered Thanksgivings past.
There was music from a stereo system rigged up by Computer Jack.
Lana had worked around the clock for days to heal everyone who could be healed. Dahra had been at her side, organizing, prioritizing the worst cases, handing out support and pain pills to those who had to wait. Cookie had missed the fight entirely, but had become Dahra’s faithful nurse, using his size and strength to lift the injured.
Mary brought the prees out for the big feast. She and her brother, John, prepared plates for them, spoon-fed some of them, and changed diapers on blankets spread on the grass.
Orc sat with Howard in a corner by themselves. Orc had fought Drake to a standstill. But no one—least of all Orc—had forgotten Bette.
The plaza was a disaster. The burned apartment building was a wreck. The church had only three walls now, and the steeple would probably topple over if there was ever a storm.
They had burned the dead coyotes. Their ashes and bones filled several large trash cans.
Sam watched it all, standing a little apart, balancing a plate of food and trying not to spill the dressing.
“Astrid, tell me if this is crazy: I’m thinking if there are any leftovers, we could send them up to Coates,” Sam said. “You know, a peace offering.”
“No. Not crazy,” she said. Astrid put her arm around his waist.
“You know, I’ve had this plan in mind for a while,” Sam said.
“What plan?”
“It involved you and me just sitting on the beach.”
“Just sitting?”
“Well . . .”
“He says, allowing his elliptical tone to imply any number of things.”
Sam smiled. “I’m all about elliptical implications.”
“Are you going to tell me what happened during the big blink?”
“I am. I will. Maybe not today.” He nodded toward Little Pete, who hunched over a plate of food and rocked back and forth. “I’m glad he’s okay.”
“Yeah,” Astrid said shortly. Then, “I think the injury, the blow to his head . . . oh, never mind. Let’s not talk about Petey for once. Give your speech and then let’s go and see if you even know what ‘elliptical’ means.”
“My speech?”
“Everyone’s waiting,” she said.
Sure enough, he realized, there were expectant glances in his direction and a feeling of unfinished business in the air.
“Got any more good quotes I can rip off?”
She thought for a moment. “Okay, here’s one. ‘With malice toward none, with charity for all, with firmness in the right, as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in, to bind up the nation’s wounds. . . .’ President Lincoln.”
Sam said, “Yeah, that’s totally going to happen, I’m going to give a speech that sounds like that.”
“They’re all still scared,” she said. Then she corrected herself. “We’re all still scared.”
“It’s not over,” Sam said. “You know that.”
“It’s over for today.”
“We have pie,” he agreed. Then, with a sigh, he climbed up onto the edge of the fountain. “Um, people.”
It wasn’t hard to get their attention. They gathered around. Even the littlest ones toned down their giggling, at least a bit.
“First of all, thanks to Albert and his helpers for this meal. Let’s give it up for the true Mac Daddy.”
A round of hearty applause and some laughter, and Albert waved sheepishly. He frowned a little too, obviously conflicted about the use of the “Mac” prefix in a way that was not approved in the McDonald’s manual.
“And we have to mention Lana and Dahra, because without them, there would be a lot fewer of us here.”
Now the applause was almost reverential.
“Our first Thanksgiving in the FAYZ,” Sam said when the applause died down.
“Hope it’s our last,” someone shouted.
“Yeah. You got that right,” Sam agreed. “But we’re here. We’re here in this place we never wanted to be. And we’re scared. And I’m not going to lie and tell you that from here on, it will all be easy. It won’t be. It will be hard. And we’ll be scared some more, I guess. And sad. And lonely. Some terrible things have happened. Some terrible things . . .” For a moment, he lost his way. But then he stood up straighter again. “But, still, we are grateful, and we give thanks to God, if you believe in Him, or to fate, or to just ourselves, all of us here.”
“To you, Sam,” someone shouted.
“No, no, no.” He waved that off. “No. We give thanks to the nineteen kids who are buried right there.” He pointed at the six rows of three, plus the one who started a seventh row. Neat hand-painted wooden tombstones bore the names of Bette and too many others.
“And we give thanks to the heroes who are standing around here right now eating turkey. Too many names to mention, and they’d all just be embarrassed, anyway, but we all know them.”
There was a wave of loud, sustained applause, and many faces turned toward Edilio and Dekka, Taylor and Brianna, and some toward Quinn.
“We all hope this will end. We all hope we’ll soon be back in the world with people we love. But right now, we’re here. We’re in the FAYZ. And what we’re going to do is work together, and look out for each other, and help each other.” People nodded, some high-fived.
“Most of us are from Perdido Beach. Some are from Coates. Some of us are . . . well, a little strange.” A few titters. “And some of us are not. But we’re all here now, we’re all in it together. We’re going to survive. If this is our world now . . . I mean, it is our world now. It is our world. So, let’s make it a good one.”
He stepped down in silence.
Then someone started clapping rhythmically and saying, “Sam, Sam, Sam.” Others joined in, and soon every person in the plaza, even some of the prees, was chanting his name.
Quinn was there, and Edilio and Lana.
Sam said to Quinn, “Would you do me a favor and keep an eye on Little Pete?”
“No prob, brah.”
“Where are you going?” Edilio asked.
“We’re going to the beach.” Sam took Astrid’s hand.
“You want us to come?” Edilio asked.
Lana put her arm through his and said, “No, Edilio: they don’t.”
The boy walked stiffly, favoring the half-healed burn on his side. The coyote walked
just ahead, leading the way through the desert. The sun set to the west, sending long shadows from boulders and brush, painting the mountain’s face an eerie orange.
“How much farther?” Caine asked.
“Soon,” Pack Leader said. “The Darkness is near.”
PRAISE
FOR THE GONE SERIES
Gone
“This intense, marvelously plotted, paced, and characterized story will immediately garner comparisons to Lord of the Flies, or even the longplaying world shifts of Stephen King, with just a dash of X-Men for good measure. A potent mix of action and thoughtfulness—centered around good and evil, courage and cowardice—renders this a tour de force that will leave readers dazed, disturbed, and utterly breathless.”
—ALA Booklist (starred review)
“If Stephen King had written Lord of the Flies, it might have been a little like this novel. Complex issues, from peer pressure to the science of nuclear power, are addressed with the teen audience in mind.”
—VOYA (starred review)
CREDITS
Cover art and design © 2014 by M-80 Design / Wes Youssi
Cover design by Joel Tippie
COPYRIGHT
Agent Orange lyrics used by permission.
“A Cry For Help in a World Gone Mad,” written by Michael A. Palm, courtesy of Covina High Music
Katherine Tegen Books is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
GONE. Copyright © 2008 by Michael Grant. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
www.epicreads.com
* * *
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Grant, Michael.
Gone / by Michael Grant.—1st ed.
p. cm.
Summary: In a small town on the coast of California, everyone over the age of fourteen suddenly disappears, setting up a battle between the remaining town residents and the students from a local private school, as well as those who have “The Power” and are able to perform supernatural feats and those who do not.
ISBN 978-0-06-144878-2
EPub Edition February 2014 ISBN 9780061909641
[1. Supernatural—Fiction. 2. Good and evil—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.G7671Go 2008 2007036734
[Fic]—dc22 CIP
AC
* * *
14 15 16 17 18 LP/RRDH 27 26 25 24 23 22 21 20
Revised paperback edition, 2014
MAPS
DEDICATION
For Katherine, Jake, and Julia
CONTENTS
Maps
Dedication
One: 106 HOURS, 29 MINUTES
Two: 106 HOURS, 16 MINUTES
Three: 106 HOURS, 11 MINUTES
Four: 106 HOURS, 8 MINUTES
Five: 104 HOURS, 5 MINUTES
Six: 96 HOURS, 22 MINUTES
Seven: 88 HOURS, 54 MINUTES
Eight: 88 HOURS, 52 MINUTES
Nine: 82 HOURS, 38 MINUTES
Ten: 81 HOURS, 17 MINUTES
Eleven: 70 HOURS, 11 MINUTES
Twelve: 61 HOURS, 3 MINUTES
Thirteen: 45 HOURS, 36 MINUTES
Fourteen: 36 HOURS, 47 MINUTES
Fifteen: 30 HOURS, 41 MINUTES
Sixteen: 22 HOURS, 41 MINUTES
Seventeen: 22 HOURS
Eighteen: 18 HOURS, 47 MINUTES
Nineteen: 18 HOURS, 35 MINUTES
Twenty: 18 HOURS, 29 MINUTES
Twenty-One: 18 HOURS, 23 MINUTES
Twenty-Two: 18 HOURS, 18 MINUTES
Twenty-Three: 18 HOURS, 7 MINUTES
Twenty-Four: 18 HOURS, 1 MINUTE
Twenty-Five: 17 HOURS, 54 MINUTES
Twenty-Six: 17 HOURS, 49 MINUTES
Twenty-Seven: 17 HOURS, 48 MINUTES
Twenty-Eight: 16 HOURS, 38 MINUTES
Twenty-Nine: 16 HOURS, 33 MINUTES
Thirty: 13 HOURS, 38 MINUTES
Thirty-One: 13 HOURS, 35 MINUTES
Thirty-Two: 09 HOURS, 3 MINUTES
Thirty-Three: 07 HOURS, 58 MINUTES
Thirty-Four: 06 HOURS, 3 MINUTES
Thirty-Five: 02 HOURS, 53 MINUTES
Thirty-Six: 01 HOUR, 8 MINUTES
Thirty-Seven: 01 HOUR, 6 MINUTES
Thirty-Eight: 53 MINUTES
Thirty-Nine: 47 MINUTES
Forty: 38 MINUTES
Forty-One: 33 MINUTES
Forty-Two: 27 MINUTES
Forty-Three: 13 MINUTES
Forty-Four: 7 MINUTES
Forty-Five: 0 MINUTES
Forty-Six
Forty-Seven
Three Days Later
Praise
Credits
Copyright
ONE
106 HOURS, 29 MINUTES
SAM TEMPLE WAS on his board. And there were waves. Honest-to-God swooping, crashing, churning, salt-smelling, white-foam waves.
And there he was about two hundred feet out, the perfect place to catch a wave, lying facedown, hands and feet in the water, almost numb from cold, while at the same time his wet-suit-encased, sunbaked back was steaming.
Quinn was there, too, lolling beside him, waiting for a good ride, waiting for the wave that would pick them up and hurl them toward the beach.
Sam woke suddenly, choking on dust.
He blinked and looked around at the dry landscape. Instinctively he glanced toward the southwest, toward the ocean. Couldn’t see it from here. And there hadn’t been a wave in a long time.
Sam believed he’d sell his soul to ride just one more real wave.
He backhanded the sweat from his brow. The sun was like a blowtorch, way too hot for this early in the day. He’d had too little sleep. Too much stuff to deal with. Stuff. Always stuff.
The heat, the sound of the engine, and the rhythmic jerking of the Jeep as it labored down the dusty road conspired to force his eyelids closed again. He squeezed them shut, hard, then opened them wide, willing himself to stay awake.
The dream stayed with him. The memory taunted him. He could stand it all so much better, he told himself, the constant fear, the even more constant load of trivia and responsibility, if there were still waves. But there had been no waves for three months. No waves at all, nothing but ripples.
Three months after the coming of the FAYZ, Sam had still not learned to drive a car. Learning to drive would have been one more thing, one more hassle, one more pain in the butt. So Edilio Escobar drove the Jeep, and Sam rode shotgun. In the backseat Albert Hillsborough sat stiff and quiet. Beside him was a kid named E.Z., singing along to his iPod.
Sam pushed his fingers through his hair, which was way too long. He hadn’t had a haircut in more than three months. His hand came back dirty, clotted with dust. Fortunately the electricity was still on in Perdido Beach, which meant light, and perhaps better still, hot water. If he couldn’t go for a cold surf, he could at least look forward to a long, hot shower after they all got back.
A shower. Maybe a few minutes with Astrid, just the two of them. A meal. Well, not a meal, no. A can of something slimy was not a meal. His hurried breakfast had been a can of collard greens.
It was amazing what you could gag down when you got hungry enough. And Sam, like everyone else in the FAYZ, was hungry.
He closed his eyes, not sleepy now, just wanting to see Astrid’s face clearly.
It was the one compensation. He’d lost his mother, his favorite pastime, his privacy, his freedom, and the entire world he’d known . . . but he’d gained Astrid.
Before the FAYZ he’d always thought of her as una
pproachable. Now, as a couple, they seemed inevitable. But he wondered whether he’d have ever done more than gaze wistfully from afar if the FAYZ hadn’t happened.
Edilio applied a little brake. The road ahead was torn up. Someone had gouged the dirt road, drawn rough angled lines across it.
Edilio pointed to a tractor set up to pull a plow. The tractor was overturned in the middle of a field. On the day the FAYZ came the farmer had disappeared, along with the rest of the adults, but the tractor had kept right on going, tearing up the road, running straight into the next field, stopping only when an irrigation ditch had tipped it over.
Edilio took the Jeep over the furrows at a crawl, then picked up speed again.
There wasn’t much to the left or right of the road, just bare dirt, fallow fields, and patches of colorless grass broken up by the occasional lonely stand of trees. But up ahead was green, lots of it.
Sam turned in his seat to get Albert’s attention. “So what is that up there, again?”
“Cabbage,” Albert said. Albert was an eighth grader, narrow-shouldered, self-contained; dressed in pressed khaki pants, a pale blue polo shirt, and brown loafers—what a much older person would call “business casual.” He was a kid no one had paid much attention to before, just one of a handful of African-American students at the Perdido Beach School. But no one ignored Albert anymore: he had reopened and run the town’s McDonald’s. At least he had until the burgers and the fries and the chicken nuggets ran out.
Even the ketchup. That was gone now, too.
The mere memory of hamburgers made Sam’s stomach growl. “Cabbage?” he repeated.
Albert nodded toward Edilio. “That’s what Edilio says. He’s the one who found it yesterday.”
“Cabbage?” Sam asked Edilio.
“It makes you fart,” Edilio said with a wink. “But we can’t be too choosy.”
“I guess it wouldn’t be so bad if we had coleslaw,” Sam said. “Tell you the truth, I could happily eat a cabbage right now.”
“You know what I had for breakfast?” Edilio asked. “A can of succotash.”
Gone Series Complete Collection Page 42