Gone Series Complete Collection

by Grant, Michael

  It took her an hour to work her way through brambles and over gullies. She was afraid she wouldn’t be able to find her way back to the road—woods were woods, to Diana, one tree like the next. But at last, as night crept up on twilight, she climbed a slippery embankment and stepped onto blacktop.

  She had no brilliant plan for getting to Jack. She couldn’t exactly knock him on the head and carry him to Caine. She would have to rely on other means. Jack had always had a crush on her, not that he would ever act on it.

  A pity she looked like a boy now.

  It was all downhill until she hit the highway. There at last were widely separated pools of light cast by the ever fewer functioning streetlights, and a faint glow from the empty storefronts that hadn’t yet burned out their last lightbulbs.

  She was footsore and weary when she reached Perdido Beach and she badly needed a rest. It was going to be a long night, of that she was sure.

  Diana walked down Sherman Avenue and onto Golding Street, looking for an empty house. They weren’t hard to find. Few homes showed any glimmer of light, and this one house was so shabby, so run-down, that she was convinced no one would be staying here.

  The lights were off inside and repeated efforts yielded only one functioning light bulb, a Tiffany-style lamp in the cramped and overstuffed living room. There was a roll-armed easy chair decorated with lace doilies and she sagged into it gratefully.

  “Some old lady lived here,” she said to the echoing emptiness.

  She put her feet up on the coffee table—something the previous resident would no doubt have frowned on—and considered how long she should wait before risking the streets again. Jack’s place was only a few blocks away, but it would mean passing through the more densely populated center of town.

  “I would sell my soul for some TV,” she muttered. What was that show she used to watch? Something with doctors and all kinds of soap opera plots. How could she have forgotten the name? She’d watched it every . . . every what? What night was it on?

  Three months and she’d forgotten TV.

  “I suppose my MySpace and Facebook pages are still up, somewhere, back in the world,” she mused aloud. Messages and invitations piling up unanswered. Where are you, Diana? Can I be your friend? Did you read my bulletin?

  What ever happened to Diana?

  Diana is ____________. Fill in the blanks.

  Diana is . . .

  She wondered what everyone in the FAYZ wondered: Where were all the adults? What had happened to the world? Was everyone “out there” dead and the only life here in this bubble? Did people in the outside world know what had happened? Was the FAYZ like some giant, impenetrable egg plopped on the Southern California coastline? Was it a tourist attraction? Were busloads of the curious lining up to have their pictures taken in front of the mysterious sphere?

  Diana is . . . lost.

  She got up to search the kitchen. As far as she could see in the deep gloom the shelves were empty. They had been cleaned out, of course, Sam would have seen to that, marshalling his resources.

  The refrigerator was empty, too.

  Diana is . . . hungry.

  But she found a working flashlight in the kitchen junk drawer. With this she explored the only other room, the old lady’s bedroom. Old lady clothing. Old lady slippers. Old lady knitting needles stuck through a ball of yarn.

  Would Diana still be here, trapped in the FAYZ when she was old? “You’re already old,” she told herself. “We’re all old now.” But that wasn’t quite true. They’d been forced to act older, to behave in ways that were very adult. But they were all still kids. Even Diana.

  There was a book beside the old lady’s bed. Diana was sure it was a Bible, but when she shone the light on it, she saw a reflection from glossy raised lettering. It was a romance novel. Some half-undressed woman and a kind of creepy guy in what looked like a pirate outfit.

  The old woman had been reading romances. The day she poofed out of the FAYZ she was probably thinking, I wonder if spunky Caitlin will find true love with handsome Pirate guy?

  That’s how I should reach out to Jack, Diana thought. Play the beautiful damsel in need. Save me, Jack.

  Would Computer Jack respond to her now? Would he buy the act? Would he be her pirate?

  “Just call me Caitlin,” Diana said, and smirked.

  She tossed the book aside. But that felt wrong, somehow. So she picked it up and placed it carefully back where the old woman had left it.

  She went out into the night looking for a kid who was very strong—and, she hoped, very weak.

  Astrid plugged the cable into her computer and the other end into the camera Edilio had brought at her request. He’d told her a number of kids had taken pictures. The best of the photographers was an eleven-year-old named Matteo. This was his camera.

  iPhoto opened and she clicked import. The pictures began to open, flashing through the viewer as they loaded.

  The first half dozen or so were of kids standing around. Shots of the field. A greedy close-up on some melons. Sam with the look of cold anger he sometimes wore. Orc slouched against a car hood. Dekka self-contained, unreadable. Howard, Edilio, various people.

  Then the moment when the ground rose up.

  The moment when Sam fired.

  Once the photos had loaded, Astrid began to go back over them, starting with Dekka’s suspension of gravity. The boy had used a good camera and he’d gotten some very good shots. Astrid zoomed in and could clearly see individual worms suspended in midair. Or mid-dirt.

  Then came a spectacular shot that captured the first blast of Sam’s power.

  Several more, taken in just a few seconds, snapped quickly, some shaky, but some perfectly focused. Matteo knew how to use a camera.

  Astrid clicked ahead, but then she froze. She backed up. She zoomed in tight.

  A worm was turned toward the camera, twisted around so that its toothy mouth was aimed at the camera. Nothing unusual except that the next worm she panned over to was doing the same thing. The same direction, the same expression.

  And the next worm.

  She found nineteen separate images of worms. All were turned toward the camera. Pointing in the direction of the attack.

  Aiming their devil grins at Sam.

  With shaking hand she moved the mouse to an earlier album. She opened the photos she had taken of the dead zeke Sam had brought her. She zoomed in on the ugly thing, scanning carefully over the head.

  Sam came into the room. He stood behind her and put his hands on her shoulders.

  “How are you, babe?” He had started calling her that. She was still deciding whether or not she liked it.

  “Rough evening,” she said. “I just got past a two-hour Petey meltdown. He noticed Nestor.”

  “Nestor?”

  “His nesting doll, remember? The little red things in his room, one doll fits exactly inside the other? The other night you stomped on it.”

  “Oh. Yeah. Sorry.”

  “Not your fault, Sam.” She wasn’t sure she liked him calling her “babe,” but she did like the feel of his lips on her bare neck. But after a few seconds she pushed him away. “I’m working.”

  “What is it you’re seeing?” Sam asked.

  “The worms. They were looking right at you.”

  “I was the guy cooking them,” Sam said. “For all the good it did.”

  Astrid twisted around to look up at him.

  “Oh, I know that look,” Sam said. “Go ahead, genius, tell me what it is I missed.”

  “With what are they looking at you?” Astrid asked.

  Sam took a beat. Then, “They don’t have eyes.”

  “No. I just checked again. They don’t have eyes. But somehow, in the middle of being levitated in midair and getting hit with blasts of light energy, they all twist around in midair to stare—at least it looks like they’re staring—in the same direction. At you.”

  “Great. So somehow they can see. I think what matters is that I ki
lled a bunch of them and they didn’t get the message.”

  Astrid shook her head. “I don’t think you did anything to them. I’m not sure it’s ‘them.’ What if they’re like ants? I mean, what if there really aren’t individual worms? What if they’re all part of one superorganism? Like a hive.”

  “So there’s a queen worm somewhere?”

  “Maybe. Or maybe it’s not so hierarchical, less differentiated.”

  He kissed the nape of her neck, sending pleasant shivers down her spine. “This is all great, Astrid. How do I kill them?”

  “I have two ideas on that. One is a practical suggestion. You’ll like it. The other is crazier. You won’t like the crazy idea.”

  It was time to get Little Pete ready for bed. She stood up and called to him, using the trigger phrase he understood. “Beddy boody, beddy boody.”

  Little Pete gave her a hazy look, as if he had heard her but had not understood. Then he got up from his chair and headed obediently up the stairs. Obedient not to Astrid’s authority, really, but to what was, in effect, programming.

  “I have to go do a walk-through in town, and you have to get Petey to bed,” Sam said. “So give me the short version.”

  “Okay,” Astrid said. “SUVs running just on their rims, no tires. The zekes can’t eat through steel. That’s the practical suggestion.”

  “That could work, Astrid,” he said excitedly. “Four-by-fours, on their steel rims, use hooks on poles to snag melons or cabbages or whatever. It would take practice, but unless the zekes can fly, the pickers would be pretty safe riding in the truck.” He grinned at her. “This is why I keep you around, despite your annoying superior attitude.”

  “It’s not a superior attitude,” Astrid teased back. “It’s actual superiority.”

  “So, what’s the crazy suggestion?”

  “Negotiate.”

  “What?”

  “They’re too smart to be worms. They’re predatory and they shouldn’t be. They’re territorial and they couldn’t possibly be. They move and act as one, at least some of the time, and there’s no way. They were looking at you, but they don’t have eyes. I have no proof, obviously, but I have a feeling.”

  “A feeling?”

  “I don’t think they’re zekes. I think they’re Zeke.”

  “Talk to the superworm?” Sam said. He shook his head and looked down at the ground. “No offense, but the SUV tractor thing is why you’re the smartest person in the FAYZ. The other part? That’s why even though you’re smart, you’re not the one in charge.”

  Astrid resisted the urge to say something cutting in response to his condescension. “You need to keep your mind open, Sam.”

  “Negotiate with a killer worm brain? I don’t think so, babe. I think maybe your brain is overheating. I have to go.”

  He tried to kiss her, but she dodged it. “Good night. Let’s hope Petey doesn’t have any interesting nightmares tonight, huh? Oh wait, nothing to worry about there, it’s probably just my overheated brain.”

  •••

  Computer Jack clicked through a dizzying number of windows at an amazing speed. The mouse cursor flew across the virtual page, opening, closing, pushing aside.

  It wouldn’t work.

  It could work. Maybe. But not without more gear. A serious server. A serious router.

  He’d found one server with nowhere near the capacity he wanted. It was old, not exactly state-of-the art, but it was functional. And there were certainly enough PCs and Macs in town that could be strung together, and enough for everyone to have his own ’puter, with plenty of spares that could be cannibalized for parts.

  But he did not have a serious router. A router was the difference between a true internet and just being able to share a computer between several people.

  A large-capacity router. That was the Holy Grail.

  Jack could see a day when all of Perdido Beach had WiFi. Then kids would start blogs, and they’d start databases, and post pictures, and maybe he would set up some version of MySpace or Facebook, a social networking site. And maybe a YouTube, and maybe even a Wiki. WikiFAYZ.

  It could be done. But not without more and better gear.

  He pushed back from his desk. Which turned out to be a mistake. The chair, and him in it, went flying, slid, caught on a dropped sweater, tipped over, and luckily twisted sideways just before his head would have slammed into a closed door.

  He was still getting used to his strength. So far it had been of no practical use to him. In fact, it was more dangerous than helpful.

  Jack picked himself up and righted the chair.

  There was a knock at the door. At least, maybe it was a knock. It sounded more like a woodpecker.

  “Who is it?”

  “The Breeze.”

  “What?”

  “Brianna.”

  Jack opened the door and there she was. She was wearing a dress. It was blue and short and had thin straps. He blurted the first thing that popped into his head. “How can you run in that?”

  “What?”

  “Um—”

  “I can run—”

  “I didn’t—”

  “No biggie—”

  “I need a router,” he said.

  That put an end to the confusing cross-talk.

  “A what? A router?”

  “Yes,” Jack said. “I can’t, uh, you know, make it all work without a serious router.”

  Brianna considered that for a moment, then, “Do I look stupid in this dress?”

  “No. You don’t look stupid.”

  “Thanks,” she said with heavy sarcasm. “I’m so glad to know I don’t look stupid.”

  “Okay,” he said, and felt stupid himself.

  “Well, I was just going to the club. I have some batteries. That’s all.”

  “Oh. Good.”

  “And?”

  Jack shrugged, mystified. “And . . . so . . . have fun?”

  Brianna stared at him for a very long five seconds without looking away. And then she was a blur. Gone.

  He closed the door and went back to the computer he was using to run an analysis of the antique server.

  About five minutes later he began to wonder if he had missed something in his brief conversation with Brianna.

  Why had she come by?

  Even six months ago Jack never thought about girls. Now they tended to show up more and more often in his thoughts. Not to mention some very embarrassing dreams.

  In the good old days he might have Googled up an explanation. Not now. His parents had never really talked to him about puberty, about the fact that as his body changed, so did his thoughts. He knew enough to know things were changing for him, but he didn’t know whether or not it was something he could stop.

  He needed a router.

  Or he needed to find Brianna and . . . and talk to her. Maybe about the router.

  An idea hit him with such force, he felt as if it had stopped his heart for a second: Had Brianna been asking him to go with her to the club? Where people danced?

  No. That was crazy. She wouldn’t have come to ask him to go to a dance. Would she?

  No.

  Maybe.

  The computer screen called to him. It had always been better than candy to Jack. Better than anything. He longed desperately to be able to get back online, back to Google. Back to Gizmodo. Back to . . . to more sites than he could list.

  Jack did have a free pass to Albert’s club. He had spent part of a day helping Albert set up the sound system—easy work—and had earned a sort of VIP pass. So if Brianna was there, and she actually did want him to be there, too, well, he could go.

  He made the decision very suddenly and acted on it very suddenly, in a hurry lest he change his mind. He leaped for the door and crushed the door handle in overeager fingers. Now it wouldn’t turn, but it was easy enough to rip the door open. There was some damage, but nothing major.

  The club was loud—the sound system seemed to be working just fine—and
crowded with too many kids. Albert was holding a line of them at the door.

  “Sorry, folks, but the maximum occupancy is seventy-five,” Albert said. Then he spotted Jack. “Jack, how’s it going?”

  “What? Oh, fine.” Jack was confused as to how to proceed. He didn’t want to wait in line if Brianna wasn’t even inside.

  “You look like a man with a question,” Albert prompted.

  “Well, I’m kind of looking for Brianna. We had this . . . it’s a . . . tech thing. You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Breeze is already inside.”

  One of the kids in the line said, “Of course she is, she’s a freak. They always get in.”

  A second kid nodded. “Yeah, the freaks don’t wait in lines. Bet she didn’t have to pay, either.”

  Albert said, “Hey, she got here a little before you guys did and she waited. And she paid.” Then to Jack. “Go ahead in.”

  “See?” the first kid crowed. “He’s one, too.”

  “Dude, he set up my sound system,” Albert said. “What have you done for me other than stand here and bust on me?”

  Jack, embarrassed, slid past Albert and into the room. About half the kids were dancing. The rest were camped out in chairs and sitting on tables talking. It took Jack a while to adjust to the lighting and the noise.

  He searched for Brianna while trying to look casual. He spotted Quinn, dancing all alone, and Dekka, sitting silent, brooding in a corner.

  Standing near Dekka but not with her was a kid Jack thought at first seemed familiar. A boy, maybe twelve, no older, with a shaved head, and a bandage on his nose. Jack noticed the boy because the boy was staring at him. The instant Jack made eye contact the boy looked away.

  Jack heard a rising chorus of happy, encouraging shouts and clapping hands. He followed the sound and there was Brianna. She was dancing alone—no one could possibly have danced with her—keeping her own accelerated beat ten times faster than the music.

  Her dress sort of floated around her, not quite attached, a blue cloud. Jack found the effect utterly fascinating. Brianna wasn’t what people would call beautiful, she was more in the “cute” category. But there was something about her that made her hard to ignore. And not just the fact that she was the Breeze.