Gone Series Complete Collection

by Grant, Michael

  It was only a few minutes before Edilio, accompanied by Ellen, both armed with automatic rifles of their own, came rushing in. Jamal and Brittney were long gone.

  Edilio knelt beside Brianna. She saw worry and compassion in his dark eyes and in her delirium really liked him for that.

  “Ellen, get Lana. Now!” Edilio ordered.

  To Brianna, he said, “Is he gone?”

  Brianna found it hard to get her voice to do what she wanted. But she managed after a few tries to say, “Have to . . . get Sam. Sam. I . . . I can’t beat Drake.”

  Edilio looked grim. “Yeah, that’s a good idea,” he said as he examined the bloody wounds in her shoulder. “Unfortunately Taylor took off. And no one exactly knows how to find Sam.”

  “Jamal . . . ,” Brianna whispered. But before she could complete the thought, the marble floor seemed to open wide and drag her swirling down into darkness.

  Lance came bursting in the door.

  “Drake is out!” he yelled.

  Turk—formerly Zil’s number one guy, at least he thought so, and boss of what was left of Human Crew—said, “Yeah, whatever.”

  Human Crew had been a group formed to defend the rights of normals against freaks. At least that was the Human Crew line. Most people now saw Human Crew as a straight-up hate group.

  Lance grabbed Turk’s shoulder and practically yanked him up off the stinking couch where he lay. “Turk, listen, man, listen to me: don’t you see what this means?”

  Turk did not see what it meant, or at least not whatever Lance thought he should see. Turk mostly disliked Lance. They were friends, kind of, but only because they’d both been with Zil and riding high. And now they were reduced to doing the worst work Albert could find for them: digging slit trenches for kids to go in, and then covering them up when they were full.

  Cesspool diggers. The Crap Crew, kids called them.

  And they had to kiss Albert’s butt because otherwise they didn’t eat. They’d been lucky they weren’t exiled. Turk had talked the council out of sending them off to live in the wild. He’d begged, that was the truth of it. He’d convinced them that it was better to find a place for him and the others from Human Crew.

  He’d put all the blame for the fire on anyone but themselves. Kept saying, “It’s not our fault, guys, not me and Lance and all, we were forced by Zil and Hank. Hank was scary, man, you know that. You know he was a creep and he would have shot us or messed us up.”

  Turk had whined like a baby. And wept. And in the end convinced that smug wetback Edilio, and especially Albert, that they wouldn’t make trouble anymore, ever again, lessons learned, their lives all turned around now.

  The Human Crew became the Crap Crew. And harsher names as well. A laughingstock.

  Turk hated Albert with a burning, undying passion. Albert had everything and tossed the worst crumbs to Turk and Lance and the former Human Crew.

  Lance wasn’t going away. His handsome face was lit up with excitement. “Dude, don’t you get it? If we hit Albert now, everyone will blame Drake.”

  That got Turk’s attention. “We tried to pin the fire on Caine and no one believed us.”

  “This is different. Look, do you like living like this?” He looked wildly around the room, stabbing his hand finally toward the reeking stew pot they used as an inside toilet. “Eating the worst food, doing the worst job, and being in this dump?”

  “Yeah, I love it,” Turk said with savage sarcasm. “I just love being the biggest loser in town.”

  “Then listen to me.” Lance rested his hands on Turk’s shoulders. Turk shrugged them off. “Because I’m telling you: Drake can’t be killed or stopped. So everyone’s scared. Maybe we find a way to hook up with Drake, right? Or maybe we just wait until everyone’s freaking out over him, and we make our move.”

  Turk didn’t dismiss it out of hand. Maybe Lance was right. Everyone knew Albert had tons of gold and ’Bertos and all kinds of food—even cans of stuff from before, good food.

  “I don’t know, man,” Turk said. “Human Crew is supposed to stand for something. I mean, we’re the defenders of humans against freaks, right? We stand up for normal people. We don’t just steal stuff. We’re not, like, a gang.”

  Lance laughed derisively. “Man, sometimes you are clueless. You don’t even see what’s happening.” He perched himself on the arm of the couch so he could look down at Turk. “It’s not just about freaks. I mean, you’re the guy who thinks of ideas and all, but you’re missing it. You don’t even notice that the whole council is either black or Mexican. See, that’s what’s happening: it’s all these minorities hooked up with freaks.”

  The wheels in Turk’s mind began to turn slowly. But they were picking up speed. “Jamal’s with us and he’s black.”

  “So? We use Jamal. He gets us into Albert’s. You do what you gotta do. All I’m saying is, you and me, we’re normal people. We’re not black or queer or Mexican. And we’re the ones digging toilets. How come?”

  Turk knew the answer: because they had failed in their attempt to take over. But he’d never thought about this new angle.

  “Astrid’s a normal white person,” Turk argued halfheartedly. “So’s Sam.”

  “Sam’s a freak, and I think he might even be a Jew,” Lance said. His eyes were glittering. He was showing his teeth, grinning as he talked. It wasn’t a good look for him. “And Astrid? She’s not even on the council anymore.”

  Turk was buying it. He felt the new ideas settle into the dark places in his aggrieved mind. “Drake’s white. So is Orc, you know, underneath it all. But they’re kind of like freaks. Only . . . only not really. Because they didn’t like, turn into freaks, they had accidents or whatever that made them what they are now.”

  “Exactly,” Lance said.

  Yes, Turk thought. This could be good. This could be very good. Taking out Albert would cause more problems than burning a bunch of houses. Albert was the one who was really in charge. He had the money and the food. That made him even more important than Sam.

  Lisa came in then with cabbages she’d picked from the fields, and a fat rat she’d bought. Turk’s mouth watered: dinner was late.

  “Let’s eat,” he said. “Then we think about what comes next.”

  FOURTEEN

  37 HOURS, 48 MINUTES

  EDILIO WAITED UNTIL the sun was up to go for Roscoe.

  It was all very peaceful. Roscoe wasn’t the kind of guy to make much trouble.

  “We just have to put you somewhere safe,” Edilio explained.

  “So I don’t give it to anyone else,” Roscoe said.

  “Yeah. While we figure out how to cure you.”

  “I want to say good-bye to Sinder,” Roscoe said softly. He jerked his head indicating that she was in the house.

  “Of course, man. But listen. Don’t let her touch you, okay? Just in case.”

  Roscoe struggled a little then, not against Edilio but against himself. He fought to stop a quiver in his lip. Fought to keep the tears from filling his eyes.

  Edilio took him to town hall. There was an unused office with a cot. Edilio had made sure there were books for Roscoe to read. And a covered pot for Roscoe to do his business. A jug of water was on the shelf next to the window. A cabbage and a cooked rabbit were there, too.

  The rabbit was a delicacy.

  Roscoe thanked Edilio for being decent.

  Edilio closed the door. Then he turned the key in the deadbolt.

  Quinn’s fishermen had had a good day. The boats were reasonably full of fish, squid, octopi, and the weird things they called blue bats. Those they fed to the zekes—the worms in the fields—to buy safe passage for the vegetable pickers.

  The prize of the morning’s work was a five-foot-long shark. Quinn’s boat was actually cramped because of the thing. He was sitting on the tail as he rowed, which was awkward and would give him a backache later. But no one in the boat was complaining. A shark was a twofer: not only was it great eating, it was a competitor f
or the limited supply of fish.

  “Here’s what we ought to do,” Cigar was saying as he pulled at his oar. “We ought to sell the teeth at the mall. I mean, did you see all those teeth? Kids would pay a ’Berto for, like, a necklace of teeth.”

  “Or they might, like, glue them onto a stick and make a gnarly weapon,” Elise suggested.

  “What do you think it weighs?” Ben wondered.

  “Ah, not much,” Quinn said.

  That got a laugh. It had taken eight kids just to haul the fish over the side into Quinn’s boat, and then they’d practically swamped the boat.

  “Weighs more than Cigar,” Ben said.

  Cigar plucked at his ragged T-shirt and revealed a hard, almost concave, stomach. “Everything weighs more than me nowadays. When this all ends and we get out, I’m writing a diet book. The FAYZ diet. First, you eat all the junk food you can. Then you starve. Then you eat artichokes. Then you starve a little more. Then you eat someone’s hamster. Then you go on the all-fish diet.”

  “You left out the part where you fry up some ants,” Elise said.

  “Ants? I ate beetles,” Ben bragged.

  They went on like this for a while, rowing their heavy-laden boat and bragging about the awful things they had eaten.

  Quinn noticed something he hadn’t seen in a long time.

  “Hold up,” he said.

  “Aw, is Captain Ahab tired of rowing?”

  “You’ve got good eyes, Elise, look over there.” Quinn pointed toward the barrier across a half mile of water.

  “What? It’s still there.”

  “Not the barrier. The water. Look at the water.”

  The four of them shielded their eyes from the sun and stared. “Huh,” Quinn said at last. “Does that or does that not look like there’s a breeze blowing over there? It’s a little choppy.”

  “Yeah,” Cigar agreed. “Weird, huh?”

  Quinn nodded thoughtfully. It was something new. Something very strange. He would tell Albert about it when they got into town.

  “Okay, enough with that. Let’s get back on those oars.” The other boats were catching up to them. Quinn could see each of them in turn stop and stare at the clear evidence of wind.

  “What’s it mean?” Ben asked.

  Quinn shrugged. “That’s above my pay grade, as my dad used to say. I’ll let Albert and Astrid figure that out. Me, I’m just a dumb fisherman,” he said.

  “Oh, look,” Elise teased. “I see an oar with no one pulling it.”

  Quinn laughed. He seated himself properly, braced his feet, and grabbed the available oar. His back, like those of all the fishing fleet, was thick with muscle.

  He was happy. This life made him happy. The sun, the salt water, the smell of fish. The backbreaking work. It all made him happy.

  It was simple. It was important.

  Quinn thought about the breeze blowing across the water. There was nothing sinister about a nice breeze. And yet he had the feeling it spelled trouble.

  Dahra Baidoo had seven new cases of flu. That made thirteen in all. The so-called hospital rang with the percussion of coughing.

  No one had died in the night.

  But no one had gotten well yet, either. Lana’s touch did not heal this illness. Which meant Dahra was no longer in the business of keeping kids comfortable until Lana came around and made everything better: she was now in the business of trying to understand this sickness.

  She took temperatures. She kept more-or-less careful charts showing the progression of the sickness.

  She tried not to think about Jennifer’s story. Jennifer wasn’t backing off her tale: she had seen the other Jennifer cough herself to death.

  Dahra also tried not to think about what it meant if illness could develop an immunity to Lana.

  A kid named Pookie was her worst case right at the moment. She stared at the thermometer in her hand, not quite believing it—106 degrees. She had never seen a number that high.

  Pookie was shaking like he was freezing. He was no longer able to answer questions sensibly. He had started talking to someone who was not exactly there, talking about how he didn’t want to go to school because he hadn’t finished his report.

  And his cough was getting louder and more violent.

  The flu had laughed at the Tylenol she gave Pookie. His fever had burned right through it. Whether or not he developed some kind of killing cough, he would die of fever if it rose much higher. She had to bring it down.

  The book suggested an ice bath. The odds of that were precisely zero. No water, let alone ice. If Albert didn’t arrange a water delivery soon, kids would be falling out from thirst, not even waiting to die of fever or cough.

  Dahra made a decision. Ellen was there helping out, along with one of the new kids from the island, Virtue. She wished she had time to talk to Virtue: Dahra’s parents were from Africa. And so was Virtue himself.

  “We have to cool him down,” Dahra said. “Virtue? Hold down the fort here, okay? We’re going to the beach.”

  Ellen and Dahra maneuvered Pookie into a wheelbarrow. The three of them made an odd procession down San Pablo Avenue to the beach.

  Crossing the sand was the hard part. But finally they made it to the lacy surf and set the sick kid down. Water surged around him.

  Not an ice bath, maybe, but close enough. She figured the cold salt water should drain away some of the heat inside Pookie’s body.

  “There,” Ellen said. “Hopefully he can walk back on his own.”

  Dahra flopped onto the sand beside Ellen. Ellen said, “You heard about Drake, right?”

  “Him escaping? Yeah. Don’t worry, Sam will get him.”

  Ellen shook her head. “Sam’s out of town. Albert got him to go off for water. Or something like that.”

  “Sam’s gone?” Dahra looked nervously over her shoulder. No reason Drake would come after her. But Drake didn’t need a reason. “It’ll be okay. Dekka and Brianna and—”

  Pookie coughed, coughed, doubled over, choked on seawater, and then coughed so powerfully that it made a clear indent in the water.

  “Whoa,” Ellen said.

  Pookie sat up. His head lolled back and forth like a marionette with a loose string.

  He coughed and the force of it threw him backward into the water with a splash.

  Dahra ran to pull him up, but he’d done it on his own. He got to his feet, staggering.

  He coughed and it was like an explosion. He flew backward. Like he’d been hit by a car.

  “Oh, my God,” Dahra cried.

  Pookie rolled over, on hands and knees, and coughed again so powerfully that sand flew. Something pink and raw was sprayed across the sand crater.

  “No, no, no,” Dahra moaned and backed away.

  Pookie coughed again and the force of it lifted him up onto his toes, bent him back in a C. Blood sprayed from his mouth and drained out of his ears.

  With blank, uncomprehending eyes he stared at Dahra.

  And fell dead, facedown in the surf.

  No one spoke.

  Dahra barely breathed.

  For several very long seconds Dahra stood paralyzed.

  She blinked. “Ellen, quick, into the water. Get wet all over. Scrub off with your hands!” Dahra followed her own advice. She plunged in and submerged.

  When she came up, she yelled, “Now stay away from Pookie’s body. Stay in the sun for a while. Until you’re dry. Sunlight is supposed to kill flu virus on your skin.”

  “Oh, my God,” Ellen said and her face went pale. “He coughed his insides out.”

  “Just do what I tell you! Face up to the sun, I have to go!”

  She ran back across the beach, her insides churning, panic eating at her.

  She spotted Quinn and the fishing fleet pulling wearily up to the dock down at the marina. She ran as fast as she could, waving her hands over her head to attract attention.

  Quinn and some of the others saw her, they just didn’t understand why she was yelling. Dahra
was sweating hard by the time she reached the dock.

  “No! No! Don’t come any closer!” she yelled to Quinn.

  “What the—”

  “Pookie just died,” Dahra panted. “Flu. Maybe. But, oh, God. Just don’t come any closer. In fact, don’t get off the boats.”

  “I already had the flu,” Cigar said.

  “So did Pookie,” Dahra said. “Listen to me: it’s catching and it’s way bad.”

  Quinn motioned for his people to stay in their boats. “What are we supposed to do, Dahra? We can’t just float around forever.”

  Dahra sighed. “Let me think.”

  “I have to go check on my—,” one of the fishermen said.

  “Shut up, I’m thinking!” Dahra yelled. She had acquired a fair amount of medical knowledge since stupidly volunteering to run the so-called hospital. But that didn’t make her a doctor.

  She remembered reading about flu, though. Nothing spread faster. Nothing mutated and adapted faster. Hand washing removed it, alcohol killed it, sunlight killed it a little, anyway. But once it was in your nose and lungs it could go crazy and kill you. Especially some new strain.

  “Stay in your boats,” Dahra said. “We’re still going to need food. Throw your fish onto the dock. I’ll get Albert to send someone here to collect it. Then go back out, row up the coast a little ways, and camp out.”

  “Camp out?” Quinn echoed.

  “Yes!”

  “You’re serious.”

  “No, it’s my idea of a joke, Quinn,” Dahra snapped. “Pookie just coughed up a lung and fell over dead. You understand what I’m saying? I mean he coughed his actual lungs out of his mouth. Hah hah hah, it’s so funny.”

  Quinn took a step back.

  Dahra waited for him to make up his mind. She had no right to give orders. Except that she knew what was happening and no one else did.

  “Okay,” Quinn said. “There’s a spot just up the shore. Tell Albert to send someone right away for the fish. We have a nice big catch here. We got a shark.”

  “Yeah, whatever.” Dahra’s thoughts were already turning to her next move. The virus was the enemy: she was the general in this battle. But only two thoughts were really clear in her mind: One, Jennifer B had been telling the truth. And two, how could Dahra hope to avoid catching it?