Peter brushed his fingers over Amanda’s forehead, pushing back the stray strands of hair plastered there. “I’ll be back,” he said softly. “But I have to go do something first. Don’t—”
His voice broke, and it took a minute to regain his composure. “I’ll see you again,” he said, more firmly this time. “I’m coming back with a cure. Wait for me.”
Peter nervously shifted the backpack, the weight of the hard drives heavy against his lower back. It was freezing outside the bus terminal, an icy wind buffeting him as he sat on a bench, waiting.
He’d spent the past few days on buses, frequently backtracking, meandering across the country in an unpredictable pattern designed to throw off any pursuers. So far, at least, it appeared to have worked. He’d studied the faces of every fellow passenger from Boston to St. Louis, Memphis to Columbus; none had been familiar. They all looked as tired and worn as he felt, resigned to rattling across the uneven topography of America’s back roads and highways in rickety Greyhounds.
The miles had given him time to think, his mind running over the same tracks over and over like the groove in a record. He wondered how Charles Pike had reacted to finding Mason locked up in his building, and all his medical research gone. He wondered if Amanda had regained consciousness yet. He wondered what his parents thought of the note he’d left, explaining that he was leaving and never coming back. Had they sent anyone after him? Did they even want him found?
It didn’t matter anymore. Because he’d finally arrived.
Peter wished the terminal was still open so that he could at least grab a warm drink from a vending machine. It was almost three a.m., and the few passengers who had disembarked with him had already vanished into the night. This was a desolate stretch of land on the outskirts of Omaha, a rickety depot with only a few slots for buses to park and offload passengers. Most of the spaces were occupied by silent, still metal behemoths whose tinted windows seemed to be glaring at him. The single bulb overhead barely penetrated the shadows. It was spooky as hell. He had to fight the sense that he was the last person left alive after some terrible apocalyptic event.
Headlights approaching. Peter jumped to his feet, relieved. If they hadn’t shown up, he didn’t know what he would have done. This was as far as he’d planned.
The lights swung into the parking lot, bouncing up and down as they navigated through a pothole. An ancient SUV stopped a few feet away, its engine idling.
The rear passenger door opened, and Noa got out. They stood there for a minute staring at each other, then Peter nodded and said, “Hey.”
“Hey.” She looked thinner than he remembered, and paler. Older, too, like the past few months had aged her in some incalculable way.
But then, he probably looked much the same. “It’s good to see you.”
“You, too,” she said, smiling thinly. It was hard to tell if she meant it, though. Her voice sounded weary, defeated. This wasn’t the same girl who had left him four months ago, determined to wage war against a massive conspiracy.
“Is Zeke in the car?”
Her face fell. “No. Zeke . . . He didn’t make it.”
“Oh. God, Noa. I’m sorry.” Peter wanted to take her into his arms and offer some comfort, but she actually took a step back and went rigid.
“Amanda’s sick,” he said, hands dangling uselessly by his sides. “PEMA.”
“Bastards,” she spat.
“Yeah. But I’ve got new data. I think that maybe this time, there’s something there.”
Noa just shrugged, which worried him. He wasn’t expecting her to jump up and down with elation, especially not at this hour, but some sort of positive reaction would’ve been nice.
“So where are we going?” he asked.
Noa’s shoulders slumped even farther. “I have no idea,” she said, looking utterly bereft. “It’s all gone. They’re all gone.”
“Hey.” He reached out and rubbed her arm awkwardly. “It’s okay. We’ll figure it out together, all right?”
She raised her head to look at him. They stared at each other for a long moment. Finally, a flicker of a smile flitted across her mouth. “I could really use some of your eggs.”
He laughed, feeling inexplicably relieved. “Yeah? Well, this time I’ll try not to burn them.”
They smiled at each other for another beat, then she gestured to the backseat and said, “We should get off the streets.”
“Definitely,” Peter answered firmly. “Let’s get out of here.”
You probably heard that we’re beaten, that we’ve been taken out. That Project Persephone managed to crush us.
Well, it’s not true. We’re still here—in smaller numbers, but those of us who are left are stronger than ever. And we’re coming for them.
We still need help. The people we’re facing are ruthless and cruel, and they’ll stop at nothing to get what they want. There is a cure for PEMA, and they have it.
We’re going to get it from them.
Even if it kills us.
Stay strong. Protect each other. And know that this fight is far from over.
Posted by PER5EF0NE on February 22nd
/ALLIANCE/ /NEKRO/ /#PERSEF_ARMY/
<<<<>>>>
Acknowledgments
It’s funny that while writing a trilogy about hackers, I’ve ended up dealing with more computer gremlins that at any other point in my career; the PERSEF0NE curse, maybe? This time around, human error was involved when 30,000 feet above Bakersfield, a flight attendant accidentally spilled an entire glass of liquid onto my laptop. Fortunately, the stars at Hard Drive 911 were able to salvage my nascent draft of Don’t Look Now, and all was not lost. But suffice it to say that now I’m officially the queen of backing up data. I like to think that would make Noa and Peter proud. (And thanks to Southwest Airlines for covering all the costs. Despite this mishap, they remain my favorite airline.)
Because of my hard-drive issues the last time around, I made an egregious oversight in the acknowledgments of Don’t Turn Around. Rocket Science Consulting is a real company that specializes in IT services, web design, and truly epic Friday happy hours at their San Francisco office. CEO Matt McGraw was kind enough to allow me use of the company name to serve as Noa’s fictitious employer for freelance work, and I, inexcusably, forgot to thank him. So as promised, there’s a muffin basket en route, along with my sincerest apologies. On the bright side, my frequent computer headaches promise them much future business. They’re also located in New York, Los Angeles, and Portland, and I highly recommend them for anything computer related. (Consider that an extra thanks, Matt.)
Diem Ha was my roommate at Wesleyan University junior and senior year. She’s a fantastic person to live with, and if I ever got carted off in an ambulance, she would insist on climbing in to escort me to the hospital (unlike her namesake in the book).
Kelly Essoe kindly provided me with post-op surgical forms, which helped enormously with research. I’m also indebted to Colin Dangel, who responded quickly to any and all Beantown-related queries.
And once again, tech guru Bruce Davis not only wrote the informative “Top Ten Techniques a Hacker May Have Already Tried on You” (still available on Pitch Dark!), he also painstakingly combed through a draft of the manuscript to make sure that I didn’t confuse KiBs with MiBs. I owe him a huge debt.
Beta readers Noah Wang and Marissa Gaylin helped ensure that this was the cleanest, most accurate manuscript possible—and as teenagers, they would know. Any remaining errors belong to me and me alone.
I really can’t say enough good things about the amazing folks at HarperTeen—working with them has been an absolute pleasure.
Karen Chaplin is the best editor I’ve ever worked with, period. She’s also extremely generous with deadline extensions, a novelty that I’ve deeply appreciated.
Olivia deLeon is my dream publicist—this series couldn’t have a better champion. And Barbara Lalicki has been a great person to have in my corner.
&nb
sp; My crack copyediting team—Brenna Franzitta and Aaron Murray—never cease to amaze me with their ability to unearth mistakes in what I had believed was a perfect manuscript. In fact, it’s a safe bet that they caught some errors in the previous sentence and corrected them before this went to print.
I’m graced with the best agent on the planet, Stephanie Kip Rostan. Not only is Steph an astute editor and agent, her market savvy and taste in dining establishments can’t be beat. I’m exceedingly fortunate to have her and the rest of the team at Levine Greenberg representing my work.
The plight of the foster kids in this trilogy, while it has been fictionalized, is sadly all too real. Nearly 40 percent of former foster children end up living on the streets after they turn eighteen. Fortunately, a fantastic nonprofit has been formed to help. Every donation goes directly to a foster kid who is aging out of the system, supporting their educational and life needs through crowdfunding. And any amount of money helps. Please visit www.rising-tides.org for more information.
Thanks, as always, to my family, for tolerating “working vacations” and not minding when I vanish into my writing cave for extended periods. I promise to always come back out.
Finally, years ago I met the perfect man, but at the time I was too young and foolish to realize it. Luckily, nearly two decades later, we got a second chance. So it seemed appropriate to dedicate the second book of this trilogy to Kirk, my first and last reader. There’s no one I’d rather eat eggs with, burnt or otherwise.
About the Author
MICHELLE GAGNON has been a modern dancer, a dog walker, a bartender, a freelance journalist, a personal trainer, and a model. Her bestselling thrillers for adults have been published in numerous countries and include The Tunnels, Boneyard, The Gatekeeper, and Kidnap & Ransom. In a starred review, Kirkus Reviews called Don’t Turn Around, her first novel for young adults and the first book in the trilogy about Noa and Peter, a “pulse-pounding scary-great read. A surefire hit.” You can visit Michelle online at www.michellegagnon.com.
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Also by Michelle Gagnon
DON’T TURN AROUND
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Credits
Cover photo illustration © 2013 by Sammy Yuen
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Cover design by Sammy Yuen
Copyright
Don’t Look Now
Copyright © 2013 by HarperCollins Publishers
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