Last Chance--A Novel

by Gregg Hurwitz

  The challenge was daunting. Before we reached the city, we had to hike down off the pass, through the foothills, and across the flats past Lakewood and Springfield and a half dozen other small towns.

  All without being seen.

  “How the hell are we gonna do this?” Alex said.

  I stared at the injured Hatchling, the bands of Drones, the gas-station sign twisting in the wind.

  Then I pulled out Ben’s stun gun and turned to her and Patrick.

  Alex held up her hand. “Lemme guess,” she said. “You’ve got a plan.”

  * * *

  It took us the better part of four hours to climb off the mountains, traverse the foothills, and hike to the base of the pass. Two more hours to make our way unseen up the highway, moving from wrecked car to wrecked car, crawling through culverts, scurrying along drainage ditches at the edge of the road.

  The Drones were sparse in number, moving in groups of three and four. At one point, while we hid behind a stretch of guardrail, we watched them pull a kid from an overturned van in the distance. Before we could react, they marched him off somewhere out of sight. We could hear him crying for help for a few moments after they’d passed from view.

  We had to take a moment to pull ourselves together after that.

  We came up on the gas station from the rear. The jangle of the door to the convenience mart almost scared me out of my boots. We safed the interior and then took turns in the bathroom.

  The water worked. A year ago I never would’ve thought that one day I’d consider washing my face a luxury. I straightened up over the sink, let the cold drops run down the sides of my neck, cutting through the grime.

  When I closed my eyes, I pictured all those Hosts we’d seen dotting roads and woods and highways. Every adult we’d ever known was gone. I shook off the thought and finished cleaning my face. A sign on the wall thanked me for not putting gum or paper products in the urinal. Another reminded me to wash my hands before handling food. How life used to be—when clogged plumbing and proper hygiene were primary concerns.

  I came back out to find Alex chewing on a hot dog from the steel roller grill.

  She shot me a look. “What? I figure it’s impossible for these things to rot. Plus, when’s the last time you had a hot dog?”

  I shrugged and joined her. It wasn’t half bad.

  Patrick drank yellow Gatorade and chewed a Slim Jim, his eyes on the dirty window. We waited.

  An actual tumbleweed blew off the highway and through the pump stations. A neon-green Kawasaki Ninja motorcycle leaned against the air pump. Pieces of cracked black armor were scattered across the parking lot, as if a Drone had been accidentally run over. Something burned on the horizon, sending up a tendril of gray smoke.

  Patrick grabbed a bag of sunflower seeds, and for a time the only noise punctuating the silence was him spitting out the shells. He’d built up a pretty good mound at his boots when he straightened up and flicked his chin at the window. “There.”

  Three Drones worked their way through the hulls of the burned vehicles at the side of the freeway.

  Alex cleared her throat dramatically, pretended to fluff up her choppy hair, and glanced over at me. “I’m ready for my close-up.”

  Then she stepped out through the front door. This one also was keyed to a chime alert. The noise rolled across the pumps and the parking lot. Over on the freeway, the Drones’ shiny helmets swung around.

  Alex stopped by the pump. Pretended to spot them. Then ran back inside.

  They followed.

  Patrick hid in the snack aisle. I ducked behind the counter.

  After a minute the Drones charged in.

  Alex backed to the opposite wall, in clear sight.

  The Drones swept into the mart, breezing right past me.

  Alex threw an arm across her forehead. “I’m just a helpless Unnamed Girl here for the taking.”

  The Drones halted, seemingly confused.

  I stepped behind them, stun gun raised. I placed it at the base of the nearest Drone’s helmet and fired, steel rod smacking through the armor. Black smoke burst out, hot against my arm.

  Before the remaining Drones could react, I spun to the next one and pierced his suit, too, firing the rod into the back of his shoulder. He shot forward across the floor and skidded into Alex’s shins, knocking her over.

  As I swung the gun toward the third Drone, he grabbed my wrist with an armored glove. The pressure was crushing. His other hand reached for my eyes, the fingers flexing. I had a premonition of him puncturing my eye sockets, gripping my head like a bowling ball.

  Patrick seized him from behind, and the Drone’s grasping hand swung wide. But his grip on my wrist didn’t relent. I fought the gun toward his face mask, but he was much stronger than me. He kicked Patrick free and grabbed my wrist with his other hand, too, turning the stun gun around toward my own face. My arm trembled as I tried to move it away, but he overpowered me.

  Patrick had flown into a rack of potato chips. He was trying to untangle himself, but the rack clanged around, stuck on his foot like a massive bear trap. Alex kicked her way out from beneath the now-empty suit of armor that had knocked her over.

  For the moment I was on my own.

  And a moment was about all I had.

  I shoved the Drone with my other hand. No good. He continued to force the stun gun around until it was aimed between my eyes. The tip of the steel rod brushed my forehead. I fought it a few inches away, but the Drone bore down again. He was going to force me to shoot myself in the head.

  I did the only thing I could.

  I released the stun gun.

  It tumbled between us, his helmet dipping to watch it fall. I caught it with my other hand. Jammed it against his stomach.

  And fired.

  The face mask swung up to look at me an instant before he geysered through the hole. He slid back on his boots a few feet but somehow managed to plug the hole with his finger and keep his balance at the same time.

  I lunged forward with the stun gun and punched another hole in his thigh. He clamped over it with his other hand.

  He looked at me helplessly, essence misting through his fingers like a slow-leaking balloon.

  He was out of hands.

  I raised the gun again. But I didn’t need to use it.

  He sank to one knee.

  Stared up at me

  And then his hands went limp at his sides, the last of the smoke sighing through the holes. His helmet bowed.

  He stayed that way, kneeling like a disgraced samurai.

  Patrick finally stepped free, showering bags of Cool Ranch everywhere.

  Alex got up and set one foot on the black armor before her like a big-game hunter. She stared down at the suit appraisingly.

  “It’ll do,” she said.

  ENTRY 47

  JoJo hopped the Head of Bunny across the mattress fort and onto Rocky’s arm. He was stretching his ankle this way and that. Over the past few days, it had improved a lot; he’d even practiced jogging in the halls. Bunny drew no reaction, so JoJo had her jump up and down on Rocky’s head.

  “Stop it,” he finally said.

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s annoying.”

  “Why?”

  “Because who wants their head jumped on?”

  Bunny’s head jumped off Rocky’s head and onto his shoulder. Then she hopped up and down there.

  Rocky said, “You are so irritating. Have Bunny stop jumping on me completely, okay?”

  JoJo removed Bunny’s head from her brother. Then she held Bunny’s ears and swayed her an inch in front of Rocky’s eyes.

  Rocky was about to get mad when they heard voices outside. Rocky grabbed JoJo, and they flattened onto the mattresses. The voices grew louder.

  Rocky and JoJo crept across Mr. Tomasi’s classroom to the windows and peered out.

  Two high-school-age kids scurried through the gate onto the front lawn, shooting glances over their shoulders. One of
them wore a T-shirt that said STARK PEAK MONARCHS TRACK & FIELD, which sported the cartoon image of an old king with a scepter and crown. The king wore sandals with wings on them. The other kid was small and scrawny with thoughtful eyes. Shoes flopped on his feet. They looked four sizes too big.

  The kids crept closer to the building, stopping by the classroom next door. JoJo and Rocky had to crane their necks to keep them in sight. A whispered conversation drifted up through the open window.

  “—think it’s safe?”

  “I don’t know. It is gated.”

  Then came a familiar voice that sent ice up JoJo’s spine: “What are you guys doing here?”

  Ben Braaten stepped into view. He headed toward the Stark Peak kids, walking right past the window where JoJo and Rocky perched. Mikey followed him, an even bigger presence. Their shadows flickered across JoJo’s face.

  “Look,” one of the others said. “We’re not picking any fights.”

  “That’s wise,” Ben said. “What’s your name?”

  “I’m Nick and this is—”

  “You’re from Stark Peak High?” Mikey said. “Monarchs suck.”

  The old rivalry.

  “Why are you in our town?” Ben asked.

  “We just want to be anywhere but Stark Peak,” Nick said. “The Invaders took it over.”

  “Why’d you come here?”

  “There’s these kids who saved us from the Eyeless when we were trapped up at the Lawrenceville Cannery. I’d met them before. They’re from here. I came to find them.”

  “Who?”

  “The younger one’s named Chance. The older one’s Patrick.”

  “They saved you?” Mikey said.

  “Yeah. They have, like, superpowers or something.”

  JoJo could only see Ben from behind, but still she sensed him bristle.

  “Superpowers?” Ben said.

  “Yeah. The Invaders knew Chance by name. And Patrick, too.”

  “The Harvesters. Know Chance and Patrick. By name.”

  “Yeah. They, like, analyzed Chance’s body, and it showed some reading. They were searching for it. Chance and his brother have something the Invaders are scared of. Like a threat to them. They said Chance had to be ‘voided.’ But then he escaped. And he saved us.”

  Mikey smacked Ben’s arm. “I told you. I told you there was something weird going on with that helmet and everything.”

  Nick said, “I thought it might be safer here with them.”

  “This is my turf, not theirs,” Ben said. “And I want you off it.”

  “C’mon, man. We’ve been hiking for days.”

  Ben stepped up on him. “Let me make this clear. You’re small and you’re weak, and I don’t want you around. You’re not welcome here.”

  “Look, it’s daylight. Can we at least hole up until nightfall, when it’s safer?”

  Ben said, “Start walking.”

  Nick took a step back and looked at his friend. “C’mon,” he said. “Let’s split.”

  They jogged off through the gate and across the street, bent over in some sort of combat run. Ben and Mikey watched them go. A few feet behind Ben’s head, JoJo and Rocky watched them go, too. Finally the Stark Peak boys vanished around the side of the Swishers’ old house.

  “Now,” Ben said, “let’s get my gun back.”

  He started toward the school’s front doors.

  Mikey hesitated. “I don’t want to go back in there.”

  “Don’t be such a wuss,” Ben said. “It’s safe by now.”

  “I don’t know. We been out here awhile. What if one of them heard us?”

  “No one heard us,” Ben said. “Now, come on. We’ve got some searching to do.”

  JoJo pulled away from the window and shivered. Next to her, Rocky let out a shaky breath.

  They watched Ben and Mikey make their way into the school.

  ENTRY 48

  Getting into a Drone suit was harder than I thought. First I had to pry free the helmet, which took a crowbar from the gas station’s garage and a lot of exertion. Once it popped off, more problems presented themselves. How could I get into the suit itself when it was all a single airtight piece? I couldn’t exactly climb through the neckhole.

  Alex and Patrick watched me work my way around the suit, searching for zippers, catches, hidden buttons—anything. But no, it was perfectly smooth.

  I finally decided to put on the helmet.

  It lit up at once, and I saw that I could control it like the Rebel helmet by issuing commands. Once I’d gotten the hang of it, I said, “How do I get into the suit?”

  Nothing.

  “Get the space suit on me.”

  Still it lay there, inert.

  I said, “Open armor.”

  A seam opened down the midline of the armor. We watched in amazement as it peeled open from the neck to the chest to the stomach, as if being sliced with an invisible laser.

  I sat on the floor and wiggled my way into the suit.

  Then I said, “Armor close.”

  It zippered shut around me, conforming to my body. It was incredibly comfortable—tough and flexible at the same time. It felt like a second skin, the technology knitting around my shape, seeming to anticipate my movements as I stood up.

  I stared through the face mask at Patrick and Alex.

  “Whoa,” Alex said. “This is so weird. I totally want to kill you right now.”

  The air tasted like metal and oil. I found myself getting light-headed.

  Then I remembered: It was airtight. Aside from the tiny hole I’d made with the stun gun.

  I took off the helmet and aerated it with the stun gun, punching two holes beneath the chin where they’d be hidden but close to my mouth.

  When I put the helmet back on, the air tasted a bit fresher.

  Patrick and Alex set about armoring themselves next. They’d never worn a helmet before, and they staggered around more than I did, finding their balance. They kept knocking into the shelves.

  “You need to practice walking outside,” I said. “More room.”

  I walked to the door, reached for the handle, and tore it clear off.

  “Oops.”

  I dropped the handle on the floor and flexed my glove. It would take some work to acclimate myself to the strength contained in the armor.

  We stepped out through the doors. Though I found the suit freakishly fluid, there was a half-second delay between my wanting to reach for something and my arm actually doing it.

  Patrick practiced running around the pumps, his legs pistoning powerfully. Alex did deep knee bends and then jumped a few times, testing the suit’s weight.

  We were so occupied with our new armor that we didn’t notice the two giant cattle trucks.

  Not until they’d pulled in to the gas station.

  We turned as they eased up to the pumps. Three Drones filed out of each cab. They took a few steps in our direction. Halted in a line.

  I could see our reflections in their face masks. I glanced nervously over at Patrick and Alex. The hole in the thigh of my brother’s armor seemed obvious. The one in his stomach looked like a friggin’ belly button. They were too obvious. There was no way the Drones wouldn’t notice.

  Bracing myself to fight, I looked at the Drones. Their unreadable face masks pointed at us.

  My breath echoed around in my suit like crazy.

  They stared at us.

  We stared back.

  Two of the Drones reached for gas nozzles and started filling up the trucks’ tanks.

  The others walked around to the livestock holds. They were packed with kids. A few bulging eyes peered through the slats. A little kid’s fingers wiggled out the side near the bottom. Someone was shrieking, “Can’t breathe! Can’t breathe!”

  The gas pumps clicked off, and the Drones filed back into the cabs. They looked out the windows, nodded at us again.

  We nodded back.

  They pulled out, driving for Stark Peak.

&nb
sp; The cries of children lingered in their wake.

  I thought about those small fingers I’d seen poking out of the hold. No bigger than JoJo’s. Something fired to life inside my chest. Anger. At Ben Braaten. At the pieces of our friends littering the halls of Creek’s Cause High. At saying good-bye to Eve. At the Hosts and the Drones and the Hatchlings. At a new world where little kids were packed into the backs of cattle trucks.

  I was staring at the Ninja motorcycle leaning against the air pump.

  Fire spread inside me, my temper igniting. Maybe I could have stopped it, but I didn’t want to. Yielding to the rage felt so much sweeter. I was already walking, my step charged.

  “Chance,” Patrick said. “No.”

  Rocketing out of the gas station on the neon-green Kawasaki, I thought, Too late.

  I blasted toward the cattle trucks. As I zoomed up on them, it seemed like they were flying backward at me. I’d done plenty of off-road dirt-bike riding on the mounds behind Britney Durant’s house, but those beat-up little motorcycles were nothing compared to this. This was flying a rocket.

  I steadied the motorcycle and steered close to the first cattle car. I reached out an armored hand, grabbed hold of the rear gate, and clenched.

  My hand literally crumpled into the metal.

  I tore the rear gate open.

  As it swung wide, my front wheel wobbled. I grabbed the grips with both hands, the bike cutting sharply, almost hurling me off. I righted myself just in time.

  Kids were shouting and clamoring in the back. Two of the bigger kids released the ramp, which slid down and started sparking along the asphalt. The cattle truck veered and slowed some. But not much.

  As I zipped ahead, one of the Drones reached out of the passenger seat and tried to knock me off the bike. I grabbed his arm and gave a little tug.

  He hit the highway, black smoke bursting from his joints. The armor rattled off in various directions.

  I revved ahead to the second cattle car. It was already slowing down.