by Wesley King
The sky was bursting with energy—clouds roiling and twisting and stretching across the sky like fingers while lightning split the darkness. The electrostatic readings from Bug, which was still up in the clouds, were beyond anything Marcus had seen in all his research. He risked another glimpse at his cell phone. This storm was different, stronger. It was just as he had guessed: The storms were a clock, and they were counting down to today. But why? What would he find in the heart of the storm? And would he even make it there alive?
Either way, Marcus was going to test his one and only theory. He had to try.
Turning onto a busy street, Marcus pedaled even harder, rain pouring down his face. He knew he looked like a drowned rat, and he could see cars driving by with people shaking their heads at anyone stupid enough to be outside in this weather. They didn’t know the half of it. It was about to get stupider.
The lightning was flashing like a strobe light now, the deluge so thick that even the many disapproving faces were blurred. Marcus could barely see where he was going, but he was riding on pure instinct: Get to the heart of the storm. He had a feeling he would know what to do when he got there.
Scanning the sky for drones, Marcus thought back to the day his dad had left.
The memory was vague, maybe as much his imagination as anything else. The windowpanes were rattling, and Marcus remembered the branches of the oak behind their house scratching against the glass like fingers. He was in the living room, watching his favorite movie, The Wizard of Oz. Marcus had seen the movie dozens of times—he and his father had watched it for as long as Marcus could remember. George loved the movie, and he passed that love down to Marcus. He used to sit with Marcus on his lap, and at least once during the film, he would lean in and whisper, “Remember, if you can weather the storm, you’ll find home on the other side.” Marcus never thought anything of it—he was more interested in the flying monkeys. It would be years before Marcus realized that maybe there was something more to his father’s words. A clue.
That night, though, Marcus was watching the movie alone. Dorothy’s house had just been swept up in the clouds, and she was staring out in disbelief as her former life floated by, followed soon after by the witch.
She was bringing the past with her, good and evil.
The doorbell rang, and Marcus almost jumped off the couch. He suddenly heard thumping footsteps from down the hall, and his dad appeared in the hallway, pulling on a Windbreaker and forcing a smile that even Marcus thought was weird. He pulled open the door, and Jack hurried inside, wiping his foggy glasses.
His father grabbed Jack’s hand, shaking it a lot more tightly than usual.
“Thanks, Jack,” George said quietly. “I’ll be back soon.”
Jack nodded. “I’ll keep an eye on him; don’t worry.”
Marcus started to get up, sensing that something was wrong, but his father walked over to him and laid a strong hand on his shoulder. He smiled again.
“I have to run to the office for a bit,” he said.
“Why?” Marcus asked. “It’s nighttime.”
“There’s a problem. I’ll be back soon—don’t worry.”
He paused for a moment and then gave Marcus a little shake, noticing his son’s worried look as he stared at the raging storm outside their window.
“A little storm never stopped Dorothy, did it?”
Marcus smiled. “No.”
“And it won’t stop us either. See you soon, son. Try not to fly to Oz tonight.”
And just like that, he was out the door, not looking back even once. The door was almost blown off its hinges when he opened it, and then Marcus watched as two red taillights faded into the night. The police found the car later on the outskirts of the city, abandoned. They never found any trace of George Brimley, though—no sign of struggle, no DNA outside the car. Nothing. It was like he had never even existed.
Marcus veered right and narrowly avoided a fire hydrant. He risked a wipe to his glasses, which were completely fogged over, and looked up to see that the dark cloud was almost over him. There was another brilliant flash of lightning.
And then he felt a familiar tingling down his spine.
Glancing back, Marcus saw something drop below the clouds. Red eyes.
At least five of the drones were overhead, tracking him across the city. Whatever Marcus was about to find, it was clear the drones were trying to stop him. Marcus wondered if he was actually in danger this time. A tingling heat raced through him, his stomach twisting like a pretzel.
He biked as hard as he could, sloshing around in his Adidas. He was soaked to the bone and freezing, but he didn’t care. The massive black cloud was almost right over him.
The drones flew lower, like a flock of birds. They moved silently, eerily, staying in close formation. They were almost serene, but Marcus knew they were probably loaded with weaponry. At any moment, they could decide to blow him to pieces.
Cursing, he weaved out onto the road and back to the sidewalk again before wheeling down a side street, trying to lose them. But it was useless. The drones were always above him, slowly descending like an arrow pointed at his back. He waited for the end. For the flash of light. Desperate, Marcus made one last dash for the center of the storm, thinking for just a moment how crazy it was that he was chasing a cloud.
Especially one that was shooting forks of lightning out toward the ground.
“Leave me alone!” he shouted as a drone slipped into his vision.
It was even larger than he thought, probably the size of a fighter jet. It was as black as night, and its crimson eye seemed almost alive, flicking over to him like it was studying his every move. That’s when Marcus noticed the symbol.
It was painted onto the black hull, just slightly visible in the storm. One large rectangle and two smaller ones on either side. And above the smaller rectangles: eyes.
He had seen that symbol once before . . . sort of. When his father had first disappeared, Marcus snuck into his study—a place that had always been strictly off-limits.
It was mostly empty, aside from a few scribbled notes and work files. But there, carved into the wooden desk, were three rectangles. The same ones Marcus was staring at now, but without the eyes watching overhead.
Was it a warning from his father? And what were those ominous eyes?
The drone flew closer again, now barely ten feet away. It was right beside Marcus, almost forcing him off the street. Marcus turned back to the road.
Why were the drones flying so low? Were they trying to take him alive? Or were they just trying to stop him from reaching the center of the storm?
Whatever their plan was, it wouldn’t work. He lifted his head and found himself right beneath the darkest part of the sky, where the lightning was almost constant.
Suddenly, a drone wheeled in front of Marcus, blocking his path. He shouted and wrenched his handle to the right, teetering off balance and heading straight for a waiting tree. But he never made impact.
There was a blinding flash of electric blue, fizzling and crackling and strangely warm, and then Marcus had the distinct sensation of flying off his bike.
He caught a glimpse of white light and immediately realized what had happened.
He’d been struck by lightning.
He was dead.
Chapter
9
Dree trudged down the street toward city center, disheartened and bitter. She had spent yesterday flying on the back of a dragon, and today she was going to go back to the forge to grovel at Master Wilhelm for her underpaid job back. Well, that or beg someone else to take her on instead. She had a feeling Wilhelm wouldn’t be overly forgiving.
Even though I’m twice the welder he is, she thought.
Her stomach growled, and she realized she hadn’t even thought to grab breakfast before she left. There wouldn’t have been much to cho
ose from: stale bread, moldy potatoes, or a mash of wheat and grains called lavash that her mom made, but it was better than nothing. She certainly didn’t have the money to go buy anything from one of the merchants or vendors in the market. And that was before she was fired.
As she approached downtown Dracone—the raucous morning noise already echoing around her—she looked around, envious of her surroundings. Dracone became progressively nicer as one headed downtown, where the houses were large and manicured and every now and then an enormous mansion was perched on the side of the street, gleaming and palatial. Metal was the new trend now, forged into massive doors and pillars or slapped against wood and brick for no reason. It was the hot new material—it was the future.
The mills and forges were churning out new products, and the people loved it.
The mansions Dree passed housed the wealthy citizens of Dracone. These were the new capitalists who invested in roads and bonds and traded in the thriving dragon market: fangs and scales and even great black hearts, which were thought to bring power to those who ate them. It was disgusting, but it was the way things were now.
It didn’t used to be like this. Dracone’s elite used to be royals or generals, and especially the old dragon-rider families, like Dree’s, whose riches had been passed down for generations. They were respected and generous—they cared about the poor and built schools and hospitals. There was a thriving middle class back then, and the ancient families felt responsible for the city and its people, working with the king to ensure that food and water were available for everyone. Now Dracone’s most powerful citizens were the businesspeople who cared only about money. The downtown core thrived, while the poor slums were forgotten. For the downtrodden, there was nothing but rats and fetid lake water.
Dree watched as a woman walked past, wearing an onyx chest plate and twin fang earrings. Half of her hair was shaved off, and the other half was dyed crimson. If she noticed Dree, she didn’t show it. The rich didn’t look at the poor, unless it was with disdain or annoyance, like how they might look at an inconveniently placed puddle.
Dree scowled, her mood darkening. Why should she be the ignored one? She could ride dragons and had fire in her skin—she should have been a rider instead of a beggar.
Her eyes fell on the great mountains in the distance. If it wasn’t for Abi, she would leave right now. She would live with Lourdvang in the mountains and forget about everything down in Dracone. But she had a family to take care of.
As she walked, Dree looked with disdain at some of the wooden stands that had been set up in the more suburban areas—obviously by merchants hoping to catch the wealthy citizens on their way to work. Her eyes fell on one large stand in particular, and she stopped immediately. Without thinking, she stormed over, enraged.
A bowl was perched there, catching the rays of the morning sun and sparkling magnificently. It looked to have been forged of several pieces of gold, overlapping one another, not quite creating a smooth surface. When she picked it up, the bowl was extremely heavy and as hard as iron. She knew it. It wasn’t made of gold, it was made of dragon scales.
“Do you have the money for that bowl, girl?” the merchant, a grotesque older woman with heavy eyeliner and no eyebrows, asked, rising from her chair.
“Is this new?” Dree asked quietly.
“I should hope so,” the merchant snarled. “They killed the dragon three days ago. Cost me a fortune for just a few scales, which is why I will be selling it for a fortune as well. Now hand it over, girl. You look like a stray dog in clothes—you can’t afford that.”
She snatched the bowl out of Dree’s hands and carefully put it back in its place.
Dree stood there, bristling. She longed to put her hand on the haphazard wooden frame and burn the entire stand to the ground. But she would just end up in prison, and the scales wouldn’t even be touched. What did it matter anyway? The Sage was already dead—killed because of human greed. It probably hadn’t even fought back. Dree felt sick.
Leaving the stand, she started for Wilhelm’s Forge, scowling and muttering.
“You people make me sick,” she said, looking around. “All of you.”
She hadn’t made it far when a sudden gust of wind picked up, blowing a cloud of dust across the road. Dree frowned and covered her eyes as the wind grew even stronger, pushing her sideways. Dirt and trash roared past Dree, and she heard people shouting, though she could barely open her eyes to see them. Just as she was stumbling toward the far side of the street, looking for cover, she heard a startled gasp and caught a glimpse of a boy rolling hard across the cobblestone street. The howling wind stopped instantly, as if it had never been there, and Dree lowered her hands.
Her eyes fell on the boy, lying sprawled out on the road and soaked to the bone. He was dressed unlike anyone she had ever seen: a green short-sleeved shirt, dark blue pants that seemed a bit too tight, and orange shoes that looked like striped flowers. He had unusual gray eyes, and his mop of ebony hair matched the thick frames of his glasses, while his face was pale and peaked, with light freckles on his nose.
Marcus looked around, his eyes wide. He turned to Dree and frowned.
“Am I dead?” he whispered.
“Uh . . . no,” she said.
He quickly climbed to his feet and tried to walk, but instead did a little wobble and almost pitched backward onto the street. Dree grabbed his arm and steadied him.
“Are you all right?” she asked, still examining his strange attire.
“Not . . . sure,” he managed. “How can this . . . I knew it! But who are you? Where am I? How is this possible?”
Dree raised her eyebrows, examining the clearly insane boy in front of her. She was tempted to just leave him there, but he seemed helpless and lost. Sighing, she pulled him toward a back alley where he could lean against the wall and get his bearings without people constantly bumping into him. The crowd was already hurrying past again, shooting him bewildered looks when they saw his clothes and then continuing on.
Dree led Marcus to the alley and straightened him up. He started to regain his composure, and he scanned over the chaotic street. Shops and homes were tucked closely together, brick and gray stone, while the people wore a mixture of bizarre outfits and wool peasant clothes. The smells assaulted his nostrils: smoke and sweat and worse.
“Interesting,” he said. “It’s like the Industrial Revolution here. Is that a smokestack?”
“Who are you?” Dree asked.
Marcus turned back to her, and for the first time took a closer look at the girl standing in front of him. She was wearing coarse brown clothes and hide boots, while her exposed arms were sun-kissed and formed like tempered steel. Normally, a girl like that would have caused him to go as red as a fire hydrant and forget how to speak English, but he was a bit preoccupied at the moment. She was very pretty though—like a warrior elf character out of Dungeons & Dragons. Brian would have passed out.
“Marcus. Where am I? What’s your name?”
“Dree,” she replied, watching him closely as he took an object out of his pocket and checked it. “And you’re in Dracone.”
“An alter-world? I knew it! Do you know a George—”
He suddenly stopped, his eyes narrowing.
“What’s wrong?” Dree asked.
Marcus stepped past her, still staring up at the sky. “Impossible.”
Dree followed his gaze. Far ahead, just below one of the scattered clouds that was lazily drifting across the morning sky, were two black dots. They seemed to be floating. Each had a red eye blazing like a furnace and watching the city below, unblinking. Dree instantly thought of dragons, but the objects didn’t seem to be moving. Instead, the clouds just rolled over them like water over a stone. As she squinted for a better view, she saw three more shapes, as white as the clouds and almost invisible in the daylight. They were larger than the red-eyed ones, though
they had the same triangular shape and seemed just as motionless. They were all just waiting above the city. Watching.
“What are those things?” Dree asked.
He never got a chance to answer. A streak of light filled the sky, and then one of the shops across the street exploded into a massive fireball.
Dree and Marcus staggered backward as a cloud of debris swept over the block, spraying the busy street with fragments of wood and brick. There was a brief moment of silence as the darkness blocked out the sun, and then screams erupted everywhere as people picked themselves up and saw the massive crater where a shop had once been. Dree looked up and saw the black and white shapes dropping toward the city, moving in a perfect triangle. They moved gracefully—no flapping wings or tails or feet. Just silent death.
Marcus heard a sudden burst of noise cut through the city like the frantic beating of a drum. The drones had switched to their machine guns, and they were leveling the neighborhood.
Marcus pushed past Dree, his eyes on the sky.
“What are they doing?” he said faintly.
As they watched, the drones continued their attack. Houses and buildings burst apart or collapsed. People were gunned down relentlessly as they tried to run away. The drones were laying utter waste to the city, and they were doing so directly on a path to Marcus and Dree.
“I would be more concerned with what they’re about to do,” Dree snapped, grabbing Marcus’s arm and pulling him into the alley. “We need to go.”
“Where?”
She looked around, trying to get her bearings. Her brother Rochin lived only a few blocks away, in an apartment building on the edge of the downtown core.
It would have to do.
“Follow me,” she said, starting down the narrow alley. She looked back and saw Marcus still staring out at the drones. “Now!” she shouted.
He jerked and took off after her, the sounds of screaming following close behind them. Dree hadn’t heard screams like that in years. Not since the day of the fire.