Hunger_A Gone Novel

by Michael Grant

  at the bottom of that mine shaft. Caine imagined himself

  cutting that rope, picking up an ax, raising it high above his

  head, bringing it down with all his might. . . .

  Ruthless and unafraid. Like he had been with Diana.

  With both Dianas.

  “Have to,” he whispered to himself.

  “Have to cut it,” he said.

  “Maybe I will,” he muttered.

  But he doubted very much that he could.

  “He’s hungry,” Little Pete said.

  “You mean you’re hungry,” Astrid corrected automatically.

  Like Little Pete’s major problem was bad grammar.

  She was in Sam’s office at town hall. People were coming

  and going. Kids with requests or complaints. Some Astrid

  dealt with herself. Some she wrote down for Sam.

  One thing Sam was right about: This couldn’t go on. Kids

  coming in to ask for someone to arbitrate sibling rivalries, or

  asking whether it was okay for them to watch a PG-13 DVD,

  or asking Sam to decide whether they could stop wearing

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  their retainer. It was ridiculous.

  “He’s hungry,” Little Pete said. He was hunched over his

  Game Boy, intent on the game.

  “Do you want something to eat?” Astrid asked absentmindedly. “I could maybe find something.”

  “He can’t talk.”

  “Sure you can talk, Petey, when you try.”

  “I won’t let him. His words are bad.”

  Astrid looked over at him. There was a slight smile on

  Little Pete’s face.

  “And he’s hungry,” Little Pete said, whispering now. “Hungry in the dark.”

  “Because Sam said so, that’s why,” Edilio said for maybe the

  millionth time. “Because if we don’t pick the food, we’re all

  going to get very, very hungry, that’s why.”

  “Can I do it another time?” the kid asked.

  “Little dude, that’s when everyone wants to do it: some

  other time. But we got melons need picking. So just get on the

  bus. Bring a hat, if you have one. Let’s go.”

  Edilio stood holding the front door of the house, waiting for the kid to find his Fairly OddParents cap. His mood, already gloomy, was not improving as the morning wore on.

  He had twenty-eight kids on the bus, all complaining, all

  wanting to go to the bathroom, all hungry or thirsty, squabbling, whining, crying.

  It was almost eleven already. By the time he got them to

  the fields it would be noon and they’d be asking for lunch.

  He was determined to tell them to pick their lunch. Pick your

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  lunch, it’s right there in front of you. Yes, I mean melons. I

  don’t care if you don’t like melons, that’s your lunch.

  Thirty kids, counting himself. If they worked hard for

  four hours they could harvest maybe seventy, eighty melons

  each. Which sounded like a lot until you divided it by three

  hundred-plus hungry mouths and you started to realize that

  it took a whole lot of cantaloupe before you felt full.

  What worried Edilio was the way so many of the melons were already rotting in the field. The way the birds were getting at them. And the fact that no one was thinking far

  enough ahead to wonder what they should be planting for the

  next season.

  Food rotting. No planting. No irrigating.

  Even if they harvested the available crops, it was just a

  matter of time before everyone was starving. Then, good luck

  keeping it all together.

  It turned out he’d been optimistic. It was almost one in

  the afternoon before they made it to the field after a hellishly

  unpleasant bus trip during which a full-on fistfight broke out

  between two sixth graders.

  Sure enough, the first words out of the kids’ mouths were,

  “I’m hungry.”

  “Well, there’s your lunch,” Edilio said, sweeping his hand

  toward the field and feeling great personal satisfaction at

  being able to rub their noses in it.

  “Those round things?”

  “They’re called cantaloupes,” Edilio said. “And they’re

  very tasty, actually.”

  “What about zekes?” one of the girls asked.

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  Edilio sighed. “That’s the cabbage field, not here. That’s,

  like, a mile from here.”

  But no one moved. They all lined up obediently but kept

  close to the bus and far from the edge of the field.

  Edilio sighed. “Okay. Let the wetback show you how.”

  He sauntered out into the field, bent over, gave a twist to

  one of the melons, and held it up high so they could see.

  It was luck that saved him. The fact that he dropped the

  melon.

  He looked down at the cantaloupe and saw the dirt move.

  Edilio leaped, a wild reaction that almost tripped him, but

  he caught his footing and ran.

  He ran faster than he had ever run before, boots slamming

  down on the seething worms and faster, faster, faster until he

  sprawled, facedown, in the dust.

  The dust beyond the field.

  He yanked his feet toward him and frantically examined

  his boots. There were chew marks on the sides, on the heels.

  But no holes.

  The worms had not penetrated.

  Edilio looked at the shocked faces of the kids around him.

  He had been seconds away from impatiently ordering them

  into the field. Most wearing sneakers. None with experience

  seeing what the zekes looked like.

  He’d been one hesitation away from ordering forty-nine

  kids to their deaths.

  “Get back on the bus,” Edilio said shakily. “Get back on

  the bus.”

  “What about lunch?” someone asked.

  FIFTEEN

  30 HOURS, 41 MINUTES

  S A M T O O K T H E list from Astrid. He scanned the first couple of matters and nearly crumpled it up.

  “The usual?” he asked her.

  Astrid nodded. “The usual. I think you’ll especially enjoy

  the—”

  Computer Jack burst in like he was in a hurry.

  People weren’t supposed to just come busting in, but Jack

  wasn’t just people.

  “What is it, Jack?” Sam asked him as he slid into the

  oversized leather chair behind what had once been the real

  mayor’s desk and briefly was Caine’s.

  Jack was agitated. “You should let me turn on the

  phones.”

  Sam blinked. “What? I thought you had an emergency the

  way you came in here.”

  “Everybody keeps asking me when I’m going to fix the

  phones,” Jack said in apparent agony. “Everybody asks me,

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  and I keep having to come up with stupid lies. They think I

  failed.”

  “Jack, we’ve been over this. I’m really grateful for the work

  you have done, man, no one else could ever have pulled it off.

  But, dude, we have other issues, okay?”

  Jack flushed. “You asked me to do it. I told everyone I was

  going to do it. Then you won’t let me do it. It’s not fair.” His

  glasses almost seemed to steam up from the he
at of his indignation.

  “Listen, Jack. You really want Caine and Drake to be able

  to dial up anyone they want down here? You want Caine

  to be able to reach out to kids? Threaten them? Sweet-talk

  them? Maybe offer to give them food in exchange for guns

  or whatever? Look how well he fooled everyone the first time

  around.”

  “You just want to be in control of everything,” Jack

  accused.

  The accusation stung. Sam started to yell but choked it off.

  For a few seconds he just struggled with his temper, unable

  to speak.

  Of course I want to control things, he wanted to say. Of

  course he didn’t want Caine filling kid’s heads with lies. Kids

  were desperate enough to listen to anyone who offered an

  easier life, even Caine. Did Jack not understand how close

  they all were to disaster? Did Jack not get how tenuous Sam’s

  control of the situation had become?

  Maybe not.

  “Jack, kids are scared. They’re desperate,” Sam said.

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  “Maybe you don’t see that because you’re busy with other

  things. But we are about this far”—he held up thumb and

  forefinger about an inch apart—“from total disaster. You

  want Caine to know that? You want kids talking to him or

  Drake at three in the morning, spilling their guts, telling

  him all of our business? You really want Caine knowing how

  bad things are?”

  Astrid stepped in to cut off Sam’s increasingly angry rant.

  “Jack, what happened to get you all worked up?”

  “Nothing,” Jack said. Then, “Zil. He’s busting on me in

  front of everyone, talking about how now that I’m a mutant

  and all, my brain must not work as well.”

  “Say what?” Sam asked.

  “He says people who get powers, their IQ drops, they get

  stupid. He said, ‘Exhibit A: poor old Jack, formerly Computer

  Jack, who can pick up a house but can’t get the phones to

  work.’ ”

  “You know, Jack, I’m sorry if he hurt your feelings, but I

  kind of have stuff to deal with here,” Sam said, beginning to

  get really exasperated. “You’re the tech genius. You know it, I

  know it, Astrid knows it, so who cares what Zil thinks?”

  “Look, why don’t you just work on the internet thing you’re

  trying to do?” Astrid suggested.

  Jack shot her a poisonous look. “Why, so you can not use

  that, either? Make me look like an even bigger fool?”

  Sam was ready to snap at Jack, tell him to shut up, go away,

  stop bothering him, but that would be a bad idea, so he took

  a deep breath, summoned all his patience, and said, “Jack, I

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  cannot make promises. I’m dealing with a lot of stuff. First

  priority, before we worry about techie stuff, is—”

  “Techie stuff?” Jack interrupted. His voice was shocked

  and indignant.

  “That’s not a diss. I’m just saying—” But whatever he was

  about to say was forgotten when Edilio appeared in the doorway. He didn’t rush in as Jack had done. He just stood there looking pale and solemn.

  “What?” Sam asked.

  “The zekes. They’re in the melon field now.”

  “They’re spreading,” Astrid said.

  “I could have got all those kids killed,” Edilio said. He

  looked like he’d seen a ghost. He was trembling.

  “Okay. Enough,” Sam said, standing up, pushing his chair

  back sharply.

  Finally.

  Finally something he could actually do.

  He should have been worried. And he was. But the emotion that filled his mind as he strode purposefully from the room was relief. “The list is going to have to wait, Astrid. I’m

  going to kill some worms.”

  Two hours later Sam stood at the edge of the melon field.

  Dekka was beside him. Edilio had driven them there in the

  open Jeep, but he was not stepping foot on the ground.

  “How you see this playing out?” Dekka asked.

  “You lift them, I burn them,” Sam answered.

  “I can only reach a little area at a time. A circle, maybe

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  twenty feet across,” Dekka said.

  The word had spread that Sam was going to throw down

  with the zekes. So other kids had piled into cars and vans and

  now a couple of dozen watched from a safe distance. Some,

  looking like tourists or sports fans, had brought cameras.

  Howard and Orc arrived as well. Sam was relieved. He’d

  sent word to Howard that he might need Orc’s help.

  “T’sup, Sammie?” Howard asked.

  “More worms. We’re going to see if we can do some pest

  control.”

  Howard nodded. “All right. And what do you want with

  my boy?” He jerked his thumb toward Orc, who stood leaning back against a car hood, his weight almost flattening the tires and denting the sheet metal.

  “We can’t kill all the zekes,” Sam said. “But Astrid thinks

  they may be smarter than your average murderous mutated

  worm. So we’re sending a message: don’t mess with us.”

  “Still not seeing what Orc is here for.”

  “He’s our canary,” Sam said.

  “Our what?”

  “Coal miners in the old days would carry a canary down

  with them,” Sam said. “If there was poison gas, the canary

  would die first. If the canary was okay, the miners knew it

  was safe.”

  Howard took a moment to digest that idea. He laughed

  sardonically. “I used to think you were soft, Sam. Now here

  you are all cold and hard, wanting to send Orc in there to get

  chewed up.”

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  “It took them a while to get to his face last time,” Sam said.

  “If we see any worm activity, he comes right out.”

  “Cold and hard,” Howard said with a smirk. “I’ll talk to

  my boy. But he doesn’t work for free. You know that. Four

  cases of beer.”

  “Two.”

  “Three.”

  “Two, and if you argue anymore, I’ll show you just how

  cold and hard I can be.”

  With the deal done, Sam looked over at Dekka. “You

  ready?”

  “I am,” she said.

  “Let’s do it.”

  Dekka raised her hands high over her head. She aimed her

  palms at the nearest edge of the melon field.

  Suddenly, in a rush, melons, vines, and a cloud of dirt rose

  into the air, a dark pillar. Worms could be clearly seen, writhing within the ascending cloud.

  Sam raised his own hands to shoulder height. He spread

  his fingers.

  “This is going to feel good,” he muttered.

  Blazing fire shot in two green-white bolts from his palms.

  Melons exploded like soggy popcorn. Vines crisped. Clods

  of dirt smoked and melted in midair.

  The worms died. They died popping open from the superheated steam of their own blood. Or they died shriveling up like ash curlicues, like Fourth of July snakes. Some did a little

  of each.

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  Sam r
aked his flamethrower up and down the pillar, aiming anywhere he saw movement. In places where he lingered, the dirt grew so hot, it glowed red and formed flying droplets

  of magma.

  “Okay, Dekka, let go!” Sam yelled.

  Dekka released her hold. Gravity worked again. And the

  whole molten, smoking pillar fell back to earth. It sent up a

  shower of sparks as it crashed. Some of the kids who were

  standing too close yelped as they were hit by droplets of what

  was almost lava.

  Sam and Dekka both backed away hastily, but too late to

  save Sam a burn that went through his jeans and sizzled a

  teardrop-shaped spot onto his thigh.

  “Water bottle,” he yelled. He grabbed the proffered bottle

  and doused the spot. “Okay, that hurt. Man. Ow.”

  “I saw some very crispy zekes,” Howard commented.

  “Let’s go again, Dekka. If you’re up for it.”

  “I like melon,” Dekka said. “I’m not giving it up for these

  worms.”

  They moved a distance to the left and repeated the whole

  sequence. Then to a third location and did it again.

  “Okay, message sent,” Sam said when they were done.

  “Let’s see if they got it. Howard?”

  Howard waved Orc over. The boy-monster lumbered wearily toward the field.

  “First go into an area we blasted,” Sam instructed him.

  Orc did. If his stone feet were bothered by the scorching

  heat of the singed soil, he showed no sign of it.

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  “Okay,” Sam said. “Now farther. Past the burned part. Try

  to pick a melon.”

  “Someone ought to beer me,” Orc grumbled.

  “I don’t have any with me,” Sam said.

  “Figures,” Orc said. He plodded into fresh, unburned dirt.

  He leaned down to grab a melon and came back up with two

  worms writhing around his hand.

  Orc flung the worms away and moved with some speed

  back onto safer ground.

  Sam felt deflated. He had failed. Even at this.

  In the process he’d used the promise of beer to turn an

  alcoholic kid into human bait.

  “Not maybe my proudest day,” he said to himself.

  The crowd, disappointed, shot sidelong looks of worry at

  Sam. He ignored them all and climbed into the Jeep beside

  Edilio.

  “You want my job, Edilio? he asked.

  “Not a chance, man. Not a chance.”

  Nothing stuck to the FAYZ wall. Lana had discovered that

  fact. She had put on gloves and tried to tape a target to the

  barrier. The tape didn’t stick. Neither did rubber cement.