Hunger_A Gone Novel

by Michael Grant

  “He’ll bake his own hands,” Turk said with grim contentment. “Like a turkey.”

  They made their way on foot, not wanting to be heard driving up. They raced across the highway, like they were being watched. Although they had no idea who might be doing that.

  It was fun. Like playing soldier when you were a little kid.

  There was no sign of Edilio’s soldiers. Or of any of Sam’s

  posse.

  They could smell the deer as soon as they crossed the road.

  It was amazing, Zil reflected, how well your sense of smell

  worked when you were really, really hungry.

  Zil motioned Hank and Turk and Lisa to stay put, hide

  behind the garage. He and Lance crept forward, edged around

  the side of the garage, crouched to peer through the slats of

  the fence.

  Hunter was wielding a big butcher knife. He was trying,

  very inexpertly, to slice off the deer’s hide. He was making a

  mess of it. Portions of the animal were cooked almost black.

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  Other parts were bloody. Hunter stopped and hacked out a

  chunk of meat and stuck it in his greedy mouth.

  Zil’s own mouth watered, almost uncontrollably. His

  stomach hurt.

  Zil and Lance crept back to the others.

  “Greedy chud is eating it all up,” Zil reported. “I swear, he’s

  going to eat the whole thing himself.”

  “Yeah,” Lance agreed.

  “Okay, here’s what we do,” Zil said, laying out his plan.

  Turk, Hank, Lisa, and Zil took the long way around the

  house to come up from the other side. Lance had been given a

  crucial role to play because Hunter didn’t know him and had

  no reason to fear him.

  When all was in readiness, Lance stood up behind the

  fence. “Hey, dude.”

  Hunter spun, guilty and scared. “What are you doing

  sneaking up on me? Who are you?”

  “Dude, chill. I just smelled the meat. I’m hungry.”

  Hunter looked deeply suspicious. “I was going to sell it to

  Albert. Everyone can have some. I just fell asleep, is all, after

  I got some food. But I was getting it ready now.”

  Lance climbed over the fence, careful to look nonthreatening. “How about I help you skin that animal? In exchange for a little taste? Plus, you know you have to cut out its guts,

  right?”

  “Of course I know that,” Hunter said defensively. “I was

  getting ready to do that.”

  Zil thought it was obvious his old roommate knew no

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  such thing. He watched, nervous and impatient, while Lance

  moved smoothly, confidently toward Hunter.

  Hunter’s whole attention seemed to be focused on the big,

  good-looking boy. But he wasn’t attacking. He wasn’t even

  threatening.

  “Now,” Zil whispered.

  He and Hank were first through the gate. They moved

  quickly, but quietly, not quite running.

  The mistake came when Lance glanced at them. Hunter

  saw the flicker in the boy’s eyes, looked over his shoulder,

  spotted Zil, turned too late, and caught Hank’s crowbar in

  the forehead.

  He dropped like a sack of rocks.

  Hank raised it up to hit him again. “That’s enough,” Zil

  said, staying Hank’s hand. “Tie him up. Foil his hands.” Then

  when Turk started tying Hunter’s hands in front of him, he

  said, “No, you moron, tie them in back.”

  Turk grinned sheepishly. “That’s why you’re the leader.”

  They bound Hunter tightly. Then Lisa came forward with

  a roll of Reynolds aluminum foil and wrapped it again and

  again around Hunter’s hands.

  Turk then wound a roll of duct tape around Hunter’s

  hands, imprisoning the fingers.

  Hunter did not move.

  Zil took two steps, snatched up Hunter’s dropped knife,

  and cut a hunk of meat from the deer’s hindquarters. The

  chunk of meat was half cooked, half near raw. He attacked

  the meat like a hungry wolf. The others laughed and did

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  likewise. Turk ate too much and vomited into a corner of the

  fence. Then came back to reload.

  They fed and laughed with joy at their conquest.

  Hunter began to stir. He moaned.

  “Too bad we don’t have cement around,” Zil said. “Drake

  knew what he was doing when he plastered the freaks.”

  “Drake’s a freak, though, isn’t he?” Lisa asked innocently.

  The question gave Zil pause. Was Drake a freak? His whip

  hand had, according to legend, grown to replace the arm Sam

  had burned off in a fight.

  “I guess he is. I don’t know for sure,” Zil said thoughtfully,

  chewing the venison.

  “We need, like, some way of figuring out,” Turk said.

  Hunter moaned louder.

  “The freak’s waking up,” Lance said. “He’s going to have

  a headache.”

  That struck Zil as funny. He laughed. And when he

  laughed, the others joined in. “See, guys: stick with me and

  we get nice, fresh meat.”

  “Got that right,” Turk said.

  “So, leader, is it time to deal with this chud?” Hank asked,

  respectful but impatient.

  Zil laughed again. The food in his belly filled him with a

  sense of well-being. He felt almost giddy. And a little sleepy

  now, with the sun going down.

  And he liked the use of “leader” as a title for him. It fit. It

  felt fine.

  Zil Sperry. Leader of the Human Crew.

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  “Sure,” Zil said. “Let’s have ourselves a trial.” He glanced

  around the yard. “Turk and Hank, drag him over to the back

  steps, prop him up.”

  Hunter could not seem to sit all the way up. He was conscious, but not fully. One of his eyeballs looked funny, and Zil realized it was because the pupil was twice as big as the other.

  It gave Hunter a stupid look that made Zil laugh.

  “You should have just admitted you stole my jerky,” he

  scolded Hunter.

  Hank knelt down to get right in Hunter’s face. “Do you

  confess that you stole the leader’s jerky?”

  Hunter’s head lolled to one side. He seemed to be trying to

  speak, but all that came out was a slurred sound.

  “Blrrrr gllll pluh,” Turk mimicked.

  “I think he said, ‘Yeah, I did it,’” Hank mocked.

  “I’ll interpret for him,” Turk said.

  Hank asked, “Hunter, do you admit you killed Harry?”

  Hunter said nothing, but Turk supplied the answer. “I sure

  do. I am a freak, nonhuman, chud scum who killed Harry.”

  Zil laughed happily. “What can we do? He confessed.”

  He adopted a severe tone. “Hunter, I pronounce you guilty.

  Guilty as charged.”

  “Now what?” Lisa wondered. “He’s hurt. Maybe we should

  let him go.”

  Zil was about to agree. His rage against Hunter was mostly

  burned out, the flames smothered by his sense of joy at having a full belly.

  “Going soft on a freak, Lisa?” Hank taunted.

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  “No,” Lisa said quickly.

  Hank looked hard at her. “You think if we let him go

  he’ll just forget about this? No. He’ll get together with the

  other freaks and come after us. You think Sam will be

  gentle with us?”

  Zil looked at Lance. “What do you think, big guy?”

  “Me?” Lance looked troubled. “Hey, I do what you say,

  Zil.”

  So, Zil realized, it was on him. The thought soured the

  happy buzz. Up until now he had known he could more or less

  justify his actions. He could say, ‘Look, Hunter killed Harry.

  I was bringing him to justice.’ Kids would accept that. Sam

  might not accept it, but he probably would have no choice but

  to let it go.

  But if they actually executed Hunter, like Hank obviously

  wanted, then Sam and all his kids would come after Zil. And

  the reality was, the five of them wouldn’t last a minute in a

  fight with Sam.

  If they killed Hunter, it would be open war with Sam. Sam

  would win.

  Zil could not admit that, though. It would make him look

  pathetic.

  He was trapped. If he looked soft, Hank would turn against

  him. And Hunter was sure to come after them if they let him

  go. But killing Hunter would doom Zil.

  “We need more kids than just us five,” Zil said. “I mean,

  we need other kids to be in on this.”

  Hank looked wary.

  But Zil had an idea now. It was blooming like a flower in

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  his mind. “Sam can fight the five of us, but he can’t take on

  the whole town, right? Who is he going to boss around if the

  whole town is against him?”

  “How we going to get a bunch of kids to be on our side?”

  Hank demanded.

  Zil grinned. “We have all this meat, right? Kids are really

  hungry. What do you think they would do for a deer steak?”

  Edilio drove faster than he ever had before. Seventy miles an

  hour down the highway, weaving through the abandoned or

  crashed trucks and cars. The wind whipped words away as

  soon as they were spoken, so they drove in silence.

  Turning onto the coast road that led to the power plant,

  Edilio had no choice but to slow down. There were hairpin turns, and a moment’s inattention would send them all hurtling down the slope through brush and boulders into

  the sea.

  Suddenly Edilio screeched to a halt.

  “What?” Sam said.

  Edilio held up a finger. He strained to hear. And there it

  was. “Gunfire,” he said.

  “Drive,” Sam said.

  Orc was peeing when he heard Howard yell, “Ahhh!”

  He didn’t care. Howard yelled more than was necessary.

  He was small and weak and scared easily.

  He turned around just as Drake fired. He could see the

  muzzle flash coming from a hole in the wall.

  Dekka was floating. Then falling. And Howard was

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  pressed flat against the wall.

  “Orc!” Howard shouted.

  Dekka hit the ground. Not really a problem for Orc. He

  didn’t like Dekka much. She just ignored him, mostly, and

  looked away whenever he was close to her. Disgusted by the

  sight of him.

  Well, who wasn’t? Orc disgusted himself.

  Then he saw the face behind the gun. Drake. Drake had

  gone after Orc with his tentacle and whipped him. It hadn’t

  hurt much, but Orc still hadn’t liked it. Drake had been trying to kill him.

  Orc didn’t like Drake. That didn’t mean he liked Dekka.

  But Sam did, and Sam had been fair with Orc. Sam had gotten him beer.

  Orc wished he had a beer right now.

  Save Dekka, and Sam would probably reward Orc. Saving

  Dekka—that had to be worth at least a case. Maybe something from a foreign country. Orc hadn’t tried any of that beer yet.

  Drake was a hundred yards away. Dekka was half that distance. A motorcycle was parked just five feet away.

  Orc grabbed the motorcycle. He held the front wheel in

  one hand, the handlebars in the other. He twisted hard and

  the wheel came off easily.

  “Someone’s shooting!” one of Drake’s soldiers yelled, rushing in.

  “Yeah, guess who?” Diana said.

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  “Too soon,” Caine snarled. “I told him to wait. Jack.

  Do it.”

  “I don’t want to rush and—”

  Caine raised both hands, lifted Jack up in the air, and

  threw him into the instrument panel.

  “Now!” Caine yelled.

  They were out of the control room, at a separate monitor

  that showed the inside of the reactor itself.

  Jack punched a sequence of numbers into a keypad.

  The electromagnets switched off.

  The cadmium control rods plunged like daggers.

  It was all silent on the black-and-white monitor. But the

  effect was immediate. The vibration of the turbines, the

  steady hum that had been part of the background, suddenly

  dropped in pitch.

  Lights flickered. The monitor picture wobbled then stabilized.

  “Is it safe to go in?” Caine demanded.

  “Sure, what could be dangerous about a nuclear—”

  “Shut up!” Caine shouted. “Open it up, Jack.”

  Jack obeyed.

  They stepped into a vast room that seemed to be made

  almost entirely of stainless steel. Stainless-steel floor.

  Stainless-steel catwalks. Cranes. Caine had the impression of

  a gigantic restaurant kitchen.

  What wasn’t stainless steel was safety yellow. Safety railings. The risers on steps. Signs in yellow and black warning of what surely no one who had made it here needed to be

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  reminded of: radiation hazard.

  The dome overhead was like something out of a cathedral.

  But there were no frescoes decorating the painted concrete.

  Caine felt abashed by the scale of the place.

  At the center of it all, a circular pit, like some ghastly blue-

  glowing swimming pool. Not that any sane person would

  ever be tempted to jump in.

  A catwalk went all the way around. And a robotic crane

  hovered over it. Down there, below, in the sinister depths,

  were the fuel rods. Each filled with gray pellets that looked

  like nothing much. Stubby gray cylinders of what might as

  easily be lead.

  A massive forklift held a steel barrel in midair, poised.

  Right where the driver left it when he poofed.

  “I’m starting the sequence,” Jack said, typing furiously,

  rattled, terrified, but giddy, too.

  The robot moved faster than Caine had expected. It

  perched like a predatory insect above the too-blue water.

  It was hot in the room. The emergency generators didn’t

  keep the air-conditioning running and the temperature

  began rising almost instantly.

  “How long?” Caine demanded.

  “To extract it, make it relatively safe, transport it to the

  used-fuel cooling facility and—”

  “We aren’t going to have time for all that,” Caine said.

  “Drake’s alrea
dy shooting. We need to get out of here.”

  “Caine, there’s no way to—” Jack began.

  “Just grab the fuel rod. Yank it up out of that pool. I’ll take

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  care of the rest,” Caine said.

  “Caine, we have to follow procedure just to get the rod out

  of here. The only way out is through—”

  Caine raised both hands. He focused on the convex dome

  over their heads, the containment vessel that would hold the

  radiation in if there was ever an accident.

  He blasted the concrete with all his power. There was a

  wallop of sound that hurt Caine’s eardrums.

  “What are you doing?” Jack cried.

  “Caine!” Diana shouted.

  The concrete would not give. Not at this distance. Not with

  nothing to use as a projectile.

  Caine aimed his power at the forklift.

  “Be ready, Jack,” Caine grated.

  The forklift flew. Like an invisible god had kicked it. It

  hurtled in a straight line. So fast, it broke the sound barrier

  with a loud bang that was immediately swallowed up in the

  far louder crash of steel and iron blowing a hole through concrete.

  “How strong you think that fuel rod is?” Caine asked.

  “Are you insane?” Diana cried.

  “Just in a hurry,” Caine said.

  Drake squeezed the trigger.

  A line of bullets chewed concrete just in front of Dekka.

  Drake fought the recoil and raised the weapon just slightly,

  and the impacts advanced toward Dekka, who just stared at

  onrushing death.

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  Suddenly Drake was on his back. The gun, still in his

  hands, was blazing away at the ceiling.

  A wheel bounced crazily around the room then fell onto a

  desk with a loud crash.

  Drake let go of the trigger. He scrambled to his feet. He

  looked at the wheel, unable to make sense of it. How had a

  wheel gone flying through the air, through the hole?

  Orc.

  Drake ejected the magazine and racked in a replacement.

  He was bruised and shaken but not badly hurt. He crept back

  to the hole, cautious lest something else came flying in.

  Dekka was no longer on the ground.

  Orc was . . .

  A massive gravel hand reached in and missed Drake’s head

  by inches.

  Drake fired blindly at the hole.

  Then he turned and ran.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  01 HOUR, 6 MINUTES

  T H E J E E P B L E W through the gate. Edilio drove straight