“Terminate them. With extreme prejudice. That’s what they used to say when they meant ‘assassinate.’ Terminate with extreme prejudice.”
Sometimes Zil wished he’d just shut up. He reminded Zil in some ways of Zil’s older brother, Zane. Always talking, never shutting up.
Of course what Zane talked about was different. Mostly what Zane talked about was Zane. He had an opinion on everything. He knew everything, or thought he did.
His whole life Zil had barely gotten a word in edgewise around Zane. And when he did manage to contribute to the endless family discussions, Zil mostly earned condescending, even pitying, looks.
His parents hadn’t meant it to be that way, probably. But what could they do, really? Zane was the star. So smart, so cool, so good looking. As good looking as Lance.
Zil had realized very early on that he would never, ever, ever be the star. Zane owned that role. He was charming, handsome, and ever-so-smart.
And he was so so so nice to little Zil. “You need some help with that math homework there, Zilly?”
Zilly. Rhyming with silly. Silly Zilly. And Zane the Brain.
Well, where are you now, Zane? Zil wondered. Not here, that’s for sure. Zane was sixteen. He had poofed on that first day, that first minute.
Good riddance, big brother, Zil thought.
“So we take out the dangerous freaks,” Turk prattled on. “Take them out. A few we keep around basically as slaves. Like Lana. Yeah, we keep Lana. Only maybe keep her tied up or whatever so she doesn’t get away. And then the others, man, they have to find some other place to go. Simple as that. Out of Sperry Beach.”
Zil sighed. That was Turk’s latest idea: to rename the town Sperry Beach. Make it clear for everyone that Perdido Beach now belonged to the Human Crew.
“Humans only. Freaks out,” Turk said. “We’re going to rule. Can you believe Sam didn’t come after us? They’re all scared.”
Turk could carry on like this forever, talking to himself. It was like he had to go over everything ten times. Like he was arguing with someone who wasn’t answering back.
The last part of the trip was the long trudge across the rutted fields. When they reached it there would be nice, clear, clean water, at least, even if there wasn’t any food. Emily and Brother had their own well. Not enough water to take a shower or anything because the power was off to the pump, so everything had to be pumped up by hand. But you could drink all you wanted. That was rare in dry and hungry Perdido Beach.
Sperry Beach.
Maybe. Why not?
Zil led the way up the stairs. “Emily,” he called out. “It’s us.”
He knocked on the door. This was surprising because every other time Emily had seen them coming she’d pulled her usual pop-up-behind-you freak trick. Sometimes she played with them, disappearing the house and letting them wander around like fools.
Freak. She’d get hers eventually. When Zil was done with her.
Emily opened the door.
Zil’s instincts screamed danger.
He backed away, but something stopped him. Like some invisible giant had wrapped a hand around him.
The invisible hand lifted him slightly off his feet, just enough so that his toes dragged as he levitated inside, past Emily, who stepped aside with a rueful look.
“Let me go!” Zil cried. But now he could see who had him. He fell silent. Caine sat on the couch, barely moving his hand but utterly controlling Zil.
Zil’s heart pounded. If there was any freak as dangerous as Sam, it was Caine. More dangerous. There were things Sam wouldn’t do. There was nothing Caine wouldn’t do.
“Let me go!”
Caine set Zil down gently.
“Stop yelling, huh?” Caine said wearily. “I have a headache and I’m not here to hurt you.”
“Freak!” Zil spat.
“Why, yes. Yes, I am,” Caine said. “I’m the freak who can smack you against the ceiling until you’re nothing but a skin sack full of goo.”
Zil glared hatred. Freak. Filthy, mutant freak.
“Tell your boys to come on in,” Caine said.
“What do you want, freak?”
“A conversation,” Caine said. He spread his hands, placating. “Look, you little creep, if I wanted you dead, you’d be dead. You and your little crew of losers.”
Caine had changed since the first time Zil had seen him. Gone was the smart Coates blazer, the expensive haircut, the tan, and the gym-rat body. Caine looked like a scarecrow version of himself.
“Hank. Turk. Lance. ’Toine,” Zil yelled. “Come on in.”
“Have a seat.” Caine indicated the La-Z-Boy.
Zil sat.
“So,” Caine said conversationally, “I hear you’re not a big fan of my brother, Sam.”
“The FAYZ is for humans,” Zil muttered. “Not freaks.”
“Yeah, whatever,” Caine said. For a moment he seemed to fade, to draw in on himself. Weak from hunger. Or from something else. But then the freak pulled himself together and, with visible effort, plastered on his cocky expression.
“I have a plan,” Caine said. “It involves you.”
Turk, showing more nerve than Zil would have expected, said, “The Leader makes the plans.”
“Uh-huh. Well, Leader Zil,” Caine said with only minimal sarcasm. “You’re going to like this plan. It ends with you being in total control of Perdido Beach.”
Zil sat back in the recliner. He tried to recover some of his dignity. “Okay. I’m listening.”
“Good,” Caine said. “I need some boats.”
“Boats?” Zil repeated cautiously. “Why?”
“I kind of feel like taking an ocean cruise,” Caine said.
Sam went home for lunch. Home being Astrid’s house. He still thought of it that way, as hers not his.
Actually her own house had been burned to the ground by Drake Merwin. But she seemed to take ownership of whatever house she was in. This house was home to Astrid and her brother, Little Pete, Mary and her brother, John Terrafino, and Sam. But in everybody’s mind it was Astrid’s house.
Astrid was in the backyard when he got there. Little Pete sat on the deck steps playing with a dead handheld game player. Batteries were in very short supply. At first Astrid and Sam, both of whom knew the truth about Little Pete, were scared. No one knew what Little Pete might do if he went into a complete meltdown, and one of the few things that kept Little Pete pacified was his game.
But to Sam’s surprise, the strange little boy had adapted in the oddest way imaginable: he just kept playing. Sam had looked over his shoulder and seen a blank, black screen. But there was no knowing what Little Pete saw there.
Little Pete was severely autistic. He lived in a world of his own imagining, unresponsive, only rarely speaking.
He was also far and away the most powerful person in the FAYZ. This fact was a secret, more or less. Some suspected a part of the truth. But only a few-Sam, Astrid, Edilio-really grasped the fact that Little Pete had, to some degree, at least, created the FAYZ.
Astrid was stoking a small fire in a hibachi set atop a picnic table. She had a fire extinguisher close at hand. One of the very few that had survived-kids had found them a lot of fun to play with in the early weeks of the FAYZ.
From the smell, Sam concluded she was cooking a fish.
Astrid heard him but did not look up as he approached. “I don’t want to have a fight,” she said.
“Me neither,” he said.
She poked at the fish with a fork. It smelled delicious, although it didn’t look too good.
“Get a plate,” Astrid said. “Have some fish.”
“That’s okay, I’m-”
“I can’t believe you lied to me,” she snapped, still poking at the fish.
“I thought you didn’t want a fight?”
Astrid shoveled the mostly cooked fish onto a serving dish and set it aside. “You weren’t going to tell us about Orsay?”
“I didn’t say I-”
“You don’t get to decide that, Sam. You’re not the only one in charge anymore. Okay?”
Astrid had an icy sort of anger. A cold fury that manifested itself in tight lips and blazing eyes and short, carefully enunciated sentences.
“But it’s okay for all of us to lie to everyone in Perdido Beach?” Sam shot back.
“We’re trying to keep kids from killing themselves,” Astrid said. “That’s a little different from you just deciding not to tell the council that there’s a crazy girl telling people to kill themselves.”
“So not telling you something is a major sin, but lying to a couple of hundred people and trashing Orsay at the same time, that’s fine?”
“I don’t think you really want to have this debate with me, Sam,” Astrid warned.
“Yeah, because I’m just a dumb surfer who shouldn’t even be questioning Astrid the Genius.”
“You know what, Sam? We created the council to take pressure off of you. Because you were falling apart.”
Sam just stared at her. Not quite believing she’d said it. And Astrid seemed shocked herself. Shocked at the venom behind her own words.
“I didn’t mean…,” she started lamely, but then couldn’t find her way to explaining just what it was she didn’t mean.
Sam shook his head. “You know, even now, as long as we’ve been together it still surprises me that you can be so ruthless.”
“Ruthless? Me?”
“You will use anyone to get what you want. Say anything to get your way. Why was I ever even in charge?” He stabbed an accusing finger at her. “Because of you! Because you manipulated me into it. Why? So I would protect you and Little Pete. That’s all you cared about.”
“That’s a lie!” she said hotly.
“You know it’s the truth. And now you don’t have to bother manipulating me, you can just give me orders. Embarrass me. Undercut me. But as soon as some problem hits, guess what? It’ll be, oh, please, Sam, save us.”
“Anything I do, I do for everyone’s good,” Astrid said.
“Yeah, so you’re not just a genius now, you’re a saint.”
“You are being irrational,” Astrid said coldly.
“Yeah, that’s because I’m crazy,” Sam snapped. “That’s me, crazy Sam. I’ve been shot, beaten, whipped, and I’m crazy because I don’t like you ordering me around like your servant.”
“You’re really a jerk, you know that?”
“Jerk?” Sam shrilled. “That’s all you’ve got? I was sure you’d have something with more syllables.”
“I have plenty of syllables for you,” Astrid said, “but I’m trying not to use language I shouldn’t.”
She made a show of calming herself down. “Now, listen to me, without interrupting. Okay? You’re a hero. I get that. I believe it. But we’re trying to make the transition to having a normal society. Laws and rights and juries and police. Not one person making all the important decisions and then enforcing his will by shooting killer light beams at anyone who annoys him.”
Sam started to reply, but he didn’t trust himself. Didn’t trust himself not to say something he shouldn’t, something he might not be able to take back.
“I’m getting my stuff,” he said, and bolted for the steps.
“You don’t have to move out,” Astrid called after him.
Sam stopped halfway up the steps. “Oh, I’m sorry. Is that the voice of the council telling me where I can go?”
“There’s no point having a town council if you think you don’t have to listen to it,” Astrid said. She was using her patient voice, trying to calm the situation. “Sam, if you ignore us, no one will pay attention.”
“Guess what, Astrid, they’re already ignoring you. The only reason anyone pays any attention to you and the others is because they’re scared of Edilio’s soldiers.” He thumped his chest. “And even more scared of me.”
He stormed up the stairs, grimly pleased with her silence.
Justin got lost once on his way home. He ended up at the school, though, and that was okay, because he knew how to get to his house from there.
Three-oh-one Sherman. He had memorized it a long time ago. He used to know his phone number, too. He had forgotten that. But he had not forgotten 301 Sherman.
His house looked kind of funny when he saw it. The grass was way too tall. And there was a black bag all split open on the sidewalk. Old milk cartons and cans and bottles. That was all supposed to go in recycling. It sure wasn’t supposed to be on the sidewalk. His daddy would go crazy if he ever saw that.
Here’s what Daddy would say: Excuse ME? Can someone KINDLY explain how GARBAGE is on the SIDEwalk? In what universe is THAT okay?
That’s how Daddy talked when he got mad.
Justin walked around the trash and almost tripped over his old tricycle. He’d left it there on the front walk a long time ago. He hadn’t even put it away like he should.
Up the stairs to the door. His door. It didn’t feel like his door, really.
He pushed the lever on the heavy brass doorknob. It was stiff. He almost couldn’t do it. But then it clicked and the door opened.
He pushed it and went inside quickly, feeling guilty, like he was doing something he shouldn’t be.
The hallway was dark, but he was used to that. Everything was dark all the time now. If you wanted light, you had to go out and play in the plaza. Which was where he was supposed to be. Mother Mary would be wondering where he was.
He went into the kitchen. Usually Daddy would be in the kitchen; he was the one who mostly did the cooking. Mommy did the cleaning and laundry, and Daddy did the cooking. Fried chicken. Chili. Casserole. Beef Burgundy, but they called it Beef Burpundy after one time when Justin was eating some and burped really loud.
The memory made him smile and be sad at the same time.
No one was in the kitchen. The refrigerator door was open. Nothing was inside except an orange box with some white powder inside. He tasted some and spit it out. It tasted like salt or something.
He went upstairs. He wanted to make sure his room was still there. His footsteps sounded really loud on the stairs and it made him creep slowly, like he was sneaking.
His room was on the right. Mommy and Daddy’s room was on the left. But Justin didn’t go in either direction, because he noticed right then that he wasn’t the only person in the house. There was a big kid in the guest room where Meemaw slept when she came to visit at Christmas.
The big kid was a boy, Justin thought, even though his hair was really long and he was turned away. He was sitting in a chair, reading a book, with his feet up on the bed.
The walls of the room had been covered with drawings and colorings that someone had taped up.
Justin froze in the doorway.
Then he slid backward, turned, and went to his room. The big kid hadn’t seen him.
His room was not the same as it used to be. For one thing, there were no sheets or blankets or anything on his bed. Someone had taken his favorite blanket. The nubby blue one.
“Hey.”
Justin jumped. He spun around, flushed and nervous.
The big kid was looking at him with a kind of puzzled look on his face.
“Hey, little dude, take it easy.”
Justin stared at him. He didn’t seem mean. There were lots of mean big kids, but this one seemed okay.
“You lost?” the big kid asked.
Justin shook his head.
“Oh. I get it. Is this your house?”
Justin nodded.
“Right. Oh. Sorry, little dude, I just needed a place to stay and no one was living here.” The big kid looked around. “It’s a nice house, you know? It has a nice feeling.”
Justin nodded, and for some reason started to cry.
“It’s cool, it’s cool, don’t cry. I can move out. One thing we have plenty of is houses, right?”
Justin stopped crying. He pointed. “That’s my room.”
“Yeah. No prob.”
“Huh. Okay, well, we’ll find you a blanket.”
They stared at each other for a minute. Then the big kid said, “Oh yeah, my name is Roger.”
“My name is Justin.”
“Cool. People call me the Artful Roger. Because I like to draw and paint. You know, from the Artful Dodger in Oliver Twist.”
Justin stared.
“It’s a book. About this kid who’s an orphan.” He waited like he expected Justin to say something. “Okay. Okay, you don’t read a lot of books.”
“Sometimes.”
“I’ll read it to you, maybe. That way, I’d be paying you back for living in your house.”
Justin didn’t know what to say to that. So he said nothing.
“Right,” Roger said. “Okay. I’m…um, going to go back to my room.”
Justin nodded fervently.
“If it’s okay with you, I mean.”
“It’s okay.”
TEN
51 HOURS, 50 MINUTES
“THAT’S THE LAST of the fuel,” Virtue reported mournfully. “We can run the generator for another two, three days at most. Then no more electricity.”
Sanjit sighed. “I guess it’s good we finished off the ice cream last month. It’d melt otherwise.”
“Look, Wisdom, it’s time.”
“How many times have I told you: Don’t call me Wisdom. That’s my slave name.”
It was a tired old joke between them. Virtue would call him Wisdom only to provoke him, when he thought Sanjit wasn’t being serious.
For a part of his life, Sanjit Brattle-Chance had been called Wisdom by just about everyone. But that part of his life had ended seven months earlier.
Sanjit Brattle-Chance was fourteen years old. He was tall, thin, slightly stooped, with black hair down to his shoulders, laughing black eyes, and skin the color of caramel.
He had been an eight-year-old orphan, a Hindu street kid in Buddhist Bangkok, Thailand, when his very famous, very rich, very beautiful parents, Jennifer Brattle and Todd Chance, had kidnapped him.
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