The Final Warning

by James Patterson

  “Who are you?” Nudge asked bravely.

  “I am Gozen,” the big thing said.

  Nudge’s brow wrinkled. “Like Japanese dumplings?”

  62

  “THAT WOULD BE GYOZA,” Fang murmured at Nudge.

  “Where do you come from, Gozen?” I said, feeling fresh rage wash over me at what he’d done to Angel. “Whose henchman are you?”

  Gozen turned his big head to look down at me — looked down with his nonhuman eyes that glowed blue. “I am Gozen. I am the leader. You will be quiet.”

  “Good luck with that,” I heard Iggy mutter.

  “We will be landing in fourteen hours, thirty-nine minutes,” said Gozen.

  Okay, what was fifteen hours away from Antarctica? Well, actually, most of the world. Not Canada or northern Europe, not the Arctic. But we could be headed most other places. Good thing I had narrowed that down.

  “Where are we going?” I tried.

  “That is not your concern.”

  “Au contraire, Your Trollness,” I said, standing up. “We’re very concerned. We have appointments. Places to go, people to see. Now tell us where the hell we’re going!”

  Faster than my eyes (with raptor vision) could track, one thick leg shot out and whipped my feet out from under me. I caught myself on my hands just in time for him to kick my side hard enough to make my breath fly out of my lungs and give me that so-attractive fish-gasping expression.

  The flock, except for Angel, was on their feet in a second, but I made a “Don’t attack” gesture — just in time, because the soldiers had once again shifted forward. With iron control, I slowly sucked in my breath, hoping they wouldn’t start lasering everything in sight. I took inventory: legs okay; ribs really, really bruised, maybe cracked. It hurt a surprising amount, which made me realize that it had been a while since I’d had broken bones. Clearly I needed to review my street-fighting skills.

  “You do not give orders,” Gozen said in his weird almost-human-but-not-quite voice. “You follow orders.”

  I bit my lip so I wouldn’t tell him to go stuff his orders. Apparently he picked up on things like that. Gozen was unlike anything we’d come up against before. He was bigger, faster, human enough to be subtle but machine enough to have no conscience. I did think he was probably too heavy to fly, so yay for that.

  I gathered my feet under me, refusing to wince. Keeping a sharp eye on Gozen, I stood up cautiously, motioning the others behind my back to stay out of his range. Unless he could shoot bullets from his eyes, which I wasn’t putting past him.

  “We are against global warming,” Gozen intoned.

  Was that a statement or a question? Were we part of the “we”?

  “Uh-huh,” I said carefully, backing away slowly. “That’s good.”

  “Therefore we are violently opposed to your kind,” Gozen went on.

  Not so good.

  I quickly decided I believed in global warming. “But we’re against it too!” I said, keeping one wary eye on the Transformer-bots. “We were in Antarctica helping to stop global warming!”

  “No. Humans created the problem. Humans are destroying the earth. You are destroying life.”

  “Okay, now, see, you’re wrong here on a bunch of levels,” I said quickly. “First, we’re not even completely human! Did you miss the wings? I mean, jeez. Plus, as I just pointed out, we were trying to stop global warming! We’re totally against it!”

  “Yeah!” said Gazzy. “We’re trying to save the world! It’s our mission!”

  Gozen turned slowly, and my heart sped up when his gaze stopped on Gazzy. I moved to put myself between them.

  “You are part of the problem,” Gozen said with a machine’s horrible, inflexible logic that always turns out to be wrong because there’s something crucial missing from the formula. “I will enjoy your death.” With that, he turned and exited through the door at the front of the cargo area. I wished one of us — okay, me — had thought of trying to escape through that door while Gozen wasn’t looking.

  Once the door was shut behind him and we heard the ominous click of the lock, Fang said, “That guy has no sense of humor.”

  “No,” I agreed, sitting down gingerly to avoid hurting my ribs even more. “And I’ve thought of something else, much worse.”

  “What?” asked Nudge.

  “We have fourteen hours to go,” I said. “And I doubt we’re getting meal service or in-flight entertainment.”

  63

  OKAY, SO THEY KIDNAPPED us from Antarctica. Let’s review: extremely freezing, much ice, snow, wind, et cetera. Very little fresh fruit. No swimsuit season. No cable TV. No coffee shops.

  Where did they bring us to?

  Miami.

  You’d think it would work the other way — snatched away from Miami, sent to Antarctica, which is like Siberia but with more penguins.

  But no.

  Just another example of the whimsy of the fantastically wealthy, powerful, and deluded. For us, it was like, Oh, please don’t snatch us away from Antarctica and send us to the playground of the rich and famous! Not that briar patch!

  On the other hand: In Antarctica we were relatively free and doing actual meaningful work that we felt good about. In Miami we were prisoners. It was an ironic situation all around, no doubt about it.

  I won’t bore you with the usual duct-taped hands and feet, bound wings, stuck into black body bags, yada yada yada, that we always go through in these ho-hum random abductions. It was like, same old, same old, and I could hardly work up the energy to fight hard enough to get more than a black eye and a sprained wrist out of it.

  I guess I’m just getting jaded.

  When they unzipped our bags and started ripping off the tape (tip: Don’t try that at home), we found we were high up in a tall, tall building. There were tons of other tall buildings around us. Below us was one of Florida’s white-sugar beaches, edged by water that I was dying to sink into. Or at least I’d want to after it stopped pouring. The sky was full of dark gray clouds. It was raining so hard I could hear the drops pelting the window glass like BBs.

  I was amazed they had let us loose in a room with windows, given our annoying habit of leaping through them, but ole Gozen answered that question.

  “These windows have been rated for hurricane-force winds of up to one hundred twenty miles per hour,” he intoned. “They do not open from the inside.” He stepped closer, then heaved himself sideways, shoulder first, into one of the big plate glass windows. We all winced, expecting him to go bye-bye with a huge crash, but instead he practically bounced off, the glass not even cracking, and I thought, Holy crap. Or, actually, much worse than holy crap, but let’s just say I thought holy crap.

  “The auction will begin in one hour,” Gozen said. “Food will be provided.”

  “You know, he’s really a people person,” I said when he’d left.

  “What auction was he talking about?” Gazzy asked, and I shrugged.

  “No clue,” I answered, starting to walk around. The double doors to the room were metal, windowless, and had several locking bolts. Our captors definitely thought we were hot stuff, and I felt kind of proud of our bad reputation. Proud but really trapped.

  “Now what?” Angel was still wan and pale, with dark circles under her eyes. There were chairs around a table, and I helped her sit in one.

  “Iggy?” I said. He came closer, and with his incredibly delicate touch, he skimmed his fingers over her arm. “Is there anything you can do?”

  “It’s really swollen,” he said, and I used every bit of my self-control to not say, “No duh!”

  “It feels like a clean break,” Iggy went on. “Let me see . . . So to speak.” Very tenderly, he manipulated her broken arm.

  Though Angel’s face got a little green around the edges, she made hardly a sound. I held her shoulders and sent her comforting thoughts, and then we all heard a tiny scrape and a clicking sound, and Angel relaxed a bit.

  “Oh, that feels better,�
�� she said. “Still really bad, but less bad. Thanks, Iggy.”

  Iggy smiled, proud that he could contribute to the flock this way. I ripped up the lining of my jacket — wouldn’t be needing that here! — and made a stiff bandage to hold her arm in place.

  “Now what?” Gazzy repeated Angel’s question.

  “Fan out, check the perimeter,” I ordered.

  Which took less than five minutes.

  Everyone reported that the room seemed rock solid. The vents were too small for a house cat, there was only the one set of doors, and we had all seen the window demonstration.

  “Maybe I can . . .” Nudge murmured, and she crouched next to one of the doors. She moved her fingers close to the locks and closed her eyes. “If I could make the bolts all line up . . .”

  “Oh, so smart, Nudge,” I breathed, coming to crouch next to her. “Can you feel them?”

  “I think so,” she said. “If my magnetism could — ow!”

  There was a harsh crackle, and Nudge was jolted backward almost a foot. The residual electricity practically made my hair stand on end. Nudge was on her back, rubbing her hands.

  “The locks are booby-trapped,” she announced glumly, in case we hadn’t picked up on it. “So much for my new skill.”

  “My new skill was no help either,” said Angel.

  “And since we’re not surrounded by snow, I’m still blind.” Iggy sounded bitter, but then he perked up. “On the other hand, this carpet is a tasteful ecru, with a thin cinnamon stripe close to the wall.”

  I glanced at Fang, who was totally visible against the walnut paneling of the room. He shrugged.

  “So now I guess we wait,” I said. Which, you know, I’m so good at.

  64

  BEING IN THIS TALL BUILDING was interesting for us, because we were up high but not flying. Outside, it was really storming — huge crashes of thunder and lightning that I remembered from the last time we were here in the wishfully named Sunshine State. Gusts of wind buffeted the building, and it was so tall it actually swayed.

  “Good thing this building’s rated for hurricane-force winds,” Nudge said, looking out the window nervously. “It’s really blowing out there.”

  They fed us. I was hoping they’d send in actual humans with our food, because they’re easy to jump and pretty fragile. No problem getting past them, unless they have guns.

  Instead we got Transformer-bots with trays, under Gozen’s watchful laser eyes.

  They gave us a variety of food, apparently never having fed mutant bird kids before. We had oatmeal, sandwiches, fruit, bread, a bowl of dog kibble, which Total pushed toward Akila, and . . .

  “Oh, my God!” Nudge squealed, removing the cover on a tray. “Oh, my God!”

  “What? What?” I hurried over, hoping for chocolate.

  Instead I was confronted with a large bowl of . . . well, birdseed.

  “It’s just seeds!” Nudge said. “Not even like a granola bar. It’s birdseed!”

  For a couple seconds we all just stared at one another, and then we cracked up, really howling with laughter.

  “Oh, God, no!” I said, holding my bruised ribs. “Don’t make me laugh!”

  “Nummy!” Gazzy said, poking the seeds with his finger. “Could I get some worms with this?”

  “Stop! Stop!” I begged.

  Even Fang, who as you know is Mr. Personality, was actually laughing out loud, bent over, his hands on his knees.

  “What? Seeds?” Iggy asked, feeling the contents of the bowl. “Is this really birdseed? ’Cause we’re birds?”

  I nodded, tears running down my cheeks. I gasped for air, saying “Ouch” with each breath. “I’m nodding, Ig.”

  “This is too much,” Fang wheezed. “Too much! Birdseed! Oh, God.”

  “What’s for dessert? Caterpillars?” I said, barely intelligibly. This set off a new round of shrieking laughter.

  “This sandwich isn’t half bad,” Total said, his paws up on the table.

  “Did they bring us a bunch of nesting material?” Gazzy asked. “’Cause I’m beat.”

  More laughter. Angel almost fell onto her hurt arm.

  The door opened, and we tried to whip ourselves into fighting form but failed miserably. This was one way they’d never tried to subdue us — with laughter. Akila immediately got to her feet, ears back, head lowered. She looked pretty scary, but all I could do was try to swallow my giggles.

  Gozen stood in the doorway, watching us with his glowing blue eyes. “You will not find the rest of the day amusing,” he said. “Follow me. The auction is about to begin. As is the hurricane.”

  Fang and I looked at each other with “huh?” faces. What hurricane?

  “Question,” I said, raising a finger. “What auction are we talking about? And did you just say hurricane?”

  Gozen had turned toward the door, and now he turned back. “The Uber-Director is auctioning you off to the highest bidder. He expects you to bring a great deal of money.”

  “I’m flattered,” I said. “What are we being sold for?”

  “Whatever they want.”

  Okay, that wouldn’t end well.

  “And the hurricane?” I asked. Wasn’t the end of hurricane season, like, November? How could there be a hurricane now?

  “There is a Category four hurricane about to make a direct hit on Miami,” Gozen intoned. I wondered if worry had been programmed into him, and decided probably not. It would just get in the way.

  “Uh-huh,” I said. “Does anyone seem, um, concerned about that? Category four is one of the big ones, right?”

  “The city has been evacuated,” Gozen told us.

  “But not us?”

  “No.” He opened the door and gestured to it.

  Fang went first, the others falling into line behind him, me bringing up the rear. I was almost out the door when my gaze fell on the bowl of freaking birdseed, and I cracked up all over again.

  65

  CONSIDERING I’M NOT the world’s youngest executive, I sure have been in a lot of corporate conference rooms. They’re all pretty much the same: big plate glass windows; huge table, usually rectangular or oblong; large potted plants; thick carpet; rolley chairs.

  This one had a wall of flat TV screens, and something that I’d never seen before: a transparent person, with his organs and stuff in clear Plexiglas boxes, and his head attached to one by an almost-bare spinal cord. He was sitting — or stacked, more accurately — in a customized wheelchair.

  He saw all of us staring at him, and wheeled silently over the carpet toward us.

  “I am the Uber-Director,” he said, his voice a lot like Gozen’s: with human but slightly odd inflections, and also a barely detectable mechanical quality. Looking closer, I saw that his guts and stuff were surrounded by and connected to machine parts — hoses, pumps, electronic things. And yes, it was totally as gross as it sounds. If I hadn’t already seen a million incredibly gross things in my life, I would have barfed right there.

  His voice had enough expression to convince me that he had a colossal ego jam-packed into his Habitrail body. Great. I thought this day had been a little lacking in megalomaniacs.

  None of us said anything — no leaping forward with outstretched hands and big smiles. I guess we just weren’t raised right.

  “I’ve been concerned with you for quite some time,” he went on.

  “That makes . . . almost one of us,” I said.

  Unlike Gozen, the UD could smile. Or frown. “I find you very . . . interesting. From a scientific viewpoint, of course.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said, staring at him in fascination. “I have a bit of scientific curiosity myself. Listen, how do they keep your boxes clean? Like, with an aquarium vacuum, or what?”

  The Uber-Director had been gifted with the blush response to anger, and now his waxy cheeks mottled with a yucky purple color that would put me off plum pudding for the rest of my life.

  He glared at Gozen. Gozen took several quick steps toward me
, raising his oversize arm. I leaped onto the table, wings out, ready to fly around like a bat out of hell just to freak them out. Outside, strong winds pummeled the windows, and heavy rain all but obliterated from view the tall buildings around us. The thunder and lightning were constant. Yep, looked like a hurricane, all right.

  Gozen froze.

  I looked down at the Uber-Director. He was staring at me with a mixture of outrage . . . and hunger.

  “Uh, you okay, UD?” I asked. “Is it okay if I call you UD?” I looked at Gozen. “Is he okay? Does he need a feed bag hooked up or something?”

  Gozen lunged for me, but I jumped backward. His powerful fist, the size of a ham, crashed down on the table, bouncing me slightly. The table splintered, and I skittered to the other end. I knew my flock was on alert, and I took a second to glance at BoxBoy. His head was leaning to one side, as if he was tired, and I got the impression that if he had hands, he would have been rubbing his brow.

  “Enough, Gozen,” he said softly, and just like that, Gozen straightened and backed up until he stood stiffly against one wall. If only I could get Gazzy and Iggy to obey orders like that.

  “Get off the table,” the UD said to me. “The auction is about to begin. Once the monitors are on, you will all be silent.”

  I heard Gazzy stifle a laugh.

  The UD’s eyes met mine. “Do you have anything to say before the monitors are activated?”

  “Yes.” I kept a straight face. “A hamster called. He wants his home back.”

  66

  I HAD TO hand it to whoever was running things: They’d learned to take regular humans out of the equation. We’d always beaten them, confused them, gotten through them somehow. Which was why we were left with BoxBoy, the Incredible Humorless Hulk, and a bunch of Transformer-bots.