She opened the door. Looked out into the hallway. It was empty.
“Candy bars it is,” she said, realizing she just didn’t have the nerve to go down to the restaurant.
The room next door had a minibar but no key in the lock. She tried three more rooms before realizing that she had just been lucky that first night. The refrigerators were all locked. But, wait, maybe all the keys were interchangeable.
“Come on, back to our room,” she said.
“Munchy munchy,” Little Pete protested.
“Munchy munchy,” Astrid confirmed. “Come on, Petey.”
Out in the hallway again and then she heard the ding of an elevator. The smooth electric motors opening the door.
Was it Sam? She froze, poised between fear and hope.
Fear won.
The elevator was at the end of the hall and around a bend. She had seconds.
“Come on,” she hissed, and pushed Little Pete forward. With fumbling fingers she slid the passcard into and out of the slot. Too fast. She had to do it slower. Again. Still no green light. One more time and now she could hear the elevator door closing.
It was him. Suddenly she knew it was Drake.
“Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee.” It was the only prayer she could think of.
She tried the key again. The light blinked to green.
She turned the handle.
He was there. At the end of the hall. Standing there with a rifle over his shoulder and a gun in his hand.
Astrid almost collapsed.
Drake grinned.
He raised the handgun and took aim.
Astrid pushed Little Pete into the room and tumbled in after him.
Astrid slammed the door closed and threw the bolt. Then she added the security lock.
An impossibly loud noise.
The door had a hole in it the size of a dime, with the metal puckered out.
Another explosion and the door handle was hanging half off.
Little Pete could save them. He could. He had the power. But he was still calm, still oblivious.
Useless.
The balcony. It was the only way.
“Petey, come on!” she rasped.
“Munchy, munchy,” he argued.
Drake slammed against the door, but it held. The dead bolt was still in place.
He fired again and again, frustrated, blasting away at the dead bolt.
He was frantic that she and Petey would teleport again.
She had to make him believe it had happened.
She dragged Little Pete to the balcony, slid open the door, looked down. The ground was too far. Way too far. But there was a balcony directly below them.
Astrid climbed over the railing, scared to death, shaking, but with no alternative.
How could she get Little Pete to follow? He was fixated on food now.
“Game Boy,” she hissed, and pushed the toy close to his face. “Come on, Petey, come on, Game Boy.”
She guided her brother over, placed his hand on the rail, only one hand because now he was in his game again, lost in his stupid game, too calm to use his power, too unpredictable.
“Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus,” Astrid sobbed.
This wasn’t going to work. She could make it, but how could she get her brother to do it?
He was small. She could swing him. She could hold on for the few seconds it’d take.
“Holy Mary, Mother of God…”
She gripped the railing with her left, grabbed Little Pete’s wrist with her right, and yanked him away from the rail. He fell. She caught him, held on by her fingernails, and then he was falling. He slammed onto the porch chair below.
He had landed hard. He was stunned.
Astrid heard Drake slamming against the door again and heard a splintering sound as the dead bolt gave way. Now only the frail chain still held and he would be through that in a heartbeat.
“…pray for us sinners now…”
She swung herself down and landed almost on top of Little Pete. No time for the sharp pain in her leg, no time for the blood and the scraped flesh, only time to grab Little Pete, hug him, hold him close, and withdraw back against the sliding-glass door of the balcony.
“Window seat, window seat, baby, window seat,” she whispered, her mouth pressed to his ear.
She heard Drake in the room above.
She heard him slide open the door above and step out onto the balcony.
They were out of sight. Unless he leaned out far enough.
Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, she finished the prayer silently and held on to her brother.
Amen.
She heard Drake curse in fury.
They had done it. He thought they had disappeared.
Thank you, Lord, Astrid prayed silently.
And then, Little Pete began to moan.
His game had fallen when she had dropped him to the balcony. The back was open. One of the batteries had rolled away. And now Little Pete was trying to make it work and it wouldn’t.
Astrid almost sobbed out loud.
Drake stopped cursing.
She looked up and there he was, leaning far out over the railing. The shark grin was wide.
The gun was in his hand, but he couldn’t quite get an angle on them, so he swung one leg over the railing, crouched just as Astrid had done, and now he could see them quite clearly.
He aimed.
He laughed.
And then he bellowed in pain and fell.
Astrid leaped to the railing. Drake was on the grass below, sprawled on his back, unconscious, lying on his rifle with the pistol beside him.
“Astrid,” Sam said.
He was above her, still holding the table lamp he’d used to smash Drake’s hand, leaning out over the railing.
“Sam.”
“You okay?”
“As soon as I get Petey’s battery I will be.” That sounded stupid, and she almost laughed.
“I have a boat down on the beach.”
“Where are we going?”
“How about not here?”
TWENTY-FIVE
127 HOURS, 42 MINUTES
IT HAD BEEN two days since Lana had survived the coyotes. The talking coyotes. Two days since her life had been saved by a snake. A flying snake.
The world had gone crazy.
Lana had watered the lawn that morning, careful to keep a sharp eye out for coyotes and snakes. She paid close attention to Patrick’s every bark, growl, or twitch. He was her early warning system. They’d been owner and pet in the old days, or, maybe you could say, friends. But now they were a team. They were partners in a game of survival: Patrick’s senses, her brain.
It was a stupid thing to do, watering the lawn, since she couldn’t be sure there would be water enough for her. But the man who had owned this tumbledown desert abode had loved the few square meters of grass. It was an act of defiance against the desert. Defiance, even though he had chosen to live out here in the middle of absolutely nowhere.
Anyway, in a crazy world, why shouldn’t she be crazy, too?
The man who owned the cabin was named Jim Brown. She found that out from papers inside his desk. Plain old Jim Brown. There was no picture of him, but he was only forty-eight years old, a little too young, Lana thought, to leave civilization behind and become a hermit.
The shed behind the cabin was stacked to the roof with survival rations. Not a single fresh thing to be found, but enough canned crackers, canned peanut butter, peaches, fruit cocktail, chili, Spam, and military-style meals ready to eat to last Lana and Patrick at least a year. Maybe longer.
There was no phone. No TV or any electronics. No air-conditioning to soften the brutal afternoon heat. There was no electricity at all. The only mechanical things were the windmill that turned the pump that brought water up from the aquifer below, and a foot-powered grindstone used to hone picks and shovels and saw blades. There were
more than a few picks, shovels, saws, and hammers.
There was evidence as well of a car or truck. Tire marks led through the sand from a sort of carport that sagged against the side of the house. There were empty oil cans in the trash and two red, twenty-five-gallon steel tanks that smelled like they were full of gasoline.
Out back was a stack of railroad ties, neatly formed into a square pile. Beside this was smaller lumber, a lot of it used two-by-fours scarred by nails.
Hermit Jim, as Lana thought of him, must be out. Maybe he had left forever. Maybe what had happened to her grandfather had happened to him, and now she was the only person left alive in the whole world.
She didn’t want to be there if he came back. There was no way to know whether you could trust a man who lived in a searing hot valley between dusty hills at the end of no road, and had a lawn as lush as a putting green.
Lana finished watering the grass and sprayed Patrick playfully with the hose before turning it off.
“Want some chili, boy?” she asked the dog.
She led the way back inside. It was an oven in the cabin, so hot, she started sweating before she had cleared the threshold, but Lana did not think she would ever complain about something so minor. Not after what she had endured.
Heat? Big deal. She had water, she had food, and all her bones were unbroken, which was how she liked them.
The chili came in a big number-ten can. With no refrigeration, they had to eat it before it could go bad, so it was chili, meal after meal, till it was gone. But at least there was fruit cocktail for dessert. Tomorrow, maybe she’d open one of the number-ten cans of vanilla pudding and just eat pudding for a couple of days.
There was no oven, just a one-burner cooktop. No sink. There was a single chair and a table, and an uncomfortable cot against a wall. The one decorative feature was a ratty Persian rug in the center of the only room. The best seat in the house was a smelly but comfortable La-Z-Boy that sat on that rug. It was stuck in the recline position, but that was fine with Lana. She was all about reclining and taking things easy.
The only thing to do was read. Hermit Jim had exactly thirty-eight books. She had inventoried them. There were fairly recent novels by Patrick O’Brian, Dan Simmons, Stephen King, and Dennis Lehane, and some books that she supposed were philosophy by writers like Thoreau. There were classics whose names seemed familiar to her: Oliver Twist, The Sea Wolf, The Big Sleep, Ivanhoe.
Nothing had exactly jumped out at her, there were no J. K. Rowling or Meg Cabot books, nothing for kids at all. But over the course of the first day she had read all of Pride and Prejudice and now she was starting The Sea Wolf. Neither was an easy book. But Lana had nothing but time on her hands.
“We can’t stay here, Patrick,” Lana said as the dog attacked his bowl of chili. “Sooner or later we have to move on. My friends will be worried. Everyone will be. Even Mom and Dad. They must think we’re dead.”
But even as she said it, Lana had her doubts. There wasn’t much to do once she had inventoried the groceries, so she spent most of her time sitting on the wooden chair, reading, or just watching the desert landscape. She would pull the chair into the doorway where she could have some shade and look out across the lawn at the hills around. She had mastered the trick of reading a paragraph at a time, looking up to scan the area for danger, checking Patrick for warning signs, then sinking back into the book for another paragraph.
After a while the unending emptiness took a toll on her never-strong sense of optimism.
The barrier was still there. It was behind the cabin, not in her field of vision unless she stepped away from the cabin.
Lana carried a tin cup of water toward the door, intending to drink it while having another look at the lawn and suddenly there was Patrick, racing toward her. His fur was up. He shook his head like he was having a seizure.
“Get in!” Lana yelled.
She held the door open. Patrick barreled in. She slammed the door and threw the bolt.
Patrick hit the rug, skidded, rolled over twice, and came up to a sitting position. Something was in his mouth. Something alive.
Lana approached cautiously. She bent down to see.
“A horny toad? That’s what you have? You scared me half to death over a horned toad?” She felt her heart thud heavily as it restarted. “Spit that thing out. Good grief, Patrick, I count on you and you freak out over a stupid horned toad?”
Patrick didn’t want to give up his prize. Lana decided to let him have it. It was dead now, anyway, and she supposed Patrick was entitled to his own version of crazy.
“Take it outside and you can keep it,” she said. She headed for the door but knelt first to straighten the rug. Then she noticed the hatch in the floor.
Lana pulled the rug back farther, folding it up over the La-Z-Boy.
She hesitated, not sure if she wanted to see what was under those floorboards. Maybe Hermit Jim was Serial Killer Jim.
But it wasn’t like she had anything else to do. She shoved the recliner aside and rolled up the rug. There was a recessed steel ring. She pulled it up.
Lying in the space below were neatly stacked metal bricks, each maybe six or eight inches long, half as wide, and a third as thick.
There was no question in Lana’s mind what they were.
“Gold, Patrick. Gold.”
The gold bars were heavy, twenty pounds or more, but she lifted enough out to be able to see the extent of the pile. Her best estimate was that there were fourteen in all, each at least twenty pounds.
Lana had no idea what gold was worth, but she knew what a pair of gold hoop earrings cost.
“That is a lot of earrings,” she said.
Patrick looked into the hole with puzzlement.
“You know what this means, Patrick? All this gold here and all those picks and shovels outside? Hermit Jim is a gold miner.”
She ran outside to the lean-to where Hermit Jim had formerly parked his truck. Patrick bounded along, hoping for a game. Sometimes she tossed a broken axe handle for him to retrieve, but today Patrick was to be disappointed.
For the first time Lana carefully followed the tire tracks. They were fading, but still visible. A hundred feet from the house, they split. Some tracks, older ones, it seemed, headed one direction, southeast, probably toward Perdido Beach. Somewhat fresher tracks headed toward the base of the ridge to the north.
Perdido Beach she believed could be fifteen, maybe twenty miles or so away, a very long walk in the heat. But if the mine was at the base of the ridge, it didn’t look like even a tenth of that distance. Hermit Jim might be there. If he was, so was his truck. If he wasn’t, his truck might still be there, anyway.
Lana felt a profound aversion to the idea of venturing into the wild again. She’d come very, very close to dying the last time. And the coyotes might still be out there, waiting patiently. But the mile to the mine? She could do that.
She filled a plastic jug with water. She filled herself with water and made sure Patrick was hydrated, too. She stuffed her pockets with MREs—meals ready to eat—and packed more into a towel she twisted to form a pouch. She smeared herself with sunscreen from an emergency medical kit.
“Let’s go for a walk, Patrick.”
Edilio grinned as Astrid took her seat on the left side of the Boston Whaler. “Thank God. Now at least we got one smart person on this boat.”
Edilio and Quinn pushed the boat off the sand, back into the gently lapping surf. They climbed aboard, then trailed their legs over the side to clean off clinging sand.
Sam headed the boat out to sea, out toward the barrier. He hoped Drake was dead or at least badly injured. But he wasn’t sure and he wanted to get well away before the psychopath started shooting at them.
It occurred to Sam that never before in his life had he wished someone dead. Eight days had passed since the coming of the FAYZ. Eight days and he’d seen enough craziness to last him a lifetime. And now he was fantasizing about a kid being dead.
; Once he pushed the throttle forward and was beyond the range of any bullet, he started to feel better. This was as close as Sam had come to surfing since the coming of the FAYZ. The waves were unimpressive short chop, but the Whaler landed on them with wonderful force that translated up through his legs, rattled his teeth, and brought a smile to his lips. Salt spray was flying, and for Sam it was hard to be grim when the spray was lashing his face.
“Thanks, Edilio. You too, Quinn,” Sam said. He was still furious at Quinn, but they were—literally—all in the same boat now.
“See how much you want to thank me when I hurl all over this boat,” Edilio said. He was looking a little green.
Sam reminded himself to keep a safe distance from the FAYZ barrier, but at the same time he wanted to keep it close. There was still the tantalizing possibility of a gap, a gate, an opening through which they could all sail and say good-bye to this madness.
Far to the north he could see the cliffs that marked the inlet occupied by the power plant. Beyond that, just a smudge in the haze, the outline of the nearest of half a dozen small private islands.
Astrid had dug out the life jackets and was strapping one onto Little Pete. Edilio accepted one too, but Quinn refused.
Astrid also found a small cooler packed with warm sodas, a loaf of bread, and the rest of the makings of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. “We won’t starve,” she said. “At least not right away.”
The barrier was just to their left, a terrible, imposing, blank wall. The waves lapped against it, an impatient sound. The water wanted to escape, too.
Sam was a fish in an aquarium and the FAYZ wall was the side of the tank. It was the same semitranslucent mystery it was on land.
He skimmed along until he was far enough out that Clifftop was no bigger than a LEGO perched above a narrow ribbon of sand. Perdido Beach was like an oil painting, dots and splashes of color that suggested a town without providing any detail.
“I’m going to try something,” he announced.
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