Freefly (31 page)

I explode to life and grab at the AED.  “She doesn’t have a heartbeat!”

The other three men skid to a stop around us.  I clamber toward Sammie.  The bearded man pushes me away, and I fall backwards into the dirt.

“What are you
doing?
” I say.

The bearded man takes the AED from me.  “Damien, you need to step away and let me work.”

My breath catches as he uses my name.  How does he know me?  Then I remember the newspaper with my face spanned across the front page.  Sammie and I are famous.  Infamous.  “She needs help!”

“I’m going to help her,” he says, holding my gaze.  “But I need space.”

Two of the workers grasp me by my arms and lift me to my feet, holding me still between them.  The bearded man begins performing chest compressions on Sammie, counting every time he punches down.  Her body quivers dreadfully.  I strain against the men, but they tighten their grip on my arms.  It’s like high school, with the Leslies holding me back. 
But this is good
.  They’re trying to help her.

The man stops the chest compressions and grasps Sammie wrist.  Sweat beads on his forehead.  He shakes his head ever so slightly, and I am certain I see a hint of resignation in his eyes. 

“Sammie!” I shout. 

The man dips his head and breathes into Sammie’s lips, then continues to do chest compressions.  But I am certain it is over.  I deactivated the explosive, but the electric shock somehow killed her.  I should have thought up a better plan.  I should have...I don’t know, done
something
differently.  But almost as if Sammie herself is whispering to me, I feel a wave of reassurance.  I did everything I could.  I tried the best option available to me, because if I didn’t, she would have died anyway.

But even without the guilt, I find myself falling to my knees and dropping my face away from the scene, because I can’t bear to look.  The sounds are still vivid and awful, though:  the man’s whispered counting as he bears down on Sammie’s chest, the grind of his knee against the dirt.  Tears rush into my eyes, and I let them fall. 

It’s over.  I’ve lost her. 

I look up to see the bearded man drawing out the pads of the AED.  As he pulls away from her, Sammie’s eyes flicker open. 

“Sammie!” I say.

Seemingly overcome with shock, she leaps into the air, shooting up about six feet.  Her eyes dart around at the construction workers until they lock on me.  I fall forward onto my hands, going limp with joy and relief. 

“Damien!” Sammie says.  “Are you okay?”

I manage to pick myself up, though my limbs feel weirdly gelatinous.  As I wobble to my feet, I notice that the construction workers are frozen in place, their faces slack with awe as they stare at Sammie. 

“I’m great,” I say, my voice breaking.  I realize that there are still tears coming out of my eyes, and I wipe them with the back of my hand.

“What happened?”  Sammie tenses.  “Did they hurt you?”

“No,” I say.  “They saved your life.”

Sammie cocks her head.  The bearded man seems to overcome his awe, because he reaches into his pocket and drags out a cell phone. 

“I’m going to call an ambulance,” he says.

Sammie throws herself about three feet higher into the air.

“Don’t!” I say.  When the man stares at me, puzzled, I say, “We can’t.”

After a moment, he nods, then slides his phone back into his pocket.  Sammie drifts down and lands in the dirt, bending her knees to lessen the impact.  She looks fine
—
pale and cut up
—
but fine, alive, staring at me.  Then I realize:  it’s over.  The destruction of the device in Sammie’s neck means her ties to the criminals are cut, and we have escaped from the scientists.

“You’re free,” I say.

She narrows her eyes, then reaches for the back of her neck.

“Destroyed,” I say.

At this, she bawls openly.  I wrap my arms around her, and the construction workers back off, giving us space.  Minutes pass as Sammie sobs into my T-shirt, while I clutch my hands together behind her.  I estimate that the likelihood of this moment happening
—
Sammie free, both of us okay, no secrets left between us
—
was one in a million.  Yet it is unfolding before my eyes.  I want to memorize it, this feeling of delirious freedom and uncomplicated love. 
This
is greatness. 

Sammie pulls away from me, then clutches my hand.  Despite the tears that still shine on her face, she grins.  We begin to walk toward the woods.

“Wait a minute!”  The bearded construction worker runs up beside us.  “Where are you going to go?”

Sammie raises an eyebrow.  “
Up.
”

And we blast into the air. 

****

WANTED:  FLYING TEENAGERS.  NO HOAX. 

By Patrice Carbonaro

A night of fun was transformed into one of terror and amazement when an unidentified criminal girl and a Boorsville boy, Damien Savage, 17, flew through a window and up into the sky during Boorsville High’s Spring Shake on Friday.

The girl, who federal officials on the scene declined to identify, was being pursued by the FBI on charges of terrorism, homicide, and robbery, among other crimes. The two teens made their miraculous escape after federal agents raided the dance and attempted to capture the wanted girl.

Officials would not say whether Savage was involved in the crimes.

Agent Michael Thorne of the FBI says that he is mystified by the phenomenal flight, but insists that he and his fellow officers have the situation under control.

"We have been tracking this criminal for quite some time, and we have not lost the trail. We will not give up the search,” he says.

When asked how the FBI is responding to the to the phenomenon of human flight, Thorne says, "We're as shocked as everyone else is. We'd like to know more about this girl. Her capture is paramount to us."

Thorne urges anyone with information about the whereabouts of either Savage or the girl to contact authorities immediately.

"Not only will you be taking a violent criminal off the streets, you will be helping to move the human race a great step forward,” he says.

What’s up? 

Sammie here.  I bet you’ve been reading a whole lot of news stories like the one above, right?  Well, Damien and I wrote all this down so you could get the whole story.  We’re not the bad guys.  (That would be Thorne, the boss, and maybe Joe Butt.)  Thorne’s trying to use the media against us, but we thought that maybe, if we reached enough people, we could use it against
him. 
So pass this thing on, alright?  The more people who know what’s actually up with us, the less we’ll be treated like a couple of fugitives.  Who knows, maybe we could finally stop running. 

Since all this stuff went down, Damien and I have been pretty much everywhere.  England, France, Russia, South America (briefly), California, Arizona, Utah
—
you point it out on a map, we’ve probably touched down and bought Cheetos.  Damien’s earning some money writing science articles for a kids’ website.  Me, I’m just soaking it all up, all these places I’ve always wanted to go but couldn’t.  We go to public libraries a lot, to read and learn about stuff.  We go to movies and baseball games.  Of course, we have to wear disguises to all of these places. 

When things settle down, which hopefully they do, we’re going to go find my mom.  As far as we know, Damien’s parents are still in Boorsville, but we haven’t been able to see them.  (Sidenote:  We read in the news that Boorsville High actually graduated Damien at the end of this school year, since he had enough credits.)  We’d like to thank the people who’ve helped us so far, like those construction workers back in the woods, the guy with all the hot dogs in Chicago, the bread place in Paris, and all of the people who’ve spotted us but haven’t called the police.  Sorry we can’t offer you a whole lot in return.  But hey, if you ever need anything delivered...

Sammie

Damien

“I don’t know, Sammie.  I don’t necessarily like this look.”

“What’s not to like?  You look like a pirate.”

“That’s not really a good thing.”

“Then take off the moustache.”

“Alright.” 

Sammie and I are standing outside the Phillies’ stadium.  Thoroughly disguised, Sammie is wearing sunglasses and a backwards Phillies cap we just bought off a street vendor.  I’ve got a bandanna tied around my head, completely covering my dark hair (it’s a real giveaway), and I
was
wearing a huge fake moustache Sammie picked up from God knows where.  I tuck the moustache into the pocket of my jeans and look around.  In the mid-afternoon sun, tons of people are streaming into the stadium, almost all of them in bright red Phillies garb.  No one seems to notice us, which is good:  bad things happen when people notice us.  (I am referring to things like screaming, chasing, police-calling, and general chaos.) 

“Ready?” Sammie says, holding out her hand. 

I take it and grin.  “Yes.” 

We join the stream of people drifting into the big red entrance.  Inside, there’s a long hallway with lots of stands selling hamburgers, hot dogs, T-shirts, and foam fingers.  I hand our tickets to the man ripping them and take back the stubs.  We follow the crowd out to the bleachers, then begin the climb the metal steps.  Carnival music booms, and the smell of buttery popcorn permeates the air.  I glance back at Sammie.  She’s gazing at everything, a curious look on her face.

When we’ve reached about as high as we can go, we file into our row and take our seats.  Below, the Phillies have taken the field, looking like tiny white dots in their pin-striped uniforms.  Sammie and I saved for months for these tickets.  While it would have been relatively easy for us to float to the top of the stadium and drop into the back row, we wanted to do this legally.  Baseball is something we both like
—
me because I always have, and her because I told her so many baseball stories that she actually knows the rules.  At the public library, we’ve been scrolling through the scores of every Phillies game and keeping up with each player’s stats.  We’re fans. 

“
Why
is that guy screaming the word peanuts?” Sammie says.

“He’s selling them.”

“That was unclear.”

“Do you want to get some?”

She tilts her head and reaches into her pockets, then pulls out a crumpled one dollar bill and a couple of nickels.  “Will this be enough?”

“If you multiplied it by seven, maybe.”

“That seems awfully expensive.” 

“Lesson Number 16 of today:  Before entering a sports arena, stuff your pockets.” 

I dig into my jeans and whip out two king-sized Snickers bars.  Sammie snatches one and rips off the wrapper.