Gone Series Complete Collection (119 page)

“You know Frankie?”

“Which one?”

“The one who’s a boy. He says he saw Drake Merwin walking along the beach.”

Astrid stared at her. The mere mention of Drake Merwin gave Astrid chills. Drake was—had been—a boy who proved all by himself that you didn’t have to be an adult to be evil. Drake had been Caine’s number one henchman. He had kidnapped Astrid. Forced her with threats, with sheer terror, to ridicule her own brother to his face.

He had burned down Astrid’s house.

He had also whipped Sam so badly that Sam had almost died.

Astrid did not believe in hate. She believed in forgiveness. But she had not forgiven Drake. Even with him dead, she had not forgiven him.

She hoped there was a hell. A real hell, not some metaphorical one, so that Drake could be there now, burning for all eternity.

“Drake’s dead,” Astrid said evenly.

“Yeah,” Taylor agreed. “I’m just telling you what Frankie is saying. He’s saying he saw him, whip hand and all, walking down the beach, covered with mud and dirt and wearing clothes that didn’t fit.”

Astrid sighed. “This is what happens when little kids get into the alcohol.”

“He seemed sober,” Taylor said. She shrugged. “I don’t know if he was drunk or crazy or just making trouble, Astrid, so don’t blame me. This is supposed to be my job, right? I keep my eyes open and come tell Sam—or you—what’s up.”

“Well, thanks,” Astrid said.

“I’ll tell Sam when I see him,” Taylor said.

Asrid knew Taylor was trying to provoke her, and yet it worked: she was provoked. “Tell him anything you want, it’s still a free . . .” She had started to say
country
. “You’re free to say whatever you like to Sam.”

But Taylor had already bounced away, and Astrid was talking to air.

ELEVEN

47
HOURS
, 53
MINUTES

THE
PERDIDO
BEACH
Anomaly, that’s what they called it on the news. The Anomaly. Or the Dome.

Not the FAYZ. Although they knew that’s what the kids inside the Anomaly called it.

The parents, the family members, all the other pilgrims who gathered in a special “viewing area” at the southern end of the Dome tended to call it the fishbowl. Sometimes just the bowl. That’s what it was to the ones who camped out there in tents and sleeping bags and “dreamed” of their children on the other side: a fishbowl. They knew a little of what was in the bowl, but the little fish, their children, did not know what was outside in the great big world beyond.

Construction was going on in the area. The state of California was rushing through a bypass for the highway. The old road disappeared into the bowl and reappeared on the other side, twenty miles away. It made a mess for the businesses on the coastal route.

And other businesses were springing up on the south side of the bowl. The tourists had to be fed, after all. Carl’s Jr. was building a restaurant. So was Del Taco.

A Courtyard by Marriott was being thrown together at startling speed. Next to it a Holiday Inn Express had broken ground.

In her more cynical moments Connie Temple thought every construction company in the state of California saw the bowl as nothing but a huge opportunity to make money.

The politicians were enjoying it all a bit too much, too. The governor had been there half a dozen times, accompanied by hundreds of reporters. Satellite trucks were packed like sardines all up the beach.

But each day Connie noticed the number of reporters and satellite trucks was just a bit smaller than the day before. The world had gone from stunned disbelief to giddy exploitation to the mundane grind of turning a tragedy into a tourist trap.

Connie Temple—Nurse Temple, as she was inevitably called by the media—had become one of two spokespersons for the families.

That was the shorthand for all those who had children locked inside the bowl:
the families
.

Connie Temple and Abana Baidoo.

It was easier before they could know what was happening inside the bowl. At first all anyone had known was that a terrifying thing had happened. An impenetrable energy field had created a dome twenty miles across. They figured out very quickly that the nuclear power plant was at the epicenter.

There were dozens of theories about what it was, that dome. Every scientist in the world, it seemed, had made a pilgrimage to the site. Tests had been conducted, measurements taken.

They had tried drilling through it. Under it. Had flown over it. Had dug beneath it. Had approached it by submarine.

Nothing worked.

Every species of doomsayer from Luddite to End Times nut had had his say. It was a judgment. On America’s technological obsession, on America’s moral failure. This. That. Something else.

Then the twins had popped out. Just like that. First Emma. Then, a few minutes later, Anna. Alive and well at the exact moment of their fifteenth birthday.

They told tales of life inside the bowl. What they called the FAYZ.

Connie Temple’s heart had swelled with pride for what she had learned of her son, Sam. And crashed into despair with tales of her other son, her unacknowledged child, Caine.

Then, nothing. No other kids arrived for a while.

Black despair settled over the families as they realized that it would be only these two. Months passed. Many lost faith. How could kids survive alone?

But then, the Prophetess had reached into their dreams.

One night Connie Temple had a lurid, incredible dream. She’d never had such a detailed dream. It was terrifying. The power of it took her breath away. There was a girl in that dream.

This girl spoke to her in the dream.
It’s a dream
, the girl said.

Yes, just a dream
, Connie had answered.

Not just a dream. Never say “just” a dream
, the girl had corrected.
A dream is a window to another reality.

Who are you?
Connie had asked.

My name is Orsay. I know your son.

Connie had been about to say,
Which one?
But some instinct stopped her. The girl did not look dangerous. She looked hungry.

Do you have a message for Sam?
the girl asked.

Yes
, Connie said.
Tell him to let them go.

Let them go.

Let them go off into the red sunset.

Orsay woke with a start. She kept her eyes closed because she could feel the close presence of another person. She wanted to stay asleep and private and alone for just another moment.

But the other person, the girl, would not let her.

Nerezza said, “I know you’re awake, Prophetess.”

Orsay opened her eyes. Nerezza was close, very close. Orsay could feel her breath on her face.

She looked into Nerezza’s eyes. “I don’t understand,” Orsay said. “I already had that dream. A dream of a woman dreaming.” She frowned with the effort of remembering. It was all so strange and wispy and unreal. Like grabbing on to fog.

“It must be a very important dream,” Nerezza said.

“The first time, I was at the FAYZ wall. Now I’m seeing the same thing when I sleep. But I’ve already told Sam the message. Why am I seeing the same thing again?”

“There’s a difference between you
delivering
a message and Sam
getting
the message, Prophetess.”

Orsay sat up. Nerezza was bothering her. More and more she found herself wondering about Nerezza. But she had become dependent on the girl to guide her and shield her and take care of her.

“You think I need to repeat the message to Sam?”

Nerezza shrugged and made a modest smile. “I’m not the Prophetess. That’s for you to decide.”

“She said to let the kids go. Into the red sunset.”

“Your vision of the great escape from the FAYZ,” Nerezza said. “The red sunset.”

Orsay shook her head. “This wasn’t a dream I reached for. I wasn’t at the FAYZ wall, I was here, asleep.”

“Your powers are expanding,” Nerezza suggested.

“I don’t like it. It’s like . . . I don’t know. Like they’re coming from somewhere. Like I’m being pushed. Manipulated.”

“No one can push you or control your dreams,” Nerezza said. “But . . .”

“But?”

“Maybe it’s very important that Sam hear you. Maybe it’s very, very important that he not stand in the way of truth.”

“I’m not a prophet,” Orsay said wearily. “I just dream. I don’t know if any of it is even real. I mean, sometimes it seems real, but other times it seems crazy.”

Nerezza took her hand. Orsay found her touch strong and cool. It sent a shiver up Orsay’s arm.

“They’re all telling lies about you, Prophetess,” Nerezza said. “You must not doubt yourself because they are busy, even now, attacking you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“They fear you. They fear your truth. They are spreading lies that you are a false prophet.”

“I don’t . . . What are you . . . I . . .”

Nerezza put her finger on Orsay’s mouth, shushing her. “No. You must be sure. You must
believe
. You must be the Prophetess. Otherwise, their lies will pursue you.”

Orsay lay still as a terrified mouse.

“The fate of false prophets is death,” Nerezza said. “But you are the true Prophetess. And you will be protected by your faith. Believe, and you will be safe. Make others believe, and you will live.”

Orsay stared in horror. What was Nerezza talking about? What was she saying? Who were these people who were telling lies about her? And who would threaten her? She wasn’t doing anything wrong.

Was she?

Nerezza called out in a loud voice tinged with impatience. “Jill! Jill! Come in here.”

The girl came in a few seconds later. She was still carrying her doll, holding on to it for all it was worth.

“Sing for the Prophetess,” Nerezza ordered.

“What song should I sing?”

“It doesn’t really matter, does it?” Nerezza asked.

So, the Siren sang:

Sunny days . . .

And Orsay stopped thinking of anything but sunny, sunny days.

TWELVE

45
HOURS
, 36
MINUTES

HUNTER
HAD
BECOME
a creature of the night. It was the only way. Animals hid during the day and came out at night. Opossums, rabbits, raccoons, mice, and the biggest prize of all: deer. The coyotes hunted at night, and Hunter had learned from them.

Squirrels and birds you had to go after in the daytime. But night was the time for Hunter to truly live up to his name.

Hunter’s range was wide, from the edge of town, where raccoons and deer came to look for ways into people’s backyard gardens, to the dry lands, where snakes and mice and other rodents were to be found. Along the shoreline he could kill birds, gulls, and terns. And once, he had bagged a lost sea lion.

He had responsibilities, Hunter did. He wasn’t just Hunter, he was
the
hunter.

He knew the two words were the same, although he could no longer spell the word.

Hunter’s head didn’t work the way it used to. He knew that. He could feel it. He had murky memories of himself living a very different life. He had memories of himself raising his hand in a classroom to answer a hard question.

Hunter would not have those answers now. The answers he did have, he couldn’t really explain with words. There were things he knew, things about the way you could tell if a rabbit was going to run or stand still. Whether a deer could smell you or hear you or not.

But if he tried to explain . . . words didn’t come out right.

One side of his face wasn’t right. It kind of didn’t have any feeling in it. Like one side of his face wasn’t anything but a slab of dead meat. And sometimes it felt as if that same dead-meat thing spread into his brain. But the strange mutant power, the ability to direct killing heat wherever he wanted, that remained.

He couldn’t talk very well, or think very well, or form a real smile, but he could hunt. He had learned to walk quiet. He had learned to keep the breeze in his face. And he knew that in the night, in the darkest hours, the deer would head toward the cabbage field, drawn there despite the killer worms, the zekes that would kill anything that stepped foot in one of their home fields without permission.

The deer, they weren’t that smart. Not even as smart as Hunter.

He walked carefully, treading on the balls of his feet, feeling through his worn boots for the twig or loose rock that would give him away. He moved as quietly as a coyote.

The doe was ahead, moving through the scrub brush, indifferent to the thorns, intent on leading her baby toward the smell of green ahead.

Close. Closer. The breeze blowing from the deer to Hunter, so that they didn’t smell him.

A few more feet and he’d be close enough. First the doe. He’d kill her first. The baby wouldn’t know how to react. She would hesitate. And he’d take her.

So much meat. Albert would be very excited. There hadn’t been many deer lately.

Hunter heard the noise and saw the deer bolt.

They were gone before he could so much as raise his hands, let alone send the invisible killing heat.

Gone. The whole night stalking and tracking and just seconds away from a good kill, and now they were bounding away through the brush.

The noise was people, Hunter knew that right away. Talking and jostling and rattling and tripping and complaining.

Hunter was angry but also philosophical. Hunting was like that: a lot of the time you ended up wasting your time. But . . .

Hunter frowned.

That voice.

He crouched in the brush and quieted his breathing. He strained to hear. More than one person. Boys.

They were coming in his direction, skirting the zeke field.