Gone Series Complete Collection (187 page)

And then it came to him: he did have something to throw.

Caine raised his hands. The bugs below spotted him and rose up on their hind four legs to come slamming themselves against the window where he stood.

Caine focused on the closest creature. And suddenly six sharp-tipped insect legs were motoring in midair. He lifted the creature as high as he could, then dropped it. The bug landed hard, but shook itself and was instantly back on the attack without so much as a broken leg.

“Turn them over!” Brianna yelled.

Caine reached for the same aggressive bug, lifted him, and this time gave the creature a spin before dropping him.

It landed on its back. All six legs kicked madly in the air. Exactly like a beetle turned over on its back.

“The washing machine,” Caine said. “Is it upstairs—”

“Right down the hall,” Brianna said.

Caine ran, lurching into a wall as the bugs outside hit the house with concerted force. Found the washing machine and lifted it away from the wall, ripping power cord and hoses in the process, and levitated it down the hall to the bedroom.

He threw it through the window. It landed harmlessly on a bug’s back. The one he had turned over had righted itself, so Caine flipped a different bug.

Then, while the creature was kicking madly trying to turn itself upright, Caine raised the washing machine high in the air and slammed it down on the creature’s exposed abdomen. It hit like a cartoon anvil.

Whumpf!

Goo spurted from the bug’s sides. The kicking legs slowed.

“Oh yeah: that works,” Caine said.

He flipped a second bug over, lifted the battered Maytag and smashed it down. This time the bug did not spray its guts immediately so he hit it again.

A huge crash and a sound of rending, twisting, ripping wood. The entire house jerked. Shuddered. And to Caine’s horror the wall before him started to fall away.

The entire house was collapsing.

Brianna blurred and was gone. Caine tried to run but the floor was tilted crazily as it fell beneath his feet. The ceiling came crashing down and Caine landed on his back as the house collapsed atop him in a wild tornado of destruction.

Something crushed his stomach. Plasterboard pressed down on his face. His hands were pinned. He gasped for air and breathed dust. He could see nothing in his immediate field of vision but wallboard and part of a framed Weezer poster.

But he could feel his legs and arms. Nothing broken. Nothing punctured.

He had the power to lift the debris off himself. But if he did, then the creatures would be on him in a heartbeat.

Whereas if he stayed under the wreckage, he might be safe.

The creatures would finally give up on him and go in search of easier victims. Then, when they were gone, he could emerge and take them by surprise.

Caine took a shaky, dusty breath.

Playing dead meant letting some kids die so that he could live. Caine decided he was probably fine with that.

THIRTY-NINE

38
MINUTES

EDILIO LAY
ON
the steps of town hall feeling as weak as a kitten. He had barely heard Caine’s big speech. He couldn’t have cared less. There was nothing he could do, not with delirium spinning his head.

He coughed hard, too hard. It wracked his body each time he did it so that he dreaded the next cough. His stomach was clenched in knots. Every muscle in his body ached.

He was vaguely aware that he was saying something in between coughs.

“
Mamá. Mamá. Sálvame
.”

Save me, mother
.

“Santa María, sálvame,”
he begged, and coughed so hard he smashed his head against the steps.

Death was near, he felt it. Death reached through his swimming, disordered mind and he felt its cold hand clutching his heart.

Santa María, Madre de Dios, ruega por nosotros pecadores, ahora y en la hora de nuestra muerte
.

And then in the swirling darkness he saw her. A figure dressed in a flowing white and blue dress. She had sad, dark eyes, and a golden glow came from her head.

She held up one hand as if blessing him.

He heard her voice. He was surprised that she spoke in English. He’d always thought of God’s mother as speaking Spanish.

“Run, Edilio,” she said.

He started to repeat the prayer.
Santa María, Madre de Dios . . .

But she grabbed him by his outstretched arm and said, “I know you’re sick but run. RUN! I can’t save you!”

For some reason the Virgin Mary had Brianna’s voice.

Edilio stood up. The sudden movement sent jagged bolts of pain into his head. For a moment he couldn’t even see, but he plowed ahead on leaden feet. Fell and rolled and got back up, blind, staggering. He ran and ran and coughed until he doubled up on the ground.

He sat there for a while. Waiting to find the strength to follow Brianna’s orders, to run.

He looked up and saw that he was across the plaza. He saw the desperate sick and the peaceful dead on the steps.

And he saw demons, huge monsters, armored cockroaches with impossible red devil eyes.

They swarmed onto the steps.

Brianna saw Lana come charging out of the so-called hospital with Sanjit. The bugs were swarming.

Edilio had run, thankfully, now here was Lana. Brianna cursed and yelled, “Lana, run! Run. Out the back of the building!”

Lana drew her pistol. “No way,” she said. She took aim at the first bug she saw and fired three times. One of the ruby eyes drooled white and red pus, but the bug never stopped eating a girl who, Brianna could only pray, had already died.

“Don’t be an idiot. We need you alive. Get out! Get out! You”—she grabbed Sanjit by the neck—“get her out of here; we need her alive!”

Brianna had seen the most effective way to kill the bugs, but she wasn’t Caine. She didn’t have his powers.

But she had her own.

Brianna stuck out her chin. Caine had been crushed beneath the collapsing house. It was on her now.

The knife flashed in her hand. She was not going to win this fight, but she wasn’t going to run, either.

Dekka had seen the beasts within her.

Death, oh God, let me die.

Too much to bear. Death, she had to die, to end it, to kill them and herself and never see what they were doing to her.

The container had slipped from her. In blind panic, in sheer terror, she had lost control.

She tried to regain it now, but she was falling, wind-whipped, twirling like a top. She couldn’t even tell which way was up or down.

She spread her hands and focused but focus on what? Where was the ground? Stars and pale mountains and black sea all spun wildly. The container flashed by again and again, as if it was an hour marker on a fast-running clock. And two twisting shapes, arms windmilling.

She had to save Sam. That much, at least.

Her breathing came in gulps. Her eyes were streaming tears, blurred to uselessness. How could she stop the spinning?

Dekka pulled her arms in tight and entwined her legs. Less wind resistance. She made some sense of it now: she was falling headfirst. She was still spinning, but slower, and she was definitely falling headfirst like an arrow falling to earth. Suddenly, far too clear, she could see a line of surf directly below.

She had to get lower than Sam. Sam and Toto were below her, still spinning crazily. But Dekka, with less wind resistance, fell just a little faster.

Suddenly, though, the ground was coming clear. Rushing up to smash her to jelly.

She was below Sam. Now!

She spread her fingers, focused, and canceled gravity below.

And continued to fall. She had canceled gravity. She had not canceled momentum.

In seconds they would hit the water or the ground. Either would smash them to jelly.

Caine raised the debris off himself.

The bugs were all gone. He saw the tail of one as it raced away.

If he went after them, he’d probably get killed.

But stay here and do what? Be safe? He’d have been safe on the island. He hadn’t come back to be safe.

Two possible outcomes: the bugs killed everyone and then who would Caine rule over? Or the bugs were defeated by someone else. And then how would he ever get control? Power would go to whoever won this fight.

Still Caine hesitated. A big, warm bed. A beautiful girl to share it with. Food. Water. Everything he needed, just a few miles away on the island. The logical, rational answer was obvious.

“Which is why the world stays messed up,” Caine said under his breath. “People aren’t rational.”

He took a few deep, steadying breaths, and prepared to die for power.

Orc had not managed to kill himself. Again.

He wept a bit when he realized that he was going to live. He was doing his best, but throwing up and passing out were getting in the way of death-by-drink.

He stood up, needing to pee, but he was already peeing as he stood. So no need.

Something moved. He swung his head ponderously to look. A monster. In a cracked fragment of mirror just barely clinging to the wall.

Orc stared at his reflection. Six feet, maybe more, of gray, wet gravel. He threw back his head, arms wide, and howled.

“Why? Why?”

He burst into tears and pounded his fists against his face. Then with stone fingers he ripped the last of the living flesh from his face. Blood ran red.

And now he howled at his own reflection. “Why?”

He lurched away. He ran in bounding, wild leaps toward the stairs.

Astrid.

He had no clear thought for what he would do when he found her. She was just the only one who had ever helped him. She was the only one who had ever seen him as Charles Merriman and not just Orc.

She should feel his pain. She should feel it.

Someone had to feel the pain.

He reached the top of the stairs. He knocked the door of Little Pete’s room open. He stared blankly, confused. A wind whipped through the room. Little Pete hovered in the air several feet above the cot. He glowed.

Astrid was not there.

“Astrid!” Orc bellowed.

From outside, clear and distinct through the open window, an answer.

“Is that you, Orc?”

Orc bounded to the window. It had been opened and in any case the panes of glass were shattered.

Orc’s vision took a moment to stabilize enough for him to make out what he was seeing. And then he couldn’t believe it.

Down below, in the first faint glow of morning, stood Drake.

Behind him and all around the school were things that looked like gigantic cockroaches.

It all had to be a hallucination.

“Drake?” Orc said, blinking hard to test the reality of this apparition.

“I thought that sounded like you, Orc.” Drake smirked. “And you have Astrid up there with you? Excellent. Couldn’t be better.”

“Are you real?” Orc asked.

Drake laughed delightedly. “Oh, I’m real, Orc.”

“Go away.” It was all Orc could think of to say.

“Nah, I don’t think I will,” Drake said. He ran lightly to the door downstairs and disappeared from view.

Orc was completely baffled. Drake? Here?

In seconds Drake appeared at the door of the room. His cold eyes looked past Orc and focused on Little Pete.

“Well, well,” Drake said. “Nemesis.”

PETE

THIS WAS
NOT
his room.

That was not the ceiling above his bed.

He felt the burning lava build up in his chest and with a spasm he shot it out of his mouth.

When he coughed, it sent waves of pain crashing through his body.

He was all body now. No distant visions. No whispering voices. Only his pain-wracked body.

A breeze blew around him but the heat filled him still and he did not know how to come at it, what to call it. How could he wish it away if he didn’t know what it was?

Where was his sister? Her eyes were gone. He was alone. Alone and trapped inside a body that lay helpless, beset by fire inside, and cold outside, and a whipping wind and always the scrape scrape of sounds, the rasp of saws, the assault of mad, shrieking color.

A voice so big it made him want to run and hide said, “Where’s Ashtruh?”

Wet gravel was speaking, swaying, leaning perilously as though it might fall over.

“Ashtruh!” the monster bellowed. “Ashtruuuuuh!”

Pete’s mind recoiled, sank deep down, fled before the noise, but could not escape. Once more his body kept him tethered to the real world that had never been real to him.

The monster stomped away, still shouting.

Pete coughed a volcano.

He had to do something. His body had hold of him and his body was pain.

Panic was building inside him.

He had to do . . . something.

FORTY

25
MINUTES

SAM FELT
SOMETHING
wet. It was everywhere, a cloud rising from below. It was like falling through a tornado of mud. Salt water and sand, liberated by weightlessness, flew upward.

“Spread your arms and legs!” Sam shouted.

Friction. The painful slap of water, the grinding of sand, like flying into a tornado.

Sam felt like his skin was being flayed. He shut his eyes, turned his head to keep his nose and mouth from filling with wet sand, and smacked hard into a surface as solid and unyielding as concrete.

The air exploded from his lungs. It was like being kicked by a mule.

His back arched too far, tendons stretched, his head snapped back, every inch of him stung and water closed over his head.

Instinctively he kicked his way to the surface. The sand washed away and he could force one eye open. He was no more than a dozen yards from shore, in water not even five feet deep.

Then all the water and sand that had floated up to meet them came pouring down.

He looked around frantically for Dekka and Toto. He splashed his way toward the beach through a blinding downpour that lasted a full minute.