Time Snatchers (30 page)

Sighing, I drag my feet forward a few more steps and stop again. No more energy. All tapped out. The vultures are getting brave. One of them even lights on my shoulder for a moment before hopping off. I wish I had a stick to hit it with or a stone to throw at it or even the strength to swat it away with my hand.

If it wasn’t for the horrible image in my head of the vulture’s talons ripping into me, I’d be tempted to lie down right here for a little rest.

I close my eyes for a moment, and that’s when I hear it. A rushing sound. I’m quite sure it’s not the wind. But I’m done with getting my hopes up. It’s probably just another mirage, more desert tricks. Still, I have to play this out. I drop down and begin crawling towards the noise. It’s getting louder. Is that possible? I mean, can a mirage actually get louder?

It’s coming from the next rock ledge over. The same little squirrel-like creature I saw before scoots by me. It looks like it’s heading toward the rushing sound. We both can’t be imagining it, can we? My heart skips a beat. A sliver of hope is growing inside me. I need to crush it. Destroy it before disappointment destroys me.

I must be close now. It can’t be much farther. There’s a ledge in front of me. But I don’t think I can pull myself up. Images flood my brain. Abbie smiling at me in London. Zach wearing a chocolate ice cream mustache. I wonder if this is what they mean by your life flashing before your eyes right before you die.

At least I won’t die alone. Both of the vultures are with me now, hopping on and off various parts of my body. I flail weakly, but it has absolutely no effect on them.

Lifting my feet, my shoe finds a toehold in the rock. Up I go at a tortoise pace. My foot finds another gouge in the rock and then another. Each time I heave myself up, I think it will be the last time. But
miraculously, from somewhere deep inside, I find the power to keep going.

And then finally, I’m up and over. I collapse on the flat top of the ledge, breathing heavily.

Something is tapping me on the knee. Sorry, Zach, I can’t play with you now. I’m busy. Tap. Tap. Tap. I glance up and the beady black eyes of the larger vulture stare back at me. “No,” I scream and kick it off me. It flaps its wings and backs away, but only a few feet. I hear it hissing at me. Hissing? No, it can’t be. Birds don’t hiss. What am I hearing then?

Slowly I turn my head toward the sound. Water. Falling from rocks. I stare, not believing. It’s not true. It can’t be. But if it isn’t real, then no one’s bothered telling the squirrel. She’s crouching two feet away, lapping up water from a small pool formed from the waterfall.

On my belly. Pushing forward. Nothing left. But I’ve got to make it. For Zach. Two more feet. I reach out with my good hand. The squirrel eyes me and scampers away, disappearing into a nearby hole. My fingers form a scoop. Down into the wetness. I bring my finger cup to my lips and drink.

The best drink of my life.

I drink until my belly is bursting. My brain begins working again. I need food. But that will have to wait. The light is fading fast. I must find shelter.

I don’t want to leave my water pool. But there’s no shelter here. Just open rocks. I climb to the next ledge, my energy renewed. And the next. All the time looking back to make sure I remember where my water pool is.

On the fourth ledge I see them. Strange rock formations just above me. Some with dark spots. As I get closer I see that the dark spots are holes—caves. I clamber up to investigate. The first two
holes are no more than shallow recesses in the rock walls. But on the third one, I get lucky. The hole opens into a cavern almost tall enough for me to stand in. It’s dark, but with the help of my ocular implant I can see that there are no mountain lions or other nasty surprises in here. Yes, I’ve found it.

My new home.

I
check my traps first thing, like I’ve done every day since I arrived at my cave. I’ve got ten of them now, spread out along three different ledges. Even before I check trap number eight, I know I’m in luck because I can see the end of a tail sticking out from under the rock.

I’m on a roll. This is my second squirrel this week. I bring it back to my cave and pierce its skin with my knife. It’s a lucky thing that Uncle never checked my pockets before shipping me off here. If I didn’t have my knife with me, I’m certain I wouldn’t have lasted more than a week in this place.

There’s a crunching sound as the blade connects with the poor thing’s backbone. Then I skin it and take out the insides.

I wonder what Abbie would think if she saw me now.

Why am I wasting my time thinking about her? She obviously couldn’t care less about what happens to me. She’s probably more worried about what outfit to wear to her job as Frank’s assistant. And how, exactly, is she assisting him? By telling him how great he is?

I grab some dried grass from my stash and a fist-sized stone.

Maybe I should cut Abbie a break. After all, she was right when she said it’s not easy to say no to Frank, knowing what he’s like when he’s angry. Why should I blame her for looking out for herself? In
fact, if I was a bit more like her, then maybe I wouldn’t have ended up here.

Now for the tricky part. Holding the stone and the grass in one hand and my knife in the other, I strike a glancing blow against the stone. Nothing.

And another thing about Abbie. Well, maybe it’s more about me than her—the way I’ve been feeling all weird around her. Part of me wants things to go back to the way they were between us: snatch partners and best friends. But another part of me wants something more. I wish sometimes that I could read her thoughts so I could know if she’s as confused about all of this as I am.

On the fourth try, there’s a spark, but it soon dies out. I try again and again. Finally on my ninth or tenth try, a thin wisp of smoke rises from the grass shreds.

I blow gently on it and am rewarded with a tiny lick of flame.

Crouching down, I lower my hand and join the lit tinder to the pile of grass and branches I gathered yesterday. The little flame flickers, and for a moment, it appears it will die out. But then the grass catches, and soon after that, the branches.

I spear the squirrel with my longest branch, hold it over the highest part of the flames and cook it for a good long time. When I finally remove it from the fire, you would hardly guess what the shriveled brown thing used to be.

The sun is beating down, so I retreat into my cave to eat. As desert squirrels go, this one’s not bad—a nice nutty flavor. As I chew, I concentrate on my plan to rescue Zach. He has to be in the Compound with all of Uncle’s other new recruits. The boldest way would be to prance right in and snatch him. But that could be chancy. What if I run into Frank? He won’t just hand Zach over to me.

Maybe the better way is to go back in time to before Frank snatched Zach and stop the snatch from ever happening. But that’s risky too. If Frank has Zach on his radar, it’s not going to be easy to stop him from taking Zach.

Whatever plan I decide on, I’ve got to make sure that once I escape with Zach, we can’t be tracked. Abbie said Frank was hypnotizing Phoebe into erasing the record of his timeleaps. And since Abbie has been cozying up to Frank, maybe she has figured out how to hypnotize Phoebe herself. But would Abbie help me, knowing that she could get in big trouble? Would I even want her to? I mean, if something happened to her, because of me … I don’t want to think about it.

Even if I did get Zach to Boston without being tracked, Phoebe must store files on all the snatched kids, complete with their home addresses. But what if Zach’s file mysteriously disappears? That could work. So before I rescue Zach, I’ve got to somehow have his whole file erased.

A sound interrupts my train of thought. I sit up.

There! A faint whisper. “Caleb.”

I’ll be the first one to admit that I’ve had too much sun lately. But I haven’t hallucinated since my first day in the desert when I thought I saw a motel on a lake. Which makes this little episode somewhat disturbing.

“Caleb.”

The whisper is stronger this time. I peek my head out of the cave, almost expecting to see someone. But there’s no one there.

“Caleb, are you there?” the voice says again.

I just figured out why I don’t see anyone. That’s because the voice is inside my head. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was Abbie talking over my mindpatch. But she’s a thousand years and a thousand miles
away. No, there’s got to be another rational explanation for all of this. I’ve got it! I must be going crazy. Yes, that’s it. A classic case of multiple personality disorder. Which is quite all right with me, actually. I was starting to get a bit lonely out here. At least now I’ll have someone to talk to—one of my other selves. I try on an answer.

“Yes, I’m right here,” I say. “Taking my little siesta.”

The voice comes back stronger this time. “Don’t move. I’m coming to get you. Just keep talking.”

I haven’t done much reading on mental illness, but I saw a movie once where this school teacher had seven different personalities. And, boy, were they different. It must be the same with me. This one sounds like a bossy, female personality. Let’s see. I’ll call her Agnes.

I really don’t have that much to talk about. But to be polite, I dredge up some sayings. “The rain in Spain is mainly in the plain, Agnes,” I say. For obvious reasons, rain has been on my mind a lot lately.

“How about this one?” I continue. “What’s good for the goose is good for the gander.” I immediately regret my choice. Now I’m in for at least an hour of fantasizing about roast goose with gravy.

I’m quickly running out of sayings, so I spout off one of Uncle’s creations. “Snatching fine art is a fine art.”

“Keep talking,” says Agnes’s voice. “We’re zeroing in on you.”

“Who are ‘we,’ Agnes?” I ask. With any luck, she’ll introduce me to my other personalities.

She doesn’t answer, so I keep rambling on. “A failed snatch is like half a sneeze. Snatch well and earn your praise; snatch poorly and say your prayers.”

“I’m losing the signal. Are you on a mountain?” Agnes’s voice is weaker again.

“Yes,” I say, playing along. “The one that looks like a crouching lion.”

A pause and then she says, “I see it! Sit tight. I’m coming up.”

“Whatever you say, Agnes,” I say. “Don’t forget to bring the others. I want to meet them.”

“You will,” she says. “Now keep talking!”

“All right, let’s see,” I say. “Steal from the rich. Give to the richer. A snatch in time saves nine.”

And on and on I go. I’m surprised that I can remember so many of Uncle’s little ditties. But this is starting to get tiring.

I’m about to nod off when I hear shuffling sounds from somewhere below. Probably one of those mountain sheep with the curly horns. If I could catch one, I’d be set for food for a week.

I poke my head out of my cave, and immediately retreat back inside. It was only a quick glimpse, but I’m sure someone is out there. And judging from the wicked curved blade hanging off of his belt, my guess is that he’s not a tourist.

Just then, I hear Agnes’s voice inside my head again.

“Hang on. We’re almost there!”

“Be careful, Agnes,” I say. “There’s someone right outside my cave, and he doesn’t look too friendly.”

I stick my head out once more, and I’m nose to nose with the warrior. He’s a short fellow, but from the smug look on his brown, leathery face, he has a high opinion of himself. Despite the heat, he’s dressed in a rough-looking sheepskin coat with a leather belt and has a quiver of arrows strapped to his back. The upper half of his coat is covered in armor of closely meshed iron rings and he’s wearing an iron helmet shaped like a cone. He looks straight out of a movie set for Genghis Khan.

“Sain baina uu!”
says the warrior gruffly.

I have no idea what he just said, but it sure didn’t sound friendly. My translator doesn’t seem to be working, which is odd because my night vision works fine and if Uncle ripped out my translator then why didn’t he take my ocular implant too?

Translator or not, ol’ Genghis here doesn’t look the type that goes in for a lot of small talk. I get the feeling that inflicting bodily harm is more his thing.

“Don’t be afraid. He’s on our side,” says a voice behind him.

“Is that you, Agnes? You mean you’re with him?” I say.

Agnes laughs. Except there’s a couple of things wrong with the laugh. First, it’s not coming from inside my head anymore. It’s coming from the person standing behind Genghis. And second, it doesn’t sound like Agnes at all. In fact it sounds like …

“Nice place you’ve got here, Cale,” says Abbie.