Plague

by Michael Grant

  She struck! Again! Again! In the blink of an eye.

  But the creatures were reacting now, a mass of them, rushing her. Slow, too slow, but still she had to sidestep them, and that cost her a precious second.

  And Drake was still alive. Or something like alive.

  She threaded past gnashing mouthparts and scything mandibles and buried the knife in Drake’s skull. The blade sank into the bone, stuck.

  She yanked on it, but Drake’s upper body came with it. The blade would not come free.

  Speeeewt!

  Something slapped her calf. She twisted to look and saw a long, barbed, black rope extending from the mouth of the closest bug. She shook her leg but it did not come off.

  “Gross!”

  Another bug tried the same thing and she somersaulted out of the way. Still that first tongue was attached to her and she could feel hooks buried in her skin.

  She needed her bowie knife. But now it was out of range as Drake dragged himself away with his one arm.

  Brianna spotted a stone with a dull edge. She slammed it down on the tongue with all the force her speed afforded. The tongue bled but did not break. Blue bug eyes fixed on her with what now looked like triumph.

  “Oh, no you don’t.”

  She hit the tongue fast, twenty times in a second with her rock and it yanked away, quick as Drake’s whip hand.

  Shwoop!

  But now the bugs were around her, snapping at her with their creepy froggy tongues and those tongues were fast, fast even by Brianna’s standards.

  The bugs had played her. They’d concealed this weapon in their arsenal and she’d gotten cocky.

  Speeewt!

  Brianna kicked and squirmed, but two of them were on her. She used the rock on the tongue that latched on to her stomach and knocked it loose but it was instantly replaced by three more.

  Speeeewt! Speeewt!

  They had her! She was held in a web, yelling, cursing, smacking.

  Drake was putting himself back together, but his whip hand was still squirming by itself like a snake on hot pavement.

  She was pinioned by half a dozen of the tongues and now the rest of the bugs were closing in to chew her up, mandibles slicing the air like scimitars.

  Brianna felt a sudden wave of fear. Was it possible she could lose this fight?

  “Don’t kill her,” Drake said. “Hold her! She’s mine!”

  He was on his feet and searching through the wild melee for his whip arm.

  Suddenly, the coyote was in the fight. He leaped for her, jaws open, teeth flashing yellow.

  “Really?” she cried.

  She shoved back against the greedy muzzle with all her strength. The move stretched one of the lashing tongues taut. The coyote’s powerful jaw, missing Brianna’s arm, clamped hard on the tongue, which snapped back like a cut high-tension cable.

  She was pinned, but she still had her speed.

  She grabbed the coyote’s ruff and swung it around to clamp on a second tongue.

  Now just four tongues still pinned her. She didn’t have the strength to hold on to the coyote. The creature, maybe fearing the bugs would retaliate, took off yelping as if it had been kicked.

  Four lines held the Breeze, all more or less on her left side, so she kicked off, pushing straight toward the insects. The tongues slackened. Brianna somersaulted. It was a sketchy maneuver, poorly executed, and she landed hard on her back, but the four tongues had been twisted around and now, as one, they released her.

  Even as they released others struck. She could see them flying toward her like striking cobras.

  She kicked a bug in the face, kicked hard against a slashing mandible, then boom boom boom, three hard kicks and she was out of there.

  She caught her breath on a rise a hundred feet away. Her body was blistered wherever the tongues had touched. But she was alive.

  She watched, panting, shaking, as Drake’s tentacle melded seamlessly into his shoulder.

  “Come on, Breeze,” Drake taunted. “Come and get me. Here I am!”

  Brianna had never been one to ignore a taunt. She had never run from a fight. But she had escaped by inches. By millimeters.

  “It’s the end, Breeze,” Drake crowed. “I’m going to kill all of you. Every last one of you!” He danced in a circle, twirling in wild glee. “Run, Breeze! Ruuuuun! Because when I catch you, I’m going to make you suffer!”

  Brianna ran.

  Leslie-Ann fed her siblings the scrapings from the cans and let them drink the water.

  Okay, she told herself: You did all you could.

  Except that she hadn’t done all she could. Not yet.

  She had never liked Albert much. He was kind of a jerk to her. He never said anything nice like, “Good job, Leslie-Ann.”

  But he didn’t deserve to just die like that. Maybe he was still alive.

  “I’m just a kid,” she said aloud to no one.

  But she knew what she felt, and what she felt was that she hadn’t done right.

  She went out into the streets, not knowing exactly who she should locate, or who she should tell, but she knew she had to tell someone.

  From where she stood she could see the big, weird cloud more clearly. It looked like it was raining. And just then two kids came past. They were walking in tandem, sharing the load of a heavy plastic tub. It was sloshing water over the sides and they were soaked through.

  One of them noticed her and grinned. “It’s raining!”

  “No one’s s’posed to go out,” she said.

  The kid snorted. “No one’s telling anyone what to do right now, and there’s water. If I was you, I’d get some fast.”

  Leslie-Ann ran back inside and located a bucket in the garage. Then she walked as fast as she could toward the rain cloud. If everyone was there, maybe she could find someone to tell about Albert.

  As she drew nearer she noticed something that was, in its own way, as weird as the cloud, which was now almost overhead: there was water running in the gutter. Actual water. Just running down the gutter.

  She broke into a run and saw a crowd of dancing, cavorting kids ahead of her. Buckets sat under the downpour. Kids stood with their mouths open, or tried to shower, or just shoved and played and splashed.

  A very unusual sound for the FAYZ: the high-pitched laughter of children.

  Leslie-Ann set down her own bucket and watched, marveling, as a quarter of an inch of water covered the bottom.

  When she looked away, she saw an older kid. She’d seen him around. But usually he was with Orc and she was too scared of Orc ever to get near him.

  She tugged on Howard’s wet sleeve. He seemed not to be sharing in the general glee. His face was severe and sad.

  “What?” he asked wearily.

  “I know something.”

  “Well, goody for you.”

  “It’s about Albert.”

  Howard sighed. “I heard. He’s dead. Orc’s gone and Albert’s dead and these idiots are partying like it’s Mardi Gras or something.”

  “I think he might not be dead,” Leslie-Ann said.

  Howard shook his head, angry at being distracted. He walked away. But then he stopped, turned, and walked back to her. “I know you,” he said. “You clean Albert’s house.”

  “Yes. I’m Leslie-Ann.”

  “What are you telling me about Albert?”

  “I saw his eyes open. And he looked at me.”

  Albert dead.

  Sam gone, and no telling when he would get back.

  Astrid gone with Little Pete and Orc.

  Dekka away with Sam and Jack.

  And now Edilio, numb with the scale of the disaster, sat exhausted on the steps of the so-called hospital. He didn’t need Dahra’s thermometer to tell him what he already knew: he was hot, flushed, weak.

  He coughed. And stared blankly at Brianna, who buzzed and vibrated to a wild halt before him.

  “Bugs!” she yelled. “I passed them heading this way. Drake and a bunch more bu
gs are still back at the mine shaft. I saw them heading west but I think it’s just a fake; he’s probably coming here, too.”

  “How do we stop them?” Edilio asked and coughed into his hand.

  “We need Sam,” Brianna said.

  “We—” He coughed again and fought off a wooziness that made him desperately want to lie down. “I don’t know where he is.”

  “I’ll find him,” Brianna vowed.

  “You’re all I’ve got left,” Edilio said. “You’re the only freak with any serious powers. I don’t think the Siren would be much help against”—he coughed—“those creatures.”

  “She might work on Drake, though,” Brianna said, and laughed as if oblivious to what was going on around her. In fact, as Edilio coughed again, she blinked, frowned, and said, “Are all these kids sick?”

  “When the Siren sings, it affects everyone; she’s just a pause button.” Edilio coughed hard. It hurt his chest.

  He was sick. Sick in his body and sick in his heart.

  He had seen so many terrible things and done so many terrible things since the coming of the FAYZ. But nothing so cold-bloodedly awful as lining up the sights on Lance’s head and squeezing the trigger.

  It was the right move. Probably. It was the winning move, it seemed, since Astrid and Little Pete had both survived.

  It was the ruthless move. The lesser-of-two-evils move. It was what Sam would have done in his place.

  But it was poison in Edilio’s heart.

  “I can’t save us,” Edilio said. “Neither can you, Brianna. And Sam . . . I don’t know if he can, either. So maybe this is the end. Maybe this is it and we lose.”

  Brianna slapped herself in the chest. “I don’t lose!”

  “You can’t beat them alone, Breeze.” A coughing fit, the worst one yet. It was several minutes before he could continue. “I’m done for. I don’t know if this will kill me or not but I can’t even stand up.”

  “Hey, we can’t just give up,” Brianna said. “Those things are the size of ponies now, some of them. And they’re growing! You can’t give up, Edilio. You’re the one in charge.”

  He aimed his eyes at her, but they were swimming. She was an angry, unfocused face.

  “Get me a piece of paper and a pen,” Edilio said.

  She was back in less than a minute.

  His fingers were trembling as a fit of chills racked his body. He had a hard time steadying the pad and holding the pen. But with supreme effort he scribbled something, folded the paper, and handed it to Brianna.

  “Quinn,” he said.

  She read the message and flushed furiously. She threw the paper at him. It hit him in the face. “Are you nuts? I’m not doing this!”

  “I’m in charge,” he whispered. He bent with shaky fingers and retrieved the note. “My call. It’s the only way. Do it, Breeze: do it.”

  “No, no. No way.”

  Edilio grabbed her arm and squeezed it with the last of his strength. “For once in your life, think. Can you stop them? Can you stop those bugs from reaching town and killing everyone here? Yes or no?”

  “I can try.”

  “Yes or no?”

  She stifled a sudden sob. She shook her head. “No.”

  “Okay, then,” Edilio rasped. “Do you want to be responsible for the lives of everyone who will die just so that you can act all tough?”

  She had no answer. She glanced around as if seeing the sick and the dead, the wrecked church, and the sad graveyard for the first time. “No,” she said.

  “Then go, Breeze. Go.”

  Chapter Thirty

  3 HOURS, 50 MINUTES

  SAM HAD RUN the boat all the way up the lake and all the way back. They had found two small campgrounds in all, but had not explored them carefully. Maybe a dozen big campers, a few ragged tents in various states of collapse. No doubt some camp food, soda, beer, coffee, all the things people brought camping.

  And gas in some of those tanks. Lovely, lovely gasoline.

  He was already imagining the steps they’d have to take. They would drive the campers to the marina area and form them up in a rough circle or maybe two concentric circles. They would have to dig some serious septic tanks well away from the lake so there wasn’t any seepage into drinking water.

  They would need to ration the gas carefully, carefully, saving it for moving produce from the fields and fish from the ocean. They would still need Quinn’s steady supply of blue bats to pacify the zekes. Besides, they would need to be cautious about overfishing the lake.

  No more stupid mistakes. This time they would have to get it right.

  That was a job for Albert, Sam had to concede. No doubt Albert would get richer still, but he was the only one with the organizational skills for the job.

  Yes, it would work. They would build it and organize it and this time they would get it right.

  For his part he had to find a way to destroy the flying greenies. But surely with Jack’s strength and Dekka’s powers and maybe Brianna—who could probably run through a cloud of greenies without getting hit—they could seal up that cave and crush or burn whatever survived.

  They were heading back toward the marina now, chugging along slowly, taking their time. It was getting late in the day and Sam was trying to decide whether they should try to start one of the vehicles parked at the marina and drive back tonight, or plan a little more carefully and go in the morning.

  The last thing anyone needed was three hundred or so kids tearing off in mad search for sweets. Half would end up lost in the desert or the hills and end up being coyote food.

  The news needed to be handled the right way. Edilio and the rest of the council would have to plan a little.

  To Dekka he said, “I think maybe we should load as much water as we can carry in an SUV and drive back tonight.”

  “I guess you’ve noticed there’s no road that goes straight back.”

  “According to the map the road that follows the lake curves up around, hits the barrier. Right? But there has to then be a road that goes down through the Stefano Rey and hits the highway, right?”

  Dekka shrugged. Her mind was elsewhere.

  He couldn’t blame her. But he had convinced himself she was worrying for nothing.

  He indulged himself with a moment of fantasy. They would be heroes, showing up in town with water, even if it wasn’t that much water. That would be one very welcome sight, an SUV full of water bottles. Maybe a few jars of Nutella, too, if they drove east to the train before cutting south.

  Then, a meeting with the council. They could start trucking water right away. That would keep everybody calm until a plan was worked out.

  “We’ll go in . . .” His words died as his gaze traveled to the marina. “Dekka. Jack. Look.”

  They looked.

  Creatures, like giant silvery cockroaches, cockroaches the size of minivans, clustered on the shore. Maybe a dozen.

  It had to be an illusion. A trick. They were impossible. Like a nightmare out of some ancient science fiction movie.

  Sam reached for the binoculars he’d found in a locked case on board. He raised them, focused.

  “It’s Hunter’s bugs,” he said. He couldn’t keep the awe out of his voice. “But they’re huge.”

  He traversed his binoculars and then saw a human standing atop one of the creatures. He could not see the face well enough to identify it. But there was no mistaking the long, jauntily waving tentacle.

  Drake. No longer locked in his basement prison.

  Sam’s Garden of Eden had its own snake.

  Howard’s first impulse had been to go to the so-called hospital and find Lana. But what profit would be in it for Howard?

  Orc was off somewhere, freaking out, hammered, faced, blasted. He’d come back when he ran out of alcohol, but for now, Orc was gone, and Drake’s escape was a sort of black eye for Howard.

  In the back of his calculating mind, Howard wondered if Orc was just determined to pull a Mary and off himself.
He was nowhere near the deadly fifteenth birthday, but Orc might one of these days pick a fight that would get him killed.

  Or he might just drink himself to death. And then what? What did Howard have if he didn’t have Orc?

  On a level still deeper was a genuine sadness that Orc would abandon him. They were friends, after all. Amigos. They’d been through everything together. Orc wasn’t just Howard’s main asset, he was Howard’s only friend.

  He cared for Orc. Genuinely cared for him. Obviously Orc didn’t care much about him.

  Howard took his time making the decision. Took his time and a fully clothed shower, too. But finally he made his decision and sauntered away from the cloud, soggy but moderately clean, unnoticed by frolicking kids.

  It wasn’t far to Albert’s place. He found the door open, and quickly located Albert. The young mogul’s eyes were closed. He definitely looked dead. Very definitely dead.

  He advanced cautiously, as though Albert might suddenly rise up and start yelling at him for intruding. He pressed two fingers against Albert’s neck. He didn’t feel a pulse.

  But he did feel warmth. The body should be colder.

  He squatted in front of Albert and with his finger pushed up one eyelid. The dark iris contracted.

  “Yaaah!” Howard said, and fell backward. “Are you alive, man?”

  No answer. Nothing.

  Howard was frustrated because he’d hoped—if Albert was still alive—to negotiate a deal. After all, if Howard saved Albert’s life then it stood to reason that he owed Howard a little somethin’ somethin’.

  Howard hesitated. He could do nothing and sooner or later Albert would be a hundred percent, stone-cold dead. Or he could try to find Lana. And maybe there would be some reward. Albert was tight with his money, but surely if Howard saved his actual life . . .

  “Okay, I don’t know if you can hear this or not, Donald Trump, but if I save your butt, you owe me.” He frowned and decided he’d better add, “And oh, by the way, this is Howard talking. So it’ll be Howard you owe.”

  Howard arrived at the so-called hospital to see a very disturbing sight: Edilio, shivering and muttering on the stone steps, ignored. He was just one of dozens of sick kids with various degrees of illness. Coughing, hacking, shivering.