Copyright © 2005 by SueJack, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
The Little, Brown and Company
Hachette Book Group
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New York, NY 10017
Visit our Web site at www.HachetteBookGroup.com.
First eBook Edition: April 2005
ISBN: 978-0-7595-1418-8
The Little, Brown and Company name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
Contents
Copyright
Prologue
PART 1: FLOCK FRIGHT
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
PART 2: HOTEL CALIFORNIA, SORT OF
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
PART 3: SCHOOL—WHAT COULD BE SCARIER THAN THAT?
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
PART 4: NEW YAWK, NEW YAWK
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
PART 5: THE VOICE—MAKE THAT MY VOICE
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Chapter 109
PART 6: WHO’S YOUR DADDY, WHO’S YOUR MOMMA?
Chapter 110
Chapter 111
Chapter 112
Chapter 113
Chapter 114
Chapter 115
Chapter 116
Chapter 117
Chapter 118
Chapter 119
Chapter 120
Chapter 121
Chapter 122
Chapter 123
Chapter 124
Chapter 125
Chapter 126
Chapter 127
Chapter 128
Chapter 129
Chapter 130
Chapter 131
Chapter 132
Chapter 133
Chapter 134
Epilogue
For Jennifer Rudolph Walsh; Hadley, Griffin, and Wyatt Zangwill
Gabrielle Charbonnet; Monina and Piera Varela
Suzie and Jack
MaryEllen and Andrew
Carole, Brigid, and Meredith
Fly, babies, fly!
To the reader:
The idea for Maximum Ride comes from earlier books of mine called When the Wind Blows and The Lake House, which also feature a character named Max who escapes from a quite despicable School. Most of the similarities end there.
WARNING
If you dare to read this story,
you become part of the Experiment.
I know that sounds a little mysterious
but it’s all I can say right now.
Max
PROLOGUE
Congratulations. The fact that you’re reading this means you’ve taken one giant step closer to surviving till your next birthday. Yes, you, standing there leafing through these pages. Do not put this book down. I’m dead serious—your life could depend on it.
This is my story, the story of my family, but it could just as easily be your story too. We’re all in this together; trust me on that.
I’ve never done anything like this, so I’m just going to jump in, and you try to keep up.
Okay. I’m Max. I’m fourteen. I live with my family, who are five kids not related to me by blood, but still totally my family.
We’re—well, we’re kind of amazing. Not to sound too full of myself, but we’re like nothing you’ve ever seen before.
Basically, we’re pretty cool, nice, smart—but not “average” in any way. The six of us—me, Fang, Iggy, Nudge, the Gasman, and Angel—were made on purpose, by the sickest, most horrible “scientists” you could possibly imagine. They created us as an experiment. An experiment where we ended up only 98 percent human. That other 2 percent has had a big impact, let me tell you.
We grew up in a science lab/ prison called the School, in cages, like lab rats. It’s pretty amazing we can think or speak at all. But we can—and so much more.
There was one other School experiment that made it past infancy. Part human, part wolf—all predator: They’re called Erasers. They’re tough, smart, and hard to control. They look human, but when they want to, they are capable of morphing into wolf men, complete with fur, fangs, and claws. The School uses them as guards, police—and executioners.
To them, we’re six moving targets—prey smart enough to be a fun challenge. Basically, they want to rip our throats out. And make sure the world never finds out about us.
But I’m not lying down just yet. I’m telling you, right?
This story could be about you—or your children. If not today, then soon. So please, please take this seriously. I’m risking everything that matters by telling you—but you need to know.
Keep reading—don’t let anyone stop you.
— Max. And my family: Fang, Iggy, Nudge,
the Gasman, and Angel.
Welcome to our nightmare.
PART 1
FLOCK F
RIGHT
1
The funny thing about facing imminent death is that it really snaps everything else into perspective. Take right now, for instance.
Run! Come on, run! You know you can do it.
I gulped deep lungfuls of air. My brain was on hyperdrive; I was racing for my life. My one goal was to escape. Nothing else mattered.
My arms being scratched to ribbons by a briar I’d run through? No biggie.
My bare feet hitting every sharp rock, rough root, pointed stick? Not a problem.
My lungs aching for air? I could deal.
As long as I could put as much distance as possible between me and the Erasers.
Yeah, Erasers. Mutants: half-men, half-wolves, usually armed, always bloodthirsty. Right now they were after me.
See? That snaps everything into perspective.
Run. You’re faster than they are. You can outrun anyone.
I’d never been this far from the School before. I was totally lost. Still, my arms pumped by my sides, my feet crashed through the underbrush, my eyes scanned ahead anxiously through the half-light. I could outrun them. I could find a clearing with enough space for me to—
Oh, no. Oh, no. The unearthly baying of bloodhounds on the scent wailed through the trees, and I felt sick. I could outrun men—all of us could, even Angel, and she’s only six. But none of us could outrun a big dog.
Dogs, dogs, go away, let me live another day.
They were getting closer. Dim light filtered in through the woods in front of me—a clearing? Please, please . . . a clearing could save me.
I burst through the trees, chest heaving, a thin sheen of cold sweat on my skin.
Yes!
No—oh, no!
I skidded to a halt, my arms waving, my feet backpedaling in the rocky dirt.
It wasn’t a clearing. In front of me was a cliff, a sheer face of rock that dropped to an unseeable floor hundreds of feet below.
In back of me were woods filled with drooling bloodhounds and psycho Erasers with guns.
Both options stank.
The dogs were yelping excitedly—they’d found their prey: moi.
I looked over the deadly drop.
There was no choice, really. If you were me, you’d have done the same thing.
I closed my eyes, held out my arms . . . and let myself fall over the edge of the cliff.
The Erasers screamed angrily, the dogs barked hysterically, and then all I could hear was the sound of air rushing past me.
It was so dang peaceful, for a second. I smiled.
Then, taking a deep breath, I unfurled my wings as hard and fast as I could.
Thirteen feet across, pale tan with white streaks and some freckly looking brown spots, they caught the air, and I was suddenly yanked upward, hard, as if a parachute had just opened. Yow!
Note to self: No sudden unfurling.
Wincing, I pushed downward with all my strength, then pulled my wings up, then pushed downward again.
Oh, my god, I was flying—just like I’d always dreamed.
The cliff floor, draped in shadow, receded beneath me. I laughed and surged upward, feeling the pull of my muscles, the air whistling through my secondary feathers, the breeze drying the sweat on my face.
I soared up past the cliff edge, past the startled hounds and the furious Erasers.
One of them, hairy-faced, fangs dripping, raised his gun. A red dot of light appeared on my torn nightgown. Not today, you jerk, I thought, veering sharply west so the sun would be in his hate-crazed eyes.
I’m not going to die today.
2
I jolted upright in bed, gasping, my hand over my heart.
I couldn’t help checking my nightgown. No red laser dot. No bullet holes. I fell back on my bed, limp with relief.
Geez, I hated that dream. It was always the same: running away from the School, being chased by Erasers and dogs, me falling off a cliff, then suddenly whoosh, wings, flying, escaping. I always woke up feeling a second away from death.
Note to self: Give subconscious a pep talk re: better dreams.
It was chilly, but I forced myself out of my cozy bed. I threw on clean sweats—amazingly, Nudge had put the laundry away.
Everyone else was still asleep: I could have a few minutes of peace and quiet, get a jump on the day.
I glanced out the hall windows on the way to the kitchen. I loved this view: the morning sunlight breaking over the crest of the mountains, the clear sky, the deep shadows, the fact that I could see no sign of any other people.
We were high on a mountain, safe, just me and my family.
Our house was shaped like a letter E turned on its side. The bars of the E were cantilevered on stilts out over a steep canyon, so if I looked out a window, I felt like I was floating. On a “cool” scale from one to ten, this house was an easy fifteen.
Here, my family and I could be ourselves. Here, we could live free. I mean literally free, as in, not in cages.
Long story. More on that later.
And of course here’s the best part: no grown-ups. When we first moved here, Jeb Batchelder had taken care of us, like a dad. He’d saved us. None of us had parents, but Jeb had come as close as possible.
Two years ago, he’d disappeared. I knew he was dead, we all did, but we didn’t talk about it. Now we were on our own.
Yep, no one telling us what to do, what to eat, when to go to bed. Well, except me. I’m the oldest, so I try to keep things running as best I can. It’s a hard, thankless job, but someone has to do it.
We don’t go to school, either, so thank God for the Internet, because otherwise we wouldn’t know nothin’. But no schools, no doctors, no social workers knocking on our door. It’s simple: If no one knows about us, we stay alive.
I was rustling around for food in the kitchen when I heard sleepy shuffling behind me.
“Mornin’, Max.”
3
“Morning, Gazzy,” I said as the heavy-lidded eight-year-old slumped at the table. I rubbed his back and dropped a kiss on his head. He’d been the Gasman ever since he was a baby. What can I say? The child has something funky with his digestive system. A word to the wise: Stay upwind.
The Gasman blinked up at me, his gorgeous blue eyes round and trusting. “What’s for breakfast?” he asked, sitting up. His fine blond hair stuck up all over his head, reminding me of a fledgling’s downy feathers.
“Um, it’s a surprise,” I said, since I had no idea.
“I’ll pour juice,” the Gasman offered, and my heart swelled. He was a sweet, sweet kid, and so was his little sister. He and six-year-old Angel were the only blood siblings among us, but we were all a family anyway.
Soon Iggy, tall and pale, slouched into the kitchen. Eyes closed, he fell onto our beat-up couch with perfect aim. The only time he has trouble being blind is when one of us forgets and moves furniture or something.
“Hey, Ig, rise and shine,” I said.
“Bite me,” he mumbled sleepily.
“Fine,” I said. “Miss breakfast.”
I was looking in the fridge with naive hope—maybe the food fairies had come—when the back of my neck prickled. I straightened quickly and spun around.
“Will you quit that?” I said.
Fang always appeared silently like that, out of nowhere, like a dark shadow come to life. He regarded me calmly, dressed and alert, his dark, overlong hair brushed back. He was four months younger than me but already four inches taller. “Quit what?” he asked calmly. “Breathing?”
I rolled my eyes. “You know what.”
With a grunt, Iggy staggered upright. “I’ll make eggs,” he announced. I guess if I were more of a fembot, it would bother me that a blind guy six months younger than I am could cook better than I could.
But I’m not. So it didn’t.
I surveyed the kitchen. Breakfast was well under way. “Fang? You set the table. I’ll go get Nudge and Angel.”
The two girls shared the last small
bedroom. I pushed the door open to find eleven-year-old Nudge asleep, tangled up in her covers. She was barely recognizable with her mouth shut, I thought wryly. When she was awake, we called it the Nudge Channel: all Nudge, all the time.
“Hey, sweetie, up and at ’em,” I said, gently shaking her shoulder. “Breakfast in ten.”
Nudge blinked, her brown eyes struggling to focus on me. “Wha’?” she mumbled.
“Another day,” I said. “Get up and face it.”
Groaning, Nudge levered herself into a crumpled but technically upright position.
Across the room, a thin curtain concealed one corner. Angel always liked small cozy spaces. Her bed, tucked behind the curtain, was like a nest—full of stuffed animals, books, most of her clothes. I smiled and pulled the curtain back.
“Hey, you’re already dressed,” I said, leaning over to hug her.
“Hi, Max,” Angel said, tugging her blond curls out of her collar. “Can you do my buttons?”
“Yep.” I turned her around and started doing her up.
I’d never told the others, but I just loved, loved, loved Angel. Maybe because I’d been taking care of her practically since she was a baby. Maybe because she was just so incredibly sweet and loving herself.
“Maybe because I’m like your little girl,” said Angel, turning around to look at me. “But don’t worry, Max. I won’t tell anybody. Besides, I love you best too.” She threw her skinny arms around my neck and planted a somewhat sticky kiss on my cheek. I hugged her back, hard. Oh, yeah—that’s another special thing about Angel.
She can read minds.
4
“I want to go pick strawberries today,” Angel said firmly, scooping up a forkful of scrambled eggs. “They’re ripe now.”
“Okay, Angel, I’ll go with you,” said the Gasman. Just then he let rip one of his unfortunate occurrences and giggled.
“Oh, jeez, Gazzy,” I said disapprovingly.
“Gas . . . mask!” Iggy choked out, grasping his neck and pretending to asphyxiate.
“I’m done,” Fang said, getting up quickly and taking his plate to the sink.
“Sorry,” the Gasman said automatically, but he kept eating.
“Yeah, Angel,” said Nudge. “I think the fresh air would do us all good. I’ll go too.”
“We’ll all go,” I said.
Outside, it was beautiful, clear and cloudless, with the first real heat of May. We carried buckets and baskets as Angel led us to a huge patch of wild strawberries.
The Angel Experiment Page 1
