The Sky Is Falling

by James Patterson

  Of course, Fang would also qualify.

  “Hey,” I said raspily and nodded, but I couldn’t think of anything else to say. And for some reason, that actually bothered me.

  “I was particularly hoping you could meet Dylan,” said the doctor. “He’s been putting up with my company, and I’m sure he would benefit from meeting young people like himself.”

  I rolled my eyes mentally, thinking that of course we were in no way like Dylan.

  “Show them, Dylan,” said the doctor.

  Dylan looked self-conscious but slowly took off his jacket to reveal broad shoulders and muscled arms. He was heavier than Fang, bulkier—maybe he was older? Had more regular access to food?

  I was thinking, Wha—? when Dylan sort of shrugged his shoulders and extended his wings. All fifteen feet of them.

  11

  I AM NOTHING if not resilient, but usually I can handle only about one humongous life-shaking situation per hour. Now here it was, the second earth-shattering thing in five minutes. That, on top of the millet balls, made for a dangerously unsettled stomach.

  “Where’d you come from, Dylan?” Fang’s steady and calm voice gave nothing away. He sat down and picked up a small bag of water to drink.

  Dylan gave kind of a wry little smile. “A test tube,” he said. “A lab.”

  Dr. Hunker-Gunther smiled and clapped his hands. “Oh, you have so much to talk about! But it is late and we are all tired.” He gave an old-fashioned bow. “We will be looking forward to seeing you tomorrow.”

  We were silent for several moments after they left. My eyes followed their outlines until tents got in the way.

  “Well!” said Patrick finally. “I certainly never expected that! Did you know there were more of you?”

  “Nope,” I said.

  I glanced around at the dazed flock, wanting to get Angel alone so I could grill her for more details of her pronouncement about Fang. It would be best not to upset the others by bringing it up again publicly.

  It’s pretty inconvenient sometimes when Angel is able to pick up my thoughts. She practically glued herself to Gazzy, and twenty minutes later, everyone was already settling down for the night in our tent. Angel was (at least pretending to be) asleep next to her brother, looking deceptively sweet and innocent. Iggy, a famously restless sleeper, was in a corner by himself.

  Fang, Nudge, and I were together, tucked like the others under a treated netting that was supposed to ward off malaria-bearing mosquitoes.

  “Don’t think about what Angel said,” Fang whispered next to my ear. “You have to remember—she’s still just a little kid.”

  “A weird little kid,” I whispered back. We were holding hands; our feet were entwined.

  “Besides,” he began. “If she’s right… well, I’m glad. It has to be me first. Not you.”

  “Fang, don’t—”

  “Go to sleep,” he broke in, then lightened up. “Long day tomorrow. Starting with your fascinating breakfast.” I could barely make out Fang’s grin in the darkness—without raptor vision, I wouldn’t have been able to see a thing.

  “Yeah,” I said wearily. A few minutes later, I felt a subtle relaxing of Fang’s muscles that meant he’d joined the sleeping flock. I was still wound up, though my body was crying out for sleep. I just kept running over everything in my mind.

  Fang—dead. It was unthinkable. A year ago it would have been the worst thing that could happen, and now—it was a thousand times worse. Now I knew what it felt like to hold him, what it felt like to kiss him until we were both breathless. How could I possibly go on without him?

  The really, truly horrible thing was, Angel had never been wrong. Never, ever.

  12

  I WAS STILL AWAKE hours later when a tiny noise made my gaze jump to the nylon wall of the tent. There was a shadow moving there—a person, barely silhouetted against the canvas by the fire. Maybe as close as ten feet away.

  I let out a breath of relief. The idea of a mere human lurking around at night seemed like fun ’n’ games compared to, say, a hungry lion. I’d not yet been clued in to the wildlife in these parts, and my imagination was fired up. I was definitely not a fan of injury by teeth. Give me a bullet any day.

  But then the person stopped and seemed to turn toward our tent. It was a short figure, thick bodied and bulky—pretty much the exact opposite of everyone I’d seen in this country so far. I scanned the silhouette. One of its arms was raised, as if it were holding something, but I couldn’t make out the shape of a gun.

  Every nerve came to life, and I tensed, ready to give the alarm and wake the flock.

  Carefully, I untangled myself from Fang and lifted Nudge’s hand so I could slip out. My eyes stayed glued to the silhouette as I made my way to the tent’s opening. In one swift motion, I yanked the zipper and burst out.

  There was no one there.

  After a quick glance around, I jumped and shot out my wings, rising about fifteen feet into the air with a few powerful strokes.

  There! Emerging from a ragged stand of trees was that figure again. Raptor vision allowed me to see more detail at night than most people could, but I still couldn’t believe what my brain was telling me.

  Chu?

  He was one of the most evil wack jobs I’d encountered lately. But that was back in Hawaii. He’d been dumping radioactive waste into the ocean. What was he doing here?

  I landed as silently as possible in a nearby tree. He was speaking in a hushed voice. Must have had a cell phone.

  “Yes…. Collecting the new subjects… Approximately fifteen minutes.” He disappeared into a small tent with a FIRST AID sign outside. It couldn’t have been big enough to hold more than about ten people.

  So imagine my surprise when, over the next fifteen minutes, I saw maybe a couple dozen figures—who appeared to be mostly young-looking refugees from the camp—entering that tent….

  And no one came out.

  My curiosity got the better of me, so I left the tree and quietly crept behind the tent. No sounds inside. Not even a breath. WTH?

  Swiveling my head around to look for more figures, I tiptoed toward the front. Still silence. There was nothing to do but stride right in, striking my best martial-arts pose as I whipped through the tent flap.

  It was empty inside.

  So… either I was hallucinating or there was a passage to hell underneath this tent. I had to admit I wasn’t quite ready to accept either option right now.

  Frowning, I returned to our own tent, where I picked my way through a cozy tangle of bird kids. I crawled back in between Fang and Nudge, and took Fang’s hand again.

  He blinked sleepily, awakening at the slight touch. “Everything okay?”

  “Mmm,” I grunted. “Go back to sleep.”

  I couldn’t lie to Fang.

  13

  PICTURE A SHANTYTOWN made of ragged nylon tents, like, for acres. Then picture making a left and finding yourself in front of the big top of the Big Apple Circus. That’s what Dr. G-H’s crib was like. It was an ornate, beautiful tent, complete with screened windows, a covered porch, and a strip of green carpet leading across the sand to the front entrance.

  I glanced at Angel, and she gave me a weak smile. We were both still upset about what had happened yesterday, when I’d lost my cool. That morning Fang had told me not to pursue it, and part of me, I admit, just didn’t want to know. I was hoping it would all just go away, so for now, I’d decided to pretend it hadn’t happened.

  The tent door was pulled aside by a… a guy in a white uniform who opens the tent door. What a job description.

  Inside, netting-covered windows let in light, and electric fans kept the warm air circulating. The floor was covered by Oriental rugs, overlapping so there were no gaps. Our feet sank into soft plush, and I almost sighed.

  The doctor came into the “room” from behind a screened-off portion of the space and welcomed us with open arms. “Come, sit,” he said, once again looking fashionable and elegant. “
You must be hungry. I can’t tell you how delighted I am to finally make your acquaintance. I’ve been following your history avidly.”

  After glancing around, memorizing exits, I sat down on a leather stool beside a low table. Angel sat across from me, not next to me. I tried (unsuccessfully) not to put too much meaning into that.

  “Following our history? Do you know Jeb Batchelder?” I asked.

  He looked at me blankly. “Ah, no—no, I can’t say I’ve had the pleasure. Is he a friend of yours?”

  “No.”

  A servant came in with a silver tray piled high with food: pastries, a pitcher of fresh juice, sliced fruit, eggs, bacon! I thought of the mush the rest of the flock was eating, not to mention the mush that the entire refugee camp was faced with day after day, and tried (unsuccessfully) to feel guilty. “Please, help yourselves,” said Dr. G-H. “You probably require a great many calories, do you not?”

  “I know I do.”

  My head swiveled as Dylan came into the room. His dark honey hair was wet, and he looked clean and fresh, which put him two large steps ahead of Angel and me. I almost expected a photographer to leap through the tent flaps, telling Dylan to work it.

  “Hello, Max, Angel,” Dylan said, sitting on another stool. “Wow, last night seemed like a dream. I couldn’t really believe that you existed. And now here you are. And I’m not alone.” His face was open and sincere, his expression as clear as his tanned skin. I felt my cheeks flush, no doubt from the first-class cup of joe I’d just gulped.

  “Have some strawberries,” said the doctor, pushing a silver bowl toward me. He smiled. “There’s more where they came from, so don’t be shy.”

  Not really something he needed to worry about, with us. I slathered butter onto a scone, piled orange marmalade on top of that, and took a bite so I wouldn’t have to say anything right away. But then I couldn’t stand the awkward silence.

  “What lab are you from?” I asked Dylan abruptly, with my mouth half full. Miss Manners I am not.

  Dylan’s perfect brow wrinkled. “Just some lab, up in Canada. I was—I was um, cloned, from another Dylan. Who died in a car wreck or something.” He took a bite of pain au chocolat.

  I blinked. Most of the clones I’d seen were robotic. Like bad special effects in a movie. Which Dylan most certainly was not. “How old are you?”

  “Um, about eight months, I think,” he said, looking to Dr. Gunther-Hagen for confirmation. The doctor nodded. “There’s been a lot to learn. Like, I suck at flying. I suck at a lot of stuff, actually.” He chuckled weakly and looked down at his plate sort of embarrassed-like. I kind of felt sorry for him.

  And then felt angry and suspicious. We didn’t know him from Adam. This could all be part of an elaborate trap.

  This isn’t a trap, Max.

  I almost dropped my scone as my Voice suddenly spoke up for the first time in ages. Some people have a conscience. I have a Voice. An annoying, buttinsky, intrusive Voice—

  Calm down, Max. Relax and enjoy this. This is a special occasion. You see, Dylan is for you. He was designed for you. He’s your perfect other half.

  14

  I INHALED AND ACCIDENTALLY sucked scone crumbs down the wrong way, setting off an apoplectic coughing fit that had the doctor patting my back hard, looking concerned.

  Made for me? My perfect other half? Are you freaking insane? my mind screamed, even as my eyes watered and I coughed and coughed, unable to bear the awful tickle at the back of my throat.

  “Here, drink this,” said Angel, handing me some juice.

  “Can you breathe?” the doctor asked. “Do you need the Heimlich maneuver?”

  “Heimlich me and die,” I managed to choke out, trying to take a sip.

  Dylan had frozen, a cluster of red grapes in his hand. His eyes were wide and watchful, as if he actually gave a crap about what happened to me.

  I’d suspected the doctor had an agenda—’cause nothing was ever given to us just because we were swell. Now I knew that it was sitting across from me, looking like the cover of People magazine’s Sexiest People issue.

  “Are you okay?” Dylan asked.

  I nodded and took a deep breath. Time to make like a tree and leave. I got ready to stand up.

  Max—don’t run away. Stick this out. Don’t be a coward.

  I almost started choking again. Stupid Voice.

  “Well, if you’re only eight months old,” said Angel, “it’ll take you a while to learn stuff.” She ladled some eggs onto her plate and tucked in. I gave thanks that she was remembering to use utensils.

  Again Dylan focused his eyes, the color of the Caribbean, on me. I felt like it was about 110 degrees in there, and took a swig of cold juice. Maybe I had time for another croissant.

  “Maybe you could teach me… some stuff,” said Dylan.

  “Max is a good teacher,” Angel said with conviction. It made me feel worse about going off on her yesterday. She didn’t make up her pronouncements—just reported ’em.

  “That’s an excellent idea!” said Dr. G-H. “Max would be the perfect person to teach you, Dylan.”

  “Oh, well. I don’t know,” I said. “Like what?” Do not get yourself sucked into this, Max, I told myself.

  “Could I see…” Dylan hesitated, then his face hardened with determination. “Could I see your wings? I’ve never seen anyone else’s.”

  I thought about saying, You show me yours and I’ll show you mine, but I’d already seen his. I pushed a couple strawberries into my mouth and stood up. After making sure I had enough space—and I did, which shows you how big the Wonder Tent was—I shook my shoulders a little and unfolded my wings.

  Both Dylan and Dr. G-H stared.

  “They’re beautiful,” said Dylan, sounding kind of hoarse. “You really do have them… like me.”

  I folded my wings and sat down, feeling weird but not knowing why. “Actually, Dyl, you have them like me. I’ve had mine for fourteen years. Or so.”

  A smile played around Dylan’s symmetrical features. “Yes. I guess so. Either way, your wings are incredible. They’re perfect.”

  Now I was really uncomfortable, and slathered some butter onto my fourth croissant. Suddenly I just wanted to get out of there, to get back to the others. I’d been sneaking food into my pockets, and my jacket probably weighed several pounds by now. I took one last bite and stood up again.

  “Well, this has been fabulous,” I said, my mouth full. “But we better get going and perform more humanitarian aid.”

  “Please, stay,” begged Dylan.

  “Sorry, no can do,” I said briskly.

  “Max, we have so much more to talk about,” said Dr. Seersucker pleasantly.

  “Duty calls,” I said. “Ange?”

  In a smooth movement, the doctor stepped between me and the tent’s entrance. Reaching into his shirt pocket, he whipped out a syringe. “Just a minute, Max. It’s not that simple.”

  15

  I SMILED MY EVIL itching-for-a-fight smile, wishing I hadn’t stuffed my pockets with bacon. This could get messy.

  “Max—wait,” Angel said. “He doesn’t mean us harm.”

  “And you know this beca—,” I began sarcastically, then realized that she probably did actually know that. Dylan had a familiar alertness, a tensing of muscles that made me wonder if he’d been trained for battle. I guessed I would find out.

  “Angel is right,” said Dr. G-H quickly. “This is my clumsy way of demonstrating.”

  “Demonstrating what?” I was barely able to keep a snarl out of my voice. “How to get yourself beat up in one easy step?”

  “No,” said Dr. G-H. “Demonstrating the wonders of modern science. Watch.”

  And with that he rolled up one sleeve and swiftly injected himself with the hypo. It was something new and different, to watch a scientist experiment on himself. I liked it.

  Within moments the doctor gasped, wide-eyed, sucking in breath. He groaned and staggered a bit, holding his throat, then sank dow
n into a chair.

  Angel was eating a banana and watching him avidly. I sent her a question: What’s going on?

  She looked at me and shrugged. No clue.

  I sat down and snagged another cup of coffee and a muffin, since it looked like this might take a while.

  For several minutes the doctor hunched over, grimacing. Then he managed to speak in wheezy gasps. “I’ve injected… a rare strain of virus… that is… going to cause a rather… shocking reaction.”

  “What you science types do for fun,” I said with false cheer. Having grown up in a lab, I associated the words rare virus with hazmat suits. I wanted out of there.

  He frowned. “Clearly not for fun. But for progress. Sometimes progress is… painful. Now, watch.”

  Sweat broke out on his brow, and his face turned bright red. And get ready for this most horrific next part, kids: All at once, his skin erupted in grotesque pustules.

  I jumped up. “Outta here, dudes!”

  “No, wait, Max!” he gasped hoarsely. “The miracle is about to begin.”

  The only reasons I didn’t do an up-and-away were (a) it’s hard in a tent, and (b) when I did a double take, I saw that the doc’s pustules were already shrinking.

  Could I have imagined it? I sat back down shakily.

  “To explain it in very basic lay terms,” he went on, more quickly now that he wasn’t gasping for air, “a number of my organs and systems—including the skin, brain, blood cells, thyroid, the entire immune system—are now working together to analyze the virus, produce the white blood cell and glandular response that will eradicate the virus, and circulate it through my body—almost instantaneously.”

  “Okay. I can see how that might come in handy,” I said, thinking about the sick refugees I’d seen in the camp. “Especially if it puts doctors like you out of business. I don’t trust doctors.”

  The doctor smiled. “You’re getting the picture, Max. Because in an apocalypse, there are no doctors. There are no hospitals and certainly no insurance companies. You are on your own. It is you against the forces of nature, which at this point in Earth’s history surely see it as in their best interest to eradicate the human race. Do you understand what I mean, Max? Let me give you another example.”