Bella pulls another steel shot from her pouch and places it in the pocket of the slingshot. “The only agreeable outcome is a hole in your skull,” she shouts. “It’s just you and me, Hook. I’m done running from you. You wanted me, now you have me.” She pulls back on her slingshot, aiming right at me.
“It’s not you I’m after!” I holler, hoping she believes my pretense.
Bella lowers her slingshot warily.
I steal a glance over the roof of the tank, my hands raised. “All I want is the girl with Pete! Nothing else. Just tell me where I can find her.”
“Gwen? What do you want with her?” Bella yells. Her hair flutters in the wind as a gust nearly sends her off balance.
“What does it matter? Tell me where she is and I’ll leave you alone, forever,” I say a little too flippantly. I’ve got to pull it together. Convince her that she needs me, not the other way around. “I’ll leave Everland to you and Pete.”
Another gust whips through the night air. Bella crouches, trying to maintain her balance. When she regains her footing, she raises her slingshot, but even from this far I can see her tremble. She’s angry with me, and I don’t know why. I’m failing. If I ever want to get near her, to take her to the Professor, I need to tap into what’s important to her.
“By the way, where is your sidekick? You and Pete are inseparable. Yet here you are alone,” I call up to her.
She furiously wipes at her face with her arm—tears, I have to assume—and she readjusts her slingshot.
“She’s come between you two, hasn’t she?” I ask, trying for sympathy while shouting.
As if to answer me, Bella buries her face in her hands.
Stepping out from behind the tank, I fold my hands behind my back. “Poor, poor Bella. So unappreciated. So unloved. I can see the pain she’s brought.”
She peers at me and wipes her nose on her sleeve.
“Tell me where she is, Bella, and I’ll leave Everland for good. No more hiding, no more running from me. Everland will be yours. And as an added bonus, I’ll take the little vixen with me. She’ll never come between you and Pete again.”
Bella brushes another tear from her cheek. She stands at the edge of the tower and takes aim. “I’ll never, ever side with you, Hook!” She pulls the elastic of the slingshot back as a gust of wind ruffles her shirt. She staggers and drops her slingshot, sending it hurling ninety meters to the ground. Screaming, she sways forward once more, her knees collapsing underneath her. She reaches for a lever on her rocket pack, but misses. Another gust rolls over her tiny body, sending her over the edge. Her copper wings clip the ledge hard, shooting springs and cogs in every direction and shattering the iridescent film. Bella grips the edge of the bell tower just in time, her small feet kicking beneath her.
My chest clenches, my breath catches, and adrenaline courses through me. She’s going to die right here in front of me. If she dies, we all die. The Professor’s words echo in my mind. What if Bella is the Immune?
I take several steps toward the tower, determined to save her, to catch her before her body splinters into pieces on the ground below. I know I’ll never make it in time, but I must try. I bolt for the fence, throwing myself over it. I land hard on the concrete and look up.
As Bella’s about to plummet, two hands reach for her from the dim shadows of the bell tower, grabbing her by her wrists. A moment later she is pulled inside the belfry. I breathe a sigh of relief, but the respite doesn’t last.
“Someone else is in there!” I shout. “Surround the building, secure every exit, and someone get up to the tower. If Pete’s in there with her, bring him back alive.”
The soldiers race toward the tower, climbing the wrought-iron fence like a tidal wave cresting a levee wall. The masked men surge forward over debris and shattered glass. There’s nowhere for her to go. She’s as good as mine.
“Two girls down, one to go,” I say.
A curl of dirt and dust rises through the opening. My lungs seize, leaving me in a fit of coughs. Multiple hands grab my arms and hurl me through the entrance of the sewer. The crash of wooden beams, rock, and metal scaffolding erupts behind me. I crouch, gasping for air and brushing the dirt from my clothes.
“That was close. Are you all right?” Mole asks, placing a gentle hand on my arm.
“I’m okay,” I say, running my fingers through my kinky curls, pulling out pebbles.
“Well, I guess we’re not going back that way,” Pickpocket says, peering at the wreckage beyond the sewer opening.
Mole bites his lip. “How are we going to get back to the Lost City?”
“There’s another entrance about three kilometers from here,” Jack says. “It’s a little narrow, but we can get through it.”
Pete slams the metal hatch and spins the wheel, locking the entrance shut. I’m about to ask him why the hatch is even there when a hiss slithers through the tunnels of the dark sewer system and answers my question. The wide-eyed expressions on all of the boys’ faces lets me know that I’m not the only one who heard the noise.
“What was that?” Mole says, biting at the frayed cuff of his coat.
“This isn’t good,” Pete says. “We need to get out of here.”
He leads the way, splashing through foul, murky water. I take Mole by the hand to ensure he doesn’t fall behind. The knee-high muck seeps into my boots as I follow. From a nearby tunnel, something growls and then splashes into the water. My pulse quickens.
“What is that?” I ask.
Pickpocket places a hand on my back and urges me on. “Trust me, you don’t want to find out. Keep moving.”
I trudge forward in the sludge, taking two thick steps, but halt when a reptilian hiss travels up the brick tunnel.
“They’re getting closer!” Doc says, looking over his shoulder, his face white with panic.
“They? There’s more than one?” I shift uncomfortably. “And who exactly are they?”
“We’ve got to pick up the pace,” Jack says, passing Pete.
Taking Jack’s lead, the group starts to jog, grunting as they struggle to lift their water-soaked boots. I glance behind me, making sure that Mole and Pyro are still close. While Mole is right on my heels, Pyro stops at a brick archway and rips a stick of dynamite from his belt.
“We’re not going to make it. We’ve got to blockade them,” Pyro says. He runs his fingers across the stones until he finds a crevice in the archway.
“Pyro! Get back here!” Pete shouts.
Pyro ignores him and pulls out a box of matches. “Give me thirty seconds!”
Doc holds a hand up. “Do you hear that?”
The sewer is eerily quiet. Even the rats seem to have gone into hiding, sensing danger.
“I don’t think they’re gone,” Mole whispers.
Pete takes Jack’s lantern and sidles through our group, taking a few steps toward Pyro. “Pyro, I command you to rejoin the group. That’s an order!”
Pyro nods. “Ten more seconds. That’s all I need!” As Pyro lights the fuse of the dynamite, something slithers in the dark, cloudy water behind him.
“Pyro, run!” Pete shouts.
It’s too late. Sharp, serrated teeth clamp down on Pyro’s leg. His bloodcurdling scream shatters the silence as the crocodile drags him under the water. A second reptile, larger than the other, snaps down on Pyro’s arm as he reaches out toward us, pleading for help.
“No!” Pete screams. He starts to run through the water as the crocodiles drag Pyro farther down the tunnel. Pickpocket holds him back.
“It’s too late! We have to go!” Pickpocket says, staring at the dwindling fuse. “Go! Go! Go!”
We rush forward, our waterlogged boots splashing through the murky sludge. Pete struggles in Pickpocket’s grip, fighting to break free. Jack takes Pete’s other arm, and the two Lost Boys drag Pete away as he screams for Pyro.
“No! We can’t leave him!” Pete yells. “Pyro! Come back!”
“He’s gone, Pete. We have to
get out of here,” Jack says.
Pete refuses to look away from the crimson-tinted water and thrashing reptiles as the Lost Boys encourage him to duck around a corner.
“Hurry, take cover,” Doc says, pushing everyone ahead, into another passageway.
Pickpocket and Jack shove Pete to safety, and he collapses onto the ground. He leans up against the wall, his expression contorted into grief-stricken agony. Pete snatches up a stone and hurls it across the tunnel. As an explosion rocks the tunnel, sending shards of brick and plumes of dust hurtling through the tunnel opening, Pete hardly flinches. When the dust settles, I bolt to the entrance and look back at where Pyro had lit the stick of dynamite. All that’s left is a pile of rubble. Stone, brick, and dirt pile neck-high, blocking the archway.
Pete maneuvers around me. He races toward the rubble and places a hand on the pile of rocks. He drops his chin to his chest, giving a slight shake of his head.
Mole sniffles next to me as Pickpocket joins Pete, throwing an arm around him.
“You okay?” Pickpocket asks.
“He was a good Scavenger. The best of the best of all of us Lost Boys,” Pete says weakly. He picks up Pyro’s derby hat from the debris and brushes off the dirt. He places the hat on top of the pile of rocks. “Godspeed, Lost Boy.”
“Come on,” Pickpocket says, gripping his shoulder. “That won’t hold them back for long. We need to get out of here and into Everland.”
Pickpocket leads Pete back to our group. The sorrow in Pete’s expression is overwhelming. It’s the same expression my brother and sister had when they realized our parents weren’t ever returning home. As Pete passes by me, I reach out a hand to him.
“Pete?” I say, his name catching in the lump within my throat. I want to take his hand, to hold him and absorb even a little bit of the pain etched in his face.
Pete peers up at me with glassy eyes before he drops his gaze back down to the brackish water below him. He takes the lead, not acknowledging me as he continues ahead. My heart snaps in two, but I press my lips together. I won’t let him, any of them, see me cry.
We travel for half an hour in an uncomfortable silence. The only sound is the sloshing of our feet as we travel through the water. A ladder attached to a brick wall appears ahead of us.
“This is it,” Pickpocket says.
One by one, we climb through the manhole. Pete takes my hand as I reach street level. As his fingers touch mine, relief washes over me, but it is only brief.
“Welcome back to Everland,” Pete says, frowning.
The city is nothing like I remember. The street is littered with debris and broken concrete, evidence of the magnificent structures that once stood here. Thick cracks weave through the fragmented street of St. Paul’s churchyard like a web with rubble from nearby buildings caught in its snare. Wagons lie in tangled heaps on their sides.
St. Paul’s Cathedral looms a short distance away, its domed roof now a crown of charcoal-colored, jagged spikes. Hurrying up the street, the Lost Boys, Pete, and I pass by the remains of the church’s majestic columns and parapet. I avert my gaze as we walk past the severed head of the saint’s statue, which had stood on top of the building.
Mole sniffs the air and shakes his head. “Bella was here, but the rain has washed away most of her scent. It’s going to be tough to find her.”
“Bella has a scent?” I ask, curious what she might smell like. Or what I might smell like, for that matter. Having not bathed in weeks, I can only imagine it isn’t anything pleasant.
“Sure,” Pete replies. “We all do. Why do you think I brought Mole along?”
“Mole says I smell like the forest,” Jack says. “Pickpocket smells like grease, Doc smells like ammonia, and Pete smells like …”
“A rooster,” Mole interjects, wrinkling his nose.
“That’s gross, but it explains the cock-a-doodle-doo you do,” I say, elbowing Pete.
Pete gives a lopsided grin. “If the stink fits.”
“Shh,” Mole whispers with a wave, “we’re not alone. What is that sound?”
In the distance, the faint sound of machines, metal scraping against metal, fills the early evening air. The ground vibrates as the noise draws closer, shaking loose debris from the structures around us.
“Watch out!” Pete tackles me as concrete stones break off the face of the building and plummet to the ground. We fall hard onto the pavement. Pete shelters me from the falling rock, his hands wrapped tightly over his own dark hair. His breath is hot and rapid against my cheek. When the spray of pebbles stops, he lifts his head, watching me with worry. Bright sunlight shimmers in my vision. I blink and shield my eyes from the sun. When I look back at him, the only light that remains is the one that sparkles in his eyes.
“Are you okay?” he asks, his lips close to mine.
I struggle to find words, but they catch in my throat. Instead I nod.
Pete rolls off me and extends a hand, helping me to my feet.
Doc stands from his crouched position, coughing. “Is anyone hurt?”
The rest of the boys mumble as they shake the dust off. The ground trembles again, shaking loose more debris.
“Come on,” Pete says. “We need to find cover.”
“What is that?” Jack asks, steadying himself.
The color in Mole’s face drains. “We need to hide! Now!”
Pete brushes dust from his green coat. “What do you smell?” he asks urgently.
“It smells like a graveyard. Death,” Mole squeaks. “It’s Marauders, and a lot of them. I’d say at least a few dozen, maybe more.”
“Let’s get out of here,” Pickpocket says.
Pete sprints into a nearby building. We follow, climbing through the empty windows of the ground-floor shop of the now five-and-a-half-story building. The other half lies in pieces on the street, along with most of the face of the structure. We push aside the toppled café tables and chairs while broken panes of glass crunch beneath our boots. Pete helps me climb over the counter. The other Lost Boys follow behind, knocking a stack of Café Rouge menus to the floor.
Hiding, we listen as the high shrill of rusty gears pierces through the hammering of something heavy on the street. As the noise draws nearer, the building shudders violently, showering us with ceiling tiles as the ground quakes. Pete peeks over the counter. His mouth drops open. “I’ve never seen so many soldiers in one place.”
I glance through the vacant windows. A dozen machines held together with bronze-colored bolts, cogs, and wheels crawl down the street like an army of spiders. Spirals of steam rise from pipes on the back of the vehicles like wisps of phantom energy. Marauders flank either side of the tanks, searching the buildings through goggled face masks and scoped weapons, their guns engaged in ready position. Some soldiers enter the other buildings, breaking windows and tossing pieces of furniture as if they were made of children’s blocks.
“This isn’t good,” Pickpocket says. “What are we going to do?”
“We better think of something before they decide to search in here,” Doc says.
“We should split up,” Jack suggests, fussing with the gadgets on his belt. “We have a better chance of reaching the palace if we aren’t traveling in a large group.”
Pickpocket glances around the counter at the open window. “I don’t know if that’s such a great idea.”
“Look,” Jack says, “there are dozens of Marauders out there. If Doc, Pickpocket, Mole, and I distract them, you two can slip by them unnoticed. Pete, you have to get Gwen to the palace.”
“No!” I protest. “It’s too dangerous. We should stay together.”
“I don’t think I like your idea either,” Mole says. “I’m not very good at distracting.”
Doc’s brows furrow. “Do you understand the implications of what you’re saying? If we run out there, we’ll be caught for sure, and then what?”
“Now I’m really, really not happy with this plan,” Mole says.
“We won�
�t be caught,” Jack insists. “I know this city like the back of my hand.”
“I don’t know, Jack,” Pickpocket says. “It sounds risky.”
“No, Jack’s right. We should split up,” Pete interrupts. “It’s the only way. They’ll find us if we stay here, but if we run, we can split them up and maybe get away.”
“Have you gone mad?” Doc says indignantly. “What you’re suggesting is suicide.”
“I don’t like the idea either, but I don’t see any other way, do you?” Pete retorts.
“We had better make a decision,” I say, listening to the machine draw nearer. “They’re getting close.”
“I’ll take Pickpocket, Mole, and Doc. Pete and Gwen, you run for the other door,” Jack says. There’s a glint in his eye, a spark that I don’t trust, but no one else questions him.
“Mole stays with us,” I say. “I promised Dozer I’d look after him.”
Mole’s shoulders relax and he sighs. Jack starts to say something but stops himself.
“Doc goes with Gwen and Mole,” Pete says, sounding somewhat reluctant. “The other boys and I are experienced runners. We will distract them while you get away. We’ll meet up at the National Gallery. Keep your eyes open for Bella.”
Doc opens his bag, pulls out a needle filled with a milky liquid, and hands it to Pete.
“What is this for?” he asks, inspecting the contents within the glass.
“Bella’s treatment is overdue. If you find her, she’ll be in a lot of pain. Give her this. I know you don’t like needles, but you know how to administer it, right?” Doc asks with urgency, glancing toward the advancing soldiers.
Pete glares and snatches the needle, placing it in the side pocket of his rucksack. “Of course I know how to administer it.”
“Don’t lose it,” Doc warns. “I added Gwen’s white blood cells to the serum. I didn’t have time to make a big batch, just enough to find Bella and get her back to the Lost City.”
“What if you find Bella first?” Pete asks, buttoning the pocket of his pack closed.
Doc pulls out a second needle from his medical bag. “I brought two doses, enough medicine to give us just a day or two. Since it’s a tweaked version of what she usually gets, I have no idea how effective this will be. She may need more, so if you do find her, it’s important I see her as soon as possible.”
Everland Page 14
