The Dysasters

by P. C. Cast

  “Hey, it’s okay. There’s a lot of it that we can read.” Tate squinted, reading between the soggy lines.

  “Who’s Molly?” he asked.

  Foster snorted, pulling his gaze to her. She was actually giggling a little!

  “That’s a quote from Ghost. It was Cora’s favorite movie. She loved her some Whoopi Goldberg almost as much as she loved her some Patrick Swayze.”

  Tate smiled. “Cora seems nice. And funny.”

  Foster’s eyes went liquid. “She was,” she said softly, touching the damp paper gently.

  Tate cleared his throat. “Okay, well, I can read most of these bulleted points.” He paused, scanning the page quickly. “Wow, the Batcave even has an escape hatch.”

  “Cora was good at planning,” Foster said wistfully.

  Tate met her gaze, thinking that her unshed tears made her green eyes shine like emeralds. “So is my mom.” He shook his head quickly and corrected himself. “So was my mom.”

  “I know. It’s hard for me to believe Cora’s gone, too. I—I keep expecting her to come through the door and yell at me about how messy my hair is.”

  “Mom would tell me mine needs to be trimmed. She was always on me about that,” Tate said.

  “Moms always seem to focus on weird hair things,” Foster stated.

  “We can definitely agree about that,” Tate said.

  “It’s a start. Right?”

  Tate thought Foster suddenly looked younger, like a little girl who was actually trying hard to be good. He forced the corners of his lips up and nodded. “Right.” Then he refocused on the soggy pages. “Tate Johnson? Did she really have new identity papers made up for me?”

  Foster hurried into the Batcave and came out with a manila envelope, spilling the contents onto the desk. He picked up the Oregon driver’s license and stared at the picture beside the name, TATE JOHNSON, and some kind of phony address in a town called Ashland.

  “She really did,” Foster said, flicking a finger at her own new license that said she was FOSTER FIELDS.

  “Damn, you got my superhero alliteration,” Tate said. “And how the hell did Cora get my junior yearbook photo?”

  “I told you. She was a genius at planning.” Then she added, “Superhero alliteration?”

  “Yeah, I was Tate Taylor—like Clark Kent, Peter Parker, and Bruce Banner.”

  “Huh. I never thought about that before. So I guess that means I get to be the superhero. Cool. I’ll be Wonder Woman.”

  Tate snorted. “Fine by me. We definitely need Wonder Woman.” He went back to studying the letter. “This is serious. No one would go through all the trouble Cora did to set all of this up without a major reason. We’re really in trouble.”

  “Yep. Us and the others.”

  “Others?”

  “Keep reading.”

  He moved to the next page, which was wetter and harder to decipher.

  Tate finished reading as much as he could make out, and then looked up at Foster, who had started pacing back and forth in front of Cora’s desk. “There are more like us.”

  “Yeah. Freaks like us. In danger like us. Being hunted like us.”

  “But this Doctor Stewart guy, he’s your dad.”

  “Yeah, well, Jim Jones had kids, too.”

  “Man, this is bad.” Carefully, Tate picked up the last page of the letter, which was soaked. Half of it was illegible, but even that half was enough to send skitters of fear up his spine.

  “It’s hard to make out, but does that really say this Dr. Stewart guy experimented on us genetically?” Tate realized his hand was shaking and he put the paper down.

  “It does.”

  “Damn, that’s creepy.”

  “Right?” Foster rubbed her arms like she was cold. “Makes me feel all crawly inside.”

  “Hey, no. We’re not gonna do that,” Tate said firmly.

  “Do what?”

  “We’re not gonna start thinking we’re freaks.”

  “Uh, Nighthawk, we are freaks. Why do you think you can see so well at night? Why do you think you threw around a tornado like a gigantic, deadly football? We. Are. Freaks. Doctor Rick did something to us. On a genetic level. Your public school education obviously isn’t allowing the gravity of that biology to sink in, so let me educate you. We might not even be human.”

  “First, I’m good at biology—public school or not. And I do get how bizarre this is, but tell me this, what good does it do to wallow in pity and call ourselves freaks?”

  She stopped pacing and fisted her hands on her hips. “I don’t wallow.”

  “I thought you said you were honest.”

  Foster frowned. “I’m wallowing?”

  “Totally.”

  She cocked her head to the side, studying him. “Why aren’t you wallowing?”

  He shrugged. “I’m a ‘glass half full’ kind of guy. Sure, we’re science experiments, but I’ve always loved my night vision. Maybe once we figure out all these blurry, water-damaged parts we’ll love being, uh”—Tate looked down at the letter. Finding the right part, he read aloud—“‘linked.’”

  “You really think so?”

  “Yep. Why didn’t you tell me you have the night vision thing, too?”

  Foster lifted a shoulder. “I don’t, um…”

  “Trust people because they suck,” Tate finished for her.

  She flashed him a hint of a real smile. “Ten points for the brunette.”

  “Could we make another deal?”

  Her smile faded like a snuffed candle. “Depends.”

  “How about you stop keeping things from me and I promise anything you say to me goes into the vault.”

  Foster furrowed her brow as her green-eyed gaze went to the Batcave. “Vault?”

  “Not a literal vault. It’s what my g-pa and I always say when we tell each other a secret. It goes into the vault and it doesn’t come out unless the person who put it in there, which would be you, says it’s okay to tell someone else.”

  “What if it’s never okay to tell someone else?”

  “Then it stays in the vault,” he said.

  “You’re serious?”

  “G-pa and I never joke about the vault. It’s for real.”

  Foster blew out a long breath. “All right. Deal. But if you mess that up, even once—I’ll never—”

  “I won’t,” Tate interrupted. “I swear on the memory of my mom and dad.”

  Foster’s eyes widened. “I believe you.” She drew another deep breath, like she was getting ready to dive into a pool, and then blurted. “I have this Jedi mind trick thing I can do.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means if I concentrate, or maybe want it bad enough, I can make people do what I want them to do.”

  “Like Yoda? Seriously?”

  “Like Yoda. Seriously.” She picked at her fingernails. “I used it on you accidentally when I told you to go the fuck to sleep in the truck. But I didn’t know it would work. It never did before—not really. Then while you were asleep I went into the Quickie Mart and there was this bubba in there. He was watching the news and we were on it.”

  “What!”

  “Yeah, someone must have recorded us. It was when you tossed the tornado away. He recognized me and was going to call some news guy he knew. I panicked and used my Jedi mind trick. On purpose. And it worked. I told him to forget he’d ever seen me, and he did.”

  “Holy crap. You Obi-Wan Kenobi–ed him! And me!”

  She kept picking at her fingernails. “Well, I didn’t mean to Obi-Wan you. Only him. But, yeah, I did.”

  “That’s freaking awesome!”

  Foster blinked. “You actually think so?”

  “Are you kidding? That’s a super helpful power to have! Of course I’ve gotta watch that you don’t go over to the Dark Side, but still. Super helpful.”

  “I wouldn’t go to the Dark Side.”

  “Said Anakin Skywalker, like, a bunch of times before he went over to
the Dark Side.” Tate felt a rush of excitement. “Hey! What if all we have to do is find this Doctor Rick guy and have you use your Jedi mind trick on him and make him tell us everything?”

  All the color drained from Foster’s face. “No. I don’t want to see him again. Ever.”

  “But Foster, he could—”

  “He pretended to die. He left Cora and me. He fucked with our genetics when we were fetuses and then he sent his goons to capture us. Who cares if he’s telling us everything if he’s also trying to use us or destroy us? No, Tate. Let’s figure out how to find the other kids. Bring them here. And then decide what the hell we’re going to do without that crazy bastard having any part of it. Okay?” Her green eyes beseeched him.

  Slowly, Tate nodded. “Okay. I get it. I hear you.” He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “So, where do we begin?”

  Foster headed into the Batcave, calling back over her shoulder at him. “I started making piles on top of the file cabinets in here. One stack of stuff I thought might help us find these other people, and the other is full of stuff so sciency and confusing that I can’t figure out if it’ll help us or not.”

  “Okay, well, I got some ramen. We can make a few bags and figure out where to go from here.”

  “We don’t have time to stop and have some fancy dinner.”

  “It’s ramen. Not all that fancy.”

  Foster continued as if she hadn’t heard him. “There are crazy people out there who are hell-bent on capturing not only us, but six other people who may or may not know that they’re complete freaks. You might not give a shit about me, but think about them.”

  “I give a shit about you.”

  Foster turned and met his gaze, her emerald eyes inscrutable.

  “I mean, I care about people, and you’re a person, so…” When she just stood there staring at him, Tate went to the entrance to the safe room and spoke in his most rational voice. “Look, we’ll work a lot better if we eat. We can even take some of those files into the kitchen with us. One of us can cook and the other can read aloud and make notes.”

  “I suppose you want me to do the cooking.”

  “Nope. I’m an excellent cook. And ramen is my specialty. Plus, providing you sustenance is part of me helping to keep you from turning to the Dark Side.”

  Foster rolled her eyes at him, but marched past him out of the Batcave, and picked up one of the bags of groceries. “Nighthawk, try not to be such a dork.”

  “Do or do not, there is no try,” he said automatically. Foster was walking ahead of him, so Tate couldn’t be sure, but he thought he heard, just for a moment, her laughter.

  10

  FOSTER

  Sunlight streamed into the room, bathing Foster in its delicious warmth. She stretched her arms above her head, curling and uncurling her fingers like she did every morning. And this morning was exactly like all her other mornings. It had to be. Everything that had happened—Tate, the tornado, everything—it had all been a bad dream.

  Foster tucked her arms against her chest and nestled into her pillow. Definitely a bad dream. There was no other explanation. She would never go to a football game, and it was just silly to think that she could control people or tornadoes with her words.

  And then there was Cora. Her Cora. She wouldn’t leave Foster. She couldn’t leave.

  A small sob of realization clenched the back of Foster’s throat, and she squeezed her eyes shut even tighter.

  Maybe if I don’t wake up, if I stay like this forever, it won’t be true. Cora will still be here, and it will all go back to the way it was.

  Tate yawned, sneezed, and yawned again, reminding Foster for a brief moment of the fat orange tabby she’d had as a child when she’d still had her biological parents.

  Why does everyone around me have to leave?

  But everyone hadn’t. Doctor Rick was still out there somewhere, and so were the six other innocent kids he’d used as guinea pigs for his bullshit experiment. She needed answers. Foster bolted upright, the papers strewn around her fluttering with the sudden burst of movement.

  She was in Cora’s office at Strawberry Fields. Cora was dead. None of it was a dream.

  “You’re awake,” Tate smiled at her sleepily while stretching his arms overhead, clenching and unclenching his thick fingers in a way so similar to her own that it made her cringe.

  “Did you…” Foster studied his makeshift blanket mattress. “Sleep in here? I thought you went to bed.”

  Tate hiked his shoulders. “I did. Real late. Then I woke up sometime after three a.m. I dunno. I just couldn’t sleep. I saw you passed out in here on the floor. I didn’t think you’d want to be alone.” He fiddled with the corner of the comforter he must’ve dragged in from his room. “I didn’t want to be alone.” His whisper seemed to press through her and disappear into the hollow ache in her chest.

  They were connected through more than their abilities, whatever those might be. She and Tate were connected through their pain. She wanted so badly to close the distance between them, to hug him the way Cora had hugged her, and she needed that embrace in return. They both needed kind words and assurance that they weren’t in this world alone. But she couldn’t will her body to move or her mouth to speak.

  Foster sat frozen in the sunlight.

  She didn’t know him, and could barely trust him. The risk of getting hurt and creating new wounds far outweighed any momentary release of anguish.

  “You snore, by the way.” He stood, brushing crumbs from his sweatpants. “Big Heffalump sounding, ‘nail down the furniture because you’re going to suck it all in’ type of snores.” He tilted back his head, grumbling and snorting in demonstration.

  Before she could stop herself, Foster threw her pillow at him. “I do not!” she exclaimed, stifling a chuckle. She couldn’t laugh. Not today. Maybe not ever again. Not when Cora had just … “So, I didn’t really find anything new last night,” she gathered the papers scattered around her blanket. “But I think if we—”

  “I think you should eat something.” Tate crammed a half-eaten sleeve of graham crackers back into its box.

  “Those are for s’mores,” Foster blurted, rising to her feet. “You don’t eat them by themselves.” She dropped the papers onto the desk and swiped the box from Tate. “We only eat them with s’mores, and when we’re at home.”

  And this isn’t home. Yours or mine. It’s just the shell of one, she added silently.

  Tate’s jaw flexed and his eyes narrowed. “Okay,” he took a deep breath and combed his fingers through one of his many sleep-caused cowlicks. “You want s’mores for breakfast?”

  Foster frowned. She expected a fight. She needed a fight. Arguing was a hell of a lot easier to deal with than whatever was happening now. “No, I just…” She gnawed on her bottom lip, pressing back the memories of Cora and their late-night s’more-making, people-watching, dog-counting sessions around their rooftop fire pit. And how Cora thought graham crackers tasted like old cardboard if they weren’t coated in dark chocolate and marshmallows.

  “Even though they’re sort of my favorite, I won’t eat naked graham crackers again. I’ll wait for s’mores,” Tate continued. “But Foster, you have to eat something. Take a second. Then I promise we can come back and I’ll keep helping you figure this out. My dad always said that you have to feed your body to feed your brain.” Tate’s eyes misted, and he shifted his gaze from her to the window. He quickly wiped his eyes and cleared his throat, saying, “Plus, it’s sunny outside, and doesn’t that, like, never happen here?”

  Foster opened her mouth to object, but paused as her stomach released a low rumble. Maybe he had a point, although she would never let him know that he was right. “People think it rains here twenty-four/seven, and we let them think that so they’re less likely to move here, but that’s really more of a Seattle thing.”

  “Guess I have a lot to learn about the Northwest.”

  “Pacific Northwest,” Foster corrected.


  “You’re proving my point. So, are you going to be my everything Pacific Northwest teacher?” Mischief rested in his smile.

  Three swift knocks echoed from the front door down the hallway, saving Foster from answering.

  “Are you expecting someone?”

  “No,” Foster swiped the letter opener off the desk and silently tiptoed toward the front door.

  Tate shuffled down the hallway behind her. “What are you planning to do with that?”

  “Do you not remember those guys from yesterday? The ones who chased us?” Foster said in harsh, clipped whispers.

  “You think it’s them? Would they knock?”

  “Jesus, Tate, I don’t know. I’m not some deranged psycho killer.” His brow wrinkled as she sliced the letter opener through the air with each gesture. “Just stay behind me.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Why? Because you’re a guy and I’m a girl?”

  “Well, yes. But no. But … I don’t know, kind of. Hey, get your Jedi mind trick ready, just in case.”

  “And you get ready to tackle someone in case it doesn’t work.”

  “I got your back, young Padawan.”

  Three knocks came again. Foster halted mid–eye roll, tightening her grip on the hilt of the dull blade.

  “Hello? Ms. Cora? It’s me, Finn.”

  Finn? Foster mouthed over her shoulder to Tate.

  “Be right there!” Tate called.

  With her free hand, Foster hit Tate’s shoulder as he passed her on his way to the front door. “What are you doing?”

  “Being hospitable. Try to unclench.”

  “Unclench?” Unclench?

  Had he actually told her to try and unclench? Like he hadn’t seen firsthand why she needed to stay a little bit clenched. They both needed to if they wanted to remain free long enough to figure out everything Cora had left for them. And anyone else who was part of their group of freaks would have to stay clenched, too.