Fear

by Michael Grant

  Diana had warned him against that, too.

  And no sooner was he in charge than he’d realized it was Albert who was the real boss. And no one really respected Caine. They didn’t realize how much he did for them.

  Ungrateful.

  Now they wanted him, but only because they were all scared of the dark.

  “We’ll try a smaller hammer now,” Paul said anxiously.

  Caine gritted his teeth, anticipating the blow.

  CLANG!

  “Ahhh!” The chisel had missed. The hardened steel chisel blade skipped and bit into his wrist. Blood poured out over the concrete.

  He wanted to cry. Not from the pain but from the sheer awfulness of his life. He needed to use the bathroom. He wouldn’t even be able to lower his own pants or wipe himself.

  Lana took his wrist. The bleeding slowed.

  “You need to let them keep at it,” Lana said. “It’ll be a lot worse in the dark.”

  Caine nodded. He had nothing more to say.

  He bowed his head and cried.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  12 HOURS, 40 MINUTES

  SINDER WEPT AS she and Jezzie ripped up their vegetables. It was all over. Their hard work, almost done now. This was the final harvest.

  Their little dream of helping to make things better for everyone was at an end. And like all failed hopes it seemed stupid now. They’d been idiots to hope. Idiots.

  This was the FAYZ. Hope led to a kick in the face.

  Idiots.

  They filled plastic trash bags with carrots and tomatoes. And cried silently while Brianna stood watch over them, pretending not to notice.

  It was hard for Orc to tilt his head back and look up at the sky. His rocky neck just didn’t like to bend that way. But he made the effort as the sun, with shocking speed, was swallowed by the western edge of that toothed hole in the sky.

  Straight up, over his head: blue sky. The clear blue sky of a California early afternoon. But below that sky was a blank, black wall. He was only a few hundred feet away from it. He could walk over and touch it if he wanted.

  He didn’t want to. It was too … too something. He didn’t have a word for it. Howard would have had a word for it.

  Orc was buzzing with a weird kind of energy. He hadn’t slept. He had searched through the night, sure that Drake was out here, sure that he could find him. Or if not find him, then at least be here when he showed up.

  Then he would rip Drake apart. Rip him into little pieces and eat the pieces and crap them out and bury them in the dirt.

  Yeah. For Howard.

  No one cared Howard was gone. Sam, Edilio, those guys: they didn’t care. Not about Howard. They just cared that something bad was happening. Someone had to care that Howard was dead and gone now. And would never come back.

  Orc had to care, that was who. Charles Merriman had to care that his friend Howard was gone.

  People didn’t know it, but Orc could still cry. They all figured he couldn’t.... No, that wasn’t true; they didn’t figure anything. They never saw anything but a monster made out of gravel.

  He couldn’t blame them.

  The only one who saw past that was Howard. Maybe Howard used Orc, but that was okay, because Orc used him, too. People did that. Even people who really liked each other. Good friends. Best friends.

  Only friends.

  Orc was walking a pattern, back and forth. He walked along from almost the dome to as far as the dock was, then maybe a hundred yards farther out, and back and forth, and another hundred yards out. He’d gone all the way to the far end of the lake and back. But something told him Drake wouldn’t go all the way around like that.

  No, no, not Drake. Orc knew Drake a little from when Drake was running things for Caine back so long ago in Perdido Beach. Back when Drake was just a creep, but a regular human creep.

  And he’d known Drake in a way while he and Howard had been his jailers. He’d spent a lot of hours listening to Drake rant and rave.

  It was Orc’s fault Drake had ever gotten away.

  Drake could be tricky, sure, but he wasn’t like Astrid or Jack or one of those real smart kids. He wouldn’t have some big plan. He would just hide until he saw a way.

  A way to do what? Orc didn’t know. Sam and the others hadn’t told him anything about it. Just that Drake had killed Howard and let the coyotes eat him. And that he was out loose.

  Orc kept his eyes down for the most part. Easier that way. Plus he was looking for something: a footprint, maybe. Coyote prints if he could find them. But even better would be Drake’s footprints.

  He’d heard all about how you couldn’t kill Drake. You could smash him or cut him up into little pieces and he’d still put himself back together.

  Well. That might discourage most people. But while a drunken Orc wore out pretty easy, a sober, determined Orc had plenty of time and plenty of energy. He wouldn’t mind just taking Drake apart over and over again. And he didn’t feel tired. He felt more awake all the time.

  Orc was walking in the gloomy shadow of a rock bluff. There were cracks all in those rocks, and he had decided now to check in every one. One by one. Every crack. Under every rock.

  Orc froze. Was that… Yeah, that was a footprint. Most of a footprint. The ground was hard, and the only reason the print showed at all was that a gopher or whatever it was that dug holes up here had dug out a bit of fresh dirt.

  In that dirt was half a footprint. A bare foot, not a shoe.

  Orc stared down at it. He placed his own foot beside it. It made the print seem even smaller. It seemed awful small to be from Drake. Drake was a pretty big dude. This was more like a little kid, or a girl.

  He could make out three toes: the little ones. The toes pointed down toward the water.

  Orc followed the direction with his gaze. Weird, the light was, weird. The shore of the lake looked strange. Something not right.

  Then he was distracted by the sight of Sinder and Jezzie working away in their garden. And there was Brianna, watching him actually, when she should have been watching over Sinder and Jezzie.

  He raised a massive arm to wave at Brianna and seconds later she was beside him.

  “Hey. Orc. Trade jobs with me. Sam has me babysitting the weepy gardeners there. You could watch them.”

  “No.” He shook his head.

  Brianna tilted her head, a little like a bird. Orc remembered her, too, from when he first met her and she was just coming down from Coates with Sam. She’d gotten pretty full of herself since those days.

  “You’re looking for Drake, right?” Brianna asked. “A little payback for Howard? I get that. Totally. Howard was your boy.”

  “Don’t act like you care,” Orc grunted.

  “What? Couldn’t hear you.”

  Orc roared, “Don’t act like you care. No one cared about Howard. No one cares he’s dead. Just me.” It was so loud it echoed. Orc snatched up a small boulder and, in violent frustration, threw it.

  It flew twenty feet and smashed against the bluff. It set off two things: a small avalanche of pebbles and midsize stones.

  And a sudden rush of panicked coyotes.

  Orc stared after them. Brianna’s eyes lit up.

  She got close to Orc and in a hard whisper said, “I’ll bet those are the coyotes that did the eating. You got a choice: you want me to get them or not?”

  Orc swallowed hard. The coyotes were already atop the bluff and in seconds they would be on level ground and running free. He would never catch them.

  “Save one for me,” Orc said.

  Brianna winked and zoomed away.

  Albert had laid the groundwork carefully.

  It was very hard for those without Caine-like or Dekka-like powers even to get out of the sea and onto the island. So he’d arranged for Taylor to carry a looped rope out to the island, secure it around a very sturdy tree, and drop the rope over the cliff.

  It was right there in plain view. Anyone who went a little way around the western side of t
he island, past the wrecked yacht, could see it. He’d attached—well, had paid a kid to attach—colorful bits of fabric so that even now, in the eerie brown shadow, the rope was easy to find.

  He guided the boat in. There were no waves, just the usual gentle surge. Albert was not a great boat handler, but he’d learned enough, just enough that he could position the boat beside the rope. The rope fell all the way into the water, which meant it was longer—and therefore more expensive—than necessary. But that wasn’t really the point. The rope was where he had arranged for it to be.

  The loops made it almost like a ladder. A very awkward ladder that had an unfortunate tendency to push away when you tried to stick your feet in the loops. But once you got started you could climb okay, and especially once the end of the rope had been made fast to the chest in the bottom of the boat.

  It was a long climb and Albert regretted not having arrived earlier. He shouldn’t have waited so long. Another hour or two and he wouldn’t have been able to see the ladder, let alone climb it.

  He was first up over the lip of the cliff. With a final heave he pushed himself up into the tall grass, rolled out of the way, and, lying on his back, looked up at the sky.

  How very strange. Like being inside a soft-boiled egg with the top of the shell chipped away. Sky—normal-seeming sky—but covering only maybe a quarter of the space.

  And the growing stain wasn’t night. There were no stars. There was nothing at all. Just blackness.

  He stood up and helped the others as one by one they reached the top.

  The sea spread for miles before splashing against the black dome. Far away to the south and east was Perdido Beach, lit in sepia, like a crinkly old photo from long ago.

  Turning, Albert gazed in quiet satisfaction at the mansion. It was dark, of course. No one was running the generator, which meant Taylor wasn’t here.

  She was Albert’s one concern. Taylor could pop in and out whenever she liked. This would be useful for him—Taylor could let him know what was going on in Perdido Beach and the lake.

  On the other hand, Taylor was hard to control. Which was why he’d brought a small sack of combination locks. One would go on the pantry, one on the cover of the generator’s switch. Only Albert would know the combinations, so only Albert would control the food and the lights. That would chill Taylor’s independence a bit.

  He ordered the girls to pull up the rope and coil it well back from the cliff’s edge. Then he scanned the sea between Perdido Beach and the island. No sign of boats. Which meant most probably no one was coming anytime soon.

  But they would. Sitting terrified in the dark, hungry and desperate, kids would see a distant point of light. They would realize it was the island, and that light meant hope.

  So just as soon as they had rested a little, had a bite to eat and a look around, Albert would get them busy hauling a couple of the missiles up to the top floor of the mansion. Because whenever that boat came, it, too, would have a light. A single point of light in the darkness.

  Albert sighed. He had survived. But he had given up everything. All of Alberco. All he had accomplished. All he had built.

  He would miss the challenge of the business.

  “Come on, guys,” Albert said. “Come see our new home.”

  Drake was pretty sure Brittney had emerged at least once while he was down in this cramped, oily engine room. But he was back now and Brittney had not moved.

  Maybe she was getting smarter.

  He listened for Sam’s voice. He heard nothing. That didn’t prove Sam was gone. But it meant Drake could take a small risk.

  With his tentacle arm he edged the hatch up a quarter of an inch.

  The light was definitely different. Strange. Like it was shining through a bottle of Coke or something. Unnatural.

  Unsettling.

  He pushed the hatch just a bit higher. There was a foot. Not moving. Just there, toes in his direction. He shifted. A second foot. Someone was seated right there, just a couple of feet away. Aimed in his direction.

  Problem or opportunity?

  That was the question.

  The hatch came down suddenly, slammed back into place by running feet.

  “Hey, you guys, be careful!”

  Diana’s voice! He’d recognize it anywhere.

  “Justin, you’re going to break your neck!”

  Drake closed his eyes and let the pleasure of it wash over him. She was right there. And from the sound of it there were little kids on board.

  Perfect.

  Absolutely. Perfect.

  Beyond the highway, out in the emptiness at the edge of the desert, Penny stepped on a broken bottle.

  It was the bottom of a bottle, the base of what must have been a wine bottle. Green glass. Jagged. A sliver punched up through her calloused sole into the meat of her heel.

  “Ahhhh!”

  It hurt!

  Tears came into Penny’s eyes. Blood gushed from her foot, puddling in the sand. She sat down hard and pulled her foot to her and saw the cut. Lana would have to—

  Bandages. Band-Aids.

  “Owww! Owww!”

  Penny started crying aloud. She was hurt and no one would help her. And what would happen to her when it was dark?

  It was all so unfair. So unfair. So wrong.

  She’d been on top for not even a few minutes. She’d had Caine right where she wanted him, but no one liked her, and all they did was hate on her, and now her foot was hurt and bleeding.

  But not as bad as when her legs were broken. Not as bad as that. And she had survived that, hadn’t she? She had survived and she had come out on top. She wondered how Caine liked having his hands in a block of cement. If they tried to take it off, they would break his hands like her legs had been broken.

  Only Lana would help him, wouldn’t she?

  She should have taken care of Lana when she had the chance. The Healer might be almost immune to Penny’s power, but would she be immune to a gun? Penny should have had Turk kill the Healer. Yeah, that was what she should have done.

  The shadows weren’t lengthening; the light wasn’t really coming from one place. It was like she was down in a well with sun shining up high somewhere directly above, so the light had to bounce down to reach her.

  Soon it would be dark.

  Then what?

  Diana got heavily to her feet just as Justin went tearing past again, full of giddy high spirits and energy.

  Atria had wound down. She was in the bow now, reading.

  Justin tripped and fell headlong, a projectile aimed right at Diana’s giant belly.

  But he didn’t hit.

  The little boy flew forward, mouth open, arms stretching out defensively; then he stopped, yanked back, and hit the deck hard.

  Diana was moving toward him, worried, when she saw the tentacle wrapped around his ankle. She froze. It made no sense. The tentacle was coming up from the floor!

  No. A hatch.

  And in a flash the hatch was thrown back and Drake pushed himself awkwardly up.

  Diana shot wild looks in every direction, searching for a weapon. Nothing.

  Drake was out of the engine space. Standing on the deck. Grinning at her.

  She knew she should scream, but her breath was gone. Her heart was hammering with no rhythm, just thudding wildly in her chest.

  Drake lifted the boy off the deck with effortless strength, carried him over the side, and plunged him under the water.

  Diana stared at him with horror. How could he be here? How was this possible?

  “What. No snarky remark, Diana?”

  Diana saw legs kicking below the surface of the water. Drake twisted his tentacle just a bit so that the little boy’s face was visible. So that she could see his wide, white eyes. So that she could see that he was screaming away the last of his air, an explosion of suicidal bubbles.

  “Let him go,” Diana said, but with no force, because she knew Drake wouldn’t listen.

  “There’s a dingh
y tied up. Climb your fine butt down into it, Diana. Once you’re in, I let the kid up. Not before. So I’d hurry if I were you.”

  Diana sobbed just once, a sudden sharp exhalation.

  She could see the fear in the boy’s eyes. The pleading.

  If she hesitated, he would drown. And Drake would still be here.

  Diana rushed to the bow. She climbed over the rail and dropped awkwardly into the boat. “I’m in!” she cried. “Let him go.”

  Drake sauntered down the length of the sailboat. He kept his whip arm in the water. He was dragging the boy through the water, keeping him submerged.

  Atria saw now and screamed.

  There was a rush of feet coming from below. Roger emerged on deck, panting. Drake smiled at him.

  “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” he said. Then he lifted Justin up out of the water. The little boy was silent, eyes closed, pale as death.

  Roger’s expression turned murderous. With a roar he ran at Drake. Drake swung Justin like a wet wrecking ball and smashed Roger so hard he went over the side.

  When he reached the bow he met Diana’s tearful gaze. He dumped Justin, like a sack of garbage, in the dinghy.

  “I think he’s taking a nap,” Drake said, and hopped down into the boat.

  Diana knelt over Justin. His eyes were closed. His lips were blue. When she touched his face he felt as cold as death.

  Long-lost memories came now. Was it a video they’d shown in some class? In some different world?

  It was hard for Diana with her belly to bend over low enough to put her mouth over the little boy’s lips. She had to lift his head to her and she was barely strong enough to do it.

  She breathed into his mouth. Pause. Breathe again. Pause.

  Drake untied the rope and settled in at the oars. He wrapped two feet of his tentacle arm around the right oar.

  Breathe. Pause. Breathe.

  Pulse, she should check for a pulse. Diana pressed two fingers against the boy’s neck.

  Drake had started singing. It was the song from the Pirates of the Caribbean ride at Disney World.