The Last Days

by WESTERFELD, SCOTT

  But the sight didn’t make me flinch—the rats smelled familiar and safe, like Zombie sleeping warm on my chest.

  The scent led me to a jagged, gaping hole in the tunnel wall, big enough to walk into, just like the cavity where Minerva and I had first kissed. It led away into pitch-blackness, its sides glistening. The rats swirled around me.

  I could smell danger now, but I didn’t want to run. My blood was pulsing, my whole body readying for a fight. I listened for a moment and knew instinctively that the hole was empty, though something had passed this way.

  I reached out to touch the broken granite, and a dark gunk as thick as honey came off on my fingers. Like the black water, it shimmered for a moment on my skin, then faded into the air.

  But its scent left behind a word in my mind . . . enemy. Just like Min always said: I call the enemy when I sing.

  The ground rumbled underfoot, and the rats began to squeak.

  I started running down the subway tunnel, feet crunching on gravel, the rats following, anger rippling across my skin. My tongue ran along my teeth, feeling every point. My whole body was crying out to fight this thing.

  Then all at once I heard it, smelled it, saw it coming toward me. . . .

  A form moved against the darkness, shapeless except for the tendrils whipping out to grasp the tunnel’s support columns. It dragged itself toward me—without legs, with way too many arms.

  I staggered to a halt, a nervous garlic burp clearing my head for a few seconds. I realized how big it was—like a whole subway car rolling loose—and how unarmed I was. . . .

  But then the thing inside me tightened its grip on my spine, flooding me with anger. I pulled the Stratocaster from its case and held its neck with both hands, bringing it over one shoulder like an ax. Steel strings and golden pickups flashed in the darkness, and suddenly the beautiful instrument was nothing but a weapon, a hunk of wood for smashing things.

  The rats flowed around me, scrambling up the walls and columns.

  The thing refused to take any shape in the darkness, but it was heading toward me faster now, its body spitting out gravel to both sides. It lashed at the dangling subway work lights, popping them one by one as it grew closer, like a rolling cloud of smoke bringing darkness.

  Then something glimmered wetly at its center, an open maw ringed with teeth like long knives—and me with an electric guitar. Some small, rational part of my mind knew that I was very, very screwed. . . .

  It was only twenty yards away. I swung the Stratocaster across myself; its weight made my feet stumble.

  Ten yards . . .

  Suddenly human figures shot past me out of the darkness, meeting the creature head on. Bright metal weapons flashed, and the monster’s screech echoed down the tunnel. Someone knocked me to one side and pinned me against the wall, holding me there as the beast streamed past. Cylinders of flesh sprouted from its length, grasping the steel columns around us, ending in sharp-toothed mouths that gnashed wetly. Human screams and flying gravel and the shriek of rats filled the air around us.

  And then it was gone, sucking the air behind it like a passing subway train.

  The woman who’d shoved me against the wall let go, and I stumbled back onto the tracks. The monstrous white bulk was receding into the darkness, leaving a trail of glistening black water. The dark figures and a stream of rats pursued it. Weapons flickered like subway sparks.

  I stood there, panting and clutching the Strat like I was going to hit something with it. Then the creature slipped out of sight, disappearing into the hole I’d found, like a long, pale tongue flickering into a mouth.

  The hunters followed, and the tunnel was suddenly empty, except for me, a few hundred crushed rats, and the woman.

  I blinked at her. She was a little older than me, with a jet-black fringe of bangs over brown eyes, a scuffed leather jacket and cargo pants with stuffed-full pockets.

  She eyed the guitar in my hands. “Can you talk?”

  “Talk?” I stood there for another moment, stunned and shaking.

  “As in converse, dude. Or are you crazy already?”

  “Um . . .” I lowered the Strat. “I don’t think so.”

  She snorted. “Yeah, right. So, like, dude, are you trying to get yourself killed?”

  She led me to an abandoned subway stop farther up the tracks, a darkened ghost station. The stairways were boarded over, the token booth trashed, but the graffiti-covered platform was abuzz with hunters regrouping after the chase. They slipped up from the tracks, as graceful as the dark figures climbing down the fire escape that night I’d met Pearl.

  Angels was what Luz called the people in the struggle. But I’d never figured on angels carrying backpacks and walkie-talkies.

  “Easy with that thing,” the woman who’d saved me said. “We’re all friends here.”

  “What? . . . Oh, sorry.” I was still clutching the Stratocaster like a weapon. The shoulder strap dangled from one end, so I slung the guitar over my back.

  Confusion was finally setting in. Had I really just seen a giant monster? And wanted to fight it?

  I looked at her. “Um . . . who are you?”

  “I’m Lace, short for Lacey. You?”

  “Moz.”

  “You can say your own name? Not bad.”

  “I can do what?”

  Instead of answering, she pulled a tiny flashlight from a pocket and shone it in my eyes. The light was blinding.

  “Ouch! What are you doing?”

  She leaned closer, sniffing at my breath. “Garlic? Clever boy.”

  A guy’s voice came from behind me. “Positive? Or just some wack-job?”

  “Definitely a peep, Cal. But a self-medicator, by the looks of it.”

  “Another one?” Cal said. His accent sounded southern. “That’s the third this week.”

  Tracers from the flashlight still streaked my vision, but I could see Lace’s silhouette shrug. “Well, garlic is in all the folklore. Who told you to eat that stuff, Moz?”

  I blinked. “Um, this woman called Luz.”

  “A doctor? A faith healer?”

  “She’s, uh . . .” What was Min’s word? “An esoterica?”

  “What the hell’s that?” Cal said. My vision returning, I noticed he was wearing a Britney Spears T-shirt under his leather jacket, which seemed weirdly out of place.

  “Probably something esoteric,” Lace said.

  I shook my head. I’d never met Luz face-to-face. “She’s a healer. Some kind of Catholic, I guess. She uses tea and stuff.”

  “Amateur hour,” Lace said in a singsong voice. “So, Moz, how long have you had an appetite for rare meat?”

  I thought of Min’s kiss. “Three weeks and four days.”

  Cal raised an eyebrow. “That’s pretty precise.”

  “Well, that’s when I first . . .” My voice faded. It didn’t seem like a good idea, telling them about Min. “Who are you guys anyway?”

  Lace snorted. “Dude. We’re the guys who saved your butt. You almost got flattened by that worm, remember?”

  I swallowed, watching as two angels lifted a third onto the platform. He was bleeding from a huge gash on one leg, black water dripping from the wound. He didn’t cry out, but his face was knitted in pain, his teeth clenched.

  And I’d been about to fight that thing alone?

  “Uh, thanks.”

  “Uh, you’re welcome.” Her eyes narrowed. “Have you got any girlfriends? Any roommates? Cats?”

  “Cats?” I thought of Zombie’s strange gaze. “Listen, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Or what that thing was! What’s going on here?”

  “He doesn’t know anything, Lace,” Cal said. “Just bag him and let’s get moving. That beastie’s only wounded; it might swing back around.”

  The woman stared at me for another moment, then nodded. “Okay. So here’s the thing, Moz. Old-fashioned folk remedies aren’t going to keep your head together for much longer. Very soon, you’re going to do unpleasant t
hings to your friends and neighbors. So we’re taking you for a little trip to New Jersey.”

  “New Jersey?”

  “Yeah, Montana’s full.” Lace smiled, pulling a small, thin object from her cargo pants. A needle glistened in the darkness at its tip. “This won’t hurt a bit, and you shouldn’t be there more than a week or two, thanks to your esoterica friend. Got to admit, she kept you in pretty good shape.”

  “Hey, wait a second.” I backed away, holding up my hands. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ve got a gig next week.”

  “A gig?” Lace glanced at the guitar on my back and shrugged. “Cool. But I’m afraid you’re going to miss it. We need to train you.”

  “Train me for what?”

  “Saving the world,” Cal said.

  I swallowed. “You mean Luz is right? There really is a struggle?”

  “She told you about the . . . ?” Lace’s voice faded, and she closed her eyes, sniffing the air. “Hey, Cal—did you feel that?”

  I had. My magic powers were spinning. I took a step away.

  “Not so fast, Moz!” Lace grabbed my arm, thrusting the needle closer.

  As I pulled free from her grip, the ground broke open beneath us. . . .

  Columns of flesh tore themselves up from the concrete of the platform, rings of teeth flashing in the darkness. One whipped past me, leaving my jacket sleeve in ribbons. I was already running, dodging through the flailing tendrils, stumbling over broken concrete.

  The angels fought back, swords whistling through the air around me, as deadly as the gnashing teeth.

  I jumped from the platform, then glanced back. Lace was spinning in place, her long sword slicing low through the air, cutting through columns of flesh as they thrust up from the ground. Black water spewed from the ragged stumps.

  My hands reached for the neck of my Strat again, itching to pull it off my back. I was dying to run back and rejoin the fight, but I shut my eyes, yanked out the garlic, and bit straight into an unpeeled clove.

  The burning sharpness cleared my head: I didn’t want to be part of any struggle. I didn’t want to go to some camp in New Jersey. All I wanted was to stay here, be in my band, play gigs, and get famous!

  I turned away from the battle and dashed down the tracks, running back toward Union Square Station. As I passed the gash in the tunnel, a storm of rats spilled out, headed back toward the fight. I danced like a barefoot kid on hot asphalt as they swept past.

  Finally the lights of the station glimmered in front of me. I leaped up onto the platform and kept running, climbing stairs and slanting tunnels until I’d dashed into the open air.

  My pockets were heavy, jingling with enough change to catch a taxi out to Brooklyn. I had to tell Min what I’d seen. The enemy was just like she’d said: something monstrous. There really were angels, and they were recruiting, taking infected people away to . . . New Jersey?

  Whatever. The struggle was real.

  I hailed a cab and gave the driver Minerva’s street name. When he said he didn’t go to that part of Brooklyn anymore, I leaned forward and bared my teeth, asking him to reconsider. He turned, met my demented rock-star gaze, and changed his mind.

  Once the cab was speeding up the Williamsburg Bridge, climbing away from the earth, my nerves began to calm. I was headed toward Minerva, to safety. I’d escaped the angels, and as long as I stayed out of the subways, they’d never find me again. . . .

  Then I remembered that my guitar case and amp were back there, underground. I sank down into the vinyl seat, eyes squeezing shut.

  The amp didn’t matter—I didn’t need it anymore—but the case. If the angels came looking for me, they’d find it on the tracks. Inside was a polite note, asking anyone who found this guitar to please call Moz at this number. Big Reward!

  And, of course, the note gave my address as well.

  21. THE RUNAWAYS

  -MINERVA-

  I pulled out Astor Michaels’s birthday present right before midnight, just like he’d told me to.

  It was wrapped in silver foil, my own face gazing back at me in the candlelight, blurry and twisted. Zombie jumped up onto the bed and sniffed the package, then looked up at me, his little face worried.

  Astor Michaels wasn’t family to me and Zombie—and now Moz. He was more like a distant relative, part of the clan who spelled their last names differently. It made him smell funny.

  “It’s okay, Zombie. Astor’s going to make Mommy a rock star.”

  When I pulled on the red ribbon, its knot only tightened, so I lifted the box to my mouth. The ribbon tensed for a moment as my teeth closed, then relaxed, like a chicken when Luz broke its neck.

  Teeth were useful for all sorts of things these days. Mozzy could open beer bottles with his.

  I slid the box out from its wrapping, checking the clock. Ten seconds.

  I counted down, hoping the present wasn’t something heart-shaped. Eww. Astor Michaels knew I was with Mozzy. He’d spotted it faster than anyone else, except maybe smelly Alana Ray—and Zahler, of course, who Moz had told before he’d even called me. (Okay, really it was only Pearl who didn’t know. Poor little Pearl.)

  My fingernails slit the box open, and I smiled.

  It was a cell phone, shiny and microscopic. Lifting it up, hefting the insubstantial weight, I felt its shape fitting into my palm. What a very excellent idea . . .

  Zombie, who’d been batting at the red ribbon, came over for another sniff, and at that moment the phone buzzed silently against my palm, like a housefly trapped in my fist. Zombie looked up at me and meowed.

  “Must be for me,” I said.

  I kept Astor Michaels waiting for three vibrations before I pushed the big green button.

  “Aren’t you clever?”

  “It’s my job to keep the talent happy.”

  “Mmm.” I was already wondering when Mozzy would be home from playing down in the subway. He was supposed to call me exactly at one; I could phone him right before and give him a little surprise. . . . I giggled.

  “Sounds like I’ve succeeded,” Astor Michaels said.

  “Very much so.” Then I frowned. “Why didn’t Pearl ever give me one of these?”

  “Maybe she thought you’d get yourself into trouble.”

  “Hmph.” Pearl probably liked being the only one with my number. Showed what she knew. “It’s about time. Luz stole my buttons, you know.”

  “So you said. You needed a real phone, Min. In fact, it’s about time you had a real life.”

  Zombie stared up at me, as if listening.

  “What do you mean by that, Astor Michaels?”

  “Why don’t you move out, Min?”

  “Move . . . out?” My eyes swept the candlelit darkness around me.

  “Red Rat has a few apartments set aside for our special artists, for when they come to town to record. Nicely furnished and in Manhattan. You could move in anytime.”

  I swallowed, reaching out to stroke Zombie. His fur had the shivers. “But what about—”

  “Your parents?” He made a disappointed noise. “You’re eighteen in two weeks, Min. You can disappear for that long, can’t you? Do you think the police will spend much time looking for a runaway who’s about to turn legal?”

  I didn’t answer. I didn’t care about the police, or my parents much either. But I wasn’t sure how long I could go without Luz. She could be a total pain, but she’d cured me, more or less.

  And Mozzy needed her even more than I did. I was splitting Luz’s medicines with him, making sure he got through the first stages of the illness. So far, he was keeping it together just fine, but I didn’t want him to turn all bitey.

  “Min?”

  I covered up the microphone. “What do you think, Zombie?”

  His eyes opened wide, glistening, nervous but . . . excited.

  Mozzy needed to get well, but we needed things too—to breathe the air outside at night, sucking in the smells and the moonlight. To go down in the subway, like Mozzy got to e
very night.

  I wanted to learn more . . . to make my songs stronger.

  In a couple of weeks I could call up Luz and have her come to my new place. She could make birthday mandrake tea for both of us. Once I was eighteen, it wouldn’t matter if she told my parents where I was.