He had fought Drake again, but it was Caine who had finally killed the psychopath. Caine had thrown Drake down a mine shaft that then collapsed on Drake’s head. Nothing could have survived.
And yet, Drake was alive.
He’d coped since that day by knowing that Drake was dead, buried under tons of rock, dead, gone, never to be faced again. That fact had let him cope.
But if Drake was unkillable…
Immortal…
Would Drake always be a part of life in the FAYZ?
Sam sat on the edge of the cliff, just half a mile from the power plant. He had found a bike on the way there and ridden it until the tire blew out. Then he had walked down the winding coast road intending to return to the power plant, to that room where it had happened. The place where Drake had broken him.
That was the thing of it, Sam thought, as he looked out over the empty, sparkling sea: Drake had broken something inside him. Sam had tried to put it back together. He’d tried to go back to being Sam. The Sam everyone expected him to be.
Astrid had been a part of it. Love and all. It was so corny, but love had kept him from despair. Love and the cold comfort of knowing that Drake had died while Sam had survived.
Love and revenge. Nice combination.
And responsibility, he realized suddenly. That had helped in a strange way, knowing that kids needed him. Knowing that he was necessary.
Now Astrid was telling him he was not so necessary. And, by the way, not so loved. And the comfort of thoughts of Drake’s broken body lying under the ground? Gone.
Sam took off his shirt. The wound in his shoulder didn’t look like much. When he probed it with his finger he could feel something hard and round just below the skin.
He squeezed the wound with his fingers, wincing at the pain, squeezed some more and the dull lead ball came out along with a little blood.
He looked at the ball. A shotgun pellet. About the size of a BB. He tossed it away. A Band-Aid would have been nice, but he would have to content himself with washing the wound.
He started climbing down the cliff, needing something to do, and hoping he might find something to eat down in the tidal pools in the rocks.
It was a tough climb. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to get back up once he was down. But physical movement seemed necessary to him.
I could jump in the water and swim, he told himself.
I could swim until I can’t swim anymore.
He wasn’t afraid of the ocean. You couldn’t be a surfer and be afraid of the ocean. He could start swimming, straight out. From here it was ten miles to the distant FAYZ wall. Couldn’t see it from here, couldn’t usually see it at all until you were up close to it. It had a gray, satiny, pseudo-reflective character that fooled the eye. As far as they knew, it was a complete sphere, a dome, though it looked like the sky, and at night it looked like stars.
He wondered if he could reach the wall. Probably not. He wasn’t in as good a shape as he’d been back in the old days.
He’d probably wear out after a mile. If he swam hard, maybe a mile, maybe a mile and a half. And then, if he let it, the ocean would take him down, swallow him up. Not the first person to be taken by the Pacific. There were human bones scattered across the ocean floor, from here to China.
He reached the rocks and bent over awkwardly to rinse the shotgun wound in salt water.
Then he began poking around in the tidal pools. Darting little fish. Some mollusks too tiny to bother opening. But after half an hour he had collected a couple handfuls of mussels, three small crabs, and a seven-inch-long sea cucumber. He placed them all in a small tidal pool. Then he aimed one palm at the pool and blasted it with enough light to set the salt water boiling.
He sat on slick rocks and ate the seafood stew, gingerly picking pieces out of the hot broth. It was delicious. A little salty, which would be bad later unless he found fresh water, but delicious.
It improved his mood, eating. Sitting by the water. Being alone with himself. No one demanding anything of him. No terrible threat to rush off and handle. No nagging details.
Suddenly, to his own amazement, he laughed out loud.
How long had it been since he’d sat by himself, no one in his face?
“I’m on vacation,” he said to no one.
“Yes, I’ll be taking some time off. No, no, I won’t be answering my phone or even checking my BlackBerry. Also, I won’t be burning holes in anyone. Or getting the crap beaten out of me.”
An outcropping hid Perdido Beach from view, which was just fine. He could make out the nearest of the small islands and looking north he could see the spit of land that jutted out from the power plant.
“Nice place,” Sam said, looking around at his rocky perch. “If only I had a cooler of sodas I’d be set.”
His mind drifted to Perdido Beach. How were they doing in the aftermath of the fire? How were they dealing with Zil?
What was Astrid doing right now? Probably bossing everyone around with her usual confidence.
Picturing Astrid was not helpful. There were two pictures in his mind, vying for dominance. Astrid in her nightgown, the one that was modest and sensible until she happened to step in front of a light source and then…
Sam shook that off. Not helpful.
He pictured the other Astrid with the haughty, cold, contemptuous expression she wore in the council meetings.
He loved the first Astrid. The Astrid who occupied his daydreams and sometimes his night dreams.
He couldn’t stand the other Astrid.
Both Astrids frustrated him, although in very different ways.
It wasn’t like there weren’t other pretty girls in the FAYZ, ready to more or less throw themselves at Sam. Girls who maybe wouldn’t be quite so moral, or quite so superior in their attitude.
It seemed to Sam that, if anything, Astrid was getting more and more that way. She was becoming less the Astrid of his daydreams and more the Astrid who had to control everything.
Well, she was head of the council. And Sam had agreed that he couldn’t run things all by himself. And he’d never wanted to run anything to begin with. He had resisted, in fact. It had been Astrid who manipulated him into taking on the responsibility.
And then she had taken it away from him.
He wasn’t being fair. He knew that. He was being self-pitying. He knew that, too.
But the bottom line with Astrid was that the answer from her was always “No.” No to any number of things. But when things went wrong, suddenly it was his responsibility.
Well, no more.
He was done being played. If Astrid and Albert wanted to keep Sam in some little box, where they could take him out and use him whenever they wanted, and then not even let him do his job-they could forget it.
And if Astrid wanted to think of herself and Little Pete and Sam as being some kind of family, only Sam never got to, well…she could forget that, too.
You didn’t run away because of any of that, a cruel voice in his head said. You didn’t run away because Astrid won’t sleep with you. Or because she is bossy. You ran away from Drake.
“Whatever,” Sam said aloud.
And then, a thought occurred to Sam that rocked him. He’d become a big hero because of Astrid. And when he seemed to have lost her, he stopped being that guy.
Was that possible? Was it possible that arrogant, frustrating, manipulative Astrid was the reason he could play Sam the Hero?
He had shown some courage before, the actions that earned him the nickname School Bus Sam. But he had immediately walked away from that image, done his best to disappear back into anonymity. He’d been allergic to responsibility. When the FAYZ came he’d been just another kid. And even after the FAYZ came he’d done his best to avoid the role that others wanted to force on him.
But then there had been Astrid. He had done it for her. For her he’d been the hero.
“Yeah, well,” he said to the rocks and the surf, “In that case, I’m fine being regula
r old Sam.”
He felt comforted by that thought. For a while. Until the image of Whip Hand bubbled to the surface again.
“It’s just an excuse,” Sam admitted to the ocean. “Whatever’s going on with Astrid, you still have to do it.”
He still, no matter what, had to face Drake.
“I’m glad you saw that, too, Choo,” Sanjit whispered. “Because otherwise I’d be sure I was crazy.”
“It was that kid, that boy. He did it. Somehow,” Virtue said.
The two of them were in the rocks atop the cliff. There was scarcely an inch of the island they hadn’t explored both before the big disappearance and after. Much of the island had been denuded of trees dating back to a time when someone had raised sheep and goats on the island. But at the fringes there was still virgin forest of scrub oak, mahogany and cypress trees, and dozens of flowering bushes. The island foxes still hunted in these woods.
In other places palm trees swayed high above tumbled rocks. But there were no beaches on San Francisco De Sales Island. No convenient inlets. In the days of sheep ranching the shepherds had lowered the animals in wicker baskets. Sanjit had seen the tumbled remains of that apparatus, had considered trying to swing out over the water for the sheer fun of it, had decided it was crazy when he noticed that the support beams were eaten by ants and termites.
The island was almost impregnable, which was why his adopted parents had bought it. It was one place the paparazzi couldn’t reach. In the interior of the island was a short airstrip large enough to accommodate private jets. And at the compound was the helipad.
“They’re going east,” Sanjit commented.
“How did he do that?” Virtue asked.
Sanjit had noticed about Virtue that he was not quick to adapt to new and unexpected circumstances. Sanjit had grown up on the streets with con men, pickpockets, magicians and others who specialized in illusion. He didn’t think what he had just witnessed was an illusion, he believed it was real. But he was ready to accept that and move on.
“It’s impossible,” Virtue said.
The boat was definitely under way again, heading east, which was good. It was the long way around the island. It would take hours and hours for them to get to where the beached yacht lay.
“It’s not possible,” Virtue said again, and now it was starting to get on Sanjit’s nerves.
“Choo. Every single adult disappears in a heartbeat, there’s no TV or radio, no planes in the sky, no boats sailing by. Have you not figured out we’re not exactly in the land of possible? We have been picked up, kidnapped, and adopted all over again. Except this time it wasn’t to America. I don’t know where we are or what’s going on. But brother, we’ve been through this before, you know? New world, new rules.”
Virtue blinked once. Twice. He nodded. “Kind of, we have, huh? So, what do we do?”
“Whatever we have to do to survive,” Sanjit said.
And then the old familiar Virtue was back. “That’s a nice line, Wisdom. Like something out of a movie. Unfortunately it’s kind of meaningless.”
“Yes. Yes, it is,” Sanjit admitted with a grin. He slapped Virtue on the shoulder. “Coming up with something more meaningful is your thing.”
“Can you guys handle things for a few minutes?” Mary asked. John glanced at the three helpers, three kids who had either been scheduled or, in the case of one, was a homeless fugitive who had come to the day care looking for shelter and been put to work.
During the night and morning the population of the day care more than doubled. Now the numbers were starting to decline a little as kids drifted off in ones or twos, looking for siblings or friends. Or homes that, from all that Mary had heard, might no longer exist.
Mary knew she probably should not let anyone leave. Not until they were sure it was safe.
“But when would that be?” she muttered. She blinked a couple of times, trying to focus. Her vision was weird. More than just sleepiness. A blur that turned edges to neon when she moved her head too fast.
She searched for and found her pill bottle. When she shook it, it made no sound. “No, no way.” She opened it and looked inside. She upended it. Still empty.
When had she finished it off? She couldn’t remember. The depression beast must have come for her and she must have fought it off with the last of the meds.
At some point. Before. Must have.
“Yeah,” she said aloud, voice slurred.
“What?” John asked, frowning like it was all he could do to pay attention.
“Nothing. Talking to myself. I have to go find Sam or Astrid or someone, whoever is in charge. We’re out of water. We need twice the usual amount of food. And I need someone to…you know…” She lost her train of thought, but John didn’t seem to notice.
“Use some of the emergency food to feed them until I get back,” Mary said. She walked away before John could ask how he was supposed to stretch four cans of mixed vegetables and a vacuum-pack of spicy dried peas to cover thirty or forty hungry kids.
Near the plaza things didn’t look much different than usual. They smelled different-smoke and the acrid stench of melted plastic. But the only evidence of the disaster at first was the pall of brown haze that hovered above the town. That and a pile of debris peeking out from behind the McDonald’s.
Mary stopped at town hall, thinking maybe she would find the council hard at work making decisions, organizing, planning. John had gone on a tour with them earlier, but if he was back they should be, too.
She needed to talk to Dahra. See what meds she had available. Get something before the depression swallowed her up again. Before she…something.
No one was home in the offices, but Mary could hear moans of pain coming from the basement infirmary. She didn’t want to think about what was going on down there. No, not now, Dahra would kick her out.
Even though it would really only take Dahra a few seconds to grab a Prozac or whatever she had.
Mary almost ran smack into Lana who was sitting outside on the town hall steps smoking a cigarette.
Her hands were stained red. No one had water to waste on washing off blood.
Lana glanced up at her. “So. How was your night?”
“Me? Oh, not great.”
Lana nodded. “Burns. They take a long time to heal. Bad night. Bad, bad night.”
“Where’s Patrick?” Mary asked.
“Inside. He helps kids stay calm,” Lana said. “You should get a dog for the day care. Helps kids…Helps them, you know, not notice that their fingers are burned off.”
Something she was supposed to check on. No, not meds. Something else. Oh, of course. “I hate to ask, I know you’ve had a hard night,” Mary said. “But one of my kids, Justin, came in crying about his friend Roger.”
Lana almost smiled. “The Artful Roger? He’ll live, probably. But all I had time to do was keep him from dying right away. I’ll have to spend a lot more time with him before he’s going to be drawing any more pictures.”
“Z’anyone know what happened?” Mary’s lips and tongue felt thick.
Lana shrugged. She lit a second cigarette from the butt of the first. It was a sign of wealth, in a way. Cigarettes were in short supply in the FAYZ. Of course the Healer could have whatever she wanted. Who was going to say no?
“Well, it depends on who you believe,” Lana said. “Some kids are saying it was Zil and his idiots. Others are saying it was Caine.”
“Caine? That’s crazy, isn’t it?”
“Not so crazy. I heard crazier from kids.” Lana laughed humorlessly.
Mary waited for Lana to add something. She didn’t want to ask, but she had to. “Crazier?”
“Remember Brittney? Girl who died in the big fight at the power plant? Buried right over there?” Lana pointed with her cigarette. “I have kids saying they saw her walking around.”
Mary started to speak, but her clumsy mouth was dry.
“And even crazier stuff than that,” Lana said.
&n
bsp; Mary felt a chill deep inside her.
“Brittney?” Mary said.
“Dead things don’t always stay dead, I guess,” Lana said.
“Lana…what do you know?” Mary asked.
“Me? What do I know? I’m not the one with a brother on the council.”
“John?” Mary was surprised. “What are you talking about?”
There was a loud groan of pain from the basement. Lana didn’t flinch. But she noticed Mary’s concerned expression. “He’ll live.”
“What are you getting at, Lana? Are you, um, saying something?”
“This kid tells me Astrid told him to spread the word that Orsay is full of crap. Then, same kid says, a couple hours later, Howard tells him to spread the word that anyone who sees anything crazy is full of crap. So the kid says to Howard, what are you talking about ‘crazy?’ Because everything is crazy in the FAYZ.”
Mary wondered if she was supposed to laugh. She couldn’t. Her heart was pounding and her head was banging, banging.
“Meanwhile, guess what Sam’s doing a couple of days ago? He’s over at Clifftop asking me if I happen to have gotten a telephone call from the gaiaphage.”
Mary stood very still. She wanted desperately for Lana to explain what she meant about Orsay. Focus, Mary, she told herself.
Lana went on after a moment. “See, what Sam really wanted, was to know whether it’s dead. The gaiaphage. Whether it’s really gone. And guess what?”
“I don’t know, Lana.”
“Well, it’s not. You know? It’s not gone. It’s not dead.” Lana took a deep breath and stared at the blood dried on her hands like it was the first time she’d noticed. She peeled some off with a thumbnail.
“I don’t understand…”
“Me neither,” Lana said. “It was there with me. In my mind. I could feel it…using…me.” She looked ashamed. Embarrassed. And then her eyes flashed angrily. “Ask your brother, he’s in with all of them, Sam and Astrid and Albert. At the same time Sam is asking me whether the gaiaphage is still its old lovable self and council kids are asking other kids to run around dissing Orsay and making sure no one thinks anything’s wrong.”
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