Eli tries reason. “If there’s one thing we’ve learned about the outside world, it’s that it runs on money. We’re going to need this cash for food and gas and shelter.”
“And more Band-Aids,” Tori adds. “Malik’s bleeding.”
Malik’s hand snaps to his neck. He examines the blood smear and blanches. “See what you did?” he rages to Amber. “I got injured running down the money you threw away!”
“That’s not it,” Tori informs him. “You’ve been bleeding for the past fifty miles.”
“Why didn’t anybody tell me?”
“We were afraid you’d pass out behind the wheel and kill us all,” Eli replies honestly. “Seriously, Malik, it’s fine. Your life’s blood isn’t draining away.”
Classic Frieden. When it’s somebody else’s blood he’s a hero.
“Sorry, you guys,” says Amber. “I just hate the idea of being bought off, that’s all.”
“For a few hundred bucks, anyway,” I agree. “She’s actually kind of a cheapskate, when you think about it, considering she’s got billions.” That gives me a brainstorm. “I wonder how much it’s worth to her to keep Osiris a secret. We could trade our silence for a big pile of money.”
“I can hardly wait to find out who you’re cloned from,” Tori drawls.
I take it as a compliment even though she didn’t mean it that way. “Somebody loaded, that’s for sure. Maybe that’s why it’s so natural for me to drive a car like this.”
“Silence is the one thing we can’t afford for any money,” Amber says firmly. “We need to tell our story and get justice.”
“You tried telling our story in Denver,” I remind her. “It didn’t turn out too well.”
Eli nods. “We have to have proof before we can go public. That’s why we needed Tamara Dunleavy to back up what we say.”
“But she didn’t back us up,” counters Tori. “And she never will.”
“You mean that’s it?” I demand. “Without the old bag we can’t ever prove who we are?”
Eli looks at each of us in turn. “There’s one other place to find evidence about Project Osiris: The conference room of the Plastics Works—in Serenity.”
I’m blown away. “Go back to Happy Valley?”
Tori looks thoughtful. “It’s not impossible, you know. Before, we couldn’t because of the invisible barrier. But now that we don’t have those chips in our heads—”
“Yeah, fine, we could get into town without throwing up our guts while our heads explode. But why would we want to? We almost got killed getting out of Happy Valley!” My voice catches. “One of us did get killed.”
Hector. I try not to lose it over what happened to the shrimp, because—well, that’s the kind of thing Hector would do. But the truth is, I think about him all the time—at least when I’m not doing something else, like sliding down the bed of a dump truck into a wood chipper, or having a sophisticated piece of electronics cut out of my neck. Even when I’m cruising down a mountain road behind the wheel of a very choice automobile, part of me is imagining where Hector would be—probably sitting on the hump—if only he wasn’t so worthless in a crisis, and if his best friend had looked out for him like he should have.
To tell you the truth, even the hump is pretty luxe in a Bentley.
“It’s risky,” Eli agrees, “but we don’t have a choice. Project Osiris is so top secret that the only proof it ever existed is inside that factory.”
“If our parents spot us, we’re right back where we started,” Amber points out. “We could be serving ourselves up to the Purple People Eaters on a silver platter.”
“And don’t forget there are cameras all over town,” adds Tori. “We’ll have to be really careful to avoid them.”
“Good thing we know the place,” says Eli. “We grew up inside their tiny perfect community. Our whole lives, we were their lab rats and their wind-up toys. It’s time to take what we learned and use it against them.”
14
TORI PRITEL
The scenery is totally breathtaking.
I thought Serenity was beautiful. But the ride out of Jackson Hole starts out gorgeous and only gets more dramatic and impressive the farther we drive into the Rockies.
Not that this is a sightseeing trip. (And just in case I forget that, there’s Malik.)
“If you show me one more mountain, Torific, you’re going out the window,” he warns darkly.
“Shut up, Malik.” Amber jumps to my defense. “We’re stuck in this car for a long time. We might as well see something. It isn’t going to make it any easier to sneak into Serenity if we’re miserable for fourteen hours.”
“Fourteen hours,” moans Malik, fidgeting in the passenger seat. (Eli has taken over the wheel.)
“Our whole lives we were stuck in a town the size of a postage stamp,” I add. “One of the reasons we got out was to experience the world. Well, this is it.”
“Not too much going on,” Malik observes. “It isn’t exactly NYC.”
“Are you kidding?” I exclaim. “That lake is as glassy as a mirror. Look at those wildflowers. Can you believe the colors?”
Malik buries his face in the side of the headrest. “You sure you got all that chip out of my skull, Laska? I think I’m going to throw up.”
We monitored that Jackson Hole news channel until we lost the station a couple of hours back. No talk about police on the trail of a missing Bentley and runaway kids. Obviously, that doesn’t mean it might not be happening, but it’s starting to look like Tamara Dunleavy is loaning us her car on top of the money she donated to our cause. That doesn’t excuse what she did, but just the thought that someone’s trying to help us makes me feel a teeny bit less alone.
The roads are busier than Old County Six, which goes through Serenity, but compared to the traffic in and around Denver, it’s pretty deserted out here. That’s a good thing—every time another car goes by we sit taller in our seats in an attempt to appear older. We don’t have to look like adults; we just have to pass for sixteen-plus. Luckily, people mind their own business, which is the total opposite of Serenity, where any newcomer instantly draws all eyes. Nobody thinks it’s a big deal that we’re in a quarter-million-dollar Bentley. (Or maybe they don’t notice cars.)
The first city we come to is called Rock Springs, Wyoming. A week ago, it would have seemed huge to us, but now we can tell it’s smaller than Pueblo and would fit inside a tiny corner of Denver. We’re starving by this point, so we stop at McDonald’s, the restaurant with the big yellow M. It’s actually kind of exciting—we’ve all heard about it, but none of us have ever eaten at one.
“This is the greatest food I’ve ever tasted,” Malik declares.
Amber glares at him. “They fry everything but the drinks. You can feel the grease in the air oozing in through your skin pores.”
“Which is awesome,” Malik finishes. He turns to Eli and me. “I’m going to get some more chow.”
I’m astounded. “You had three Big Macs! You can’t still be hungry!”
“Yeah, but I want to try one of those Happy Meals. You get this cool SpongeBob toy.”
Amber manages to shame him out of the Happy Meal, but he won’t leave until he tries out the PlayPlace with the little kids. It goes okay until he gets wedged in the tunnel slide, and we have to pry him free. By then, the manager is giving us dirty looks, which doesn’t fit the low profile we’re hoping to keep. Even Malik agrees it’s a good time to move on.
When we come out to the parking lot, there are half a dozen teenagers draped over the Bentley. They peer beyond us, looking for the parent who’s driving.
Their leader seems to be the guy who’s stretched out across the hood for all the world like he’s lying on a feather bed. He spots the keys in Eli’s hand.
“Hey, kid. Where’s your mommy?”
Malik frowns. “Where’s yours?”
Amber steps forward. “When you disrespect people’s property, you’re really disrespecting yourself.�
�� It’s a classic Serenity line, something we’ve been hearing our entire lives. Considering Amber’s the angriest of all of us at our parents, it’s amazing how quick she is to repeat some of the stuff they taught us.
The teenagers just laugh. The leader stands up on the hood and plants a muddy construction boot on the windshield, leaving an imprint of the sole. “Who am I disrespecting now?”
It’s kind of a scary moment, and the scariest part is it’s impossible to tell what these kids want. They don’t seem to be criminals like we saw around the Denver bus station. And if they wanted to steal the Bentley, why would they wait around for us to come back?
“Get off our car,” Amber says firmly.
“Who’s going to make us, rich girl? You? Or are you going to call your rich daddy to come hit us with his big, fat wallet?”
Amber reaches out, grabs the leader’s leg just above the boot and gives a mighty yank. He comes flying off the hood and lands in a heap on the pavement of the parking lot.
“Hey—” Another teen lunges forward and grasps a handful of Amber’s sleeve.
He never gets to a second syllable. Malik’s fist shoots out like a battering ram, catching the kid full in the nose.
They’re all off the car now, closing on Malik. I snatch up a wire mesh trash can and drop it over the shortest one, covering him in garbage and pinning his arms. Malik has planted his feet and is standing his ground, raining punches on all comers. His accuracy is astonishing. He never seems to miss. Nothing we learned in Serenity could prepare us for a confrontation like this. It’s awful, violent, ugly, but I can’t look away.
The car starts up, pulling me back to reality. Eli’s behind the wheel. He’s got the right idea, of course. Our best move is to end this and get away from here. We want to learn about the outside world, but this is enough of a lesson for one day. (Actually, it looks like we’ve learned too much already, especially Malik.)
The teenagers finally back off, and we pile into the car. One of them throws a bottle at us as we peel out of the parking lot. It hits the pavement behind the Bentley and shatters.
“You’re lucky I get bored easy!” Malik shouts back at them out his window.
“Everybody okay?” Eli manages in a shaky voice.
“Never better,” chuckles Malik, sucking on a skinned knuckle. He seems to have found out something about himself that he never knew before. Maybe we all have.
“Your hand’s bleeding,” I inform him.
“Still worth it,” Malik decides. “I never felt so alive. I can’t believe that was my first fight. Just my luck to grow up in the one place where it never happens. It’s like thirteen years wasted.”
I sigh. “Well, you made up for lost time.”
We haven’t been back on the road very long when the all-too-familiar wail of a police siren reaches us.
Eli peers into the rearview mirror. “Uh-oh.”
I turn to gaze out the back window. A squad car is following us, and gaining fast.
Sudden panic. “Do you think those teenagers called the cops on us?”
“On us?” Amber echoes. “All we did was stick up for ourselves. We should tell the cops about them.”
“Except that the only thing they’ll have to explain is why they’re jerks.” Why am I the only one who can see to plan a few moves ahead? “We’ll have to explain what we’re doing with Tamara Dunleavy’s Bentley.”
It’s as if all the air has been sucked out of our car. We hold our breath as the cop closes the gap, flashers whirling. It’s stunning how things can change in a heartbeat in the strange world outside Serenity. If this police officer pulls us over, he’s going to get a lot more than parking lot brawlers. He’ll get a car we can’t possibly own, driven by kids too young to be driving. And when our descriptions reach the Denver police . . .
“Turn around!” Eli hisses. “Don’t let the cop see us looking at him!”
It’s good advice, but it’s also agony to listen to the siren getting louder. Eli’s checking the mirror every couple of seconds now. I can see a vein pulsing in his neck. The black-and-white must be right on our back bumper.
“We can outrun him,” Malik says to Eli. “No way a cop car can keep up with a Bentley if we go flat out.”
“But a cop can radio other cops,” I argue. “We could end up with the whole police force after us.”
“I’ll take my chances with that over getting arrested right now,” Malik counters.
A blurp from the siren makes us jump. The flashers light up the Bentley. The officer pulls right beside us.
“Go-o-o!” Malik urges.
But Eli maintains our speed. Maybe he’s frozen that way. (I know I am.)
The squad car swerves ahead of us, accelerates, and stops an SUV about a quarter mile up. When we whiz by a few seconds later, the uniformed cop is writing the driver a ticket.
Give Eli all the credit. The speedometer needle doesn’t budge. That’s cool under fire.
We start breathing again.
15
ELI FRIEDEN
The Bentley’s GPS thinks we should follow the interstate south through Denver.
Me? Not so much.
That navigation system is part of a full touch screen computer, with internet access. The next time Malik drives, I do a little web surfing. Denver PD has connected the house break-in in Mountain View with the four kids who escaped from the Medical Arts building. We’re wanted for evading custody, breaking and entering, petty larceny, and grand theft auto. I’m not sure if that’s for the Campanellas’ Jeep Wrangler, the Purple People Eaters’ SUV, or both. They can’t know about the Bentley.
We’re not exactly criminal masterminds yet, but it sure looks like we’re on our way, kind of Outlaws, version 2.0. It’s more than enough to make us find a route south that doesn’t pass through Denver.
Pretty soon we see why the GPS didn’t want us to go this way. It’s no wider than Old County Six, cutting straight through the Rockies via hairpin turns, blind curves, and endless switchbacks. Half the time, we’re tracing along a high ledge, protected only by a railing that wouldn’t stop a tumbleweed, much less a big sedan. Experienced drivers would be nervous; for a kid who taught himself on Xbox, it’s terrifying. Plus you have to go so slow that every mile takes as long as five miles on the interstate.
We encounter very few other cars. When it gets dark, I take over the wheel from Malik again. Lucky me.
Towns are few and far between, and we almost run out of gas. The low fuel light is on when we happen on a shack with a gas pump. The attendant assures us that if we’d come ten minutes later, he would have been gone for the night. He says the next gas station is forty miles away. We would never have made it.
“Where are we going to sleep tonight?” Tori asks.
“We aren’t,” Malik replies gruffly. “You see any hotels around here?”
We’ve passed some clusters of ski cabins, boarded up for the off-season. That’s about it.
“The more distance we put between ourselves and Jackson Hole, the safer we’ll be,” I argue. “You never know when Tamara Dunleavy is going to decide she wants her Bentley back.”
So we load up on candy bars and cheese doodles and keep on going. It’s almost midnight.
The girls fall asleep in the back around one and Malik is snoring by one thirty. That might be the most nerve-racking part—being the only one awake in the car, struggling not to let the comfortable leather seat carry me off to dreamland and the Bentley off a cliff. Eventually, the sound of me slapping myself in the face to stay alert disturbs Malik and we switch spots. We pass a road that claims to lead to Pueblo, so we know we’re making progress. I think of Randy and wonder if his parents are mad at him for hiding us. It feels like a hundred years ago. I think of the Purple People Eaters we stranded there. I don’t have to wonder if they’re angry.
As morning approaches, the sky begins to lighten, but we see no sunrise. The mountains are in the way. And they’re no longer the dramatic whi
tes and grays of the high Rockies. They’re lower, rounder, greener. They’re familiar.
“I think we’re getting close,” I announce.
Sure enough, a few minutes later, we pass a sign:
WELCOME TO NEW MEXICO
LAND OF ENCHANTMENT
I don’t know what it does for the others, but it makes the hair stand up on the back of my neck. For the clones of Project Osiris, there’s nothing very homey about home. Returning to Serenity is less a sentimental journey, and more like sticking your head into the lion’s mouth.
The navigation says we’re forty-five miles away. Not from Serenity—there’s no such destination on the Bentley’s GPS. We’re heading to Taos, the nearest town. From there, our plan is just to drive south until we hit Old County Six, which should take us right into town.
As we get closer to Taos, I feel an excitement building that has nothing to do with our mission. When you live in Serenity, almost everything from the outside world comes from Taos. All our clothes were bought there; our toys when we were little; our electronics and sports equipment when we got older. Tree trimmers, roofers, and driveway pavers—all Taos companies. They built our tree houses and set up our basketball hoops. Also plumbers, electricians, mechanics, repair people. When something breaks and Mr. Amani can’t fix it, you call Taos. Twice a year, a visiting Taos dentist checked our teeth.
But in another way, Taos is as alien to us as Denver or Jackson Hole or the surface of the moon. None of us has ever seen it. So when we actually get there, we’re amazed how small it is, even smaller than Jackson. It’s the same kind of place, though, with lots of hotels, restaurants, and souvenir shops.
“This is Taos?” Malik exclaims.
“I pictured it different,” murmurs Tori. “Bigger. Everything comes from here.”
“What did we expect?” Amber muses. “A giant warehouse of refrigerators and TVs and a roomful of exterminators waiting for one of us to find a nest of rattlesnakes in the attic?”
“Well, no,” Malik admits. “But I expected more than this. This is—nothing. Barely bigger than Happy Valley. And where is everybody?”
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