Max: A Maximum Ride Novel, Page 4

  “The CSM isn’t our only concern right now,” Jeb said. His hair was starting to go gray. I’d love to think that I caused some of it. “We need to discuss your next steps.”

  Instantly I felt my face set like stone. I didn’t look at Fang but knew that he’d have the same expression. None of us had ever reacted well to the amusing notion of having grown-ups decide things for us — like our future, or what we did, and so on.

  “Oh?” I said in a voice that would have made most people pause.

  Jeb was used to it, having heard it from me since I was about three years old.

  “Yes,” he said. “A new school was recently created — the Day and Night School. It’s for gifted children, and it’s designed to let kids learn at their natural pace, in ways that suit them best. You’d all do really well there. It’s one of the only schools on earth where you’d fit in.”

  “Yeah, we’re all about fitting in,” I said, rolling my eyes.

  “Where is it?” Nudge asked. I heard the eagerness in her voice, and groaned to myself.

  “In a beautiful and secluded part of Utah,” Jeb said. “It’s got mountains, a lake to swim in, and horses to ride.”

  “Ooh,” said Nudge, her brown eyes wide. “I love horses! And school —” A wistful expression came over her face. “Tons of books, and other kids to talk to…”

  “Nudge, it’s out of the question,” I said. I hated to rain on her parade, but she knew this was crazy. There was no way we could go to some school somewhere. Had she forgotten what had happened the other times we’d tried to go to school? It was like, regular usual nightmare, plus homework.

  Nudge turned pleading eyes to me. “Really? It would be nice to be in one place for a while, and learn things.”

  “I like school,” said Ella. “Even though some kids are buttheads.”

  “We usually have bigger problems than kids being buttheads,” I said, trying to squelch my growing irritation. “Nudge, you know we have to keep on the move. Remember the suicide-sniper guy? There’s no way we’d be safe.”

  “We can guarantee your safety,” Jeb offered. “This is the real deal, kids.”

  “Oh, the real deal,” I said, sarcasm dripping. “So it’s better than all the fake deals, huh? Guarantee our safety? Please. How can you even say that with a straight face?”

  “I’ve checked into it,” my mom said. “I have to admit, it seems like a good program. And the woman who runs it is one of my friends from college.”

  Well, Buddha himself could come to me in a dream and tell me it was the right thing to do, and I still would not get on board. Because when it comes right down to it, in the end, when push comes to shove, when my back’s against the wall, when I can’t think of another freaking cliché to throw your way, the only person I really, really, really trust, no matter what, is me.

  This policy has paid off for me any number of times.

  The next person I trust after me is Fang.

  There really isn’t a third person, not because I don’t love the flock or my mom or whoever, but because Fang is the only person I know almost as well as I know myself, and he’s the only person I know who is close to being as tough as I am. He will not break under torture; he will not sell me out.

  So, on various levels of trust after Fang, I’d choose the rest of the flock, my mom, and Ella. Jeb didn’t make the list.

  “School is out,” I said firmly. “Next question.”

  11

  DO YOU WANT TO KNOW what’s the closest thing to feeling the most powerful you can feel? Flying alone at night. Risky. Nothing but you and the wind. Soaring way above everything, slicing through the air like a sword. Up and up until you feel like you could grab a star and hold it to your chest like a burning, spiky thing…

  Oh, the poetry of a bird kid. Remind me to collect it all into one emotional, mushy volume someday, under some fake, poetic-sounding name, like Gabrielle Charbonnet de la Something-Schmancy. (I’m not kidding. I saw that name on a backpack in France. Poor kid.)

  I wheeled through the sky, racing as fast as I could, my wings moving like pistons, up and down, strong and sleek. When I felt an updraft of warmer air, I coasted, breathing in the night’s thin coolness, dipping a wing to turn in huge, smooth circles as big as football fields.

  Breathe in, breathe out.

  Everyone was back at the house, asleep, I hoped. I’d sneak in before anyone woke up and saw I was gone and freaked out and thought I’d been kidnapped or something. But right now I needed some time. Some space. Some breathing room.

  Once again, the fate of the flock was in my hands, and once again, I seemed to be the only one seeing or thinking clearly enough to know that there really wasn’t even a choice here. School was never actually a real choice.

  Why didn’t the rest of the flock ever see that?

  We’re the flock. We’re the last, most successful, still-living recombinant life-form that the Dr. Frankenstein wannabes at the School had created. That pretty much cemented us to one road in life, one fate: to run — forever.

  Why did the rest of the flock keep pretending that we had choices? It was a waste of time. Worse, it was always up to me to be the bad guy, the one who shot down everyone’s hopes and dreams. You think I liked being the heavy? I didn’t.

  Breathe in, breathe out.

  And Fang. He usually supported me. Which I appreciated. But lately he’d been lobbying for us to find a deserted island somewhere and just kick back, eat coconuts, and chill, without anyone knowing where we were.

  Sometimes that sounded really good.

  But how long could that last? Sooner or later, Nudge was going to want new shoes, or Gazzy would run out of comic books, or Angel would decide she wanted to rule the world, and then where would we be?

  Right. We’d be back to me telling everyone no.

  And Fang. I didn’t know what he was doing, kissing me and then flirting with Dr. Stupendous and then making hot, dark eyes at me.

  It was enough to make a girl nuts or more nuts —

  Pssshh!

  It took several seconds for the pain neurons to fire all the way from my right wing to my befuddled brain. And since I was conditioned to try not to scream out in surprise or pain — it’s a survival thing — I was still staring stupidly at the weirdly big hole even as I started to spiral awkwardly down to earth, way too fast.

  I’d been shot. I was plummeting to the ground. And I couldn’t stop.

  12

  FOR THOSE OF YOU studying animal physiology, I’ll confirm that there’s a very good reason flying creatures always have two wings. One wing doesn’t cut it.

  By the time I’d processed what had happened, I was about ten seconds from a flat, crunchy death. I sent all available power into my unharmed wing and desperately tried to get some lift, managing to look like a dying loon, rising awkwardly a few feet, then sinking, all the while spiraling down like one of those copter toys.

  This was it. After everything I’d ever been through, I was going to die suddenly, with no warning, and alone. I’m a tough kid, but I’ll admit, I closed my eyes when I was about thirty feet from the asphalt of some parking lot.

  I felt sorry for whoever would find me. I hoped the flock would know I was dead and not just missing, so they wouldn’t have to look for me. I thought about everything I had left unsaid to virtually everyone in my life, and wondered whether that had been a good —

  Boing!

  “Aiiiieee!!!!”

  Interestingly, though I’m silent as the grave when shot or snuck up on, I discovered that I squeal like a little girl when I’m facing imminent death and then find myself bouncing hard on a trampoline.

  The impact jolted my hurt wing, making me wince and suck in a breath, and then I was bouncing again, not so high, and again. I pulled my injured wing in tight, feeling warm, sticky blood clotting my feathers.

  A couple more bounces and I managed to stand up, looking around me wildly. There were about a hundred of the New Threat guys, standing
around the trampoline, watching me bounce, as if I were a mouse and they were all cats, honing in on me with bright eyes.

  “Mr. Chu wants to see you,” one of them intoned in a telephone operator’s static voice.

  They tipped me off the trampoline and immediately surrounded me, eight deep, not taking any chances. I couldn’t fly. There were too many of them for me to realistically break free. This is probably how most humans feel all the time.

  It sucks.

  13

  I WAS PUSHED into the back of a truck, fenced in by so many armed guards that I couldn’t see anything.

  My family had no idea where I was.

  My right wing had a big hole in it, and one of its bones was probably broken.

  I was completely outnumbered, going who knew where, to meet my mysterious new enemy, “Mr. Chu.”

  I decided to take a nap.

  “Excuse me, pardon me,” I murmured, sinking to my knees. Many of the guards immediately hunched down next to me, waiting for the daring escape I’d make by, what, slithering out between their legs?

  Instead, I pushed and shouldered and kneed these things away and curled up on my left side, keeping my injured wing carefully on top. It hurt like heck, a throbbing, burning pain that reminded me with every beat of my heart that I couldn’t fly.

  The guards didn’t know what to make of this. I guessed they hadn’t been programmed to shrug their shoulders or make a “Whatever” face.

  They weren’t Erasers. They weren’t Flyboys. They weren’t the increasingly advanced robot soldiers that the diabolical brains-on-a-stick criminal known as the Uber-Director had created.

  Heck, I didn’t know what they were. Just — killing machines with delicate heads and ankles. Kind of geeky. Machine geeks. Hey! M-Geeks.

  Good. Now they had a name, at least in my head.

  I was very tired. And I went to sleep.

  14

  “I TOLD YOU she was not to be killed!”

  The harsh, strongly accented voice filtered into my drowsy ears. The next thing I was aware of was the pain in my wing. It hurt so much that I wanted to cry. Or at least whimper loudly.

  “It is not dead,” said an M-Geek. I loved that name. “It is… limp.”

  These things had been given quite the vocab.

  “She’s bloody.”

  “We shot it to get it out of the sky.”

  Okay, so it wasn’t lilting poetry, but it was leagues ahead of chess-playing computers.

  As much fun as it was to listen to them talking about me like I wasn’t there, I decided time was a-wasting. I opened my eyes and coughed.

  I was on a blanket on a floor. The floor was shifting subtly in a way I immediately recognized: I was on a boat. I got to my feet, trying to keep from shrieking in pain.

  Standing before me was an Asian man, a couple inches shorter than me, but then I’m weirdly tall. He was stocky and wore glasses and the kind of plain, navy Chinese jacket you see in old movies. Thick black hair was brushed back severely from his face.

  “Maximum Ride,” he said, not holding out his hand. “I am Mr. Chu.”

  “What do you want, Mr. Chu?” Might as well cut right to the chase.

  “I want to explain to you that you must immediately sever your ties to the Coalition to Stop the Madness,” the man said, looking intently into my eyes.

  That couldn’t be all. “And?” I prompted.

  “You do not know what they are really up to,” he went on. “They are just using you to promote their own agenda.”

  “They’re paying us in doughnuts,” I felt compelled to point out.

  “I represent a group of very powerful, very wealthy businessmen from around the world,” said Mr. Chu.

  “Of course you do,” I said soothingly, trying to look for an exit without being too obvious.

  “We are the only ones who really know what is going on.”

  “Of course you are.”

  There was a tiny skylight. Could I — oh. Max no fly. Bummer.

  “There is an apocalypse coming,” said Mr. Chu, seeming to grow more and more agitated.

  “You’re not the first person who’s told me that.”

  “It is true! My group will survive the apocalypse. We are the only ones who will not become extinct after the world leaders succeed in their quest to destroy one another.”

  “Kinda makes you wish you were a world leader yourself, huh,” I said sympathetically.

  Smack!

  My lightning-fast reflexes had let me whip my head to one side as he lunged forward, but he still gave me a good clip on the cheek. Slowly I straightened, feeling my cheek burn, my rage growing.

  “You stupid, arrogant girl.” He almost spit. “If you and your flock will join our group, then you will not be hunted down and destroyed. We can use you on our team. But if you keep up with the wisecracks and your stupidity, you will soon be eliminated. There will be no room for you in the new world.”

  “Again, not new information,” I snarled, my fists clenched at my side. “The flock and I aren’t for sale, Chuey. So all I can say is, Bring it!”

  I braced for all of them to leap on me, steel-hard fists adding to Mr. Chu’s unconvincing argument. Instead, the man leaned closer. He smelled of cigarettes.

  “I am sorry that you and the flock will be dead soon. But my scientists will enjoy taking you apart to find out what makes you tick.”

  “If your scientists take me apart,” I said solemnly, “clearly, I won’t be ticking anymore.”

  Mr. Chu was practically steaming with anger, but he stuck to his script. “You may think I am dreaming, but I am not. What I say is true. It is as real as the pain in your wing and on your face. And speaking of pain, Maximum… you should know that we are experts in the art of persuasion.”

  “Pain fades,” I said slowly. “But being a nutcase seems to stick around. Guess who got the better deal here?”

  The last thing I remember is Mr. Chu’s face blazing with fury.

  15

  I AM A BONA FIDE, kick-butt warrior, so it was pretty humiliating to be shoved out of a fast-moving car about half a mile from the safe house. I landed on my hurt wing, of course, and winced as I rolled to a crumpled stop.

  My hands were bound behind my back. I got to my knees as soon as I could, then to my feet, feeling shaky and ill. My wing was streaked with clotted blood. I was light-headed and starving. My face hurt, and my cheek was swollen and warm.

  The flock and I all have an acute, innate sense of direction, so after a minute I turned and started trotting east. Once I reached the safe house, I headed for the back door, which was locked, of course, because I had gone out through a second-story window hours before. My plan to be all sneaky so that no one would notice I was missing had been blown to heck. Sighing, I turned around and headed for the front door.

  This whole sucky episode ended with my having to actually ring the doorbell at the front of the house with my shoulder. Total even barked like a real dog. A curtain twitched, and then my mom opened the door, her brown eyes wide.

  My mom is a veterinarian, an animal doctor, so let’s all put our hands together for the irony there. She patched my wing while she and Jeb tried unsuccessfully to find out what had happened. I wanted to mull things over for a while, maybe do some research on the Chu-ster, so I just mumbled something about getting hit by a stray bullet in a freak accident.

  “You shouldn’t fly for at least a week,” my mom said firmly.

  I instantly interpreted that to mean three days.

  “And I really mean a week,” she went on, looking stern. “Not three days.”

  She was getting to know me.

  Later that day, the CSM moved us to another house, this time in the Yucatan, which is a jungley part of Mexico. There weren’t as many people there, and the air was much more breathable, with less texture.

  But what did the air quality matter, anyway? I couldn’t fly.

  Me being unable to fly is not only my worst nightmare, b
ut everyone else’s too, because I turn into such a cranky witch. By the afternoon of the first day, the flock was staying out of my way. They went out and did flocklike things. Total was practicing his takeoffs and landings, both of which he still sucked at.

  I warned them to be careful, to be on guard, not to stay out too long. They were fine. Had no problems. Did not get shot at. Did not get kidnapped and taken to see a short, angry Asian man.

  I stayed home and was forced to heal.

  “Jeb,” I said, speaking to him voluntarily for the first time in ages. He smiled and raised his eyebrows at me. “Have you ever heard of a Mr. Chu?”

  The blood seemed to drain from his face, and I saw him struggle to keep a calm expression. “No,” he said slowly, shaking his head. “Can’t say that I have. Where did you hear that name?”

  I shrugged and walked away. He’d given me all the answer I needed.

  Later I watched my flock fly away without me, off to have loads of bird-kid fun.

  “Max.”

  “What?” I snarled, turning from the window.

  My mom stood there. I felt a little bad about snarling.

  “Come on. I’m going to show you how to make Puchero Yucateco.” She gently pulled me away from the window.

  Please don’t let this be a craft, I prayed silently. If she pulls out yarn, I’ll —

  As it turns out, Puchero Yucateco is a stew made with three kinds of meat.

  Me, my mom, and Ella spent all afternoon in the kitchen, chopping up things, stirring, mixing. My mom showed us how to tell when onions had cooked enough to be sweet, and how to tell when meat was done (usually I just try to wait for it to stop moving). We cut up habanero peppers, and despite all her warnings, I managed to brush my finger against my nose, so my nose burned and ran, and my eyes watered, and I staggered around the kitchen going “Uh, uh, uh!” while Ella collapsed with laughter.