Gone, Page 20
Michael Grant
“He could be a four,” Caine said softly.
“Yes,” Diana said. “He could be a four.” When she said the word “four,” she looked straight at Sam. “He could be even more.”
Caine said, “Orc, Howard: lock Sam up, tie him down so he can’t get that Mylar off his hands, then get Freddie to help you. He’s done plastering before, he knows what to do. Get whatever you need from the hardware store.” He grabbed Drake by the shoulder. “Find Astrid and that kid.”
“How am I going to catch them if they can just zap out whenever they want?”
“I didn’t say catch them,” Caine said. “Take a gun, Drake. Shoot them both before they see you.”
Sam charged at Caine and plowed into him before he could react. The momentum carried them both to the floor. Sam headbutted Caine in the nose. Caine was slow to recover, but Drake and Orc swarmed over Sam and kicked him off Caine.
Sam groaned in pain. “You can’t kill people, Caine. Are you crazy?”
“You hurt my nose,” Caine said.
“You’re screwed up, Caine. You need help. You’re insane.”
“Yeah,” Caine said, touching his nose and wincing at the pain. “That’s what they keep telling me. It’s what Nurse Temple…Mom…told me. Just be glad I need to keep you around, Sam. I need to see you blink out, figure out how to keep it from happening to me. Orc, take this hero away. Drake: go.”
“If you hurt them, Drake, I’ll hunt you down and kill you,” Sam shouted.
“Don’t waste your breath,” Diana said to him. “You don’t know Drake. Your girlfriend’s as good as dead.”
TWENTY-TWO
128 HOURS, 32 MINUTES
ASTRID WANTED TO scream at Drake and Diana, to denounce them, to demand to know what kind of worthless human beings used the FAYZ as an excuse for violence.
But she had to keep Little Pete calm. That was her top priority, her brother. Her blank-faced, helpless, unloving brother.
She resented him. He had turned her into a mother at age fourteen. It wasn’t right. This should be her time to shine, to be bold. This was her time to use her intellect, that supposedly great gift. Instead, she was a babysitter.
Astrid and Little Pete were shown, with mock courtesy, into a classroom. It wasn’t one of Astrid’s classes but might as well have been. Everything was achingly familiar: books open on desks, walls festooned with student artwork and projects.
“Have a seat. Read a book, if you want,” Diana said. “I know you like that kind of thing.”
Astrid hefted one of the books. “Yes, fourth-grade math. I love that kind of thing.”
“You know, I really dislike you,” Diana said.
Drake leaned against a wall and smirked.
“Of course you dislike me,” Astrid said. “I make you feel inferior.”
Diana’s eyes flashed. “I don’t feel inferior to anyone.”
“Really? Because usually a person who does bad things recognizes that there’s something a little wrong with them. You know? Even if they suppress it, they know they’re sick inside.”
“Yeah,” Diana said laconically. “I feel bad about that. My evil heart and all. Give me your hand.”
“What?”
“I promise not to infect you with my badness. Give me your hand.”
“No.”
“Drake. Make her give me her hand.”
Drake came off the wall.
Astrid stuck out her hand. Diana took it in hers and held it.
“You read people,” Astrid said. “I should have figured it out earlier. You have the power, don’t you?” She looked at Diana like she was looking at a specimen in a laboratory.
“Yep,” Diana said, releasing her. “I read people. But don’t worry, I just read power levels, not your secret little thoughts about how much you want to make out with Sam Temple.”
Astrid flushed, despite herself. Diana laughed at her.
“Oh, please, that’s obvious. He’s cute. He’s brave. He’s smart, but not as smart as you. He’s perfect.”
“He’s a friend,” Astrid said.
“Uh-huh. Well, we’re about to find out how good a friend he is. He knows we have you. If he doesn’t tell Caine everything Caine wants to know, and do whatever Caine tells him to do, Drake here is going to hurt you.”
Astrid’s insides turned to jelly. “What?”
Diana sighed. “Well, that’s why we keep Drake around. He enjoys hurting people. We don’t keep him around for his conversational skills.”
Drake looked like he’d rather take a shot at Diana. His narrow lizard eyes narrowed further. Diana didn’t miss his expression.
“Go ahead, raise a hand against me, Drake,” Diana taunted. “Caine would kill you.” To Astrid, she said, “Better behave yourself, he’s all riled up now.”
Diana left.
Astrid felt Drake’s eyes on her but she couldn’t look at him. She kept her gaze down on the math book. Then glanced at her brother, who sat playing his stupid game, unable, unwilling, uncaring.
Astrid felt ashamed of her own fear. Ashamed that she couldn’t look at the thug who leaned insouciantly against the wall.
She had no doubt that Sam would do his best to save her. But Caine might ask for something Sam couldn’t give.
She needed to think. She needed to work out a plan. She was scared, she always had been scared of physical violence. She was scared of the emptiness she sensed in Drake Merwin.
She scooted her desk up beside Little Pete’s and put a hand on his shoulder. No reaction. He knew she was there, but he showed nothing, absorbed in his game.
Still not looking at Drake, Astrid said, “Doesn’t it bother you that Diana treats you like some wild animal she keeps on a leash?”
Drake said, “Doesn’t it bother you going around with that retard? Having a little ’tard practically attached to you?”
“He’s not retarded,” Astrid said evenly.
“Oh. Is that the wrong word? ‘Retard’?”
“He’s autistic.”
“Retarded,” Drake insisted.
Astrid looked at him. She willed herself to meet his gaze. “‘Retarded’ is a word people don’t use anymore. When they did use it, they used it to signify an impairment of intelligence. Petey is not intellectually impaired in that way. He has at least normal IQ, and may have a higher than normal IQ. So the word doesn’t apply.”
“Yeah? Huh. Because I like the word ‘retard.’ In fact, I’d like to hear you say it. Retard.”
Astrid felt dread sap her strength. There was not the slightest doubt in her mind that he meant to hurt her. She held his gaze for a while but then looked down.
“Retard,” Drake insisted. “Say it.”
“No,” Astrid whispered.
Drake sauntered across the room. He was not carrying a weapon. He didn’t need to. He placed his fists on her desk and leaned over her.
“Retard,” Drake said. “Say, ‘My brother is a retard.’”
Astrid didn’t trust herself to speak. She was choking back tears. She wanted to believe she was brave, but now, with the thug inches away from her, she knew that she was not.
“My. Brother. Come on, say it with me. My. Say it.”
The slap was so quick, she barely registered his hand moving. Her face burned.
“Say it. My…”
“My,” she whispered.
“Louder, I want the little retard to hear it. My brother is a retard.”
The second slap was so hard, she almost fell from the chair.
“You can say it while your face is still pretty, or you can say it after I’ve smashed it in—your choice. My brother is a retard.”
“My brother is a retard,” Astrid said, her voice shaking.
Drake laughed delightedly and crossed to Little Pete, who had looked up from his video game and seemed almost to register what was happening. Drake put his face into Little Pete’s space and with one hand yanked Astrid by the hair so that her mouth was close to Little Pet
e’s ear and said, “One more time, nice and loud.” He pushed Astrid’s face against the side of Little Pete’s head and yelled, “My brother is—”
And Astrid fell back on her bed.
Her bed. Her bedroom.
Little Pete was in the window seat, cross-legged on the bench, video game in his hand.
Astrid knew immediately what had happened. But it was still impossibly disorienting. One second in the school, the next in her room.
She couldn’t look at him. Her face burned from the slaps, but even more from shame.
“Thanks, Petey,” she whispered.
Orc dragged Sam from the gym into the weight room.
Howard looked around, considering what he should do.
“Howard, man, you can’t be down with this,” Sam pleaded. “You can’t be okay with Caine killing Astrid and Little Pete. Orc, even you can’t be okay with this. You didn’t mean to kill Bette. This is way over the line.”
“Yeah. It is over the line,” Howard admitted, preoccupied, his mouth twisted quizzically to one side.
“You have to help me. Let me go after Drake.”
“I don’t think so, Sammy. See, I’ve seen what kind of stuff Drake can do. And we’ve both seen what kind of stuff Caine can do.” To Orc, Howard said, “Let’s put him here on this bench. Faceup. We’ll tie his legs to the upright here.”
Orc lifted Sam and slammed him down onto the weight bench.
“Orc, this is going to be cold-blooded murder,” Sam said.
“Not me, man,” Orc said. “I’m just tying you up.”
“Drake is going to murder Astrid. She helped you get through math. You can stop this, Orc.”
“She wasn’t supposed to tell anyone about that,” Orc grumbled. “Anyway, no more math class.”
They used rope to lash his ankles to the legs of the bench. They tied another rope around his waist.
“Okay, now here’s the good part,” Howard said. “We load some weight on the bar. We tie Sam’s hands to the bar and lower it down on the slide, right? He’ll be busy keeping the bar up off his neck.”
Orc was slow to understand, so Howard showed him. Then Orc piled weight plates onto the bar.
“What can you bench-press, Sam?” Howard asked. “I’d say put on two forty-fives on each end, right? With the bar, that makes it two hundred pounds.”
“No way he presses two hundred,” Orc opined.
“I think you’re right, Orc. I think he’s going to be busy just keeping that bar from choking him.”
“This isn’t right, Howard,” Sam said. “You know it isn’t right. You don’t do stuff like this, either of you. You’re bullies, you’re not cold-blooded killers.”
Howard sighed. “Sammy, it’s a whole different world, haven’t you noticed? It’s the FAYZ, man.”
Orc lowered the weight. The bar rested on Sam’s bound wrists, which pressed down against his Adam’s apple. He pushed upward with all his strength, but on his best day he couldn’t lift two hundred pounds. All he could do was keep up enough upward pressure to keep breathing.
Orc laughed and said, “Come on, man, we better get back to Caine before we miss more fun.”
Howard followed Orc but paused at the door. “It’s kind of weird, Sam. That first night, man, I thought, ‘old School Bus Sam, he’s going to be running things soon if we don’t look out.’ Everyone was looking to you. You know that. But no, you were too cool to play it that way. Off you go without a word to anyone, off with Astrid.” He laughed. “Of course, she is hot, isn’t she? And now Caine’s running the FAYZ and Drake’s going to take out your girlfriend.”
Sam struggled against the weight, but there was no way to lift it. Even if he’d had a good angle on it, he could not have hefted it.
But Howard, for all his cleverness, had overlooked one thing: in this position, Sam could reach the Mylar with his teeth.
He tried to rip at the fabric, but it was slow work and he had no time. He had no doubt that Little Pete had teleported himself and Astrid to their home. Drake would find them there.
Sam tried to get the Mylar between his teeth, but it was slippery and tough. And when he focused on that, he lost focus on keeping the weight off his neck.
The bar pressed his knuckles into his throat. He pushed upward, but already his arms were cramping. His muscles were weakening.
He could tear at the Mylar and free his hands, or he could keep the bar from choking him. It was impossible to do both.
And even if he did free his hands, so what? He wasn’t like Caine. He didn’t have control of his powers. He might tear the Mylar and then be unable to do anything.
The bar slipped lower.
He had the Mylar between his teeth.
He chewed it, trying to make a small hole he could enlarge.
By now, Drake would be out of the school and on the move. Would he have to stop somewhere first to retrieve the gun?
Astrid would know they were going to come after her. She would know it would be dangerous to stay in her house. Would she move fast enough?
And where could she go?
Sam felt the grind of tooth on tooth. He had made a hole.
But he was gasping for breath.
He barely noticed the door opening.
Quick steps on the carpet and the sound and feel of one of the weight plates sliding off the bar. Sam took a breath.
“Hang on, brah.”
Quinn slid the rest of the weights from the bar.
With quaking arms, Sam pushed the bar up off his neck.
“I didn’t know they would do this, brah, I didn’t know, man,” Quinn said. He was pale. Like he’d never ever seen the sun. “You gotta believe me, Sam.” He was working at the ropes. Sam sat up.
Quinn was a wreck. He had been crying, and his eyes were red and puffy.
“Honest to God, I didn’t know.”
“I have to get to Astrid before Drake does,” Sam said.
“I know. I know. This is messed up.”
With his legs free, Sam stood. “Is this another trick? Are they going to follow me to Astrid?”
“No, man. They’ll beat me up if they find out I let you go.” Quinn spread his hands, pleading. “You have to take me with you.”
“How am I supposed to trust you, Quinn?”
“If you leave me here, what do you think Caine is going to do to me?”
Sam had no time for argument. He decided quickly. “You’d better pray Astrid doesn’t get hurt, Quinn. If you’re doing this to sell me out, you better make sure I’m dead, too.”
Quinn licked his lips nervously. “You don’t have to threaten me, brah.”
“Don’t call me brah,” Sam said. “I’m not your brother.”
TWENTY-THREE
128 HOURS, 22 MINUTES
ASTRID FELT A wave of relief followed by a far stronger wave of self-loathing. She had let Drake terrorize her. She had called Little Pete a retard.
Her hands were trembling. She had betrayed her brother. She hated him for being what he was, for being so needy, and she had betrayed him to spare herself. And now she was far more angry at herself than she had ever been at him.
But now she had to think. Quick. What to do?
Drake would catch her again. Surely Caine or that wicked creature Diana would figure out what had happened.
It would take only a few seconds for Drake to run to report to them. A few seconds more for Caine to realize what had happened. If Diana really could read the power in people, she would know it wasn’t Astrid who had teleported them. She would know it was Little Pete.
She and Little Pete had to go. Now. But where?
Somewhere Drake wouldn’t look. Somewhere Sam might look.
If he escaped.
If he was even alive.
Her brain was moving in slow motion, spinning in circles, unable to focus. She kept seeing that terrible, sick face, feeling the sharp sting of his hand, the way the heat of it lingered and joined with the hot blush of shame.
They couldn’t go through town. They couldn’t take a car—it was too late to start teaching herself to drive.
Her mind was an out-of-focus camera, turning and swirling and coming back again and again to the moment when the fear took over, when she couldn’t resist anymore, when she betrayed her brother. Over and over a loop in her head played the words “My brother is a retard.”
Clifftop.
The room they had shared there that first night.
Yes. Sam would figure it out. But Quinn had been there, too. He might reach the same conclusion.
Astrid hesitated. No time for hesitation. Drake wouldn’t hesitate. By now, he was already after them. He was already on his way.
She couldn’t face him again.
“Petey, we have to go.” Astrid grabbed his hand and drew him after her. Down the stairs. No time to stop for anything. No time at all.
To the front door. No. Back door was better.
They walked—Little Pete could seldom be induced to run—across the backyard. The natural wood fence was fairly low, but still it was exhausting and time-consuming getting Little Pete to scale it. They ran through the neighbor’s backyard.
“Stay off the streets,” she told herself.
They went as far as they could, backyard to backyard, then dodged into the street when their way was blocked, and then back to yards and alleyways again.
They saw no one. But there was no way to know if they were being watched.
They reached the hill that marked the edge of town and the beginning of the Clifftop grounds. They scrambled up through shrubbery clinging to sand. Astrid pulled Little Pete along, desperate to move quickly, but afraid to do anything to set him off.
Clifftop had not changed. The barrier was still there. The lobby was still clean, still bright, still empty.
Astrid had the electronic key they’d made on that first night. She found the suite, opened the door, and collapsed inside onto the bed.
She lay there, panting, staring up at the blank ceiling. The bed was soft. The air-conditioning hummed.
