14 - 18

14
"Max? I'm starving."
I had been ignoring my own ferociously growling innards for half an hour. There was no way I was
going to break first—and give Fang the satisfaction? I don't think so. But I did have an obligation, as
leader, to take care of Nudge. As much as I hated to stop and lose time, it was a reality.
"Okay, okay. We need food." How's that for incisive leadership? "Fang! We need to refuel. Ideas?"
Fang pondered. It always amazes me how he's able to seem so calm at the absolute worst times.
Sometimes he seems like a droid—or a drone. Fang of Nine. Fang2-D2.
Below us were mountains—the San Francisco Peaks, according to our map.
Our glances met—it was creepy how we knew what each other was thinking so much of the time. "Ski
slopes," I said, and he nodded. "Pre-season. Empty vacation houses."
"Would they have food?" Nudge asked.
"Let's go find out," I said.
We flew in a big circle around the edge of the mountains. Small towns that came alive in winter dotted
the foothills. I led us away from them, to where a few homes stood like train-set models among the trees.
One house was apart from the others. No cars parked outside, no smoke coming from the chimney.
Nobody home?
I banked and slowed, tucked my wings in a bit, and started to drop.
We landed a hundred yards away. As usual, after flying for hours, my legs felt a tad rubbery. I shook
them out, then folded my warm wings in tight against my body.
Nudge and Fang did the same.
We crept quietly through the woods. No signs of life. The porch was covered with pine needles, the
driveway hadn't been used, the shrubbery was way overgrown.
I gave Nudge the thumbs-up, and she smiled, though, amazingly, she stayed quiet. Bless you, child.
A quick reconnaissance revealed no alarm system I could see. No red lights blinking inside for motion
detectors. This wasn't a big fancy house worth alarming, anyway. It was just a teeny-tiny vacation cottage.
With my pocketknife I slit a window screen and unhooked the latch. The screen lifted off easily, and I
set it carefully against the side of the house: A thoughtful burglar, that's me.
Then Fang and I shook the old wooden window frame until the lock at the top jiggled open. Fang
climbed in first, then I boosted Nudge in, then I scrambled in and shut the window.
Dust covered everything. The fridge was turned off, its door open. I started opening kitchen cupboards.
"Bingo," I said, holding up a dusty can of soup.
"Oh, yeah, pay dirt, woo-hoo!" Cans of beans, fruit, condensed milk, whatever that was—it sounded
bad. The ever-popular ravioli. "We're golden!"
Fang found some dusty bottles of orange soda, and we popped those suckers open. But let me tell you
—there's a reason people serve that stuff cold.
Half an hour later, we were sprawled on the musty couches, our eyes at half-mast, our bellies way too
full.
"Uhhnnhh," Nudge moaned. "I feel like, like concrete."
"Let's take ten, rest a bit," Fang said, closing his eyes. He lay back against the couch and crossed his
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long legs. "Digest a minute, we'll feel better."
"I second that emotion," I muttered, my own eyes closing. We're coming, Angel. In a minute.
15
"Let's throw all their stuff into the canyon," Iggy said angrily, punching a door frame.
Having to listen to the rest of the flock leaving while he sat around being blind was more than he could
stand. "I think even their beds would fit out the hall window."
The Gasman scowled. "I can't believe I have to stay home while they go off and save my own sister."
He kicked a worn red sneaker against the kitchen island. The house seemed empty and too quiet. He
found himself listening for Angel's voice, waiting to hear her singing softly or talking to her stuffed
animals. He swallowed hard. She was his sister. He was responsible for her.
An open bag of cereal lay on the counter, and he dug out a dry handful and ate it. Suddenly, he picked
up the bag of cereal and hurled it at a wall. The bag split open, and Frootios sprayed everywhere.
"This sucks!" the Gasman shouted.
"Oh. did that just occur to you?" Iggy said sarcastically.
"I guess you can't fool the Gasman. He might not look like the sharpest tool in the shed, but—"
"Shut up," said the Gasman, and Iggy raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Look. This sucks so bad. Max
left us here 'cause she thought we couldn't keep up."
Iggy's face stiffened.
"But was she thinking about what would happen if the Erasers came back here?" the Gasman asked.
"Like, they got Angel not far from here—they saw all the rest of us. So they know we must be somewhere
in the area. Why wouldn't they come back for us?"
"Huh," Iggy said thoughtfully. "Course, it would be hard to find this place, and even harder to get to it."
"Not if they have a chopper," the Gasman pointed out. "Which they do."
"Huh," said Iggy, and the Gasman felt proud that he had thought of all this before Iggy had, even
though Iggy was older—as old as Max and Fang. Nearly ancient.
"Does that mean we have to sit here and take it?" the Gasman asked, pounding his fist on the counter.
"No! We don't have to wait for the Erasers to come get us! We can do stuff! We can make plans. I mean,
we're not useless, no matter what Max thinks."
"Right," said Iggy, nodding. He came to sit next to the Gasman at the counter, his feet crunching over
dry cereal. "Yeah, I see what you mean. So to speak."
"I mean, we're smart! We're tough as nails! Max might not have thought about keeping the camp safe,
but we did, and we can do it."
"Yeah, now you're talking. Uhhh . . . But how?"
"We could make traps! Do sabotage! Bombs!" The Gasman rubbed his hands together.
Iggy grinned. "Bombs are good. I love bombs. Remember the one from last fall? I almost caused an
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avalanche."
"That was to make a trail through the woods. Okay. There was a reason for it. Max approved it." The
Gasman pawed through a hill of ancient newspapers, piles of junk, someone's old socks, a long-forgotten
bowl that had once held some sort of food substance—oops—until he found a slightly oil-stained memo
pad.
"Knew it was around here," he muttered, ripping off used sheets. A similar search revealed part of a
pencil. "Now. We need a great plan. What are our objectives?"
Iggy groaned. "Oh, no—years of Max influence are taking their toll. You sound just like her. You're,
like, a Maxlet. A Maxketeer. A . . . a . . ."
The Gasman frowned at Iggy and started writing. "Number one: Make firebombs—for our protection
only. Number two: Blow up demonic Erasers when they return." He held the paper up and reread it, then
smiled. "Oh, yeah. Now we're getting somewhere. This is for you, Angel!"
16
Angel knew she couldn't go on like this much longer.
Her lungs had started burning bad an hour ago; she hadn't been able to feel her leg muscles for longer
than that. But every time she stopped running, a sadistic whitecoat—Reilly—zapped her with a stick thing.
It jolted electricity into her, making her yelp and jump. She had four burn marks from it already, and they
really, really hurt. What was worse was she could feel his eager anticipation—he wanted to hurt her.
Well, he could zap her a thousand million times, if he wanted. This was it—she couldn't go on.
It was a relief to let go. Angel saw the whole world narrow down to a little fuzzy tube in front of her,
and then even that went gray. She sort of felt herself falling, felt her feet tangle in the treadmill belt. The
zap came, once, twice, three times, but it felt distant, more an unpleasant stinging than real pain. Then
Angel was lost, lost in a dream, and Max was there. Max was stroking her sweaty hair and crying.
Angel knew it was a dream because Max never cried. Max was the strongest person she knew. Not that
she had known that many people.
Ripping sounds and a new, searing pain on her skin pulled Angel back. She blinked into white lights.
Hospital lights, prison lights. She smelled that awful smell and almost retched. Hands were pulling off all
the electrodes taped to her skin, rip, rip, rip.
"Oh, my God, three and a half hours," Reilly was murmuring. "And its heart rate only increased by
seventeen percent. And then at the end—it was only in the last, like, twenty minutes that its peak oxygen
levels broke."
It! Angel thought and wanted to scream. I'm not an it!
"I can't believe we've got a chance to study Subject Eleven. I've been wanting to dissect this
recombinant for four years," another low voice said. "Interesting intelligence levels—I can't wait to get a
brain sample."
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Angel felt their admiration, their crummy pleasure. They liked all the things wrong with her, all the
ways she wasn't normal. And all those stupid long words added up to one thing: Angel was an experiment.
To the whitecoats, she was a piece of science equipment, like a test tube. She was an it.
Someone put a straw into her mouth. Water. She started swallowing quick—she was so thirsty, like
she'd been eating sand. Then another whitecoat scooped her up. She was too tired to fight.
I have to think of how to get out of here, she reminded herself, but thoughts were really hard to string
together right now.
Someone opened the door of her dog crate and flopped her inside. Angel lay where she fell—at least
she was lying down. She just had to sleep for a while. Then she would try to escape.
Wearily, she blinked and saw the fish boy staring at her. The other boy was gone. Poor little guy had been
gone this morning, hadn't come back. Might not.
Not me, Angel thought. I'm gonna fight. Right. . . after. . .I. . . rest.
17
"Unhhh. . ."
This bed was horrible! What was wrong with my bed?
Irritated, I punched my pillow into a better shape, then started sneezing hysterically as clouds of dust
sailed up my nose.
"Wah, ah, ah, choo!" I grabbed my nose in an attempt to keep some of my brains inside my head, but
the sudden movement caused me to lose my balance, and with no warning I fell hard to the floor. Crash!
"Ouch! Son of a gu—" I scrambled to get up. My hands hit rough upholstery and the edge of a table.
Okay, now I was lost. Prying open my bleary eyes, I peered around. "What the . . ."
Where was I? I looked around wildly. I was in a. . . cabin. A cabin! Ohhh. A cabin. Right, right.
It was oh-dark-thirty—not yet dawn.
I leaped to my feet, scanned the room, and saw nothing to be alarmed about. Except for the fact that
obviously, Fang, Nudge, and I had just wasted precious hours sleeping!
Oh, my God. I hurried over to Nudge, who was sprawled across a recliner. "Nudge! Nudge! Wake up!
Oh, man . . ."
I turned to Fang, to find him swinging his feet over the edge of a couch. He sneezed and shook his
head.
"What time is it?" he asked calmly.
"Almost morning!" I said, terribly upset. "Of the next day!"
He was already moving toward the kitchen cupboards. He'd found an ancient, stained backpack in a
closet, and now he methodically started to fill it with cans of tuna, sealed bags of crackers, zip-locked bags
of trail mix.
"Wha's happ'nin'?" Nudge asked, blinking groggily.
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"We fell asleep!" I told her, grabbing her hands and pulling her upright. "Come on! We've gotta go!"
Dropping to all fours, I raked my shoes out from under the couch and blew dust bunnies off them.
"Fang, you can't carry all that," I said. "It'll weigh you down. Nothing's heavier than cans."
Fang shrugged and pulled the backpack on. Stubborn kind of fella. He moved soundlessly across the
room and slipped through the window like a shadow.
Now I was jamming Nudge's shoes onto her feet, rubbing her back, trying to wake her up. Nudge was
always a reaaallly slow waker. Usually I appreciated the lack of word-spew, which would begin when she
was fully functioning, but right now we needed to move, move, move!
I practically threw Nudge through the window, slithered out myself, then propped the screen back in
place as best I could.
A quick run down a country road and we were off, stroking hard, pushing to get airborne.
Sorry, Angel. Sorry, sorry, sorry, my baby.