Also, someone smacked Astrid.”
Sam’s face froze. “What?”
“She’s fine, but there was some kind of problem over at her
house.”
“Zil,” Sam said through gritted teeth. He kicked savagely
at a chair. Then, “Go, Breeze. Do what I told you to do.”
“But—”
“I don’t have time to argue, Breeze.”
“Guys? Guys?” Quinn reached across to shake Albert’s shoulder. He had fallen asleep.
“What? I’m awake. What?”
“Dude, we are lost.”
“We’re not lost,” Lana said from the backseat.
H U N G E R
26
9
Quinn glanced in the rearview mirror. “I thought you
were asleep, too.”
“We’re not lost,” Lana said.
“Well, all due respect, we’re not exactly not lost, either.
This isn’t even a dirt road anymore, it’s just, like, you know,
flat. And not even all that flat.” They had left the highway
and turned onto a side road. From there onto a dirt road.
And that had gone on and on forever, without so much as a
twinkle of light anywhere. Then the dirt road had become
more and more dirt and less and less road.
“If the Healer says we’re not lost, we’re not lost,” Cookie
grumbled.
“It’s not far,” Lana said.
“How do you know? I couldn’t find my way back here in
the middle of the day. Let alone at night.”
She didn’t answer.
Quinn glanced down at the road, then back into the
rearview mirror. The only light came from the dashboard,
so he could see only the faintest outline of her face. She was
looking out of the window, not the direction they were traveling but northeast.
He couldn’t read her expression. But he got a feeling off her.
It was in the occasional sigh. In the absent way she stroked
Patrick’s ruff. The distant tone of her voice when she spoke.
“You okay?” Quinn asked.
She didn’t answer. Not for a while. Too long. Then, “Why
wouldn’t I be?”
“I don’t know,” he said.
270 M I C H A E L
G R A N T
Lana said nothing.
Albert, by contrast, was easy to read. Albert—when he
managed to stay awake—was all about the goal. He focused
his gaze straight ahead. Sometimes Quinn noticed him nodding to himself, as if he was commenting on some internal dialogue.
Quinn was envious of Albert. He seemed to be so sure of
himself. He seemed to know just where he wanted to go, who
he wanted to be.
For his part, Cookie had his own goal: to serve Lana. The
big ex-bully would do anything Lana told him to do.
There were two kinds of kids in the FAYZ, Quinn reflected,
and the types were not “freak” and “normal.” They were kids
who had been changed for the worse, and the kids who had
been changed for the better. The FAYZ had changed them all.
But some kids had become more than they were. Albert was
one of those. Cookie, in a very different way, was another.
Quinn knew himself to be the first type. He was one of
the kids who had never recovered from the FAYZ. The loss
of his parents was like a wound that had never healed. Never
stopped hurting. How could it?
It went beyond the loss of his mom and dad, too, a loss that
encompassed everything he had known, everything he had
been. He’d been cool, once. The memory brought a sad smile
to his lips. Quinn was cool. One of a kind. Everyone knew
him. They didn’t all like him, they didn’t all get his act, but
Quinn had carried an aura of specialness with him.
And now . . . now he was an afterthought in the FAYZ.
H U N G E R
27
1
Kids knew he had betrayed Sam to Caine. They knew that
Sam had taken him back. They knew that he had gone a little
crazy on the day of the big battle. Maybe more than a little
crazy.
The memories of his mom and dad, his old life, they were
far away. Like photos in an old album. Not quite real. Someone else’s memories, his pain; someone else’s life, his loss.
memories because weren’t memories something from the
past? That day might have happened three months ago, but it
wasn’t the past to Quinn, it was right here, right now, always.
Like a parallel life happening simultaneously with this life.
He was driving through the night and feeling the gun buck
buck buck in his hands and seeing the coyotes and the kids,
all mixed up together, all crisscrossing, weaving through the
arcs of the bullets.
Finger off the trigger. Too close to shoot. He’d hit the kid.
He couldn’t do it, couldn’t take that chance, and so the coyote
had leaped, jaws open, and—
And that wasn’t long ago and far away to Quinn. It was
right now. Right here.
“Okay,” Lana said, bringing him back to reality. “Slow
down, we’re almost there.”
The headlights lit scruffy bushes and dirt and scatterings
of rock. Then a wooden beam, badly charred. Quinn swerved
to avoid it.
He stamped on the brakes. Then, much more slowly crept
forward again.
272 M I C H A E L
G R A N T
The headlights illuminated a section of wall, just a few feet.
Charred wood was everywhere. Two blackened cans of fruit
or beans or whatever lay on their sides in the dirt.
Despite himself Quinn wondered if there was anything
edible left. He remembered that terrifying night spent cowering in the cabin, waiting for the coyotes to drag them out and kill them.
That was when Sam had finally revealed the extent of his
powers. For the first time he had been able to control the devastating light that shot from his hands.
Quinn stopped the vehicle. He put it into park.
“It was here,” Quinn said softly.
“What happened here?” Albert asked.
Quinn killed the lights, and the four of them climbed from
the SUV. It was silent. So much quieter than the last time
Quinn had been there.
Quinn slung his machine pistol over his shoulder and
fished a flashlight from under the seat. Albert had a flashlight
of his own. The two beams stabbed here and there, highlighting this jagged beam, that singed bit of rug, a kitchen utensil, a twisted metal chair.
“This is where we met Lana for the first time,” Quinn
said. “We’d escaped from Caine. Run away into the woods
up north. Decided to go back to town and make a fight of it.
Anyway, Sam decided.”
He bent down to pick up a hefty number-ten can. The label
was charred. It might be pudding, though. Roasted pudding,
maybe, but the can looked intact. He walked it back to the
H U N G E R
27
3
SUV and tossed it into the back.
“How was it destroyed?” Albert pressed.
“Partly it was Sam. First time he ever used his power
deliberately. Not out of panic, or whatever, just cold-blooded,
k
nowing what he was doing. You should have seen that, man.”
Quinn recalled the moment perfectly. It was the moment
when his old friend was clearly revealed as something far, far
beyond Quinn. “Partly the coyotes had set the place on fire.”
“Where’s the gold?” Albert asked, not really caring about
the story.
Quinn waited for Lana to show the way, but she seemed
rooted to where she stood. Looking down at the brown, dead
remains of Hermit Jim’s quirky attempt to keep a lawn in the
midst of this dry, empty land. Cookie stood just behind her,
big pistol stuck in his belt, ready, scowling at the threatening
night, ready to lay down his life for the girl who had saved
him from agony beyond enduring.
Patrick was busily running around to anything remotely
vertical, smelling carefully. He didn’t mark anything himself,
just smelled. He seemed subdued, tail down almost between
his legs. The scent of Pack Leader must still be strong.
“This way,” Quinn said when it was clear that Lana wasn’t
going to respond.
He threaded his way through the wreckage. There wasn’t
much, really; most of it had burned down to ash. But the
surviving bits of shattered lumber were stuck with nails, so
Quinn moved cautiously.
He bent down when he reached what seemed like the right
274 M I C H A E L
G R A N T
place and began pushing two-by-fours and shingles aside. He
was surprised to find the plank floor mostly intact. It had been
singed but not consumed by the fire. He found the hatch.
“Let me see if I can get it open.” He tried, but the fire had
warped the hinges. It took both of them, him and Albert, to
raise the hatch. One hinge broke, and the hatch flopped awkwardly to one side.
Albert aimed his flashlight down into the hole.
“Gold,” Albert said.
Quinn was a little surprised by Albert’s matter-of-fact
tone. He’d half expected a Gollum-like “My precioussss,” or
something.
“Yeah. Gold,” Quinn agreed.
“It didn’t melt,” Albert said. “Heat rises and all that. Like
they taught us in school.”
“Let’s start loading, huh? This place gives me the creeps,”
Quinn said. “Bad memories.”
Albert reached down and lifted out a brick. He set it down
with a thud. “Heavy, huh?”
“Yeah,” Quinn said. “What are you going to do with it
all?”
“Well,” Albert said. “I’m going to see if I can melt it down
and make coins or something out of it. Except I don’t have
any kind of coin mold. I had thought about using muffin tins.
I have a cast-iron muffin tin that makes the small-sized muffins.”
Quinn grinned and then laughed. “We’re going to use gold
muffins for money?”
H U N G E R
27
5
“Maybe. But, actually, I found something better. One of
the kids searching houses found where the guy had made his
own ammunition. He found some bullet molds.”
They kept busy lifting the gold out and onto the ground.
They stacked it crisscross, like kids playing with blocks.
“Gold bullets?” Quinn stopped laughing. “We’re going to
make gold bullets?”
“It doesn’t matter what shape they are, so long as they’re
consistent. All the same, you know?”
“Dude. Bullets? You don’t think that’s maybe, you know . . .
weird?”
Albert sighed, exasperated. “Gold slugs, not the gunpowder part, just the slug part.”
“Jeez, man, I don’t know.” Quinn shook his head.
“Thirty-two caliber,” Albert said. “That was the smallest
size the guy had.”
“Why isn’t Cookie helping us?” Quinn wondered.
In answer, Lana, from somewhere outside, said, “Guys, I’m
going to look around for food. Cookie will help me.”
“Cool,” Quinn said.
In a few minutes they had all the gold up out of the hole.
They began walking the gold to the truck, a few bars at a
time. The gold bars were not big, but they were heavy. By the
time Albert and Quinn had finished hauling the gold they
were sweating despite the chill of the night.
Albert climbed in and pulled a canvas tarp over the gold.
“Listen, man,” Albert said as he worked to tie down the
corners, “this isn’t something we want anyone talking about.
276 M I C H A E L
G R A N T
Right? This is just between the four of us here tonight.”
“Hold up, dude. You’re not telling Sam?”
Albert climbed down to stand face-to-face with Quinn.
“Look, I’m not trying to get over on Sam. I have the most
total respect for Sam. But this plan works better if it all comes
out at once.”
“Albert, I’m not going to lie to Sam,” Quinn said flatly.
“I’m not asking you to lie to Sam. If he asks you, tell him.
If he doesn’t ask . . .”
When Quinn still hesitated, Albert said, “Look, man, Sam
is a great leader. Maybe he’s our George Washington. But even
Washington was wrong about some things. And Sam doesn’t
get what I’m talking about. How people all have to work.”
“He knows people have to work,” Quinn argued. “He just
doesn’t want you getting over on everyone, making yourself
the rich guy.”
Albert wiped sweat from his forehead. “Quinn, why do you
think people work hard? Just to get by? You think your folks
worked just to get by? Did they buy just enough food? Or did
they get just barely enough house? Or a car that barely runs?”
Albert’s voice was urgent. “No, man, people like a good life.
They want more. What’s wrong with that?”
Quinn laughed. “Dude, okay, you’ve thought about all this
and you’re probably right. I mean, what do I know? Anyway,
look, am I going to go running straight to Sam and tell him
what we did? No. As far as I know, I don’t have to do that.”
“That’s all I’m asking, Quinn,” Albert said. “I wouldn’t
ever ask you to lie.”
H U N G E R
27
7
“Uh-huh,” Quinn said cynically. “What about the Healer?
She . . .” He looked around, suddenly aware that he hadn’t
heard her or Cookie in quite a while.
“Lana!” he yelled.
Then, “Healer!”
The night was silent.
Quinn aimed the flashlight into the truck cab. Maybe she
was in there. Asleep, maybe. But the cab was empty.
He swiveled the light around the area, picking out the
poles that had once held Hermit Jim’s water tower.
“Lana? Lana? We’re ready to go,” Quinn yelled.
“Where is she?” Albert wondered. “I don’t see her or
Cookie. Or her dog.”
“Lana! Healer!” Quinn shouted. No answer came.
He and Albert exchanged looks of horror.
Quinn leaned into the truck, intending to sound the horn.
She’d have to hear that. He froze when he saw the Post-it
note. He tore it f
rom the steering wheel and read it aloud by
flashlight.
“‘Don’t try to follow us,’” Quinn read. “‘I know what I’m
doing. Lana.’”
“Okay,” Albert said, “Okay, now we have to tell Sam.”
TWENTY-ONE
18 HOURS, 23 MINUTES
J A C K S T R A I N E D A G A I N S T the door.
It was built strong. Very strong. Steel in steel.
But it creaked and groaned, and Jack could see the seam
between door and jamb growing.
His strength was shocking to him. He’d done very little to
learn to control it. He hadn’t really tested it much. In fact, he
kept forgetting he had it because it was not, it never would be,
part of who he really was.
Jack had grown up being a brain. He liked being a brain.
He wore the geek label proudly. He had no interest in being
some superstrong mutant. In fact, even as he pushed against
the door, he was wondering if there wasn’t an electronic control of some sort on the door. Wondering where the control panel might be. Wondering whether he could cut a wire, or
solder another wire, and open the door. Wondering whether
it might be computer-controlled, in which case it would be a
question of hacking.
H U N G E R
27
9
Those thoughts engaged Jack’s mind. And that gave Jack
pleasure.
Pushing on a steel door like some kind of ox? That was stupid. It was what stupid people did. And Jack was not stupid.
“Keep at it, Jack,” Caine encouraged him. “It’s starting to
give.”
Jack heard Diana saying to Drake, “I told you he was
strong. And you thought you’d just go and pick him up and
bring him to Coates? Hah.”
The door would give way in another few seconds, Jack
could feel it.
“When it goes, Jack, you need to drop to the floor,” Caine
said.
Jack would have asked why, but the exertion was popping
the veins in his neck, squeezing his lungs, bulging his eyes,
and generally making it hard to imagine engaging in conversation.
“Soon as it goes, Jack, drop to the floor,” Caine reiterated.
“Someone in there might start shooting.”
What? Shooting?
Jack lessened his effort.
“Don’t slack off,” Drake warned. “We’ll take care of whoever is on the other side.”
Jack heard the sound of a gun being cocked. And a low,
mean laugh from Drake.
He wedged his feet tight. One more big push. And drop.
Suddenly he was scared. Getting shot at was not part of