them an excuse to start swinging.
“What’s up?” Zil mocked. “The Human Drill wants to
know what’s up.” He gave Duck a shove. “One of your kind
killed my best friend, that’s what’s up.”
“We’re sick of it,” another boy chimed in.
Various voices muttered agreement.
“Guys, I didn’t hurt anyone,” Duck said. “I’m just . . .”
He didn’t know what he was just. The hostile eyes around
him narrowed.
“Just what, freak?” Zil demanded.
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327
“Walking, man. Anything wrong with that?”
“We’re looking for Hunter,” Hank said.
“We’re going to kick his butt.”
“Yeah. Maybe rearrange his nose,” Antoine said. “Like
maybe it would look better sticking out the side of his face.”
They laughed.
“Hunter?” Duck said, working to sound innocent.
“Yeah. Mr. Microwave. Killer chud.”
Duck shrugged. “I haven’t seen him, man.”
“What’s that in your pocket there?” Zil demanded. “He’s
got something in his pocket.”
“What? Oh, it’s nothing. It’s—”
The baseball bat swung with unerring accuracy. Duck felt
the blow on his hip where the relish hung in his jacket pocket.
The soggy sound of wet glass shattering.
“Hey!” Duck yelled.
He started to push his way through them, but his feet
wouldn’t move. He looked down, uncomprehending, and saw
that he had sunk up to his ankles in the sidewalk.
“Okay, stop making me mad,” he cried desperately.
“Stop making me mad,” Zil repeated in a taunting, singsong voice.
“Hey, man, he’s sinking!” one of them yelled.
Duck was up to mid-calf. Trapped. He met Zil’s contemptuous gaze and pleaded, “Come on, man, why are you picking on me?”
“Because you’re a subhuman moof,” Zil said, adding,
“duh.”
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G R A N T
“You want Hunter, right?” Duck asked. “He’s in there,
man, behind all this stuff.”
“Is that so?” Zil said. He nodded to his gang, and all
together they climbed into the rubble in search of their true
prey. Someone, Duck didn’t see who, smashed the stained
glass fragment with his bat.
Duck took a deep breath. “Happy thoughts, happy
thoughts,” he whispered. He had stopped sinking, but he was
still trapped. He squirmed his foot this way and that. Finally
he pulled one foot free—minus the shoe. The other foot came
out easier, and he managed to keep the shoe.
Duck took off at a run.
“Hey, get back here!”
“He lied, man, Hunter’s not here!”
“Get him!”
Duck ran all-out, yelling, “Happy thoughts, happy
thoughts, ah hah hah hah!” desperate to keep anger at bay,
forcing his mouth into a grin.
He made it across the street. He was well out in front of the
mob, but not far enough ahead that he would be able to get
inside his house and lock the door before they caught him.
“Help! Someone help me!” he cried.
His next step landed hard.
The step after that broke the curb.
The third step plowed down through the sidewalk and he
fell hard.
His chin hit concrete and crunched through it like a rock
through glass.
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9
He was falling into the earth again. Only this time he was
facedown.
Zil and the others immediately surrounded him. A blow
landed on his back. Another on his behind. Neither blow
hurt. It was like they were hitting him with straws rather
than bats. Then they could no longer reach him because he
had fallen all the way through the cement and was sinking
through the dirt.
“Scratch one chud,” Duck heard Zil crow.
Then, “What happened, man?”
“All the lights went out,” someone said, sounding scared.
There was a frightened curse, and the sound of running
footsteps.
Duck Zhang, facedown in dirt, kept sinking.
Mary was lying in bed, in the dark, running her hands over
her belly, feeling the fat there. Thinking, just a few more
weeks of dieting, maybe. And then she’d be there. Wherever
“there” was.
The water bottle beside her bed was empty. Mary climbed
wearily from her bed. She opened the bathroom door and
flipped on the light. For a moment she saw someone she
did not recognize, someone with sunken cheeks and hollow
eyes.
Then sudden, total darkness.
In the basement of town hall, in the gloomy space kids called
the hospital, Dahra Baidoo held Josh’s hand.
330 M I C H A E L
G R A N T
He wouldn’t stop crying.
They’d brought him from the battle at the power plant.
One of Edilio’s soldiers had dropped him off.
“I want my mom, I want my mom.” Josh was rocking back
and forth, deaf to any words Dahra had, lost and ashamed.
“I want my mom,” he cried.
“I just want my mom.”
“I’ll put on a DVD,” Dahra said. She had no other solution.
She’d seen kids like this before, too many to keep track of.
Sometimes it was all just too much for some kids. They broke,
like a stick bent too far. Snapped.
Dahra wondered how long it would be before she was one
of them.
How long until she was holding herself and rocking and
weeping for her mother?
Suddenly, the lights went out.
“I want my mom,” Josh wept in the dark.
At the day care John Terrafino lay zoned out, one eye half
open, watching a muted TV while he fed a bottle to a cranky
ten-month-old. The bottle wasn’t filled with milk or formula.
It was filled with water mixed with oatmeal juice and a small
amount of puréed fish.
None of the baby care books had recommended this. The
baby was sick. Getting weaker every day. John doubted the
baby, whose name was also John, would live very long.
“It’s okay,” he whispered.
The TV blinked off.
H U N G E R
33
1
•
•
•
Astrid had gotten Little Pete to bed, finally. She was exhausted
and worried. Her eye hurt where the baseball bat had caught
her. She had a gruesome bruise in yellow and black. Ice had
helped, but not much.
She needed to sleep; it was one in the morning, but it wasn’t
going to happen. Not yet. Not until she knew Sam was okay.
She wished she could have gone to the power plant with him.
Not that she would have been much help, but she would at
least have known.
Strange how, in just three short months, Sam had come to
feel like a necessary part of her life. More than that, even. A
necessary part of her. An arm, a leg. A heart.
She heard a noise from the street. Running. She tensed,
expecting to hear the pounding of feet on
her porch. But no
one approached.
Was it Hunter coming back? Or was Zil still running
around looking for trouble? There wasn’t anything she could
do about it. She had no powers, or none that mattered, anyway. All she could do was threaten and cajole.
By the time she reached the window, the street was empty
and quiet.
She hoped Hunter was hiding somewhere. They’d have to
figure out what to do about that situation and it would be
very tricky. Explosive, maybe. But it wasn’t going to be solved
tonight.
What was happening with Sam? Had he managed to stop
Caine?
332 M I C H A E L
G R A N T
Was he hurt?
Was he dead?
God forbid, she prayed.
No. He wasn’t dead. She would feel it if he was.
She wiped away a tear, and sighed. No way she could sleep.
She needed to do something useful. Something. Anything to
keep from thinking about Sam.
At the bottom of the screen were the usual icons for Safari
and Firefox. Web browsers that, when opened, would just
remind her that she was not connected to the internet.
Astrid opened the mutation file. There were all the bizarre
pictures. The cat that had melded with a book. The snakes
with tiny wings. The seagulls with raptor talons. The zeke.
She opened a Word document and began to type.
The one constant seems to be that mutations are making
creatures—humans and nonhumans—more dangerous.
The mutations are almost all in the form of weapons.
She paused and thought about that for a moment. That
wasn’t quite right. Some kids had developed powers that
seemed to be essentially useless. The truth was, Sam wished
more mutants had developed what he called “serious” powers.
And there was Lana, whose gift was definitely not a weapon.
Weapons or defense mechanisms. Of course it may be that I simply
have not observed enough mutations to know. But it would not
exactly be surprising if mutations tended to be survival mechanisms.
That’s the whole point of evolution: survival.
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333
But was this evolution? Evolution was a series of hits and
misses over the course of millions of years, not a sudden
explosion of radical changes. Evolution built on existing DNA. What was happening in the FAYZ was a radical departure from the billion years’ worth of code in animal
DNA. There might be genes for speed, but there was no gene
for teleportation, or for suspension of gravity, or for telekinesis.
There was no DNA for firing light from the palms of your
hands.
The fact is, I don’t
The screen went blank. The room was dark.
Astrid stood up and went to the window. She pulled back
the curtains and looked out at total darkness. Not a light on
in the street.
She let herself out onto the porch.
Darkness. Everywhere. Not a single light from the surrounding houses.
Someone a few doors down yelled in outrage, “Hey!”
Caine had reached the power plant. Sam had failed.
Astrid stifled a sob. If Sam was hurt . . . If . . .
Astrid felt fear like icy fingers reaching through her nightgown. She stumbled into the kitchen. She opened the junk drawer and found, after some searching, a flashlight. The
light from it was faint and failed in seconds.
But in the few seconds of light she found a candle.
She tried to light it from the stove. But the gas ran unlit
because it required electricity to fire.
334 M I C H A E L
G R A N T
Matches. A lighter. Surely there were some matches somewhere.
But there was no way to find them without light. She had a
candle and no way to light it.
Astrid felt her way to the stairs and climbed to Little Pete’s
room. The Game Boy was beside his bed, where he always left
it. If he woke up and found it missing, he would go nuts. He
would . . . there was no telling what he would do.
She carried the Game Boy down the stairs and used the
light from the LED to search the junk drawer. No matches,
but there was a yellow Bic lighter.
She struck a flame and lit the candle.
She had avoided thinking about Sam for the last few
moments, intent on her search. But there was no escaping
the fact that Sam had rushed off to stop Caine. And he had
not succeeded. The only question now was: Had he survived?
A line from an old poem bubbled up from Astrid’s
near-photographic memory. “The center cannot hold,” she
whispered to the eerily lit kitchen. The verse played in her
head.
Things fall apart; the center cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
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33
5
“Things fall apart; the center cannot hold,” Astrid
repeated.
The center, maybe. But surely, even here in the FAYZ, God
listened and watched over His children.
“Please let Sam be okay,” she whispered to the candle.
She made the sign of the cross on her chest and knelt before
“Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle. Be our
defense against the wickedness and snares of the devil.”
In the old days when she had said this prayer, the devil was
a creature with horns and a tail. Now in her mind the devil
had the same face as Caine. And when the prayer went on to
speak of “the evil spirits who prowl about the world seeking
the ruin of souls,” the picture in her mind’s eye was of a dead-
eyed boy with a snake for an arm.
TWENTY-SIX
17 HOURS, 49 MINUTES
“ W H A T I S I T you want, Caine?” Sam’s voice, calling from
outside. He sounded angry, frustrated. Defeated.
Caine bowed his head. He savored the moment. Victory.
Just four days had passed since he had regained some measure of control over himself. And now he had beaten Sam.
“Four days,” he said, just loudly enough for those in the
room to hear. “That’s how long it took me to defeat Sam
Temple.” Caine locked eyes with Drake. “Four days,” Caine
sneered. “What did you accomplish in the three months I was
sick?”
Drake met his gaze, then wavered, and looked down at the
floor. There was red in his cheeks, a dangerous glitter in his
eyes, but he could not meet Caine’s triumphant scowl.
“Remember this when you finally decide it’s time to take
me on, Drake,” Caine whispered.
Caine turned to the others and beamed happiness at his
crew. Jack, still at the computer, a sloppy, bloody mess, but
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33
7
so engaged in his work that he was barely aware of what was
going on. Bug, drifting in and out of view. Diana pretending
to be unimpressed. He winked at her, knowing she wouldn’t
respond. Drake’s two soldiers, lounging.
“What do I want?” Caine yelled back through the charred
hole in the wall. Then, carefully enunciating each word for
emphasis. “What. Do. I. Want?”
And then, Caine drew a blank. For a moment, just a
moment before he recovered, he couldn’t think of what he
wanted. No one else heard the hesitation. But Caine felt it.
What did he want?
He searched for an answer and found one that would do.
“You, Sam,” Caine purred. “I want you to walk in here all by
yourself. That’s what I want.”
The hostages, Mickey and Mike, looked at each other in
disbelief. Caine could guess what they were thinking: their
big hero, Sam, had failed.
Sam’s voice was muffled but audible. “I would, Caine. To
tell you the truth, it would probably be a relief.” He sounded
weary. He sounded beaten. Luscious, wonderful sounds to
Caine’s ears. “But we all know how you act when there’s no
one there to stop you. So, no.”
Caine let out a loud, theatrical sigh. He smiled ear to ear.
“Yeah, I thought you’d take that attitude, Sam. So I have an
alternative. I have a trade in mind.”
“Trade? What for what?”
“Food for light,” Caine said. He put his hand to his ear as
if listening. To Diana, he whispered, “Hear that? That’s the
338 M I C H A E L
G R A N T
sound of my brother realizing he’s beaten. Realizing he just
became my . . . what’s a good word? Servant? Slave?”
Sam yelled, “Looks to me like you’re the one in trouble,
Caine.”
Caine blinked. A warning light was flashing in the back of
his mind. He had just made a mistake. He didn’t know what,
but he had made a mistake.
“Me?” Caine yelled. “I don’t think so. I own the light
switch, brother.”
“Yeah, I guess you do,” Sam shouted. “And I’ve got you
surrounded. And if you’re short on food up at Coates, my
guess is you don’t have a lot with you here. So I’m guessing
you’ll get hungry pretty soon.”
Caine’s smile froze.
“Well, there’s an unexpected development,” Diana said
dryly.
Caine bit his thumbnail and yelled, “Hey, brother of mine,
do I have to remind you that I have two of your people hostage in here?”
There was a long silence and Caine braced himself, thinking that Sam might launch another attack. Finally, Sam spoke.