Waterwings Read online

  As the gang of M-Geeks slowly moved in, closing in a semicircle, all around us people were screaming and running away. Soon we would be surrounded, with just a shot-up bench between us and a bunch of trigger-happy robots grafted with Uzis.

  Max the Leader stepped up. “Okay, behind us there’s a metal railing, then the cliff, and the ocean,” I said to Fang quickly. “Ease backward, beneath the railing, then drop down the cliff face. Wings out, we zoom up, and circle around in back of them.”

  “Excellent plan,” Fang whispered. “Then what?”

  “No idea. Start backing.”

  Fang shot out from beneath the bench, scurrying over the cliff in less than a second. I was right behind him. I felt myself push off from the edge and snapped out my wings, then I was free-falling, praying I wouldn’t hit the sharp rocks below before I got some altitude.

  The tip of my sneaker brushed one jagged boulder, and then my wings carried me upward, fast and hard. We swooped out low over the ocean, then circled back around the tip of the jetty. I was thinking as fast and hard as I was flying.

  “We’ve got to get them over that cliff,” Fang said as we began to come up behind them. They were still closing in on the bench, shooting round after round. The nearby trash can had been peppered with bullets, a sign hung down broken, and the cement bench looked like Swiss cheese. Most important, the metal railing had been shot to pieces and would easily give way.

  “Yeah.” I frowned. “Aren’t they using heat sensors? They don’t know we’re not there!”

  “Maybe they’re just programmed to go forward and shoot,” Fang said. “Or maybe someone’s controlling them remotely, and they can’t tell their target is gone.”

  It was weird. Something felt off. There was a missing piece to this puzzle, and I couldn’t figure out what it was. But in the meantime, those ’bots were going overboard.

  We came up from behind them, starting way high and then dive-bombing at more than two hundred miles an hour. I loved doing this — it’s like being in a video game where you have to recalculate your trajectory ten times a second so you don’t hit a building.

  A few seconds before we hit them, we swung down in big arcs, our feet out in front of us.

  Wham! I slammed into one so hard my teeth rattled. The impact lifted the ’bot almost two feet off the ground, sending it headfirst into the ’bot in front of it. Then it was just a matter of the domino effect.

  We backed up as fast as we could and did it again. Before they could focus on us, the first line had already toppled through the shredded railing and dropped thirty feet down onto enormous, sharp-edged rocks. Ka-boom!

  Only one of them managed to swivel in time to aim at us, but I went in low and kicked out its ankles, sliding on the asphalt and ripping huge holes in my best jeans. It tipped backward and then went over, still spewing bullets.

  Cautiously, Fang and I peeked over the edge. Things were still sparking, there were a few lights still on, but there was no way for a heavy machine to survive that fall. With the bazillion dollars it must have cost to develop that technology, you would think that they would make them a little more impact tolerant.

  We knew better than to hang around. Already, police cars and fire trucks were screeching to a halt, sirens blaring, lights going berserk. Fang and I raced silently along the edge of the boardwalk, then jumped over the edge, around the corner from where the ’bots had smashed.

  Once again we whipped out our wings and soared out to sea, flying low and fast over the water. The balmy night air felt amazing on my face and in my hair.

  So let’s take stock of the evening, shall we?

  Pros: Excellent Hawaiian food, ice cream, making out with Fang (aiieee!!!), and victory against murderous, bird-kid-hating, killing machines.

  Cons: Well, the murderous, bird-kid-hating, killing machines, for one. For another, I looked down and realized that not only had I destroyed my best pair of jeans, but, in fact, they didn’t even go with my shirt in the first place. Typical.

  Third, there was something dark speeding right toward us. Going as fast as we were. A missile? A rocket? Our night wasn’t over yet.

  44

  THE GASMAN SPIT OUT his regulator and screamed, “Angel!” His face and arms were on fire, and he felt like he was going to barf. Under water. How would that even work?

  Suddenly, the sharks were right there, mouths wide open, full of blood and chunks of something, and stretching, reaching, snapping at —

  Just water, because Angel was holding up her hand in the universal “Stop shark attack” gesture. She was frowning sternly at the sharks, one hand on her hip.

  “Oh no you don’t!” she gurgled loudly, right at the three huge man-eaters.

  They stopped, and if they’d been on dry land, they would have skidded. As it was, they came to an abrupt, surprised stop, inches away from the three bird kids. Angel shook her finger at them, in the universal gesture for “Bad! Bad shark!”

  Gaz, Ig — you guys back away really slowly.

  Gazzy did hear that part of Angel’s message, so he touched Iggy’s hand and, gently, they let themselves drift backward. Gazzy put the regulator back in his mouth, feeling like his lungs were about to burst from lack of air.

  Looking sheepish, the hammerheads slowly turned and glided back to their group. Once there, they joined in the feeding frenzy again.

  Gosh, they were big, Angel thought to Gazzy and Iggy.

  Gazzy nodded, trying not to cry from the pain in his face and arms.

  We need to get you out of here, Angel went on sympathetically. You got stung by something. Can you do a burst out of the water to get airborne?

  Gazzy had felt a lot of pain in his life, but this was different — a horrible, searing sensation, as if someone were holding a lit match to his face and arms. Under water. He nodded bravely to Angel, hoping he wouldn’t shriek when the warm air made the burning feel worse.

  Okay, then, Angel commanded Gazzy and Iggy. Hunch down, gather your strength, then burst up through the water as hard as you can. As soon as you’re in the air, snap your wings out. Okay?

  On any other day, Gazzy would have said, “Who died and made you Max?” But, all things considered, he could barely think straight. He was thankful that Angel was taking charge. He managed to nod again, then concentrated on balling up his muscles.

  One! Two! Three!

  Gazzy’s face mask was filling with tears, but he hunched down and surged toward the surface. When he broke through the water, he stretched out his wings, pushing down and pulling up as hard as he could.

  He rose in the air slowly at first, then powerfully and fast, relief beginning to wash over him.

  Only to collide hard with something huge, right above him.

  Oof! Gazzy let out a strangled cry — it felt like his face and arms were splitting open — then he felt himself falling.

  And this time, he didn’t think he’d manage to save himself.

  45

  RAPTOR VISION ALLOWS US to see tiny things from great heights and to see incredibly well in the dark and in much more detail than regular people. But, for the life of me, I couldn’t tell what that thing was, shooting toward us.

  “If it’s heat-seeking, we should go under water,” Fang said tensely. “It’ll still get us, but maybe some poor whale or dolphin will confuse it.”

  Great. A lovely choice. I squinted, wishing the rolling bank of thick gray clouds hadn’t totally covered the moon. But — wait…

  “Fang — that thing has wings. Is it like an albatross? What’s the biggest seabird there is?”

  Fang frowned and tilted his head. “Uh — what kind of seabird wears preppy Top-Siders?”

  My eyes went wide as I stared first at Fang, then at the dark thing. “Oh, my God! It is wearing Top-Siders! It’s Nudge!” ’Cause, I mean, how many preppy mutant bird kids are there? Not a lot.

  Fang and I poured on the speed, scanning the whole sky as we streaked toward Nudge, my Nudge! Nothing seemed to be pursui
ng her; she was flying fast but not panicky. Now we were close enough to see her long ringlets streaming out in back of her, her bright white smile shining in the deep night sky.

  My heart swelled, and I admitted to myself just how much I’d missed her, how worried I’d been, how hurt I’d felt that she’d chosen safety, calm, and education over us.

  “Nudge!” I shrieked, and she beamed and waved.

  Just then, something huge shot out of the water and slammed into her. It shoved her off balance, knocking the wind out of her. Fang and I surged forward, going into battle mode, and then two more things shot out of the water as if launched from a huge slingshot.

  Two large, wet, familiar things.

  “Max!”

  “Angel?!”

  “Get Gazzy! He’s hurt! Oh — Nudge?!”

  “Angel — hi!”

  Fang swooped down and scooped up Gazzy, who had some weird contraption hanging off his head. His eyes were closed, and his face looked like a bulldozer had run over it.

  “He’s hurt!” Angel said again. “Nudge! I can’t believe you’re back!”

  Here’s what I was feeling: elation about seeing Nudge again, alive and unhurt; worry over Gazzy, who was now unconscious as we raced back to the naval base; a guilty thrill over what was happening between me and Fang (when will it happen again?); lingering anxiety about my mom; and a deep, abiding contentment that we were all together again, the six of us, my flock, my family.

  Not bad, for someone who hates emotions.

  46

  IT TURNED OUT that Gazzy had been stung by a Portuguese man-of-war, an incredibly dangerous and even deadly jellyfish.

  “Actually, it’s not a real jellyfish,” the navy doctor explained. “So its toxins are different, and we treat it differently.”

  “I offered to pee on him, but they said no,” Iggy said, sounding disappointed.

  The navy doctor smiled. “That was once thought to be acceptable treatment. Vinegar too. But actually, it’s most important to remove any tentacles to prevent further discharge of venom. Rinsing the sting thoroughly with salt water can help.”

  All of us bird kids have had days when we looked like we’d been put in a blender set to “whip.” As many fights as we’ve been in, as many hard places we’ve been — odds are that someone has at least a black eye, if not broken bones, on any given day.

  But Gazzy really looked bad. They’d removed the man-of-war with gloved hands, dunked Gazzy in salt water, slathered him with goo, and given him a bunch of shots, and he still looked like he’d been dragged behind a chariot for a couple miles.

  Of course, seeing the wings had freaked everyone out, but this was the U.S. military, and they got over it real fast. I mean, if they can deal with Area 51, they can handle anything, right? Including Total, who had left Akila back at the hut and come at Angel’s request.

  “He’s going to sleep for about a day,” the navy doctor said with a smile. “These stings really take it out of you.”

  I glanced at the wall clock. “We’re getting on a sub in six hours.”

  “Oh, no,” said the doctor. “He can’t go anywhere. Trust me, he’s going to feel terrible when he wakes up. There’s no way he’s getting on a submarine.”

  It’s taken me a while, but I’ve learned not to pointlessly butt heads about dumb decisions that I don’t have to follow anyway. It’s been a real step of personal growth for me. So now, for instance, I didn’t even argue with the doctor.

  Instead, I got organized: I sent Fang and Iggy off to find food, got a debriefing from Angel about the adventures they’d had under water while they were supposed to be tucked into bed, and finally, finally, curled up in the hospital armchair with Nudge, while she told us all about being a real kid at school.

  “It was awesome,” Nudge admitted. “I loved it. In just a few days, I learned more than I’d learned from weeks of watching TV.”

  “That’s good,” I forced myself to say, and given my highly developed skills of deception, I even sounded very sincere. “And I’m glad to see you’re still among the winged.”

  Nudge looked embarrassed. “Yeah. But anyway. I realized I just missed you guys so much. And I was too worried about your mom,” she told me. “I had to be here to help, if I could.”

  I hugged her. “I’m so glad to have you back! Although you missed all the BS.”

  “Whaaat?”

  The others filled her in while I checked on Gazzy and watched the clock. The doctor said the Gasman would sleep for a day, which I took to be about four hours in bird-kid time. Sure enough, along about four-thirty in the morning, he woke up.

  It was time to head down to the dock — I wasn’t going to risk missing the sub. It felt like a month ago that my mom had been kidnapped. Who knew what had happened by now?

  “You good to go?” I asked Gazzy, fluffing his saltwater-sticky hair with my fingers.

  He did a systems check, then nodded. “Yep. Feel like crap, but I’m okay.”

  “You look pretty tough with that face,” I said admiringly, and he gave a pleased smile.

  “Okay, troops, let’s mobilize,” I said. We were all a little punchy from lack of sleep, but I knew a couple cups of coffee would perk us right up.

  “Whoa, hold it!” said a voice. It was the nice doctor, standing in the doorway, holding Gazzy’s chart.

  “Sorry,” I said briskly. “We’ve got a sub to catch.”

  “He can’t go anywhere!” The doctor looked appalled. “People stay in bed for days from a man-of-war sting!”

  “We heal fast,” Gazzy said modestly.

  “We were hoping for a chance to study you some more,” the doc admitted.

  I sighed. “If I got a nickel every time I heard that… Okay, guys, let’s go.”

  The doctor planted his feet, crossed his arms, and blocked the door to the hallway.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t let you leave.”

  “Uh-huh.” I looked at Fang. In seconds he’d crossed the room, opened the casement window, and jumped out. Total jumped out after him. A nurse, passing by in the hallway, screamed and dropped an armful of files.

  Gazzy was next. “Thanks for everything, doc,” he said, then leaped lightly out. He dropped out of sight, but soon rose, working his wings powerfully, looking good.

  Someone yelled, “There goes another one!” as I was busy hustling Iggy and Nudge out the window. Finally, it was my turn, and I hopped up to the window ledge.

  “Thanks again,” I said politely. “But like I said, we’ve got a sub to catch.” Then I let myself fall out the window, watching the ground rush up from six stories below.

  I spread my wings and felt the air press against them as I soared with the flock. I loved that feeling, relished that freedom. The sky was still predawn dark, the wind fresh but not cool.

  Finally, it was time.

  I’m coming, Mom. I’m coming to rescue you.

  47

  HERE ARE TWO THINGS I hadn’t thought about when I’d insisted that the navy lend us a sub for the rescue:

  1)The flock and I are just about the most claustrophobic life-forms you’ll ever meet; and

  2)We would be trapped in a relatively small, airtight space with the Gasman.

  Now I was on the dock, staring at the open hatch, with its narrow ladder leading straight down.

  We’d spent a lot of time on the Wendy K., the research boat in Antarctica. So we knew that boat interiors were small and compact. But I hadn’t really thought about how much more compact a submarine would be.

  The U.S.S. Minnesota was a really big submarine, by sub standards, but it was still smaller than, say, Disney World. Or a wide-open beach. Or a desert. Or, hey, the entire freaking sky.

  “Um, Max, you gonna go?” Nudge asked. There were two officers waiting for us. The seconds were ticking by.

  It looked like I’d be climbing into a huge coffin.

  It felt like that too.

  I could not be a total wuss in front of all these people.
Especially the flock.

  I flicked a glance at Fang, and his face showed me that he understood what I was feeling, but he knew that I knew that I just had to suck it up and get on the dang sub.

  I felt a cold sweat break out on the back of my neck. My throat was closing. My chest felt tight. I had an image of me trapped on the sub, under water, crying and clawing at the metal walls to get out. Oh, geez. I was wishing I hadn’t had that third espresso.

  I swallowed hard and tried to draw in a breath. I remembered that we were doing this to rescue my mom, who had saved my own life more than once. I remembered that she was being held captive in a sub probably not half as nice as this one.

  “It’s a sub, Max,” urged Total, who was suffering from a bad case of missing-Akila blues, “not a vat of boiling oil. Get on already, and let’s see if they have any croissants. I’m starving.”

  I took a big step forward, off the dock and onto the metal walkway that led to the top of the sub, not the sticking-up part of the sub, but the topside of its nose. I don’t know the technical term.

  There was an open hatch there, and I strode toward it, trying to keep abject terror from showing on my face. I began to climb down the ladder, managing a smile and a wave that I hoped was at least in the neighborhood of jaunty. Then Gazzy stepped on the walkway, followed by Total, and I knew the others weren’t far behind.

  There was no going back now.

  Get this: if there was nothing inside the submarine, it might not be so bad. It really was a great big one. On the outside. On the inside, it was crammed chock-full of people, walls of instruments, panels of lights and switches, huge pipes and bundles of thick cables — basically, there was hardly any room to walk. And we’re skinny.

  There were not enough relaxation tapes in the world to get me through this.