Maximum Ride Read online

  In the next second, there was another bang, and almost simultaneously a sudden, searing pain in my left shoulder. I gasped and glanced over to see blood blossoming on my sleeve. That idiot had actually hit me!

  Then sheer bad luck made me instantly trip over a tree root, fall on my hurt shoulder, and slide crazily down a steep slope, through bushes, underbrush, vines, and rocks. I tried to grab anything, but my left arm couldn’t move well, and my right hand scrabbled uselessly.

  Finally, I tumbled to a stop at the bottom of an overgrown ravine. Looking up, I saw only green: I was covered by vines and shrubs.

  I lay very still, trying to catch my breath, trying to think. Far above me, I heard the wild boys yelling and shooting again. They sounded like elephants crashing through the woods, and I tracked them clearly as they ran right past where I fell.

  I felt like an ogre had just beaten me all over with a club. I could barely move my left arm, and it hurt like fire. I tried to stretch out my wing, only to suck my breath in hard as I found out it had been hit too. I couldn’t see it well over my shoulder, but my big clue was the screaming pain.

  I was scraped all over, had lost my windbreaker, and, if I wasn’t mistaken, I was sitting in a patch of poison ivy.

  Slowly, I stood up, smothering gasps of pain. I had to get out of here. I checked the sun and started working my way north. I swallowed a groan as I realized that Nudge and Fang were no doubt wondering where the heck I was.

  I had messed up big-time. Angel was waiting for me too—if she was still alive. I had let them all down.

  On top of it, I was hurt pretty bad and had gun-toting maniacs after me. Crap.

  I scowled. It’s in my nature to fight for the underdog. Jeb had always told me it was my fatal flaw.

  Jeb had been right.

  23

  “Fang? I’m really hungry, you know?” It had been almost an hour since Max had left them. Nudge still didn’t understand exactly what had happened, where Max had gone.

  Fang nodded curtly, then motioned with his head. Nudge banked slightly and followed him.

  They were coming up on some cliffs, flat on top and made of striated rock. Fang headed toward a shadowy indentation, and Nudge started backpedaling to slow down for a landing. This close, the indentation turned into a broad, shallow cave, and Nudge ducked a bit as she set down inside.

  Fang landed almost silently beside her.

  The cave went maybe fifteen feet in and was about twenty feet wide, tapering at both ends. The floor was sandy and dry, and Nudge sat down thankfully.

  Fang took off his backpack and started handing her food.

  “Oh, yes, yes,” Nudge said, ripping open a bag of dried fruit.

  Fang waved a chocolate bar in front of her, and she squealed happily. “Oh, Fang, where did you find this? You must have been hiding it—you didn’t say anything, and all this time you’ve had chocolate, and oh, God, it’s so good . . .”

  Fang gave her a little smile and sat down. He bit into his chocolate and closed his dark eyes for a few moments, chewing slowly.

  “So where’s Max?” Nudge asked a few minutes later. “Why’d she go down there? Shouldn’t she be back by now? Aren’t we supposed to go all the way to Lake Mead? What are we gonna do if she doesn’t come back soon—” She stopped when Fang held up his hand.

  “Max saw someone in trouble, down below, and went to help,” he said in his quiet, deliberate voice. “We’ll wait here for her; Lake Mead is right below us.”

  Nudge worried. Every second counted. So why were they stuck here? What was Max doing that was more important than Angel? She finished her last dried apricot and looked around.

  Okay, now that Fang mentioned it, she could see the blue edge of Lake Mead off to her left. Nudge stood up; her head barely touched the ceiling. Their cave had a fairly wide ledge on either side of it, and she walked out on the left ledge to see the lake better.

  She froze. “Uh, Fang?”

  24

  Fang came out next to Nudge, then stood perfectly still. The ledge curved upward toward the top of the cliff. Thin, scrubby plants dotted the area, and boulders stuck out of hard-packed clay and rock.

  In and among the rocks and plants were large nests, each about two feet across. Most of the nests had large fuzzy fledglings in them, and most of the fledglings had larger rust-colored parents, and most of the parents were staring tensely at Nudge and Fang with cold predators’ eyes.

  “What are they?” Nudge whispered out the side of her mouth.

  “Ferruginous hawks,” Fang said softly. “Largest raptor in the States. Sit down, very slowly. No sudden movements or we’re both bird feed.”

  Okaaaay, Nudge thought, gradually sinking to her knees. She wanted to turn and run but guessed if she did, she might be attacked. The few talons she could see looked lethal. Not to mention the severe beaks, sharply curved and mean looking.

  “Do you think—” she began softly, but Fang motioned for her to be quiet, very quiet.

  He lowered himself next to her, his eyes on the birds. One of the hawks had a partially dismembered gopher in its mouth. Its fledglings were squawking loudly for it.

  After several minutes, Nudge felt like she needed to scream. She hated sitting still, had a million things to ask, didn’t know how much longer she could take this inaction.

  A small movement caught her eye. Fang was very slowly extending one of his wings.

  Every hawk head swiveled in unison, their eyes focusing on the wing like lasers.

  “I’m letting them catch my scent.” Fang’s lips barely moved.

  What felt like a year later, the hawks seemed to relax a bit. They were huge, with an almost five-foot wingspan, and looked cold and powerful. On top, their wing feathers were mostly brown with russet streaks, and they were streaked with white below. Not unlike Nudge’s own wings, except hers were so much bigger, twice as big.

  Some hawks went back to feeding their noisy offspring, others left in search of food, still others returned with dinner.

  “Eew,” Nudge couldn’t help whispering when one hawk brought back a still-wriggling snake. The fledglings were excited to see it and practically climbed over one another trying to get the first bite. “Double eew.”

  Fang turned his head slowly and grinned at her. Nudge was so surprised that she smiled back.

  This was pretty cool. She was itchy to leave, wished Max would show up soon, and she wished they had more food, but all the same, it was pretty awesome to sit here in the sun, surrounded by huge, beautiful birds, her own wings stretched out and resting. She guessed it couldn’t hurt to do this for a little bit longer.

  25

  But not that long.

  “Angel’s waiting for us,” Nudge said a bit later. “I mean, she’s like a little sister, like everyone’s little sister.”

  She brushed some rock dust off her already dusty tan legs and scowled, picking at a scab on her knee. “At night, when we’re supposed to be asleep, me and Angel talk and tell jokes and stuff.” Her large brown eyes met Fang’s. “I mean, am I going to have to sleep in that room alone, whenever we get home? Max has to come back. She wouldn’t let Angel go, right?”

  “No,” said Fang. “She won’t let Angel go. Look—you see how that big hawk, the one with the dark stripe on its shoulders—you see how he seems to move one wing faster than the other when he banks? It makes his bank really tight and smooth. We should try it.”

  Nudge looked at him. That was probably the longest speech she’d ever heard Fang make.

  She turned to watch the hawk he’d pointed out. “Yeah, I see what you mean.” But she’d barely finished before Fang had stood up, run lightly toward the edge of the cliff, and leaped off. His large, powerful dark wings caught the air and swooped him up. Fang flew closer to where the other hawks were circling in a kind of hawk ballet.

  Nudge sighed. She really, really wished Max were here. Was Max hurt? Should they go back? She would ask Fang when he returned.

  Jus
t then he swept past her, level with their cave. “Come on!” he called. “Try it! You’ll fly better.”

  Nudge sighed again and brushed some chocolate crumbs off her shirt. Wasn’t he worried about Angel? If he was, he probably wouldn’t show it, she guessed. But she knew Fang loved Angel—he’d read to her before she learned how to read, and even now he still held her when she was upset about something.

  Well, I might as well practice too. Better than sitting around doing nothing. She flung herself off the cliff, unable to keep a bittersweet happiness from flooding her chest. It just felt so—beautiful, to float in the air, to move her wings strongly and feel herself glide freely through space.

  She flew alongside Fang, and he demonstrated the move for her. She watched him and imitated it. It worked great.

  She flew in huge circles, practicing the move and flying closer to the hawks, who seemed to be tolerating her. As long as she didn’t think about Max or Angel, she would be okay.

  That evening Nudge lay on her stomach, her wings flat out around her, and watched the parent hawks grooming their young. They were so gentle, so attentive. These fierce, strong birds were carefully smoothing their fledglings’ mottled white feathers, feeding them, helping them get out of the nest to practice flying.

  A lump came to her throat. She sniffled.

  “What?” said Fang.

  “These birds,” said Nudge, wiping her eyes and feeling stupid. “Like, these dumb hawks have more of a mom than I ever had. The parents are taking care of the little ones. No one ever did that for me. Well, besides Max. But she’s not a mom.”

  “Yeah. I get it.” Fang didn’t look at her. His voice almost sounded sad.

  The sun set, and the hawks settled down in their nests. Finally, the raucous fledglings quieted. When it had been dark for an hour, Fang edged closer to Nudge and held out his left hand in a fist. Nudge looked up at him, then stacked her left fist on top of his. It was something the flock always did together before bedtime.

  Except they hadn’t done it when they’d fallen asleep in that cabin last night. And now it was just the two of them.

  Nudge tapped his fist with her right hand, and he tapped hers.

  “Night,” she whispered, feeling as if everything she cared about had been ripped away from her. Silently, she curled up against the wall of the cave.

  “Night, Nudge,” whispered Fang.

  26

  Oh, man. This was not the best day I’d ever had. My shoulder was still bleeding a bit, even though I’d been pressing on it for hours. Every time I jostled it, warm blood oozed through my fingers.

  I hadn’t run into the gun-carrying clowns again, but I’d heard them off and on. I’d been working my way north in a big arc, trying to weave a confusing trail for whoever might be following me. Every time I heard them, I froze for endless minutes, trying to blend in with the brush.

  Then, cramped and stiffening, I would painstakingly start again. In case they brought dogs, I’d splashed through streams at least four times, and let me tell you, trying to keep your balance on moss-covered rocks in icy water with a hurt shoulder is no picnic.

  I’d felt around on my shoulder and wing, and as far as I could tell, the shot had just scooped out a trail of flesh and wing but hadn’t actually lodged inside. Whatever—my arm and wing felt useless and they hurt awfully.

  It was getting late. Angel was somewhere hours away, being subjected to God knows what horror, wondering where I was. I pressed my lips together, trying not to cry. I couldn’t fly, couldn’t catch up to Fang and Nudge, who were probably furious by now. It wasn’t like I could call their cell phones or anything.

  This situation totally sucked, and it was 100 percent my own stupid fault, which made it suck even worse.

  Then, of course, it started pouring rain.

  So now I was slogging my way through wet woods, wet brush, red clay mud, wiping water out of my eyes, getting more chilled and more miserable and more hungry and more insanely furious at myself.

  I hadn’t heard the guys in a long time—they had probably gone home to get out of the rain.

  A minute later I blinked and wiped my eyes. I squinted. There were lights ahead.

  If it was a store or shed, I could wait till everyone left and then hole up for the night. Soon I was only ten yards away, hunching down in the darkness, peering through the wet trees. It was a house.

  A figure passed a window, and my eyebrows raised. It was that girl, Ella. This must be her house.

  I bit my lip. She probably lived here with her two doting parents and her 1.6 siblings. How nice for her. Anyway, I was glad she had gotten home safe. Despite everything, if I had let those horrible guys beat her up, I never would have forgiven myself.

  I shivered hard, feeling the icy rain run down my back. I was about to fall over. What to do here, get a plan . . .

  I was still waiting for a brilliant inspiration when the side door of the house opened. Ella came out holding a huge umbrella. A shadow moved at her feet. It was a dog, a low-to-the-ground, fat dog.

  “Come on, Magnolia,” Ella called. “Make it fast. You don’t want to get too wet.”

  The dog started sniffing around the edge of their yard, snuffling in the weeds, oblivious to the rain. Ella turned and walked up and down, twirling her umbrella, scanning her yard. Her back was to me.

  Desperate times call for desperate measures. I don’t know who first said that, but they were right on the money. I took a deep breath, then very, very quietly, began to move toward Ella.

  27

  Okay, two more blood samples and the glucose assay will be done. Then we can do the EEGs.

  Why isn’t this over? Where are you, Max? Angel thought sadly as the whitecoat approached. The front of Angel’s dog crate opened, and a guy knelt down and peered in at her. She pressed herself against the back as hard as she could.

  He reached in to grab her hand, where the shunt was, and noticed her face. He turned back to his fellow whitecoats. “What happened to it?”

  “It bit Reilly earlier,” someone said. “He hit it.”

  Angel tried to pull herself into a tight little ball. The whole left side of her face throbbed. But she was glad she’d bitten him. She hated him. Hated all of them.

  Stupid Reilly. Guy should work in a car wash. If he wrecks this specimen, I’ll kill him.

  “Doesn’t he realize how unique this subject is?” the whitecoat said angrily. “I mean, this is Subject Eleven. Does he know how long we’ve been looking for it? You tell Reilly not to damage the merchandise.”

  He reached in and tried to take Angel’s hand again.

  Angel didn’t know what she should do. The plastic shunt on the back of her hand hurt, and she’d cradled it against her chest. All day she’d had nothing to eat or drink, and then they’d made her drink some horrible, sickly sweet orange stuff. They’d taken blood from her arm, but she’d fought them and bit that one guy. So they’d put a shunt in the back of her hand to make taking blood easier. They’d drawn her blood three times already.

  Angel felt near tears but clenched her jaw.

  Slowly, she uncoiled herself a tiny bit and edged closer to the opening. She stretched her hand toward the lab guy.

  “That’s it,” he said soothingly, and pulled out a needle with a test tube attached. He unclipped the stop on the shunt and pushed the needle in. “This won’t hurt. Honest.”

  Angel turned away, keeping her back to him, that one hand stretched away from her.

  It didn’t take long, and it didn’t hurt. Maybe he was a good whitecoat—like Jeb. And maybe the moon was made out of cream cheese.

  28

  “Okay,” said Iggy. “We’re being very careful. Hello? Gazzy? We’re being very careful?”

  “Check,” said the Gasman, patting the explosive package they called Big Boy.

  “Nails?”

  The Gasman rattled the jar. “Check.”

  “Tarp? Cooking oil?”

  “Check, check.” The Gasman
nodded. “We are geniuses. Those Erasers’ll never know what hit ’em. If only we had time to dig a pit.”

  “Yeah, and put poison stakes at the bottom,” Iggy agreed. “But I think what we’ve got is good. Now we need to fly out, stay out of sight, and check on how the roads run, and whether the Erasers have made camp anywhere.”

  “Okay. Then we can seed the roads with the nails and set up the tarp and oil.” The Gasman grinned. “We just have to make sure not to get caught.”

  “Yes. That would be bad,” Iggy said with a straight face. “Now, is it night yet?”

  “Pretty much. I found you some dark clothes.” The Gasman pressed a shirt and pants into Iggy’s hands. “And I’ve got some too. So, you ready to roll?” He hoped Iggy couldn’t hear how nervous he was. This was a great plan; they had to do it—but failure would be disastrous. And probably deadly.

  “Yeah. I’m bringing Big Boy in case an opportunity arises.” Iggy changed his clothes, then put their homemade bomb into a backpack and slung it onto his shoulders. “Don’t worry,” he said, as if he could see the Gasman’s expression. “It can’t go off till I set the timer. It’s, like, a safety bomb.”

  The Gasman tried to smile. He cranked open the hall window as wide as it would go and perched on the ledge. His palms were sweating, and his stomach was all fluttery. But he had no choice—this was for Angel. This was to show people what would happen if they messed with his family.

  He swallowed hard and launched himself out into the night air. It was amazing, to be able to spread his wings and fly. It was great. As he felt the night wind against his face, the Gasman’s spirits rose. He felt strong, powerful, and dangerous. Not at all like an eight-year-old mutant freak.

  29

  “Um, Ella?”

  The girl stiffened and jumped back.

  I stepped forward a bit, out of the underbrush, so she could see my face. “It’s me,” I said, feeling even stupider. “The girl from before.”