Saving the World and Other Extreme Sports Page 7

  “Do we have a Plan B? Or C? Even Z?” Iggy’s voice had no life in it, no energy, and I got the impression that he’d given up and was only going through the motions.

  I cleared my throat and swallowed. “Yes, of course,” I said, scrabbling for any shred of authority I could muster. “There’s always a plan. First, we get out of these straps.”

  I felt Nudge awaken and looked over at her. Her large brown eyes were solemn, her mouth stiffly trying not to quiver. A purplish bruise mottled her cheek, and I saw more on her arms. I’d always thought of her as a little kid, like Gazzy and Angel, but all of a sudden she seemed ten years older.

  Because she knew, and it showed in her eyes.

  She knew we were way, way up a creek, and that I had no plan, and that we had no hope.

  Which pretty much summed it up.

  39

  I don’t know how much later—after my arms had gone numb but before my ankles started burning with pins and needles—the door opened.

  A little gray-haired woman in a white coat walked in, carrying a tray. Somebody’s evil grandma.

  A new scent filled the air.

  I tried not to breathe it in, but it was unavoidable.

  The woman walked right up to me, a smile on her pleasant face.

  Get it together, Max. That was me talking. I hadn’t heard the Voice since the melee in the desert.

  I tried to look as unconcerned as a fourteen-year-old bird kid strapped to a hospital bed in hell could look.

  “This is a first,” I said coolly. “Torture by chocolate-chip cookie. Was this all your idea?”

  The woman looked disconcerted but tried to smooth out her expression.

  “We thought you might be hungry,” she said. “These are hot out of the oven.”

  She waved the tray a bit, to make sure the incredible vanilla-tinged aroma of fresh-baked cookies reached all of us.

  “Uh-huh,” I said. “Because all you mad, evil scientists sit around whipping up batches of Pillsbury’s finest during your coffee breaks. I mean, this is pathetic.”

  She looked surprised, and I felt anger warming my blood.

  “I mean, points for the jail cell,” I went on, motioning at the room with my head. “Kudos for the Velcro straps. Those were good starts. But you’re sort of falling down with the chocolate-chip cookies. Like, did you skip school the day they taught hostage treatment?”

  Pink patches flared on her cheeks, and she stepped back.

  “Keep your lousy cookies,” I said, narrowing my eyes and letting a snarl enter my voice. “Whatever you sick freaks have planned for us, get on with it. ’Cause otherwise you’re just wasting our time.”

  Now her face was stiff as a mask, and she started to head to the door.

  This is a plan, I thought. When they came in to get us for whatever, that would be our chance. And we would seize it.

  She was almost to the door when Total raised his head weakly. “Not so fast,” he croaked. “I’ll take a cookie. I’m not proud.”

  Fang and I exchanged looks, and we rolled our eyes.

  The woman looked startled when Total spoke and didn’t know what to make of his request. So she just hurried out the door, and when it slammed behind her, I felt it in my bones.

  40

  “Okay, the second they undo us, make sure all heck breaks loose,” I said when everyone was awake the next morning—at least I figured it was morning, since someone had turned the lights on again.

  The flock nodded, but with none of the angry thirst for revenge they would need to escape.

  “Look, we’ve had our backs against the wall before,” I reminded them. “These guys always screw up, always make a mistake. We’ve gotten the best of them every time, and it’ll be the same here.”

  No reaction whatsoever.

  “Come on, guys, buck up,” I coaxed. “Let’s see some insane rage put apples in those cheeks.”

  Nudge smiled faintly, but the others seemed lost in their own worlds, tugging without purpose against their straps. Fang sent me an understanding look, and I felt so frustrated and stuck that I wanted to howl.

  The door opened with a whoosh, and I quickly met everyone’s eyes: This was it!

  It was Jeb. Followed by Anne Walker, whom we hadn’t seen since we ditched her Martha Stewart farmhouse in Virginia. And the unholy trio was completed by a golden-curled little girl: Angel, who was eating a chocolate-chip cookie and calmly watching me with her big blue eyes.

  “Angel!” Gazzy’s voice broke as he understood that his sister had turned against us. “Angel, how could you?”

  “Hello, Max,” said Anne Walker, not smiling, not looking at all adoptive mom–like.

  I sighed heavily and stared at the ceiling. No crying. Not one tear.

  Jeb came and stood right next to my bed, so close I could smell his aftershave. Its scent awoke a slew of childhood memories, the years between ten and twelve years old, when I’d felt the happiest I ever had.

  “Hello, Max,” he said quietly, searching my face. “How do you feel?”

  Which was a ten on the “imbecilic question” scale of one to ten.

  “Why, I feel fine, Jeb,” I said brightly. “How about you?”

  “Any nausea? Headache?”

  “Yep. And it’s standing here talking to me.”

  His fingers brushed the covers on top of my leg, and I tried not to shudder.

  “Does it feel like you’ve been through a lot?” he asked.

  I stared at him. “Yeah. Kind of. And sadly, I’m still going through it.”

  Jeb turned and nodded at Anne Walker, and she made a noncommittal face back at him.

  I started to pick up that something was happening here that I didn’t fully understand.

  Good thing I’m used to that feeling.

  “Max, I’ve got something to tell you that I know is going to be hard to believe,” Jeb said.

  “You’re not evil? You’re not the worst lying, cheating, betraying jerk I’ve ever met?”

  He smiled sadly. “The truth is, Max, that nothing is as it seems.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said. “Is that what the aliens told you when you quit wearing your foil hat?”

  Anne stepped forward. Jeb made a motion like, Let me do it, but she waved her hand at him. “The truth is, Max, that you’re at the School.”

  “No freaking duh. And uh, wait—let me guess—I’m some kind of bird-kid hybrid. And you captured me. And, and, I’m strapped to a hospital bed. I bet I even have wings. Am I right?”

  “No. You don’t understand,” she went on briskly. “You’re at the School, Max, because you never left it. Everything that you think you’ve experienced for the past five months has all been a dream.”

  41

  I gazed at Anne in admiration. “Gosh,” I said. “This is a totally new tack. I truly did not expect that.” Looking around at the flock, I asked, “Did anyone expect that?” They warily shook their heads no.

  I nodded at Anne. “You’ve got me. Good one.”

  “It’s true,” she said. “You know you’re an experimental form of recombinant DNA. You know that you’ve undergone testing during your limited life span. Part of the experiment has been to test your brains’ imaginative capabilities, as well as how accurately we can manipulate and even create your memories. There are various experimental drugs that we’ve been authorized to use, drugs that allow us to, in essence, give you life memories that you never truly experienced.”

  Why was she doing this? Why go to so much trouble to spin this story?

  “Does it really feel like you lived in Colorado with Jeb? That Angel was kidnapped? That you got her back? That you went to New York? That you killed Ari? That you lived with me in Virginia?” Her eyebrows rose.

  Narrowing my eyes, I stayed silent. I was aware that the rest of the flock was paying intense attention to her every word.

  “Max, we gave you those memories. We monitored your heart and lung rates while you imagined yourself in violent fig
hts. We decided on New York, on Florida, on Arizona. Remember Dr. Martinez and Ella? Those constructs allowed us to test your psychological and physical responses to a warm, nurturing environment.”

  My blood turned to icy slush in my veins. They knew about Ella and Dr. Martinez. How? Had they harmed them? Killed them?

  I fought to keep my face impassive, to slow my panicked breathing. I couldn’t let them see that they were getting to me. This was the worst yet.

  “What was the memory of living with you supposed to test?” I snapped. “How I would react to a two-faced control freak who didn’t have a maternal bone in her body?”

  Two red splotches appeared on Anne’s cheeks. Score one for Max.

  “You still don’t believe us, sweetheart,” said Jeb.

  “Yeah. ’Cause I’m not a lunatic.” My voice sounded a little choked.

  Jeb gently took my left wrist. Instinctively I tried to pull away from him, but I couldn’t. He carefully turned my hand inside the Velcro strap, so the underside of my arm was facing up.

  “Look, Max,” he said very softly. “I’m telling you, none of it has been real. It was all a dream. You never left the School.”

  Remember that puckered red scar on my arm, from when I tried to cut the chip out myself? And then the surgery, just a few days ago? It had left clean, straight little lines, maybe half an inch long.

  Jeb pushed back my sleeve so I could see farther up my arm.

  There were no scars there. Not anywhere. My arm was smooth and unmarked. I tried to wiggle my fingers. They moved. There was nothing wrong with my left hand.

  Next to me, Gazzy sucked in an astonished breath.

  I tried not to breathe at all, tried not to swallow, tried to conceal my shock. Then something occurred to me: We’d gotten Total in New York. “What about Total?” I demanded triumphantly. “Was he a dream too?”

  Jeb looked at me gently. “Yes, sweetheart. He was a dream too. There is no Total the talking dog.”

  He stepped aside so we could all see the bed across from us. It was empty. The sheets were smooth and taut and white. Total had never been there, had he?

  42

  Okay, color me way freaked. Either they were seriously messing with my mind or they were...even more seriously messing with my mind.

  Very quickly, I ran through possible scenarios in my head:

  1) They were lying (of course).

  a) Lying about us all having been in the School this whole time.

  b) Not lying about us all having been in the School this whole time.

  2) This, even now, this second, was just another hallucination.

  3) Everything up till now had in fact been drug-induced nightmares and dreams (an anorexically thin possibility).

  4) Whether they were lying or no, whether this was a dream or no, I should just break loose, kick their sorry butts, and be done with it.

  I lay back against my thin pillow. I glanced around at the flock. I had seen them age, seen them get taller, seen their hair grow. How could we have been tied up for years? Or had we been this big to begin with, been created this age?

  I looked at Angel, wishing she would send me a reassuring thought. But nothing came from her at all. Oh, God.

  I couldn’t think anymore. I was hungry and in pain and trying to keep a steel lid on my rising panic. I closed my eyes and tried to take some steady breaths.

  “How do you get some chow in this joint?” I finally asked.

  “We’ll get you something right now,” Jeb said.

  “Like, a last meal,” said Angel in her little-girl voice.

  My eyes opened.

  “I’m sorry, Max,” said Anne Walker. “But as you’ve probably figured out, we’re shutting down all of our recombinant-DNA experiments. All of the lupine-human blends have been retired, and it’s time to retire you too.”

  Which confirmed that we hadn’t seen any real Erasers lately. Gazzy had explained about the Flyboy robot things.

  “Retire as in kill?” I asked flatly. “Is that how you live with yourselves? By using euphemisms for death and murder?” I pretended to quote a newscast: “In today’s news, seven people were ‘retired’ in a horrific accident on Highway Seventeen.” I changed voices. “Jimmy, don’t retire that bird with your shotgun.” Then, “Please, sir, don’t retire me! You can have my wallet!”

  I gazed at Jeb and Anne, feeling cold rage turn my face into a mask. “How’s that working out for you? Able to look at yourselves in a mirror? Able to sleep at night?”

  “We’ll get you something to eat,” Anne said, and she walked quickly out of the room.

  “Max—,” Jeb began.

  “Don’t you even talk to me!” I spat. “Take your little traitor with you and get out of our death chamber!”

  Angel’s expression didn’t change as she looked from me to Jeb. Jeb took her hand and sighed, and they both left the room. I was shaking with emotion and in a last surge, strained against the Velcro straps with all my superhuman strength.

  Nothing.

  I flopped back against the bed, tears forming in my eyes, hating to have the flock see me like this. I wiggled my left fingers and looked for the scars. Nothing.

  “So, that went well,” said Fang.

  43

  Okay, here’s a knotty little question: If you’re dreaming that you’re tied up by mad scientists in a secret experimental facility, and then you fall asleep and start dreaming, are you really dreaming?

  Which one is the dream?

  Which one counts?

  How can you tell?

  I’d been torturing myself with these pointless circular conundrums all day. Which raises another question: If I’m torturing my own brain by trying to figure stuff out, does that still count as Them torturing me? Because they caused the whole situation to happen?

  At any rate, at some point I must have “fallen asleep,” because at some point, a hand shaking my shoulder made me streak back to “consciousness.”

  As always, I leaped into wakefulness on full alert, automatically trying to assume a battle position. Pretty much impossible when you’re all strapped down.

  I see perfectly in the dark, and it took only a split second to register the familiar hulking bad news leaning over my bed.

  “Ari!” I whispered almost silently.

  “Hi, Max,” Ari said, and for the first time in a long time, he didn’t look that mental. I mean, every time I’d seen this poor screwup in the last couple months, he’d looked more and more as if he were standing on the edge of insanity with one foot on a banana peel.

  But now he looked—well, not anything close to normal, but at least all the frothing at the mouth had stopped.

  I waited for the first volley of venom.

  But Ari had no snide remarks, no taunts, no threats. Instead he undid one of my arms, then pulled it down and strapped it to the arm of a wheelchair.

  Hmm. Could I still fly if I was strapped into a wheelchair? I thought maybe I could. I guessed we would find out. In fact, if I could get some serious speed going on this thing, it might lend a significant boost to an exciting takeoff.

  I sat down in the chair, and Ari strapped my ankle to the post by the front wheel. Just as I was tensing to make a break, he whispered, “They made this chair with lead bars. It weighs about a hundred an’ seventy-five pounds.”

  Crap. Even though I was really tall for my age, I weighed barely a hundred pounds because of all the avian modifications to my bones and stuff. And the fact that I could almost never get enough food. So even though I was really, really strong, there was no way I could get a wheelchair that heavy off the ground.

  I looked at Ari with loathing. “What now, big guy? You taking me to your leader?”

  He didn’t rise to the bait. “Just thought I’d show you around a bit, that’s all, Max.”

  44

  “Gosh, a guided tour, from you? Now I know I’m dreaming,” I quipped. But then a thought occurred to me. “They told me all the Erasers had been
retired. And if I wasn’t strapped down, I’d make air quotes around retired.”

  Ari looked sad. “Yeah. I’m the last one. They...killed all the others.”

  For some reason his quiet, sad confirmation of that terrible fact made my blood run cold. Despite what a walking chigger bite he was, there were still times when I could almost see the little kid he’d once been. They’d altered him when he was already three years old, and his results had been less than stellar, poor guy.

  Oh, yeah, poor guy who tried to kill me a bunch of times. My eyes narrowed.

  “The flock is supposed to be wiped out too,” I said. “Am I the first to go? Is that why you came to get me?”

  He shook his head. “I just have permission to take you around. I know you guys are supposed to be retired, but I don’t know when.”

  I got an idea. “Listen, Ari,” I said, trying for a cajoling tone. Since snarling or threatening comes much more naturally to me, I wasn’t sure how successful I was. “Maybe all of us should bust out of here together. I don’t know what Jeb’s told you, but you might be on the endangered list too.”

  I was about to go on, but he interrupted me.

  “I know I am,” he said, still very quietly. He pushed the wheelchair through the doorway, and we were in a long hall lit by fluorescent lights and tiled with the ever-popular linoleum squares. Suddenly he knelt down and pulled his shirt collar away from his neck.

  I recoiled, but he said, “Look—I have an expiration date. We all do.”

  Totally grossed out but morbidly curious, I leaned forward. On the back of Ari’s neck was a tattoolike line of numbers. It was a date. The year was this year, and I thought the month was this month, but I wasn’t sure. Funny how time drags when you’re being held captive.

  I thought, Eew. Then, Poor Ari. Then, This might be another trick, another way for them to yank my chain.

  “What do you mean, we all do?” I asked suspiciously.

  His eyes, looking like the familiar kid-Ari eyes, met mine. “All of us experiments have built-in expiration dates. When someone’s time is pretty close, it shows up on the back of their neck. Mine showed up a couple days ago. So my time is soon.”