Lies: A Gone Novel (18 page)

THE BOAT CHUGGED
away from Perdido Beach.

There were only seven of them now. Caine. Diana. Penny. Tyrell. Jasmine. Bug. And Paint. Paint had gotten his nickname from huffing paint out of a sock. His mouth was invariably whatever color of paint he'd found most recently. It was red at the moment, Caine noted. Like Paint had gone vampire.

Of the seven, only two had useful powers: Penny and Bug. Diana still had the ability to gauge powers accurately, but how useful would that be?

The other three were here only because they'd had the good luck not to be in the Zodiac. Although maybe that was bad luck: those who had fallen in at the marina were probably being fed by Sam's people.

“Where we going, man?” Paint asked for about the tenth time since they'd set out.

“Bug's island,” Caine said. He was feeling patient. He'd
gotten this far, proven that he could still hurt Sam, proven that he could still carry out a plan. As weak as he was, he had succeeded in moving himself and his followers from Coates right through the heart of enemy country.

The motor chugged reassuringly. The tiller vibrated in Caine's hand. A memory of the long ago world filled with machines and electronics and food.

It was cramped in the boat. It wasn't much of a craft. A bass boat, shallow-draft, flat-bottomed, low sided. Dirty white fiberglass. Or maybe it was aluminum. Caine didn't care.

There were three life jackets on the boat, just three. Tyrell, Bug, and Penny had them on, strapped with varying degrees of effectiveness. A lifeboat full of starved refugees.

Diana didn't take a life jacket. Caine knew why. She didn't care anymore whether she lived. It had been hours since she had spoken.

It was as if Diana had finally given up. Caine could look at her openly now without having to pretend he wasn't. She would no longer lash out with some mean-funny remark.

She was the wreck of Diana. She was what was left if you took Diana's beauty and wit and toughness away. A crispy-haired, trembling, sullen, sallow-fleshed skeleton.

“I see more than one island,” Penny commented.

“Yeah,” Caine said.

“Which one is it?”

Not a time to admit that he didn't know. And a bad time, probably, to admit that if they guessed wrong and managed to climb off onto the wrong island they'd probably die there.
Not enough strength left in any of them to go island hopping.

“There's food there?” Tyrrell asked hopefully.

“Yes,” Caine said.

“It's like these totally rich people, these actors,” Bug said. A voice from a faint shadow of a boy sitting in the bow.

“Is there enough gas to get there?” Tyrrell asked.

“I guess we'll find out,” Caine said.

“What if we run out?” Paint asked. “I mean, what do we do if we run out of gas?”

Caine was tired now of playing the confident leader. “We'll float around helpless and die out here on the deep blue sea,” he said.

That shut everyone up. Everyone knew what would happen before they just let themselves starve out here, becalmed.

“You saw him,” Diana said to Caine. She didn't even have enough energy to look at him.

He could lie. But what was the point? “Yes,” Caine said. “I saw him.”

“He's not dead,” Diana said.

“I guess not.”

He deeply disliked the idea that Drake might be alive. Not just because Drake would blame Caine for his death. Not just because Drake would never forgive, never forget, never stop.

Caine hated the idea of Drake alive because he really hoped that death at least was real. He could face dying, if he had to. He could not face dying and then living again.

Jasmine stood up, shaky.

Caine glanced at her, indifferent really, but hoping she wouldn't capsize the boat.

Without a word, Jasmine toppled over the side. She hit the water with a splash.

“Hey,” Diana said wanly.

Caine kept his hand on the tiller. Jasmine did not surface. A white lace doily of disturbed water marked where she had sunk gratefully into the deep.

And then there were six, Caine thought dully.

 

Hank dead.

Antoine gone, lost somewhere in the madness, maybe dead too, as bad as he was hurt.

Zil sat trembling. Home in his stupid little compound, with his stupid little girlfriend, Lisa, staring at him like a cow, with stupid Turk mumbling in the corner, trying to make up some kind of explanation of how all this was really a good thing.

Sam would come for him now. Zil was sure of that. Sam would come for him. The freaks would triumph. If they could kill Hank and maybe Antoine, too, oh God, then it was just a matter of time.

Caine could just as easily have smashed Zil himself into the water that way. If Zil had been the one shooting, Caine would have killed him as easily as he did Hank. Him! The Leader!

It wasn't in the plan. Zil was supposed to use the confusion of the fire to rally as many normals as he could and take over
town hall. Make Astrid a prisoner, hold her as a hostage so Sam wouldn't…

A stupid plan. Caine's plan. How was he ever going to rally kids in all that chaos? In all the smoke and panic and confusion, with Sam blasting Antoine and then Hank.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

And then, attacking Caine to make it look good. Stupider, still. He couldn't fight the freaks head-on.

Zil could still see the look on Hank's face as he soared into the air. The scream that tore his throat as he came hurtling back down. The stretched-out quality of time as they waited for Hank to come back up, knowing he wouldn't. Knowing that there was no way to survive that fall.

Like diving off a building into a cereal bowl of water, Lance had said. Hank was deep in the submarine mud. And it could have been Zil. It could have been him with his head buried in wet mud, maybe still alive for just long enough to try to take a breath…

“Good thing is, kids will totally believe us now,” Turk was saying as he chewed his fingernails.

“What?” Zil snapped.

“With Hank killed by Caine,” Turk explained. “I mean, no one's going to think we had a deal with Caine.”

Zil nodded absently.

“That's true,” Lance said. He didn't quite grin, but almost. And for a second Zil saw something different in Lance. Something that didn't match his handsome face and cool demeanor.

“Maybe we should just stop it.”

Lisa. Zil was surprised to hear the sound of her voice. She didn't usually say anything. Mostly she just sat there like a bump on a log. Like a stupid cow. Mostly he hated her, and right now he hated her a lot, because she was seeing the truth, that Zil had lost.

“Just stop what?” Lance asked. He clearly didn't like Lisa, either. Zil knew one thing for sure: Lisa wasn't pretty enough that Lance would ever be interested in her. No, she was just the best Zil could get. At least, so far.

“I mean…,” Lisa began, but she ended with a shrug and fell silent again.

“The thing we need to do,” Turk said, “is keep telling people how it was all Caine. We keep telling people Caine burned the town.”

“Yes,” Zil said without conviction. He dropped his head and looked down at the floor, the dirty, ratty rug. “The freaks.”

“Right,” Turk said.

“It was the freaks,” Lance said. “I mean, it
was
. Who pushed us into it? Caine.”

“Exactly,” Turk said.

“We need some more people, is all,” Lance said. “I mean, Antoine was mostly just a stupid druggie. But Hank…”

Zil lifted his head. Maybe there was still hope. He nodded at Lance. “Yeah. That's it. We need more kids.”

“If kids know we were trying to stop Caine, we'll get plenty more kids,” Turk said.

Lance smiled faintly. “We tried to stop Caine burning down the town.”

“Hank died trying,” Zil said.

He said it. And he knew that Turk already half believed it. In fact, he half believed it himself.

“Lance, kids will listen to you. You and Turk, the two of you, and you too, Lisa: Go out there. Spread the word.”

No one moved.

“You have to do what I say,” Zil said, trying to sound strong, not like he was pleading. “I'm the Leader.”

“Yeah,” Turk agreed. “Only…I mean, kids may not believe us.”

“Are you scared?” Zil demanded.

“I'm not,” Lisa said. “I'll do it. I'll go around and tell all our friends the truth.”

Zil peered suspiciously at her. Why was she being brave all of a sudden?

“Cool, Lisa,” he said. “I mean, that would be heroic.”

Lance sighed. “I guess if she can do it, so can I.”

Only Turk kept his seat. He glanced furtively at Zil. “Someone better stay here to protect you, Leader.”

Zil laughed mirthlessly. “Yeah, if Sam comes I'm sure you'll stop him, Turk.”

 

“It's the tribulation,” Nerezza said.

Orsay didn't say anything. She'd heard that word before. Had she actually used it herself?

As if she'd guessed, Nerezza explained. “Tribulation. A
time of trouble. When people look for a prophet to tell them what to do. You prophesied that this would happen.”

“Did I? I don't remember.” Her memory was a cramped attic full of broken toys and damaged furniture. It was getting harder and harder to be sure where she was. Or when. And she had given up asking why.

They stood on the edge of the burned area, in the middle of Sheridan. The destruction was awful and eerie in the morning light. Smoke still rose from a dozen or more houses. Tongues of flame could still be seen here and there, peeking out from charred windows.

Some houses stood untouched, surrounded by devastation. Like they'd been spared by divine intervention. Some houses were only half burned. Some, you could tell, had been gutted but the exteriors seemed almost intact, aside from soot stain around blackened windows.

A house close by had only its roof gone, burned and fallen in. The cheerful green-painted siding was barely soot smudged, but the top of the house was gone, just a few blackened sticks poking up at the sky. Peering in the windows Orsay could see what was left of roof tiles and timbers, jumbled and black. Like someone had come along, ripped the roof off and used the house as a trash can to dump ashes.

On the other side of the street a different sort of devastation. It looked as if a tornado had come through and shoved an entire street's worth of houses off their foundations.

“I don't know what to do,” Orsay said. “How would I tell anyone else?”

“It's a judgment,” Nerezza said. “You can see that. Everyone can see it. It's a judgment. A tribulation sent to remind people that they aren't doing right.”

“But…”

“What have your dreams told you, Prophetess?”

Orsay knew what her dreams had told her. Dreams of all those on the outside, all those who saw a girl named Orsay walking inside their sleeping minds. The girl who carried messages to their children and in return showed the parents startling visions of life inside the FAYZ. Visions of their children trapped and burning.

Trapped and dying.

Yes, the dreams of all those good people were anguished, knowing what was happening inside. And they were so frustrated, because they knew—those good people, those grown-ups, those parents—that there
was
a way out for their terrified children.

Orsay's dreams had shown her that. They had shown her that Francis had emerged safe and sound, welcomed by his parents with tears of gratitude after he took the poof.

That had made Orsay happy. Taking the poof when you reached fifteen let you go free of the FAYZ. It was something she could look forward to herself. Escape, when the time came.

But lately there were different images. These came to her not at the FAYZ wall, not even when she was asleep. They weren't dreams, exactly. Visions. Revelations. They snuck in behind other thoughts. Like burglars creeping inside her brain.

She felt she no longer had any control over what happened inside her head. Like she'd left a door unlocked and now there was no holding back a flood of dreams, visions, vague terrible imaginings.

These new visions showed her not just those who had escaped the FAYZ by reaching the magic age. These new images were of children who had died. And yet, who now held their mothers tight on the outside.

She had seen images of those who had perished last night in the fire. Agony followed by death followed by escape into the loving arms of their parents.

Even Hank. Hank's father, not there waiting at the Dome, but notified by the California Highway Patrol. They'd called him on the phone. Reached him at a bowling alley in Irvine where he was drinking draft beer and flirting with the bartender. He'd had to press one hand over his ear to hear over the sound of rolling balls and crashing pins.

“What?”

“Your son, Hank. He's out!” the CHP had said.

Orsay saw the images, knew what they meant, and felt sick inside from knowing.

“What are your dreams telling you, Prophetess?” Nerezza pressed.

But Orsay couldn't tell her. She couldn't tell her that death itself, not just the poof, not just the big fifteen, was a way out.

Oh, God. If she told people that…

“Tell me,” Nerezza urged. “I know your powers are growing. I know you are seeing more than ever before.”

Nerezza's face was close to Orsay's. Her arm squeezed Orsay's arm. Nerezza pressed Orsay with all the force of her will. Orsay could feel it—that will, that need, that hunger—pushing her.

“Nothing,” Orsay whispered.

Nerezza drew back. For a moment a snarl flashed on her face. Like an animal.

Nerezza glared at her. Then, with a will, she softened her expression. “You're the Prophetess, Orsay,” she said.

“I don't feel well,” Orsay said. “I want to go home.”

“The dreams,” Nerezza said. “They don't let you sleep very well, do they? Yes, you should get back to your bed.”