I aimed down at the stage, and the girl caught sight of me. “Look, everyone!” she shouted into the microphone. “That’s the future of the human race! Enhanced is where it’s at! That’s the promise of the One Light!”
The crowd cheered and applauded for my enhanced self.
I continued flying at full speed, and the girl’s expression went from delight to confusion to concern in a matter of seconds as I streaked toward her. I buzzed her close enough to mess up her hair, then grabbed the cordless mic out of her hand.
“Everyone! There are bombs under this plaza!” I shouted with no preamble. “You have minutes, maybe seconds to save yourselves! Everyone get out of here as fast as possible! There are bombs and poison gas under the plaza!”
I glanced at the girl. Where I’d expected to see outrage, anger, excuses thrown out at the audience to keep them there, there was… nothing. Just smiling, serene, calm. She’d known about the impending disaster awaiting the crowd, awaiting her, and she’d just accepted it.
Her tranquil smile tore at my heart like long, icy fingers. It was terrifying.
Scanning the faces of the crowd was even worse. I’d banked on screaming people swarming the exits like frightened cattle, knocking down the metal barricades. Or at the very least, some vague murmurs of alarm. Instead, they were nodding at me like puppets on strings, smiles painted into place.
The icy feeling within me was growing. They wanted to die. Every last one of them.
“This is a trap!” I bellowed at them, frantic. “There are bombs under this plaza! Bombs and poison gas! Don’t you get it? Get out of here! Scram! Save yourselves!”
“Save the planet! Kill the humans!” they chanted. “Support the future of enhanced society!”
Dylan swooped beside me and grabbed the microphone. “How are you going to get enhanced if you’re all blown up into little pieces?” he yelled.
They actually cheered.
Every ounce of energy seemed to leak out of me, and I felt like giving up right then. If everyone wanted to go up in one big firework, who was I to snuff out the spark? But then I glanced over and saw the determined look on Dylan’s face as Nudge and Iggy dropped onstage for backup, and I remembered who I was and what I was here for.
These freaks might have thought they were saving the world, but that was my job, and they were going to play by my rules. Which didn’t involve any of that “Kill the Humans” crap.
Fight time!
74
THEN A SORT of riot broke out, but it wasn’t the outraged, we-don’t-want-to-die kind we’d hoped for. A bunch of the One Lighters jumped onstage and made a beeline for us, mumbling about “merging with the promise of enhancement.”
Truly horrific.
Nudge and Iggy were going all Fight Club on some of the DG guards, who were heavily muscled, as if they’d already received enhancements. But it wasn’t those dudes that were giving them trouble. My flock were pros. A roundhouse kick here, a karate chop there, and the guards were toast. It really was just like riding a bicycle.
No, it was the kids—the culties—who were the real problem. Picture Michael Jackson in that “Thriller” video, surrounded by flesh-craving zombies closing in. That was us, but our dead-eyed suicidal zombies all had angelic grins pasted on their faces as they pawed at our wings. It was like they wanted to claim us. Ick.
The mob was a living, breathing sponge, hundreds of kids deep. And after spending my developmental years in a cage… Claustrophobia? I has it. They were clutching at us, pulling on our feathers, touching our arms and our faces. How do you fight a swarm of sickos who want to die and don’t mind taking you with them?
And all this while the countdown to D-day continued.
I was panicking, really panicking, for the first time in… at least a few days. And as I glanced around, the overwhelmed faces of Dylan, Iggy, and Nudge were not the least bit reassuring.
Right on cue, Maya showed up, gang in tow. They were able to rip through the crowd, in part because at first the culties didn’t seem to understand that the gang was enhanced as well.
Kate grabbed armfuls of Doomsday kids, four or five at a time, and hurled them out the exits. When she’d cleared a pathway through the crowd for us, she picked up two huge, lumbering guards and swung them upside down by their feet, one in each hand, while Nudge boxed their noses, dodging the rush of blood. With space cleared, we could use our wings again and attack from above.
Meanwhile, Ratchet seemed to sense every attacker coming his way, and, on top of that, seemed to be kicking it at some old-fashioned hand-to-hand combat. He had teamed up with Iggy, who was a natural spinning, whirling dealer of pain as he punched, kicked, and chopped his way through an onslaught of guards. They both looked pretty happy.
And Star, the blond girl, had hit on the biggest jackpot of all, sort of by accident. She was using her hummingbird speed to flit in circles around the guards, who looked so dizzy and confused that it was almost kind of pathetic.
But the key thing was that when she was zipping around, she was making this high-pitched noise—a supersped-up “Aiiyah!”—that seemed to crack the Doomsday code of brainwashing. The kids were covering their ears, but that sound, and some common sense, was getting through. Star had done for these kids in ten seconds what it had taken Angel hours of mind-coaxing to accomplish: They were… snapping out of it. And running for the exits.
Huh. Wish we’d figured that out sooner!
With the mob no longer singing Killmas carols, maybe we could wrap up this little party and make sure Gazzy and Angel were safe. Though with Fang there, of course they were. He wouldn’t have left them—
Right then, Ratchet signaled to us, and Dylan spied something I couldn’t quite see off to the side of the stage. His face twisted with rage as he pushed me out of the way.
“Look—” he started to say, then suddenly his voice cut out, and I saw him spin like a top. Blood started flowing to the ground, spurting like drops of rain.
75
“DYLAN!” I SCREAMED. I knelt down beside him, feeling pukey and fuzzy and like the wind had been knocked out of me. He was holding his arm (sigh of relief) tight, grimacing. Blood leaked out through his fingers.
“It’s fine,” Dylan said tersely. “Bullet went right through—bone seems okay.”
I didn’t even have a second to give him my best I’m-really-glad-you-didn’t-just-die-because-I-kind-of-like-you-more-than-I-thought look though, because—
“Max, watch out!” Dylan shouted and shoved me. Stage right, an older man with wild hair and plastic-like skin was firing a gun at us.
“Mark, no!” shouted Beth, the Queen of the Cult. Big of her.
The guy pushed the girl aside and aimed, and I dodged a bullet that came close enough to nick my feathers. I tried to drag Dylan out of the way, but the guy was still popping off as many shots as he could.
“Max, go! Don’t protect me!” Dylan yelled. “Go!”
Then, Holden, the little Fang gang kid, came out of nowhere with an apparent death wish. He raced directly toward the maniac with the gun shrieking something that sounded like “I am Starfishhh!”
Holden looked like Swiss cheese for a second as Mark used up the last of his ammo, but the holes on the kid’s arms closed up in seconds flat. This little daredevil had some serious chops, and by now most of the flock and the gang were closing in. The gunman, looking more than a little freaked out, ran offstage like a five-year-old girl.