She could eat them and then she would feel worse.
If she started, she wouldn’t stop. If she started eating when she felt like this, she wouldn’t stop until the shame became so great, she would force herself to vomit it all back up.
Mary had suffered from bulimia since she was ten. Binge eating followed by purging, again and again in a quickening cycle of diminishing returns that had left her forty pounds overweight at one point, and her teeth rough and discolored from the stomach acid.
She’d been clever enough to conceal it for a long time, but her parents had found out eventually. Then had come therapists and a special camp and when none of that really helped, medication. Speaking of which, Mary reminded herself, she needed to get the bottle from her medicine cabinet.
She was better now with the Prozac. Her eating was under control. She didn’t purge anymore. She had lost some of the extra weight.
But why not eat now? Why not?
The cold air of the freezer wafted over her. The ice cream, the chocolate, there it was. It wouldn’t hurt. Not just once. Not now when she was scared to death and alone and so tired.
Just one DoveBar.
She pulled it out of the box and with fumbling, anxious fingers tore open the wrapper. It was in her mouth in a flash, so good, so cold, the chocolate slick and greasy as it melted on her tongue. The crunch of the shell as she bit into it, the soft luscious vanilla ice cream inside.
She ate it all. She ate like a wolf.
Mary grabbed the Ben & Jerry’s, and now she was beginning to cry again as she put it into the microwave and softened it for twenty seconds. She wanted it runny, she wanted it to be like cold chocolate soup. She wanted to slurp it down.
The microwave dinged.
She grabbed a spoon, a big one, a soup spoon. She pried the lid from the ice cream and half spooned, half poured the pint of rich chocolate down her throat, barely tasting it in her eagerness.
She was weeping and eating, licking her hands, shaking the spoon.
She licked the lid.
Enough, she told herself.
She pulled out two large plastic garbage bags, the big black ones. Systematically she filled one with anything she could feed to the children: saltines, peanut butter, honey, Rice Chex, Nutri-Grain bars, cashews.
The second bag she carried upstairs. She piled in pillowcases and sheets, toilet paper, towels—especially towels because they could be substituted for diapers.
She found the bottle of Prozac. She opened it and tipped it into her hand. The pills were green and orange, oblong. She popped one and swallowed it by cupping water from the faucet with her hand.
There were only two pills left.
She dragged the two bags to the front door.
Then she went back upstairs to her bathroom. She carefully locked the door behind her.
She knelt in front of the toilet, raised the lid, and stuck her finger down her throat until the gag reflex forced the food from her stomach.
When she was done she brushed her teeth. She went back downstairs. Took hold of the bags and began dragging them to the day care.
“I’m guessing Little Pete can’t balance on bike handlebars,” Sam said to Astrid.
“No, he can’t,” Astrid confirmed.
“Okay, then, we’ll be on foot. It’s what, like, four o’clock? Maybe we better stay here the night, start out in the morning.” Self-conscious about Quinn’s earlier complaints, Sam said, “What do you think, Quinn? Stay or go for it?”
Quinn shrugged. “I’m beat. Besides, they have a candy machine.”
The plant manager’s office had a couch, which Astrid could share with Little Pete. She offered a still-stiff Edilio the back cushions.
Sam and Quinn searched the facility until they happened upon the infirmary. There were gurneys there, hospital beds on wheels.
Quinn laughed. “Surf’s up, brah.”
Sam hesitated. But then Quinn took off running, got the gurney up to speed, jumped aboard, and even managed to stand up before slamming into a wall.
“Okay,” Sam said. “I can do that.”
They had a few minutes of gurney surfing through the abandoned hallways. And Sam discovered he could still laugh. It seemed like a million years since Sam had surfed with Quinn. A million years.
Sam and Quinn parked their gurneys in the control room. None of them really understood any of the controls, but it felt like the place to be.
They found that Edilio had rounded up five radiation suits, almost like space suits, each with a hood, a gas mask, and a small oxygen bottle.
“Nice, Edilio,” Quinn said. “Just in case?”
Edilio looked uncomfortable. “Yeah, just in case.”
When Quinn smirked, Edilio said, “You don’t think all that has happened is because of this place? Look at that map, man. Red bull’s-eye that just happens to go right where the barrier goes? Maybe that Howard guy had it right, you know? Fallout Alley Youth Zone? It’s a pretty big coincidence.”
Astrid, weary, said, “Radiation doesn’t cause barriers to appear or people to disappear.”
“It’s deadly stuff, right?” Edilio pressed.
Quinn sighed and pushed his gurney toward a dark corner, bored by the discussion. Sam waited to hear Astrid’s answer.
“Radiation can kill you,” Astrid agreed. “It can kill you quickly, it can kill you slowly, it can give you cancer, it can just make you sick, or it can do nothing. And it can cause mutations.”
“Mutation like a seagull that suddenly has a hawk’s talons?” Edilio asked pointedly.
“Yes, but only over a long, long time. Not overnight.” She stood up and took Little Pete’s hand. “I have to get him to bed.” Over her shoulder she said, “Don’t worry, you won’t mutate in the night, Edilio.”
Sam stretched out on his gurney. The control room had muted lighting that went almost but not quite to dark once Astrid found the switches. The computer monitors and the LCD readouts glowed.
Sam might have chosen to leave more of the lights on. He doubted he would be able to sleep.
He lay remembering the last time he’d gone surfing with Quinn. Day after Halloween. It had only been early November sun, but in memory it was very bright, every rock and pebble and sand crab outlined in gold. In his memory the waves were wondrous, almost living things, blue and green and white, calling to him, challenging him to leave his worries behind and come out and play.
Then the scene shifted and his mother was at the top of the cliff, smiling and waving down to him. He remembered that day. She was almost always asleep during the morning hours when he surfed. But this day she came to watch.
She’d been wearing her blue and white flowery wraparound skirt and a white blouse. Her hair, much lighter than his own, blew in the stiff breeze, and she seemed frail and vulnerable up there. He wanted to yell to her to step back from the edge.
But she couldn’t hear him.
He yelled up to her, but she couldn’t hear him.
He woke suddenly from the memory that had become a dream. There were no windows, no way to see if it was day or night outside. But no one else was awake.
He slid off the gurney and stood up, careful to make no sound. One by one he checked on the others. Quinn silent for once, no sleep-talking; Edilio snoring on the cushions Astrid had given him; Astrid curled on one end of the couch in the office; and Little Pete asleep at the other end.
Their second night without parents. That first night in a hotel, and now here, in this nuclear power plant.
Where tomorrow night?
Sam did not want to go back to living in his home. He wanted his mother back, but not their home.
On the desk in the plant manager’s office Sam spotted an iPod. He wasn’t optimistic about the musical taste of the manager, who, judging by the family photo on his desk, was about sixty years old. But he didn’t think he could go back to sleep.
He crept as silently as he could across the office, almost brushing Astrid’s hand. Around the desk, s
hifting the chair ever so slightly, leaning carefully away from a shelf of trophies—golf, mostly.
A sudden movement at his feet, a rat. He jumped back and slammed into the glass-shelf trophy display.
There was a tremendous crash.
Little Pete’s eyes flew open.
“Sorry,” Sam said, but before he could speak another syllable, Little Pete began to screech. It was a primitive sound. An earsplitting, insistent, repetitive, panicky baboon sound.
“It’s okay,” Sam said. “It’s—”
His throat seized and choked off any sound. He couldn’t speak.
He couldn’t breathe.
Sam clutched at his throat. He felt invisible hands wrapped around his neck, steel fingers choking off his air. He slapped and pried at the fingers, and all the while Little Pete screeched and flapped his arms like a bird trying to fly.
Little Pete shrieked.
Edilio and Quinn were up and running.
Sam felt blood in his eyes, darkening his vision. His heart pounded. His lungs convulsed, sucking on nothing.
“Petey, Petey, it’s all right,” Astrid said, soothing her brother, stroking his head, cuddling him against her. Her eyes were desperate with fear. “Window seat, Petey. Window seat, window seat, window seat.”
Sam staggered into the desk.
Astrid fumbled for Little Pete’s Game Boy. She turned it on.
“What’s happening?” Quinn yelled.
“He heard a loud noise,” Astrid yelled. “It startled him. When he’s scared, he freaks. It’s okay, Petey, it’s okay, I’m here. Here’s your game.”
Sam wanted to yell that it was not okay, that he was choking, but he couldn’t make a sound. His head was swimming.
“Hey, Sam, what are you doing?” Quinn demanded.
“He’s choking!” Edilio said.
“Can’t you shut that stupid kid up?” Quinn yelled.
“He won’t stop until everyone is calm,” Astrid said through gritted teeth. “Window seat, Petey, go to your window seat.”
Sam fell to one knee.
This was crazy.
He was going to die.
Fear took hold of him.
His world was going black.
His hands, palm out, pushed at nothing.
Suddenly there was a brilliant flash of light.
It was as if a small star had gone supernova in the plant manager’s office.
Sam fell, unconscious.
He was conscious again ten seconds later, on his back, the scared faces of Quinn and Edilio staring down at him.
Little Pete was silent. His too-pretty eyes were glued to his video game.
“Is he alive?” Quinn asked in a faraway voice.
Sam breathed in, sharp and sudden. Then another breath.
“I’m okay,” he rasped.
“Is he okay?” Astrid asked in a voice edged with panic, but controlled to avoid setting Little Pete off again.
“Where did that light come from?” Edilio demanded. “Did you guys see that?”
“Dude: they saw that on the moon.” Quinn’s eyes were wide.
“We are out of this place,” Edilio said.
“Where can we—” Astrid said.
Edilio cut her off. “I don’t care. Out of this place.”
“You got that right,” Quinn said. He reached down and yanked Sam to his feet.
Sam’s head was still spinning, his legs wobbly. No point in resisting, the panic was in every face around him. This wasn’t the time to argue or explain.
He didn’t trust himself to speak, just pointed toward the door and nodded.
They ran.
THIRTEEN
258 HOURS, 59 MINUTES
THEY TOOK NOTHING with them, just ran, with Quinn in the lead and Edilio bunched with Astrid and Little Pete, and Sam woozing along behind.
They ran until they were past the main gate. They stopped, panting, bent over, resting hands on knees. It was very dark. The power plant seemed even more of a living, breathing thing at night. It was illuminated by a hundred spotlights, which just made the hills looming above them darker.
“Okay, what was that?” Quinn demanded to know. “What was that?”
“Petey just panicked,” Astrid said.
“Yeah, I get that part,” Quinn said. “What about that light that went off?”
“I don’t know,” Sam managed to rasp.
“What were you choking on, brah?”
“I was just choking,” Sam said.
“Just choking? Just choking on air?”
“I don’t know, maybe…maybe I was sleepwalking or something and grabbed something to eat and choked on it.” It was weak, and Quinn’s disbelieving look, mirrored by Edilio, said they weren’t buying it.
“That’s probably it,” Astrid said.
It was so unexpected, even Sam couldn’t hide a look of surprise.
“What else could have caused him to choke?” Astrid asked. “And the light must have been some internal alarm system going off.”
“No offense, Astrid, but no way,” Edilio said. He put his hands on his hips, squared himself up to Sam, and said, “Man, it’s time you started telling us the truth. I respect you, man. But how am I going to respect you if you lie to me?”
Sam was caught off guard. It was the first time he, or any of them, had seen Edilio angry.
“What do you mean?” Sam stalled.
“There’s something going on, man, and it’s about you, all right?” Edilio said. “That light just now? I saw that light before. I saw it just before I pulled you out that window from that burning building.”
Quinn’s head snapped around. “What? What are you saying?”
Edilio said, “The wall and the disappearing people, that’s not all of it. There’s some other strange thing going on. Something is going on with you, Sam. And Astrid too, since she was pretty quick to try to cover for you just now.”
Sam was surprised to realize that Edilio was right: Astrid knew something, too. He wasn’t the only one keeping secrets. He felt a wave of relief. He didn’t have to be alone on this.
“Okay.” Sam took a deep breath and tried to organize his thoughts before he started blurting it all out.
“First, I don’t know what it is, all right?” Sam said quietly. “I don’t know where it comes from. I don’t know how it happens. I don’t know anything about it except that sometimes…it’s this…there’s this light.”
“What are you talking about, brah?” Quinn demanded.
Sam held up his hands, turning his palms toward his friend. “I can…Dude, I know it sounds like I’m crazy, but sometimes this light just comes shooting out of my hands.”
Quinn barked a laugh. “No, man, that doesn’t sound crazy. Crazy is you saying you’re better than me at riding a curl. This is mentally ill. This is off the hook. Let me see you do it.”
“I don’t know how,” Sam confessed. “It’s happened four times, but I can’t just make it happen.”
“Four times you shot lasers out of your hands.” Quinn was on the line between laughing and yelling. “I’ve known you, like, half your life, and now you’re the Green Lantern? Right.”
“It’s true,” Astrid said.
“Bull. If it’s true, then do it. Show me.”
Sam said, “I’m trying to tell you, it only happens when I’m panicked or whatever. I don’t make it happen, it just happens.”
Edilio said, “Just now you said four times. I saw the flash at the fire. I saw it just now. What’s the other two times?”
“The time before was at my house. It made…I mean, I made…this light. Like a lightbulb kind of. It was dark. I had a nightmare.” He met Astrid’s steady gaze and suddenly a different lightbulb went off. “You saw it,” he accused her. “You saw the light in my room. You’ve known all along.”
“Yes,” Astrid admitted. “I’ve known since that first day. And I’ve known about Petey for longer.”
Edilio still wanted the basics l
aid out. “The fire, here, this lightbulb thing, that’s three.”
“First time was Tom,” Sam said. The name meant nothing to Edilio, but it did to Quinn.
“Your stepfather?” Quinn demanded sharply. “Ex-stepfather, I mean.”
“Yeah.”
Quinn was staring hard at Sam. “Brah, you aren’t saying what you sound like you’re saying, right?”
“I thought he was trying to hurt my mom,” Sam said. “I thought…I was asleep, I woke up, I come down the stairs, they’re both in the kitchen yelling, I see Tom with a knife, and there’s this flash of light shooting out of my hands.”
Sam felt tears stinging his eyes. It surprised him. He didn’t feel sad. If anything, he felt relieved. He hadn’t told anyone about this before. This was a weight coming off his shoulders. But at the same time, he registered the way Quinn drew back a step, putting distance between them.
“My mom knew, of course. She covered at the emergency room. Tom was yelling that I had shot him. The doctors saw a burn, so they knew it wasn’t a gunshot. My mom told some lie about Tom falling against the stove.”
“She had to choose between protecting you or supporting her husband,” Astrid said.
“Yeah. And Tom realized, once the pain was under control, he realized he would end up in the psychiatric ward if he kept talking about his stepson shooting beams of light at him.”
“You burned your stepfather’s hand off?” Quinn asked, his tone shrill.
“Whoa, back up. Did what?” Edilio demanded. It was his turn to be surprised.
Quinn said, “His stepfather ended up with a hook, man. They had to cut his hand off, like, right here.” He made a chopping motion on his forearm. “I saw him, like, a week ago, over in San Luis. He’s got one of those hooks now, you know, with, like, two pincers or whatever? He was buying cigarettes and handing the clerk money with his hook.” He pantomimed it, using two fingers for the pincers of the prosthetic arm.
“So you’re some kind of freak?” Quinn asked. He still seemed undecided whether he was mad or found it funny.
“I’m not the only one,” Sam said defensively. “That girl in the fire. I think she started that fire. When she saw me, she panicked. It was like liquid fire came out of her hands.”