“Don’t be dark. That’s my job. And may I remind you that somewhere in the world are two halves of my drumstick. I would will them to you, but you’re gonna die, too, so I need a realistic backup plan.”
Whit arrives with a piece of canvas just large enough to wrap a corpse in. “Found this,” he says, throwing it around me. “It’s not much, but —”
“If it’ll delay hypothermia for even five minutes, I’ll take it. Thanks,” I say, holding out a corner so he can slip in next to me. “So, you ready to write?”
Whit looks at me with a surprisingly even gaze, no trace of Celia madness in his eyes, thank God. I need his sanity now. “Sure thing, Wisty.”
He pulls out his journal and a pen, and I clear my throat dramatically. “I, Wisteria Rose Allgood, hereby declare my Last Will and Testament.”
Chapter 65
Wisty
I PAUSE AND LOOK at the falling snow, beautiful in kind of a fake way, and remember that time when nothing scared me. And now I’m not scared anymore of what’s going to happen. I’m at peace.
“First of all, let it be known to the world—and to the Curves and Half-lights and Lost Ones and even the New Order zombies—that I’m a witch and proud of it.
“All of my powers, whatever they are, I hereby bequeath to my dearly beloved brother, Whitford P. Allgood, for as long as he gets to live. No one else. Period. I’d rather have a Lost One dismember me limb by limb than to have my powers extracted for the New Order.”
“Aw, shucks, Sis,” Whit says with mock modesty.
“I leave my drumstick, should it ever be found, to my mother. If no Allgoods survive me”—I shiver a little—“I leave it to Mrs. Highsmith. Rock on, very cool lady. Next, I leave my wig to Janine. You don’t have a clue how beautiful you are, girl. I used to kind of gag on your crush on Whit —”
“Do I really need to write that?” Whit breaks in.
“Every word.”
“Then slow down.”
“Okay. So, Janine. After the part about gagging, write: Now I dream of you two getting married and having lots of little rebel babies together.” Whit rolls his eyes. “Further, I leave my electric guitar to —”
“Wait a minute. You don’t have an elec —”
“Shut up. Let me dream for a minute, okay?”
Whit nods.
“I leave my electric guitar to Sasha. I forgive you for lying to me ’cause now I really do understand why you did it. There’s nothing more important than fighting these arrogant and obnoxious N.O. fiends. I’m sorry if I let you down in the end.”
I’m feeling the melted snow seeping through my saturated sneakers now. Black toes, here I come. I curl them tightly back, as far away from the wet chill as possible.
“And Emmet. Man, I miss you already. You make everything better just by smiling. I wish I could leave you everything you deserve. A new world. Or, rather, the old world back. Instead… I leave you… my hair.”
Whit starts to protest again, since I have no hair, but I give him another “shut up and keep writing” look.
“I hope you didn’t trash it after the hack job. Apparently they’re treating it like the Holy Grail now. It’s the only part of me that’ll be left after they vaporize me. Maybe if the world ever gets normal again, you can auction it off on uBay.”
“To some rabid Wisty fan who’ll pay a million beans for it,” Whit suggests.
“As if —,” I start.
“I know just the person who would,” Whit says, and then the person Whit’s thinking of shows his sorry, sad face in our sad, sorry space.
For all of his faults, Byron has absolutely flawless timing.
Chapter 66
Whit
“I REQUESTED THE HONOR of bringing your last meal to you, Wisty,” Byron says quietly to my sister, seeming genuinely humble.
He glances at me apologetically for once before mumbling, “You, too, Whit.”
He crunches through the snow toward us, rolling a wheeled cart that makes a very irritating squeaking noise.
“More chocolates for Wisty?” I say sarcastically. “They nearly killed her the last time. Maybe the third time’s a charm?”
“Could you skip the meal and bring me an extra-extra-large ski parka and snow boots instead?” Wisty sniffs and wipes her running nose on her white jumper.
Instead of answering, Byron lifts the hotel-style metal cover from the tray, presenting it awkwardly, as if we should be more interested in eating the lid than what’s underneath it.
Wisty seems to be reading Byron’s mind and squints at the underside of the lid, but my attention is drawn to the pathetic scraps on the plates. “Boiled potatoes and vitamin bars?” I mutter. “That’s not a last meal. That’s all they ever serve in this place.”
Wisty and Byron’s eyes are locked, and she’s staring at him with a deeply disgusted look on her face. And I don’t think it’s about potatoes.
“Well, then,” he responds. “Maybe we can… spruce this meal up a little together.” Byron is shooting me one of these “Don’t you get it?” looks.
Wisty gently nudges me and nods at the lid Byron is still holding up. Attached to the underside is a note:
WISTY, I LOVE YOU. I WON’T LET YOU DIE. I THINK I CAN HELP YOU. I PROMISE. NEED TO GET AWAY FROM ERSA FIRST. HOPE I CAN DO IT.
“Here, I tell you what…,” Byron says, rolling the cart toward a faraway dark corner of our vast prison. “Let me bring this over here for your… convenience.”
I hope ERSA is stupider than we thought, since there is absolutely nothing convenient about eating in one of the darkest corners of the basement.
I take Wisty’s hand and drag her off the boards, knowing she’ll need some coaxing to be in the dark with Byron after his declaration of love. I figure this is our last chance. We’re desperate enough to take help even from Byron the Weasel with the Lovesick Heart.
Once we’re in our “dining room”—a tiny nook under the stairs—Wisty doesn’t hesitate to grab a boiled potato and cram it into her mouth. “Garçon?” She pretends to be flagging a waiter. “Can you bring some bacon, cheese, and sour cream over here to go with my potato? Tout de suite!”
“Wisty,” he whispers urgently, but so quietly I’m convinced not even a bug planted right on his person could pick it up. Dang, he’s good. No wonder the guy’s practically a professional double agent. “I didn’t mean to alarm you with my note, but you had to know the truth, so you’d believe me when I tell you I can help. Probably.”
I don’t need to have night-vision goggles to sense the daggers flying from Wisty’s eyes. “Pardon me if I’m asking the obvious, B., but whose side are you on anyway? It’s, like, the last burning question I have before I die.”
“Okay, listen. I’ve figured out something incredible,” he goes on. “I believe that the times you’ve used your powers on me… have changed me.”
“No kidding, Swain,” I hiss. “Get to the point, or get the H out of here.”
“Your magic… I think… it can sort of… rub off. I think I have some small degree of your power now that can rejoin with yours… and become… like, greater than the sum.”
Wisty pauses, trying to absorb this latest bizarre info dump. I expect her to drop a bomb, but she’s actually listening. “Like… maybe I’ve… given you a kind of… electrical charge?” I can’t believe she’s starting to regurgitate Onespeak.
“Maybe. I don’t quite know. Here, let me show you. Quick. I need both of you to take a hand—we need to be touching.”
“If this is just a ploy to hold my hand, B., you’re dead,” Wisty says.
“Concentrate on the food,” Byron orders. “Dream of what you want. Wisty, say something.”
“Um…” She whispers something under her breath, and I have a pretty good idea of what it might be.
I still can’t see anything, but in a matter of seconds, I smell something unmistakable. Cheeseburgers, onion rings, and—I think—black-and-white milk shakes. It’s stron
g enough to make my knees feel weak.
“How’d you do that?” I ask Byron.
“Remember the prophecies?” he says. “Have you ever wondered how an army of kids might possibly prevail against the New Order’s army of soldiers—with their guns, their tanks, planes, and ships? What I’ve started to understand at this place is that, unlike New Order soldiers, we’re overflowing with ideas and creativity and potential.”
Once again Wisty surprises me with how she seems to get where Byron is going. As much as she hates the guy, they do seem to have some weird connection. I felt it when they were onstage making music together. I’d never tell her that, though.
“The One Who Is The One is scared to death of us and our potential. Our energy. That’s what all the schools and prisons for kids are about.” Byron’s voice picks up volume with excitement, and he has to quiet himself down. “He wants to figure out how to steal it, which is what this place is for. Failing that, he wants to remove the threat.”
“How can you steal somebody’s potential?” I wonder aloud, not expecting an answer.
“That’s what he’s trying to figure out. He wants to unite with Wisty —”
“Ew,” my sister interjects. “Ew, ew, ew, ew!”
“Silence!” screams ERSA suddenly, and she’s sounding quite a bit more human—and stressed-out—than I’ve ever heard her. “If there is any more nonessential speech, you will spend the remainder of your time gagged and shackled!”
Chapter 67
Wisty
BYRON IMMEDIATELY RELEASES his sweaty hand from mine. Or maybe it’s my hand that’s sweaty. After all, death is really close now. Really close.
“ERSA,” Byron calls out, proceeding from our dark dining corner to a slightly less dim area of the basement, “the condemned have requested use of a proper bathroom. One last time… before the execution. I’ve refused the request, but they’ve been insistent. What should I do?”
I’ve heard about last meals, but last potty breaks?
“They may not leave the basement,” says ERSA, but then I swear I hear her sigh. Can a machine sigh? “There is a toilet behind door B12. I will release it for five minutes.”
“Yes, ERSA. I’ll accompany the prisoners to make certain they’re…”
Byron trails off as a door in the wall clicks open. “Compliant.”
Next, Byron sweeps us into a room about the size of an old-fashioned telephone booth. “Quick. We need to hold hands,” he says.
“But I haven’t gone yet,” I protest. I actually do need to use the toilet. As you might imagine, I’d been avoiding crouching in a corner. With no toilet paper.
“You don’t have time to go. We need to use your magic ASAP.”
“And why would it be working now?” Whit asks. “We’ve been trying to use magic since we got here.”
“You saw what happened with the food. I haven’t figured it all out yet, but there’s something about the power that was transferred through Wisty to me, I think.” Great. I turn the guy into a weasel, and he gets the ego of a lion. “Maybe it’s like evolution. Each generation develops new characteristics to cope with new forces in nature —”
“Generation? Cripes, Byron, it’s not like we had a baby together —”
“Just be quiet and hold me, Wisty. This is serious.”
Talk about evolution… is this really Byron Swain coming to the rescue—again? He’s changed. He clutches my hand, and his feels warm and confident.
Byron turns to my brother. “Whit, do you believe me?”
“I hate to say it, but what choice do I have? Sure, Byron. Do what you can.”
“You two have nothing to lose. And neither do I—I’m dead regardless. Quickly now, look for a spell. Something about… water.”
Whit opens his journal and flips through a few pages. He finds an entry he likes.
Although you hide in the ebb and flow
Of the pale tide when the moon has set
And here’s the weirdest thing: the air is kind of hurting my lungs a little; it’s too dry or something —
The people of coming days will know
About the casting out of my net
Whit’s face—I don’t know how to describe it—it’s gotten pointy, and his lips seem oversize and —
And how you have leaped times out of mind
Over the little silver cords
Byron grabs the journal out of Whit’s hands, and I gasp. My brother’s skin has gone silvery, and something bizarre is going on with his neck. It’s as if he has… scales?
Byron finishes the spell:
And think that you were hard and unkind,
And blame you with many bitter words.
We’re turning into fish! What good will that do, ending up as fish on the bathroom floor?
Have I trusted Byron one too many times?
And why is he so huge all of a sudden?
Then there’s this unusual popping sound, and… the two of us are resting in Byron’s outstretched hands, looking up at his giant face.
We’ve apparently turned ourselves into guppies. And now we’re 100 percent relying on Byron to go find us a fish tank?
“Wisty,” Byron’s voice seems to boom inside my head. “I meant what I wrote. I love you. I know you think it’s the worst thing you’ve ever heard. But I can’t help it. You’re everything I always wished I could be. Funny, relaxed, strong. Smart, rebellious, and you don’t care what others think—unless it’s your family. You know what’s important. You’re perfect.”
I’d love to say Thanks, B., but I’m seriously drying out here. My skin, my mouth, my gills… they’re all stinging like mad.
“You and Whit are on your own now,” he continues. “I know I won’t make it out of here alive. Not when The One finds out what I’ve done.”
Suddenly we’re moving away from his face and toward a white porcelain bowl.
“Good-bye, Allgoods,” Byron says. “What I do now, I do for love!”
Chapter 68
Whit
PLOP!
Plop!
Terrific. We’ve just been dumped headfirst into a toilet—and a gross one, too.
And before Wisty and I even have a sec to take a lap around our “wading pool,” up through the refracting surface of the water I see Byron reaching for the toilet handle.
God, no! That traitor isn’t going to —
But he is. And when you think about it, considering the downward spiral we’ve been on lately, getting flushed down the toilet really may just be the ultimate poetic justice. I still can’t figure out if the creep is saving our lives or just getting a kick out of flushing down the pipes his former nemesis and the girl who’d so often rejected him.
But when the full force hits, none of it matters anyway. After the shock of the initial crash of water, which comes close to knocking me senseless against the sides of the pipes, it’s one dark and scary shot straight out of the school building. The water power is so strong I can’t even twist my head far enough to see if Wisty’s behind me. It’s killing me not to know if she made it.
I’d been a champion swimmer in school, so the sensation of being a fish isn’t as odd for me as I might have thought. But this is like trying to do laps in an ocean during a hurricane, so no, I’ve never trained for it. And I’m worried about how Wisty’s handling it… until I remember that she’s done time as a rodent in a gutter.
Wisty, hang in there, I’m thinking. Just remember to breathe.
The pipes are getting wider and wider, which doesn’t offer much relief since there’s these waterfall noises that keep getting louder—and the too-gross-for-words stuff coming down the pipe with us is getting thicker and thicker. Just the thought of it makes me nearly suffocate.
Just remember to breathe, Whit, I say to myself. Which is actually pretty good advice, because when I do, I realize that my sense of smell isn’t on a human scale.
So I breathe even more deeply, and I catch sight of Wisty. At least, I assume it’s h
er and not some other guppy busting out of “prison” via the sewer.
We make eye contact, and I think, Follow me, hoping that the message somehow comes through in my face. I’m glad we’ve spent so much of our lives understanding each other without saying a thing.
We’re going faster and faster—a real raging river—until suddenly we find ourselves in still water: a storm sewer. From there we make our way downstream and into a maze of lazy subterranean canals under the city.
Before long Wisty and I see something we haven’t seen in a long time—light! Real, honest-to-God daylight! We stare at it, mesmerized as it grows and grows. We start to see blues and greens and yellows and —
Why is the light growing so quickly when we’re not even swimming hard? And what’s that almost deafening, roaring sound?
“Swim back!” I try to scream. But I can’t. I’m a fish.
And it’s too late anyway.
Chapter 69
Whit
YOU KNOW THOSE NIGHTMARES where you’re falling and you’re entirely helpless and you wake up with a start? This rush is kind of like that, but not.
It’s not, because it’s not ending.
There’s no control. There’s nobody to help. I can’t even hope to see Wisty in this powerful, downward-spiraling torrent. All I know is that I’m lodged inside a roar with nothing to hold on to but my useless panic.
Faster, louder, faster, louder, and then—bang.
And then—uhh.
My guppy brain feels as if it’s come unattached from the inside of my tiny little fish skull. I think I just did sixty to zero in point two seconds.
And then all is calm.
Calm… and sunlit?
I’m outside?
In one piece? I think so.
Why am I not surprised that the environmentally unfriendly New Order has a sewer that goes directly into a river without any filters or processing facilities that would grind two innocent little guppies into crop fertilizer?