The Gift (13 page)

Whit

BEFORE I CAN REACH Wisty to try to help her escape, somebody hits me hard. Just about all the wind rushes out of me and my knees buckle. I’d
probably fall on my face if the three of them weren’t so busy trying to pin me to the wall. They’re strong—they may look like
boys, but they fight like adults. Adult professionals, maybe New Order soldiers.

I only hope I gave Wisty enough warning to help her get out; I only hope I managed to mess up their trap; I only —

Ooomf!

Another smashing blow, this one right to the middle of my face. Stars and bright colors explode everywhere. That couldn’t
have been a fist. It was too hard.

I’m starting to sink to the ground, but one of these creeps is holding me up and the other is turning my head by the ears,
making me look at something.

“See that, Big Brother?” the voice in my ear rings. “Not only did you fail to save your little sister, but we’re going to
make you
watch
what the Council of Ones does to her!”

My eyes dart down the length of the diner to where Wisty is being dragged out of her booth by the Bionics and one of the soldiers.

And then, suddenly, the Bionics start—I don’t know how to describe it—morphing, I guess. They get bigger and older, as if
they’ve aged from seventeen to thirty-five in the space of a few seconds. It’s scary—and
gross
beyond anything I can tell you in words.

They’re burly, cigar-smoking soldiers now. All of them except one Bionic—the drummer, I think—who’s still sitting in the booth,
looking like he just accidentally ran over a puppy.

“Do it quickly, you idiots!” yells one of the thugs holding me.

I notice three more soldier-commandos in black flak outfits, each leveling big-bore rifles right at my sister.

“No!”
I scream.
“Leave her alone! Don’t shoot her!”

They drop to a knee and pull their triggers almost in unison.

“Wisty!”

And then it’s as if time has slowed to a crawl. I watch as the muzzles issue explosions of compressed gas, each propelling
a lethal-looking dart at my inhumanly manhandled sister.…

Wisty throws one last look at me and I catch it, hold on
to it forever. More than anything, I don’t want her to die with that desperate look of shame on her face.

I don’t want her to die, period.

And then my mind seizes on the hurtling projectiles. Not bullets. Darts. I see the wicked hollow needles on the front of each
fluffy-tailed syringe as it bullets toward my sister’s torso.

They look big enough to drop a charging rhino, much less sedate a hundred-pound teenager.

If I just push the first dart’s tail a little this way… and this dart a little this way… and this one just like this…

Thwok —

Thwok —

And
thwok!

The former Bionics and the soldier holding her go wide-eyed as each dart finds its new target… right smack in the middle of
each of their necks.

They hit the floor.

Thump.

Thump.

And
THUMP.

“Unnh!” gasps my sister.

“What’s wrong, Wist?” I yell. “What happened?”

My eyes lock on hers, which have gone wide and also a little vacant. And now her lids are fluttering… and she falls face-first
right on top of her unconscious attackers.

There’s a syringe sticking out of her back, the plunger pushed down.

The drummer!

He’s standing behind her. His face is twisted and crumpled with guilt.

“Attaboy!” shouts the soldier who’s been holding me. “Now let’s get these two reprobates into the paddy wagon and collect
our just rewards.”

Whit

THESE GOONS ARE LIGHTING up their victory cigars. Is consigning us to death basically like finishing a steak dinner? Or winning a sports championship?
It sure looks like it.

I’m now pinned on the ground, fighting to get my breath back, when a desperate thought pops into my head. Not counting the
three guys on the floor with darts in their necks, there are seven cigar-smoking soldiers. There’s the drummer, too, but I’m
guessing he’s just a regular kid. A horrible Tall Jonathan–esque traitor of a kid, but… a kid.

I look at each smoldering cigar and, one by one, I visualize the rolled brown tobacco inside. Foul stuff. I hate nicotine
poison.

Then I imagine seven capsules filled with a toxic compound a teacher told us about in chemistry. It’s called trinitrotoluene.
You may have heard of it by its more common name, TNT.

In my mind, I carefully place a capsule inside each of their cigars, about an inch or so from the glowing tip. I wait; I count
off the seconds; I hope this will work.

And then, in almost perfect precision —

Blam-blam-blam-blam-blam-blam-blam!

Suddenly there’s no more combat boot on my neck. I get to my feet and stumble through the acrid smoke to my sister. I pluck
the syringe from her back. Then I throw Wisty over my shoulder.

“Proud of yourself?” I ask the drummer.

He looks at me coolly, and I want to punch him. I satisfy the urge by swiping Wisty’s drumstick out of his hand. “They’ll
kill me,” he whispers.

I pause. I don’t want the guy to be killed, really. But if I have to choose between my sister and an N.O. puppet, there’s
no question what to do.

“Tell somebody who cares,” I say, then race out of the diner.

But I do care. Sometimes it feels rotten, putting on the face of steely, unwavering courage.

Whit

THERE’S NOTHING like a three-mile run with your kid sister slung over your shoulder to clear your head. I’ll never call her “Wispy” again,
that’s for sure. She’s growing up fast. My back, my lungs, my legs… they all ache so much I want to stop and throw up.

I hear the distant rumble of trucks and the squawks of N.O. loudspeakers. The thumping of a helicopter soon joins the mix—it’s
coming our way quickly.

I duck off the road and into the woods, hoping the trees will lend some cover.

I find a path through the brush, but I get only about a hundred yards before it forks. The bigger track goes down into a gulley,
and the smaller one winds along the side of a hill.

“High road or low road, Wisty?” I say, not expecting her to answer. I prop my sister against a tree. I need to put her down
for a few seconds or I’ll collapse into a heap.

“There are ants all over this tree,” I hear her whisper.

“You’re awake!” I’m stunned.

Wisty’s already weakly swatting the little black insects off her arm. “Yep. I can even answer your question.”

“You mean which road we should take?”

Without missing a beat, she starts murmuring a poem.

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could.…

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I —

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

“You wrote that?” I ask, aghast.

“Bertrand Snow actually,” Wisty admits.

“Well, you must be winning your battle with the drugs to remember anything from your lit class.”

I throw her over my aching shoulder one more time, and just then we hear a vehicle skidding to a stop on the road. Suddenly
the woods behind us are alive with heavy-booted footsteps, men yelling… and dogs barking angrily.

“Maybe they’ll pick the wrong path,” I pant, and reflect
that maybe we should have chosen the downward-sloping one. This trail has been 100 percent
up
hill so far.

“Um, I don’t think they’ll pick the other path, Whit.”

“Why not?”

She’s craning her neck behind me.

“Um, because I can already see them—
and they can see us!
”

Whit

I CURSE under my breath and turn to assess. Sure enough, two soldiers and three large German shepherds have crested the last rise
in the hill and are charging up the path toward us.

Only, wait—did I say two soldiers and three German shepherds? Because it’s actually one soldier and four German shepherds—or,
wait, it’s
all
German shepherds —

“Did you
see
that?” demands Wisty. “They’re turning themselves into dogs! Very
fast
dogs.”

“Great,” I say, and stop running.

“Why are you stopping?”
yells Wisty.

“There’s no point. I can’t outrun a pack of magical dogs with you on my back. It’s simple physics. I’d have to be a horse.”

“Well, I’ve turned myself into a rodent before. Maybe you can turn yourself into a horse. Aim big, Brother. We don’t have
much of a choice right now.”

“I don’t know any horse spells —”

“Look in your journal and pray that it’s getting good reception today!”

I’m flipping the pages madly, and nothing about a horse catches my eye. It’s the first time in my life I actually wish I could
look in an
index.

There’s no index, of course, but what I stumble on is even better:

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright

In the forests of the night,

What immortal hand or eye

Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies

Burnt the fire of thine eyes?

On what wings dare he aspire?

What the hand dare seize the fire?

After I recite the weird poem, the next thing I know I’m on all fours, with black-and-orange-and-white fur, my clothes split
up and down and hanging in tatters.

So I turn to ask Wisty the obvious question:
“Rrrrrrooaaarrr?”

“You’re asking if a tiger can kick a bunch of dogs’ butts, right?” asks Wisty. “I think so. But let’s not experiment if we
don’t have to, especially with me on your back. Yah, tiger,
mush!
”

And then she digs her heels into my flanks. I yelp, and I take off up the hill—
as a tiger
. Ain’t magic great?

The dogs howl in rage behind us, and then there’s another noise—another sort of roar? I look back over my striped shoulder
and see that our pursuers are now turning themselves into bears, grizzlies actually, as they continue after us.

Who are these guys? And where are they getting their magic?

The answer, unfortunately, reveals itself all too quickly.

We reach the clearing at the crest of the hill and are greeted by a tall bald man in an impeccable dark blue suit. He’s standing
there as if he’s been waiting for us all his life.