Authors: Jay Budgett
Phoenix and I fought to pull Mila up on deck, but the force of her feet dragging in the water drew her even closer to the monster’s mouth. If we pulled too hard, I worried we’d dislodge her arms from their sockets. The clash of the megalodon’s teeth, however, told me this would still be the preferred option.
Mila didn’t scream, but gritted her teeth and squeezed her eyes shut to avoid the salt water’s sting as it sprayed. She was tough. Tougher than most girls I’d met. Maybe even as tough as Charlie.
Her fingers were slowly slipping from mine. My hands became more slippery by the second, and Phoenix’s grunts told me he was experiencing the same problem. If we didn’t do something, we were going to lose her, and soon.
I yelled for help. Churchill grunted and swung his arm back. A piece of steel flew from his hand and over the deck. Its jagged edges did tilted somersaults as it sailed through the air. It spun past Mila, and toward the megalodon, burying itself in the monster’s massive snout. The beast fell back into the water, its fin trembling before it disappeared.
The monster was gone.
Bertha ran to our side, and with the added help of her uninjured arm, we were finally able to pull Mila from the water. Her feet collapsed beneath her, and she shook uncontrollably. We kneeled down beside her on the deck. Bertha leaned against the railing. “Hate these sharks,” she muttered. “Hate these damn mutant sharks…”
Churchill, alone, stood in salute. “Old Jimmy’s gone,” he said mournfully. “Found his final resting place in a megalodon’s snout.”
To us, it might have been an old, rusty hook, but to poor Churchill Wingnut it had been something more. I got up and stood by his side, joining his salute—it was the sort of thing Charlie might do.
Mila broke the silence with a breathless laugh. She shook her head and looked at me. “I can’t believe you swam into the mouth of one of those things.”
I wanted to tell her that, at the time, I had thought she was going to kill me, so the megalodon was really just the lesser of two evils, but I figured it was best for everyone if I didn’t mention that, so I just shrugged.
Dove poked his head out of the captain’s cabin. “We’re out of Federal waters now,” he said. “Not that it matters much with the nets down.” He turned, apparently noticing Mila for the first time. “Whoa… what happened to you?”
Mila stood, wincing as she stretched her shoulders. “You drove off without me, Dove.”
“What?” He gave her a blank look. “But you’re in the boat…”
“But she wasn’t at the time, Doveboat,” said Bertha, rolling her eyes.
He looked confused. “But she is now? So did she, like, teleport?”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake—”
“Where’s New Texas?” Mila interrupted. “And Kindred and Sparky?”
“Meeting us at the Caravan,” said Phoenix. “Dove, did you put in the coordinates?”
“There’s no GPS, boss. We’re flying blind.”
“Don’t need any bloody GPS,” said Churchill. He scuttled into the cabin and came out holding a bronze and wooden device. “This is what I use,” he said. “Old-fashioned telegraph—Feds don’t have anything like it. The Caravans have one on their end.” He typed out a message and put on a headset. “We’ll need to go three miles south to join it. Tell New Texas to meet us there.”
“You already got their response?” I asked. “That was fast.”
“Well,” said Churchill, slightly embarrassed, “they haven’t actually responded yet… I just feel it in my bones, lad. So that’s where we’ll head.”
“Er—right, then.” I nodded skeptically.
Dove, however, had no problem accepting Churchill’s “bones” as a perfectly reasonable navigator. He moved to retreat to the captain’s cabin before Churchill stopped him with a raised hand.
“I’ll drive,” the captain said. Then he looked around and saw Phoenix massaging Mila’s shoulders, and Bertha nursing her own arm. “And don’t worry, there’s a medical bay on the Caravan,” the captain reassured them.
I leaned on the ship’s bow and watched as the ocean breathed fast and slow: a living entity in and of itself. In the span of a few short days, I’d traveled outside Federal waters twice, nearly died several times, lost my mother, my best friend, and my own innocence in the eyes of the state.
I vowed I’d find the last three again.
The Lost Boys had saved my life, over and over again—but why? What did they want from me? They’d lied to me: Mom couldn’t be dead. She was innocent. Charlie, too, with her bright blue eyes and chopsticks. They had to be alive, of that I was sure. The Federation would keep them that way, if only to get to me.
We steal Indigo. We’re Indigo thieves.
Phoenix’s words echoed in my mind, coupled with the cases of Indigo vaccines that had fallen from the sky. Mila had shrugged when I’d mentioned it. Thousands of kids wouldn’t get their vaccines because of that loss, that failed theft. They could’ve been sold for millions. Somewhere, rich venture capitalists would pay for Indigo, for life itself.
But I knew the Lost Boys weren’t thieves. In that arena, they’d proven themselves to be incompetent at best. And yet, by attacking Club 49, they’d created fear in the city of Newla. Fear was what they were after. Fear and terror.
It was strange to think how nice they’d been. Kindred, with her blueberries, didn’t seem like the sort of person who’d strike fear in the hearts of millions. And they’d already saved my life twice. Why me? Me of all people?
It didn’t make sense. None of it made any sense. The Pacific Northwestern Tube exploding overhead, the water rushing in, the nets being down, the megalodons swarming, the green glowing lanterns of the Federal guards racing toward the wreckage, Mila retreating toward the surface. None of it made sense.
The nets being down.
The nets had been down on the day of the attack on Tube. They’d been down today, too—just in time to unleash the megalodons on the swarm of Feds. That was just too convenient to be a coincidence. Did the Lost Boys have control of the megalodons?
Phoenix put a hand on my shoulder, and I jumped. “You okay?’ he asked. I nodded. In my mind I could still see the soldiers’ blood floating in the water. In a few years, that could’ve been me. Or Charlie.
“We’ll arrive at the Caravan soon,” Phoenix said, leaning against the railing next to me. “I know everything’s happening really fast—probably faster than I could’ve handled at your age.”
“Were both your parents dead when you were my age?” I asked. It was better if he thought I didn't know Mom was still alive. Otherwise he’d realize I was on to their game.
He gritted his teeth and stared out over the railing. “They died when I was twelve.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I didn’t realize you’d been at H.E.A.L.”
“I wasn’t,” he said, his face hard. “Never got on the train to go. My parents weren’t euthanized. They were murdered.”
“
Murdered?
”
He nodded. My chest tightened. I couldn’t imagine my own parents being murdered—the very thought of it made me sick. Death was always present in the Federation—on the minds of children and adults alike. The Carcinogens in the air made sure of that. Our lives revolved around death. Murder, however, was rare.
“Yes,” he said quickly, clearly wanting to change the subject. “And I didn’t go to H.E.A.L. because I couldn’t leave my city.”
“Newla,” I said. This was how he’d known it so well. He’d wandered the streets. Probably lived on them for a time. One of the kids who slept behind the trashcans—addicted to Neglex or worse. “You lived on the streets.”
“No,” he said with a small smile. “I
slept
on the streets. I
lived
between the pages of books. You ever read
Peter Pan
? How’d you think I came up with ‘the Lost Boys’?”
It made sense—explained how he was so smart. I wondered if his parents had been booksellers, maybe professors. My own dad hadn’t liked English so much. He used to say that when it came to novels, you only had to read the first ten pages and the last ten pages. He told me fiction was like an ice cream cone: if you looked at it too long, it’d melt. I guess there were a lot of things that melted if you looked at them too long.
I figured it didn’t hurt to ask.
“What—what did your parents do? Before they—yeah.”
“Farmers,” said Phoenix.
“What? I thought you said you lived in Newla? Isn’t the Ministry of Agriculture on Molokai, next to the Suburban Islands and not much else?”
A worried look flashed across his face.
“I—er—meant they were writers. They wrote books and stories. Liked English and literature.”
“That’s the whole story?” I asked. “They were writers and they were murdered?”
“In so many words, yes.”
“And after that you had to live on the street? They didn’t leave you anything?”
“They left me books,” said Phoenix. “Books and a brown leather journal.”
“And that’s the truth?”
He raised a brow. “Truth?” he asked, and I nodded. “Why wouldn’t it be the truth, Kai? Do you think there’s something I’m not telling you?”
“I—er—dunno,” I said. “Just seems like there’s parts of the story missing. What was in the journal?” I thought back to the report I’d found in the Morier Mansion’s library—the way Madam Revleon eyes had lingered on the copied pages. “I mean, did you read it?”
Phoenix nodded. “I read it.”
“Then, what did it say?”
Phoenix’s mouth smoothed to a flat line and his brows sank under the weight of my question. “Nothing of great importance.”
I threw up my hands. “Secrets, then,” I said. “It seems like everything’s a secret, and they’re chewing at me from the inside out.”
Phoenix stared out at the ocean. “Secrets gnaw at the soul, piece by piece, but the truth devours you whole,” he said quietly.
“So there are secrets?”
Phoenix smiled. “Just trust me, Kai. That’s all I ask.”
I thought about Mom and Charlie locked in Federal prisons somewhere. “Well, trust is a lot to ask,” I said. “And it’s awfully hard to give without the truth.”
Bertha stomped her foot against the deck. “I see it!” she yelled.
We joined her at the ship’s starboard side. In the distance, I made out a line of boats. There had to have been at least a hundred, all draped in shades of blue fabric. If Bertha hadn’t pointed them out, I could’ve mistaken them for the crest of a breaking wave, or the space where water met the sky.
And then there was a flash of light, a mist rose from the ocean, the sky grew hazy—and the Caravan was gone. Mila’s eyes locked with mine, and I realized she was just as frightened as I was. The others, however, stood unfazed.
“Nothing to be afraid of,” said Phoenix, noticing our faces. “The Caravan’s got spotters circling at all times. If they see a ship, they give a signal, and the fog pours out. There are plates underwater that heat the ocean into steam to make it rise into fog. If it weren’t for them, the Feds would’ve gotten the Caravan a long time ago.”
“Yeah,” muttered Bertha, “and the nukes they’ve got don’t hurt, either.” Phoenix shot her a look.
Churchill Wingnut rolled out another square box resting on a table. He placed a black circle roughly the size of a plate on its surface. “Record player,” he said when he caught my eye. “I’ll bet none of you blokes have ever seen one of these babies before.” He dropped the device’s metal hand onto the surface of the black plate, and music erupted from a horn on its side. Trumpet solos roared, and guitars rang out in time. He danced a little jig. “Mariachi music,” he explained. “It’s the signal.”
Bertha tapped her foot to the music. “The signal?” she asked. “It wasn’t like that before.”
Churchill nodded. “We have to switch things up every once in a while. Mariachi music’s been the signal for the past two months. Before that was polka.”
“Ah, yes,” said Bertha, smiling. “I remember the polka.”
We cruised forward in the calm water. The mist dissipated just as quickly as it had appeared. There were boats on either side of us now, and they formed a spiral canal of sorts. The Caravan was a town wrapped around itself like a coiled snake—a single train that, when bunched together, formed a spiral. From the inside, the boats didn’t look like boats at all, but houses lined up along a canal. Bridges stretched across the tops of the homes, connecting the houses that lined the external border with the ones nestled in the center. The spaces between the boats were nearly nonexistent—they were pushed together like adjacent compartments on subway trains. Bright reds, yellows, and greens glowed on the fabrics that adorned the internal walls—colors that were a sharp contrast to the blues we’d seen before.
Churchill Wingnut spread his arms wide and threw his head back. “Welcome to the Caravan!” he said. He lifted the hand from the record player, and the music stopped. “The last free nation outside the whole bloody Federation!”
There was a piercing sound, high-pitched like a mosquito, but perhaps even shriller, and hands hurried out from wooden windows, yanking the colored fabrics down before closing the shutters with a slam. A low rumble emitted from the boat at the forefront of the Caravan—the locomotive of sorts, I guessed.
Churchill ran into the cabin muttering, “
What the hell?”
as mist swirled. The locomotive hummed loudly, and then hurtled forward. All around us, the Caravan’s spiral city unfurled, and the wooden bridges that hung across the boats’ roofs snapped.
Phoenix pursed his lips, and his face grew hard: something was wrong. This was clearly not the welcome he’d expected.
“The bloody boats think they’re under attack!” Churchill yelled again.
“Listen,” said Bertha, jabbing a finger in his chest. “I get that all the Caravites are—” Churchill dug a finger in his ear and pulled out a stack of yellow wax like honey. “…Strange,” she continued. “A bit loony from saltwater fumes going to your brains, and all that. But there’s no way those boats think that
this
little thing”—Churchill winced at his ship being called little—“pulling up into their harbor means they’re under attack.”
Dove grabbed Bertha’s shoulders and turned her to face the expanse of ocean behind her. As the last few Caravite boats unfurled amid the rush of rising mist, a shadow, roughly the size of a football field, lurched toward them in the water.