Nevermore: The Final Maximum Ride Adventure

“Maya,” he said quietly. “You are strong. Stronger than anyone.”

“After Max,” she said, trying to smile. Blood began to seep from beneath Holden’s shirt and drip on the ground.

Fang shook his head. “Not after Max. Right next to her. Equal.”

“Thank you,” Maya whispered. Then her eyes seemed to focus on a spot just to one side of Fang’s face, and her head lolled.

Fang didn’t move.

He just sat there, staring at the dead girl. The dead Maya, the dead Max, the dead almost everything he cared about. He felt like a freight train was slamming into his chest, over and over again.

Ratchet and Holden tensed beside Fang as footsteps approached. Ratchet said, “Fang? Wolfboy’s back.”

Still Fang didn’t move from his place on the ground, didn’t stop cradling Maya’s body.

Ari’s voice, gruff and taunting, cut through the fog. “Fang—sorry, man. Had to happen. Don’t worry, though —she’s a clone, right? Dime a dozen.”

Finally Fang looked up, his eyes swimming. “We’ll finish this later,” he said through clenched teeth.

Ari grinned. “I’m counting on it,” he said, turning. “C’mon, you weaklings, get up,” he shouted at the injured Erasers. Many large bodies heaved themselves noisily toward the trucks.

“Coward!” Ratchet hurled the dented, bloodied tire iron through the air.

Ari stepped swiftly to the left, and the metal clanged against a truck. His laughter, grating and harsh, filled the empty desert battlefield. Then the engines roared and the entire convoy spun around and faded away in a cloud of dust.

When they were gone, Fang passed his fingers over Maya’s face, closing her eyes and brushing away some blood. He forced himself to lay Maya’s already cooling body on the ground. As Fang looked down at her, he wanted to tear his own heart out.

Ari would die for this.

19

AS SOON AS I walked into biology class, the nauseating smell of formaldehyde hit me smack in the face. Hello, buttload of horrible memories! Clearly today was going to be even more nightmare-y than school usually was.

“Hello, Max. Glad you could join us,” Dr. Williams said.

Frowning, I nodded and plopped down beside Dylan as jealous girls nearby prayed for my death. So I got sidetracked by the schmanciness of the bathrooms on the way here. Sue me.

The smelly chemicals were already getting to me (read: making me want to run away screaming), and I could tell they were also bothering Iggy, who was sitting a couple tables over. His face was drawn and even paler than usual.

Dr. Williams passed out packets of paper. “Today we’ll be doing our first hands-on lab assignment,” he said. “For some of you, this will be your first dissection. It’s a very simple one, but if anyone feels sick, the trash can is right here. Please try to make it.”

Dissection.

Oh, God.

I glanced down at my packet and my stomach dropped. Chicken Dissection Lab.

Of course. This was my life, after all—if something could conceivably get worse, then by golly, it would get worse. We couldn’t just dissect a frog, or an earthworm, or whatever. We had to dissect something with wings.

The other students chattered around me, their reactions ranging from excited to grossed out. Iggy, Dylan, and I were the only silent ones.

Dr. Williams began handing out plastic bags containing rubbery chicken carcasses. I fought back a wave of panic and nausea as I skimmed my info packet. Phrases like Count the number of primary feathers and Remove the heart and Examine the air sacs popped out at me.

Please, if there’s any justice at all in this screwed-up world, please don’t make me have a mental breakdown and start hyperventilating in front of my entire biology class.

Dr. Williams placed a plastic bag on our table, two feet from my nose. Dylan and I both stared at it, unwilling to touch it.

“Okay, folks,” Dr. Williams said merrily. “Get your goggles, your gloves, and your trays. The packet explains everything, but come to me if you have questions. Happy dissecting!”

20

I PUT ON my clear, dorktastic goggles automatically while Dylan fetched the dissecting tray. It was equipped with a scalpel, a small pair of scissors, three pokey, suspicious-looking tools, and a pair of tweezers.

“So,” I said, mentally smacking myself upside the head when my voice shook. “Ready to cut this thing open?”

“We can leave, if you want,” Dylan replied softly. “I don’t want to do this any more than you do.”

I clenched my teeth and pulled my shoulders back, shaking my head. “No. Normal people do dissection labs. And we’re normal people, remember?”

He nodded, his aquamarine eyes fixed on me.

I regretted my decision almost as soon as we set the chicken on the tray. It splayed out pathetically, headless and mostly featherless, with puckered pink skin. I felt the chill of goose bumps on my own flesh and shivered.

The chicken’s wings were small and had tiny tufts of down still stuck to them.

White down.

Like Angel’s.

“Step one,” Dylan read aloud. His voice cracked and he cleared his throat. “Place chicken on its back. Grasp both legs and push down and away from the pelvis.”

In another time, I might have snickered immaturely at the word “pelvis.” But at that moment, all I could do was numbly follow the instructions, while trying to block smells and memories.

It was bred for this, I reminded myself, holding the scalpel. Inside a claustrophobic metal cage, it had been fed scraps. It had been genetically manipulated for a satisfactory amount of plumpness and complacency. It had been bred with a smaller brain, too; it was too stupid to see how trapped it was. To see that this is how it would end up, amid the glint of scalpels, the snick of blades sliding into flesh.

I was stuck in an in-between place, not sure whether I was in biology class or back at the School. Student voices and whitecoat voices bounced around in my mind.

Then Dr. Williams’s face materialized all up in my grill. “Max, Dylan, how’s it going so far?”

I nodded, trying to slow my breathing—I hadn’t realized I’d been hyperventilating. “I’m okay… really.” I looked up at his face, at the four wrinkles on his forehead, his almost calculating hazel eyes.

It was all somewhat… familiar.

Alarm bells went off in my head, wailing, Danger danger danger! My alarm bells were not to be taken lightly.

Was it possible that Dr. Williams was a whitecoat?

“Actually, I feel a bit sick,” I said brusquely. “Come on, Dylan. Iggy!”

Iggy twitched on his stool and turned in the direction of my voice.

“C’mon, Ig,” I repeated, ignoring Dylan’s curious glance. “Time to go.”

“Max, the boys seem fine,” Dr. Williams said. Concerned or threatening, concerned or threatening? It was a question I had to ask myself way too often.