Scorpion Shards

asked.

Michael shook his head. “What would you do without me?” he said.

“Stay dry?” suggested Tory. “Keep warm?”

“I promise,” said Michael, “no more storms.” But even as they turned to go, Michael could feel a cold wind blow­ing, as nature itself reacted to the growing chill he felt within.

14. Fear Is Icy Wind

The dry brush of eastern Oregon slowly became green, then turned into dense woods as I-84 cut a tireless path west. With Michael behind the wheel, the four kids tried every exit off the interstate, in search of anything that didn’t seem right. It was a slow and pains­taking task, but it gave them the time they needed to talk.

“So now you two are Rain-man and Mrs. Clean?” said Lourdes to Michael and Tory. “I wonder what that makes me—Squirrelgirl?”

“It might not seem like much,” said Tory, “but we’ll need every skill we have if we’re gonna stop this guy.”

Tory looked at Winston, anticipating his usual reac­tion. “I know it’s a big stretch,” she said to him, “but these talents are for real—you have to believe us!”

Winston looked at her, insulted. “Why shouldn’t I be­lieve you?” he said. “It makes sense—I just wish I knew what mine was.”

Michael laughed. “Nice stretch, Winston. Maybe you’re a bungee cord after all!” Michael jokingly tugged on Winston’s arm, as if it would stretch like Plastic-man. It didn’t of course, and Winston tumbled out of his seatbelt.

“Hey watch it!” said Winston, only half angry. “Before I grow some teeth and bite you!”

***

Burton, Oregon, was six miles off the interstate, in a densely forested valley. About a mile down Old Burton Road, Michael stomped on the brakes, and they all tum­bled forward.

An object loomed before them—something so bizarre that they could only stare at it, trying to make their minds accept what they were seeing. It was huge and blue, lying half on the road and half off. It looked like a giant metallic Q-Tip that had crashed from the heavens and taken down a dozen trees with it.

“Water tower,” said Lourdes.

Tory swallowed hard. “I think we found the town where he stopped.”

The word “Burton” was still visible on the toppled water tower. Its bulbous tank had ruptured, sending its full load of water flooding the forest around it, turning it into a swamp.

“If I read the sign right,” said Michael, “there’s more than three thousand people in this town.”

He turned to Tory, but Tory turned her eyes away. They were all thinking the same thing. The demolition of downtown Boise, as bad as it was, had only a quarter-mile radius. . . . But if the redheaded kid had found a way to shatter the people of this town . . . it meant that the range of his ability had grown, and the human wreckage would be unimaginable.

The car itself seemed to shudder.

They slowly navigated the gravelly shoulder of the road down the long, slender cylinder that had once held up the water tank. At its ruined base sat a burned-out eighteen-wheeler with a crushed grill.

Across the road, in the drenched undergrowth, a woman sat knitting, wearing nothing but the strands of clashing yarn that draped over her and into the mud.

Lourdes casually pushed down her door lock. It en­gaged with a dull thud. It was echoed by the thud of the other three doors being locked as well. Michael eased onto the gas pedal, and they pressed cautiously forward.

The first homes came into view—lonely homes set back from the road, about a hundred yards apart. In the first house, a shadow leered from an upstairs window, staggering back and forth. On the porch of another home, a woman in a rocking chair let out a ghostly sound.

“We still have three miles to go till we get to the center of town,” reminded Tory.

Winston nodded. “It’s going to get worse before it gets better.”

And it did. A car was parked through a living-room window. Several homes were smoldering ruins . . . then all at once, Michael slammed on the brakes as a local kid no older than them, screaming and bloody, dashed out in front of them. He was stalked by a band of teenagers, as if the prey of some awful hunt.

They watched as the mob disappeared up the hillside.

“I’ve had nightmares like that,” said Tory; then added, “Whoever he is, I hope he wakes up.”

Lourdes mumbled something in Spanish and let out a groan of grief. She grabbed Winston’s hand; he held Tory’s shoulder; she gripped Michael’s leg; he reached back until he found Lourdes’s wrist, completing the circle of four. They took a deep breath and tried to force out the grim images that assaulted them from outside.

“Nothing can hurt us,” said Tory. “Nothing can hurt us when we’re like this.” But it wasn’t true. Yes, they were stronger, but they weren’t invincible—and the sum of the horrors outside their car was far greater than the sum of the four of them.

“We shouldn’t look at what happened here,” said Lourdes. “You should never look when you’re passing through Hell.” And with that in mind, Michael gritted his teeth until his face began to turn red.

“What are you doing?” asked Winston.

“Making the sky fall,” was his answer.

Up above the dense cloud-cover began to ripple. “If I can make myself feel fog on the inside, it’ll happen on the outside.”

“How do you feel fog?” asked Winston.

“Fog is confusion,” said Michael, through clenched teeth. “Just like anger is a lightning storm, and hopeless­ ness is a rain of sleet.”

In a moment the clouds descended into the valley, sink­ing over their windshield until the entire town of Burton was shrouded in fog. Then an icy wind that could only be Michael’s fear hit them from behind, whistling past the car, and blowing the fog before them. The wind left a tun­nel through the fog that followed the road to the center of town.

***

Downtown Burton had become a ghost town. The mad had long since disappeared into the woods—their anguished cries echoing across the valley like a thousand dispossessed souls. Michael slowly drove the van into the heart of havoc, but the fog could not hide everything. Through the mist, shadows of the dead seemed to stretch in all directions off the side of the road. The town’s fire- truck lay on its side. Shattered window-glass crackled be­ neath the wheels of the van.

At one point Winston got up on his knees and looked out of the window, toward a gas station, which could barely be seen through the fog. “Stop the car!” he said. Michael did, and they all watched as Winston pressed up against the car window, not daring to open it—as if the very air of this town was poisoned. Finally Winston said, “He was there . . . then he crossed the street. ..' Winston pointed into the fog, “but where did he go from here?”

“Feels like he went straight on through town,” said Tory.

“I feel that, too,” concurred Lourdes.

They turned to Michael, but his struggle to maintain the fog didn’t leave room for him to feel much of anything else.

***

In another mile, Main Street faded behind them, and Michael lost control of the fog. The wind shifted the haze away through the woods, revealing a narrow country road ahead. They all breathed a sigh of relief, thinking the worst was over . . . until the road took a blind curve and they almost broadsided a pickup truck that sat diagonally across their lane.

Michael hit the brakes sharply, turned the wheel, and the van spun out of control, tires squealing, until they spun to a stop, narrowly missing the pickup.