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
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.
They drop to a knee and pull their triggers almost in unison.
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…
And
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.
And
“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.
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.”
Chapter 37
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 -
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.
Chapter 38
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.
