The Gift

Helpless.

He’s taken away my mojo, my magic, probably my life.

BOOK TWO. SOMETHING WICKED THIS DAY COMES Chapter 41

“HAVE A SEAT,” says the solemn, tight-lipped man behind the heavy metal desk.

Byron Swain nods nervously and sits on the threadbare couch as the man finishes some official-looking paperwork.

“You took your time getting here,” says the stern adult, putting down his overchewed pencil.

“I had to observe all the protocols -”

“No excuses!” yells the man, spraying spittle across the metal desk at Byron. “Children of Ones don’t make excuses!”

He again snatches up his battered pencil as if he is going to either break it in two or throw it at Byron’s face.

Byron meekly recedes back into the couch, wishing he could somehow slide between the cushions like some accidental pocket change.

“And you will stand up in my presence! Who do you think you are, Byron?”

“I’m sorry, Dad.”

“And stop calling me that! I am The One Who Tallies The Internal Revenues.”

“Yes, sir, I’m sorry, sir,” says Byron, remembering how the Freelanders call his father “The One Who Counts The Beans” and making a mental note not to mention that. “I just -”

“Excuses!” he screams. “By order of the New Order, and at the specific request of The One, you will now give me a complete report!”

Byron feels a little pain growing like a cancer in his chest. He isn’t happy spying on the Freelanders, but what choice does he have? Wisty continues to reject him. He is nothing to her. To any of them really. And he is under direct orders from his father.

Byron stands at attention and, shaking slightly, begins telling him everything.

Chapter 42

Wisty

TRUST ME, you don’t know pain till you know what it feels like to wake up after getting nailed by a New Order tranquilizer dart. Or three. Or twelve.

My eyes ache like they’ve been loaded on rusty metal springs. My temple throbs like somebody’s just nailed a red-hot horseshoe around the inside of it. The back of my head pulses like somebody’s trying to inflate it with a bicycle pump.

And my mouth-my tongue feels like it’s a slug that’s crawled halfway across an equatorial desert and died, and my throat feels like it was just the parade route for a troop of hermit crabs.

And my stomach… sloshing around like I’m in a car with no shock absorbers driven by a drunk who’s decided to take a shortcut through a timber yard. “Carsick” doesn’t cover it.

“Hey, Wist, how you feelin’?” asks Whit.

I wince and croak back, “What’s with all the noise and the bumpety-bump?” I’m still not able to open my eyes properly to see where I am.

“We’re having another New Order van ride,” he says, helping me sit up.

“Water?” I croak.

Whit shakes his head. “Strangely, they didn’t give us the van with the minibar.” He leans up toward the front seat. “Anywhere up here on the right will be fine,” calls Whit through the grate, as if we’re riding in a taxi going to a Sunday matinee. He’s trying to cheer me up, I guess.

The goon riding shotgun-and wouldn’t you know it, he actually has a shotgun-slams the bulletproof-glass divider closed.

“Nice fellow,” says Whit. “Maybe a little too intense.”

A wave of panic engulfs me now. I don’t know if I can go through another imprisonment-the endless hunger, the mind-splitting thirst, the soul-crushing hopelessness…

Whit senses that I’m freaking out. “We’ll be okay,” he says. “We wouldn’t be here today if we weren’t survivors, and if we stunk at jailbreaks, right?”

I know he’s trying to be sweet, but what an idiotic thing to say. I’d scream at him if my head didn’t hurt so much. “We wouldn’t be here today if I hadn’t fallen for…” Eric. I can’t even say it. Just the thought of that sad, pitiful, god-awful betrayal is like another knife in my gut.

“Look,” Whit says, pointing to the window at the back of the van. “At least this time they gave us a view. Want to take in some Overworld scenery?”

I shrug listlessly. I can still see Eric in my mind, and all I want to do is stay curled in a ball and just give up.

Then I see Mrs. Highsmith in my mind’s eye. And I remember the music. Positive energy… beating the blues. So I let Whit help me up.

Now I can see what’s going on.

We’re speeding down an empty six-lane highway with those New Order billboards lining both sides-giant ones, every tenth of a mile or so. It’s kind of hard to stay positive watching all of this pathetic crap-His Resplendent Baldness cavorting with upper-level bureaucrats, unveiling plaques to renamed Freeland cities: ONETOWN, NEW ORDER ACRES, VICTORYVILLE, BRAVE NEW ESTATES. It’s no wonder Beaners look so glassy-eyed and out of it 24-7.

I’m ready to sink back to the floor when the monotony is interrupted by a giant message in horrifyingly bright- red New Order lettering.

WE INTERRUPT THIS PROGRAM FOR AN IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT.

CLASS 1 CRIMINALS ELIZA AND BENJAMIN ALLGOOD ARE IN CUSTODY.

STAY TUNED FOR EXECUTION EVENT DETAILS.

THIS IS ANOTHER GREAT DAY.

And there, in the middle of the video displays, are my parents-in orange prison jumpsuits, gagged and shackled.

My knees buckle, and I sink back to the floor.

Chapter 43