James Patterson - The Gift

Wisty

EVERYTHING ABOUT THIS IS FORBIDDEN, banned, and maybe that’s why it’s so incredibly great. One step into the Stockwood Music Festival, and it feels as if you’ve been transported out of the New Order nightmare and into a dream of a place owned by us, ruled by us, and pumping with the fresh blood of music, very good music, astonishing music that just makes you want to dance-which is also forbidden.

“I don’t know what Whit was thinking, passing up the opportunity to come here,” I say to Janine, who’s walking behind me, both of us bouncing on the balls of our feet. My brother had-characteristically-insisted on staying behind to protect the younger kids who needed to remain at Garfunkel’s. And he had-uncharacteristically-mumbled some blah-blah about “having a feeling” something bad might happen if there was a “power vacuum” there.

But this… this was a once-in-a-New-Order-time experience. “I’m gonna kick Whit’s tight little butt when we get back,” I finish.

Janine blushes at the mention of Whit’s butt. The girl’s all brains and heart-but when you mention anything about bodies, she gets embarrassed. “Yeah,” she says, and gets all therapist on me. “He needs this more than any of us.”

The concert’s being held in what was once the underground reservoir for a small village called Stockwood. It’s been totally drained and is now just a stadium-size cavern, illuminated by portable road-crew lights. I feel as if I’m on a movie set, because I’m seeing people milling around in dress ranging from medieval monks’ robes and ninja outfits to white face paint and black capes.

No wonder creativity’s been banned. It’s way too freaking cool for the New Order to handle.

“I didn’t realize there was a come-as-your-favorite-comic-book-hero theme,” I remark to Sasha and Emmet.

“Not exactly,” says Sasha. “They’ve come here in costume to honor characters from the banned movies and books that they used to love.”

“Love,” I say. “Present tense.” I won’t let the N.O. take that away.

“Absolutely,” drawls Emmet. “This is all an empowerment kinda thang.”

I see exactly what he means. There’s banners and handheld signs with slogans like N.O. CAN’T DO and NOTE TO N.O.: WE WILL ROCK YOU.

Just then there’s a huge tremor, and little bits of dust and debris curtain down from the ceiling. I have a moment of panic, my head instinctively swiveling around, half expecting to see soldiers pouring in to terrorize us.

Everybody chills, but there are no aftershocks, and moments later we’re back to communing, chanting, and proselytizing for the Resistance. It’s as if nothing had happened. A New Order bomb must have landed directly overhead. No biggie. Just another thorn in our sides.

Speaking of which, Weasel Boy comes bobbing up to us. “Hey, guys!” The smug look on Byron’s face makes me want to ralph. “I acquired some backstage passes for us! Party on! ”

Party on? I guess all of the times I’ve told him to stop talking like such a blowhard have paid off, but I’m not sure I love the result.

“Not interest -,” I start to say, but Janine cuts me off.

“You got backstage passes? You mean we’ll get to meet the Bionics? ” screams Janine as if she’s the world’s original teenybopper. Weird-I didn’t think she had an ounce of teeny to bop in her. She lifts Byron right off the ground with a hug. Man, these Bionics must be really good.

“I thought this was supposed to be an open-mike thing,” I say.

“It is,” says Byron as Janine lets go of him. “But they’re doing it for free. Why are you asking? Were you going to get up on the stage?”

“Maybe I was.”

I start to blush, until Byron replies unctuously, “Well, I’ll get you on the list. Consider it done.”

“Forget it,” I say. I can’t give Byron the satisfaction. “Not interested. Let it go.”

“Come on, Wisty,” says Janine. “You were good back at Garfunkel’s.”

Just then another bomb crashes overhead, and dirt rains down from the ceiling. Byron doesn’t even flinch. He just turns and stalks off toward the stage.

Janine, Emmet, and Sasha chatter with excitement. Meanwhile, I’m standing here thinking, Gee, isn’t it rather inconvenient to be in the middle of an underground cavern in the middle of a war? Where tons of rocks could come tumbling down and bury us alive at any minute?

None of that dispels the incredible energy of the concert scene, though. Onstage right now is a group that uses only their mouths to create the music of a full band. Some of them sound like guitars, some like basses, some like drums, some like trumpets, some like instruments that haven’t yet been invented.

Janine is giggling and pointing at the stage. It’s as if just being here is changing her whole demeanor. She’s being… a normal person.

Next we watch these young guys who do incredible balletic duels. Leaping, spinning, twisting, and defying gravity.

And then there’s a mind-blowing dance troupe that does their entire show on stilts. It just keeps going…

If there’s one thing that makes me hope we stand a chance against the New Order, it’s the knowledge that we have so much talent.

Talent-and passion.

That’s what scares the N.O. about us, isn’t it? We’ve got it, and they don’t. We all have the gift.

Whit

WHAT HAVE I DONE?

I’m sitting on the roof of Garfunkel’s bombed-out, dilapidated department store, looking down at the journal in my lap. How could I have ever put such a thing down on paper, much less thought it up in the first place?

This poem I’ve just written wasn’t plagiarized from Lady Myron or anyone else. I have to take full responsibility for these sickening words.

I look off at the horizon, past the outskirts of this burned-out city and the yellowing hills. I see a lazy squadron of bombers passing along, their contrails turning pink in the light of the setting sun. Is it that the world’s turned upside down? That everything that was normal yesterday is extinct today? Or is this whole Celia thing just slowly driving me crazy, turning me into some death-obsessed poet?

Just then I hear voices.

I run to the edge of the roof and look down at the bomb-pocked street. A small gang of slacker-looking dudes in black T-shirts and jeans is laughing and walking toward the building’s entrance. I have no idea who they are, but at least we know nobody employed by the New Order wears black jeans and Ts. Or has long hair.

Still, I have a bad feeling. Just like the one I’d told Wisty about, before she and the rest left for Stockwood.

I zip down the fire escape to see what’s going on with these guys.

Turns out they’re a band looking for the Stockwood Festival. Why a bunch of musicians wouldn’t know the whereabouts of the biggest concert ever in Freeland seems a little suspicious.

Also suspicious is that they radiate jerkosity. They keep snickering and slapping each other on the back, saying things like “Righteous” and “Big-time,” the kinds of expressions used by guidance counselors who are trying a little too hard.

The leader-a guy with too much gel in his hair and this horrible wannabe goatee-looks me up and down. “Are you the man here?” he asks.

“Nobody’s really the leader here. And nobody else is here anyway.”