Michael Grant - Lies

But Sam’s thoughts were fractured by the recurring image in his mind of Drake. Out there somewhere. Drake who had somehow come back from the dead.

Of course they’d never seen his body, had they?

“Focus,” Sam ordered himself. The problem right now was that the town was burning down. Edilio would be doing whatever he could to save those who needed saving. Sam’s job was to stop the terror now.

But where was Zil?

And was he with Drake?

Could the timing all be coincidence? No. Sam didn’t believe in coincidence.

Again, a movement glimpsed through a veil of smoke. Again Sam raced toward it. This time the figure did not disappear.

“Don’t…,” a young voice cried out, and then choked and hacked. A boy who looked to be maybe six years old.

“Get out of here,” Sam snapped. “Go to the beach.”

He ran on, faltered, turned to his right. Where was Drake? No, Zil. Where was Zil? Zil was real.

And all at once he was at the beach wall. He practically tripped over it. He had sent the six-year-old off in the wrong direction. Too late to do anything about that. The kid wasn’t the only lost one tonight.

Where were Dekka and Brianna and Taylor? Where were Edilio’s soldiers?

What was going on?

Sam saw a group of kids rushing along the sand in the direction of the marina. And for a moment he almost thought he saw Caine. He was hallucinating. Imagining things.

“Freaks out!”

Sam heard it clearly. It seemed very close. Maybe a trick of acoustics.

He tried to penetrate the dark and the smoke but he saw nothing now, not even the hallucinated Caine.

BLAM!

A shotgun blast. He saw the bright flash.

He ran. His feet hit something soft but heavy. He flew and landed facedown. Mouth gritty with sand he climbed to his feet. A body, someone in the sand.

No time for that.

It was time to see who was who and what was what. Sam raised his hands high and a ball of cold brilliant light formed in the air.

In the eerie half-light Sam saw a dozen of Zil’s thugs, half armed.

A mob was running away from them.

Another group, smaller, and looking oddly like doddering old people, kicked through the surf toward the distant marina.

Zil and his crew knew immediately who was responsible for the revelatory light. It could only be…

“Sam!”

“It’s Sam!”

“Run!”

“Shoot him! Shoot him!”

Three shotgun blasts in rapid succession. BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!

Sam fired back. Pencils of blistering green light scoured the sand. A cry of pain.

“Don’t run away!”

“Cowards!”

BLAM! BLAM!

Someone firing methodically now, working the shotgun pump.

Sam felt a sharp sting in the meat of his shoulder. He hit the dirt, knocking the wind from his lungs.

People running past. He rolled onto his back, hands at the ready.

BLAM!

The pellets hit the sand near enough for Sam to hear the impact.

He rolled away, over and over.

BLAM! BLAM!

Then a click. A curse. More feet running, pummeling the sand.

He leaped up, aimed and fired. The killing green light drew a scream of pain or fear, but the retreating figure didn’t stop.

Sam got up more slowly this time. Sand was in his shirt, his mouth, his ears. In his eyes. Smoke and sand and his eyes were streaming. He saw nothing but blurs.

Now the light was working against him, making him an easy target. He waved and the tiny sun blinked out. The beach was dark again, though a faint hint of gray pearled the sky over the ocean.

He spit, trying to get the sand out of his mouth. Rubbed his eyes gently, trying to dislodge the grit.

Someone behind him!

The pain was like fire. A lash that cut through his shirt and tore his flesh.

Sam spun from the impact.

A dark shape.

A razor-sharp whistling sound and Sam, too stunned to move, felt the lash on his shoulder.

“Hey there, Sammy. Long time, huh?”

“No,” Sam gasped.

“Oh, yes,” the voice snarled. The voice Sam knew. The voice he dreaded. The voice that had laughed and crowed as he lay on the polished floor of the power plant, screaming in agony.

Sam blinked, struggled to open one eye, to see what could not possibly be real. He raised his hands and fired blind.

The whistling, whooshing sound. Sam ducked instinctively and the blow went harmlessly by.

“The demon!” a girl’s voice cried.

But it came from behind Sam because he had turned and run.

He ran. Ran blindly down the sand.

Ran and fell and jumped up to run again.

He didn’t stop until he hit the concrete beach wall, smashing his calves. He landed facedown on the ground and lay there, panting.

Quinn had turned the boats to shore, dreading what he would find when they reached land.

The fire had spread and now seemed to cover half the town, although there were no new explosions. The smoke had reached them out at sea. Quinn’s eyes stung. His heart was in his throat.

Not another massacre, not another atrocity. Enough! He just wanted to fish.

The rowers were silenced by the awful spectacle of their homes burning.

They reached the first of the piers and saw a group of kids staggering onto it, no doubt panicked kids running away, thinking the marina would be safe.

Quinn called out to them.

No answer.

His boat touched the bumper that sloshed in the water. His moves were automatic from long practice. He tossed a rope loop over the piling and pulled his boat closer. Oars were shipped. Big Goof jumped onto the pier and secured the second line.

The staggering gaggle of kids on shore ignored them and kept moving. They moved strangely. Like frail old people.

Something strange about them…

And familiar.

The dawn was still an hour away. The only light was from the fire. The false stars were blotted by the pall of smoke.

Quinn jumped onto the pier.

“Hey there! Hey!” he yelled. Quinn was responsible for the boats. The marina was his.

The kids kept moving, like they were deaf. They headed down a parallel pier toward the two boats that were kept fueled for rescues: a bass boat and an inflatable Zodiac.

“Hey!” Quinn yelled.

The foremost of the kids turned to face him. They were separated by fifty feet of water, but even in the faint fire glow Quinn recognized the shape of shoulders and head.

And he recognized the voice.

“Penny,” Caine said. “Keep our friend Quinn busy.”

From the water a monster erupted in a tremendous geyser.

Quinn bellowed in terror.

The monster rose, taller and taller. It had a head like a tortured, deformed elephant. Two black, dead eyes. Curved teeth. The jaw gaped open to reveal a long, pointed tongue.

It roared then, a sound like a hundred massive cellos played with garbage cans for bows. Hollow. Tortured.

Quinn fell back. He fell from the pier. His back hit the edge of his boat. The impact knocked the air out of his lungs and he fell head-down into the water.

Panicked, he breathed. Salt water filled his throat. He gagged and coughed and strained with all his might not to breathe again.

Quinn knew the water. He’d been a good surfer and a very good swimmer. This was not his first experience of being upside down and turned around underwater.

He grabbed onto his fear and kicked hard to bring himself around. The surface, the barrier between water and air, death and life, was ten feet up. One foot kicked dirt. The water was not deep here.

He began to rise.

But the monster was reaching beneath the pier. Insanely long arms, with impossible clawlike hands.

The arms reached for him and he backpedaled away. Panicky, kicking, pushing at the water, lungs burning.

Too slow. One gigantic hand closed around him.