Michael Grant - Lies

“Yeah,” Turk agreed. “Only…I mean, kids may not believe us.”

“Are you scared?” Zil demanded.

“I’m not,” Lisa said. “I’ll do it. I’ll go around and tell all our friends the truth.”

Zil peered suspiciously at her. Why was she being brave all of a sudden?

“Cool, Lisa,” he said. “I mean, that would be heroic.”

Lance sighed. “I guess if she can do it, so can I.”

Only Turk kept his seat. He glanced furtively at Zil. “Someone better stay here to protect you, Leader.”

Zil laughed mirthlessly. “Yeah, if Sam comes I’m sure you’ll stop him, Turk.”

“It’s the tribulation,” Nerezza said.

Orsay didn’t say anything. She’d heard that word before. Had she actually used it herself?

As if she’d guessed, Nerezza explained. “Tribulation. A time of trouble. When people look for a prophet to tell them what to do. You prophesied that this would happen.”

“Did I? I don’t remember.” Her memory was a cramped attic full of broken toys and damaged furniture. It was getting harder and harder to be sure where she was. Or when. And she had given up asking why.

They stood on the edge of the burned area, in the middle of Sheridan. The destruction was awful and eerie in the morning light. Smoke still rose from a dozen or more houses. Tongues of flame could still be seen here and there, peeking out from charred windows.

Some houses stood untouched, surrounded by devastation. Like they’d been spared by divine intervention. Some houses were only half burned. Some, you could tell, had been gutted but the exteriors seemed almost intact, aside from soot stain around blackened windows.

A house close by had only its roof gone, burned and fallen in. The cheerful green-painted siding was barely soot smudged, but the top of the house was gone, just a few blackened sticks poking up at the sky. Peering in the windows Orsay could see what was left of roof tiles and timbers, jumbled and black. Like someone had come along, ripped the roof off and used the house as a trash can to dump ashes.

On the other side of the street a different sort of devastation. It looked as if a tornado had come through and shoved an entire street’s worth of houses off their foundations.

“I don’t know what to do,” Orsay said. “How would I tell anyone else?”

“It’s a judgment,” Nerezza said. “You can see that. Everyone can see it. It’s a judgment. A tribulation sent to remind people that they aren’t doing right.”

“But…”

“What have your dreams told you, Prophetess?”

Orsay knew what her dreams had told her. Dreams of all those on the outside, all those who saw a girl named Orsay walking inside their sleeping minds. The girl who carried messages to their children and in return showed the parents startling visions of life inside the FAYZ. Visions of their children trapped and burning.

Trapped and dying.

Yes, the dreams of all those good people were anguished, knowing what was happening inside. And they were so frustrated, because they knew-those good people, those grown-ups, those parents-that there was a way out for their terrified children.

Orsay’s dreams had shown her that. They had shown her that Francis had emerged safe and sound, welcomed by his parents with tears of gratitude after he took the poof.

That had made Orsay happy. Taking the poof when you reached fifteen let you go free of the FAYZ. It was something she could look forward to herself. Escape, when the time came.

But lately there were different images. These came to her not at the FAYZ wall, not even when she was asleep. They weren’t dreams, exactly. Visions. Revelations. They snuck in behind other thoughts. Like burglars creeping inside her brain.

She felt she no longer had any control over what happened inside her head. Like she’d left a door unlocked and now there was no holding back a flood of dreams, visions, vague terrible imaginings.

These new visions showed her not just those who had escaped the FAYZ by reaching the magic age. These new images were of children who had died. And yet, who now held their mothers tight on the outside.

She had seen images of those who had perished last night in the fire. Agony followed by death followed by escape into the loving arms of their parents.

Even Hank. Hank’s father, not there waiting at the Dome, but notified by the California Highway Patrol. They’d called him on the phone. Reached him at a bowling alley in Irvine where he was drinking draft beer and flirting with the bartender. He’d had to press one hand over his ear to hear over the sound of rolling balls and crashing pins.

“What?”

“Your son, Hank. He’s out!” the CHP had said.

Orsay saw the images, knew what they meant, and felt sick inside from knowing.

“What are your dreams telling you, Prophetess?” Nerezza pressed.

But Orsay couldn’t tell her. She couldn’t tell her that death itself, not just the poof, not just the big fifteen, was a way out.

Oh, God. If she told people that…

“Tell me,” Nerezza urged. “I know your powers are growing. I know you are seeing more than ever before.”

Nerezza’s face was close to Orsay’s. Her arm squeezed Orsay’s arm. Nerezza pressed Orsay with all the force of her will. Orsay could feel it-that will, that need, that hunger-pushing her.

“Nothing,” Orsay whispered.

Nerezza drew back. For a moment a snarl flashed on her face. Like an animal.

Nerezza glared at her. Then, with a will, she softened her expression. “You’re the Prophetess, Orsay,” she said.

“I don’t feel well,” Orsay said. “I want to go home.”

“The dreams,” Nerezza said. “They don’t let you sleep very well, do they? Yes, you should get back to your bed.”

“I don’t want to dream anymore,” Orsay said.

TWENTY-NINE

11 HOURS, 24 MINUTES

HUNTER HAD SIXbirds in his bag. Three of them were crows, which didn’t have much meat on them. One was an owl. Owls tasted pretty bad, but they had more meat. But two were the kind of birds that had colorful feathers and were juicy. Hunter didn’t know what they were called, but he always looked for them because they were tasty and Albert would be very happy to get some of those.

He was high on the far side of the ridge, north of town, hauling the sack of dead birds up. Hard work. He carried them slung over one shoulder in a pouch that mothers used to use to carry babies.

Hunter had a backpack with his sleeping bag and his pan and his cup and extra socks and an extra knife. Knives broke sometimes, although the knife he had in his belt had lasted a long time so far.

Hunter was on the trail of two deer. He had tracked them through the night. If he caught them he would kill them. Then he would use his knife and clean them like he had learned to do, spilling their insides out. He wouldn’t be able to carry both deer down at the same time. He would have to gut one of them and then hang it from a tree, come back for it later.

Hunter sniffed. He had learned that he could actually smell the animals he was hunting. Deer had a smell, so did raccoons and opossums. He sniffed, but now what reached his nose was the smell of fire.

Hunter’s brow creased in concentration. Had he recently made camp near this spot? Or was someone else up here lighting campfires?

He was in a deep cleft, dark trees all around and overhead. He hesitated. The fire smell wasn’t right for a campfire. It wasn’t just burning wood and brush.

He was standing there, unprepared, when a big deer with a full rack of antlers appeared out of nowhere. It didn’t see him. It was running, not in panic but at a steady pace, bounding nimbly along over fallen logs and skirting the thicker thorn bushes.