Нил Шустерман - Scorpion Shards

Tory glanced up at the puffs of clouds blowing across the sky. “An angel,” she said. “A unicorn . . . and that one’s a schooner ship.”

Michael glanced back at the clouds, wondering how on earth she had seen the exact same things he had seen. The reason became clear in an instant, and Michael couldn’t believe his eyes.

The clouds had become like soft, white figurines, hov­ering in the sky. The wind had carefully sculpted the clouds into exactly what Michael had seen them as!

Tory smiled. “You make nice clouds,” she said. “Or at least you do when your head’s screwed on straight.”

Michael stared at his clouds for a good ten minutes, but then they were finally torn apart by powerful cross-winds. He tried to create them again, but found he didn’t have the concentration. As he watched them dissolve, Mi­chael began to wonder how many of the storms on their trip had been of his own creation.

Meanwhile, Lourdes had woken up and was staring at a dead squirrel . . . only it wasn’t dead.

“I was talking to it gently—coaxing it closer,” she told Michael. “And then it just keeled over and fell asleep. What could possibly make it do that?”

Michael looked at the silent squirrel, realizing that this could be the first hint of Lourdes’s “hidden talent.” Then suddenly the squirrel snapped open its eyes and scam­pered off.

“Isn’t that weird?” said Lourdes.

Michael chuckled, as he imagined Lourdes surrounded by animals like Snow White . . . but it wasn’t about ani­mals, was it? This was just a trick—like Tory’s rag, or Mi­chael’s sky sculptures. As with all of them, Lourdes’s talent had many layers to be discovered, and it took Michael’s breath away to think of the possibilities.

“We need to talk,” Michael told Lourdes, and she began to look worried.

“About what?”

Michael smiled and gently touched her arm, which was not quite as massive as it had been that same morning. “Good things,” he assured her. “Only good things.”

Just then Winston came bounding up the hill, out of breath.

“The redheaded kid didn’t stop in this town,” he an­nounced. “We gotta keep moving.” Michael noticed that Winston’s pants, which they had cut down to match his diminishing stature, were already an inch above his an­kles. Then Michael caught a glimpse of the revolver Win­ston had taken from that crazy cop in Boise. He kept it with him in his inside jacket pocket.

Michael imagined the days ahead of them now, and the joy he had felt only moments ago began to dissipate as quickly as his clouds in the windswept sky. He knew what they had to do. Stop the destroyer. Stop him at all costs, before he . . . before he what? It was hard to imagine any­thing worse than what they had seen in Boise.

As they gathered their things, Tory came up to Michael once more. “Still thinking of going home?” she asked.

Michael shook his head. “What would you do without me?” he said.

“Stay dry?” suggested Tory. “Keep warm?”

“I promise,” said Michael, “no more storms.” But even as they turned to go, Michael could feel a cold wind blow­ing, as nature itself reacted to the growing chill he felt within.

The dry brush of eastern Oregon slowly became green, then turned into dense woods as I-84 cut a tireless path west. With Michael behind the wheel, the four kids tried every exit off the interstate, in search of anything that didn’t seem right. It was a slow and pains­taking task, but it gave them the time they needed to talk.

“So now you two are Rain-man and Mrs. Clean?” said Lourdes to Michael and Tory. “I wonder what that makes me—Squirrelgirl?”

“It might not seem like much,” said Tory, “but we’ll need every skill we have if we’re gonna stop this guy.”

Tory looked at Winston, anticipating his usual reac­tion. “I know it’s a big stretch,” she said to him, “but these talents are for real—you have to believe us!”

Winston looked at her, insulted. “Why shouldn’t I be­lieve you?” he said. “It makes sense—I just wish I knew what mine was.”

Michael laughed. “Nice stretch, Winston. Maybe you’re a bungee cord after all!” Michael jokingly tugged on Winston’s arm, as if it would stretch like Plastic-man. It didn’t of course, and Winston tumbled out of his seatbelt.

“Hey watch it!” said Winston, only half angry. “Before I grow some teeth and bite you!”

Burton, Oregon, was six miles off the interstate, in a densely forested valley. About a mile down Old Burton Road, Michael stomped on the brakes, and they all tum­bled forward.

An object loomed before them—something so bizarre that they could only stare at it, trying to make their minds accept what they were seeing. It was huge and blue, lying half on the road and half off. It looked like a giant metallic Q-Tip that had crashed from the heavens and taken down a dozen trees with it.

“Water tower,” said Lourdes.

Tory swallowed hard. “I think we found the town where he stopped.”

The word “Burton” was still visible on the toppled water tower. Its bulbous tank had ruptured, sending its full load of water flooding the forest around it, turning it into a swamp.

“If I read the sign right,” said Michael, “there’s more than three thousand people in this town.”

He turned to Tory, but Tory turned her eyes away. They were all thinking the same thing. The demolition of downtown Boise, as bad as it was, had only a quarter-mile radius. . . . But if the redheaded kid had found a way to shatter the people of this town . . . it meant that the range of his ability had grown, and the human wreckage would be unimaginable.

The car itself seemed to shudder.

They slowly navigated the gravelly shoulder of the road down the long, slender cylinder that had once held up the water tank. At its ruined base sat a burned-out eighteen-wheeler with a crushed grill.

Across the road, in the drenched undergrowth, a woman sat knitting, wearing nothing but the strands of clashing yarn that draped over her and into the mud.

Lourdes casually pushed down her door lock. It en­gaged with a dull thud. It was echoed by the thud of the other three doors being locked as well. Michael eased onto the gas pedal, and they pressed cautiously forward.

The first homes came into view—lonely homes set back from the road, about a hundred yards apart. In the first house, a shadow leered from an upstairs window, staggering back and forth. On the porch of another home, a woman in a rocking chair let out a ghostly sound.

“We still have three miles to go till we get to the center of town,” reminded Tory.

Winston nodded. “It’s going to get worse before it gets better.”

And it did. A car was parked through a living-room window. Several homes were smoldering ruins . . . then all at once, Michael slammed on the brakes as a local kid no older than them, screaming and bloody, dashed out in front of them. He was stalked by a band of teenagers, as if the prey of some awful hunt.

They watched as the mob disappeared up the hillside.

“I’ve had nightmares like that,” said Tory; then added, “Whoever he is, I hope he wakes up.”

Lourdes mumbled something in Spanish and let out a groan of grief. She grabbed Winston’s hand; he held Tory’s shoulder; she gripped Michael’s leg; he reached back until he found Lourdes’s wrist, completing the circle of four. They took a deep breath and tried to force out the grim images that assaulted them from outside.

“Nothing can hurt us,” said Tory. “Nothing can hurt us when we’re like this.” But it wasn’t true. Yes, they were stronger, but they weren’t invincible—and the sum of the horrors outside their car was far greater than the sum of the four of them.