A/N: You've waited an extra long time for this chapter, so I made it extra long! Enjoy!
A dripping sound brings me back to consciousness. Groggy and more than a little disoriented, I call out. My voice echoes. A few cries answer my own, but I realize with a start that none of them belong to the Flock. None of them are even human. The darkness around me takes shape. Metal bars appear first, then the world beyond them morphs into the stuff of nightmares.
The School.
Trying not to betray my panic to anyone who may be watching, I call out to the Flock again. No reply this time but that stupid dripping. From my vantage point, I can't see anything directly above or below me, no matter how far I lean. Finally, I hear a faint voice from just below me.
"Max. . . It hurts." Iggy speaks between gasps for breath. The silhouette of long fingers barely reaches the floor of my cage. Terrified and not willing to show it, I grab his hand. It's slick with blood.
"Iggy. . .what-"
"Flock. . .dead." My gut wrenches, and I can't help but gasp. It hurts. I suddenly know-I know-where the dripping is coming from.
"I'm. . .dead." A last, horrible breath. The hand I'm clinging to suddenly hangs loose, almost slipping between my fingers before I tighten my grip.
I hold on until the dripping stops.
A massive shudder runs from my head to my curled-up toes, effectively waking me up. I take a deep breath in an attempt to calm my shaking and chase the last few wisps of the nightmare away.
It doesn't work. Note to self: seek therapy.
I crack my eyes open to get a better idea of where I am. There are a few penciled sketches pinned to the beige walls, but the small room otherwise looks like your typical guest room; even the laptop sitting on the desk lacks personality. Half-paranoid, I test my limbs for restraints. Nope. I check for a guard. Nada. Hm, when they went through all of that trouble to poison me, you'd think they would stick around to make sure it stuck.
It's a struggle to sit up; my muscles feel like pudding. Geesh, I don't know where that gang got those drugs, but there's no way that they're legal. Of course, neither is kidnapping a bird kid. Well, really any gang-related activities could be counted against a person on Santa's naughty list.
The front door opens and closes softly. Footsteps approach the bedroom door and stop. With nowhere to hide or run, I collapse backwards into the pillows and pretend to be asleep. I listen to the hinges of the bedroom door open a crack. For a moment, nothing but the sound of the tiny dwarf digging for gold nuggets in my head. Then the door shuts softly again and the footsteps recede. Alright, back to business.
I swing my feet over the side of the bed and fight the lava churning in my stomach. My toes are freezing. A quick glance confirms my suspicions: my feet are bare. I reach over the side of the bed and my fingers grasp at air. Drats. I like those boots; the steel toes really add some oomph to my fighting. Nick must have confiscated them. I'll just have to leave barefoot.
There's only one window in the room, but, luckily for me, it's plenty large enough for teenagers-the human and mutant kind-to climb through. It even overlooks the backyard, where a security fence would buy me a few extra seconds of headway if Nick catches sight of me.
I plant my feet firmly on the ground before attempting to stand. Even so, I have to lean heavily against the bedpost to stabilize myself. Immediately, it's like the dwarf in my head has discovered a jackhammer. Great. Just great. Flying is going to be fun; not only will I lose all of my toes to frostbite, but the pounding in my head will make me go crazy, and I might just try to say hi to some airplane passengers, and everyone knows that if you fly next to a plane you'll get sucked into the turbine. Then the engine will explode and the plane will crash land into a nuclear plant and it will cause a nuclear meltdown that kills everything on the planet. Yep. Flying will be fun.
I guess the drugs haven't worn off yet.
It takes only a few iffy steps to get to the window. A moment later, and it opens with a whoosh! Feeling stronger by the second, I hoist one leg through. I'm ducking my head out the window when Nick casually strolls in.
"Oh, you're awake." He runs a hand through his hair and yawns.
"Yeah, I've got a high metabolism, so drugs wear off of me faster than they would for a human." I catch sight of Nick's watch. It's nine at night; I've been out of it all day. "But, judging by how long I've been asleep, you knew that already."
"You really think-"
"That you poisoned me? Duh. What else. . . would. . ." I drop my sentence as it sinks in. Nick didn't walk in like he was after me; he was probably just checking to see if I was awake yet. And twelve hours is plenty of time to move a person to a more secure location, let alone restrain him or her.
Shoot. Back to square one. I squeeze the bridge of my nose. That headache? Yeah, it's not going anywhere.
"You okay?" Obviously not. But, whatever.
"Yeah. Where are my shoes?" My question-deflecting skills rival those of politicians.
"They're by the front door."
I raise an eyebrow at Nick's equally-bare feet. "You didn't strike me as a neat freak."
"It's not me, it's my aunt." Okay. Whatever that has to do with anything. "Oh, and I washed your socks."
Ew.
Nick continues. "But-they were kinda worn out to begin with, and the dryer kinda-well, it ate them. So, here." He tosses a nice, thick pair of socks at me. I nod my thanks and, ignoring my grody toenails, pull them on. Ah, fresh socks: a once-a-year kind of feeling.
I notice Nick watching me anxiously. "What?"
"It's just. . .what was that? One second you're moody-"
"I am not-"
"-and the next you're passed out like someone slipped roofies in your soda."
Exactly what I was thinking. Decoy! I need a distraction. "For your information, I never drink soda."
"Ever?"
Ha! He's taken the bait! "Never. It doesn't hydrate, and the bubbles hurt my mouth." Well, that and the fact that all of the soda we've found while dumpster diving is warm and flat.
Nick shakes his head. "You're changing the subject." Darn. Foiled again. "What happened back there?"
I get up and grab my boots off a mat by the front door. I take my time lacing them up. Nick waits not-so-patiently. I chew on the side of my mouth, turning recent events over in my head.
"I don't know."
Nick doesn't take that for an answer.
"What do you mean, you don't know?" His tone jacks the pounding in my head up a few notches.
Immediately I'm on the defensive. "I mean I don't know! It's not like they handed me an instruction manual when I escaped! And-" Nick sucks in a breath. I bite my tongue. Oops. I've said too much.
I'm saved from explaining when I get a tingly feeling on the back of my neck. A second later, the dilapidated porch creaks. Nick's eyes widen and he peeks out the window.
"Wallakazoo." Okay, he doesn't say that, but it's a much better word than what actually comes out of his mouth. He pushes me away. "Go! Hide!" Without much time to think it through, I lunge through the nearest door and pull it shut just as the front door opens.
It's dim. And stuffy. Something brushes one of my shoulders, and I instinctively grab it and pull. A broken hanger and the coat it was supporting rains down. A closet? Really? That's like, preschool logic! What was my second choice, under the bed? Behind some drapes?
Nick's voice easily carries down the hallway.
"Mom, you need to leave." He sounds tired, like he's had this conversation before.
"Nicholas-" His mom's voice sounds like it was pretty before she started smoking a pack and a half a day.
"It's Nick."
A feminine sigh. "Nick, I know it's been a while-"
"Are you kidding me?"
"What?"
"'Been a while' doesn't cut it. When was the last time you saw me?"
"I-"
"It was a year and a half ago." Nick's voice is deadly calm. "And do you remember why? You wanted money. From Aunt Bess. You didn't even know I was here until she brought it up."
"I can explain-"
"Don't bother. I've heard it all before. Cut the bull, Mom, you aren't going to change, and I'm tired of waiting. Just leave me alone with whatever I've been able to pull together of the mess of the life that you have left me with!"
A pause.
"Nicky, I missed another house payment. I just need-"
"Fine. Here. Take it." A drawer being opened and slammed shut. "But know that this is the last time. If the Boss knew-"
"No." His mother's voice is firm. "She is your aunt, and you aren't going to call her anything else. You know I don't like you being one of those-those delinquents in her gang!"
"They are my family!"
"They are not your family! They aren't even your friends! They are using you!"
"They care about me! I am making money! I am important!"
"As your mother-"
"Seriously? You can't play the "mom card" anymore. That ship sailed when you left me at home by myself when I was seven. Seven! For two weeks! I had to dig through the garbage to find food! And the Boss found me, and she has taken better care of me than You. Ever. DID!"
A slap, followed by stunned silence.
"Don't you say that." Nick's mom's voice is softer. It sounds like she's fighting a lump in her throat. I chance cracking the door open to peek through. "Don't you say that to me. I love you, Nicholas." She raises her hands to frame Nick's face, but he bats her fingers away. Her voice breaks. "I've loved you since the moment I knew I was pregnant."
Nick makes a sound in the back of his throat like disbelief. "Get out." He holds the door open for her. I notice his white-knuckle grip on the doorknob. She doesn't move.
"Get out before I have to call the Boss."
His mother hesitates before carefully stepping onto the porch. "I quit for you." It's barely more than a whisper.
A course laugh. "Too late." When she doesn't move, Nick yells, "Go! I. . .I never want to see you again!" With that, he slams the door.
My heart stutters.
I would do anything for a mom, and Nick. . . but. . . I just don't know what to think.
Nick runs a hand through his hair and takes a deep breath. When he looks up again, his face is expressionless; a face I know too well. "Max? You there?"
I wait a second, tempted to pretend I didn't just hear all of that or care either way. Then I answer him. "In here." I nudge the closet door open with my steel-toed boots. Nick offers me a hand up; I refuse. When I stand, though, my headache takes on a new life, and I have to take a moment to massage my temples before taking my first steps. Nick and I seem to make a non-verbal agreement not to mention the mother fiasco.
My stomach decides to break the awkward silence.
Nick's abdomen answers. "Glad we're on the same page." I follow him into the kitchen.
It's nothing fancy, but an impressive amount of food is stored inside. Canned vegetables, canned ravioli, canned soup, canned fruit, canned beans; you name it, and if it comes in a can, it's in those cupboards.
I think I'm in heaven.
As I start picking through the aluminum cylinders for one that piques my interest, it occurs to me that the only other people I've known with this impressive of a collection is the Flock. "Didn't know you were preparing for the apocalypse."
"Expect the unexpected, that's my motto," Nick says, grabbing a can of ravioli from the counter.
"I thought that was Boy Scouts." I select a can of good ole' vienna sausages. Can't go wrong with canned meat!
"Oscar Wilde." He pops his ravioli open with gusto. "But Boy Scouts sounds good, too." He fishes some forks from a drawer and hands one to me, his fingers just barely brushing mine. I pretend I don't notice and focus instead on opening my can without spilling any of the precious meat brine. But before I take the first bite of delicious, salty, processed meat product, Nick stops me.
"A toast. To survival." He says it with a straight face, so I can't tell if he's serious or joking. I opt for the latter, roll my eyes, and raise my can to clank with his. Then we feast.
I'm about halfway through my fourth-or is it fifth?-can of food when Nick's phone rings. He pulls it out of his pocket and reads a message while I scrape the remaining ravioli sauce from a can. When he slides his phone back into his pocket, his face tells me something's up. I toss the empty can into the pile of empty cans on the counter and ask, "What is it?"
Nick shifts uncomfortably on his feet. "It was Reno." I narrow my eyes. "He was wondering if the Boss had ever made it back." His shoulders tighten.
"That's your aunt, isn't it? Your mom's sister?"
He nods once. "Nobody has seen her since the fight. And that was almost two days ago." I know exactly what that feels like. Nick looks at me, almost like he's pleading. I could tell him that his aunt will turn up and that everything will be okay, but I know how I feel when I know someone's lying to me. I remain silent. After a beat, Nick turns away from me and starts to clear the counter. When every can is in the garbage, he just stares at the marbled patters of the counter's top.
I recognize that posture.
Back at the School, I couldn't reach Fang's cage. When things went wrong-which was about all the time-he kind of disappeared into this shell of himself. He wouldn't talk or eat or even sleep, but he would stare at the floor of his cage without a single emotion crossing his features. Nothing I could do would bring him back.
I couldn't help Fang back then, but I can help Nick right now.
Hesitantly, I reach out and brush his hand. When he doesn't move, I awkwardly grasp his hand, squeezing a little. They are warm and calloused. Nick's eyes meet mine for a brief second before returning to the counter. I don't know what to say, so I don't say anything.
Slowly, he returns the pressure. "To survival."
"To survival."
We stand together, sharing hands and air and silence and grief and what little hope we have for tomorrow.
A/N:UPDATE: A few days after posting this chapter, I decided to look at it again. Ew. Sorry y'all had to read that. I promise I won't update without checking for unnatural amounts of gush EVER again. In a few chapters, the fun actiony stuff picks up again!
Review?