A/N: Probably my fastest update ever. I guess when you're excited enough about the chapter it makes it easier to write the thing.
For the umpteenth time I slide my palm across my face. Warm, sticky blood already coats my fingers. Ugh. I twist my hand into my shirt to wipe some of it off. Stupid head wounds, bleeding so much. Stupid rock, scratching my face. I try not to dwell on the fact that my-ahem-"abilities" should have healed this dumb scrape up by now. Or at least scabbed it over. Just to where it doesn't look like I lost a fight with a bottle of ketchup.
I wouldn't be headed back into town via mutation if it weren't for the rock that caused my current discomfort. Call me crazy, but I have a feeling Nick would like to know that Bess, presumably his aunt and leader of the gang, who fell off the face of the planet for a few days, magically reappeared and threw a rock at my head bearing a cryptic message. I don't know, maybe it's just me. And the message seems urgent enough that I don't want to risk Nick running into, well, whatever he's supposed to be running from. So I'm just flying in circles a thousand feet above the city, cursing my sense of duty. Stupid whitecoats, giving me wings and experimenting on me for the majority of my life so that I have to feel pity for everyone I meet that grew up normally and so can't defend themselves.
Besides, it shouldn't be that hard to find Nick. He caught a ride in that terrifying death trap of a van. I'll just keeping my eyes peeled for a vehicle that looks like it has been lifted from a junkyard. Easy, peasy.
Below me, in the darkness of night, the ramshackle buildings look almost peaceful. The streetlamps illuminate only potholes in the roads; no sane person would wander the pock-marked sidewalks at this hour. After a mere six miuntes of searching, a plume of black smoke catches my eye. I zoom in, raptor-vision style, and see that it's coming from the tailpipe of the Van of Doom. The contents of my backpack shift as I angle my wings down towards it. The car speeds through the last stop sign in town and turns down an unmarked road into the forest.
Great. Because my experiences in there have been just peachy.
Once I pass the city limits, I dive until I'm only a few hundred feet above the trees. Only glimpses of the van's rusted exterior are visible through the leaves. Regardless, I make sure to stay out of sight as it travels towards its destination. All I need is for somebody in the van to recognize that I'm more than a bird, distract the driver, and send the van into a tree. Then I might have to pull off some crazy rescue mission or something, and I'm not in the mood.
The road goes past a clearing that, judging by the smell, is what's left after the forest fire last night. I suddenly know where the van is headed. And I'm not sure I like it.
A few minutes after passing the newly-created clearing, the van slows down and veers onto a dirt path. I follow them to a small clearing that looks like a box of fireworks was recently lit in the center of it, decimating the plant life and what was once a large warehouse. My gut wrenches with the realization that I was correct in my earlier assumption of our destination. The van parks in a line of cars varying in degree of decay. I fly past and land in a tree a few hundred feet past the perimeter of the clearing, where I rely on the darkness to mask me from the humans. The light cast from the moon is enough for me to see.
I stare at the remnants of the warehouse burned down by the forest fire the other night. Supposedly, this is where the gang stored their "goodies," but the Red Creeks repossessed most of the weapons and drugs before torching the place. According to Nick's friends, the place was burned to the ground. In fact, there's a large pile of rock, brick, and other vital parts of the building's infrastructure in the center of the clearing that looks close to it, standing only a couple inches or so above the dirt. My dread grows as the riders of the vehicle search through the rubble before swinging open a large door and disappearing down a ladder. A bunker, then. Huh.
I'm not an underground person. I'm not really even an on-the-ground person. When you're underground you're completely surrounded. No way out but the way you came, if even that. This wouldn't bother me, but the Red Creeks obviously knew about the location of the warehouse before; who's to say that they aren't keeping it under surveillance now? And I don't know exactly how the gang system works, but I'm pretty sure that being the leader of a gang, no matter how temporarily, puts a big target on your forehead.
Call me paranoid, but maybe that's what Nick's aunt was trying to warn him about. I pull the straps of the backpack tighter, just in case.
When I count five minutes after the last van arrives and there isn't another headlight in sight, I shimmy down from my tree to get a better scope of the area. Nothing in my immediate vicinity looks dangerous enough to attack, so I start to work my way around the perimeter, keeping my eyes open for movement and anything vaguely-human shaped.
I don't expect to find a car.
I almost miss it; brush and strategically-placed branches cover the thing. I do a three-sixty, and when I'm sure nobody is watching, I pull some of the decoration off. And whistle. The car is sleek: tinted windows, low to the ground, new paint job, the works. Nothing like any of the cars that parked by the warehouse. Something catches my eye. A flashing red light in the passenger seat. The light of a communications device. It crackles with static. Oh, snap. I've found a live one.
I backpedal away from the car and pray that nobody has spotted me. After a moment, the tremendous implication of my findings hits me. I sharpen my focus and scan the area again. More snazzy vehicles are scattered, at different depths in the forest, all covered in the most authentic forest-scented air fresheners available. So there are more. Of course there are, why would somebody play with a Walky-Talky by themselves?
With a jolt, I realize that whoever had done this had to have come early to hide the vehicles. I cautiously approach the car and place a hand on its hood, over the engine. It's cold. So they've been here a while.
If nobody is in the cars. . .
Adrenaline starts to slowly worm its way into my system. I need to warn Nick.
A soft, sharp sound makes me jump. I chance a peek over the top of the fancy shmancy car. There, almost invisible under the brush and darkness, the outline of a person. From what I can tell, she hasn't seen me yet. Let's keep it that way. I duck back out of view and silently make my way to the bunker.
The faint static of communications device drifts from the direction of the spy. It's followed by the tell-tale click of a gun loading.
Well, shoot fire and spit nickel. Can't it just be easy for once?
I duck behind a tree just in time. I don't hear the gun fire-it must be muffled-but a rapid-fire stream of bullets bury themselves in the bark of surrounding trees. When it stops, it's replaced by the sound of a gun being reloaded. Taking my chances, I sprint for the remains of the warehouse. A soft curse from behind me, and then more radio static. I have to warn Nick.
When I get to the debris, I have to pick my way over glass and boulders and the occasional sharp-edge metal sheet. The bunker door swings up before I can get to it. The sound of a major scuffle rises from below ground. Crap. I'm too late. The man who had opened the door looks confused at the sight of me, but that bewilderment quickly shifts to a smirk.
I make a famous Maximum Ride split-second decision. So I pull an about-face and aim for the perimeter of the clearing. Only, the debris beneath me isn't as keen to switch direction as I am. Physics, right? So I lean to the right in preparation for turning around, and the debris under my foot rolls to the left. Gravity does the rest.
For the record, I fall all of the time, so I know how to fall with finesse. I manage to twist so that I take the brunt of the fall in non-vital areas of my body (read: everywhere but my head and wings). But falling on the ground and falling on a lumpy pile of hard rocks is very different. For example, the open end of an uprooted pipe tries to impale my rib cage. I hiss as I roll over.
Gah, that will leave an interesting bruise.
The man from the bunker has gotten both feet above ground level. He holds me at gunpoint while he approaches. I guess he doesn't realize how flexible I am. I wait until he's pointing the gun straight down to hoist my weight into my shoulders and kick the weapon out of his hand. He's too shocked to move while I use my momentum to flip to my feet. My ribs throb-I swear I heard a crack-but there's enough adrenaline in my system to keep the pain from slowing me down.
A few pops from behind me let me know that the girl keeping watch from the perimeter has finished reloading and ditched her silencer. Not that the sound matters anymore; in the reflection of some soot-stained glass another face emerges from the bunker. They've called in reinforcements. And that the reinforcements are coming from below means I am not going to pull the grand rescue mission I was hoping I would.
I mean, I could go storming into the bunker by myself, wings unfurled and knife glinting in the moonlight like an angel of fury. But that may get me killed, and frankly, I don't want to die underground. (Cue shudder).
I aim for the perimeter of the clearing; if I can get back into the forest, they won't be able to follow me with their night vision (or lack thereof). But the girl from earlier has emerged from the trees and stands between me and freedom. I zigzag wildly to avoid getting shot and tackle the girl when she's out of ammunition. My momentum sends her flying backwards, me still attached. She lands hard. I try to roll out of the fall like a ninja, but my stupid ribs decide at that moment to remind me that they are damaged. My somersault stutters to a halt before I can get to my feet. Ouch ouch ouch ouch.
Before I can regain my balance, a foot lands square in the center of my back, sending me back to the dirt. I flip around to face the chick before she tries anything. Except it's not the girl, it's the guy from the bunker.
Oh, he looks angry. He looks bigger when he's angry. My hand finds the knife in my pocket, but I don't get it out. Not yet. Not unless I have to. The guy aims a stomp to my abdomen and I roll out of the way. While his balance is off center (that's what happens when you stomp), I sweep his feet out from under him and he topples like a Jenga tower after Iggy's first turn. Luckily, he trips the chick on his way down.
And that's my cue to leave.
I make it to my feet and halfway across the clearing before something solid hits the back of my head. It almost sends me back into the dirt, but I've fallen enough tonight. I turn around, ready to face another assailant. There's just a brick on the ground. Well. I guess they ran out of bullets. Finally. I was beginning to wonder if they figured out a way to create them from the shattered dreams of small children or something.
The people chasing me have only just gotten themselves untangled and on their feet. I give them all a cheeky wave before high-tailing it into the forest. Not one of them follows.
A/N: But what about Nick? Can Max really just leave him like this? Ehehe. The world may never know. (That may or may not have been a threat.) But hey, at least it wasn't a cliffhanger!
It makes me really excited to open my email and find that readers have taken the time to give me some feedback. Just saying.