(Max's POV)
Without pausing, the powerful Eraser swung me up over his shoulder. Talk about being dead meat.
I smelled his harsh animal smell, saw his bloodshot eyes. He was laughing, happy to have caught me, and his long yellow fangs actually looked too big for his mouth. Angel was still screaming.
Bloody murder!
I kicked and yelled and hit and punched and scratched, but the Eraser just laughed and started tearing down the sidewalk while people stared. "Is this a movie?" I heard someone ask.
Nah-this is too original for Hollywood. They do sequels.
Lifting my head, I saw Fang, dark and determined, streaking toward us. He was keeping pace, but he wasn't catching up. If a car was waiting, I was a goner. I struggled as hard as I could, chopping at the Eraser, punching and scratching, and it was infuriating how little effect I had on the beast. Had they been bred to have no pain receptors?
"Fang!" I bellowed, seeing him even farther away than he had been. We were outpacing him. Dimly, I could still hear Angel's high-pitched shrieking. Every nasty swear word I knew came pouring out of my mouth, punctuated with punches and chops and kicks. The Eraser didn't even slow down.
The next thing I knew, we were going down, suddenly and with no warning, as if someone had cut the Eraser's legs out from under him. He hit the ground with a sickening thud, and I cracked my head against the sidewalk so hard I saw fireworks. My legs were pinned, and I frantically started kicking, scrambling out from under him.
He didn't move. Had he knocked himself out? How?
I scrambled back into a trash can, snapped onto all fours, and stared at the Eraser. He was completely still, his eyes open and glassy. Blood trickled out of his mouth, which had morphed halfway to a wolf's snout. A few curious people had paused to watch us, but most kept on walking, talking into their cell phones. Life as usual in New York City.
Fang roared up and pulled me hard to my feet, starting to drag me away.
"Wait!" I said. "Fang-I think he's dead."
Fang looked from me to the Eraser, then nudged his boot against the still form. It didn't move, didn't blink. Still holding my hand and Cookie, Fang knelt and put his fingers against the Eraser's wrist, wary and alert for movement.
"You're right," he said, standing. "He's dead. What'd you do to him?"
"Nothing. I was whaling on him, but it didn't do squat. Then he went down like a ton of bricks."
The crowd thickened and moved a bit closer as the rest of the flock raced up. Angel leapt into my arms and burst into tears. I held her tight and shushed her, telling her it was all right, I was safe.
Fang flipped the Eraser's collar back, just for a second. We both saw the tattoo on the back of his neck: 11-00-07.
Just then, a cop car pulled up, lights flashing, siren wailing.
We started to fade into the background, edging away through the crowd.
"Crazy drug addict!" Fang said loudly.
Then we strode quickly, turning the first corner we came to. I put Angel down and she trotted next to me, keeping up, sniffling. I held her hand tight and gave her a reassuring smile, but actually, I was shaking inside. That had been so freaking close.
We had to find the Institute and get the heck out of here back to the desert. Somewhere they couldn't ever find us. It was late, though. We were almost to the park, where we planned to sleep. In the street beside us, cars and taxis passed, unaware of the high drama that had just taken place.
"So he was five years old," Fang said quietly.
"So that made him one year older than me." Cookie said griping Fang's shirt.
I nodded. "Made in November, the year 2000, number seven of a batch. They're not lasting too long, are they?" How much longer would we last? All of us? Any of us?
I took a deep breath and looked around. My eye was caught by a taxi with one of those flashing-red-dot signs on top that advertise Joe's Famous Pizza, or a cleaning service, or a restaurant. This one had the words racing across its face: "Every journey begins with one step."
It was like a taxi-fortune cookie. Every journey, one step. One step. I blinked.
I stopped where I was and looked down, where my feet were taking one step at a time on this long, bizarre journey.
Then I noticed a stunted, depressed tree set into a hole in the sidewalk. A metal grate protected its roots from being trampled. Barely visible between the bars of the grate was a plastic card. I picked it up, hoping I wouldn't see a burning fuse attached to it.
It was a bank card, the kind you can use at an ATM. It had my name on it: Maximum Ride. I tugged on Fang's sleeve, wordlessly showed him the card. His eyes widened a tiny bit, so I knew he was astonished.
And voila, my ol' pal the Voice popped up just then: You can use it if you can figure out the password.
I looked up, but the mystic taxi was long gone.
"I can use it if I can figure out the password," I told Fang.
He nodded. "Okay."
Swallowing, I tucked the card into my pocket.
"Let's just get into the park," I said. "Nice, safe Central Park."