Hunger (Gone 2)

Albert wiped sweat from his forehead. “Quinn, why do you think people work hard? Just to get by? You think your folks worked just to get by? Did they buy just enough food? Or did they get just barely enough house? Or a car that barely runs?” Albert’s voice was urgent. “No, man, people like a good life. They want more. What’s wrong with that?”

Quinn laughed. “Dude, okay, you’ve thought about all this and you’re probably right. I mean, what do I know? Anyway, look, am I going to go running straight to Sam and tell him what we did? No. As far as I know, I don’t have to do that.”

“That’s all I’m asking, Quinn,” Albert said. “I wouldn’t ever ask you to lie.”

“Uh-huh,” Quinn said cynically. “What about the Healer? She…” He looked around, suddenly aware that he hadn’t heard her or Cookie in quite a while.

“Lana!” he yelled.

Then, “Healer!”

The night was silent.

Quinn aimed the flashlight into the truck cab. Maybe she was in there. Asleep, maybe. But the cab was empty.

He swiveled the light around the area, picking out the poles that had once held Hermit Jim’s water tower.

“Lana? Lana? We’re ready to go,” Quinn yelled.

“Where is she?” Albert wondered. “I don’t see her or Cookie. Or her dog.”

“Lana! Healer!” Quinn shouted. No answer came.

He and Albert exchanged looks of horror.

Quinn leaned into the truck, intending to sound the horn. She’d have to hear that. He froze when he saw the Post-it note. He tore it from the steering wheel and read it aloud by flashlight.

“‘Don’t try to follow us,’” Quinn read. “‘I know what I’m doing. Lana.’”

“Okay,” Albert said, “Okay, now we have to tell Sam.”

TWENTY-ONE

18 HOURS, 23 MINUTES

JACK STRAINED AGAINST the door.

It was built strong. Very strong. Steel in steel.

But it creaked and groaned, and Jack could see the seam between door and jamb growing.

His strength was shocking to him. He’d done very little to learn to control it. He hadn’t really tested it much. In fact, he kept forgetting he had it because it was not, it never would be, part of who he really was.

Jack had grown up being a brain. He liked being a brain. He wore the geek label proudly. He had no interest in being some superstrong mutant. In fact, even as he pushed against the door, he was wondering if there wasn’t an electronic control of some sort on the door. Wondering where the control panel might be. Wondering whether he could cut a wire, or solder another wire, and open the door. Wondering whether it might be computer-controlled, in which case it would be a question of hacking.

Those thoughts engaged Jack’s mind. And that gave Jack pleasure.

Pushing on a steel door like some kind of ox? That was stupid. It was what stupid people did. And Jack was not stupid.

“Keep at it, Jack,” Caine encouraged him. “It’s starting to give.”

Jack heard Diana saying to Drake, “I told you he was strong. And you thought you’d just go and pick him up and bring him to Coates? Hah.”

The door would give way in another few seconds, Jack could feel it.

“When it goes, Jack, you need to drop to the floor,” Caine said.

Jack would have asked why, but the exertion was popping the veins in his neck, squeezing his lungs, bulging his eyes, and generally making it hard to imagine engaging in conversation.