“The thing is, Max,” he said, tons of heart-wringing emotion in his eyes, “you’re even more special than I always told you. You see, you were created for a reason. Kept alive for a purpose, a special purpose.”
You mean besides seeing how well insane scientists could graft avian DNA into a human egg?
He took a breath, looking deep into my eyes. I coldly shut down every good memory I had of him, every laugh we’d shared, every happy moment, every thought that he was like a dad to me.
“Max, that reason, that purpose is: You are supposed to save the world.”
62
Okay, I couldn’t help it. My jaw dropped open. I shut it again quickly. Well. This would certainly give weight to my ongoing struggle to have the bathroom first in the morning.
“I can’t tell you much more than that right now,” Jeb said, looking over his shoulder again. “But I had to let you know the size of what we’re dealing with, the enormity, the importance. You are more than special, Max. You’re preordained. You have a destiny that you can’t imagine.”
Maybe I can’t imagine it because I’m not a complete nutcase.
“Max, everything you’ve done, everything you are, everything you can be, is tied into your destiny. Your life is worth the lives of thousands. The fact that you are alive is the most important thing anyone has ever accomplished.”
If he was expecting a gushing response, he was gonna wait a long time.
He sighed heavily, not taking his eyes off me, disappointed at my lack of excitement over hearing that I was the messiah.
“It’s okay,” he said with sad understanding. “I can barely imagine what you must be feeling or thinking. It’s okay. I just wanted to tell you myself. Later, others will come to talk to you. After you’ve had a chance to think about this, to realize what it could mean for you and the others. But for now, don’t say anything to the rest of the flock. It’s our secret, Maximum. Soon the whole world will know. But not just yet.”
I was getting very good at saying nothing.
He stood up and helped me from my chair, a solicitous hand under my elbow that made my flesh crawl.
We walked in silence back to the row of crates, and he unlatched mine and waited patiently for me to crawl inside. Such a gentleman.
Latching it behind me, he leaned down to give me one last meaningful look. “Remember,” he whispered. “Trust me. That’s all I ask. Just trust me. Listen to your gut.”
Well, how many times had I heard him say that? I wondered contemptuously as he walked away. Right now my gut was telling me I wanted to take his lungs out with a pair of pliers.
“You okay?” Angel asked anxiously, pressing her little face to the side of her cage.
I nodded, and met Fang’s and Nudge’s eyes across the way.
“I’m okay. Everyone hang tough, all right?”
Nudge and Angel nodded, concerned, and Fang kept staring at me. I had no idea what he was thinking. Was he wondering if I was a traitor? Was he wondering if Jeb had managed to turn me—or if I had been in league with Jeb from the beginning?
He would find out soon enough.
63
Hours went by. In the dictionary, next to the word stress, there is a picture of a midsize mutant stuck inside a dog crate, wondering if her destiny is to be killed or to save the world.
Okay, not really. But there should be.
If you can think of anything more nerve-racking, more guaranteed to whip every fiber in your body up in a knot, you let me know.
I couldn’t tell the others anything—not even in a whisper. If it amused Jeb to pretend that closed doors and lowered voices protected one against surveillance, that was fine. But I knew better. There could be cameras and mikes hidden anywhere, built into our crates. So I couldn’t go over a plan, offer reassurance, or even freak out and say, “Oh, my God! Jeb is alive!”
When Angel whispered, “Where are Gazzy and Iggy?” I just shrugged. Her face fell, and I looked hard at her. They got away. They’re okay.
She read my thoughts, gave a tiny nod, then gradually slumped against the side of her crate, worn out.
After that, all I could do was send meaningful glances.