You need to learn how to relax. Relaxation facilitates learning and communication. Studies have shown it. But you’re not relaxing.
“Of course I’m not relaxing!” I hissed under my breath. “We need to find the Institute! We’re running out of money! We’re constantly in danger!”
The others had stopped and were watching me with alarm. Fang was probably ready to drag me to the funny farm.
I was totally losing my mind, right? Something had damaged my brain—I’d had a stroke or something, and now I was hearing voices. It made me different from the rest of the flock. Too different. I felt alone.
Just one voice, Max. Not voices. Calm down.
“What’s wrong, Max?” asked the Gasman.
I took a deep breath and tried to get a grip. “I feel like I’m about to explode,” I said honestly. “Three days ago, Angel said she’d heard there was more info about us in a place called the Institute, in New York. More info. This could be what we’ve always wanted to know.”
“’Cause we might find out about our parents?” Iggy said.
“Yes,” I answered. “But now we’re here, and really weird things are happening, and I’m not sure—” With no warning, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up.
“Hello, kids!”
Directly in front of us, two Erasers leaped out of the doorway of a building.
Angel screamed, and I instinctively grabbed her arm, jerking her back hard. In a split second, I had swung around and we were racing down the sidewalk at top speed. Fang and Iggy were behind us, Nudge and the Gasman on either side. The sidewalks were full of people, and it was like an obstacle course.
“Cross!” I yelled, and darted into the street. The six of us whisked between two passing taxis, whose drivers honked angrily. Behind us, I heard a loud thunk! and a startled, half-choked cry.
“Bicycle messenger took an Eraser out!” Fang shouted.
Can you giggle while racing for your life and protecting a six-year-old? I can.
But two seconds later, a heavy clawed hand grabbed my hair, yanking me backward, right off my feet. Angel’s hand was ripped out of mine, and she screamed bloody murder. You think you understand those words—bloody murder? Trust me; you don’t.
94
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 scrabbled 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, Fang knelt and put his fingers against the Eraser’s wrist, wary and alert for movement.