UnWholly (Unwind Dystology 2)

If that’s the way YOU want it!

Don’t put this on me!

They signed the unwind order just to spite each other, but laugh, laugh, laugh, Hayden, because if you ever stop laughing, it might just tear you apart worse than a Chop Shop.

Now he’s far away, floating in the clouds, playing Scrabble with the Dalai Lama, but wouldn’t you know it, all the tiles are in Tibetan. Then for a moment his vision clears and he comes back to the here and now. He’s lucid enough to realize he’s in the ComBom where the temperature is too hot to imagine. He looks around him. The kids are awake, but barely. They slump in corners. They lie on the ground.

“You were talking about stuff,” someone says weakly. “Keep talking, Hayden. We liked it.”

Then Esme reaches over and touches Tad on the neck, feeling his pulse. His eyes are still half-open, but he’s no longer babbling about tropical beaches.

“Tad’s dead, Hayden.”

Hayden closes his eyes. Once one goes, he knows the rest of them won’t be far behind. He looks at the machine gun next to him. It’s heavy. It’s loaded. He doesn’t even know if he can lift it anymore, but he does, and although he’s never used it, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure it out. There’s a safety, easily removed. There’s a trigger.

He looks at the suffering kids around him, wondering where “machine-gun fire” falls on the list of bad ways to die. Certainly a quick death is better than a slow one. He considers his options a moment more, then says, “I’m sorry, guys. I’m sorry I failed you . . . but I can’t do this.”

Then he turns the machine gun toward the cockpit and blasts out the windshield, flooding the ComBom with cool, fresh air.

82 - Connor

He wakes up in a comfortable bed, in a comfortable room, with a computer, a late-model TV, and sports posters all over the walls. He’s groggy enough to think he actually might be in heaven, but nauseous enough to know he’s not.

“I know you’re pissed at me, Connor, but I had to do it.”

He turns to see Lev sitting in the corner, in a chair that’s painted with footballs and soccer balls and tennis balls to match the decor of the room.

“Where are we?”

“We’re in Sunset Ridge Homes, model number three: the Bahaman.”

“You brought me to a model home?”

“I figured we both deserved comfortable beds, at least for one night. It’s a trick I learned from my days on the streets. Security patrols are looking for thieves, not squatters. They roll past but never go into model homes unless they see or hear something suspicious. So as long as you don’t snore too loud, you’re fine.” Then he adds, “Of course, we’ve gotta be out by ten; that’s when they open. I stayed too late at a model once and nearly scared a realtor to death.”

Connor pulls himself to the edge of the bed. On TV is a news report. Aftermath and analysis of the AWOL raid at the airplane graveyard.

“It’s been on the news since last night,” Lev tells him. “Not enough to preempt the infomercials and stuff, but at least the Juvies aren’t hiding it.”

“Why would they hide it?” Connor says. “It’s their stinking moment of glory.”

On TV, a spokesperson for the Juvenile Authority announces that the count of AWOLs killed was thirty-three. The number brought in alive is 467. “With so many, we’ll have to divvy them out to various harvest camps,” the man says, not even realizing the irony in using the word “divvy.”

Connor closes his eyes, which makes them burn. Thirty-three dead, 467 caught. If Starkey got away with about a hundred fifty, that leaves maybe sixty-five who managed to escape on foot. Not nearly enough. “You shouldn’t have taken me, Lev.”

“Why? Would you rather be a trophy to go along with their collection of Unwinds? If they find out that the Akron AWOL is alive, they’ll crucify you. Trust me, that’s one thing I know about.”

“The captain is supposed to go down with the ship.”

r had stopped responding in the middle of the battle, and the Juvies had, one by one, taken out the power generators, plunging the ComBom, and every other jet, into darkness.

By midnight it’s over. Through the windows of the Com-Bom, Hayden can see the heavy transports, the battering ram, the riot trucks, and most of the Juvey squad cars pulling out: Mission accomplished.

Hayden thinks that maybe they’ve been forgotten—that they can sit it out for a few more hours, then make a break for freedom. But the Juvenile Authority is smarter than that.

“We know you’re in there,” they shout through a bullhorn. “Come out, and we promise no one will get hurt.”

“What do we do?” the kids around him ask.