Gone (Gone 1)

Jack saw a ray of hope in his personal darkness. “Yes. Yes.”

“Say it.”

“Please protect me.”

Diana’s eyes seemed to melt, from ice cold to almost warm. She smiled. “I’ll protect you, Jack. But here’s the thing. From now on you belong to me. Whenever I ask you to do something, Jack, you’re going to do it. No questions asked. And you will not tell anyone else about your power, or about our deal.”

He nodded again.

“You belong to me, Jack. Not Caine. Not Drake. Me. My own little Hulk. And if I ever need you…”

“Whatever you want, I’ll do it.”

Diana planted a butterfly kiss on Jack’s cheek, sealing the deal. And she breathed into his ear, “I know you will, Jack. Now, let’s go.”

THIRTY

108 HOURS, 12 MINUTES

QUINN WAS SINGING a song. The lyrics were a sort of gloomy homage to surfing.

“That’s perky,” Astrid commented dryly.

Quinn said, “It’s Weezer. Me and Sam saw them down in Santa Barbara. Weezer. Jack Johnson. Insect Surfers. Awesome concert.”

“Never heard of any of them,” Astrid said.

“Surfer bands,” Sam said. “Well, not Weezer so much, they’re more ska-punk. But Jack Johnson, you’d probably like him.”

They were walking out of Stefano Rey National Park, downhill, down the dry side of the ridge. The trees were smaller and more sparse, mixing with tall, sere grasses.

That morning they had stumbled on a campground. The bears had gotten to a lot of the food there, but enough had survived for the five of them to eat a hearty breakfast. They now had backpacks and food and sleeping bags belonging to strangers. Edilio and Sam each had a good knife, and Quinn was charged with carrying the flashlights and batteries they had found.

The food had improved everyone’s mood quite a bit. Little Pete had come very close to actually smiling.

They walked with the barrier on their left. It was an eerie experience. Trees were often cut in half by the barrier, with branches extending into it and disappearing. Or else poking out of it. The branches that came out of the barrier did not fall, but they were clearly dying. The leaves were limp—cut off, it seemed, from nutrition.

From time to time Sam would check out some gully or peer behind a boulder, always looking for a place the barrier did not reach. But that soon came to seem pointless. The barrier reached into every ditch, every culvert. It wrapped itself around every rock, sliced through every bush.

It did not fail.

It did

not end.

The workmanship of the barrier was, as Astrid had observed, impeccable.

“What kind of music do you like?” Sam asked.

“Let me guess,” Quinn interrupted. “Classical. And jazz.” He stretched the word “jazz” out to comic length.

“Actually—”

“Snake,” Edilio yelled. He danced backward, tripped, and fell, bounced back up looking sheepish. Then, in a calmer tone, he said, “There’s a snake there.”

“Let me see,” Astrid said eagerly. She approached cautiously while Sam and Quinn stayed even more cautiously out of range.

“I don’t like snakes,” Edilio admitted.