Everland (19 page)

Pickpocket and Jack shove Pete to safety, and he collapses onto the ground. He leans up against the wall, his expression contorted into grief-stricken agony. Pete snatches up a stone and hurls it across the tunnel. As an explosion rocks the tunnel, sending shards of brick and plumes of dust hurtling through the tunnel opening, Pete hardly flinches. When the dust settles, I bolt to the entrance and look back at where Pyro had lit the stick of dynamite. All that’s left is a pile of rubble. Stone, brick, and dirt pile neck-high, blocking the archway.

Pete maneuvers around me. He races toward the rubble and places a hand on the pile of rocks. He drops his chin to his chest, giving a slight shake of his head.

Mole sniffles next to me as Pickpocket joins Pete, throwing an arm around him.

“You okay?” Pickpocket asks.

“He was a good Scavenger. The best of the best of all of us Lost Boys,” Pete says weakly. He picks up Pyro’s derby hat from the debris and brushes off the dirt. He places the hat on top of the pile of rocks. “Godspeed, Lost Boy.”

“Come on,” Pickpocket says, gripping his shoulder. “That won’t hold them back for long. We need to get out of here and into Everland.”

Pickpocket leads Pete back to our group. The sorrow in Pete’s expression is overwhelming. It’s the same expression my brother and sister had when they realized our parents weren’t ever returning home. As Pete passes by me, I reach out a hand to him.

“Pete?” I say, his name catching in the lump within my throat. I want to take his hand, to hold him and absorb even a little bit of the pain etched in his face.

Pete peers up at me with glassy eyes before he drops his gaze back down to the brackish water below him. He takes the lead, not acknowledging me as he continues ahead. My heart snaps in two, but I press my lips together. I won’t let him, any of them, see me cry.

We travel for half an hour in an uncomfortable silence. The only sound is the sloshing of our feet as we travel through the water. A ladder attached to a brick wall appears ahead of us.

“This is it,” Pickpocket says.

One by one, we climb through the manhole. Pete takes my hand as I reach street level. As his fingers touch mine, relief washes over me, but it is only brief.

“Welcome back to Everland,” Pete says, frowning.

The city is nothing like I remember. The street is littered with debris and broken concrete, evidence of the magnificent structures that once stood here. Thick cracks weave through the fragmented street of St. Paul’s churchyard like a web with rubble from nearby buildings caught in its snare. Wagons lie in tangled heaps on their sides.

St. Paul’s Cathedral looms a short distance away, its domed roof now a crown of charcoal-colored, jagged spikes. Hurrying up the street, the Lost Boys, Pete, and I pass by the remains of the church’s majestic columns and parapet. I avert my gaze as we walk past the severed head of the saint’s statue, which had stood on top of the building.

Mole sniffs the air and shakes his head. “Bella was here, but the rain has washed away most of her scent. It’s going to be tough to find her.”

“Bella has a scent?” I ask, curious what she might smell like. Or what I might smell like, for that matter. Having not bathed in weeks, I can only imagine it isn’t anything pleasant.

“Sure,” Pete replies. “We all do. Why do you think I brought Mole along?”

“Mole says I smell like the forest,” Jack says. “Pickpocket smells like grease, Doc smells like ammonia, and Pete smells like …”

“A rooster,” Mole interjects, wrinkling his nose.

“That’s gross, but it explains the cock-a-doodle-doo you do,” I say, elbowing Pete.

Pete gives a lopsided grin. “If the stink fits.”

“Shh,” Mole whispers with a wave, “we’re not alone. What is that sound?”

In the distance, the faint sound of machines, metal scraping against metal, fills the early evening air. The ground vibrates as the noise draws closer, shaking loose debris from the structures around us.

“Watch out!” Pete tackles me as concrete stones break off the face of the building and plummet to the ground. We fall hard onto the pavement. Pete shelters me from the falling rock, his hands wrapped tightly over his own dark hair. His breath is hot and rapid against my cheek. When the spray of pebbles stops, he lifts his head, watching me with worry. Bright sunlight shimmers in my vision. I blink and shield my eyes from the sun. When I look back at him, the only light that remains is the one that sparkles in his eyes.

“Are you okay?” he asks, his lips close to mine.

I struggle to find words, but they catch in my throat. Instead I nod.

Pete rolls off me and extends a hand, helping me to my feet.

Doc stands from his crouched position, coughing. “Is anyone hurt?”

The rest of the boys mumble as they shake the dust off. The ground trembles again, shaking loose more debris.

“Come on,” Pete says. “We need to find cover.”

“What is that?” Jack asks, steadying himself.

The color in Mole’s face drains. “We need to hide! Now!”

Pete brushes dust from his green coat. “What do you smell?” he asks urgently.

“It smells like a graveyard. Death,” Mole squeaks. “It’s Marauders, and a lot of them. I’d say at least a few dozen, maybe more.”

“Let’s get out of here,” Pickpocket says.

Pete sprints into a nearby building. We follow, climbing through the empty windows of the ground-floor shop of the now five-and-a-half-story building. The other half lies in pieces on the street, along with most of the face of the structure. We push aside the toppled café tables and chairs while broken panes of glass crunch beneath our boots. Pete helps me climb over the counter. The other Lost Boys follow behind, knocking a stack of Café Rouge menus to the floor.

Hiding, we listen as the high shrill of rusty gears pierces through the hammering of something heavy on the street. As the noise draws nearer, the building shudders violently, showering us with ceiling tiles as the ground quakes. Pete peeks over the counter. His mouth drops open. “I’ve never seen so many soldiers in one place.”

I glance through the vacant windows. A dozen machines held together with bronze-colored bolts, cogs, and wheels crawl down the street like an army of spiders. Spirals of steam rise from pipes on the back of the vehicles like wisps of phantom energy. Marauders flank either side of the tanks, searching the buildings through goggled face masks and scoped weapons, their guns engaged in ready position. Some soldiers enter the other buildings, breaking windows and tossing pieces of furniture as if they were made of children’s blocks.

“This isn’t good,” Pickpocket says. “What are we going to do?”

“We better think of something before they decide to search in here,” Doc says.

“We should split up,” Jack suggests, fussing with the gadgets on his belt. “We have a better chance of reaching the palace if we aren’t traveling in a large group.”

Pickpocket glances around the counter at the open window. “I don’t know if that’s such a great idea.”

“Look,” Jack says, “there are dozens of Marauders out there. If Doc, Pickpocket, Mole, and I distract them, you two can slip by them unnoticed. Pete, you have to get Gwen to the palace.”

“No!” I protest. “It’s too dangerous. We should stay together.”

“I don’t think I like your idea either,” Mole says. “I’m not very good at distracting.”

Doc’s brows furrow. “Do you understand the implications of what you’re saying? If we run out there, we’ll be caught for sure, and then what?”

“Now I’m really, really not happy with this plan,” Mole says.

“We won’t be caught,” Jack insists. “I know this city like the back of my hand.”

“I don’t know, Jack,” Pickpocket says. “It sounds risky.”

“No, Jack’s right. We should split up,” Pete interrupts. “It’s the only way. They’ll find us if we stay here, but if we run, we can split them up and maybe get away.”

“Have you gone mad?” Doc says indignantly. “What you’re suggesting is suicide.”

“I don’t like the idea either, but I don’t see any other way, do you?” Pete retorts.

“We had better make a decision,” I say, listening to the machine draw nearer. “They’re getting close.”

“I’ll take Pickpocket, Mole, and Doc. Pete and Gwen, you run for the other door,” Jack says. There’s a glint in his eye, a spark that I don’t trust, but no one else questions him.

“Mole stays with us,” I say. “I promised Dozer I’d look after him.”

Mole’s shoulders relax and he sighs. Jack starts to say something but stops himself.

“Doc goes with Gwen and Mole,” Pete says, sounding somewhat reluctant. “The other boys and I are experienced runners. We will distract them while you get away. We’ll meet up at the National Gallery. Keep your eyes open for Bella.”

Doc opens his bag, pulls out a needle filled with a milky liquid, and hands it to Pete.

“What is this for?” he asks, inspecting the contents within the glass.

“Bella’s treatment is overdue. If you find her, she’ll be in a lot of pain. Give her this. I know you don’t like needles, but you know how to administer it, right?” Doc asks with urgency, glancing toward the advancing soldiers.

Pete glares and snatches the needle, placing it in the side pocket of his rucksack. “Of course I know how to administer it.”

“Don’t lose it,” Doc warns. “I added Gwen’s white blood cells to the serum. I didn’t have time to make a big batch, just enough to find Bella and get her back to the Lost City.”

“What if you find Bella first?” Pete asks, buttoning the pocket of his pack closed.

Doc pulls out a second needle from his medical bag. “I brought two doses, enough medicine to give us just a day or two. Since it’s a tweaked version of what she usually gets, I have no idea how effective this will be. She may need more, so if you do find her, it’s important I see her as soon as possible.”

The clanking of metal draws closer. Mole fidgets with the hem of his black coat. “We really ought to go,” he mumbles.

“Which direction did Bella go, Mole?” Pete asks.

Mole sniffs the air. “She went toward the Thames.” He frowns and sniffs again. “I don’t think she’s alone, though. I smell something else. Licorice, perhaps?”

“What do you mean?” Pete asks, worry wrinkling his face. “Who is she with?”

“I don’t know, but it’s not a Marauder,” Mole says, inhaling. “I think it’s another girl.”

“A girl?” Pickpocket and Jack say at the same time.

“What girl?” Pete says. His shoulders stiffen.

“Not to interrupt you guys, but …” Doc points to soldiers less than a half a block from the café. “Shall we get on with the plan?”

“We’ll see you at the gallery in an hour,” Pete says.

“See you there,” Doc says, extending a hand. “And don’t get caught.”

Pete hesitates but doesn’t take Doc’s hand. “Never.”

Doc frowns.

The Lost Boys exchange a round of fist-bumping. Finally, Pete turns to me, holding his hand up as if waiting for me to knuckle-bump him. I lift my fist, but instead of repeating the gesture he exchanged with the other boys, he takes my hand and kisses the top of it. My heartbeat doubles as I feel his lips touch my skin. With a smile, he releases my still-clenched fist and crawls toward the far end of the counter. Pickpocket and Jack follow him.

Staying low, I wait for a sign to run as Jack climbs on top of the counter and hits a switch on his tool belt. Two copper barrels flip up from either side of the belt. “Argh,” he yells, sounding more like a pirate than a Lost Boy. Pete and Pickpocket glance at each other before following his lead. They throw themselves over the countertop. Pickpocket pulls his revolver from his holster as Pete slips a dagger from his hip. I am not sure if I should laugh, cry, or be worried about their valiant attempt to draw attention to themselves. Instead, I join Doc and Mole as they crawl toward the door.

At first, the soldiers don’t notice the boys jumping through the empty window frame. Finally, Pete, Jack, and Pickpocket dash into the street and stand in front of the army, which has made its way to the front of the café.

Smeeth marches through the ranks of Marauders, stopping in front of the café window. He crosses his arms as an amused look grows on his face.

“Hey, Pickpocket, do you smell that?” Pete says in a loud voice, holding his daggers in front of him. The soldiers turn toward the boys. “It smells like fish—codfish, to be precise.”

“Only one Marauder smells that funny,” Pickpocket says, holding out his gun.

“Let’s get this over with,” Jack growls, his eyes fixated on the soldiers. From this distance, I can see the perspiration on his face, sparkling like raindrops under the street lanterns.

“Well, you’re not exactly who I’m looking for, but I can work with that,” Smeeth sneers.

“Wrong answer,” Pete says. “Speaking of codfish, where is your odorous leader?”

Jack shifts, the scowl on his face deepening.

Smeeth grits his teeth and points the barrel of his gun at the boys. “I’ll make this easy on you. Tell me where your little girlfriend and Bella are, and I’ll put a good word in with the Captain.”

I breathe a sigh of relief. If the Marauders are still looking for Bella, she must be safe, at least for now. Pete seems to make the same assumption, as I notice his shoulders relax.

“A girl? What girl? How about you, Pickpocket? Do you know about a girl?” Pete asks.

“The only girl I know is Smeeth’s ugly bulldog,” Pickpocket says. “Oh wait, that was your mother, wasn’t it, Mr. Smeeth? Mistaken identity.”

Mole snickers next to me. “That was a good one,” he whispers.

“Very funny,” Smeeth says. “Tell me where she is now, or you’ll be tonight’s gruel for the Captain’s crocs. I normally don’t feed them such filth because it upsets their delicate digestive systems, but I’ll make a special exception in this case.”

“What do you think, Lost Boys? Should we become crocodile chow?” Pete asks. “I’ve seen others die under worse conditions, I suppose.”

“This is ridiculous! Enough!” Jack shouts as he reaches for a lever on his belt.

Pete lunges for him. “No, Jack! Not yet!”

It’s too late. Jack flicks the switch. Dozens of small trajectories burst from the miniature guns. Each ball bearing bursts, crackling as it hits the street, creating a thick smoke screen.