The Gift

Chapter 20

Whit

"Oh my God, Whit. Are they -? Are they -?" Wisty is suddenly stuttering. I toss her the pitch pipe and run to the nearest fallen boy to check his pulse.

"Alive," I tell her, relief rushing over me. "But we're all dead if the Lab Boss comes back now. You've always been the musical one, Wist-you try it. Quick!"

She takes the pitch pipe and methodically plays a bunch of different scales across the three octaves in the instrument's range. After about a half dozen of them-Holy frijoles-every single one of the squad members is looking at us transfixed. But at least they're alive.

"Say something," whispers Wisty. "Give them a command."

"Stand up!" I bellow.

There's not even a pause. We stare dumbfounded as an entire room of kids gets up off the floor-and then starts bouncing in place. The weirdest part is… they're all smiling as they bounce.

"Wow," I say. It suddenly occurs to me that this is probably the most fun-resembling thing they've done in recent memory. That's my best guess anyway.

Wisty has to blow a couple of dozen notes just to get them to stop. In the process we manage to figure out that one note equals one command.

I'm getting anxious. "Sydney, the boss has just taken the longest wizzer ever, and he's gonna be back in seconds." Spy rule #1: Remain in character at all times. "Let's do this thing!"

My sister quickly plays about six scales and, pointing at me, yells, "Follow this guy!" And I take off out the lab door.

We burst into the hallway, with Wisty bringing up the rear of our sickly white-smocked platoon.

The only problem is that not twenty yards down the hall, coming back from his relief mission, is the Lab Boss.

"Stop, stop all of you! Stop in the name of The One -"

Without missing a beat, I charge forward-it's a Hail Mary move. I deliver a devastating right shoulder to the guy's solar plexus, sending him sprawling onto the institutional linoleum, where, before he can cover himself, he's promptly trampled by twenty-four groups of underage slave lab workers.

My head feels as if it's about to split open from the overpowered alarms that have somehow been set off and are now screaming from every corner. The hall's gone entirely dark except for emergency strobe lights.

As we clamber toward the basement stairwell, I hear boot steps rolling like thunder from above. A legion of them.

From behind me, Wisty's mad pipe-playing music tumbles frantically like the soundtrack of some silent horror movie from long ago. What is she doing?

"This way!" yells a voice from down the hall, away from the stairwell. Byron?

I turn and lead the kids toward his voice, praying he's still on his best behavior. The kids are actually pretty fast, maybe because they're used to moving quickly to get their chores done and avoid swinging billy clubs.

But they're not faster than the New Order's steroid-fed adult guards. The big jackbooted bullies are only about twenty yards away now. Fifteen? Ten?

Zzzziiiiiiick-ping! A stun-gun wire zips past my head and hits the metal railing next to my hand.

Byron's directing the kids through an alternate passageway, presumably to an underground exit. And Wisty's still playing like a freaking pied piper.

In the flashes of the strobe light, I catch sight of something surreal over my shoulder. Soldiers slowing down, swirling around Wisty… entranced… by the music?

We're going to make it, I think, just as six stun-gun bolts hit me in the back.