The Gift

Chapter 37

Whit

THESE GOONS ARE LIGHTING up their victory cigars. Is consigning us to death basically like finishing a steak dinner? Or winning a sports championship? It sure looks like it.

I'm now pinned on the ground, fighting to get my breath back, when a desperate thought pops into my head. Not counting the three guys on the floor with darts in their necks, there are seven cigar-smoking soldiers. There's the drummer, too, but I'm guessing he's just a regular kid. A horrible Tall Jonathan-esque traitor of a kid, but… a kid.

I look at each smoldering cigar and, one by one, I visualize the rolled brown tobacco inside. Foul stuff. I hate nicotine poison.

Then I imagine seven capsules filled with a toxic compound a teacher told us about in chemistry. It's called trinitrotoluene. You may have heard of it by its more common name, TNT.

In my mind, I carefully place a capsule inside each of their cigars, about an inch or so from the glowing tip. I wait; I count off the seconds; I hope this will work.

And then, in almost perfect precision -

Blam-blam-blam-blam-blam-blam-blam!

Suddenly there's no more combat boot on my neck. I get to my feet and stumble through the acrid smoke to my sister. I pluck the syringe from her back. Then I throw Wisty over my shoulder.

"Proud of yourself?" I ask the drummer.

He looks at me coolly, and I want to punch him. I satisfy the urge by swiping Wisty's drumstick out of his hand. "They'll kill me," he whispers.

I pause. I don't want the guy to be killed, really. But if I have to choose between my sister and an N.O. puppet, there's no question what to do.

"Tell somebody who cares," I say, then race out of the diner.

But I do care. Sometimes it feels rotten, putting on the face of steely, unwavering courage.