The Gift

Chapter 85

Wisty

Whit and I chance a peek outside. The sun is high in a perfectly blue sky by the time the N.O. artillery has quieted down. We can see the City of Progress skyline a few miles away, across bombed-out Freeland. Now what?

Since none of us got much sleep, and miles of trekking ahead of us meant we'd need as much energy as possible, Whit and I had worked hard to conjure up a breakfast buffet for the entire group-complete with bacon, eggs, and waffles. This was a feast way bigger than Whit's earlier soup-kitchen trick. Realizing that maybe we'd never have to survive solely on Garfunkel's Cashew Crunch again was a definite breakthrough for us and our powers.

Here's how we did it: taking a cue from what Whit and I learned at the BNW Center, we'd practiced doing our magic with the group, holding hands, and it worked like a dream. I'd even started taking stock in Byron's wild theories about our magic becoming greater when it passes through others. This could be the secret to our success…

Of course, waffles help a whole lot, too. We've been living in a tunnel for half a day, so sun plus breakfast equals a group of kids who are now officially sunny-side up.

And it's a good thing, because it's not that long before we spot a ponderous black V formation of at least fifty N.O. bombers creeping right toward us. This is the battle we've been waiting for, and we'd rehearsed our plan. To the extent that you can actually "rehearse" defeating a world-dominating enemy.

So that's how it came to pass that rather than hiding in rubble, we're now standing boldly in the barren landscape and staring hard at the planes speeding toward us.

"You ready?" Emmet shouts above the squadron roar. He flashes me a confident smile, and I nod.

"Okay, people, focus, focus, focus!" I shout out like I'm a gym teacher running a tough calisthenics regimen. "Wait until they're almost right overhead but not directly enough to bomb us. I'll tell you when!"

And, at what I hope is precisely the right moment, Whit and I begin to conduct a chorus of voices. "Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!… Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken!"

And suddenly the breath's gone out of me, and some of the others actually collapse to the ground from the effort, or the power surge, or whatever it is that's happening…

Because, to be honest, we're not exactly sure what's going on.

The planes definitely start tipping, then spiraling downward. The wings seem to be… missing?

"They're going to crash!" someone cries out. "Into us!"

"Again!" I scream. "We need to say the words again! Everybody together!"

The bombers are careening sideways toward us, and we don't have the energy left to find cover-not that there's any cover in this flattened wasteland. A bunch of us manage to clasp our hands together and recite the spell all over again.

The bombers are now grotesquely distorted. They're, like, half machine, half creature. And they're still coming for us.

"Look straight at them!" I yell. "And let's chant one more time!"

One last time, that is, because if this doesn't work, right now, we're all roadkill.

There's a plane fewer than a hundred yards from flattening me, and I close my eyes as I say the last line.

When I open them, I'm ravenously hungry. I see nothing in the sky… except a whole bunch of wheeling ravens. Apparently we just turned their bombers into birds.