Sam noticed immediately. Astrid didn’t.
“What the—”
Sam stared, forgetting all about the empty school buses.
Little Pete floated. His omnipresent Game Boy had fallen to the ground. In front of him, just a few feet away, something began to materialize.
It was no bigger than Little Pete himself. Shiny red, laced with gold, a doll’s dead-eyed face atop a bowling pin body.
“Nestor,” Little Pete said, almost happy.
Sam recognized it. It was the nesting doll that sat on Little Pete’s dresser. Identical Russian dolls, shells, really, that nested one inside the other. Sam didn’t know how many there were. He had asked Astrid about it once. She’d said it was a souvenir from Moscow sent by some traveling uncle.
It was supposed to be for Astrid, but Little Pete had taken to it immediately. He’d even given it the name: Nestor. And because Little Pete never identified much with toys, Astrid had let him keep it.
“Nestor,” Little Pete repeated, but troubled now, uncertain.
As Sam stared, transfixed, the nesting doll began to change. Its smooth, lacquered surface rippled. The colors ran together and formed new patterns. The eerie painted face grew sinister.
Arms grew from its side, like twigs. The twigs thickened, grew flesh, grew talons.
And the doll’s painted smile split open, revealing dagger-sharp teeth.
Little Pete reached for the image, but the floating creature seemed to be made of Teflon: Little Pete’s hands slid over it, pushed it aside like someone trying to poke a globule of mercury, but never quite touched it.
“No arms,” Little Pete said.
The doll’s arms withered, shriveled, and turned to smoke.
“Petey. Stop it,” Astrid hissed.
“What is it?” Sam asked urgently. “What is that thing?”
Astrid didn’t answer. “Petey. Window seat. Window seat.” It was a trigger phrase Astrid used to calm Little Pete down. Sometimes it worked. Other times not. But in this case, Sam didn’t think Little Pete seemed upset, he seemed fascinated. It was a weird thing to see that kind of alert, even intelligent, involvement on Little Pete’s usually blank face.
The doll’s mouth opened. As if it would speak. Its eyes focused on Little Pete. Malevolent, hate-filled eyes.
“No,” Little Pete said.
The mouth snapped shut. It was a painted line once again. And the furious eyes dimmed. Painted dots once more.
Astrid made a sound like a sob, quickly stifled. She stepped in, whispered, “Sorry,” and slapped Pete’s shoulder, hard.
The effect was immediate. The creature disappeared. Pete fell in a heap, sprawled out on the brown grass.
“Are you sure you should—” Sam began.
Little Pete was capable of . . . well, no one was quite sure what he was capable of. All that Sam and Astrid knew was that Little Pete was far and away the most powerful mutant in the FAYZ.
“I had to stop him,” Astrid said grimly. “It gets worse. It starts with Nestor. Then the arms. Then the mouth and the eyes. Like it’s trying to come alive. Like . . .” She knelt beside Little Pete and hugged him to her.
Sam looked sharply toward the buses. The question in his mind—had Pete been observed?—was answered by the slack-jawed stares of the kids with their noses pressed against the dusty windows.
Edilio was definitely wide awake now, and coming their way fast.
Sam cursed under his breath. “This has happened before, Astrid?”
She stuck out her chin defiantly. “A couple of times.”
“You might have warned me.”
“What the—I mean, what was that, man?” Edilio demanded.
“Ask Astrid,” Sam snapped.
Astrid handed Little Pete his Game Boy and pulled him gently to his feet. She kept her eyes down, unwilling to meet Sam’s accusing glare. “I don’t know what it is. It’s some kind of waking nightmare, maybe.” There was a distinct note of desperation to her voice.
“The doll, the thing, whatever it was,” Sam said. “It was fighting Pete, and Pete was fighting back. Like it was trying to come to life.”
“Yes,” Astrid whispered.
Edilio was the only other person who knew Little Pete’s history. It had been Edilio who had retrieved the videotape from the power plant that showed the moment of the nuclear meltdown when a panicked, uncomprehending Little Pete, there with his father, had reacted by creating the FAYZ.
Edilio asked the question that was on Sam’s mind. “Something was fighting Little Pete?” Edilio asked, “Man, who or what has the power to take on Little Pete?”
“We don’t talk about this with anyone else,” Sam said firmly. “Someone asks you about it, you just say it must have been some kind of . . .”
“Some kind of what?” Edilio asked.
“Optical illusion,” Astrid supplied.
“Yeah, that’ll work,” Edilio said sarcastically. Then he shrugged. “Kids got other things to worry about. Hungry people don’t waste much time on questions.”
If others learned of Little Pete’s guilt . . . and his power . . . he would never be safe. Caine would do anything it took to capture if not kill the strange little boy.
“Edilio, put everyone on one bus. Take a couple of your guys and start driving down residential streets. Go door to door. Round up as many kids as you can. Pack the bus, then take them to pick some melons or whatever.”
Edilio looked dubious but said, “Okay, Mr. Mayor.”
“What the—”
Sam stared, forgetting all about the empty school buses.
Little Pete floated. His omnipresent Game Boy had fallen to the ground. In front of him, just a few feet away, something began to materialize.
It was no bigger than Little Pete himself. Shiny red, laced with gold, a doll’s dead-eyed face atop a bowling pin body.
“Nestor,” Little Pete said, almost happy.
Sam recognized it. It was the nesting doll that sat on Little Pete’s dresser. Identical Russian dolls, shells, really, that nested one inside the other. Sam didn’t know how many there were. He had asked Astrid about it once. She’d said it was a souvenir from Moscow sent by some traveling uncle.
It was supposed to be for Astrid, but Little Pete had taken to it immediately. He’d even given it the name: Nestor. And because Little Pete never identified much with toys, Astrid had let him keep it.
“Nestor,” Little Pete repeated, but troubled now, uncertain.
As Sam stared, transfixed, the nesting doll began to change. Its smooth, lacquered surface rippled. The colors ran together and formed new patterns. The eerie painted face grew sinister.
Arms grew from its side, like twigs. The twigs thickened, grew flesh, grew talons.
And the doll’s painted smile split open, revealing dagger-sharp teeth.
Little Pete reached for the image, but the floating creature seemed to be made of Teflon: Little Pete’s hands slid over it, pushed it aside like someone trying to poke a globule of mercury, but never quite touched it.
“No arms,” Little Pete said.
The doll’s arms withered, shriveled, and turned to smoke.
“Petey. Stop it,” Astrid hissed.
“What is it?” Sam asked urgently. “What is that thing?”
Astrid didn’t answer. “Petey. Window seat. Window seat.” It was a trigger phrase Astrid used to calm Little Pete down. Sometimes it worked. Other times not. But in this case, Sam didn’t think Little Pete seemed upset, he seemed fascinated. It was a weird thing to see that kind of alert, even intelligent, involvement on Little Pete’s usually blank face.
The doll’s mouth opened. As if it would speak. Its eyes focused on Little Pete. Malevolent, hate-filled eyes.
“No,” Little Pete said.
The mouth snapped shut. It was a painted line once again. And the furious eyes dimmed. Painted dots once more.
Astrid made a sound like a sob, quickly stifled. She stepped in, whispered, “Sorry,” and slapped Pete’s shoulder, hard.
The effect was immediate. The creature disappeared. Pete fell in a heap, sprawled out on the brown grass.
“Are you sure you should—” Sam began.
Little Pete was capable of . . . well, no one was quite sure what he was capable of. All that Sam and Astrid knew was that Little Pete was far and away the most powerful mutant in the FAYZ.
“I had to stop him,” Astrid said grimly. “It gets worse. It starts with Nestor. Then the arms. Then the mouth and the eyes. Like it’s trying to come alive. Like . . .” She knelt beside Little Pete and hugged him to her.
Sam looked sharply toward the buses. The question in his mind—had Pete been observed?—was answered by the slack-jawed stares of the kids with their noses pressed against the dusty windows.
Edilio was definitely wide awake now, and coming their way fast.
Sam cursed under his breath. “This has happened before, Astrid?”
She stuck out her chin defiantly. “A couple of times.”
“You might have warned me.”
“What the—I mean, what was that, man?” Edilio demanded.
“Ask Astrid,” Sam snapped.
Astrid handed Little Pete his Game Boy and pulled him gently to his feet. She kept her eyes down, unwilling to meet Sam’s accusing glare. “I don’t know what it is. It’s some kind of waking nightmare, maybe.” There was a distinct note of desperation to her voice.
“The doll, the thing, whatever it was,” Sam said. “It was fighting Pete, and Pete was fighting back. Like it was trying to come to life.”
“Yes,” Astrid whispered.
Edilio was the only other person who knew Little Pete’s history. It had been Edilio who had retrieved the videotape from the power plant that showed the moment of the nuclear meltdown when a panicked, uncomprehending Little Pete, there with his father, had reacted by creating the FAYZ.
Edilio asked the question that was on Sam’s mind. “Something was fighting Little Pete?” Edilio asked, “Man, who or what has the power to take on Little Pete?”
“We don’t talk about this with anyone else,” Sam said firmly. “Someone asks you about it, you just say it must have been some kind of . . .”
“Some kind of what?” Edilio asked.
“Optical illusion,” Astrid supplied.
“Yeah, that’ll work,” Edilio said sarcastically. Then he shrugged. “Kids got other things to worry about. Hungry people don’t waste much time on questions.”
If others learned of Little Pete’s guilt . . . and his power . . . he would never be safe. Caine would do anything it took to capture if not kill the strange little boy.
“Edilio, put everyone on one bus. Take a couple of your guys and start driving down residential streets. Go door to door. Round up as many kids as you can. Pack the bus, then take them to pick some melons or whatever.”
Edilio looked dubious but said, “Okay, Mr. Mayor.”
