Dull Boy (21 page)

“Eeeeee!” Sophie squeals. “Avery, you
have
to take me up sometime. Like, right after this.” She tries to help Catherine up, but the cat-girl is rooted, unwilling to be any closer to the sky than she has to. “Are you okay? What was it like to
fly
?”

“Um, you’re bleeding,” Darla tells me. Good thing she’s an inventor and not a doctor—I don’t think she reacts well to flesh wounds. In the glow of the flashlight, she’s looking sickly pale—but it might just be the dark red of her flannel lumberjack shirt contrasting with her geek pallor. Because yep, ever the master of disguise: she’s dressed like Paul Bunyan. Knit hat, flannel shirt, jeans, boots, and a trusty robotic blue ox—she’s all set for a night of search-and-rescue and/or logging.

(I’m kidding about the ox. Maybe.)

“Catherine got a little excited on the way over,” I explain. As my eyes adjust to the artificial light, I take in the scene: Nicholas is loading bottled water and a first-aid kit into his backpack. Jacques is aloof, fixated on his open hand, icing his fingers one at a time, then thawing them. The Jaguar is parked on a slope, mostly hidden by a black tarp and some overhanging tree branches.

Oh, and Sophie? She’s outfitted in a black neoprene leotard and ballet flats, with a camouflage hoodie as her token nod to wilderness survival. That and a sparkly utility belt.

“We have to be careful,” Darla says. “The official night search party consists of fewer searchers than the one during the day, and they’ll be keeping to trails so they don’t lose anyone—but they
are
out here, and they’re not going to be happy if they find us. Our best bet is to plunge into the forest itself—if the scouts are lost, that’s probably where they are. Also, be aware that the search-and-rescue teams have dogs who will sniff us out no problem, so we need to steer clear of them if we want a shot at saving these kids.”

Catherine scowls. “I hate dogs.”

“How do you intend to locate the scouts?” Jacques asks. “It seems presumptuous to assume you will find them by wandering randomly through the forest.”

“Nothing I do is random, Morozov.” Darla unfolds a map of the state park and aims her flashlight at it, illuminating a complicated code of red-marker outlines, dots, dashes, and stars. “This is where the scouts started, ’kay? This is where they were last seen by their troop; these are the areas the search parties have already covered; and
these
are the areas they’re most likely to have explored based on a number of variables
including but not limited to:
their heights, weights, physical capabilities,
and
interests as declared on Facebook. Trust me, we
will
find them.”

“The genius is a little sensitive about being questioned,” Sophie whispers. “Don’t take it personally.”

We double-check our gear and set off, flashlights low to the ground: shuffling across an unending blanket of dead leaves, tripping over fat spidery tree roots and soft, rotting logs. The ground sends us hiking up and then stumbling down; we cross valleys and troop past rock ledges, cursing at near ankle-twists when holes appear out of nowhere or rocks slip loose of their moorings.

It’s hard to see where you’re going, and watching the ground pretty much ensures that you’ll be hit in the face by skinny branches. Low, curving shrubs turn out to be full of thorns. Sophie does her best to skip over them, but her bare legs are being massacred. Nicholas’s trench coat keeps getting snagged and yanking him back.

Catherine’s the only one not having trouble; she doesn’t even bother with a flashlight. Immune to missteps, she prowls through the woods like she owns them, frequently turning around only to see that we’re at least twenty feet behind her, then asking impatiently, “Are we doing this or not? What are you waiting for?”

An hour passes, two. The muddy ground keeps sucking Sophie’s shoes off, until Nicholas volunteers me as the team pack animal and I let her hop up and ride piggyback. When we hear dogs barking, or inadvertently get too close to one of the trails, we veer off in the opposite direction, cutting deeper into the woods.

“I hope we’re not walking in circles,” Sophie says.

“We’re not,” Nicholas assures her. “We’ve backtracked a few times but we’re making progress.”

Following the sound of rushing water, we come to a wide gorge with a stream at the bottom—maybe thirty feet down, and the gap itself is ten feet across. Catherine paces until she comes to a point where a fallen tree trunk is lodged across the gorge and forms a makeshift bridge.

“Score,” she says. “This was getting boring.”

She springs onto the trunk and pads across it before we can stop her, quick and sure-footed like the gymnast girls who show off on the balance beam during gym class. Only if she falls, she’ll break every bone in her body. Thank God she doesn’t do any cartwheels.

Catherine’s safe on the other side before my heart has a chance to stop, smirking like,
what? You doubted me?
Maybe it was a bad idea to bring badass risk-taker girl on this mission. She’s totally getting back at me for flying.

“Way to take the initiative, Catherine!” Darla says brightly. “But, um, we’re not going that way.”

“Why not?” Catherine says. “The missing kids had access to the trails, right? That means they could be anywhere. My random decision is just as likely to result in success as your random decision.”

Okay, clearly Catherine missed the tirade earlier.

“My decisions are
not
random!” Darla exclaims. “I base them on a careful series of calculations and re—”

I clamp my hand over Darla’s mouth. Rude, but it has to be done. “Good call, Catherine. I’ll get the others over.” She’s squinting to ward off my flashlight beam, but I think she’s happy.

“First come, first served,” I say.

“I hate to turn that down, but this is, like, the first time these crappy shoes have been useful,” Sophie says, plucking off her trashed ballet flats and sticky-stepping across the log bridge. “But feel free to rescue me if I fall!”

No heart attacks this time. I hover close by to make sure she gets across, then fly Darla and Nicholas to the other side, using an underarm carry. Darla tries to convince me she needs to be flown back, because she forgot something on the other side—but the whole time her eyes are darting around obvious-liar style, so I just promise to fly her again some other time.

That leaves Jacques on the other side. “You trust me, right?” I call across.

Seconds pass. My flashlight beam catches glimpses of frustration, uncertainty. But when he finally answers, he’s the picture of cool composure: “Why would that matter?”

Jacques extends his arms like a conductor and focuses until water from the stream below begins to rise into the air, slush turning to a bridge of rough, glistening ice. He steps to the edge of the gorge and treads calmly across the ice bridge, barely quickening his pace when the ice behind him begins to crack. Once he reaches the other side, large chunks of ice break free like puzzle pieces and fall, until there’s no trace of the frozen walkway.

When I look more closely, there’s a thin film of sweat on his forehead. He doesn’t look chill
at all.
And I wonder: Did Jacques shatter that walkway on purpose, just to prove how badass he is? Or did he overextend his powers?

We’re mostly quiet as we continue our search, ears tuned to cries for help. Leaves
shush
under our feet, stones rattle down hillsides, twigs crunch. Nicholas’s bag of water bottles
glugs
with every hard step. As we near the third hour of our march, Jacques’s breathing turns ragged and we stop to rest, even though he insists he’s fine. After a few minutes he’s still hunched over, pale as powder. Sophie sits down next to him with a worried expression on her face, tries to get him to drink some water.

Pride’s kept Jacques on his feet this long, but something’s definitely wrong with him. He’s sick, or . . . I don’t know. With our powers, it’s hard to tell. Could be the flu, could be a serious side effect he hasn’t told us about. I decide to play it safe, let them rest a little longer.

“Why don’t you guys stay here for a while?” I say. “I want to try something else. Catherine and I can cover more ground—”

She’s nodding, and then I finish:

“—from up here.”

I sweep her into the air before she can protest. Soon we’re treetop level, moving slowly but faster than we were before, no longer delayed by the obstacles on the ground. She’s hanging from my arms: alternately limp as a doll, tense as steel wire. Not kicking, not screaming. Plotting my demise? Yeah, there’s probably a good chance of that.

“Night-vision time,” I tell her. “I need you to be my eyes ’cause I’m effectively blind up here.” The new leaves are doing their utmost to block out the available moonlight, and it’s cloudy tonight on top of it. Plus I never claimed to have eagle eyes.

“I hate this,” she grumbles.

“You’re doing great. Much better than last time.”

Catherine and I fly north for a while and then double back before we’ve gone too far, to ensure we don’t lose track of the team; then I pick a different direction and we try that. Rinse, repeat. Eventually Catherine complains that I’m pulling her arms out of their sockets, her armpits hurt, etc., so we switch to a different carry. I cradle her in my arms instead of swinging her around, glad that I don’t have to carry a guy like this. It’s a position that would embarrass your average Avenger.

In between catlike yawns and hissed reassurances that yes, she’s fine, and no, she’s not tired, Catherine motions for me to dive lower each time she sees something. Movement, an odd shape: animal or person? “Back up back up back up!” she finally orders. I pull higher and out of sight.

“You think you found them?”

“I see them—they’re sleeping under leaves. And one kid’s buried to the waist, sitting up keeping watch or something.”

“Freaking sweet! Catherine, I knew you could do this!” Carrying her turns into a full-fledged hug, and she stiffens up again, her legs kicking out like rusty scissors.

“Down please,” she says.

Back at ground level, I switch my flashlight on and charge after Catherine, stomping through leaves and trickly streams, calling out for the scouts, telling them help is on the way.

 

YOU’RE SAFE,” I SAY.
“We’re going to get you home.”

The kids look disoriented; most of them are still clearing dreams from their heads. Their camp is composed of piles of leaves and empty snack wrappers, a soda bottle filled with water from the stream. We’re not much older than they are—I doubt we look like rescuers. More like teens who’ve just happened to cross paths with them.

“Pair up,” Catherine tells the scouts. “Everybody keep track of each other while we’re walking. Hold hands or hold on to your friend’s coat or something. Odd man out sticks with him,” she says, pointing to me.

“You think you can get us back to the group?” I say quietly, before kid number five has a chance to stick to me like glue. “I think I could find them from the air but it’s a different story down here.”

“Are you kidding? I can still smell Jacques’s cologne. I could walk you there with my eyes closed.”

“Excellent. Lead the way, Captain.”

I bring up the rear to make sure no one wanders off, and Catherine takes the lead. None of the kids questions her lack of flashlight; they’re too hungry and thirsty to be really talkative, although one insists about three times that he has to pee, which leads to the group’s stopping and my becoming pee-chaperone, a role I don’t exactly relish.

We’re standing around trying to settle an argument over how the peeing kid and his partner should keep track of each other, since the other kid refuses to hold hands and doesn’t want the peeing kid holding his jacket either—“His hands have pee on them!”—when my flashlight beam catches a mountain lion in a low crouch. Stalking us, less than ten feet away.

Crap.

I clear my throat, nudge Catherine. “Ahem. Um. Predator. Over there.”

I try to say it quietly but these kids are no one’s fools; they switch from overtired bicker mode to pure panic, talking all at once and then yelling at each other to shut up, it’s gonna kill us, no we have to scare it, we have to seem bigger and threatening! I don’t know WTF to do; I’m not a wilderness-survival person!

One of the kids throws a rock and I wince. The mountain lion closes its eyes when the rock hits it, then refocuses, as if we’re the only thing that matters. Its lack of reaction seems to jar something within the kids. The collective chaos stops; we all just breathe,
breathe,
hearts drumming in time with the twitch of the mountain lion’s black-tipped tail.

It watches us intently, never relaxing from that ready crouch.

Catherine moves toward it, her own face serious, holding her hand out like you do for a dog or a cat, so it can sniff you, get to know you. The mountain lion snarls when she gets too close, black-edged lips curling back—but Catherine stands her ground.

“Stop it,” she orders. “No one’s going off alone, so you won’t get any chances. You’re not even hungry; you’re being greedy.”

The mountain lion butts its head up against Catherine’s hand, knocks her back a step. She gets this look on her face like she’s gonna slap it, and I clench my fists and think,
please, please don’t make me wrestle this cat
—but before either one of us makes a move, the mountain lion starts rubbing its head against her, gently but insistently. That’s when I realize it wants a scratch. Catherine complies and the mountain lion starts purring: deep, rumbly sounds that are scary, but also nice. It rolls its head back and forth so she hits all the best spots.

After enjoying a few scratches, the mountain lion yawns and pads soundlessly back into the forest. We stand there in shock for a moment before the kids crowd around Catherine, awestruck like she’s a rock star.
How did she do it? Ohmygod she’s amazing! I’m in loooove!
And so on.