The Moon Dwellers (57 page)

Tristan limp-runs past us.
I can tell he is fighting through the pain.

“Follow me,” he says
.

I’m not sure why I do
it.
I guess because I wan
t
to show my dad that I am tough, that I’ve survived, that I am the strong girl he raised.
In any case, it is
probably just childis
h.
“No, follow me!” I exclaim.
I ta
k
e
off, sprinting past Tristan and around the first pyramid.

I glance
back
and see
Tristan
half-
grinning
, half-cringing
,
trying to catch up.
How I love that smile of his
, even when it’s not at full strength.
It i
s natural and genuine, just enough lip on both the top and bottom,
a slight dimple in his
right cheek.
Beautiful.
I have
the sudden urge to kiss him.
What i
s the matter with me!
I’
ve
barely made it to first base—first ba
se being holding hands; I’m not
sure what the real first base is—and already I am
read
y to take the next step.
Who is this girl?
And what has
she done with me?

My dad i
sn’t far behind him
, looking
lean and fast
.
Further back still
is the group of guards, who have
st
arted chasing us.
Great.
Ca
n’
t they just leave us alone?
Have
n’t we been through enough?

To make it more difficult for t
he guards to follow us, I weave
through the pyramids, cutting a random path toward the open flats that
le
ad to the outer wall.
I emerge
from between two
pyramids and
into the open.
Adrenaline i
s rushing through my veins, pushing me to
fly, fly!
I do
n’t spro
ut wings and take off, but I do
run pretty fast—so fa
st that Tristan doesn’t catch me until we a
re halfway across the empty space.

I look
back
to see where my dad i
s.
He’
s
fallen behind
a bit, unable to keep up with our yo
ung
er
legs.
Or it might not be age that hinders
him.
I
t
might
be
the weight of the abuse he’
s
been subjected to in the camp, rendering his body tired and weakened.
Whatever the case, the guards a
re gaining on him—five of them, closing in like a net.

“My dad,” I say
, pull
ing to a stop.
Tristan stops
,
too
,
and we reverse
our course.
My dad sees us coming and slows up.
He is
n’t about to let us do all the fighting for him.

He turns just as we reach him.
The guards a
re upon us.
Five on three.
Tasers and whips again fists and feet and spirit—oh, and Tristan’s sword
, too.
So who has
the advanta
ge?
I’ll give you a hint: it i
sn’t the guards.

A T
aser lances
out
toward
my father’s legs, but i
s blocked by a quick thrust of
Tristan’s sword.
A whip snaps at my head, but I duck and charge.
I’m not
full of rage a
nymore, but I do
feel conf
ident.
Next to my father I feel invincible.
He i
s my teacher.
The best fig
hter I
’ve ever kno
w
n
.
Although I’
ve
never seen him fight
anyone for real
, I’ve always believed he i
s unbeatable.

I leap at the guard who
missed me with
the whip, kick him in the head, knock him over.
Glance
to my right.

My dad clotheslines two of the other guards, his heavy arms catching them in the neck and forcing them to the stone.
Flopping on the ground,
they
gasp for air.
Tristan has
another one at sword point.
Rather than finishing him off, he uses
his forearm to send a shiver through the guy’s skull, knocking him senseless.

There i
s only one guard on his feet.
Th
e new odds: three on one.
He ru
n
s
, dropping his whip and T
aser and pride in a heap on the stone.

We ru
n in the other direction.
I le
t Tristan lead this time.
I want
to keep an eye on my dad.
I can’t believe it was that easy—almost too easy.
It turns out it’s not.

A barrage of bullets keen
s
past us and,
instinctively
, I
duck and throw my arms over my head, as if mere flesh and bone will stop th
e hot metal pellets from hurting me
.
In front of me, Tristan yells out sharply and stumbles, clutching at his leg, which
is slick and red.
He’s been hit.
The rest of us will be soon.
It must not be bad, because Tristan manages to keep running, albeit less gracefully, with us in tow.

We reach
the
gap in the wall.
The air is thick and heavy and smells
of war.
The bullets have stopped temporarily, presumably as our pursuers reload.

Tawni, Roc
,
and Elsey a
re waiting for us.
We’ve led the danger right to them.

I look back, expecting a dozen guards armed to the teeth.
One guy is running toward us, frantically trying to release an expired clip from his automatic weapon.
It’s the guy who ran away before.
He had time to get his gun but not the rest of his friends.

“Anyonegotanythingwecanshoot?” I ask in one breath.
The guy’s gun will be loaded soon and we’ll be dead.

Tristan, cringing in pain, says, “Roc, did we pack anything other than swords?”

“Sorry, no,” Roc says, glancing warily at the gu
y
with the gun.
He’s getting closer.
The old clip falls away behind him and he pulls a new one from his pocket.

“What about a slingshot?” Elsey says.

My eyes dart across to my sister
.
I am amazed when I see her.
She’s standing there so calmly, even though I see her glancing between me and my dad, as if she’s deciding which of us to run to once the crisis is averted.

“That’s perfect,” I say.
“Give it here.”

She reaches in a deep pocket in the back of her tunic, one I haven’t noticed before, and extracts a gleaming metal slingshot, fitted with a thick rubber band.
It’s a really nice weapon.

“Ranna gave it to me,” Elsey says by way of explanation.

Frankly
,
I don’t care where she got it from.
Not now anyway.
I snatch it from her outstretched hand and start looking for a good rock to use, when I notice the handle.
Cut into the wide
hilt
is a slot, which I flip open with my thumb, holding my breath.
Eureka
!
Inside is what I hoped for: round metal pellets—my ammunition.

Considering the lack of entertainment in the Moon Realm, I shot plenty of slingshots as a kid and got pretty good.
I’ve never shot a human before, but it’s no different than a tin can or a rock
post
.
I
n one swift motion I extend my arm, load a pellet, and stretch the band back toward me.
Rotating my torso, I locate our pursuer in my sight.

Despite all his bumbling, he’s finally managed to snap the new clip into his gun, and he’s just bringing the nozzle up to a firing position.
I have maybe two seconds to get him before he gets us.
I make an incremental adjustment to my aim as I zero in on his forehead.
He stops, his gun aimed right at us.
One second.

I fire, releasing the band with a dull
thwap!
and hoping it doesn’t misfire.
To the human eye, the pellet moves as fast as any bullet, disappearing into the empty air as if it never existed at all.
The only evidence of my shot is the groan from the guy as his head snaps back and he crumples to the ground, his gun landing on top of him, having not been fired.

“Yes!” I hear a few voices say behind me.

When I turn back to my friends and family, stoic Elsey is a little girl again, running toward my dad.
“
Oh
, F
ather!”
she
exclaims
, jumping
into h
is arms, not unlike the way I di
d earlier.

“Are you okay?” Tawni says
, directing the question at all of us.

“Fine,” I say
quickly.
“
But Tristan’s been hit.”

“It’s nothing,” he says.
“It grazed me—looks worse than it is.”
The red blood is swarming over
h
is leg and we’ll have to stop the bleeding, but not here, not now.

“
We’ve got
to keep moving,
”
I say.

“The bombs are
hitting everywhere,” Tawni says
.
“They’re very close.”

“We have no choice.
We’ll be caught if we stay here.”

My dad put
s Elsey down, but she continues
to cling to his
waist.
“Adele’s right,” he says
.
“Reinforcements will be sent to subdue the prisoners.
Believe me, they will.
Then they’ll search for us—plenty of guards witnessed our escape.”

“We’ll make it,” Tristan says
.
“We
have
to make it.”
There i
s a strange confidence in
his voice.
Not cockiness—he does
n’t seem like that kind of guy.
N
or i
s it a
statement made by someone who’
s
gotten everything he ever wanted since the
day he was born—although he has.
It sounds
almost like a prediction.
Sort of philosophical; sort of mystic
al.
And the way Tristan glances
at Roc—intense, know
ing—it’s like there’s something they know, or think they know, that they a
ren’t telling us.
Something important.
Something life changing.

When I beca
me a m
ind reader, I don’t know.
I am
probably just imagining things.

My dad pulls
away from Els
ey’s grip and ho
ld
s her hand, pulls
her towar
d the exit.
“Let’s go,” he says
.

We creep
through the rubble
together.
An explosion erupts
somewhere nearby, sending dust and chunks of stone into the air.
Another bomb hit
s
further down the street, blasting the middle of a tall building.
W
eakened, the upper half teeters, leans, and then tumbles
away, crashing across the road and into t
he next building, which crumbles
under the weight.
Beneath the buildings, people ru
n out, frantically trying to escape the
world that i
s caving in on them.