A World of Trouble (23 page)

I don't want to think about this. Fortunately, Lemon distracts us with another question.

“Which way?” He nods to the red arrow at the bottom of the sign. It points to the right, but since the sign was on the ground it's hard to know where it originally stood.

Before we can guess, fast footsteps sound behind us. I spin around and see GS George running.

“Bad news,” he gasps, out of breath, when he reaches the gas station. “It's broken. They stripped the engine. And dismantled the electrical system. And took the computer. I can't fix it. Not by myself.”

Two thoughts come to mind immediately.

The first is that if GS George can't fix the helicopter, then we can't leave. And if we can't leave, we can try rescuing Elinor.

The second is more of a question.

If we can't leave . . . what good is rescuing Elinor?

“We'll get help.” I point to the sign. “There's a town. Towns have cars. Cars need mechanics. I'm sure we can find someone who'll come take a look at the helicopter.”

“And how will we
explain
the helicopter?” Abe asks. “Carrying a bunch of kids and crashing in the middle of the desert? Without
alerting everyone in the town and inviting unwanted attention?”

I frown. Abe seemed to return to his normal self once he was back on solid ground. He has a point. . . . But I still think I like him better scared.

“It's worth a shot,” Lemon says. “What other choice do we have?”

We fall silent as we think about it. Then GS George sighs, unzips his fanny pack, and removes his K-Pak.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Writing Annika.”

“What? Why?”

“So she can send someone to get us.”

“But what about your job?” I ask. “I thought you were afraid of losing it?”

“I'd rather be out of work than dead in a dust bowl.”

He starts typing. I want to convince him to give our mission more time, but my head's spinning too fast. I can't find the words.

So I use a visual instead.

“Ms. Marla!” Beaming, GS George lowers the K-Pak and takes the photo I hold toward him. “Rodolfo! When I didn't see this in the chopper just now, I didn't think I'd ever see it again.” He looks at me. “When did you get it? How?”

“When I was getting these.” I unbutton my coat, remove the stuffed unicorn and drawing pad, and hand them to Gabby and Abe. I take the matchstick-shaped lighter from my pocket and give it to Lemon. “And very carefully.”

“You thought the helicopter was about to explode,” Gabby says, squeezing her stuffed animal, “and you still went back for these? For us?”

I shrug. “You came all this way. I had to try.”

Gabby grins. Abe takes a pencil from behind his ear, scribbles something on a blank piece of paper, and turns the pad around so I can see the smiley face with spiky hair. Lemon reaches over and taps me on the shoulder with his (unlit) lighter.

“Thanks,” he says.

“You're welcome.”

They're so appreciative I almost forget my selfish reason for kicking off the gift-giving with GS George's picture. But then our pilot tucks the photo into the front pocket of his fanny pack and clears his throat.

“Elinor,” he says, “as in Annika's niece?”

Oops. I didn't mean to say her name in front of him. I didn't want him to know the emergency that brought us here because
I thought it would make him even more determined to take us back. After all, if Annika had wanted Elinor rescued, she would've instructed GS George to go get her. At the very least, I thought it'd make him contact Annika to see what she wanted him to do with us before we had a chance to do anything ourselves.

But I guess the rat-cat's out of the bag.

“Yes,” I say.

“She must be something special for you to go to all this trouble.”

I look down.

“All righty.” He claps once, snapping my head back up. “Here's what we're going to do. I'm going to e-mail my good buddy, GS Carl. He's a techno whiz and knows the ins and outs of that machine back there better than the machines that made it. Without giving anything away, I'll see if he can help me figure out how to get it running again. While I'm doing that, you four are free to do what you'd like. Chase tumbleweeds. Eat prickly pear pudding. Find your friend. Whatever. If I don't know what you're up to, I can't worry about whether I should report you. Fair?”

“Definitely.” I smile.

“Good.” He checks his watch. “It's ten p.m. Mountain Standard Time. You have an hour.”

“An
hour
?” Abe scoffs. “Town's a mile away. We don't even know if that's where the school is.”

“Should I make it half an hour?” GS George asks. “Troublemakers usually work best under pressure.”

“We'll take the hour,” I say quickly. “Thank you. Really.”

He tips his invisible hat and shuffles backward. “Meet back at the chopper. Don't be late. I won't wait.”

He turns and starts running. Gabby hurries after him.

“Where are you going?” I shout.

“To get my backpack! We need supplies!”

This GS George responds to. “Don't bother!” he hollers without turning around. “They took it all! Backpacks, K-Paks, juice boxes . . . There's nothing left!”

Gabby slows to a stop.

“That's strange,” Lemon says.

“And mean.” I shake my head. “What kind of kids would hijack a grounded helicopter in the middle of nowhere, scare off its stranded passengers, and steal everything inside? We're training to become professional Troublemakers, and even we wouldn't—”

Lemon stops me by pressing the tip of his lighter to my arm. “Not that,” he says.
“That.”

I hear it before I see it. A steady, constant crunching. A gentle rumbling. A soft squealing that makes me think of Wheezing Willie back home. Of course, Willie gets his name from wheezing, not squealing, but the sound that pierces my ears every time he hits the brakes is the same.

As the rumbling grows louder, I understand why.

It's a school bus. Or what looks like it used to be a school bus. It's brown instead of yellow. Its windows are blacked out. The headlights are broken. The name of the district it once belonged to is scratched off the side, revealing dull gray metal beneath even duller paint. Every now and then it squeals and slows down to allow for passing lizards, scorpions, and furry black spiders as big as my head.

“Gabby!” Abe hisses.

She's still standing where she stopped when GS George said there were no supplies left, and now spins around. Spotting the vehicle lumbering toward us, she crouches down and darts back to the rest stop.

“I didn't know this was a road,” she whispers, joining us behind the
DESERT FLOWER FILL 'N' FUEL
sign.

Me neither. Because there's no pavement. There are no lines to differentiate it from the surrounding dirt. There aren't even
tire tracks suggesting it's an unmarked route only local residents know to travel.

Still, the strange brown bus is headed somewhere. And right now, with the clock ticking and no other clues, following it is our best bet.

“Let's go,” Lemon says, reading my mind.

We bolt out from behind the sign. As we run we stay low to the ground several yards behind the bus, partially to avoid being seen but also to keep from choking on the sprawling dust cloud the bus's tires create. The sky darkens the farther we go, but I don't turn on my K-Pak and Lemon doesn't flick on his lighter. This also helps keep us from being spotted—and makes it impossible to see the desert creatures all around us. There's not much that could stop me right now, but if anything can, it's coming face-to-face with an oversize tarantula.

After what feels like hours but is probably only five minutes, we pass the first sign since leaving the rest stop.

NOW ENTERING BLACKHOLE, ARIZONA!

POPULATION: 1,032
(crossed out),
811
(crossed out),
560
(crossed out),
278
(crossed out),
99

COME ON IN! STAY A WHILE!

The next sign appears almost immediately. It's bigger than the first. A single flickering lightbulb at its base shines on a peeling picture of a pretty neighborhood filled with orange houses.

RUSTIC ROSE ESTATES

YOUR PERSONAL OASIS

NEW HOMES AVAILABLE! CALL 555-SAY-AHHH

FOR MORE INFORMATION

I've just finished reading when my right foot drops. The rest of my body follows. I sail through the air before my foot hits the ground again. Then I half bounce, half roll down a long, steep incline until I'm stopped by a knobby cactus trunk. I pull my lips between my teeth to keep from crying out in pain. . . . But nothing hurts. Looking down, I see a dozen desert needles sticking out of my coat sleeve. The parka's thick padding saved me from becoming a human pincushion.

I scramble to my feet. Scattered around me, my alliance-mates do the same.

“Aliens,” Abe whispers as we draw closer together.

“Oooh,” Gabby breathes, looking to the sky. “Where?”

“Not up there.” Abe lifts his chin and moves it in a wide, slow circle. “Out
there
.”

Following his chin, I see houses. Cars. Buildings. More cacti. The streetlights are dim, so I can't make out details, but there are also no UFOs hovering overhead or green glow-in-the-dark figures roaming around. Overall, it looks like a fairly normal town.

“You think our hijackers are aliens?” I ask.

“No. But I think their spaceship crashed here a long, long time ago.”

“It is a pretty big crater,” Lemon says.

“In the middle of nowhere,” Abe says. “Where normal people would never want to live.”

And then I realize what they're talking about. I look above and beyond the houses, cars, buildings, and cacti to the tall, steep slopes surrounding them. The entire town is located at the bottom of an enormous dirt ditch.

I guess they don't call it Blackhole for nothing.

“This way.” Lemon stoops forward and starts jogging.

The weird brown bus has slowed down, and we catch up quickly. This time we cover our mouths and stay closer. Unlike the surrounding desert, there are roads here, but they're not paved, and the vehicle's dust cloud keeps us hidden as we make our way through town. It also keeps us from seeing what we're
passing, so we don't know exactly where we are until the bus squeals to a final stop.

“Get out!” a low voice barks nearby.

Our shield thins, grows transparent. Spotting an empty alleyway between two boarded-up buildings, I wave to Capital T and run. We press against a stone wall and watch as dozens of boys and girls gather around the bus. They wear ripped, stained pants. Sweatshirts with holes that expose dirty, scuffed skin. Boots without laces. Their hair is greasy and tangled, like it hasn't been washed or combed in months. They chant. Cheer. Thrust their fists in the air.

“Now!”
the same low voice demands.

The bus door shrieks open. The vehicle bobs as people hurry down the steps. Unlike the kids waiting to greet them, they wear sharp, dark suits. Crisp, clean khakis. Matching argyle sweaters and socks. Pretty dresses. Spotless sneakers, shiny loafers, and high heels. They carry briefcases and purses, which are yanked from their grasp the second they clear the last bus step.

“Single file! Keep it moving!”

The passengers, who are clearly adults, form a long line down a dirty sidewalk. Their line's kept straight by a huge beast of a
boy who taps their calves with a baseball bat. He has two feet on everyone else, so I assume he's the same kid who scaled the helicopter and beat his chest earlier.

Up until now, the new arrivals have been kept in the dark by the dirty tube socks knotted between their foreheads and noses. At the boy-beast's instruction, they remove the blindfolds. Their eyes blink, then widen, as they look around.

The bus bobs again. This time, no one gets off. Someone climbs on the hood, then the roof. She's older, probably around the same age as my parents, and wears a long dress that looks like it's been sewn together with scraps of old quilts and curtains. She wears ripped black stockings and no shoes. Her long brown hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail. She holds a clipboard in one hand and a megaphone in the other.

I've never met her, but I recognize her immediately.

She's Nadia Kilter, a.k.a. Annika's sister.

And Elinor's mother.

When she lifts the megaphone, I cringe. The adults cower. The kids clap and stomp their feet until dirt flies.

“Welcome,” she bellows, “to IncrimiNation!”

DEMERITS: 465

GOLD STARS: 300

I
ncrimi
what
?” Gabby whispers.