T
hrough the glass-windowed front of the press box, on the ruined baseball diamond, we see a very frightened Rosie standing face-to-face with the bristle-haired leader of the Daggers. His gang is right beside him.
“What are they doing here?” says Louisa, her voice panicked. “This is bad, Maddie.”
“I don’t think so,” I tell her, surveying the scene. The burly guy with the white hair is standing beside the leader but he seems at ease, his rocklike shoulders relaxed, his stance almost friendly.
“But how did they know where we were?” Louisa demands.
At first, I can’t even imagine. But then I notice the girl in the red vinyl ensemble is still wearing the Cubs jersey I gave her.
“I guess you could say we gave them our address,” I say. “C’mon. Let’s go greet our guests.”
I hurry out of the press box, in case Evelyn and the boys heard Rosie’s scream and decide to challenge these guys.
Louisa and I fly through the tunnel that leads to the field and come skidding to a halt between Rosie and the sooty-eyed leader.
“It’s okay,” I tell Rosie. I’m not used to seeing her look so scared. “They aren’t here to hurt us.” I’m not sure how I know this — it’s just a weird sense I have.
“How do you know?” she asks in a trembling voice.
“Let’s just say the Daggers and I … we go way back. Like all the way to this morning.”
The leader’s mouth turns up slightly at the corners and there is a little movement in his chest that I take for a chuckle.
The air is a lot warmer than it was just an hour ago,
and the wind is howling ominously. The sky is getting darker and darker.
“Did you come for shelter to wait out the storm?” I ask.
The leader shakes his head. “Tatz is gone.”
I’m not sure who Tatz is, but Louisa realizes immediately.
“The guy with the dreadlocks and the big tattoo on his chest,” she says, and the leader nods.
Only now do I realize their other member is not present.
“Some guys in uniforms grabbed him,” the girl in red explains. “They had whistles around their necks, like your friend from this morning.”
They are talking about Jonah, of course, and thinking of him almost makes my knees buckle with worry. “Those would be Phoenix Center scouts,” I say, my voice a thread of sound.
“Our friend isn’t one of them,” Louisa clarifies quickly. “He was a prisoner there — that’s why he has the whistle.”
“I’ve heard of this Phoenix Center,” Yellow Boots says. Her voice is panicked, and there is worry in her eyes that matches mine.
“Is he in danger?” the girl in red vinyl asks.
I decide not to sugarcoat it. “Yes,” I say. “The Phoenix facility is part of the Alliance.”
“Alliance!” the leader barks. “The enemy of the world. Death to the Alliance!”
No one argues with that. Even Rosie nods her agreement.
“There’s a lot to explain,” I say, pushing aside my fear for Jonah. “When was the last time you guys ate? We’ve got plenty of food if you’re hungry.”
Now I hear the rhythm of Dizzy’s unique walk; moments later he appears at the end of the tunnel. To save him some labored steps, I immediately begin walking to meet him halfway. The Daggers, Louisa, and Rosie follow.
“Dizzy, these are the Daggers,” I say. “Daggers, Dizzy.”
After a brief hesitation, the leader reaches out to shake Dizzy’s hand.
As Dizzy, the leader, and the bleached-blond guy begin a conversation about the state of the city, I glance at the two Dagger girls. “We’ve got hot water and clean towels,” I say.
Their faces brighten with joy and disbelief.
“Follow me,” says Louisa. “We’ve even got some soap and shampoo.”
I notice that the girl in red vinyl has tears of gratitude in her eyes.
We treat the Daggers to soydogs with all the artificial and synthetically engineered ballpark fixings we can find. As a group, they still aren’t very talkative. Like my friends and me, none of them is wearing an ID bracelet, so we don’t learn their names. But a calmness has descended. We all seem to have accepted the fact that we are on the same side right now.
The storm that rages outside Wrigley is a big one; wind shrieks through the concrete corridors, while an icy rain beats an angry rhythm on the stadium seats.
“You gave me a scare before,” Rosie says to the Daggers, then glances at Louisa and me. “I’m not really one to scream. But I knew you guys were preoccupied with the computers in the press box and didn’t think you’d hear me otherwise.”
The leader looks stunned. “You have computers here?”
“Well, if you can call them that,” says Evelyn. “They’re pretty prehistoric.”
I notice that all of the Daggers have looks of longing on their faces and I understand immediately. “Are there people you’d like to contact?” I ask. “Family members you want to e-mail?”
The girl in red vinyl nods and the muscular one actually says, “Yes, please.”
I glance at Dizzy, who smiles his consent.
“Let’s go,” I say, and my friends and I lead the Daggers to the press box.
The two girls and the bleached-blond guy each sit at one of the computers and Evelyn gives them a quick tutorial on using the older technology.
The leader makes the rules: he tells his friends that they can e-mail their parents only, and they are not to give their precise whereabouts. “Just tell them you’re okay,” he says brusquely.
I wait for him to add,
And you’ll be home soon
. But he doesn’t say that.
We slip off to the side of the press box in an effort to give them some privacy. Evelyn is holding the laptop we used to read the flash drive. It’s quiet for a while, except for the tapping of computer keys, and the crunching sound of Ryan munching into a handful of peanuts.
Ryan gulps down the peanuts. “So what should we do tomorrow?” he asks the rest of us.
Everyone turns to me, and I realize it’s up to me to lay out the plan. I take a deep breath.
“First thing tomorrow,” I begin, “we have to get to the Art Institute, deliver the flash drive to my mom, and warn her that the Phoenix School is a trap.”
Evelyn is looking at a map of Chicago on the computer screen. “Looks like the Institute’s about six and a half miles south of here.”
I turn to glance at the gang leader, who, I note sadly, has chosen not to e-mail anyone. On the one hand, I don’t want him to overhear our plan, but I also realize that maybe he could be of help. “It’s not exactly Dagger territory,” I say to him, “but are you familiar with the route?”
He gives me a sharp little nod. “North Clark to West Lake Shore, then down North Michigan.”
I notice his voice is a little dark.
Alonso picks up on it, too. “Something wrong with North Michigan?”
The muscle guy looks up from his e-mail and says in a somber voice, “Blades.”
“Wonderful,” says Rosie. “Gang turf.” She blushes instantly, and smiles around sheepishly at our guests. “Um, no offense.”
The girl with the yellow boots shrugs off the insult. “You’re right to be afraid of the Blades.”
I feel my heart thud in my chest. “Well, let’s just hope tomorrow is the Blades’ day off,” I say in as cheerful a voice as I can muster.
Alonso is tapping his chin thoughtfully and consults Evelyn’s computer. “Well, the flash drive said the meeting between the Hornet and the princess —”
“Queen,” Drew corrects.
“Whatever. The meeting is in the morning. And the invasion will take place in the afternoon.”
“That gives us time,” says Louisa.
“We need more than time,” Ryan mutters, “if we’re traveling through hostile gang territory.”
“We need courage,” says Alonso.
“And strength,” Rosie adds, “and speed.”
“Weapons would be nice,” says Drew.
Evelyn sighs. “Some bodyguards …”
Behind me, the Daggers’ leader is clearing his throat. When I turn to look at him, I catch him and Yellow Boots making eye contact, as though they are sharing a thought. He then shifts his gaze to the guy with the muscles, who nods, and the girl in red vinyl blinks once, as though affirming something. Clearly they have just come to some silent decision.
“We need to sleep,” the leader says suddenly.
“Oh, right.” I stand up from the floor. “You guys are going to sleep here in the press box if that’s okay.”
He nods. Then he looks into my eyes and I wonder if he’s trying to communicate something to me the way he did with his fellow gang members. If he is, I’m not getting it. Then he surprises me by placing a hand on my shoulder and giving it a quick squeeze.
“It will be all right,” he says quietly, and I almost believe him.
My friends and I decide to get some sleep, too, since we’ll be setting out early. That thought makes me a little light-headed, which is why I don’t say much to the others as we make our way to the lockers and ready ourselves for bed.
If everything goes well and we make it to the Art Institute, I will finally, after so many, many months, be reunited with my mother. It’s almost too much to comprehend.
As I rest my head on the bunched-up Cubs sweatshirt I’m using for a pillow, I try to let this amazingly happy thought relax me to sleep. But there are other
thoughts getting in the way, thoughts that are not happy at all.
Like, for example, the image of all those kids from the Phoenix School. If we fail tomorrow, ultimately they will be sent to fight in the War for the very same side that kidnapped and drugged them; being forced to fight on the side of their own enemy.
And the books. All those books and the magic inside them going up in smoke.
And then there’s the worst thought of all. The darkest, saddest thought, which I try to ignore, but there it is, howling and thundering in my head and my heart, as persistent and grim as the storm pounding the outer walls of the stadium.
Where is Jonah
?
Jonah is gone
.
It’s a very long time before I even close my eyes, and much, much longer before I sleep.
We awaken to find that the Daggers are gone.
I briefly wonder where they went, or why. Perhaps
they decided to find Tatz on their own. Or they really were just seeking shelter from the storm, and didn’t want to admit it. Either way, the storm has passed, and they have left. I think of the unknown Helen, off in search of her brother. Will everyone find what they are looking for?
The seven of us have a quiet meal consisting of protein bars, dried fruit, and reconstituted milk — provisions the street kids trade to Dizzy. We eat quickly, then prepare to leave.
Evelyn is slinging her backpack over one shoulder. We’ve decided to bring only one pack, since (hopefully) we’ll be in the safekeeping of my mother by this afternoon. Tucked safely into the front pocket of the pack is the flash drive from Ivan.
She’s already checked a thousand times to be sure it’s still there.
“Where else would it be?” Rosie huffs, rolling her eyes. But then she smiles at Evelyn and
she
checks the pocket to make sure we have the walkie-talkie cell
phones. We all understand how crucial this mission is and no one is about to take it lightly.
As we make our way to the stadium exit, everyone is feeling jittery and excited and a little bit scared. We take a few minutes to go over the route with Dizzy. We’ve got a walk of about six miles, through hostile territory, and Dizzy checks Alonso’s knee and Drew’s shoulder.
“I’m good,” Alonso assures him. “Feels great.”
“Me, too,” says Drew. “Doesn’t hurt at all.”
I wonder if they’re telling the truth. I know they’ll go through with this mission even if they are in the worst pain ever, so I just hope they feel as up to snuff as they’re saying.
Dizzy tells us to keep to the middle of the road and not to wander into any alleyways or side streets.
“Sounds like good advice to me,” mumbles Evelyn.
Now Dizzy hands a hefty aluminum baseball bat to Ryan. “Just in case,” he says.
“In case what?” quips Ryan, grinning his goofy grin.
“In case we feel like stopping along the way to shag some fly balls?”
“Yeah.” Dizzy smiles. “In case you do.”
But we all know what the bat is “in case” of: an unexpected run-in with the Blades.
As the others pass through the rusted turnstile to the exit, Dizzy motions to me. “Give my best to your mother,” he says in a voice thick with emotion.
“You can do it yourself when you see her,” I tell him, trying to sound confident. “And once we get your leg fixed up, I’m sure you’ll be joining her in action.”
He swallows, then nods, but can’t seem to manage a smile.
“I’ll tell her you took real good care of us,” I say, but for some reason it comes out in a whisper.
I catch up to the others on the sidewalk, where they are all staring up at the big red sign of the stadium. Last night’s storm did even more damage to it. The wind destroyed several of the remaining letters, so now all that’s left is the word
home
.
“Appropriate,” says Rosie.
Evelyn, even without her compass, is able to point the way. “North Clark to West Lake Shore to North Michigan,” she declares.
“Let’s go,” says Drew, clapping his hands.
Louisa high-steps to the front of the group and gives us a mischievous smile. I know she’s trying to lighten the mood — to keep us from falling into the brink of fear.
“You heard the guy,” she barks, in a passable impression of a tough-as-nails drill sergeant. “Everybody! Forward …
march
!”
What else can we do? We march.
W
hen Louisa, Jonah, and I went to my apartment, we thought three kids on the streets would look less conspicuous at an early hour. This time, we’ve decided to start our trek so that it coincides with the school and factory commute. Since it’s all seven of us now, Rosie thought that blending in with the crowd, at least for part of the walk, would be safer. A bunch of thirteen-year-olds wandering the street on a school day would surely attract the attention of the cops.
Or the Alliance.
As we walk, jostled by the stone-faced masses in their gritty work clothes, I try to imagine what this part of the city must have been like, back when there were
handsome skyscrapers lining these streets. Then, I imagine, the buildings were filled with offices and businesses run by men and women earning their livings in a peaceful world.
Now the workforce is made up mostly of factory employees, who dress in heavy jumpsuits supplied by the munitions manufacturers they work for. The office buildings and high-rise condominiums that once stood here have been either demolished or so severely neglected that they’re falling down on their own. And the superstorms have wreaked havoc. There are chunks of concrete missing from the sidewalks, and the smell of burning garbage assaults us around every corner.
“Look at that,” says Louisa in a low voice.
I turn in the direction she’s pointing and I can’t believe what I am seeing. It is a tidy line of schoolchildren, much younger than we are, walking to school. They are all dressed in perfectly matching uniforms: plaid jumpers on the girls, crisp khaki trousers and plaid neckties for the boys. They are being guided by an uppity-looking headmaster, who walks in front of them.
These are probably the great-grandchildren of the families from the Lincoln Park area. Before the world went nuts, Lincoln Park was one of the most sought-after neighborhoods in Chicago.
“Are they seriously on a
leash
?” Evelyn whispers.
And now I realize why Louisa pointed them out to me. The kids are tethered together by a long chain. Each kid has a steel cuff loosely encircling his or her right ankle, and the cuffs are connected by the chain, which ends where it is linked to a cuff on the headmaster’s wrist. The shiny metallic chain glints in the pale sunlight.
I happen to glance at Drew, and he’s stark pale, looking like he might pass out. I know it’s not his shoulder, though. It’s the sight of these kids, chained together like prisoners. It’s horrifying, but of course it’s a safety precaution. Nowadays, the children of the truly wealthy are always in danger of being kidnapped for ransom, and that’s just by regular, run-of-the-mill local criminals. There’s also the threat of the Alliance.
And now I understand. This is the real reason my
friends’ parents sent them to CMS. The condition of the city, the filth and lack of clean water and fresh air, was only part of it. It hadn’t really registered before, but seeing these children chained together like prisoners hammers it home. The threat is incredibly real.
As I found out, the hard way. My parents aren’t rich by any means, but my mother is the Hornet, and that put me in the most danger of all.
Now one little girl in the lineup turns to look at me. She’s probably no more than seven, and she’s adorable. Button nose, perfect golden curls, and cobalt blue eyes. The pressed pleats of her school jumper flounce lightly as she walks in time with her classmates.
I smile at her.
She sticks her tongue out at me.
“Wow,” says Ryan. “I hope I never get rich enough that my kids have to be shackled.”
Everyone agrees with him, and we keep walking.
As the factory crowd begins to thin, the street goes quiet. As Dizzy advised, we walk down the middle of the broad main thoroughfare to avoid being ambushed from
doorways and alleys. There are no cars in sight, naturally — we’ve gotten all too used to that.
We’ve been walking for a few miles, when Drew points to something in the distance.
“Pop quiz,” he says. “Anybody know what that building is — well, used to be — called?”
Quite a ways off, looming several stories above the tallest building in view, is the toothy skeleton of what once was an enormous tower made of glass and steel.
“It was the Sears Tower,” answers Evelyn. “And then they changed the name to Willis. At one time, it was the tallest building in the whole wide world.”
We all know the story of this amazing landmark. It stood here overlooking Lake Michigan and the Chicago River and the elegant city skyline for decades until a superstorm swept through the city last year and sliced it in half. Once 110 stories high, it’s been chopped down to a mere fifty. Unfortunately, on its way down, it took out a lot of the neighboring buildings with it, leaving a gaping wound in the city.
My mother cried for a week.
So did every other grown-up in Chicago.
The cleanup from that disaster took six whole months, with bulldozers scooping up the rubble and dumping it into the river, which no one complained about since it was already so polluted it was little more than sludge, anyway.
“I was there once,” Drew tells us. “On the Skydeck, for the farewell bash. The view was the coolest thing I’d ever seen.”
“Really?” I ask, shocked. The Skydeck was the name of the observation deck on the 103rd floor of the Willis Tower, but it was closed to visitors two years ago, when the global weather center determined that the force of the earth’s winds had increased severely and permanently. There was a big farewell ceremony to commemorate the doors being sealed shut forever. The event was invitation only, and was attended by the wealthiest, most important citizens of Chicago as well as a bunch of high-level politicians from all over.
I am about to ask Drew how he managed to score such an exclusive ticket, but Evelyn has suddenly grabbed my arm and is dragging me as she runs after Ryan. Alonso has taken hold of Drew’s shirt with one hand and Rosie’s arm with the other and he’s running, too. Louisa is hot on their heels.
The next thing I know the seven of us are crouched behind a rusted Dumpster.
My heart is slamming against my chest as I turn to Evelyn. “What’s wrong? Who are we hiding from?”
I expect to hear her say
Blades
.
She doesn’t, but what she says is just as troubling.
“The police.”
If I hadn’t been gazing off into the distance, looking at the rubble-formerly-known-as-the-Sears-Tower, I would have seen them coming.
The police car is screeching to a halt in the middle of the street. An ad for Liquid Heat Rub, a muscle-soothing pain ointment, is splashed across the hood; the painted
flames almost make it look as though the police car is on fire. The siren is silent, but the blue lights are flashing. Two officers jump out; one has drawn his gun.
This doesn’t make sense. Even if they’d seen us — seven kids wandering through a rough section of town — there’s still no need for this kind of reaction. They couldn’t have possibly known that we weren’t wearing ID bracelets. So what’s all the fuss about?
I get my answer in the next second, when I peek out from around the side of the Dumpster and see three wild-eyed teenage boys come bolting out of an alley across the street.
Blades, for sure. They look far more terrifying than the Daggers. All three of them have tattooed faces and they have shaved their heads completely. The police holler for them to freeze, and a second police car skids into view, this one with its siren wailing.
Beside me, Evelyn is shaking uncontrollably. Louisa, Rosie, Alonso, and Drew have gone pale, and Ryan is holding on to the aluminum bat for dear life.
I can no longer see the action, but I hear the sound of the gang members running away. Then there is an earsplitting squeal from the police car’s loudspeaker, followed by the staticky, amplified voice of an officer: “They’re heading west down Madison.”
One car revs its engine and takes off with its tires smoking. We can hear the siren blaring, then fading, as the car speeds farther away in pursuit of the gang.
We wait for the other car to follow.
After what seems like forever, it finally does. But we still aren’t alone. There are voices approaching. They are young-sounding, with a mean, clipped quality.
I piece the scenario together quickly — the other Blade members led the cops away while these two were hiding nearby.
“Where are they?” asks one.
“They’re hiding behind that garbage thing.”
They
, of course, meaning … us. The Blades saw us take cover behind the Dumpster!
“What we gonna do with ‘em?” the first voice wonders.
“Sell ‘em,” says the second. “Their families’ll pay lots for ‘em to come home in one piece.”
I think I might throw up.
The footsteps thud closer and when I open my eyes, I see two Blades — much scarier than the three who ran from the cops — standing at each corner of the Dumpster, giving us nowhere to run.
One of them grabs Drew, tugging him out from behind the Dumpster by his injured shoulder. Drew lets out a cry of pain as the second one takes hold of my wrist and pulls me out. I struggle, but this guy outweighs me by about fifty pounds.
The others clamber out frantically from behind the Dumpster.
“Let her go!” Louisa screams, flinging herself at the gang member who’s tugging on my wrist. Evelyn follows her, swinging her backpack like a weapon, but of course it does nothing. The Blade doesn’t budge.
Rosie is kicking at the one who’s got Drew in a headlock; Alonso has jumped onto his back, and is pounding on him for all he’s worth. Ryan is holding the bat,
ready to swing, but he’s not sure whom to go after first.
And then we hear a whistle. Three blasts: one short, two more short, one long.
I hear the barking almost instantly.
So do the Blades. The one holding my wrist is startled enough to loosen his grip, just long enough for me to break free. Then the dogs come stampeding into the alleyway. They charge toward the Blades. The air is filled with the bloodcurdling snarls and growls of the Daggers’ pets. And speaking of which …
The Daggers have arrived and they are forming a solid line, looking ferocious and determined. The dogs do not attack, but kneel by their masters, simply waiting for their command.
I look at the faces of the Daggers, feeling a rush of gratitude. They must have heard Evelyn last night, saying she wished we had bodyguards. They decided to follow us on our journey, to protect us, and they brought their pets as well. Yellow Boots extends her hand to Ryan, who immediately tosses her the aluminum bat.
The Blades look a little less terrifying, knowing that they are outnumbered. In fact, they themselves look scared.
The muscular Dagger motions with his head for us to step away from the Blades. We do, moving quickly until we are at what seems a safe distance, with the Daggers and their dogs between us and our enemies.
The leader looks at me and in a voice that does not allow for discussion, he orders, “Run.”
In the next heartbeat, my friends and I are running as fast as we can, away from the Blades and the Daggers.
“Find Tatz!” Yellow Boots calls after us. “Please!”
I glance over my shoulder and am relieved to see that the Blades have taken off in the opposite direction. The Daggers and dogs do not follow them, and I’m glad. They’ve done what they came to do. There is no need for them to fight these guys.
“I guess you never know where help will come from,” Rosie mutters as we run, our feet pounding the pavement, and I silently agree, too nervous and scared to speak.
My friends and I don’t stop running until we find ourselves at the corner of East Monroe and North Michigan.
There, less than twenty yards away, is the Art Institute. Out of breath, we make our way toward the main entrance.
It’s a heartbreaking thing to see.
The once beautifully constructed Art Institute is now a sad, forgotten place. With its two levels of tall arches spanning the main entrance, it used to look like something that survived since the days of ancient Rome. Now the arches are crumbling, and the outer walls are charred, ingrained with black soot from the fire.
The front door is locked — of course. The Resistance wouldn’t be meeting in a building that anyone could stroll into. I pound on the door, imagining — what? That my mother would appear and open it? If we’re right and the Resistance is meeting here, then they must be holed up somewhere deep inside the museum.
“Let’s go around to the side,” Alonso suggests. When we do, we find a loose windowpane, probably shaken up
and forgotten in the destruction. Together, Rosie and Ryan manage to force it all the way open, and one by one, we each slide inside, trying to land soundlessly in our sneakers.
I look around, my blood roaring in my ears.
We’re inside
.
The Grand Staircase, which splits at a center landing and goes off in four directions, had always reminded me of something from a fairy-tale castle. When I was small, I would climb it, holding the smooth, polished banister. Now the banister is gone; the once-pristine marble steps are chipped, and in some places broken in large chunks. The whole place still reeks of dirty smoke, and a heavy coating of dust and ash covers everything.
“The museum is huge,” Louisa points out. “The Hornet could be anywhere.”
“Should we spread out?” asks Evelyn. “It would be faster.”
I nod. “Good idea.”
We split into groups — Ryan and Rosie go up to the second level, Louisa and Alonso head right, toward
the Ryerson and Burnham libraries, and Drew, Evelyn, and I go straight, past the Grand Staircase and through the Alsdorf Galleries.
The glass cases that once protected priceless statues and carvings are shattered and the smaller artifacts were stolen by looters long ago. But there is still one figure. It sits as proudly and peacefully as ever in the middle of the long gallery, because it is far too large and way too heavy for anyone to steal.
In spite of the urgency of our mission, we can’t help but pause to admire it.
“Buddha Seated in Meditation,”
Drew reads aloud from the plaque that remains.