The Infinite Sea(51)

            “Want to?” I stuck my tongue out at him. Dumbo laughed. Even Poundcake smiled.

            That’s when the girl appeared, stepping into the hallway from the stairwell, and then everything got very strange, very fast.





36

            A MUD-(or it could have been blood-)stained, tattered pink Hello Kitty T-shirt. A pair of shorts that once had been tan, maybe, faded to a dirty white. Grungy white flip-flops with a couple stubborn rhinestones clinging to the straps. A narrow, pixieish face dominated by huge eyes, topped by a mass of tangled dark hair. And young, around Sammy’s age, though she was so thin, her face looked like a little old lady’s.

            Nobody said anything. We were shocked. Seeing her at the far end of the hall, teeth chattering, knobby knees knocking in the freezing cold, was another Camp Ashpit, yellow-school-bus-pulling-up-when-school-would-never-exist-again moment. Something that simply could not be.

            Then Sammy whispered, “Megan?”

            And Ben said, “Who the hell is Megan?” Which was very much what the rest of us were thinking.

            Sam took off before anybody could grab him. Pulled up halfway to her. The little girl didn’t move. Didn’t hardly blink. Her eyes seemed to shine in the dwindling light, bright and birdlike, like a wizened owl’s.

            Sam turned to us and said, “Megan!” As if he were pointing out the obvious. “It’s Megan, Zombie. She was on the bus with me!” He turned back to her. “Hi, Megan.” Casually, like they were meeting up at the monkey bars for a playdate.

            “Poundcake,” Ben said softly. “Check the stairs. Dumbo, take the windows. Then sweep the first floor, both of you. There’s no way she’s alone.”

            She spoke, and her voice came out in a high-pitched, scratchy whine that reminded me of fingernails scraping across a blackboard.

            “My throat hurts.”

            Her big eyes rolled back in her head. Her knees buckled. Sam raced toward her, but he was too late: She went down hard, smacking the thin carpeting with her forehead a second before Sam could reach her. Ben and I rushed over, and he bent down to pick her up. I pushed him away.

            “You shouldn’t be lifting anything,” I scolded him.

            “She doesn’t weigh anything,” he protested.

            I picked her up. He was nearly right. Megan weighed little more than a sack of flour; bones and skin and hair and teeth and that’s about it. I carried her into Evan’s room, put her in the empty bed, and piled six layers of blankets over her quaking little body. I told Sam to fetch my rifle from the hall.

            “Sullivan,” Ben said from the doorway. “This doesn’t fit.”

            I nodded. Worse than the odds of her lucking into this hotel at random were the odds of her surviving this weather in her summer outfit. Ben and I were thinking the same thing: Twenty minutes after our hearing the chopper, Li’l Miss Megan appeared on our doorstep.

            She didn’t wander in here on her own. She was delivered.

            “They know we’re here,” I said.

            “But instead of firebombing the building, they drop her in. Why?”

            Sam came back with my rifle. He said, “That’s Megan. We met on the bus on the way to Camp Haven, Cassie.”

            “Small world, huh?” I pushed him away from the bed, toward Ben. “Thoughts?”

            He rubbed his chin. I rubbed my neck. Too many thoughts skittering around both our heads. I stared at him rubbing his chin and he stared at me rubbing my neck, and that’s when he said, “Tracker. They’ve implanted her with a pellet.”