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Back Whirlwind Save as PDF
Chapters (95)
  1. Title Page
  2. 1
  3. 2
  4. 3
  5. 4
  6. 5
  7. 6
  8. 7
  9. 8
  10. 9
  11. 10
  12. 11
  13. 12
  14. 13
  15. 14
  16. 15
  17. 16
  18. 17
  19. 18
  20. 19
  21. 20
  22. 21
  23. 22
  24. 23
  25. 24
  26. 25
  27. 26
  28. 27
  29. 28
  30. 29
  31. 30
  32. 31
  33. 32
  34. 33
  35. 34
  36. 35
  37. 36
  38. 37
  39. 38
  40. 39
  41. 40
  42. 41
  43. 42
  44. 43
  45. 44
  46. 45
  47. 46
  48. 47
  49. 48
  50. 49
  51. 50
  52. 51
  53. 52
  54. 53
  55. 54
  56. 55
  57. 56
  58. 57
  59. 58
  60. 59
  61. 60
  62. 61
  63. 62
  64. 63
  65. 64
  66. 65
  67. 66
  68. 67
  69. 68
  70. 69
  71. 70
  72. 71
  73. 72
  74. 73
  75. 74
  76. 75
  77. 76
  78. 77
  79. 78
  80. 79
  81. 80
  82. 81
  83. 82
  84. 83
  85. 84
  86. 85
  87. 86
  88. 87
  89. 88
  90. 89
  91. 90
  92. 91
  93. 92
  94. Also by DAVID KLASS
  95. Copyright Page

That ride in the truck didn’t buy us much time. They’re close on our heels. I can feel them.

Me too. In fact it feels like they’re already here.

That black van at the far end of the parking lot!

I spot it, a half mile away. It’s got a satellite dish rotating on its roof. Have they spotted us yet?

I’m not sure, the dog admits, but I do know that inside that van is every cutting-edge search technology the Dark Army has. Heat sensors. DNA scanners. We’re sitting ducks out here in the parking lot.

What do you recommend?

No choice, Gisco says. We’ve got to huddle with the hoi polloi.

Dog using fancy SAT word. You want to go into the fair?

Correct. It’s time to take refuge among the great unwashed, the haughty hound declares, trotting quickly toward the ticket window. I hope you’ve got money for cotton candy.

17

17

It’s early in the morning, but the fair is already mobbed.

Parents with heads revolving like bobble dolls try to keep track of sugared-up turbo tykes as throngs of older kids run rampant, breaking every rule posted on signs. They’re playing tag and screaming at each other from rides and kung fu kicking and competing to see who can eat the most junk food.

We plunge into the mayhem.

How about the Tilt-a-Whirl, Gisco?

I’m not a fan of tilting. Dogs appreciate stability.

Then I guess the Death Coaster is out of the question?

Perhaps a corn dog, savored slowly in the shade of that giant apple.

I glance over at the two-story wooden apple bearing the legend EMPIRE STATE—PROUD APPLE CAPITAL OF THE WORLD, and spot a gaunt seven-foot-tall man wading through the crowd toward us. He’s dressed in an old-fashioned and ill-fitting black suit, and has a protruding Adam’s apple. A boy darts in front of him, and the tall guy shoves the kid fifteen feet out of his way and marches on without breaking stride.

I’ve seen his type before. An identical zombielike man spotted me in the Hadley Diner six months ago, the night all my troubles began. This one may be dressed like Abe Lincoln but he’s a cyborg—part-man, part-machine, and all deadly. Gisco! He’s spotted us!

And he’s got an axon blaster!

That must be the device in his right hand. It looks like an oversize TV remote. He points it at us and a barely visible orange beam shoots out.

Gisco plows into me, knocking me over just in time. The beam ZAPS a fat woman throwing beanbags at a pyramid of bowling pins. She freezes in mid-throw.