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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

As four helicopters with automatic weapons get ready to chase us down, he adds. Can you spell H-I-N-D-E-N-B-U-R-G? At least take us up and maybe we can lose ourselves in the clouds.

I glance down at the stove. Love to, I tell him, but we’re running out of propane.

21

21

Dark Army copters roar away from fairgrounds toward us. I can see their mounted guns.

We’re in a hot-air balloon without much heat. Not enough propane to rise. No place to go if we descend. We could dive out of the gondola into the pond like old Houlihan, but the copters would circle over us and pick us off like herrings in a barrel.

And then I feel something on my wrist. Gisco, my father’s watch is getting warm!

I already know what time it is. The moment of my painful departure from life, and all that is sweet and vibrant. The crickets fiddling in the fields, the robins chirruping in their nests, a pot roast swimming in gravy, all gone. Goodbye, gleaming halls of morn. Farewell …

Gisco, it’s not just warm. It’s hot. Scorching!

I rip the watch off my wrist. It’s so hot now that it’s burning my skin. Why now? And then I get it.

I place Dad’s watch atop the now-flameless propane stove, directly under the balloon cavity.

The blue watch face shimmers and glows. A sapphire luminescence kindles into flame. Air is heated, it rises into the nylon globe, and we start ascending.

I can see the silhouettes of the Dark Army pilots as they climb cloudward after us. But we’re going up faster and faster. Already the first misty tendrils of cloud shroud us. Not just cottony white clouds, either.

Massive, ominous, threatening black clouds.

The sunny day has darkened. Did my dad’s watch do this, too, or did we drift into a spring storm? Thunder rumbles and it sounds like we’re in the middle of a bowling alley with balls striking pins all around us. Lightning flashes by and strikes the closest Dark Army helicopter.

There’s an explosion audible even above the thunderclaps. The helicopter bursts into a scarlet fireball that spins sideways across the sky and takes out another copter.

Whatever you’re doing, it’s great stuff.

That’s not me, I tell Gisco. Or maybe it is, in some way. Because it can’t be just coincidence that this storm blew up. It can’t be just happenstance that lightning bolts are forking down toward the remaining two helicopters, which turn and flee.

Is that a person I see, aloft in the clouds near us? No, that’s impossible. It must be just a curious twist of cumulus mist. But its lineaments are so definite, so humanlike. Arms, legs, a torso, and even a head! Flying near us, without effort. Tracking in and out of cloud.