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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

Everything he can. He’s deforesting the Amazon. Wiping out huge tracts of irreplaceable virgin rain forest, the destruction of which is having a terrible effect on the future earth and strengthening the hand of the Dark Army.

I stagger and almost fall out of the gondola.

The dog catches my leg in his jaw and pulls me back in. He guides me gently down again to the wicker gondola floor. Gisco lies next to me, protectively, like a living, breathing quilt. Go to sleep, Jack, the dog advises. Enough for one day. You’ll need your strength.

To save P.J.? I ask, starting to fade out. How can you be sure she’s alive, and that he took her? And why would he do that? If he’s accomplishing his objective and turning the future back to darkness, why mess with my old girlfriend?

Because he had another reason for coming back, Gisco says. An extremely personal one. You killed his only son. He wants revenge.

25

25

Soaring through icy air. I can feel Gisco’s heart beating. Didn’t I read in a Jack London novel that gold miners caught in blizzards in the frozen north slept next to their sled dogs for warmth? Now I understand it. Huddling on the floor of the balloon’s gondola with a living blanket that reeks of unwashed dog fur. The gale intensifies, sweeping us southward at increasing speed.

Night comes on, or maybe it’s just the storm itself, reaching out tentacles like a giant octopus and squeezing out the sun. The only light source is the blue flame that flickers from my dad’s watch. It heats the air beneath the balloon, keeping us up so high I feel disoriented and groggy. I’m confused by Gisco’s explanations and still reeling from P.J.’s disappearance and the dinghy’s suicide, weak from hunger and cut loose from all moorings.

Time crawls by as we whirl through a seemingly endless vortex of dark storm clouds. Days and even weeks may be passing on the earth far below, but we’re somehow above and beyond that. We’re off the clock and outside the calendar, in the spin cycle of a meteorological monstrosity. Sunless days blur into moonless nights as we hurtle toward a fateful confrontation in the remote Amazon.

Maybe it’s the altitude, maybe all I’ve gone through since my ill-fated attempt at a homecoming in Hadley, but I sink into a paralyzing listlessness, a deep torpor.

My stomach rumbles—I can’t even remember my last full meal, yet I have no desire to eat. My mouth and throat are dry, but even though we sometimes fly through wet mist I make no effort to drink.