Talker 25 Read online

  I shove him aside. Dad’s voice is muffled, and I can only make out snippets of his conversation.

  “. . . thirty APCs. Why . . .”

  “What’s an APC, Sam?”

  “Armored Personnel Carrier.”

  “Huh?”

  He sighs dramatically. “Looks like a tank, except without a giant gun.”

  “. . . haven’t registered any dermal signatures. Why wasn’t . . .”

  I glance at Sam. “A dermal signature?” Head shake.

  “. . . you can’t come rolling into town without warning like this, Colonel.”

  “He’s talking to a colonel. You think it’s Konrad’s father?”

  “Maybe. It could be Colonel Sparks, the base commander at Fort Riley.”

  “Does he have a son?”

  “A son?” His eyes widen. “Oh, that mystery guy you met on Dragon Hill.”

  I frown. “Answer the question.”

  “Beats me. Google him if you’re so hot for him.”

  “I’m not hot for him. He might be the guy who set me up.”

  Sam shrugs. “Heard from your date yet?”

  “He’s avoiding us,” I say. Dad talked to Trish and Konrad about Friday night’s events, but Preston and his parents have been AWOL.

  “You must have really pissed him off or—”

  I wave my hand at him, barely hear Dad say, “That can’t be possible.” His tone has changed from angered to stunned. “You’re sure about this? None of my research . . .”

  When I lean harder against the door, it creaks. Sam and I share a wince.

  “I’ll call you back, Colonel,” Dad says.

  Sam darts into the hallway bathroom, leaving me stranded as the door opens. Dad’s wearing his dragon camos and a dragon-sized scowl. “Were you listening to my conversation?”

  I stare at the carpet. Eavesdropping may be bad, but lying’s on the short list of Dad’s cardinal sins. I’m about to cop to the charge when the toilet flushes.

  Sam steps from the bathroom with the fakest yawn. He hooks a thumb over his shoulder. “It’s all yours, sis. Word to the wise, it’s gonna be toxic.”

  I quickstep past him, whisper a “Thanks,” and close the door behind me.

  When I emerge from the bathroom, hair done and makeup applied, I find Dad at the kitchen table. He gives me his don’t-dare-lie-to-me look. “How much did you hear, Melissa?”

  “Something about a dermal signature and research, but nothing that made sense. Why are the All-Blacks here, Dad?”

  “It’s nothing for you to worry about.”

  “Does it have something to do with the Diocletians?”

  “It’s nothing for you to worry about, Melissa.”

  “How can you say that? First the D-men show and now the All-Blacks—”

  He slams his fist on the table. “Dammit, Melissa!” Sam hesitates in the doorway, starts to turn around. Dad snaps his fingers at him. “Don’t you two have somewhere to be?”

  Sam trudges into the kitchen, head bowed. “Sorry about listening in. We’re just worried.”

  “You let me worry. You could learn a lesson from your brother, Melissa. If you apologized—”

  “Bullshit. You—”

  “Watch your language, missy.”

  “Bullshit, bullshit, bull—”

  Dad bolts from the chair. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, Melissa Anne Callahan, but you’d better get your act together real fast.” He takes a deep breath. “Your mother would be so disappointed in you.”

  “Well, she’s not here anymore, as you so like to remind us,” I say, blinking back wet anger.

  “Get out of here!”

  “Sir, yes sir!”

  I’m halfway to the sidewalk when the front door opens. I spin around, expecting to deflect Dad’s next volley, but it’s Sam. “Wait up.”

  “Can’t you walk yourself today?” It’s been three weeks since school started, but Dad still insists I take him with me because “He’s your brother.”

  He falls into stride beside me. “I thought you might want some company.”

  “Nope.”

  “That was really cool. You almost gave Dad an aneurysm.”

  “Sam, shut up,” I say, scanning the area for D-men. I come up empty, but my unease remains, and not just because I expect an Escalade to appear at any moment.

  Though it’s an hour before school, kids stream from Mason-Kline’s identical manufactured homes—one story, black siding, black roofs, small windows. Fathers or mothers stand in every doorway, most talking on cell phones or examining tablets, all in uniform.

  The entire scene reminds me of a horror movie. Mason-Kline’s very own children of the corn. The moment right before everyone becomes zombies.

  Ten houses down, I see Trish waving at me. She’s the last person I want to deal with right now. Part of me knows the past few days aren’t her fault, but if she hadn’t begged me to be her wing girl for her date with Konrad to Dragon Hill, I wouldn’t have thought Old Man Blue talked to me, I wouldn’t have gotten in those fights with Dad, and I wouldn’t be on the bureau’s insurgency watch list.

  Sam waves back.

  “Stop that,” I say.

  “Just being polite. Man, does she ever not look hot?”

  “Sam, if you want to live to see your next birthday, you better stop annoying me.”

  “I didn’t see you at the play,” Trish says when we reach her house. “I tried calling. You get my messages?”

  I nod. A dozen to my phone, a dozen to my internet accounts. “I’ve been busy.”

  “You totally rocked Lady Macbeth,” Sam says.

  Trish ignores him. “Your father called yesterday to ask about our trip to the hill. He was acting all secretive and pleasant. Everything okay?”

  “Fine.”

  “Other than a brief little run-in with a couple of D-men in our driveway,” Sam says, like he’s proud of me. I want to strangle him.

  Trish’s eyebrows shoot up. “The bureau came to your house? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “It’s no big deal.”

  Sam grins. “They think she’s a Diocletian. They’re these wicked-ass insurgents who—”

  Trish shoos him. “Sometimes you’re a real idiot, Sam. Scurry along and let the grown-ups talk.”

  Sam reddens before falling in step behind us. Normally, I wouldn’t give a second thought to his sullen embarrassment, but today it’s the cherry on top of the anxiety, frustration, and anger that’s consumed me since my trip to Dragon Hill.

  I wheel on him. “Stop acting like a baby, Sam. Trish doesn’t like you. She’s never going to like you. You can’t even walk yourself to school like a normal person. Why don’t you grow up and get a life!”

  Sam looks like he wants to say something, but instead he takes a shaky step back and stumbles off the curb. When he regains his balance, he turns and flees.

  The everyday sounds of Mason-Kline—the muted conversations of kids walking to school, the intermittent hum of far-off tractors, the rustle of cornstalks—fade as Sam’s feet drum asphalt. His backpack thumps this way and that, zippers and mini carabiners rattling.

  Startled neighbors gape and point, and he runs faster. Soon the shoulder strap breaks loose. His backpack lands with a thud in the middle of the street. Sam keeps sprinting. My heart jumps into my throat. I try to call out, but by the time I find my voice, he’s disappeared around the corner.

  The tears come without warning.

  Trish wraps her arms around me. “It’s going to be okay, Mel.”

  “Is it?” Between sniffles, I tell her about the doctored picture. “They think I’m an insurgent. Why would Preston do that to me?”

  She frowns. “You think Preston did it?”

  “Him or this other guy. He looked like one of Preston’s friends. I don’t know, Trish. We took the original with Preston’s phone. He’s a—”

  “No, we took the picture with my phone,” Trish interrupts. She tugs at her ear.
“Shit, Mel. It could be my fault. I uploaded it to Facebook. I just wanted the world to see how damn sexy you looked.”

  “They took it down faster than normal,” I mumble. “I checked your account Saturday afternoon.” Along with Preston’s and Konrad’s. There were no pictures, no mentions of our trip to Dragon Hill.

  The government’s got a strict policy against “false representation.” A pic might last a few days before administrators remove it. In the interim, anybody can grab it, alter it, then repost it.

  I chew at my lip. “Whoever set me up had knowledge of these Diocletians. Didn’t Preston say he was a dragonologer? Probably has a closet full of dragon toys at his beck and call.”

  Tris shrugs. “Sorry I got you into this, Mel.”

  “No, I’m sorry for being such a bitch about everything.”

  “Next time, pick up the phone, okay? I always got your back. Hugs?”

  We embrace, and my gaze falls on Sam’s backpack, torn and abandoned in the middle of the street. “I can’t believe I did that to him.”

  “It’s for the best,” Trish says. “Don’t worry, he’ll find someone else to fawn over.”

  Probably, but I humiliated him in front of the entire town today. I’ll apologize when I see him at school. I don’t expect he’ll forgive me, but hopefully he won’t hate me.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  5

  Trish takes me back to her house so I can clean myself up. Her mother greets us at the door. Most days, Major Potter works from home in her civvies, but today she’s in her dragon camos.

  “Hi, Melissa,” she says with a tight smile. “Is everything okay, dear? Have you been crying?”

  “It’s nothing, Mom,” Trish says. “Just boy trouble.”

  “Oh,” Ms. Potter says, the worry ebbing from her voice. I start to step inside, but she doesn’t move, and I have to edge by her to enter the house.

  “What’s up with your mom?” I ask Trish.

  “Rough night with the colonel, maybe,” she says, like it’s not at all weird that Ms. Potter and Colonel Kline are hooking up. In a town with so many widows and widowers, I guess it’s not that surprising, but if it were me, I’d be a bit creeped out that my mother was dating my boyfriend’s father.

  “Don’t be long, now,” Ms. Potter calls after us. “I don’t want you being late to school.”

  I look at my watch. “I could take a nap and we still wouldn’t be late for homeroom. It’s not Colonel Kline that’s eating her, Trish. Something’s wrong. You saw those All-Blacks this morning?”

  “You go take care of your face, and I’ll get the scoop.”

  When I emerge from the bathroom, makeup reapplied, Ms. Potter herds me and Trish to the door. “Have a good day, you two. I love you both.”

  “What’s going on?” I ask once out of earshot.

  “It’s a drill or something. They just want us at school early,” Trish says. “Stop worrying, Mel.”

  When we arrive at MK High, a once-abandoned gristmill now teeming with students, Trish and I head for Sam’s locker, but he’s not there. We check his homeroom. Empty. She searches the small groups of underclassmen scattered throughout the hallways while I check with his friends, but nobody’s seen him this morning.

  I text him an apology. His backpack rings a second later. I dig out his phone, stare at it blankly.

  “He’ll show up, Mel,” Trish says. She grabs my hand and gets me moving again.

  In the central corridor, we run into Konrad and a few of his farmboy friends. Preston’s not with them.

  “You seen Mel’s brother?” Trish asks Konrad.

  “No. You check the frosh wing?”

  Trish nods.

  “What’s the hell’s going on?” I ask him.

  “Standard training exercise. The A-Bs wanna have some fun with the Blues.”

  I snort. No way the A-Bs stormed into Mason-Kline at butt ugly in the morning to play war games with the Blues. “I’ve got to find Sam.”

  “Give him some time,” Trish says. “You’re the last person he wants to see right now.”

  “But he could be in danger. The All-Blacks wouldn’t be here if something weren’t wrong.”

  Konrad gives me a half smirk. “It’s just a training exercise, Callahan.”

  “At dawn? The army does some stupid things, but they wouldn’t scramble the All-Blacks for the fun of it. Something bad’s happening. Something with the dragons.”

  “Why wouldn’t they have kept us home?” Trish asks.

  I think about all those parents at their doorsteps, sending their kids to school early. I speak the words as the thought forms in my head. “Because the schools have better dragon shelters than any of our homes.”

  “You worry too much, Mel. If there—”

  The bell for first period rings.

  “You coming?” Trish asks.

  I shake my head. “I’ve got to find Sam.”

  “I’ll tell Mr. Mickelson you’re not feeling good and went to see Nurse Jenkins.”

  I give her a quick hug, then dart into the girls’ bathroom.

  I wait a few minutes before peeking out. The halls are empty except for Keith. Our principal usually resembles a scowling bulldog, but today he’s more a bloodhound. Out sniffing for students.

  Despite his intimidating appearance, magnified by the miniature swords tattooed in a spiral pattern around his neck, Keith’s practically family. For almost a decade, he and Mom flew into combat zones to salvage downed dragons for the army.

  On any other day, I wouldn’t give a second thought to stepping into the hallway. Keith might give me a halfhearted lecture about truancy, but he’d spend the next thirty minutes reliving one of his missions with Mom.

  But today I know if he sees me he’ll order me to class. After he disappears around the corner, I make a beeline for the front door.

  Locked.

  Training run, my ass.

  The fingerprint scanner above the handle glows a soft green. I press my palm to the hand outlined on the display. The scanner delivers a small electrical shock that sets my teeth on edge. The display reads Report to class, Ms. Callahan before returning to the outline of a hand.

  It’ll be a matter of moments before Keith gets notified of my truancy. If this were a conventional school, there might be a window I could escape through, but when the army converted the mill, they filled every hole they could find with cement.

  Two choices. I can go to homeroom and hope Trish is right. Or . . .

  I slam my heel into the crossbar. The latch gives, the door swings open.

  I’m two steps outside when thunderous bursts of sound explode from the siren atop the school. For a stalled heartbeat, I think it’s because of me. But I’ve heard this sound before. Once a month, we run drills to its sonic beat.

  In the distance, the elementary and middle school sirens blare to life.

  I hear a different noise coming from the horizon. It takes me a couple of seconds to spot the black jets. They rocket over Mason-Kline, the booming roar of their engines following close behind.

  When I turn to track them, I see Keith sprinting toward me. I think he’s calling my name, but I can’t hear above the sirens and engines.

  I use Sam’s phone to text Dad: I can’t find Sam.

  Keith grabs me. “We need to get inside!”

  “Sam’s not here.”

  The jets fan out, spin around, and bank up into the clouds.

  “When did you last see him?”

  He says something else, but my focus is consumed by the fireflylike trail of orange pulses igniting behind the gray blanket of sky. I press myself into Keith and brace for what I know comes next.

  The rattling percussion of gunfire erupts louder than fireworks, and the shrieking whistles of multiple missiles scream over Mason-Kline.

  “Melissa, where is Sam?” K
eith shouts in my ear.

  “We got in a fight.”

  He leans in. “What?”

  “We got in a fight.” My voice breaks. “He was—”

  The explosion seems to rip the sky apart. Keith and I stagger sideways as a dark shape plummets beneath the cloud line.

  It’s far too large to be a jet.

  Even from a distance I see the gaping wound in the dragon’s flank. The monster smashes into the ground, sending up a cloud of dust and cornstalks. It’s more than a thousand feet away, but the tremor knocks me off my feet.

  As I push myself up, a fiendish roar—something that belongs in a myth and not Mason-Kline—booms from the heavens. Five more dragons plunge through the clouds, wings tight to their glowing bodies. I barely notice the four reds, because at the front of the pack, the brightest by far, is a Silver.

  I’ve never seen a silver dragon, never heard of one. Reds, Greens, Blues—that’s all. Until now.

  The jets race after them. Tracers and missiles paint a patchwork of fiery dots across the sky. The SSilver settles in the cornfield next to its fallen comrade. The reds encircle them, spreading their wings to form a protective perimeter.

  With tremendous roars, they unleash the geysers of hell. Arcs of fire sweep the sky like spotlights. Searching, searching, searching. But they never find their targets.

  Dragons can’t see black. According to Dad, it’s kind of like infrared to them. There, but invisible. They rely on noise to hone in on their targets, but there’s too much of it now.

  Missile explosions, bullet purrs, engine screams blare from every direction. The jets zip in and out, patient and methodical. The reds bob their heads in quick circles, confused and angry, always just a second too slow.

  One Red starts flickering. The fire it manages to spit out comes in sputters that don’t reach more than twenty feet into the air. With one last burst, it launches itself into the maelstrom, giving its compatriots a few seconds of reprieve as the Dragon Jets concentrate their arsenal on it. Moments later, it crashes into the cornfield, and the DJs resume their onslaught.

  The three remaining reds adjust position to best maintain their perimeter. One screams at the Silver, then looks skyward. The others chime in, but the Silver doesn’t seem to hear. It doesn’t seem aware of the battle at all, its attention consumed by the dead dragon. It sniffs and prods the body, tugs at a limp wing. In the briefest moments when the cacophony is at its quietest, I hear it mewling.