And right now it's being doused with kerosene by a bunch of jackbooted New Order officials. A boiler-bellied man at the top of the steps is speaking into a megaphone and holding a torch above his head.
I don't know what it is about the New Order and their policy of hiring the most obscene-looking adults they can find, but they don't seem to be at risk of being understaffed. Take the meanest vice principal you've ever met, cross him with a praying mantis, and add in a tendency to bark like a German shepherd, and maybe you'll start to get close to what this N.O. guy is like.
"In the name of The One Who Is The One!" he yells. The crowd goes wild at this gibberish.
"In reparation for all those who have been lost forever to the wandering of the imagination! Lost to the obscene lust for dreams… and to knowledge for knowledge's sake!"
My "elderly" ears are about ready to shatter with the roar of the crowd, and I have to plug them.
"As punishment against those who have squandered their duty to Order and Society by indulging in the wastefulness, inefficiency, and lack of productivity that these cursed volumes engender!"
Wisty can't take it either. She slips up and gives me a look of complete disgust.
"And as a warning to all who stand here today as imposters"-I swear he's looking straight at us now-"those of you pretenders who do not truly believe in everything that the Order has done to transform us and provide for the stability of our future, you shall burn, too. We will find you, and you will burn!"
The crowd noise is earsplitting now. "Burn! Burn! Burn!" they chant. I think one of my half-deaf eardrums actually pops.
Wisty tries to make up for her slip and chants along with them. "Burn! Burn! Burn! Burn those crummy old books!"
I say a prayer that my sister doesn't accidentally make herself light up.
"Let us begin our ritual to cleanse our town, our community, our lives, of these germs and aberrations. We shall count down from five, and then we shall be free! Five!"
The crowd joins in. "Four! Three! Two!" The ground trembles underneath their foot-stomping. "One!"
And now the torch is arcing, end over end, through the air toward the kerosene-doused stack of books, thousands of books, many of which I recognize by their covers.
I tense up and dispatch all of my concentration and energy toward the torch. It takes more effort than I would have thought. But then the torch stops in midair, hovers, and then zooms straight back at the potbellied official. To my utter delight, his hair catches fire.
The crowd quickly goes silent, but we're not done yet. I see Wisty staring at the book pile. And she closes her eyes and mutters something-I get only a brief snippet of it: something about kissing joy as it flies-and then the books' pages start heaving up and down. Almost as if they're breathing… alive.
The covers start flapping… like wings.
They're flying! The books are flying!
They cascade up into the sky with a glorious rustling sound, like a thousand birds singing with new energy and life. They drift into the form of an enormous V, as you would see geese or swans doing, only of course there are tens of thousands of book-birds in this flock. And then these escaped prisoners-having narrowly dodged execution-start winging toward the setting sun, to the west. Just like us.
"They're a protected species in Freeland," says Wisty.
Chapter 74
A geyser of fluttering shapes erupts out of the city ahead of Byron Swain and momentarily casts a shadow over him and his team of N.O. killers. Though calling them a "team?? is being too kind, or at the least is imprecise.
They had certainly been brainwashed to kill the person they had smelled on the broken drumstick that had been thrust into their cages. They were definitely powerful and fast. They had teeth designed for tearing through raw flesh, and they had long, untrimmed fingernails that looked and sliced like claws.
And they were just kids. Once human kids. Byron isn't quite sure what they are now. Only that they are the best of the best at one thing: killing other kids.
He is certain that any one of them could take apart a full-grown adult in a single pounce. A whole pack of them set loose on one victim is utterly gratuitous, and The One knows it. It is as if he wants Wisty to be brought back in as many pieces as possible, Byron thinks bitterly.
His feral soldiers are always hungry and easily distracted by anything that moves-i.e., potential food. So when the strange flock of boxlike birds sweeps toward the horizon, the little freaks take off running.
"What the…?" Byron wonders, trying to make sense of the enormous cloud forming over the city.
Not birds, but… books? Flapping books?
There is only one explanation for such an outrageous sight. The One has the power to do it, but he would never set an entire library free.
Only Wisteria Allgood can. And she would, too.
"They're close," he whispers. At first his heart leaps at the thought. He can save her-it's what he is meant to do.
And then it crashes again. There is no point in saving Wisty, really.
"They're close!" he yells, this time to his crew, pointing ahead toward the majestic plume in the sky. "Find her!"
There is no hope for him or for this world, he knows-indeed, he knows so much more than the rest of the innocents in Freeland. So he will proceed with his plan.
Byron Swain and Wisteria Allgood will both die-together-at the hands and teeth of his own feral soldiers.
Byron hangs back a bit farther than usual. The young killers probably aren't intelligent or experienced enough to notice, but he doesn't want them to see him cry.
It's just that… his heart aches so much.
Chapter 75
Whit
One thing Wisty and I learn about looking and feeling old is that it's not only inconvenient but really problematic for prison escapees like us.
"What is up with this? I feel like I'm about ready to have a heart attack just from walking up this hill," I pant when we get a few miles outside the town where we liberated the books. "Don't tell me I'm gonna be this out of shape at age sixty-five. When will this spell wear off?"
"You're already sounding like a grumpy old fart, Whit. If you can't hack it, we can try some more sp -" Wisty breaks off when she's interrupted by the world's most terrifying screech.
And I do mean screech. A high-pitched, frenetic wail of something that I can describe only as murderous delight.
And they haven't even begun the murdering part yet, I realize as I turn my head and see a swarm of hunched shapes scampering madly after us at an incredible speed. It's pathetic that the millions of dollars spent on sports-car design seemingly can't duplicate nature's design for the insane charge of starving animals eyeing their prey.
"Run!" I grab Wisty's arm, and we run-if you can call it running, that is.
You see, running just isn't the same when you're a senior citizen. There's no way we can outpace these things, I'm thinking. They're like greyhounds from hell.
"Oh my God, Whit!" Wisty gasps as she realizes that our magic, which saved us in the last town, may actually end up being the death of us now.
The fearsome creatures let loose a terrifying group howl, and an electric shiver runs up my spine. I drag Wisty under an overpass and duck off the road, out of sight behind the rampart, but I know the creatures will be able to smell us at any moment.
"Okay, Wisty, I've got an idea." I actually don't have one. But I've got to figure something out this time. My sister's way too freaked to focus her powers right now.
I peek around the rampart and see that the… strangely shaped humans? baboons?… are still a good quarter mile away. I also spot a figure gliding along behind them on one of those two-wheeled electric scooter things.
I recognize the stiff-backed, pompous posture immediately, even at this distance. "Byron!"
"What?" Wisty spits out in disbelief. "You've got to be kidding me."