In theory. In reality he could not see his own hand in front of his face.
He squatted in a dry corner of the cave, well away from the water. And in an area that seemed somewhat less populated by weird rustling sounds.
He hugged himself and shivered.
How had he ended up here? He’d never hurt anyone. He wasn’t some evil guy, he was just a kid. Like any other kid. He just wanted to go online and play games and watch TV and listen to music. He wanted to read his comics. He didn’t want to be able to sink through the ground.
What kind of a stupid power was that, anyway?
“The Sinker,” he muttered.
“Weightman,” he countered.
“The Human Drill.”
There was no chance he would ever be able to sleep. But he did. Through the worst night of his life, Duck Zhang drifted into and out of a weird nightmare, asleep, awake, and something in between that made him wonder if he was going slowly crazy. He dreamed of food. At one point he dreamed of a pizza chasing him, trying to eat him. And him wishing the pizza just would.
Then at last he woke up and saw . . .
Saw!
The light was dim, but it was bright enough.
“Hey! I can see!” he cried.
The first thing he could see was that the cave did not open onto the outside. The mouth of the cave was underwater. That was the source of the light, it filtered up through the blue-green water itself. The open air couldn’t be too terribly far away, no more than a hundred feet maybe, but he would have to swim underwater to get there.
The second thing he saw was that the cave was bigger than he’d imagined. It had widened out and was large enough that you could park five or six school buses and have space left over.
The third thing he saw were the bats.
They hung from the cave ceiling. They had leathery wings and big blinking yellow eyes. There were thousands packed close together.
They stared at him.
That’s when it occurred to him: bats didn’t stay in caves at night, they went out at night and hid during the day.
Plus, normally, bats weren’t blue.
And suddenly they began dropping, opening their wings. He was enveloped in a leathery tornado.
He dove for the water. Freezing cold. He powered down and forward, aiming for the light. Much safer underwater, even with sharks or jellyfish or—
The water around him churned and boiled.
He screamed into bubbles.
Thousands of bats swam around and past him, spun him around in a waterspout, slapped wetly at him with wings that suddenly seemed far more like flippers.
He gagged on salt water, kicked and motored his arms in a panic crawl.
He ran out of air after fifteen seconds. But he still did not see a way out. Should he turn back?
He stopped. Froze in place. Enough air to make it back? And then what? Learn to live in a cave?
Duck kicked his feet and plowed ahead, no longer sure which way he was going. Forward or back?
Or just swimming in circles?
At last he came up. His head broke the surface as ten thousand bats erupted from the water all around him, wheeled overhead, then dove straight back into the sea a hundred yards off.
It wasn’t far to the beach. He just had to swim there. Before the water bats came back.
“Just don’t get mad,” Duck chattered. “This would be a bad time to sink.”
NINE
82 HOURS, 38 MINUTES
IT WAS MORNING. The buses were in the square. Edilio behind the wheel of one, yawning hugely. And Ellen, the fire marshal, behind the wheel of the other. Ellen was a small, dark, very serious girl. Sam had never seen her smile. She seemed to be a very capable girl, but she hadn’t really been put to the test much yet. But she was a good driver.
Unfortunately, neither Ellen nor Edilio had many kids to drive.
Astrid was standing there with Little Pete, offering moral support, Sam supposed.
“I guess we don’t really need two buses,” Sam said.
“You could just about go with a minivan,” Astrid agreed.
“What is the matter with people?” Sam fumed. “I said we needed a hundred kids and we get thirteen? Fifteen, maybe?”
“They’re just kids,” Astrid said.
“We’re all just kids. We’re all going to be very hungry kids.”
“They’re used to being told what to do by their parents or teachers. You need to be more direct. As in, Hey, kid, get to work. Now.” She thought for a moment then added, “Or else.”
“Or else what?” Sam asked.
“Or else . . . I don’t know. We’re not going to let anyone starve. If we can help it. I don’t know the ‘or else.’ All I know is you can’t expect kids to just automatically behave the right way. I mean, when I was little my mom would give me a gold star when I was good and take away a privilege when I wasn’t.”
“What am I supposed to do? Tell three hundred kids spread out in seventy or eighty different homes that they can’t watch DVDs? Confiscate iPods?”
“It’s not easy playing daddy to three hundred kids,” Astrid admitted.
“I’m not anyone’s daddy,” Sam practically snarled. Another sleepless night, in a long string of them, had left him in a foul mood. “I’m supposed to be the mayor, not the father.”
“These kids don’t know the difference,” Astrid pointed out. “They need parents. So they look to you. And Mother Mary. Me, even, to some extent.”
Little Pete chose that moment to begin floating in the air. Just lifted off a foot, eighteen inches, hovered there, his arms floating, toes pointed downward.