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MAXIMUM RIDE #4: THE FINAL WARNING
James Patterson
Little, Brown for Young Readers
Fantasy/Action & Adventure
Hardcover: 9780316002875
Paperback: 9780316002875
304 pages
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Prologue | CATCHING BIRD FREAKS: HAZARDOUS DUTY AT BEST
Chapter 1
Windsor State Forest, Massachusetts
Ssssss.
The soldiers' armor made an odd hissing noise. But
besides the slight sound of metal plates sliding smoothly,
flawlessly over one another, the troop was unnaturally quiet
as it moved through the woods, getting closer to the prey.
The faintest of beeps caused the team leader to glance
down at his wrist screen. Large red letters scrolled across
it: ATTACK IN 12 SECONDS . . . 11 . . . 10 . . .
The team leader tapped a button, and the screen's image
changed: a tall, thin girl with dirt smears on her face and
a tangle of brown hair, glaring out at him. TARGET 1 was
superimposed on her face.
. . . 9 . . . 8 . . .
His wrist screen beeped again, and the image changed to
that of a dark- haired, dark- eyed, scowling boy. TARGET 2.
And so on, the image changing every half second, ending
finally with a portrait of a small, scruffy black dog
looking at the camera in surprise.
The team leader didn't understand why Target 7 was
an animal. He didn't need to understand. All he needed to
know was that these targets were slated for capture.
. . . 3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . .
The leader emitted a whistle pitched so high that only
his team members could hear it. He motioned toward the
small run- down cabin they had surrounded in the woods.
Synchronized perfectly, as only machines can be, the eight
team members shouldered eight portable rocket launchers
and aimed them straight at the cabin. With a whoosh, eight
large nets made of woven Kevlar strands shot out from the
cannons and unfolded with geometric precision in midair,
encasing the cabin almost entirely.
The team leader smiled in triumph.
Chapter 2
"THE PREY HAVE BEEN CAPTURED, SIR," the team
leader said in a monotone. Pride was not tolerated in this
organization.
"Why do you say that?" the Uber- Director asked in a
silky tone.
"The cabin has been secured."
"No. Not quite," said the Uber- Director, who was little
more than a human head attached by means of an artificial
spinal column to a series of Plexiglas boxes. The bioengine
that controlled the airflow over his vocal cords allowed
him to sigh, and he did. "The chimney. The skylight."
The team leader frowned. "The chimney would be impossible
to climb," he said, accessing his internal encyclopedia.
Photographs of the prey scrolled quickly across the team
leader's screen. Suddenly an important detail caught his
attention, and he froze.
In the corner of one of the photographs, a large feathered
wing was visible. The team leader tracked it, zooming
in on just that section of the image. The wing appeared to
be attached to the prey.
The prey could fly.
He had left routes of escape open.
He had failed!
The Uber- Director closed his eyes, sending a thought
signal to the nanoprocessors implanted in his brain. He
opened his eyes in time to see the team leader and his
troop vaporize with a crackling, sparking fizzle. All that
was left of them was a nose- wrinkling odor of charred
flesh and machine oil.
Part One | ANOTHER PART OF THE BIG PICTURE
Chapter 3
A DIFFERENT FOREST. Not telling you where.
Okay, it doesn't take a genius to figure out that funerals
suck. Even if you didn't know the person, it's still totally
sad. When you did know the person, well, let's just say it's
much worse than broken ribs. And when you just found
out that the person was your biological half brother, right
before he died, it adds a whole new level of pain.
Ari. My half brother. We shared the same "father,"
Jeb Batchelder, and you can believe those quotes around
"father."
I'd first known Ari as a cute little kid who used to follow
me around the School, the horrible prison–science facility
where I grew up. Then we'd escaped from the School,
with Jeb's help, and to tell you the truth, I hadn't given Ari
another thought.
Then he'd turned up Eraserfied, a grotesque half human,
half wolf, his seven- year- old emotions all askew inside his
chemically enhanced, genetically modified brain. He'd
been turned into a monster, and they'd sent him after us,
with various unpredictable, gruesome results.
Then there had been that fight in the subway tunnels
beneath Manhattan. I'd whacked Ari's head a certain way,
his neck had cracked against the platform's edge . . . and
suddenly he'd been dead. For a while, anyway.
Back when I thought I had killed him, all sorts of sticky
emotions gummed up my brain. Guilt, shock, regret . . . but
also relief. When he was alive, he kept trying to kill us–
the flock, I mean. Me and my merry band of mutant bird
kids. So if he was dead, that was one less enemy gunning
for my family.
All the same, I felt horrible that I had killed someone,
even by accident. I'm just tenderhearted that way, I guess.
It's hard enough being a homeless fourteen- year- old with,
yeah, wings, without having a bunch of damp emotions
floating all over the place.
Now Ari was dead for real. I hadn't killed him this time,
though.
"I need a tissue." Total, our dog, sniffled, nuzzling
around my ankles like I had one in my sneakers.
Speaking of damp emotions.
Nudge pressed closer to me and took my hand. Her other
hand was over her mouth. Her big brown eyes were full of
tears.
None of us are big criers, not even six- year- old Angel,
or the Gasman, who's still only eight. Nudge is eleven, and
Iggy, Fang, and I are fourteen. Technically, we're all still
children.
But it takes a lot, and I mean a whole lot, to make any
of us cry. We've had bones broken without crying about it.
Today, though, it was like another flood was coming, and
Noah was building an ark. My throat hurt so much from
holding back tears that it felt as though I'd swallowed a fist
of clay.
Angel stepped forward and gently tossed a handful of
dirt onto the plain wooden box at the bottom of the big
hole. A hole it had taken all of us three hours to dig.
"Bye, Ari," she said. "I didn't know you for very long,
and I didn't like you for a lot of it. But I liked you at the
end. You helped us. You saved us. I'll miss you. And I didn't
mind your fangs or anything." Her little voice choked, and
she turned to bury her face against my chest.
I stroked her hair and swallowed hard.
The Gasman was next. He too sprinkled dirt on the coffin.
"I'm sorry about what they did to you," he said quietly.
His spiky blond hair caught a shaft of sunlight and seemed
to light up this little glen. "It wasn't your fault."
I snuck a quick glance over at Jeb. His jaw was clenched,
his eyes full of pain. His only son lay in a box in the ground.
He had helped put him there.
Bravely, Nudge stepped closer to the grave and tossed
some dirt onto it. She tried to speak but started crying. I
drew her to me and held her close.
I looked at Iggy. As if sensing it, he raised his hand and
dropped it. "I don't have anything to say." His voice was
gruff.
Next it was Fang's turn, but he waved me to go. Total
had collapsed in sobs on my shoes, so I gently disengaged
him and stepped over to the grave. I had two hothouse
lilies, and I let them float onto the coffin of my half
brother.
As the flock leader, I was supposed to come up with a
speech. There was no way to sum up what I was feeling. I
had killed Ari once, then watched him die again as he saved
my life. I'd known him when he was a cute little kid, and
I'd known him as a hulking Eraser. I had fought him almost
to death, and I had ended up choosing him over the best
friend I'd ever had. I'd hated everything about him, then
found out we shared half of our human DNA.
I had no words for this, and I'm a word queen. I've
talked my way out of more tight spots than a leopard has,
but this? A funeral for a sad, doomed seven- year- old? I had
nothing.
Fang came up behind me and touched my back. I
looked at him, at his dark eyes that gave away nothing. He
nodded and sort of patted my hair, then moved forward
and dropped some dirt onto the coffin.
"Well, Ari, I'm sorry that it's ended like this," he said
so quietly I could hardly hear him, even with my raptor
super- hearing. "You were a decent little kid, and then you
were a total nightmare. I didn't trust you–until the very
end. I didn't know you much, didn't care to." Fang stopped
and brushed some overlong hair out of his eyes. "Right
now, that feels like the biggest tragedy of all."
Okay, that so did me in. Mr. Rock being all emotional?
Expressing feelings? Tears spilled down my cheeks, and
I covered my mouth with my hand, trying not to make a
sound. Nudge put her arm around me, feeling my shoulders
shaking, and Angel held me tight. Then everyone was
holding me, total flock hug, and I put my head on Fang's
shoulder and cried.
Chapter 4
THERE'S NO REST for the wicked. But you knew that.
As soon as the sobfest was over and Ari was buried, Jeb
said, "We need to go." His face was pale and unhappy. "Dr.
Martinez and I talked to you about this trip to Washington.
We think it's crucial that you guys attend this meeting."
He sighed, not looking at Ari's grave.
"Why is this important, again?" I asked, trying to turn
my back on feeling sad. Not so easy. "You said something
about government, blah blah blah?"
Jeb began to head out of the woods. With me in the lead
and Fang taking up the rear, we followed him cautiously.
"After everything that happened in Germany," Jeb said,
"we were contacted by some very important higher- ups in
the government. People who understand, who are on our
side."
I felt like saying, "What's this 'our side,' kemosabe?"
but didn't.
"They're eager to meet with you," he went on. "Frankly,
these would be important and valuable allies --- people
who could actually offer you protection and resources. But
they're very hands-on–they need to see the miracle kids
with their own eyes." He turned back and gave us a rueful
smile.
"If by 'miracle kids' you mean innocent test- tube babies
whose DNA was forcibly unraveled and merged with two
percent avian genes, yeah, I guess that would be us," I said.
"Because it's a miracle that we're not complete nut jobs and
mutant disasters."
Jeb winced and gave a brief nod, accepting his role in
our short, hard lives. "Well, as I said, they're eager to see
you. And your mom–Dr. Martinez–and I really recommend
you go." We came to the edge of the woods, and
there was a small landing strip, scraped into the forest like
a wound. A sleek private jet waited there, two armed Secret
Service agents standing at the entry stairs.
I halted about ten yards away, doing a quick recon.
Force of habit. No one started shooting at us. No hordes of
Erasers or Flyboys swarmed out of the woods.
"I don't know," I said, looking at the jet. "It feels weird
that no one's throwing a black hood over my head."
Fang smirked next to me.
Jeb had walked on ahead, and now he turned. "Max, we
talked about this. This jet will actually get you to Washington
faster than you can fly yourselves."
Are we junior pilots? you ask. Why, no. If there are a
couple of new readers out there, welcome! That mutant
thing I mentioned? We're 98 percent human, 2 percent
bird. We have wings; we fly. Keep reading. You'll get it all
soon.
"Yeah," I said, still feeling doubtful. Mostly I just wanted
to turn, run, and throw myself into the air. That sweet
rush of freedom, feeling my powerful wings lift me off the
ground . . .
Instead, Jeb wanted to pack me into a little jet, like a
sardine. A sullen, feathery sardine.
"Max," Jeb said more softly, and I automatically went
on guard. "Don't you trust me?"
Six pairs of flock eyes turned toward him. Seven, if you
counted Total.
I mentally reviewed possible responses:
1) Sardonic laughter (always good)
2) Rolled eyes and snort of disbelief
3) Sarcastic "You have got to be kidding me."
Any of those responses would have been fine. But lately
I had grown up a bit. A little heartbreak, a little fighting
to the death, finding out who my real parents were --- it all
aged a girl.
So instead I looked at Jeb and said evenly, "No. But I
trust my mother, and she apparently trusts you. So, little
tin-can jet it is."
I walked steadily toward the plane, seeing the glimpse
of pain and regret in Jeb's eyes. Would I ever be able to forgive him for all the heinous things he had done to me, to
the flock? He'd had his reasons; he'd thought he was helping,
thought it was for the greater good, thought it would
help me in my mission.
Well, la-di-dah for him. I don't forgive that easy.
And I never, ever forget.
Chapter 5
THE JET DIDN'T HAVE normal rows of seats. It looked
more like a living room inside, with couches and easy
chairs and coffee tables. There were more Secret Service
agents here, and to tell you the truth, they gave me the
creeps–even though I knew they were the same people
who sometimes protected the president. But there's something
about plain black suits, sunglasses, and little headsets
that just automatically makes me twitchy.
Combine that with the inevitable heart- pounding claustrophobia
that came from being enclosed in a small space,
and I was basically ready to shred anyone who talked
to me.
On the other hand, if anything dicey happened to the
plane, I knew six flying kids who would come out okay.
I did a quick 360 of the plane's interior. Angel and Total
were curled up on a small couch, asleep. The Gasman and
Fang were playing poker, using pennies as chips. Iggy was
sprawled in a lounger, listening to the iPod my mom had
given him.
"I'm Kevin Okun, your steward. Would you like a soda?"
A very handsome man holding drinks stopped by my chair.
Don't mind if I do, Kevin Okun. "Uh, a Diet Coke? One
that hasn't been opened yet." Can't be too careful.
He handed me a sealed can and a plastic cup of ice.
Across from me, Nudge sat up eagerly. "Do you have Barq's?
It's root beer. I had it in New Orleans, and it's fabulous."
"I'm sorry --- no Barq's," said Kevin Okun, our steward.
"Okay," said Nudge, disappointed. "Do you have any
Jolt?"
"Well, that has a lot of caffeine," he said.
I looked at Nudge. "Yeah, because after everything we've
been through, we're worried about your caffeine intake."
She grinned, her smooth tan face lighting up.
The steward put the drink on the little table between
me and Nudge.
"Thank you," Nudge said. The steward headed back to
the galley, and Nudge reached for the can.
When her hand was still a couple of inches away, the
can slid toward her fingers, and she grabbed it.
Instantly we looked at each other.
"The plane tilted," she said.
"Yeah, of course," I agreed. "But . . . just to see, just for
our own amusement, let's . . ." I took the can away from her
and put it back on the table. I reached for it. It stayed put.
Nudge reached for it.
It slid toward her.
Our eyes wide, we stared at each other.
"The plane tilted again," Nudge said.
"Hm," I said. I took the can away and had her come at it
from a different angle. The can slid toward her.
"I'm magnetic," she whispered, half awed and half
horrified.
"I hope you don't start sticking to fridges and stuff," I
said in disbelief.
Fang dropped down next to me, and the Gasman joined
us, squishing in next to Nudge.
"What's going on?" Fang asked.
"I'm Magnet Girl!" Nudge said, already coming to terms
with her new skill.
Eyebrows raised, Fang picked up a metal pen and held
it against Nudge's arm. He let go, and it dropped to the
floor.
Nudge frowned. Then she reached down for the pen,
and it flew into her hand from a few inches away.
Gazzy gave a low whistle. "You're kind of magnetic.
Cool!"
"No, that's not it," said Fang quietly. "It's that you can
attract metal --- maybe only when you want to."
Well. The rest of the flight zipped by as we played with
Nudge's bizarre newfound ability. When we got close to
DC, Jeb came over to give us a ten- minute heads- up. One
glance at our faces and his eyes narrowed.
"What's going on?" It was the same dad- like, no-nonsense
tone that he had used years ago, when it was just us and
him in our secret house in the Colorado mountains. He'd
made that exact face the day he found the frogs in the toilet.
I remembered it so clearly, but it seemed like three lifetimes
ago.
Before I could say, "Nothing," Nudge blurted, "I can
make metal come to me!"
Jeb sat down, and Nudge demonstrated.
"I don't know why you can do that," he said slowly. "As
far as I know, it was never programmed in." He looked
around at all of us. "It's possible . . . It's possible that maybe
you guys are starting to mutate on your own."
Chapter 6
You are reading Fang's Blog. Welcome!
You are visitor number: 4,792
Whatever the tally counter at the top tells you, your number is actually
way higher than that. Our counter thing broke, and we finally
got it working again. But it started again at zero. Anyway, thanks
for checking in.
We're all okay, but we just buried a friend. I know some of you
out there have lost someone close to you, and now I get a little bit
of what it's like. The guy who died–I knew him for a long time,
but not that well, and for the past six months, I've hated his guts.
Then I suddenly didn't. Then he died.
For me what was harder than losing him was watching what it
did to people around me. The one thing I really can't stand is when
Max and the others are in pain or upset. Not upset like in angry or
teed off, 'cause God knows if that got to me I'd be totally out of
luck. But upset like in crying, sadness, regret–all that stuff. I hate
it. It kills me. I know what it takes to make these kids cry, to make
Max cry, and I hate that they had to go through that.
But enough of all that emo stuff. The end result is: We're all
good. We're all alive. I'm glad about that, about the six of us. They're
who matter to me. Even when Max is being a pigheaded, stubborn
idiot dictator, she's still the one I want by my side. Though I can feel
myself getting ulcers and gray hairs from dealing with her.
Anyway! We're on our way to a hush-hush meeting with some
top- secret bigwigs, ooh. Yep, fighting to the death one day, drinking
frosty little drinks on a private jet the next. It's enough to make
anyone schizo.
I don't have too much else to say right now, so I'll answer some
questions that you guys have sent in.
Dylan from Omaha writes:
Its so cool that you guys can fly. Do you have any other superpowers?
Well, Dylan, yes we do. Iggy is a crack accountant, as long as someone
reads him the numbers. And Gazzy can whip up a lemon
meringue pie like nobody's business.
No, seriously, we may have a couple tricks up our wings, but
we're not gonna tell you or anyone else. The more that people
know about us, the more ways they can think up to mess with us.
Capiche? Nothing personal.
– Fang
Sweetmarie420 from Gainesville writes:
When you guyz grow up, will you lay eggz or have babeez?
With any luck at all, I won't do either. Not sure about Max, Nudge,
and Angel. Don't wanna find out anytime soon.
– Fang
Zeroland from Tupelo writes:
I wish ida been there at your big battle, man. It woulda been so
awesome!!!!
Kid, you need another definition for awesome. You don't want to
be anywhere near one of our battles. I don't even want to be near
our battles. Unfortunately, the evil idiots usually don't give me a
choice.
– Fang
MelysaB from Boulder writes:
I know you have to hide out sometimes. I'm a guide in the Colorado
mountains around Boulder, and I could help you find some
good hiding places.
Thanks, MelysaB. We love the Colorado mountains. And we're
never gonna take you up on your offer. If you're one of Them, then
this is a trap. If you're not one of Them, then doing anything for us
puts you in danger. But thanks anyway.
– Fang
Okay, gotta go. Peace out.
– Fang
Excerpted from MAXIMUM RIDE #4: THE FINAL WARNING © Copyright 2009 by James Patterson. Reprinted with permission by Little, Brown for Young Readers, Inc. All rights reserved.
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