Hunger

in Perdido Beach.”
    Caine laughed, a wild, triumphant sound.
    Sam caught Taylor’s eye. She teleported over to him. “Check it out,” he said. The girl nodded once and disappeared.
    “You sending Brianna to check it out?” Caine shouted. “Or Taylor?”
    Sam said nothing. He waited.
    Taylor popped back into view, right beside him.
    “I bounced to a bend in the road where you can see town,” she reported.
    “And?”

TWENTY-FIVE
    17 HOURS , 54 MINUTES
    DUCK HAD ARGUED with himself all the way home. Hunter’s problem was not his problem, he told himself. Okay, maybe he was a freak now, too, like Hunter, but so what? He had some stupid, useless power—why did that mean he had to buy a piece of Hunter’s grief?
    Hunter was a jerk. And all the people Duck liked were normals. Mostly. He liked Sam, of course, in a sort of distant way. But, man, how was he suddenly supposed to be choosing sides in a fight he didn’t even know was happening?
    However, he didn’t like the idea of just leaving Hunter hiding out hungry in the rubble outside the church. That seemed kind of harsh.
    By the time he had reached the relative safety of his home, Duck had talked himself out of doing anything one way or the other. And then he talked himself into the opposite position. And back again.
    He found himself looking in the kitchen cupboards. Just tosee. Just to see if it was even possible to help Hunter out.
    There wasn’t much to see in the kitchen. Two cans of veggies. A jar of hot dog relish, but not even the sweet kind. A half-empty bag of flour and some oil. He’d learned how to cook a sort of nasty-tasting tortilla with the flour and a little water and oil. It was the current popular favorite in the FAYZ, something even the most kitchen-impaired could kind of figure out.
    He didn’t want to even think about what they’d all be eating in a week. From what Duck had heard, there was food in the fields, but no one wanted to pick it if there were zekes. He shuddered at the thought.
    But he supposed he could spare the hot dog relish. Not exactly something good for you, but Hunter had sounded pretty desperate. And nowadays everyone was eating things that would have made them gag before.
    Duck had a sudden vision of actual hot dogs. The real thing, steaming hot, nestled in a tender white bun.
    Duck’s aunt was from Chicago. She had taught him about genuine Chicago hot dogs with, what was it? Seven toppings? He wondered if he could remember them all.
    Mustard. Relish. Onions. Tomatoes.
    His mouth was watering at the thought. But then his mouth would have watered at the idea of a real hot dog topped with Brussels sprouts.
    He made up his mind. It wasn’t about freaks versus normals. It was about whether he could just leave Hunter out there cowering all through the night.
    No. He’d bring him the relish and then, if Hunter needed a place to hide, he’d let him stay in the basement here at the house.
    Duck slipped the relish into the pocket of his jacket and headed with great reluctance back into the night.
    It took only a few minutes to reach the church.
    “Hunter. Yo, Hunter,” he called in a hoarse whisper.
    Nothing.
    Great. Perfect. He was being punked after all.
    He turned and started to walk away. But around the corner came a group of seven, maybe eight kids. It took him only a second to spot the baseball bats.
    Zil was in the lead.
    “There’s one!” Zil shouted, and before Duck could even react the seven boys were rushing him.
    “What’s up?” Duck asked.
    The boys surrounded him. There was no denying their menacing attitude, but Duck was determined not to give them an excuse to start swinging.
    “What’s up?” Zil mocked. “The Human Drill wants to know what’s up.” He gave Duck a shove. “One of your kind killed my best friend, that’s what’s up.”
    “We’re sick of it,” another boy chimed in.
    Various voices muttered agreement.
    “Guys, I didn’t hurt anyone,” Duck said. “I’m just…”
    He didn’t know what he was just. The hostile eyes around him narrowed.
    “Just what, freak?” Zil demanded.
    “Walking, man. Anything wrong with that?”
    “We’re looking for Hunter,” Hank said.
    “We’re going to kick his butt.”
    “Yeah. Maybe rearrange his nose,” Antoine said. “Like maybe it would look better sticking out the side of his face.”
    They laughed.
    “Hunter?” Duck said, working to sound innocent.
    “Yeah. Mr. Microwave. Killer chud.”
    Duck shrugged. “I