NATE DIDN’T KNOW IF THIS prison was where they took the disappeared kids. But with no other leads, he had to take a chance. The Kid had been right; last night, after a couple of hours, the trucks had driven away. Nate had slept on the hill, but there had been no other activity at the abandoned-looking buildings.
“Do the trucks come every night?” he asked the Kid.
The Kid positioned a blade of grass against his thumbs and tried to whistle with it, unsuccessfully. “Don’t know, do I? Ya think I’m out here every night? I gotta sleep sometimes.”
“How come you’re not in school?”
The Kid shot him a look of irritation. “’Cause it’s a holiday, duh! Geez, you’re a moron, ain’t cha?”
Nate thought back, adding days to his mental calendar. “There’s no holiday right now,” he said.
Now the Kid openly sneered at him. “Oh, yeah? When do you guys get off for Bauxite Day?”
“We don’t,” Nate told him. “We don’t celebrate Bauxite Day. Our cell is mostly farming. So we get, like, the Harvest Festival in the fall.”
For a second, the Kid’s armor of toughness fell away, and he was just a regular kid, amazed by something he hadn’t known before. “Huh,” he said, looking much younger than his eleven years. Then he came back to himself, and the small, pinched face hardened.
“It’ll be dark again soon,” Nate said. “I’m going to try to get inside the prison tonight.”
The Kid laughed. “Sure you are! You can just mosey on up—”
“I’m gonna get closer, and when the trucks stop at the gates, I’ll climb underneath one. I saw last night—they just got waved through. No one checked anything.”
The Kid’s black eyes narrowed. “You magnetic? How you gonna stick up under a truck?”
“There’s pipes and axles and big bolts and stuff to hold on to,” Nate explained patiently. “We used to do it for fun under big dump trucks at home.”
The Kid looked unconvinced, but said, “I’m goin’ with ya.”
“No.” Nate shook his head firmly. “This is my deal—I think they have my friends. You can’t get mixed up in this.”
“Well, screw you!” the Kid shouted, jumping to his feet. “I showed you everythin’! And this is how you treat me! You go jump down a mine shaft, asshole!” He raced down the hill, not looking back. Nate sighed, rubbed his eyes, and started scouting a place closer to the prison road where he could hide.
73
THE DEEP, SLOW RUMBLE OF the trucks made Nate blink, then quickly sit up. He’d almost fallen asleep! The trucks were hours later than they’d been last night. But they were coming, their headlights showing dust, insects, and the broken, potholed road that led to the chain-link fence.
With his stomach grazing the ground, Nate crawled closer as fast as he could. A large rock stuck up about twenty yards from the gates; by angling himself exactly, Nate couldn’t be seen if the guard glanced over.
At least, he hoped he couldn’t. This time two days ago, he’d been taking out the trash. Now he was about to break into a mysterious prison. When had his life gone sideways?
The trucks lumbered to a squeaking stop at the gates, and like before, it was a few minutes until a light clicked on and an armed guard came out.
Now! While the driver was showing his papers to the guard, Nate sprang forward, running hunched over and staying in the deepest shadows. He flung himself between the big wheels and immediately grabbed the truck’s chassis. Wedging his feet against an indentation, Nate clung tightly, sweat breaking out on his forehead.
A slight scuffle to his right electrified his muscles and he stared wildly into the darkness—just in time to see the Kid scramble beneath the truck.
The truck’s engine revved as the Kid peered upward, searching for something to hold on to. Nate wanted to yell at him, or at least hiss instructions, but he couldn’t make a sound. Instead he jerked his head quickly toward another bar of the frame.
The Kid frowned, reaching up one hesitant hand as the truck rolled forward.
Nate’s eyes almost popped out of his head—this weird little guy was about to be crushed beneath the wheels! The Kid hesitated another second, and Nate let go of one hand to point with frantic silence toward the bar.
The Kid’s face cleared, he grabbed the bar, and at the last second he swung himself up. One leg dangled and the big wheel glanced off his shoe before he snatched his foot out of the way. But at last he was clinging like Nate was, bracing his feet up and holding on to the bar with all his might.
Nate sent him a furious, tight-lipped glare.
The Kid grinned back at him, even taking one hand off the bar to give Nate a thumbs-up.
The truck drove through the gates and rumbled down a narrow alley. A bit of grimy oil dripped onto Nate’s face, and he shook his head so it wouldn’t roll into his eye. When the truck squealed to a stop the Kid started to get down, but Nate shook his head urgently. Booted feet passed them and opened up the truck’s cargo area. Voices shouted about unloading.
The Kid looked anxious. Nate’s muscles were starting to shake and burn. He tried to send the Kid a mental message—hang on just another minute—but the Kid was looking distinctly uncomfortable.
This was an awesome plan, Nate congratulated himself bitterly. What now? Just hang on until the freaking truck drove right back out the gates and into the darkness? Why did the stupid Kid have to follow him here, anyway?
The vehicle jolted as the rear doors were slammed and bolted. The Kid looked over at Nate with wide eyes.
The driver climbed back into the cab and started the engine.
Nate made a quick decision: when the truck rolled forward he dropped down, staying carefully between the sets of wheels. The Kid didn’t wait for instruction but dropped down, too, lying on his stomach and covering his head with his hands as the heavy truck rolled over them.
If they could just run and find cover…
“Hey! You there!”
The Kid’s head jerked up as Nate scrambled to his feet. He grabbed the Kid’s arm, half dragging him toward the open door of the building. They hadn’t gotten five yards before they were surrounded by guards holding rifles.
“You!” one of the guards said unnecessarily. “Who are you, and what are you doing here?”
Nathaniel looked around wildly, weighing his options. Which were zero, and zilch.
“His name is Nathaniel Allen,” a woman’s voice called.
The guards parted respectfully as a pale woman in an olive-green suit, her brown hair coiled up into a bun, strode toward them. She gave Nate and the Kid a chilly, serpentlike smile.
“Welcome, Nathaniel,” she said. “We’ve had our eye on you for some time. Now you’ve saved us the trouble of fetching you. And you brought a little friend.”
The Kid started to speak angrily, but the woman held up her hand.
“Save it,” she advised. “My name is Ms. Strepp. I’m in charge here.”