Daniel X_ Watch The Skies Part 19

"The driver's seat-it's on the left side."

"So? That's where it's supposed to be."

"Not really, Daniel. We're in England, remember? They drive on the other side."

That's a little unusual, I thought to myself. I thought to myself. Why would the van be American? Why would the van be American?

And there was something else, something that had been gnawing at me since we got in. Something about what the driver was wearing. Tweed is a rough woolen fabric. It's often used for the jackets of college professors, pipe-smoking stamp collectors, and-I now remembered-outdoorsmen, such as hunters. hunters.

I tried to lean forward to get a better view. That's when I realized I couldn't move a muscle, couldn't even blink.

"So you've noticed, dearie. dearie." The driver's voice seemed to catch in her throat, then something harsh came out, not a human sound. Not even close. "I'm a hunter. Just. Like.You. Just. Like.You. And I do believe I've just caught dinner!" And I do believe I've just caught dinner!"

Four.

SUDDENLY WE WERE all wide awake, even Joe, who we always joked didn't sleep-he hibernated.

"Uh-oh. I can't move, guys, not even an eyelid. This could be bad."

"Since when are you the master of understatement, Joe?" snapped Dana.

"Since when is Daniel the master of getting us caught by the bad guys?" answered Joe.

She frowned. "Touche."

"Silence!" shouted the driver in an alien rasp. It seemed all wrong: that metallic, sc.r.a.ping voice, coming out of that kind-looking grandmother's face.

As she said it, though, a gray, pulsating tentacle descended from the ceiling and wrapped itself around my mouth. It felt sticky, warm, and alive. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see a dozen more tentacles gagging my friends.

Dana's eyes met mine. "Daniel. What's happening? happening?"

I had no idea.

I couldn't really move my head, but as my eyes scanned the walls of the van, I could see them moving, pulsating, breathing breathing. The walls definitely hadn't been doing that that before. And the roof-it was a forest of waving gray tentacles. before. And the roof-it was a forest of waving gray tentacles.

Now I understood why we couldn't move our bodies. The van's seats had sent out tendrils that were no thicker than rubber bands, but they were strong and enveloped our arms and legs more effectively than steel manacles could.

More than anything, the tentacles reminded me of the sea anemones I used to find in the tide pools on the Oregon coast. Unsuspecting fish that swam too close would be grabbed, stunned by the neurotoxins in the anemones' tentacles, and slowly digested.

That's what this van was, I realized suddenly. A giant anemone. A giant anemone.

Five.

WITH THIS DISCOMFORTING and demoralizing realization came another totally creepy thought: the driver wasn't actually driving, she was part of the alien, one of its organs. She was bait. How many hitchhikers had been picked up by this kindly looking old lady, only to become her dinner?

She-it, I should say-saw my look of understanding and horror.

"Ah, my tentacles are full of neurotoxins. Thank you for noticing." It cackled nastily. "All the better to kill you with, dearie."

I had to do something; I had to do something right now. But what? But what?

The problem was I couldn't move, I couldn't create anything, I couldn't transform. I couldn't even talk, to tell my friends to break out, to run away.

"Yes, indeed. This is when the hunter becomes the hunted and then becomes tonight's repast. Just be thankful that you'll all be dead before you're digested. I'm told that the process is excruciating." Somehow this didn't come as much consolation to me.

The old woman's body began to transform now, melting into her seat. Meanwhile, a bulbous tentacle tightened around my mouth, and the interior of the van seemed to be getting smaller and smaller. That was just claustrophobia, right? That was just claustrophobia, right? Hey, I had to get a hold of myself. Hey, I had to get a hold of myself.

No, the van was definitely getting smaller. Shrinking! I blinked, desperately trying to clear my mind and find a quick solution. Being squashed into mush and then digested? Not how I was planning to leave the Earth.

Up front in the van, Joe's head was shuddering as he struggled against paralysis. I could hear Emma gurgling behind me. And Dana's beautiful eyes-they were huge with fear.

The alien anemone's voice rasped again. The driver was gone, but mouths had opened up in the walls in the walls around us, hundreds of them. It was like listening to the worst chorus imaginable-in surround sound. around us, hundreds of them. It was like listening to the worst chorus imaginable-in surround sound.

"This is for my beloved brother, Alien Hunter. It's too bad he couldn't be here to see it. Do you remember Number 40? You disintegrated him in Dallas, Texas!"

Of course I remembered, but I couldn't focus on past victories right now.

The walls and ceiling constricted yet again. Like a giant heart beating Like a giant heart beating, I thought. The roof was pressing down hard against our heads now. The van's interior had become smooth and oily; it reminded me of the inside of a stomach.

"Nice eating you..." The beast's final message trailed off in a sickening gurgle. "I'm Number 43 by the way. My brother's name was Jasper."

"I remember-may he rest in pieces!" I quipped. What else could I do?

Another powerful contraction came. The walls closed in even tighter, pus.h.i.+ng me and Dana together-something I might have enjoyed, if we weren't both about to become meat-and-bone Jell-O pudding.

I'd never felt anything like this before. I was hurting all over, and not just physically. It was like all the terror my friends were feeling was being transmitted back to me a hundred times over. I had never gotten them into a situation this bad before; it looked like I wouldn't have the chance to get them out of it.

The walls kept closing in, bending me double. The tentacle around my throat was twisting too tight for me to even swallow. It's over It's over, I thought. Everything was getting dim, and quiet, and distant. My eyes were finally squeezed shut, and I thought I might suddenly burst like a zit caught in tweezers.

And then behind the pain and the fear, I heard words way in the back of my mind.

"You still have time.... you can take out Number 43. At least I think so."

I recognized the voice immediately. It was my father.

My dead dead father. father.

THE WORLD ALL AROUND YOU.

LIFE AS YOU KNOW IT.

EVERYTHING YOU LOVE.

IT ALL CHANGES-NOW.

WITCH & WIZARD.

This is the story I was born to tell.

Read on, while you still can.

JAMES PATTERSON COMING IN DECEMBER 2009.

Prologue.

WISTY.

IT'S OVERWHELMING. A city's worth of angry faces staring at me like I'm a wicked criminal-which, I promise you, I'm not. I'm not. The stadium is filled to capacity- The stadium is filled to capacity-past capacity. People are standing in the aisles, the stairwells, on the concrete ramparts, and a few extra thousand are camped out on the playing field. There are no football teams here today. They wouldn't be able to get out of the locker-room tunnels if they tried. capacity. People are standing in the aisles, the stairwells, on the concrete ramparts, and a few extra thousand are camped out on the playing field. There are no football teams here today. They wouldn't be able to get out of the locker-room tunnels if they tried.

This total abomination is being broadcast on TV and on the Internet too. All the useless magazines are here, and the useless newspapers. Yep, I see cameramen in elevated roosts at intervals around the stadium.

There's even one of those remote-controlled cameras that runs around on wires above the field. There it is-hovering just in front of the stage, bobbing slightly in the breeze.

So, there are undoubtedly millions more eyes watching than I can see. But it's the ones here in the stadium that are breaking my heart. To be confronted with tens, maybe even hundreds of thousands of curious, uncaring, or at least indifferent, faces... talk about frightening. frightening.

And there are no moist eyes, never mind tears.

No words of protest.

No stomping feet.

No fists raised in solidarity.

No inkling that anybody's even thinking of surging forward, breaking through the security cordon, and carrying my family to safety.

Clearly, this is not a good day for us Allgoods.

In fact, as the countdown ticker flashes on the giant video screens at either end of the stadium, it's looking like this will be our last last day. day.

It's a point driven home by the very tall, bald man up in the tower they've erected midfield-he looks like a cross between a Supreme Court chief justice and Ming the Merciless. I know who he is. I've actually met him. He's The One Who Is The One.

Directly behind his Oneness is a huge N.O. banner-the New Order.

And then the crowd begins to chant, almost sing, "The One Who Is The One! The One Who Is The One!"

Imperiously, The One raises his hand, and his hooded lackeys on the stage push us forward, at least as far as the ropes around our necks will allow.

I see my brother, Whit, handsome and brave, looking down at the platform mechanism. Calculating if there's any way to jam it, some way to keep it from unlatching and dropping us to our neck-snapping deaths. Wondering if there's some last-minute way out of this.

I see my mother crying quietly. Not for herself, of course, but for Whit and me.

I see my father, his tall frame stooped with resignation, but smiling at me and my brother-trying to keep our spirits up, reminding us that there's no point in being miserable in our last moments on this planet.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. I'm supposed to be providing an introduction introduction here, not the details of our public here, not the details of our public execution. execution.

So let's go back a bit....

BY ORDER OF THE NEW ORDER,and the Great Wind-The One Who IsTHE ONE -let it be known that as ofNOW, THIS MOMENT, or orTWELVE O'CLOCK MIDNIGHT,whichever shall arrive first, following theSWIFT TRIUMPH of The of The ORDER ORDER of the of theONES WHO PROTECT, who have obliterated the who have obliterated theBLIND AND DUMB FORCES of pa.s.sivity and of pa.s.sivity andcomplacency PLAGUING PLAGUING This World, This World,ALL CITIZENS must, shall, must, shall, and and will will abide by abide by THESE THREE ORDERS for ORDER: THESE THREE ORDERS for ORDER:1. All behaviors NOT in keeping with N.O. law, logic, order, and science (including, but not limited to, theology, philosophy, the creative and dark arts, et cetera) are hereby ABOLISHED. 2. ALL persons under eighteen years of age will be evaluated for ORDERLINESS and MUST COMPLY with the prescribed corrective actions. 2. ALL persons under eighteen years of age will be evaluated for ORDERLINESS and MUST COMPLY with the prescribed corrective actions. 3. The One Who Is THE ONE grants, appoints, decides, seizes, and executes at will. All NOT complying shall be SEIZED and/or EXECUTED. 3. The One Who Is THE ONE grants, appoints, decides, seizes, and executes at will. All NOT complying shall be SEIZED and/or EXECUTED. - As declared to the One Who Writes Decrees - As declared to the One Who Writes Decreesby THE ONE WHO IS THE ONE

One.

WHIT.

SOMETIMES YOU WAKE up and the world is just plain different.

The noise of a circling helicopter is what made me open my eyes. A cold, blue-white light forced its way through the blinds and flooded the living room. Almost like it was day.

But it wasn't.

I peered at the clock on the DVD player through blurry eyes: 2:10 a.m.

I became aware of a steady drub, drub, drub drub, drub, drub-like the sound of a heavy heartbeat. Throbbing. Pressing in. Getting closer.

What's going on?

I staggered to the window, forcing my body back to life after two hours pa.s.sed out on the sofa, and peeked through the slats.

And then I stepped back and rubbed my eyes. Hard.

Because there's no way I had seen what I'd seen. And there was no way I had heard what I'd heard.