Gone Series Complete Collection by Michael Grant

Depression. Sometimes, if I really strain my brain, I can even do multiplication.”
    “Defensive humor,” Astrid teased.
    They motored across the parking lot and onto the road. There they took a sharp cut-back right turn onto a narrow, newly paved section. The golf cart slowed going uphill to barely better than walking speed. They soon saw that the road dead-ended into the barrier. They stopped and stared solemnly at the abrupt end of the pavement.
    “It’s like a Road Runner cartoon,” Quinn said. “If you go paint a tunnel onto it, we can go through, but Wile E. Coyote will smash into it.”
    “Okay. Back down to the cliff road then, but cut through the back streets to the highway—don’t go near the plaza,” Sam said. “We need to find Little Pete already. I don’t want to have to stop and talk to a bunch of kids.”
    “Yeah, plus we don’t want anyone stealing the cart,” Edilio said.
    “Yeah. There’s that,” Sam admitted.
    “Stop,” Astrid yelled, and Edilio slammed on the brakes.
    Astrid jumped off her seat and trotted back to something white by the roadside. She knelt down and picked up a twig.
    “It’s a seagull,” Sam said, puzzled that Astrid should care. “Maybe bashed into the barrier, huh?”
    “Maybe. But look at this.” She poked the bird’s foot with the twig, lifting it up.
    “Yeah?”
    “It’s webbed, of course. Like it should be. But look at the way the toes extend out. Look at the nails. They’re talons. Like a bird of prey. Like a hawk or an eagle.”
    “You sure it’s a regular seagull?”
    “I like birds,” she explained. “This is not normal. Seagulls don’t need talons. So they don’t have talons.”
    “So it’s a bird freak,” Quinn said. “Can we move on now?”
    Astrid stood up. “It’s not normal.”
    Quinn barked a laugh. “Astrid, we’re not even in the same time zone as normal. This is what you’re worrying about? Bird toes?”
    “This bird is either a solitary freak, a random mutation,” Astrid said, “or it’s a whole new species that suddenly appeared. Evolved.”
    “Again I have to go with ‘so what?’” Quinn said.
    Astrid was on the verge of saying something. Then she shook her head a little, telling herself no. “Never mind, Quinn. Like you said, we’re a long way from normal.”
    They loaded up again and took off at twelve miles an hour. They turned on Third and cut back, distancing themselves from town, and ran up Fourth, which was a quiet, shady, decidedly shabby, older residential street close by Sam’s house.
    The only cars they saw were parked or crashed. The only people they saw were a couple of kids crossing the street behind them. They heard TV sounds coming from one house, but quickly determined that it was a DVD.
    “At least the electricity is still on,” Quinn said. “They haven’t taken away our DVDs. MP3s will still work, too, even without web access. We’ll still have tunes.”
    “They,” Astrid noted. “We’ve moved on from ‘God’ to ‘they.’”
    They reached the highway and stopped.
    “Well. That’s creepy,” Quinn said.
    In the middle of the highway was a UPS tractor-trailer. The trailer had broken free and was on its side, like a discarded toy. The tractor, the truck part, was still upright, but off to the side of the road. There was a Sebring convertible smashed against the front. The convertible had not fared well. The impact was head-on. The car was crumpled to about half its usual length. And it had burned.
    “The drivers poofed, car driver and truck driver,” Quinn said.
    “At least no one got hurt,” Edilio said.
    “Unless there was a kid in the car,” Astrid pointed out.
    No one suggested checking. Nothing had survived that crash or the subsequent fire. None of them wanted to see if there was a small body in the backseat.
    The highway was four lanes, two going each way, not divided, but with a turning lane in the middle. There was always traffic. Even in the middle of the night