Текст книги "Unwind"

Автор книги: Neal Shusterman

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"Not at all," she says. "By law, we're required to keep you conscious through the entire procedure." The nurse takes his hand. "You have a right to know everything that's happening to you, every step of the way."

"What if I don't want to?"

"You will," says one of the surgical assistants, wiping Roland's legs down with brown surgical scrub. "Everybody does."

"We've just inserted catheters into your carotid artery and jugular vein," says the nurse. "Right now your blood is being replaced with a synthetic oxygen-rich solution."

"We send the real stuff straight to the blood bank," says the assistant at his feet. "Not a bit gets wasted. You can bet, you'll be saving lives!"

"The oxygen solution also contains an anaesthetic that deadens pain receptors." The nurse pats his hand. "You'll be fully conscious, but you won't feel a thing."

Already Roland feels his limbs starting to go numb. He swallows hard. "I hate this. I hate you. I hate all of you."

"I understand."

* * *

Twenty-eight minutes in.

The first set of surgeons has arrived.

"Don't mind them," says the nurse. "Talk to me."

"What do we talk about?"

"Anything you want."

Someone drops an instrument. It clatters on the table and falls to the floor. Roland flinches. The nurse holds his hand

tighter.

"You may feel a tugging sensation near your ankles," says one of the surgeons at the foot of the table. "It's nothing to worry' about."

* * *

Forty-five minutes in.

So many surgeons, so much activity. Roland couldn't remember ever having so much attention directed at him. He wants to look, but the nurse holds his focus. She's read his file. She knows everything about him. The good and the bad. The things he never talks about. The things he can't stop talking about now.

"I think it's horrible what your stepfather did."

"I was just protecting my mother."

"Scalpel," says a surgeon.

"She should have been grateful."

"She had me unwound."

"I'm sure it wasn't easy for her."

"All right, clamp it off."

* * *

An hour and fifteen.

Surgeons leave, new ones arrive. The new ones take an intense interest in his abdomen. He looks toward his toes but can't see them. Instead he sees a surgical assistant cleaning the lower half of the table.

"I almost killed a kid yesterday."

"That doesn't matter now."

"I wanted to do it, but I got scared. I don't know why, but I got scared."

"Just let it go." The nurse was holding his hand before. She's not anymore.

"Strong abdominal muscles," says a doctor. "Do you work out?"

A clanging of metal. The lower half of the table is unhooked and pulled away. It makes him think of when he was twelve and his mom took him to Las Vegas. She had dropped him off at a magic show while she played the slots. The magician had cut a woman in half. Her toes were still wiggling, her face still smiling. The audience gave him thunderous applause.

Now Roland feels discomfort in his gut. Discomfort, a tickling sensation, but no pain. The surgeons lift things away. He tries not to look, but he can't help it. There's no blood, just the oxygen-rich solution, which is flourescent green, like antifreeze.

"I'm scared," he says.

"I know," says the nurse.

"I want you all to go to Hell."

"That's natural."

One team leaves; another comes in. They take an intense interest in his chest.

* * *

An hour forty-five.

"I'm afraid we need to stop talking now."

"Don't go away."

"I'll be here, but we won't be able to talk anymore."

The fear surrounds him, threatening to take him under. He tries to replace it with anger, but the fear is too strong. He tries to replace it with the satisfaction that Connor will be taken very soon, but not even that makes him feel better,

"You'll feel a tingling in your chest," says a surgeon. "It's nothing to worry about."

* * *

Two hours, five minutes.

"Blink twice if you can hear me."

Blink, blink.

"You're being very brave."

He tries to think of other things, other places, but his mind keeps being drawn back to this place. Everyone's so close around him now. Yellow figures lean all around him like flower petals closing in. Another section of the table is taken away. The petals move in closer. He does not deserve this. He has done many things, not all good, but he does not deserve this.

And he never did get his priest.

* * *

Two hours, twenty minutes.

"You'll feel a tingling in your jaw. It's nothing to worry about."

"Blink twice if you can hear me."

Blink, blink.

"Good."

He locks his eyes on the nurse, whose eyes still smile. They always smile. Someone made her have eternally smiling eyes.

"I'm afraid you're going to have to stop blinking now."

* * *

"Where's the clock?" says one of the surgeons.

"Two hours, thirty-three minutes."

"We're running late."

Not quite darkness, just an absence of light. He hears everything around him but can no longer communicate. Another team has entered.

"I'm still here," the nurse tells him, but then she falls silent. A few moments later he hears footsteps, and he knows she's left.

"You'll feel a tingling in your scalp," says a surgeon. "It's nothing to worry about." It's the last time they talk to him. After that, the doctors talk like Roland is no longer there.

"Did you see yesterday's game?"

"Heartbreaker."

"Splitting the corpus callosum."

"Nice technique."

"Well, it's not brain surgery." Laughter all around.

Memories tweak and spark. Faces. Dreamlike pulses of light deep in his mind. Feelings. Things he hasn't thought about in years. The memories bloom, then they're gone. When Roland was ten, he broke his arm. The doctor told his mom he could have a new arm, or a cast. The cast was cheaper. He drew a shark on it. When the cast came off he got a tattoo to make the shark permanent.

"If they had just made that three-pointer."

"It'll be the Bulls again. Or the Lakers."

"Starting on the left cerebral cortex."

Another memory tweaks.

When I was six, my father went to jail for something he did before I got born. I never knew what he did, but Mom says I'm just the same.

"The Suns don't stand a chance."

"Well, if they had a decent coaching staff . . ."

"Left temporal lobe."

When I was three, I had a babysitter. She was beautiful. She shook my sister. Real hard. My sister got wrong. Never got right again. Beautiful is dangerous. Better get them first.

"Well, maybe they'll make the playoffs next year."

"Or the year after that."

"Did we get the auditory nerves?"

"Not yet. Getting them right n—"

I'm alone. And I'm crying. And no one's coming to the crib. And the nightlight burned out. And I'm mad. I'm so mad.

Left frontal lobe.

I... I ... I don't feel so good.

Left occipital lobe.

I ... I ... J don't remember where . . .

Left parietal lobe.

I ... I ... I can't remember my name, but . . . but . . .

Right temporal.

 . . . but I'm still here.

Right frontal.

I'm still here . . .

Right occipital.

I'm still. . .

Right parietal.

I'm . . .

Cerebellum.

I'm. . .

Thalamus.

I...

Hypothalamus.

I. . .

Hippocampus.

. . .

Medulla.

. . .

. . .

. . .

* * *

"Where's the clock?"

"Three hours, nineteen minutes."

"All right, I'm on break. Prep for the next one."

_{62 Lev}

The detonators are hidden in a sock in the back of his cubby. Anyone who finds them will think they're Band-Aids. He tries not to think about it. It's Blaine's job to think about it, and to tell him when it's time.

Today Lev's unit of tithes are taking a nature walk to commune with creation. The pastor who leads them is one of the more self-important ones. He speaks as if every word out of his mouth were a pearl of wisdom, pausing after each thought as if he expects someone to write it down.

He leads them to an odd winter-bare tree. Lev, who is used to winters with ice and snow, finds it odd that trees in Arizona still lose their leaves. This tree has a multitude of branches that don't quite match, each with different bark and a different texture.

"I wanted you to see this," the pastor says to the crew. "It's not much to see now, but, oh, you should see it in the spring. Over the years many of us have grafted branches from our favorite trees to the trunk." He points to the various limbs. "This branch sprouts pink cherry blossoms, and this one fills with huge sycamore leaves. This one fills with purple jacaranda flowers, and this one grows heavy with peaches."

The tithes examine it, touching its branches cautiously, as if it might at any moment turn into the burning bush. "What kind of tree was it to begin with?" asks one of the tithes.

The pastor can't answer him. "I'm not sure, but it really doesn't matter—what matters is what it's become. We call it our little 'tree of life.' Isn't it wonderful?"

"There's nothing wonderful about it." The words are out of Lev's mouth before he realizes he's spoken them, like a sudden, unexpected belch. All eyes turn toward him. He quickly covers. "It's the work of man, and we shouldn't be prideful," he says. '"When pride comes, then comes disgrace; but with humility comes wisdom.'"

"Yes," says the pastor. "Proverbs—eleven, isn't it?"

"Proverbs 1 1:2."

"Very good." He appears suitably humbled. "Well, it is pretty in the spring."

Their path back to the tithing house takes them by fields and courts where the terribles are being observed and brought to the best possible physical condition before their unwinding. The tithes endure the occasional jeers and hisses from the terribles, like martyrs.

It's as they pass one of the dormitories that Lev finds himself face-to-face with someone he never expected to see again. He finds himself standing in front of Connor.

Each was heading in a different direction. Each sees the other at the same instant and stops short, staring in absolute shock.

"Lev?"

Suddenly the pompous pastor is there, grabbing Lev by both shoulders. "Get away from him!" the pastor snarls at Connor. "Haven't you done enough damage already?" Then he spirits Lev away, leaving Connor standing there.

"It's all right," says the pastor, his protective grip on Lev's shoulders still firm as they stride away. "We're all aware of who he is and what he did to you. We were hoping you wouldn't find out he was at the same harvest camp. But I promise you, Lev, he will never harm you again." And then he says quietly, "He's being unwound this afternoon."

"What?"

"And good riddance, too!"

* * *

It's not unusual to see tithes unsupervised on the grounds of Happy Jack, although they're usually in clusters—or at the very least, groups of two. It's rare to see one hurrying alone, almost running across the fields.

Lev hadn't lingered long once he got back to the tithing house—he took the first opportunity to slip out. Now he searches everywhere for Blaine and Mai.

Connor is being unwound this afternoon. How could this have happened? How did he get here? Connor was safe at the Graveyard. Did the Admiral throw him out, or did he leave on his own? Either way, Connor must have been caught and brought here. The one thing Lev had taken comfort in—the safety of his friends—has now been torn away. Connor's unwinding must not be allowed . . . and it's in Lev's power to stop it.

He finds Blaine in the grassy commons between the dining hall and the dormitories, being put through a regimen of calisthenics with his unit. Blaine does them oddly, putting as little force into them as possible, making all his moves low-impact.

"I need to talk to you."

Blaine looks at him, surprised and furious. "What, are you crazy? What are you doing here?"

A staffer sees him and makes a beeline toward them—after all, everyone knows tithes and terribles do not mix.

"It's all right," Lev tells the staffer, "I know him from home. I just wanted to say good-bye."

The staffer reluctantly nods his approval. "All right, but make it quick."

Lev pulls Blaine aside, making sure they're far enough away that nobody can hear. "We're doing it today," Lev tells him. "No more waiting."

"Hey," says Blaine, "I decide when we do it, and I say not yet.

"The longer we wait, the longer we risk going off by accident."

"So? Randomness works too."

He wants to hit Blaine but knows if he does they'll probably leave a crater in the field fifty yards wide, so he tells Blaine the only thing he knows for sure will get him to give in,

"They know about us," whispers Lev.

"What?"

"They don't know who it is, but they know there are clappers here—I'm sure they're reviewing the blood tests right now, looking for anything unusual. It won't be long until they find us."

Blaine grits his teeth and curses. He thinks for a moment, then starts shaking his head. "No. No, I'm not ready."

"It doesn't matter if you're ready. You want chaos? Well, it's coming today, whether you want it or not—because if they find us, what do you think they'll do?"

Blaine looks even sicker at the prospect. "They'll detonate us in the forest?"

"Or out in the desert where no one will ever know." .

Blaine considers it for a moment more, then takes a deep shuddering breath. "I'll find Mai at lunch and tell her. We'll go at two o'clock sharp."

"Make it one."

* * *

Lev rummages through his cubby, getting more and more frantic. Those socks have to be here! They have to be—but he can't find them. The detonators aren't crucial, but they're cleaner. Lev wants it to be clean. Clean and quick.

"That's mine."

Lev turns to see the towheaded kid with the emerald-green eyes standing behind him. "That's my cubby. Yours is over there."

Lev looks around and realizes he's off by one bed. There's nothing in the unit to identify one bed, or one cubby, from another.

"If you need socks, I can lend you."

"No, I've got enough of my own, thanks." He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes to get his panic under control, and goes to the right cubby. The sock with the detonators is there. He slips it in his pocket.

"You okay, Lev? You look kinda funny."

"I'm fine. I've just been running, that's all. Running on the treadmill."

"No, you haven't," says the kid. "I was just in the gym."

"Listen, mind your own business, okay? I'm not your buddy, I'm not your friend."

"But we oughta be friends."

"No. You don't know me. I'm not like you, okay, so just leave me alone!"

Then he hears a deeper voice behind him. "That's enough, Lev."

He turns to see a man in a suit. It's not one of the pastors but the counselor who admitted him a week ago. This can't be good.

The counselor nods to the towheaded kid. "Thank you, Sterling." The boy casts his eyes down and hurries out. "We assigned Sterling to keep an eye on you and make sure you're adjusting. We are, to say the least, concerned."

* * *

Lev sits in a room with the counselor, and two pastors. The sock bulges in his pocket. He bounces his knees nervously, then remembers he's not supposed to make any jarring motions, or he might detonate. He forces himself to stop.

"You seem troubled, Lev," says the counselor. "We'd like to understand why."

Lev looks at the clock. It's 12:48. Twelve minutes until he, Mai, and Blaine are supposed to meet and take care of business.

"I'm being tithed," Lev says. "Isn't that enough of a reason?"

The younger of the two pastors leans forward. "We try to make sure every tithe enters the divided state in the proper frame of mind."

"We wouldn't be doing our job if we didn't try to make things right for you," says the elder pastor, then offers a smile so forced, it's more like a grimace.

Lev wants to scream at them, but he knows that won't get him out of here any faster. "I just don't like being around other kids right now. I'd rather prepare for this alone, okay?"

"But it's not okay," says the older pastor. "That's not the way we do things here. Everyone supports one another."

The junior pastor leans forward. "You need to give the other boys a chance. They're all good kids."

"Well maybe I'm not!" Lev can't help but look at the clock again. Twelve fifty. Mai and Blaine will be in place in ten minutes, and what if he's still here in this stinking office? Won't that be just great.

"Have somewhere you need to be?" the counselor asks. "You keep checking the time."

Lev knows his answer needs to make sense or they truly will become suspicious of him. "I ... I heard the kid who kidnapped me was being unwound today. I was just wondering if it had happened yet."

The pastors look at one another and at the counselor, who leans back in his chair, as calm as can be. "If he hasn't been, he will be shortly. Lev, I think it would be healthy for you to discuss what happened to you while you were held hostage. I'm sure it was horrible, but talking about it can take away the power of the memory. I'd like to hold a special group tonight with your unit. It will be a time for you to share with the others what you've been holding inside. I think you'll find they'll be very understanding."

"Tonight," says Lev. "Okay. Fine. I'll talk about everything tonight. Maybe you're right and it will make me feel better."

"We just want to ease your mind," says one of the pastors.

"So, can I go now?"

The counselor studies him for a moment more. "You seem so tense. I'd like to talk you through some guided relaxation exercises. . . ."

_{63 Guard}

He hates his job, he hates the heat, he hates that he has to stand in front of the Chop Shop for hours guarding the doors, making sure no one unauthorized enters or leaves. He had dreams back in StaHo of starting a business with his buddies, but no one loans start-up money to StaHo kids. Even after he changed his last name from Ward to Mullard—the name of the richest family in town—he couldn't fool anyone. Turns out half the kids from his state home took on that name when they left, figuring they could outsmart the world. In the end, he outsmarted no one but himself. The best he could do was find a series of unfulfilling jobs in the year he's been out of StaHo—the most recent of which is being a harvest camp guard.

On the roof, the band has started its afternoon set. At least that helps the time to pass a little more quickly.

Two Unwinds approach, and climb the steps toward him. They're not being escorted by guards and both carry plates covered with aluminum foil. The guard doesn't like the look of them. The boy's a flesh-head. The girl is Asian.

"What do you want? You're not supposed to be here."

"We were told to give this to the band." They both look nervous and shifty. This is nothing new. All Unwinds get nervous near the Chop Shop—and to the guard, all Unwinds look shifty.

The guard peeks under the aluminum foil. Roast chicken. Mashed potatoes. They do send food up to the band once in a while, but usually it's staff that carries the food, not Unwinds. "I thought they just had lunch."

"Guess not," says the flesh-head. He looks like he'd rather be anywhere in the world but standing in front of the Chop Shop, so the guard decides to draw it out, making them stand there even longer.

"I'll have to call this in," he says. He pulls out his phone and calls the front office. He gets a busy signal. Typical. The guard wonders which he'd get in more trouble for—letting them bring the food in, or turning them away if they really were sent by administration. He considers the plate in the girl's hands. "Let me see that." He peels back the foil and takes the largest chicken breast. "Go in through the glass doors, and the stairs are to your left. If I see you go anywhere but up the stairs, I'll come in there and tranq you so fast, you won't know what hit you."

Once they're inside, they're out of sight, out of mind. He doesn't know that although they went into the stairwell, they never brought the food to the band—they just ditched the plates. And he never noticed the little round Band-Aids on their palms.

_{64 Connor}

Connor looks out of the dormitory window, devastated. Lev is here at Happy Jack. How he got here doesn't matter; all that matters is that Lev will now be unwound. It's all been for nothing. Connor's sense of futility makes him feel like a part of himself has already been cut out and taken to market.

"Connor Lassiter?"

He turns to see two guards at the entrance. Around him, most of the kids have left the unit for their afternoon activity. The ones that remain take a quick glance at the guards, and at Connor, then look away, busying themselves in anything that will keep them out of this business.

"Yeah. What do you want?"

"Your presence is requested at the harvest clinic," says the first guard. The other guard doesn't talk. He just chomps on chewing gum.

Connor's first reaction is that this can't be what it sounds like. Maybe Risa sent them. Maybe she wants to play something for him. After all, now that she's in the band, she has more influence than the average Unwind, doesn't she?

"The harvest clinic," echoes Connor. "What for?"

"Well, let's just say you're leaving Happy Jack today."

Chomp, chomp, goes the other guard.

"Leaving?"

"C'mon, son, do we have to spell it out for you? You're a problem here. Too many of the other kids look up to you, and that's never a good thing at a harvest camp. So the administration decided to take care of the problem."

They advance on Connor, lifting him up by the arms.

"No! No! You can't do this."

"We can, and we are. It's our job—and whether you make it hard, or easy, it doesn't matter. Our job gets done either way."

Connor looks to the other kids as if they might help him, but they don't. "Good-bye, Connor," says one, but he won't even look in Connor's direction.

The gum-chewing guard looks more sympathetic, which means there might be a way to get through to him. Connor looks at him pleadingly. It makes him stop chewing for an instant. The guard thinks for a moment and says, "I got a buddy looking for brown eyes, on account of his girlfriend don't like the ones he got. He's a decent guy—you could do a lot worse."

"What!"

"We sometimes get dibs on parts and stuff," he says. "One of the perks of the job. Anyways, all I'm saying is I can give you some peace of mind. You'll know your eyes won't go to some lowlife or nothin'."

The other guard snickers. "Piece of mind. Good one. Okay, time to go." They pull Connor forward, and he tries to prepare himself, but how do you prepare yourself for something like this? Maybe what they say is right. Maybe it's not dying. Maybe it's just passing into a new form of living. It could be all right, couldn't it? Couldn't it?

He tries to imagine what it must be like for an inmate to be led to his execution. Do they fight it? Connor tries to imagine himself kicking and screaming his way to the Chop Shop, but what would be the use of that? If his time on Earth as Connor Lassiter is ending, then maybe he should use the time well. He should allow himself to spend his final moments appreciating who he was. No! Who he still is! He should appreciate the last breaths moving in and out of his lungs while those lungs are still under his control. He should feel the tension and release in his muscles as he moves, and see the many sights of Happy Jack with his eyes and store them in his brain.

"Hands off me, I'll walk by myself," he orders the guards, and they instantly release him, perhaps surprised by the authority in his voice. He rolls his shoulders, cracks his neck, and strides forward. The first step is the hardest, but from that moment on he decides that he will neither run nor dawdle. He will neither quiver nor fight. He will take this last walk of his life in steady strides—and in a few weeks from now, someone, somewhere, will hold in their mind the memory that this young man, whoever he was, faced his unwinding with dignity and pride.

_{65 Clappers}

Who can say what goes through the mind of a clapper in the moments before carrying out that evil deed? No doubt whatever those thoughts are, they are lies. However, like all dangerous deceptions, the lies that clappers tell themselves wear seductive disguises.

For clappers who have been led to believe their acts are smiled upon by God, their lie is clothed in holy robes and has outstretched arms promising a reward that will never come.

For clappers who believe their act will somehow bring about change in the world, their lie is disguised as a crowd looking back at them from the future, smiling in appreciation for what they've done.

For clappers who seek only to share their personal misery with the world, their lie is an image of themselves freed from their pain by witnessing the pain of others.

And for clappers who are driven by vengeance, their lie is a scale of justice, weighted evenly on both sides, finally in balance

It is only when a clapper brings his hands together that the lie reveals itself, abandoning the clapper in that final instant so that he exits this world utterly alone, without so much as a lie to accompany him into oblivion.

Or her.

The path that brought Mai to this place in her life was full of fury and disappointment. Her breaking point was Vincent. He was a boy no one knew. He was a boy she met and fell in love with in the warehouse more than a month ago. He was a boy who died in midair, crammed into a crate with four other kids who choked on their own carbon dioxide. No one seemed to notice his disappearance, and certainly no one cared. No one but Mai, who had found her soul mate, and had lost him that day she arrived in the Graveyard.

The world was to blame, but when she secretly witnessed the Admiral's golden five burying Vincent and the others, she was able to give faces to her fury. The Goldens buried Vincent not with respect, but with profanities. They cracked jokes and laughed. They covered the five dead boys carelessly with dirt like cats cover their turds. Mai had never felt such rage.

Once Cleaver befriended her, she told him what she had seen, and he agreed that revenge was in order. It was Cleaver's idea to kill the Goldens. It was Blaine who drugged them and brought them to the FedEx jet—but it was Mai who sealed the hatch of the crate. It was amazing to her that killing could be as easy as closing a door.

After that, there was no turning back for Mai. Her bed had been made; all that remained was for her to lie in it. She knows that today will be the day she climbs in and goes to her rest.

Once inside the Chop Shop she finds a storage room full of surgical gloves, syringes, and shiny instruments she cannot identify. She knows Blaine is somewhere in the north wing of the building. She expects Lev is in position too, standing on the loading dock at the back of the Chop Shop—at least that's the plan. It is now one o'clock on the nose. Time to do this.

Mai enters the storage room and closes the door. And waits. She will do this, but not quite yet. Let one of the others go. She refuses to be the first.

* * *

Blaine waits in a deserted hallway on the second floor. This area of the Chop Shop doesn't appear to be in use. He has decided not to use his detonators. Detonators are for wimps. For a hardcore clapper, a single, powerful clap is enough to bring it on, even without detonators—and Blaine wants to believe he's hardcore, like his brother was. He stands at the end of the hallway, legs spread to shoulder width, bouncing on the balls of his feet like a tennis player awaiting a serve. His hands are held apart. But he waits. He's hardcore, yes—but he's not going first.

* * *

Lev has convinced the psychologist that he's suitably relaxed. It's the best acting performance of his life, because his heart is racing and there's so much adrenaline flooding his blood, he's afraid he'll spontaneously combust.

"Why don't you go back to the tithing house?" the doctor suggests. "Spend some time getting to know the other kids. Make an effort, Lev—you'll be glad you did."

"Yes. Yes, I'll do that. Thank you. I feel better now."

"Good."

The counselor motions to the pastors and everyone rises. It is 1:04. Lev wants to race out the door, but he knows that will just get him another therapy session. He leaves the office with the pastors, who babble about his place in the scheme of things and the joys of tithing. It's only as Lev gets outside that he becomes aware of the commotion. Kids are all running from their activities and into the commons between the dormitories and the Chop Shop. Have Blaine and Mai gone off already? He didn't hear any explosions. No, this is something else.

"It's the Akron AWOL," he hears one of the kids shout. "He's being unwound!"

That's when Lev spots Connor. He's halfway down the red carpet, marching with two guards right behind him. Kids have gathered in the grassy commons, but they keep their distance as more kids arrive. They're spilling out of the dormitories, the dining hall—everywhere.

The band has stopped playing in the middle of a tune. The keyboardist—a girl—wails at the sight of Connor on the red stone path. Connor looks up at her, halts for a second, and blows her a kiss before continuing on.  Lev can hear her crying.

Now guards, staffers, and counselors converge on the quad in panic, trying to herd this volatile gathering of kids back to their places, but no one will leave. The kids just stand there—maybe they can't stop this, but they can witness it. They can be there as Connor strides out of this life.

"Let's hear it for the Akron AWOL!" one boy shouts. "Let's hear it for Connor!" and he starts to applaud. Soon the entire crowd of kids is applauding and cheering Connor as he marches down the red carpet.

Applause.

Clapping.

Mai and Blaine!

Suddenly Lev realizes what's about to happen. He can't let Connor go in there! Not now! He's got to stop him.

Lev breaks away from the pastors. Connor is almost to the steps of the Chop Shop. Lev races between the kids, but he can't push his way through them. If he does, he knows he'll detonate. He must be quick, but he must be careful—and being careful slows him down.

"Connor!" He screams, but the cheers all around him are too loud. And now the band has begun to play again. They're playing the national anthem, just like they do at the funerals of great Americans. The guards and the staff can't stop this. They try but they can't—and they're so busy trying to control the crowd, they let Lev slip right past onto the red carpet.

Now he has a clear path to Connor, who has begun climbing the steps. Lev screams his name again, but Connor still can't hear. Although Lev races down the path, he's still twenty yards away when the glass doors open and Connor steps inside with the guards.