with his elbow.
Will craned his neck to see Dr. Noctua. Rich? Powerful? The Tuttles traveled in the most influential circles in New York. Will’s parents’ friends were nothing like the quirky owl-man snoring a few feet away.
Rizz cracked open an orange soda and took a bite out of the can. Will remembered the other question he wanted to ask. “What did you mean when you said you were all a bunch of screw-ups?”
Rizz snorted and sprayed soda across the crate of fine china in front of him. The other agents turned and looked at him. Dr. Noctua stirred but never woke up. It took Rizz a minute to gain composure. He wiped his mouth and spoke in a quiet voice.
“I said we were screw-ups because we are. Every agent in Special Branch is here ’cause ISPA wanted to get rid of us. For years Special Branch has been a joke. A team dedicated to Immunes when there were no Immunes. This is where they transferred agents that shouldn’t be near anything important. But now…” Rizz snorted. “Now us screw-ups have the most important assignment on earth. You! But don’t worry, kid, none of these agents ever messed up anything critical. We just don’t like playing by other people’s rules, or maybe we said the right thing to the wrong person. Think of us as the most talented team of misfits ever assembled.” He waved his hand and took a mock bow.
Will smiled. A team of misfits protecting an outcast—it seemed fitting. He was about to ask Rizz how he’d ended up in Special Branch, but the agent had put on headphones and was drumming on his knees, bobbing his head to the music. Whatever Rizz had done, Will was glad he was part of his team. Something about the ram-man put him at ease. He followed Rizz’s lead and slipped headphones over his ears, leaned back and let the plane carry him west.
12
Hard Earth
T he airstrip was barely a dirt runway. A few rusty hangers and an old warehouse that reeked of manure made up the terminal. ‘Welcome to Wyoming’ was spray-painted on an old tractor near rows of delivery vans and dump trucks. The wind bit into Will’s skin the second he stepped off the plane. His parka was useless against the cold, thin air.
He hugged his backpack tight.
It was like standing on the surface of Mars. The land was folded and wrinkled, and from every seam scraggly scrub oak clawed toward the late afternoon sun. In the distance, weathered hills were so thick with pine trees that they created great black stains on the horizon. The sky was like nothing he had ever seen in New York. It went on forever. A pale, blue canvas stretching over the brown grasslands like an umbrella studded with jagged clouds. The former bubble-boy felt very exposed.
The Special Branch armored transport was disguised as an old Moo Valley milk truck. Rizz tucked his horns under a milkman’s hat and took the wheel. He drove like a New York cabbie, throwing gravel as he roared out of the parking lot, then swerving sharply to avoid tumbleweeds on the two-lane highway. Bottles of milk rolled from one side of the truck to the other. Cheese and yogurt collided with Will’s feet.
Will peered through one of the round windows in the center of the O’s in Moo Valley. On his seat made from wheels of cheddar, he shifted to get a better view of a herd of bison grazing on brown grass.
From behind the wheel Rizz eyed Will in the rearview mirror. “Kind of intimidating, huh, kid? You should have seen me when I was hauled out here for the first time. I was about ten, but that was before they put in this paved road. Mom brought me out to meet our extended family in Hidden Ridge. That’s a little po-dunk town about twenty miles from New Wik. It scared the goat out of me walkin’ out onto those plains for the first time. I’d never been out of Jersey before, and this prairie was something out of a stinkin’ Western horror flick. I felt so small, like a spec. My cousin Dean thought it would help me get used to the landscape if I had
Will craned his neck to see Dr. Noctua. Rich? Powerful? The Tuttles traveled in the most influential circles in New York. Will’s parents’ friends were nothing like the quirky owl-man snoring a few feet away.
Rizz cracked open an orange soda and took a bite out of the can. Will remembered the other question he wanted to ask. “What did you mean when you said you were all a bunch of screw-ups?”
Rizz snorted and sprayed soda across the crate of fine china in front of him. The other agents turned and looked at him. Dr. Noctua stirred but never woke up. It took Rizz a minute to gain composure. He wiped his mouth and spoke in a quiet voice.
“I said we were screw-ups because we are. Every agent in Special Branch is here ’cause ISPA wanted to get rid of us. For years Special Branch has been a joke. A team dedicated to Immunes when there were no Immunes. This is where they transferred agents that shouldn’t be near anything important. But now…” Rizz snorted. “Now us screw-ups have the most important assignment on earth. You! But don’t worry, kid, none of these agents ever messed up anything critical. We just don’t like playing by other people’s rules, or maybe we said the right thing to the wrong person. Think of us as the most talented team of misfits ever assembled.” He waved his hand and took a mock bow.
Will smiled. A team of misfits protecting an outcast—it seemed fitting. He was about to ask Rizz how he’d ended up in Special Branch, but the agent had put on headphones and was drumming on his knees, bobbing his head to the music. Whatever Rizz had done, Will was glad he was part of his team. Something about the ram-man put him at ease. He followed Rizz’s lead and slipped headphones over his ears, leaned back and let the plane carry him west.
12
Hard Earth
T he airstrip was barely a dirt runway. A few rusty hangers and an old warehouse that reeked of manure made up the terminal. ‘Welcome to Wyoming’ was spray-painted on an old tractor near rows of delivery vans and dump trucks. The wind bit into Will’s skin the second he stepped off the plane. His parka was useless against the cold, thin air.
He hugged his backpack tight.
It was like standing on the surface of Mars. The land was folded and wrinkled, and from every seam scraggly scrub oak clawed toward the late afternoon sun. In the distance, weathered hills were so thick with pine trees that they created great black stains on the horizon. The sky was like nothing he had ever seen in New York. It went on forever. A pale, blue canvas stretching over the brown grasslands like an umbrella studded with jagged clouds. The former bubble-boy felt very exposed.
The Special Branch armored transport was disguised as an old Moo Valley milk truck. Rizz tucked his horns under a milkman’s hat and took the wheel. He drove like a New York cabbie, throwing gravel as he roared out of the parking lot, then swerving sharply to avoid tumbleweeds on the two-lane highway. Bottles of milk rolled from one side of the truck to the other. Cheese and yogurt collided with Will’s feet.
Will peered through one of the round windows in the center of the O’s in Moo Valley. On his seat made from wheels of cheddar, he shifted to get a better view of a herd of bison grazing on brown grass.
From behind the wheel Rizz eyed Will in the rearview mirror. “Kind of intimidating, huh, kid? You should have seen me when I was hauled out here for the first time. I was about ten, but that was before they put in this paved road. Mom brought me out to meet our extended family in Hidden Ridge. That’s a little po-dunk town about twenty miles from New Wik. It scared the goat out of me walkin’ out onto those plains for the first time. I’d never been out of Jersey before, and this prairie was something out of a stinkin’ Western horror flick. I felt so small, like a spec. My cousin Dean thought it would help me get used to the landscape if I had
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