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Then I realized it was partly Fang and partly a bunch of M-Geeks with automatic weapons. The area around me was being strafed with bullets. Because this is me we're talking about, not some cute teenager with shiny hair, a perfect smile, and no wings.
"Duck!" Fang yelled, pushing me to the ground and rolling with me under a cement bench. All around us, bullets sent chips of concrete ricocheting through the air. One shard hit my cheek, and I winced at the sting.
"I knew this was too good to be true," I muttered, and Fang squeezed my side. "You think they know we're here to rescue my mom? Are we getting too close?" Peering out from under our bench, we saw that there weren't that many of the dumb-bots—maybe about twenty. They gave new meaning to the phrase "heavily armed."
As the gang of M-Geeks slowly moved in, closing in a semicircle, all around us people were screaming and running away. Soon we would be surrounded, with just a shot-up bench between us and a bunch of trigger-happy robots grafted with Uzis.
Max the Leader stepped up. "Okay, behind us there's a metal railing, then the cliff, and the ocean," I said to Fang quickly. "Ease backward, beneath the railing, then drop down the cliff face. Wings out, we zoom up, and circle around in back of them."
"Excellent plan," Fang whispered. "Then what?"
"No idea. Start backing."
Fang shot out from beneath the bench, scurrying over the cliff in less than a second. I was right behind him. I felt myself push off from the edge and snapped out my wings, then I was free-falling, praying I wouldn't hit the sharp rocks below before I got some altitude.
The tip of my sneaker brushed one jagged boulder, and then my wings carried me upward, fast and hard. We swooped out low over the ocean, then circled back around the tip of the jetty. I was thinking as fast and hard as I was flying.
"We've got to get them over that cliff," Fang said as we began to come up behind them. They were still closing in on the bench, shooting round after round. The nearby trash can had been peppered with bullets, a sign hung down broken, and the cement bench looked like Swiss cheese. Most important, the metal railing had been shot to pieces and would easily give way.
"Yeah." I frowned. "Aren't they using heat sensors? They don't know we're not there!"
"Maybe they're just programmed to go forward and shoot," Fang said. "Or maybe someone's controlling them remotely, and they can't tell their target is gone."
It was weird. Something felt off. There was a missing piece to this puzzle, and I couldn't figure out what it was. But in the meantime, those 'bots were going overboard.
We came up from behind them, starting way high and then dive-bombing at more than two hundred miles an hour. I loved doing this—it's like being in a video game where you have to recalculate your trajectory ten times a second so you don't hit a building.
A few seconds before we hit them, we swung down in big arcs, our feet out in front of us.
Wham! I slammed into one so hard my teeth rattled. The impact lifted the 'bot almost two feet off the ground, sending it headfirst into the 'bot in front of it. Then it was just a matter of the domino effect.
We backed up as fast as we could and did it again. Before they could focus on us, the first line had already toppled through the shredded railing and dropped thirty feet down onto enormous, sharp-edged rocks. Ka-boom!
Only one of them managed to swivel in time to aim at us, but I went in low and kicked out its ankles, sliding on the asphalt and ripping huge holes in my best jeans. It tipped backward and then went over, still spewing bullets.
Cautiously, Fang and I peeked over the edge. Things were still sparking, there were a few lights still on, but there was no way for a heavy machine to survive that fall. With the bazillion dollars it must have cost to develop that technology, you would think that they would make them a little more impact tolerant.
We knew better than to hang around. Already, police cars and fire trucks were screeching to a halt, sirens blaring, lights going berserk. Fang and I raced silently along the edge of the boardwalk, then jumped over the edge, around the corner from where the 'bots had smashed.
Once again we whipped out our wings and soared out to sea, flying low and fast over the water. The balmy night air felt amazing on my face and in my hair.
So let's take stock of the evening, shall we?
Pros: Excellent Hawaiian food, ice cream, making out with Fang (aiieee!!!), and victory against murderous, bird-kid-hating, killing machines.
Cons: Well, the murderous, bird-kid-hating, killing machines, for one. For another, I looked down and realized that not only had I destroyed my best pair of jeans, but, in fact, they didn't even go with my shirt in the first place. Typical.
Third, there was something dark speeding right toward us. Going as fast as we were. A missile? A rocket? Our night wasn't over yet.
44
THE GASMAN spit out his regulator and screamed, "Angel!" His face and arms were on fire, and he felt like he was going to barf. Under water. How would that even work?
Suddenly, the sharks were right there, mouths wide open, full of blood and chunks of something, and stretching, reaching, snapping at—
Just water, because Angel was holding up her hand in the universal "Stop shark attack" gesture. She was frowning sternly at the sharks, one hand on her hip.
"Oh no you don't!" she gurgled loudly, right at the three huge man-eaters.
