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Lost in Babylon
The Beast in Battle
www.sevenwondersbooks.com
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One: Death. Toast.
Chapter Two: “The Mistake”
Chapter Three: Incident in Ohio
Chapter Four: Egarim
Chapter Five: Together, We Fell into Darkness
Chapter Six: Peaceful
Chapter Seven: Fresh and Dewy
Chapter Eight: It’s Aliii-ive!
Chapter Nine: A Question of Time
Chapter Ten: Arabic or Aramaic?
Chapter Eleven: Matter and Antimatter
Chapter Twelve: Deep Doodoo
Chapter Thirteen: Pure Awesome
Chapter Fourteen: Later, Gladiator
Chapter Fifteen: Calculations
Chapter Sixteen: The Dream
Chapter Seventeen: The Test
Chapter Eighteen: The Darkness
Chapter Nineteen: Cooperation
Chapter Twenty: A Tangle of Fangs
Chapter Twenty-One: Heroes
Chapter Twenty-Two: If Only …
Chapter Twenty-Three: To the Garden
Chapter Twenty-Four: The Torch and the Vizzeet
Chapter Twenty-Five: Lambda
Chapter Twenty-Six: The Number Seven
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Echoes of Nothing
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Invisible Bars
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Kranag
Chapter Thirty: Traps!
Chapter Thirty-One: Now you See It
Chapter Thirty-Two: A Whip of Blackness
Chapter Thirty-Three: In the Shadows
Chapter Thirty-Four: Again
Chapter Thirty-Five: Lazarus Rises
Chapter Thirty-Six: Pineapple and Grasshopper
Chapter Thirty-Seven: The Lethargic Lizard
Chapter Thirty-Eight: Back in Babylon
Chapter Thirty-Nine: His Jackness
Chapter Forty: Missiles of Spit
Chapter Forty-One: Falling Back
Chapter Forty-Two: The Mark
Chapter Forty-Three: The Betrayal
Chapter Forty-Four: You Have to Leave
Chapter Forty-Five: An Explanation of Sorts
Chapter Forty-Six: Headquarters
Chapter Forty-Seven: Resurrection
Chapter Forty-Eight: Fragments
Chapter Forty-Nine: The Beast-Tamer
Chapter Fifty: A Killing Company
Chapter Fifty-One: The Phone
Chapter Fifty-Two: Hack Attack
Chapter Fifty-Three: The Exit at the End of the Hall
Chapter Fifty-Four: Deafening Silence
Chapter Fifty-Five: Push Harder
Chapter Fifty-Six: Mustaches Everywhere
Chapter Fifty-Seven: The Chilling
About the Author
Copyright
About the Publisher
And now I was speeding through the jungle in a Jeep next to a three-hundred-pound giant who took great joy in driving into potholes.
“Keep your eyes on the road, Torquin!” I shouted as my head hit the ceiling.
“Eyes in face, not on road,” replied Torquin.
In the backseat, Aly Black and Cass Williams cried out in pain. But we all knew we had to hang on. Time was short.
We had to find Marco.
Oh, about that time bomb. It’s not an actual physical explosive. I have this gene that basically cuts off a person’s life at age fourteen. It’s called G7W and all of us have it—not only me but Marco Ramsay, Aly, and Cass. Fortunately there’s a cure. Unfortunately it has seven ingredients that are almost impossible to find. And Marco had flown off with the first one.
Which was why we were stuck in that sweaty Jeep on a crazy rescue mission.
“This ride is bad enough. Don’t pick the skin off your face, Jack!” said Aly from the backseat. “It’s disgusting!” She pushed aside a lock of pink hair from her forehead. I don’t know where she gets hair dye on this crazy island, but one of these days I’ll ask her. Cass sat next to her, his eyes closed and his head resting against the seat back. His hair is normally curly and brown, but today it looked like squid-ink spaghetti, all blackened and stringy.
Cass had had a much worse time with the griffin than any of us.
I stared at the shred of skin between my fingers. I hadn’t even known I was picking it. “Sorry.”
“Frame it,” Torquin said distractedly.
His eyes were trained on a dashboard GPS device that showed a map of the Atlantic Ocean. Across the top were the words RAMSAY TRACKER. Under it, no signal at all. Zip. We each had a tracker surgically implanted inside us, but Marco’s was broken.
“Wait. Frame a piece of sunburned skin?” asked Aly.
“Collect. Make collage.” If I didn’t know Torquin, I would think he had misunderstood Aly’s question. I mean, the four of us kids are misfits, but Torquin is in a class by himself. He’s about seven and a half feet tall in bare feet. And he is always in bare feet. (Honestly, no shoe could possibly contain those two whoppers.) What he lacks in conversation skills he makes up for in weirdness. “I give you some of mine. Remind me.”
Aly’s face grew practically ash white. “Remind me not to remind you.”
“I wish I only had a sunburn,” Cass moaned.
“You don’t have to come with us this time, you know,” Aly said.
Cass frowned without opening his eyes. “I’m a little tired, but I had my treatment and it worked. We have to find Marco. We’re a family.”
Aly and I exchanged a glance. Cass had been flown across an ocean by a griffin, who then prepped him for lunch. Plus he was recovering from a so-called treatment, and that wasn’t easy.
We’d all had treatments. We needed them to survive. They held off our symptoms temporarily so we can go on this crazy quest to find a permanent cure. In fact, the Karai Institute’s first job is to help us cope with the effects of the G7W.
Not to brag or anything, but having G7W means you’re descended from the royal family of the ancient kingdom of Atlantis. Which is probably the coolest thing about incredibly ordinary, shockingly talent-free me, aka Jack McKinley. On the positive side, G7W takes the things you’re already good at—like sports for Marco, computer geekiness for Aly, and photographic memory for Cass—and turns those qualities into superpowers.
On the negative side, the cure involves finding the stolen Loculi of Atlantis, which were hidden centuries ago in the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World.
And if that wasn’t hard enough: six of those Wonders don’t exist anymore.
A Loculus, by the way, is a fancy Atlantean word for “orb with cool magic power.” And we did find one. The story involves a hole in time and space (which I made by accident), a griffin (disgusting half eagle, half lion that came through the hole), a trip to Rhodes (where said griffin tried to lunch on Cass), some crazy monks (Greek), and the Colossus of Rhodes (which came to life and tried to kill us). There’s more to it, but all you need to know is that I was the one who let the griffin through, so the whole thing was basically my fault.
“Hey …” Aly said, looking at me through squinty eyes.
I turned away. “Hey what?”
“I know what you’re thinking, Jack,” she said. “And stop it. You are not responsible for what happened to Cass.”
Honestly, I think that girl reads minds as a hobby.
“Torquin responsible!” Torquin bellowed. He pounded the steering wheel, which made the whole vehicle jump into the air like a rusty, oil-leaking wallaby. “Got arrested. Left you alone. Could not help Cass. Could not stop Marco from flying away with Loculus. Arrrrgh!”
Cass moaned again. “Oh, my neelps.”
“Um, Torquin?” Aly said. “Easy on the steering wheel, okay?”
“What is neelps?” Torquin asked.
“Spleen,” I explained. “You have to spell it backward.”
Luckily the Jeep reached the end of the winding jungle path and burst onto the tarmac of a small landing field. We were finally at our destination. Before us, gleaming on the pavement, was a sleek, retrofitted military stealth jet.
Torquin braked the Jeep to a squealing stop, doing a perfect one-eighty. Two people were inspecting the plane. One of them was a pony-tailed guy with half-glasses. The other was a girl with tats and black lip gloss, who looked a little like my last au pair, Vanessa, only deader. I vaguely remembered meeting both of these people in our cafeteria, the Comestibule.
“Elddif,” Cass said groggily. “Anavrin …”
The girl looked alarmed. “He’s lost the ability to speak English?”
“No, he’s speaking his favorite language,” Aly replied. “Backwardish. It’s a form of English. That’s how we know he’s feeling better.”
“Those two people …” Cass muttered. “Those are their names.”
I sounded out the words in my head, imagined their spelling, and then mentally rearranged the letters back to front. “I think he means Fiddle and Nirvana.”
“Ah.” Fiddle looked toward us with a tight smile. “I have been rushing this baby into service. Her name is Slippy, she’s my pride and joy, and she will hit Mach three if you push her.”
Nirvana drummed her long, black-painted nails on the jet’s wall. “A vessel that breaks the sound barrier deserves a great sound system. I loaded it up with mp3s.”
Fiddle pulled her hand away. “Please. It’s a new paint job.”
“Sorry, Picasso,” she replied. “Anyway, there’s some slasher rock … emo … techno … death metal. Hey, since you’re going back to the States, might as well play the tunes that remind you of home.”
Going back.
I tried to stop shaking. People back home would be looking for us 24/7—families, police, government. Home meant detection. Re-capture. Not returning to the island. Not having treatments. Not having time to collect the cure. Death.
But without Marco’s Loculus, we were toast.
Death. Toast. The story of our lives.
But with no signal from Marco, what else could we do? Searching for him at his home just seemed like the best guess.
As we stepped out of the Jeep, Torquin let loose a burp that made the ground rumble.
“Four point five on the Richter scale,” said Nirvana. “Impressive.”
“Are you sure you want to do this, guys?” Fiddle asked.
“Have to,” Torquin said. “Orders from Professor Bhegad.”
“Wh-why do you ask?” Cass said to Fiddle.
He shrugged. “You guys each have a tracker surgically implanted inside you, right?”
Cass looked at him warily. “Right. But Marco’s is busted.”
“I helped design the tracker,” Fiddle said. “It’s state of the art. Unbustable. Doesn’t it seem weird to you that his stopped working—just coincidentally, after he disappeared?”
“What are you implying?” I asked.
Aly stepped toward him. “There’s no such thing as unbustable. You guys designed a faulty machine.”
“Prove it,” Fiddle said.
“Did you know the tracker signal is vulnerable to trace radiation from four elements?” Aly asked.
Fiddle scoffed. “Such as?”
“Iridium, for one,” Aly said. “Stops the transmissions cold.”
“So what?” Fiddle says. “Do you know how rare iridium is?”
“I can pinpoint more flaws,” Aly said. “Admit it. You messed up.”
Nirvana pumped a pale fist in the air. “You go, girl.”
Fiddle dusted a clod of dirt off the stepladder. “Have fun in Ohio,” he said. “But don’t expect me at your funeral.”
As Nirvana’s mix blared over the speaker, Torquin’s lips curled into a shape resembling an upside-down horseshoe. “Not music. Noise.”
Actually, I kind of liked it. Okay, I left out some of the choice words in the quote above, but still. It was funny in a messed-up way. The tune was taking my mind off the fact that I was a gazillion feet over the Atlantic, the plane’s speed was pushing me back into my seat, and my stomach was about to explode out my mouth.
I looked at Aly. Her skin was flattening back over her cheekbones as if it were being kneaded by fingers. I couldn’t help cracking up.
Aly’s eyes shone with panic. “What’s so funny?”
“You look about ninety-five years old,” I replied.
“You sound about five,” she said. “After this is over, remind me to teach you some social skills.”
Glurp.
I turned away, awash in dorkitude. Maybe that was my great G7W talent, the superhuman ability to always say the wrong thing. Especially around Aly. Maybe it’s because she’s so confident. Maybe it’s because I’m the only Select who has no reason to have been Selected.
Jack “The Mistake” McKinley.
Fight it, dude. I turned to the window, where a cluster of buildings was racing by below us. It was kind of a shock to see Manhattan go by so fast. A minute later the sight was replaced by the checkerboard farmland of what must have been Pennsylvania.
As we plunged into thick clouds, I closed my eyes. I tried to think positively. We would find Marco. He would thank us for coming, apologize, and hop on the plane.
Right. And the world would start revolving the other direction.
Marco was stubborn. He was also totally convinced he was (a) always right and (b) immortal. Plus, if he was home, telling the story of our abduction, there would be paparazzi and TV news reporters waiting at the airport. Milk cartons with our images in every supermarket. WANTED posters hanging in post offices.
How could we possibly rescue him? Torquin was supposed to protect us in case of an emergency, but that didn’t give me confidence.
The events of the last few days raced in my head: Marco falling into the volcano in a battle with an ancient beast. Our search that found him miraculously alive in the spray of a healing waterfall. The ancient pit with seven empty hemispheres glowing in the dark—the Heptakiklos.
If only I’d ignored it. If only I hadn’t pulled the broken shard from the center. Then the griffin wouldn’t have escaped, we wouldn’t have had to race off to find it without adequate training, and Marco wouldn’t have had the chance to escape—
“You’re doing it again,” Aly said.
I snapped back to attention. “Doing what?”
“Blaming yourself for the griffin,” Aly replied. “I can tell.”
“It crushed Professor Bhegad,” I said. “It took Cass over an ocean and nearly killed him—”
“Griffins were bred to protect the Loculi,” Aly reminded me. “This one led us to the Colossus of Rhodes. You caused that to happen, Jack! We’ll get the Loculus back. Marco will listen to us.” She shrugged. “Then maybe you can let six more griffins through. They’ll lead us to the other Loculi. To protect us, I can help the KI develop … I don’t know, a repellant.”
“A griffin repellant?” Cass said.
Aly shrugged. “There are bug repellants, shark repellants, so why not? I’ll learn about them and tinker with the formula.”
Tinker. That was what Bhegad called Aly. We each had a nickname—Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Sailor. Aly was the Tinker who could fix anything, Marco the Soldier because of his strength and bravery, Cass the Sailor for his awesome navigational ability. Me? You’re the Tailor because you put it all together, Bhegad had said. But I wasn’t putting anything together now, except pessimism.
“DIIIIIIIIE!”
Nirvana’s sudden shriek made us all spin around. Torquin bounced upward and banged his head on the ceiling. “What happened?” I asked.
“The end of the song,” Nirvana said. “I love that part.”
“Anything good?” Torquin said, scrolling through the tunes. “Any Disney?”
Cass was staring out the window, down toward a fretwork of roads and open land. “We’re almost there. This is Youngstown, Ohio … I think.”
“You think?” Aly said. “That doesn’t sound like you.”
“I—I don’t recognize the street pattern …” Cass said, shaking his head. “I should know this. I’m drawing a blank. I think something’s wrong with my … whatever.”
“Your ability to memorize every street in every place in the world?” Aly put her arm around him. “You’re nervous about Marco, that’s all.”
“Right … right …” Cass drummed his fingers on the armrest. “You sometimes make mistakes, right, Ally?”
Aly nodded. “Rarely, but yes. I’m human. We all are.”
“The weird thing is,” Cass said, “there’s only one part of Marco that isn’t human—the tracker. And those things don’t just fail—unless something really unusual happens to the carrier.”
“Like …?” I said tentatively.
Cass’s eyes started to moisten. “Like the thing none of us is talking about. Like if the tracker was destroyed.”
“It’s inside his body,” Aly said. “He can’t destroy it.”
“Right. Unless …” Cass said.
We all fell silent. The plane began to descend. No one finished the sentence, but we all knew the words.
Unless Marco was dead.
“So, are we there?” I asked nonchalantly.
Cass looked at me curiously. “What are you doing?”
“Scratching,” I replied. “A lottery card. Which I found.”
“And how will you collect if you win?” He burst out laughing. “Come on. The house is just ahead. Number forty-five Walnut Street. The green porch.”
I’m not sure why I didn’t tell him the truth—that I’d found a piece of burned wood and a gum wrapper on the ground, and now I was using them to write my dad. Maybe because it was a dumber idea than entering a lottery. But I couldn’t help it. All I could think about was Dad. That he was just one state away.
I shoved the note into my back pocket. We jogged up the road to Torquin and Aly, who were in the entrance to a little cul-de-sac in the middle of Lemuel, Ohio. Torquin had parked our rented Toyota Corolla in a secluded wooded area down the block, to avoid being seen. As I joined Cass and Aly, we stood there, staring at the house like three ice sculptures.
Torquin waddled ahead, oblivious.
“I can’t do this …” Aly said.
I nodded. I felt scared, homesick, worried, and nine thousand percent convinced we should have let Bhegad send another team to do this. Anyone but us.
The house had a small lawn, trimmed with brick. Its porch screen had been ripped in two places and carefully repaired. A little dormer window peeked from the roof, and a worn front stoop held a rusted watering can. It didn’t look like my house, but somehow my heart was beating to the rhythm of homesickness.
A kid with an overstuffed backpack was shambling toward a house across the street, where his mom was opening a screen door. It brought back memories of my own mom, before she’d gone off on a voyage and never returned. Of my dad, who met me at school for a year after Mom’s death, not wanting to let me out of his sight. Was Dad home now?
“Come!” Torquin barked over his shoulder. “No time to daydream!”
He was already lumbering up the walkway, his bare feet thwapping on the gray-green stones. Cass, Aly, and I fell in behind him.
Before he could ring the bell, I heard the snap of a door latch. The front door opened, revealing the silhouette of a guy with massive shoulders. As he stepped forward I stifled a gasp. His features were dark and piercing, the corners of his mouth turned up—all of it just like Marco. But his face was etched deeply, his hair flecked with gray, and his eyes so sad and hollow I felt like I could see right through them.
He glanced down at Torquin’s feet and then back up. “Can I help you?”
“Looking for Marco,” Torquin said.
“Uh-huh.” The man nodded wearily. “You and everyone else. Thanks for your concern, but sorry.”
He turned back inside, pulling the door shut, but Torquin stopped it with his forearm.
“Excuse me?” The man turned slowly, his eyes narrowing.
I quickly stepped in front of him. “I’m a friend of Marco’s,” I said. “And I was wondering—”
“Then how come I don’t recognize you?” Mr. Ramsay asked suspiciously.
“From … travel soccer,” I said, reciting the line we had prepared for just this occasion. “Please. I’m just concerned, that’s all. This is my uncle, Thomas. And two other soccer players, Cindy and Dave. We heard a rumor that Marco might be in the area. We wondered if he came home.”
“The last time we saw him, he was at Lemuel General after collapsing during a basketball game,” Mr. Ramsay said. “Then … gone without a trace. Like he ran away from everything. Since then we’ve heard nothing but rumors. If we believed them all, he’s been in New York, Ashtabula, Kuala Lumpur, Singapore, Manila, and Ponca City. Look!” He grabbed a basket of snapshots off a nearby table and thrust it toward me.
“I—I don’t understand,” I said, sifting through pixelated, blurry shots of jockish-looking teens who were definitely not Marco. “Why would people lie about seeing him?”
“People want the reward,” Mr. Ramsay replied wearily. “One hundred thousand bucks for information leading to Marco’s return. It’s supposed to help. Instead, we’re just bombarded by emails, letters, visitors. All junk. So take my advice, kid, don’t trust rumors.”
As Marco’s dad took the basket back and returned it to the table, two people emerged from inside the house—a trim, red-haired woman and a girl in sweats. The woman’s slate-blue eyes were full of fear. The girl looked angry. They were both focused on Torquin. “I’m … Marco’s mother,” the woman said. “And this is his sister. What’s going on? If this is another scam, I’m calling the police.”
