Now, Roz was in an old train station, hiding among the wooden rafters above the platforms. A few moments ago she'd spotted Slaughter soaring through the air, searching for her. OK, enough rest. Have to get back out there.

It was a simple plan, and one that Roz knew would freak out her brother if he ever found out about it: Roz could have remained hidden, but kept emerging to confront Slaughter.

When she was nine years old, when her parents were still alive and the family lived in a sprawling suburban neighborhood, one of the neighbors had a small nasty terrier that attacked the kids on the street every chance it could get. One day Roz decided she'd had enough: She went out on her bike and, as always, the dog chased after her, yapping and barking.

Usually Roz would just pedal faster until the dog grew tired and gave up, but on this occasion she kept her speed down, allowed the dog to get within biting distance of the bike's back tire, then sped up. Every time it looked as though he was about to quit, she'd slow down again. After twenty minutes of this the exhausted dog finally looked around and realized he had no idea where he was or how to get home.

The terrier didn't find his way home for three days, and after that his owners never let him out on his own again. For a while Roz was treated as a hero by the other kids.

Right now, she wasn't entirely confident of the same trick working on Slaughter, but it was all she could think of. She knew that if she stayed hidden, Slaughter would give up and go after the others.

She climbed down from the rafters and quietly made her way along the eastbound platform. At the end she dropped down onto the tracks and realized that the sky to the east was no longer a solid black-dawn was breaking. That's not good. . . .

A loud squawk and fluttering of wings from behind Roz: She turned to see a flock of pigeons take to the air, startled by Slaughter as she skimmed over the trees.

Roz crouched on the tracks, prepared herself for the assault. Slaughter would rush at her, Roz would form a telekinetic shield, Slaughter would collide with it, and the two of them would bounce apart.

But this time the growing light would make going into hiding again more difficult.

The solution hit Roz like a tidal wave: She can only chase me if she can see me!

She reached out with her telekinesis and forced Slaughter's eyelids shut. The woman panicked, lost control. She plowed into the tracks beside Roz, the impact tearing up the sleepers and showering the area with fragments of bedrock.

Lying on her back sprawled across the tracks and half-covered in debris, Slaughter screamed, "What have you done to me?"

"I've severed your optic nerves," Roz said. "Now give up or I'll do the same thing to your spinal cord."

Slaughter's gloved hands probed her face. "Liar. . . . You've closed my eyes!"

Roz had never imagined that superhuman strength would extend to the muscles in someone's eyelids, but now Slaughter was forcing them open and it was taking all of Roz's telekinetic strength to keep them closed.

But her telekinesis could control only one thing at a time. There has to be a way I can . . . Roz smiled. I've got hands, don't I?

She scooped up a pile of pebbles and dirt from the side of the track, walked over to Slaughter, and allowed the pile to spill into the woman's open mouth. She darted back as Slaughter coughed and spat, rolled onto her hands and knees.

"I'll kill you for that!"

"Yeah, yeah. . . ." Roz lobbed a fist-sized stone that bounced off Slaughter's head. "Good shot!"

"You think a rock can hurt me? I've already taken a bullet to the head today!"

"I know. That was funny."

The woman rose into the air. "How far can your telekinesis extend? All the way into the upper atmosphere?" Her speed increased. "I'll kill you later."

Roz watched as Slaughter became a dot against the early morning sky.

She collapsed onto the ground and realized that she was trembling. I won. For now.

Abby de Luyando stood in the prison officer's staff room staring up at the TV set bolted to the wall. She had the remote control in her hand and flicked through channel after channel.

Most of the channels showed only static, but some displayed a message: "We are experiencing technical difficulties-please stand by."

How are we supposed to find out how far the plague has spread? Millions of people could have died already and we'd never know!

She wanted to go back out to the prisoners, but knew that it was pointless. The majority of them were unconscious and the rest were too delirious to communicate with her. At first she'd considered blocking up the shattered wall with some sort of barrier, but quickly realized that there was no point: The prisoners weren't in any condition to escape, and there were few people on the outside who were capable of breaking in.

Instead she'd spent an hour retrieving gray blankets and thin pillows from the cells and making the prisoners and guards a little more comfortable. She couldn't think of anything else to do-the phones were down and it was unlikely that any of the emergency services would answer.

Abby turned off the TV set, righted a fallen chair, and sat down. For the first time since she'd crept out of the apartment, she allowed herself to think about what might be happening at home.

She knew that her mother would be sick by now. Maybe her sister too. Vienna was just about old enough to be affected by the plague. Her brothers were too young to be able to cope on their own, and they certainly weren't capable of looking after their mom and older sister.

She thought of the sick woman in the car on the side of the road, of Lance and Thunder and Roz. They could all be dead by now. And I don't even know Thunder's real name.

They'd pinned everything on Lance's idea of recruiting Pyrokine. It had been a risk, but one that had seemed worth taking. We were idiots-he was in prison! How could we not have expected him to side with the bad guys?

Abby left the staff room and returned to the main part of the building. She leaned over the rail and looked down at the ground floor-none of the guards or prisoners had moved.

One of the prisoners had looked familiar as she was tending to him, and now she remembered who he was: the Scarlet Slayer, arrested a year earlier by Titan. On the TV news, the Slayer had looked menacing. He was tall, gaunt, almost skeleton-thin, with a shaved head and a long beard. He'd dressed like a cross between a pirate and a samurai warrior. His powers were basic; flight, enhanced strength, and speed, and he'd never seemed to be particularly smart.

Abby was about to move away when it occurred to her that a prisoner who could fly wouldn't be allowed out of his cell without some sort of restraint, but she hadn't seen anything like that on the Slayer.

She looked around. The cells appeared to be no different from those in any prison she'd seen on TV. Walls on three sides, barred door on the other. Nothing that would be strong enough to stop someone like Dioxin, whose acid-dripping skin could easily burn through steel bars.

So what do they do? Use a device or injection to inhibit their powers? No, I would have heard about something like that.

Unless the really dangerous ones are held someplace else. This place couldn't keep Dioxin prisoner. She made her way back to the staircase. But Pyrokine was here. . . . At least, he was in this prison, but maybe not in this part of it.

On the ground floor at the far side of the building she found a corridor sealed by a set of locked doors. The lock snapped with one blow from her sword, and as she was pushing the doors open she thought she heard a voice cry out.

"Hello?" Abby shouted. "Anyone there?"

A moment later a deep, rumbling voice called back, "Yes! Yes! In here! Thank God, I thought I was going to starve to death in this place!"

"Where are you?"

"Third room on the left. There's a steel door!"

Abby found the circular door and stopped. It was easily seven feet in diameter and looked like the door to a bank vault. A massive wheel was connected by heavy levers to eight bolts that sealed around the edges-the bolts were almost as thick as her arm-but there didn't appear to be a lock.

"Hello?" the voice called. "You still there?"

"Um . . . Listen. . . . Do you know what's going on?"

"A plague, right? Pretty much everyone who's over the age of twenty is infected. It was on the radio before it went off the air. Is that what's happened?"

"Yeah," Abby called back. "Look, it was done deliberately. There's an organization called The Helotry who've done this for, well, it's too complicated to get into it now. But I need to stop them, and I can't do it on my own. So I need two things from you before I let you out. First, I don't care what you're in here for, but if you're a superhuman then I need your help. The Helotry's plague is going to kill millions of people if we can't stop them. So you have to swear that you're going to help me."

"I swear!"

"OK. And the second thing . . . You're definitely a superhuman?"

"No doubt about that."

Abby turned the wheel counterclockwise, three full revolutions, and the heavy bolts drew back with a grating squeal.

She pulled the door open, and looked inside. Four mattresses were lying side by side on the floor, and getting up from them was the largest person Abby had ever seen. He was at least thirteen feet tall, heavily muscled, and completely hairless. His eyes were colorless-lacking even a pupil-and his skin was a deep blue.

She swallowed hard and stepped back into the corridor. "Remember the deal?"

The giant awkwardly squeezed himself through the round doorway. "I remember," he growled. "You know who I am?"

"Of course I do. You're Brawn."

"That's what they call me in the papers. Who are you?"

Abby started heading back up the corridor. "Um . . . Well, I don't have a superhero name yet. I haven't thought of one."

The ceiling was too low for Brawn to walk upright-he crawled on his hands and knees after her. "You should pick something from Roman or Greek mythology. I was going to call myself Hercules but . . ." He faltered. "Things didn't turn out the way I thought they would."

Abby couldn't help glancing back at him, half expecting him to grab hold of her and tear her apart. "Are you able to . . . change back?"

The giant shook his head. "Nah. Stuck like this forever, probably."

Abby pushed open the doors at the end of the corridor. "Better watch your step here."

Brawn squeezed through the opening, and was finally able to stand upright. He looked around. "Oh man . . . I know some of these guys! Are they all dead?"

"No, but the plague hit them pretty bad." Abby stepped back and looked up at Brawn. He was naked except for a pair of crude orange trunks that looked like they'd been handmade from one of the prison jumpsuits. On TV he'd always looked ferocious, a barely human monster fired by rage and hatred, but now she could see compassion and concern on his face.

But there was still an air about him that set her nerves on edge. A small part of her mind told her that something so huge couldn't be human, that he was dangerous and she should run.

Brawn crouched down next to one of the guards and gently placed his massive hand on the man's chest. "Mr. Chapman . . ." To Abby, he said, "He's the only one who didn't treat me like an animal. God, I hope he pulls through. Mr. Chapman doesn't have a sense of smell, see. Some accident when he was a kid. So he's not afraid of me."

Abby didn't know how to respond to that.

Brawn sighed. "Apparently sometimes I give off a scent that triggers people's fear reflex. You can't detect it consciously, but it's there. I mean, you've been keeping your distance, right?" He stood up again, and shook his head. "The people who did this . . . Who are they?"

"A group called The Helotry. Slaughter is with them-"

"Aw, not her! I hate that woman!"

"And a guy we think is Pyrokine."

"Never heard of him. So who's this we?"

"Me, Max Dalton's sister Roz, a guy called Thunder who can control sound waves, and a guy called Lance. He's not a superhuman, though. And as far as we can tell, all the other superhumans are infected. Which reminds me . . . Why aren't you infected?"

Brawn looked down at her, spread his arms. "I'm tall for my age." He shrugged. "I'm only sixteen."

CHAPTER 25.

Lance only realized he'd been left alone in the dark when the overhead lights came on, and he winced at the sudden brightness. He blinked rapidly, shook his head. His vision was definitely recovering. The shifting red and green afterimage was still there, but through it he could now see the room in which he was being held prisoner.

He'd imagined it was a dungeon of some kind, but instead it looked like a room in an ordinary apartment. In front of him was a closed wooden door and there were blind-covered windows to his left, but otherwise the room was bare.

The door opened, and one of the guards entered.

"Who's there?" Lance called. The longer they believed he was still blind, the greater his chance of escaping.

"Shut up," the man said. Lance recognized his voice as the one belonging to the man called Remington. The man moved to the left, but Lance kept his eyes focused straight ahead.

"Look, I'll tell you everything I know. But the old woman was right-I don't know much."

"Bring him in," the guard called out.

Lance heard footsteps and scuffling out in the hallway, and it took all his willpower not to react to what he saw: Thunder was dragged into the room, facedown, by two of the guards. They dropped him just inside the door.

Lance jumped at the sound. "What was that?" Oh man, please don't let him be dead!

Thunder's mask was gone, his costume-the black and green wet suit that had seemed so funny earlier-was ripped and covered in scorch marks. His hands were tied behind his back-his gloves had been removed, revealing blood-covered, bruised knuckles. His legs were tied at the ankles.

"What's going on?" Lance said. He sniffed the air. "Smells like something's burning."

One of the guards said, "This one still hasn't shut up?"

"He will soon enough." Remington approached Lance. "Kid, we've got your friend here. Thunder. Two down, two to go. What do you think about that?"

"No, six to go," Lance said, staring just to the left of Remington's face. "What, you thought there were only four of us? God, you people are such amateurs. There's eight of us. The other four are . . . Well, I'm not telling. But you guys really ought to get yourself some padded pants because pretty soon now the others are going to be kicking your butts all the way from here to San Jose."

On the edge of his vision Lance saw the blow coming and forced himself to keep staring straight ahead. Remington's fist slammed into his jaw, sent him sprawling-chair and all-onto the floor.

Lance groaned. He tasted blood again, and was sure that some of his teeth had been loosened. He coughed. "Proud of yourself, are you? Hitting a blind kid tied to a chair . . . What do you think your mother would say if she could see you now? When she phones you and asks how your day was at work, what are you going to tell her? Of course, that's assuming that your mom hasn't been infected by the plague that you morons created."

The man strode over to him, grabbed his arm, and hauled him upright. He took hold of Lance's chin and pressed his face close. "Shut up, you snotty little punk! I have had it up to here with your mouth! One more word and I swear to God I'll choke the life out of you!"

The other two guards grabbed his arms and pulled him back. "You're letting him get to you," one said. "That's exactly what he wants-to get us off guard." They ushered him toward the door and out into the hallway.

As they were pulling the door closed, Lance cheerfully shouted, "Bye! Tell your mom I said hello!"