The Twilight Saga

 

 

 

Preface—After

 

 

Latest entry on “Fang’s Blog” 1:39 am ::

 

To those of you who actually have a heart and care:

 

Yo. It's Max. Listen, I know Fang hasn't been on in a while. Honestly, I don't know if he ever will again - by no fault of mine, please keep in mind. Seriously. I didn't do anything this time. No, Fang left on his own, and I'm gonna kill him for it. Now that he's gone, I just... I'm totally lost. My mom and Jeb are miles away; my flock is all I have left. But now, even they've been taken away from me.

 

Wow, I can't believe this blog thing actually works.

 

Anyway. Since no one can help me, I figured, hey, maybe Fang's millions of viewers/stalkers can. Please don't take that personally - I seriously need your help. God, it hurts to say that. If you can find him, tell him to get his butt back to us. Back to me.

 

Fly on, Maximum Ride.


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XD
Just remember; Fang is MINE ;D
Thanks Ker! <3

Chapter 4—Before

 

Angel coughed and pulled her shirt—her favorite white-lace one—up to cover her mouth and nose. “Nudge!” she yelled hoarsely, sinking to her hands and knees. She peered through the thick columns of smoke, desperate to see a flash of pink.

 

“Here,” she called, crawling over to her. “I just called Max—they’re on their way.”

 

Angel suppressed the urge to roll her eyes. They didn’t need Max, or anyone else—they could handle this just fine on their own.

 

That’s the thing: when you need help, just once, then Max thinks you can’t do it by yourself and she needs to take over. Being leader doesn’t mean you’re better than the rest of the flock, you know.

 

But Angel didn’t say that out loud. “Okay,” she croaked, stifling a coughing fit.

 

“What are we gonna do now?” Nudge cried, sounding on the verge of tears.

 

Now was Angel’s time to take responsibility, prove she really could be leader; she just knew it. She took a deep breath, despite the heavy smoke in the air, and looked at Nudge. “Now,” she said, “we fix this.”

 

She led the way, crawling toward the kitchen, the place where the fire started. The smoke poured heaviest from there, so she cautioned Nudge to hold her breath if she could. “Wait here,” she said, standing up and pushing into the room.

 

The counter island in the middle of the kitchen was set completely ablaze, illuminating the rest of the room. Angel’s favorite bay window, the one with the perfect view of the wild strawberries, was full of shattered glass. She made a mental note to watch where she stepped. Treading carefully, she made my way into the wreckage. The sink was closest to the door, and the fire seemed to be spread away from it. She poked her head out the window to the living room and motioned Nudge to follow after her.

 

Nudge ducked down and grabbed two buckets from the cabinet, tossing one to Angel and filling up the other. Angel dunked her bucket under the water and followed Nudge as she drowned the fire out. The fire wasn’t that big, and they soon had it under control.

 

When it was small enough to fit in the bucket itself, Angel sighed and stamped on it with her pretty pink rain boots, the one Dr. Martinez had bought her when they visited. “That wasn’t so bad,” she said, hoping Nudge would agree.

 

Nudge stared at her incredulously. “We could have been killed!” she shrieked. “Max and the others shouldn’t have left…”

 

Angel did roll her eyes that time, but turned away toward the bay window so Nudge wouldn’t see. "We don't need them," she said. "We did just fine on our own. It wasn't like we started the fire."

Nudge glanced at her, eyes shining with curiosity. Angel knew what she was thinking: What did start the fire?

Angel tiptoed cautiously over to the main source of the wreckage, a spot behind the island counter. It had a clear view of the shattered bay window, where whatever started the fire must have gotten in. She leaned over the barbecued bucket to better see its contents.

As Nudge walked up behind her, Angel screamed.

Chapter 5—After

 

Fang traced wet circles on the hard wooden table, drumming his fingers simultaneously against the side of his latte. The barista circled his little table in the corner for a third time, flashing another 100-watt smile his way. He managed a tiny smile that probably more resembled a grimace—but it didn’t look like she cared.

 

He clenched his fist, noticing her blondish-brown hair, and glanced back down at the laptop’s glowing screen. The plain white eviction notice was still in plain view, haunting him and filling the people around him with pointless sympathy.

 

The barista finally paused at his table. Fang glanced up at her. “Need something?” he asked bluntly, knowing he was being harsh but not finding it within himself to care.

 

She smiled brightly at him. “I’m Katie,” she said. “Do you need anything? Refill, pastry?”

 

He shook my head. “Uh, no thanks,” he said, turning back to the computer screen. Then he changed his mind. “Actually, yes,” he said quickly, pretending not to notice when her smile grew hopeful and flirty. “Is there a research lab anywhere in the area?”

--

 

I groan at my weakness, but helplessly open a search window. I know: it’s sad that all I have left in the world is a laptop. But I’m getting by, aren’t I?

 

My fingers fly across the keyboard as I type in the first words that come to mind—though they’re the last words I want to see right now. I’m just… let’s just say I’ve lost my touch since… well, everything. What happened?? you’re wondering. Sorry; my lips are sealed.

 

The glowing Google window throws my own pathetic-ness back in my face. Fang’s Blog. First search commenced.

 

I click on the first result given, not even having to check it to know it’s the right one. It’s already purple from my clicking it repeatedly.

 

As I settle down to make a new post, something catches my eye. It’s an older post, granted—but not old enough to make me ignore it.

 

Latest entry: 2:17 pm

 

The date? Yesterday’s.

 

The reason this bothers me so: A, I didn’t have time to get on yesterday; and B, I only do so late at night, when I have complete and utter privacy. I thought this blog was inactive—my case exceptional. And there’s one thing I know for sure right now: this entry is not mine.

 

Curiosity getting the better of me, I open it in full-screen. And gape at the words before me with dying hope, making absolutely no sense of them.

 

The Flock is dead.

 

As soon as I finish reading, the screen winks off, leaving no sign I was ever on it.

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