Adaptation

by Malinda Lo

Genres: YA Action & Adventure; YA LGBT & Pride; YA Romance; YA Science Fiction

Synopsis

Across North America, flocks of birds hurl themselves into airplanes, causing at least a dozen to crash. Thousands of people die. Fearing terrorism, the United States government grounds all flights, and millions of travelers are stranded.



Among them are Reese and her debate team partner and longtime crush David, who are in Arizona when the disaster occurs. On their drive home to San Francisco, along a stretch of empty highway in the middle of the Nevada night, a bird flies into their headlights. The car flips over. When they wake up in a military hospital, the doctor won't tell them what happened, where they are—or how they've been miraculously healed.



Things become even stranger when Reese returns home. San Francisco feels like a different place with police enforcing curfew, hazmat teams collecting dead birds, and a strange presence that seems to be following her. When Reese unexpectedly collides with the beautiful Amber Gray, her search for the truth is forced in an entirely new direction—and threatens to expose a vast global conspiracy that the government has worked for decades to keep secret.

Release date: September 18, 2012

Publisher: Little, Brown Books for Young Readers

Print pages: 402

Sample

The birds plummeted to the tarmac, wings loose and limp. They struck the ground with such force that their bodies smashed into dark slicks on the concrete.

“What the—” Reese Holloway pushed herself out of the hard plastic seat facing the floor-to-ceiling windows. Outside, heat waves rippled over the oil-stained runway. She glanced back at David, her forehead wrinkled. “Did you see that?”

David Li looked up from his book. “See what?” His dark brown eyes reflected the hard, bright daylight in tiny dots of white.

Reese tried to swallow the flutter of self-consciousness that rose within her as David met her gaze. She pointed at the windows. “These birds just fell dead from the sky.”

David’s eyebrows rose. “No way.”

“Yeah.”

David closed the book over his right index finger and stood. “Where?”

His shoulder brushed against her as he joined her at the windows. She took a tiny step away and said, “Over there—by those two workers.” A man in a blue jumpsuit pulled up in a baggage cart while another man, in an orange vest, ran toward him.

“You mean that dark stuff on the ground? Those are birds?”

“Were birds.”

“Damn.”

Blue Jumpsuit was gesticulating at the sky and the remains on the ground, apparently explaining the birds’ fatal descent to Orange Vest.

“That was bizarre,” Reese said. The unforgiving glare of the sun on the neon-orange vest and the glistening lumps on the concrete gave the scene a surreal cast—like overexposed film. “Have you ever seen birds just crash to the ground like that?”

“No,” David said.

Reese watched Blue Jumpsuit pull a plastic bag from a container on the baggage cart. He stuck his hand in the bag and squatted down to pick up the remains as if he were cleaning up after a dog. David went back to his seat, but Reese remained standing until the birds were removed, leaving only a smudge on the pavement: the stamp of their final moments. When she sat down again she felt unsettled, as if the ordinary world had been knocked off-balance and everything was now listing slightly to one side.

Beside her, David had returned to his book, and she saw the title angling across the cover in a retro-futuristic font: The Left Hand of Darkness. She glanced at her watch. Their plane to San Francisco had been delayed, but it was due to take off, finally, in an hour. The waiting had made her twitchy, and her leg bounced with nervous energy. She bent down to pull out her iPod from her backpack, and as she fitted the headphones into her ears she surreptitiously watched David turn a page. He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt, and the skin of his arm had a golden tone like sunlight during Indian summer. She took a shallow breath and forced herself to look at her iPod, scrolling through her music. But as the song titles rolled past, she wasn’t paying attention.

David was her debate partner. They had both joined the debate team at Kennedy High School their freshman year, but it wasn’t until junior year last fall that their coach, Joe Chapman, suggested they might work well together. And they did. They worked so well together that they qualified for nationals. When Reese’s mom found out, she was ecstatic. She even wanted to fly to Phoenix with them for the tournament, but her case ended up going to court during nationals—she was an assistant district attorney in San Francisco—so only Mr. Chapman had come with them.

Reese was glad, because she would have been even more embarrassed if her mom had been there to watch her lose. Afterward, Reese had called her from the locker-lined hallway behind the auditorium to tell her the bad news. Her mom tried to comfort her. “You can’t win them all, honey.”

Reese pressed her fingers to the bridge of her nose as if that would pinch off the disappointment that was spreading through her. “I know,” she said, schooling her voice to sound distant and detached.

But her mom wasn’t fooled. “I’m sorry,” she said gently, and Reese fought the urge to cry. She had wanted to win, of course, but it was the way they had lost that hurt the most. It had been all her fault. “Do you want to tell me what happened?” her mom asked.

I screwed everything up because—because—

Reese couldn’t even think the words to herself. “It just didn’t go well,” she said. Behind her the door to the auditorium opened, and David came out. Their eyes met briefly, but when he quickly looked away, chagrin rose in her, hot and uncomfortable. She blamed herself, but she knew David never would. Somehow, that made it even worse.

“I know you and David were well prepared,” her mom said, “and sometimes it just doesn’t go your way.”

“Yeah,” Reese said, but her mom’s words didn’t register. David had stopped about twenty feet away, turning toward a bulletin board covered with athletic announcements. They were the only two people in the hallway; everyone else was still in the auditorium watching the final round.

“Don’t be too hard on yourself. I know how you are, honey.”

Reese clutched the phone with nervous fingers. Was David waiting to talk to her?

“Are you still there, Reese?” her mom asked.

“Yeah. Sorry.” Reese wrenched her gaze away from David and stared down at the floor. A gum wrapper had been tossed onto the tiles, the foil glinting in the fluorescent lights.

“Oh, honey.” Her mom sighed. “I’m sorry, but I have to go. We’re heading back into court.” Her mom was in the middle of a big domestic-violence case. Her favorite kind—Reese knew her mom loved putting nasty husbands behind bars.

“All right,” Reese said. She saw David run a hand through his short black hair, making it stand straight up.

“I’ll call you tonight to confirm your flight info. I love you, honey.”

“I love you too, Mom.” She hung up, and at that moment David pulled out his phone and dialed, turning away as he lifted it to his ear.

He wasn’t waiting for her.

She was both relieved and let down, and the conflicting feelings sent a rush of heat through her body. Pocketing her own phone, she slipped past David and headed toward the lobby to look for their coach. David’s voice echoed down the hall after her: “Hey, Dad. No… we lost.”

Now, in the airport as she sat beside him, the memory of that day—was it only yesterday?—and all its disappointments surged up again, slamming into the off-kilter tension that gripped her after witnessing the demise of those birds. Get a grip on yourself, she thought.

“I’m going to walk around,” Reese said abruptly to David. “Will you watch my stuff?”

David nodded, and she stood, dropping her iPod into her backpack on the floor. She saw Mr. Chapman threading his way through the seats toward them, carrying two bottles of water. He waved at her, and she waved back as she walked toward the center of the concourse. This trip could not be over soon enough. There were only a few weeks before school ended for the year, and thankfully no more debate practice. All of this weird crap with David would be done with, and she doubted they would be partners again next fall. That’ll be a relief, she thought, ignoring the twinge in her chest that told her she was lying to herself.

Reese passed the podium, where a blue-and-white-uniformed flight attendant was dealing with a line of five or six travelers. A harassed-looking mother herded two toddlers forward while dragging a suitcase and pushing a stroller. Reese was trying to avoid the stroller, her sneakers squeaking across the glossy floor, when she heard someone scream, “Oh my God!”

She turned to see a woman standing up, hands over her mouth and staring at the flat-screen TV hanging from the ceiling. The news was on as usual, and the Asian American anchorwoman had a hand pressed to her ear as if she were listening to a feed. Her face was grim. Reese took a few steps closer until she could read the headline at the bottom of the screen: PLANE CRASH IN NEW JERSEY KILLS ALL PASSENGERS.

Reese gasped.

The anchorwoman lowered her hand from her ear and said: “We have confirmed reports that an Airbus A320 has crashed outside Newark Airport. The cause of the crash has not yet been determined, but eyewitnesses have reported that the plane collided with a flock of Canada geese during takeoff. While airplanes are designed to withstand isolated bird strikes, apparently this was an entire flock—more than a dozen birds in all.”

A jolt went through Reese. Birds? In her mind’s eye she saw the birds plunge to the tarmac again.

Other travelers began to gather beneath the TV screen while the anchorwoman repeated the bare facts. The plane had burst into flames when its fuel tanks exploded upon impact. One hundred forty-six passengers were presumed dead. Emergency crew on the scene were hoping to salvage some clues from the burning mess.

“This is crazy,” said a middle-aged woman standing near Reese. “Those poor people!”

“What is this about birds?” said a man in a Red Sox cap. “How could birds do this?”

The anchorwoman interrupted her own report, saying, “We have news of a second crash, this time in the Pacific Northwest. A Boeing 747 has crashed onto the coast near Seattle.” The anchorwoman pressed her hand to her ear again. “Information is still coming in. We do not know if there are any survivors of this second plane crash.” Her face stiffened, and she stopped speaking for a moment. Finally she lowered her hand and looked into the camera. “Early reports indicate that this plane was struck by birds.”

Reese gaped at the television as a collective gasp arose from the travelers around her.

“We have Lamont Bell on the line from the Federal Aviation Administration,” the anchorwoman said. “Mr. Bell, what is the chance of two planes being downed by bird strikes within an hour?”

The man’s voice sounded scratchy over the audio transmission, but it was clear that he was unnerved. “It’s not—it’s very unusual. I’ve never in my entire career encountered two plane crashes of such magnitude due to bird strikes.”

“Are you saying that you believe the planes crashed due to a different, unnatural cause?”

“I—no, I’m not saying that. I don’t know what caused the crashes. We shouldn’t speculate.”

“Eyewitness accounts indicate the presence of large flocks of birds. Is it impossible that the plane crashes were due to bird strikes?”

“No, it’s not impossible, but it’s unlikely.”

“Then you do think something else is part of the equation?”

“I don’t know,” Bell said, sounding exasperated. “Look, I don’t want to speculate.”

“Mr. Bell, I’m afraid I have to interrupt you again,” the anchorwoman said. “I’ve just received news that there has been a third crash, this time in Texas. Once again, reports do indicate that bird strikes may have been the cause of the crash. And—” She stopped speaking, turning to look off camera. Someone offscreen handed her a sheet of paper, and when she faced the camera again, she read directly from it. “I’ve been informed that the FAA has grounded all aircraft in the United States while officials assess the threat level posed by these accidents.” She looked into the camera. “I’m afraid we have some bad news for travelers today. I repeat: The Federal Aviation Administration has grounded all aircraft in the United States.”

Reese’s stomach dropped, and the crowd around the TV monitor erupted with questions.

“What do you mean? Is my flight canceled?”

“This is bullshit!”

“What is going on? How could birds possibly do this?”

“It can’t be birds—it must be terrorists.”

“That’s insane. Terrorists can control birds now?”

As the questions piled one on top of another, louder and louder, Reese’s heart began to race. The birds that had smashed onto the runway. Three plane crashes. Three. One is unusual; two is a coincidence; but three… how could it be an accident?

People were bumping into her, craning their necks at the TV, talking over the anchorwoman. Reese shoved her way out of the crowd, her skin crawling as disbelief warred with growing panic inside her. What is going on? She halted in front of a bank of monitors displaying the flight departure times. One by one, those times blinked out and were replaced by a single word, repeated over and over: CANCELED.

Reese couldn’t get through to her mom; the call went straight to voice mail. She checked her watch; it was 3:38 in San Francisco. She knew her mom was probably still in court, but Reese was stiff with anxiety. If terrorists were behind these plane crashes, how safe was her mom in a courthouse? David paced nearby, talking to his parents on his phone in Chinese.

Mr. Chapman lowered himself into the seat beside Reese, frowning, and pushed up his black-framed glasses. “This is a mess,” he said. Behind them, dozens of travelers were clustered around the podium, trying to rebook their plane tickets. CNN was still droning in the background, but Reese had stopped watching after the fourth plane crash in Colorado. She was filled with a kind of paranoid helplessness, and she kept glancing out the windows as if she were waiting for more birds to plunge from the sky.

“What are we going to do?” she asked, sounding more frightened than she intended.

Mr. Chapman gave her a thin smile. She thought he was trying to be reassuring, but he didn’t quite succeed. “We just have to wait. You’re too young to remember 9/11, but at first it was just a bunch of waiting. Waiting to hear from the president, waiting to find out who was behind it.” He shook his head and pushed up his glasses again, a nervous tic that betrayed his own tension. “Hopefully, there will be some news soon.”

David ended his call and walked back to them. “My parents are freaking out.”

“Do you want me to talk to them?” Mr. Chapman offered.

“No, they’ll be okay. They’re just shocked like everyone else. My dad’s company shut down for the day, and he’s driving home now.” David pocketed his phone, then looked behind Reese at the gate area. “Hey, something’s happening.”

Reese twisted around. The cluster of people at the podium had turned back to the TV monitor. She couldn’t see the whole screen from where she was sitting, but as the crowd quieted, the speakers in the ceiling could be heard clearly. A reporter said, “In a moment, President Elizabeth Randall will make a statement from the Oval Office. We’re about to—hang on, I believe we’re going to that feed now.”

Reese jumped up to get a better angle on the TV. President Randall was seated at the desk in the Oval Office and looking directly into the camera through her trademark wire-rim glasses. Not a hair was out of place, though she wore a look of grave concern on her face.

“As you know by now, we’ve been struck by tragedy today in our nation and in Canada and Mexico.” The president’s Midwestern accent was stronger than usual. “I want to reassure you that we are working around the clock to determine the cause of today’s crashes, as well as coordinating with the Canadian and Mexican governments to analyze whether there is a pattern in these tragic accidents. At this time, we have suspended all flights in the United States, and Canada and Mexico have done the same in their territories. As of tonight, we know of seven crashes across North America, and we hope that by grounding all flights, we will avoid further tragedy. I know that many of you are frightened and confused by the conflicting reports coming out in the news about the causes of these crashes, and I urge you to remain calm and refrain from speculation. You can rest assured that I have ordered a thorough and complete investigation into these crashes, and I will make sure that you are informed of our progress as things develop.”

The president paused and a look of maternal solicitude swept over her face. She even tilted her head slightly. “If you’ve been inconvenienced in your travel plans because of the flight ban, I’m sure you understand that this is in the best interests of our nation and your safety. As soon as it is safe to fly again, we will lift the flight ban. In the meantime, please join me in praying for those whose lives have been affected by these tragedies, here and throughout North America.”

The feed from the White House ended, and the news analysts reappeared. Reese sat down heavily, shaken by the president’s words. Seven plane crashes due to bird strikes? It sounded insane.

Mr. Chapman’s face was pale as he said, “I guess it’s a good thing our plane was delayed.”



Reese almost dropped her phone when it suddenly vibrated in her hand. The caller ID read: Catherine Sheridan. Relieved, she scrambled to answer it. “Mom! Did you hear the news?”

“Are you all right?” Her mom sounded both terrified and relieved. “Where are you? You didn’t get on the plane, did you?”

“No, it was still delayed when the flight ban started.” Reese rubbed a sweaty palm over her jeans. “I’m fine. I’m still at the airport.”

“Good. Is your coach still with you?”

“Yes.” Mr. Chapman had walked a few feet away to phone his wife. “And David’s here too.” He was trying to watch the news, though it was hard to hear over the din of travelers attempting to rebook their flights.

“I tried to call you earlier, but I couldn’t get through till now,” her mom said. “Everybody’s going home early; they think it’s a terrorist attack.”

Panic shot through Reese. “Mom, are you still at work? You need to get out of there.”

“It’s all right, honey. Don’t worry about me. I’m leaving soon. Are you staying at the airport tonight?”

“Yeah. Mr. C wants to wait till tomorrow morning to see what’s going on. The airline said they’d issue ‘alternative transportation options,’ whatever that means, if the flight ban isn’t lifted by then.”

“All right. Just stay with Mr. Chapman and call me the minute anything changes.”

“I will.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”



The line at the Wendy’s counter snaked back and forth across the polished concrete floor of the concourse. Reese guessed there were about twenty-five people ahead of her, which put her right at the edge of the seating area next to the overflowing trash bin. An abandoned Frosty was perched on its side and dripping onto the floor, forming a pool of beige liquid. Reese looked away from the mess, her gaze sweeping up toward the windows set high against the ceiling. The sky outside was dusky blue. She had been stuck in this airport since eleven o’clock that morning—almost nine hours.

Earlier, she had called her best friend, Julian Arens, to tell him she was stuck in Phoenix. He told her that all major airports in the United States were full of stranded passengers, and already some people were concerned the airports might run out of food. If the planes couldn’t fly, they couldn’t bring in supplies either.

“You’re freaking me out,” Reese said, only half joking. “Are you saying I should start hoarding those disgusting airport sandwiches?”

“They’re probably gone by now,” he answered. By the time she went to search out dinner, Julian was right. The deli cases that had once been full of sandwiches and salads were picked clean, and the only food left was the square-shaped burgers at Wendy’s.

The line was moving at about the speed of molasses, so Reese pulled out her phone to pass the time, touching the icon for the Internet. The Hub loaded right away, with feeds popping up one after the other, all about the flight ban. It was mostly people complaining about being trapped in airports, but there was a lot of chatter about possible causes for the plane crashes too. Terrorism wasn’t even the most outlandish one. She saw one feed declaring Aliens did it, earthlings. Colonization is coming! She let out a short laugh. Julian was always trying to convince her that E.T. had already visited Earth multiple times. One night in Dolores Park, while they were hanging out on the swings in the playground, Julian told her about meeting an alien abductee in Golden Gate Park the weekend before.

“He had an implant in his lower back—he totally showed me the scar and everything,” Julian said, gesturing with the stub of his cigarette.

Reese lit one for herself and said, “Yeah, I’m sure that’s what he was showing you.” She tossed the match down to the sand, watching as the flame sputtered out.

“You’re just jealous you didn’t get to see his ass.”

She remembered cracking up, almost choking on the smoke. Julian handed her the water bottle filled with vodka tonic, but she shook her head, wheezing as she laughed.

Her phone buzzed as she was scrolling through the feeds on the Hub; Julian had just texted her.

Stuff is getting crazy out there.

U have 2 check this out:

www.short.349sy

She clicked on the link, which took her to a blog post on a website called Bin 42. The headline made her eyebrows rise: Government cover-up of plane crashes continues with media blackout.

If you’ve been on the Hub today, you probably noticed that everyone around the world is freaked out about one thing: these bizarre plane crashes. But you might also have noticed that your feeds about them keep mysteriously disappearing. We’ve uncovered evidence that every 15 minutes, feeds relating to plane crashes, bird strikes, and the causes of such are routinely wiped.

Who has the power to do this? Only one entity: the US government.

Here is what we’ve gathered over the course of the day (and be forewarned: this report may soon be wiped, too, so if you want to keep this info alive, we suggest you mirror it immediately to your own site or download a copy for yourself. Better yet, revert to ancient technology: Print this out on paper!):

Official news and government reports state that only seven crashes have occurred in the US today, in New Jersey, Washington, and Texas. But continuous scanning of news feeds shows that at least 23 other planes have crashed today due to bird strikes within the continental United States alone.

Reports of these crashes are routinely posted online but removed shortly afterward. Caches of these news reports are eventually wiped as well. For a roundup of these reports (many now go to 404 pages), go here: www.bin42.com/34092

Video of plane crash sites has been circulating on file-sharing sites but is also routinely being removed. Don’t be fooled! We have seen these videos and they are not doctored! A roundup of videos (some of which may no longer be online) are here: www.bin42.com/34093

Mainstream news sources are being forced to adhere to a media blackout, so don’t go to the New York Times looking for confirmation—you won’t find it. The only mainstream account we have of any of the other crashes is from the Chicago Tribune; here’s a link to a screencap of that web page before it was taken down: www.bin42.com/34094

What does this mean for you? If you’re safe at home, we advise you to check your emergency supplies and prepare for the worst. If you’re a traveler stranded because of the flight ban, we suggest you find a way to drive yourself home. While there’s no evidence that airports are unsafe (yet), there is also no evidence that the flight ban will be lifted anytime soon. Meanwhile, check back here regularly; we will attempt to keep this site online as long as possible.

Reese clicked on the link to the Chicago Tribune article. She saw a screencap of a story about three plane crashes in the Chicago area, all due to bird strikes. The article was accompanied by a photograph of one of the Chicago crash sites. A plane had plowed a deep furrow through a field of corn, culminating in a smoking black mess. The tail of the plane was still visible; the airline’s logo could be seen through the smoke.

“Hey, the line’s moving,” said a man behind her.

“Oh, sorry.” As she stepped forward she clicked back to the original Bin 42 blog, feeling uneasy. She went to the video roundup page. Most of the links were dead, but one video showed a young female reporter in a mountainous area. Wreckage was strewn behind her. Reese couldn’t hear the audio, but the camera zoomed toward a person in a hazmat suit who was retrieving remains from the crash. Reese could barely see what he was holding in his gloved hands, but it stretched out toward the ground as if it was half liquefied.

Her stomach lurched. What was that? And why was the person dressed as if he were dealing with a biohazard? Her hands were clammy and the phone nearly slipped out of her grasp as she thumbed back to the blog post Julian had sent her.

But this time, she got an error message. It was gone.

“Can I take your order?”

Reese glanced up, startled. She had reached the front of the line, and a dead-eyed girl was waiting behind the counter. The overhead lights made her face look washed out and tired, and her ash-blond hair strayed in lanky strands from beneath her Wendy’s cap.

“You wanna order something?” the girl prodded.

Reese swallowed. “No.” She had lost her appetite.



David was sleeping on the floor in front of the plastic seats, his head resting on a rolled-up jacket, his back to the windows. Mr. Chapman was napping nearby, slouched in one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs with his arms crossed and his feet stretched toward the glass. Night had fallen, turning the windows into a wall of dark mirrors. Reese saw herself reflected as a girl with flyaway dark hair and shadowed eyes in a pale face. Behind her the concourse was littered with travelers trying to sleep under the bright lights, legs propped up on carry-on bags, heads pillowed on lumpy backpacks.

She stopped beside David and looked down at him. One hand was curled beneath his chin, the other draped loosely over his toned stomach where his Kennedy Swim T-shirt—SHARKS OF THE BAY—had inched up. He was captain of the swim team and a soccer player in addition to being a debater. An all-around golden boy. A familiar flare of self-consciousness burned through her. Angry at herself, she shoved away her feelings. What had happened between her and David was in the past, and she should just get over it. There was no use in thinking about it anymore; there were more important things to worry about now.

She nudged David’s shoulder with the toe of her beat-up black Chucks. “David.” He grumbled slightly but didn’t wake up. “David,” she said more loudly, and nudged him again.

He rolled over onto his back, shading his eyes from the fluorescent lights as he blinked up at her. “What?” His voice was clogged with sleep. “What’s going on?”

“I have to talk to you.”

“About what?” He pushed himself up, rubbing a hand over his eyes.

“Hang on, let me wake up Mr. Chapman.” She turned to their coach and tapped him on the shoulder. “Hey, Mr. Ch. . .