Authors: Neal Shusterman
UnBound
For Steve Bocian,
who was there when I first began telling stories,
and left us too soon
There are so many people to thank for the creation of
UnBound
, it's hard to know where to begin! Actually that's not true, because it all begins with my editor, David Gale, and assistant editor, Liz Kossnar. As always, their guidance through the writing and rewriting process is invaluable. Everyone at Simon & Schuster has been, and continues to be amazingly supportive: Justin Chanda, Jon Anderson, Anne Zafian, Katy Hershberger, Michelle Leo, Candace Greene, Chrissy Noh, Krista Vossen, and Katrina Groover, to name just a few.
A heartfelt thanks to my collaboratorsâabout half the stories in
UnBound
were collaborations, and it has been a joy working with all you! Michelle Knowlden, who co-wrote
UnStrung, Unfinished Symphony
, and
UnTithed
; Terry Black, who conceived of, and co-wrote
UnClean.
My son Brendan Shusterman, who conceived of, and co-wrote
Unnatural Selection
with me; and my son Jarrod Shusterman, who basically did all the heavy-lifting in
UnDevoured
.
Thanks to Barb Sobel and Jennifer Widmer, my assistants, who keep life flowing around me rather than drowning me when I need time to write (which is always!) And Matt Lurie, who has been tireless in updating my website, putting together my newsletter, and keeping my social media presence alive.
Thanks to my book agent, Andrea Brown; my foreign rights agent, Taryn Fagerness, my entertainment industry agents, Steve Fisher and Debbie Deuble-Hill at APA; my manager, Trevor Engelson; and my contract attorneys, Shep Rosenman, Lee Rosenbaum, and Gia Paladino.
At the writing of this,
Unwind
is moving toward being made as a feature film, and I'd like to thank everyone involved, including Roger and Gala Avary, Julian Stone, Catherine Kimmel, Charlotte Stout, Marc Benardout, and Faber Dewar, as well as Robert Kulzer, Martin Moszkowicz, and everyone at Constantin Films.
And of course this ten-year journey through the Unwind world never would have happened had it not been for the passion and support of the fans! This book is my gift to all of you!
The schoolboy bursts through the door, the first one out of the building when the bell rings. He is expected to be at home fifteen minutes after school lets out. He's not going home.
As he races through the streets, signs of the Heartland War are all around him. Burned-out cars. Rubble from blasted clinics. Crosses in the ground marking spots where soldiers and civilians on either side died fighting for their cause. This is nothing new. It's the world he knows, the world in which he grew up. He and his friends played in the burned-out cars when they were little. They played Lifers and Choicers with plastic guns and toy grenades, never caring which side of the game they were on, as long as they were on the same side as their best friends.
But those childhood days are gone. Things are much more serious for him now.
He turns down a side street that's infested with pigeons by day and rats by night, crossing an invisible line that everyone knows even without being able to see it. It's the line that marks the border beyond which law and reason cease to exist. It's called the wild zone, and every city and town has one. No one who values their property or their lives will venture there. Police have more important things to deal with, and not even the warring militias will go there anymore. The Choice Army blames all the wild zones on the Life Brigade, and vice versa. Easier to point fingers than actually do something about them.
But for the schoolboy this place and the people holed up there have a certain allure that he cannot explain. Certainly not to his parents. Whenever he's late from school, he always has an excuse they'll believe. If they knew where he really goes on those days, he can't even imagine what they'd do to him.
The buildings around him are mostly condemned. Angry spray-painted politics shout out from the bullet-marred bricks, and the windows are boarded over or just left broken.
In a narrow alley he pushes open a side door that has only one hinge to keep it upright and steps inside. Immediately he's grabbed by two teens waiting there. They push him hard against the wallâhard enough to bruise, but that's okay. He knows the drill. He knows why they have to do this. They can't be seen as weak. Even by him. Because there are other feral gangs that would use that weakness against them.
“Why you always comin' here, Schoolie?” one of his assailants asks. “Don't you got better things to do?”
“I'm here because I wanna be.”
“Yeah,” says the other one. “And that's all you are. A wannabe.” Then, gripping his arms, they lead him deeper into the building. It used to be a theater, but the rusted seats are all stacked in the corner. The old carpet is ripped up and gathered into piles that the theater's new residents use as beds. The place is scattered with knickknacks and bits of scavenged civilization, the way a bird might feather its nest with scraps of paper woven into the twigs. The theater is the living space for about forty feral teens. They lounge on scavenged furniture; they laugh; they fight. They live. It's a very different kind of living than the “schoolie,” as they call him, is used to. His life has no excitement. No passion. No adrenaline. His life is dull and in ordered control.
They bring him to Alph. The others don't know the kid's real name. He's just Alph, as in Alpha. He's the leader of this band of ferals. The schoolie, however, knows his real name, back from the days when they would play in the war-torn streets. The kid is a year older, but he always protected the younger ones. Now that he's feral, he does the same, on a different scale. Alph is a key member of what the media likes to call the Terror Generation. He's got a scar on his face from a feral flash riot that gives him character and makes his smile impressively twisted. He's everything the schoolboy is not.
Right now, however, Alph isn't being much of a terror. He's being fawned over by a pretty, if somewhat filthy, feral girl. He doesn't seem happy to be interrupted.
“Schoolie, how many times do I gotta tell you not to come here? One of these days the Juvies'll follow you, we'll all be screwed, and it'll be your fault.”
“Nah, the Juvies don't careâthey're too busy chasing down ferals outside of the wild zone to care about the ones in it. And anyway, I'm stealth. I'm too smart to be followed.”
“So what are you wasting my time with today?” Alph asks, getting right to the point.
The schoolie takes off his backpack and pulls out a brown paper lunch bag, but there's no lunch in it. In fact, it jangles. He hands it to Alph, who looks at him dubiously, then dumps out the contents on a dusty table beside him. Other kids ooh and aah at the glittering pile of jewelry, but Alph stays silent.
“It's my mom's,” the schoolie tells him. “She doesn't think I know the combination to the safe, but I do. I took just enough so that she won't notice it's gone for a while. You can fence it long before then.”
One of the others laughsâa buff kid named Raf, who could have been military if he hadn't gone feral. “He's got guts, that's for sure.”
But Alph isn't impressed. “It doesn't take guts to steal from your own mother.” Then he looks the schoolie in the eye. “Actually, it's pretty pathetic.”
The schoolie feels heat coming to his face. He doesn't know why he should care what some feral kid says to him, but he does.
“You're not gonna take it?” he asks.
Alph shrugs. “Of course I'm gonna take it. But it doesn't make you any less pathetic, Schoolie.”
“I have a name.”
“Yeah, I know,” Alph says. “It's a sad little name. Wish I could forget it.”
“I was named after my grandfather. He was a war hero.” Although for the life of him, he can't remember which war.
Alph smiles. “Somehow I find it hard to imagine a war hero named Jasper.”
At the mention of his name, other kids snicker.
“My friends call me Jazz. But you don't remember that, do you?”
Alph shifts his shoulders uncomfortably. Clearly he does remember, whether or not he wants to admit it. “What is it you want from me, Nelson? A pat on the back? A kiss on the forehead? What?”
They all look at him now. Isn't it obvious to them what he wants? Why does he have to say it? Just because he's not feral doesn't mean that he's not part of the Terror Generation, too. Of course, no one calls Jasper a terror but his grandmother, and she always says it with a smile.
“I want to be in your gang,” he tells them.
The mention of the word brings a wave of irritation that Jasper can feel like static electricity.
Raf steps forward, speaking for Alph, who just glowers. “We are not a gang,” Raf says. “We are an association.”