Hunger
Page 88
Sudden, overwhelming panic. He was buried alive!
He tried to scream, but the sound was choked off and now he was falling again, falling through the earth.
No. No. No.
He had to stop. Had to stop the anger.
It was the anger that had sent him plummeting toward the center of the earth.
Think of something not angry, not fearful, he ordered himself.
Something happy.
Buried alive!
Happy . . . happy . . . the swimming pool . . . the water . . . floating . . .
Duck stopped sinking.
That was good. Good! Happy. Floating. Happy, happy thoughts.
Cookies. He liked cookies. Cookies were great.
And . . . and . . . and Sarah Willetson that time she smiled
at him. That was nice. That had given him a nice, warm feeling, like maybe someday girls would like him.
Also, how about watching TV, watching basketball on TV? That was a happy thought.
He was definitely no longer sinking.
No problem. Just be happy. Be happy to be buried alive.
“Duck?” It was Hunter’s voice calling down to him. It sounded like Hunter was at the bottom of a well. Of course it was the other way around: Duck was at the bottom of the well.
“Happy, happy,” Duck whispered.
He was not buried alive, he was sitting down in the movie theater. He was in the seats with the railing right in front where he could rest his feet. And he had popcorn. Buttered, of course, extra salt. And a box of Cookie Dough Bites.
Previews. He loved the previews. Previews and popcorn and oh, look, there was a Slushee in the seat’s cup holder. Blue, whatever flavor that was supposed to be. Blue Slushee.
What was the movie? Iron Man.
He loved Iron Man.
And Slushees. Popcorn. Swimming pools. Girls.
Something was scraping against his face, against his arms and legs and chest.
Don’t think about that, it might make you unhappy and mad, and boy, those are not helpful emotions. They drag you down.
Way down.
Duck laughed at that.
“Duck. Dude.” Hunter’s voice. It sounded closer now, clearer. Was he watching Iron Man, too?
No, Sarah Willetson was. Sarah was sitting beside him, sharing his popcorn and oh, excellent, she had a bag of peanut M&M’s. She was pouring some into his hand. Happy little football shapes in bright colors.
The scraping had stopped.
“Dude?”
The voice was close now.
Duck felt a breeze.
He opened his eyes. There was still dirt in his eyes. He brushed it away. The first thing he saw was Hunter. Hunter’s head.
The top of Hunter’s head.
Slowly Hunter’s face turned up toward him with an expression of pure awe.
“Dude, you’re flying,” Hunter said.
Duck glanced around. He was no longer buried alive. He was out of the hole. He was across the street from the church, out of the hole, and floating about five feet in the air.
“Whoa,” Duck said. “It works both ways.”
“We should just get out. Take Sam’s deal. Walk away,” Diana was saying.
“I’m in the root directory,” Jack was saying.
Brittney knew she should be in pain. Her body was a wreck. She knew that. Her legs were broken. The control room door, blown from its hinges, had done that. She knew she should be in agony. She wasn’t.
She should be dead. At least one bullet had hit her.
But she wasn’t dead. Not quite.
So much blood, all around her. More than enough to kill her. Had to be.
And yet . . .
“No one’s leaving,” Caine said.
It was like being in a dream. Things that she should feel, she didn’t. It was like the way sometimes, in a dream—cause and effect went backward, or sideways, things not making sense.
“We have no food,” Diana said.
“Maybe I could go for some,” Bug said.
“Yeah, right. Like you’d come back here if you found any,” Drake sneered. “We’re not here to feed ourselves. We’re here to feed him.”
“Do you capitalize it when you say ‘him,’ Drake?” Diana’s sarcasm was savage. “Is he your god now?”
“He gave me this!” Drake said. Brittney heard a loud crack, the bullwhip sound of Drake’s arm.
With infinite caution, Brittney tested her body. No, she could not move her legs. She could only rotate one hip, and that only a little.
Her right arm was useless. Her left arm, though, worked.
I should be dead, Brittney thought. I should be with Tanner in Heaven.
I should be dead.
Maybe you are.
No. Not before Caine, Brittney thought.
She wondered if she had become a healer, like Lana. Everyone knew the story of how Lana had discovered her power. But Lana had been in terrible pain. And Brittney was not.
Still, she focused her thoughts, imagined her useless right arm healing. She concentrated all her mind on that.
“Trapped,” Diana said bitterly.
“Not for long. We bust out of here and bring him what he needs,” Drake said.
“Gaiaphage. That’s what Caine calls it when he’s ranting,” Diana said. “Shouldn’t you know your god’s name?”
Brittney did not feel any change in her arm.
A terrible suspicion came to her. There was an awful silence from within her own body. She listened. Strained to hear, to feel, the ever-present thump . . . thump . . .
Her heart. It was not beating.
“Gaiaphage?” Jack said, sounding interested. “A ‘phage’ is another word for a computer virus. A worm, actually.”
He tried to scream, but the sound was choked off and now he was falling again, falling through the earth.
No. No. No.
He had to stop. Had to stop the anger.
It was the anger that had sent him plummeting toward the center of the earth.
Think of something not angry, not fearful, he ordered himself.
Something happy.
Buried alive!
Happy . . . happy . . . the swimming pool . . . the water . . . floating . . .
Duck stopped sinking.
That was good. Good! Happy. Floating. Happy, happy thoughts.
Cookies. He liked cookies. Cookies were great.
And . . . and . . . and Sarah Willetson that time she smiled
at him. That was nice. That had given him a nice, warm feeling, like maybe someday girls would like him.
Also, how about watching TV, watching basketball on TV? That was a happy thought.
He was definitely no longer sinking.
No problem. Just be happy. Be happy to be buried alive.
“Duck?” It was Hunter’s voice calling down to him. It sounded like Hunter was at the bottom of a well. Of course it was the other way around: Duck was at the bottom of the well.
“Happy, happy,” Duck whispered.
He was not buried alive, he was sitting down in the movie theater. He was in the seats with the railing right in front where he could rest his feet. And he had popcorn. Buttered, of course, extra salt. And a box of Cookie Dough Bites.
Previews. He loved the previews. Previews and popcorn and oh, look, there was a Slushee in the seat’s cup holder. Blue, whatever flavor that was supposed to be. Blue Slushee.
What was the movie? Iron Man.
He loved Iron Man.
And Slushees. Popcorn. Swimming pools. Girls.
Something was scraping against his face, against his arms and legs and chest.
Don’t think about that, it might make you unhappy and mad, and boy, those are not helpful emotions. They drag you down.
Way down.
Duck laughed at that.
“Duck. Dude.” Hunter’s voice. It sounded closer now, clearer. Was he watching Iron Man, too?
No, Sarah Willetson was. Sarah was sitting beside him, sharing his popcorn and oh, excellent, she had a bag of peanut M&M’s. She was pouring some into his hand. Happy little football shapes in bright colors.
The scraping had stopped.
“Dude?”
The voice was close now.
Duck felt a breeze.
He opened his eyes. There was still dirt in his eyes. He brushed it away. The first thing he saw was Hunter. Hunter’s head.
The top of Hunter’s head.
Slowly Hunter’s face turned up toward him with an expression of pure awe.
“Dude, you’re flying,” Hunter said.
Duck glanced around. He was no longer buried alive. He was out of the hole. He was across the street from the church, out of the hole, and floating about five feet in the air.
“Whoa,” Duck said. “It works both ways.”
“We should just get out. Take Sam’s deal. Walk away,” Diana was saying.
“I’m in the root directory,” Jack was saying.
Brittney knew she should be in pain. Her body was a wreck. She knew that. Her legs were broken. The control room door, blown from its hinges, had done that. She knew she should be in agony. She wasn’t.
She should be dead. At least one bullet had hit her.
But she wasn’t dead. Not quite.
So much blood, all around her. More than enough to kill her. Had to be.
And yet . . .
“No one’s leaving,” Caine said.
It was like being in a dream. Things that she should feel, she didn’t. It was like the way sometimes, in a dream—cause and effect went backward, or sideways, things not making sense.
“We have no food,” Diana said.
“Maybe I could go for some,” Bug said.
“Yeah, right. Like you’d come back here if you found any,” Drake sneered. “We’re not here to feed ourselves. We’re here to feed him.”
“Do you capitalize it when you say ‘him,’ Drake?” Diana’s sarcasm was savage. “Is he your god now?”
“He gave me this!” Drake said. Brittney heard a loud crack, the bullwhip sound of Drake’s arm.
With infinite caution, Brittney tested her body. No, she could not move her legs. She could only rotate one hip, and that only a little.
Her right arm was useless. Her left arm, though, worked.
I should be dead, Brittney thought. I should be with Tanner in Heaven.
I should be dead.
Maybe you are.
No. Not before Caine, Brittney thought.
She wondered if she had become a healer, like Lana. Everyone knew the story of how Lana had discovered her power. But Lana had been in terrible pain. And Brittney was not.
Still, she focused her thoughts, imagined her useless right arm healing. She concentrated all her mind on that.
“Trapped,” Diana said bitterly.
“Not for long. We bust out of here and bring him what he needs,” Drake said.
“Gaiaphage. That’s what Caine calls it when he’s ranting,” Diana said. “Shouldn’t you know your god’s name?”
Brittney did not feel any change in her arm.
A terrible suspicion came to her. There was an awful silence from within her own body. She listened. Strained to hear, to feel, the ever-present thump . . . thump . . .
Her heart. It was not beating.
“Gaiaphage?” Jack said, sounding interested. “A ‘phage’ is another word for a computer virus. A worm, actually.”
