Rush
Page 46
“And if it is like Arizona?”
“Then you’ll know soon enough.”
I’ve never heard Luka sound so bleak.
We’re not using the glow sticks to light our way anymore. The aliens’ appearance brought bright white light, and it seems to have hung around even though they’re gone. We keep moving down the tunnel, the sides of which have been polished to a smooth, shiny finish. No one appears to stop us, and that only makes the uncertainties plaguing me grow stronger.
The hairs at my nape prickle and rise. My steps slow, and I fall back behind the others. It’s pure instinct that makes me turn, makes me lift my weapon and fire, but not before white-hot needles of pain burst in my chest. I cry out as the Drau’s shots hit me, piercing deep.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE PAIN MAKES ME STUMBLE BACK UNTIL I HIT THE CAVE’S cold rock wall.
“Miki!” Tyrone yells from somewhere to my right.
I don’t take my eyes off the Drau. There’s only one. No backup. I notice things that I didn’t notice before when we were fighting so many of them that all I saw was light; all I knew was fear. The glowing, glassy surface of the Drau’s body . . . I think it isn’t naked skin as I get a good look. I think it’s some sort of suit that covers everything, with openings for its eyes and mouth. There are no nostrils, and I don’t see any ears.
My first shot went wide. I shift my angle and fire again. The Drau is silent as the blackness surges from my weapon; it appears frozen in place by terror. My shot is true, the darkness engulfing my enemy from its feet up. At the last second, the Drau’s eyes catch mine and pain tears at me from the inside out. Then it’s gone, swallowed whole, and the agony wrenches away, leaving my whole body prickling with painful reawakening, like the blood rushing to a limb after it’s fallen asleep.
“Miki!” Luka’s beside me as I drop to one knee, Tyrone right behind him.
I look up and see Jackson a few feet away, his weapon in his hand, pointing to the spot where the Drau stood seconds ago. I terminated it, but if I hadn’t, Jackson had my back, again.
“I’m okay,” I rasp as Luka hunkers down beside me, worry and uncertainty etched in his features.
He studies my face, then offers a faint smile. “Nice shot, but whatever points you gained were more than eaten up by penalty. Sucks to be you.”
I drag in a breath, the pain sharp and bright. By the third breath, it’s easing to a dull ache, more like a bruise than a stab. I turn my wrist and check my con. It’s still mostly green with just a hint of yellow. Not so bad, then.
Jackson strides over and pauses by my side. Then he holds out his hand, and when I take it, he pulls me to my feet. His fingers are warm against mine for a brief second, then he lets go and steps away. Not a word of comfort, just that all-too-brief touch.
“I’ll live, thanks for asking,” I mutter.
“How did you know it was there?” he asks, and even though the question is simple, asked in a low, casual tone, I feel as though there’s a lot riding on my answer.
“I just knew. Instinct, I guess. And back when we got hit by the whole group, I knew to close my eyes before the bright light flashed and I knew to drop to the ground before the first shot was fired.”
“I told you to do those things.”
“You did, but I was already doing them before you said. The longer I’m in the game, the more my instincts seem to be taking over.”
He doesn’t say anything to that, just offers a spare, sharp nod. Of course, I can’t see his eyes. But I know that he’s looking at me, and I know he likes what he sees, that he’s . . . I don’t know . . . I guess proud is the best word. Yeah, he watches my back, and he also trusts me to watch my own. But there’s something else there, too. His expression is both pleased and angry. Ambivalent. I know better than to ask why. Jackson’s not much one for sharing. But I’m patient. I can wait. I just need to figure out what angle to come at the question from, and I’ll get my answer eventually.
“How did you know the Drau was there?” I ask, and only as the words slide free am I certain that he did know. He knew there was danger, and he was waiting to see if I caught it, too. Why?
“I just knew,” he says. “Instinct, I guess.”
I huff a short laugh and offer him the same nod he gave me.
Luka and Tyrone exchange a confused glance, and then we’re moving again, Jackson in the lead, me behind him. I still feel the hit I took. Every breath reminds me, but the pain is dull, an ache, the same sort of pain I get the day after a good workout.
Holding up his hand, Jackson puts the brakes on and presses back against the stone wall. Then he leans forward very slowly and peers around the corner. Apparently satisfied by what he does—or doesn’t—see, he signals us to move.
We round another corner. I’m hit by light so bright it’s like sunshine on a July afternoon, the glare amplified by white walls, white floor, white ceiling, all polished to a perfect shine. I jerk to a stop, horror congealing like day-old bacon fat.
The room is full of people. Humans.
Dead humans.
Before me stretch rows and rows of girls, lying on their backs, eyes closed, limbs bare. Strips of white cloth drape their chests and hips, like tube tops and short skirts. At first glance, they look like they’re floating, but when I look more carefully, I see that they’re on white gurneys that blend with the walls and floor, white on white on white.
The sounds of beeps and hisses hum in the background. Their chests rise and fall in synchronized rhythm.
“Then you’ll know soon enough.”
I’ve never heard Luka sound so bleak.
We’re not using the glow sticks to light our way anymore. The aliens’ appearance brought bright white light, and it seems to have hung around even though they’re gone. We keep moving down the tunnel, the sides of which have been polished to a smooth, shiny finish. No one appears to stop us, and that only makes the uncertainties plaguing me grow stronger.
The hairs at my nape prickle and rise. My steps slow, and I fall back behind the others. It’s pure instinct that makes me turn, makes me lift my weapon and fire, but not before white-hot needles of pain burst in my chest. I cry out as the Drau’s shots hit me, piercing deep.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE PAIN MAKES ME STUMBLE BACK UNTIL I HIT THE CAVE’S cold rock wall.
“Miki!” Tyrone yells from somewhere to my right.
I don’t take my eyes off the Drau. There’s only one. No backup. I notice things that I didn’t notice before when we were fighting so many of them that all I saw was light; all I knew was fear. The glowing, glassy surface of the Drau’s body . . . I think it isn’t naked skin as I get a good look. I think it’s some sort of suit that covers everything, with openings for its eyes and mouth. There are no nostrils, and I don’t see any ears.
My first shot went wide. I shift my angle and fire again. The Drau is silent as the blackness surges from my weapon; it appears frozen in place by terror. My shot is true, the darkness engulfing my enemy from its feet up. At the last second, the Drau’s eyes catch mine and pain tears at me from the inside out. Then it’s gone, swallowed whole, and the agony wrenches away, leaving my whole body prickling with painful reawakening, like the blood rushing to a limb after it’s fallen asleep.
“Miki!” Luka’s beside me as I drop to one knee, Tyrone right behind him.
I look up and see Jackson a few feet away, his weapon in his hand, pointing to the spot where the Drau stood seconds ago. I terminated it, but if I hadn’t, Jackson had my back, again.
“I’m okay,” I rasp as Luka hunkers down beside me, worry and uncertainty etched in his features.
He studies my face, then offers a faint smile. “Nice shot, but whatever points you gained were more than eaten up by penalty. Sucks to be you.”
I drag in a breath, the pain sharp and bright. By the third breath, it’s easing to a dull ache, more like a bruise than a stab. I turn my wrist and check my con. It’s still mostly green with just a hint of yellow. Not so bad, then.
Jackson strides over and pauses by my side. Then he holds out his hand, and when I take it, he pulls me to my feet. His fingers are warm against mine for a brief second, then he lets go and steps away. Not a word of comfort, just that all-too-brief touch.
“I’ll live, thanks for asking,” I mutter.
“How did you know it was there?” he asks, and even though the question is simple, asked in a low, casual tone, I feel as though there’s a lot riding on my answer.
“I just knew. Instinct, I guess. And back when we got hit by the whole group, I knew to close my eyes before the bright light flashed and I knew to drop to the ground before the first shot was fired.”
“I told you to do those things.”
“You did, but I was already doing them before you said. The longer I’m in the game, the more my instincts seem to be taking over.”
He doesn’t say anything to that, just offers a spare, sharp nod. Of course, I can’t see his eyes. But I know that he’s looking at me, and I know he likes what he sees, that he’s . . . I don’t know . . . I guess proud is the best word. Yeah, he watches my back, and he also trusts me to watch my own. But there’s something else there, too. His expression is both pleased and angry. Ambivalent. I know better than to ask why. Jackson’s not much one for sharing. But I’m patient. I can wait. I just need to figure out what angle to come at the question from, and I’ll get my answer eventually.
“How did you know the Drau was there?” I ask, and only as the words slide free am I certain that he did know. He knew there was danger, and he was waiting to see if I caught it, too. Why?
“I just knew,” he says. “Instinct, I guess.”
I huff a short laugh and offer him the same nod he gave me.
Luka and Tyrone exchange a confused glance, and then we’re moving again, Jackson in the lead, me behind him. I still feel the hit I took. Every breath reminds me, but the pain is dull, an ache, the same sort of pain I get the day after a good workout.
Holding up his hand, Jackson puts the brakes on and presses back against the stone wall. Then he leans forward very slowly and peers around the corner. Apparently satisfied by what he does—or doesn’t—see, he signals us to move.
We round another corner. I’m hit by light so bright it’s like sunshine on a July afternoon, the glare amplified by white walls, white floor, white ceiling, all polished to a perfect shine. I jerk to a stop, horror congealing like day-old bacon fat.
The room is full of people. Humans.
Dead humans.
Before me stretch rows and rows of girls, lying on their backs, eyes closed, limbs bare. Strips of white cloth drape their chests and hips, like tube tops and short skirts. At first glance, they look like they’re floating, but when I look more carefully, I see that they’re on white gurneys that blend with the walls and floor, white on white on white.
The sounds of beeps and hisses hum in the background. Their chests rise and fall in synchronized rhythm.
