Rush
Page 47
So I was wrong. They aren’t dead.
They’re all attached to machines and tubes. I don’t know if the machines are human technology or alien knockoffs, but I recognize some and can figure out the rest. Three weeks into her chemo, Mom ended up in the ICU with pneumonia. One of the ways I coped with seeing her there was by finding out everything I could about the machines that were keeping her alive. A lot of the stuff here looks familiar. There are monitors that beep softly and respirators doing the breathing. There are tubes in the girls’ legs or near their collarbones; one of the nurses in the ICU said those measure things like oxygen in the blood. The tubes in their chests drain fluid and keep their lungs from collapsing.
“Oh man,” Luka says, and rakes his fingers back through his hair. “Oh man, this is not good. There are so many of them.”
“What is this place?” I ask. “Who are these people?”
“This is bigger than the facility in Arizona.” Luka shakes his head. “This is bad, Miki.”
“Bad in more ways than one,” Tyrone says. “Security was too light for a place like this, even if they were so sure of themselves that they thought we wouldn’t find them. A handful of guards for a place this size?” He looks at Jackson. “You think it’s a trap?”
“Lousy trap if that’s what it is,” Jackson says. “More likely, we got lucky. Could be a change in shift, or security was sent off-site to attend to something else.” Something in his voice catches my attention, like he doesn’t really believe what he’s saying. And I silently curse those stupid shades because I suspect he’s watching me, but I can’t be sure. He shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. Stop talking and start working. Tyrone, get the supplies. Smash everything that’s breakable. Luka, Miki, help me with the machines.”
“Who are they?” I ask again. “What’s wrong with them?”
“There’s nothing wrong with them.” Jackson’s tone is dark and rough. “And nothing right, either.”
The sound of glass shattering makes me turn. Tyrone’s standing near the far wall. I thought it was just a wall, but now I see that it’s a series of smooth-fronted cabinets. Tyrone has one open and he’s sweeping his outstretched arm along the shelves. Whatever doesn’t break as it hits the ground, he shatters with the heel of his boot.
“Nothing wrong with them?” I turn back to Jackson. “They’re unconscious. They’re hooked up to machines.”
I wrinkle my nose. The smell in here is off. Medicinal mixed with something sort of earthy, like Dad’s compost bin. Not pleasant, that’s for sure.
Jackson’s finished offering explanations. I should probably count myself lucky that he gave me as much as he did. “Get moving,” he says.
Luka crosses to the row of gurneys nearest Tyrone. With a grimace, he reaches out and turns off the respirator. The girl’s chest deflates and doesn’t rise again.
The sight of that dredges up horrific memories of Mom breathing her last, the sound of her exhalation and then just . . . nothing. Suddenly, I’m not here. I’m back there, with her.
“Wait! No!” I lunge forward but get nowhere because Jackson grabs my arm.
“They aren’t people.” He hits a button on the respirator closest to us, turning it off.
“What are you doing? You’re killing them.” I shove his hands away and reach for the switch. On some level, I realize that I’m not reacting in a way that makes sense, but all I can think about is Mom lying on the bed, gray and small and dead. “Help me stop him,” I yell at Luka before I remember that he turned off a respirator, too.
Jackson catches my wrist again and says, “We don’t have time for this,” his words calm and low. “There could be an alarm. We could be seconds away from a fresh wave of Drau. This time skilled Drau rather than green recruits.”
“You just killed an innocent girl.” I feel sick. He’s a monster. I remember the way he wrapped his arms around me in the park, the way I rested my cheek high on his chest, the way he made me feel, just for a few moments, that the world hadn’t gone crazy. I let him hold me then. I let him hold me in the tunnels while I slept. I almost let him kiss me. I trusted him. Liked him. And now he’s killing people and Luka’s killing people, and they look like they expect me to do the same. Not aliens in a kill-or-be-killed standoff this time. People.
Once more, I reach for the respirator he turned off, tears blurring my vision.
He makes a sound of impatience. “Miki, pull it together. These are not people.”
I whirl to face him, breathing hard, angry and afraid and sickened. I remember the rows of patients at the hospital, sitting in these recliner chairs, getting chemo. Men, women . . . kids. Mom. “Just because they’re unconscious? Because they’re in comas? They’re still people.”
“They’re not. They never were. Look.” He points at the feeding tube that’s running into the woman’s abdomen. I glance down, trying to see whatever it is he wants me to see—
The tube runs in above the belly button, except . . . No belly button. Just a feeding tube right above where her belly button should be. I shake my head.
He yanks a bunch of electrical wires out of the woman’s neck. Then he looks around, fails to find whatever it is that he wants, and drags his knife with its deadly black blade free of its sheath. I cry out and lunge forward as he slashes at the top of the girl’s head, twisting his hand in a rapid circle. The skin of her scalp peels back and I see to my horror that Jackson’s knife has gone clear through bone. I think I’m going to be sick.
They’re all attached to machines and tubes. I don’t know if the machines are human technology or alien knockoffs, but I recognize some and can figure out the rest. Three weeks into her chemo, Mom ended up in the ICU with pneumonia. One of the ways I coped with seeing her there was by finding out everything I could about the machines that were keeping her alive. A lot of the stuff here looks familiar. There are monitors that beep softly and respirators doing the breathing. There are tubes in the girls’ legs or near their collarbones; one of the nurses in the ICU said those measure things like oxygen in the blood. The tubes in their chests drain fluid and keep their lungs from collapsing.
“Oh man,” Luka says, and rakes his fingers back through his hair. “Oh man, this is not good. There are so many of them.”
“What is this place?” I ask. “Who are these people?”
“This is bigger than the facility in Arizona.” Luka shakes his head. “This is bad, Miki.”
“Bad in more ways than one,” Tyrone says. “Security was too light for a place like this, even if they were so sure of themselves that they thought we wouldn’t find them. A handful of guards for a place this size?” He looks at Jackson. “You think it’s a trap?”
“Lousy trap if that’s what it is,” Jackson says. “More likely, we got lucky. Could be a change in shift, or security was sent off-site to attend to something else.” Something in his voice catches my attention, like he doesn’t really believe what he’s saying. And I silently curse those stupid shades because I suspect he’s watching me, but I can’t be sure. He shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. Stop talking and start working. Tyrone, get the supplies. Smash everything that’s breakable. Luka, Miki, help me with the machines.”
“Who are they?” I ask again. “What’s wrong with them?”
“There’s nothing wrong with them.” Jackson’s tone is dark and rough. “And nothing right, either.”
The sound of glass shattering makes me turn. Tyrone’s standing near the far wall. I thought it was just a wall, but now I see that it’s a series of smooth-fronted cabinets. Tyrone has one open and he’s sweeping his outstretched arm along the shelves. Whatever doesn’t break as it hits the ground, he shatters with the heel of his boot.
“Nothing wrong with them?” I turn back to Jackson. “They’re unconscious. They’re hooked up to machines.”
I wrinkle my nose. The smell in here is off. Medicinal mixed with something sort of earthy, like Dad’s compost bin. Not pleasant, that’s for sure.
Jackson’s finished offering explanations. I should probably count myself lucky that he gave me as much as he did. “Get moving,” he says.
Luka crosses to the row of gurneys nearest Tyrone. With a grimace, he reaches out and turns off the respirator. The girl’s chest deflates and doesn’t rise again.
The sight of that dredges up horrific memories of Mom breathing her last, the sound of her exhalation and then just . . . nothing. Suddenly, I’m not here. I’m back there, with her.
“Wait! No!” I lunge forward but get nowhere because Jackson grabs my arm.
“They aren’t people.” He hits a button on the respirator closest to us, turning it off.
“What are you doing? You’re killing them.” I shove his hands away and reach for the switch. On some level, I realize that I’m not reacting in a way that makes sense, but all I can think about is Mom lying on the bed, gray and small and dead. “Help me stop him,” I yell at Luka before I remember that he turned off a respirator, too.
Jackson catches my wrist again and says, “We don’t have time for this,” his words calm and low. “There could be an alarm. We could be seconds away from a fresh wave of Drau. This time skilled Drau rather than green recruits.”
“You just killed an innocent girl.” I feel sick. He’s a monster. I remember the way he wrapped his arms around me in the park, the way I rested my cheek high on his chest, the way he made me feel, just for a few moments, that the world hadn’t gone crazy. I let him hold me then. I let him hold me in the tunnels while I slept. I almost let him kiss me. I trusted him. Liked him. And now he’s killing people and Luka’s killing people, and they look like they expect me to do the same. Not aliens in a kill-or-be-killed standoff this time. People.
Once more, I reach for the respirator he turned off, tears blurring my vision.
He makes a sound of impatience. “Miki, pull it together. These are not people.”
I whirl to face him, breathing hard, angry and afraid and sickened. I remember the rows of patients at the hospital, sitting in these recliner chairs, getting chemo. Men, women . . . kids. Mom. “Just because they’re unconscious? Because they’re in comas? They’re still people.”
“They’re not. They never were. Look.” He points at the feeding tube that’s running into the woman’s abdomen. I glance down, trying to see whatever it is he wants me to see—
The tube runs in above the belly button, except . . . No belly button. Just a feeding tube right above where her belly button should be. I shake my head.
He yanks a bunch of electrical wires out of the woman’s neck. Then he looks around, fails to find whatever it is that he wants, and drags his knife with its deadly black blade free of its sheath. I cry out and lunge forward as he slashes at the top of the girl’s head, twisting his hand in a rapid circle. The skin of her scalp peels back and I see to my horror that Jackson’s knife has gone clear through bone. I think I’m going to be sick.
