Rush
Page 6
“Don’t bother. It’s on there until our mission’s complete.”
My head jerks up. “Luka!” I feel a surge of relief at seeing him standing in front of me, whole, unhurt, unbloodied. I take a step forward, my hands coming up on instinct to hug him, my smile stretching into a grin. Then I see the look on his face and I freeze. He looks decidedly uncomfortable. Maybe even . . . guilty. Of what?
“You’re okay,” I say, and drop my hands back to my sides, feeling lame.
“Yeah. For now.” He rakes his fingers back through his dark, wavy hair. He’s wearing a black wristband identical to mine, but he’s not tugging at his.
My thoughts rewind. “Wait . . . what . . .” I shake my head. “What mission?”
“Listen—” He exhales in a rush. “I need to tell you—”
I wait, but he says nothing more, and I’m getting a little tired of boys who talk in cryptic spurts or don’t talk at all. So I take the lead. “Telling me sounds like a great plan.” He doesn’t take the bait, so I prompt him. “What mission?”
He just stares at me.
Okay. New approach. “What happened back there on the road?”
The change of topic makes him blink. “We died. I mean, you died. On the road. I died last year.” He grimaces. “I’m making a mess of this.”
You died on the road. I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut. A part of me suspected it, but actually having it acknowledged as fact . . .
My first thought is for my dad. If I’m dead, he’s alone. If I’m dead, it’ll kill him. And Carly and Kelley and Dee and Sarah and all my other friends . . . I know what it feels like to mourn, to have a film of gray settle over every moment of every day, a fog that coats everything, leaching out color and joy. I don’t want that for them. My heart gives a hard thump in my chest. And that stops me cold.
My heart is beating. That means Luka’s wrong. I’m alive.
“You’re not making sense,” I whisper. “You died last year, but you’re still going to school? Still on the track team? Still going to classes?” My voice rises with each word until I’m practically screaming. “What, you’re a zombie? One of the living dead?”
I take a step forward. He takes a step back.
“No.” He shakes his head. “I’m not saying this right.”
“No shit, Sherlock.” I’m shaking with fear and anger. “This isn’t funny, Luka.”
“No, I know. Listen, I understand how you feel. I remember waking up right where you did. I remember what I thought. That I was dead. That I was in a coma. That I was dreaming the whole thing.” He touches my shoulder, and then jerks his hand away, his fist clenching as he drops it to his side. “Those same thoughts went through your head, right?”
They had. Every single one of them.
I slap my palm against his chest, over his heart. I feel the steady drum of his heartbeat. “You’re lying. You’re alive. I can feel it. Dead. People. Don’t. Have. Heartbeats.” I punctuate each word with a tap against his chest, and then let my hand fall to my side.
He shakes his head. “I am. You are. Alive, I mean.” He lifts his hand like he’s going to touch my shoulder again, but he only holds it there for a second, then drops it. “We’re mostly alive. Most of the time. But for the mission, we’re not. Not really. We’re here, and we get to go back when we’re done.”
“Start making sense, Luka, because so far, everything you’ve said just sounds crazy.” I feel sick, woozy, adrenaline slamming my pulse into overdrive and making me want to run, scream, hit something. “Just tell me what’s going on.” I enunciate each word, slow and careful. “In plain, simple terms. Just tell me what the hell is going on.”
Luka glances around like he’s looking for an escape route. I follow his gaze. We’re in a clearing surrounded by trees. There’s nothing familiar. No street. No crosswalk. No schools. No landmarks I recognize. And for the first time, I notice that there are more than three of us here.
About ten feet away are two large boulders. A boy is sitting on one, a girl on the other. I don’t recognize either one of them. The boy’s a little older, maybe twenty or so. His blue eyes are a stunning contrast to his dark skin and black lashes. His curly hair is trimmed close to his skull. He looks like a model in a J.Crew ad, and he’s watching me with an expression that I can only read as sympathetic. The girl’s red haired and pale, blue eyed, too—what’s with that?—very pretty, with a figure that’s all curves. She’s wearing a cheer uniform. The only things missing are the pom-poms. They’re both wearing the wristbands.
After a minute, the girl pushes off the boulder and walks over. She approaches me warily, like I’m some wild animal that’s going to pounce on her and tear her throat out.
“Listen . . . um . . .” Her brows shoot up and she looks at me expectantly, waiting for me to tell her my name.
“Miki Jones.”
“Richelle Kirkman.” She gestures back toward the boy on the boulder. “That’s Tyrone Walker.” I recognize her voice. She’s the girl who was speaking when I first woke up, and I’m guessing Tyrone is the guy she was talking to. “You already had the pleasure”—she rolls her eyes—“of meeting Jackson.” At the mention of his name, I glance over to where he’s standing on the far side of the boulders. “And from the looks of things, you already know Luka,” Richelle continues, then frowns. “Which is odd because we’ve never had anyone go through who knew each other from . . . before. You go to the same school or something?”
My head jerks up. “Luka!” I feel a surge of relief at seeing him standing in front of me, whole, unhurt, unbloodied. I take a step forward, my hands coming up on instinct to hug him, my smile stretching into a grin. Then I see the look on his face and I freeze. He looks decidedly uncomfortable. Maybe even . . . guilty. Of what?
“You’re okay,” I say, and drop my hands back to my sides, feeling lame.
“Yeah. For now.” He rakes his fingers back through his dark, wavy hair. He’s wearing a black wristband identical to mine, but he’s not tugging at his.
My thoughts rewind. “Wait . . . what . . .” I shake my head. “What mission?”
“Listen—” He exhales in a rush. “I need to tell you—”
I wait, but he says nothing more, and I’m getting a little tired of boys who talk in cryptic spurts or don’t talk at all. So I take the lead. “Telling me sounds like a great plan.” He doesn’t take the bait, so I prompt him. “What mission?”
He just stares at me.
Okay. New approach. “What happened back there on the road?”
The change of topic makes him blink. “We died. I mean, you died. On the road. I died last year.” He grimaces. “I’m making a mess of this.”
You died on the road. I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut. A part of me suspected it, but actually having it acknowledged as fact . . .
My first thought is for my dad. If I’m dead, he’s alone. If I’m dead, it’ll kill him. And Carly and Kelley and Dee and Sarah and all my other friends . . . I know what it feels like to mourn, to have a film of gray settle over every moment of every day, a fog that coats everything, leaching out color and joy. I don’t want that for them. My heart gives a hard thump in my chest. And that stops me cold.
My heart is beating. That means Luka’s wrong. I’m alive.
“You’re not making sense,” I whisper. “You died last year, but you’re still going to school? Still on the track team? Still going to classes?” My voice rises with each word until I’m practically screaming. “What, you’re a zombie? One of the living dead?”
I take a step forward. He takes a step back.
“No.” He shakes his head. “I’m not saying this right.”
“No shit, Sherlock.” I’m shaking with fear and anger. “This isn’t funny, Luka.”
“No, I know. Listen, I understand how you feel. I remember waking up right where you did. I remember what I thought. That I was dead. That I was in a coma. That I was dreaming the whole thing.” He touches my shoulder, and then jerks his hand away, his fist clenching as he drops it to his side. “Those same thoughts went through your head, right?”
They had. Every single one of them.
I slap my palm against his chest, over his heart. I feel the steady drum of his heartbeat. “You’re lying. You’re alive. I can feel it. Dead. People. Don’t. Have. Heartbeats.” I punctuate each word with a tap against his chest, and then let my hand fall to my side.
He shakes his head. “I am. You are. Alive, I mean.” He lifts his hand like he’s going to touch my shoulder again, but he only holds it there for a second, then drops it. “We’re mostly alive. Most of the time. But for the mission, we’re not. Not really. We’re here, and we get to go back when we’re done.”
“Start making sense, Luka, because so far, everything you’ve said just sounds crazy.” I feel sick, woozy, adrenaline slamming my pulse into overdrive and making me want to run, scream, hit something. “Just tell me what’s going on.” I enunciate each word, slow and careful. “In plain, simple terms. Just tell me what the hell is going on.”
Luka glances around like he’s looking for an escape route. I follow his gaze. We’re in a clearing surrounded by trees. There’s nothing familiar. No street. No crosswalk. No schools. No landmarks I recognize. And for the first time, I notice that there are more than three of us here.
About ten feet away are two large boulders. A boy is sitting on one, a girl on the other. I don’t recognize either one of them. The boy’s a little older, maybe twenty or so. His blue eyes are a stunning contrast to his dark skin and black lashes. His curly hair is trimmed close to his skull. He looks like a model in a J.Crew ad, and he’s watching me with an expression that I can only read as sympathetic. The girl’s red haired and pale, blue eyed, too—what’s with that?—very pretty, with a figure that’s all curves. She’s wearing a cheer uniform. The only things missing are the pom-poms. They’re both wearing the wristbands.
After a minute, the girl pushes off the boulder and walks over. She approaches me warily, like I’m some wild animal that’s going to pounce on her and tear her throat out.
“Listen . . . um . . .” Her brows shoot up and she looks at me expectantly, waiting for me to tell her my name.
“Miki Jones.”
“Richelle Kirkman.” She gestures back toward the boy on the boulder. “That’s Tyrone Walker.” I recognize her voice. She’s the girl who was speaking when I first woke up, and I’m guessing Tyrone is the guy she was talking to. “You already had the pleasure”—she rolls her eyes—“of meeting Jackson.” At the mention of his name, I glance over to where he’s standing on the far side of the boulders. “And from the looks of things, you already know Luka,” Richelle continues, then frowns. “Which is odd because we’ve never had anyone go through who knew each other from . . . before. You go to the same school or something?”
