The Replaced
Page 69
Simon was still chuckling beneath his breath, and had his hand on the door, when we heard the elevator down the hallway sliding open once more. I couldn’t explain why exactly, since this was a hospital and people came and went at all hours in places like this, but something made me stop him from opening it.
I had the strangest feeling we should wait, for just a split second . . . for just the barest-tiniest-briefest of moments.
I craned my neck from the recess we were standing in to watch as two men stepped out of the elevator, and I flinched, dragging Simon back until we were out of sight.
The men were wearing suits—starched suits with crisply starched shirts. Even their ties looked stiff and starched. In any other place, at any other time, I’d say there was nothing special about them, these two men. Their suits weren’t matching, they weren’t dressed all in black, and they weren’t wearing sunglasses indoors or anything.
Except we already knew we were only a step or two ahead of the Daylighters, and these two were just . . . off somehow. In the same way Agent Truman had seemed off when I’d met him that first day, when he’d come to my front door.
The hairs on my arms went on high alert, and Simon dragged me back as we took one step, and then another and another, until we’d disappeared through the open door beside room 2046 and were hidden in the darkness of room 2048. Behind us, over my shoulder, I heard a machine pulse, beeping on even intervals that felt like it was keeping time with my heart.
My eyes were wide as we stood there, listening for the men’s footsteps in the hallway outside, and as they neared, their heavy soles falling against the tiles, my heart rate overtook the beating of the machine.
I squeezed Simon’s arm when I heard one of the men mumble, “Two-oh-four-six. This is it.”
2046. It was them. They were here for Alex too.
I had Simon in a death grip, afraid to let him go. He gave a curt shake of his head, letting me know to keep my mouth shut, as if I hadn’t already thought of that. My entire body was shaking and had broken out in a cold sweat, making me shiver like an insane person.
We were trapped in here.
“Who are you?” a voice, so small and so frail, asked from behind us.
I practically jumped out of my skin, spinning to see who was there, and even though I could see in the dark, the person was nearly invisible in the shadows, making it impossible to tell whether it was a man or a woman asking.
“What do you want?” came the whisper of a voice again.
I gripped Simon even tighter. What if those guys out there had heard? What if they came in here to find out what was going on? We had to shut whoever it was up before they got us caught.
I let go of Simon and crept over to the center of the room.
I nearly hesitated when I reached the bed, but then leaned down and pressed my lips together. “Shhh,” I said almost inaudibly to the tiniest, most fragile-looking woman I’d ever laid eyes on. She had an oxygen tube tucked beneath her nose, and her skin was mottled with brown spots, skin so thin it was nearly transparent—Simon might not have known this, not in the dark, but I could see it clearly. Her eyes were pale, milky even, and it was a wonder she’d seen us at all. “We’re only staying for a minute,” I crooned softly, hoping she could even hear me above the still-beeping equipment surrounding her.
She frowned, and I worried she was going to argue or call for help, or maybe try to find enough voice to scream. She had that look, like she wanted nothing to do with a couple of kids, strangers, in her room at this hour. I bit back the knot of fear, the sheer and utter panic, as I cast quick glances over my shoulder, while Simon continued to watch the door.
“I’m sorry. We can’t stay long,” I said, taking her hand and hoping I could convince her not to rat us out . . . at least not just yet. Her hand was delicate like a bird, her bones hollow and light, her skin papery and warm.
Her face lit up when she smiled up at me as her gnarled fingers closed over mine in a grip I wouldn’t have imagined possible from her. “It’s okay, dear,” she said back to me. “I know you try. You do what you can. I know that.” And then she let go and her head collapsed back to her pillow, and all at once her eyes closed.
I waited for a minute, listening to the machines and hoping she hadn’t just up and died on me. But the beeping noises continued, and so did her almost imperceptible shallow breaths.
She’d only fallen asleep, that was all.
I let out a sigh of relief as I released her hand, patting it once to let her know I was sorry I wasn’t whoever she’d thought I was. I felt bad for this woman, wondering if there really was a girl—maybe my age and maybe not—who didn’t come by often enough to visit.
Simon was behind me then and when I turned to face him, his fingers bit into my arm as he made a screwed-up face. But it was the way he was looking at me that told me something else was wrong. “Aw, hell . . . Kyra, we gotta get outta here.”
Frowning, I asked, “Why? What’s wrong with me?”
He was still cringing when he shook his head. “It’s your eyes,” he said, like it was a bad thing . . . a really frickin’ bad thing. “They’re . . . I swear to Christ they’re glowing.”
I flinched, and my hands automatically flew up to touch them. I turned to the sink, which had a mirror above it—the metal kind that, even in the light, would have made me look distorted. But Simon was right; there was a too-vivid quality to my eyes that made them almost luminescent.
I had the strangest feeling we should wait, for just a split second . . . for just the barest-tiniest-briefest of moments.
I craned my neck from the recess we were standing in to watch as two men stepped out of the elevator, and I flinched, dragging Simon back until we were out of sight.
The men were wearing suits—starched suits with crisply starched shirts. Even their ties looked stiff and starched. In any other place, at any other time, I’d say there was nothing special about them, these two men. Their suits weren’t matching, they weren’t dressed all in black, and they weren’t wearing sunglasses indoors or anything.
Except we already knew we were only a step or two ahead of the Daylighters, and these two were just . . . off somehow. In the same way Agent Truman had seemed off when I’d met him that first day, when he’d come to my front door.
The hairs on my arms went on high alert, and Simon dragged me back as we took one step, and then another and another, until we’d disappeared through the open door beside room 2046 and were hidden in the darkness of room 2048. Behind us, over my shoulder, I heard a machine pulse, beeping on even intervals that felt like it was keeping time with my heart.
My eyes were wide as we stood there, listening for the men’s footsteps in the hallway outside, and as they neared, their heavy soles falling against the tiles, my heart rate overtook the beating of the machine.
I squeezed Simon’s arm when I heard one of the men mumble, “Two-oh-four-six. This is it.”
2046. It was them. They were here for Alex too.
I had Simon in a death grip, afraid to let him go. He gave a curt shake of his head, letting me know to keep my mouth shut, as if I hadn’t already thought of that. My entire body was shaking and had broken out in a cold sweat, making me shiver like an insane person.
We were trapped in here.
“Who are you?” a voice, so small and so frail, asked from behind us.
I practically jumped out of my skin, spinning to see who was there, and even though I could see in the dark, the person was nearly invisible in the shadows, making it impossible to tell whether it was a man or a woman asking.
“What do you want?” came the whisper of a voice again.
I gripped Simon even tighter. What if those guys out there had heard? What if they came in here to find out what was going on? We had to shut whoever it was up before they got us caught.
I let go of Simon and crept over to the center of the room.
I nearly hesitated when I reached the bed, but then leaned down and pressed my lips together. “Shhh,” I said almost inaudibly to the tiniest, most fragile-looking woman I’d ever laid eyes on. She had an oxygen tube tucked beneath her nose, and her skin was mottled with brown spots, skin so thin it was nearly transparent—Simon might not have known this, not in the dark, but I could see it clearly. Her eyes were pale, milky even, and it was a wonder she’d seen us at all. “We’re only staying for a minute,” I crooned softly, hoping she could even hear me above the still-beeping equipment surrounding her.
She frowned, and I worried she was going to argue or call for help, or maybe try to find enough voice to scream. She had that look, like she wanted nothing to do with a couple of kids, strangers, in her room at this hour. I bit back the knot of fear, the sheer and utter panic, as I cast quick glances over my shoulder, while Simon continued to watch the door.
“I’m sorry. We can’t stay long,” I said, taking her hand and hoping I could convince her not to rat us out . . . at least not just yet. Her hand was delicate like a bird, her bones hollow and light, her skin papery and warm.
Her face lit up when she smiled up at me as her gnarled fingers closed over mine in a grip I wouldn’t have imagined possible from her. “It’s okay, dear,” she said back to me. “I know you try. You do what you can. I know that.” And then she let go and her head collapsed back to her pillow, and all at once her eyes closed.
I waited for a minute, listening to the machines and hoping she hadn’t just up and died on me. But the beeping noises continued, and so did her almost imperceptible shallow breaths.
She’d only fallen asleep, that was all.
I let out a sigh of relief as I released her hand, patting it once to let her know I was sorry I wasn’t whoever she’d thought I was. I felt bad for this woman, wondering if there really was a girl—maybe my age and maybe not—who didn’t come by often enough to visit.
Simon was behind me then and when I turned to face him, his fingers bit into my arm as he made a screwed-up face. But it was the way he was looking at me that told me something else was wrong. “Aw, hell . . . Kyra, we gotta get outta here.”
Frowning, I asked, “Why? What’s wrong with me?”
He was still cringing when he shook his head. “It’s your eyes,” he said, like it was a bad thing . . . a really frickin’ bad thing. “They’re . . . I swear to Christ they’re glowing.”
I flinched, and my hands automatically flew up to touch them. I turned to the sink, which had a mirror above it—the metal kind that, even in the light, would have made me look distorted. But Simon was right; there was a too-vivid quality to my eyes that made them almost luminescent.
