Crash (5 page)

Carly's mom sighs and gets to her feet. She goes to her husband, slides her arm through his, and says, “Let's walk,” and then they're gone and Jackson and I are alone in the waiting room once more.

I look up at the clock. Three o'clock. Still three o'clock. The hands haven't moved . . . aren't moving. No, wait . . . they are. The minute hand stutters forward, then freezes, then stutters. I look away, look back, and the hands are running smoothly and the time reads 3:27. Jackson watches me, frowning.

He picks up one of the water bottles, cracks it open, and hands it to me. He lifts the second one, opens it, and takes a long swallow. Then he drags the back of his hand across his lips. “They're going to be okay, Miki. Both of them.”

My gaze flicks up. “False reassurances? From you, Jackson? Not really your style. Plus . . .”

“Plus?”

“The fact that you're offering them makes me even more afraid.”

“Fair enough. I'll rephrase. They have a lot of reasons to be okay.”

I take a drink. Then another. I didn't realize how thirsty I was. “Lien said something once. On a mission. About tasks left uncompleted. She said that if we left a task
unfinished back home, we'd have to come back from the mission to finish it.” Even as I say it, I realize how ridiculous it sounds. Mom had so many tasks left unfinished.

“Hey,” Jackson says, and rests his palm against the back of my neck. “Your dad and Carly have a lot of stuff to finish still.”

I nod, my teeth sinking into my lower lip. “Carly told me once that she wants to fill a mayonnaise jar with vanilla pudding and eat it in a crowded place.”

“Why?”

“She said it would be hilarious. People would think she was eating mayo straight from the jar.”

“Then she definitely has to get better,” Jackson says, “because that's one hell of a worthy aspiration.”

I choke on a watery laugh. “There were more. She has a list. She plans to wear a T-shirt that reads LIFE and hand out free lemons. And hire two private investigators to follow each other.”

“She find that list online?”

“Probably.” I swallow, then whisper, “And Daddy? What has he left unfinished?” I think how much he misses Mom, how sad he is. “What has he got to come back to?”

Jackson brushes the pad of his thumb along my cheekbone. “You, Miki. He's coming back to you.”

At 4:44 the doctor steps through the door.

“Miss Jones?”

He's wearing scrubs and a white coat and a nametag that identifies him as Dr. Charles Lee. He looks like he's
really young, maybe early twenties, but I figure that can't be right.

“I'm Miki. Miki Jones,” I say, shoving my hair out of my face and scrambling to my feet. “Daddy? Is he okay?”

“Your father is out of surgery. We did an open splenectomy. In some situations, we can make small incisions and remove the spleen laparoscopically through one of those incisions.” He pauses. “In your father's case, we had to make a larger incision.”

I almost ask why. But I don't really care. There's only one question that matters, so that's the one I ask. “Is he okay?”

His mouth opens and shapes a letter, but no sound comes out.

Bright snakes slither across the edges of my vision. The world tips and sways.

Oh God. Not now. I can't do this now.

I grope for Jackson's hand and hold on, the tips of my fingers and toes gone numb. Dr. Lee keeps talking in slow motion. Sounds—not quite words—come at me from far away, echoing like they're traveling down a long tunnel. I know he's saying something, but I can't catch the meaning.

“What? I can't—”

My vision bursts in an explosion of color that makes no sense, frozen rectangles of blue partially overlying rectangles of red. Green. Orange.

The colors implode.

The floor drops away. I spin end over end, landing on
my feet, heart pounding as I run flat out, my weapon cylinder in my hand.

I skid and slam down on one knee, the pain shooting up my thigh through my hip to my spine. I swear it shakes my skull; I can feel it in my teeth. Disoriented, I look around, trying to get my bearings. I'm back in the game, but not at the point I left it. Last thing I remember I was running toward Luka and Tyrone, Jackson behind me, covering my back. Now I'm alone, between two machines that smell like oil, with a wall of Drau between me and where I last saw my team.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

MY BREATH COMES IN JAGGED RASPS AS I GET TO MY FEET, babying my knee. I lean out from behind the machine just enough to scope the spot where I expect Jackson to be.

He isn't where I left him. I try not to freak out because I'm not where he left me, either.

The Drau are focused on Luka and the others and when a lone Drau darts my way, it's picked off by a shot from above before I can take it down. I exhale and sag against the machine at my back, choosing to believe that was Jackson playing sniper, keeping me safe.

I shake my head to clear it.

The Committee's dumped me back in the game at the worst possible moment. My focus needs to be here, in the
game, but it isn't. Not fully. It's back at the hospital with the people I love.

Daddy.

Carly.

I respawned in this pit before I could hear what Dr. Lee had to say. I don't know if Dad's okay, if he made it through the surgery . . . I picture the doctor's face, remember everything I can about his expression. Did he look regretful? Distressed? Did he look like a man about to tell a girl that her father didn't make it?

I don't want to be here, but I have no say, no choice, no control. Part of me wants to sink to the floor, wrap my arms around my knees and keen out loud while I rock. I don't let that part grab a handhold. I'm stronger than that. I will get this done, finish the mission and get back to where I need to be—with my father and my best friend.

A splatter of light burns through my sleeve and skin, digging deep into the muscle of my forearm.

My little pity party's out of time. It's either focus or die.

I lean out from behind the machine just enough that I have a clean shot, steady my weapon cylinder against my forearm, and start shooting. I aim at the clump of Drau that have my team pinned.

There are so many of them.

Three break off and come at me. I pick them off one by one with—I think—a little help from Jackson and his overhead vantage point.

More Drau break away from the group and head in my
direction. I take out one. Jackson takes out another. Someone from my team—I think it's Tyrone—takes out a third. Still more of them head for me. It's like they smell my isolation and plan to take full advantage of it.

I back up, firing, hitting one, missing another.

The Drau split their attention between me and the rest of my team. I catch glimpses of Lien's face, her expression hard and focused. Then Luka. Then Tyrone. I edge forward, firing on the enemy, picking them off. Others come at me.

Still shooting, I back into the narrow groove between the machines, using the metal to protect me from the Drau's weapons. Boots pound on the metal grate above me, then Jackson's there, taking them out, buying me a chance to catch my breath.

“Get out of here,” he orders, yelling down to me through the metal grating of the catwalk.

“But Tyrone, and Luka—”

“Are holding their own. They have a better position than you. Go.”

Four more Drau come at us. Jackson gets one. I get another, but not before its weapon discharges and sears my upper arm. I smell burning flesh. I hear a sharp feminine cry: Kendra or Lien.

I'm dividing Jackson's attention; if he's focused on keeping an eye on me, he isn't helping the rest of our team the way he could be. Just like that first time, the time he couldn't save both me and Richelle.

“Go,” Jackson snarls. “I'll find you.”

I peer around the front edge of the machine. Go where? There's a wall of Drau in front of me, so that's not an option. I glance back and see that there's just enough space to squeeze between the machines if I turn sideways.

Crazy as it seems, in the midst of mayhem I hear Mr. Shomper's reedy voice in my head, reading Shakespeare.
The better part of valor is discretion.
Valor would see me charging into the fray, but discretion would make me pick a spot where I can hold out longer and help my team.

“Discretion it is,” I mutter as I wriggle through and bolt.

One of the Drau darts at me, then another, coming through the tiny opening single file. I jog backward, firing at them. My heels bump up against the metal stairs that lead to yet another one of the catwalks that stripe the ceiling at regular intervals. Perfect. I go up backward, keeping an eye on the battle below. The metal crates protect my team, and Jackson picking off Drau from above takes care of whatever threat Luka and Tyrone and Lien aren't managing very nicely on their own.

I hit the catwalk and find shelter behind a section of the massive robot arm that hangs from the ceiling. With my forearms resting on the rail, I pick off a Drau. Another. A third.

Luka looks up, spots me, taps his con, and grins. Then he disappears behind the crates and a few seconds later I see Lien hustling Kendra down a hallway that juts off the
main room, Tyrone covering their retreat.

I'm guessing the Committee's feeding location info to Luka's con, leaving him leading their little group and me with Jackson. Usually it's just team leaders who get maps, but I remember from the caves that sometimes the Committee varies that rule. I glance over to where I think Jackson's last shot came from. For a millisecond I'm confused; then I'm terrified because the spot I last saw him is now occupied by glowing Drau.

I follow instinct and fire three shots in rapid succession, then slam down the stairs, the metal shaking beneath my feet. As I reach the floor, I look up for a split second. One Drau is down but not dead and the others zip toward me, almost at the stairs.

There's no sign of Jackson.

I freeze, spin, try to catch a glimpse of him. Drau fire singes my shoulder, my back. I dive and roll behind a tool cart, then surge to my feet and move, ducking between stacks of crates. Panting, I press into the shadows, looking for Jackson.

He has to be okay. I didn't see him lying at their feet. Didn't hear him cry out. Maybe he'd already taken off by the time the Drau found his hiding spot.

Maybe he didn't have a chance to call out and warn me before he ran.

And maybe he's hurt.

Dead.

I can't let myself think it.

An image of Carly, her yellow spandex bodysuit wet with her own blood, flashes through my thoughts, followed by an image of my dad, bleeding, broken, trapped in the mangled remains of his car . . .

It didn't happen like that.

Dad isn't trapped in the wreckage. He's in the hospital. Dr. Lee said he's out of surgery. I have to believe he's going to be okay and Carly's going to be okay and Jackson's okay. Not everyone in my life dies; not everyone leaves. I have to try and believe that.

Jackson got away. The Drau didn't catch him.

And they won't catch me.

That's what I need to believe. But it's hard. Everything's unraveling and spinning out of control. Lights zip along the catwalks overhead, converging on me. They know where I am. They'll catch me.

I cry out as droplets of agony rain down on my back, burning through cloth and skin. I skid around a column, press against cool plaster and stick my head out just enough to assess my situation. Too many Drau for me to handle on my own, coming in fast. I pull back. One hallway looks pretty much like the next. I choose one and run.

Veering to the right, I tear along another hallway that opens to a massive space with conveyor belts and more of the robot arms and massive wheeled tool carts like the one I hid under before. Yellow-and-black-striped caution markers stand sentinel at the base of more yellow metal stairs. They lead to another overhead catwalk.

Not going up there. Nowhere to hide.

Instead, I keep running, turn left and thunder up a set of concrete stairs. Gray stairs. Gray walls. My breath comes hard and rough as I hit the top.

Crap. More open space.

I chance a glance over my shoulder. No Drau there, not yet.

Panting, I look right, then left. Neither option is great. The one will have me running between rows of wooden crates. The other will take me to control central—a room with banks of TV monitors showing the silent robot arms throughout the factory. Problem is, that room's behind a wall of glass, which doesn't exactly offer ideal cover.

I choose, heading for the glass, but not the room behind it. Instead I take the corridor that leads past, hoping it isn't a dead end.

More stairs; these head back down. I freeze, hugging the wall, and look back. A flash of light zips across the far end of the factory floor. There's at least one Drau behind me, maybe more, weaving between the stacks of crates, searching for me.