Rush (13 page)

“It’s an in-joke,” he says, spreading his hands palms up in a gesture of conciliation. “Gaming term. First-person shooters carry a ton of weapons. They pull out a big one, like . . . a bazooka? They run slower. They pull out something small . . . say . . . a knife? They run faster.”

I nod. “Even though they should be running at the same speed, because either way, they’re carrying the same amount of weapons, right?”

“Right. First game that concept appeared in was Counter-Strike,” Jackson says.

Luka glances at him. There’s some sort of guy exchange between them that involves nods and knowing smirks, as if that bit of trivia is super important. Whatever.

Jackson turns to me. “You still don’t get a knife, no matter how fast it’ll make you run. If your enemy grabs it, he can use it to gut you.”

“Thanks for the graphics.” He’s right. Even though I know quite a bit about kendo swords, I know nothing about knives. But I can learn. I mentally move “knife research” to the top of my to-do list for when I get back. If I get back. I close my fist tight and dig my nails into my palm.
When
I get back. “So how come
you
know how to use a knife?”

Jackson tips his head, and for a second I think he isn’t going to answer—answering questions isn’t exactly his forte. Then he says, “Combat application technique training.”

“Seriously?” Luka asks, looking impressed. “Like, you took a class? They actually have a class?”

“Yeah. Eleven months of training in Fort Worth.”

“I’ve known you for a year, and you’re only telling me this now?” Luka asks.

But that’s just it. Jackson wasn’t telling Luka, he was telling
me
. A small distinction, but one that matters, though I don’t exactly know why. I’ll figure it out. I just need to come at it from a different direction.

In typical Jackson fashion he closes the topic right when it’s getting interesting. “Discussion time’s over. Let’s move.”

I cast a look over my shoulder at Tyrone. He hasn’t said a word. He’s just standing there, jaw clenched, hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans.

Luka collects his weapon, then turns back to Jackson. “Four isn’t enough. We’ve never gone with less than five.”

“Four’s what we have.”

Never gone with less than five
. I freeze.
I
was the fifth last time. I was the new addition because someone didn’t make it back, didn’t respawn. Who? A boy? A girl? What did he look like? What were his dreams? And how could Jackson and Luka and Tyrone bear to lose Richelle so soon after losing someone else?

Snippets of a forgotten conversation come at me—Richelle’s and Tyrone’s voices from the first time I respawned in the lobby.

“. . . selfish jerk . . . Put all of us at risk so many times. Hanging back and stealing the hit points . . . all he cared about was himself and getting out . . .”

“Doesn’t mean he deserved to . . .”

“He put
you
at risk. As far as I’m concerned, that means he deserved . . .”

Their words meant nothing to me at the time, but now I get it. They were talking about the boy who didn’t come back, the boy I replaced.

Horrified, I whisper, “You’re expecting a replacement for Richelle to show up.”

Luka cuts me a glance and nods, lips set in a tight line, all traces of his grin gone.

“But no one’s coming.” I look at Jackson, who has his arms crossed over his chest and his head turned away from me.

“How do you know no one’s coming?” Tyrone asks, speaking for the first time.

“Isn’t that the question,” Luka mutters. “But you don’t answer questions, do you, Jack? You just bark orders. And step in and take over. You’re good at that, too, aren’t you?”

Jackson turns his head, saying nothing. I don’t need to see his eyes to know he’s glaring at Luka.

For about three seconds, I’m completely confused. What happened to the easy camaraderie of a minute ago? Luka’s gaze flicks to me, then away. Suspicion blooms. Their little macho display isn’t just about the number of people in the clearing. It’s about me and Jackson running together. It’s about Jackson getting to me before Luka did. At least, I think it is. I’m about to tell them to knock it off when I’m hit by doubts, unsure why I’d imagine this new tension has anything to do with me. It’s just a feeling, one without substance.

This is one of those moments that I wish Carly were here because she’d be able to call it for what it is.

The second I think that, I feel sick. I don’t want Carly anywhere near here. I don’t want her involved in this nightmare. I want her safe and happy and normal. I want everyone I care about to be safe and happy and normal.

But as I look at Luka and Jackson and Tyrone, I realize that I’m not going to get what I want because somewhere in the past few crazy days, they’ve been added to the list of people I care about.

“Four weapon cylinders in the box,” I say. “That’s how he knew.” I turn away and head over to Tyrone, who’s standing by the same boulder that he was sitting on the first time I came to the lobby. But this time, Richelle isn’t there beside him. He looks pale, sick, exhausted. I remember the way he knelt beside Richelle’s body. I remember his sobs.

“This is too soon.” He repeats what Luka said earlier, but there’s no emotion behind the words. His tone’s flat, his expression even flatter.

“Too soon?” I repeat, thinking he’s talking about it being too soon after Richelle’s death. I try to think of something comforting to offer and come up blank. I know how worthless even the most well-meaning words can be in the face of such loss. Nothing can make it better.

“Too soon after the last time we were pulled.” His voice is hoarse, like he’s spent days shouting. Or crying. I’m guessing he’s been doing some of both. “We need recovery time.” He shoots a look at Jackson and raises his voice. “They know that. They trying to kill us all?”

The question is all the more terrifying because Tyrone doesn’t actually sound like he cares.

“Who?” I ask. “Who are
they
?”

Jackson picks up a holster and strides toward Tyrone. “What they know or don’t know has no relevance,” he says. “What matters is that we’ve been pulled. We have a job to do. And we’ll do it.”
Or we’ll die
, he doesn’t say. He doesn’t have to. We all know it.

“Who are
they
?” I ask again.

“Don’t bother asking,” Tyrone grumbles. “He’ll just say it’s decision by committee.”

Jackson tosses the holster at Tyrone’s feet. Tyrone stares straight ahead, his expression blank. I know that look. I’ve seen it in the mirror. I stared at it every morning for months after Mom died. Some mornings, I still do.

Tyrone’s broken, like I was—am—broken, the gray fog weighing so heavily on his soul, he’s barely even aware it’s there.

I’m better now than I was two years ago. At least now I can use the tricks Dr. Andrews taught me. I recognize the bricks sitting on my chest and the endless need to sigh for what they are. I feel them pressing down on me right now.

Tyrone might start to heal, in time. But time is one thing we don’t have. This is only my second mission, but I already know that it’s going to go forward whether we’re ready for it or not.

“Tyrone,” I say, moving to stand directly in front of him. I rest my palms on his cheeks and stare straight into his eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m hurting and I barely knew her. I can’t imagine what you’re feeling.” But I can. I know what it is to mourn.

He swallows. Rage and anguish flicker in his expression. “I can’t talk about her back at home.”

“Because of the rules.”

He nods. “I can’t talk about her to anyone. They’ll want to know who she was, how I knew her. And I can’t tell. That makes it worse. I want to remember her laugh. Her eyes. Her smile.” He pauses. “She never had a boyfriend. Now she’ll never get the chance.” He looks away and whispers, “I was waiting for her to grow up. Now, she never will. I shouldn’t have waited.”

“How old are you?”

“Nineteen.”

“How old was . . .”

“Seventeen.”

No, he shouldn’t have waited. Two years isn’t such a big gap.

Sorrow claws at my chest, making it hard to breathe. Richelle won’t get the chance for a lot of things. Prom. Graduation. College.

“It hurts to think about it,” I say.

“It hurts not to.”

I know exactly what he means.

“Nothing’s the same,” he says. Then he laughs, the sound twisted and ugly. “I used to play all the time. Every night. I’d play and I’d think about the game,
this
game, and I’d jot notes about scores and points and badges. I had plans. Big plans. Sell my game for millions, you know?” He snarls and spins away, breathing heavily, his back toward me. “Every time we got pulled, I’d see her numbers climb. She was almost out!” He slams his fist against his palm with such force that I jump and gasp. Then he repeats, very softly, “She was almost out. Almost free.”

Almost out. Almost free.

. . . all he cared about was himself and getting out . . .

I feel like someone just turned on a spotlight, making the whole world shine bright. I cut a glance at Luka. “There’s a way out? Other than dying?”

Before he can answer, Tyrone rounds on him. “How can you still play?” he asks, his voice a low rasp. “How can you laugh and joke and talk about running faster with a knife, like this isn’t life or death? Like the score isn’t the most important thing for us now? Our ticket out?”

Luka looks abashed, and for some reason I feel angry on his behalf.

“He didn’t choose to be here any more than you did,” Jackson says, his voice low and smooth.

I rest my hand on Tyrone’s arm. “He’s just doing the best he can. He’s stuck in this, same as you. If he’s laughing, it’s because that’s better than crying, isn’t it?” Better than feeling nothing at all. If you force yourself to laugh, to pretend you feel okay, eventually you
will
feel okay. At least, that’s the theory.

Tyrone stares at me, then scrubs his palm over his face. “I don’t know. I don’t know.”

“Tyrone, you need to gear up,” Jackson says. Maybe I’m imagining things, but I swear I hear a hint of sadness in his voice. Or maybe I just want to hear it. For a second, no one moves. Then Jackson grabs the harness off the ground and nudges Tyrone, who does absolutely nothing to aid the process.

“That’s gonna cost me,” Tyrone mutters.

“Cost you?” I ask.

“Points deducted for the cost of weapons,” Tyrone says. “Primary weapon costs fifty. Harness is twenty-five. He”—he juts his chin toward Jackson—“has a secondary, the knife. That’s another fifty off his score.”

Score. Points.

Every time we got pulled, I’d see her numbers climb
.

All the pieces click into place. We earn points, as if this really is a game. When he talked about that in Vegas, he wasn’t just talking about the imaginary game in his head. Earn enough of them and—

“They’re pretty generous in the charges they levy. Not so generous with the points they pay out for hits,” Tyrone snarls.

“Save it,” Jackson says, low and fierce. “Save that anger for the Drau, Tyrone.”

Tyrone stares at him, jaw set, eyes flashing, and then he snatches the harness and gears up.

When Jackson points to the weapons box, Tyrone holds his hand out to draw his cylinder. Jackson’s shoulders tense, then he turns his face a little and I can’t tell if he’s looking at Tyrone or me.

“You live through this, Tyrone,” he says, so low I barely hear him. “Don’t you die.”

I swallow, not sure exactly what’s going on here, because even though he says Tyrone’s name, I feel like he’s speaking to me, too.

“Strong language for someone who claims it’s every man for himself,” I say.

Seconds tick past. “I just don’t want to have to train someone new.”

“Asshole,” Tyrone mutters without heat, sounding almost like himself. Jackson smiles a little.

“Scores,” Luka says from behind me.

Tyrone turns. I follow his gaze to the center of the clearing. The air dances like heat shimmers off a hot sidewalk. Something glossy black and rectangular begins to take shape. It looks like a massive, flat-screen TV, but when I walk over and reach out to touch it, my fingers pass through. As I draw them back, that corner of the image wavers and warps, then settles back into the shape of the screen’s corner.

Luka walks over to stand beside me, followed by Tyrone. A picture of Jackson bounded by a black border appears on the screen. He’s dressed in the clothes he was wearing the first time I met him, complete with the old-school aviator shades. In the picture, there’s blood on his clothes and a scratch on his cheek. The picture is odd and more than a little eerie because it isn’t a photo. It looks like a truly awesome 3-D rendering of a person. 3-D Jackson turns end over end, then zooms to the top left.

A new picture appears: Luka. He’s leaning against the wall, holding his arm, and I can see the white shards of his broken bones. I gasp. These pictures are from the end of the last battle. I take a step back, feeling uneasy as 3-D Luka turns end over end, and then lines up in the top left. Jackson’s image moves down a notch.

Tyrone’s next. The picture rotates up and over. He ends up above Jackson but below Luka.

I want to look away. The next picture will be Richelle’s. Or mine. Either way, I don’t want to see. But something pins me in place and I can’t tear my eyes from the screen.

The black frame forms. The picture shimmers into place. My heart clutches. It’s Richelle. Her last battle. Her last moment. Her skin is gray, her hair tangled, matted with blood. Her eyes are open, but she isn’t there. Beside me, Tyrone exhales in a rush, the sound like a deflating balloon. My gaze still locked on the screen, I reach for him blindly and loop my arm around his waist. He shudders beneath my touch but doesn’t pull away. I shudder right along with him, remembering the way Richelle touched me in the dark warehouse before the aliens came at us, offering silent support. Tears prick the backs of my lids.

We could have been friends. We
would
have been friends. I didn’t help her, didn’t do anything to help her stay safe. I barely managed to keep myself safe. And Jackson? He was busy keeping me from getting my brain sucked out through my eyes—at least, that’s what it felt like. Would he have been able to save Richelle if I hadn’t been there? Would he have even tried?