Crash (3 page)

Nothing.

No movement.

No sound.

Just the thud of my heart and the roar of my blood in my ears.

The creepy feeling intensifies. I start to turn.

“Sniper,” Jackson yells, already firing at the overhead catwalk as burning flecks of light rain down on us. “Move!”

Kendra cries out and skitters to the right, the left, trying to find an escape route. Lien grabs her arm and drags her toward a stack of metal crates. The hazard stickers on the sides don't exactly give me a feeling of confidence, but at the moment, hiding behind them is the lesser of evils, so I keep my doubts to myself as I follow behind the others.

Jackson holds his position, right out in the open, covering the rest of us as we head for safety. Covering
me.
I want to hit him for that. Would it make us any less safe if he ran for cover while he fired?

My legs pump. The Drau aim for me, hit me. Tiny
droplets of blinding light sear through skin and muscle like acid. Their weapons incinerate us, little bits at a time; ours swallow them alive in a surge of oozing darkness. I shoot back, my attention on the catwalk.

My toes catch on a raised platform. I stumble, twisting as I fall, firing without precision or a sightline. Shooting blind. My butt slams hard on the ground, winding me. And then I'm sliding along the floor crazy fast and it clicks that I didn't hit the floor, I hit a low, wheeled trolley that carries me under a massive robot arm hanging suspended from the high ceiling.

My team—and the relative safety of the stack of crates—lies in the opposite direction.

I'm cut off from Jackson, cut off from the others. I'm completely on my own.

Jackson comes after me, maybe a dozen loping steps, only to stop short when enemy fire blocks his path. There are more snipers up there. At least three or four. Every time they fire, it gives their positions away. I try and offer him what cover I can.

My shots go wild, spurts of oily black death that don't quite hit the mark because the trolley underneath me is running its own marathon. And because there's something wrong with me. It's like I'm watching TV and the cable's on the fritz, images going pixelated or freezing altogether, then stuttering to life again. With a grunt, I twist to the side just enough to be able to reach my sheath and sink my
kendo sword home, then I roll off the trolley and keep rolling until I'm sheltered beneath the comparative safety of a massive wheeled tool cart.

Jackson presses against a column under a barrage of Drau shots. Luka and Tyrone are with Lien and Kendra, pinned where we left them, fending off more Drau. Jackson points straight up. I follow his direction and see the steepled glass of a massive skylight and the stars beyond. The stars don't look like I've ever seen them. I get the feeling we're somewhere on the opposite side of the world. I glance at Jackson, trying to figure out what it is he wants me to see.

Again, he points up, then at the tool cart I'm hiding under, then mimes shooting at the ceiling. I roll to the far side of the cart, my sheath digging in against the bumpy bones of my spine, and duck my head out from underneath to see some sort of hydraulic nail gun with nails as long as my forearm and thick as my thumb.

I lie there, drawing shallow breaths and blowing them out in rapid puffs. Jackson holds up five fingers. Four. Three. Two. One.

I shove my weapon cylinder in its holster, roll out from under the cart and surge to my feet while Jackson covers me. I flick the power switch, grab the nail gun two-handed, point straight up, and shoot.

Again.

Again.

I aim for the same spot in the glass because I need it to—

The glass roof shatters and comes down on me, Jackson, and the Drau. With a cry, I drop the nail gun and dive back under the cart as massive razor-sharp shards fall like hail.

I free my weapon cylinder and roll onto my stomach, using my elbows to drag myself forward as I try and spot Jackson. He presses up against a wall under some low-hanging ductwork. He must have found cover before the worst of the glass showered down because there's a cut on his forearm, blood welling in a thin line, but he looks otherwise unhurt.

On the metal grille above me, a Drau lies unmoving, its glowing upper body hanging over the edge of the catwalk, its lower body trapped by the railing. A shard of glass protrudes from its chest, jutting up like a shark's fin above the water.

The Drau's eyes are open. I'm careful not to meet its gaze just in case it's still alive. I know what those mercury eyes can do—drain me until I'm a dull husk, kind of like what happens to a car battery if the headlights are left on. The Drau can kill me with a look. I'm not going to give it that chance.

I aim, shoot, the faint hum of my weapon cylinder accompanying the black surge of death that swallows the Drau whole. I hate that part. I know it's them or me. I know they will kill my team, kill me. But that doesn't mean I
don't feel a twinge every time I take one of them out.

Them or me. Them or me.
My mantra pings around inside my head.

There's another Drau body up there. An arm overhangs the edge of the catwalk, gleaming bright. Jackson shoots. The arm doesn't even twitch as the Drau is destroyed. Maybe it was dead already, guillotined by the glass.

I'm more worried about the Drau that are still moving, firing down on us, zipping along the catwalk, so fast they're little more than blurs of light.

Firing in rapid succession, I take one of them out, miss a second and a third. Their aim's better than mine, their shots burning my arms as they hit their mark. My movements awkward thanks to the sword sheathed tight against my back, I scuttle all the way under the tool cart for cover, pinned in place by hostile fire. Jackson gets one on the opposite side of the catwalk, then another on the catwalk above me. I'm about to break cover and sprint toward him when he shakes his head and points directly up. Through the metal grating, I see the gleam of a Drau's feet.

My vision stutters, stalls, then starts up again, like someone pressed the Pause button. I drag the back of my hand across my eyes, wiping away sweat.

Jackson points up again, then at me. I nod, grip my weapon cylinder tight and slither out feet-first from under the tool cart. I circle the edge, aiming, shooting.

Got it. The Drau's light flickers out as it's sucked into the black ooze that erupts from my weapon.

Jackson signals back in the direction we left the rest of the team. We run, firing as we go, aiming for anything that glows. In my zeal, I take out an overhead lamp, tiny bits of glass from the broken bulb tinkling down on us. I hunch forward, shoulders high, as if that'll protect me from the fallout as we sprint to the far wall. The two of us collapse against it, listening for any threat.

The factory's quiet.

Jackson leans around the corner.

“Looks clear,” he murmurs.

I reach up and pick a glittering bit of glass from his hair. From the skylight or the lamp I shattered? Silly to even wonder. Does it matter?

“Go,” he says. “I'll cover you. Head for the stack of crates.” Before I can protest, he continues, “I'll be right behind you.”

I sidle past him and peer around the corner, catching Luka's eye. He gives me the thumbs-up, his weapon cylinder at the ready. Tyrone nods at me. They'll cover my front. Jackson'll cover my back.

Three. Two. One.

I run.

But I don't move. Not at all.

Seconds drag past and it's an eternity before I take a breath, filling my lungs on a sharp gasp, as if I've been underwater too long and my head's finally broken the surface.

I close my fingers around my weapon cylinder, but it isn't there.

I'm in the wrong place.

No factory.

No Drau.

We stand in the middle of the hospital waiting room, Jackson holding tight to my hand, exactly as we were when we got pulled hours and hours ago.

Or was it days ago? Seconds ago?

The time shift thing between the real world and the game makes me crazy. Makes me sick.

I stare straight ahead at the flu vaccine poster. The hard thud of my heart mingles with the hum of voices from people passing in the hallway and the distant mechanical hissing and beeping that filter in.

Bam
, we're back. But we shouldn't be. Not yet.

I should be relieved we're back here, that I don't have to focus on fighting the Drau when I want to focus on Dad and Carly. But I'm not, because I've learned that when something unexpected happens in the game, it's never good.

“What are we doing here?” I ask, then louder, “We're not done yet. We didn't finish. We were just starting. The mission wasn't complete.”

“Shh,” Jackson glances at the open door and takes both my hands in his. Either my hands are really cold or his are really warm. He leads me to the far corner of the room.

I'm used to the routine now: get pulled, complete the mission, respawn in real life. Everything has to be in its place, neat and tidy. This is messy. Wrong. “It isn't happening in the right order,” I whisper.

“No, it isn't.” He doesn't sound happy about it.

“I can't think.” I rip my hands from his and press the sides of my fists against my forehead. “The mission . . . it wasn't right. It felt off. Fractured. I felt like I wasn't a hundred percent there, right from the start. Like the mission was . . . I don't know . . . I guess the best way to describe it is that it felt like it was stuttering. Like someone kept hitting the Pause button.”

I spin away, pace to the far end of the room, pace back. I'm jumping out of my skin, anxiety crawling through me.

“My vision kept doing this weird thing where it would dissociate into little spots or rectangles, then fix itself. Like the game froze. And now we're back here, out of order. Why?” When Jackson doesn't answer fast enough, I grab his forearms and demand, “Why? What's happening? What's going on?”

“It could have something to do with the way we were detoured.” He's talking about Lizzie, about the way she managed to grab us somewhere between the real world and the lobby and bring us to the white room. He pauses, frowns, then says, “No. That can't be it. Because Luka and the others said they felt off, too.”

And they didn't make the same stop on their way to the lobby. They didn't get pulled into yet another alien place to
chat with a girl who's been dead for five years.

“Tell me what's going on. Jackson, don't mess with me. Just tell me!” Everything's out of control. The rules have changed and I need to know why. I need an answer. If I can just get an answer, everything will be—

“Miki,” Jackson says. I'm still holding his forearms. I let go, and as he drops his arms to his sides, I glance down and see little half-moon marks on his skin where I dug my nails in deep.

He reaches for me but I jerk away and stumble back a few steps. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do that. I didn't realize—” I'm not in control, and I need to be because I can feel a full-blown panic attack body-slamming the edges of my failing defenses. I'm panting, my heart racing, sweat dampening my palms.

My chest feels like it's being crushed by a cement truck. There are a million centipedes crawling on my skin. I can't breathe. I can't think. Panic claws at me.

Miki, slow breaths. Just think about each breath.

Jackson eases his thoughts inside my mind, calm, comforting. I do what he says and add a few tricks of my own, imagining my hands are weightless, my forearms, my shoulders. I bring relaxation through my feet, my knees, my thighs. But I can't make it work. Anxiety scratches at the door.

“Look at me, Miki,” Jackson says, his voice low. He flips his sunglasses up so I'm looking into his Drau-gray eyes, because, yeah, in addition to the alien DNA of the
Committee, Jackson's double blessed with a hit of Drau genes, too. “Breathe with me. Slow. Like this.” He inhales. I shake my head back and forth. He cups my cheeks, holding me still, his eyes locked on mine. “Like this,” he says again, and takes another slow breath.

I take three little gasps for his one.

“Slower.”

Jackson's there, inside my head. I see the beach, the waves, feel the sun on my skin. He helps me see them.

Just think about each breath.

I nod and do better this time. I follow his rhythm, his pattern. I see nothing but his eyes, molten silver.

I don't know how long we stand like that. Long enough that my pulse slows, my breathing evens out.

Finally, I say, “Tell me what's going on,” my voice calmer now.

“I would if I could.”

“What does that mean? Are you still keeping secrets?”

He holds his hands out to his sides. “I don't have answers.”

I stare at him, at the way he's standing, the first time in my recollection that he looks . . . indecisive. Or is that a ploy, a trick? That's the thing about Jackson, about the game, about everything . . . what am I supposed to trust? Are there things he knows that he won't—
can't
—tell me?

“Don't have the answers or don't want to share them?” That's the question. He's kept stuff from me before. We had a fight about it . . . God, was it just a few hours ago
that I fought with Jackson about his penchant for keeping secrets? It feels like weeks ago.

“Don't have them,” Jackson says. “I know what you know. That there was something really weird about being in that factory and that we're back here at the hospital and we shouldn't be. Not yet.”

Back here at the hospital. My stomach turns. I'm fighting with Jackson about nothing when Dad and Carly are injured, maybe dying. The panic attack I staved off paces the confines of its cage, ready to pounce at the slightest opportunity. “You're supposed to have the answers. You're supposed to know everything about the game. You're—”

“Doing the best I can,” he says, with a tight smile. “Just like you. If I knew anything else, I'd tell you, Miki.”