Lost (4 page)

Unfortunately she had a hard time believing any of it.

I
never really thought that I could be anything to Gaia. I mean, I hoped, I daydreamed, I obsessed-but who ever really thought it would work? Look at her, for God's sake! She's a ninja without subtitles. She's Buffy without the styling gel. Who does she need? No one. What does she need from me? Nothing. What good could an average guy with nothing but a skateboard and a dream be to her? None.

But things are different now. I always knew Gaia had a vulnerable side. Obviously I knew. I've been her friend from the beginning. I've been there for my share of breakdowns. But I could never really help her. I couldn't protect her from the people that wanted to hurt her. I couldn't help her when Sam died because, let's be honest here, there were some selfish motivations.

But now . . . now she's letting me in. This I can help her with. I know about hospitals and injury and
sickness and family crises. These are things I've endured. These are things I've weathered. These are things I've conquered.

These are things I can help her through and protect her from, at least somewhat.

And it's nice to be there for her. To have her lean on me. It's nice, for once, to be the protector.

The fugitive almost swallowed his heart whole.

Beef Jerky

THE MOON HUNG LOW IN THE SKY AS
he staggered from the woods toward the garish lights of the Mobil station. He'd lain low in the forest for hours, his heart seizing at every rustle of the wind, his breath catching at every snapping twig and hooting owl. Finally, when he couldn't take it anymore, the paranoia, the cold—and sugar, he needed sugar—he decided the coast was clear. Or at least clear enough to begin the next leg of his journey.

He shuffled over to the side of the building and leaned back against the chipping paint on the concrete wall, his knees trembling with fatigue. There was only one car at the pump—a Jaguar—and it was just pulling away. He knew that if he was to have any chance of getting back to the city, he was going to have to hitch a ride. He also knew that no one in their right mind would pick up a guy who was walking around in the middle of the night in ripped slippers and a white jumpsuit. He wasn't sure he'd want to ride in the car of the person who
would
pick him up.

Peeking around the side of the building, he gazed through the smudgy windows of the minimart that made up half the gas station. There were racks full of food—pink cakes wrapped in cellophane, red-and-white packages of beef jerky, row after row of candy bars. His stomach growled painfully, and he
clenched his hand over it, feeling hollow. He had no money, and he wasn't going to steal. At least, he wasn't going to steal something big. But in a life-or-death situation, it couldn't really be considered stealing, could it? A pack of gum was all he needed. Five sticks of Juicy Fruit packed enough sugar to stand between him and diabetic shock. All he had to do was slip the glossy yellow package in his pocket without the clerk noticing. It seemed easy enough. But as he planned his next move, the sound of an approaching car threw him off track. This could be his getaway.

He slipped farther back along the wall, out of sight, and said a little prayer. Let it stop. Let it be a van or a truck he could sneak into. The engine grew louder and louder and the little bell dinged, indicating the presence of a new vehicle in the gas station lot. He glanced around the corner again when the engine died and saw a man twice his size and twice his age, with a scruffy brown beard, groan his way out of a red pickup truck. He wore a hat with an American flag on the front and the slogan These Colors Don't Run.

He was instantly liked.

The bearded driver loped into the minimart and appeared moments later with a hubcap attached to a key. He walked around the other side of the gas station, scratching lazily at his beard, and the fugitive took his chance. He glanced into the minimart to find the proprietor drooling over a porn magazine, then
ran for the truck. It seemed to take forever just to cross the lot, and he felt so exposed, he could have been naked. But soon he was tucked cozily between the metal bed of the truck and the canvas cover overhead. There were a few bags around him, but he fit quite nicely if he curled into a fetal position.

Now all he had to do was hope that the bearded man was heading for New York. The last thing he needed was to end up in the middle of rural Connecticut. Or worse—a New Jersey mall town.

A few moments passed in agonizing doubt. Was he doing the right thing? Should he just call the police? What if he was caught? Where was this guy, anyway? How the hell long did he need to take a whiz? The fugitive almost climbed out of the truck a dozen times. Then he heard the door of the minimart open and knew the bearded man was returning the bathroom key. There was no going back now. If he tried to climb out of his hiding place, he'd be caught for sure.

Suddenly another car approached, pulled into the lot just behind the bed of the truck, and stopped but was left idling. The fugitive almost swallowed his heart whole. A sizzle of fear ran up his spine, over his skull, and through his chest, settling over his stomach like a frigid wet blanket. He slipped his fingers between two of the snaps on the canvas cover and popped them free so that he could see out.

The car was a black sedan. No plates. The driver opened the door and climbed out. The fugitive stopped breathing. It was 422—the most ruthless of the guards. The one who had beaten him down in the early days—back when he still had fight in him. Guard 422 was impossibly tall, pushing seven feet, and had the shoulders of an NFL linebacker. His cold, dead eyes gazed around the parking lot, slipped right over the fugitive, whose heart stopped cold for a moment, then kept moving.

The fugitive glanced at the sedan's passenger seat, and he could just make out the profile of 457, whose right arm was in a sling.

Moving as little as possible, the fugitive lowered the canvas cover and curled up again, his lower back tightening, his eyes squeezing shut. So they had come for him after all. He was done for, and he knew it. It didn't take a Mensa man to think to look in the back of a pickup truck.

The door to the minimart opened and closed, and the fugitive started to pray again. He'd never been so religious in his life as he'd become in the last few hours. Once more the door opened and shut. Footsteps approached, crunching over silt and asphalt. He held his breath, he squeezed into an even tighter ball, he pressed his lips together.

Any second the canvas cover was going to be ripped free. Any second he was going to feel 422's ironlike hand on his throat. Any second he was going to feel what it was like to die.

The door to the cab opened, and the truck sagged just a bit to the side as the driver climbed in, then righted itself again. The door slammed. The engine started. The muted sound of country music filled the air. And then the truck was off.

The fugitive waited a good ten minutes before he was able to unclench himself. When he did, he checked behind the truck and saw nothing but the dark road, stretching out for miles behind him. He was safe. He finally started to breathe.

That was when his stomach seemed to realize the coast was clear. It let out the loudest growl he'd ever heard it make and left behind a painful emptiness. He pressed his hand against his gut.

There has to be food in here somewhere,
he thought, pulling a duffel bag toward him. He found the zipper and yanked it open, catching it twice on the nylon material. It was a clumsy, blind search in the dark. His hand traveled over balled-up shirts, socks, bottles of shaving cream and shampoo. He ran his hand along the bottom, then shoved the bag aside and groped blindly for the next—a backpack stuffed with magazines, a carton of cigarettes, lighters, and what felt distinctly like a candy bar in a plastic bag. Mouth watering, he pulled the bag free and opened it. Two Snickers bars—just what the doctor ordered.

He shoved an entire bar down his throat, nearly choking himself in the process, the unchewed nuts
scratching his throat. All he wanted was to down the second one as well, but he knew he had to hoard it. There was no way to know where his next meal would be coming from. And he was dying for a drink. Just one drop of water to cool his gummy tongue. But another wild search yielded nothing. He took a deep breath and held his knees to his chest, listening to the sound of the road rushing by beneath him.

Just don't think about it,
he willed himself.
Don't think about water or liquids or wetness.
He could do it. He'd mastered the theory of mind over matter. All he had to do was think of her. Focus on her and everything else faded away. Besides, soon enough he would have all the water he wanted. All the food he wanted. All the comfort he wanted.

Soon enough he would be home.

Primal-Guy Urges

ED AWOKE TO A FUZZY GRAY ROOM
full of unfamiliar shapes and the smell of lemon-scented cleaner and rubber. The first thing he registered was that Gaia was asleep in his arms. Actually, that Gaia was asleep half on top of him. Her right
leg was over his belly with her calf hooked down his side, her right arm was flung across his chest, and her cheek rested in the nook of his arm. He squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again, careful not to move any other muscles.

“Paging Dr. Chang! Doctor Chang, please come to emergency,” a throaty voice called out over a PA system. The microphone crackled once before cutting out.

Suddenly Ed remembered.

They were in a hospital room down the hall from the ICU. They had slipped in here last night after the stiff couches in the waiting room had twisted the muscles in their necks beyond repair. Ed moved his head slowly to one side, looking for a clock of some sort, and felt the pang in his tendons. He had no idea how long he and Gaia had been asleep, but the sun was trying to push its way through the blinds over the skinny window on the far wall. He was surprised no one had found them here yet.

Carefully Ed lifted his arm from around Gaia's shoulders and checked his watch. 7:32. If they didn't get a move on, they were going to be late for school.

Gaia sighed in her sleep and shifted slightly, pressing her thigh and cheek deeper into Ed's body. He smiled and curled his arm around her again. Screw school. He could stay here like this with her all day. He loved the coziness of it all, cuddling up here in this single bed with her, seeing her in an almost vulnerable
state. He was actually impressed that she
let
him see her like this—all cute and helpless and sweet.

She blinked a few times and opened her eyes, the characteristic morning confusion creasing her features. Then she looked up at Ed, cocking her head slightly, and met his gaze. His heart wasn't ready for the thump she caused.

“Hey,” she said, reaching up and clumsily pushing her hair away from her face.

“Morning,” he replied.

She sighed contentedly and moved her cheek back to his chest. “Mmmm. Your heart's pounding.” God, she was adorable in the morning. Before she remembered to put on the armor.

“Gee, I can't imagine why,” Ed said wryly. It wasn't the only part of his body that was reacting to this romantic moment. But he had to ignore his primal - guy urges. It wasn't going to take long for Gaia to remember where they were and why. It wasn't the time for . . . anything else.

He kissed the top of her head.

“I like waking up with you,” Gaia said simply, then let out a huge yawn, tucking her hand around him and behind his back.

“It doesn't suck,” Ed replied with a chuckle. “We should do it more often . . . you know . . . when all this is over.”

Gaia took in a deep breath and turned to him fully,
her chin pressing into his breastbone. “Right. When all this is over. I was trying not to think about that.”

“Sorry,” Ed said with an apologetic frown. “We don't have to think about it. We can think about other things. Happy things like . . . TiVo . . . or . . . Popsicles . . . or . . . Winnie-the-Pooh.”

“Winnie-the-Pooh?” Gaia asked, her forehead wrinkling.

“I've always found him a little disturbing,” Ed said. “It just kind of grosses me out that he wears a top with no bottom. Know what I mean?” he asked, not really waiting for an answer.

“And besides, what the hell's a ‘Pooh'?” he continued, still not coming up for air. “They call him Winnie-
the
-Pooh, as if everybody knows what a Pooh is. But really, now, do
you
have any idea what a Pooh is?”

Ed looked at Gaia like he expected a definitive answer to his well-thought-out, much-pondered questions. But all he got was a nice, long kiss, for which he was totally unprepared.

His heart flip-flopped around in his chest until she shifted. He started to pull away, thinking she would do the same. But she didn't. She pressed her whole body into his and parted his lips with her tongue. Ed's breath caught, and he pushed his hands into her hair, cupping the back of her head and pulling her even closer.

Her hand slid across his chest, and she touched his cheek with her fingertips. The tenderness of the gesture
gave him chills. Ed had no idea where this sudden urge for intimacy had come from—especially considering that her father was practically comatose down the hall—but he didn't care. He decided to just go with it.

He pulled the hem of her T-shirt from the back of her cords and pressed his hands into her bare back, half expecting her to stop him. But she didn't even flinch. He smiled amid all the kissing. There was nothing on this earth like Gaia skin.

When they finally parted a few minutes later, his lips were raw, his pulse was racing, and Gaia had a pleasant and beautiful flush across her cheeks. She lay back next to him in the crook of his arm, and they both stared at the ceiling, catching their breath. Her sweater was on the floor, and her T-shirt was half untucked. His hair was sticking out in twenty directions.