No Easy Way Out (30 page)

W
hen the lights blinked out along the parking level, Ryan lifted Ruthie’s sleeping head from his lap and crawled into the middle row of seats with Shay. She was writing in a notebook with a lighted pen.

“Any deep thoughts?” he asked.

Shay closed the book, but left the pen on for light. “Just trying to pull together a single thought. My head’s taken quite the beating.”

“Can I do something?”

“Have any spare heads?”

“I’d give you mine, but that would be a little weird. I’d have to kiss myself, which is wrong.”

“You’re not bad-looking,” Shay said. “I mean,
I
would kiss you.”

“Really?” he said, leaning in.

Shay stopped him. “The ankle,” she said. “Have you cleaned it?”

“I told you,” he said, leaning closer, “it’s fine.”

He kissed her—though she stopped things before he really got going.

“We need a plan,” she said. “I have to get Preeti and we need to find somewhere to live that isn’t this car.” She looked down at the floor like it might ooze up over her feet, it was so covered in garbage.

“We should bring Ruthie back to the mall people,” Ryan said. “She might be upset, but it’s not their fault Jack died.”

“It’s not
not
their fault.” Shay’s voice was cold. He’d forgotten that they’d let her grandmother die.

“Still, she’s safer with them.”

“I guess,” Shay said, looking back at Ruthie.

“We could all go live with Mike?”

Shay looked at him like he’d suggested they live in a snake pit. “We are not living with Mike.”

Even though he totally got why she didn’t want to live with Mike—he’d gotten a little scary over the last few days—it still hurt. Mike was a good guy underneath it all. At least, he was good to Ryan.

“I could go up there,” he suggested, “just to get us some food. I haven’t eaten all day.”

Shay looked around, like maybe she was willing to eat the floor garbage rather than accept any handouts from Mike. “Fine,” she said. “But just go and come back. Don’t leave me all night.”

He kissed her. “Never.”

Ryan took a fire stairwell up to the third floor, then exited. He was surprised to find that his card key did not work on the first door he tried—the reader flashed red. He pulled on the door and it opened. Looking up, he saw that the mechanism for the lock system had been ripped from the wall. So this was Mike’s solution to losing the universal card key. It wasn’t neat, but it worked—classic Mike.

It wasn’t hard to find the IMAX. Ryan simply followed the busted doors, and then the thump of a bass line. He opened the door to the theater and found the place dark, crowded with people, and smelling of that strangely appealing combination of alcohol and sweat. Ryan pushed his way through the dancing bodies. He hoped that the food was still kept near the front—he wanted to get in, steal something, and get out without being noticed.

The music cut out. Ryan ducked behind a tall guy. Drums started up—just people slapping their thighs, but the effect was drummish. Then he swore he heard a bird honk.

Ryan peeked out from behind the giant to get a look at what was going on. Drew—shirtless and wearing the feathered headdress from a kid’s Indian chief Halloween costume—held a birdcage between two tiki torches. Drew opened the cage. The bird shuffled away from his hands, but didn’t put up much of a fight once he got his fingers around its wings.

“I need some meew-sik,” Drew slurred. He was obviously completely wasted off his ass.

Heath, one of the Tarrytown guys, was on air guitar and Leon, another, began to beat his chest and legs. Both of their faces were striped with war paint. After a few seconds of howling, Heath began squealing out something that might have been an attempt at a song. People in the audience joined in, the song blooming into AC/DC’s “Highway to Hell.” Drew, nodding his head, held the duck like it was a feathered football, in one hand, feet out, displaying it for the crowd. The bird didn’t seem too upset. What was wrong with this bird?

Everyone started shouting the chorus: “I’m on a highway to hell!” Then Drew screamed—not screamed, but growled. Ryan had no idea what was happening. Drew shoved the duck’s head in his mouth and twisted the body. Ryan lurched behind the giant to avoid seeing any more. Was Drew
ripping the bird’s head off with his teeth?!

The backup musicians gave up on their song and just started screaming and howling.

“Dude, it’s just like that heavy metal guy with the chicken!”

“That’s a lot more blood than I thought there’d be in a bird.”

Ryan tried to keep from throwing up. When he’d regained control of his gag reflex, he dared to look. Drew was coated in blood and in his hand was the head of the duck, which he pumped toward the ceiling like a pompon. Everyone was screaming and clapping.

What the hell had happened to his friends? He’d seen them party hard—had seen people get messed up beyond recognition. One dude, while drunk, had decided to bust empties over the back of his head and ended up tearing his freaking eye out. But this? Eating live animals? This was beyond messed up.

He had to get Mike to put an end to this party.

No.
He’d made his choice. He had to think of Ruthie, of Shay. If Mike and Drew wanted to behead animals and dress like lunatics, then that was their business. He just had to get the food and get the hell out.

The speakers began to blare “Pour Some Sugar on Me,” which was Drew’s personal theme song. Everyone was shouting along with the music, writhing with each other. Ryan saw the bird’s head on top of a tall pole, which began to make rounds through the crowd. A girl sloshed half a cup of a sugary beverage on his shirt. Ryan was so hungry, he was tempted to suck the fabric.

The food had been moved. The front of the theater beside the screen contained three large barrels, each a different color. People were dipping cups in and pouring the stuff down their gullets.

Ryan forced himself not to drink any—the last thing he needed to be right now was wasted. He turned around and began to make his way between the partiers toward the back of the theater. Surrounding the dancers were the two sets of non-dancers—those hooking up and those who thought they were too cool to dance. Ryan would have been in the latter category. It took a lot of beer to get him shaking his butt.

The back of the room was calmer, filled with observers, non-drinkers, or the already-passed-out. Ryan kept out of view of Mike’s skybox. Even with the place packed like this, he had the odd feeling that Mike would be able to single him out, swoop down, and beat his ass. Finally, in the back corner near the barricaded doors leading to the mall, Ryan found an area blocked off by rows of seats. Inside the makeshift wall were all the weapons on one side and on the other, all the food. In between sat Marco, a bottle between his knees.

“The prodigal son returns,” Marco said, though he was barely audible over the pulsing rhythm of the drums. “Have my card?”

“I just want some food,” he yelled, then added, “For me and Shay.”

Marco smirked, then leaned forward to speak directly into Ryan’s ear. “Then get it yourself.” He pushed Ryan’s shoulder as a means of excusing him.

Ryan clenched his fists. Marco raised his eyebrows, then hooked his thumb toward the skybox as if threatening to unleash Mike if Ryan didn’t clear out.

He was not afraid of Marco, but Mike . . .

“You weren’t always such an asshole,” Ryan said.

“Yeah, but now I’m badass.” Marco waggled his eyebrows and brandished what looked like a two-foot-long knife.

Ryan wound his way back down the terrace of the theater, avoiding the area right beneath the screen where Drew pantomimed some weird tribal dance while guzzling beer through a funnel. The bird body was on a sort of spit between the two tiki torches and Heath was setting its feathers on fire with what appeared to be a welding torch.

He had made his choice. He shouldn’t have come back here. He finally made it to the door and escaped into the relative silence of the service halls.

• • •

The music was loud even in the stairwell, which was a blessing because Lexi had spent the better part of the evening lost in the service halls and the thumping bass had provided a sort of beacon. Most of the security doors were broken, the actual circuits to the doors ripped out through the drywall, but the doors on the stairwell were disabled using the method she had taught Marco: plate unscrewed and laid on top of the magnet to fool the lock. Yet another piece of evidence that she had been duped. Not that it mattered anymore. She just needed him to help her free Maddie and Ginger. Not even him, just his card.

She pulled open the door to the IMAX and was greeted by a wall of noise and cloud of smells that caused her to stumble back and nearly twist an ankle. The music hurt her brain; the bass seemed to be literally hammering her skull. And there were so many people—masses of bodies. The first thing that popped into her head: the ice-skating rink full of corpses. But all these people were drunk—or at least that was how Lexi explained the crowds of kids laughing and falling over and grinding against one another, plastic cups of colored liquid spilling over their arms and necks and clothing. She’d never really been to a party before.

Lexi figured that Marco would be like her—somewhere off to the side, nowhere near these crazy dancing people. Keeping glued to the wall, she shuffled up, up, and away from the movie screen, each level containing fewer and fewer dancers. At the back wall, Lexi began scanning the non-dancers for Marco, though she guessed that he would be against the back wall like her, as far from the insanity as possible.

As Lexi had expected, Marco was in the darkest corner farthest from the dancing. Her first reaction at seeing him? Joy, excitement, giddiness, thoughts of kissing him. But then she remembered that he was a liar and maybe a killer and that he’d used her to help his psycho party friends.

Even so, her brain froze when she stepped up to where he was sitting behind what appeared to be a dislodged row of movie theater seats.

“Lexi?” he said, standing. She couldn’t tell if he was happy or simply shocked. It didn’t matter. She was here for one thing only.

“I need to borrow your card key,” she yelled. “I need to rescue my friends.”

Marco’s face withered into a scowl. “Everybody needs something.”

She didn’t deserve that look, not from him. “You lied to me! Goldman told me all about what you and your pals did!”

“Goldman,” Marco said, smirking. “I’m sure he told you a lot.”

Lexi was not about to engage him in an argument. First of all, she could barely hear herself think. Second, he wasn’t denying that he lied to her. And here he was, surrounded by people partying with the stolen alcohol and guarding what looked like an arsenal for a guerilla front. What
could
he say to counter Goldman’s accusations?

“Are you going to help me or not?”

“Wish I could.” He sat back down, forcing her to lean awkwardly over the barrier of chairs to hear him. “But I recently lost possession of the card. I’m of no use to you.” He said it like all of this—his being held behind the wall of seats, his involvement with murderers, his lies—were somehow her fault.

She was not going to allow him his self-pity. “No,” she yelled, “I guess you’re not.” She turned her back on him and walked away.

Alas, the grand dramatic exit she was hoping for was impossible in this sea of people. She pushed and shoved her way through the crowds, letting all the anger and frustration channel into jostling every body that was in her way. She felt like crying, so she cried. It wasn’t like anyone would notice, or even if they did, remember her tear-streaked face.

A guy fell against the wall near her. “You’re h
ooooooot
,” he said.

The guy stunk of stale beer and sweat. Lexi tried to push past him.

“I have a kiss with your name on it.” He grabbed her arm.

Lexi elbowed him in the chest, knocking him loose, and shoved forward into the crowd of dancers. It was harder to keep her footing once away from the wall. She was reminded of the riot, of being lifted by the crowd and carried along as if caught in a river, and that brought her heart rate up into the panic attack zone. She would not black out here.

She pushed off the nearest body and launched herself backward through the dancers, finding herself at the center of a small circle. A huge guy in a feather headdress whose body looked slick with blood and sweat hoisted the charred body of a chicken over his head.

Strangely, Lexi’s first thought was,
Where’d he get a real chicken?

He looked down at her, his eyes bloodshot and face red with drink. “You want a piece of me or the chicken?” He slung an arm around her back and pulled her to him. “Or maybe both?”

He pressed his lips to her face, smearing grease and blood on her cheeks. Lexi felt bile burn the back of her throat. Finally, he released her and howled to the crowd like a dog. Lexi dropped to the floor, ready to vomit. Sensing she was free, she crawled along the sticky rug between the stomping legs, tears nearly blinding her. What a horrible second kiss. What a horrible first party.

After several kicks to her chest, Lexi found herself again near a wall. She stood, tried to catch her breath, and then slunk along the wall to the door and out into the darkness.

• • •

Marco would not cry, and so he drank. There was something purifying about scotch. It burned out your insides and left you clean. So what if Lexi hated him? Who the hell was she anyway? She didn’t matter. Survival was what mattered. Sneak, steal, lie, attack, defend—all that mattered was that he was still alive. All. That. Mattered.

He took another swig of the scotch. It was like French kissing a shot gun, but it left him clearheaded in a way he’d never been clear before. He would survive this. He and Mike. They would do what they had to do. They weren’t afraid to admit they were survivors.

As if summoned from the air itself, Mike appeared in front of him. “A security detail is investigating noise coming from the stairwell,” he barked.

“Then let’s welcome them.” Marco grabbed his bat and a nail gun and tucked the machete into its holster on his belt, covering it all with Shay’s jacket.