Rush (19 page)

I reach out toward his arm, but he takes a step back and yanks down his sleeve.

Luka and Tyrone jog over, panting. I wonder if Jackson yanked down his sleeve because he doesn’t want them to see his scars or because he doesn’t want me to touch them.

“Are there more?” Luka asks.

The four of us move to stand in a tight circle, backs toward each other, weapons ready.

My gaze darts back and forth, but nothing comes at us.

“Why don’t we make the jump?” I ask. “We seem to have”—I can’t make myself say the word
killed
—“
gotten
all of them.”

Jackson steps away and turns a slow circle. “They weren’t the mission. They were incidental. This way.” He strides off to the right—the direction most of the aliens came from—and we follow.

I glance at Luka. “What happened in Arizona?” It feels like the answer to that question is incredibly important.

His expression closes down, and he shrugs.

As far as answers go, that one’s pretty shitty.

“Luka, if you know something, tell me. It might save my life.”

He looks at me then, desperation etched in his face. “If it isn’t like Arizona, then there’s no reason for you to know. It’s too horrible for anyone to know. I wish I could scrub it out of my mind.”

“And if it
is
like Arizona?”

“Then you’ll know soon enough.”

I’ve never heard Luka sound so bleak.

We’re not using the glow sticks to light our way anymore. The aliens’ appearance brought bright white light, and it seems to have hung around even though they’re gone. We keep moving down the tunnel, the sides of which have been polished to a smooth, shiny finish. No one appears to stop us, and that only makes the uncertainties plaguing me grow stronger.

The hairs at my nape prickle and rise. My steps slow, and I fall back behind the others. It’s pure instinct that makes me turn, makes me lift my weapon and fire, but not before white-hot needles of pain burst in my chest. I cry out as the Drau’s shots hit me, piercing deep.

THE PAIN MAKES ME STUMBLE BACK UNTIL I HIT THE CAVE’S cold rock wall.

“Miki!” Tyrone yells from somewhere to my right.

I don’t take my eyes off the Drau. There’s only one. No backup. I notice things that I didn’t notice before when we were fighting so many of them that all I saw was light; all I knew was fear. The glowing, glassy surface of the Drau’s body . . . I think it isn’t naked skin as I get a good look. I think it’s some sort of suit that covers everything, with openings for its eyes and mouth. There are no nostrils, and I don’t see any ears.

My first shot went wide. I shift my angle and fire again. The Drau is silent as the blackness surges from my weapon; it appears frozen in place by terror. My shot is true, the darkness engulfing my enemy from its feet up. At the last second, the Drau’s eyes catch mine and pain tears at me from the inside out. Then it’s gone, swallowed whole, and the agony wrenches away, leaving my whole body prickling with painful reawakening, like the blood rushing to a limb after it’s fallen asleep.

“Miki!” Luka’s beside me as I drop to one knee, Tyrone right behind him.

I look up and see Jackson a few feet away, his weapon in his hand, pointing to the spot where the Drau stood seconds ago. I terminated it, but if I hadn’t, Jackson had my back, again.

“I’m okay,” I rasp as Luka hunkers down beside me, worry and uncertainty etched in his features.

He studies my face, then offers a faint smile. “Nice shot, but whatever points you gained were more than eaten up by penalty. Sucks to be you.”

I drag in a breath, the pain sharp and bright. By the third breath, it’s easing to a dull ache, more like a bruise than a stab. I turn my wrist and check my con. It’s still mostly green with just a hint of yellow. Not so bad, then.

Jackson strides over and pauses by my side. Then he holds out his hand, and when I take it, he pulls me to my feet. His fingers are warm against mine for a brief second, then he lets go and steps away. Not a word of comfort, just that all-too-brief touch.

“I’ll live, thanks for asking,” I mutter.

“How did you know it was there?” he asks, and even though the question is simple, asked in a low, casual tone, I feel as though there’s a lot riding on my answer.

“I just knew. Instinct, I guess. And back when we got hit by the whole group, I knew to close my eyes before the bright light flashed and I knew to drop to the ground before the first shot was fired.”

“I told you to do those things.”

“You did, but I was already doing them before you said. The longer I’m in the game, the more my instincts seem to be taking over.”

He doesn’t say anything to that, just offers a spare, sharp nod. Of course, I can’t see his eyes. But I know that he’s looking at me, and I know he likes what he sees, that he’s . . . I don’t know . . . I guess
proud
is the best word. Yeah, he watches my back, and he also trusts me to watch my own. But there’s something else there, too. His expression is both pleased and angry. Ambivalent. I know better than to ask why. Jackson’s not much one for sharing. But I’m patient. I can wait. I just need to figure out what angle to come at the question from, and I’ll get my answer eventually.

“How did
you
know the Drau was there?” I ask, and only as the words slide free am I certain that he did know. He knew there was danger, and he was waiting to see if I caught it, too. Why?

“I just knew,” he says. “Instinct, I guess.”

I huff a short laugh and offer him the same nod he gave me.

Luka and Tyrone exchange a confused glance, and then we’re moving again, Jackson in the lead, me behind him. I still feel the hit I took. Every breath reminds me, but the pain is dull, an ache, the same sort of pain I get the day after a good workout.

Holding up his hand, Jackson puts the brakes on and presses back against the stone wall. Then he leans forward very slowly and peers around the corner. Apparently satisfied by what he does—or doesn’t—see, he signals us to move.

We round another corner. I’m hit by light so bright it’s like sunshine on a July afternoon, the glare amplified by white walls, white floor, white ceiling, all polished to a perfect shine. I jerk to a stop, horror congealing like day-old bacon fat.

The room is full of people. Humans.

Dead humans.

Before me stretch rows and rows of girls, lying on their backs, eyes closed, limbs bare. Strips of white cloth drape their chests and hips, like tube tops and short skirts. At first glance, they look like they’re floating, but when I look more carefully, I see that they’re on white gurneys that blend with the walls and floor, white on white on white.

The sounds of beeps and hisses hum in the background. Their chests rise and fall in synchronized rhythm.

So I was wrong. They aren’t dead.

They’re all attached to machines and tubes. I don’t know if the machines are human technology or alien knockoffs, but I recognize some and can figure out the rest. Three weeks into her chemo, Mom ended up in the ICU with pneumonia. One of the ways I coped with seeing her there was by finding out everything I could about the machines that were keeping her alive. A lot of the stuff here looks familiar. There are monitors that beep softly and respirators doing the breathing. There are tubes in the girls’ legs or near their collarbones; one of the nurses in the ICU said those measure things like oxygen in the blood. The tubes in their chests drain fluid and keep their lungs from collapsing.

“Oh man,” Luka says, and rakes his fingers back through his hair. “Oh man, this is not good. There are so many of them.”

“What is this place?” I ask. “Who are these people?”

“This is bigger than the facility in Arizona.” Luka shakes his head. “This is bad, Miki.”

“Bad in more ways than one,” Tyrone says. “Security was too light for a place like this, even if they were so sure of themselves that they thought we wouldn’t find them. A handful of guards for a place this size?” He looks at Jackson. “You think it’s a trap?”

“Lousy trap if that’s what it is,” Jackson says. “More likely, we got lucky. Could be a change in shift, or security was sent off-site to attend to something else.” Something in his voice catches my attention, like he doesn’t really believe what he’s saying. And I silently curse those stupid shades because I suspect he’s watching me, but I can’t be sure. He shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. Stop talking and start working. Tyrone, get the supplies. Smash everything that’s breakable. Luka, Miki, help me with the machines.”

“Who are they?” I ask again. “What’s wrong with them?”

“There’s nothing wrong with them.” Jackson’s tone is dark and rough. “And nothing right, either.”

The sound of glass shattering makes me turn. Tyrone’s standing near the far wall. I thought it was just a wall, but now I see that it’s a series of smooth-fronted cabinets. Tyrone has one open and he’s sweeping his outstretched arm along the shelves. Whatever doesn’t break as it hits the ground, he shatters with the heel of his boot.

“Nothing wrong with them?” I turn back to Jackson. “They’re unconscious. They’re hooked up to machines.”

I wrinkle my nose. The smell in here is off. Medicinal mixed with something sort of earthy, like Dad’s compost bin. Not pleasant, that’s for sure.

Jackson’s finished offering explanations. I should probably count myself lucky that he gave me as much as he did. “Get moving,” he says.

Luka crosses to the row of gurneys nearest Tyrone. With a grimace, he reaches out and turns off the respirator. The girl’s chest deflates and doesn’t rise again.

The sight of that dredges up horrific memories of Mom breathing her last, the sound of her exhalation and then just . . . nothing. Suddenly, I’m not here. I’m back there, with her.

“Wait! No!” I lunge forward but get nowhere because Jackson grabs my arm.

“They aren’t people.” He hits a button on the respirator closest to us, turning it off.

“What are you doing? You’re killing them.” I shove his hands away and reach for the switch. On some level, I realize that I’m not reacting in a way that makes sense, but all I can think about is Mom lying on the bed, gray and small and dead. “Help me stop him,” I yell at Luka before I remember that he turned off a respirator, too.

Jackson catches my wrist again and says, “We don’t have time for this,” his words calm and low. “There could be an alarm. We could be seconds away from a fresh wave of Drau. This time
skilled
Drau rather than green recruits.”

“You just killed an innocent girl.” I feel sick. He’s a monster. I remember the way he wrapped his arms around me in the park, the way I rested my cheek high on his chest, the way he made me feel, just for a few moments, that the world hadn’t gone crazy. I let him hold me then. I let him hold me in the tunnels while I slept. I almost let him kiss me. I trusted him.
Liked
him. And now he’s killing people and Luka’s killing people, and they look like they expect me to do the same. Not aliens in a kill-or-be-killed standoff this time.
People
.

Once more, I reach for the respirator he turned off, tears blurring my vision.

He makes a sound of impatience. “Miki, pull it together. These are not people.”

I whirl to face him, breathing hard, angry and afraid and sickened. I remember the rows of patients at the hospital, sitting in these recliner chairs, getting chemo. Men, women . . . kids. Mom. “Just because they’re unconscious? Because they’re in comas? They’re still people.”

“They’re not. They never were. Look.” He points at the feeding tube that’s running into the woman’s abdomen. I glance down, trying to see whatever it is he wants me to see—

The tube runs in above the belly button, except . . . No belly button. Just a feeding tube right above where her belly button should be. I shake my head.

He yanks a bunch of electrical wires out of the woman’s neck. Then he looks around, fails to find whatever it is that he wants, and drags his knife with its deadly black blade free of its sheath. I cry out and lunge forward as he slashes at the top of the girl’s head, twisting his hand in a rapid circle. The skin of her scalp peels back and I see to my horror that Jackson’s knife has gone clear through bone. I think I’m going to be sick.

Jackson taps the hilt of his knife against the top of her skull and the dome of bone falls back, like flipping open the lid on a shampoo bottle.

An empty shampoo bottle.

There’s nothing inside.

There’s no brain, no blood. There’s nothing. Her skull is empty, a clean box formed of smooth bone. The only blood is from her scalp.

“No brain. No belly button,” I whisper.

“Because they weren’t born, so there was no umbilical cord to cut,” Jackson says. “This is an experimental facility. They were grown here to serve as vehicles for alien consciousness. They’re like suits the aliens plan to wear. And we’re here to stop them.”

“In the park,” I whisper, “when I asked who was listening, I said we’d see the Drau, but you said not necessarily. I figured it’s because they can piggyback human technology, like satellites. Listen in to what we say. But”—I can’t bear to look at the girl on the gurney. I can’t bear not to—”it’s not just that. It’s because they could be right there and we’d never know it. Because they can hide. Inside human shells.” The horror of that is immeasurable.