The Countdown (The Taking) (14 page)

Days Remaining: Eleven

WITHOUT THE DRUGS IN MY SYSTEM TO SHIELD me from daybreak, those orange-tinged tips of the sun’s arrival felt like white-hot fire pokers gutting me.

Eleven
, I heard inside my head as I bolted up from the seat with so much force that my forehead nearly rammed into the dash. But Chuck’s reflexes were lightning fast, and instead I crashed against an arm as solid as a tree trunk.

“Damn, girl. Nightmare?”

From behind, Thom’s fingers cupped my shoulder more gently. “You okay?”

Working to get my breathing under control while still
being branded from the inside out, I clung to the lie Chuck had offered me. “Yep . . . nightmares.”

Chuck hadn’t noticed that for the last hour or so I’d been faking sleep just to avoid his endless barrage of conversation. He was seriously the nicest guy ever, but I couldn’t help myself. I was just so
tired
of dodging his questions—about where we were going, where we’d been, who we were, and what our plans were.

Thom was better than I was at being evasive. At giving nonanswers.

For me, fake sleep had been a million times easier.

And now I was
real
wide-awake, and as the sun began to climb, the last of the pain evaporated.

“Where are we?” I asked. Even if my eyes hadn’t been closed, I’d lost track of where we were over the last day. Chuck had a stop to make in Idaho, a quick drop and pick up that took him less than an hour start to finish. But unlike Thom and me, he couldn’t go on indefinitely, and he also had to stop for food and to refuel, and once even to catch a quick nap. He’d only slept a few hours, and after being tied up for days on end I’d taken advantage of the time to walk around and stretch my legs.

“Just outside’a the Tri-Cities,” Chuck answered, grinning back at me, like this time it wasn’t so weird I was asking. “In Washington, nearabouts to the Oregon line.”

Washington.

Maybe it wasn’t just the sun that was painful. Maybe it was the memories.

Glancing around at the dry rolling hills, I realized we weren’t so far from Devil’s Hole—the place Simon and I had taken Tyler after I’d infected him.

I closed my eyes, sick at just being so close to the place where I’d doomed Tyler to a life on the run. A life without family and without ever growing old.

Saved
was the absolute wrong word for what I’d done. Sure, he hadn’t died that night, but he was no longer the same person he’d been before.

Now he was like me, a replica of his former self. Replaced.

And what had Blondie said, that at least she still had a human side worth fighting for? Not Tyler and me—we were something else.

And on top of that I was apparently some kind of countdown clock . . .

But to what? And was there any way I could stop it?

I inhaled, trying to tell myself to drop it—the whole thing was stupid.

But saying it was stupid didn’t mean I could just pretend it didn’t exist. I needed answers.

Silently I watched the scenery, and when we saw the sign,
Welcome to Oregon
, I felt something in my stomach unknot.

We were so close now. Just a few hours to Portland, and then another five-, maybe six-hour bus ride to Bend. We’d have to hope to hitch another ride from there to Silent Creek, but we’d figure it out.

For now, Chuck was decent company. It was nice to be with someone who didn’t have an agenda. Someone
normal
.

Chuck had tuned into some evangelical station on the radio. The preacher had been going on about love and forgiveness in a voice that would rise to thunderous highs that demanded action, and then plunge to resonant lows begging for reflection. It was like being on an amusement park ride, trying to keep up with him. He quoted bible verses to hammer his sermon home to his listeners. And every now and again, Chuck’s eyes would go all misty and thoughtful, as if something the evangelist said had struck a chord deep inside him.

I wondered if there was someone he should forgive, someplace he should be heading instead of Portland where he could make amends.

When the Columbia River came into sight, the radio went all static-y, and the preacher’s voice got lost to the hum. I thought Chuck would try to tune the knob to find a better signal, or maybe turn it off altogether. But he did neither; he just kept driving, navigating the bridge that led us into Oregon.

I waited several minutes, and even several more, until we were back on solid ground on the other side. The truck moved evenly, steadily over the highway, and then my gaze slid to Chuck. His focus was as intent as ever, listening. Concentrating.

On what?
I couldn’t help wondering, my eyes shifting to the radio, which was still spitting out static and only static.

It hadn’t gotten any clearer, only louder. Sharper. Harsher.

The grating sound grew until my ears began to hurt, and
I finally blurted out, “Chuck . . .”

When he didn’t respond, I reached for the knob myself, meaning to switch it off and put us all out of our misery. But Chuck’s hand shot out and caught mine.

His grip was cruel, not at all like the Chuck I’d come to know.

“Jeez, Chuck!” I tried to yank my hand away but he was merciless, and his fingers felt like they were going to crush my wrist.

“Hey! What the hell’s the matter with you?” Thom leaned forward, reaching for us when the radio screeched.

Chuck’s attention snapped toward it, and away from the road. It was so strange the way his head cocked, almost birdlike, that I nearly forgot that he’d stopped the flow of blood to my hand.

What was he hearing that I couldn’t?

Then, in that same weird birdlike way, his focus swiveled back to me.

He was still Chuck, with his lopsided jowl and his hair peppered with dandruff flakes. But there was something in his eyes that made my stomach pitch. Eyes that were no longer his own.

Even in the morning light, I swear it looked like they glowed. The way mine did.

But that wasn’t possible . . .

It couldn’t be . . . I knew that.

Still . . .

I almost couldn’t get the words past the giant lump in my
throat. “What’s happening?” I wasn’t sure which of them I was asking, but Chuck heard me.

He no longer pretended to watch the road, yet somehow we stayed on course. I’d heard of cruise control, but this was like full-on autopilot.

Real sci-fi crap.

Like glowing eyes.

Chuck’s voice, when he answered me, was no longer his voice either. I’d heard that sound before . . . in the desert, the night I’d found Tyler. That freaky wheezing I realized now sounded almost electronic, as if someone had hijacked Chuck’s voice box and was transmitting
through
it, just like the radio.

But . . . no
. . .
that wasn’t . . . it couldn’t . . .

Except wasn’t that exactly what my dad had heard, the two hikers in the woods with their radio-static voices?

“Time,” Chuck said. “Time . . . time . . . ,” he repeated, and I tilted my head closer, trying to hear his message. He opened his mouth almost impossibly wide and spoke again: “Time . . . is . . . running out.”

Time is running out?

And then Chuck blinked. “Eleven.” Blink. Blink. Blink. “Eleven . . . eleven . . . eleven.” Today’s number—isn’t that what I’d heard at daybreak?—eleven. And then, his voice still electrical, “The Returned must die.”

How could Chuck possibly know that? How could he be speaking in static the way the hikers had?

I wondered if the hikers’ eyes had glowed too. I thought
of the way Nancy had growled at me, and a thought hit me: Had Nancy seen them? Was that why my eyes had suddenly spooked her?

“What the hell . . . ?” It was Thom, dragging me back to this. To now. To Chuck.

Every cell in my body seemed to freeze and explode at the same time—microscopic nuclear reactions going off in every sector of my being. And even though only a second or two passed, a million things flashed through my mind at the same time, congesting my thoughts: What was happening to Chuck? What did they—
eyes to the sky
—want from me? Why was this happening, and what could it mean?

Chuck’s grip started to loosen, and just as I thought he was finally coming around, that they were releasing whatever hold they’d had on him, the same way they’d eventually let Tyler go, he said, in a not-quite-normal voice, “What’s happening?
What . . . did you do to me?
” He looked at me with his strange glowing eyes, like this was my fault, all of it.

And then I saw it—the mile marker—green marker number eleven on the side of the highway, and everything started to move in double time.

Taking his other hand off the wheel, Chuck reached for me. Before I could react or move out of his way, he had ahold of me and was shoving me—my head anyway. “Make it stop!” he shrieked, remnants of static still shadowing his voice as he slammed my face hard against the passenger’s side window. I heard Thom shout, but that was only a split second before my cheekbone smashed against the glass, rattling
my brain so hard I expected the window to explode.

The glass didn’t, but the bone definitely did. Not explode exactly, but when the bone beneath the skin disintegrated, there was an eruption of light behind my eyes that blinded me.

“What the . . . ?” Through the flashes, I saw Chuck reaching for me again at the same time Thom was launching himself at him. I tried to shield myself, thinking,
This time for sure
.
The glass will definitely break this time
.

Thom got an arm around Chuck’s neck from behind, but that didn’t stop Chuck, and rather than shoving my head, he reached behind me. Before I realized what he was doing, he had his hand in the exact place where my gun was hidden.

There was no way he could have known about the gun . . . except somehow he did. Just like there was no way his truck could be driving itself—staying exactly on course without wavering the tiniest bit—since Chuck’s hands weren’t even touching the wheel. But it totally was.

“Chuck, no. Please . . . don’t,” I begged because all I could think was I didn’t want to die, and I didn’t want him to shoot Thom. Not like this. Not after everything we’d been through. Out in the middle of nowhere, with none of my questions answered. Without saying good-bye to my dad or Tyler or Simon.

Even if I’d wanted to use my telekinesis thing, it was too late because everything was happening too fast.

“Make it stop . . .” Chuck’s voice scratched again as he raised the gun and pointed it at my temple, safety off.

I closed my eyes and whispered a silent apology to my friends for not being able to warn them about what I’d learned from Blondie.

The gunshot came and I jumped, waiting for it . . . the pain . . . the numbness. The
nothingness
of death.

“Kyra. Jesus. Kyra.” It was Thom, and I snapped my eyes open.

What I saw made hot waves of shame uncoil inside me.

Chuck was slumped over his steering wheel, an obviously self-inflicted gunshot wound in the side of his head—his good side, the less droopy side. The driver’s side window was splattered with pulpy fragments that were likely some combination of skull, flesh, blood, and brain matter. Thom had released Chuck’s neck and had collapsed back so he was leaning on his heels. He had pieces of that same flesh and blood all over his face.

“What the . . .” But he was just looking down at his hands, like he’d been the one to pull the trigger.

I glanced back at Chuck. Whatever had been piloting the truck was no longer in control. The steering wheel shimmied as Chuck’s bulk weighed heavily over it. At first the giant rig just vibrated beneath me, like the wheels were all out of sync. But then it pitched off course in wide sweeping arcs, first drifting lazily into the shoulder, and then coming all the way back and crossing out of our lane.

That was when I knew we were going to crash. We were headed toward the giant cement blocks that divided the highway.

“Hurry!” I shouted to Thom, already trying to unbuckle so we could shove Chuck aside, meaning to take the wheel. But it was far too late for that.

The impact was both brutal and disorienting.

The air rushed out of my lungs as the seat belt locked. My head—at least I thought it was my head—hit glass, or maybe it was the doorjamb. Everything got jumbled. I remembered sounds—rubber on pavement, metal screeching or tearing, glass splintering, maybe. And smells. They were bitter and caustic, like gasoline and oil and exhaust and burning rubber all thrown together in one toxic cloud.

From somewhere in all that, I tried to say Thom’s name, to ask if he was okay . . . if he’d survived at all, but my voice was caught in the fumes.

I don’t know how much time had passed, but I heard sirens. Someone must have seen the crash, or could see the smoke rising and called for help.

Inside of me, things were broken—bones most likely. Everything hurt, and already there was the familiar tingling and itching that meant the healing had started. But breathing was hard, each inhalation a painful knife stabbing up and around my left side . . . almost worse than daybreak. I gasped and gasped, again and again, testing the sensation, until I realized it wasn’t like a stitch that could be worked out.

With my head still against the headrest, I took in the deepest breath I could and held it before fumbling for the seat belt. I had to find Thom, and if he was still alive, we had to move. To get away from here before the police came
and found Chuck with a bullet through his brain and started asking questions.

Releasing the latch, I sat up.

“Thom,” I rasped. I was woozy, but I could do this. I scanned the interior, which was filling with dark oily smoke. “
Thom!
” This time my voice took hold.

“Here. I’m . . . here . . .” His voice was weak, but I heard him. I scrambled out of my seat as quickly as I could, which wasn’t all that fast.

He was crumpled in a position that didn’t even look humanly feasible. But I guess that was the thing, he wasn’t entirely human. I saw Chuck too, halfway lodged beneath the enormous steering wheel. It was grotesque the way his body had broken. Thom might be hurt—no, check that, he was definitely hurt. But he wasn’t broken like Chuck, not beyond repair.