Текст книги "Passenger"

Автор книги: Andrew Smith

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

Then I caught glimpse of Jay Pittman’s rifle barrel pointing down at your forehead.

And Pittman said, “You getting all queer on the kid, Kirk?”

I bit my lip.

Pittman was testing me in front of other guys, and there was no way I could back down. So I grabbed the barrel of Jay’s rifle, and as I stood, I pushed the butt of it into his midsection, hard, driving him backwards to the edge of the platform. He struggled against me, but backwards was no strategy against forwards, and in two lunging steps I pushed Jay Pittman over the edge; and he went out flat, flapping his arms as he splashed down into the deep rainwater that had pooled over the useless train tracks in the storm.

“Son of a bitch!” he yelped, gasping and thrashing around for his dropped rifle, frantically trying to launch himself back onto the safety of the platform. A couple of the guys who’d been previously occupied beating the shit out of my friend helped him up, and Pittman began crazily stripping out of his clothes with all the passion of a man who’d been set on fire.

He must have had about ten of those black suckers on him, all over his body. He looked like he was growing snakes or something. Pittman slapped and swatted at them, cursing.

He should have known better than to fuck with me. I didn’t have to say another word about it. Pittman whimpered and shook, covered in stripes of his own watery blood, as the others helped pick the parasites from his bleach-white skin.

And that’s how I found Jack Whitmore in Marbury.

You.

Only it wasn’t really you.

Fucking Marbury.

*   *   *

We liked to think that our crew was a cut above the others.

We were good fighters, still knew where food could be found, and in spite of Jay Pittman’s testosterone-fueled idiocy, we were the smartest, too. Fent believed that when all the other teams had gone, been run off or killed, we’d still be survivors. And maybe it was Preacher’s nonsense that bled into our skulls about things working out in the world, these being what he called the glory days and all, but every one of us bought into that empty optimism, too.

Even in Marbury, you have to believe in something, I guess.

Charlie being dead was a bad thing, though. And standing where I was, and seeing how Charlie had fallen, I couldn’t believe that you, scrawny Jack Whitmore, had anything to do with it at all.

Wrong place, wrong time.

If they ever made coins in Marbury, those words would be etched where you’d expect the “In God We Trust,” or whatever.

Wrong place, wrong time.

Some of the guys were obviously mad at me, not just for what I did to Jay Pittman, but because I didn’t point my shotgun at you. I could never point a gun at you, no matter what you were, no matter where we were. I saw the dirty looks they gave me when I put your arm around my shoulders and helped you stand.

I grumbled to the Rangers, “Get out of the way. I’m taking him to Fent.”

And as they parted a pathway along the platform toward the main hall, I whispered, “Jack. Jack Whitmore. Don’t you know who I am?”

But you didn’t say a thing. You just kind of hung there like dead weight, bleeding on my bare skin and feet. I’d never had the chance to put on a shirt or my boots once the shooting happened.

When I got far enough away, Jay Pittman began shouting about how fucked up I was. That was okay. He was probably right, and guys are going to blow off steam when they need to. He had no way of knowing who you were to me, anyway, so I pretended like it didn’t matter. Otherwise, he’d have gone for another swim. A longer one.

“Hey. It’s me, Conner Kirk,” I whispered.

You kept your head down, dripping little dots of blood from your broken nose.

But just when we stumbled past what was left of some kind of ticket booth at the end of the platform, you looked up. At first I thought you were going to say something to me, like, Hey Con, thanks for saving my ass.

But you still wouldn’t talk.

The weirdest thing was that when you did lift your face up, one of the guys from another fireteam—a guy named Walpole—looked at you, straight on. And for a second, I swear I saw something reflected in the other Ranger’s eyes. Something that looked just exactly like those first few times I caught a glimpse of all the shit swirling around inside the Marbury lens, back when you and I spent time together in the hotel in London.

It seemed so foggy, and so long ago.

And then the Ranger who was staring at you went completely white, just like all the blood had been sucked out of him. I’d seen enough corpses in that condition to know what that color looks like, and this was it.

*   *   *

The guy points a finger at you.

I say, “Back off, dipshit.”

And Walpole says, “That’s him. That’s him. That’s the Jumping Man.”

And I’m thinking, this is crazier than shit.

The guy’s got to be high, wacked-out on black salt.

“Shut your fucking mouth.” I try to push past him and hope he’s not going to start something and draw too much attention to us.

But this is Marbury, the land of wrong place, wrong time.

So this Walpole guy spins around and disappears behind the other Rangers that have all started coming over to see what the hell is going on.

And not three seconds later, there’s another gunshot and everyone crouches, or starts running after the guy.

“We need to get the fuck out of here,” I whisper.

*   *   *

But where could we go?

You didn’t even seem to register what was going on. Your mouth hung open, dripping red, and your head lolled around like you were asleep on my shoulder.

I was pretty sure one of your teeth had gotten knocked out, too.

You were fucked up, Jack.

As I got away from the platforms and into the tunnel to the main hall, I caught sight of Pittman, hitching up his soaking pants, dragging everything else he’d been wearing behind him or slung over his shoulder, dripping and cussing, trying to catch up to us. There were still trails of watery blood streaking Pittman’s skin.

To my right, a group of Rangers gathered around Private Walpole.

He was down on his back, staring blankly up at the stone archway of the tunnel’s ceiling.

Walpole had shot himself clean through his own neck.

The front of his throat was an epaulet of meat hanging over his left shoulder.

I truly had never seen so much blood in my life. I had to practically jump over it, barefoot as I was, but you just drag-stepped your boots through it, leaving smeared footprints behind to mark our trail into the main hall.

“What was he screaming about?” someone said as we passed.

I ignored the Rangers. They were scared about what was going on.

And scared was dangerous.

Pittman caught up to us. “What the fuck, brother? What the fuck?”

“I don’t know what that’s about, Pittman. I really don’t.”

*   *   *

“A prisoner?”

Fent looked pissed when I got back to our little fort of pews tucked against the wall where a huge DEPARTURES AND ARRIVALS board kept a frozen record of the last trips through this one forgotten station in this fucked-up world.

Brian Fields had come back from his cruising. He looked tired and his clothes were half undone. I was sure Fent had already given him shit about that, but what was she going to do? This was Marbury, and guys were going to do whatever guys were going to do until it killed them.

Or maybe until they killed themselves.

“I guess he was a prisoner once,” I said.

“Where’s Pittman? And Teague?”

Jay Pittman sloshed his clothes and rifle over the back of the pew to answer her roll call.

Fent glanced at him, then back at me, and the corner of her mouth turned up just a bit.

She liked it when I beat the shit out of our penis collector.

No one had to explain anything.

Pittman sat down, fuming.

“Charlie Teague shot himself,” I said. “Then another guy, Walpole, from Three, shot himself, too. I don’t know what the fuck’s going on.”

I watched Preacher. He sat there on the floor, rocking in his glassy-eyed delirium and staring at you like he was ready for an attack or something.

I helped you onto a bench, then lifted your feet up so you could lie down. You were in bad shape.

“That’s not how I saw it,” Jay Pittman said.

Leave it to the dickhead to try and start shit with me again.

“They were screaming that this prisoner shot Charlie,” Pittman explained. “They were all over the kid by the time we got there, and Kirk made them stop. Otherwise, he’d be dead by now, instead of here, taking up space where Charlie Teague should be resting.”

Fent watched me while Pittman told his story. She was obviously trying to see whether I’d give any sign that Pittman might be lying. But I had to look away. She knew something was wrong, different. I could tell.

That’s when you moaned and rolled onto your side.

Preacher studied you, like a bug under a magnifying glass.

Brian Fields was half asleep. He didn’t care what was going on. I could tell he was worn out and stoned on black salt. Fucking idiot.

“You saw how Teague was holding his rifle. There’s no way the kid could do that to him, brother. Charlie shot himself.”

“Oh yeah?” Pittman said. He was still half naked, unfolding his gear over the back rest on his bench. There was no way it would be dry again by morning.

“The prisoner’s bad magic. I’ll tell you what, Walpole shot himself in the fucking throat after he looked the kid in the face. And I heard what he said before he did it, too.”

“You’re full of shit, Pittman.”

Preacher sat up.

Fent took a step between us. She knew I was getting ready to hit Jay Pittman again.

“What did he say?” she asked.

“He called him ‘Jumping Man.’ Just exactly like Preacher was talking about. Jumping Man.”

Then you opened your eyes and sat up. Preacher crawled across the floor and kneeled in front of you, staring into your glazed eyes.

And Captain Fent looked from me to Pittman to you.

“Bad magic,” Pittman repeated.

I took a step toward him and Fent stopped me.

“He doesn’t need to be talking crazy shit like that,” I said. “That’s the last thing we need right now.”

Pittman stood up straight, like he scored some points with Preacher and the captain. “And there’s something strange overhead in the sky all of a sudden, too.”

Preacher pushed our prisoner’s chin up with the edge of his finger, but you snapped your head away from the man.

It wasn’t you; it wasn’t Jack.

I could tell you weren’t really here—in Marbury—yet.

Preacher said, “What’s in the sky?”

“Looks like it’s raining light,” Pittman said. “Like a fucking hole or something.”

Preacher got up from the floor, shaking his head. “I can’t see nothing in that boy. Let’s take a look at that thing in the sky.”

“So I take it you don’t feel like shooting yourself, Preacher?” I said.

I hardly ever said anything to Preacher, Markoe, Uncle Teddy, whoever the fuck he was.

Preacher didn’t react. He had this blank, old-guy look on his face, the kind of look you get from math teachers who think you’re laughing at them when their backs are turned.

What did I care? He was fucked up out of his mind, anyway.

Fent spun around and slapped the top of Brian Fields’s head to wake him up.

Brian bolted, glaring. “Fuck!”

“I need you to keep watch on the prisoner,” Fent said. “Stay awake. If he does anything, shoot him in the head.”

Then she started off toward the front entrance. Pittman, Preacher, and I followed her. It was what we were supposed to do, and she didn’t have to say it.

There was one less guy in our team now, and one less in Team 3, too.

And we were going to have to deal with this prisoner kid—you, Jack.

Or, at least, I’d have to.

I kept thinking about that as I followed Anamore outside to the front of the station.

I glanced back once to make sure that you were still there on the bench where I’d left you.

*   *   *

Most of the others were already assembled on the steps. They stayed huddled around their captains like drone bees on receptive queens. Except for the all-male squad; they were lost and hopeless. They tried to separate and mix in with the other fireteams so not to be noticed.

And people speculated, too, about what the thing in the sky was—if it had any significance. Pittman, shirtless, only shook his stupid head, muttering something about bad magic.

I wanted to hit him, but Fent would castrate me if I made our team look undisciplined in front of the others.

Even Preacher was reluctant to theorize on the hole in the sky. I was relieved for that, because I had the feeling that all these coincidences were going to pile up on me and you.

Preacher said, “I don’t know what it is, to be sure. It’s possible that it could be nothing. Just an anomaly.”

“It’s the breath of God,” Pittman said. “Like you said, Preacher.”

I clenched a fist. I wanted to punch that fucker so bad I shook.

Then Fent looked straight at me and said, “The water’s gone down. When it’s dry enough to walk, take the prisoner out and shoot him.”

That was how she gave orders, especially when she was nervous about something. And I could tell she was getting close to being scared.

“Fine,” I said. “One less human being in the fucked-up world.”

I lifted my shotgun and chambered a round.

I started away from her and the others. “I’ll fucking do it right now in the middle of the fucking station, so everyone can see how we take care of business.”

Fent stepped in front of me. She had a look that said everything at once. She was pissed. I had gone as close to the edge as I could possibly go without falling off the planet.

She took in a long breath through her nose.

“That isn’t what I told you to do.” She was very calm, and her voice sounded sweet and thick. “Take him outside and shoot him. And you can do it now, Sergeant Kirk.”

Her eyes locked on mine. I had to look away.

I lowered my gun and went back inside.

*   *   *

I hoped you had snapped out of it, that maybe you’d waken up from wherever we go when we aren’t here. I was wishing you ran away from the drugged-out Fields, but you were still sitting there on the pew, exactly where I left you.

“Fuck this shit.”

I slammed my gun down against the bench. Brian Fields jumped, startled from his empty-eyed staring at you.

“Your fucking fly’s unbuttoned, asshole,” I said.

Fields didn’t move.

I picked up my shirt and put it on. I was so mad, shaking, I could barely steady my hands enough to tuck it in.

Of course Fent would want me in proper uniform when I took my best friend outside to blow his fucking head off.

Marbury.

The other three had just made it back to our team’s little departures lounge when I finished buckling my gun belt. I picked up my shotgun. My brain raced. I knew I wasn’t going to do what she ordered, and I was trying to calculate which of my options would keep my ass alive the longest.

It wasn’t looking too good.

And it got worse when that dickface Pittman said, “I’d like to go with him, Captain.”

Fuck that.

“I’d rather do it alone.”

I didn’t look at them. I checked the breech on my gun and made certain the clip was filled to capacity. I slung the gun over my right shoulder. If I was going to die for you, Jack, they’d remember us.

“Go with him, Pittman.”

And Jay Pittman would be the first asshole to die.

I said, “Don’t forget to bring your dicks.”

I put my hand under your armpit and lifted you to your feet. You felt cold and small, Jack, and you wavered on your feet, but you were coming back around.

You knew what we were being sent outside to do. You had to know. Well, whoever you were, Jack, because you sure weren’t Jack Whitmore from the cross-country team at Glenbrook High School.

So I pulled you along, not so much as glancing at Fent—and to think, maybe just an hour ago she wanted to take me away to some dirty fucking alcove and have a screw.

Fuck that.

I said, “Come on, kid.”

And Pittman hurriedly attempted to get his wet uniform on correctly so he could tag along for the fun.

I had to think.

I was so mad I wanted to scream.

I practically dragged you over the stairs at the front of the station. Sorry, Jack. Halfway down, you stumbled, but I squeezed your armpit so hard you kept on your feet. You kind of yelped a little, too. It hurt. But you still didn’t say a single word.

Pittman kept one step behind us.

“What did you do to end up here, Three-Seven-Three?” I said.

“Deserter,” you said. “I deserted.”

It was your voice.

Jack.

You lunged forward over the last two steps. Pittman gouged your lower back with the barrel of his rifle.

“Get off him, Pittman. I’ll shove that gun down your fucking throat.”

Pittman eased off.

I needed to get as far away from the station as possible, but the morning hadn’t come yet. There would be Hunters out.

Pittman knew it; I thought he seemed a little bit scared. Maybe he was suspicious about me leading you both so far out.

Fuck him.

I kept a tight grip on your arm, but it wasn’t like you were trying to get away. You just stumbled along, Jack, and we walked through the already-drying dust, kicking up chalky clouds with our feet.

I shook you, like I was mad at you. And I was. Why the fuck did you get me into this shit? Sorry, Jack. I just wanted you to snap out of it and show something on your face that meant you knew me, you remembered how close we were.

“Do you know who I am?”

You looked at me. You had a purple bruise under your left eye and a grape-sized bump on your cheekbone. Both of your nostrils were crusted around with dried black blood.

“Am I supposed to?”

“Mind the gap, Jack.”

Your brows twitched. For just a second, you seemed to register something.

“Isn’t this far enough?” Pittman said.

We stopped in front of an ancient strip of shops. Every one of them had been smashed open, with no glass at all remaining in the blackened storefronts. The roof had caved in.

I kicked one of those old swirled-glass Pepsi bottles. A vending machine lay on its side, with thick black power cables trailing like a bruised umbilical cord back toward one of the shattered storefronts.

The thing in the sky hadn’t changed. It hovered overhead like a rip in a sail. It almost fluttered as the dripping flow of light dusted down from the gash through the sky.

You started breathing hard.

I thought you knew you were about to die.

It made me feel like shit, Jack, because you weren’t going anywhere without me.

“Sit here,” I said. I put you down on the side of the vending machine.

You were shaking pretty bad. I wanted to hug you and tell you it was going to be okay.

Pittman stood away, holding his rifle across his waist.

I glanced back at him. It was the only time I’d looked at that asshole since I led you out of the station. Seeing him with his string of penises around his neck made me feel better about my decision to kill him.

“Don’t move,” I told you. Then, keeping my back to Jay Pittman so he wouldn’t see my mouth, I whispered, “Keep your eyes on me, Jack. Remember this: My name is Conner Kirk. If this doesn’t work, there is an old man who lives in a house on Tamarind Street who helps Odds. Tamarind Street. Remember that. Look at me, Jack.”

Then I backed away from you until I was standing just behind Pittman. I imagined blowing a hole in his guts big enough to play basketball. I pictured Jay Pittman, covered with writhing, clicking harvesters. I could almost hear the sound they’d make chewing into his flesh. I dreamed he might be alive while it happened, so I could hear how he would wail and cry.

I put my hand down inside my pocket and found the Marbury lens.

There were only two plans I had in my head: First, I hoped that the lens might get you and me out of this. If it did, then I could only imagine that it wouldn’t matter what Pittman did to us, because you and I would be somewhere else, and no place in the universe could possibly be worse than the spot we were in. If that didn’t work, then Pittman was going to die, and the Rangers would have to hunt me down.

And I knew what they did to Rangers who killed our own.

But nothing worked out the way I thought it would. That’s how it goes in Marbury, anyway.

Pittman said, “What the hell are you waiting for, Kirk?”

I kept my eyes on yours. “Look at me!”

I pulled the broken lens from my pocket and raised it between us.

The shit that happened next made everything else in Marbury seem like a birthday party with balloon animals.

I went blind. It seemed like as soon as I’d lifted the lens to the height of my chest, there was a flash of deep red light that burned a negative impression of everything around me into my eyes. Then my hand went higher, like some magnetic pull tugged the lens upward.

I could faintly hear Jay Pittman, as he stood in front of me.

He was saying, “What the fuck? What the fuck?”

But I could only make out his silhouette in the blaze of red; and his voice sounded so far away, like a freight train was passing between us.

And when my hand rose higher than my head, the broken edge of the lens lined up perfectly, matching like a puzzle piece with the gash in the sky.

Everything went black.

Jay Pittman began screaming. It was insane shit. He sounded like someone who’d been set on fire. His screaming went on and on, so loud and terrifying. I’d never heard anyone who sounded like that.

He began firing his rifle, and I felt certain he was going to shoot me. Round after round fired off. I could hear the bullets whizzing past me, inches from my face at times, and Pittman’s cries began to weaken.

I closed my hand around the lens.

The sky went pale gray again.

I could see.

The hole in the sky closed up, and then opened again, like a mouth, as soon as I tucked the broken lens back inside my pants.

“Fuck that shit.”

I rubbed my eyes, and tried to blink away the stain of red that made everything seem to blur and vanish.

It felt like all the air had been sucked from my lungs, and I gasped, struggling to clear my head and make sense of where I was.

You were gone.

Vanished.

The vending machine where you’d been sitting lay there in the dust.

The sky was getting lighter; morning was coming.

And, in front of my feet, Jay Pittman twitched and burbled small painful whimpers. He had shot himself through the side of his jaw. It looked like his head, from his nose down, was lying near the front of one of the strip-mall storefronts, ten feet away, and he had flung his rifle down behind us.

Jay Pittman was still breathing.

But he was black with the glossy shells of quivering harvesters.

They were eating him alive.

Just like I wished for.

Fucking Marbury.