She tossed the guns in the U-Haul, wiped her hands on her jeans. Steeling herself then, she approached the dead man, hoping that wherever John was right now, he was having better luck than her.
seventy-one
Like a cannon blast to my chest, the bullet sends me flying back to the ground. All my oxygen is gone. I can barely breathe. As I try to move, I’m distantly aware that I’ve let go of the gun. Where it is, I have no clue, but it’s not in my hand where it needs to be. Because right this moment the small, petite woman pushes the children aside to get to the back of the truck. She’s yelling at the children, but I can hardly hear her. All I hear is ringing. The world fades away, fades back, fades away again.
I cough, or at least try to cough. This hurts my chest even more. But at least it gives me a chance to move again. In the movies and TV, they make it look so easy. You get shot, lie flat on the ground for a moment, then sit up. Maybe open up your shirt or jacket to reveal-voilà!-the bulletproof vest underneath. But this isn’t the movies or TV. This is real life, and getting shot in the chest, even with a bulletproof vest, fucking hurts.
The ringing in my ears begins to fade. I can hear the woman still shouting at the children as she pushes past them, as she reaches the edge and jumps down onto the concrete floor.
I blink, reach out as far as I can to my side. My fingers flex again, gripping air. Where is the gun? Where is the gun? Where is-
The woman stands over me, her gun aimed at my face.
I just stare up at her. I don’t blink. I don’t flinch. Maybe Eli was right-maybe I can’t experience fear.
A gunshot roars and I do blink, I can’t help it, knowing that this time the bullet hasn’t been stopped by the vest but has passed through flesh, the thin layer of epidermis that has protected me my entire life up until this point.
I look at the woman and see her expression has changed. No longer is it cold and determined. Now it’s … confused.
That’s when I notice she’s bleeding. It’s coming from her neck, and for an instant I flash on Marta, my mother, hitting the floor of David’s office, staring up at the ceiling while I was stuck across the room, helpless to do anything to save her.
The woman falls away from view. She hits the ground.
I finally tilt my head enough to see one of the children-a little girl-standing only a few feet away. She watches me carefully, my gun in her hands.
When she speaks, her voice is soft.
“Are you here to help us?”
Unable to speak, I nod.
The girl doesn’t respond to this. She just nods herself. Then, seeming to remember that she has a gun in her hands which she just used to kill the woman, she quickly sets it on the ground before standing back up and folding her hands in front of her.
The other children, I realize now, are watching me.
I roll over, and the pain hits me again. I try to take a deep breath, and that hurts even more.
Sitting up, climbing to my feet, staying on my feet-it all takes more effort than I care to give. I’ve been doored several times, have even been thrown off my bike and went flying through the air, but nothing has hurt like this. But now that I’m at least standing, I can do something. And what is that something? To save these kids, of course. These kids-that’s my purpose now. To save them. To get them out of here. But first …
“Where are you going?” the girl asks once I turn away and start toward the three steps leading up to the door into the building.
I pause long enough to glance back at her and the rest of the children. How do I tell them? How do I explain that Eli is somewhere in this building, and that I need to find him? How do I explain that I’m going inside to kill Matheson?
I open my mouth, start to speak, but then remember what Eli told me.
Don’t worry about what happens to me. It’s the others that are the priority. It’s the others that you must save.
Still, that doesn’t mean I don’t have time to at least check to see what’s become of Eli.
“Mister”-another child, a frail Asian boy-“please don’t leave us.”
And at once, all thoughts about checking to see what has become of Eli or Matheson leave my mind. The children are what’s important now, and I need to get them out of here.
The girl who saved my life is still standing on the concrete floor. I lift her up into the truck.
“I’m going to drive us out of here, okay?”
The children just stare back at me. A few nod.
“I’m going to have to lock you in here for a few minutes. But it’ll just be a few minutes. Okay?”
Again, a few nods.
I reach up, grab the rope, and pull it down, bringing the door with it. I swing the lever closed. Then I turn away, start toward the front of the truck, when something about the small, petite woman makes me stop. She’s lying on her chest, her legs and arms splayed to the side. And it’s her left arm that catches my attention. On her wrist is a black watch. It’s tilted just right that I can see the small LED face … and the numbers counting down.
5:37 … 5:36 … 5:35
I bend down and loosen the watch from her wrist. Standing back up, I stare at the numbers, at first not sure what to think about them.
Then, all at once, everything clicks into place.
They’re going to destroy this building.
In less than six minutes.
Which means I have to fucking hurry and get these kids out of here.
Strapping the watch to my own wrist, I sprint to the front of the truck and climb up into the driver’s seat. Luckily the key is still in the ignition. The transmission is stick shift. I press the clutch, turn the key, and the engine rumbles to life. I shut my door, put the truck in gear, and begin to ease it toward the open garage door.
I barely get more than a few yards when the driver’s door is flung open and I’m grabbed and pulled from the truck. I hit the ground, hard. That pain I’d felt before comes back again, though thankfully not as strong. I blink and look up and see the guy from Ashley’s parents’ place.
He’s aiming a gun at my face.
“I just killed your old man,” he says. “It wouldn’t be fitting if I didn’t kill you, too.”
Before he can, though, I kick him in the knee, then in the balls. He starts to go down, but it’s clear he doesn’t intend to do so without squeezing the trigger first. I’m rolling away then, just as the bullet strikes the concrete. I climb to my feet, crouch down low, and fling myself into the man, aiming for center mass. We go down hard, and I’m faintly aware of his gun clattering away, under the truck-which is still slowly moving forward, stalled but still in neutral.
His hand grips my throat, squeezing tightly. I use my elbow on the man’s neck, then on his chest, knifing it as hard as I can. He lets go, wheezing, trying to push me off, but now I’m in a good position, holding him down, that I start punching him in the face, both fists going at once, bruising bone, tearing flesh, drawing blood.
A part of me-the part that wants vengeance, that wants retribution for what this man has done to everyone I ever cared about-wants to keep going until this man is dead. I even look around wildly, searching for the gun, searching for anything I can use to end this man’s life.
What my eyes fall on, instead, is the watch strapped to my wrist.
3:57 … 3:56 … 3:55
I struggle to stand up off of the man. I kick him one last time and start to hurry away, back toward the truck that is still drifting forward, when he grabs my leg, yanking it out from under me. I hit the ground, my chin striking the concrete. I try to kick my foot out of his grasp, but he doesn’t let go. He’s grinning back at me, blood on his face, between his teeth. He knows what the countdown means, and he intends to keep me and the children here to experience what will happen when the numbers reach all zeros.