“You looked in their eyes,” Luka says, every word dripping horror.
I look at Luka’s con. It isn’t the dark green we started with, either. It’s more of a greenish yellow. ROY G BIV. Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet. I can almost hear Mr. Clement’s voice droning out the spectrum over and over again as he handed out the prisms back in eighth-grade science class. I don’t know why, but thinking about it now makes me want to laugh.
Then it makes me want to cry.
I’m so tired.
I force my eyes to stay open even though they want to close. Luka tells me to hang on, his voice tinny, echoing like it’s coming to me through a very long tube. I see him try to move toward me, but his leg buckles. He’s hurt. There’s blood. The uneven shards of his arm bones are poking through his skin, so white against the red, red, red.
There’s a low, keening moan beside me. I turn my head and see Tyrone crouched on the ground. There’s something in front of him. No . . . not something. Someone.
“Richelle,” Tyrone rasps, and holds out his hand toward her. But he doesn’t touch her. Why doesn’t he touch her? Why doesn’t he help her?
She’s not moving. She’s just lying there, her limbs at awkward angles.
Pushing my hands against the floor, I try to leverage myself up. But I can’t. I’m too weak. The screen on my con’s a very dark orange, and the skin of my arm looks gray. My gaze shoots back to Richelle. I can see her legs, though Tyrone’s back blocks the rest of her from my view. The skin of her legs looks gray, too.
“Why don’t we make the jump?” Luka asks, his tone edged with panic.
“Luka,” I whisper. He’s slumped to one side, barely upright. The smile he sends me is a shadow of itself. His lips are bloodless, his skin chalk pale. I know he means to reassure me, but that smile scares me.
“I don’t know,” Tyrone says, his voice dull. “They’re terminated. We did the job. We should jump. I don’t know why we don’t jump.” He moves a little to the left, and I see Richelle’s arm stretched across the cold floor. Her con’s red. Completely red.
My stomach drops.
“Hang on, baby. Hang on,” Tyrone says, and lays his palm against Richelle’s cheek. Then he snarls, “Where the hell is Jackson?” Even as he finishes the question, the light in the doorway flickers out, then returns, but dimmer than it was before. A dark silhouette fills the rectangle of light. It’s Jackson.
“There was a problem,” he says. I’m guessing he means there was another alien or two. “It’s taken care of. We’ll be pulled in thirty.”
In three strides, he’s beside Richelle, but he’s looking at me. He’s still wearing those shades. I can’t see his eyes, but I feel his gaze.
Tyrone’s breathing too fast, and I can hear each breath catch on a sob.
Jackson squats down beside Richelle. His lips draw thin, his head bows, and a tiny shiver shakes his shoulders. His head lifts, his expression blank. He’s every inch the aloof, arrogant asshole he’s been since the first second I met him, but something in his posture makes me want to lay my hand on his shoulder.
Then he rises. “Ten seconds.”
“No.” Tyrone shakes his head back and forth, very fast. “No. We can’t leave her.”
“We can’t take her,” Jackson says, his tone flat. “You know that.”
“No. We can’t leave her!” Luka pushes to his feet.
One side of Jackson’s mouth twists. “What makes you think we have a choice?”
CHAPTER SIX
THE PAIN IN MY HEAD IS BACK, BUT NOT AS BAD AS BEFORE. Three headaches in one day. I’ve hit a milestone.
Last thing I remember, it was night, but now the late-afternoon sun shines down, hurting my eyes. So I close them. Carly screams my name, the sound shrill and panicked, but off somehow.
Snap. My eyes open. My focus sharpens. I’m falling, and there’s no way to stop it. I see the truck, so close I can make out the chunks of rust on the grille. I see the pavement, flat and gray, coming up to meet me. I hit hard and slide along the rough surface, layers of cloth and skin scraping away.
There’s the endless screech of the brakes and the smell of burning rubber. My head jerks up and I try to scramble out of the way. I can’t find my footing.
Terror clogs my throat.
Then there’s a hand on my arm, tight as a vise, yanking me to my feet.
Luka.
He pulls. I pull. Opposite directions. Our dance is all wrong.
He lets go abruptly. Stored momentum propels us away from each other. I tumble back and land hard on my ass and my elbows.
Music blares. Brakes scream. I feel a rush of air as the old pickup truck surges through the space between Luka and me. It comes to a screeching stop about five feet away.