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 TriCities,” 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.