Push

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

I GRAB JACKSON’S ARM. “HAVE YOU EVER BEEN IN A SITUATION like this before?”

“Like what?”

“The game pushing into the real world.”

He bares his teeth in a smile that isn’t a smile. “You ever seen my left shoulder?”

I swallow. Of course he’s seen the Drau in the real world. One attacked him. Scarred him for life.

Incongruously, I wonder what he told his parents about that scar, about how he got it. I wonder if the Committee just planted some bogus knowledge in their heads. Can they do that? I know they can take memories away. Can they add them, too?

The possibility is horrific.

Then another thought hits me. Did Jackson know? Did he know we were coming to Glenbrook? Did he know the walls between our two realities would fail?

Did he choose not to tell me?

Jackson snaps his fingers.

My gaze jumps from his shoulder to his face.

“Stay with me, Miki. Wherever you just went inside your head, don’t go there again. Not till we’re out.” He unstraps his knife from his thigh and shoves it into one of his vest’s many pockets, then does the same with his weapon cylinder.

I follow his lead and tuck my weapon cylinder into the pocket of my vest. The pocket isn’t as big and loose as Jackson’s and Luka’s, and the outline is still clearly visible through the cloth. I poke at it, trying to make the shape less obvious.

“I’m not worried about that,” he says. “I’m more worried about your sword.”

“Crap. Forgot about that. What do we do?”

He walks around behind me and I feel him undoing the sheath; then I feel the weight lift off me.

“Don’t turn around,” he says.

I hear a swoosh, like a belt pulled quickly through a loop. I turn around. Jackson’s standing there with his pants undone, hanging way low on his hips, baring most of his dark-gray boxers. He slides the sheath of my sword down his pant leg. He’s holding the bottom of his T-shirt up and I can see smooth, gold skin and ridged muscle and the thin line of light-brown hair that trails down his belly. With a gasp, I turn away.

“Told you not to turn around,” he says, and I can hear the smile. There are faint sounds as he finishes what he’s doing—I’m guessing buckling the sword to his thigh—then, “I’m decent. Shirt safely in place.”

Echoes of what he said to me the night he climbed in my bedroom window to prove to me he wasn’t a shell. Weeks ago. A million years ago.

I feel like I’ve known him my whole life.

“We’re lucky Glenbrook isn’t a school with a metal detector or we’d be screwed,” Jackson says.

“If we get caught with weapons, Ms. Smith is going to be pissed. We could get suspended. Expelled.”

“That’s your biggest worry right now?” Jackson asks with a short laugh.

“No,” I whisper, thinking of all the things that could go wrong. But they’re too big, too terrible to think about, so I focus on the small, the less important.

“Steer the nightmare, Miki. Clear your mind. Think of this like a kendo competition. We go in. We fight. We win. Doesn’t matter that you’re a girl and they’re boys, faster, stronger. Doesn’t matter that some of them look at you like you shouldn’t be there, like you don’t have a right. You fight. You win.”

He’s right. Doesn’t matter that the Drau are faster, brutal, deadly. What matters is that I’m deadly, too. The fact that I’m still alive proves it. So I do what he says. I take a couple of deep breaths. Focus. Visualize.

“So what now?” I ask. “You said we go in . . . but Luka gave us the all-clear sign. There are no Drau inside the dance.”

“Not yet.” His expression is ruthlessly neutral. And his answer makes my stomach churn.

“Maybe they’ll go somewhere else. The science room. The roof. The weight room. The—”

“They won’t,” he says. “You know that. You feel it here”—he splays his fingers over my abdomen—“and here.” He shifts his hand to my chest, over my heart, over the tattoo of the eagle. “Courage,” he whispers. “You have enough of it to fill an ocean, Miki.”

“Why here? Why are the Drau here at Glenbrook?”

Jackson shrugs. “Maybe coincidence. Maybe they’re going for something that matters to us.”

I swallow and force the words past my too-dry lips. “Maybe the Committee chose this battleground. Maybe they’re trying to make a point. Keep us in line.”

I desperately want him to shoot down that possibility, but he only tips his head toward the open double doors to the dance. “We’ll keep them safe.”

My next exhalation is a shuddering sigh, but the one after that is smoother. I nod.

We stop at the ticket table and Jackson somehow manages to smile at Maylene like the world isn’t about to come apart, like the Drau aren’t about to ramp up their game. Like my heart isn’t slamming against my ribs, my palms damp. He chats with her. Gets our tickets.

And despite the mission jitters, I can’t help but notice the way Marcy’s looking at him. I glance at Jackson. His head’s turned toward her. His expression gives nothing away. I can’t tell what he’s thinking. And it doesn’t matter. Marcy ogling Jackson is so far down my list of issues right now, it barely ranks high enough to scrape mud off my boots.

So why is it giving me the creeps?

My gaze slides to Kathy, sitting at Marcy’s side. Her head’s down as she counts bills from the cashbox, then slips a paper clip on to hold a small stack of them. She’s a shadow eclipsed by Marcy’s light.

I stare at them both, considering impossible things. That Marcy’s a shell. That she scouted the school in advance for her Drau masters.

No time to tell Jackson what I’m thinking as we head into the dance. I’m not even sure I would tell him if we weren’t overwhelmed by sound and the crush of bodies. The whole idea’s so out-there. So crazy. And right now, we need to be dealing with facts and tangible threats rather than wild suspicions.

The music’s loud. The dance floor’s packed. People are clumped in groups, the space limited not just by bodies, but by costumes.

I see faces I recognize and some I don’t because they’re hidden behind makeup or masks. We push our way through the throng, searching for Luka. When we find him, Jackson points to a relatively uncrowded corner. He takes my hand, tucks me behind him, and starts pushing his way through the mass of bodies. I let him take point mostly because he’s bigger and broader and something about him makes people move aside.

I hear a familiar laugh and turn. There’s Carly with Kelley and Dee. They’re dressed in identical skintight bodysuits and coordinating wigs—Carly’s in yellow, Dee’s in red, and Kelley’s in green. They each have a hand-drawn label stuck on their stomachs: Carly’s is Dijon mustard, Dee’s ketchup, and Kelley’s sweet relish. When they told me what they planned to wear, I thought colored spandex didn’t exactly scream condiments. I was right. They look like three girls in spandex bodysuits with cardboard cutouts stuck on their bellies. But they seem happy.

I’m about to lift a hand and wave when I realize I don’t want to get their attention. I don’t want any of them anywhere near me when the Drau attack goes down. I want to tell them to get out, go home, be safe. But I can’t.

The rules.

I don’t know what the Committee will do if I break them. I can’t risk telling my friends information they aren’t allowed to have—as if they’d even believe me—and I can’t imagine they’ll leave just because I tell them to, if I don’t provide one hell of an incentive.

I turn away and follow Jackson deeper onto the dance floor. There’s a cry that carries above the music, awe and wonder and excitement. Jackson stops dead in front of me. People turn and shift, the crowd moving like a wave.

Through the spaces between bodies, I catch a glimpse of a streak of light, impossibly bright, tearing through the dance floor.

In my mind, the whole world slows down, like I’m watching separate frames in a stop-motion movie.

The single streak of light is beautiful and terrifying, a single Drau, a portent of the attack to come.

Three girls, obviously tipsy, squeal in delight. From their gestures, I can tell they think the glowing shape in humanoid form is someone dressed in a fabulous costume. They reach for the Drau, miss, stumble. One girl falls to her knees. They all laugh, and even though I can’t hear the sound over the music, I can see their faces, lips curving, teeth flashing, eyes crinkling up at the corners. With the strobe lights of the dance highlighting their expressions, altering shadows and nuance, they could be caught either in an instant of hilarity, or terror.

Another Drau darts between the dancers. And a third. They zigzag through the crowd: right, left, right. One person stops dancing, looks at the light, frowning. Then another and another.

I reach for my weapon cylinder. Jackson stills my hand. He’s right. There are too many people, too much potential for collateral damage. We need to figure out a way to draw the Drau off.

The crowd surges, a tide of bodies, pushing everyone as close as packed sardines.

Jackson pulls his knife from the pocket of his vest and, under the cover of the crowd, gets the Drau in the gut. It stumbles but doesn’t go down; then it breaks away and streaks off, the tide parting to let it through. Jackson holds his knife flat against his thigh, the black blade barely visible against his black pants.

Another Drau zips among them, not even trying to avoid the crush of bodies. Someone cries out, but I can’t see who, or why. People step back, clearing a path, sensing now that there’s a threat here, that the streak of light isn’t a cool show or an amazeballs costume.

It’s something else. Something frightening.

“They’re heading for the back,” Jackson says against my ear.

I nod and follow as he starts to move, our way blocked by bodies, some dancing, some frozen as they start to clue in that something’s terribly wrong.

A few people yell as another Drau tears through, cutting the crowd in two. It lifts its hand, its jellylike weapon smooth and sleek. A spray of bright droplets arcs down like fireworks on everyone in a five-foot radius.

I try to push through, to get to the Drau. Too many bodies block my way.

The Drau fires again.

Mouth rounding in shock, a girl stumbles, hands pressed to her chest. She pulls her hands away and stares at her palms, blood from her wounds dark against her pale skin. She screams, pulls in a breath, screams again.

I can hear her over the music.

She needs to get out of here. They all do.

Jackson’s a step ahead of me. He pockets his knife. He points to the left, the direction the Drau went, indicating that I should follow.

There are doors at the back of the auditorium that open to the hallway that leads to the gym. That’s where they seem to be heading. I have no idea why, and no chance to ask.

Jackson turns and pushes back the way we came, through the crowd to the double doors. He anchors them open with the little rubber wedges. Then he grabs the closest girl and yells something at her that I’m too far away to hear, but whatever it is, she listens and grabs a couple of other girls. Jackson shoves them through the open doors and moves to the next group. He’s organizing, leading. Of course. That’s what he does.

I’m torn between going after the Drau and helping get people out. I decide to do both, guiding people toward the doors as I move in the direction Jackson sent me. If we don’t get these people out, there’s going to be a massacre.

I grab a boy’s arm, yelling to make myself heard. I don’t even know what I say, but he gets the general message and heads for the doors.

People are pushing and stumbling, some trying to get to the doors, some in the far corners still dancing, oblivious to the danger.

The music turns off and there’s a second of comparative silence before Ms. Smith comes on the loudspeaker and tells everyone to leave, stay calm, fire drill–style. Then voices fill the void, footsteps, cries, shouts. The teachers start guiding people out, funneling students toward the exits.

I clamber up on a table that’s against the wall, searching for the Drau. They’re gone. Vanished. Then . . . there . . . a flash of light near another set of exit doors, the ones that lead to the corridor that leads to the gym, exactly the direction Jackson pointed me in.

I see Carly, Dee, and Kelley on the far side of the room, near the exit. I can’t focus on them for long. I’m just grateful they’re getting out.

I scan the crowd, looking for Luka. I spot him after a few anxious seconds, and catch his eye as he turns.

He works upstream, against the crowd, until he’s next to me. I hop down from the table, grab his hand, and we move, sticking close to the wall, avoiding the main flow of bodies that stream toward us.

“Jackson?” Luka asks, his voice pitched to carry over the noise.

“He’ll find us. He knows where we’re heading.”

“Which is?”

“Wherever the Drau are heading,” I yell back.

“What about Tyrone?”

We pass a set of back doors just as a couple of kids shove them open and run outside. More follow, and there’s a mass exodus. No way anyone’s getting in through those doors. If we’d been one step slower, we’d have been carried out with the flow.

I gesture at the next set and Luka gets the message. We push through the crowd faster now, trying to get the doors open and get the rest of our team inside. Someone slams my shoulder and I hit the wall, my breath forced out in a whoosh. I stagger, get my balance, still holding tight to Luka’s hand.

We keep going. Too late. By the time we get there, the doors are open and kids are pushing their way outside. Tyrone and Lien and Kendra aren’t getting in this way.

I get pushed and shoved. My hand tears from Luka’s. I can’t see him. I’m being dragged toward the doors by the sheer momentum of the group. It’s all I can do to stay on my feet and not get dragged under. As I near the door, I grab the metal bar and hold on as tight as I can. Inch by inch I drag myself from the swarm toward the edge. My arms scream. My hands slip on the metal.

One hand slides free.

I tighten my grip with the other, struggling to hang on. If I get dragged out, I don’t know how I’ll get back in. I can’t leave Jackson and Luka in there, alone against an army.

My knuckles ache as my fingers are pulled . . . pulled . . . I can’t hang on.

I cry out as my hand tears free.

Luka grabs my wrist and hauls me to the side.

“Close,” he says.

“Too close,” I say, panting like I’ve run ten miles.

Luka turns his head and meets my gaze and by silent agreement, we push on, aiming for the spot I last saw the Drau. We grasp each other’s wrists to decrease the chance that we’ll be pulled apart again.

People are screaming, pushing. The orderly evacuation has devolved to a mob, spurred by flashes of light that erupt in different spots. The Drau, creating mass pandemonium on purpose.

I think of the girl caught in the spray of light, her chest scored open, her hands bloody. I know what it feels like to be hit by a Drau weapon. Is she okay? Did she make it out? Have the Drau killed anyone yet, sucked their energy out through their eyes, leaving them a dried-out husk?

Please let Carly be safe. And Kelley and Dee and Maylene. Everyone.

There’s Ms. Smith trying to keep people calm. And Mr. Shomper, shuffling along, directing students. I’m afraid for him. He’s so old and fragile. But despite his rumpled, stooped form, he maintains an air of calm, and kids listen when he points them to the exits. He’s like an island in a storm.

A blare of sound joins the general cacophony. Someone’s pulled a fire alarm. Great.

Flashes of light catch my eye. I turn, only to have another flash appear. I turn again and realize the Drau are running circles around us at impossible speeds. Like we’re cattle and they’re herding us.

Horror claws at me. I can’t let it slow me down.

Luka and I slam through the double doors on the far side of the auditorium.

With a clang, they shut behind us.

We pause, breathing hard. The doors bang open. Jackson strides through, favoring his right leg.

“Are you hit?” I ask.

“No. Luka, give me a hand,” he says, and reaches for his fly. I get it then. My sword is hampering his gait.

“What the hell, bro?” Luka asks as Jackson drops his pants, then he sees my sword and gets with the plan, helping Jackson get it unbuckled. Luka and I settle the sheath between my shoulder blades while Jackson rebuttons his pants.

“Weapons,” Jackson says, knife in one hand, weapon cylinder in the other.

I grasp my weapon cylinder, feeling it warp and shape itself to my hand, but leave the sword in its sheath for now.

“What about Tyrone?” Luka asks.

Jackson checks his con. It shows three triangles—us—and another three triangles somewhere southwest of us, moving along the edge of the building.

“They’re looking for a way in. Any thoughts on how we can connect with him?” Jackson asks, not sarcastic—serious.

Luka shakes his head. “In that pandemonium? Not hardly. What do we do?”

“We can’t wait,” I say, the Drau’s presence squirming inside me, almost painful in its intensity.

“Agreed,” Jackson says.

Luka takes a breath. “I’ll miss having Tyrone at my back, but I’m not sure going in without Kendra and Lien is a loss. I don’t trust them. Well, one of them. Kendra. She’s a griefer.”

Gaming term. Luka explained it to me before. A griefer steals points, lets other players wear down the target, then takes the kill. I shake my head. It’s hard to believe that of Kendra. But her score . . . I remember thinking that it was freakishly high. And I remember other things. Fleeting expressions I caught on Luka’s face or Tyrone’s. And Tyrone saying something to Jackson right before he took Kendra and Lien outside. They must have suspected this for a while.

Luka glances at me. “I think Lien’s helping her.” He pauses. “Out of love. I think she wants Kendra out of the game before one of her freak-outs gets her—or someone else—killed. I’ve noticed that she’s giving Kendra her kills, not just helping her steal ours.”

“It’s a problem we’ll have to deal with after we deal with the Drau,” Jackson says. “If they do catch up with us, watch your backs. A griefer on the team’s bad news.”

He and Luka exchange a look, and I know it’s because they’ve dealt with a griefer before—the boy I replaced.

“Let’s go.” Jackson heads down the hall, through the double doors at the far end, then through a second set of doors to the stairs. Luka and I follow.