Push

CHAPTER FOUR

AT THE CORNER, LUKA HANDS ME MY BACKPACK AND SAYS, “My place is that way.” As if I didn’t know that. “You going to be okay on your own?”

Usually my hackles would go up at a question like that, but the way Luka asks, the understanding in his eyes, the fact that I know he’s as freaked out as I am, makes me accept his concern with grace. I bump his shoulder with mine and say, “My dad should be home pretty soon. You?”

“Won’t be on my own. My sister’s having this nail-and-hair thing tonight with a bunch of her friends.”

I can’t miss his aggrieved tone. “Tell me you aren’t the chaperone.”

“Are you kidding?” His eye-widening grimace screams horror and disbelief. “Ten twelve-year-old girls under my supervision? Not gonna happen.”

“I was babysitting by the time I was twelve. Do they really need supervision?”

Before he can answer, his phone vibrates. He drags it from his pocket and listens, his face going expressionless. He says, “Yeah,” and then, “Fine,” before he ends the call and looks at me. “My dad. I have to go.”

I nod. I don’t ask why. It doesn’t matter. We’re teenagers. We don’t always get a say in what we do or where we go. Our parents have expectations, make demands. It’s just the way it is. In this case, I think his dad’s demanding Luka supervise those girls. I guess I’m not a very good friend because I’m secretly smirking and I’m definitely not offering to come over and help.

As I round the corner of my street, a gust of wind catches a paper cup off the ground and sends it swirling along the road until it disappears around the side of the Sarkars’ garage. Usually September in Rochester means temperatures that start out high and drop quickly—you can go to school at the start of the month wearing a T-shirt, and by the end of the month you need a parka. Well, not quite. But close enough.

My arms prickle with goose bumps, and I walk a little faster. The chill feels all the more intense because I’m exhausted, like I’ve lived a year in the span of a day.

All I can think of is the way I held Jackson as he lay dying from the Drau hit.

I clench my jaw. Dying, not dead. He’s alive, and I’m going to find him.

Despite my resolve, my shoulders sag—not from defeat but from complete energy drain. I came back from Detroit fully healed . . . physically, anyway. But the fatigue I feel is in my bones, my heart, my soul. I’ve never been a fan of energy drinks, but for the first time, I can truly understand the appeal. Right now I either want to down about five of them or just crawl into my bed and sleep for a month.

But I can’t. I have to figure out a plan, figure out a way to get to Jackson. On my very first mission, the one to Vegas, he told me he was going to watch out for me and just hope it didn’t get him killed. I remember what I said in return: Eight years of kendo. I won’t let you get killed.

I meant those words, then and now. I’m going to find him and I’m going to bring him home. I just need to figure a way to get in front of the Committee to argue his case. I know Jackson could communicate with them when he was in this reality. There must be a way I can, too.

I tip my head back and whisper, “Requesting an audience here, guys. Please.” I swallow. “Please.”

Then I climb the porch steps and drag my key out of my bag . . . and drag . . . and drag . . .

My movements are too slow, like I’m pulling my key through syrup. All my senses explode: sounds too loud, colors too bright. The weight of my backpack on my shoulder is like a ten-ton boulder. The cold air pricks my skin like tiny needles, digging deep. Sensation overload.

I’m being pulled. Panic surges. Again? So soon? I can’t. I don’t have it in me to fight again. Not yet.

Then another possibility hits me and the panic morphs into anticipation. The Committee. They must have heard me. I guess it was the please that did it.

Something bounces off the top of my foot, a sharp flick that quickly dulls into numbness. I glance down to see that it’s my key ring. My backpack slides from my nerveless grasp and lands beside my foot with a thud.

The world tips and tilts, my front door falling slowly to the side. Or maybe I’m the one falling.

Dizziness slams me and I sink down onto my knees, arms outstretched, palms planted flat to break my fall. But I don’t hit the wood slats of the porch. I hit grass, soft and long. I look up, knowing what I’ll see: a wide, grassy clearing surrounded by trees.

I’m in the lobby.

“No,” I yell. I’m not supposed to be here. I’m supposed to be in front of the Committee, getting answers that will help me find Jackson.

Instead, I’ve been pulled to fight the Drau. Another mission.

What happened to rest and recovery?

Rage spills toxic waste in my soul.

That’s one thing the game’s done for me: pushed through the muting gray fog that’s shrouded my emotions since Mom died. Anger and pain always broke through the gray, but now they’re so bright and sharp, they make me gasp. Be careful what you wish for.

I let my head fall forward between my outstretched arms, fighting the urge to just lie down and say, “No more.” The black strap around my wrist snares my gaze. My con. It just appears whenever I get pulled. The con measures health in the game—a portable life bar. Right now it’s glowing dark green, shot with swirls of blue and turquoise and light green, sort of like the black opal Kelley’s dad brought her from Australia when his company sent him there for a month.

The more damage I take in the game, the more the green will bleed to yellow, then orange, then red.

Full red, I’m dead.

I shove that thought to the bottom of the dark well that holds all the terrors and monsters that would love to crawl free and gnaw at my sanity.

Steer the nightmare. That’s what Jackson told me to do. Control what I can and let go of what I can’t.

It’s the letting go part that doesn’t come so easy.

Then again, maybe I shouldn’t be taking Jackson’s advice to heart. Look where it landed him.

I laugh, a dark, ugly sound. I feel wild and out of control, and hate every second of that. I don’t want to be this girl.

I pull out the bag of tricks Dr. Andrews, my grief counselor, taught me: Breathe. Visualize. Focus.

Reaching deep, I plumb my dwindling well of determination.

I push through the pain and uncertainty and fear.

Then I get to my feet, expecting the nausea and the headache that’s accompanied the jump before, but other than a slight pressure at the base of my skull, nothing. Guess I’m a pro now. Not exactly a thrilling thought.

Incoming.

The sound tunnels into my brain, my muscles, my bones, vibrating through every nerve in my body. I taste it, smell it. Crazy weird, the way the Committee communicates. Not every player in the game gets to hear them, just the team leaders. Lucky me.

Kendra’s the first to arrive. Her eyes are wide, blond ringlets standing out at crazy angles, arms folded across her chest like she’s trying to hold herself together. It’s a pose I recognize, one I employ often. Doesn’t really help when I try it. I wonder how it’s working for her.

“No.” She shakes her head wildly as soon as she sees me. “I can’t. I can’t. Not yet.” Her words tumble together in a rush. “Why did we get pulled again so soon? I don’t want to do this. I don’t think I can do this again. Miki—” She breaks off and just shakes her head.

What makes you think you get a choice?

That’s a Jacksonism. I keep it to myself. He got away with the whole I’m-a-cocky-asshole vibe. Looking back, I think that in a way, his attitude kept the rest of us from losing it. I doubt I’d pull it off half as well.

Kendra looks around and when she speaks again, her voice is even higher, the words tripping out faster. “Where’s everyone else? Why are we alone? Don’t tell me they didn’t make it—” She runs at me and grabs my arm. “Lien,” she whispers.

I put my hand over hers. “It’s okay. Lien’s okay. She made it. Everyone did.” Well, not everyone. Just everyone on our team of five. It’s a gift I’ll gladly accept, but a bittersweet one. There were too many shattered bodies that we left behind at the end of the last mission. We had no choice. But that doesn’t make it right and it doesn’t make it any easier to live with.

One of the people I left behind was Jackson. And that definitely isn’t right.

I swallow and look away as Kendra drops her face into her hands.

From the corner of my eye I catch flashes of movement, other teams gearing up in other clearings—mirror images of this one that I can only see if I don’t try too hard. If I turn my head to look dead-on, they disappear and all I see are the trees and grass around me.

Even though they’re in a different place or dimension or whatever, it’s sort of comforting to know they’re there. My team isn’t in this on our own.

The fact that I could see them the very first time I was pulled was one of the early clues that I was different than most of the other players in the game. Not only am I one of the oh-so-special group that can hear voices in my head, but I get to see other lobbies and other teams when the rest of my team can’t.

Kendra sniffles and wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. The most I can offer is a hand on her shoulder. I don’t even have a tissue.

“Okay,” she whispers. “I can do this. It’s just so soon. I thought we’d get a break.”

“So did I.” But I’m quickly learning not to have any expectations when it comes to the game, not to think too much. The trick is to just play to survive.

I head for the boulders at the edge of the clearing, where five harnesses lie side by side on the ground. Next to them is a black box with five weapons nestled in foam, and a sword in a sheath lies flat beside that.

I pick up a harness, turn, and toss it to Kendra. She catches it, her chest moving with each shallow, panting breath. I focus on adjusting my own harness, figuring she needs a minute to get her head together. She better do it quickly. A minute might be all she has.

I cross the straps the way Jackson taught me, one resting across my chest and the other sitting low on my hips. Holding my hand over the box, I hover over each of the weapon cylinders in turn until one flies up to slap my palm. I shove it in the holster on my right side.

You want your weapon on your dominant side. You don’t want to cross reach. It’ll slow you down.

Jackson’s words of wisdom. It’s like he’s watching my back even though he isn’t here. I close my eyes, picturing his face, the too-brief flash of his ironic half smile, remembering the way it felt when he held me in the caves and told me to rest, his shoulder as my pillow.

I open my eyes and force myself to focus on this moment instead of all the moments in the past I wish I could revisit. That’s not a good direction for me to go. Not right now.

A glance at Kendra tells me she’s at least got her harness on even if she hasn’t claimed her weapon yet. Her lower lip trembles. If I reassure her, will it make things better, or worse?

I bend and grab the sword that’s lying on the ground next to the weapon box. I don’t just get a weapon cylinder like everyone else; I get a blade. Perks of leadership. I guess something needs to balance out the downside.

The soft silk wrap and the weight of the hilt are familiar in my hand from all my years of kendo, but the actual blade isn’t like any of the swords I’ve used—or seen—in the past. It isn’t a wooden bokken or a bamboo shinai like I used in practice and competition. This one is a shinken katana, a real sword, and while I’ve seen some gorgeous ones before, none were quite like this. The blade is black, smooth, like glass. It doesn’t bend or break, and as I found out in Detroit, it cuts through Drau like they’re made of butter.

The thought of that still makes my stomach turn even though it’s them or me.

I did a book report last year on American Sniper. It was written by a U.S. Navy SEAL about his tours of duty—nine, I think. I remember reading an interview with him where he said he didn’t think about his targets as people. He was killing people, but he couldn’t think of them that way, couldn’t wonder if they had a wife or kids or parents at home. He was there to keep his guys safe. Every enemy he shot meant they didn’t get the chance to kill one of his team.

I didn’t get it back then.

I think I get it now, though. Them or me.

The ugly irony? After everything the guy had lived through, all the dangers he’d faced, he was shot and killed on a gun range somewhere in Texas.

My breath hitches. After everything I’ve lived through now, if I die in the game, I’ll be hit and killed by a rusted-out speeding truck.

There’s some deep, philosophical message in there somewhere.

I don’t get the chance to decipher it. The Committee pushes knowledge into my head, sound and texture and scent that exist only in the neurons firing in my brain: Incoming.