Read Online Ascending the Boneyard by C. G. Watson - Free Book Online
Authors: C. G. Watson
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stop-motion. Trees and asphalt and truck and sky flash-flicker past. I have no idea how long it takes for the Termi-Pest truck to finish rolling and come to an upright stop on the side of the highway, but eventually it does.
I may have blacked out for a second or two.
When I manage to get my eyes open, my head fills with dense fog. Itâs the truck, I realize; the truck is belching smoke from under the accordion-fold of the hood. For a split second I think I may have forgotten to use my seat belt, which would be bad . . . very bad. I could be ejected, injured, lying on the highway having a surreal, out-of-body experience.
A frantic dig reveals the belt strap tangled up in my T-shirt.
And then I look over, see Haze twisted into an impossible shape against the door. I barely remember him coming with me, but he must have, right? Yeah. Riding shotgun, giving me all kinds of crap about using my phone while driving . . .
I rush to unbuckle before spinning around in a panic to see if heâs okay.
His head is tipped back at a weird angle against the window.
âOh God . . .â I rip the gas mask off his face, slap his cheek as hard as I can. I donât know what thatâs supposed to accomplish, but they do it on TV all the time.
Haze doesnât react.
Instead of being concerned that he might have a broken neck or some other potentially paralyzing injury, I do what any clear-thinking person would do in a moment of crisis. I slap him again.
Because I should have . . . with Devin . . . I just couldnât move.
This canât happen again. I need Haze. I canât let himâ
âWhat the hell?â he sputters.
Heâs all green. I got him back just in time.
âYou passed out during the accident,â I say.
âWhat accident?â
The question echoes dull and flat in the too-still air.
We both sit up, look around in a daze.
I wonder why we donât hear sirens yet.
As the smoke starts to clear, I peek in the rearview mirror, expecting a squadron of cop cars and ambulances to roll up behind us any second. But all I see is the cockroach, dislodged, lying on its back, several yards behind us. Good. The best kind of UnderWorld mob is a dead one.
Plenty more where that came from, though. I canât allow the confusion of the moment to distract me from the very real need to brace myself for the coming battle.
âWhat are we supposed to do now?â Haze asks.
The question pushes the little hairs at the back of my neck into their full upright position. I donât know what happens now. I look down at my phone, hoping the commandos will dial in any second with further instructions.
Hazeâs breath wheezes through those filtered chambers so hard I feel my own lungs starting to burn.
âTosh?â
âGrab your things,â I say.
âWhat things?â
âThereâs an overpass up ahead.â
The highways in the Boneyard are full of overpasses, but you have to be careful; theyâre prime hideaways for minion soldiers. They can also lead UnderGround, but thatâs dicey too. A lot of those tunnels are traps.
I pull my messenger bag out from behind the seat and open the driverâs side door, which immediately sags off its now-broken hinges. Haze just sits there, staring at me openmouthed while I head down the shoulder of the highway.
He breaks the brittle silence by launching into a rant about how dangerous this joyride is and how reckless I am, his words chasing me down from all the way back at the truck. He keeps on ranting as he slides off the seat, as he slams the door behind him, as he marches down the shoulder and around the curve in the road. Phrases like âcompletely lost your mindâ and âundeniably insaneâ collide in midair with the jagged puffs of smoke drifting in our direction.
Haze manages to catch up with me, but thatâs because for the last minute or so Iâve
I may have blacked out for a second or two.
When I manage to get my eyes open, my head fills with dense fog. Itâs the truck, I realize; the truck is belching smoke from under the accordion-fold of the hood. For a split second I think I may have forgotten to use my seat belt, which would be bad . . . very bad. I could be ejected, injured, lying on the highway having a surreal, out-of-body experience.
A frantic dig reveals the belt strap tangled up in my T-shirt.
And then I look over, see Haze twisted into an impossible shape against the door. I barely remember him coming with me, but he must have, right? Yeah. Riding shotgun, giving me all kinds of crap about using my phone while driving . . .
I rush to unbuckle before spinning around in a panic to see if heâs okay.
His head is tipped back at a weird angle against the window.
âOh God . . .â I rip the gas mask off his face, slap his cheek as hard as I can. I donât know what thatâs supposed to accomplish, but they do it on TV all the time.
Haze doesnât react.
Instead of being concerned that he might have a broken neck or some other potentially paralyzing injury, I do what any clear-thinking person would do in a moment of crisis. I slap him again.
Because I should have . . . with Devin . . . I just couldnât move.
This canât happen again. I need Haze. I canât let himâ
âWhat the hell?â he sputters.
Heâs all green. I got him back just in time.
âYou passed out during the accident,â I say.
âWhat accident?â
The question echoes dull and flat in the too-still air.
We both sit up, look around in a daze.
I wonder why we donât hear sirens yet.
As the smoke starts to clear, I peek in the rearview mirror, expecting a squadron of cop cars and ambulances to roll up behind us any second. But all I see is the cockroach, dislodged, lying on its back, several yards behind us. Good. The best kind of UnderWorld mob is a dead one.
Plenty more where that came from, though. I canât allow the confusion of the moment to distract me from the very real need to brace myself for the coming battle.
âWhat are we supposed to do now?â Haze asks.
The question pushes the little hairs at the back of my neck into their full upright position. I donât know what happens now. I look down at my phone, hoping the commandos will dial in any second with further instructions.
Hazeâs breath wheezes through those filtered chambers so hard I feel my own lungs starting to burn.
âTosh?â
âGrab your things,â I say.
âWhat things?â
âThereâs an overpass up ahead.â
The highways in the Boneyard are full of overpasses, but you have to be careful; theyâre prime hideaways for minion soldiers. They can also lead UnderGround, but thatâs dicey too. A lot of those tunnels are traps.
I pull my messenger bag out from behind the seat and open the driverâs side door, which immediately sags off its now-broken hinges. Haze just sits there, staring at me openmouthed while I head down the shoulder of the highway.
He breaks the brittle silence by launching into a rant about how dangerous this joyride is and how reckless I am, his words chasing me down from all the way back at the truck. He keeps on ranting as he slides off the seat, as he slams the door behind him, as he marches down the shoulder and around the curve in the road. Phrases like âcompletely lost your mindâ and âundeniably insaneâ collide in midair with the jagged puffs of smoke drifting in our direction.
Haze manages to catch up with me, but thatâs because for the last minute or so Iâve
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