Read Online Passenger by Andrew Smith - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Andrew Smith
Tags: Action & Adventure, Juvenile Fiction, Social Issues, Survival Stories, Horror & Ghost Stories, Friendship, Violence
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own weight; wondering what kind of shit was down there for Jack to land on.
But before I’d go over the edge, I had to see what was going on.
Just a peek.
You’re an idiot, Jack.
I went to the front of the deck and looked down.
I could see Quinn, standing awkward and scrawny, naked except for a pair of baggy gym shorts, so he looked like he was maybe twelve years old. And he was talking to a group of soldiers—six or seven of them at least—who were mounted on horses that nervously twitched and shifted, rolling their eyes and throwing their heads back like they knew if they stood still too long the Hunters would come. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but Quinn was holding out his white arms, palms up, like he was imploring the riders to believe him. I wondered which one was Fent.
I found myself looking again, mesmerized by the pulsing slash of light where Quinn theorized something had fallen out of the sky. And something about that mark in the sky looked familiar to me—like I was supposed to remember it.
He said it happened seven days ago.
Maybe Conner came through first. Maybe he knew what was going on, only Marbury Jack hadn’t tuned in yet, like Ben and Griffin hadn’t.
Maybe they were still falling through, and that was why they didn’t know who I was when they found me in their garage.
Shit, maybe the boys were still at home in Glenbrook—the real Glenbrook—watching while stupid Jack takes a swing at the only glue holding the entire universe together.
Jack did it again.
I had tried to make things right, to help my friends by splitting the lens. And just like most of Jack’s other fixes, things only ended up broken worse than ever.
Seven days, seven years, it could all be an eyeblink here, a sneeze. So Conner left those messages for me at the old man’s house, knowing I was coming. Sooner or later.
And out in the blank tract of nothing between here and the dust-covered highway, I saw a blazing line of red coming west toward the Rangers and Quinn’s firehouse.
I saw the Hunters coming.
And that was enough for Jack.
I crossed the roof.
I do not pray. I have never prayed for anything. But when I grabbed on to the cord of sheeting and lifted my right leg over the edge, I shut my eyes tightly and silently repeated one name in my head: Nickie.
Then I went over the side.
And with each grasping hold, as I struggled to lower myself a foot at a time, pinching the sheets so desperately between my crossed ankles, I thought: Conner, Ben, Griffin, Seth.
I have to get back. I have to make things real again.
* * *
I tore open my hand when I climbed down from the firehouse roof.
The bandages and tape Quinn had so carefully wrapped around the cut soaked through with blood and pus that separated like light in a prism as the fluids migrated through the gauze and formed layers of colors—the broken-down spectrum of the stuff inside of Jack.
It hurt so bad that my nose ran with clear snot and my eyes watered. But I didn’t break my leg. I made it down.
The bundle of food and water I’d slung over my shoulder was awkward and painful to carry, but I could do nothing about it. I dreamed of stumbling across some little kid’s wagon to put it in; I fantasized about finding my truck, still full of gas, sliding in, my skin resting in the cool cradle of leather seats, turning on the stereo, tapping the wheel as I drove somewhere that wasn’t here.
I kept moving. And I remember how my shoulders tensed, hunched up toward my neck on either side when I heard all the shooting start, off behind me somewhere in the direction of Quinn’s palace.
So I justified in my mind that either the Rangers or the Hunters would have ended up with a trophy of Jack if I’d stayed behind. I was convinced that Quinn Cahill, the survivor like no other, would be fine and would slip back into his routine—maybe “following me,” maybe just lying about it, but always winning his game.
And after I’d made it
But before I’d go over the edge, I had to see what was going on.
Just a peek.
You’re an idiot, Jack.
I went to the front of the deck and looked down.
I could see Quinn, standing awkward and scrawny, naked except for a pair of baggy gym shorts, so he looked like he was maybe twelve years old. And he was talking to a group of soldiers—six or seven of them at least—who were mounted on horses that nervously twitched and shifted, rolling their eyes and throwing their heads back like they knew if they stood still too long the Hunters would come. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but Quinn was holding out his white arms, palms up, like he was imploring the riders to believe him. I wondered which one was Fent.
I found myself looking again, mesmerized by the pulsing slash of light where Quinn theorized something had fallen out of the sky. And something about that mark in the sky looked familiar to me—like I was supposed to remember it.
He said it happened seven days ago.
Maybe Conner came through first. Maybe he knew what was going on, only Marbury Jack hadn’t tuned in yet, like Ben and Griffin hadn’t.
Maybe they were still falling through, and that was why they didn’t know who I was when they found me in their garage.
Shit, maybe the boys were still at home in Glenbrook—the real Glenbrook—watching while stupid Jack takes a swing at the only glue holding the entire universe together.
Jack did it again.
I had tried to make things right, to help my friends by splitting the lens. And just like most of Jack’s other fixes, things only ended up broken worse than ever.
Seven days, seven years, it could all be an eyeblink here, a sneeze. So Conner left those messages for me at the old man’s house, knowing I was coming. Sooner or later.
And out in the blank tract of nothing between here and the dust-covered highway, I saw a blazing line of red coming west toward the Rangers and Quinn’s firehouse.
I saw the Hunters coming.
And that was enough for Jack.
I crossed the roof.
I do not pray. I have never prayed for anything. But when I grabbed on to the cord of sheeting and lifted my right leg over the edge, I shut my eyes tightly and silently repeated one name in my head: Nickie.
Then I went over the side.
And with each grasping hold, as I struggled to lower myself a foot at a time, pinching the sheets so desperately between my crossed ankles, I thought: Conner, Ben, Griffin, Seth.
I have to get back. I have to make things real again.
* * *
I tore open my hand when I climbed down from the firehouse roof.
The bandages and tape Quinn had so carefully wrapped around the cut soaked through with blood and pus that separated like light in a prism as the fluids migrated through the gauze and formed layers of colors—the broken-down spectrum of the stuff inside of Jack.
It hurt so bad that my nose ran with clear snot and my eyes watered. But I didn’t break my leg. I made it down.
The bundle of food and water I’d slung over my shoulder was awkward and painful to carry, but I could do nothing about it. I dreamed of stumbling across some little kid’s wagon to put it in; I fantasized about finding my truck, still full of gas, sliding in, my skin resting in the cool cradle of leather seats, turning on the stereo, tapping the wheel as I drove somewhere that wasn’t here.
I kept moving. And I remember how my shoulders tensed, hunched up toward my neck on either side when I heard all the shooting start, off behind me somewhere in the direction of Quinn’s palace.
So I justified in my mind that either the Rangers or the Hunters would have ended up with a trophy of Jack if I’d stayed behind. I was convinced that Quinn Cahill, the survivor like no other, would be fine and would slip back into his routine—maybe “following me,” maybe just lying about it, but always winning his game.
And after I’d made it
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