Read Online The Inexplicables (Clockwork Century) by Cherie Priest - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Cherie Priest
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how you’ve lived this long. Let me help you.”
“I don’t want any help!” Again, the words were too hard. They scratched against the relative quiet of dripping water, creaking steel, and the patter of a single set of feet.
Getting closer. A lot closer. And definitely not a ghost.
Panic crept up Rector’s spine, gripped his neck, and warmed the back of his head. “I’ve got to get out of here,” he said to himself.
The other guy heard him anyway. “Not a bad idea. Come with me.”
“Like hell,” Rector said, and he started to run.
Three steps into that retreat, he collided with the corner of a building, bounced off, and caught himself just before falling down. His gas mask slid—not far enough to let in any of the toxic air, but one of his lenses had cracked, rendering his left eye’s view a mosaic of confusion. It was hard enough to see when everything was clear, including his head. Now he was half-blind in one eye, his ears were ringing, and he felt a warm, wet trickle of blood dripping down behind his ear.
He pulled himself together, picked a different direction, and ran that way. He bolted around the offending corner, tore to the right, stumbled on the uneven paving stones, and recovered. Then he ran forward some more, faster, up the hill … because that was the correct direction, wasn’t it?
“Oh for Pete’s sake,” complained the voice behind him. The voice was still coming, moving on feet that were very light and very fast in comparison to Rector’s.
He ran on anyway. The blood from his ear soaked the top of his collar and made the leather of his mask feel pulpy where the straps rubbed against the sore spot, but he ignored it. He also ignored the shuffling sounds that reached him over the pounding gong of his own heartbeat and the frantic skips and jumps of his hole-pocked shoes against the street.
He spied some stairs from the corner of his eye, swiveled on his heel, and climbed them, not knowing where they went and not caring much. All he had to do was get out of the other fellow’s line of sight, far enough away to hunker down and hide.
One of the stairs cracked beneath his foot and gobbled him up to his shin. He pulled his leg out by his knee, tugging with his hands to extract the boot and keep on climbing.
He wondered briefly why these stairs were on the outside of a building, then noticed, when the fog parted enough to let him notice anything, that these were interior stairs after all. The building had fallen away, leaving its insides exposed. Flight by flight, he passed big stretches of shattered flooring eaten up by holes. He huffed and puffed upward while hugging the rail, which rattled in his hand and surely wouldn’t hold him if he were to fall. It barely gave him balance enough to keep upright.
The Seattle city wall loomed up to his left, and that didn’t seem correct. He’d gotten turned around somehow.
Didn’t matter. Kept running. Heard nothing behind him, but the quiet might’ve been an illusion brought on by his stuffy ears. He wondered when it’d be safe to stop, and then he wondered what he’d do if he reached the top and there was nowhere left to go.
He didn’t wonder long.
The stairs ran out.
Rector teetered at the edge. He shook his head, trying to let the blood run out of his injured ear. It didn’t work, just made the pumping of his heart throb louder behind his eyes. But he didn’t hear anyone coming up behind him, so maybe this would be a safe place to stop. To catch his breath. To wait until his pursuer had gotten bored and wandered off.
His breathing was muffled and ragged inside his mask, but in time it slowed. He balanced there, not looking down and not looking back, waiting to hear that voice call out again.
It didn’t.
And after a good five minutes, he took as deep a breath as he dared—there above some precipice on the other side of that last lonely step, the bottom of which he couldn’t even see—and he began a slow, quivering
“I don’t want any help!” Again, the words were too hard. They scratched against the relative quiet of dripping water, creaking steel, and the patter of a single set of feet.
Getting closer. A lot closer. And definitely not a ghost.
Panic crept up Rector’s spine, gripped his neck, and warmed the back of his head. “I’ve got to get out of here,” he said to himself.
The other guy heard him anyway. “Not a bad idea. Come with me.”
“Like hell,” Rector said, and he started to run.
Three steps into that retreat, he collided with the corner of a building, bounced off, and caught himself just before falling down. His gas mask slid—not far enough to let in any of the toxic air, but one of his lenses had cracked, rendering his left eye’s view a mosaic of confusion. It was hard enough to see when everything was clear, including his head. Now he was half-blind in one eye, his ears were ringing, and he felt a warm, wet trickle of blood dripping down behind his ear.
He pulled himself together, picked a different direction, and ran that way. He bolted around the offending corner, tore to the right, stumbled on the uneven paving stones, and recovered. Then he ran forward some more, faster, up the hill … because that was the correct direction, wasn’t it?
“Oh for Pete’s sake,” complained the voice behind him. The voice was still coming, moving on feet that were very light and very fast in comparison to Rector’s.
He ran on anyway. The blood from his ear soaked the top of his collar and made the leather of his mask feel pulpy where the straps rubbed against the sore spot, but he ignored it. He also ignored the shuffling sounds that reached him over the pounding gong of his own heartbeat and the frantic skips and jumps of his hole-pocked shoes against the street.
He spied some stairs from the corner of his eye, swiveled on his heel, and climbed them, not knowing where they went and not caring much. All he had to do was get out of the other fellow’s line of sight, far enough away to hunker down and hide.
One of the stairs cracked beneath his foot and gobbled him up to his shin. He pulled his leg out by his knee, tugging with his hands to extract the boot and keep on climbing.
He wondered briefly why these stairs were on the outside of a building, then noticed, when the fog parted enough to let him notice anything, that these were interior stairs after all. The building had fallen away, leaving its insides exposed. Flight by flight, he passed big stretches of shattered flooring eaten up by holes. He huffed and puffed upward while hugging the rail, which rattled in his hand and surely wouldn’t hold him if he were to fall. It barely gave him balance enough to keep upright.
The Seattle city wall loomed up to his left, and that didn’t seem correct. He’d gotten turned around somehow.
Didn’t matter. Kept running. Heard nothing behind him, but the quiet might’ve been an illusion brought on by his stuffy ears. He wondered when it’d be safe to stop, and then he wondered what he’d do if he reached the top and there was nowhere left to go.
He didn’t wonder long.
The stairs ran out.
Rector teetered at the edge. He shook his head, trying to let the blood run out of his injured ear. It didn’t work, just made the pumping of his heart throb louder behind his eyes. But he didn’t hear anyone coming up behind him, so maybe this would be a safe place to stop. To catch his breath. To wait until his pursuer had gotten bored and wandered off.
His breathing was muffled and ragged inside his mask, but in time it slowed. He balanced there, not looking down and not looking back, waiting to hear that voice call out again.
It didn’t.
And after a good five minutes, he took as deep a breath as he dared—there above some precipice on the other side of that last lonely step, the bottom of which he couldn’t even see—and he began a slow, quivering
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