Part 23 (1/2)

”Riley, is he-”

”Give me your feet!” I shout, stooping to dig at the twine around my brother's ankles. As I'm prying off the twine, I keep shooting glances back toward the garage. I keep expecting to see Hatch running toward us, his knife raised, but nothing. I pry off Ethan's bonds and I pull him toward the street. We skirt around the house. When we hit the pavement, I can see into the garage where I left Hatch. The dark, moaning shadow on the garage floor lets me know he won't be coming after us. The venom is working its magic. It's the only time I'll thank a rattler.

”Come on,” I say, jogging next to Ethan down the moonlit street. ”The hospital's this way.”

Chapter Twenty-Four.

The hospital looms in the distance, all nine stories of concrete and gla.s.s glowing like an electric beacon. From here you can't tell the horrors going on inside. When we can see each individual window, my palms glisten with sweat. We've jogged on and off for two hours. My s.h.i.+rt is soaked, I have blisters on both heels and I want a drink of water so bad I'd kill for it. Ethan stops in the shadow of a leaning streetlamp, puts his palms to his thighs and sucks in rattling breaths. When he looks up, his eyes follow mine to the building illuminated before us.

”There it is,” he whispers.

I nod and pull him into one of the vacant buildings that dot the block. We step over the pile of bricks that block the entryway. Something skitters into the darkness as we walk in, but judging by the sound, it's too small to be a threat. This place must've been a restaurant based on the faded sandwich posters curling off the wall. Booths with faded yellow seats line one wall. The cracked remains of a soda fountain stands next to the cash register. Ethan walks over and pushes the lever but nothing happens. Subway, the sign reads in big yellow letters. I thought subways were transportation.

My eyes flick through the dark shadows, examining every doorway. My skin crawls and my heart can't stop pumping way too fast. Part of me expects Hatch to come barreling out, hands hooked to tear me apart. We left him behind hours ago, but the look on his face as he tore through the house haunts me.

We lean against a debris-littered counter and stare at the glittering hospital.

”What's the plan?” Ethan asks.

I gotta get him out of here. He's sucking in far too much plaster dust and mold. He rests a hand on the counter and leaves a palm print in the dust.

”The plan is I get in somehow and you stay here.”

”No way.” He shakes his head back in forth. ”I'm going.”

”Ethan, it's not safe. I can't take you in there.”

”I can't stay out here,” he whines as he looks around the dark, cobwebbed s.p.a.ce.

I think of what Clay said at the fire. Before I can stop it, an image on Ethan swims up before me. His face is slack and white. Blood splatters his chest. I shake it away. ”You stay here.”

”If you don't take me,” he says, his fists tightening, his face s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up into that look of defiance he rarely uses, ”then I'll ... I'll go knock on the front door. They'll let me in.” He juts out his chin.

”Ethan!” I scowl. ”You're being impossible.” I slump in a booth, streaking the dust on the tabletop. He frowns at me from across the room. The stubborn set of his mouth matches mine. And I don't wanna leave him out here alone and unarmed. He could get in as much trouble here as inside with me.

”Fine,” I say, staring out at the glowing hospital. ”But you do absolutely everything I say, when I say it.” I point my finger at him. ”No questions.”

He nods, his fists loosening.

”And if I say run, you run and don't stop. Not for me. Not for anyone. You got me?”

He nods.

I sigh, and a puff of dusts swirls off the counter and dances in the moonlight. I rub my fingers over the bridge of my nose. My legs ache from the long walk here. My shoulders are in knots. We have no food or water, no weapons of any kind. I rub my hand over my face. What the h.e.l.l am I gonna do?

”How we gonna get in?” The garbage crinkles under his feet as Ethan takes a few steps toward the door and peers up.

I shake my head and rub my hand over my stiff neck. There's a tender stab of pain at my hairline where Clay dug out my tracker. Then it hits me.

I reach into my pocket. There, at the bottom, is the little metal disk the size of a b.u.t.ton. Carefully I draw out the microchip and hold it up to the light. But will it work?

Ethan peers at the little disk. ”What is it?”

”A locator,” I say, tilting it ever so slightly in the light. ”Betsy said the energy from my body activated it.” I peer into the dark cave that used to be a sandwich shop. ”We need to find a knife, something sharp. Then I'm going to need your help.”

I press a strip torn from my s.h.i.+rt to the back of my neck and wince at the pain. Ethan re-implanted the transmitter. He said it started glowing a few minutes after we pressed it in the fold of my skin. Now he crouches beside me next to some smelly dumpsters at the back of the hospital. Black garbage bags peak over the lips of the metal bins. Some of the bags are torn open and garbage litters the ground. I push away a soiled cloth with my boot. Garbage pickers have been here. If we get spotted, it'll be a good cover story-that we're scavenging. I keep telling myself this as I sit with my back pressed to the stinky metal bin, my knees to my chest, my fists clenched at my sides. At least one part of my plan makes sense.

Yeah, but the rest of it's a mess, that nasty voice in my head says. Even if the receiver still works, which is unlikely, and Betsy sees it, which will never happen, will she even care enough to creep downstairs and let you in? Then you'll have to skirt the guards, find Mama, get her unhooked and get the h.e.l.l out, all with Ethan at your side.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. Nothing is more impossible.

In five hours it'll be morning. And if the Sheriff's right, it'll be my mama's last day alive. I take a deep breath and silence the voice in my head. There's no time for plans, only action.

Ethan picks up a crumpled paper wrapper and starts folding it into little squares. His voice is so quiet I barely hear him. ”Ri, do you think Mama will be happy to see me?”

His hair hangs over his eyes, so I can't read his expression, but I watch the way his fingers tremble as they fold the paper into neat squares. I put my arm around his slim shoulders and pull him to me. ”Course,” I whisper. ”She'll grab you up and squeeze your guts out. Only ...” I haven't told him. How can I explain this to a little boy? ”There's something I gotta tell you.”

He looks up at me, his face tightening. His eyes are round saucers in the moonlight. ”She's hurt, ain't she?”

I pick up a ceramic shard lying next to my boot and rub my thumb along the smooth surface. ”Not exactly.”

”What then?”

I take a deep breath. ”They've knocked her unconscious.” I meet his gaze now and plow through the rest. ”She'll look like she's sleeping, but she's not. She may be hard to wake up.”

Ethan stares into my eyes for a few tense seconds. I wonder if he'll cry, but his eyes are dry, his face solemn. I keep forgetting all he's been through.

”Okay,” he says turning toward the hospital. ”Let's go get her.”

An old soul, my little brother.

”There's no way I can keep you outside,” I say, more of a statement than a question.

He shakes his head.

”Fine,” I say, sighing. ”I wish for once I could keep you outta trouble.”

”You need me,” he says, puffing up his narrow chest. I tussle his hair. He's not even nine. G.o.d, what a life for a kid.

A hinge creaks behind us. Our heads snap toward the sound. Across the dirty lot, a door opens. The rectangle of dim light widens as we watch. Ethan's hand claws for mine. I grab it and drag him closer. Someone's coming.

”Come on, you silly heads,” the shadow whispers. ”Get your tus.h.i.+es in here.”

Betsy. Oh, thank G.o.d. I stand, pulling Ethan up. We jog toward the round shadow. I send Ethan up the five metal steps and I follow. When the door shuts, Betsy throws her arms around me.