“I’m going to throw up,” he suddenly yelled toward the front of the car. “My stomach. I’m about to puke, take us down!”
“We’re almost there,” the cop answered, glancing in the rearview mirror. “Hold yourself together a few seconds longer.”
Michael knew he had the pale face to go along with his story. “I’m serious! Please! You’ve gotta let me out of this thing!”
“Wow,” the man said, his voice somewhere between annoyed and amused. “That’s one magical stomach you got there. Just happens to go south right before the terrorist and his murdering friends get booked into jail.”
So much for keeping anything secret.
“I’m not lying,” Michael replied helplessly. Even he could hear the defeat in his voice.
“Just hold tight back there. You can do all the throwing up you desire once you’re settled in a nice comfy cell.”
Sarah had been looking back and forth between them and Bryson like she was watching a tennis match, her face filled with confusion. “Murdering friend? What’re you talking—Michael, what is he talking about?”
Panic was just around the corner, lurking for Michael. “I saw something on his visor display. They’re accusing you in your parents’ missing persons case. And saying Bryson and I helped you.”
Sarah’s face drained of color, and Bryson punched the seat in front of him.
“Calm down back there!” the cop yelled. “You want to commit big-boy crimes, then get ready for big-boy punishment. Now shut up, not another word. It’s up here on the right.”
Buildings zoomed by on either side of the hovercar as they approached an old, crumbling brick structure. Its windows were covered with grime, and it looked as welcoming as every other city police station in the world.
“I just might get a bonus for this,” the cop said through a chuckle. “Get those hair plugs I’ve been hoping for.”
The car slowed, the front end tilting upward a bit to catch some drag. They swung around the building to the far side, where a door several levels up was sliding open, bright lights shining within. The cop maneuvered his controls and the car moved toward the landing slot.
Michael looked at the opening. It was like a yawning mouth that wanted to swallow them whole. And it wasn’t just their lives on the line. Not many people knew what Kaine was up to—what he truly was up to. If they were locked up, the Tangent would be free to do it all. A powerful sense of fright almost overwhelmed Michael, making it hard for him to breathe.
He wasn’t going with this cop. He wasn’t. Every rational part of his brain shut down in that moment, and pure, fiery, wild instinct took over.
Throwing his body forward, he reached through the small opening in the gate between the front and back seats and grabbed the cop’s helmet, pulling it toward him. Then he twisted, yanking with all his strength, as if he were trying to rip the guy’s head clean off. The back of the man’s helmet banged against the glass directly behind him and he yelled, a strangled sound full of pain.
“You piece of—” the man started to say, but the words were cut off by a sharp cry as Michael put his whole body into it, jerking the helmet left and right. The cop gave up trying to keep the steering wheel under control, his hands flying back to grab Michael’s arms. The man clawed and scratched, but Michael was in a frenzy, an all-out attack. His stomach suddenly flew toward the sky when the hovercar pitched to the left and started to plummet.
“Grab the wheel!” he yelled at Sarah, but there was no way she could get past him in the small gap between the open glass doors.
He held on to the man’s helmet, sure it would break his neck at any second. Michael planted his feet on the backseat, then pushed off, diving through the opening so that he landed on the floor of the front cabin. The cop fell with him, his body slipping out of its seat belt and landing on top of Michael. Outside the windows, the world was spinning, buildings at odd angles and the blue sky flashing in turn with gray steel and glass.
“Now!” Michael yelled. “Grab the wheel!”
Sarah was already climbing through the opening, reaching forward. Bryson helped, lifting and pushing her. Michael wrestled with the cop, terrified that he’d somehow get his gun free and start firing. Someone would come after them soon—surely the falling police vehicle had been noticed at the station.
Sarah grabbed the steering wheel just as the cop got a hand free and punched Michael in the face. Pinpricks of light exploded before his eyes. He gripped the lower section of the man’s visor and yanked fiercely. It flew up and something cracked, though it didn’t come free.
The cop’s face was creased in fury. “You must be the stupidest …,” he started to say, but the whole universe seemed caught in a cyclone, everything spinning. Michael looked at Sarah, hoping she could gain control.
She tugged at the wheel wildly, leaning into it with her full weight, trying to steady things. But the car kept swerving, tilting, at last shooting upward. A horrible scream of engines vibrated the windows. Sarah’s tongue was pinched between her lips; strain filled her eyes.
There was a terrible crunching sound just as Michael slammed forward into the bottom of the dashboard. The world shook as windows broke and metal screeched on metal and the noise of crumbling brick filled the air.
Then it all stopped. The car was still, tilted heavily to the right. Michael looked out the busted window and saw nothing but the ground far below.
The stillness after all the noise of the crash was spooky, as if they’d been on a roller coaster and time froze before the ride had quite finished. There were groans, the sounds of harsh breathing, and a distant honk or two from the street below.
Michael’s thoughts immediately went to the cop—he braced himself, ready to struggle and fight him off. But the man wasn’t moving. He was lying completely still on the floorboard, his head tilted at a weird angle against the passenger-side door.
“Are you guys okay?” Michael whispered, carefully shifting to get a look at the rest of the car. He was scared that one wrong move might make the entire vehicle slide loose.
Bryson grumbled something from the backseat, but Michael couldn’t see him.
Sarah held on to the steering wheel with both hands so she wouldn’t slide toward Michael and the cop. She nodded. Behind her shoulders, he could see the wreckage of brick and glass through the broken window of her door, a dusty darkness beyond that. The plastic and metal of the hovercar itself was twisted and bent, its mangled body precariously held in place by the building’s ruined edges.
Bryson’s head appeared in the opening between the protective glass doors—which were still intact—behind the front seat. “This thing could fall any second. Let’s get out of here.”
“Is he dead?” Sarah asked, her eyes fixed on the unmoving cop. The cracked visor of his helmet jutted to the side, but they couldn’t see his face, pressed up against the door.
“I don’t know,” Michael answered. His muscles ached from the weird position in which he lay. He didn’t know how much longer he could stand it. “Go, Sarah. Climb out. I feel like my arms and legs are about to fall asleep.”
“What if it shifts?” she asked.
“You wanna be inside when it does?” Bryson answered. “The back door is blocked by a bunch of broken brick. We have to go through your window.”
“Okay.”
She carefully moved her feet around until she found a solid purchase; then she reached up, gripping the underside of the window. From there she pulled herself to a bent piece of metal jutting out of the brick wall of the building. She tested it first, and soon she was climbing up and out of the car, disappearing into the darkness. Michael could hear the rattle of shifting bricks.
“You go next,” Michael said to Bryson. “I need to get myself into a better position.” He started working on that while his friend climbed into the front seat, using the steering wheel like a ladder rung.
“Perfect place to attack a cop,” Bryson said over his shoulder, moving up throug
h the broken window, using the same hand- and footholds Sarah had. “Right across the street from his police station, for all his chums to get a good look-see. They’ll be swarming all over this building in five minutes, guns cocked and fingers itchy.”
“Sorry.” Michael groaned—his muscles ached so much; fire burned in his tissues. “Next time I’ll attack the cop sooner. Promise.”
“Good.” Bryson got himself into the building, then turned around so he could reach back into the car and help.
Michael was ready, having twisted himself around just enough to free his hands and get his feet beneath him, planted on the torso of the cop. He found the steering wheel, gripped it, curled his arms in a pull-up. Bryson grabbed him by the shirt and pulled as well. Kicking to find a foothold wherever he could, Michael clambered up the seat of the sideways car and toward the opening of the smashed window.
There was a heavy, grating groan of metal, along with the splintering of brick, as the car shifted downward. Bryson’s grip slipped, and Michael, in a rush of terror that filled his throat, fell several inches before wedging his foot on the brake handle between the front seats. Someone screamed; then, with a crunch, the car came to a stop, though the moan of bending metal and shifting bricks continued.
“Get out of there!” Sarah yelled.
“Trying!” Michael shouted back.
Bryson had a firm hold of his shirt again and yanked, grunting with the effort. The fear that had choked Michael lit a fire of adrenaline in his muscles, and he clawed and kicked his way up and through the window, crawling over Bryson’s body in his haste and crashing into Sarah. She hugged him fiercely, both of them breathing heavily.
“Dude, you just put your foot in my mouth,” Bryson grumbled.
The car shifted again, causing a rattling cascade of broken bricks. Michael thought it would surely fall this time, but it stopped. Somewhere in the building, alarms clanged.
“Come on,” Sarah said, getting to her feet and pulling Michael up to his. They were in some kind of conference room with a large table and chairs, luckily unoccupied.
Bryson was by their side, brushing the dust from his shirt and pants. “Yeah, like I said, they’ll be swarming on us in no time.”
Michael got a good look at the demolished wall behind them: bricks scattered across the carpet, torn drywall, lengths of wire and pipes snaking out, the scratched and dented hovercar somehow still clinging to it all. He thought of the cop.
“We have to help him,” he whispered, though that was the last thing on earth he wanted to do.
“His buddies will be here soon enough to get him out,” Bryson replied. “If that thing was gonna fall, it would’ve taken the dive already. We have to go. Now.”
Michael was relieved someone else made the decision—a part of him knew the guy might be dead, and that it was his fault. He fought off the thought and nodded, still trying to catch his breath. Sarah grabbed his hand and the three of them ran for the door of the conference room.
Alarms bleated in the hallways, a few people running for the stairwells, though most seemed to have escaped already. That, or it was a slow day at the office. Leaving the conference room had been the easy decision, Michael thought, but what now?
“There’s no way we can just blend in,” Sarah said. She’d let go of Michael’s hand, and he had the silly urge to take hers right back. “I’m sure they know what we look like.”
“No doubt,” Michael agreed. “The cops’ll have our faces memorized.”
“Maybe we can hide in the basement,” Sarah said. They were all walking toward the closest stairwell door—a woman cast a nervous glance at them right before she went through. “We obviously can’t waltz out the front entrance. We’ll have to climb through a window or … go through a garage. Back door, emergency exit, something.”
They reached the door to the stairs and Michael opened it. “Let’s just get down as far as we can go. We’ll figure it out.”
Bryson had been quiet, and he didn’t move toward the opening after Sarah had walked through. His arms were folded and his face had that pinched look of concentration.
“You can’t hack your way out of this one,” Michael murmured.
“I know,” Bryson replied. “I’m thinking.”
“Not a good time,” Michael said, but deep down he hoped his friend would devise some brilliant plan.
“Let’s go!” Sarah yelled, clearly out of patience.
“Okay, okay,” Bryson snapped, moving into the stairwell. “Follow me.”
And of course he went up the stairs, not down.
Sarah took in a breath, probably ready to argue. But Michael reached out and squeezed her arm. She stopped before she began, looking at him anxiously.
“I think he’s right on this one,” he said, proud of how softly he managed to say it.
Sarah’s defeated look showed she knew they were right. “I just want to be out of this place.”
“Me too. But we’d be walking right into their arms if we went down. Cops are probably running up those stairs as we speak.”
“Then we better get moving.”
Bryson had already disappeared around the bend of the ascending stairwell, and they took off after him, up two steps at a time.
The office building was a big one, as the numbers on the doors indicating the floor illustrated all too well. Twenty. Twenty-five. Thirty. With no end in sight as Michael paused to catch his breath, looking up through the rectangular spiral of the railings, rising and rising. His chest heaved with the effort of climbing, and sweat dripped from his face onto the floor.
“Gotta … keep … moving,” Sarah said through her own huffs.
“Gotta … keep … breathing,” he mocked in reply.
He could suddenly hear distant shouts and footsteps, but the acoustics of the stairwell made it impossible to make out words or to know how close those responsible for the noise were. Fear rattled in his chest along with the ragged breaths.
“What’s the plan, anyway?” Sarah asked.
For some reason Bryson looked like he’d just taken a rest instead of having sprinted up fifteen flights of stairs. He pointed up. “Hide.”
“Hide,” Michael repeated.
“Yes, hide,” Bryson responded smugly. “You think I would lead you two wonderful people on a wild-goose chase that ends with us in the slammer? No way.”
“I think cops are really good at hide-and-seek,” Sarah said. “Especially when they have dogs that can smell humans from a mile away, infrared sensors, all that good stuff.”
“Have faith in Bryson,” Michael said. “He is all-knowing.” He didn’t even mean to be a smart aleck—something told him that his friend could get them out of this.
“Yeah,” Bryson replied. “Have faith. And no offense, Mike the Spike, but you were dead wrong.”
“I was? About what?”
“When you said we couldn’t hack our way out of here.”
Bryson tried to hide a grin as he turned and continued up the stairs, his feet pounding as he jumped the steps two or three at a time. Michael and Sarah exchanged a look, part amused, part curious, then followed him.
The sounds below—shouting, footsteps, doors opening and slamming—were definitely getting closer. Michael vaulted up the stairs, his heart a jackhammer in his chest.
Bryson didn’t stop, keeping a relentless pace as they passed floor after floor. Forty. Forty-five. Fifty. The muscles in Michael’s legs felt like acid had been injected in them, growing more painful by the second. And his lungs burned, fighting for oxygen. He tried to tell Bryson to slow down, but he couldn’t get the words out. Sarah looked just as miserable, but she kept climbing, staying right in front of Michael.
The building stopped at the sixtieth floor. Mercifully. There was a swinging gate blocking off the last flight of stairs, which ended at a door marked with a sign that said, simply, ROOF. Michael’s vision pulsed along with his heartbeat, making everything jitter. The number 60 printed on the door to the top
floor shook as if laughing, as if it were mocking him, saying, Why didn’t you take the elevator, you idiot?
Which was a good question, actually. He spit it out to Bryson between pulls of air into his lungs.
“Because they’re watching those puppies with cameras. The cops might even have someone in each elevator car. Plus”—he took a deep breath—“I had no idea this stupid building was so tall!”
Sarah was bent over, hands on knees, but she pulled herself up straight. “Well, they’re coming.” Even as she said it, Michael noticed over the rushing in his ears the footsteps echoing up the chamber of the stairwell. “They’re probably searching floor by floor, which will take some time, but they’ll be here soon enough.”
“So what do we do?” Michael asked, waiting for Bryson to finally reveal his plan.
His friend took charge in a way Michael had never seen before, not even in the worst of times inside the Sleep.
“Here’s what we’re going to do,” Bryson said. “Come on.” He started walking back down the stairs, a thing that seemed so absurd to Michael that he didn’t even bother asking. “I just wanted to see how far up this place went, but we can’t hide on the top floor, too obvious. Let’s go down a few and find a good spot.”
Their steps echoed as they descended. Michael’s legs had cooled off too much and felt weak as he followed.
“So is that really your plan?” Sarah asked. “We’re just going to hide and hope no one finds us?”
Bryson gave her a hurt look over his shoulder—genuine, as if she’d really offended him. But then he hid it with a grin. “Give me some credit, lady. Remember what I said about hacking?”
“Yes.”
Suddenly it hit Michael what his friend had planned. “We’ll break into their computer system, watch their feeds, listen to their scanners. Then we can move around and keep avoiding them.”
The Rule of Thoughts Page 12