Scan

by Walter Jury

  But then we both pull back at the same time, because, somehow, we both know there are things that still need fixing, and this won’t do it. Christina gives me an apologetic look and kisses my cheek, then scoots back across the seat. I glance up at the rearview mirror to see my mom’s eyes glued to the road with a laser intensity that tells me she saw the whole thing. I wipe my lips, wishing I’d remembered she was there before I stuck my tongue into my girlfriend’s mouth.

  Mom accelerates smoothly as the lanes open up. She switches the music off and gives the adapter back to Christina, her hands trembling slightly as she returns them to the wheel. I realize for the first time that my mom probably has that Valium for a reason. That she doesn’t carry it around as a weapon of convenience, to sedate her enemies at will. She carries it around because she needs it for herself, for when things get to be too much, for when she can’t cope. And that makes me feel like an asshole, because I’ve been really hard on her, not just over the past day, but over the past four years. She holds it together so well. Well enough that I always considered her some sort of superhuman. And she is, kind of, but she’s also a woman who’s lost the man she loved—and who has a messed-up jerk of a son who’s gotten himself in a shitload of trouble. I reach forward and squeeze her shoulder, and she puts her hand over mine and squeezes back.

  I sag against the seat, lay my head on the headrest, and close my eyes. Only a few more hours to Virginia, to what I hope will be another safe place where we can sink out of sight and decide what the hell to do with this scanner, this piece of plastic and alien circuitry that everyone wants, that some are willing to kill for. Once again, part of me wants to destroy it, but my dad built it—apparently worked on it for years—and he said it was important. I’m convinced there’s more to it than just telling the difference between human and H2. Not only because of what my dad told me—it’s made out of a freaking alien spaceship, after all, and I really think it’s something unique that the H2 don’t already have, since they’ve apparently salvaged all the other spacecraft wreckage. The ship that crashed in Morecambe Bay might have been special somehow. I need to work this out—it feels like there’s something lingering just out of my reach. But right now, my head is aching, and I can’t close my fingers around the thread of logic I need. For a moment, I let myself drift. I pretend that I’m just on a road trip. It’s easy enough to believe right now. That cop seemed more interested in ogling Christina than looking for fugitives, and I’m starting to feel hungry again. It’s been an entire eighteen hours since someone’s shot at me. It could be a normal day. I could be a normal kid with a normal life, though I’m not even sure what that feels like.

  I’m so busy daydreaming that I don’t even notice that my mom has accelerated until we’re doing over eighty, until she says, in this deadly calm voice, “They’re following us.”

  CHRISTINA AND I WHIP AROUND AND SQUINT OUT THE rear window. I have no idea how my mom spotted them, but she’s right: There are three black SUVs streaking by the sparse traffic like it’s at a standstill. Mom gets onto the Wilmington bypass, her eyes flicking to the rearview every few seconds.

  “Maybe it’s not them,” Christina whispers, almost to herself. I don’t say anything, because I can tell it’s a wish more than anything else.

  My mom has to hit the brakes to keep from plowing into a car going fifty in the passing lane. She begins to weave in and out, trying to put some distance between us and the SUVs, but they’re closing in quickly.

  “We can’t call the police, can we? We can’t,” Christina says. She sounds almost as desperate as I feel, and something in me seizes up and turns hot, like a lump of molten iron, cauterizing all the soft, bleeding parts of me, shoring me up on the inside. I don’t care what I have to do; I’m going to make sure she gets out of this. My mom was right; she shouldn’t even be here. But since she is, it’s my job to make sure her parents get to see her again, that Livia gets her big sister back.

  I look around the interior of the vehicle. “I don’t suppose you have a weapon.”

  My mom shakes her head and gives me a sad smile. “I’m not a walking arsenal like your father was.”

  I’d feel so much better if he were here, if he were in charge. Just as I’m thinking my mom probably would, too, she snaps, “Seat belts.”

  We obey. The SUVs are coming up hard, black, and menacing, the three of them swerving aggressively between cars, and now they’re within a few car lengths. One of them jerks to the right and floors it, shooting up the shoulder. It pulls abruptly back into the slow lane to avoid a shredded semi tire, cutting right in front of a Cadillac driven by a white-haired old lady. She overcorrects, and orange sparks fly off the guardrail as she bounces off of it and skids to a stop.

  Whatever fear my mom had before is pushed down somewhere deep inside of her, alongside her grief and whatever else she doesn’t want to share. She looks totally calm, and I’m grateful for that as one of the SUVs muscles up behind us, close enough for me to see the chiseled outline of Race Lavin’s severe face. He’s at the wheel, and he’s staring right at our rear window like he can see straight through the tint, even though I know that’s impossible. His jaw is set with determination as he moves up and nudges our bumper. Christina yelps.

  My mom stomps on the brakes.

  The collision throws us forward, but the seat belt catches me before my face hits the seat in front of me. My mother guns it again, picking up speed as we streak along the highway in the far left lane. Race is a few car lengths behind us now, but it doesn’t seem like the collision did much to his vehicle. It must be armor-plated, too. The other two SUVs are in the middle lane, and one of them’s trying to cut in front of our minivan while the other holds steady beside us.

  “They’re trying to box us in,” I say.

  The SUV next to us glides closer, crowding us. But the driver keeps having to swerve into the slow lane to get past the traffic in the center lane. Finally, though, he swings by a few cars on the right, then comes roaring toward us.

  This time the impact wrenches a scream from Christina, who is thrown against the window frame.

  “Fuck this,” I mutter, unbuckling my seat belt. If they force us off the road, we’re doomed. If this ends any other way than them giving up, we. Are. Doomed.

  So I’m going to make them give up.

  I reach under the seat and grab Christina’s backpack. I pull out the buns, the chips, the oranges, the lighter fluid . . . and the Super Soaker. It takes me only a few seconds to form my plan. I rip the mesh bag of oranges open and pull out three, then shove the bag at Christina. “Can you help me? You up for this?”

  She pales as she looks down at the oranges. “Um. Sure?”

  “I need you to throw those at them.”

  Her laugh is just this side of hysterical. “What?”

  “Throw them. Buy me some time.”

  “Tate,” my mom says. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but—”

  “Lecture me later, okay? But right now, let me do what Dad trained me to do.”

  My mom presses her lips together tightly, but doesn’t argue as she clicks the button to release the front-seat control of the rear windows. “They’ve probably guessed we’re shielded,” she says, “which is the only thing that’s keeping them from shooting at us now. That and the risk of harming civilians, which they’ll avoid if they can. But if they sense an opportunity, they’ll take it.”

  I pull the bag of oranges out of Christina’s grasp. “Never mind. Sit tight.”

  “Are you crazy?” Christina says in a high voice. She snatches the oranges back and hits the button to open the moon roof.

  “Be careful,” my mom says. “When we get back on Ninety-five, the traffic’s going to be heavier. If you can get them to give us some space, I might be able to lose them.”

  I start to work while Christina peers out the window. Race is still on our ass, an
d the other two are jockeying for position in the center lane. I bite a hole in each orange, spitting the peel onto the floor. Then I gouge out the sticky insides as the juice runs between my fingers. I stuff the centers with the buns and chips and whatever paper I can find inside the van, which isn’t easy because I keep getting thrown around as my mom swerves from lane to lane, occasionally braking, then flooring it in the next second.

  I glance over to see Christina pop up through the moon roof, hurl an orange, and plunge back down into the van, only to lunge upward with another and another a second later. Her first two throws are wild, missing the SUV next to us by a few feet, but the third orange bounces off Race’s windshield.

  And out the rear window, I see exactly what I was hoping for.

  His mouth is quirked at this odd angle. Just a hint of amusement on his harsh face.

  He thinks we’re harmless and stupid.

  With my oranges prepared, I unscrew the cap on one of the bottles of lighter fluid and load up the water blaster. I have two bottles. Twenty-four ounces to play with.

  “Move over,” I tell Christina, and then I stand up on the seat, thrusting myself into the open air. The wind at my back throws me forward, pressing my stomach against the edge of the moon roof. Race slows a bit when he sees I have something in my hands. I take aim and squirt his windshield, coating it as quickly as I can before turning and nailing the SUV right next to us. It swerves a little, then turns on its windshield wipers. The driver is sneering, probably thinking what idiots we are, trying to drive them off with oranges and a water gun.

  I drop down through the moon roof as the first shots are fired. Shit.

  Two of the SUVs have passengers. One of them’s taking aim at our tires.

  My mom curses and swerves back into the middle lane, right toward that SUV, but the driver brakes and gets behind her, cutting in front of Race. Christina pops back up and throws another orange, which bounces off that SUV’s windshield. The driver rolls his eyes.

  Time to hurl my oranges.

  I take the wand lighter, fire it up, and light the inside of one of the oranges. It smolders, then catches. “Christina, I need you to throw this at the SUV behind us when I give the word. And then you get back down as quick as you can.” I hand it to her. She nods.

  “Now!”

  We shove through the roof together, gasping in the roaring wind and catching ourselves as we’re pushed forward over the roof of the minivan. She hurls the orange . . . and then it’s just like skeet shooting. Except, when my stream of lighter fluid hits that burning orange, it doesn’t shatter.

  It turns into a fireball.

  And when that fireball hits the already soaked windshield of the SUV, it explodes. The flames completely cover the front of the vehicle, the hood, the glass.

  Enough to panic the driver. He jams on the brakes, and before we drop down into the minivan again, we hear the crunching-rending crash as he careens off the highway. The SUV rolls over and disappears down an embankment.

  One down. Not done.

  We lurch forward as Race rear-ends us again, and then to the side as the other SUV sideswipes us. My head cracks against the window before I can catch myself.

  Wincing, I light another orange. “Want to try another one?”

  “Definitely.” Christina pulls her ponytail tight and takes the smoldering orange from my hand. “Say when.”

  “When!”

  We jump up again, aiming at the SUV next to us. Christina cocks her arm back to throw.

  The gunshot makes me jerk.

  Christina drops from beside me like her legs have been cut out from under her. I catch the smoldering orange as she disappears through the moon roof and find myself staring at three perfectly round drops of blood on its orange skin. It’s a completely disconnected moment, a thousand years of agony wrapped in a fraction of a second. My mom starts swerving back and forth, pulling me from my trance, and I realize she’s trying to prevent them from picking me off, too. I should get back down, get to safety.

  Fuck that.

  Fuck that.

  I hurl the orange right at the open window of the SUV beside us, the one where a gray-haired agent is once again taking aim, this time at me. While the orange is still in midair, I swing my water blaster up and let fly, right at his face. The fluid sparks off the orange, creating spiraling droplets of fire as it becomes a stream of flame that blasts across the space between us, straight through that open window. The savage pleasure I feel when the occupants of that SUV start to scream almost scares me. Almost. But right now, most of me is gone, and all the rest of me wants to do is hurt them.

  I drop back into the minivan. Christina is lying sprawled across the seat, and there’s blood in her hair, and I cannot bring myself to look any closer. If I do, I’m going to implode, disintegrate from the inside out, and my mom needs me, too, so I’m going to have to fall apart later.

  I light the third orange and refill my water blaster with the second bottle of lighter fluid. There’s only one SUV chasing us now, and it’s Race. Oddly enough, there aren’t any police yet, and I have to wonder if he told them to stay away so he could slaughter us in peace.

  I wonder if he’s regretting it now.

  Except—there they are, cresting a hill about a mile or so behind us, distant flashing reds. He’s called in reinforcements. “Mom.”

  “I see them.”

  On autopilot, I drive myself upward. Race is still behind us, and he’s rolling down his window. Gun in his hand. I hurl the orange at his windshield and swing my water blaster up.

  And I miss.

  He swerves to the side just in time, and the fireball orange bounces off the side mirror before falling into the road, leaving a pathetic trail of flame behind it.

  This time I’m the one who falls back into the minivan like my strings have been cut. Goddamn it.

  “Don’t worry about it,” barks my mom. “Now put on your seat belt and make sure Christina’s secured. We’re taking the next exit.”

  I kneel on the floor mat and wrap a seat belt over Christina’s torso, clicking it into place and pulling it tight. But now that I’ve gotten this close to her, I can’t pull away. I have to know.

  With trembling hands, my fingers slide down to her wrist, and I hold my breath. It comes whooshing out of me in a rush when I feel her pulse, fast but steady. I lean down as my mom veers to the right and bounces off something. I barely notice, barely register the impact. Because Christina just moaned, and she’s alive, and I am not letting her go. My hands are in her hair, searching for the source of the blood soaking her blond locks. And thank God, it’s not a hole—it’s a deep cut. The bullet must have grazed her skull, leaving a long, deep gash. But she’s bleeding. A lot. I tear a strip off the bottom of her shirt and press it to the wound.

  I sit up and look around, catching sight of a road sign. We’re somewhere near the Delaware-Maryland border. The cops are as far behind us as they were before, but Race is hard on our tail.

  “Are you secured?” my mom yells.

  I yank a seat belt around me. “Yes.”

  “Then hang on!”

  She wrenches the wheel to the right, and we cut off a huge bus in the slow lane, which slams on its brakes. Wheels screeching and smoking, it fishtails and skids to a halt across the two right lanes. My mom slows down as Race shoots around the nose of the bus and blows by us in the passing lane. And then she stomps on the gas and rockets toward him across three lanes of traffic.

  I throw myself over Christina right as we T-bone Race’s SUV. I hear my mom grunt with the impact and realize the airbags must have been turned off. I don’t have time to wonder if she’s all right, though, because as soon as we hit, we’re moving again, lurching backward and then forward. My ears ringing, my head pounding, I push myself up to see us barreling down the road, front end dented and steaming. On the grassy me
dian strip behind us, Race’s SUV is on its side, wheels still spinning.

  The engine starts to whine as my mom hurtles toward the next exit. She takes the ramp at high speed and slows only slightly as she makes turn after turn on the local roads. I drag myself onto the seat, aching all over, and brace Christina as my mom takes a sharp, sudden right onto a two-lane highway. The van’s frame shudders, and there’s a thunk-thunk-thunk sound that tells me our ride is not long for this world.

  Mom briskly rubs at a bump on her forehead, which, thankfully, appears to be the only injury she sustained in the crash with Race. She pulls out her phone and puts it to her ear.

  “Call Bishop,” she says.

  After a few seconds, I hear a muffled male voice answering. “I need safe passage and haven for members of the Archer, Shirazi, and”—she glances back at Christina with narrowed eyes—“Alexander lines. Yes. Only three. Medic attendance is required. Yes, the authorities are engaged.” She looks in her rear and sideview mirrors. “No, we are not currently being followed.”

  The person on the other end replies while I strain to hear what he’s saying. Then my mother says, “We’ll be there. Probably on foot. Thirty minutes.” She hangs up. “Get your father’s phone, please,” she says to me.

  I pull it from my pocket and hold it up.

  “Use the GPS. Get me directions to William Penn State Forest.”

  I do what she asks. “Where exactly are we going?”

  “Off the grid.”

  “STAY ON THIS ROAD FOR THE NEXT SEVEN MILES,” I SAY. Then I set the phone on the seat and carefully gather Christina in my arms. I keep the scrap of shirt pressed to the side of her head, but it’s almost soaked through. Her hair is sticky, tangled, and painting my arms with thin crimson streaks.

  “Hey,” I whisper to her, holding her tight. “Wake up. Come back.”

  She doesn’t move, doesn’t tense, doesn’t twitch. A chill goes through me. Twenty-four hours ago, I was trying to stop my father’s bleeding, trying to get him to stay with me. I feel just as helpless now.