The Countdown (The Taking #3)(42)

There was no way he could have known about the gun . . . except somehow he did. Just like there was no way his truck could be driving itself—staying exactly on course without wavering the tiniest bit—since Chuck’s hands weren’t even touching the wheel. But it totally was.

“Chuck, no. Please . . . don’t,” I begged because all I could think was I didn’t want to die, and I didn’t want him to shoot Thom. Not like this. Not after everything we’d been through. Out in the middle of nowhere, with none of my questions answered. Without saying good-bye to my dad or Tyler or Simon.

Even if I’d wanted to use my telekinesis thing, it was too late because everything was happening too fast.

“Make it stop . . .” Chuck’s voice scratched again as he raised the gun and pointed it at my temple, safety off.

I closed my eyes and whispered a silent apology to my friends for not being able to warn them about what I’d learned from Blondie.

The gunshot came and I jumped, waiting for it . . . the pain . . . the numbness. The nothingness of death.

“Kyra. Jesus. Kyra.” It was Thom, and I snapped my eyes open.

What I saw made hot waves of shame uncoil inside me.

Chuck was slumped over his steering wheel, an obviously self-inflicted gunshot wound in the side of his head—his good side, the less droopy side. The driver’s side window was splattered with pulpy fragments that were likely some combination of skull, flesh, blood, and brain matter. Thom had released Chuck’s neck and had collapsed back so he was leaning on his heels. He had pieces of that same flesh and blood all over his face.

“What the . . .” But he was just looking down at his hands, like he’d been the one to pull the trigger.

I glanced back at Chuck. Whatever had been piloting the truck was no longer in control. The steering wheel shimmied as Chuck’s bulk weighed heavily over it. At first the giant rig just vibrated beneath me, like the wheels were all out of sync. But then it pitched off course in wide sweeping arcs, first drifting lazily into the shoulder, and then coming all the way back and crossing out of our lane.

That was when I knew we were going to crash. We were headed toward the giant cement blocks that divided the highway.

“Hurry!” I shouted to Thom, already trying to unbuckle so we could shove Chuck aside, meaning to take the wheel. But it was far too late for that.

The impact was both brutal and disorienting.

The air rushed out of my lungs as the seat belt locked. My head—at least I thought it was my head—hit glass, or maybe it was the doorjamb. Everything got jumbled. I remembered sounds—rubber on pavement, metal screeching or tearing, glass splintering, maybe. And smells. They were bitter and caustic, like gasoline and oil and exhaust and burning rubber all thrown together in one toxic cloud.

From somewhere in all that, I tried to say Thom’s name, to ask if he was okay . . . if he’d survived at all, but my voice was caught in the fumes.

I don’t know how much time had passed, but I heard sirens. Someone must have seen the crash, or could see the smoke rising and called for help.

Inside of me, things were broken—bones most likely. Everything hurt, and already there was the familiar tingling and itching that meant the healing had started. But breathing was hard, each inhalation a painful knife stabbing up and around my left side . . . almost worse than daybreak. I gasped and gasped, again and again, testing the sensation, until I realized it wasn’t like a stitch that could be worked out.

With my head still against the headrest, I took in the deepest breath I could and held it before fumbling for the seat belt. I had to find Thom, and if he was still alive, we had to move. To get away from here before the police came and found Chuck with a bullet through his brain and started asking questions.

Releasing the latch, I sat up.

“Thom,” I rasped. I was woozy, but I could do this. I scanned the interior, which was filling with dark oily smoke. “Thom!” This time my voice took hold.

“Here. I’m . . . here . . .” His voice was weak, but I heard him. I scrambled out of my seat as quickly as I could, which wasn’t all that fast.

He was crumpled in a position that didn’t even look humanly feasible. But I guess that was the thing, he wasn’t entirely human. I saw Chuck too, halfway lodged beneath the enormous steering wheel. It was grotesque the way his body had broken. Thom might be hurt—no, check that, he was definitely hurt. But he wasn’t broken like Chuck, not beyond repair.

“Can you get up?” I winced when I saw the way he clutched his wrist to keep his arm from dangling; his elbow bent at an unnatural angle.

It was hard to distinguish where all the blood had come from, whether it was his or Chuck’s. Likely both. But even if it were Thom’s, the fact that his blood—our blood—was toxic to the non-Returned wouldn’t make a difference to any rescue workers who arrived at the scene. It had to be fresh to do its damage. After sixty seconds it was no longer dangerous.

Thom was riddled with scrapes and bruises, but he managed to stagger to his feet, and staggering was enough.

While Thom lurched toward the passenger door, I slipped over to Chuck. I had to work fast, and I did, rummaging through his back pockets for his wallet, not bothering to assess whether there was anything beneficial inside. I searched the floor, and beneath the seats. My hands were shaking and my heart was pounding.

I had to climb over Chuck, my fingers delving into the cavity between his seat and the driver’s side door, but when my fingers closed around the gun’s grip, I almost sighed out loud.