Replica (Replica #1)(102)

“Do you think—?” she started to ask, but Pete cut her off.

“Not now,” he said. “Need to think.” Somehow, the fact that Pete—Pete of the endless, stream-of-consciousness babble—had run out of things to say scared her even more than the car behind them.

It wasn’t a coincidence: the car followed them no matter how many turns they made down shitty country roads, even after they reached downtown Little Waller, such as it was: a few bleak roads studded with tire shops, fast-food restaurants, and liquor and discount stores. The driver didn’t even bother going for subtlety—and this, too, scared Gemma, and made her angry. It was the way a cat toyed with its prey, batting it around a bit, taking its time, certain already of its satisfaction.

“We need to lose them.” Gemma hardly recognized her voice when she spoke. It was as if an alien had crawled into her throat and taken over her vocal cords.

“Lose them?” Pete repeated. Gemma realized how tense Pete was. He was practically doubled over the steering wheel, staring hard at the road as if it might simply disappear. “Christ. You’re really taking the knight-in-shining-armor thing to the limit, you know that?” He yanked the wheel hard to the left, and Gemma was thrown against the door. But only thirty seconds later, lazily, the Volvo turned, too. It was so absurd that they were riding around in an eggplant-colored minivan. They might as well be driving a hovercraft. It wasn’t exactly like they could blend. “Who are these guys, anyway?”

“Maybe cops,” Gemma said. She had an awful, heavy feeling in her gut, like she was trying to digest a roll of toilet paper. She’d dragged Pete into this. She’d dragged them all into this. “Probably military.”

“Military.” Pete repeated the word as if he’d never heard it before. His freckles were standing out ever more clearly from his skin, like even they were thinking of making a break for it. “Jesus . . .”

“You told me you wanted to help.” Gemma was squeezing her hands so tightly she was sure she’d break the skin.

Pete sighed. “I do,” he said. “I just didn’t think we’d end up in a chase scene so early in the movie.” Then: “All right, look. Are you buckled in?”

Gemma nodded. She was too nervous to speak. A sign ahead pointed the way to the interstate, and here there were more cars on the road, funneling onto or off the highway. The Volvo was still following them, but at a distance of about fifty yards.

Pete put on his blinker and moved into the far left lane, as though he was about to turn across traffic and into a shopping mall that boasted two liquor stores, a nail salon, and a pizza joint. At least one car crowded in behind them, separating them temporarily from the Volvo’s view. The traffic light turned red. Pete inched forward. Gemma could hear him breathing. She felt as if she couldn’t breathe, as if she was being squeezed between two iron plates.

“What are you . . . ?” she started to say, but then the light turned green and Pete slammed his foot on the accelerator.

The engine whined, then yanked them forward. Gemma nearly cracked her head on the dashboard before she was pulled backward by the seat belt, smacking her head against the seat. Pete jerked the wheel to the right, cutting across two lanes of traffic. Several drivers leaned a long protest on their horns, and a Chevy screeched to a stop to avoid colliding with them.

“What the hell? What the hell?” Gemma was screaming, and more horns went off as Pete careened onto the entrance to the interstate. But then it was over. He was speeding up the on ramp. Traffic blurred past them, a solid moving mass of cars dazzled by sunlight, and then they were there, passing among them, and the Volvo was long gone. The sky was bright and puffy with clouds. They could have been anyone, going anywhere.

“How’s that for a chase scene?” Pete said. He was out of breath.

Gemma couldn’t help it: all her fear transformed into the sudden desire to laugh. It practically lifted her out of her seat. She doubled forward, holding her stomach, laughing so hard it hurt. Pete started to laugh, too. Then he snorted, which just made Gemma laugh harder, until she couldn’t breathe and had to lean back, gasping.

“Not bad,” she said. Her eyes were watering, blurring her vision of the highway and the featureless towns on either side of it, all of them identical, replicas of one another. “Not bad at all.”


Turn the page to continue reading Gemma’s story. Click here to read Chapter 12 of Lyra’s story.





THIRTEEN


THEY DROVE FOR ANOTHER HOUR. Pete switched onto different freeways several times, just in case, although Gemma couldn’t imagine how anyone could still be pursuing them. She was surprised to see a sign for Palm Grove—the town where Emily Huang, the nurse at Haven who’d been killed before she could talk to Mr. Witz, had lived—and equally surprised when Pete turned off the highway.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“I’m starving,” he said. “I’m seriously about to self-cannibalize. And I need both hands to drive.”

“I’m hungry too,” Gemma said, before remembering that she tried never to admit to being hungry in front of other people. But of course, the fact that they’d just escaped from a military tail made her normal concerns about being overweight seem unimportant. Besides, Pete didn’t look at her that way, as if there was something wrong with her, as if she really shouldn’t, as if she would be pretty if only she’d slim down a bit.