Hide(38)

Ian remembers that terrible black hole, and the image of the horns illuminated in the darkness. He remembers Hobart’s description of sleeping, invisible breaths. He remembers the drawing in the back of the book, and terror freezes him. His whole body is a held breath.

Something crashes through the bushes into the other side of the camp, blood soaked with crazed eyes.

“What the hell?” Ian shouts.



* * *



—

Mack takes too long. She’s distracted. None of the spots seem good enough. Time is slipping away from her, and the approach of dawn fills her with surprised panic.

It’s Ava’s fault. Mack can’t afford distractions, thoughts, feelings. A carousel ahead catches her eye. Surely there’s somewhere unexpected to hide there. She shouldn’t—it was too direct a path from the camp, making it an obvious hiding spot. But she’s out of time. Mack hurries over to it.

She sees immediately what it took Rebecca too long to notice. The silver. The boot. The signs of violent struggle.

The opening in the center of the carousel gapes, patient and cold like a mausoleum. Waiting to swallow her, to put her where she belongs. Where she should have been all these years anyway. It doesn’t matter how quiet she is, how invisible, how small. How little she lets herself want.

Death missed her that night, and now it misses her, and really, doesn’t she miss it, too?

Mack steps gingerly onto the carousel platform, picks up each piece of Rosiee’s artful silver. The cold darkness inside the center pulses, waiting to embrace her.

She remembers the warm darkness beneath the blanket. Ava’s hand grabbing her own, helping her stay silent. Helping her stay hidden. Wanting her to stay hidden. Stay safe.

Dawn is breaking, and she turns away from the terrible ending waiting for her here. One of Atrius’s neon arrows is illuminated on the back of an old food stall. That way, it points. That way to what?

Anywhere is better than here.

Mack follows it.



* * *



—

Christian didn’t mean to hit the edges of the park. It’s impossible to tell which direction he’s actually going. He thought he was heading east, inward, but now that the sun is coming up, he sees that he got turned around somehow, actually went west and found the border. He’s greeted by the massive metal cable fence, the only new—or at least well-maintained—thing he’s seen besides their camp.

There’s a sort of tower by the fence, not technically outside the boundaries since it’s part of the fence. If Christian can climb it, he’ll have a good view of the whole park. He might even be able to see where everyone else is hiding, and then Ian will regret not accepting an alliance. They’ll all regret it. But he’ll be a good winner. He’ll congratulate everyone else, and Ox Sports will be so impressed with him, they’ll offer him Linda’s job on the spot.

The after-party is going to be amazing. No one said anything about an after-party, but Christian can already taste the champagne, can imagine the dress Rosiee will be wearing.

Humming happily to himself, he doesn’t notice the low ambient hum in the air. One hand on the fence is all it takes. He’s thrown backward, one second lasting an eternity as the current cycles through his body in an endless, brilliant white loop.

He passes out, or he doesn’t. Time passes, or it doesn’t. Electric. The fence is electric. Why is the fence electric? He wants to laugh. He always thought selling solar panels would kill him. Maybe electricity really was out to get him.

Tears trace down his face with relief as he stares upward. There’s someone in the tower. They saw what happened. The person leans over, staring down at him, too far for Christian to really see the face.

And then the person retreats into the shade of the tower. Why aren’t they helping him? Maybe they’re calling for help. But after a few minutes when he finally has enough control of his body to move again, no one has come. They haven’t called down to ask if he needs help, if he’s okay.

Why is the fence electric? There aren’t any warning signs. Forget winning the competition, Christian is going to sue them. Get his money that way. Start his own company. Pissed off and shaky, Christian examines the tower. It looks like a guard tower, now that he thinks about it.

Maybe he didn’t really see someone in it. Maybe it was his brain, sparking from the electric shock, sending random images. It’s risky, he knows it, but he reaches out and touches the bottom of the tower, anyway.

Not electrified.

“I’m gonna throw that son of a bitch right out of it,” Christian mutters to himself as he begins climbing. He’s a good climber, and even with the lingering muscular twitches, he’s halfway before he has to stop and rest. He looks up.

He was right. There’s a person in the tower.

Before his brain can process what the person is holding, the shot rings out. Christian drops to the ground, and the pain of the fall can’t claim a spot in his brain with the hole in his shoulder demanding all his attention.

Shot.

He’s been shot.

He stands up, staggering, hand pressed against the bullet wound. There’s no space for anger, for questions, for anything other than the need to run. He staggers back into the park, an animal keen of terror and pain coming out of his mouth.

Christian pushes straight through, ignoring the paths. The paths all lie. He stumbles and careens but somehow aims better than he had this morning. If he can get back to camp, if he can get there, there will be help. He’ll be okay.