Passenger (15 page)

They let go of the kid.

He wasn’t moving, anyway.

But I saw he wasn’t an Odd at all. He was wearing the striped shirt of a military prisoner. He had been one of us at one time, probably left out to die during the confusion of the battalion’s breakup. Good chance he had the bug, the disease that turns you into one of those horned Hunters, anyway, like most prisoners.

But no matter what, he had to have done some pretty serious shit for him to end up in prison at his age, because he couldn’t have been any older than sixteen or so.

I pushed through the guys so I could see whether or not the prisoner was still alive. He was facedown with his arms wrapped around his head on either side. I don’t know if that strategy did him any good, though, because there was a gash in his scalp and a puddle of blood oozing out into the dust beneath his face.

So I rolled him over.

And I stood over him, looking face-to-bloody-face with my best friend, Jack Whitmore.

You.

Fucking Marbury.

What could I say?

“Fuck. It’s … just a kid,” I stuttered, because I really didn’t know what I could possibly say to make anything better for you.

Who
wasn’t
just a kid, anyway?

We were all just kids.

So you opened your eyes, but I didn’t think you could see me. A bubble of bloody snot popped beneath one of your nostrils.

To be honest, I wanted to shake you and hug you. It was Jack. I finally found Jack. I felt like I should pick you up and carry you out of there. After all, it was you, right?

Jack.

And I wasn’t alone anymore.

I put one hand on the side of your face and shook your shoulder with the other. I saw the inmate number that was stitched into your shirt: 373.

Nobody kept prisoners anymore. They had all been executed during the chaos. Some escaped. But, dude, you looked so skinny and starved, and felt so bony under my hands that I figured maybe you just now got out of wherever they’d been keeping you locked up.

I leaned closer to your face. “Hey.”

Then I caught glimpse of Jay Pittman’s rifle barrel pointing down at your forehead.

And Pittman said, “You getting all queer on the kid, Kirk?”

I bit my lip.

Pittman was testing me in front of other guys, and there was no way I could back down. So I grabbed the barrel of Jay’s rifle, and as I stood, I pushed the butt of it into his midsection, hard, driving him backwards to the edge of the platform. He struggled against me, but backwards was no strategy against forwards, and in two lunging steps I pushed Jay Pittman over the edge; and he went out flat, flapping his arms as he splashed down into the deep rainwater that had pooled over the useless train tracks in the storm.

“Son of a bitch!” he yelped, gasping and thrashing around for his dropped rifle, frantically trying to launch himself back onto the safety of the platform. A couple of the guys who’d been previously occupied beating the shit out of my friend helped him up, and Pittman began crazily stripping out of his clothes with all the passion of a man who’d been set on fire.

He must have had about ten of those black suckers on him, all over his body. He looked like he was growing snakes or something. Pittman slapped and swatted at them, cursing.

He should have known better than to fuck with me. I didn’t have to say another word about it. Pittman whimpered and shook, covered in stripes of his own watery blood, as the others helped pick the parasites from his bleach-white skin.

And that’s how I found Jack Whitmore in Marbury.

You.

Only it wasn’t really you.

Fucking Marbury.

*   *   *

We liked to think that our crew was a cut above the others.

We were good fighters, still knew where food could be found, and in spite of Jay Pittman’s testosterone-fueled idiocy, we were the smartest, too. Fent believed that when all the other teams had gone, been run off or killed, we’d still be survivors. And maybe it was Preacher’s nonsense that bled into our skulls about things working out in the world, these being what he called the glory days and all, but every one of us bought into that empty optimism, too.

Even in Marbury, you have to believe in something, I guess.

Charlie being dead was a bad thing, though. And standing where I was, and seeing how Charlie had fallen, I couldn’t believe that you, scrawny Jack Whitmore, had anything to do with it at all.

Wrong place, wrong time.

If they ever made coins in Marbury, those words would be etched where you’d expect the “In God We Trust,” or whatever.

Wrong place, wrong time
.

Some of the guys were obviously mad at me, not just for what I did to Jay Pittman, but because I didn’t point my shotgun at you. I could never point a gun at you, no matter what you were, no matter where we were. I saw the dirty looks they gave me when I put your arm around my shoulders and helped you stand.

I grumbled to the Rangers, “Get out of the way. I’m taking him to Fent.”

And as they parted a pathway along the platform toward the main hall, I whispered, “Jack. Jack Whitmore. Don’t you know who I am?”

But you didn’t say a thing. You just kind of hung there like dead weight, bleeding on my bare skin and feet. I’d never had the chance to put on a shirt or my boots once the shooting happened.

When I got far enough away, Jay Pittman began shouting about how fucked up I was. That was okay. He was probably right, and guys are going to blow off steam when they need to. He had no way of knowing who you were to me, anyway, so I pretended like it didn’t matter. Otherwise, he’d have gone for another swim. A longer one.

“Hey. It’s me, Conner Kirk,” I whispered.

You kept your head down, dripping little dots of blood from your broken nose.

But just when we stumbled past what was left of some kind of ticket booth at the end of the platform, you looked up. At first I thought you were going to say something to me, like,
Hey Con, thanks for saving my ass
.

But you still wouldn’t talk.

The weirdest thing was that when you did lift your face up, one of the guys from another fireteam—a guy named Walpole—looked at you, straight on. And for a second, I swear I saw something reflected in the other Ranger’s eyes. Something that looked just exactly like those first few times I caught a glimpse of all the shit swirling around inside the Marbury lens, back when you and I spent time together in the hotel in London.

It seemed so foggy, and so long ago.

And then the Ranger who was staring at you went completely white, just like all the blood had been sucked out of him. I’d seen enough corpses in that condition to know what that color looks like, and this was it.

*   *   *

The guy points a finger at you.

I say, “Back off, dipshit.”

And Walpole says, “That’s him. That’s him. That’s the Jumping Man.”

And I’m thinking, this is crazier than shit.

The guy’s got to be high, wacked-out on black salt.

“Shut your fucking mouth.” I try to push past him and hope he’s not going to start something and draw too much attention to us.

But this is Marbury, the land of
wrong place, wrong time
.

So this Walpole guy spins around and disappears behind the other Rangers that have all started coming over to see what the hell is going on.

And not three seconds later, there’s another gunshot and everyone crouches, or starts running after the guy.

“We need to get the fuck out of here,” I whisper.

*   *   *

But where could we go?

You didn’t even seem to register what was going on. Your mouth hung open, dripping red, and your head lolled around like you were asleep on my shoulder.

I was pretty sure one of your teeth had gotten knocked out, too.

You were fucked up, Jack.

As I got away from the platforms and into the tunnel to the main hall, I caught sight of Pittman, hitching up his soaking pants, dragging everything else he’d been wearing behind him or slung over his shoulder, dripping and cussing, trying to catch up to us. There were still trails of watery blood streaking Pittman’s skin.

To my right, a group of Rangers gathered around Private Walpole.

He was down on his back, staring blankly up at the stone archway of the tunnel’s ceiling.

Walpole had shot himself clean through his own neck.

The front of his throat was an epaulet of meat hanging over his left shoulder.

I truly had never seen so much blood in my life. I had to practically jump over it, barefoot as I was, but you just drag-stepped your boots through it, leaving smeared footprints behind to mark our trail into the main hall.

“What was he screaming about?” someone said as we passed.

I ignored the Rangers. They were scared about what was going on.

And scared was dangerous.

Pittman caught up to us. “What the fuck, brother? What the fuck?”

“I don’t know what that’s about, Pittman. I really don’t.”

*   *   *

“A prisoner?”

Fent looked pissed when I got back to our little fort of pews tucked against the wall where a huge
DEPARTURES AND ARRIVALS
board kept a frozen record of the last trips through this one forgotten station in this fucked-up world.

Brian Fields had come back from his cruising. He looked tired and his clothes were half undone. I was sure Fent had already given him shit about that, but what was she going to do? This was Marbury, and guys were going to do whatever guys were going to do until it killed them.

Or maybe until they killed themselves.

“I guess he was a prisoner once,” I said.

“Where’s Pittman? And Teague?”

Jay Pittman sloshed his clothes and rifle over the back of the pew to answer her roll call.

Fent glanced at him, then back at me, and the corner of her mouth turned up just a bit.

She liked it when I beat the shit out of our penis collector.

No one had to explain anything.

Pittman sat down, fuming.

“Charlie Teague shot himself,” I said. “Then another guy, Walpole, from Three, shot himself, too. I don’t know what the fuck’s going on.”

I watched Preacher. He sat there on the floor, rocking in his glassy-eyed delirium and staring at you like he was ready for an attack or something.

I helped you onto a bench, then lifted your feet up so you could lie down. You were in bad shape.

“That’s not how I saw it,” Jay Pittman said.

Leave it to the dickhead to try and start shit with me again.

“They were screaming that this prisoner shot Charlie,” Pittman explained. “They were all over the kid by the time we got there, and Kirk made them stop. Otherwise, he’d be dead by now, instead of here, taking up space where Charlie Teague should be resting.”

Fent watched me while Pittman told his story. She was obviously trying to see whether I’d give any sign that Pittman might be lying. But I had to look away. She knew something was wrong, different. I could tell.

That’s when you moaned and rolled onto your side.

Preacher studied you, like a bug under a magnifying glass.

Brian Fields was half asleep. He didn’t care what was going on. I could tell he was worn out and stoned on black salt. Fucking idiot.

“You saw how Teague was holding his rifle. There’s no way the kid could do that to him, brother. Charlie shot himself.”

“Oh yeah?” Pittman said. He was still half naked, unfolding his gear over the back rest on his bench. There was no way it would be dry again by morning.

“The prisoner’s bad magic. I’ll tell you what, Walpole shot himself in the fucking throat after he looked the kid in the face. And I heard what he said before he did it, too.”

“You’re full of shit, Pittman.”

Preacher sat up.

Fent took a step between us. She knew I was getting ready to hit Jay Pittman again.

“What did he say?” she asked.

“He called him ‘Jumping Man.’ Just exactly like Preacher was talking about. Jumping Man.”

Then you opened your eyes and sat up. Preacher crawled across the floor and kneeled in front of you, staring into your glazed eyes.

And Captain Fent looked from me to Pittman to you.

“Bad magic,” Pittman repeated.

I took a step toward him and Fent stopped me.

“He doesn’t need to be talking crazy shit like that,” I said. “That’s the last thing we need right now.”

Pittman stood up straight, like he scored some points with Preacher and the captain. “And there’s something strange overhead in the sky all of a sudden, too.”

Preacher pushed our prisoner’s chin up with the edge of his finger, but you snapped your head away from the man.

It wasn’t you; it wasn’t Jack.

I could tell you weren’t really here—in Marbury—yet.

Preacher said, “What’s in the sky?”

“Looks like it’s raining light,” Pittman said. “Like a fucking hole or something.”

Preacher got up from the floor, shaking his head. “I can’t see nothing in that boy. Let’s take a look at that thing in the sky.”

“So I take it you don’t feel like shooting yourself, Preacher?” I said.

I hardly ever said anything to Preacher, Markoe, Uncle Teddy, whoever the fuck he was.

Preacher didn’t react. He had this blank, old-guy look on his face, the kind of look you get from math teachers who think you’re laughing at them when their backs are turned.

What did I care? He was fucked up out of his mind, anyway.

Fent spun around and slapped the top of Brian Fields’s head to wake him up.

Brian bolted, glaring. “Fuck!”

“I need you to keep watch on the prisoner,” Fent said. “Stay awake. If he does anything, shoot him in the head.”

Then she started off toward the front entrance. Pittman, Preacher, and I followed her. It was what we were supposed to do, and she didn’t have to say it.

There was one less guy in our team now, and one less in Team 3, too.

And we were going to have to deal with this prisoner kid—you, Jack.

Or, at least, I’d have to.

I kept thinking about that as I followed Anamore outside to the front of the station.