Hunger (Gone 2)

“Duck?” It was Hunter’s voice calling down to him. It sounded like Hunter was at the bottom of a well. Of course it was the other way around: Duck was at the bottom of the well.

“Happy, happy,” Duck whispered.

He was not buried alive, he was sitting down in the movie theater. He was in the seats with the railing right in front where he could rest his feet. And he had popcorn. Buttered, of course, extra salt. And a box of Cookie Dough Bites.

Previews. He loved the previews. Previews and popcorn and oh, look, there was a Slushee in the seat’s cup holder. Blue, whatever flavor that was supposed to be. Blue Slushee.

What was the movie? Iron Man.

He loved Iron Man.

And Slushees. Popcorn. Swimming pools. Girls.

Something was scraping against his face, against his arms and legs and chest.

Don’t think about that, it might make you unhappy and mad, and boy, those are not helpful emotions. They drag you down.

Way down.

Duck laughed at that.

“Duck. Dude.” Hunter’s voice. It sounded closer now, clearer. Was he watching Iron Man, too?

No, Sarah Willetson was. Sarah was sitting beside him, sharing his popcorn and oh, excellent, she had a bag of peanut M&M’s. She was pouring some into his hand. Happy little football shapes in bright colors.

The scraping had stopped.

“Dude?”

The voice was close now.

Duck felt a breeze.

He opened his eyes. There was still dirt in his eyes. He brushed it away. The first thing he saw was Hunter. Hunter’s head.

The top of Hunter’s head.

Slowly Hunter’s face turned up toward him with an expression of pure awe.

“Dude, you?

??re flying,” Hunter said.

Duck glanced around. He was no longer buried alive. He was out of the hole. He was across the street from the church, out of the hole, and floating about five feet in the air.

“Whoa,” Duck said. “It works both ways.”

“We should just get out. Take Sam’s deal. Walk away,” Diana was saying.

“I’m in the root directory,” Jack was saying.

Brittney knew she should be in pain. Her body was a wreck. She knew that. Her legs were broken. The control room door, blown from its hinges, had done that. She knew she should be in agony. She wasn’t.

She should be dead. At least one bullet had hit her.

But she wasn’t dead. Not quite.

So much blood, all around her. More than enough to kill her. Had to be.