I look away. “Nothing.”
“Zombie.”
I clear my throat. “It’s not important. I just thought—for a minute there—flashed across my mind . . .”
“Zombie.”
“Okay. You’re beautiful. That’s all. I mean—you wanted to know . . .”
“You get sentimental at the weirdest times. Hose.”
I drop one end down. She closes her mouth over the opening and gives me the thumbs-up.
I can hear the chopper now, faint but growing louder. I shovel the dirt over her, sweeping it into the hole with my right hand while I hang on to the hose with my left. She doesn’t need to say the words; I can read them in her eyes. Hurry, Zombie.
The sickening sound of the dirt hitting her body. I decide not to look. I watch the sky as I bury her, gripping the end of the hose so hard, my knuckles turn white. The nearly endless number of ways this can go wrong races through my mind. What if there’s a full squad on board that chopper? What if it isn’t just one Black Hawk but two? Or three, or four? What if, what if, what if, what if, whatever.
I’m not going to make it back to the garage in time. Ringer is completely covered now, but I’m out in the open with a shot-up leg and a hundred yards to cross before the chopper—which I can see silhouetted against the backdrop of stars, a black naught against the glittering white—is in range. Never tried to run with a bullet in my leg. Never had to. Guess there’s a first time for everything.
I don’t make it very far. Maybe forty-five, fifty yards. I pitch forward, landing face-first in the dirt. Why the hell didn’t Cassie bury Ringer? Would make more sense for me to hunker down with the kids, and besides, Sullivan would probably leap at the chance.
I heave myself upright. I’m vertical maybe five seconds, and then I’m down again. It’s too late. I have to be within range of their infrared by now.
A pair of boots pounds toward me. A pair of hands haul me up. Cassie throws my arm around her neck and pulls me forward as I swing my bad leg around, hop with my good one, swing the bad one, but she bears most of the load. Who needs a 12th System when you have a heart like Cassie Sullivan’s?
We fall into the bay of the garage and Cassie hurls a blanket at me. The kids are already covered, and I shout “Not yet!” Their body heat will gather beneath the material, defeating the purpose.
“Wait for my go,” I tell them. Then, to Cassie: “You’ve got this.”
Incredibly, she smiles at me and nods. “I know.”
54
CASSIE
“NOW!” BEN SHOUTS, probably too late: The chopper thunders over us. We dive under the blankets, and I begin the countdown.
How will I know when it’s time? I asked Ringer.
After two minutes.
Why two?
If we can’t do it in two minutes, it can’t be done.
What did that mean? I didn’t ask, but now I suspect that two is just a random number she pulled out of her ass.
I count it out anyway.
. . . 58 one thousand, 59 one thousand, 60 one thousand . . .
The old blanket stinks of mildew and rat piss. I can’t see a damn thing. What I hear—all I hear—is the helicopter, which sounds like it’s two feet away. Has it landed? Has the recovery team been deployed to check out the mysterious mound of dirt that looks suspiciously like a grave? The questions roll across the landscape of my mind like a slow-crawling fog; it’s hard to think when you’re counting—maybe that’s why it’s a recommended sleeping aid.
. . . 92 one thousand, 93 one thousand, 94 one thousand . . .
I’m having trouble breathing. This may have something to do with the fact that I’m slowly suffocating.
Somewhere around 75 one thousand, the chopper’s engines had revved down. Not stopped, just the pitch and volume dipped. Landed? At 95 one thousand, the engines pick up again. Do I stay here until Ringer’s arbitrary two minutes are up or do I listen to that wise little voice screeching in my ear, Go, go, go, go now!