Ascending the Boneyard (21 page)

“Glad I caught up with you,” she says, jogging the last few steps. “You dropped this back at the gas station.”

She's holding something in her outstretched hand, her fist wrapped so tightly around it that I can't tell what it is at first. She moves closer, unfurling her fingers, and it takes me a full minute to register what I'm looking at.

“Where'd you find that?” I ask, snatching my phone off her open palm.

“You dropped it at the gas station,” she says.

I squint at her, hard. That's impossible. Unless . . . Could she be Starla, out of costume? I look again. Is it possible? It would have to be—how else would she have gotten my phone? But this girl bears zero resemblance to Starla Manley, and believe me, I'd know. I spent the entire time it took to drive from the cockroach casino to the dead amusement park staring at her, mentally stripping away all the makeup and the wig and the skimpy costume, so I'd at least recognize her smoking-hot body, if nothing else.

No, I can assert with absolute conviction: this girl is not Starla Manley.

“So you found this at the gas station?” I ask.

“Uh-huh.”

“Really? Cuz I didn't have it on me at the gas station.”

“Oh,” she says. “Well, I found it on the ground after you guys left. I just assumed it was yours.”

I peel my eyes away from her long enough to inspect the phone. It looks like mine. I unlock the passcode. The home screen looks right. All my apps seem to be there. But somehow I still can't believe it. There's only one way to be sure, though, and that's to pull up my messages. The commandos must want to talk to me by now, even if it's just to squawk at me for being such a lame-ass.

But they've sent nothing.

I glance up at her. “Starla?” I ask.

She slow-shakes her head in response, kicks me a look of pity tainted with suspicion.

“Anyway, is it yours? Because otherwise I'll take it back and have them put it in lost and found.”

“No,” I say, confused as all hell. “It's mine.”

She shrugs. “Good. Glad that's settled.”

Supergirl turns on the heel of her black hi-top Chucks and cruises back to her Jeep. I shoot a quick glance at my phone again and then back up at her just as she starts the engine.

“Hey!” I call out, jogging up to the driver's side door. “Can we catch a ride?”

“I don't think so,” she says, putting the Jeep in reverse.

I did not see that one coming.

“Wait. Why not?”

“Forget it,” Haze calls over. “Let's just walk.”

“Walk
where
?” I shout. I didn't think he was listening, and besides, I haven't forgotten that we're in the middle of a fight.

“I don't care,” he says, his voice hovering in the dead air around us. “Home. Let's just figure out how to get home.”

I bite my lip to keep from telling him the truth about going home, that if I don't fix what's wrong, there's nothing to go home to. I want to explain it. I really should. But I can't get the words out. What is it about saying something out loud that makes it so final? You can't unsay words; they become particles floating inside fog along with all those subatomic microbits of dead birds and crashed cars and charred remains of things that used to be real and whole.

Besides, what happens if I tell him everything and I still can't fix it? For one thing, Haze will finally know what an epic loser his best friend is. That Caleb Tosh could not Ascend. Who'd ever stand by a fail like that?

Who'd want to stick around to watch a complete and total wipe?

The wind kicks up, tousles my hair just the way Devin used to do, just to annoy the shit out of me.

Haze turns, starts walking.

“Haze,” I say.

“You suck, Tosh.”

Supergirl leans out the window and says, “Man, you two are pathetic. Get in.”

My gaze volleys between her and the good-bye side of Haze.

“Hey!” I yell. “We got a ride.”

He doesn't stop, but slows down enough that I can tell he's thinking about it. I hoist myself into the passenger's seat.

“He'll get in if we pull up next to him,” I tell her. “I may have to grovel a little, though.”

“Then I guess you'd better buckle up,” she says.

I hope she's not speaking metaphorically.

17.5

Her name
is Mason Barshaw. She says she hails from Peculiar, Missouri, which is ironic since the only peculiar thing about her is her name.

And the fact that she's here.

Alone.

18

“Where are you
headed?” Mason asks as Haze scrambles in behind the driver's seat.

“South,” he says.

“So how come you were walking north?”

He keeps his mouth shut but skims a blistering look off me.

“No phone,” I say before he cuts loose. “I guess we were turned around without our GPS.”

“Hmm. Good thing I found it, then.” She doesn't look especially relieved, though. She doesn't look especially anything. Mason Barshaw is a blank canvas.

She constantly checks her mirrors as she drives, and even though I myself am a novice at the wheel, I'm no stranger to the habits of paranoia.

“Where are
you
headed?” I ask.

“Don't exactly know yet.”

My hair prickles.

“What exactly does that mean?”

She hits me with a look like she's trying to decide whether or not to answer, like she's sizing me and Haze up. I get the sense that the scale isn't tipping too well in our favor.

“Let's just say I'm on a mission,” she says at last.

Haze sputters. “Intriguing.”

Great. He's switched his sarcasm gun from
Stun
to
Kill
. I half turn in the seat, aim my gaze at him, fire off a warning round. But he's so irritated with me, and probably with Mason, and with this whole situation, that it seems he's temporarily immune.

I turn back.

“What are you trying to find?” I ask her, clicking in to her use of the word “mission.”

She clears her throat.

“I'm trying to retrace my steps so I can keep something terrible from happening.”

Detonation.

Explosion.

Blast wave.

“What's—” I shove my hands under my legs so she can't see how bad they're sweat-shaking. “What's the terrible thing?”

Mason looks up, studies Haze's mirrored, face-masked, knit-capped head for a moment in the rearview before saying, “Who are you guys supposed to be, anyway?”

“Who are
we
supposed to be?” he asks. “Who are
you
supposed to be?”

She locks her gaze on the road. “Interesting question. I guess when you put it that way, I'm
supposed
to be the daughter of a high-level militia leader.” She checks her mirrors again. “What an unfortunate reality for both of us. You guys aren't NIM, are you?”

“NIM?”

“So what—are you Feds?”

“Why would you even ask us that?” Haze spews from the backseat. “We're sixteen, man.”

“Well, it's hard to tell with all that shit you have on.” I keep waiting for a smile to melt through the protective sheen on her face, but she's too tight, too guarded.

“So, what's your mission objective?” I ask. “Is it something about the militia?”

“Do you know where we are?” she asks.

“Not a clue,” Haze pipes in, flat and dry, from the backseat. I'm not even looking at him anymore.

“Does the New Occidental fault line mean anything to you?”

“As in, seismic fault line?” I ask.

“As in, there's going to be a major event along this fault. As in, their experts have even given a window of time for the event to transpire. As in, these alleged experts have prophesized some kind of massive battle that's signaled by the ripping apart of the entire country right down this very line, sometime in the next forty-eight hours.”

My head fills with the kind of frantic static you get between radio stations.
They brought this girl to us.
The commandos have led us right where we need to be: to the UpRising. But why Mason? Do I know her? Have we raided together before? It sounds like she's on a totally different mission than I am, and yet there's a massive clang of déjà vu with it too.

A rhythmic buzz hits my back pocket. I scramble to open it.

Cockroach.

My gaze shoots out the window. I need to stay vigilant. Turk is turning up the heat, and suddenly my own theory, that the Battle of UpRising could start at any time, seems more plausible than ever. So much spark and sulfur in the air, I'd swear Turk's army is just around the corner.

“They're amassing swarms of militia members in towns all along the New Occidental,” Mason continues. “And they're spreading their insane propaganda in hopes of inciting riots and panic.”

Haze sits up, straightens himself out. This shit's right up his alley.

“Who's in charge?” he asks.

“A. B. Barshaw.” She throws a nervous look against the review mirror. “My father.”

Haze and I catch each other's eye.

“So . . . in the next forty-eight hours,” Haze says, “there's supposed to be a major event somewhere along this New Occidental fault line?”

“That's right.”

“Where
is
the fault line, exactly?” I ask.

She thrusts her chin toward the window. “We're driving alongside it.”

My pulse clocks autobahn speeds. I fire up my Snipe page, start searching like a crazy person.

“What's the militia got to do with it?” Haze asks. “Earthquakes are an act of God.”

Act of God . . .
I switch back over to my messages, check to see if the commandos have snuck one through yet. To my huge relief, the envelope icon is blipping.

Fear will shake the world to its foundation.

“Uh, Haze,” I say, hoping that Mason can't hear the worry in my voice.