Omen Operation (15 page)

The choice was an easy one to make. To let the Surros take her and ensure that her friends live. She didn’t fight, not when they clawed at her. Not when they tore at her jacket or her shirt. Brooklyn held her breath and waited. Waited for the sounds of her friends to dwindle, waited for the Surros to drag her off somewhere unknown. Clammy hands gripped her shoulders—wails and screams echoed in her ears. If they took her, it would give Gabriel time to run to the river. It would give them time to find the others.

That was most important.

Brooklyn closed her eyes. She thought of things like ocean water against her toes and nachos on a hot summer day. She thought of Porter’s hands on her bare hips and the smell of the old thrift store two blocks from her mom and dad’s house.

It was easy to dive into her memories and let the rest go. It’d always been easy.

But something soft grabbed her wrist. It ripped her from her memories, from the moment she’d prepared for, and tossed her away, out of the Surro’s grasp. Brooklyn’s eyes flung open, and Gabriel stared back at her. Black slime dripped down Gabriel’s face. Her lips quivered as she tried to catch her breath.

“Get to the river,” Gabriel said. Her voice was stern, but her eyes were gentle.

“Gabriel, don’t—” Brooklyn’s words were cut short when Gabriel used both her hands to push her backward.

It happened fast, like when lightning streaked across the sky and only a glimpse of its light shone through the window.

The sound of bones breaking was something Brooklyn knew all too well. But the sound of Gabriel’s bones breaking would stay with her for eternity, of them cracking around the Surro’s fist when it plunged into her back and pushed straight through her ribcage. The sound of her gasp, of her skin as it ripped open, of her trying to breathe. The sound of her dying.

Julian’s scream was a distant echo.

Brooklyn didn’t know how long she stood there, staring at Gabriel. Her mind went blank—her arms hung heavy. She couldn’t fall to her knees; they were locked in place. She inhaled a sharp breath, watching as blood leaked over Gabriel’s lips, as her eyes, green like jungle canopies, rolled back.

Suddenly, hands were on Brooklyn’s hips.

“We have to go,” Porter said against her ear. His voice was far away, like it was being shouted across a football field. It didn’t register, not until the Surros started to carry Gabriel away.

“No.” It started as a whisper, and then Brooklyn’s voice escalated into wretched screams and sobs. “I’m not leaving her! No, let me go! God dammit, let me go!” Her voice was hoarse. She thrashed against both of them as Porter and Julian tried to pull her away. “I’m not leaving her!” She clawed at their arms, kicked her feet, screamed and cried and writhed.

Cold water washed up over her head as Porter and Julian dragged Brooklyn into the river.

Gabriel was gone.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Porter was right. The river stopped the Surros dead in their tracks. The demented creatures ran to the edge of the water and howled at them as Brooklyn, Julian, and Porter swam their way to the other side. The water was the kind of cold that sank deep into the bone. A numbing, merciless cold that Brooklyn wanted to float in until what she’d witnessed stopped being real.

The drowned gasp of Gabriel’s last breath played on a loop in Brooklyn’s head. It happened again and again, overlapping until it was the only thing she could hear.

“We’ll walk the tree line close to the main road until we find somewhere to rest,” Julian said. His voice was clogged and solemn.

Brooklyn sat in the grass and watched the Surros pace along the river bank. They snarled like vicious dogs. She wanted to rip every last one of them to pieces.

“What the hell are we doing?” Brooklyn whimpered, and her face crumbled. “You said those things were sent to collect us, not to kill us!”

Porter tried to reach for her, but Brooklyn pulled away.

“I don’t know what’s going on anymore. Nothing…nothing makes sense,” Porter said. His voice wavered.

“We have to keep moving,” Julian said, wiping his nose with the sleeve of his wet jacket.

They were like ghosts moving through the night. Empty of purpose. Void. No matter how far away they got from the maddened voices of the Surros, it still seemed like they were right there, nipping at Brooklyn’s heels. The reality of what she’d been running from had swallowed her whole.

It felt like there was hardly anything left to fight for because Gabriel wasn’t there to fight with them.

They walked for two hours in silence, staying close to each other, shoulders touching. Their feet started dragging after a while, boots filled with water, clothes sopping wet and icy cold in the chilled night air. The forest no longer seemed like a beautiful place, and Brooklyn wanted to get far away from it by morning. She wanted to shove her fingers in her ears to stop the repetition of Gabriel’s voice from going on and on in her head, wanted to tear her own eyes out so she could forget Gabriel’s blank, expressionless face. But there was no way to make it stop.

Through the trees came a clearing to a road that connected with the shoulder on the highway. City lights glinted in the distance not far past an old truck stop at the next exit. A green sign hung above the road. It read:
‘SEATTLE 5 MILES.’

“There has to be a motel at that stop up there,” Porter said. His teeth chattered.

“We don’t have any way to get a room. No IDs, no money, nothing,” Julian sighed.

Without a word, Brooklyn started to trudge forward toward the truck stop.

“What’re you doing? How are we supposed to get into a room?” Julian asked as he trotted up beside her.

She shrugged. “We’ll figure it out.”

“Okay, but how? How will we just figure it out?”

Brooklyn continued on without saying much of anything besides “hurry up” or “we’re almost there.” There was no reason to try and come up with a plan anymore. It seemed like whatever plan they did come up with would get compromised anyways.

The feeling of concrete beneath their waterlogged boots was strange after spending time traveling on nothing but soft soil. Porter almost tripped when they stepped onto the sidewalk. Julian caught him, and Brooklyn turned to glance over her shoulder as they followed quietly behind her. The path beside the highway was barely lit, and every time a car sped by, a gust of strong wind followed.

Porter was too cold. His lips were cracked and dry—dark navy circles started to develop below his eyes. His fingernails were translucent, and his cheeks were bruised from the air, cherry red and blue. They had to get somewhere warm and somewhere dry, not only so that he wouldn’t come down with hypothermia but also because his bandages were sopping wet. They had to be crawling with bacteria from the river.

“Take off your jacket,” Brooklyn said. “You should have taken it off before we even started walking.”

Porter flinched, trying to get his bad arm out of the sleeve. “Do you have any ideas on how we’re supposed to get into a room?”

The streetlights in the parking lot were mostly burnt out, and the lights over most of the doors on the second floor of the motel were flickering. It was run-down to say the least, but it was something. Only a few cars were parked in the abundance of spaces, and the adjoining gas station was out of order.

“Come on,” Brooklyn said, walking toward the far staircase that led up the second floor.

She listened closely as they walked past each door. The slow sleeping heartbeat of each patron was easy to pick out. She heard their snores, the static of an infomercial playing on a television, the rattle of the one person who was awake rifling through their belongings.

They came across room number 174, and Brooklyn stopped. “Cough,” she said.

“What?” Julian said, face twisting up with confusion.

“Just cough,” Brooklyn said again.

Julian looked to Porter, who was too busy hugging himself for warmth to have anything constructive to offer. Julian coughed once and then loudly a second time.

Brooklyn’s palms pressed around the doorknob. She gave one hard twist.

When Julian heard the snap of the lock breaking, he smiled. “Good idea.”

The room smelt like an antique booth at a flea market. The brown carpet was dull, and the two small beds pushed against the wall had cheap floral comforters folded down neatly on top of them. There was an old dresser and a small television. A mini-fridge hummed beside one of the nightstands, and a couple outdated magazines were laid out on the table.

It wasn’t much, but it would suffice.

“We need to get you in the shower,” Brooklyn said as she guided Porter through the dark toward the bathroom.

“I’m f-fine,” Porter quivered and tucked his hands in his armpits.

The bathroom was tiny with a decrepit pale pink tub and a dinged-up shower head. There was some complimentary soap on the sink and towels on the back of the toilet.

Brooklyn turned the handle to the hottest point and helped Porter peel the almost frozen shirt off his back. His bandages were barely hanging on to his skin and gave way at the seams where they’d been tied around his chest. She was as careful as she could be, but her hands trembled. When she finally pulled off the last bit of bandage, it snagged on one of the stitches.

Porter hissed, “Ah! Shit, that hurt like a bitch.”

“I’m sorry,” she said under her breath. Brooklyn bit down on her lip and turned away when he discarded the brown leather belt wrapped around his waist. “C’mon, get in, and get warm. Take as long as you want. Just say my name if you need me. I’ll hear you.”

Porter brushed his hand against her arm. “I don’t know what to say to you, Brooklyn…I don’t know how to comfort you or be there for you. I don’t know how to do this.”

“You don’t need to do anything,” she said. “Take a shower, and I’ll fix your stitches when you’re done, okay?”

He was lost for words, and she didn’t bother giving him time to answer anyways. She closed the door and leaned against it, holding back the urge to cry or scream or break the lamp that was on the nightstand between the beds. He didn’t need to know how to comfort her, because there was nothing that could make what she was feeling disappear. She didn’t even know if she was feeling anything at all. There was a knot in her chest that grew tighter and tighter, a cinder block of emotion that she refused to acknowledge. It sat there, right on her lungs, and reminded her every time she tried to breathe that her best friend was dead.

Julian sat on the edge of the bed and stared down at the backpack that was open at his feet.

“What’re you doing?” Brooklyn asked as she pawed at her eyes.

He swallowed, but his gaze never left the backpack. “The clothes…they’re all wet, and Porter’s bandages are wet. I was gonna just lay them out to dry, but her stuff…Gabriel’s clothes are in there.”

The knot in Brooklyn’s chest swelled—she choked it down and smothered it until it was a dull throb.

“It’s okay,” she said. “I can do it if you don’t want to.”

Julian let his head drop into his hands. “This wasn’t supposed to happen,” he wheezed. “She should be here.”

Brooklyn didn’t know what to do. She didn’t know if her arms around him would make Julian feel less alone or if they would only make him shatter. Tears dripped off his chin, and he wiped at them roughly.

She knelt down on the floor beside him. “Let me do this.”

“Are you sure?”

It wasn’t worth answering, because Brooklyn wasn’t sure of anything. She grabbed the bottom of the damp backpack and dumped the contents out on to the carpet.

The jar of ointment was still sealed, and she set it to the side followed by each of the clean bandages. A couple pairs of jeans were wadded up with the dress Plum had given her. She untangled them and laid them out one by one. Next were the bottles of water and a couple apples that Cambria had packed for them. Finally, at the very bottom of the backpack, was the neatly folded pair of lace shorts and the crop top Gabriel had worn.

At first, she laid them out like an outfit, shirt above shorts, but the more she looked at it, the more she pictured Gabriel wearing it, and she decided to place them in different areas on the floor. It seemed ridiculous to scramble around, separating pieces of clothing, but it was the only thing she could do to erase the image of long, pale limbs occupying them.

“Someone should stay awake,” Julian said as they continued to stare down at the clothes laid out on the floor. “Just in case.”

“Go to sleep. I’ll take the first shift,” Brooklyn offered.

Julian looked confused, like he’d been punched in the stomach. He ran his fingers through his damp black hair. “How are you doing this, babe…?”

“Doing what?”

“
This
,” Julian repeated, waving his hand toward the bathroom door where Porter was and then down to Gabriel’s clothes.

She ignored the comment and shook her head. “Go to sleep.”

“You can talk to me,” Julian said.

The shower stopped running. They both heard Porter stepping out of the tub.

“I know,” she whispered, reaching out to touch him lightly on the knee. “Just get some sleep, please.”

Julian’s frustration with her was obvious. He heaved a sigh and threw his wet shirt down to the floor with the others. He shimmied out of his jeans and slid under the scratchy comforter, wrapped up tight in the clean sheets.