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These were her friends, she reminded herself, some kids she went to school with, others recent grads. Nothing to worry about—
Click! Click! Click, click, click!
A pellet gun went off behind her, firing rapidly. Missiles flying past her.
She flinched. Whipped around. Her hair flew over her eyes as she raised her pistol to aim at . . . nothing. Son of a bitch! Squinting, heart hammering, she thought she saw a shadow moving near the partially open door. Maybe . . . Her throat tightened and she aimed. But then again . . . maybe not. Her finger paused over the trigger. A bead of sweat ran down her face.
Could she really do it? Shoot the pistol at a person? After all the warnings and admonitions from her parents? Heart clamoring, sweat oozing out of her pores, she swallowed against a desert dry throat. This was crazy. Nuts!
Rachel lowered her gun. “Lila, I don’t think—” she started, her voice barely audible over scurrying feet and other whispers. But Lila had disappeared. Of course. Running after Luke.
She inched around the wall, remembering the central staircase, the catwalks overhead, the high rafters near a ceiling that rose cathedral-like above the remaining conveyor belts. Beneath the belts were a series of huge holes in the floor where the chutes, once covere
d, were now open.
Another automatic burst of pellets and Rachel automatically ducked, running to a spot under the open stairs, peering through the metal steps.
Bam, bam, bam! Someone clambered up the stairs at a dead run.
Rachel backed up quickly, nearly tripped and banged her head on a bit of fallen railing.
“Crap,” she whispered under her breath as she heard, following the sharp series of shots, a flurry of footsteps, several people running, scrambling away, some laughing, others whispering. Her heart was pounding, her head throbbing, and though she told herself over and over again that there was nothing to worry about, she couldn’t calm down. She was certain her folks would discover that she and Lila had lied, each telling their parents they were staying over at the other girl’s home. Lila’s mother might cover for them, but Rachel’s parents, despite their upcoming divorce, would unite against their daughter’s disobedience and lies. And if they were caught, trespassing in a condemned building . . . no, she should never have come.
Pop! Pop! Pop!
A series of shots rang through the building.
“Ow! Jesus!” a male voice shouted angrily. “Shit! Not in the face! Shit! You’re a dead man, Hollander!” Nate Moretti. Furious as hell.
More shots. Louder. Or firecrackers? Kids were running. Frantic footsteps behind her. “Get out!” someone yelled.
“Reva? Where are you?” A girl . . . Geez, maybe Violet. “Reva! Mercedes!” The girl sounded frantic.
“Vi?” Rachel whispered. “Is that you?” She was holding up her gun and it shook in her hand.
Someone flew up the stairs, boots ringing.
More shots . . . with a flurry of flashes.
Everything about this was wrong!
“Rachel!” Violet again. Closer. Crack! “Oh! Shit! Aaaggghh! Frick! Damn it.”
“What?”
“I ran into something. God, it hurts! My leg. My shin. Oh, I think . . . I think I’m bleeding. Oooh.” Her voice was trembling, wet sounding. “It’s so dark in here!”
Suddenly she was beside Rachel, hiding behind the metal staircase.
“I can’t see anything.” She was sniffling now, close enough to be heard over the constant pounding of footsteps and the sputtering shots and yelps of victims. “I should’ve worn my glasses.”
“You didn’t?” Rachel was squinting into the darkness between the rungs of the stairs. That didn’t make sense. Not only was Violet blind as a bat without corrective lenses, a lot of the kids wore safety glasses.
“No. Didn’t want them scratched.”
That was probably a lie. Violet was self-conscious about her glasses, but now wasn’t the time to call her on it.
Blam! Definitely not an air gun.
