The Skids Page 7

  The broad-leafed trees bent by the unseen wind were also bizarre. The green was practically black under a slick sheen of water, with violent splashes of red crossing each leaf. Thorns the size of spikes covered the tree-trunks. The thought of trying to pop off of one made Johnny shudder.

  Running through different wavelengths of light, Johnny found one that cut through the rain. His trail-eye still wouldn’t focus; he blinked it violently, trying to fix the problem. In the distance off to his right, he could see a gap between buildings and what might have been the sea, stretching out. Except the white hazy space they’d left behind should’ve been somewhere over there.

  They tried several doors but couldn’t get them to budge. They didn’t even vibrate when Torg and Johnny rammed them together.

  “Snakes!” Johnny swore. “Come on, you grease-sucking spare!” He slammed into the door over and over. “Why . . . won’t . . . you . . . move!”

  “You’re not getting anywhere,” Albert said.

  Rage flared and Johnny swung all three eyes. “I don’t see you helping.”

  Albert glared back at him, his eyes flat. “That’s ’cause I’m busy keeping this One alive.”

  “What does that mean?” Johnny bumped Albert’s tread.

  “Uh, gentlemen . . .” Torg said.

  “You think I wanted that panzer to die? You think you’re better than me?”

  “No,” Albert said, cold and hard like the rain hanging in the air. “But I think charging in full speed didn’t help.”

  “What was I supposed to do!?” Johnny snapped. “Those white things killed those black things. And those things destroyed us!” He backed up and bumped Albert again, harder than before. “Maybe you ought to try charging in full speed for once; you wouldn’t keep finishing behind me all the time!”

  “Johnny . . .” Torg said.

  Albert stared at him. They were all staring. “Is that what this is, Johnny Drop?” Albert sneered. His trail-eye squinted. “Still just a game?”

  “Of course it’s not!” Johnny screamed. He moved to bump Albert again, but instead he turned and struck the unmoving door, pouring all his rage into its surface.

  The door vanished. It didn’t blow apart or shatter like glass. It just . . . vanished.

  “What the hole?” Johnny said, shocked.

  “Later,” Torg said. “We need to hide before those things find us.”

  They piled into a sparsely furnished room. A narrow window shielded with partially drawn drapes; a large curved seat covered in some kind of yellow hide. A low glass table. What might have been a lamp.

  “Leave the lamps off,” Johnny snapped. “Stay away from the door and the window.”

  “I’ll look out,” Torg offered.

  “Right.”

  Johnny rolled to the back of the room, shaking with anger. As he passed Albert and the panzer, he considered apologizing. Something deep inside told him that no matter what Albert had said, Johnny had gone too far. But promise to Bian or no, Albert was still Albert and the thought of apologizing made Johnny more nauseous than the black spore’s attack. So he rolled by without apologizing and felt even worse.

  Why did I rescue any of them? He wanted to puke.

  “Hey, look at this,” Shabaz said. The thought that, out of everybody, the whiney Six had survived, made Johnny smirk as he crossed the room. “Look,” the grey-aqua skid said, eyeing the floor as Johnny rolled up.

  A thin, dark carpet covered the floor. But not the entire floor. A triangle of carpet splayed out from the opening in the drapes, encompassing the space where the few pieces of furniture lay. Otherwise, bare, blank floor.

  “Weird,” Johnny said.

  “Who decorates their apartment like this?” Shabaz asked.

  Johnny examined the room. “There’s carpet under the window, but not by the doorway.”

  “So?”

  “So there was a door there until a few moments ago.”

  Shabaz rolled her eyes. “So?”

  Johnny stared at the window. He stared at the door. Then back at the window. “Line of sight,” he said finally.

  “Line of sight?”

  “Line of sight. Carpet’s only where someone looking through the drapes could see. Furniture too.”

  “And what does that mean?”

  Johnny smiled a grim smile back at the Six. “Don’t know the answer to that one.”

  He tread over to Bian. “Sorry if I was a little harsh with Albert.” That he could apologize to her and not to Albert made him grimace. He was beginning to feel like a serious jackhole, and the fact it was Albert making him feel like this made him angrier. Which made him feel more like a jackhole, which made him feel . . .

  Bian gazed at him and said, “It’s okay. What happened to your eye?”

  “It’s that noticeable?” He probably looked like Albert. Which was not acceptable. “Hold on a sec,” he said, concentrating on the eye. He felt a tiny surge of nausea, then his vision cleared and stayed clear. Mostly. “How’s that?” he said, moving the eye a bit and snapping his thinlids up and down.

  “Better,” she said. “It’s still there, but you wouldn’t notice it unless you knew.” Her eyes narrowed and unconsciously she inched a little closer. “Are you all right?”

  “It’s just the eye, everything else is good.”

  “Not the eye,” she said softly. Another inch.

  “Oh,” Johnny said. “Yeah. The rest.” He inhaled then blew it out, grimacing. “Been better?” The joke made him feel worse. “I mean—”

  “Johnny, you want to look at this?” Torg said from his spot by the window.

  “Hold that thought,” Johnny said to Bian, sighing. She smiled as he rolled away. “What’s up?” he said as he slid in beside Torg.

  “Look,” Torg whispered, tapping an eye through the part in the drapes.

  Far down the street, Johnny could make out a white shape, clear as day. Moving slowly, its point swung from side-to-side.

  Like it was hunting for something.

  “Snakes,” Johnny swore. “Do you think it will find us?”

  “Johnny . . .” Torg said deliberately. “Look harder.”

  It took a moment before it hit him. A couple of blocks away, the white knife could be seen clearly despite the frozen rain that obscured buildings next door. And the reason why the white knife could be seen clearly: a path of rain-free space running down the street. A path created by a bunch of fleeing skids.

  A path that lead straight up to their door.

  “Snakes,” Johnny said again.

  A little too loudly. Down the street, the point of the knife swung in their direction. It picked up speed.

  “Snakes, snakes, snakes,” Johnny swore, very softly this time. Too late to lead the thing away. It would see any of them leave and if it checked the house or brought friends. . . .

  Barely above a whisper, Johnny hissed, “Away from the door. Nobody makes a noise. Back of the room—behind the furniture if you can—then don’t move. If you’re sending anything, kill it. No com, no scans. Move.”

  Silently but quickly everyone but Johnny and Torg moved to the back of the room. All the Sixes and up got as small as possible, packing their molecules into dense clusters.

  Slowly but purposely, the white knife made its way down the street. It no longer swung from side-to-side, cutting straight down the centre of the clear path.

  It’ll come right up and through the door. And no matter how small the skids could get, this thing wasn’t going to miss a dozen of them trying to huddle behind a sofa.

  Johnny considered his options. He’d survived whatever tore through the Pipe. Somehow brought a number of skids with him, even if most were dead now. He’d survived a hit from one of the black things that had fallen from the sky. Yeah, except for the punk eye and needing to puke,
I’m a beacon of health. Still, he’d survived. Could he take the white thing on? What if Torg helped?

  Or Albert. The silver skid had survived the black scar by himself. He’d even saved a skid.

  The white knife reached the end of the front walkway. It rotated. No hitch, no hesitation, Johnny thought grimly. Just slow and nasty.

  He should ask Albert for help. Not only did they need to take that thing out, they had to do it without it warning any of its friends—What if it already had?—or there was no point. They sure the hole weren’t going to fight twenty of them.

  The knife began moving up the walkway. Beside Johnny, Torg was a statue, three eyes wide.

  He couldn’t ask Albert. He just couldn’t. Besides, the silver-white skid was huddled around the panzer he’d saved like a mother protecting her cub. Maybe if Johnny failed . . .

  The knife-point reached the doorway. Johnny tensed, ready to move. Fast and hard. He’d hit it before it hit them. Yeah, that’ll work, he thought, wondering if he was going to die.

  Johnny . . . a voice said out of the ether.

  What the hole?The point crossed the threshold.

  Outside, the world exploded into movement. Rain battered the window, the roof, the street, the trees. The wind roared: a hurricane throttled to full. The pungent smell of salt and moisture filled the air as debris ripped across the street.

  The knife stopped, its tip inside the room but the rest outside, battered by the storm. Slowly, it turned, the point coming back around to face the street.

  As instantly as it had begun, the storm froze again. The hollow silence was more deafening than the wind that had died away.

  The knife held its position, floating a metre above the ground, pointing out from the house. As frozen as the rain drops once again hanging in the air, driven and flat like the knife itself.

  Then the knife shot away: away from the house, across the lawn, down the street and out of sight. All in a few heartbeats.

  “Crisp Betty,” Torg breathed.

  Got that right, Johnny thought.

  Chapter Nine

  “What made it stop?” Johnny whispered.

  “I do not know,” Torg breathed, staring down the road where the knife had disappeared.

  “It focused on the black things first.”

  Both Torg and Johnny jumped. Albert had rolled up behind them, the One in his shadow. Johnny’d had all three eyes focused on the street. Not a good habit. “What do you mean?” he snapped. He didn’t like things sneaking up on him, especially if it was Albert.

  “It attacked all the black things before turning on us. It prioritizes.”

  Johnny squinted. “I don’t know. It was probably one of those things that took out Peralta.”

  “When there weren’t any black things around them. Or Peralta and the others just got in its way.”

  “Maybe,” Johnny said, one eye peering through the window. “I’m not sure though. That felt . . . weird.”

  Albert’s stripes tilted. “Whatever. It was just a theory.”

  “I said maybe, all right? It’s not like you were standing here.”

  “Yes, you were very brave—”

  “Do you think perhaps you two could kill each other later?” Torg said smoothly. “We finally have a quiet moment, why don’t we use it?”

  Johnny and Albert eyed each other, the panzer behind Albert glaring at Johnny. Great, he’s made a friend. So much for Johnny’s efforts on the Pipe.

  “Whatever,” Johnny said finally.

  “Huh,” Albert grunted.

  Torg sighed. “Better than nothing.” He swung an eye. “Shabaz, get over here.”

  “What do you want?” Shabaz grumbled as she rolled out from behind the couch.

  “I need you to watch the window.”

  Shabaz scowled and glanced at Johnny. “I thought he was in charge. Why me?”

  Torg sighed again, a little more air in it this time. “Because we need someone we can trust to watch the street, all right? If you see anything, let us know.” He rolled away, muttering to himself.

  Bian looked up as Albert and Johnny tread into the centre of the room. “There’s nine of us,” she said. She flicked a guilty glance at Albert, then centred on Johnny. “Everyone’s Five and up, except for a Two and her.” She pointed at the One with Albert.

  Nine left. Out of how many he’d saved following the Pipe? Dozens? The black spores had absolutely destroyed them.

  “Wait a minute,” Johnny said, scanning the room. “Where’s Olli?”

  “Vaped.”

  “Are you serious?” He felt an emptiness right down to his stripes. What was the point? He remembered telling the emerald-bronze skid he’d better make speed his thing. Apparently, it hadn’t been enough.

  “Hey,” Bian said, bumping his tread. “There are nine of us here. I’m here. You made that happen. You saved us.”

  “Not all of us,” the One said, glaring at Johnny.

  Yep, she’s picked a side. Although he was surprised to find himself smiling.

  Bian rolled an eye. “Listen, I didn’t mean . . .”

  “It’s all right, Bian,” Johnny said. “Why don’t I take this one?” Focusing two eyes on the purple-orange skid, he gave the panzer his full attention. “You’re right. It wasn’t just me.” He brought one of the eyes up to Albert. Took a deep breath. “You saved two skids. That’s worth something.”

  Albert smirked, his damaged eye twitching. “Two vs. seven, huh? Johnny Drop wins again?”

  “Oh, for Crisp’s sake, jackhole, I’m trying to give you some credit!”

  “How magnanimous—”

  “Stop it!” Bian snapped, rolling between them. “Both of you. Crisp Betty, you’re like a couple of squids.”

  “Say hey to that,” Torg murmured with a grin.

  “It’s not my fault,” Johnny protested. “I was trying—”

  “Stuff it in your gearbox,” Bian said. “We don’t know where we are. We don’t have any idea what happened to the Skidsphere. For all we know we might be the only ones left.” Her eyes narrowed—one on Johnny, one on Albert. “We’re lost and we’re scared. And wherever we are, we’re not getting out of here without both of you. Torg’s right: you can kill each other later.”

  The tension hung, then Johnny said, “Fine.”

  “Fine,” Albert said in return.

  “Good,” Bian said, looking anything but satisfied. “Now . . . someone should say something to the group.”

  Johnny eyed Albert. The silver skid glared back at him, then his stripes tilted. “You heard Shabaz: you’re in charge. Take the spotlight, Johnny Drop. It’s what you’re best at.”

  Johnny’s temperature rose again, but to his surprise Bian tread forward and bumped Albert. “You know, he may not have saved you, Albert, but he saved me. I thought that might count for something. Guess not.”

  Albert’s expression evaporated. “Bian, I . . .”

  “Save it,” she said, rolling away. Johnny almost felt bad for him.

  Almost.

  Trying to hide a smirk, he turned to the rest of the room. “All right, guys and girls, listen up. I don’t know where we are—or much else for that matter—but we’re alive.”

  “Barely,” Brolin, a brown-black Seven grinned.

  “Better than vaped,” Johnny grinned back. “Now if we’re going to survive we’re going to have to work together. I know we don’t really do that well.” He caught some knowing smiles and added ruefully, “And I know that some of us get along better than others, but Bian’s right: we have to try. So no more running off solo and maybe we’ll get home.”

  “Where are we?” Brolin asked.

  “We’ll try to work on that next.”

  “How?”

  “Stop asking good questions.” That got a smile from mos
t. “We’ll figure it out, skids.”

  “And what if those black things come back?” Brolin said, not smiling this time.

  “We’ll figure something out,” Johnny murmured. His trail-eye was drooping again. He concentrated and brought it back into focus. Wouldn’t mind figuring out what that is either.

  He turned to the Level Two, who was cream with a dark green stripe. “You’re still alive,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “Yeah,” she said, trying not to stare. “Thanks to you and Albert. He got me moving back there.”

  “Right. Did you follow our path? Inside the storm?”

  The Two winced. “I didn’t know I was supposed to.”

  “It’s all right,” Johnny said. She looked like she was going to faint. “You weren’t. So you plowed through the rain.”

  Her eyes widened a bit at the memory. “Yeah.”

  “But you didn’t get vaped.”

  “I thought I was for sure,” she said, wincing again. “But I just . . . held it together. It hurt—snakes, did it hurt—but I tried to think of you and what happened up in . . . up in whatever that was on the Pipe. What was that?”

  “I don’t know. But what you did out there,” he tapped an eye towards the door, “that was real good. I don’t think you’re a Two anymore.”

  “Really?” If her eyes went any wider they were going to explode.

  “You get vaped?”

  “No.”

  “Not a Two then. Which means you need a name.”

  Apparently, they could still go wider. “Really?” she squeaked, her stripes trembling. “I thought GameCorps gave those out.”

  “I don’t think they’re around just now.” That got him a nervous smile. Crisp Betty, was I like that? Johnny couldn’t ever remember feeling nervous about another skid. Cocky, sure. Dumb as grease? Yep. But he’d never been awed by anyone. Even Betty Crisp had been a target. “Looks like we’re going to have to come up with a name on our own. If you could do one thing, what would it be?”

  The green stripes flushed a bit. “I’d like to tread on a podium one day.”