Free Panic by Lauren Oliver Page B

scoped the place out and knew what he was doing. And as he predicted, a half-dozen people ran after him in silence, doubled over as though, even now, they were being watched.
    But much of the group didn’t move right away. They floated aimlessly to the fence, pacing it, watching, too scared to try to climb. They’d all be disqualified for doing nothing. Still, they stood there, watching the dark house, watching the shadow-people climb the fence, everything silent except for the occasional creak of metal, a muttered curse, and the wind.
    Dodge was one of the first up the fence. There were other players around him—people grunting and breathing hard, bodies knocking into his—but he ignored them, focused on the bite of chain link on his palms and his breathing and the seconds running forward like water.
    It was all about timing. Just like magic tricks: planning, mastery, staying calm under pressure. You could anticipate another person’s response; you could know what people would do, or say, or how they would react, even before they did.
    Dodge knew it wouldn’t be long until Donahue came out with a rifle.
    At the top of the fence, he hung back, even though his adrenaline was pumping, telling him to go. Several other people—it was too dark to make out faces—dropped and hit the ground first, and even though they barely made a sound, the explosion of barking came right away. Four dogs—no, five—tore out from the back of the house, barking like mad. Dodge felt every second like it had a different taste, a different texture from the second before it, like individual moments were ticking off in his head. Tick. Someone was screaming. There’d be points taken off for that. Tick. Only a few more seconds until the shooting would begin. Tick. Heather and Nat should have reached the hole in the fence by now.
    Tick.
    He was airborne, and then he felt the impact of the ground and he was up and fumbling for the Mace in his pocket. He didn’t head for the front of the house directly but instead made a loop, circumnavigating the small crowd of players, the dogs going crazy, snarling and snapping. Some of the players were already climbing the fence again, trying to reach the safety of the other side. But Dodge kept going.
    Tick.
    A dog came at him. He almost didn’t see it; it had its jaws practically around his arm before he pivoted and sprayed it, full-on, in the face. The dog dropped back, whimpering. Dodge kept going.
    Tick.
    Right on time, a light in the house clicked on. There was a roar—a sound that echoed out even over the chaos and the frantic sounds of barking—and something crashed to the ground. A black shape rocketed out the front door, into the night. Even from a distance of one hundred yards, Dodge could make out the stream of individual curses.
    Goddamnmotherfuckingsonsofbitchesgetthehelloffmyyardyoupiecesofshit . . .
    Then Jack Donahue—paunchy, shirtless, wearing only a pair of saggy boxers—lifted his rifle and began to fire.
    Pop. Pop. Pop. Shots exploded—louder, sharper than Dodge had expected, the first thing that had truly thrown him off guard. He’d never been so close to gunfire.
    In the front yard, Trigger-Happy Jack was still screaming. YoucocksuckersdeadasadoornailI’llburyyouallyoufuckers . . .
    Tick.
    It wouldn’t be long now. Donahue would call the cops at some point. He’d have to.
    Dodge sprinted around the house. His breath was caught somewhere in his throat, like each time he inhaled he was taking in glass. He didn’t know what had happened to the other players, where Ray was, whether anyone had made it inside yet. He thought he heard a whisper in the dark—he assumed Heather and Nat had taken up their positions, as planned.
    At the back of the house was a half-rotten porch, cluttered with dark shapes—Dodge vaguely registered a refrigerator before he saw the distended screen door, barely hanging on its hinges. The shots were still cracking through the air. One two three