Free Push by Eve Silver Page A

glide over me, through me—
    There’s a thud against my abdomen, like I’ve been kicked. I tear my gaze away. My breath rushes out. I gasp for air, pressing my hand to the wound. My sword clatters to the floor, falling not from my hand but from the Drau’s.
    How . . . ?
    The Drau looks up, over my shoulder, somewhere behind me. I turn my head . . . except . . . I don’t.
    I can’t.
    My ears are ringing, my head buzzing with the drone of a thousand wasps. I feel like a pricked balloon, deflating, sagging.
    I’m cold.
    Shaking.
    I look down and everything’s red. My hand. My sleeve. The front of my shirt. Glossy red. The air smells of copper. Of blood. My blood.
    I’ve been stabbed. I’m bleeding everywhere, my clothing soaked with it. But I don’t really feel any pain. I don’t feel anything at all.
    Why doesn’t it hurt?
    I rest my shoulder against the wall, aim, fire, take out the Drau that’s just killed me and another as it streaks up the hall.
    Daddy, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to leave you all alone.
    Jackson, I’m sorry. So sorry.
    I hear a hiss, like someone exhaling through their teeth. A girl with light brown hair loose around her shoulders steps in front of me firing down the corridor, taking out two more Drau.
    Her presence means there’s another team here. We’re not on our own like I thought. I slide the rest of the way down the wall, my legs like celery stalks forgotten in the back of the crisper. Then I lie there, too weak to move, my shoulders and head propped up against the wall, the rest of me a splay of limbs on the cold floor.
    The girl fires and fires again, then drops to her knees beside me, reaching toward my wound.
    She pushes aside the sliced edges of my shirt. Two more Drau, twelve o’clock. I lift my weapon and point it over her shoulder. Panting, I fire, take out the first one, but the second keeps coming. So fast. So bright. My hand shakes, so weak, and drops to my side.
    Numb. Useless.
    “Drau,” I gasp. I expect her to leap up, turn, shoot. But she does none of those things.
    “They’ve got my back,” she says.
    Then a shower of light hits the Drau I missed, and it goes down screaming. I turn my head looking for the girl’s teammates, but they must have taken cover out of sight.
    The floors and walls spin and dip. My lids drift shut. I feel a tug, like someone’s pulling my shirt off. I drag my hand to my opposite shoulder and realize it’s bare. I’m only wearing my sports tank.
    “Why are you taking off my clothes?”
    She doesn’t answer. I force my eyes open again. Force myself to focus.
    Nothing makes sense. A shower of light took down the Drau that I missed . The girl’s teammate took out that Drau with light.
    That’s not right.
    Our weapons shoot darkness.
    Then I notice the weapon the girl has holstered. It isn’t like mine. It’s metallic and smooth, but it doesn’t look solid. It’s fluid and jellylike: a Drau gun. Confused, I ask, “Why . . . ?”
    “Shh. Don’t talk,” she says. “Save your strength.”
    The floor moves beneath me, tipping away.
    For a millisecond, her eyes meet mine. And they’re not right, either. Everyone’s eyes are blue in the game. Everyone’s. Except Jackson’s. His are always Drau gray, no matter what. But this girl’s aren’t blue.
    They’re green. Lizzie green.
    I remember the pictures in the front hall of Jackson’s house. I remember Lizzie’s face when I shared Jackson’s nightmare. This girl . . . she’s Lizzie.
    She reaches for my wound and I cry out from the pain.
    This girl can’t be Jackson’s sister. Lizzie’s dead.
    I’m losing it. Hallucinating.
    Drau appear to the left of us. I try to lift my hand, to aim, to shoot. My vision wavers and then clears. There are no Drau there now. Only a wall.
    “I’m in trouble, aren’t I?” I whisper.
    “You’ll be fine.”
    Right.
    She’s holding a T-shirt in her hands—my T-shirt—and she folds it into a thick square and presses it