to call out to her, but that would alert Max and Norman, and lord knows who else, and get her into a world of trouble. I stuff down my rising panic and decide to follow her. A car’s no good—not only would I get pulled over for violating curfew but, with a bike, Shelby can ride places cars can’t. A car is useless.
But rollerblades aren’t.
I scramble back up to the condo, grateful nobody’s about, and do a record-fast change into my ten layers of winter exercise gear, including face mask, goggles, and helmet. I throw my reflective jacket on, inside out—I don’t want to be bright tonight. Then I shove on my boots, grab my rollerblades, and haul out the window, climbing down as quickly as I can, dropping the last few feet.
Her bike tracks lead east. I pull off my boots and hide them next to the building and put on my rollerblades.
At the beginning of winter, Ally and I sank sheet-metal screws into the wheels of our shit pairs of rollerblades; the screws bite into the ice for superior winter traction. Cleatskates , we call them. I feel confident I can catch up—I’m fast and sure on cleatskates, and that heavy bag’s got to be slowing her down.
I take off, skating against the biting wind and falling snow, hoping to hell Otto stays in his office revitalizing as long as he usually does.
Shelby’s bike tracks snake around the building, turn north, then west along the promenade path, the bike-and-walking path that runs alongside the river. I skate like crazy, trying to make sense of this all. Is she stockpiling weapons? How many guns does it take to kill Packard?
I’m going so fast on the straightaway, and it’s snowing so hard, I can barely see. I pull off my goggles and just squint against the furious flakes. I push harder, crouched low for speed—and low visibility to cops. Or sleepwalking cannibals. Or other criminals. I pump my legs and arms, breathing so hard that my lungs feel dry, even through my face mask. Are the membranes drying out? That can’t be good. It would weaken them.
Stop it!
The tips of my eyelashes freeze. I round a bend. I catch sight of an oil-drum fire up ahead, but no people. Who made the fire? And who—or what—scared them off?
Otto says he and his men have been catching a lot of criminals with outstanding warrants simply by sweeping up people who are out past curfew. That’s nice for the city, I suppose, but the idea that cannibals and wanted criminals make up the majority of people roaming around at night isn’t comforting to me at the moment. Shelby’s tracks go past, so I follow, cringing, feeling like I’m in one of those postapocalyptic movies where the place is empty, but you know people are hiding.
I pass the fire without incident.
Shelby’s path continues along the promenade and goes under the Midcity Bridge—a postcard-perfect ambush spot. I brace myself and skate; if Shelby did it, so can I. Though Shelby’s armed to the teeth. And she’s so far ahead, I doubt she’d hear me if I screamed.
I make it under. The wind’s stronger on the other side of the bridge, and the blowing snow has obscured her path in places. I skate faster. Things feel bright. Am I hyperventilating? This is a lot of exertion after a big meal.
Stop it!
Eventually the tracks veer left, back to the city streets. I slow up and scramble over a curb, heart pounding. We’re nearing her neighborhood. I wonder if Otto’s demoralized cop has pulled himself together enough to get going. And what the hell is up with that? And Otto’s force field, and the operation on the floor below? The arsenal?
I go over a bumpy sidewalk, nearly losing my balance. The part of my face mask that covers my mouth and nostrils is stiff with ice. The tracks wind around a corner, up the next street, and there she is again, maybe five blocks ahead.
She’s obviously taking the guns home. And then what? Is it possible she’s become unbalanced in her obsession with hunting Packard? I’m thinking about her
But rollerblades aren’t.
I scramble back up to the condo, grateful nobody’s about, and do a record-fast change into my ten layers of winter exercise gear, including face mask, goggles, and helmet. I throw my reflective jacket on, inside out—I don’t want to be bright tonight. Then I shove on my boots, grab my rollerblades, and haul out the window, climbing down as quickly as I can, dropping the last few feet.
Her bike tracks lead east. I pull off my boots and hide them next to the building and put on my rollerblades.
At the beginning of winter, Ally and I sank sheet-metal screws into the wheels of our shit pairs of rollerblades; the screws bite into the ice for superior winter traction. Cleatskates , we call them. I feel confident I can catch up—I’m fast and sure on cleatskates, and that heavy bag’s got to be slowing her down.
I take off, skating against the biting wind and falling snow, hoping to hell Otto stays in his office revitalizing as long as he usually does.
Shelby’s bike tracks snake around the building, turn north, then west along the promenade path, the bike-and-walking path that runs alongside the river. I skate like crazy, trying to make sense of this all. Is she stockpiling weapons? How many guns does it take to kill Packard?
I’m going so fast on the straightaway, and it’s snowing so hard, I can barely see. I pull off my goggles and just squint against the furious flakes. I push harder, crouched low for speed—and low visibility to cops. Or sleepwalking cannibals. Or other criminals. I pump my legs and arms, breathing so hard that my lungs feel dry, even through my face mask. Are the membranes drying out? That can’t be good. It would weaken them.
Stop it!
The tips of my eyelashes freeze. I round a bend. I catch sight of an oil-drum fire up ahead, but no people. Who made the fire? And who—or what—scared them off?
Otto says he and his men have been catching a lot of criminals with outstanding warrants simply by sweeping up people who are out past curfew. That’s nice for the city, I suppose, but the idea that cannibals and wanted criminals make up the majority of people roaming around at night isn’t comforting to me at the moment. Shelby’s tracks go past, so I follow, cringing, feeling like I’m in one of those postapocalyptic movies where the place is empty, but you know people are hiding.
I pass the fire without incident.
Shelby’s path continues along the promenade and goes under the Midcity Bridge—a postcard-perfect ambush spot. I brace myself and skate; if Shelby did it, so can I. Though Shelby’s armed to the teeth. And she’s so far ahead, I doubt she’d hear me if I screamed.
I make it under. The wind’s stronger on the other side of the bridge, and the blowing snow has obscured her path in places. I skate faster. Things feel bright. Am I hyperventilating? This is a lot of exertion after a big meal.
Stop it!
Eventually the tracks veer left, back to the city streets. I slow up and scramble over a curb, heart pounding. We’re nearing her neighborhood. I wonder if Otto’s demoralized cop has pulled himself together enough to get going. And what the hell is up with that? And Otto’s force field, and the operation on the floor below? The arsenal?
I go over a bumpy sidewalk, nearly losing my balance. The part of my face mask that covers my mouth and nostrils is stiff with ice. The tracks wind around a corner, up the next street, and there she is again, maybe five blocks ahead.
She’s obviously taking the guns home. And then what? Is it possible she’s become unbalanced in her obsession with hunting Packard? I’m thinking about her
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