The-Infinite-Sea-Pdf

“There’s no way this is going to work,” Lieutenant Bob says. “They’ll come after us hard.”
“Yeah? What’s this?” Razor holds up a mass of tangled electrical wire.
The pilot shakes his head. So cold, his lips are turning blue. “I don’t know.”
“Neither do I, but I’m guessing they’re very important for the proper operation of a helicopter.”
“You don’t understand . . .”
Razor leans toward him and all his playfulness is gone. His deep-set eyes burn as if backlit and the
coiled force I sensed from the beginning springs free with such ferocity, I actually flinch.
“Listen to me, you alien sonofabitch, you fire this mother-effing stick buddy up ASAP or I’m—”
The pilot shoves his hands into his lap and stares straight ahead. After getting one into the chopper
undetected, my biggest concern was getting a pilot to cooperate. I lean forward, grab Bob by the wrist,
and bend his pinky finger backward.
“I’ll break it,” I promise him.
“Go ahead!”
I break it. His teeth clamp down on his bottom lip. His legs jerk. His eyes swim with tears. That
shouldn’t happen. I press my fingers against the back of his neck, then turn to Razor.
“He’s implanted. He isn’t one of them.”
“Yeah, well, who the hell are you?” the pilot squeals.
I pull the tracking device from my pocket. There’s the hospital and the magazine surrounded by a
swarm of green dots. And there are three dots glowing on the airstrip.
“You cut yours out,” I say to Razor.
He’s nodding. “And left it under my pillow. That was the plan. Or was that the plan? Shit, Ringer,
wasn’t that the plan?” A little panicky.
I drop the knife into my hand. “Hold him.”
Razor understands immediately. He grabs Lieutenant Bob and puts him in a headlock. Bob doesn’t
put up much resistance. I worry now that he might go into shock. If he does, it’s over.
There isn’t much light and Razor can’t hold him perfectly still, so I tell Bob to chill or I might sever
his spinal cord, adding paralysis to the problem of a broken finger. I pull out the pellet, toss it onto the
tarmac, yank Bob’s head back, and whisper in his ear, “I’m not the enemy and I haven’t gone Dorothy.
I’m just like you—”
“Only better,” Razor finishes. He glances through the window and says, “Uh, Ringer . . .”
I see them: The glow of headlights expanding like a pair of stars going supernova. “They’re coming,
and when they get here, they will kill us,” I tell Bob. “You too. They won’t believe you and they will
kill you.”
Bob stares into my face, tears of pain streaming down his.
“You have to trust me,” I say.
“Or she’ll break another finger,” Razor adds.
A deep, shuddering breath, shaking uncontrollably, cradling his wounded hand, blood trickling down
his neck and soaking into the collar of his T-shirt. “It’s hopeless,” he whispers. “They’ll just shoot us
down.”
On impulse, I reach forward and press my hand against his cheek. He doesn’t recoil. He becomes
very still. I don’t understand why I touched him or what’s happening now that I am, but I feel something
opening inside me, like a bud spreading its delicate petals toward the sun. I’m freezing cold. My neck is
on fire. And the little finger on my right hand throbs to the beat of my heart. The pain brings tears to my
eyes. His pain.
“Ringer!” Razor barks. “What the hell are you doing?”
I pour my warmth into the man I touch. I douse the fire. I caress the pain. I soothe his fear. His breath
evens out. His body relaxes.