No Passengers Beyond This Point(55)

I’m surprised how easy this is. Pamela is so distracted, she pops right out of the seat into the grass.

“Sorry!” I call over my shoulder, but in the rearview mirror I see Pamela does not look up, so intent is she on her conversation with Jack.

The cart doesn’t go as fast as the cab and it hits the ruts with twice the force, but I push the accelerator hard, clamping down on the wheel to keep on course. When I get to the gate lever, I scoot in close, barely skimming the handle with my fingertips, and the gate opens.

“Finn, Mouse! I am so gonna be there!” I say as the road dips and the cart goes through the gate. On the other side of the thick aluminum wall, the weather turns instantly stormy, the sky strangely blue. I begin trembling so violently I can hardly hold the steering wheel. I don’t know if this is because it’s freezing cold out here or because I now know for certain I can’t go back. No one can help me now. I have nothing but me . . . me and my two-hour-and-twelve-minute life.





CHAPTER 31

PERIPHERY ROAD

Boom is like our own personal bulldozer. She digs a path for us out of the landslide and up to open ground in minutes.

Aboveground, the cold hits like we’ve walked into a deep freeze. The wind bites through me. My teeth chatter. The thunder and lightning have stopped, but the rain is misting down, melting the dirty crust of snow.

I can see the border station from where we are, and the vehicles parked there. We will need one with a heater and lots of gas. I don’t know if the airport is twenty minutes away or six hours. I look down at my own clock, which says one hour, fourteen minutes.

“Mouse, let’s go closer, but we have to sneak,” I say, eyeing Boom. How do you tell a dog to keep her mouth shut?

This side of the border isn’t manned the way the other side is. It’s much plainer over here. More like Colorado must be, with meadows partially covered in snow in some spots, brown and muddy with rain in others. But there’s certain to be some kind of electronic surveillance system.

Up ahead I see a lot filled with maybe fifty Segways parked in neat rows A whole parking lot full of vehicles—though not the kind with heaters, that’s for sure. Still, the keys to each are dangling from the handlebars like invitations. A sign posted to the fence says: SEGWAY USE FOR AIRPORT RETURN ONLY.

Looking better all the time.

We walk closer to the Segways and a recorded message starts playing with instructions. “First make a selection, then place the key in the ignition.”

It doesn’t seem too difficult. Mouse could probably manage. She follows instructions well, but how will we get Boom on board?

“Finn!” Mouse whispers.

“And when you get to the airport,” the voice continues, “follow signs for the periphery road/airport return. Just remember”—the voice drops low and begins speaking quickly now like a commercial for medicine required to state the side effects—“no standing or stopping at the curb. No passenger pickup. Only one driver allowed on each vehicle and no exit from the periphery road.”

Wait . . . no exit from the periphery road? My mind flashes on the first night at the airport. What was it Chuck said about the Segway riders? They’re always here. So people just go around and around the airport waiting for planes that never arrive?

“Finn, look!” Mouse calls again, pulling on my arm. She points to an approaching girl—not much older than I am.

We dive behind a storage bin. Boom follows us. She seems to understand we are hiding and curls in a tight ball.

From here, we can watch the girl, without her seeing us. Her hair is hanging limp and wet. She’s wearing a lime green Falling Bird vest and she has a wrist screen attached haphazardly to her arm.

The way she steps, her eyes in constant motion like a surveillance camera, makes me think she’s not supposed to be here. She moves stealthily from Segway to Segway until she hops on the one she wants and turns the key. She has trouble with reverse—clearly she hasn’t driven one of these things before. She’s close to us now—very close—I can just make out the name on her shirt: Pamela.

Pamela manages reverse now, but it isn’t pretty. She stops and starts, jerking her way out of the parking lot, and then zips forward, so fast, her hat flies off.

Before I can stop her, Mouse darts out. She snatches the hat and something else that’s fallen too. A purse or fanny pack maybe? But when Mouse returns, I see it’s the wrist screen. Mouse hands it to me.

India really liked hers—she was so secretive about it, though. I have no idea how it works. I’m about to put it in my pocket—we don’t really have time to mess with this right now—when suddenly the screen lights up with a face I recognize, but don’t know very well. It’s a man about my father’s age with a short red beard, red curly hair, and kind blue eyes.