Allie's War Season One by JC Andrijeski Page B

moving papers and the oil rag as quietly as I could, looking for something sharp, but all I found was a broken pen that leaked ink, a used up book of matches and a condom so old the wrapper had cracked in the heat of the engine. I felt around under the seat, looking for anything that might saw through the thick plastic.
    “Does it hurt?”
    I jerked back, slamming my head into the open glove box lid. When I glanced up, rubbing my head, his pale eyes shone orange in the streetlights.
    “Do you sleep?” I said.
    He didn’t answer, but leaned forward, reaching into his back pocket.
    My eyes followed his hands as he pulled out a rectangular piece of featureless, black metal. He unfolded the blade housed inside and before I could fully absorb the reality of the knife, he bent to my ankles. Without warning the hint of nausea leapt.
    Holding the plastic off my skin, he cut through it with a single tug.
    I was still reacting to the relief of that pressure being gone when he pulled off the hard coil, letting it drop to the floor of the car. Once he had, he traced the red line on my ankle with his finger. When he did, the nausea surged, catching me off-guard.
    Swallowing, I looked away.
    “Is it all right?” His voice was gruff.
    “Yeah.” I drew my feet away from his fingers. “Thanks.”
    “I should have taken it off,” he said.
    “It’s fine. Forget it.”
    I watched him look at me.
    As I did, I couldn’t help but remember what he was. Even in early adolescence, all I’d ever heard about seers was that they had, well, issues with sex...that they were born with abnormally high sex drives, that the males would rape or manipulate women into sleeping with them, that the females couldn’t say no to anyone, no matter who they were. I always figured it was b.s., a way to scare girls off the males at least.
    Looking at him now, though, I wondered.
    There was definitely something different about his sexuality...an added component of some kind. Whatever it was, there seemed to be a lot of it.
    Averting his eyes, he sank back in his seat. After he refolded the knife and replaced it in his back pocket, he shoved his hand in his front pocket, extracting the keys.
    “Did you sleep?” I said. “Or were you faking before?”
    Ignoring me, he started the car, gunning it slightly to blow out the exhaust. “Are you hungry?”
    “Yeah,” I said. “Can I call my mom?”
    The look in his eyes flattened. “No.”
    He put the car in gear. The wheels crunched through gravel and garbage as he drove to the edge of the parking lot. We bumped over the low curb as he pulled onto the road.
    “Where are we?” I said.
    “Washington.”
    “Washington? What happened to Oregon?”
    “You slept through Oregon. I took us to the main highway.”
    I gazed out at the gray-looking town, feeling my stomach start to cramp. “Why?” I said finally.
    “I wanted to make some time. There is a safe house in Seattle. I thought—”
    “No,” I said, shaking my head. “Why can’t I call my mother?”
    His fingers tightened on the steering wheel.
    “Say I believe you,” I said. “Say I believe some of it, anyway. Why can’t I call my mom, tell her I’m okay?”
    He shook his head. “The Rooks will have infiltrators with your people by now.”
    It took another few seconds for his words to penetrate.
    “My people?” I said.
    Not seeming to notice my stressed tone, he nodded, once. “They will use them to gather imprints on you. To track you.” He pointed to a sign with missing marquee letters. “...I could get us food there.”
    I stared at him, my mouth ajar. My voice rose. “Use them? To track me? How does that work, exactly?”
    He focused on a field beside the road, a stretch of sharply green, waving grasses dotted with wildflowers where cows grazed in the early morning light.
    “Revik!”
    My tone jerked his eyes over. His fingers tightened reflexively on the steering wheel.
    “What does that mean?” I said. “Are they going to