Читать книгу Mind Gap - Marina Cohen - Страница 12

CHAPTER SIX

The inside of the train was dim. It smelled like a pile of dirty laundry. Passengers were crammed like cattle. Some were laughing. Others were talking. Music — the kind you might hear in the bathroom of a fancy hotel — wafted above the crowd.

One guy was wearing a grey sweatshirt with cut-off sleeves and matching sweatpants. Over his sweats he wore red shorts — short-shorts, like the kind basketball players wore in the 1980s. He had sweatbands on his wrists. Another guy had greased-up hair and a retro leather jacket like some James Dean wannabe. A neon-green mohawk sprouted from one girl’s head. She posed in skin-tight leopard-print pants and the pointiest boots Jake had ever seen. Another girl wore a dress and shoes that must have belonged to her great-grandmother. Still another looked like a hippie, complete with fringed vest and headband.

A costume party, thought Jake. It was Halloween in a couple of weeks, and it figured that Cole would leave out the most important detail.

Jake scanned the crowd, looking for his buddy, but as far as he could tell Cole had stood him up. As he looked around, he noticed some of the passengers staring at him and whispering to one another.

“I’m going to kill you, Cole,” he muttered under his breath.

“You can’t kill anyone,” said the guy in the short-shorts. “We’ve already tried that. It’s been done to death. Literally.” People around the guy burst out laughing as if he’d just told the funniest joke in the world.

“Um, yeah,” said Jake. “Whatever.”

Something really weird was going on. Jake could feel it in his gut. Hopefully, the train would get to the next station quickly so he could jump off and make his way back home.

“So. You wanna party …?” asked Short-Shorts. His dark eyes narrowed. “Have you, uh, got a ticket?”

“Ticket?” Jake mumbled. Instinctively, he dug in his pocket and produced the wrinkled transfer slip. The train got suddenly quiet. He could feel eyes crawling all over him. Everyone was staring at him except one girl who sat facing the dark window. She was holding a little pink blanket in her arms and rocking back and forth. There was another passenger who wasn’t staring at him, either. A guy sitting all alone. Before Jake could catch a glimpse of his face, ice-cold hands swung him around.

“Just passing through, eh? One of the lucky ones. Better hang on to that transfer. You never know when it might come in handy.”

Jake wondered if these people had escaped from an insane asylum. The homeless dude on the platform should have gotten on the train instead. He would have fitted right in.

“I think I made a mistake,” said Jake.

“Maybe,” said Short-Shorts. “Then again, maybe not …” He grinned as if he’d said something really funny again.

“I don’t want any trouble,” said Jake. “I’m just going to get off at the next stop.” He turned to face the doors. This stop was taking forever. The old pot lights kept flickering. The subway car rattled as it curved through the tunnel. Was it Jake’s imagination or was it getting warmer?

“Get off at the next stop?” Short-Shorts shook his head. “You’re pretty funny, you know that?”

Jake could see the guy’s refection in the dark glass of the subway car doors. His face was distorted, his grin maniacal.

Come on, subway. Next stop should be coming right up …

Jake felt a hand on his shoulder.

“I said, you’re one of the lucky ones.”

“Get lost, man,” Jake said, spinning around. He shoved the guy, sending him careening into a group of passengers. They caught him and burst out laughing.

Short-Shorts steadied himself and began moving toward Jake again. Jake braced himself.

Just then the subway ploughed into the station and slowed. Jake didn’t want to turn his back until the last second. Finally, the train came to a complete stop, and he heard the doors open. Jake turned to exit, but when his eyes settled on the black writing on the walls of the station, the air caught in his lungs.

He stepped off the train and back onto the very same platform he’d left from.

As the doors behind him closed, a voice like sandpaper scraped at his ears: “You can get off, Jake … but you can’t leave …”