False Sight by Dan Krokos Read Free Book Online Page A

nostrils flare; his mouth drops open.
“Miranda!” Peter says behind me.
I ignore him and close the distance to the guard, then grab a fistful of his shirt and twist, pulling him to me. I make my voice hard as rock. “Take us to the cooler.”
The guard nods rapidly, eyes crinkling and swelling with tears. “Yes...please...” I feel him tremble through my closed fist. He’s on the verge of screaming, or fainting, or both.
I let go of his shirt and grab his arm, which is already a little damp with sweat. “Lead us.”
He starts off, breathing heavily and dragging me along. Peter and Rhys have nothing to say. The scent of roses—a weird side effect of our psychic power—is already fading. Maybe it wasn’ttherightcall,butthere’snousesecond-guessingitnow.
Peter and Rhys lag behind.
“Come on ,” I say. The guard pulls me around a corner.
“How about a heads up next time?” Peter says when they catch up.
“Heads up on a snap decision? You got it.”
Rhys snickers quietly.
Straightaheadisabigsteeldoorwithapullhandle.Iknow what it is before the guard says, “Here. Here.”
I release the guard’s arm. Rhys grabs his shoulders, spins him around, and hunches to look into his face. “Where’s the nearest closet?”
“There’s one in the next office....”
Rhys plucks the radio and gun off the guard’s belt and turns him in the right direction. “I want you to go there and shut yourself in, and don’t come out for an hour. Got it? Or . . . bad things will happen.”
The guard nods and shuffles away, keys jangling on his belt.
Rhys turns back to me and Peter. “Who knew the fearful were so impressionable?”
No one laughs because it isn’t really a joke. A few moments pass outside the big steel door. No one speaks. They have to be wondering if I’m strong enough. I know I am, but that doesn’t mean I want to go inside.
Peter touches my elbow lightly. “I want you to let me do it. I don’t know what absorbing all those memories will do to you.”
If some latent personality wakes up inside me, would they have access to whatever I download from Noah? This is an unnecessary risk, and yet . . . I don’t want anyone else to see. I don’t want Peter or Rhys to see the memories Noah has of me. Who knows what happened between us over the years? I barely remember any of it. So I’m reckless, basically. Because I don’t think that’s a good enough reason to risk it, and yet I’m doing it anyway.
Instead of all that, I say, “I’ve downloaded memories from Rhys and Mrs. North. I’ll be able to tell the difference between theirs and mine.”
“This doesn’t have to be your burden,” Peter says.
He’s right—it is a burden. It’ll scald me in ways I can’t anticipate, and I want it for the wrong reasons.
“This is my job,” I say, hefting the duffel bag higher on my shoulder. “Unless that’s an order?”
Several seconds pass. Then he takes a breath and shakes his head. “No.”
I put my hand on the cold metal handle and yank the door open. Chilled, dry air spills out in a wave across my face. The lights inside are gray and bright and completely devoid of life, just like the rest of this place.
I step inside and shut the door behind me.

8
    M

y suit fights the chill. I shiver for another reason.
    The walls on my left and right are a grid of small rectangular doors, stacked three high. Behind them lie the dead. Bordering the walls are gurneys with sheets over them. The sheets are white silhouettes in the shapes of bodies, rounded near the heads, pointed at the feet.
    I don’t have to check each gurney; I see Noah right away. His gurney is against the far wall, the white sheet against the wall’s puke-green tile. The bright red stain below the rise of his face has spread a little.
    My breath comes in clouds of sour air. I watch Noah’s sheet, expecting him to rise at any second. He’d pull the cover off and say “Surprise!” with that stupid grin. I’d punch him in the arm and he’d fake how