Chapter 43 Ellis
Ellis
The sharp report of the final gunshot echoed around the cluster of buildings long after Alex had fallen. Ellis stood, immobile, staring at Ana’s and Alex’s bodies.
His hands were clenched tight, locked in place. He carried his weight forward on his toes ready for action, but it wasn’t needed any more. They were dead. All of them. The fight was over. Like that. So quick, so easy.
Their outlines were entwined together, Alex’s arm had fallen over Ana—protective, even in death.
Every ripple of breeze lightly picked up wisps of hair or played with the fabric on a shirt.
A lizard skittered into their convenient shade.
They had fallen with their faces turned away from him, and he felt a flash of disappointment.
Something in him wanted to see their expressions, to look into their lifeless eyes.
He wanted to see them empty—the sparkle gone.
No more fight, no more tears, no more love.
He wanted to see their eyes and know death.
Ellis pulled himself up. He needed to keep it together, now more than ever.
He couldn’t let his guard down. Not when he was so close, so damn close.
He would only allow himself to relax after the truck took their dead bodies away.
Then, and only then would he savor it—the sharp, bitter taste of victory.
There was nothing on his phone. No countdown. No messages. That had to be good. He started pacing along the line, his eyes scanning the horizon, searching for the telltale cloud of dust.
It didn’t take long. The red truck appeared in the far distance, barely visible at first, then steadily growing larger.
Ellis watched dispassionately, with just a passing thought that this shitty truck wasn’t fitting. It should have been a hearse, or even a slick, shiny, air-conditioned limo. Something more significant to mark the moment of his victory. His win.
The truck rattled up, pulling alongside the bodies.
The two cowboys got out without so much as a glance in Ellis’s direction.
They got straight to business, pulling on their work gloves and walking over to the bodies.
Ellis thought he saw them pause and whisper something to each other; maybe they were surprised that there were two bodies this time.
Maybe they were thinking what a shame for a young couple to wind up like roadkill at their feet. Young dead love. How adorable.
They grabbed Alex first, by the wrists, and dragged his body over to the flatbed. Then one of them, the big cowboy, scooped Ana up in his arms and placed her in the truck next to Alex, slamming the tailgate shut for the last time.
The deal was done.
“Hey.” Ellis found his voice. Time to end this. “Hey, you. What now? What do I do now?”
The men ignored him and climbed into the truck.
“I won. Do you hear me? I won the game. How do I get out of here?”
Nothing. They started the engine and swung the truck around, kicking up a wall of dust in their wake.
“Hey, wait. Where the fuck are you going? I said wait.”
For a split second Ellis wanted to step over the line and run full tilt after the disappearing truck—force them to give him a ride, to get him the hell out of this nightmare once and for all.
But he couldn’t. His toe was in the dust, touching the white paint. He kicked at the line, carefully, like there was an invisible wall in front of him. That stupid, scrappy line had meant death, and every nerve told him to step back, step away. Do not cross.
A dizzying jumble of thoughts slammed him. What if the sniper hadn’t got the memo that this was over? What if Karl’s father was never planning on letting him survive? What if this was all a trick?
Ellis indulged himself briefly, letting fear and doubt race through him, feeling his heart beating hard with terror. He allowed himself five seconds of weakness—he counted them off in his head. Then he turned his cold eyes up, away from the line, and focused on the distant horizon.
He wasn’t a coward, no matter what his father thought. He was done being jerked around like some weak puppet. He was the last one alive, the survivor, the fucking winner—and he was getting the hell out of here.
He lifted his right foot high, with a deliberate motion, his sneaker suspended in the air over the line. All he had to do was put his foot down, test it out. Then he could go home. He could do this.
I forgive you.
He jumped back. Fuck, it was like the words were stuck in his head. He could hear them, in Ana’s voice, as clearly as if she was standing in front of him.
“I don’t care!” he shouted into the wind. “Do you hear me? I don’t fucking care.”
If anyone was watching, they’d think he was crazy. But the others were already dead. He pushed past the words, burying them inside. How dare she forgive him. She had no right to do that. No right.
Pulling himself up tall, he turned to face the line again.
He would forget her words. He would forget Ana. He would put this whole nightmare behind him. He had to believe that. Because if he didn’t, then he’d lost the game—and Ellis didn’t lose.
The white line stood out starkly against the red earth. He shook out his stiff hands, his arms, and stepped up to the edge again. This was the only way out. He could do this. Raising his foot one more time, he held it over the line. Fear caught at him, doubt—but this time he didn’t move back.
Breathing deeply, trying to calm himself the way he’d been trained to, standing on the free throw line before thousands of cheering people. He had complete control…
He stepped over the line.
Nothing.
No crack of a bullet splitting the air. No explosion of dust at his feet. Nothing. He moved forward, one step, then another. His heart beating violently. Still nothing.
It was over.
Slowly Ellis unclenched his fists and dropped his shoulders. The tightness in his chest released, he breathed in deeply. A smile crept over his face.
It was over.
Exhilaration smacked him out of his stupor. He punched the air, spinning around like he’d just won MVP.
“Woohoo! Yaaaas!” He started running hard and fast. Anything in his path got kicked or slammed aside. He grabbed a rock as he passed the Motel Loba sign.
“Fuck you!” he shouted, flinging the rock hard at the glowing letters. There was a loud crunch and the A flickered out.
He was free.
Closing his eyes, he sank to his knees, spread-eagling across the stony ground. There was steady heat radiating from the earth. It felt comforting, as though the ground was protecting him, warming him.
He lay there for a long time—he didn’t know how long. No matter. He wasn’t on the clock anymore. He owned his time now. He owned his future.
When he finally opened his eyes, evening colors had caught the edges of the sky; the vast desolate landscape was fading into dusk. He was the last survivor of the Balloon Game.
Pushing himself to his feet, he faced the motel. He should go back, even though the thought made him nauseous. Who knew how far he’d have to walk before he got rescued. He’d need water, snacks, a hat if he could find one. No point in dying of heatstroke after everything he’d been through.
But as he looked back at the motel, its pink walls glowing innocently in the softening light, he thought he could see them; shadows moving about, echoes in the cold evening.
They were all still there, in the motel: Jade and Jax by the fire, Caden under the tree, Alex with his guitar set on his knee, Ana and Raya whispering together at the far end of the pool.
He could hear soft music on the night air, see the firelight catching their faces.
Memories. The air was filled with them. Joking. Laughing. Alive.
They were all there, and they would never be leaving. This was their tomb now, their graveyard.
Ghosts.
Ellis recoiled. His hands knotted up.
He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t go back across that line—back to the Motel Loba. Not now. Not ever. Even if he died of thirst in the godforsaken desert, he would never go back. It was time to leave this cursed place—once and for all.
Backing away, almost falling over his feet, he ran for the road—the same road that had brought them here just twenty-four hours ago.
He was going to walk along that road until he put the Motel Loba far behind him, until he found some gas station or truck stop, where he would buy an ice-cold drink and call his father to come and get him.
He would walk and he would keep walking for as long as it took, and he would never, ever look back.
He was going home.
***
Distant lights. A row of yellow dots, a flicker of red and green above, twinkling through the darkness.
Ellis checked his Rolex.
It was close to five in the morning. After an interminable night walking in soul-sucking darkness, his spirits were picking up at last. He was thirsty as all hell, and his hands were numb from the chilly night air.
But the motel was far behind him, and now, after all this time, he was about to be rewarded.
There were signs of life ahead. The lights meant buildings, people, rescue. This was almost over.
He picked up the pace.
Dead teenagers from LA would be a big deal.
When he told people what had happened to him, there would be drama.
Sirens and flashing lights, ambulances, news vans, helicopters.
He knew what to expect. He’d had the best of it after the school fire.
He made a good victim. Good-looking, clean-cut; he spoke well and had mastered the art of casting his eyes down, even tearing up a little.
Poor Ellis. Brave kid.
As he daydreamed, he walked faster.
The lights were closer now. He could probably cover the distance in ten, fifteen minutes. A small thrill of relief pulsed through him.