Lexicon by Max Barry

Author:Max Barry [Barry, Max]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Action & Adventure, General, Science Fiction, Suspense, Thrillers, Fiction
ISBN: 9781444764673
Google: 1K9exKdEECEC
Amazon: 1594205388
Publisher: Hachette UK
Published: 2013-06-18T04:00:00+00:00

[FIVE]

Wil adjusted the shade for the millionth time, trying to block the sun that sat low over the road, bellowing anger. “It’s so hot.” He looked at Eliot. Eliot didn’t care. Eliot had been near-silent since Minneapolis, when Wil accused him of being the same as Woolf. He presumed Eliot was stewing, although of course Wil would never know, because Eliot was as readable as a brick.

The car jolted over a pothole. They were taking the back way to Broken Hill, riding in a ridiculous purple Valiant, wide and loud, easily thirty years old. No air, of course. Many years ago, the dash had split under the merciless pounding of the sun and begun to ooze yellow foam. The speedometer read in miles. It was a miracle it had seat belts. They were probably getting three miles to the gallon. He watched leafless trees drift by. After eight hours in an oven made of metal and glass, heat had penetrated every pore of his body. He just wanted to get out of the car. He just wanted Eliot to say something. “Have you been out here before?”

No reply. Wil looked out at the baked earth that rolled all the way to the horizon, flat as a plate. He, Wil, had been out here before. He had lived in Broken Hill. Apparently. He didn’t remember. It was hard to believe he could have forgotten this heat.

“Yes,” said Eliot. It took Wil a moment to remember the question.

“Before or after?” Eliot didn’t respond. “You know. Before or after?” Still nothing. “Or both?” He sighed and began to fiddle with the vents.

“Stop that. You’re not making it better.”

Wil looked at him. “I’m just—”

“Leave the vents alone.”

He sat back. Eliot was definitely pissed. A sign blew by the window, announcing a turnoff for Menindee. “We should get some fuel.” The intersection crawled toward them. “Eliot? Only thirty kilometers. Menindee. Eliot? Do you know how far apart the gas stations are? Seriously, you run out of petrol on a road like this, you die. It happens.”

The intersection slid past. Wil slouched. He understood that Eliot didn’t want to stop. The airport had been hairy. They had made it through Immigration, then a short, dark-skinned official had emerged from nowhere, asking them to please step out of the line. Wil had been deposited in a small, windowless room and left for twenty minutes, staring at a security camera. It seemed increasingly obvious to him they’d been recognized, but he wasn’t sure what he should do about that. So he waited. Eventually, the door opened. It was Eliot. People were arguing in the corridor, loud Australian voices. “Are we okay?” Wil had asked, and Eliot didn’t say anything, but the answer was clearly no. They found a cab. He could hear rising police sirens. But then there had been nothing but a lot of uneventful driving.

His eyes were closing when there was a flat bang and the car lurched. “What,” he said, thinking pursuit, death. Eliot steered the car onto the shoulder.

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