Renegade Runner Nicole Conway (christmas read aloud txt) 📖

Okay, I did not want to stick my hand down in that dark hole. No way. It’d be like reaching down into a garbage disposal.

But now wasn’t the time to lose my nerve. Come on, Brinna. Game face. Don’t let this big lummox see you flinch.

Inching closer, I slowly bent down and got onto my hands and knees in front of the open compartment. Through the tangled rat’s nest of cords and cables, the small handle was barely visible thanks to most of the orange paint chipping off. But if I angled my wrist just right … then maybe …

I slipped my hand down, wrenching a little to get the last few inches. My fingers wrapped around the handle and I gave it one hard yank. Something behind us clanked. Looking back, I noticed one of the larger panels along the wall right behind the cockpit hung open on squeaky hinges.

Whoa. How had he known about that?

“Ha! Looks like you’re good for something after all,” the alien guy crowed as he got to his feet. He quickly pulled a big white case out from where it had been hidden behind the panel.

“What is that?” I asked as I stood.

“Emergency supplies. We’re gonna need them if we—”

Suddenly, the ship began to move.

No, not the ship. The entire hangar was shuddering and shaking.

“Shit.” He growled as his sharp gaze cut toward the front of the ship. Brilliant light shone through the windshield.

Oh god, what now?

“Go get strapped in,” he commanded as he breezed past, shoving the box into my arms as he went. “And hold on to this.”

He didn’t give me a chance to argue. While I floundered into one of the rickety seats in the cockpit, my partner shut the side door and barred it with a thick metal beam that lowered from the ceiling. Then he came barreling back through our tiny ship and basically dove into the seat next to me.

I fought to untangle the grimy network of straps and buckles that made absolutely no sense until I watched him fasten himself in first. Geez, how did he know so much about all this? He’d obviously ridden this ride before. Or at least done something similar.

There wasn’t time to ask about it now, though.

“Okay, human, you listening?” My alien partner gave me a nudge with his elbow.

With his head brushing the ceiling and his knees practically up by his ears, the poor guy barely fit into the seat. He looked like an adult trying to peddle a tricycle. Hopefully, that wouldn’t be a problem because outside our windshield, the blinding light pouring in came from the opening of the hangar’s exterior door. I had to look away, shielding my eyes until they adjusted to the daylight.

“Y-Yeah.” I whimpered. My heart pounded in my ears and my body trembled, pouring a cold sweat as I locked gazes with him. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. What was happening to us? Were we really about to die?

“Our situation is bad, you need to understand that,” he said as he began pushing buttons and flipping switches along the broad dashboard in front of us. On cue, a small, W-shaped steering wheel unfolded from the console right in front of his seat. “Being stuck in this clunky piece of crap basically makes us a big, juicy, moving target. The other, better outfitted teams know that trasher teams like us aren’t going to be able to put up much of a fight.”

“Trasher?” Okay, that did not sound good.

He sat as far up in his seat as his monstrous frame would allow, taking in a deep breath that made his broad chest heave. “Yeah. It’s worse than it sounds, believe me. Trashers are easy point-fodder for them. We’re just out there so they can tear us to shreds. Makes for entertaining footage. Viewers love gory deaths, fiery crashes, and firefights. It’s also an easy way for them to pump up their score since you get points for teams you take out.”

My throat seized up, strangled by the rising panic that made my whole body go rigid in my seat. No, I had to get it together. Don’t panic. Just breathe. It was okay. I was going to be okay.

“We have no weapons, old-gen surface-survival suits, and no food or water rations,” he continued, his voice fading to a low, ominous whisper as his eerie eyes focused out our windshield. “This isn’t even a runner craft. It’s a sixty-year-old cargo bay loader meant for hauling supply modules.”

Nope. I was going to die.

I stared at him from across the narrow cockpit. Why wasn’t he more scared? Why wasn’t he shaking or hyperventilating or freaking out? My brain scrambled, trying to rationalize how he could possibly keep so calm at a time like this.

Then he looked at me … and I saw it. The quiet rage like a gathering stormfront. That was it—that was why.

He wasn’t afraid. He was furious.

Like “comes back from the dead for revenge upon all who had wronged him” kind of pissed.

“If you’ve got some sacred human deity you’d like to get right with before the end, now’s the time. Once the real teams line up, they’ll dump us out in the back. Then the meat grinder starts.”

“Can’t we just try getting away? Hiding somewhere?”

“In this old bucket?” He snorted. “We’ve got decent armor plating and a reinforced frame and door, but I doubt this thing can make three-hundred miles per hour. Not to mention the battery isn’t outfitted to be rechargeable by solar-catchers, so once we’re out of juice, we’re not going anywhere.”

“Three hundred miles per hour?” I wheezed. No way this thing looked like it could withstand that kind of speed. And since when was that considered slow?

He snorted, gripping the weird little steering wheel so hard, his knuckles turned white. “That may be fast by human standards, but a real runner craft clocks about three milia or so on a good day.”

Um, what? I had no idea what that meant.