Some eggs seem brighter than the rest, while others seem a bit sturdier. I’m not sure how I’m supposed to pick, what characteristics I should look for, or how I’m supposed to announce my decision.
As I’m about to touch an egg, a thought occurs to me. What if the first one I touch defines my choice? Yes, this whole thing may still turn out to be a hoax, but it sure as hell doesn’t seem that way, and I want to be careful in case it’s not. I yank my hand back and bite down on my fist. Decision making has never been my strong suit.
I lean in close to a rather large egg, my breath causing the colors to swirl and change. It’s so beautiful, and isn’t it always more fun to have the bigger present at Christmas? A decision must be made, and if I let myself contemplate what’s inside each egg any longer, I’ll never make one.
“Eeny, meeny, miny …” I point to the large egg in front of me. “Moe.”
My hands are almost on it when I hear a thundering on the stairs behind me. I spin around and listen. It sounds like hail during a bad storm. And it’s getting louder, and closer. Moments later, people of all ages spill into the room in a frenzy. They race toward the eggs, their eyes wide and their hands outstretched. Unlike me, they don’t hesitate. They snatch the first eggs they come to and race back up the stairs.
My face burns when I realize what’s happening. They’re taking all the eggs. There won’t be enough for everyone. I can’t wait any longer.
Someone has already grabbed the egg I’d intended to take, so I dash toward another one. A man in his midtwenties cuts me off and swipes the egg in one graceful movement. Then he tucks it under his arm like a football and makes for the stairs.
Three more people rush toward two eggs. They claw and kick and scream until two girls, no older than thirteen, slip away from a portly man and sprint toward the stairs. I see an egg toward the room’s entrance and hurry toward it, but I’m not aggressive enough, and when it comes down to me and another girl with wild eyes and big shoulders, I falter. She sneers at me and grabs the egg. Then she’s gone, flying up the stairs two at a time.
Everything has happened in a matter of seconds. As I look around the room, I realize with a bolt of fear that there’s only one egg left. I’m closest to it, and the girl closest to me realizes that. She narrows her eyes in my direction and darts toward the egg. But I’m faster. The people behind us don’t move, or at least I don’t hear them move. It’s like they know it’s too late. That it’s between me and this girl, and they might as well pack it in.
I’m so close to the egg that a smile curls my lips. I’m going to get there first. Then it’s just a matter of getting past her and back up the stairs. I reach out to grab the softball-sized egg, and then I feel it — a shooting pain ripping across my scalp.
The chick has ahold of my hair and she’s pulling me down, down. I crash to the floor and she leaps over my body. Instantly, I reach for her legs. If I have to fight her on the ground, I will, because suddenly I remember Cody the way he was before I left, the steady rise and fall of his chest.
The girl anticipates my grabbing for her, so she makes a hard left, races around the circular table, and it’s over. She’s gone. At some point during the mad dash, I realized with overwhelming certainty that this race is real. That the Brimstone Bleed is real. And now I try to swallow that I’ve already lost.
I beat my fist against the ground and look up. Three people remain in the room with me. They looked equally dazed, searching for an egg that isn’t there. One of them hangs his head and ascends the stairs slowly. Like me, he seems petrified to return home and admit failure.
The back of my head aches, and when I reach around and touch the throbbing spot, I feel something wet and sticky. Though I know I’ll be sick if I look, I almost want to. Like seeing my own injury will be partial punishment for failing my brother.
I look at my hand. Sure enough, my fingers are coated in blood. It’s bright red, which I think is good. Dark blood means it’s coming from somewhere deep. I glance up to — what? — show the two people left my wound?
But when I look up, there is only one person.
My heart stops.
The guy looking down at me is very tall, or maybe he just seems so because I’m still on the ground. He appears to be about my age, though the broad width of his shoulders tells me he may actually be a couple of years older. His eyes are blue. Not in the way that makes me buckle at the knees and start naming our children, but the kind of blue that makes my breath catch. A cold, hard blue that looks more like a statement than a color — one that says, “Back the fuck off.”
His hair is so dark, it looks like wet ink, and is spiked around his scalp in soft tufts. He has a strong jawline, and right now that jaw is clenched so tightly, I’m afraid this guy is about to kick me when I’m down.
“They’re all gone,” I whisper. I hadn’t thought to say anything, but it just slips out.
He narrows those chilling blue eyes at me, and in an instant, they flick toward the floor near one of the bookcases. He looks back at me, and I wonder if maybe, even though he looks a little like a serial killer, he’s going to help me up.
His gaze lands on my hair, on the feather woven into it. Then he turns and walks toward the stairs, carrying a colossal egg under his arm. I contemplate fighting him for it; it’s easily the biggest egg I’ve seen tonight. Then I realize it’s pointless. I’m dizzy from hitting my head, and this guy looks like he works out for a living. But I think about the way his eyes flicked toward the bookcase. It makes me wonder …
Treading softly, I move toward where he had looked. But there’s nothing there. I grab on to the top of the bookcase, as far as I can reach anyway, and step up. Then I climb the shelves like they’re a ladder until I can see over the top. There’s nothing there and — when I look around the room from this elevated height — I don’t see anything anywhere else, either.
I crawl down the shelves until I’m standing on the floor again. Then I get onto my hands and knees. When I lay my face against the cool tile and peer under the bookcase, I have to bite my lip to keep from whooping.
I see an egg.
Pressing myself flatter against the floor, I stretch my arm out. I hold my breath as I retrieve it, afraid if I fill my lungs, I’ll drop my prize. Once the egg is safely out, I study it closely. It’s the size of a watermelon, which I guess is okay, but the coloring is all wrong. It’s not like the others, with the remarkable sheen that changes when you turn them over in your hands. This one is dull, and when I hold it up, I see there’s a fracture the length of my finger running across the bottom.
It must have dropped onto the floor and rolled beneath the bookcase. Looking at it, I wonder if whatever’s inside is still alive. My guess is no, but I have no other choice than to hope it is. I stand up, pull out my shirt, and lay the egg in like my shirt’s a nest.
Then I smile. This egg is ugly, and if I’m not mistaken, it’s got a little stank rolling off it. But it’s mine. And I’m going to take care of what’s inside.
I wrap both arms around the bottom of my egg and hurry up the stairs, out the front doors, and into Bob. Slamming the car door, I glance around. I’ve got to find a safe place for this thing. I grab my bag from the back and pull out anything sharp. When all that’s left is soft clothing, I nestle my egg inside, take one last look at it, then zip the bag back up.
Opening the glove compartment, I start to toss in all the remaining items from my bag. When I get to the device, I notice the red light is blinking. My shoulders tense. Will it be the same message as before? Or will there be new information that helps me find the race? I hadn’t even stopped long enough to wonder what I was supposed to do now that I had this freaky egg in my possession.