Zero Game - Brad Meltzer [148]
“Don’t . . . please don’t . . . !”
He shoves me backwards, and I crash to the ground, hoping it’ll at least stop me from moving. Just as I look up, he clutches my shirt and tugs me to my feet. The hole’s right behind me. Unlike before, he’s not giving me any extra running space.
Janos pulls me in for one last shove. My right arm’s dead. My head’s on fire. The only thing my brain processes is the smell of black licorice on his breath.
“You can’t win,” I stutter. “No matter what you do . . . it’s over.”
Janos stops. His eyes narrow with his smirk. “I agree,” he says.
His hands burst forward, plowing me in the chest. I go reeling toward the hole. Last time, I made the mistake of trying to grab his shirt. This time, I go for the man himself. Stealing his own trick, I reach out, grip Janos’s ear, and hold tight.
“What’re you—?!” Before he can even get out the question, we’re both heading for the hole.
My foot slides down the edge. I still don’t let go. Janos’s head jerks forward. As I slip down, sliding off the edge, Janos grabs my arm, trying to ease his own pain. I continue to hold tight. He crashes down on his chest. It slows our descent, but I’m already moving too fast. The lower half of my body’s already in the hole . . . and slipping quick. As I slide, bits of gravel bite at my stomach. The concrete does the same to Janos’s chest. He’s following me, headfirst. As we continue to skid, he lets go of my arm with one hand and struggles to backpedal, clawing at the concrete; I kick at the inside walls of the hole, searching for a foothold to stop our fall. Janos shuts his eyes, digging in with everything he has. There’s a huge vein running down the front of his forehead. His face is tomato soup. He’s not letting me take his ear with me. And then, out of nowhere . . . we stop.
A final cloud of dirt and dust rolls off the edge of the floor, landing on my face. I’m dangling by my left arm, which is the only part of me not in the hole. My armpit’s on the edge, which holds most of my weight, but my hand grips on to Janos’s ear with whatever strength I have left. It’s the only reason he’s holding my wrist. Flat on his chest, and realizing we’ve stopped, he continues to hold tight. If he lets go, I’ll definitely plunge down the hole, but I’ll be taking part—if not all—of him with me.
Thanks to the pressure on his ear, Janos can barely pick his head up. His cheek is pressed against the concrete. But not for long. Twisting slightly, he glances my way—making sure I can’t get out. From inside the hole, my chin and arm sit just above the edge. He’s ready to send me the rest of the way down.
“Janos, don’t . . . !”
Trying to break my grip, he squeezes my wrist and shifts his position. He’s too off balance. We slide down again, deeper into the hole, then come to another sudden stop. Instead of my armpit, I’m down to my elbow, which now holds part of my weight. Janos is still on his stomach. His cheek’s in the dirt, and the way his body’s turned, one of his shoulders is already over the edge. My eyes barely peek above the rim. I still refuse to let go. I’m gripping his ear so tight, it’s turning purple. If I go down holding on to him, he’ll follow fast.
Below my feet, the tiny plink of fallen rocks echoes from below. No question, it’s a long way to the bottom. Ignoring the risk, Janos digs his fingers into the underside of my wrist. The pain is indescribable. I can’t hold on any longer. My pinkie slides off his earlobe. He pulls his head back, trying to tug himself free. My ring finger slips off next. He’s almost there. The way he’s gripping my wrist, it feels like he’s about to puncture my skin. I rake at the concrete with my free hand, but I’m down too far. There’s no way to get a handhold. The pain’s too much. I have to let . . .
“Janos, you drop him and you’ll race him to the bottom,” a familiar female voice warns. She puts a foot on his hip, threatening to shove him down.