“Well that was . . .” But before Sinclair can think of a sarcastic enough description for what just happened, huge beige stuccoed walls begin growing from out of the ground far on either side of us, in the form of an amphitheater. Rows and rows of chairs appear, arced around a circular stage and climbing probably fifty rows high. We are standing between the front row of seats and a finely crafted wooden stage lifted a good five feet off the ground. A row of steps runs up to the stage on either side.
“Oh, crap,” says Ant.
“Where are we?” I ask.
“It’s an award. Some kind of award ceremony,” she says, pulling her chullo down over her ears. She wedges herself into one of the chairs and begins using the armrest to do some heavy-duty tapping.
As I watch, the chairs begin filling with people who just appear, already seated, legs crossed, chatting to one another in an atmosphere of expectation. A podium rises from the stage, and a line of chairs begin popping up one by one to form a row behind it.
Fergus and I plop down in the chairs on either side of Ant before they can be filled, and Sinclair takes the seat directly in front of us.
“What’s wrong, Ant?” Fergus says, tentatively taking her hand. She lets him lace his fingers between hers.
“I win prizes,” she says. “I like competitions. I like projects. But I don’t like winning, because then I have to stand up in front of people, and sometimes I even have to say something.”
“What’d you win here?” Sinclair asks, looking out at the enormous hall and the crowds of people jammed into the space. “The Nobel Peace Prize?”
Ant kind of hiccups. She grabs her heart, gives a pained look, and then breathes out. “No. It’s part of a big science competition. I won seventy thousand dollars. They wanted me to talk.”
“You won seventy thousand dollars!” I yelp. “Doing what?”
“Research about neurological factors in attention deficit disorder,” replies Ant, like winning a major science award is the most natural thing in the world.
“Why am I not surprised?” says Fergus.
Ant turns to him with a hurt look. She thought he was making fun of her but, seeing the proud look in his eyes, she smiles instead.
Fergus gestures toward the podium. “This probably will be the Nobel Prize one day . . . in medicine or chemistry or something that will save the world.”
“Not if she’s in a coma,” points out Sinclair.
“Don’t even,” I say, furrowing my brow. He holds his hands up in innocence. How can he act all jokey now that we know about him? He honestly doesn’t seem to care.
Ant ignores Sinclair. “I didn’t even get to go up to accept this prize,” she tells Fergus. “My mom had to get it for me.”
“Well, it’s normal to be nervous about getting up in front of a big crowd when you’re thirteen,” I say.
“No,” Ant explains, “I said I would go up, but I had to have seven things, and my mom said they wouldn’t let me.”
“What was the extra thing?” Sinclair asks. “Besides glove, glove, chullo, pen, notebook, and George?”
“No one could see George,” Ant says, “so she wouldn’t have been a problem.”
“What was the last thing?” I press.
“Dog.”
“You wanted to take your dog with you onstage?” I ask incredulously.
“Yes, but Mom said people would think I was visually impaired. And that they wouldn’t understand about the hat and the gloves. So I wouldn’t do it, and she did it instead.”
“Oh, Ant,” I say, stopping myself from taking her other hand because I know how uncomfortable it would make her.
Sinclair rolls his eyes.
Fergus speaks up. “Ant, I just stood up to my dad. He’s my greatest fear. One that has always popped up in my nightmares in one form or another. And when I did, we all moved on. It’s your turn now. I have a feeling we’ll be stuck here until you do something.”
Sinclair looks straight at Ant. “Dude, if your test is walking up eight steps onto a stage, taking an envelope from some guy in a tuxedo, saying a few words into a microphone, and then leaving, then I say . . . fucking DO IT! What are you, crazy? Can’t you just suck up the tics and freakiness for five fucking minutes to save your . . . and possibly all of our . . . lives, depending on how this thing works? I mean, get a move on! We’re wasting precious time sitting around saying, ‘Poor Ant. That must be really hard to have a brain the size of a watermelon and get all that money and praise thrown at you. We really feel for you.’ Well, fuck that shit! Buck up and go!”
Ant stops tapping and stares straight at Sinclair through his entire tirade. She doesn’t even look upset. It looks more like she’s listening . . . really listening . . . and thinking it through.
“You,” Fergus hisses. “You do not deserve to talk.”
Sinclair scowls.
“I hate to add anything to that elegant, heartwarming speech,” I say, “but I think you’re getting something wrong. Thinking back through the dreams, Ant has been up against some scary stuff. A lot of it’s been about control. And about fear. In the beginning, Ant was the brains and George was the brawn. She was her shield. But what’s become increasingly clear, now that George is gone, is that Ant is becoming more and more like her.”
I turn to address Ant directly. “It’s not that you aren’t brave. Or that you can’t communicate ‘normally,’ as you put it. It’s that you don’t know how to connect to that part of yourself that is George. The kick-ass part that doesn’t hesitate from saying what she thinks and doesn’t shy away from thinking.”
Fergus picks up my stream of thought. “Cata’s totally right. In that last dream, all of those kids were making fun of you. Bullying you. You were hiding from them . . . not reacting. That was obviously something from your past. Because the you that I’ve gotten to know over the last however many dreams would not take that shit. You have too much George in you. And with her gone, you’re learning to connect those two halves of yourself.”
Ant looks between the two of us. It’s like a flame has ignited in her soul and is shining through her eyes. “She is inside of me, isn’t she?” she whispers.
“She is you,” I say.
Ant stands, hesitates just a second, then, without looking back, begins walking toward the stage.
In a flash, everything around us disappears: chairs, people, amphitheater . . . and we’re back in the Pseudo Void.
We barely have two seconds there and then we’re standing in my front hallway. The one that was in flames in my last dream, the Flayed Man fighting his way through my front door. But now the house is quiet. Three figures stand before me: my father in the middle and my sister and brother on either side, holding his hands.
“Cata!” Julia says. She looks like she wants to throw her arms around me, but, remembering our father, she stares down at the floor.
“Who are these people?” he says, staring at the others with suspicion.
“Friends,” Fergus says.
“I’ve never met you before,” Dad replies.
“Oh yes, you have,” Sinclair reposts. “But you were wearing a monk’s outfit and had blood coming out of your eyes.”
My father gawks at him, incredulous. “Is this part of your rebellious, drug-abusing crowd, Catalina? The ones who led you astray?”
“No one led me astray, Dad,” I say. “I did the straying all by myself. Well, with the help of law enforcement and child protective services.”
“Has she been telling you people her lies?” my father asks, looking between Fergus, Ant, and Sinclair. “Catalina is a compulsive liar. She has false memories. I had a certified therapist confirm that the things she said I did . . . they weren’t true.”
I feel myself fading. My head is buzzing and my vision starts swimming. I want to be anywhere—anywhere—except here. I realize I’m dissociating. I look at my sister’s face and think, Sorry.
And then I remember Fergus pushing my monk dad over the balcony in t
he cathedral. I realize to what extent the Flayed Man has terrorized me for the past few years, night after night. And I decide I’m not going to avoid it anymore. I’m strong enough now to face him head-on.
I straighten and take a step toward my father. “Dad, it wasn’t a therapist. It was a church counselor. And you manipulated them into diagnosing me without even meeting me. How would they know I’m a liar . . . or have false memories, or whatever . . . if they’d never even talked to me? People trust you. You manipulate them. It’s the only way you’ve been able to keep Julia and Fred.”
“What do you plan to do about it?” Dad tightens his hold on my siblings’ hands, who wince from the pressure.
“I don’t know what I can do. But I will do everything I can. I’m not afraid of you anymore because I’m finally safe. And finally, I don’t feel guilty about telling people what you did. About turning you in. Even if no one believes me besides the judge, I know I was right.”
Dad yanks Julia and Fred behind him, as if to shelter them from me.
I take a step toward him, and he flinches. “I’ve been running away from the monsters in my dreams since I was a little girl. But the only monster I’ve ever known in my life was you.”
I look my siblings in the eye. “I’m coming back for you,” I say. Fergus throws the door open, and we walk out.
Before I even have time to react to my unprecedented display of courage, we’re back in Pseudo Void. Fergus reaches out and wraps his arms around me. “You were amazing,” he says.
I don’t have time to bask in his affection, because seconds later we’re standing in a funeral parlor. Five empty caskets are laid out, end to end, with enormous bouquets of flowers on either side. Three of them have chairs set in front, and in each sits a child wearing funereal clothes. The air smells sickly sweet—the perfume of a hundred white lilies.
“Not them again!” cries Sinclair.
“Well, what else would it be?” Ant says. “You killed them! Do you have any worse skeletons in your closet that you have to confront? Because now’s the time to dig them out. Pun completely intended.”
Fergus and I look at each other, and he mouths, George. I smile and feel like a proud mom on the first day of school.
“I didn’t really kill them!” he shouts, as the three of them lift their gazes to stare at him.
“I didn’t kill you!” he yells, but keeps his distance. “It was your own stupidity . . . your own blind faith . . . your need for acceptance that killed you. I was just there to help you along your self-destructive paths.”
“That’s a lie,” says the girl.
“We were your conquests,” says the youngest boy. “You just wanted to see how much power you had. What you could make us do.”
“The wolf and the sheep,” the third boy says.
“I don’t know what you want from me!” Sinclair yells, shaking his fists toward the corpses. “My sincere condolences? True heartfelt regret? A get-down-on-my-knees apology? Well, I’m not fucking doing it because I don’t fucking care!”
He raises a hand, and suddenly the three children are bound to their chairs by several strands of rope. “This is my dream, and I’m the one who says what happens.”
He turns around and points at Fergus, Ant, and me, and suddenly I can’t move. I look down to see that I’m sitting bound by rope to a chair identical to those of the dead children. I try to move my legs. They’re bound too.
“How many minutes?” Sinclair asks Ant.
“Two,” she says. She and Fergus are tied up like me. And to judge from her expression, I’m guessing that if her eyes could shoot flames, Sinclair would be burned to a crisp.
“You all have become deadweight,” Sinclair says. He walks over to me and runs his hand over my hair. I shudder violently and try to bite his wrist. “I thought you might be worth keeping around,” he says to me. “But you’re just like everyone else. A loser. And in this game, only winners survive.”
“I would have to disagree with that,” comes a voice. I look up and see two figures standing in front of the two empty coffins. They are hidden in shadow. They take a step toward us, and Sinclair recoils when he sees their faces. It’s BethAnn and Remi.
“How can you be here?” Sinclair asks, a note of fear in his voice. “When you die in the Dreamfall, you die in real life.”
“We still exist in your consciousness,” says Remi, “and that’s what counts in this place.”
They take another step toward Sinclair. Something glints in their hands. They’re holding the knives that Ant made for us, back several Voids ago.
Sinclair looks alarmed and takes a step backward. “You can’t hurt me. You’re ghosts, like them.” He points toward the three corpse children.
BethAnn and Remi brandish their knives and then, changing course, head our way. Just then, the first knock comes, shaking the room, and sending the gigantic urns full of flowers spilling off their columns.
“Are you all right?” BethAnn asks me as she bends down and starts sawing at my ropes.
“BethAnn,” I say. “We saw what Sinclair said to you. Your sister’s death wasn’t your fault. You didn’t deserve to die.”
She frees the bonds on my legs and looks up. “I know that now.” She gives me a sad smile.
“Does this mean that you’re going to be alive in the real world?” I ask hopefully.
She shakes her head and moves behind me, slicing through the ropes in one quick gesture. “No. But I remain in your memories. It’s the only reason I’m here.”
I look up to see the three corpse children surrounding Sinclair. They’re blocking him from running away. The second knock rings out, and the force is so strong, I am knocked to the ground. I push myself up to see Ant handing the corpse girl her ropes. Remi finishes sawing through Fergus’s ropes. Fergus turns to him. “I’m sorry I doubted you.”
“Forgiven,” Remi says. His eyes are full of tears. “Everything I did, saying we should leave you . . . I always meant well.”
“I know.” Fergus draws him in for a hug. “Forgiven.”
As the black wall appears, bisecting the funeral chapel to my left, the wind blows all of us back a step. Sinclair flails and lands in a chair BethAnn shoves right behind him. “Hey!” he yells.
The corpse girl hands a length of rope to Remi and another to BethAnn. They begin binding Sinclair to the chair as he struggles to get free. The corpse boys step forward and help to hold him down.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Sinclair screams. He is now a hundred percent his real self: dirty-blond hair, freckles, and an expression so sour that it distorts his features into a mask of hatred.
“We’re keeping you here. With us,” says the corpse girl. Sinclair begins to flail and knocks his chair over, continuing to struggle as he lies on his side on the ground.
“You can’t do this!” he screams, thrashing his body to no avail.
“Go,” BethAnn says to us, raising a hand in farewell. She looks exactly the same: huge eyes, blousy cover-everything shirt, and pink Converse. I don’t want to leave her here.
But Fergus takes me by the hand and, pulling me and Ant beside him, runs toward the Wall. This time, as we are enveloped in the darkness, the pain in my chest returns with full force, twice as strong as it was in the last Void. I gasp for breath and clutch my heart. Fergus’s eyes are wide as he struggles for air. Ant is pressing her hand against her chest, a terrified expression on her face.
The wind swings me around so that I’m looking back out at the scene we’re leaving, and I get one last glimpse of the funeral home. The five children are grouped around Sinclair, staring down at him. A look of pure terror is on his face. And just before the darkness swallows us, the corpse girl turns her head. The slightest of smiles blooms on her lips.
Chapter 33
Jaime
I HOVER, MY EYES FLICKING BETWEEN THE CLOCK and the sleepers as I run from one to the next, checking their heart rates with the stethoscope. They are accelerating
at a dangerous pace. What scares me most is that Antonia has begun to gasp for air, and Cata is making wheezing sounds. I can’t turn the Tower back on yet. If they don’t get to the point of cardiac arrest, the pacemakers could kick in and save them before they have a chance to wake up. Cata wheezes loudly, and this time it sounds like words. Can’t breathe.
I scramble over to the plug and ram it into the socket. The Tower begins to whir, but the lights stay muted as the power slowly builds up, feeding the machine section by section. I hear the air flow through the respirators, and all four sleepers gasp in oxygen. Their wheezing turns to regular breathing in mere seconds.
This is it. I’m calling it.
I rush to the phone and dial nine. “Send a team of emergency medical responders immediately to the basement laboratory in building one.”
I run back to the sleepers, arriving just as Antonia’s eyes fly open. “My heart. It hurts. Going so fast.” Her hands clutch at her hospital gown like she wants to rip it off.
“Did we make it?” Fergus’s lips barely move, his face a rictus of pain.
Cata yells, “Help! Someone help!”
I race over to Sinclair. His jaw is clenched, and his eyes are open, staring at the ceiling. That’s good enough for me.
The door flies open, and a team of three paramedics pours through. They look around for the doctors and see me. Luckily, they’re the same ones as before, so I don’t have to explain who I am.
“I was out of the building,” I say, “and when I came back, the power was out. It just came back on a few seconds ago.”
“Where are the doctors?” they ask, rushing over to the subjects.
“I don’t know.”
“The monitors aren’t working,” one says, tapping a screen.
“Oh my God, I think they’re awake!” says another. Each takes a patient as they scramble to put on their stethoscopes.
“You know resuscitation?” one asks me.
I nod.
“Take subject two,” she says.
I stand next to Fergus and place my stethoscope on his chest. His heart is beating wildly. He’s in cardiac arrest. He grabs my arm. “You guys figured it out. It worked,” he wheezes.