“Yes,” confirms Sinclair. “And you’re lucky to have missed it. The kid is unquestionably psychotic.”
Fergus thinks it over. “How did I get there?”
“They tied you to my back,” I respond. “We went in together. And then once in the dream, Sinclair and I carried you around. And when the Wall showed up, Ant and I tossed you through.”
“You . . . tossed me through,” Fergus repeats, looking between Ant and me.
“After I cleared the way for you,” Sinclair says.
“You jumped through and left the rest of us to fend for ourselves,” I rebut.
“Not true,” Sinclair says, sitting up. “When Remi said that the Wall was outside the windows, I didn’t realize he meant just outside. I was going to break through and then come back and help carry this lug.” He gestures to Fergus.
He meets my eyes and sees my doubt. He sits up and his face is framed in what seems astonishingly like pure, unadulterated sincerity. His words are earnest. “Listen, Cata. I’m being one hundred percent honest. I was as scared as you. But I forced that fear aside. I was willing to sacrifice myself because I knew it was up to me to save you. But, like I said, I miscalculated and went all the way in.”
We have a brief stare-down. I speak my lingering doubt. “From the way we found you, lounging on the couch, shielding your eyes from the light, it didn’t look like you were terribly worried about whether we’d get through.”
He gives me the deep-eye gaze for another few seconds, and I feel something switch inside me. He’s telling the truth. And surprise, surprise, underneath that sarcastic hard shell, I see that he really cares. At least about me.
Then he looks around at the others, and the shell is back. “Think rationally,” he says. “What could I have done from here to help you? Nothing! Except prepare for the next dream by resting. Because I don’t know about you guys, but I am fucking exhausted.”
The warm fuzzy trusting feeling dissipates with his return to tough-skinned asshole. “I can’t believe that mouth ever actually touched mine,” I say.
Sinclair smiles a lopsided smile.
“You kissed him?” Fergus exclaims.
“He kissed me.”
“It was a panic kiss,” Sinclair says. “We had nearly been trampled by zombie horses. I was just expressing my relief at still being alive.”
“By launching yourself onto my face,” I charge.
He huffs and gives me a sour look. “Don’t worry,” he says. “It won’t happen again.”
“Good,” mumbles Remi, looking more himself now that Fergus has regained consciousness. “Because that was almost as disturbing as the corpse horses galloping by.”
Fergus stares at Remi, incredulous. “Did you just . . . make a joke?”
Remi gives a barely decipherable grin.
“I wouldn’t be making friends too quickly, Fergus,” Sinclair said, raising an eyebrow. “This kid wanted to leave you behind. Twice!”
Fergus’s smile disappears.
Remi drops his head back into his hands. “As you reminded me repeatedly before the others got back.” He looks up at Fergus. “I’m sorry, man. I was just thinking about the survival of the rest of us since we had no way of knowing if you were going to ever wake up.”
Fergus nods, like he agrees, and then a weird look steals over his face and he frowns at Remi.
“This isn’t the time to argue,” I say. “We have twenty minutes to—”
“—take a nap!” Sinclair butts in, flopping onto his back.
“I’m exhausted too,” admits Remi.
I suddenly realize how tired I am. I haven’t felt it this strongly before. Maybe because of the adrenaline. We just escaped . . . barely . . . and hauling Fergus around seems to have drained all my energy.
“I was going to suggest we get ready for the next nightmare,” I say. “We were totally unprepared in there. We didn’t even use the weapons Ant made for us.”
“Remi used the crossbow to try to break the window,” Sinclair counters. “Which should win him the award for most original use of a medieval weapon.”
“Cata’s right; we should prepare,” says Ant, and something in her voice shuts everyone up. “But we don’t have twenty minutes. I wanted to tell you in the last Void, but too much was happening.” She fidgets. “And I didn’t want to scare you.”
Our silence is deafening.
She exhales. “The Voids are getting shorter and the nightmares are getting longer.”
“What do you mean?” asks Remi. His voice is cold with fear.
“At first I thought that there were just slight variations in time with each Void and nightmare, since some seemed longer and others shorter. But then I saw a pattern. The Voids have been getting shorter by a minute each time, and the nightmares longer by a minute. This Void should only last fourteen minutes.” She gazes upward, calculating. “Five more minutes to go. And Brett’s nightmare lasted fifty-five minutes.”
Everyone is silent for a moment, and then Fergus speaks up. “Are you saying that before long we’ll be in the nightmares nonstop?”
Ant doesn’t reply.
Fergus turns to the rest of us. “We have to find a way out of here. The person in the lab told me that the researchers were working to wake us from our comas. But if what Ant says is true, we only have a few hours left before we’re continuously fighting for survival. Who knows if they’ll succeed in waking us before that happens? And even if they do, we can’t just wait helplessly for them to rescue us without coming up with a contingency plan.”
I try to drum up some energy, but realize I have none in reserve. I’m utterly exhausted. “Okay. We only have five minutes.”
“Four,” corrects Ant.
“And Fergus has just regained consciousness,” I continue. “I second Sinclair’s suggestion to rest for a couple of minutes.”
“Smartest plan I’ve heard all day!” Sinclair crows. He stretches his limbs lazily, and then curls up in a fetal position, facing the couch. “Night, night.”
Somewhat stiffly, Remi follows his example, lying on his back and plopping a couch cushion over his eyes.
Fergus stares at him for a second, and then waves me over. Ant has moved a few feet away and is scribbling furiously in her notebook.
I sit down next to him, and he scoots toward me until our shoulders and knees touch. “The person in the lab . . .” he whispers, his voice so soft I can barely make out what he’s saying. “. . . they gave me a warning.”
“What was it?” I whisper back.
“They told me to be careful. That one of us is a dangerous psychopath.”
“What?” I ask, too confused to be shocked. And then I follow the path of Fergus’s stare to the boy who urged us to leave him behind. The boy hiding his head under a pillow. Remi.
I shake my head. “I seriously doubt that.”
“Then who?” Fergus asks, glancing between Sinclair and Ant.
“How do you know it’s not me?” I ask, playing devil’s advocate.
“I don’t know much about psychopaths, but isn’t empathy one of the biggest tells?” he asks. He lowers his voice again. “Even though you hide it under your well-developed protective shell . . .” He sees me flinch and reaches over to fold my hand in his. “. . . which is a pretty smart self-preservation technique, in my opinion.”
There is sincerity in his eyes. A small flame sparks to life inside my chest.
He continues. “I can tell you have empathy . . . by the truckload . . . but these three?” His eyes travel from Remi to Fergus to Ant. “I can’t really read any of them.”
And following his gaze, studying each of these people we’re trapped here with, I have to agree. We all have our problems. Problems that could be hiding something darker beneath. And I know without a doubt that we’d all do anything to get out of here.
Chapter 6
Jaime
STEPPING OUTSIDE THE CLINIC FEELS LIKE returning to my home planet after years of space travel. Everything looks som
ehow alien. The sun is brighter, the grass greener, even the bubbling fountain in the clinic’s drop-off traffic circle looks like it was conceived by a different life-form.
Since waking up this morning, I’ve witnessed a medical catastrophe, experienced a natural disaster, watched someone die, and saved someone’s life. I wonder if I look ten years older, because it feels like a decade’s flown past.
There is a park adjoining the clinic, and I find a bench with a view of the building. For some reason, I don’t want to let it out of my sight. On the street that runs past the clinic, I see the aftereffects of the earthquake: A couple of telephone poles lie in people’s yards. A utility truck is parked beside a traffic light that dangles dangerously from snapped cables. The light stutters green-amber, green-amber-red as men in blue jumpsuits emblazoned with the city seal work to detach it. A new traffic light sits on a nearby curb, ready to install.
I set my lunch bag next to me and turn on my cell phone, which I recovered from the front desk on my way out. I had been ordered to leave it there this morning “for security purposes” when I arrived. Aka, We don’t trust you not to post online about the things you see here. I type my security code and get a flood of push notifications alerting me to new texts, emails, missed calls, and instant messages.
I answer the first of a string of worried texts from my mom with a quick reply: I’m surprised you saw the earthquake on the news—it was pretty minor. I’m safe. Don’t worry. Not allowed phones in the lab, but I’ll call you tonight.
That doesn’t quite qualify as a lie. Just a sin of omission. With Mom’s boss being one of the clinic’s biggest donors, she’s sure to find out about the earthquake’s effects if she checks in with her favorite charity. Which obviously hasn’t happened. But if I say anything more, I’m going to spend the rest of my lunch break talking Mom down, so a slight prevarication will have to do for now.
Next. A voice mail from my adviser. That’s weird. He always communicates by email. I didn’t know he even had my number.
I press play and listen as the posh British accent everyone mimics when he’s out of earshot speaks through my iPhone.
“Yes, Jaime, Dr. Trevayne speaking,” he says, sounding like Gandalf on a caffeine high. “I just received word from the clinic director, Mike Osterman. He explained that there was an emergency with the trial you are monitoring today for your field experience paper. He complimented you on your apparent calm and said that you had agreed to allow them to use any documentation you produce if they might need it.”
My adviser clears his throat. “I have no idea what’s going on there, but I just wanted you to know that . . . as always . . . I support you. If your field experience is compromised by whatever has happened, don’t worry. I assume you’ve already been there six hours, so you don’t have to stay until the end of the trial if you feel uncomfortable. My connections with the lab would not be strained by your decision. And writing up a failed test is just as instructive as (if not more so than) a successful one. So do what’s best for you. No pressure.
“If you want to check in with me, please feel free to phone me at this number. Take care, Jaime.”
I put down my phone and pick up my sandwich. I take a bite, chew, and try to swallow, but my throat is clenched so tight that I choke and have to chug my bottle of water to get it down.
My adviser has given me permission to leave this disaster of a situation behind. He said I don’t have to complete the trial. But now that the pressure of a good grade is no longer hanging over my head, I realize that’s not why I’m staying. It’s because I’ve begun to truly care.
The doctors have no clue as to what’s really going on—that the sleepers . . . at least some of them . . . are sharing a consciousness within their coma. And I have an awful feeling that, by the end of this, BethAnn will not be the only one dead.
So . . . do I stay silent and take notes like I’m supposed to? Or do I investigate further? Try to find proof for my hypothesis? Zhu and Vesper have been unreceptive to my theory so far. I’ll have to be sure of myself before I say anything else. I just hope I can come up with something to convince them . . . in time.
Chapter 7
Ant
I OPEN ONE EYE. EVERYTHING’S GREEN. I OPEN the other. Still green. Blindingly green. It isn’t until I move my head that I realize I’m lying on my back looking straight up. Where could we be where the sky is green?
It smells like the mulch my dad uses in the garden. Mulch and rain.
And then I hear a wild animal screech that has me up on my feet in an instant.
Hat, gloves . . . I reach in my pocket . . . notebook, pen. I tap five times on the side of my leg, which isn’t satisfying, but it’s better than nothing.
The animal sounded like one of those shrieking monkeys on National Geographic. I look around and see that I am in the middle of a forest. No, wait . . . there are vines hanging from the trees. It’s a jungle. And I’m in a clearing that looks the same size as the quad at school, which measures four hundred square feet. (The principal let me come the weekend before school started so I could measure everything. Which, as my mom pointed out, he didn’t have to, so I did everything she suggested to appear grateful.)
Cata stands up beside me, adjusting her backpack, and I turn to see Fergus and Sinclair brushing dirt off their clothes.
Remi makes a guttural sound like a groan. “No!” he moans. He swings around, taking in where we are with eyes so wide that I easily recognize the expression from my flash cards. Not just fear. Terror.
“Do you know where we are?” Cata’s voice is strained. You can tell she hopes he says no. Because if we’re in one of his dreams, it’s definitely not a good thing.
Remi wipes sweat off his forehead—it is pouring off of him—and says, “We are back in my country.”
“This doesn’t look like the desert we were in last time,” Fergus says.
“It is the jungle a half day away. It is the base of the antigovernment rebel forces.”
“Would those be the same rebel forces who were shooting at us last time?” Sinclair asks.
“The ones who killed BethAnn?” Fergus adds.
Remi nods. He’s clenching his teeth so tightly, his jaws stick out.
I glance around at the four-hundred-foot square clearing. My stomach twists: I’m nervous. I step toward Fergus, who lays a hand on my shoulder. I don’t flinch. “We’re in the open. Shouldn’t we hide?” I ask.
And then there is a crack so loud it sounds like a tree just broke in half right next to us. Sinclair screams and falls to the ground. Men wearing camouflage and holding guns emerge from the trees. We’re surrounded. My eyes flick around the clearing. There are twelve of them. Although they look menacing, they also look surprised. I suspect the last thing they expected to stumble across in this jungle was a group of teenagers dressed like they’re out for a trip to the local shopping mall.
“They fucking shot me!” Sinclair yells, thrashing around and holding his upper arm in his hand. Bright red blood spurts from between his fingers.
I want to tap, but I know I shouldn’t. Instead, I clench my hands together. One of the camouflaged men notices and yells something. Remi translates: “Hands in the air!”
We all put our hands in the air.
More yelling. “They say to drop our weapons, one by one.”
“What weapons?” Cata asks, and then, remembering the knife I made her, slowly lowers her hands and unbuckles the belt. She drops it to the ground at her feet.
“Backpack too,” Remi translates, and she shuffles that off and lets it drop.
One by one, we strip everything away and throw the items to the wet jungle floor.
A man standing behind Sinclair steps forward and butts him in the back with his rifle. “He wants you to take the sword off,” Remi says.
“How am I supposed to do that when I’m bleeding out?” Sinclair growls.
“He’ll shoot you again if you don’t.”
Sinclair lets
go of his arm and, one-handed, unstraps the belt and lets it fall to his side. He curls up in a ball, clutching his wound and rocking back and forth, moaning.
The guard behind him yells something to the leader, and all twelve of them laugh.
Sinclair looks up at Remi and, forcing the words through his teeth, asks, “What’d he say?”
The man pointing the gun at Remi nods, giving him permission to respond.
“He says he doesn’t like your pretty face. He asked if he could shoot you instead of taking you prisoner so he won’t have to look at you any longer.” Sinclair scowls, and all the soldiers laugh.
The leader addresses Sinclair’s captor.
“He says they have to take us back to headquarters. The big leader won’t like it if they kill us before they find out what we’re doing here.”
“Well, if they want me to live, they’d better stop my bleeding or else big leader’s not going to get any information from me,” Sinclair retorts.
Remi translates and responds. “He says use your shirt.”
Sinclair attempts to shuffle his shirt up one-handed, with little success.
“Ask if I can help him,” Cata tells Remi. With the gunman’s assent, she goes over to unbutton Sinclair’s shirt, maneuvers it over his wound, and tears it into wide strips. She pauses before wrapping one around his arm. “I don’t know if the bullet is still in there.”
“Just wrap it,” Sinclair begs.
“Sinclair, lie down and raise the arm up. It needs to be higher than your heart,” I interject. I can’t help myself—Cata’s going to make things worse.
“Cata, tie one strip into a tourniquet around his arm just above the wound. Then tie another strip or two around the wound itself.” Everyone stares at me, including the armed men, who obviously didn’t understand. “Girl Scout first aid training,” I say simply.
Sinclair lies down, and Cata gets to work. When she finishes, the men line us up and march, two of them for each of us, guns at the ready, with one leading the way. The twelfth stuffs all our things into a couple of our backpacks and brings up the rear.