by Amy Plum
Ant walks over to us, chin straps dangling—the chullo that was eaten by acid is back to its slightly worn state—and looks me up and down. Exhaling a sigh of relief, she makes her way, feet dragging, to the couch next to ours and flops down.
“What happened,” answers Sinclair, perching on the edge of another couch, “is after you fell in the pool and landed on your head, we pulled you out with a rope and carried you through the Wall. But in between, there were rats and putrid water and a skinless guy doing a Freddy Krueger and coming back to life again and again. I mean seriously. What the fuck?”
He scowls at Fergus, clearly annoyed with the head-on-shoulder moment we’re having. I couldn’t care less.
“You’re the one who’s supposed to be a specialist in horror movies,” he says to Fergus. “I would expect something like that from your dreams. But Cata? She could be screenwriting slasher films and doing all of the special effects.” He looks me over with sour amusement. “If you have stuff like that living inside your head, you’ve gotta be truly and deeply messed up.”
I think back to the dream and am horrified that those insanely violent scenes came from my mind. They came from me. Then my disbelief and shock turn on a pin and suddenly switch to anger. “I don’t give a shit what you think, Sinclair. But it is comforting to know that with all my true and deep messed-up-ness, you have no choice but to tag along with me to revisit my traumatic past.”
Sinclair blinks, but if he’s surprised by my sudden show of spine, he masks it well. He looks at Ant and Fergus. “We need more weapons. If we didn’t have those”—he points to the pile of backpacks and weapons lying in the middle of the space—“we would have been sliced and diced by the Flayed Man’s fingernails or sucked into the concrete walls of that freaky basement place.”
Ant rolls over, letting her arm fall limply over the side of the couch. “Too tired,” she moans. “You make something. It’s not like I have magical powers. If I can do something here, you can too.”
Sinclair blinks again. Two people talking back to him is apparently too much. He lies flat down and folds his hands across his chest, but continues talking. “What we need is to train. Remember how we were talking about the Matrix? Neo trained when he was in that Voidlike space.”
“That’s different,” Fergus responds, his voice flat. We’re all exhausted. “In the Construct, the guys in the ship downloaded different programs to his brain that turned him into an expert in karate, sword fighting, whatever. We don’t have downloads. We would have to learn how to do that stuff from scratch. And if we’re losing a minute every time we’re here, that’s just not going to happen. We have a better chance of learning to fly in the nightmares than acquiring battle skills in the Void.”
He says it sarcastically, but Ant perks up. “Wait, what did you say?”
Fergus yawns loudly, covering his mouth, and then says, “That’s the whole thing about the Matrix. Neo learned that physical laws didn’t apply to him because the ‘real world’—as he had always known it—was a construct. I mean, they all knew it, but when he actually believed it, he started doing things like defying the laws of gravity, space and time, and all the rest. Have you never seen The Matrix?”
Ant shakes her head distractedly and gets out her notebook and pen. She flips open to a page that’s full of her scrawling, and writes sideways along the margin. “So once he accepted reality, he was able to ignore the rules he previously thought applied and work outside of them?”
Fergus nods cautiously.
“So, in a way, our advantage is like Neo’s. We know we’re in a nightmare world. One that is a construct of our own minds.”
Fergus looks confused, then a light goes on. “Yes,” he says. He carefully unwraps his arm from around my neck and leans forward on his knees toward Ant. “Wait . . . I think you’re on to something.” He hesitates. “But the nightmares are real in a way. They’re real enough to wound us.”
Ant responds, “But the wounds aren’t permanent. They hurt . . . yes . . . but they aren’t real because they disappear as soon as we get inside the Void. The only thing that’s permanent is if we die in the dream. And since that should also be a construct of our mind, I’m thinking that when we die in the Dreamfall it must trigger something outside of here—in the real world.”
“Same with the Matrix,” Fergus says. “I think they explain it as, if the mind dies it can’t survive in either place.” He sees me watching and looks sheepish. “I watch a lot of films.”
“For good reason,” I say, running my finger over his tattoo. He smiles.
“I’m not suggesting that we should follow the rules laid out by a science fiction film,” Ant interrupts, “but I wonder if we might have more control than we think we do.”
Fergus frowns. “You tried to create a gun in Remi’s dream. That didn’t work, and you’re obviously the most focused of all of us.”
Ant thinks for a moment, flipping among the pages of her notebook. And then a look of clarity dawns on her. “It wasn’t my dream. If each of these dreams originates in one of our brains, maybe that person is able to control things in that world. The Void is neutral. But when we’re in someone’s dreams, we’re at the mercy of their memories and imagination.”
I think back to my dreams: the Flayed Man, the cathedral, and my house of horror. What if I could have manipulated things with my thoughts during any of those?
Sinclair sighs loudly. “Kudos to Ant for thinking outside the box. But there are so many things we’re up against. So many things trying to kill us. At least Remi’s no longer one of them.”
Fergus flinches. “Remi seemed coldhearted and self-serving, but he did try to protect Brett in the end. And what if he had planned the whole thing to save us? I have to admit, I actually feel really bad that he didn’t make it. I’m starting to wonder if I didn’t misunderstand what the person in the lab told me.”
“What was it exactly that the person in the lab told you?” Sinclair asks doubtfully.
“What, you don’t believe me?” Fergus lifts an eyebrow.
“What if the lab itself was just another dream?”
Instead of looking offended, Fergus looks thoughtful. “There was a different quality to it,” he admits. “It wasn’t like any of the other dreams. But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t a dream. I hadn’t actually even doubted it . . . until now.”
Sinclair crosses his arms. “If there’s a possibility that that was a dream . . . or even a near-death experience, it means we have reason to doubt any ‘fact’ you gathered in that place.”
“It’s because of that ‘dream’ that we remembered about the lab and the experiment,” Fergus insists.
I shake my head. “No, the rest of us remembered it while you were unconscious. It’s when we brought it up that you recalled being in the lab. Not that I’m doubting you. But maybe it planted something in your mind.”
Fergus’s brow knits in worry. “It’s such a clear memory. Just like the memories of the nightmares.”
“Exactly,” Sinclair says. “It could be a nightmare itself.”
Fergus starts to protest, but Sinclair cuts him off. “It doesn’t matter. I mean, what other information did we get from that? That there was a problem with the experiment. That we were in comas. That the scientists were trying to find a way to get us out. All that tells us is that we need to stay alive while we wait for them to rescue us.”
“Which is basically what we’re doing. We haven’t even begun to think of a way to break the Dreamfall cycle of nightmares and Voids,” I say.
“Which brings us to the only relevant ‘fact’ that Fergus brought back from his dream,” Sinclair affirms.
“What’s that?” Fergus asks.
“That BethAnn died in the real world. Which doesn’t really matter. Except if she survived, then we have a little more hope. Remi and Brett could be out there alive too, waiting for us. In fact, you know what that means?”
We all stare, unable to guess.
“It
means if we all killed ourselves in the nightmare, we could come out alive on the other side.” Sinclair leans toward us, hands spread out as if he’s offering us the best deal we’ve ever heard.
“That is pretty extreme,” I say.
“It’s a risky move to make,” Fergus agrees. “We’d have to be absolutely sure that my ‘dream’ was nothing but that . . . a dream. Otherwise we’d be . . . dead.”
“But that’s the only clue we’ve gotten to ‘breaking the cycle,’ as you put it,” Sinclair rebuts. “I’ve been thinking about it, and it’s the only way I can imagine to get out: by dying.”
“I understand your logic,” Ant says, and everyone turns to her, “but it’s too big of a risk.”
“How so?” Sinclair asks with an air of confidence.
“It’s a matter of risk analysis,” Ant says, just as confident. “Let’s say Sinclair’s theory is right: BethAnn woke up in the real world after dying here. And let’s say we stay on the same course as we have been—trying to survive. We’re getting more and more tired, and pretty soon we’ll be stuck in the nightmares with no Void to take a break, let down our defenses, and plan. We’ll die. No question. And if Sinclair’s theory is right, at that point, we’ll come back to life in the outside world.
“But if Sinclair’s theory is wrong and we kill ourselves—or let ourselves be killed—in the nightmares, we’ll just be dead on the other side.
“The only effective strategy we have is believing that Fergus’s dream is true and fighting to live until we either stumble across a way out ourselves or are rescued by the doctors in the real world.”
“I’ve got to say, I’m with Ant on that one,” Fergus admits.
“Fair enough,” Sinclair accepts. “But if any of you are risk takers, and I’m right, we could be out of here in a matter of minutes. No more pain, fear, struggle. We just die and wake up on the other side.”
There is a moment of silence as we think about what it would mean for this to be over. I see it in the others’ eyes. We want out. We’re all so tired.
Ant sags. “I’m not willing to take that risk. It’s the easy way out. And in my experience, the easy way is rarely the better way.”
Sinclair directs his gaze at me. “However tempting that sounds at the moment, I have to say I’m with Ant,” I say, feeling strangely out of sorts from the whole conversation.
Just then, the first boom of the door comes. We all groan.
“I know I should be afraid, but I’m almost too tired to drum up the energy,” Fergus says, as he rises to his feet.
“Well, since Brett is gone, at least we know we won’t be facing show-tune-singing unicorn corpses in nightgowns,” Sinclair says. Which is a bit harsh, but he has a point.
Everyone starts putting on the backpacks and attaching the weapon belts. The boom comes again, and the wind begins to whip my hair around. We get into formation—in a circle facing outward with arms linked—but Ant hesitates and steps out of the group. She takes off her hat and gloves and tosses them aside, and then links arms with me and Fergus.
Seeing our astonishment, she says, “They were getting in my way. But I’m keeping the notebook and pen.”
“Please do,” I say, squeezing her arm in mine. “If anyone can figure out how to get us out of here, it’s you.”
Chapter 16
Jaime
“WE CAN’T WAIT ANY LONGER,” ZHU SAYS. “I HAVE double-checked . . . triple-checked . . . with our colleagues, and they are all in agreement.”
“And I have the go-ahead from all the legal guardians,” Vesper replies.
“How are they doing?” Zhu asks.
“How do you think?” Vesper’s expression is grim.
Zhu sets her shoulders and clenches her jaw. “This has to work.”
She looks over at me. “Jaime, we are proceeding with five rounds of electroshock. This time, we are doubling the intensity and will not go to lowered continuous flow afterward, as we did in the trial.”
I nod and jot down her words in my notebook. She looks satisfied. “If you would like to watch us attach the electrodes, you’re welcome to see how it’s done.”
I step down into the test area and make the rounds with them. They attach the patches to the subjects’ temples with careful, methodical movements, double-checking each other’s work.
I watch for a moment, but find my gaze drawn to the faces of these teenagers I feel I’m beginning to know. Not only have I read through their histories twice, but I’ve been studying their feedback for the last hour. Carefully sketching the chart showing this girl’s heartbeats. Tracing the lines that follow the tension of that boy’s muscles. They are no longer subjects to me. They are people who have lived through difficult circumstances. Kids who have been up against challenges that most teenagers will never have to face. They are people with pasts. And now that I know them more intimately—in some ways—than my own friends, I sincerely hope they will have a future.
“Back to our stations,” Vesper says, and the three of us head for our desks. Like before, Zhu speaks into her microphone, laying out what they are doing along with the date and time. They will be recording every detail of this procedure, and they expect me to do the same. My notes are valuable because I’m not invested in the outcome like they are. Whether or not my testimony can be used in court . . . if things even get that far . . . I am a neutral observer. I am an outside voice that could corroborate the methods they used to the rest of the medical world.
“Administering general anesthetic,” Zhu says as she types a key and the Tower begins to click.
Anesthetic. Of course. Even though they are comatose, they can still feel pain.
I remember seeing my father in the ICU. He had already died, but a respirator was keeping him breathing, so he looked like he was still alive. He had chosen to donate his organs, and the hospital had to keep his body going until the removal procedure took place. “We will give him anesthetic during the surgery . . . of course,” the nurse told me.
“Why?” I asked. “He’s dead.”
“His brain is dead, but his body’s being kept alive artificially. Because of that, many doctors believe anesthetics should be used.”
It was an explanation for the bereaved. For a twelve-year-old. I looked it up years later, and understood why she hadn’t explained further. It was troubling, to say the least. Not that I regret my father’s death having helped some people. But knowing the body still reacts when the brain is dead is hard to take when the person in question is your own father.
These kids are a different case, though. They are comatose, and from interviews held with patients who recovered, pain can be registered—even in the deepest of comas.
My thoughts are interrupted by Vesper’s announcement that he is starting the electroconvulsive current. This time I don’t turn to watch. I saw it before—the flexing of fingers and toes each time the current flowed.
Instead, I watch on my monitor, where you can’t even tell anything is happening. I listen to the static that signals each round, counting until it reaches five.
Zhu speaks into the mic, “Five rounds of electroshock complete.” Vesper switches off the anesthesia and current. The doctors step down into the test area to check on the subjects, removing their electrodes one by one.
As she detaches the pads from Cata’s temples, Zhu says for my benefit, “We will be monitoring their feedback continuously now, but might not see any change for a while.”
I note it down. Finally, when the doctors have settled back in front of their monitors, I click to expand the screen I had minimized and discreetly plug my earbuds into the computer’s audio feed. On my screen, BethAnn lies on her bed, plugged into the Tower, pretrial.
I pop the earbuds in, check the timing on her feedback chart, and drag the scroll bar to 11:25 a.m. I press play.
Chapter 17
Ant
BEFORE MY EYES EVEN HAVE A CHANCE TO OPEN, I hear a chainsaw.
I’ve never seen a chainsaw
in real life. I don’t remember ever having seen one on TV or in the movies. But there are some things you just know, and this sound is unmistakable. The sound bores a hole into my heart: first a tiny hole, then widening until a chasm of fear gapes inside me.
I reach up to pull my earflaps down, but they aren’t there. I need my chullo. Why did I leave it back in the Void? I remember . . . It was getting in the way last time. But I long for it anyway.
I wonder for a second if I can make one materialize before remembering that in the dreams I have no power. Unless, possibly, it’s my dream. And there’s no way my dream involves a chainsaw. I give up and raise my head to look around.
We’re in a log cabin. The room measures approximately ten by fifteen, so one hundred fifty square feet. Door in one end with a standard-sized window on either side. There are two sets of bunk beds—one on either side of the room—and a chest of drawers. A tall white candle sends out a weak glow from a bedside table. A door in the far wall is half-open, showing a dismal-looking bathroom beyond. It smells like heavy-duty mildew, copper pennies, and fear.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” says Sinclair from nearby. He rises to his feet and walks over to the bed, brushing his fingers over the blue-and-white pin-striped pillowcase. He stares straight at Fergus, who is being pulled to his feet by Cata. “Is this Friday the Thirteenth?”
Fergus rubs his forehead tiredly, looks around, and then nods. “Like I said, I watch a lot of horror films.”
“Well, I’ve only watched a few, but I clearly remember Kevin Bacon being stabbed through the neck on this exact bed,” Sinclair says, crouching down and looking cautiously underneath.
“What are you looking for?” Cata asks.
“Jason’s mom . . . or a big-ass snake.” He stands, satisfied. “At least we’ll know what to look out for.”
The sound of the chainsaw grows louder.
