by Amy Plum
A lightning bolt of pain shoots through my shoulder, and I cry out. The three huddle around me. “One of them bit her!” Sinclair explains and, taking my arm, drags me to my feet.
Ant looks at me with scared eyes. “Can you walk?” she asks.
I wobble but take a step forward.
“Here, lean on me,” Fergus says. Draping my good arm across his shoulder, he wraps his arm around my waist, and, supporting most of my weight, he propels me forward.
“The Wall’s just past there,” Ant yells, pointing to a bar called the Brown Derby.
We round the corner to see the Wall bisecting the entire two floors of the mall. It has cut the Craft Showcase and the Card Shoppe in half, and the stores beyond have disappeared. A crowd of several dozen zombies writhes in front of it, clawing at its invisible force field as enthusiastically as if it were hiding a mountain of brains. Unlike in the other dreams, the populace of this nightmare seems to see the Wall just fine.
“Oh. My. God,” Sinclair says.
“Can you sweep them out of the way like you did with the popcorn cart?” Ant asks.
Fergus focuses on the wall of zombies, but nothing happens. “I think I used up my superpowers back there. Maybe it was better that I didn’t have time to think about it.”
“We have to shoot our way through,” says Sinclair. He swings two guns that were strapped behind him around to his chest and wedges them under his arms, putting a finger on each trigger. “Dual wield.” He chortles.
“You are enjoying this way too much,” Fergus says, shaking his head.
“If we have to fight our way past a wall of zombies, we might as well have fun doing it!” Sinclair says.
Even Ant holds her golf club up like she’s ready to smash some heads.
“We just have to push through them. It doesn’t matter if we get bitten, since we’ll be fine on the other side,” Fergus says.
“Can you put a gun in my right hand?” I ask. He pulls my last remaining gun around so that it’s supported on the strap, and I thread my finger through the trigger.
The third and final boom comes from all around us, shattering the chandeliers and glass storefronts and knocking half of the zombies off their feet.
“Go!” Ant yells, and the four of us barrel toward the line of undead. As they hear us coming, they turn and refocus their efforts from clawing at the invisible barrier to surging toward us.
I run with my left arm around Fergus’s neck and my gun in my right hand. He’s got one hand around my waist and shoots a steady stream of bullets with the other. Ant follows from behind, bashing any zombies we don’t clear, and Sinclair is to our right, spraying back and forth with his two guns.
We’re basically unstoppable. Or at least, I think so, until we’re on the verge of pressing through the Wall and Fergus comes to a complete stop. The wind is whipping around us, and the zombies’ clothes are flapping around as they stagger backward. But one stands stock-still in front of us, ice pick in hand and eyes rolled back in his head.
“Don’t shoot him!” Fergus yells.
Beside us, Sinclair’s momentum carries him through the Wall, whooping and shooting both of his guns as he disappears.
“Fergus! Get us through!” I say, loosening my grip on his neck, ready to pitch myself forward. But Ant comes up from behind, and swinging her club back, hits Ice Pick Zombie with full force. The top of his head splatters, pieces of it flying into our faces. I feel a small hand on my back, shoving me hard through the Wall. As we fall forward into the darkness, I hear Fergus say, “Dad.”
Chapter 19
Jaime
THERE IT IS, AT 11:26 A.M. SUBJECT THREE—BethAnn—moves her head slightly to the right, and a second later begins to thrash from side to side, eyes squeezed shut, face a rictus of pain.
I hear myself in the microphone mounted in the Tower just under BethAnn’s camera. “Dr. Vesper!” My voice comes from far away. A loud beeping noise can be heard—the emergency signal of the heart rate monitor.
In a slightly hysterical voice, Dr. Vesper calls, “What the hell?”
And there I am, appearing beside BethAnn, leaning over her, but thankfully not blocking her face from the camera.
Her hands fly up to her chest, pressing on her heart. “She’s going into cardiac arrest!” Vesper’s voice comes from nearby.
“What should I do?” My voice is frantic.
BethAnn’s eyes pop open. I pause the video and note down the time.
11:28:10—Subject 3 conscious
I play with the image to see if I can enlarge it. Nope.
I tap open the computer’s system file and look through the applications. Yes! There is a basic movie-editing application that came with the computer. I open it up. It’s enough like iMovie that I’m able to figure it out, and within moments I have imported five minutes of the video and zoomed in on BethAnn’s face.
I start the video back up, beginning at the point where she opens her eyes. My head is in the corner of the shot, and she is clearly focusing straight on me. Her mouth moves, and her eyes take on an expression of pure horror.
I scroll back and turn the sound up to the max. Her voice comes through my earbuds as a strained whisper, but the words are completely recognizable.
“Am I still . . . in Africa? Did Ant make it? The soldiers . . . guns . . . genocide . . .” She’s making a huge effort to get each word out.
Vesper appears by my side and takes her by the shoulders. “BethAnn. Do you hear me?” But her eyes are now fixed on the ceiling, unseeing.
The heart rate monitor goes into flatline. Vesper checks her eyes and puts his ear to her chest. He begins CPR and says, “Call nine again, Jaime. Tell them we need a defibrillator down here now!”
I stop the video and, with the video-editing software, save and export this portion to the desktop. I run back through it again, writing down each word as she speaks.
Africa. Soldiers. Genocide. Those are all a part of Remi’s past. Did BethAnn get shot in Remi’s dream? And what did she mean about ants? I back up. “Did Ant make it?” Ant, not ants. Ant . . . and then it dawns on me. I shuffle through the test file to subject six. Antonia Gates. Could BethAnn mean her?
I open a window and search Facebook. There are a couple of Antonia Gateses, but they are much older than the thirteen-year-old. Same for Twitter. Maybe her parents don’t let her have social media accounts. I Google “Antonia Gates,” glance at her profile in the test file, and add “Princeton, New Jersey.”
Several articles pop up, all concerning awards she’s won. A mathematics prize. President’s Award for Educational Excellence. Prizes at science fairs, regional and state. I click into one of them, which starts with:
New Jersey high school student wins $70,000 for science fair project on neurological factors in attention deficit disorder. Antonia (who prefers to go by “Ant”) Gates impressed science fair judges and respected researchers in the field with her work exploring the connection between the areas of the brain that deal with language . . .
I stop there. She prefers to go by Ant. BethAnn wanted to know if Ant made it. Antonia was there in a dream fabricated by Remi’s mind. A dream about the traumatic incidents in his past. About the African genocide that robbed him of his family.
I am numb all over. I can’t feel my hands. I was right: they’re conscious, and they’re together.
The door to the lab opens. I pull my earbuds out and turn around. Mr. Osterman and a professional-looking man in his twenties, looking even more business formal than the director in tailored suit, tie, and silk pocket triangle, walk into the lab.
Mr. Osterman gives me a distracted thumbs-up and goes to confer with Zhu and Vesper. The other man walks up to me and places a bottle of San Pellegrino water and a bag of organic whole wheat crackers on my desk. I begin to stand, but he waves me back into my chair, squatting down, lowering himself to my level. “Hi, Jaime. I’m Jonathan, Mr. Osterman’s assistant. How are you doing?”
“Uh, I’m
fine,” I say, caught off guard by the attention.
“This has got to have been a traumatic day for you, Jaime. I can’t even imagine.” He makes a face like he’s trying to imagine, but it’s just too traumatic, so he gives up and shakes his head, pressing his lips together in feigned empathy. “Did you have some lunch?”
“Yes, I went outside and ate just a little while ago.”
“Good. Good,” he says, scanning my desktop and focusing in on my charts and notebook. “I see you’ve been hard at work. My boss tells me you’ve agreed to record everything that’s happening in your own words, and I just want to tell you how grateful we are for that.”
I nod, rendered speechless by his fawning.
“I just wanted to say that you should feel free to call me, or even Mr. Osterman himself, if you prefer, with any questions or concerns you might have. We are one hundred percent at your disposal. I brought you a snack here,” he says, gesturing to the water and crackers. “Let me know if you need anything else. I realize this will be a long day for you and want you to be completely comfortable.” His face is so close to mine that I notice a red puffiness between his eyebrows. He plucks his unibrow, I realize.
“Thank you,” I screw my face into an expression of intense seriousness. He seems to appreciate that and, standing, gives me a companionable clap on the shoulder. I have the uncontrollable urge to shudder from his touch—I’ve always had a low tolerance for insincerity—but restrain myself.
I wait until he and Osterman leave the lab before slipping my earbuds back in. I pull up the video of Fergus and, checking my time chart, drag the scroll bar to 2:50 p.m.
There it is: Fergus ripping out his IV tube with his left hand and his right hand flying to his chest. I see myself, a minute later, appearing at his side. He holds his fist over his heart, looking like he’s trying to yank out an invisible object that’s lodged in his chest before giving up and letting his hand drop to the side.
There I am, glancing back and forth between the defibrillator and the door—trying to decide whether to give him a shock or wait for Zhu, I remember. And then Fergus’s eyes open and he looks around the room in panic. His eyes fix on me, and his lips move.
I select the area of video, import it into the movie-editing software, and zoom in, enhancing the sound. I press play. “Help me,” Fergus wheezes.
“Fergus, can you hear me?” I ask.
Fergus nods. “Did BethAnn make it?” He can barely get the words out. It sounds like he’s drowning.
“BethAnn . . . She died,” I hear myself say.
Fergus squeezes his eyes shut and says, “It’s the dreams. They’re killing us.”
I stop the video. Save and export. There’s no way the researchers can dispute this evidence. But before I show them, I have one more to go. Vesper said it looked like Remi was trying to talk before he died. I open Remi’s video window, scroll forward to 4:57 p.m., and press play.
Chapter 20
Ant
“IT WORKED! FERGUS, YOU MANIPULATED REALITY in your dream!”
We are back in the Void, assembled on the couches, which we’ve pulled together into a tight group of four. I try not to fixate on the other two, stranded by themselves outside the circle. They look wrong there. I want to turn them around so their backs are to us.
Fergus was looking at me weirdly when we arrived in the Void. Like it was him who I had bashed in the head right before coming through and not a creepy old-man zombie. He’s looking more normal now, as he runs his fingers through his hair and shakes his head in amazement. “I can’t believe it worked.”
“Well, you must have believed it, or it wouldn’t have worked,” I say.
“That was seriously kick-ass,” confirms Sinclair. “What did you have to do?”
“Well, like Ant said, I cleared my mind, even though I obviously couldn’t give it my full concentration. But once I saw the popcorn cart start shaking, I actually began to believe I could move it. And as soon as I believed it, the thing just went flying across the space to hit the doors.”
“That totally makes sense,” says Cata, nodding thoughtfully. She takes Fergus’s hand in hers and squeezes, and for some reason I want to hug them both. Not that I ever would. But it just seems like the right thing to do in reaction to the unidentifiable emotion I’m feeling right now. I block it out and try to focus on what we need.
“Okay, well, now that we’re sure that it works, we should try to guess what’s coming next and get ready for it,” I say. “But we just used one of our minutes. Only ten to go.”
“If the Dreamfall is alternating between our dreams, then who is left?” Cata asks.
I get out my notebook and read out loud.
“‘Dream one—we all had our own dreams then saw each other at the end, so that doesn’t really count.
“‘Dream two—Cave with slime lake and monsters—Fergus
“‘Dream three—Genocide in the African village—Remi
“‘Dream four—Graveyard and coffin—Unknown
“‘Dream five—Cathedral and crypt—Cata
“‘Dream six—Circus—Ant
“‘Dream seven—Alleyway with dead horses, subway, and asylum—Brett
“‘Dream eight—Militant rebel camp in jungle—Remi
“‘Dream nine—Skinless man and scary house—Cata
“‘Dream ten—Horror movie mash-up—Fergus,’” I say slowly as I jot the last entry down. I add them up. “That’s two for Fergus, two for Remi, two for Cata, one for Brett, one for me, none for BethAnn, none for Sinclair.”
Fergus looks strangely at Sinclair. “You haven’t had a dream yet?”
“I told you, I never remember my dreams,” Sinclair responds defensively.
“So the graveyard dream could be yours,” Cata suggests.
“It could also be BethAnn’s or Brett’s,” Sinclair says.
Fergus shakes his head. “Too lucid for Brett. And it couldn’t be BethAnn’s. She was already dead.”
“We haven’t proven that,” Sinclair says, holding up a finger. “There’s just as much of a chance that she’s alive as she is dead, as we discussed. And if she’s alive, she could still be mentally linked to us.”
“George didn’t have any dreams because she was imaginary. Maybe that means you’re imaginary too,” Cata says jokingly.
Sinclair rolls his eyes.
“I didn’t see you at the informational meeting,” I say, flipping to his page in the notebook.
“What informational meeting?” he asks.
“The one we had a week before the experiment,” I respond. “I’ve remembered seeing some of you there. I saw Remi sitting with his aunt.” I flip a page back. “I saw a man and woman sitting together alone, who I’m guessing were Brett’s parents since he was probably too sick to come.” I turn another page. “I think I saw you, Cata. Were you with a blond woman who didn’t look anything like you?”
Cata looks surprised, and then nods. “That would be Barbara. My mom’s best friend. She became my legal guardian after I . . . left home.”
Fergus gets this strange look on his face, like he’s trying to latch on to an idea that’s just beyond his grasp. And then his eyebrows shoot up. “I remember you, Cata! I met you at the meeting. You were sitting one seat over from me.”
And all of a sudden, it’s like a switch flips and Cata gets all excited too. “Yes! You were on my right. You had these dark circles around your eyes and a big bruise on your chin. And you were trying to chat with me while a doctor gave a presentation on a stage below us. You were sitting with this beautiful Indian woman.”
“That would be my mom,” he says with a grin. “And you were joking about how we should hold each other’s hands while they fried our brains.”
Sinclair’s face is turning red. And although I can’t read his expression, he is obviously not enjoying Cata and Fergus’s bonding moment. “Well, I don’t remember any of you,” he says.
“You don’t remember your dreams. You
don’t remember the informational meeting. What kind of insomnia goes along with amnesia, Ant?” Fergus asks.
I click my pen five times (my hat and gloves were waiting for me when we got back, and I’m embarrassed to say that slipping them back on felt like reuniting with old friends). “Well, sleep deprivation can lead to amnesia . . .” I begin.
“That wasn’t a real question,” Fergus replies, smiling.
“Oh,” I say, and read his smile as friendly, not sarcastic. I smile back.
“All of these warm fuzzies are making me nauseous,” says Sinclair, scowling. “Can we get on to something more productive since we only have a few minutes left?”
“Four,” I specify.
He ignores me. “The people who have had fewer than two dreams so far are Ant and Brett, and the people who have had no dreams are BethAnn and me. I don’t remember my dreams, so I can’t be of help. BethAnn and Brett are beyond asking. So, Ant, it’s up to you to tell us what might be coming.”
“Well, like I said before, I’ve got the robber who gives me a lethal shot in the nose, a nest of deadly snakes under my bed, and a scary house with ax-wielding ghosts. Dentists and/or terrorists pulling out my teeth. We did the clowns one already.” I think for a moment. “There’s the carnival dream.”
“Carnival?” Cata asks.
“Yeah. I went to the state fair once, and it scared me so badly I’ve had nightmares about it ever since.” I click my pen five times and pull my earflaps lower.
“What about it scared you?” Fergus asks. Though I half expected him to think it was funny, his face is all seriousness.
“The rides,” I say. “The guys who run the rides.”
“Yeah, they always look like they’re either drunk or just got out of prison,” remarks Cata.
“Or both,” confirms Sinclair.
I take a deep breath. “If you haven’t noticed, one of my ‘quirks,’ as my mom calls it, is control. I don’t like to be out of control.”
“You don’t say,” murmurs Sinclair.
