Neverwake

by Amy Plum

Cata shoots him an evil look. “Go on, Ant.”

  “And although the statistics for carnival ride fatalities are extremely low compared to everyday automobile accidents, the fact that someone I don’t trust has my life in their hands is . . .” I can’t finish my sentence because my throat has closed up so tightly. I pull my legs up to me, wrap my arms around them, and put my head down, basically rolling myself into a ball. Hugging myself, as my dad calls it. I squeeze tightly and the frantic beating of my heart begins to calm.

  “You go. She likes you,” I hear Cata whisper. A second later, I feel Fergus sit down next to me. He puts his arm around my shoulders. I don’t flinch.

  “You’re really brave, Ant,” he says, leaning in close to my ear. “You might even be the bravest of all of us.” He picks up my notebook from beside me on the couch. “You’re definitely the smartest. I think you’re doing really, really well. And even though George isn’t here to comfort you, the three of us are. We’re all behind you. We believe in you.”

  It feels like warmth is spreading from his arm through my shoulders, filling me up. Making me feel stronger . . . like George always did. I soak in the comfort for another moment and then look up into his eyes. “Thank you,” I say.

  He gives me a squeeze. “You’re welcome,” he whispers.

  “It should be coming right . . . now,” I say as the knock rings out from all around us, vibrating the air with its hollow wooden sound. The blue lights flicker on to one side of us, and the door appears between them.

  I watch the others’ faces as we gather up the backpacks and weapons. No one seems terrified. We all know what’s coming. Maybe not exactly what, but we know it will be hard. That we will have to fight to survive. We’ve accepted our situation. And we’re in this thing together.

  Chapter 21

  Jaime

  IT’S BEEN AN HOUR SINCE THE DOCTORS APPLIED the five rounds of electroshock. Zhu hovers over Vesper’s shoulder as they inspect the four remaining subjects’ readouts. Although they’re speaking in low voices, I hear enough to understand that they didn’t achieve the result they had hoped for. After the electrodes were removed, the feedback settled rapidly back into what it had been before.

  “The way they’re wearing down, we’re going to have to start targeted life support measures,” Zhu says finally. Vesper reluctantly agrees, and five minutes later a couple of nurses are doing the rounds, anesthetizing the subjects before doing a small surgery on their necks as well as inserting tubes through their noses. These are hooked up to mechanical ventilators plugged into the Tower. I know enough about tracheal intubation to realize that the fact that they’re inserting ventilation through the nose and not through the mouth means the doctors are thinking long-rather than short-term care. Just another sign of their desperation.

  I know they’ll want to update me soon, so I’m rushing to finish the video for Remi. I find the place in the recording where he and Brett begin cardiac arrest. I cut the section, paste it into the film-editing software, and zoom in. This time, Vesper takes up half of the picture, but I still have a clear view of Remi’s face.

  There it is . . . His lips move. I back up, enhance the sound, then press play. I can’t quite tell what he says. Something about saving someone. I back up, jam the earbuds deeper into my ears, and make sure the sound is on maximum. Play.

  This time I can hear. I write down as many words as I can, back up, and play it again, filling in the blanks. A chill creeps up my spine as I read back what I have written.

  “Couldn’t save Brett . . . at least he didn’t die alone . . . hope my family saw that I tried.”

  Those were Remi’s dying words. Oh my God. This was about the survivor’s guilt mentioned in his file. Remi couldn’t save his family. He felt guilty being the only one to live through the massacre. He couldn’t let that happen again. So he died in one of their dreams trying to save Brett. I am shaken to my core. I feel like throwing up.

  But this is it. This is the evidence I need to get the researchers to listen to me.

  I put the earbuds down and gather my papers together as Zhu and Vesper walk over to my desk. “Okay, Jaime. Please write this down however you wish. Seeing that the subjects’ feedback has continued to decline since the last rounds of electroshock, Dr. Vesper and I decided to opt for basic life support. We have given them nasotracheal intubation for oxygen and put them on transvenous cardiac pacing, which is like a temporary pacemaker. They are already, of course, on artificial nutrition and hydration by intravenous feeding.”

  Zhu makes this speech with a tone of resignation. She waits for me to write it down. Instead, I summon my courage and look them in the eyes. “What’s next?” I ask.

  They seem surprised by my directness, but Vesper answers, “We are beginning discussions on our next step, conferring—as we have this whole time—with several of our esteemed colleagues.”

  I pull out my charts. “May I show you something I have been looking at?”

  “Of course,” says Zhu, leaning in to see. Vesper looks at me warily.

  “Using the feedback charts that you gave me access to through the server, I consolidated all seven subjects’ data onto one chart for each category of feedback,” I point to the heart rate chart. “Each color stands for a different subject.”

  “Very good, Jaime,” Zhu says. “That’s exactly what we do at the end of a trial once all feedback has been recorded. Except, of course, it’s the computer that does the work for us.” She smiles encouragingly. “I’m sure your supervising professor will be very impressed by your work.”

  She runs her fingers over the up-and-down lines, which get weaker with each period of activity. “You’ve illustrated very nicely how the subjects’ bodies are tiring over time.”

  She begins to turn away. “Uh, that’s not why I made the charts,” I say, rushing my words. “I made them to show you something.”

  She turns back to me. Vesper hasn’t moved, but now he’s crossing his arms, as if waiting for something unpleasant.

  “When I looked closer at the lengths of time for the periods of accelerated and lowered feedback, I found a pattern.” Zhu and Vesper are silent, waiting.

  I pull out the time chart and place it on top of the feedback. “You see, starting after the first electroshocks, the period of heightened activity was fifty minutes. The next time it was fifty-one. And the next fifty-two, and so on. And, inversely, the periods where the feedback returns to normal have been getting shorter. They began at twenty minutes, and have been reducing by a minute each time.”

  Zhu picks up the time chart and looks between it and the feedback analysis. “Well, that is intriguing,” she says. “It’s definitely something we will look at . . . most probably due to some sort of glitch that occurred in the Tower during the earthquake. Perhaps a power surge that was integrated into the bodies’ metabolism. How very interesting.”

  “And disturbing,” Vesper adds. “It means that the subjects are quickly moving to a point where their vital signs will be continually elevated. We will need to consider that in planning where we go next.”

  “Yes,” I say, relieved. “That’s exactly what I was thinking.”

  “Well, Jaime, I am very impressed,” Zhu says. “You were able to see something that Dr. Vesper and I hadn’t noticed . . . or at least hadn’t concentrated on because we were so concerned with the current status of the subjects. It is something we wouldn’t have seen until afterward, so I am glad that we had a third set of eyes and ears here, free to concentrate on the details we couldn’t.”

  “Yes, well, I think it is more important than that,” I say, feeling my chest tighten in anxiety. The doctors look at me quizzically. Here goes nothing.

  “You see, I think that the periods of heightened feedback correspond with REM sleep. I think that the subjects are dreaming for long periods of time punctuated with short periods of NREM sleep.”

  The doctors stare at me in shock. “Jaime,” Zhu begins, “we’ve been over this before. The sub
jects can’t be in REM sleep. Their brain waves are in delta. Comatose brains do not dream.”

  “But I have proof!” I turn to my monitor and click on the file on my desktop holding the video with BethAnn’s last words. “BethAnn spoke to me before she died. So did Fergus!”

  The file won’t open. My hand is shaking so badly that I’m clicking and nothing’s happening.

  “What are you talking about?” Zhu’s voice is suddenly cold.

  “Not that again!” says Vesper.

  “But if you’ll just watch . . .” I say, clicking desperately on the file.

  “Jaime, calm down. What are you trying to tell us?” asks Zhu in a strained voice.

  It’s now or never.

  “I know this sounds crazy. But I believe that when the earthquake hit, the sudden loss and then surge of electrical charge threw the subjects into a shared state of consciousness. One in which they are living inside each other’s dreams. If you heard what BethAnn said . . . and Fergus . . .”

  “Jaime, do you even hear yourself?” Zhu says in a dangerously quiet voice.

  “Fergus said that the nightmares are killing them. It’s right there in the video.” I click again—no luck.

  “Jaime.” Vesper’s voice drips poison. “What you are saying is completely insane. It is beyond the bounds of science or reason.”

  “All I’m asking is that you watch what I recorded. And that we reset the brain-wave monitor. I think it either got damaged in the blackout, or that this state of consciousness they’re experiencing is something that hasn’t been recorded before. That the monitor can’t pick up.”

  “That is QUITE ENOUGH!” yells Zhu.

  “Get out,” says Vesper, pointing at the door. “Don’t you realize how much strain we’ve both been under? Spitting out your science fiction fantasies when we are in the midst of a life-or-death crisis just will not do. Out!”

  “But Mr. Osterman said . . .” I begin, grasping for straws.

  “I don’t give a shit what Mr. Osterman says,” Dr. Vesper growls. “This is our trial. And you are no longer a valuable contributor, as an observer or anything else. All it would take is for me to repeat what you just said, and any evidence you gave about the test would be rendered invalid.”

  “But you can’t . . .” I gasp. “I have to help them!”

  “We will help them,” Zhu says, turning her back to me and walking to her computer. “And you will help us by gathering your things and leaving the building at once. Good-bye.”

  Chapter 22

  Cata

  WE STAND FACING OUTWARD, ARMS LINKED, IN the middle of a street in what looks like a picture-perfect middle-class suburb. Kids’ bikes lay on their side in one yard, and a basketball net is attached above a two-car garage in the next. Perfectly proportioned trees, meticulously trimmed around power lines, cast shade upon lush green lawns. We have landed in the least dangerous-looking place possible.

  But just as I begin to let my guard down, a horrible noise starts screeching from all around. It’s like a hundred violin strings being played with bows strung with sandpaper, over and over again: skreek . . . skreek . . . skreek. It sounds straight off the soundtrack of a horror film. I drop my hold on Sinclair and shove my palms against my ears.

  On my other side, Ant crouches into a squat, squeezing her eyes shut and pressing her head between her hands.

  “What is that?” Fergus yells.

  Sinclair stands there, hands by his side, staring at us like we’re all crazy.

  “Don’t you hear that?” I yell.

  He nods. “Of course I do!” and claps his hands to his ears.

  Keeping my ears covered, I move out of the street to the sidewalk. The noise decreases just a tiny bit. The others follow me, Fergus dropping a hand to put his arm around Ant and help her out of the street. Sinclair ignores us and walks toward the other side of the road.

  “I think we should go this way,” he says. I can barely hear him over the screeching.

  “Why?” I yell.

  “To get away from the noise,” he says, casting an uncomfortable glance around the neighborhood.

  I shrug and move toward him, but the noise gets exponentially louder with each step. I dash back to where Fergus and Ant huddle on the sidewalk. The noise gets softer. I shake my head at Sinclair. “Not that way,” I yell.

  The screeching is so loud and high-pitched that my eyes are watering. I hunch over and head toward the next street, but the noise gets louder. I start back toward Fergus and Ant, and it gets softer. On a hunch, I step up onto the grass of the yard and the noise lessens. Another step up the lawn, and it lessens more.

  “This way!” I say, and though I hear Sinclair shouting something from behind me, I make my way toward the house at the top of the lawn. With each step the pain lessens, until I’m heading up a set of brick stairs to the front porch of the house. I drop my hands and wave the others toward me. “It’s better here!” I yell.

  As they make their way over, they straighten from their defensive crouches. “What the hell?” Fergus asks, looking confounded.

  “I wonder if it’s some sort of alarm,” I ask. “Like a hurricane warning or something.”

  “It wouldn’t get softer by us just moving across the yard,” Fergus responds.

  “It’s the dream,” Ant says, looking like she’s trying not to cry. She blinks back tears, frowning at the yard like she can see the noise. “It’s directing us.”

  “Are you okay?” I ask her.

  She’s still covering her ears even though the noise is no longer at an earsplitting level. “I’m oversensitive to auditory stimulation, especially high-pitched repetitive sounds.”

  “Why didn’t you bring the hat? It helps, doesn’t it?” I ask.

  She nods. “And it squeezed my head. That makes me feel safe. Like the gloves. They squeeze my hands.” She sighs and her gaze drops. “I know that sounds weird.”

  “Weird is good,” I say. “All my friends are weird. Normal people are boring.”

  She smiles and answers my previous question. “I took them off as we went through the door. They got in the way in the other dreams.”

  “Does the noise still hurt?”

  She nods. I take a step toward the door, and the sound gets lighter. “I think you’re right,” I say. “We’re meant to go inside.”

  “What?” Sinclair asks incredulously. “We don’t know what’s in there. The other nightmares haven’t been exactly kind to us. Why should this one be any different?” He has this are-you-stupid-or-what? expression on his face that makes me want to smack him.

  “This is the first time it’s felt like we were being led in any particular direction,” I say. “Plus, I’m not going back out there. It’s torture.”

  Fergus is already trying the door. He taps the doorknob in case it’s booby-trapped like in my dream. When nothing happens, he touches it again lightly and then twists, leaning back in case something horrific is about to leap out. Instead, the door swings open to show a well-decorated living room.

  “They leave their bikes in the yard and their front doors unlocked. This must be a safe neighborhood,” I say.

  Ant just stares at Fergus, hands still over her ears. The noise continues at the same rhythm, skreek skreek skreek, but as we step over the threshold, it gets softer.

  “Unless this is a trap, we seem to be going the right way,” says Fergus. He waves us forward.

  “It’s got to be a trap,” says Sinclair.

  “Yeah, well, we’ll keep our eyes open,” replies Fergus, not even looking at him. He’s been ignoring Sinclair ever since he made fun of Ant in the Void, and I can’t say that I blame him.

  Ant drops her hands from her ears, but still looks uncomfortable. She peers back over her shoulder at the front door, shuffles away from the living room into an open-plan kitchen, and breathes a sigh of relief. “Better.”

  Fergus passes her, walking through the kitchen to a hallway beyond. “This way,” he says, and we follow.
Sinclair groans in protest, but no one pays attention.

  Fergus places his fingers on a doorknob on one side of the hallway, and I touch another. “Louder,” we say simultaneously, and continue down the hallway. I grab the doorknob on the right, and the noise cuts out completely. “Here,” I say, and twist the door handle.

  The room is as much a stereotype for teenage girl as the neighborhood is for middle-class suburbia. One wall is monopolized by a bulletin board with dried flowers, movie tickets, summer camp photos, and piano recital programs skewered haphazardly across its surface with colorful thumbtacks. Substitute the people in the photos for me and my friends, and the one in my old bedroom was practically identical.

  There are a couple of band posters, some vintage-print curtains with pink poodles, and a full-sized white wooden bed with matching bedside table, dresser, desk, and chair. A huge fluffy blue oval rug takes up the rest of the floor space, and I can imagine the room’s inhabitant lying sprawled across its soft faux fur while she talked on the phone or read.

  “The screeching sound is gone,” Ant remarks.

  “This must be where the dream wants us,” Fergus responds. “But why?”

  “Well, since we don’t have to run for our lives for once, we should take our time and look around,” I suggest. “Besides, the sound might come back if we leave.”

  “I think this is all a bad idea,” says Sinclair. He flinches when I look at him, and walks across the room to look out the window. “How do we know that the dream isn’t doing something malevolent? Like drawing us into the most dangerous place by reducing the beeping?”

  “All I know,” says Fergus, looking away from where he’s inspecting the bulletin board, “is that if you prefer to go back out into that noise, you’re either stupid or deaf.”

  He carefully pulls a thumbtack out of one of the pictures and brings it over. “Judging from the fact that this girl is in all of the photos, I’m guessing the room must be hers.”

  He points to a dark-haired girl with thick bangs standing between two other girls. She’s pretty in a wholesome kind of way. Not too much makeup. Freckles.