by Anna Carey
“Help! My house is on fire! Please, you—can you call the fire department?” he yelled. I smiled and took off running, pretending he wasn’t talking to me. “You—the girl in the plaid dress! The one with the blue purse! Please, stop! Help me!”
If it wasn’t obvious before, it was now. I doubled my pace, turning right and taking off down another street. I was almost at the next corner when the Land Rover slowed beside me, then pulled over to the curb. It all happened so fast I barely had time to process it. Patrick Kramer leaned over and opened the passenger door.
“You look like you need a ride,” he said. “Come on, get in.”
“No thanks.”
I crossed the street and tried to lose him. There was no way I was getting in a car with Patrick Kramer. He’d probably drive me to some secluded spot and force me into a conversation about Sara’s death, or try to get me to confide in him. He’d want me to cry, and he’d definitely want to see the box she’d hidden. They needed to know what was inside it.
The Land Rover pulled to the other side of the street, trailing me. This time Patrick threw it into park and hopped out.
“Just get in,” he said. “I know what happened with Sara.”
He reached for my elbow, trying to guide me toward the car, but I wheeled back, punching him hard in the chest. He leaned against the front of the car. I raised my fist again and he flinched.
“Do not touch me, I’m serious,” I said.
“Shit, Jess. I’m not trying to hurt you,” he said, putting his hand over his heart. “I want to come with you. I want out of the set.”
“What?” I said. “You’re lying.”
“I’m trapped here, just like you.”
“Riiiiiiiight. Did they kill off your sister too? Or, while your sister was dying but not really dying, did they replace your dog, probably the only authentic creature in this entire set? Did your parents spend their entire lives lying to you so they could create a picture-perfect family for some messed up reality show?” I rolled my eyes, rethinking what he’d said. “And if you’ve been trapped, why didn’t you try to get out before now? You think I’m stupid enough to believe this?”
“Because there wasn’t a way before this. Come on, we don’t have much time. They’re coming for you. You should at least believe me on that.” My expression must’ve been flat because he grabbed both my shoulders and squeezed, as if that alone could get a reaction from me. “Look—I know you think I’m boring, and narcissistic, and obsessed with what happened at the Empire State Building, but I’m not. My name isn’t even Patrick. It’s Kipps Martin!”
Sirens wailed in the distance. When I turned to look down the street, I saw a SWICKLEY ALARMS car coming toward us, a small, pathetic red light blinking on its roof.
He ran back to the driver’s side of the Land Rover, leaving me there. The patrol car sped closer. It wasn’t a choice—I had to believe him. I climbed in and fastened my seatbelt, relieved when he hit the gas.
24
“Where were you going?” Patrick (Kipps?) asked as he made a U-turn and drove in the opposite direction of the SWICKLEY ALARMS car. He was already trying to lose them—he was smart, at least.
“Please pull over,” the driver’s voice boomed through a loudspeaker. That small, pathetic light flicked around as the man did an awkward three-point turn, knocking over some garbage cans.
“Arden Place. It’s that—”
“Dead end. Yeah, I know it. Why there?”
“I don’t know?” I fumbled for the lyric book just as Kipps took another hard turn, squishing me against the passenger door. “Something about a red house…that doesn’t mean anything to you?”
“I think part of that street is along the outside wall of the set. She might be leading you to an exit. But I don’t know how she thought you’d get there alone. They are not happy.”
He checked the rearview mirror as two bicyclists appeared and went all Tour de France on us. Another SWICKLEY ALARMS car came down the block. The driver rolled down his window and waved, signaling Kipps to pull over, but Kipps just gave him a thumbs-up and kept driving.
“You’re going fifty,” I said, but before I could finish the sentence the speedometer passed it. Fifty-two, fifty-five…
“We have one chance, and this is it,” Kipps said, his eyes moving from the rearview mirror to the intersection in front of us. A young mother pushed a double stroller across the street. Kipps didn’t even slow down.
I kept thinking he’d brake, he was obviously going to brake, but we were heading right toward them and if anything, he was speeding up. The woman had headphones on, her Walkman clipped to her belt. As she stooped down to tie her shoe she let go of the stroller and it drifted further out into the intersection, right in our path. It was in the middle of the street and she still hadn’t noticed.
“Kipps—you’re going to hit it. You have to stop. Kipps. Kipps!”
But he didn’t stop. He just swerved, clipping the front of the stroller, exploding it into a dozen pieces. I turned back, my breath trapped in my chest. The mother screamed over the pile of blankets and twisted plastic.
“Pull the car over, I want to get out,” I said.
“You didn’t recognize her?” Kipps took a turn so hard I thought the Land Rover would flip. “She’s the cashier at Sassy Shoes. And Principal Haverford’s wife. And the Swickley Times reporter who interviewed me at school, and who knows what else. Fake—it’s all fake. They probably didn’t even bother to put dolls in there.”
I turned back but the woman was already out of view. The bicyclists and SWICKLEY ALARMS cars were still there, racing to catch up with us. I pulled open the glove compartment and took out the Land Rover’s user manual. When I thumbed through the pages they were all blank. The cover was a color print pasted onto a notebook.
“You think that’s Mr. Rutherford’s place? That crazy old guy?” Kipps said as we sped past the broken-down house on the corner of Fox Lane and Route 24. The shutters were peeling and plaid sheets were tacked to either side of the windows, creating makeshift curtains. I’d seen kids throwing rocks at it just the other day. “That’s technical support. You need an extra camera placed or a rush set decoration, you go to the bathroom at the gas station. The third stall, the one that always has the OUT OF ORDER sign on it—there’s a door that leads right into Rutherford’s backyard.”
It was the only EXXON in town. I had the sudden memory of Kristen pumping gas one morning on our way to school. I’d just unbuckled my seatbelt when she asked me where I was going. Ew, that bathroom’s disgusting, she’d said. I can’t believe Amber uses it. Just wait until homeroom. But I didn’t listen. I walked in as Amber was coming out of the OUT OF ORDER stall. She looked surprised, then nervous, then said something about checking to make sure it was still broken.
“Fortune House,” I said, remembering the Chinese food place on Arbor Mist Road that had been closed for over a decade. “It was never a restaurant.”
“That’s the production headquarters for the show. Like-Life Productions—they have a few shows on now. This is the flagship.”
“Chris Arnold,” I said, realizing. “There’s no way that guy is sixteen. He’s like the abominable snowman. He looks like he’s in his thirties.”
“I think he’s twenty-nine. And yeah, he and Amber actually dated in real life. Only he cheated on her with Queenie Mar, this pop legend. It was a whole thing.”
“But you’re…”
“You think I’d stay here if I was eighteen? Four hundred and eleven days until my birthday. It’s not like I’m counting and re-counting, or in a perpetual state of anxiety over it.” Arden Place, the dead-end Sara had led us to, was just a block away. It didn’t matter that the SWICKLEY ALARMS cars were still tailing us, that every time we slowed just a little bit the bicyclists reappeared in the rearview, their fingers flitting to their ears, whispering…
what? Updating the producers on where we were?
I fumbled through my purse and pulled out the small round gray thing.
“This was in the box.”
“A key fob,” he said.
“There must be a door, then. That’s where she’s leading us. The red house, the maple tree…maybe something behind it?”
“It’s possible, but I’ve only ever gone out an exit on the east side, and that was over four years ago. In that strip mall with the Baskin-Robbins? The adult video store has a back room—”
He was looking at me when we heard the series of quick, sudden pops. Then the rush of air as it left the tires. I turned back and saw a rubber strip on the road behind us. It kind of looked like a speed bump, but with knifelike blades angled back, ready for destruction. Both alarm vehicles slammed on the brakes before hitting it.
“Shit.” Kipps pounded his fists on the steering wheel as the Land Rover rolled forward, then stopped. “We’ll have to run. Take everything, let’s go.”
I didn’t move at first. Kipps was already out of the car, already sprinting ahead, but I watched the rearview, wondering how far they’d go to keep us from leaving. I just sat there, frozen.
Kipps yelled something, and his voice brought me back.
This was it. If I was going, I had to go—now.
The cul-de-sac was visible ahead. As we got closer a huge man came toward us, walking a Rottweiler. He must’ve been six five, his hair gelled up in the front. The bicyclists who’d trailed us for so long had stopped back at the rubber strip and were now jogging toward us. We were surrounded.
“Which house?” Kipps said, as we turned into Arden Place. “Where?”
I nodded to the one that stood in the center of the horseshoe, directly in front of us, not wanting to be obvious. But Kipps didn’t get it. It took me darting ahead for him to follow. When I turned back, glancing over my shoulder, the man with the Rottweiler fumbled with its leash, then dropped it, and the dog chased after us.
“Come on, move,” I said, willing Kipps to go faster. The house’s backyard was fenced in, and I focused on the tall, latched gate, hoping we’d make it. Somewhere behind us, the SWICKLEY ALARMS car started up again.
“Stop where you are. Please await instructions.”
I made it through the gate first, keeping it open just enough so Kipps could slip into the yard. He was almost inside when the dog reached us and bit onto the back of his jeans. It got the tiniest bit of fabric, but it was enough that we struggled, pushing the gate to block it, then finally ripping free. The thing jumped and barked, its claws scraping against the other side of the fence.
“I don’t even know what a maple tree looks like,” I said, scanning the backyard. There were three big trees, and a pile of firewood in the corner.
“That one, it has to be,” Kipps said, pointing to a larger one with reddish leaves. When we got to the trunk it had that same strange, plastic feel as the fake ones in the park. I took out the gray key, or fob, or whatever it was called, and pressed the button on the top of it. A stream of light shot out a pinhole in the front.
I scanned the light over the front of the tree, thinking it must connect somewhere. It wasn’t working. I pulled out the lyric book and pressed it into Kipp’s hand.
“There’s a code, you start from the back,” I tried, but when I glanced over my shoulder I saw the two bicyclists coming toward the fence. The dog was still snarling against the gate, and it was only a matter of time before its owner reached it and set it after us again. “It should tell us the next thing after the maple tree. Maybe it says how to open it, where to put the key.”
Kipps thumbed through the book, trying to parse out the last of what Sara was trying to tell me, but it all felt so useless. It didn’t work. Whatever this key was, it wasn’t the right one, it didn’t match up. Or I’d misread the code somehow.
“Come on, please,” I whispered under my breath.
There was nothing after this. I couldn’t just pretend for the next year, waking up each day and going to school inside the set, as if this was all normal. I couldn’t wait until I was eighteen to leave. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to end.
“Kipps Martin,” a voice called from outside. “Leave Jessica alone. Come to the front of the house immediately.”
“This is fucked,” Kipps said, and when I glanced over I noticed his hands were shaking. He hadn’t even gotten the book open.
The two bicyclists reached the back gate. They whispered into their earpieces, frantic, relaying what was happening in the backyard. I took a few steps behind the tree and saw the hinge of a door. It was painted brown to blend in, but it stuck out half an inch. I could see the seam in the plastic. I passed the key along the side of it, then to one of the knots in the middle. The sound was so subtle I could barely hear it. A quick, low beep.
Then a door in the tree trunk popped open. In front of us was a steep, narrow staircase, disappearing into the darkness below.
25
I turned and bolted the door from the inside, hoping that would hold them back long enough for us to get through. The walls of the tunnel were rough and cold to the touch. I could hear Kipps racing along beside me. I kept my hand out, feeling for a light switch, as if I could will one into existence. It wasn’t until the stairs were far behind us that we saw any signs of life.
The tunnel bent to the left and a row of lockers appeared. A man sat on a bench beside them, changing his shoes. I rubbed my eyes, letting them adjust to the overhead lights that now dotted the ceiling. Principal Haverford. He’d swapped his suit and tie for a denim jacket and tight pants. He laced up a bright white high-top and looked at me, then behind me, like I’d appeared in a blast of smoke and fire.
“What the actual fuck? You’re not…you’re…” he said.
I didn’t respond. Instead I picked up my pace, cutting in front of Kipps.
“He must be getting off his shift,” Kipps whispered.
We passed three vanities and some salon chairs, which were scattered with colorful makeup palettes. Shelves of accessories, racks of clothes. Nurse’s uniforms, police uniforms, postman’s uniforms, a TCBY shirt and one for Sassy Shoes. Ripped denim, plaid, Doc Martens, butterfly clips, and some J.Crew dresses I’d admired but never actually bought. I recognized a patent-leather flight crew bag from the Delia’s catalog.
As we got closer to the end of the tunnel I could hear it clearly, the words coming from somewhere above. Fair wages, power, the chant started. Fair wages, power. After a few seconds there was a break, and another chant began. Hey-ho! Hey-ho! Fair pay for extras on your show! Hey-ho! Hey-ho! Fair pay for extras on your show!
“Those are the people striking?” I said over my shoulder. “I heard them some mornings. Only it sounded like ‘Forages.’ I didn’t know what it was.”
“Yeah, it’s been on and off for over a week now. They brought in a bunch of scabs to try to repopulate the set, but it’s still obvious, right?”
“I guess there’s only so long that half of Swickley can have the flu.”
I glanced back at the tunnel. I kept waiting for someone to appear behind us, for someone to yell for us to stop, to wait. But we kept moving until the tunnel bent to the right, leading to a narrow flight of stairs. The chants were much louder now. When I pushed the trapdoor at the top, it pushed back. I tried the key again.
“The door at the other exit—the lock was right at the center,” Kipps said, pointing to a circular metal piece where the two doors met. I waved the light over it and it took a second to catch, but it finally spun clockwise, open. The doors fell back, the sky a brilliant blue above.
“Fair wages! Power!” the chant filled the air.
Dirt stretched out in front of us, stopping at a two-lane road. We could just see the backs of the buildings on the other side. I glanced over my shoulder. A tall, chain-link fence towered over us.
Barbed wire lined the top and a sign read: SHOCK WARNING: ELECTRIC FENCE. 7000 VOLTS. Beyond that was the cinder block wall—the set’s perimeter.
“Now what?” I asked, scanning the buildings ahead. “I refuse to believe it’s that simple. They’re not giving up that easily.”
“No doubt.” Kipps turned back and stared up at the electric fence. “I’ve never been out this way. Your guess is as good as mine.”
“Let’s just find cover. We’re too exposed here.”
I closed the trapdoor and made sure it locked. There was a second chain-link fence with barbed wire, but this one wasn’t electrified and opened easily with the key. The area around the set was a barren strip of land, broken in places by overgrown grass or scattered trash. What looked like a single bus stop, complete with bench and metal shelter, sat five yards from the trapdoor. I took off toward the nearest building, a strip mall with its back to us.
The actors were a football field away. There were hundreds of them, standing right in front of the second fence, but they didn’t seem to notice us. They held signs and banners. Some were marching in a line, a collective pacing back and forth. Others waved their signs as though someone above might see them.
I thought the world outside might look and feel different, but it was as if we’d stepped into an alternate reality, this one a bit dimmer than the one I’d known. Crinkled wrappers and soda cans accumulated by the curbs. Trash piled up at the back of buildings, the stores faded, paint peeling away from the stucco. Kipps kept going, but I turned to look at the wall behind us.
Like that, it was all gone. My parents, Sara. Swickley High and band concerts and afternoons at the mall. Just last week I’d spent a half hour obsessing over which top I’d wear, because it was Thursday, the day Tyler and I had study hall together. It had all felt so important, as if that decision alone could sink me. I wanted that girl back, the one who didn’t know what was coming for her. I’d give anything to care about a sweater clashing with my jeans.
