Etherworld

by Claudia Gabel

  The elevator doors open.

  “Hold that elevator, please,” I call out politely. I glance over my shoulder and see that the nurse hasn’t returned to his station. No one else seems to notice me either. Despite what I’m wearing, it’s almost like I’m invisible.

  I step inside, hoping the woman next to me won’t notice my flip-flops or my hospital clothes and that I’ll be able to walk right out of here. She looks up from her tab just long enough to swipe her passcard and activate the elevator.

  “Floor?” she inquires.

  There’s a ding as the neighboring elevator opens. My mom steps out and heads right toward the nurses’ desk, just a few feet away.

  “Lobby,” I say as quietly as I can, moving toward the back of the elevator.

  But I’m not quiet enough. At the sound of my voice, my mom turns. Her eyes lock on mine, and I see her surprise. But before she can move, the elevator doors slam shut. My stomach dips as the elevator begins its rapid descent.

  We speed downward, dropping almost fifty floors in seconds before the elevator catches itself and rolls to a stop. The woman steps off, still staring at her tab. I press the lit-up L, hoping the rest of my descent will be as easy.

  The elevator goes down one more floor and stops. The doors open as a crowd of people push their way in.

  No one seems to notice me except for a woman in orange scrubs. “Are you a patient?” she asks, staring at my paper flip-flops.

  The doors have shut and the elevator is moving, hurtling toward the ground floor.

  I force myself to take a sip of the lukewarm MealFreeze, trying not to gag. “I was just in radiology. Got a little turned around. I need to get back to the OR prep unit.”

  “That’s the twenty-fourth floor,” a short, balding man says. His eyes shift to the elevator control panel. “It looks like you’re headed to the lobby.”

  Shit.

  “Can I see your passcard?” the woman asks.

  “I left it in my clothes,” I say, calmly taking another sip of my MealFreeze, hoping that she doesn’t notice that my hands are starting to shake.

  “By the way, you’re not supposed to eat before surgery,” the balding man says, his eyes narrowing at me.

  Shit. Shit.

  “What’s your name?” the woman in the scrubs snaps.

  My eyes focus on the numbers lighting on top of the elevator doors. 24, 23, 22 . . .

  When I don’t answer, the man’s voice becomes even gruffer. “What’s your name, miss?”

  Everyone else in the elevator is staring now. As if on cue, all their tablets begin buzzing, and a small red warning light begins to blink on the elevator ceiling.

  Great.

  My mom has sounded the alarm. Everyone knows a psych patient has escaped, and here I am, wandering around the hospital alone.

  I mentally prepare myself for someone to pull out a little needle and stab me just like before. But instead I hear a familiar ding, and the elevator doors open. Twenty-first floor.

  “Someone grab her!” the woman says, reaching for me. I toss my MealFreeze down on the ground. As it splits open, everyone jumps back, trying to avoid the splatter. I take advantage of the commotion to lunge out of the elevator. And then I begin to run.

  The two nurses behind the reception desk look up in time to see me speed past them, skirting the handful of medical personnel as I make my way toward the open exit at the end of the hall. An automated maintenance device is stuck in the door, sweeping the floor in front of it with swirling brushes.

  I slip past it before the device swings free and the door slides shut. I begin running down a flight of stairs, pausing at the next landing and praying the door will open automatically, but without a passcard, it doesn’t budge. Despite my mom’s complaints, the hospital seems pretty secure to me.

  “Stop!” a female guard yells from the landing above me.

  I wedge my hip on the iron banister, putting my weight against the railing. I slide down like I was told not to as a kid, moving faster and faster, going from one floor to the next.

  A flash of electricity ricochets off the banister, nearly hitting me as the acrid smell of smoke fills the air. Another guard is standing a floor beneath, pointing some sort of Taser at me, his finger on the trigger. I land on my feet and head toward an open door covered in yellow construction tape. As the guard charges in my direction, I break through the tape and run inside.

  The cavernous space is dark, lit only by the red emergency lights on the wall. Still, I can see that the air is thick with drywall dust. The entire floor has been gutted down to its cement walls, and large piles of construction debris are scattered throughout. The freight elevator is on the other side of the lobby, so it should be opposite where I’m standing right now. I make my way through, accidentally stepping on a discarded nail. I lean over to inspect the wound and hear the stairwell exit door squeak open. I squat down, curl myself into a ball, and hide underneath a large scrap of metal.

  “She’s got to be in here,” says a husky voice, as someone charges into the space. A beam of light bounces across the room, narrowly missing me.

  “The stairwell leads to the front entrance. We’ve got that covered.”

  I hold my breath. I know a Taser can’t kill you, but it knocks you unconscious and your body reportedly hurts like hell for weeks because of the shock to your nervous system.

  “I doubt she’d be in here in those paper shoes.” The female guard kicks a piece of metal and it clangs across the floor, stopping inches away from my hiding spot. “Get cut to shreds.”

  She’s even closer now, so close I can smell the peanut butter on her breath. I hear a scraping noise beside me. Two tiny red eyes peer at me through the dark.

  A rat.

  I swallow. I’ve had to deal with a man-eating worm in Etherworld; surely I can handle this furry little thing.

  “Did you hear that?” the female guard asks, turning and staring in my direction. I can see her clearly now. She’s tall, with long brown braids. She’s holding her Taser in front of her, as if I’m a violent criminal.

  I’m not about to have a rat give away my hiding space. My fingers fold around a block of wood and I poke it toward the gray, whiskered creature. The rat jumps and scurries out from underneath our hiding place, knocking down more debris as it runs away, heading toward the open door.

  “That way!” the male guard says as he follows the noise. “Hurry—she’s headed toward the south stairwell.”

  I hold my breath as they follow the rat, the thudding of their feet getting softer and softer. I push myself up and head in the opposite direction, away from the door. I move as quickly as I can, making my way around the construction, walking on my tiptoes to avoid the nails that are scattered around the floor.

  I head past another set of elevators, this time roped off with yellow tape. There’s no way I’d try them anyway. I need a more discreet exit, like a stairwell.

  But before I’m past them, I hear a ding and the door slides open. I’m staring into the eyes of another security guard. I jump as he points his flashlight in my direction. His mouth drops in surprise as he takes a step toward me, his other hand reaching for his Taser.

  I run, weaving in and out of the huge piles of construction debris. The guard is older and overweight, and he’s struggling to keep up. I reach the middle of the room, where a tarp is stretched from wall to wall, acting as a barrier. I skid to a stop, drop down to my belly, and slide underneath.

  I hear a grunt as the guard smashes into the tarp. As he attempts to get under it, I see the oversize passcard-operated elevator. It’s right next to an open stairwell, behind a mound of drywall. I’m guessing they both lead to the freight entrance.

  I’m so close to freedom.

  I climb over the drywall and make my way toward the steps.

  I’m out of breath when I reach the ground floor of the hospital. The entire area outside the elevator is deserted. I lean over and put my hands on my knees, trying to suck as m
uch air into my lungs as possible. When I catch my breath, I walk over to the huge sliding doors that lead to a loading dock outside. My stomach drops when I scan the area and don’t see Zoe or her car anywhere.

  I cross my arms over my chest and start pacing, mostly so I don’t panic. I reassure myself that if I keep moving—even if it’s just in a circle—I will get out of here and find Josh. But then I hear a humming sound, followed by a slight insect-like buzzing. My feet come to a stop and my eyes dance around the room, searching for the source. When I spot a silver security camera, zooming in on me, my mouth drops open.

  I duck and plaster myself behind a pillar, but the lens adjusts and continues to track me. I roll my eyes when I think about how outdated the technology is—there are plenty of undetectable surveillance cams—but then fear takes over once more. I have no idea if someone is watching the footage live from a control room.

  I have to take care of that camera before it records any more.

  I lean out from behind the pillar and peer around the place. There are stacks of sealed boxes and metal pallets, a few automated dollies and conveyor belts. The camera buzzes again, and I will it to shift to the other side of the room.

  No dice. It’s still fixed on me.

  I duck back around the pillar, praying that I’ll figure a way out of this mess, when I see something miraculous in the reflection of the doors. A large piece of industrial piping, tilted up against one of the smaller conveyor belts.

  I have to make this quick. Zoe could be here any minute.

  After taking a deep breath and getting into a ready-set lunge, I sprint toward the pipe. The camera hums louder as it tries to keep up with me. I grab the pipe, and it nearly slips through my fingers; my palms are soaked in sweat. I frantically tuck the pipe in between my knees and wipe my hands on my pants.

  The only problem is that the pipe weighs a lot more than I expect it to. When I lift it up, my biceps simultaneously tighten and twinge. I walk over to the camera, clutching the pipe hard, even though my arms aren’t faring well under the pressure. Once I’m in swinging range, I lift and angle the pipe, propping one end on my shoulder. When I put my legs into a wide stance and thrust the top of the heavy pipe toward the camera, my arms feel like they might snap in half.

  The pipe hits the wall behind the camera, smashing a hole in the plaster. I pull it back and try again. With another wobbly swing, I manage to connect with the camera, crushing the lens as shards of glass and plastic rain down on me.

  I have to admit, destroying that thing felt pretty damn good.

  But hearing a car horn coming from outside feels even better.

  I turn and look through the glass doors. Even though the sun is a couple of hours away from rising, I can make out Zoe behind the wheel of a sporty red coupe. She’s waving at me, signaling that the coast is all clear. I run over to the sliding doors and . . .

  They don’t open.

  I pound on the doors with my fists in a fit of frustration. Zoe steps out of the car, dashing toward me. As she reaches the door, the motion-sensor lights flash on, dousing her in harsh yellow light. She’s not wearing her O2 shield and is dressed in all black, as if she’s trying to blend into the night.

  She places her gloved hands on the glass, mirroring mine. A sudden breeze ruffles her long raven-colored hair, and now she looks like a cat burglar turned runway model—although if she’s caught breaking me out of the hospital, we can add juvenile offender to that list.

  She gives me a look of grim determination as she says, “We’re going to get you out of there.”

  “How? I don’t have my passcard.” And even if I did, it wouldn’t unlock these doors.

  Zoe leans forward, looking inside the room.

  “What about the boxes behind you? Are those medical supplies?”

  They’re either stamped or labeled, so there’s at least some sort of information about the contents.

  “Yeah, seems like it,” I reply.

  “Try to find one that might have something sharp and metal in it, like scissors.”

  “Why?”

  “Just hurry up and do it,” she says.

  I dart over to a stack of boxes and begin to hunt for anything that might be marked for the emergency room or the trauma unit. The box at the bottom of the stack is just what I’m looking for. It’s covered in quick-seal, which can only be opened with a laser pen, but when I push the box on its side, I see a small hole in the corner. I shove my pointer finger through the hole so I can make it even wider. Once the hole is big enough to fit a couple more fingers, I’m able to tear off the side of the box.

  A whole mess of objects come spilling out. I grab the first pair of medical scissors I see, peel them out of their sterilized packaging, and dart back to the sliding doors.

  “Are these good?” I say, holding them up for Zoe’s inspection.

  “Perfect,” she says. “Now take them and stab the sharp end really hard into the lockpad.”

  “Anywhere, or someplace specific?”

  Zoe squints as she stares at the lockpad from the other side of the door. “There should be a magnetic strip on the top. That’s your target.”

  I scramble over to the lockpad and check. I force the point of the scissors into it and a tiny spark flares and then fizzles.

  Nothing happens.

  I’m trying to decide where to stab next when the doors suddenly slide open.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Zoe says.

  We dash toward the car, Zoe’s grip on my arm tightening with every step. As soon as we strap ourselves in, Zoe swipes her passcard and the engine purrs to life.

  “How’d you know how to open that door?” I ask her, my voice shaking with relief.

  “That’s a story for later.” She gives me the once-over. “Nice outfit.” She leans closer, pointing to the white powder on my arm. “And what are you covered in?”

  “Drywall,” I say.

  She reaches into the backseat and tosses me a sweatshirt. “Put this on.”

  I still have no idea why she’s here, risking her ass for me, but whatever the reason, I’m grateful. Even if she’s planning on taking me to Patrick, I’d prefer that to the hospital.

  “We have to get out of here fast,” Zoe says.

  “Do you think we can use the private access tunnels?” I ask her.

  “I think so. My father has privileges. You just need a specific code and a remote to enter them.” Zoe snatches her tab, which is plugged into the car’s console. “Let me see if—”

  Slam!

  Two fists pound on the windshield of Zoe’s car. A tall security guard, standing right outside my door.

  “Get out of the car. Now!” the man orders, clenching his teeth.

  Another set of hands starts slapping Zoe’s window. A female guard has joined in, trying to stop us from leaving.

  “There’s nowhere for you to go,” the woman says. “We’ve alerted the authorities and we’re blocking off the exits.”

  Zoe and I look at each other. We don’t say anything, but it’s like each of us understands what the other person is thinking. I give her a small nod, a move I hope neither of the guards notices. Then Zoe puts the car into reverse and presses her foot down on the gas. We move backward at such a high speed that both guards fall to the ground. Zoe looks over her shoulder, spinning the steering wheel in a circle with the palms of her hands until the back of the coupe fishtails around. She puts the car in drive and we blast off.

  I glance in the side mirror as the guards sprint toward a white van.

  “Hurry,” I say to Zoe. “They’re going to follow us!”

  Zoe doesn’t even flinch. She just keeps her eyes trained ahead. “Take my tab and do a search for the closest access tunnel for I-75.”

  “Can’t I just use the AutoComm for that?” I ask.

  Zoe swerves to avoid a patron walking toward the hospital and barely misses hitting him. My stomach practically drops to the floor.

  “Forget it. The sync fu
nction is broken,” she answers.

  I pull the tab off the port where it connects to the console. As soon as I start typing on the touch screen, I hear sirens. While the tab calculates the quickest route to the access tunnel, I check the mirror and see a white van behind us.

  Zoe slams on the brakes as another white van yanks in front of us. My harness digs into my shoulders as I fly forward.

  “Hang on!” Zoe says as she accelerates, cranking the wheel. The maneuver gets us past the other set of guards, but now we have two vans behind us, and the sirens are getting louder.

  “Once we get off the grounds, make a right,” I say. “A mile down the road, there’s an on-ramp to the tunnel.”

  “Good,” Zoe says, but her tiny bit of relief is sucked away when we see that the chain-link gates to the closest hospital exit have been closed off. Her foot eases off the gas.

  “Don’t slow down,” I say. “Those vans are going to smash into us!”

  Zoe shrugs. “What do you want me to do? Drive right through the gate?”

  “If we have to, yeah.”

  A look of confusion clouds Zoe’s face. I can’t tell if she’s squeamish because she doesn’t want to damage her sports car, or if she’s worried we’re going to get killed performing this ridiculous stunt. But then she narrows her eyes and the coupe starts flying toward the gate.

  The sound of metal crushing metal is louder than our screams. The car breaks through and skids off the road. Horns blare behind us, the vans stuck behind the crushed gate. Zoe regains control and speeds away, the headlights from the security vans fading into the night.

  NINE

  AS ZOE’S CAR BARRELS DOWN THE expressway, I clutch the leather armrests, holding on tight. Even though we haven’t seen any sign of the white vans or the police, she’s still driving at a breakneck speed.