“You truly don’t fear it.” It was a statement, not a question. She was intrigued, and genuinely fascinated.
“Not anymore. Because she’s going to make it with or without me.”
The Nightmare’s black painted lips curled into a smile. “You don’t deserve her.”
I let out a short laugh. “My brain is dying but I’m not an idiot. I’ve known that all along.”
“Without fear,” she said plainly, “there is nothing more I can do. I have no power over you.”
“Sorry to disappoint.”
The Nightmare’s hair, eyes and dress bled into the surrounding darkness, and the rest of her quickly followed. I heard the echo of her final words as soon as she’d disappeared. “I am not the one who will be disappointed.”
The egg began to crack, allowing the lights from Times Square to penetrate the core, seeping through one ray at a time. With a pressurized pop the thin black shell burst from around me, raining down shards that dissipated as they fell.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
They were frozen, locked into poses like eerily-lifelike replicas in a wax museum. Brynja’s hand rested on Peyton’s shoulder, and McGarrity looked on from behind.
And, somehow, when the egg shattered, I had resumed my previous position as well: I was face-to-face with Peyton, holding her in my arms, with our lips just inches apart. When I drew back we all blinked and shook our heads, suddenly refreshed and alert.
“Where is she?” Peyton asked, gazing curiously around the abandoned streetscape. The Nightmare was nowhere to be seen. At the mid-point of the intersection where she’d once stood was a flat, grey obelisk protruding from the asphalt, with the familiar glowing handprint, inviting us to register. The gateway to the fourth and final level was finally within our reach.
I wanted to tell them what had happened – how my confrontation with The Nightmare had ended – but there was no time. I raced towards the obelisk. When I placed my hand into the outline and spoke my name, Cameron Frost’s booming digital voice congratulated me. I’d won. My name and face appeared in the sky, plastered across the rooftop like one of the garish advertisements that were a trademark of uptown Manhattan. As the first person to register on the third and final level, I was deemed the sole survivor, and would be granted access to the ‘ultimate freedom’ in the Hall of Victors as my reward.
A moment passed and nothing happened. No pods arrived, and no transportation to the lower level presented itself. I scanned the intersection until the double doors of a pizzeria across the street flew open, sending a shaft of golden light across the pavement.
We all approached cautiously. Once we reached the sidewalk, we realized the light source was emanating from an elevator; it was an ornately decorated lift with a metallic bronze interior. When we stepped aboard, I pressed the sole button on the dash, closing the doors and triggering our descent.
After a short freefall the elevator gradually lowered to a stop, and the doors slid open with a soft ping, revealing the bottom level of The Spiral. The hall, which was half-built, had a distinct Roman theme; towering columns, marble statues, and leveled seating that stretched in an oval around the perimeter. Hundreds of spectators would be able to watch the event from this area on towering holo-screens, and could greet the winner when he or she arrived at the Hall of Victors.
On a raised platform encircled by four towering white columns sat the ‘ultimate freedom’ that Cameron Frost had boasted about: it was a jet. A short, angular craft that shimmered like gold under the stadium lights. It was ultra-modern, like a concept drawing that had been realized in its early test phases. With short wings and no visible engines, I wasn’t sure how the craft would even take flight; for all I knew it was a replica, and not even the finished prize. Much of the hall, beyond the seating and columns, was nothing more than unfinished scaffolding and piles of wood – most of it still strapped to skids that had been unloaded from abandoned forklifts.
“Nice,” McGarrity said with a grin, mounting the podium. He walked alongside the jet and ran his hand over the smooth surface. “I don’t know how I’m going to get this baby out of here, but I’ve always wanted my own private jet.”
“You guys,” Peyton said, craning her neck in every direction. “He’s right – we can’t get it out of here. Because there is no tunnel.”
The schematic we were shown prior to entering The Spiral indicated an exit that led from the west side of the fortress, connecting to the surface. It was nowhere to be seen. A pile of boulders stretched from floor to ceiling on the far side of the hall, barricading what I assumed was the mouth of the tunnel. There must have been a million tons of rock sealing it off. It was likely a security precaution, built into the construction team’s contract in the event of their dismissal – and unfortunately, the structural change was never logged into the fortress’ database.
“We’re sealed in,” Brynja said gravely. “It’s game over.”
“There has to be another way out,” Peyton shouted.
A shockwave reverberated through the room, sprinkling plaster and dust down around us. The entire foundation shook, cracking the concrete floor beneath our feet. The first bomb had made contact with the fortress. It was collapsing, one level at a time.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“It’s no use,” McGarrity shouted. He was hacking away like a lumberjack with a six-foot axe made of light, breaking chunks of rock away from the mouth of the collapsed tunnel. “This is taking too long. It’ll take days to chop through this shit.”
Another blast rocked The Spiral.
And then another.
More plaster fell from the unfinished ceiling, along with a lighting rig. The bulbs smashed into the levelled seating, and a length of metal scaffolding followed. The floor shook so violently that Peyton nearly fell over, holding my hand for balance as she stumbled.
“We’re running out of time,” Brynja screamed, kicking a pile of rocks across the hall.
“Wait,” Peyton said, carefully studying the shimmering gold aircraft that sat atop the podium. “Frost kept calling the prize ‘the ultimate freedom’, right? Maybe there’s more to this jet than we think.”
McGarrity’s axe faded away, and he joined us in the center of the hall where the jet was located. “Like what?” he asked between heavy breaths. “If it can shoot missiles, maybe we can blast our way out?”
I had my doubts that Cameron Frost would present the winner of Arena Mode with a jet that was armed with military grade weapons, but stranger things have happened. In my time living at Fortress 23 I learned to never underestimate him; when it came to ingenuity – no matter how twisted or immoral – Frost never ceased to amaze.
I pressed my palm into the side of the jet and a door slid open, completely seamless in its smooth golden exterior. We climbed aboard and into the cockpit. When I took the pilot’s seat I was overwhelmed by the sheer number of buttons, levers and touch-screens that spread across the panel. Scanning the dashboard, I was deciding where to start when another blast rocked the fortress, toppling a number of marble columns around us.
The overhead lights flickered, and across the room I spotted water seeping through the elevator we had arrived in. The Spiral was on the verge of collapse, and the flooding we’d caused on the second level was now making its way downward. It occurred to me that the room we were in – The Hall of Victors – was by far the smallest in The Spiral; it could have fit inside of the lake on level one several times over. That much water would flood The Hall from top to bottom with plenty to spare.
We all exchanged a panicked glance. I immediately began pressing buttons and pulling levers, with no real understanding of what I was doing. I’d seen Mac do this in my own jet dozens of times, but this was a completely different configuration, and there wasn’t a single label on the dash.
Another blast wave hit and Brynja had seen enough. “Fuck this shit!” She slammed her hand down on the controls, slapping her palm onto what must have been a touch-screen. The
jet hummed with power and the cockpit lights burst to life, illuminating a golden glow all around us.
“Matthew Moxon,” Frost’s voice chimed from the dashboard. A small holo-screen materialized with an image of his disembodied head. “Congratulations, and welcome to your prize: the Ultimate Freedom. This is the prototype of my new jet, the TT-100. This machine will revolutionize the face of mass transportation, and within the next decade, will have a profound impact on the—”
“Enough with the infomercial!” I interrupted. “We get it – how does it work?”
“And does it fire missiles?” McGarrity added eagerly, leaning over my shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” Frost’s hologram said, “please rephrase the question.”
“How do we get out of here?” Brynja said, impatiently rapping her fingers against the dash. As she asked the question, the Hall’s overhead lights fizzled out, and the water began to rise around us. It was beginning to fill the room, and the tide was rocking the jet off of its podium.
“The TT-100,” Frost explained calmly, “will transport the victor, Matthew Moxon, and any warriors he has aligned himself with to a destination of his choosing. But first, he must unlock the navigation by speaking the truth.”
“The truth is that I’m pissed off,” I shouted. “Let’s go!”
“I’m detecting three additional competitors aboard the jet with you,” Frost continued in a frustratingly slow cadence. It might have been the ceiling caving in around us or the rising water level that threatened to drown us in a cavernous tomb, but Frost seemed to be really taking his time – even more so than usual. “Your journey will begin once you’ve revealed a truth that you’ve been concealing from your allies.”
I clasped my hand over Peyton’s and looked into her eyes. For a split second I considered my answer – the secret I’d buried for months was like a drop of acid burning the tip of my tongue. There was no better time to spit it out. “The truth,” I said, “is that I never completely trusted McGarrity...but as it turns out he’s not a complete asshole.”
The lie detector required a truthful statement, but didn’t specify how personal it needed to be. Thankfully my response was acceptable and triggered the jet: a three-dimensional map of the world appeared, which replaced Frost’s hologram. It was dotted with twenty-four red markers scattered across the globe in random locations.
“What now?” McGarrity said, squinting at the map.
I chose at random, pressing my fingertip into one of the glowing dots that floated above the South China Sea. The map disappeared with a high-pitched chime, and the cockpit lights darkened as if I’d powered down the jet. The faint hum of energy vibrated throughout the craft, but there was no indication it was going to take off (or blast its way through the collapsed tunnel, if that was even an option).
“What did you do?” Peyton asked, frantically flicking switches on the dash.
“Nothing!” I shouted. “What the hell was I supposed to do?”
A hole burst through the ceiling above the tunnel, pouring a fountain into the Hall. The sudden rush of water jerked the ship off its axis, sending us all crashing into the side of the cockpit. The jet was submerged within seconds, and the darkness closed in around us.
When I thought we were finished – just at the moment when I’d lost hope that we’d somehow escape The Spiral – something strange happened: a dizzying kaleidoscope of flashbulbs and violet streaks entwined our jet, blinding everyone in the cockpit. There was no sound, or even the faintest indication that we’d moved. When the light show faded we blinked the sting from our eyes and gazed out the cockpit window, stunned by the glittering orange vista.
We were hovering above the ocean, staring out at a sunset.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
I don’t often have thoughts that could be labeled as religious, though I have to admit, there was a moment when I considered we had died in The Spiral. That this was the afterlife, and we were about to be reunited with our loved ones in a celestial paradise. For just a millisecond I entertained that fanciful notion, and my soul-crushing cynicism melted away. Then I glanced over my shoulder and realized McGarrity was still here...it became painfully obvious that if a Heaven existed, I wasn’t there.
The jet’s autopilot system banked hard and descended, allowing us a view of our destination. The fading amber daylight spilled between a pair of towering rock formations, illuminating the water in a crystal blue cove. As we made our approach I noticed that the sun-bleached peaks, over-grown with lush vegetation, were not only part of the stunning landscape – they were part of a fortress. Like Fortress 23 in Northern Alberta, there was a small city built directly into the sides of the mountain range, spanning across the top of the entire chain.
A pair of three-winged aircrafts (likely drones, judging by their diminutive size) buzzed around the jet as we made our descent. Whomever this fortress belonged to, they were well aware of our presence.
We continued our gentle, downward path towards what was now a clearly visible hoverpad, which was encircled by a series of flat, dome shaped buildings, each with a bronze-colored rooftop that was serrated like a shell. The craft’s landing gear extended beneath us and we touched down with a soft bounce, triggering the engine to power itself off.
The door slid open behind us, and a staircase invited us to step onto the tarmac.
I was the first to make my exit, followed by Peyton, McGarrity and Brynja. As we gazed at the bizarre architecture that surrounded us, we were approached by a cheerful young blond woman; she was shrink-wrapped into a gaudy yellow dress, with her matching yellow hair pulled back in a tight braid. She looked exactly how I remembered her.
“Welcome to Fortress Eighteen,” she said with a song in her voice, wobbling towards us in her six-inch heels. “I’m Bethany Price. We don’t get many visitors out here so this is quite a treat. Can I interest any of you in a refreshment? Teleportation can be very dehydrating from what I hear.” She glanced down at her digital clipboard and poised her finger over the touch-screen, eagerly awaiting our drink selection.
“We’ve met,” I said flatly.
“Really?” she replied, tilting her head slightly as she studied my features. “Well, that’s a surprise. I never forget a face...and I’m sure I’d remember yours, cutie.”
From behind me, I could almost hear the sound of Peyton’s face creasing into a disapproving frown.
As if the moment couldn’t get any more awkward, I decided to re-introduce myself. “Matthew Moxon. We met right before Arena Mode last year...you were producing the event.” Her eyes remained vacant. “My eyebrows...” I explained, pointing towards them with both hands. “You told me I needed them ‘shaped’ before I went on the air – whatever that meant?”
“Oh, right!” she exclaimed, her smile brightening. “I got a promotion the week before, so that was my last day in the media department. I was transitioning into my new role here at Eighteen, and I flew out of New York just after the event kicked off.” She trailed her eyes across the confused faces of my friends, anticipating some kind of a response. “So, don’t keep me in suspense, you guys...Arena Mode – how’d you do?”
“I’m alive,” I said with a shrug.
“I can see that!” she exclaimed, playfully cuffing my shoulder with the back of her hand. “Congratulations.” Bethany scanned us once again, this time trailing here eyes from our feet up to our shoulders – no doubt perplexed by our body armor. “You’re here to shoot a sequel to Tron, I’m assuming? Mister Frost never sent a memo about the fortress being used for filming, but I know he’s been trying to acquire the rights to that franchise for quite some time.”
“No, we’re...it’s actually a long story.”
“Well,” Bethany said, gesturing towards our shimmering gold jet, “Mister Frost must trust you all implicitly to let you take the prototype for a spin. We manufactured the TT-100 right here, you know. Very exciting. This is the only jet in the world that can teleport. Well, until next year when
they go into regular production.”
It occurred to me that Bethany was continually referring to Cameron Frost in the present tense, which meant that she hadn’t seen the news in a very long time. “You didn’t catch Arena Mode last summer,” I said delicately.
She shook her head. “I’ve been here with the rest of the team for eight months, completely off the grid. Mister Frost feels that simulcasts distract his employees from their responsibilities.”
I nodded and bit my tongue. Denying his employees even basic access to communications didn’t seem out of character for Frost, but considering what I was about to explain, I figured it was better to keep that sentiment to myself.
“So how is he doing,” Bethany asked cheerfully. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen the big lug!”
“He’s dead,” I blurted out. Shit. Being delicate clearly wasn’t my strong suit.
“Oh...okay.” Her smile faded and she winced awkwardly. It was almost painful to watch. I had a feeling that Bethany’s mouth was so used to being stretched into an artificial smile that it contorted like this as a default reaction. “Was it like...an accident?”
“No,” I said casually, staring off into the distance. “I was sort of the one who killed him.”
“Sort of?” she asked innocently. “Like...you didn’t mean to?”
“Oh no, I meant to. It was pretty intentional, actually.” She recoiled slightly, so I added, “But he was trying to kill me when it happened, so...you know. It’s all good.”
Brynja patted me on the shoulder. “Nice save.”
“Oh...okay,” Bethany repeated, now chewing on her lower lip. She wrapped both arms around her digital clipboard, hugging it against her chest. “So...that makes this a little weird.”
“You don’t know the half of it. Does anyone know we’re here?”
“As in...”
“As in several million people and at least two governments want me dead, so the fewer people that know my location, the better.”
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