by Seth Fishman
“I’m going to throw up,” says Jimmy.
“Please don’t,” Veronica replies.
“This goes on forever?” Brayden asks. “How is that possible?”
“I don’t know.” Chuck sounds wistful.
Rob’s having a field day. He bends and stares at the real rock so closely that he almost falls over. The replica is big and on the wall, but he wants to see it in real life. He pulls out his clunky OtterBox and snaps a picture, and I see Chuck open his mouth to protest, but my dad stays him with a hand motion.
“Wow,” Rob shouts, pointing at the real map. “You can make out three of them right here.”
Veronica nods. “That’s right. There are seventeen replica-maps that we can find with our electron microscope. Want to know the strangest thing?”
“That each progressively smaller map is a bit different?” Brayden offers.
Veronica looks alarmed. Dad and Chuck murmur to each other like concerned teachers. “How did you know that?”
Brayden points to the map on the wall. “That moon in the middle left, what number is it assigned?”
“Twelve,” she replies cautiously.
“Enhance image B-twelve,” Brayden says loudly, and we all stare at him as if he’s cracked some kind of crazy code. “See, moon twelve, in the original map, is full. Moon B-twelve is waxing. The moon in map C-twelve is probably a gibbous waxing. It’s an infinite but changing map.”
“Yeah, that’s right,” Veronica says, clearly impressed, as am I, at his astronomy knowledge. “The moons are different. What we consider our only clue.”
“Clue to what?” I ask.
Veronica looks to my father, and it has become increasingly obvious that my dad runs the show here. He’s rubbing his thumbs across the tips of his long fingernails. An odd habit of his.
“We’re not completely sure. But we do think the fact that the map has an image of itself is an indication of where to start. How to read it.”
I think that’s a good thing, an internalized Rosetta Stone. Everyone’s all hung up on the mini maps, but I keep finding myself drifting to some of the other incredible images there. There’s a huge golden gate, its pointed rails swirling with intricate filigree that catches my eye, and right next to it, as if to counterbalance the shining gold, is a simple black hole. Or, rather, not a hole—it’s just a big circle of black. Around the edge is a ring of light, like a solar eclipse. I bet it is a solar eclipse, considering everything I’ve been taught about ancient calendars. The Mayans were all about sundials, right? Next to the eclipse is an upside-down man, his skin milky white and his eyes closed in slits. The eclipse is so dark, the circle so perfectly round. It feels almost familiar. How could a human hand do that? Who were these people?
“But,” says Jimmy in a tone that might mean he has been confused this whole time, “who made this? Indians?”
Dad shakes his head. “Maybe, but if so they’d predate the earliest known Native Americans by tens of thousands of years. The earliest known cave paintings anywhere, actually. We’ve carbon-dated the paint: a pretty advanced combination of plant pigmentation and animal-fat rendering. Some of the compounds we can’t even trace.”
Veronica speaks up here, her voice getting excited, even though I’m sure she’s seen this room hundreds or thousands of times. “Which has us conjecturing that perhaps the paint was made of now-extinct animals, like ancestors of the mammoth or giant sloths that used to roam North America.”
“But what does it mean?” Jo asks, and there’s a hint of desperation in her voice. “What does this have to do with the virus, with that crazy guy and the army he has with him, who want to get in here? Is it a treasure map? Is that all you guys do, hang out here trying to figure out the map?”
My dad is a pirate. He’s Blackbeard, hidden here in this incredibly vast network of caves, keeping his treasure map safe from the world. Was my mom some passerby he knocked up on the way? I don’t think I have the mental energy to even open that can of worms. My dad may be a liar, but he’s never been anything but a good father. All this has to be for a reason. What better reason for a mysterious cave than a mysterious map?
Veronica says, “Greg, you’ve let them in the Cave, you’ve shown them the map—just go ahead and tell them everything.”
“You okay with that, Chuck?” The tall man doesn’t really reply, not voting against, but certainly not voting for. He doesn’t even look at Dad, just bends his neck one way until it pops. “All right, then. Follow me.”
We walk to the other side of the domed room, behind the rock, where there are eight stadium-style chairs, each with its own workstation and console. As soon as we all pass the stone, it begins to swivel and follow us. Dad wipes a sheen of sweat off his face and then claps his hands once, which reverberates loudly in the room.
“Pick a chair and take a seat. And yes, we sometimes watch movies in here.”
We all shuttle into chairs, and by the time we do, the map locks into place, facing us. In front of me is a console, keyboard and a dozen other buttons and readings. I immediately look at Rob, whose fingers are lying gently on the board in front of him like a piano player’s at rest.
“Don’t mess with it,” I mouth to him, and he pulls his hands back guiltily and sets them in his lap.
“Okay, so, the map is only one part of the puzzle. The virus is another, and though it has been causing a great deal of devastation, it is, in fact, just a small part of what’s going on here. There’s a reason we built a multimillion-dollar facility here in Fenton, a reason we have the money to do that and a reason Blake Sutton has raised an army to break in.”
He turns to the ceiling and calls out again, “Initiate file: history.” I wonder fleetingly if he built all this, or at least designed it. The whole setup is superimpressive, and it reminds me of a giant Siri.
Instantly, four images fill the entire wall above our head. One shows a three-dimensional view of a vast tunnel system under the mountain, like a giant ant farm. Wow, they’ve really put some work into this place. We’ve barely scratched the surface.
The other three images are old and grainy. In the first image, we’re looking at a mountainside. The sun is out, trees are bent and black, as if there had just been a forest fire not a month back, and there’s a small hole in the cliff face, barely visible. It looks no different from any other hole you might see while hiking. Something to stay clear of, to imagine a home for a fox or a nest of snakes.
The second image is of my dad’s high school class. The very same one that’s in the administration building back at Westbrook. The very same one Sutton was looking at that day he interviewed me. The students are standing in front of Dylan, where all class pictures are taken. I get chills, picking my dad out of the crowd. His hair is longer, caught in a breeze; his smile is hesitant. Why are they showing us this?
The final image is a repeat of the hole in the cliff, with the opening much magnified, taking up the majority of the picture. There’s nothing small about this cave. It is a maw, a gaping mouth, and the darkness appears endless, deep, forever.
I shiver. It looks familiar.
17
THE STORY, PART I
MR. AVERY’S “EXPLORATION” CLASS HAD A CAP OF TEN students and, as an elective, was only offered every two years. But even that cap was misleading, as he’d only allow in the students he thought worthy, those he had handpicked from his American History I course. Greg Kish’s year, there were only six.
Greg had been looking forward to the class for most of his Westbrook life. Avery was the type of teacher most students hated, but mainly because he was demanding and exacting, assigned way more homework than most, only offered two As in his entire Early American History class and tended to ignore the fact that most students came from the upper echelon of the world’s elite. In fact, until Greg’s year, there were no scholarships offered to anyone of median or l
esser means. And, according to his mother, he was the first townie boy ever accepted to Westbrook. Maybe it was politics: the town got tired of this bastion of elitism. Maybe Greg Kish deserved it; he did, after all, spend his summers at the Gifted Future Students Program of the Colorado School of Minds. Whatever the case, Greg was different, noticeable and worked nonstop to make up for his financial inadequacies. He received one of the two As in Avery’s EAH class. And then, at the beginning of his senior year, he received a handwritten note inviting him to take part in Exploration 101, Avery’s famous hands-on class about the local American histories.
Greg lived at home and commuted to school. Before he was accepted into Westbrook, his life consisted of homework and full-day Atari sessions with his neighbor, Terry Wilkins. Once attending the prestigious prep school, his routine remained remarkably similar. Greg knew a few of his new classmates, but since he was basically useless on the sports field, plus a nerd and a half and a townie, none became close. He was a failed experiment in the eyes of the students, a foreigner almost—and Greg couldn’t help but agree. He hadn’t thought there’d be that much difference, but these kids knew languages, knew wealth, knew way more things about the world because they’d been traveling since they were toddlers and had been trained by nannies since they were swaddled. On the other hand, to the staff, Greg Kish was exemplary. He was polite; his grades were impeccable; his contributions to the brand-new computer science lab, with its freshly constructed supercomputer, actually paid for his tuition many times over. To put it simply, Greg didn’t really have any fun at Westbrook, and he longed for the day he’d be at a normal place. He applied to state schools, read books and waited for his next Avery class.
Every Friday—and yes, a Friday class for a senior was usually considered a drag—Avery would demand his students gather at the crack of dawn, and they’d hop into his rented white van and scour the countryside for hands-on history. He took them panning for gold, and no one but Alex Stedman found a flake, but no one cared. Took them on a weekend hike up Pike’s Peak. On a replica raft down the Gunnison River. All in the name of exploration and education about early settler life. They were a rougher group than most at Westbrook, and their class often slipped over into the weekend, into tents and hikes and waterfalls.
It was here that Greg Kish made his first friends. Outside of the school’s walls, barriers could be let down and social norms bent. The small group seemed at least willing to interact with a townie. Because out in the wild, with Avery’s gruff companionship, things were different. Make no mistake: as soon as they hit campus, the boys and girls would separate, shower and head out to Aspen for the remainder of the weekend. But you can’t ignore a person’s hand when he’s helping you up a steep incline, regardless of whose hand it is.
Avery’s most famous “lesson” in the Exploration class was the daylong spelunking session. And that day was finally here! It was perhaps the very reason his class became famous, because eight years ago, they had stumbled on some old Anasazi cave drawings and were written up in papers around the world; there was even a photo spread in National Geographic. Avery hadn’t found any more cave drawings, of course. Once-in-a-lifetime finds happen that way. But the idea, the potential of such a find, kept Greg’s imagination burning throughout the semester.
Rumor had it, though, that in the past few classes, Avery had become reluctant to delve into any new locations. Maybe he was resting on his laurels. Maybe his famously rotund belly wouldn’t fit through tiny nooks and crevices. Apparently, Avery started his spelunking day at the very cave of his famous discovery, now a small local museum. Students would re-create his famous hike; a relatively safe and adventureless affair, with no sight of actual exploration involved. Unless you counted the occasional make-out session. Not that Kish was making out with anyone. Though he certainly wanted to. In fact, the girls’ dorm, separated from the main campus, was like a den of desire for Greg. No particular girl stole his heart. For someone like Greg, they were all unattainable and therefore alluring in some way: Wendy Chandler or Heather Fain, Tammy Henderson or Alexis Hanes (yes, the underwear). He’d walk past their dorms on the trudge into campus and often see boys sneaking out, smoking cigarettes, their girls tossing out the occasional forgotten rucksack.
The morning of the spelunk, Greg had spotted Veronica Little on his way to class. She wore only a black, lacy bra and was halfway out her window kissing Tripp Berry III. Greg felt that he was intruding, that he shouldn’t be seen, so he froze, right by the wall, trying to blend in. Tripp, the kind of guy who wouldn’t like to see Greg peeping at his girlfriend, was oblivious, and after grabbing a handful of Veronica’s breast he took off, class jacket over his shoulder, hair perfectly gelled into place, whistling the Westbrook fight song. Veronica stared after him contentedly and was beginning to pull herself back into the window when she noticed Greg.
Kish shrank in embarrassment, but Veronica didn’t seem to care. The class had been ongoing for a few months, and Veronica had been talking about today’s trip for weeks. She was as obsessed as he was.
“Greg, hi! You think we’ll actually get to see some good caves today?”
He inched forward, keeping his eyes on her face. “I don’t know. Who can tell what type of mood Avery will be in.”
Her smile turned into a frown. “But that’s half the reason I took his crazy class.”
“Maybe we can just ask him to take us somewhere new.”
She laughed and actually shook her breasts at him in mock seduction. “I have been known to ask nicely!”
Greg didn’t know what that meant, but he blushed anyway. He waved off Veronica, telling her he’d see her at the parking lot, and hurried on. He didn’t have a thing for her. Not really. She was just the only person who would talk to him outside of class.
He was there first, of course. And when Veronica did arrive (late, and in the midst of Avery’s morning pep talk), she was wearing Tripp’s plaid flannel shirt.
Veronica nudged him with her elbow. “Hey, no biggie, right? You won’t tell anyone about Tripp?” The ritual of sneaking boys into the dorm was well practiced, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t get in trouble if caught.
He shook his head.
“Great. Now, watch this.”
Veronica raised her hand, interrupting Avery’s flow. He had been pointing at the surrounding mountains, moving from one to another, tracing their itinerary in the air.
“What can I do for you, Miss Little?”
“Are we going to be exploring any new caves today? I heard we don’t do that anymore.” The group turned to Avery expectantly. He frowned, his face lined with heavy wrinkles from lots of sun. Avery always had stubble but no beard, as if he shaved every morning and it grew in immediately after. His long white hair whipped about in the wind, and his voice was gruff and pleasant, a grandfather through and through.
“Well, Miss Little, we will be making some incursions into a system just off—”
“But any new caves,” she interrupted him. “I mean, you actually taught those students something when you found that cool drawing. They were explorers. Can’t we get that type of experience? I know that’s what I signed up for.”
The other kids were excited now, and clamored their support. If anything could make Avery bend, it was enthusiasm for his very own work. He seemed to be teetering.
“As tempting as off-the-beaten is, Westbrook no longer allows me to take students for a proper spelunk.”
For some reason, this bothered Greg. Wasn’t a little adventure the entire point of this class? He looked at Veronica, who stood there scuffing her leather hiking boot against the pavement, and saw the disappointment in her eyes at Avery’s answer. He blurted out, “We don’t need anything more than our flashlights and water and rope, Mr. Avery.” Greg was shocked that he found himself speaking up. The others seemed to be as surprised. Veronica’s mouth actually opened, but there was a glint to her g
reen eyes. Greg was Avery’s wunderkind. The quiet, perfect one. Elsewhere in the school he was a ghost, drifting from one class to another. But now, with five bodies standing straighter, their toes bouncing in excitement, he felt emboldened to continue. “With you guiding us, we won’t fall into any holes or anything. Just give us a chance to go into a place we’ve never seen before. That no one has ever seen in hundreds of years. Let us feel what it’s really like to be those early explorers.”
No one made a noise—the speech was too perfect, and they didn’t want to blow it. Avery mulled it over like a cow chewing cud. Finally, he let out a breath and said, “There is a place . . . I’ve only touched the surface of what potential it has. I guess it might be worth checking out.”
The group cheered; they would have tossed hats into the air if they wore any. Chuck Vaughan picked Greg up and down in a semihug, and Veronica kissed his cheek.
“All right, all right, you crazy crazies. Get in the van. It’s getting dark already.” The sun was barely up, but this was what Avery always said. “Miss Little, front seat. You want the adventure, you get to be the navigator.”
The van sputtered and smelled of tuna more than usual, but that was okay. Something felt different about this trip. Something felt big.
Greg felt a tap on his shoulder, and he looked behind him at Blake, the closest Greg had ever had to a best friend. He was wearing a blue rain jacket, and for some reason had the nylon hood pulled tight over his head, the cinch digging into his skin. He looked funny, his nose too big for his narrow face, his deep-set eyes glittering with delight. Blake was pointing at Westbrook, at all the freshmen walking through the quad to their early Friday morning classes.
