The Gateway Trilogy: Complete Series: (Books 1-3)

by Christina Garner

  “Do the ABC's,” I said, desperate to help. “A, b, c, d, e, f, g…”

  Taren nodded and joined in. “H, i, j, k— “

  “L, m, n, o, p,” Callie sang at the top of her lungs, “q, r, s…”

  “Keep going, say it over and over, don't stop,” Taren commanded. He turned to me. “Come on, we're leaving.”

  Is he crazy? Of course he is, he's in a mental institution. Why wouldn't he be crazy? I'm probably crazy, too. The people in the hallway are definitely crazy, which is why only a crazy person would go out there. Wait, does that mean I should follow Taren, or I should—

  “Ember!” Taren's voice was sharp, cutting through my babbling thoughts. “I don't want to have to leave you.”

  My eyes got as big as saucers. Leave me? He would leave me? Here? The thought of crouching alone in the corner of a room without so much as a closet to hide in became more terrifying than facing what was in the hall.

  He didn't wait for my response. “Now!”

  He bolted from the room, dragging Callie with him, her still shrieking her ABC's. I leapt to follow. The stairwell seemed farther away than I remembered. Of course, fifteen minutes ago I was only worried about getting caught by an orderly, not a psychotic patient. The door to the stairs stood open and, amazingly, unguarded. We raced through and continued down the stairs. We'd reached the landing for our floor when the door burst open. We skidded to a halt in front of Lauren and Josh.

  “It's coming, it's coming, go!” Lauren babbled hysterically.

  Someone—no, something—large and terrifying appeared in the doorway, its flesh like burnt leather and covered with sores.

  “Run!” Lauren shrieked and tore past us, up the stairs, Josh following.

  Callie's eyes widened in recognition. “Taren said they couldn’t come here, he said—”

  She began convulsing, her eyes rolling back in her head.

  The creature had eyes like slits and a nose like a squashed bug, but its mouth—its mouth took up the better part of its face. Gooey liquid—some of it blood-red, most of it black—oozed from both corners and when it opened, four rows of jagged teeth gleamed in the fluorescent light.

  In my mind, I was racing up the stairs behind Lauren and Josh. In reality, I was frozen in place as the monster advanced, its jaw flexing.

  “Get her out of here,” Taren said, pushing Callie into my arms. “Drag her if you have to.”

  He took a step toward the beast, a move that shocked me free of my paralysis.

  “What? What are you doing? Run!” I screamed, tugging at his arm.

  “I'll be right behind you,” he said calmly, dislodging a fire extinguisher from its case on the wall.

  Whether it was due to self-preservation or his commanding tone, I don’t know, but I left him there, pulling Callie along with me. I don't know how many floors I ran up—I didn't even know how many floors the building had—but when I reached the roof, my lungs were on fire and I was gasping for air. I slumped against the doorframe, letting Callie collapse into a heap.

  Moments later, Taren stepped onto the rooftop. He was barely short of breath, his clothing drenched in foul-smelling black slime.

  “How is she?” he asked.

  It was my shock at seeing him again that made me realize I'd been certain he was going to die. Certain he was sacrificing his life, if not for me, then for the young woman in a heap at my feet.

  “Ask her,” I said. Not the best way to say thank you—he had saved my life, however incidental—but in the past half hour of sneaking down hallways and running for my life, I'd begun to wonder what the hell was so special about Callie, anyway.

  When I said as much, Taren replied, “You wouldn't understand.” He was kneeling, trying to rouse her.

  “Oh yeah? Try me.” I could hear the hysterical edge in my voice, but could do nothing to stop it. “And while you're at it, why don't you explain to me what that thing down there was. And why you seem not at all fazed that a giant bug with a mouth the size of Jaws is running around a mental institution—or anywhere, for that matter.”

  “You need to calm down, Ember. Take a deep breath.” Taren didn't spare me a glance; instead, he scanned the rooftop.

  “Oh no, you don't get to be patronizing,” I said. “I've put up with plenty of very weird behavior from both you, and now I want some answers.”

  “I'm not trying to patronize you,” he said, turning to face me. “But there are things happening right now that are more important than your curiosity. Callie needs the help of professionals, and it’s only a matter of time before something very dangerous climbs those steps. Do you really want me to waste time explaining myself to you?”

  I shuddered at a mental picture of the creature I couldn’t explain, then looked back at Callie, who still lay motionless, and knew he was right.

  With great care, Taren lifted her in his arms and moved away from the stairwell.

  “I know a safe place, if you want to come with us,” he said.

  If? I certainly wasn't going back downstairs, and I wasn't naivé enough to think the roof would remain quiet for long.

  I followed Taren to the roof's edge and peered over. We were only five flights up. It had felt so much farther when I was running for my life and dragging an uncooperative Callie. In the distance, I could just make out two shapes sprinting across the lawn toward the main road. Moonlight glinted off the bedazzled lettering across Lauren's rump—Juicy. Nice of them to wait for us.

  Taren pointed to the fire escape that only went as high as the floor beneath us. “Do you think you can make that drop?”

  “Probably not,” I said, hoisting one leg over the ledge.

  “No, let me go first,” he said. “I need you to lower Callie down to me.”

  I would have protested—he was vastly overestimating my arm strength—but it wasn’t as though there was another choice. Taren leaned his still-unconscious bundle against the low wall and I moved into place, doing my best to keep her upright and support her head and neck.

  With the grace of one who was used to this sort of thing, Taren leapt over the ledge and landed softly ten feet below. Then he extended his arms, preparing to catch.

  For all her diminutiveness, hoisting Callie proved no easy task. I struggled to keep my balance as I scooted her legs over the edge. Her head flopped forward as I took firm hold of her wrists. I tried to go slowly, easing her little by little and bracing for the moment when her weight shifted to the point that I’d have to let her go. Preparation proved futile, however, and a second later I found myself nearly airborne, releasing Callie just in time to clutch the ledge. With a thunk, she landed half in Taren's arms and half over his shoulder.

  Knowing it was my turn, I came to sit on the ledge, and paused just long enough to realize simultaneously that I was scared of jumping, and that this was probably the least dangerous thing I would do all night.

  My landing wasn't nearly as cat-like as Taren's, and I crashed into the metal grating with all the grace of a hippopotamus.

  We raced down the fire escape, Callie slung over Taren’s shoulder like a sack of potatoes. As we passed the fourth floor, I looked in the window only to witness more carnage. I didn’t make that mistake again, instead keeping my eyes on the steps in front of me.

  The stairs stopped at the second floor, and with a kick, Taren released the ladder and started down. Callie’s head bobbed and rolled as he did. The girl would be lucky if she didn’t have whiplash.

  Once on the ground, I made as if to follow Taren, but noticed he was heading in the opposite direction of the main road, toward a wooded expanse. “Where are you going?”

  He didn't turn or slow his pace. “This way,” was all he said.

  I trailed after him, flushing with anger. “Yes, I can see that. What I don't see is why you are going that way. Why would you want to make an utterly horrific and terrifying night even more terrifying by taking a walk in what looks like the forest in every horror movie I have ever seen?”
r />   “You ask a lot of questions,” he said.

  “Yes, thank you for once again stating the obvious,” I muttered.

  Given any other circumstance, I'd be telling this guy to shove it right about then, but the truth was that there was no way I was striking off on my own that night. I followed along in sullen silence.

  As we walked, the adrenaline that had been keeping me going drained from my body. Within fifteen minutes, I felt like a rung-out sponge. The forest had grown denser and therefore creepier, but I was so tired that it barely registered. After stumbling for the third time, I broke the silence.

  “I need to rest a minute,” I said, stopping to catch my breath.

  “No need,” Taren replied.

  “No need? I'm exhausted, and I'm telling you, I—”

  “There's no need, because we're here,” he said.

  I had been staring at my feet, exhaustion pulling my eyelids down, but now I looked up to see that we had reached a clearing. A gravel access road ended a few yards away.

  He set Callie down gently on the soft grass and made his way over to a large group of bushes. Only they weren't bushes. He tore at the branches, which came loose in large chunks, revealing a car hidden beneath the foliage. Within minutes, it was completely cleared off. He pulled off his shirt to reveal a well muscled chest, slick with sweat and dotted with scars. Tossing the soiled shirt aside, he opened the trunk and retrieved a clean one.

  “You have a getaway car stashed outside of a mental institution?” I asked, wondering if anything would make sense that night.

  Instead of answering, he went to where Callie lay and scooped her up in his arms.

  “Can you get the door?” he said.

  I forced myself to my feet and complied. He slid her into the backseat and knelt down to feel for her breath and check her pulse.

  I wanted to ask what was wrong with her, but had the distinct feeling I wouldn't get an answer. I slid into the passenger seat in silence.

  7

  The drive was slow going until we reached the main road. When we did, Taren turned in the opposite direction of the E.R. I'd been taken to just a day earlier.

  “Aren't we going to the hospital?” I asked.

  “She's not that kind of sick,” he said.

  “Well, exactly what kind of sick is she?” Screw him not liking questions, that girl in the backseat needed serious help. “And don't say she hears voices, because I hear one, too, and I'm not all unconscious about it!”

  I'd never said those words aloud, and as soon as I did, I wanted to swallow them back up.

  “You what?” His voice was made all the more intense by how quiet it had become.

  “Well, I was in a nuthouse,” I said, “I'd have to be a little nutty, right? And don't start in about birthmarks, because I'm telling you, I don't have any.”

  “You're absolutely certain? Not even…” A blush bloomed in his cheeks, but he barreled on, “Not even in a…private place? Or a place you might not actually be able to see yourself?”

  It was my turn to blush, which only served to fan the flames of my anger. “No, I do not have any birthmarks! I have a few freckles, some scars from when I was a kid, and a small mole that may or may not be located in a more private place, but other than that, there are no marks on my body other than this, which I most certainly was not born with.”

  I pushed my hair aside and tugged at the neckline of my t-shirt to reveal my left shoulder blade and the intricate tattoo I'd had inked there almost a year prior. My mom had taken it surprising well when she'd found out. It was always hard to tell what was going to upset her and what she would laugh off as harmless.

  I dropped my hair and turned back, fixing him with my harshest glare. He stared at me, astonished, not watching the road at all. Headlights flashed in our eyes and I grabbed the wheel.

  “Look out!” I spun it just in time to avoid a head-on collision.

  Taren regained his composure enough to pull to the side of the road, brakes screeching.

  “Who did that to you?” He spun me around and yanked at my shirt.

  “Fat Tony at All Night Ink,” I said.

  “And this design—it was Fat Tony's?” His tone was urgent, almost frantic.

  “No, it was mine,” I said, shaking off his grip. “I've been drawing versions of it for years. What is your problem? My mother didn't freak this much when she saw it, and she's a total head case.”

  But Taren was lost in thought, clearly trying to process something.

  He turned and studied me for a moment, his eyes sparking with recognition. “I knew there was something about you…”

  My flesh pebbled and I wanted him to say more. I told myself it was strictly out of curiosity, not the idea that he'd spent time thinking about me.

  His cell phone buzzed and skittered across the dash, and I exhaled sharply, letting out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. With a glance at the screen, he answered.

  “Did you hear?” He paused for the caller's reply. “There was at least one of them, but I'm guessing more.” He paused again, glancing back at Callie. “Yes, she's with me, but she's not well. We're going to need a high-level Retriever. But there's something…else…happening.”

  He didn't need to look at me for me to know what he was talking about, though I still had no idea why.

  “I'll be back in a bit. I need to make a stop first.”

  He ended the call without a goodbye, then started the car and eased back onto the road.

  “You said you drew that symbol? That you’ve been drawing it for years?”

  “Yeah, it started out as a few random doodles—”

  “Like the one you drew the other day?”

  I remembered the swirling lines I'd sketched in the rec room. “Right, like that. It started when I was a kid, and then I began connecting them and then it just seemed…finished.”

  “So I'm assuming you have some sketchpads, or paintings, or something to prove this?”

  “Prove what? It's my design. I didn't copy it from anyone, if that's what you're implying.”

  I was doing mental gymnastics, trying to track how we'd gone from sneaking around to running for our lives, and now to an interrogation about my tattoo.

  Taren ground his teeth. “That is not what I'm—” He took a breath and continued, his tone calmer. “Look, this is important. Do you have other copies of that symbol?”

  “Yeah…in sketchbooks, like you said, on the cover of my algebra book, incorporated in a mural on my bedroom wall…”

  Other than my tattoo, the one on my wall was my favorite. Mom had been on a manic high—awake for three days—when I’d come home to find her stripping off the yellowing wallpaper that had decorated my bedroom in our latest apartment.

  “You're such a brilliant artist,” she’d said, “it's about time you did a large installation!”

  So together we’d worked—me sketching, her filling in the colors—until the following evening. Never one to let school get in the way of something she considered truly educational, Mom had called me in sick that day. When we’d finally finished, we both collapsed into our respective beds and slept for hours. The next day I’d gotten to school by third period; Mom had stayed in bed for two weeks.

  “OK, that's good,” Taren said, bringing me back to the present. “They'll want to see those. Where do you live?”

  I gave him my address, which he then punched into the GPS. I wanted to question him—why was he so interested in my artwork, and who was “they?”—but something about the intensity in his eyes and the speed of his driving kept me silent. A short while later, we pulled onto my street, Taren cursing when he saw the patrol car in front of my house.

  “I was hoping we would beat them here,” he said.

  The living room was well lit, the drapes pulled back. My mother paced, gesturing frantically. The cops stood calmly in the face of her tirade.

  “They're going to be here a while,” I said, knowing she wouldn't allow them
to leave until she'd exhausted her fury at my disappearance. At least this tirade was legitimate.

  “Is there anywhere else you'd have a copy of the design?”

  “There's a coffee shop I go to, Buzz. They have a few of my pieces on the wall.”

  “You've displayed it? In public?” He was incredulous.

  “Why shouldn't I?” I said defensively. “I’m telling you, it's my work.”

  He didn't answer, just started the car and drove off.

  This trip only took a minute or two. Buzz was less than a mile away, one of the reasons it was my favorite. The other was that it was open until four in the morning. I'd become quite an insomniac in the past year, and had started sneaking out around midnight, heading to Buzz to sketch. I'd stumble home too wired to sleep and lie in bed until it was time for school.

  Taren parked in the alley, and with no other choice, we left Callie in the car while we went inside.

  “Em!” Clyde greeted me with a broad smile. His mohawk was blue today, and he'd added a piercing to his eyebrow.

  “Hey Clyde, how have you been?” I leaned forward on the counter.

  “Can't complain. The real question is, where have you been?”

  “Eh,” I hedged, “here and there. But I haven't been cheating on you, I swear. Buzz is my one and only coffeehouse.”

  “I guess I can let it slide then. Here.” Clyde hit a button and the cash register popped open. “One of your pieces sold.”

  “No way,” I said as Clyde handed me forty-five dollars. “Which one?”

  Clyde pointed to the empty space on the wall behind me. My breath caught. Taren didn't need me to explain.

  “Do you know who bought it?” I asked, trying not to let the coincidence unnerve me.

  “Didn't get his name, but he came in yesterday. He nearly choked on his bagel when he saw it hanging there. Wanted to know all about you, asked if you had any other pieces here. I showed him the two small ones upstairs, but he wasn't as interested in those. Sorry.”

  “That's OK,” I said, my mind reeling.

  That painting had hung in the same spot for months, and now two people were interested in it—Taren to the point of obsession—in one week.