The Leveller

by Julia Durango

  “On three, then,” Wyn says.

  I nod again, but keep my eyes shut.

  “One,” he says, “two—”

  Wyn doesn’t wait for three. He yanks my hand and we go careening off the cliff together.

  I scream all the way down, cycling my legs furiously until we hit the water below.

  WHOOSH.

  The impact of our fall drives us straight to the bottom of the bay.

  The coral-blue water turns to dark.

  It’s nearly black down here.

  I’d keep screaming, but I’m forced to hold my breath instead.

  My feet touch the sandy bottom and I push hard, propelling myself back to the surface.

  Wyn and I are still holding hands.

  I spit water out of my mouth and blink as the radiant sun sparkles overhead.

  Wyn whoops loudly. “You did it, Nixy, you did it!”

  “I did it,” I say softly, then raise my voice to the sky. “I did it!”

  Damn the Black. I’m tired of being scared.

  I will not be afraid of the dark any longer.

  Now Wyn is twirling me around in the water. “Woo-hoo! Look out, world, Nixy Badass Bauer is back!”

  I can’t help myself. I start to laugh.

  I may even be crying a little bit, I’m not sure.

  I hear the familiar sound of my phone vibrating and I reach a sleepy hand over to turn it off. Only my phone feels different somehow, the buttons in the wrong place. I open my eyes.

  Right, the MEEP. Sleep has discombobulated me once again.

  After our jump, Wyn and I decided to take one last restorative nap before summoning Larry to take us back to Havana. We don’t have a plan yet, but we can’t hide here on the island any longer. We need to go do something. Anything. And we need to have all our wits about us when we do.

  Wyn hasn’t been able to get out, but somehow he’s survived here. And somehow I made it in. Which means his captors, our captors, have blind spots. We only have to find them to exploit them.

  The remote vibrates in my hand again and I squint at it. The MEEP MAIL icon is flashing.

  I blink. This can’t be right.

  I walk over to Wyn’s hammock. “Hey,” I say softly in his ear.

  Wyn murmurs something unintelligible and rolls his head away from me.

  “Hey,” I repeat, a little more loudly this time, and gently shake his shoulder.

  He opens his eyes and smiles at me. He looks so sweet I almost want to sink into the hammock next to him, but this may be important. “I thought you said you haven’t been able to send or receive mail here.”

  “That’s right,” he says.

  I hold the remote in front of him. “Look.”

  Wyn’s eyes widen as they register the blinking icon and he takes the remote from me. He presses the button and reads. I’m dying to look over his shoulder to see what the message says but I restrain myself. Instead I look down at my virtual fingernails and pick at them nervously.

  “It’s for you,” Wyn says, his voice unreadable, and hands me the remote.

  “What?” I say, thinking he must be teasing, but his face has turned dark, worried again.

  I bite my lip and read the message.

  NIXY, THERE’S A PORTAL THROUGH THE TOMB. GO ALONE.

  I stiffen. “Who sent this?” I ask, scrutinizing the message as if somehow I can figure out who the sender is just by staring at it long enough. “What does this mean, Wyn?”

  Wyn rubs his jaw. “I don’t know. Maybe it means they’re letting you go. Maybe they just want me.”

  “What if it’s a trap?” I reply, thinking of Kora’s demise. “If they were going to let me go, why would they wait this long?”

  Wyn shakes his head. “Agreed. I don’t like it. Not one bit.”

  “But if it is a trap, maybe we can turn the tables on them. Where is this tomb?”

  Wyn sighs. “I’ll take you there, Nixy, but promise me, we go together. There’s no way you’re going anywhere alone anymore. Not after the Black.”

  “Fine,” I say to him, then I think to myself, You’re ready. You’re ready for this, Nix.

  Maybe I’m a bald-faced liar. But there’s no time to figure it out. Not now.

  Wyn asks for my hand, and I pull him upright. “Let’s go, then.”

  Walking in a cemetery in the middle of the night probably appeals to the same kind of people who watch horror movies for fun. I’m not one of those people. It’s dark and creepy, and every time the beam from Wyn’s flashlight lands on the face of a sculpted angel, I nearly jump out of my skin. But I’m determined not to show fear anymore. I want the old Nixy back, and I want her now.

  “Are you sure you know which one?” I ask him for the twelfth time. “Lotta tombs here, you know. Wouldn’t want to wake the dead.”

  All the way over here, first in Larry’s loving grip, then on the motorcycle, Wyn and I have tried to keep the tone light. That “go alone” part of the message was a good indication that this next part may not be a dance at the Tropicana. But neither one of us wants to dwell on it, at least not until we have to.

  “The Nuñez Galvez tomb is the only one I’ve actually completed that has a working door.” He waves a hand at all the mausoleums and statues we’re passing. “The rest of these are just shells.”

  “So what’s inside the Noonie Galvin tomb?” I say, enjoying the look Wyn gives me as I completely mangle the name. “Trained attack monkeys? No, no, you’ve done those before. I’ve got it, you keep Larry’s playmates in there. Pet tarantulas named Curly and Moe?”

  Wyn laughs. “You’re close. Ghosts, and their names are José and Lola.”

  Now I’m laughing too. “And do they like to play banana fetch or do they have more ghoulish pastimes?”

  “Well, Lola likes to recite poetry and José plays chess.”

  “Classy,” I say. “Are they—were they—real people once like Hemingway and Josephine?”

  Wyn nods. “Yep, Lola Rodríguez de Tío and José Martí. Cuban heroes. Both of them are buried in the real Colon Cemetery. Mama Beti used to visit their graves when she was a girl, so I thought it would be fun to re-create them for her.”

  “Well, just make sure you warn her first. Mama Beti’s been through enough. The last thing she needs is that kind of a surprise, no matter how civilized José and Lola are.”

  “Will do,” Wyn says, then points his flashlight at the structure ahead.

  “Why did we do this at night?” I wonder aloud. “Can’t you hit the lights in here? Make it, like, noon or something?”

  Wyn shakes his head. “I only built that functionality into the island. Here we are.”

  While all the other tombs look gothic and old-fashioned, almost like miniature churches, the Nuñez Galvez one looks sleek and triangular, like an open tent—only it’s huge and made of stone.

  “We should make s’mores,” I say, as we approach. “I bet Lola and José would love them.”

  “We’ll have to come back one day and picnic with them,” Wyn agrees.

  “Once I get out of here,” I tell him, “I am never, ever coming back.”

  As we get closer, I see that the gaping triangular opening leads to a staircase descending into the earth. There’s a door at the bottom, and Wyn trains the flashlight on it. “Ready?” he asks.

  I nod and look around. “Nobody around with shovels, are there?” I say, remembering his nightmare of being buried alive.

  Wyn shudders and we’re both silent for a moment.

  “All right, let’s do this,” I say as we begin our descent down the steps.

  We walk slowly, both of us hoping beyond hope to find one thing behind that door: a big, sparkly virtual mall.

  Wyn undoes the latch and I push open the door.

  Darkness.


  Black.

  I brace myself, fight the urge to run.

  Wyn aims the flashlight inside.

  But it’s only darkness.

  There’s no Black here.

  No nothingness.

  I can handle it.

  I will handle it.

  “Lola? José?” Wyn calls, as we step into the shadows. “It’s not usually so dark in here,” he explains, waving his flashlight around.

  SLAM.

  The door behind us shuts, and Wyn drops the flashlight.

  We are bathed in pitch darkness, except for the weak beam of light at our feet.

  “Inventory!” I yell automatically, but it’s too late.

  The zombies get us first.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  WE WAKE UP BACK INSIDE THE TENT-LIKE TOMB AT THE TOP OF THE stairs. Wyn and I stare at each other for a moment.

  “I don’t know whether to be excited or terrified,” he says.

  “Same here. Someone’s tampered with your tomb, which means it could be some kind of portal like the message said, only . . .”

  “Only it’s guarded by the undead.”

  I start twirling a strand of hair around my finger, untwirling it, then twirling it again. I briefly consider that this is not the most mature habit, but it helps me think and we need a plan.

  Wyn still looks a bit dazed from the zombie attack. I don’t blame him. No one likes having their intestines ripped out. At least they killed us fast.

  “Okay,” I say, taking charge. I’ve dealt with zombies in my mini-games with Chang and Moose. “We need to go through our inventories again and divvy up the weapons before we go back in. The only way to defeat a zombie is to destroy its brain. We should probably conserve ammo as long as we can and limit ourselves to slice or strike weaponry.”

  Wyn blinks a few times, then shakes his head briskly to pull himself together. “Right. Slice and strike. Inventory,” he says into the MEEPosphere.

  “How about a crowbar?” he asks, after a few seconds of perusing.

  “Perfect,” I answer. “Let’s see, you still have the Gladius sword and laser guns I gave you earlier, right?”

  He nods. “Laser guns are both on low power, though. What about the grenades? I still have five left. Why not toss them in and get rid of the zombies all at once?”

  I shake my head. “Too risky. The tomb might cave in and destroy the portal. Or we could break the code, like I did in Mama Beti’s room, and then . . .”

  Wyn blows out a breath. “Right, say no more. No grenades. What have you got?”

  “Rappelling gun, crossbow, machete, and a shield. Half a quiver left for the bow. And a potato gun.”

  Wyn raises an eyebrow at me. “In case we get hungry?”

  I grimace. “Long story.”

  “I’ll trade you my brass knuckles for the potato gun,” he says, like we’re in kindergarten.

  “You’re on,” I say, “but you gotta throw in half a tuna sandwich to seal the deal.”

  “Only if you give me the creamy half of your Oreo.”

  “You’re a tough negotiator, Elwyn Brooks Salvador,” I say, as we trade weapons. “So what are you doing with brass knuckles anyway?”

  Wyn looks at me mysteriously. “Oh, you know, Havana in the 1950s can be a dangerous place . . . mobsters, shady politicians, money lenders . . . you never know when you might get caught in a brawl.” He’s grinning now, and I can’t tell if he’s teasing me or not.

  “You programmed your Meeple to get in fistfights?” I ask.

  He laughs. “Nah, it’s just one of my extras, when I want a break from building. I put in a boxing ring inside a bar called Sloppy Joe’s. Most of my opponents are Meeple, but I also have a rock golem and a robozilla in the rotation. They’re a little tougher to crack.”

  “I am seriously sorry I didn’t get to see one of your matches,” I say, and I mean it. I would love to see Wyn take on a rock golem. “You ever win?”

  Wyn shrugs. “What do you think?”

  “I’ll reserve judgment until after we take out the zombies,” I reply.

  “Speaking of zombies . . . shall we, señorita?” he says, extending his elbow to me in gentlemanly fashion.

  I give him a little curtsy and slip my hand around his arm. “By all means, kind sir. I believe it is time to kick some undead fanny.”

  We head down the stairs and pause for a second before the door.

  “Three, two, one,” I say, and Wyn kicks it open.

  As previously agreed, he goes left, I go right, and we both start swinging. The zombies on the left get treated to a head-bashing by crowbar; the zombies on the right suffer full or partial decapitation by my machete. I’ve equipped myself with the night-vision goggles, though I almost wish I didn’t have to see what I’m doing. The whole thing’s pretty gross. Close combat has never been my cup of tea, but I keep hacking away, my machete doing its thing.

  Wyn has strapped the flashlight to his left arm, which he tries to keep raised so he can see what’s coming, but given that he’s also fending off a mob of flesh-hungry monsters, the lighting for him is erratic at best. We both count aloud every time we score a hit so we can get a sense of how many enemies we’re dealing with—especially important if we’re defeated and have to do this Zombie Cha-Cha all over again.

  “Eight!” yells Wyn. He’s just caught up to me. I better step up my game.

  I start spinning a 360, my machete raised at neck level. THUNK THUNK THUNK, I hear as my weapon makes contact. “Nine, ten, eleven!” I yell. Fortunately, the zombies disappear as soon as we kill them, otherwise we’d be tripping over the body pile. I swing some more and get nothing but air.

  “All clear on the right!” I holler at Wyn.

  Wyn raises his flashlight arm and finds me in his beam. “All clear here, too,” he says. “How many was that total? Nineteen?”

  “Nineteen? We’re missing one,” I say, looking around and keeping my machete up.

  Wyn sidles around in the dark, his crowbar at the ready, his flashlight arm up and pointed. He reminds me of Buzz Lightyear. “How do you know we’re missing one?” he asks.

  “Who creates an army of nineteen zombies? It’s too . . . prime.”

  “Too prime?” Wyn says, and I hear the amusement in his voice. Then I see the shadow behind him.

  “Get down!” I yell.

  He drops to his knees just as my machete swings through the space his head occupied a second ago. THUNK.

  “Twelve,” I say, offering a hand to Wyn as he gets back to his feet. “For a total of twenty.”

  “Nice even numbers,” he says, nodding at me in mock admiration. “You must be well pleased.”

  I’m about to remind him that my insistence on even numbers just kept his brains from being some zombie’s Snack Pack pudding, but the lights go on, nearly blinding us.

  I blink my eyes shut, then open them. Everything is white.

  Oh God, not the maze from hell again. Please no.

  “Inventory!” I yell, bracing myself.

  But then I see that everything is white because it is snowing. And it is snowing because it is Christmas in the Landing. I twirl around and see Wyn’s face transform from wariness to relief as he slowly comes to the same realization.

  “Oh my God. We did it, Nixy!” he says, his voice loud with excitement. “Hot damn. We’re home!” he yells, then picks me up and starts spinning me around in the snow.

  We’re both laughing now, giddy with relief and happiness, or maybe it’s pure exhaustion, I don’t know. But we gaze into each other’s eyes and smile and laugh and twirl in that big virtual mall like we’ve just found a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. A Meeple choir sings, “Have a holly jolly Christmas” in the background, though a strange whirring noise interrupts.

  We look up from o
ur celebratory hugfest and see a cute animatronic penguin on wheels rolling toward us. In his flippers, he’s holding a gift-wrapped present with a tag that reads TO WYN, FROM SANTA.

  Wyn looks at me with an expression of surprised amusement. “One of your dad’s ideas?”

  “Must be . . .” I start to say, though something’s nagging at me. “Wait—”

  I’m too late.

  Wyn opens the box and we explode.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  AS SOON AS MY EYES OPEN, I SCRAMBLE UP, INVENTORY AT THE READY.

  Wyn jumps to his feet next to me. We’re still in the Landing, right where we last fell.

  Why? Why? my brain screams. Why the explosion if not to send us back a level to the cemetery?

  “Beware penguins bearing false gifts,” I joke, but neither one of us is in the mood for humor now. I’m already scanning for the next challenge that awaits us, and so is Wyn. He’s got both laser guns out and is doing a slow sweep of the mall.

  The Landing is deathly quiet now and it has stopped snowing. The Meeple choir has vanished. There are no festively dressed shoppers roaming, no elves passing out discount flyers, no mini-games in action. Just twinkling lights everywhere and, in the middle of the atrium, the big three-story Christmas tree opposite the Information Desk.

  The beautiful Information Desk.

  That big, shiny, blinking control panel on top of it is all I need to shut this game down.

  And it’s only a pool’s length away. . . .

  An Olympic-size pool, but still. It’s doable.

  I just have to get there without dying.

  My legs are ready, poised for a mad dash to the desk.

  I will myself to be still.

  Focus, I think. Just like chess.

  Study the board.

  Anticipate your opponent.

  Think before you move.

  Focus.

  “See anything?” I ask Wyn.

  “Nothing,” he says. “But I don’t like this. It’s too quiet.”

  Somewhere nearby we hear a tiny tinkling sound and we both jump.

  A pretty red-and-silver Christmas ornament rolls toward us.

  Wyn doesn’t waste any time. He shoots it.