“This ain’t a dream—we’d know it,” Cyn says. “He’s just saying things, Kat. He’s crazy.”
“Maybe we’re crazy,” Roc says. “We just don’t know it.”
“Shut up,” Kat snaps.
“You’d better hope I don’t get loose, horse girl.” The bed creaks. “You’re the first one I’ll break in half.”
Kat shakes her head, arms crossed.
Cyn rests with her eyes closed. At first, she’d wanted to punch the old man in the throat for such a lie. Their days are numbered and he thought they’d believe anything, like children. But she’s sleepwalking plastic bags to a little cabin, so he could say anything and it might be true.
“I’ll talk to him,” Kat says. “Figure out what he’s up to.”
“You do that,” Roc says. “I feel better already.”
“Get some sleep, Cyn.” Mad runs her finger around the bowl and licks it. “More medicine later, if you don’t puke those pills up. There’s plenty more soup, too. Miranda probably has more.”
“Miranda?” Roc chuckles. “Proof you are dreaming.”
The girls go to the door, ready to get away from Roc, whose only enjoyment is getting under their skin. She’s good at it.
“Mad.” Cyn, already half-buried in sleep, croaks out her name. She holds out her keycard. “Take this. I don’t need it.”
“I’ll give it to Kat.”
“No. Just…for now, hang on to it. Keep it safe. All right?”
Mad puts it around her neck, tucks it under her shirt. She puts her hand on Cyn’s forehead, her palm clammy and cold.
Cyn fades into a soft haze. I can’t steal the bags if I don’t have a key. The front door closes. The bunkhouse is quiet except for the creaks and pops as the wind pushes against it.
“You asleep?” Roc says.
Cyn’s couldn’t care less if Roc talks. They’re just words. Besides, stampeding elephants couldn’t keep her from sleeping.
“I lied to Kat,” Roc whispers, cackling like she’s lost her mind. “If I get loose, you’re the first one I break in half.”
“You’d better kill me, if you escape,” Cyn mutters. “You’re a dead body if you don’t.”
The dark laughter follows Cyn into the gray.
36
The dream is endless.
Feverish.
As always, she’s on the ledge, staring into the abyss of eternal fog. Where the memories are. Memories of the lost boys from Foreverland, dissolved in misty gray. Reduced to thoughts scattered in space.
But how did my memories get into the gray?
She feels them coming for her. She runs every time. She turns, races from the chasm into the trees. She’d rather suffer in the dream than face life.
Rather than have those memories inside her.
Sometimes she wakes long enough to feel someone put dry pills onto her lips, cool water washing them down.
Feels the sweat on her pillow.
And then it’s back to the ledge.
Back to running.
Wondering, Who’s the dreamer?
Who am I?
37
Cyn sits up. “How many days have I been in bed?”
“Seven,” Kat says.
“A week?”
“Ain’t lying.”
Kat points at the wall. New scratches are on the wall. The girls kept track of the days while she dozed. The days blend together. Those pills are sledgehammers.
The shivers are gone. The sheets are dry.
She throws the covers off, the stench of dead skin and infection wafting out, and gently puts her feet on the floor. The wounds are oozy, but the swelling is down.
Kat rattles the bottle. “Last of this bottle. Hope you don’t relapse or we’ve got to experiment with another bottle and hope we get lucky.”
Cyn works up enough spit to swallow them. There’s fresh snow on the ground, about six inches on the dinner house. The old man and Sid are visible through the window. Jen, too.
“You want to eat?” Kat asks. “Mad’s almost got supper ready.”
“No. I think I’ll go for a little walk. I need to get out of this nasty bed. If I don’t make it over to eat, tell the old man I want to talk in the morning.”
“Why not now?”
“Got to think about some things.”
Not a lot made sense in the delirium, but maybe Cyn needs to hear more about this dream experiment. She doesn’t want to even think about listening to that crap, but unless a helicopter drops into the meadow, Prince Charming isn’t coming.
It can’t hurt to hear more about this gate.
“Jen’s feeding the old man and the kid,” Kat says. “They wait in the barn and she takes food out when she thinks we ain’t looking.”
“Figured she would,” Cyn says.
“That’s what I said. Now we’re just letting them eat with us, Cyn. Hard to watch them starve, you know.”
Cyn doesn’t answer. Kat leaves her at the window.
She watches them through the windows. They eat supper, but it’s not much. The old man looks up from the table, sees her. Cyn moves a little too quickly, pain lancing her hamstrings. She probably shouldn’t be walking, but she’s got to get out of the bunkhouse, even for a little bit. Her body is sore.
She moves slowly, walks out to the barn. The horses are anxious, their hide pulled between their ribs. She sits on a bench, admiring the mountains, recalling what he’d said.
Rich and detailed. Not a thing missing.
Can this really be a dream? She turns her hands over, rubs them on her thighs. Her pulse bounces in the backs of her feet.
She comes back to the bunkhouse when she’s shivering and climbs into bed as her fever rises. She throws the covers over her head, pretending to be asleep when the girls come back. The stove crackles with heat. The last person in fastens the homemade deadbolt on the door, knowing that even the old man could kick it open if he wanted.
They wouldn’t wake up if he did.
In the morning, Cyn’s feet ache.
Her socks are wet.
Fresh ink on her fingers.
She gives up. Please, let this be a dream.
If the old man is right, there’s hope that they can wake up. And maybe waking up is their only hope. If not, she’s doomed. They all are.
Cyn struggles to get out of bed, wincing while getting dressed, but she sweats through the agony. The crutches creak under her weight. She opens the door without waking anyone, which is good. She wants to talk with the old man alone, still not convinced that he’s sane. If there’s a gate out of here, they can find it.
She limps through the snow, stops on the front porch, catching her breath. It’s completely dark inside the dinner house.
The stove is cold.
The brick house is lit up.
The shutters are open, lights illuminating every window both upstairs and down. She holds on to the post and knows, before even opening the door, that the old man and Sid aren’t inside the dinner house.
38
She’s seen enough. Heard enough.
Miranda waits until dark. She turns on the cameras, watches their eyes grow heavy, checks each of them twice before rolling the chair to the keyboard.
She punches a button. ‘YES’ or ‘NO’.
Miranda takes a deep breath.
Clicks the mouse.
A rumble rides through the house. She flinches each time a shutter slides across a window, snapping inside the brick wall. Like dominoes, they clack one by one until it’s quiet. Dust floats down from the ceiling. String instruments bellow from the front room.
The girls haven’t moved, eyes dancing in REM. Flood lights illuminate the dead garden. Nothing moves but the wind.
Miranda shuffles through the hallway, exposed and alone. She looks out the window. The moon and stars are crisp. The glass is cold. A light flickers inside the dinner house. A hunched figure looks out the window.
Miranda has the urge to duck.
&nbs
p; Too late.
A minute later, the candle appears at the front door, quickly blown out by the wind. The floodlights, though, show him the way. Miranda watches the old man plod through the snow, followed by a gangly figure. They pass through the fence, unflinching.
Their footsteps on the porch.
A knock at the door.
Mr. Williams stands in the front room, hands behind his back, looking around. Sid is behind him with shaggy dark hair and a slack lower lip, waiting while the old man drinks in the details of the home.
The old man breathes deep, closing his eyes. Miranda isn’t sure if the house still stinks, her senses long dulled to the odor.
“Who are you?” She holds out the photograph like a gun.
Mr. Williams cranes his neck, squints. He slides his feet toward her, reaching out, plucking it from her hand. He caresses the photo. His eyes are glassy.
“I can explain,” he says meekly. “Perhaps some food first?”
Miranda taps her foot, her stomach clenching. Cans of food are stashed all over the house, enough to last her a year. He’ll know she’s lying if she says she’s out.
And she can’t starve him. That’s what the girls were doing.
Miranda goes to the kitchen, returns with two plates. They’re sitting on the couch. Sid attacks the food like a dog, smacking with his mouth open. Can’t he do anything with his mouth closed?
She fetches a teapot and pours cups for all three of them. The old man has more self-control, but he leaves little room for talking, keeping his mouth full until the plate is nearly empty.
“What’s wrong with him?” Miranda asks.
Mr. Williams pushes his plate toward Sid and sits back on the couch, crossing his legs. “He’s incomplete.”
“What does that mean?”
“It’s like a file that hasn’t completely downloaded. It’s just not entirely there.”
Sid nabs the remaining squares of cheese from Mr. Williams’s plate and pushes them into his mouth, chewing with his lips open.
Wide open.
“It’s safe in here.” Mr. Williams lifts his cup of tea toward the spider-webbed glass.
“Roc doesn’t like me. The others probably don’t anymore, either.”
He sips. “Don’t apologize, Miranda. You belong here; they don’t.”
He tips his head like he’s catching the notes floating out of the speakers. He hums along with the refrain, closing his eyes, savoring the moan of a viola, bouncing his chin along with the pluck of violin strings.
He slides the stack of photos across the table and leans over. “Barbados. We had our honeymoon there. Barbara loved the place so much we bought a condo.”
He picks up a photo.
“She was always so white, she couldn’t be out in the sun with her fair skin. She’d had skin cancer twice, but she never listened. Loved the sun, she did.”
He drops it on the other photos.
“Not all blondes are ditzy. Some are tough as nails.”
Miranda twitches. Blondes?
She grabs the pile, shuffles them like cards. There’s the group of women. The one with black hair is up front, the same color as Roc’s. “That’s not her?”
“No,” he chuckles. “Always a blonde. Of course, she grayed as she aged.” He drops his finger on one of the other women. “Gracefully, I might add.”
Barbara was talking about Cyn.
“Where did you find these?”
She points at the room while staring at the picture, hardly notices Mr. Williams get up. Miranda flips through the other pictures, looking for another group photo. Maybe the woman that sponsored her is in the group. Will I recognize her?
She goes to the bedroom. He’s at the dresser, turning a glass Buddha figurine in his fingers.
“This was her favorite, had it when she was a kid, attached it to all her backpacks by a string. When she was nervous, she’d rub the belly.”
Mr. Williams looks around the room, his thumb circling the glass belly.
“This place is perfect,” he says.
“What’s perfect?”
He opens the top drawer, picks through brightly colored scarves. Smells one and smiles.
“Mr. Williams? What’s perfect?”
He closes the drawer. “Let me see the rest of the house and I’ll tell you what I know.”
Miranda backs into the hallway, crosses her arms. “That’s what you told Cyn.”
He smiles, turns his head slightly.
“I promise, Miranda. I just need to understand a bit more, get my mind around this place, then I’ll tell you everything.” He holds up his hand. “Swear.”
She taps her foot. “Bedrooms upstairs. Some strange stuff in the back.”
He palms the Buddha and goes upstairs, pulling his weight along the railing. Sid sits on the couch, mouth-breathing.
“I was scared of this room at first.” Miranda ventures into the back room. “The smell was coming from here and the door was different, so I just ignored it. But when Roc broke the window, everything automatically closed up.”
She turns around.
“And the door opened.”
Mr. Williams steps inside, tentatively. He looks left, leans over the batteries, rubs dust off the stickers. He inspects the furnace and water filters.
“I notice you leave all the lights on. You need to start turning them off.” He pushes a button on the furnace. “And turn the heat down, put on a sweater if you’re cold.”
“It’s been fine so far.”
“Winter’s coming and the solar panels won’t harvest as much power.”
He seems satisfied with that side of the room, takes a moment to survey the monitors before sitting in front of the large one.
“Cameras are everywhere.” Miranda wraps the blanket around her. “I figured out sound, too. I can see inside the buildings. Sometimes I feel a little guilty watching them.”
“Don’t. It’s for your protection.”
“I saw you walk into the woods, around that little house.”
He’s afraid to touch anything. She had felt that way at first, too. Instead, he looks from monitor to monitor. The girls are still asleep, some already snoring. She taps a few keys, advances the views on the monitor to the little cabin in the woods. It rotates around the back and then inside.
The old woman lies peacefully.
Mr. Williams rolls the chair over, leans closer. “Patricia.”
He touches the screen.
“The dreamer becomes the dream,” he mutters.
“What’s she doing in there?” she asks.
He sits back, gazing at the screen, as if seeing something else. He mutters something unintelligible.
“Is what you told Cyn true? That this is a dream?”
“There must be…” He pulls open a drawer beneath the desktop, rattling through the office debris. His thick fingers bent, the skin spotted.
“Mr. Williams?”
He mutters again, goes to the next drawer.
“Mr. Williams!”
He snaps out of the trance, sits up, looks around like he’s forgotten where he is and how he got there. His gaze settles on the doorway. Sid blocks their exit, a hand on each side of the doorframe. His eyes are big, his breathing heavy. Chest heaving.
“It’s all right, my boy. She’s just getting my attention.” Mr. Williams calmly waves him away. “Why don’t you go lie down in Barbara’s bedroom, get some sleep. Miranda and I have much to discuss.”
Sid’s hands slide down the doorjamb, fall against his legs. Mr. Williams nods again. Sid saunters down the hallway, goes into the bedroom.
“Tell me. Is it true?”
He sighs. “We are in a dream, Miranda. But we’re not dreaming.”
“I don’t understand.”
He takes another deep breath, starts to say something, but changes his mind. The old woman is still motionless, still sleeping. The dreamer becomes the dream.
“Perhaps you could prepare more tea whil
e I visit the men’s room?”
“What are you looking for?”
He takes the cup and sips. “A key fob. One of those little black remote controls, only this has one button, a red one. Have you seen anything like that?”
She shakes her head. The teacup rattles on the saucer. “Tell me what’s going on, Mr. Williams.”
He leans his elbows on his knees, stares into the black tea like the future is hidden somewhere inside. A smile touches his lips. He’s seeing a memory.
“Harold Ballard was a visionary,” he starts. “If you ever met him, you’d be overwhelmed with his charisma, charmed by his love of life. His mind was a true gem.”
He shakes his hands, as if he can’t find the words to express something so large, so special.
“It contained a universe, another world, an alternate reality where anything was possible. The boys, like Sid, called it Foreverland. It was truly magical, an island in the ocean, warm as the tropics.”
He pauses again. Contemplating.
“I suppose he could’ve just lived there, inside his mind, for the rest of his life. But he wasn’t like that. He wanted to share it with others, for the good of mankind. So he conducted these…experiments. I was part of them.”
“Sid, too?”
He nodded. “But something happened, I don’t know what. Everything was as normal as possible. Sid and I reached a critical juncture in the process when the world collapsed. Just one second it was there, and the next…”
Snap.
“We were disembodied, lost in a soupy dream, the gray place the boys called the Nowhere. We were ghosts.” Mr. Williams looks at her. “It’s the place in your dream.”
“I don’t dream, not like them.”
“I see.”
She curls the teacup against her chest. “What does any of this have to do with us?”
“Patricia is Sid’s mother.”
“The old woman?”
“Yes. She ran a sister program, an experiment like Harold’s Foreverland.”
“What kind of experiment? What were you trying to discover?”
Foreverland Is Dead Page 13
