And Cyn reaches, her fingers crawl over the boulder, contact the trunk—
Gray.
The edge is there. Her toes hang over.
And the haze swirls in the Nowhere mist.
Beckoning.
Body ringing like a struck bell.
The girls behind her.
Watching through a tunnel.
And below her,
The abyss.
She stretches out her arms,
Inhales the senseless mist,
Teeters on the brink.
And falls like a statue.
Falls into the known.
Her belly swirls,
Toes curl.
Head over heel, she tumbles.
Disintegrates,
Into the Nowhere.
The wind harvesters thump.
Cyn feels the coarse pillowcase on her neck. The embrace of the mattress. Smells the wood stove.
She feels pressure in her forehead.
Her eyelids crackle, tearing apart the crusted seal. The rafters are blurred. She blinks but can’t focus. Her eyes aren’t responding.
Something is between them.
There’s waxy balm on her lips. And pressure in her arms. Arms she can’t move. She licks her lips in slow motion, blinking heavily. Trying to will her hand to lift, to remove whatever is stuck between her eyes— A face.
Her brown hair hangs down. She’s leaning over Cyn, obstructing her view of the ceiling. Her lips move.
A sound comes out, slurred and long.
She looks to the side, says something. Looks back. Tries again.
Her lips move. A single word.
“Cynthia?”
She reaches for Cyn’s forehead, takes hold of the object between her eyes. It slides out like a sliver, a cold metal sliver, sending a queer sensation between her ears, down her throat— There’s sound.
Objects.
She turns her head. There are people in the bunkhouse. Adults. They’re all watching.
They’ve come.
We’re saved.
The woman’s hand touches Cyn’s arm. There are needles in her arms, tubes running to IV bags on a stand over her head. Across the room, Kat is tucked into bed with IVs in her arm, too.
A needle protruding from her forehead.
“Can you tell me the password?” the woman asks.
Cyn has no idea what she means. She asks her the question twice. Cyn shakes her head, confused. Lost.
The woman squeezes her hand and smiles. “You made it out, Cynthia.”
NOVEMBER
Peel an onion, layer by layer.
What’s in the middle?
50
There’s dull pain in her arm, matched only by the sensation in her forehead. Both are persistent.
Nauseating.
She rises into consciousness, against her will, harpooned by discomfort and dragged to the surface. Her eyes crack open, not really seeing anything. The lids are weighty, wanting to close, wanting to sleep.
Pain denies her, pushes them open.
The beige ceiling is low and curved. It appears to be canvas, held up by hoops. It smells like new fabric. The wind breathes against the walls.
Somewhere, someone is tapping a keyboard.
Cyn’s lying in a bed, a dark green blanket up to her chest. Just beyond her feet, a brown curtain is drawn for privacy. She turns her head. On the other side of the narrow room is another bed, the covers turned back, the pillow dented.
She lifts her arm, pain radiating from inside the elbow. There’s a tube sticking out of her vein, the plastic port taped down. The skin around the insertion point is yellowish.
She tries to lift her head—
“Ooh”
She drops back into the pillow. Didn’t expect that dull pain to bite. She takes several quick breaths, braces to roll onto her side.
The curtain slides open.
A slender woman stands at the foot of the bed, holding the curtain. Her teeth are very straight. Cyn holds still, examining her, deciding whether to see what happens next or try to make an escape, despite the pain.
“Are you thirsty?” the woman asks.
Her throat is hot. She nods once.
The woman comes back with a water bottle, bending the plastic straw and putting it to Cyn’s lips. She draws a few swallows. It puts her at ease.
“Take these, if you can. They’ll reduce the discomfort.”
She puts two pills between her lips and follows it with water. Cyn swallows them, recalling someone giving her pills before, but not quite remembering whom.
Or why.
The woman’s hair is straight, cut at the shoulders and graying. “I’m Dr. Mazyck. Call me Linda.”
“Doctor?” The word scratches its way out.
“I’m a psychologist. I work for the military. Do you know where you are?”
Again, Cyn looks around. Nothing is familiar. A four-wheeler drives somewhere out there, changing gears and speeding off. A generator starts up. In the background, there’s a thumping of propellers, steady and low.
I should know what that is.
“You’ve had a long journey.” Linda gently squeezes her shoulder. “You’re safe.”
Cyn takes another drink. Her forehead has cooled. She touches it without considerable pain. Her back and legs ache terribly. She moves her arm.
“Do you want to sit up?”
Linda pulls off the covers and puts her arm beneath the pillow, uses it to slowly lift her into a sitting position. Her clothes are beige and clean, like hospital scrubs. Cyn puts her feet on the ground, expecting it to hurt. When the nausea settles, she reaches halfway down her shin, her fingers walking the pant leg up to expose her feet.
Her clean, perfect feet.
“I don’t understand,” she half-whispers. “There was something wrong…”
“What do you remember?”
Confusion obscures a thousand thoughts. She can’t pick one of them out of the mental storm, the memories swirling around and around.
“I was lost.” She looks around. An empty bed across from her. “There were others.”
Linda nods. Her light blue eyes sympathetic, understanding. But it just doesn’t seem real, just something she’s imagining, not remembering.
“You have been dreaming.”
Cyn touches her forehead, very tender around a circular bandage. Tubes dangle from her arm. “What’s happening?” she whispers.
A door opens at the far end of the room, letting in a draft. Linda stands, walks briskly towards the man hustling inside.
“Not yet,” Linda says in a semi-hushed tone. “She just woke up. It’ll take a little time for her to understand what’s happened.”
“There’s no time,” the man says. “The others are still inside.”
“Don’t push it, Thomas.”
“Now’s not the time to be cautious, Linda.”
“Now is exactly the time to be cautious!” She stops him off from going around her. “Give me an hour, that’s all. She needs time to adjust to reality. If you go too hard, she could lose grip. She’ll be no good then.”
The man stares at Cyn, listening.
“Trust me, Thomas. I saw it happen on the island. Some of the boys were caught between two worlds and fell apart. You could destroy her.”
He’s thinking. Puts his hand on her shoulder. “I’ll just talk.”
“Let me—”
He’s too quick, this time. He snags the folding chair from a desk just past the curtain and plunks down in front of Cyn. No smile from him.
“I’m Agent Carlson. You hungry?”
Cyn looks at Linda.
“I wish there was more time for pleasantries, but time is very short. I’m a federal cyber-terrorism agent. What’s happened in the last month is all new to us. Quite frankly, it’s the stuff of science fiction movies.”
Blankness moves into her eyes. He pauses, gives her a moment to comprehend, holding up a hand when Linda takes a step.
�
��Cynthia,” he says, touching her knee, “you’re part of an identity theft conspiracy. You were kidnapped months ago, brought out here, and inserted into a dream. We are very close to finding the people responsible, but we need your help. Tell me what you remember before waking up.”
Cyn looks back and forth between the two. She tries to say something but keeps forgetting what it is.
“Thomas.” Linda steps up.
He leans forward, holding Cyn’s gaze. “Tell me,” he whispers.
But she’s stuck. She’s got nothing.
Linda gives his shoulder a firm pull. He stands reluctantly, not looking away. Linda guides him with her hand on his arm, whispering as they go.
“What did you mean?” Cyn calls.
They stop halfway across the room.
“When you said I was adjusting to reality, what did you mean by that?”
Linda comes back, sits in the chair. Thomas stays back.
“You’ve been immersed in an alternate reality,” Linda says. “We’re not sure how long.”
“Weeks, we think,” Thomas says without moving any closer. “Maybe a month.”
Cyn focuses on the sound of the distant thumping, like a slow-moving helicopter. She closes her eyes, imagines white blades churning at the end of a long post.
Three of them.
Next to a barn.
It was so cold. So white and cold.
And hungry.
There was pain and fear, a brutal fight, marks on a wall, other beds—
“Where are they?” She opens her eyes, notices that the bed behind Linda empty. “Where are the girls?”
Linda takes her hands. They’re soft and warm. She looks like she’s going to say something just as soft, just as warm and supportive—
“They’re still in the dream,” Thomas says. “We need your help.”
Linda’s lips tighten, but her expression shifts to something pained, sorrowful.
“Is that true?” Cyn asks.
Linda nods.
Cyn tries to stand but feels too dizzy. Her legs, too weak.
She left them behind. She didn’t mean to do that, didn’t want to abandon them. Why didn’t they follow her? Why didn’t they do what she did?
I left them in Hell.
“We need to take this slow. Let’s talk about where you are, right here and now, get a good grip on physical reality before we start investigating the dream.”
“No.” Cyn grabs Linda’s arm. “Take me to them. I want to see them.”
“You heard her,” Thomas says.
Linda sighs, searching for a reason to stop her. Cyn squeezes tighter, hoping to look strong and confident. Hoping to hide the fear and her fluttery grip on reality.
“Please,” she says.
“Leave, Thomas,” Linda says. “Let the young lady get dressed.”
Thomas leaves as quickly as he entered. Linda remains seated for several seconds before retrieving clothes for Cyn, closing the curtain for privacy. She has to rest once she’s dressed.
She’s not accustomed to moving.
Linda holds the door open.
Cyn is greeted by sunshine and warm air. The tent is set up near the woods, behind the garden that’s full of blossoming vegetables and overgrown weeds. She expects to see Jen pop up from one of the rows, hauling out a bundle of green peppers or eggplants.
Beyond is the meadow, wildflowers swaying in a gentle breeze. There was snow out there before. They crossed it on horseback, the bitter cold bringing tears to her eyes and aches to her ears.
Now there’s a helicopter nestled in the grass.
“Are you all right?” Linda asks.
“It was…colder.” Her knees wobble. She licks her lips, swallows. Her chest fluttering.
Linda carefully pauses, allowing Cyn look around, before saying, “We believe time goes faster in the dream.”
Two red ATVs are parked in front of the brick house. People are inside, passing by the windows. They look more like Thomas than Linda.
“You don’t have to do this.”
“Where are they?”
Linda holds her elbow lightly, let’s Cyn take the first step before guiding her around the garden, toward the dinner house. The outside kitchen door is closed. Cyn watches as they pass, expecting Mad to open it, shout at Jen to fetch the eggs.
The chickens are dead.
Cyn allows Linda to steer her around the front of the dinner house. They approach the bunkhouse. Thomas is waiting by the door. White trucks are next to the barn. The horses trot around the corner, along the fence. Cyn’s breath catches in her throat, waiting for Kat to call them into the barn for trimming.
The wind harvesters turn like ornaments.
Thomas opens the bunkhouse door.
Cyn slows her gait, her breath coming in short bursts. Linda allows her to go at her own pace, half steps that occasionally stutter.
She steadies herself on the doorway.
Steps inside. Her balance betrays her, she reaches back to find Linda’s outstretched arm. Her heart slamming.
The beds. The rafters.
The girls.
They lie on their backs, blankets up to their chest, arms at their sides. A wire protrudes from each of their foreheads, extending to the black box on the small table where there used to be candles and matches. Metal stands are posted at the end of each bed, decorated with a clear plastic bag and tubes attached their arms.
“It’s exactly the same,” Cyn whispers.
Linda lifts a hand at Thomas, stops whatever he’s thinking about doing. He walks past an empty bed, stares out the window at the barn, arms crossed.
Cyn lets go of Linda, goes to her bed. The blankets are piled on the mattress. She pulls them back, revealing marks etched into the wall. She thought she scratched more than that, but then she realizes.
The dream days aren’t there.
But there are scratches. She put those there before they were trapped in the dream.
The small table holds a black box like the others. A wire is coiled next to it, a needle submerged in a glass vial. Cyn holds it up to the light. The gel holds tiny bubbles around a needle that’s almost two inches long.
She touches her head. Remembers the queer sensation when she awoke. When they slid the needle out.
The floor teeters. Linda is by her side.
Kat looks so peaceful, like a young girl waiting for Prince Charming. Her brown hair is only an inch long. Cyn runs her hand over her own head, her hair the same length.
“Kathryn Landon,” Linda says.
Of course her name isn’t Kat. Those tags were just abbreviations. Like property.
“Kathryn was born in New Mexico. Her family worked on a ranch. Her mother died when she was young. Her father never reported her missing.”
Mad is positioned in the same way as Kat, hands at her side, that disturbing wire protruding from the middle of her forehead.
“Madeline Foreman, born in Florida, lived with her grandmother. When the grandmother died, Madeline’s whereabouts became unknown. And there’s Jennifer. That’s all we know about her. No last name. We suspect she was kidnapped in India, transported to the United States.”
“She didn’t have an accent.”
Thomas scribbles something. A clue, perhaps.
Roc is lying on her side. Someone is massaging her legs with lotion.
“We have a nursing staff tending the bodies to prevent bedsores.”
Cyn winces. The bodies.
“Every couple of hours, they’ll get turned. Those beds are made of some special gel that helps reduce the risk, but lying for three weeks is a long time.”
Roc’s arms are like the others, her tattoo partially visible. She’s bigger than Cyn recalls. Or maybe Cyn just feels smaller.
“Her name is Rochelle Dandoval, last known whereabouts: Los Angeles. Her parents kicked her out of the house after she beat up her mother a few years ago.”
The final bed is empty, the sheets tucked in and the w
ire coiled on the black box. Miranda woke up in the house, not the bunkhouse. She’s probably still up there.
“Why’d you ask me for a password?” Cyn asks.
“Just to be sure it was you.”
“But I didn’t know the password.”
“Exactly. But someone from someplace else would’ve given me one when I asked.” She glances at Thomas. “The men used passwords to identity each other when they returned from the dream. We were just guessing you wouldn’t know it if it was really you.”
“Guessing?”
“We don’t have much to go on, Cynthia.”
“He said this was an experiment, what did that mean?”
“Who did?”
“The old man.”
Linda and Thomas exchange looks. “There aren’t any males here, Cynthia.”
“He said he was from someplace else.” She shakes her head, staring blankly at the floor. “I can’t remember.”
“Foreverland?”
“How’d you know?”
Thomas scribbles something in a notebook. “Did he tell you his name?”
She has to think about it. “Mr. Williams. He brought someone with him, a boy. About my age. I don’t remember his name, though.”
“That’s all right,” Linda says. “How are you feeling?”
“Why don’t you just pull the needle out of their heads?”
Linda holds her arm, just above the elbow. Cyn’s not sure if she looks as weak as she feels.
“Think of the body as a vehicle,” Linda says. “You are not your body, Cyn. None of us are. Whoever we are—the soul, the identity, whatever you want to call it—resides in the body. Right now, the girls are there.”
“If we pull the needle out,” Thomas adds, “they’ll end up like human vegetables. Empty bodies.”
Suddenly, the girls look like machines wired to a small computer, these organic human-like things used to power an alternate world. It’s the motionlessness, the lack of expression, the lifeless repose that clearly illustrates whoever they are—whoever Jen is, Mad, and Kat, Roc—whatever or whoever they are is not the body.
They’re not in there.
“Where are they?”
“You were transported somewhere else.”
“Where?”
“How did you escape?” Thomas interjects.
Cyn looks at him, searching for an answer. Finding none. “Where did they go?” she repeats.
Foreverland Is Dead Page 17
