The Quillan Games

by D. J. MacHale

  Finally we hit something else and came to a stop. But it wasn’t over. No sooner did we stop moving than the car started rolling again. I had no idea what was happening, but it felt as if we were being lifted up into the air. I soon realized we were being flipped back upright, onto our wheels.

  “Help! Help!” LaBerge squealed.

  With a bone-jarring shudder the car was righted. I heard the sound of wrenching metal. There were people outside using tools to pry open a door. It only took seconds. The door was wrenched open and light poured in.

  “We’re saved!” LaBerge shouted.

  Everything was a blur. Being bounced around and getting my head whacked a few times didn’t help. I felt hands groping at me and pulling me out of the wreck. I realized they weren’t doing the same for Veego or LaBerge. Or the dados for that matter. It was me they were after. As they yanked me out of the car, I saw several people dressed all in black, with black hoods over their heads to hide their faces. Nothing made sense. Were they commandos? Burglars? Hijackers? Dados? There were enough of them that I understood how the car had been flipped over so quickly. These guys had done it, physically. I was too dizzy to do anything but go along with them. They lifted me up and quickly carried me to a car that I saw had a crushed front grill. This must have been the car that hit us from behind. I was vaguely aware that many people were on the street watching. Nobody came to help. I was bundled into the backseat of the damaged car. Two of the guys got in back with me, another got in front. A few more ran to another car, which must have been the car we hit from behind. There was no question. This was an organized operation. They had come after me. Somewhere in the distance I heard a siren. Was it an ambulance? The fire department? More security dados?

  “Go!” shouted one of the guys.

  The car lurched forward and I was once again moving. One of the guys pulled a cloth bag over my head. I tried to fight against it, but I was too weak.

  “It’s all right,” a calming voice said. “You’re safe. This is just for security.”

  Security. Right. Wherever we were going, they didn’t want me to know. I was too loopy to care anyway. I think I might have passed out. I can’t say for sure. We could have been driving for five minutes or five hours. It was all a blur to me. However long it took, we finally screeched to a stop. I didn’t move. I was dazed, but not afraid. These guys wanted me alive. Why else would they have pulled me out of the wreck?

  “C’mon,” one of them said, and helped me out of the car. The urgency was gone, but they didn’t take the bag off my head. From the sound of things, we were inside. As we walked, I heard a metal door closing, so it must have been a garage. Without saying another word they led me quickly along, making a few turns and going down several flights of stairs. Wherever they were taking me, it was deep within the bowels of this building. Finally, they had me sit down on a hard chair, where somebody pulled the bag off my head.

  I saw that I was in a small, dark room. It looked like a cell. I had seen enough of them to know. There was a bed and a chair, but no windows. Light came from a single overhead bulb. Facing me were three of the kidnappers. They looked pretty imposing with their black outfits and dark hoods. They stood there, legs apart, facing me.

  I sat up straight, took a breath, and said, “Well, that was fun.”

  The commando in the center reached up and pulled off his hood. All I could do was stare. It was a woman, but that’s not why I was shocked.

  She said, “You are now officially part of the revival.”

  It was Nevva Winter.

  This is where I’m ending my journal. I’ve been stuck in this cell for nearly a day. I’m not sure if I’m a prisoner or not. Nobody is saying much. Nevva left, but promised to be back quickly to explain what is happening. I’m not going to hold my breath on that one after she left me dangling last time. Still, they’re treating me well. They even gave me this paper so I could write. The food isn’t as good as at the castle, and neither is my room, but I’ll take this any day over being back there and wondering when I’d have to compete in another game. It’s given me the chance to write this journal and think about all the things that Saint Dane said to me.

  The thing is, I don’t know how much of it to believe. I get all that he told me about Blok and how Quillan is such a messed-up territory. I’ve seen plenty of evidence to know that what he said was the truth, or close to it. What’s bothering me more is the challenge he gave to me. I’m trying to get inside his head. Is this really all about him trying to destroy my confidence? Like I wrote to you before, I have to believe that for Saint Dane, a big part of controlling Halla is about beating the Travelers, and me. This may be a weird thing to say, but it feels like Saint Dane is not only trying to push each territory into chaos, but he’s also trying to convince me that Halla would be better off under his guidance. How twisted is that? Does he really think I’d buy that?

  As much as I know that this is a battle for all of Halla, and it’s crucial that we Travelers fight it, part of me is tempted by his offer. I know, it would be idiotic for me to risk my life, but imagine how much stronger we Travelers could be if we understood the nature of our existence. Uncle Press knew, but he died before he could explain it to me. There are so many unanswered questions, and no one has any more answers than I do. Would we have a better chance against Saint Dane if we had a few of those answers? Is it worth risking my life for? Am I being selfish by not taking the chance?

  I don’t know. My head hurts too much to come up with an answer. Hopefully by the time I write again, the way to go will be much clearer. Until then, I’ll sit and wait to find out why I’m sitting in a dark cell that smells like fish, in a deep basement, somewhere on a doomed territory.

  It looks like my trip home is going to have to wait.

  And so we go.

  END OF JOURNAL #25

  SECOND EARTH

  Courtney had never read one of Bobby’s journals alone. It was a strange and not-too-pleasant experience. Whenever she read about the most recent twist in Bobby’s adventure, she always had Mark there to help her analyze it. She needed that sounding board. Mark and Courtney were polar opposites. Where Courtney was aggressive and emotional, and shot from the hip, Mark was thoughtful and cautious. Together, they were perfect. Going it alone was difficult for Courtney. It was like Adam without Eve, Lewis without Clark, Itchy without Scratchy. She needed Mark, if only to help her keep from hyperventilating as she learned about each new challenge that Bobby had to deal with. She wondered if Mark had had the same problem when she was away at school and he had to read Bobby’s journals from Zadaa on his own.

  Mark. Where was Mark? She thought it was lame of him not to call and tell her he wouldn’t be coming over after he helped Andy Mitchell clean up his uncle’s flower shop. She figured it must have taken a lot longer than expected, but still. He should have called. If anything, it made Courtney feel less guilty about reading Bobby’s journals alone. She figured if Mark had a problem with that, she’d throw back at him that he never called. How could he expect her to wait a whole night before reading a new journal?

  Mark and Andy’s plane to Orlando was leaving early in the morning. She knew there was no way he would come over before that to read the journal. He’d have to get there at four a.m. to have enough time to read the journal and then get to the airport. As much as Mark could do no wrong in the eyes of Courtney’s parents, it would be tough to explain why he was dropping by before dawn. Did Mark really think that Courtney would wait until he got back from Florida to read the journal? No way.

  Courtney grabbed her cell phone and punched Mark’s number again. It went right to his message box. “It’s after midnight,” she said curtly. “Where are you? I know you won’t come over because it’s so late and you’ve got an early flight, so I’m sorry but I’m going to read. There’s no way I can wait until you get back from Orlando. What can I say? I’m weak. Buh-bye.”

  She felt only a little bit guilty about telling that fib. She was going
to have to tell Mark she read the journal at some point. At least this way, she figured, it sounded as if she waited until the very last possible moment. She hoped Mark would understand and not be too upset with her.

  It was late. It was a school night. She was tired. Courtney delicately inserted Bobby’s journal back into its envelope and placed it safely inside her desk drawer. She even locked it, not that her parents ever went in there. Still, she wanted to be safe. She knew there was no way Mark would call this late, so she turned off her phone, changed into her pajamas and T-shirt, and hopped into bed. . . .

  And lay there wide awake. For hours. Her body may have been exhausted, but her mind was racing. Her thoughts were full of challengers and video arcades and mechanical spiders and all the other images that Bobby wrote about. She wondered if Nevva Winter was going to be able to help him. She also wondered if Quillan was indeed lost. As horrible as that would be, if it were true, Courtney wanted Bobby to leave that territory immediately and live to fight another day. Taking part in that Grand X in order to learn about the origin of the Travelers from Saint Dane wasn’t worth the risk. She wanted him home. Courtney feared for Quillan, but loved the idea of Bobby coming home. Now. She and Mark would tell him about what happened with Saint Dane, and how he took on the identity of a kid named Whitney Wilcox and nearly killed her. Saint Dane was on Second Earth and Courtney wanted Bobby there too.

  All these thoughts about Bobby and Quillan kept sleep from coming. But another thought kept tugging at her. Why hadn’t Mark called? She had gone from being angry with him to being worried. Mark was nothing if not the most responsible person in the history of responsibility. This wasn’t like him. Not one bit. She had to believe it had something to do with Andy Mitchell. She was happy that Andy wasn’t bullying him anymore, but if it meant that Andy’s jerkyness was rubbing off on Mark, it wasn’t worth it. She couldn’t wait to hear the explanation. Why hadn’t he called?

  Somewhere between thinking about Mark not showing, and wondering where Bobby would stay when he came to Second Earth, Courtney fell asleep. As great as it was to be back at school, she hadn’t built up her stamina yet. Her sleep was so deep, she didn’t dream. She must not have even moved, because the next morning she found herself in the exact same position as when she’d gotten into bed.

  What roused her was her mother calling. “Courtney? Courtney! Wake up!”

  Courtney had to pull herself out of coma mode. For a second she thought she was back in the Derby Falls hospital, looking forward to another grueling day of physical therapy and soap operas. Seeing her bedside clock was a relief, until she registered that the clock said 6:10 . . . 6:10! Her alarm wasn’t set to go off until 6:30; 6:10 was still night. What was her mother doing calling her so early?

  “Courtney, come down here, now!”

  There was an urgency to her mother’s voice that Courtney didn’t like. Had she done something wrong? Courtney pulled her creaky body out of bed. Sleeping in the same position may have been restful, but it didn’t do much for her healing muscles. She limped across the room and wasn’t able to walk without stiffness until she was halfway down the stairs. Blood flow was good. It took away the pain. The TV was on in the living room. Courtney headed that way, but was intercepted by her mother. Mrs. Chetwynde looked bad. She had a wild look in her eyes that Courtney had never seen before.

  “What’s up, Mom?” she asked.

  “Did Mark leave for Florida last night?” she asked tentatively.

  Huh? If Courtney wasn’t awake before that, she sure was then. By the look on her mother’s face, something was definitely up.

  “No,” she said. “He stayed to help Andy Mitchell clean up his uncle’s florist shop. Why?”

  Courtney saw the relief in her mother’s eyes. “Oh, thank God,” she said.

  “Why? What’s going on?” Courtney asked.

  “Come here,” Mrs. Chetwynde said. “It’s all over the news.”

  Mrs. Chetwynde headed back for the living room. Courtney followed apprehensively. The term “all over the news” was never a good thing, especially not first thing in the morning. Good news was always expected and usually didn’t end up on TV. Bad news came suddenly and spread fast. Courtney saw that her father was staring at the TV. On the screen was a live shot that looked to be taken from a helicopter over the ocean. There was a coast guard ship in the water, and another helicopter flying nearby.

  “What happened?” Courtney asked.

  “A plane went down,” Mr. Chetwynde said. “An airliner. Apparently it had engine trouble over the Carolinas and flew out to sea to dump fuel before landing. It never came back.”

  “Oh, man,” Courtney said. “Did it crash in the ocean?”

  “That’s what they think,” Mr. Chetwynde said. “There’s no wreck, but there’s no sign of the plane, either. It had to have gone down.”

  “Such a tragedy,” Mrs. Chetwynde said. “All those people.”

  “How big a plane was it?” Courtney asked.

  “Wide-body, fully loaded,” Mr. Chetwynde said grimly. “Two hundred and eighty passengers, seven crew members.”

  Courtney inhaled quickly. It was an involuntary reaction to such horrible news.

  “That’s why I asked about Mark,” Mrs. Chetwynde said. “The flight left last night from JFK around seven o’clock, bound for Orlando.”

  “Mark didn’t make that flight,” Courtney said with authority. “He was going to help Andy and then maybe get a later flight or take one early this morning—”

  The words froze in Courtney’s throat. A realization hit her so suddenly that it felt like a rush of blood in her brain. It made her ears ring. Mrs. Chetwynde saw the look on her daughter’s face change suddenly.

  “What?” she asked Courtney.

  Courtney’s thoughts went into hyperdrive, calculating the possibilities. She wanted to come up with an undeniable fact that would prove her fear couldn’t be true. She went through everything she’d heard the day before, every option, every scenario, but came up empty.

  “What’s the matter?” Mrs. Chetwynde asked. “You said he wasn’t on that flight.”

  “He wasn’t,” Courtney croaked, barely able to get the words out. “But his parents flew out last night.”

  Mr. Chetwynde pulled his eyes from the TV and shot Courtney a look. The three stood there, frozen, not wanting to believe. Courtney broke the trance first. She ran to the kitchen and called Mark’s house. She got the answering machine and a cheery greeting from Mrs. Dimond that said: “Hi there! Leave a message, okay?”

  Courtney slammed the phone down. Her parents had followed her and stood together, watching.

  Mrs. Chetwynde asked, “How do we find out if they were on that plane?”

  Courtney bolted from the kitchen and ran for the stairs. She leaped up, three at a time. The stiffness and pain may still have been there, but she didn’t feel them. Courtney blasted into her room and found her cell phone. She was going to call Mark, but when she turned on the phone, she saw that she had a message waiting for her. She wasn’t sure if that was good news or bad news. All she could do was play it. Courtney hit the message code, and listened.

  The digital voice said, “Message recorded at three thirty a.m.” Courtney allowed herself a small breath. The call had come in long after the doomed flight took off. A moment later Mark’s voice was heard.

  “I . . . It’s me,” he said.

  Courtney was hit with two huge waves of conflicting emotion. Mark was alive. She would have screamed with joy and relief, if not for the tone of his voice. Courtney knew Mark better than most anyone on the territory. She only needed to hear those few words to know that he was hurting. She feared she knew the reason why.

  Mark was crying. Courtney could hear him sniffle, then let out a soft, pained whimper. “They’re gone,” he said.

  Courtney’s knees went weak. Those two simple words confirmed it. The plane that went down over the dark ocean was carrying Mr. and Mrs. Dimond. Courtney started
to cry. Mark’s parents were dead. If not for the accident at Andy’s uncle’s shop, Mark and Andy would have been on that plane too. She wanted to be with Mark to hold him and tell him how everything was okay, though she knew it wasn’t. She wanted to know where he was. Probably at the airport, or the police station, or somewhere. Where did people go when they heard that their family was lost at sea and wouldn’t be coming back? Who tells you those things? She hated herself for not leaving her phone on the night before.

  Courtney knew what she had to do. She would find Mark and bring him back to her house. She wasn’t sure what other relatives he had, but she knew that none of them lived in town. He was an only child. Until things could be sorted out, she wanted Mark to stay with them. Maybe even after they were sorted out. They would be his new family. Courtney had no doubt that her parents would take him in. After all, he’d saved their daughter’s life!

  All of these thoughts and plans flashed through Courtney’s head in the few seconds after she heard the words that his parents were gone. It may have been a defense mechanism to keep back the pain, but that was Courtney. She was ready to take positive action and provide solutions. What she heard next, though, knocked those thoughts right out of her head.

  “Come to the flume,” Mark said. Click. He hung up. End of message.

  Courtney stared at the phone. Had she heard right?

  “Did you get him?” Mr. Chetwynde asked.

  Courtney whipped around to see both her parents arriving at her door.

  “Uhhh . . . ” was all Courtney managed to squeak out. Her brain had maxed out. She couldn’t process the information fast enough.

  “Did you get Mark?” Mrs. Chetwynde asked. “Are his parents okay?”