Stormwalker

by Mike Revell

  I shook the fog from my head and sat up, reaching for my phone.

  Four forty-three. Monday afternoon.

  Had I missed another day? Every thought in my head burst into a million more and it was too hard to keep track of them all, too hard to think.

  I could be anywhere. Holding my breath, I flicked through the phone until I got to the maps app and pressed the arrow that turned on the GPS.

  Come on, come on . . .

  Why did it never work when you really needed it to?

  Finally the blank grid disappeared and the map flashed up. The blue dot blinked. I zoomed in on the name—Jesus Green.

  The memory flashed again in my mind, the memory I’d tried a million times to forget. Because this was the park where she told me. This was where I found out about Mum having the L-word. I closed my eyes and hummed to myself, trying to get it out of my head.

  A buzz from my phone made my eyes flash open. A text from Danny:

  Missed you at training. Again.

  Training! Our next game was just around the corner. And if I’d missed training, I might not even make the team.

  I replied, asking Danny to meet me at my place, then ran home as fast as I could. Danny was waiting outside the front door by the time I got there. He frowned when he saw me.

  “Where’ve you been?” he said.

  “You’re never going to believe me.”

  Danny followed me to the kitchen and watched as I gulped down a whole pint of water, pushing the dust and the Darkness further and further away.

  “Wow!” Danny said. “Thirsty much?”

  We found Dad in the living room, watching football and drinking a beer.

  “All right, Owen?” he said. “All right, Danny? How are your mum and dad?”

  “Fine,” Danny said.

  “Got a big match this week, eh? Reckon you’ll be able to take them?”

  “I think so,” Danny said, his eyes locking onto mine. “As long as we all show up.”

  I shot him a look that said, Please don’t say anything, because if Dad found out I wasn’t at the game last week it could ruin everything. He’d stop writing completely, and then I’d never get to finish the story for him, and he’d never get better. Dad looked as if he was going to ask more, but something in the match caught his attention and he turned away.

  I led Danny up to my room, just hoping Dad would start writing soon, because if he didn’t, I wouldn’t be able to show Danny what I was talking about. And I needed him to see. It wouldn’t be the same without showing him.

  “Look, I’m really sorry,” I said, sitting down on the beanbag. It felt like the kind of conversation you had to sit down for. The kind that made your legs wobbly with nerves. Danny sat on the floor. “I didn’t mean to miss the game last week. I promise.”

  He scuffed the carpet, then looked up at me. “So where were you?”

  “Danny,” I said, already dreading how insane it was going to sound. “Dad’s writing a new story. And I’m . . . I keep getting transported into it. Into the world of his book.”

  “You’re what?” he said. For a second he stared at me in disbelief. Then he burst out laughing.

  “I’m being serious,” I said. “I need you to believe me.”

  Danny charged on as if I hadn’t even spoken. “You missed football when you said you’d be there. You’re never in lessons, either—”

  “I am!”

  “Not all the time,” he said, cutting across me. “Like today. Where were you then?”

  “Danny—”

  “I didn’t even realize you were gone until PE. It was like I forgot you existed.”

  “Exactly,” I said, raising my voice now. “Danny, I know it sounds weird, but . . .”

  But he was remembering now . . .

  I’d never stopped to wonder why. How come he realized I wasn’t at school, when Dad and the teachers didn’t? It was always around football. He remembered when I missed the match, and just now he said he’d remembered after PE.

  Ever since we were tiny kids, we’d dreamed of playing for Cambridge together. Maybe it was just too different without me there.

  Or maybe . . . maybe it was because all this time, I wanted him to know.

  Right now, though, all I wanted to do was shout at him, but I couldn’t, because I knew how ridiculous it sounded. There was no such thing as getting written into a story. There was no such thing as living the pages. But somehow it was happening to me. Somehow I kept teleporting out of this world and into the one Dad created. I picked up the PlayStation controller, flipping it around to have something to do with my hands.

  “Tell me the truth,” he said. “You owe me that.”

  “I have—”

  “You can’t do it, can you? Even now, all you do is lie.”

  “I’m not lying!”

  How could I make him see? If only Dad were writing, and I’d be able to show him whatever happened to me. But Dad was still watching football, and it would be on for ages yet.

  Danny shook his head. He got up and moved to the door. “Danny!” I tried, but he turned and strode off along the landing.

  “So much for the dream team,” he muttered, storming downstairs.

  I heard the bang of the front door. I stood there, wondering how it had all gone so wrong. Danny’s words echoed in my mind. All you do is lie.

  I flopped back onto the beanbag, alone in the silence.

  26

  The next time I woke up in the story, it was too hard to concentrate.

  I tried to listen to Mrs. Cloud in the morning class, tried to contribute when she talked about one object or another. I even jumped into Jack’s thoughts to answer a question about the City. But the whole time, I kept picturing Danny, and the look on his face as he backed away.

  All you do is lie.

  It wasn’t like he hated me.

  He was disappointed, and that made it a million times worse.

  How much time had I missed now, living in this wasteland? I wanted to help Dad, and I knew that if I could figure out what the Marshal was doing, if I could solve the mystery, if I could somehow reunite Jack with his family, then I could finish the story and maybe Dad would get better.

  But the longer I spent here, the more time I missed with Danny, and I wasn’t sure how much more I could take. If he just believed me . . . if he just listened, maybe it would be better. But as it stood, he didn’t feel like my best friend. He felt more and more like a stranger.

  After class, our group walked toward the farm, ready to tend to the vegetables and the seeds. Iris tried to talk to me, but she stopped when she saw how distracted I was.

  We were just passing the market square when something made me freeze. I gazed around, trying to piece it together. What was I missing? Had I skipped some of the story, like the days that vanished back in real life?

  Then I realized . . .

  Out in the square, beside the crumbling remains of the shattered clock tower, was—

  Well, nothing.

  “The plane,” I whispered.

  “What plane?” said Iris.

  I was already walking toward the patch of dirt where it had crashed, but now my heart skipped a beat and I whirled round, facing her.

  “What?” she said. “Is this another one of your—”

  “Iris,” I said slowly. “The plane. The one that crashed right here . . .”

  She shook her head blankly.

  “How could you forget?” I demanded. How could this be happening again? First the radio call, and now this? I spun back round, questioning myself now, but the clock tower had been intact before, one of the only whole things about this wasteland. And it was scattered across the square just as it had been when—

  “What did we do when I was last here?” I said.

  “I don’t understand. You’re . . . you’re always here.”

  “What did we do yesterday then? What happened? Can you remember?”

  “The same as we do every day,” she sa
id. “We went to class, we Farmed and Hunted. And then we went Stormwalking and went to Cleansing.”

  No, I thought, no, no, no . . .

  “Dillon,” I called, waving him over despite Iris’s protests. “The crash. Tell me you remember the crash. Yesterday, before—”

  “What are you talking about?” he said.

  I shook my head, but I couldn’t get my thoughts in order. I couldn’t piece it together. My stomach felt so heavy. What’s going on? I thought, the question getting louder and louder and bigger and bigger until it was the only thing on my mind.

  “I’ve got to find Quinn,” I said.

  Now it was Iris’s turn to look confused.

  “Jack, we’ve got to stick to the timetable—”

  But I was already running off, rubble pinging from my feet and dust clouding up into the electric glow of the wasteland air. The way Quinn spoke when the radio call came in. It was like he’d expected it. Like he’d heard it before. He didn’t panic when he heard them say the City was dead. And then there was the way he acted, after the crash . . .

  The crash that Iris and Dillon couldn’t remember.

  Across the crunching, narrow paths I ran, choking on the dust. High above, there was a whoosh and a sizzling crack as the Darkness thundered into the dome of light. High, piercing screeches rang out a final time, and then the storm retreated, giving way to the grayness of the day and a pale-orange sun on the horizon.

  The protective dome hummed and disconnected. I spotted an LRP team on the edge of camp, gathered around Quinn’s truck. As soon as the storm disappeared, the engine grumbled, loud and clear across the ruins.

  Quinn knew about the radio call. He hadn’t forgotten that, and if he hadn’t forgotten that, he might not have forgotten the plane crash either. “Quinn!” I yelled, trying to make myself heard above the noise.

  He didn’t look up. They were going to speed off, and then there’d be no one left to talk to.

  “Quinn!” I shouted again, rotten wood and worn-down bricks crumbling beneath my feet as I legged it closer.

  At last, one of the other officers turned back and saw me. He leaned in through the window and said something to Quinn. The engine cut off and the driver’s door opened. Quinn poked his head out, waiting for me.

  I skidded to a stop, each breath of dusty air stinging my throat.

  “Are you all right?” he said.

  “Yeah,” I said, my voice dry and raspy. Now that I was here, I didn’t know what to say. Well, I did, but I didn’t know how to say it. I mean . . .

  Quinn must have seen the look on my face because he said something to his team, then got out of the truck.

  “What is it?” he said, leading me out of earshot of the others. “The sun’s out. We need every minute we can get.”

  I took a deep breath and looked him in the eyes. “The plane wreck. It’s gone.”

  Quinn gripped my arm hard. He dragged me to the side of the camp, away from the well-trodden paths. “What did you say?” he whispered.

  I blinked groggily. “The plane,” I said again. “It’s gone.”

  Quinn’s face was so close now, I could smell buttery corn on his breath.

  “How do you know about that?” He lowered his voice as a group of kids swept past. “When was the last time you went to Cleansing?”

  I knew it! I knew I was right. So the Marshal was hiding something from us.

  “Jack . . . no one . . . no one’s supposed to remember.”

  “That’s not the only thing,” I said. “I remember the radio call too. Iris doesn’t. The lemon balm made her forget, didn’t it? Is that what’s happened to everyone else? He’s drugging them or something?”

  Quinn’s head was shaking. His mouth worked, open and closed, but no words came out. A robot trundled by, and it must have jolted him to his senses, because he gripped me by both arms and dragged me away again.

  “Listen to me,” he growled, his voice so low I could barely hear it. “Do not mention that plane again. If you do . . .” He trailed off, turning to face the gray horizon.

  “Quinn, what’s going on?”

  “We can’t talk about this. Not now. It’s too dangerous. He has eyes everywhere, and—”

  He cut off suddenly, and I spun around to see Mrs. Cloud walking past with another kid, their arms full of books and age-browned photos.

  “Who? The Marshal? It’s true, isn’t it? The City’s dead.” Jack’s thoughts bubbled over as I said it. Images of his dad and brother filled my mind. “We’re supposed to be heroes. We’re supposed to be saving them, but they’re dead, and no one knows about it because you won’t tell them. Why won’t you tell them?” Hot tears burned behind my eyes.

  “Jack—”

  “If it’s only the Icarus projects left, we need to go to them. That was . . . that was my dad on the radio,” I said, almost slipping up. It was weird calling him my dad when I knew my real dad, Owen’s dad, was back home writing this.

  “Jack,” Quinn hissed, and my shoulders slumped as all the energy leaked out of me. “Listen to me. You’re not supposed to know this—any of it. Do you hear me? I don’t know how you do know it, but if you don’t keep quiet you’ll get yourself killed, or worse. Who have you told about this?”

  “No one. Just . . . well, I was with Iris when I realized . . .”

  He sighed heavily, and glanced around again. “Don’t mention it to anyone,” he said. “Forget you ever saw it. And whatever you do, don’t go looking for it, okay? I need you to promise me.”

  Don’t go looking for what? I thought.

  The plane wreck? Did that mean it was still around here, somewhere?

  “I told your dad I’d look after you. I promised him I’d keep you safe. And I’ve tried, Jack. I’ve really tried, because I thought that . . . I thought that if we could ride it out, there would be another way. But I can’t protect you if you go digging around. Promise me you won’t.”

  Didn’t he see? If the Marshal was covering up evidence of the City, if he was hiding communication from Icarus 1, I had to go digging. I had to find a way to show the Marshal up.

  I had to find a way to prove it, so I could get back to Jack’s family.

  Quinn’s face was set. It was chalk white, and draining ever whiter by the second. I’d never seen him like this before. I couldn’t tell him what I really thought.

  “All right,” I said, the tiniest glimmer of an idea forming in the back of my mind. Maybe there was a way I could get through to Jack’s dad after all. I crossed my fingers behind my back. “All right, I promise—I won’t go looking for anything.”

  He didn’t reply. Just kept staring at me.

  No, not at me.

  Staring behind me.

  I whirled around, and my breath caught—

  He was walking toward us, flanked by LRP officers.

  “Well, well, well,” said the Marshal. “Shall we go for a walk, old friend?”

  27

  “Quinn!” I called, trying to fight my way toward him—

  But I was already tumbling back . . .

  Falling, falling, falling, until with a sudden jolt I found myself in my bedroom, staggering into the desk. I held on to it to keep myself steady, breathing fast.

  How much had the Marshal heard?

  I thumped the wood in frustration. If Quinn was in trouble, it was all my fault, wasn’t it? I was the one who went to him. I was the one who dragged him away from his job. He would never have said any of that stuff if it wasn’t for me.

  I checked my phone quickly. I hadn’t missed another day, but it was late.

  The sky outside was a thick dark blue. Stars twinkled above the black silhouettes of trees.

  I climbed into bed, even though I didn’t feel tired at all. My heart was still thumping hard.

  Even after Jack’s thoughts vanished, I couldn’t stop thinking about the story. Jack’s dad was telling the truth, wasn’t he? The City was dead. But Iris had forgotten all about the radio call and
now the plane had been cut right out of her mind too. All because of the Marshal.

  It was only me. I was on my own.

  Somehow I had to prove what the Marshal was doing. I had to contact Icarus 1. And I thought I knew how I could do it. If I could just find the wreckage of the plane, then maybe I could find its black box. It would be just like that show on TV—I could use the location device inside it to make contact with the other camp.

  I fell back against the pillow, sighing heavily.

  I wished I could talk to Danny about it. Whenever we played two-penny football in Math and the teacher caught us messing around and asked us an impossible question on the spot, he would always get it right. That was Danny—he was brilliant at problem solving.

  But I couldn’t get Danny’s help, could I?

  As I lay there, staring at all the football posters on the walls, his words burned their way back into my mind, like they’d been branded onto it.

  All you do is lie.

  My best friend thinking I was lying to his face was almost as bad as the Darkness. At least in the story I knew I was safe as long as I stayed within the light. At school the next day, every time I looked up I could see how upset he was, and there was no protective barrier against that.

  I tried to talk to him at roll call, but he just moved away, and with all our class staring at us, I felt too embarrassed to chase after him.

  He sat apart from me in every lesson, and it wasn’t until PE, when we played hockey, that I finally managed to grab him.

  His eyes widened as I forced him back toward the empty goal at the end of the lesson. Everyone else was walking off to dump their equipment in the shed.

  “What’re you going to do, hit me?” he said, eyeing the stick in my hands.

  I was gripping it so hard my knuckles were white. I dropped it quickly, and it clattered on the Astroturf.

  “Just leave it—”

  “Listen, Danny, I promise you on my dad’s life . . .” I hesitated, face frozen, waiting for him to react. His mouth hung open. Because no matter how much he thought I was lying, he knew I’d never joke about that. “I’m . . . I’m getting written into his story,” I said.