Salt & Stone

by Victoria Scott

  There’s a smile on her face that I don’t understand until I see what she’s referencing. There are lit torches leading along the floor and into a tunnel. “You were right,” she says. “This is the way.”

  “Do you think we’re first?” Olivia bounces on the balls of her feet, eager to get going.

  I shrug. I want to believe we are, but something stops me. “I don’t know. Forty-one people ran in the final leg. It’s not like it was hard to see the fire coming from the crevasse once we looked in that direction. For all we know, this could still be a diversion.”

  “But there were no flags leading to the tented area,” Braun says. “And there are here.”

  I rub the spots where the rope burned my skin. “It’s true.”

  Guy touches down a few seconds later, and AK-7 and KD-8 descend down the frozen rock, using their retractable claws as leverage.

  He unties himself and says, “We should get moving. We’re lucky another Contender didn’t pass by up there.”

  I take all our equipment — the things we used and the things we didn’t — and divide it between us. Harper and I take pickaxes, Braun takes the knife, Olivia gets the rope, and Guy takes the harness.

  “Seriously, the harness?” Guy says.

  “Yeah, Mr. Green Beret,” Harper says through a laugh. “That’s what you get for being all capable.”

  I check on my Pandoras, and our group sets off down the tunnel, running as fast as we can in our deteriorated condition. Rose glows to keep the path visible, and Oz emits heat so we’re warm. The pair of Pandoras look like rejects at a retail store with the red stripes decorating their backs. Up ahead, Monster and Madox take the lead, and the elephant and lion take our rear. We don’t know what to expect at the other end of this tunnel, but we have friends, we have Pandoras, and we have weapons, so we continue our exploration with heads held high.

  Every few yards, another torch burns, telling us we’re on the right track. The breath is loud leaving my lungs, and I find it hard to slow my heart. I don’t like being underground. Not after being buried under that avalanche.

  The tunnel is widening up ahead, and Olivia slips her hand into mine as we race. I hold it in my own as if it’s a lifeline to safety and sanity. Somewhere in my head, I question whether we should be slowing. If this is the last stretch, and up ahead is the true base camp, we should keep running at top speed. But our steps quiet as we reach the tunnel’s end, and not one person strides quicker than the other.

  “It’s down to us,” Olivia whispers.

  “Yeah,” Braun says. “The Rambos.”

  Harper smiles. “I’m proud to call myself a Rambo.”

  Guy and I nod. We’re proud, too.

  Madox pads between Olivia and me, his footfalls silent along the stone floor. A musky scent hangs in the air, and somewhere in the distance I hear a slight trickling of water. The walls are moist, and the ceiling stretches ten feet above our heads. It isn’t high enough.

  As we reach the other side of the tunnel, Guy squeezes in closer to my side, and Harper glances at me every couple of seconds.

  This is it, she says with her eyes. This is what I came back for. Be ready.

  We step outside the tunnel, and my jaw drops when I see what lies before us.

  When I was in middle school, I ran track. My favorite was the hundred-yard dash — just me, a straight stretch of asphalt, and bright yellow lines separating me from my competitor. Oh, and a middle-aged woman with ghastly elastic gym shorts and a stopwatch. But never mind her.

  I’m familiar with a track, but the lanes ahead of us are different. They’re separated by glass inserts so that if you ran straight ahead, you could see your running mates nearby but you wouldn’t be able to touch them. The room spreads out in a great, yawning cavern, and stalactites spike from the ceiling like a blowfish that’s feeling particularly ornery. It’s the most divine thing I’ve ever seen, save for the track.

  At the end of each lane is a white door crudely built into stone, and there’s little question as to what we’re supposed to do next. But Braun retrieves the device from his pocket to check, and my heart pitter-pats when I see the red light is blinking. This is the last message we’ll ever receive. I know this the same way I know my own name. The same way I know I’ll crumble if I don’t win the Cure for Cody.

  We fit our white devices into our ears, and my mind rushes through all the challenges I’ve overcome to arrive here and all the people and Pandoras I’ve watched die. A question forms in my mind like an iridescent pearl inside the belly of an oyster.

  If I could go back to the moment when I drove toward the Old Red Museum, would I still have gone? Would I have stayed quiet as my mom came to my room and tied the blue-and-green feather in my hair? Would I have risked my life so that my brother could meet a girl and fall in love and live a perfectly ordinary life?

  Yes. Over and over again, yes.

  Clicking.

  Static.

  The woman’s voice comes through my earbud so clearly, it’s as if she’s standing before me, a sly smile on her intolerable face.

  “Contender, if you’re hearing this message, you have reached the end of the Brimstone Bleed. Congratulations. We, at headquarters, are proud of your many accomplishments, and impressed with the agility and speed at which you overcame obstacles. If you’ll please dispose of any equipment found along your journey, we can move on to what lies next.”

  The woman pauses, and Guy motions that we should oblige. So we set our things on the ground. Guy disposes of his harness last, which is a real blow, I’m sure. Madox rears up and stretches toward my waist. I pet him with my free hand as my pulse tap-dances.

  “We have three final challenges for you to tackle. The first will test your decision making, the second will test your limitations, and the final challenge will test your dedication to procuring the Cure. At this time, we’ll ask that you send your Pandora down your chosen lane. Each Contender must complete this last portion of the Brimstone Bleed with a Pandora, so if you do not have one, we’ll ask that you first acquire a Pandora and then return.”

  As the other Contenders pet their Pandoras and whisper instructions, I send my fox a message using my mind.

  Madox, we have to complete three final tests before we’re finished. I point to the white door at the end of the closest lane. They want you to go through that door. I’ll be right behind —

  He’s already gone, tearing down the track like a black bullet. The door slides into the ceiling, and he vanishes from view. Madox is already somewhere I can’t touch him. The thought sends the first solid bolt of fear through my body. I was afraid before, but this kind of anxiety I can feel in my teeth. Madox has been waiting for this moment, I realize. He was built to ensure I win. But it’s more than that. My Pandora loves me as I do him. We are best friends, he and I.

  And he’s not about to let me down.

  I give Monster and Oz the same instructions, and they take off after Madox, albeit a bit slower. Everyone else’s Pandoras do the same, and Braun sends Rose down with a silent look of acknowledgment in my direction.

  I’m the farthest Contender on the left. To my right, I see Guy, Harper, Olivia, and then Braun.

  Harper steps backward and meets my gaze. She nods once, and understanding passes between us. She won a portion of the Cure before and passed it along to Caroline. Now she’s going to win the real thing and pass it along to me. I can tell from the tension in her body that this is better than she envisioned the end would be. Now she doesn’t have to help me win or get in anyone’s way. She just has to win. From the fierce look in her eyes, she’s prepared to do anything to make that happen.

  Harper steps back to the track, and Guy and I share a look. A million unsaid words hang in the air. Things we wish we could take back. Things we never admitted. Then again, maybe some things don’t need to be spoken out loud. Not when we’ve spent three months overcoming impossible odds. Not when we’ve carved out stolen moments and made each other str
onger, and softer. Not when we’ve exchanged gentle embraces and fierce kisses.

  Guy Chambers raises his pointer and middle fingers. He places them beneath his eyes and points forward. It’s the same thing he did to me at the start of the jungle race. This time, it makes me smile. He does, too.

  “Are you ready for the final tests, Contender?” the woman says inside my ear.

  Beat.

  Beat.

  Beat.

  “Go!”

  I run, slicing down the track like a bird in flight. Steps before I reach the door, it slides open. I dart through it and land inside a blindingly white room. The space is the size of a large living room, and the walls are constructed from cinder blocks. Across from me is an eight-foot-long table, and upon it, an infinite number of keys. Dirt squishes under my boots as I cross the space. I stare down at the keys with confusion until I spot a door on either side of the room, both different from the one I entered through. I pick up one of the keys and move to the closest door and insert it into the keyhole.

  As soon as the key touches the lock, a wall of glass slides down from the ceiling, separating me from the other half of the room. With my heart hammering, I drop the key to the ground and go to inspect the glass. It’s completely transparent, and in the center is a door with a keyhole, much like the one on my side of the room.

  The far door grumbles open, and Madox walks into the room.

  Immediately, my palms begin to sweat. I tap the glass, and he sees me on the other side. My Pandora trots toward me, his eyes sad with worry. I look at the door he came through, expecting to see Monster and V-5 follow him in, but the door closes.

  Madox, can you hear me? I think.

  He barks.

  A click comes from the ceiling, and Madox and I both look up, searching for the source of the noise. Fear grips me when I see green smoke wafting from an air vent on Madox’s side of the room. I pound on the glass, knowing whatever is slowly filling his space can’t be good. Remembering the table, I rush toward the keys. I tear off my down jacket and scoop as many of the silver antique keys into the bottom of my long-sleeved shirt as I can. Back at the door, I try one key after another, my hands shaking when I see the green mist sinking toward the floor.

  Madox barks and lowers to his belly, all too aware that the green gas may be dangerous.

  Don’t worry, I’ll get you out.

  My Pandora whines as I try another key. When it doesn’t unlock the glass door that separates us, I toss the reject to the ground and reach for another. There are easily fifty keys in my shirt and hundreds more on the table. If the green gas is deadly, I’ll never reach him in time. When my eye catches sight of the two other doors in this room, I scream with frustration. One is the door I entered through, and it doesn’t have a keyhole, but the other one does. What if that’s the secret? What if that door leads to Madox and not this one?

  I can’t be sure unless I try all the options. Two doors, hundreds of keys. My stomach plummets when I notice the green smoke curling around Madox’s body, licking his black coat. My Pandora shifts into eagle form and flies toward the vent. He tries to close the slats with his talons, but they don’t budge. Next, he shifts to mimic Y-21 and slams into his door with mighty bull horns, but the material doesn’t give.

  As Madox continues to try different options, I shove keys into the glass door, searching for the solution. Madox falls to the floor, back in fox form, a shrill sound emanating from his throat. Tears blur my vision, and I drop several keys in a panic and cry out in frustration.

  Hold on, Madox. Just hold on!

  I glance back at the table. There are countless remaining, and another door to try after this one. Still, I push onward. I pluck a key from the pile in my outstretched shirt that’s much too big to fit, so I toss it to the ground. Dirt plumes around the discarded key, and the sight gives me an idea.

  I drop to a crouch, careful to keep the keys from falling, and dig my hands into the dirt. It’s loose and easy to pull away. As Madox howls, kicking at nothing, eyes clenched shut, I drop the rest of the keys to the floor.

  We have three final challenges for you to tackle. The first will test your decision making….

  I’m not sure if what I’m thinking will work, but the keys never will, not with how quickly the fluorescent fog is filling his side. Not with how much pain my Pandora is already experiencing.

  Madox! You have to dig your way out. Take Monster’s form and dig!

  When he doesn’t move, I scream and beat on the glass with open palms. I sound like an animal, as if I’ve finally waved good-bye to my humanity.

  Get up! You have to get up. KD-8, get up, for me!

  My fox pulls himself up, stumbles, and tries again. He arches his back, barely able to summon the strength to shift shapes. His nails extend, and he staggers to the glass wall. The fox, dressed as a bear, begins to dig. He’s able to dig a few inches before he hits something hard.

  Try another spot! Quick!

  My fox tries two more places without success until I instruct him to dig beneath the door he came in through. This time, nothing stops his tunneling. As the green gas completely fills the room, Madox shifts into iguana form and slides beneath the door. As his green tail disappears from view, I whoop with triumph.

  The glass wall separating me from the toxic fog lifts, rumbling into the ceiling. I back away, tripping over my own feet, the smile on my face dying. As the gas leaks into my side of the room, I begin to panic once again. I won’t be able to dig my way out. Not as he did. I look back to the keys, wondering if I made a mistake by not pursuing that option.

  As the fog touches the tips of my boots — and I manically decide whether to try and wriggle my way through the tunnel Madox created or resume trying the keys — the door behind me opens.

  The next room I enter is the same as before, white on white. On the left side is an underground pool filled with syrupy green water. On the right is a rectangular black mat, and suspended above it is an iron box the size of a mattress. I marvel at how similar this area looks to the indoor pool room we had at Ridgeline High in Boston, minus the creepy swamp water.

  There’s no scent of chlorine in the air, but I do smell something that resembles gasoline. It’s so strong, I can almost feel it inside my mouth, on my tongue. I hear water lapping against the side of the pool gently, and I think to myself that it shouldn’t be moving at all. Unless something is beneath the surface.

  “Step onto the performance pad,” a woman’s voice booms from a mounted speaker. “We’d like to test your endurance.”

  I search the area for Madox. When I don’t see him anywhere, I clear my throat and say, “Where is my Pandora?”

  The room echoes my words.

  “Get on the performance pad,” she replies.

  On the far side of the room, I spot a white door. I’m assuming the door behind me won’t open again, which means the door ahead is the only way out.

  The first will test your decision making, the second will test your limitations….

  After sleeping in the snow and hiking until I retched with fatigue, I have to show them I am strong. I raise my chin and stride toward the right side of the room. Guy Chambers believes I am strong, and you know what? I am.

  I take off my boots and climb onto what must be the performance pad.

  “It is of the utmost importance that you do not leave the pad. Above you hangs a vat of oil, approximately three hundred degrees Fahrenheit. If you leave the treadmill, weight sensors inside the track will decompress and the oil will be discharged. Do you understand?”

  My head begins to pound, and I shift my body to prepare. When I do, the iron box creaks with excitement. I freeze.

  “Do you understand?” the woman repeats.

  Blackness seeps in at the edges of my vision, but I nod my head and shout a confident, “I understand. Let’s go.”

  The black pad is built into the ground, and when it starts moving, it rolls from front to back like a treadmill. I pick up th
e pace and tell myself to not look up, to keep my eyes straight ahead. I’m a good runner. Even if I’m exhausted, I’m light on my feet and agile. I can run for days. That’s what I tell myself anyway. That’s what I repeat like a mantra as the belt races faster.

  My socked feet hit the ground. Thump-thump-thump-thump, and I run. I never ran long-distance in track, but I decide to think of it as a new hobby. The sun has risen above the trees in Montana, and it’s a glorious day. I have new running shoes, Nikes with purple swooshes. And I’ve got a running partner, too: my best friend from Boston, Hannah.

  In school, everyone called us powder puff girls. But we’ve pinkie-promised that we won’t be powder puff any longer. Today is our first run, and I’m not about to let her down.

  This is good, the daydreaming. I’m doing well.

  Until I’m not. Until sweat is racing down my chest, and I recall that I was parched before I descended into the crevasse. Where is this perspiration coming from? And at what cost? My legs burn beneath me, but I pay them no mind. They’re not attached to my body any longer. They’re doing their own thing down there, and apparently they love them some running.

  My head is another matter. Pressure builds behind my eyelids, and my ears ring. It feels as if my brain has swollen, and there’s not enough room in my skull to contain the gray, multiplying mass.

  I stumble and catch myself a moment before I fall. The iron trap above reminds me it’s there, waiting. When the performance pad increases in speed once again, I scream and match it stride for stride.

  I’m sweaty, I’m nauseated, and the room is spinning. Mostly, though, I’m furious. After all we’ve been through, this is our reward? I flatten my hands, check my form, control my breathing.

  “Is that all you’ve got?” I holler. “Come on! Faster! Faster!”