Gone Series Complete Collection

by Grant, Michael

  Walking into darkness.

  His feet were going up a hill. He allowed it. Maybe he would see something from higher up. It was strange. He wished Astrid was here to talk to about how strange it was to move like this, blind, feeling a hill but not seeing it, not knowing was he near the top or not even close?

  Everything was about feel now. He felt the slope with his ankles rather than seeing it with his eyes. He felt it in his forward lean. When the angle increased he was caught by surprise and stumbled. But then it would lessen and that, too, would catch him by surprise.

  He hung a Sammy sun. It took him a while to make sense of his immediate surroundings. For one thing, there was an old rusted beer can.

  For another he was less than six feet from what might be a sheer drop. It might have killed him if he’d gone off. Then again, maybe it was only a two-foot drop. Or six. He stood at the edge and listened hard. He could almost hear the emptiness of that space. It sounded big. It felt huge. And maybe he could develop those senses someday. But not now, not right now at the edge of a one- or ten- or hundred-foot drop.

  He picked up the rusted beer can and dropped it over the edge.

  It fell for perhaps a full second before it hit something.

  And then it fell some more.

  Stopped.

  Sam breathed and the sound of his own breath seemed dramatic in the darkness.

  He was going to have to backtrack down this hill. Or risk taking a long fall. He turned carefully, slowly, a one-eighty. He was pretty sure that the lake was blocked from view by the bulk of the hill. But he wasn’t absolutely sure. A single point of light appeared. It was as small as a star, much dimmer, and orange, not white.

  A single distant point of barely visible light. Probably a bonfire in Perdido Beach. Or out in the desert. Or even out on the island. Or maybe it was just his imagination.

  The sight of it wrung a sigh from Sam. It didn’t make the dark less dark; it made the dark seem vast. Endless. The tiny point of light served only to emphasize the totality of the darkness.

  Sam started back down the hill. It took all his willpower to turn left when he reached the lowest light on the hill and move toward the ghost town.

  Or where he thought, hoped, pretended the ghost town might be.

  “Aaaahhh, aaaaahhh, aaaahhhh.”

  Dekka cried into the dirt. A despairing sound. She cried and gasped in air mixed with dirt and cried again.

  Penny had taken her most terrible fear—that the bugs could return—and she had doubled it. Dekka would rather die than endure it. Rather die a thousand times. She would beg for death before she would live through it again.

  She heard someone crying and then screaming and then babbling, all three mixed up together, all of it coming from her own mouth.

  Trapped and eaten alive.

  Eaten from the inside out, forever, no end, trapped inside seamless white stone, alabaster, a tomb that went inside her, immobilized her so that she couldn’t even lash out, couldn’t move as they ate her insides . . .

  Never let it happen again.

  Never.

  Would kill herself first.

  She clutched dirt in her hands, squeezed it like she was holding on to reality. The dirt ran through her fingers and she gathered more and again it got away and she grabbed at more and more, needing something to hold on to, and something to hurt. Needing to feel her body move and not be in that terrible blank white stone prison.

  She was just a girl. Just some girl. Just this girl with the stupid name of Dekka. She had fought enough. And what for? For emptiness. For loneliness. All of it came to here. To this nothing. To clutching at sand and jibbering like a crazy person, beaten.

  Die here, Dekka. It’s okay if you do. It’s okay to just lie here in the dark and let your eyelids close, because there’s nothing more to see, Dekka; do you hear me? Do you, Dekka, because there’s nothing for you but fear. And death is better because death is the end of fear, isn’t it?

  Quiet. Peace.

  It wouldn’t be suicide. That was the thing you could never do, right? Never kill yourself. But let yourself go? Where was the sin in that?

  “You want me to explain how I could wish for that, God? Tell you what, hit the back button and play the last hour . . . no, no, the last, what’s it been, almost a year?

  “Not even enough. Come on, God, you want to see, right? Have a good laugh. See what you did to me. Make me brave and then break me. Make me strong and leave me weeping in the dirt.

  “Make me love and then . . . and then . . .

  “Just kill me, okay? I give up. Here I am. You can see in the dark, right, God? Don’t you have night-vision goggles? You know, the ones that make everything green and glowing? Well, strap them on, oh, Lord, oh, God, oh, big-bearded guy in the sky, you strap on your goggles like some divine commando, and you look down at me, okay? You take a good long look at what you did.

  “See? See me here facedown in the dirt?

  “Can you hear me? Can you hear the sounds my brain is pushing out of my mouth, all that nonsense? I sound like a madwoman pushing a shopping cart down the street, don’t I?

  “Can you smell me? Because when the fear had me I made a mess all over myself. Fear does that, you know; did you know? Well, probably not, being God and all and not afraid of anything.

  “Just. One favor. Okay? Just kill me. Because as long as I live she might do it to me again, she might cover me like that, and it might squeeze me like it did, and then I might feel those . . . I might know what they were doing, you know, because it’s not like I didn’t see them pouring out of my guts as Sam cut me open.

  “So, I beg of thee, all right? Oh, most high Lord: kill me. Do I have to beg? Is that it? You get off on that? Okay. I beg you to kill me.”

  “I don’t want to kill you.”

  Dekka laughed. In her fevered mind she thought for a second there she’d heard an actual voice. The voice of God.

  She waited, silent.

  Something was there. She could sense it. Something close.

  “Is that you, Dekka? It sounds like you.”

  Dekka said nothing. The voice was familiar. It probably did not belong to God.

  “I was out here. I heard you crying and yelling and praying and all,” Orc said.

  “Yeah,” Dekka said. Her lips were coated with dirt. Her nose was blocked by it. Her body was damp with sweat.

  She couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  “Like you was wanting to die.”

  He couldn’t see that she was facedown in the dirt. He couldn’t see that she was finished. Beaten.

  “You can’t kill yourself,” Orc said.

  “I can’t . . .” Dekka began, but then she couldn’t form any more words without spitting the dirt out of her mouth.

  “If you kill yourself, you go to hell.”

  Dekka snorted, a derisive sound, as she spit dirt. “You believe in hell?”

  “You mean, like, it’s a real place?”

  Dekka waited while he thought it out. And suddenly she wanted to hear the answer. Like it mattered.

  “No,” Orc said at last. “Because we’re all children of God. So he wouldn’t do that. It was just a story he made up.”

  Despite herself Dekka was listening. It was hard not to. Talking nonsense was better than remembering. “A story?”

  “Yeah, because he knew our lives would be really bad sometimes. Like maybe we’d be turned into a monster and then our best friend would get killed. So he made up this story about hell, so we could always say, ‘Well, it could be worse. It could be hell.’ And then we’d keep going.”

  Dekka had no answer to that. He had completely baffled her. And she was almost angry at him, because baffled was a different thing from despairing. Baffled meant she was still . . . involved.

  “What are you doing out here, Orc?”

  “I’m going to kill Drake. If I find him.”

  Dekka sighed. She stuck out her hand and eventually encountered a gra
velly leg. “Give me a hand up. I’m a little shaky.”

  His massive hands found her and propped her up. Her legs almost gave way. She was drained, empty, weak.

  But not dead.

  “Are you okay?”

  “No,” she said.

  “Me neither,” Orc said.

  “I’m . . .” Dekka stared into the darkness, not even sure she was looking in his direction. She paused until a sob subsided. “I’m afraid I won’t ever be me again.”

  “Yeah, I get that, too,” Orc said. He sighed a huge sigh, like he’d walked a million miles and was just so weary. “Some of it is stuff I did. Some of it is stuff that just happened. Like the coyotes eating on me. And then, you know, what happened after that. I never wanted to remember that. But none of it goes away, not even when you’re really drunk or whatever. It’s all still there.”

  “Even in the dark,” Dekka said. “Especially in the dark.”

  “Which way should we go?” Orc asked.

  “I doubt it matters much,” Dekka said. “Start moving. I’ll follow the sound of your footsteps.”

  “Aaaahhh,” Cigar screeched. His hand in Astrid’s squeezed with incredible strength.

  It was not the first time he’d suddenly cried out. It was a fairly regular thing for him. But in this case there were other sounds. A rush of wind, a stink like rotting meat, and then a snarl.

  Cigar was torn away from Astrid.

  She instinctively dropped into a crouch. A coyote missed its attack as a result and rather than closing its jaws around her leg just plowed into her with enough force to knock her on her back.

  She fumbled in the dark for her shotgun, felt something metallic, not sure which way it was pointing, fumbled, and was brushed aside by a rushing coyote, fur over muscles.

  They could hunt in the dark, but the close-in killing work was harder without sight.

  Astrid rolled over, flat, stretching her arm, trying to find the shotgun. One finger touched metal.

  Cigar was screaming now in that despairing, beaten voice of his. And the snarling was intensifying. The coyotes were frustrated, too, it seemed, unable to pinpoint their prey, snapping blindly where their ears and nose told them the prey would be.

  Astrid rolled toward the gun and now she was on top of it, feeling with trembling fingers, searching for—yes! She had the grip. She pushed it forward, probably filling the barrel with sand, probably jamming the trigger. She tried to tell where Cigar was, rolled once more, pulling the shotgun on top of her, and fired.

  The explosion was shocking. A jet of light so much bigger than it had ever seemed before.

  In the split-second flash Astrid saw at least three coyotes, and Cigar mobbed by them, and a fourth just a few feet away, lips back in a snarl, all of it freeze-framed for the duration of the flash.

  The noise was awesome.

  She pushed herself to one knee, aimed at the place where the fourth coyote had been standing, and pulled the trigger again. Nothing! She’d forgotten to jack another round in. She did it, aimed shakily at blank space, and fired again.

  BOOM!

  This time she was expecting the flash and saw that the coyote she’d aimed at was no longer there. Cigar was no longer mobbed by the beasts. His terrible, white marble eyes stared.

  Something had happened to the coyotes. They had exploded.

  The flash wasn’t enough to show more. Just that their insides were where their outsides had been.

  Silence.

  Darkness.

  Cigar panting. Astrid, too.

  The smell of coyote guts and gunpowder.

  It was a while before Astrid could master her voice. Before she could reassemble her shattered thoughts into something like coherence.

  “Is the little boy here?” Astrid asked.

  “Yes,” Cigar said.

  “What did he do?”

  “He touched them. Is it . . . Is it real?” Cigar asked tentatively.

  “Yes,” Astrid said. “I think it’s real.”

  She stood with her smoking shotgun in her hands and looked at nothing. She was shaking all over. Like it was cold. Like the darkness was made of wet wool wrapped all around her.

  “Petey. Talk to me.”

  “He can’t,” Cigar said.

  Silence.

  “He says it will hurt you,” Cigar said.

  “Hurt me? Why doesn’t it hurt you?”

  Cigar laughed, but it wasn’t a joyful sound. “I’m already hurt. In my head.”

  Astrid took a breath and licked her lips. “Does he mean it will make me . . .” She searched for a word that wouldn’t hurt Cigar.

  Cigar himself was beyond worrying about euphemisms. “Crazy?” He said. “My brain is already crazy. He doesn’t know how to do it. Maybe it would make you crazy.”

  Astrid’s fingers ached, she was clutching the gun so hard. There was nothing else to hold on to. Her heart beat so loud she was sure Cigar must hear it. She shivered.

  Anything else. Not that. Not madness.

  She could get all the answers she needed by way of Cigar. Except that Cigar was coherent for only snatches of time before he spiraled down into lunatic rantings and shrieks.

  “No,” Astrid said. “Not taking the risk. No. Let’s get going.”

  Like she knew which way to go. She’d been following Cigar, who had been following—or so he said—Little Pete.

  Panic. It tickled her, teased her. There was something smothering about the darkness. Like it was thick and hard to breathe.

  The darkness was so absolute. She could walk in circles and never know it. She could walk into a zeke field and not know it until the worms were inside her.

  “Just turn the damned lights on, Petey!” she yelled.

  Her words seemed to barely penetrate the blackness.

  “Just fix it! You’re the one who did this. Fix it!”

  Silence.

  Cigar started in again, moaning and giggling, talking about Red Vines and how good candy tasted.

  She had a vision of herself back at the lake, lying in the bunk with Sam. She had loved touching his muscles. What an embarrassing, juvenile thing. Like the girls she despised, always mooning over some rock star, some movie star, some guy with hard abs and yet, and yet, hadn’t that been her all along?

  She recalled with intimate detail having her hand on his biceps when he flexed to pick her up and the way the muscle had just doubled in size and become hard as if it were carved out of oak. He’d lifted her up like she weighed nothing. And set her down again, so gently, with her hands sliding to his chest to balance and . . .

  And now, she was here. With a ghost and a lunatic. In the dark.

  Why?

  Risk your sanity and maybe know something. But maybe not. Maybe just be destroyed. And what would she know then, if Petey scrambled her mind?

  Scrambled brain, full of things she needed to know, but wouldn’t really know if her brain was twisted in the learning.

  “Fix it! Fix it!” she screamed at the dark.

  “My leg, it’s not my leg; it’s a stick, a stick with nails poking through,” Cigar moaned.

  A dark, terrible urge to turn the shotgun around and end Cigar’s misery had Astrid breathing hard and clenching her jaw. No. No, she’d already played Abraham to Petey’s Isaac, not that ever again. She would not allow herself to take an innocent life, not ever again.

  Innocent, a derisive voice in her head taunted. Innocent? Astrid Ellison, prosecutor and jury and executioner.

  There’s nothing innocent about Petey, the voice teased. He built this. All of it. He made this universe. He’s the creator and it is all his fault.

  “Let’s go,” Astrid said. “Give me your hand, Cigar.” She shouldered the shotgun. She felt around in the dark until she found Cigar, and then fumbled some more before she had his hand. “Get up.”

  He got up.

  “Which way?” Cigar asked.

  Astrid laughed. “I have a joke for you, Cigar. Reason and madness go f
or a walk in a dark room, looking for an exit.”

  Cigar laughed like it had been funny.

  “You even know what the punch line is, you poor crazy boy?”

  “No,” Cigar admitted.

  “Me neither. How about we just walk until we can’t walk anymore?”

  OUTSIDE

  CONNIE TEMPLE SAT sipping coffee at a booth in Denny’s. Across from her sat a reporter named Elizabeth Han. Han was young and pretty but also smart. She had interviewed Connie several times before. She reported for the Huffington Post and had been on the Perdido Beach Anomaly story from the start.

  “They’re setting off a nuclear device?”

  “The so-called chemical spill is a trick. They just want everyone away from the dome. They must have deliberately left it for the last minute so it would seem like a real emergency.”

  Han spread her hands wide. “A nuclear explosion, even underground, will show up on seismographs all over the world.”

  Connie nodded. “I know. But—” At that moment Abana Baidoo came into the restaurant, walked past the hostess, and slid into the booth beside Connie. Connie had called her but told her nothing. Quickly, and without revealing Darius’s name, she backed the story up to the start.

  “Are they out of their minds?” Abana demanded. “Are they insane?”

  “Just scared,” Connie said. “It’s human nature: they don’t want to just wait, feeling powerless. They want to do something. They want to make something happen.”

  “We all want to make something happen,” Abana snapped. Then she put a reassuring hand on Connie’s arm. “We’re all worn-out with worry. We’re all sick of not knowing.”

  Elizabeth Han barked out a laugh. “They can’t do this without approval from very high up. I mean, all the way up.” She shook her head thoughtfully. “They know something. Or at least they suspect something. This president doesn’t go off half-cocked.”

  “We have to stop it from happening,” Connie insisted.

  “We still don’t have any idea what caused this,” the reporter said. “But whatever it is, it rewrote the laws of nature to create that sphere. They didn’t just decide this overnight; there must have been a plan in place for a long time. They wanted this as an option. So why suddenly, now, use that option?”