Dreamfall

by Amy Plum

  BethAnn sinks to the ground. Under the dust and grime, all of the color has drained from her face. I squat down in front of her so we’re eye to eye. I tuck her matted hair behind her ear. “Are you okay?” I ask.

  She nods mutely.

  “Did they hurt you?”

  She hesitates, and then shakes her head no. She blinks as sweat drips from her forehead into her eyes. I glance around, looking for a towel or tissues, but the only cloth left in the room is the filthy ripped curtain hanging from the window. “Sorry,” I say, and use the bottom of my shirt to wipe her forehead and eyes. She stares at the floor, unmoving.

  “Okay, let me find something to get those cuffs off you.” I creep over to the front door and ease it most of the way shut, leaving it slightly ajar so it doesn’t look suspicious. Then I search a far corner of the room that holds a decrepit sink and rusted stove. I rummage through a drawer under the sink until I find a serrated knife, and saw carefully through the plastic band so I don’t cut her.

  Hands free, she settles back into the corner, buries her head in her arms, and weeps. I’m not quite sure what to do—I don’t have any sisters, and the one girlfriend I’ve ever had claimed I was useless at comforting. I start to pat her head, but that feels weird, so I sit down and wedge myself in next to her, hesitantly putting my arm around her shaking shoulders. When she seems okay with that, I pull her close.

  “It’s okay,” I say, even though it’s not. Who knows if those soldiers will hunt for her house to house, or even if others might burst in and find us?

  It’s like a hundred degrees, and BethAnn is wearing a long-sleeved white shirt over a tank top and jeans. One of her pink Converse low-tops is untied.

  “I’ll get us some water,” I say finally, peeling my arm from around her. Creeping back to the kitchen, I hold the one unbroken drinking glass up to the tap and turn the spigot. Nothing comes out for a second, and then a trickle of brown sludge streams out. So much for that bright idea.

  Returning to BethAnn, I squat down and tie her shoe. “Why don’t you take off that shirt?” I ask. “It’s like a sauna in here.”

  She shakes her head. Her damp hair hangs down around her face and the back of her neck is bright red.

  “Seriously. You’re going to get heatstroke.”

  She lifts her head, and she is drenched in sweat and tears, her manga-huge eyes bloodshot and puffy. She just stares at me for a moment, searching my face like she’s deciding if she can trust me. Then she lifts her hands like a little girl for me to pull off her shirt, and as I do, I see why she kept it on. Her rib cage protrudes sickly through her tank top. But that’s not the worst of it. On her wrists, high enough so her long sleeves hid them, are angry red slashes. Pink scar tissue ribbons across them.

  She looks me straight in the eyes, daring me to say something. I wait until I can once again speak and then ask, “Why would you . . . ?”

  “There was an accident,” she whispers. “It was my fault.”

  “What?” I ask, astounded.

  “I don’t want to talk about it.” Her gaze drops back to the floor.

  “Listen . . . I’m sure that whatever happened wasn’t worth trying to . . . to . . .” I stammer, not able to say the words. What could be bad enough for someone to want to die?

  An image of my father flashes through my mind. My father, who believes I can will my way out of my condition. That my narcolepsy is somehow a choice and if I were just more determined to beat it, I would be “normal.” My father, the famous motivational speaker, who inspires crowds with his words, but uses his fists when it’s just me.

  Okay, I’ve never wished myself dead, but the thought has crossed my mind that life would be easier without him in it. The scene with BethAnn splitting open my monster-dad’s skull in the cave replays in my head, and I am flooded with conflicting feelings of guilt and relief.

  BethAnn studies my face, and misreads my expression. Her face clouds defensively. “Listen, I’m not suicidal. As soon as I cut my wrists I regretted it and drove myself to the hospital. It was just . . . a really dark time.”

  “I’m not judging you.” I fold her shirt and hand it back to her. “Whatever happened, it’s none of my business. But right now we need to get out of here, so you’re going to have to forget everything else and focus.”

  Her pupils dilate with fear. “I don’t want to go back out there.”

  “Those guys could come back. Or there could be others,” I say.

  “I don’t care. I’m not moving.” She wraps her arms tightly around her knees.

  Just then, I hear the sound of feet on the dirt road outside. My mouth turns sour with panic before I realize that, whoever it is, they’re running in silence. BethAnn’s captors were driving a jeep and weren’t trying to hide the racket they were making. I go to the window and peer out. Sprinting down the dirt road in our direction are four of the kids from the Void.

  “Come on, BethAnn, it’s the others!” Not waiting for her reaction, I grab her arm and yank her to her feet.

  “Hey!” she yells.

  I drag her out the door just as they pass. We fall in behind them. BethAnn jerks her arm away from me and runs on her own.

  “There are soldiers down that way,” I call to Remi, who seems to be leading the pack. He nods and peels off to the left, zigzagging us down alleys and back lots until we reach a crossroad and he stops. “Hide in there,” he says, pointing to a shack made of corrugated metal. It’s no bigger than my dad’s toolshed. The door has been ripped off and is lying on the ground a few feet away. “I’ll be right back,” he says before dashing off.

  Cata stands there holding Ant’s hand. She was dragging him along as we ran. Ducking down, she maneuvers him into the shed, and George and BethAnn and I crowd in behind them. I inhale and am hit with the overpowering stench of manure. Cobwebs hang thick from the corners of the roof, and I step carefully to avoid the dark clumps in the straw strewn across the floor. This must have been some sort of animal pen before it was abandoned. I cover my nose and mouth with my hand like the others are doing, blocking the smell while simultaneously catching my breath from our run.

  BethAnn finally breaks the silence. “There are men with guns out there.”

  “We know,” Cata whispers. “We saw them too.”

  “They took BethAnn captive. I helped her escape,” I explain in a low tone. She leans against me, and I wrap an arm around her. “How does Remi know this place?” I ask Cata.

  “This is the town he came from. His family was slaughtered here,” she responds quietly. “He used the word genocide.”

  BethAnn shivers. I squeeze her tighter.

  Something’s different about George, but I don’t realize what until she adjusts her dress strap. She’s changed clothes. Although her Docs are the same, she’s lost the tights and is wearing a tan-colored tank dress.

  George sees me staring and opens her eyes wide in a silent version of What? When I don’t respond, she looks away and says, “All of us are here except Sinclair. Has anyone seen him?”

  Cata shakes her head. “Remi and I appeared next to each other . . . in his house. We found Ant across the street just before the rest of you showed up.”

  Ant looks as white as a sheet, like he’s about to have a meltdown. Well, that makes two: everyone’s scared, but he and BethAnn look like they’ve passed their breaking point. George puts a comforting hand on his shoulder, drawing him in for a side-hug, and he exhales deeply and looks a little less like his head’s going to explode.

  A sound comes from outside the shed. Everyone stiffens. Remi plunges through the door, sweating and out of breath. “The main squadron has moved on, but they left teams to comb the houses for survivors. We can’t stay here.”

  “Where can we go?” Cata asks.

  “There’s a farm outside of the village where we can hide. But to get from the town to the farm we have to cross a stretch of bare desert. We’ll be exposed.”

  “How far’s the farm from town?
” I ask.

  “Two kilometers,” responds Remi.

  We all stare at him blankly.

  “That’s one-point-two-four miles,” says Ant. Now everyone’s staring at him.

  George clarifies, “It’s like jogging five laps around a track.”

  That computes. And it’s a hell of a long distance to be running out in the open. “What’s our other option?” I ask.

  “There isn’t one,” says Remi, looking away from us toward the door. He leans out cautiously, glances around, and says, “Okay, let’s go.”

  “I don’t want to go back out there,” BethAnn begs, her eyes tearing up again.

  I take her by the shoulders and turn her toward me. Conjuring my best I’m-not-taking-any-more-shit-from-you dad-voice, I say, “BethAnn, we have to move. Now.”

  Somehow that works. She dries her eyes and shakily wipes her hands on her jeans. “Okay,” she says, taking a deep breath. “Okay, I’m ready.”

  Remi books it out of there, and Cata follows, pulling Ant along with her. As soon as we’ve squeezed out the narrow door, George grabs Ant’s other hand, and they take off. I’m careful to stay near BethAnn, but she seems determined now and runs as fast as the rest of us. We reach the last house on the street, and there, standing with his hands in his pockets, looking around like nothing special’s going on, is Sinclair.

  “Hey!” he calls, looking relieved to see us. “Does anyone know where we are?” His confusion turns to alarm as he registers the fact that we are running for our lives.

  “Just follow!” I shout, and he falls in behind us.

  The town ends abruptly, and we plunge into the desert: no plants, no trees, just bone-dry red dirt. Remi points to a large building in the distance with a fence around it and a lone tree to one side. “That’s where we’re going,” he calls.

  Now that we have a goal in sight, our group picks up speed. This seems doable.

  But Ant’s pace soon slows, and Cata and George end up practically dragging him between them. The sun is beating down on us with an intensity that seems impossible, and time slows as we struggle through the hostile terrain.

  I match my pace to BethAnn’s and see that she’s crying again. I grab her hand. “You can do it,” I urge as we run side by side. “It’s not that far.”

  From beside us, I hear Cata yell, “You have to go faster!” and Ant’s small voice yell back, “I can’t!”

  “Come on, Ant, you can do it,” prods George.

  “Someone’s coming!” Sinclair shouts. I glance back. A jeep is barreling toward us, its tires throwing up clouds of dust. My heart twists with fear. They’re going so much faster than us.

  And then, from all around, comes a knock so loud it’s like a sonic boom. The black wall appears between us and the farm—still a good distance away. It stretches up into the clouds. “Let’s go!” I yell as we sprint toward the darkness.

  The jeep is gaining on us. I can see the faces of the soldiers—they’re the ones who had BethAnn. One drives and the other stands and points a gun at us. We are almost there. The Wall is just yards away.

  I hear the crack of a gun and turn to see Ant fall forward, slipping out of Cata and George’s grasp. He hits the ground and rolls around holding his leg while blood spurts out of it. The girls try to pull him up, but he’s writhing so violently that they can’t get a hold on him.

  I let go of BethAnn’s hand and point to where Remi and Sinclair are disappearing through the Wall. “It’s not much farther,” I urge. “Run!”

  Doubling back, I sprint to where Ant lies. “Hold him still,” I yell, and between the three of us, we lift him. Cata attempts to wrap his arms around my neck and George screams, “Stop struggling and hold on!”

  Ant immediately goes limp, and I scoop him into my arms. “I’ve got him!” I yell and the three of us run toward where BethAnn waits next to the Wall.

  Off to the right, something catches my eye. It’s the same weird creature that was in the cave. As before, it flickers like a broken TV, its form barely human. Its features resemble a Picasso portrait: multiple noses, mouths, eyes, all on different planes. Although it’s jerking all over the place, it moves quickly in our direction. It reaches toward me, and a static voice grinds out of its gaping mouths—a long, drawn-out “Reeedddd.” It lunges for me.

  “What the fuck!” I yell, swerving to avoid it. I trip and almost drop Ant before regaining my balance. The second knock comes, shaking the earth and reverberating through my bones.

  Cata, George, and BethAnn are waiting near the black wall, their hair and clothes whipping in the wind, watching as I near. “Go!” I yell, and the first two girls turn and approach the darkness. But BethAnn stays, her chalk-white face drawn with fear.

  “Just go!” I yell. The gun cracks again, and I hear a bullet whiz past my head. Almost there.

  Another shot rings out, and I feel a burning sensation in my right arm. I stumble, dropping Ant, and fall. As I roll on the ground I watch BethAnn’s ghostly form walk past me, away from the Wall, struggling against the wind whipping out of it like she’s fighting a hurricane.

  She turns to me and yells through the howling gale, “My sister was Ant’s age when she died. I’m not letting that happen again.” She turns back to face the jeep. “Over here!” she yells, and waves her arms wide over her head. The gun cracks multiple times. I watch in horror as her body convulses, riddled with bullets.

  No!” I scream, but she falls. Her body lies motionless before a figure darts out of nowhere and begins dragging her by her wrists toward the Wall. It’s George. “You get Ant!” she screams as another gunshot blasts and a bullet goes whizzing past my head.

  The third knock deafens me, triggering a painful high-pitched buzzing in my ears. Ant is lying still in shock, his eyes glued to BethAnn’s bleeding form. I scramble toward him, grab his arm with my good hand, and tug him toward the Wall. Together, the four of us tumble through the black screen into nothingness.

  CHAPTER 13

  JAIME

  TRIAL SUBJECT THREE, BETHANN LINDSTROM, IS nineteen. She suffers from anorexia nervosa and severe depression. In her photo she looks like the poster child for both diagnoses: emaciated and infinitely sad.

  From what her file says, she already had “depression and an eating disorder” before something truly horrific happened when she was sixteen. My mouth is dry as I read the story: BethAnn was babysitting her developmentally disabled thirteen-year-old sister when the girl drowned in the family’s pool. BethAnn was so crazed with guilt that a week later she slashed her wrists, but came to her senses before she bled out, bandaged herself, and drove herself to the emergency room.

  After the incident, she was prescribed sedatives, but once she was weaned off them, she began suffering severe sleep deprivation. The antidepressant she was subsequently given boosted her mood but worsened her insomnia. Her doctor tried her on two different sedating antidepressants, but both caused her to gain weight, and she refused to continue treatment. She was switched back to the initial medication. Her insomnia intensified to the point that she had to drop out of school and was finally recommended for this trial.

  Her psychiatrist recommended Zhu and Vesper’s experimental treatment, hoping that if the insomnia could be cured, the depression and anorexia might be treated more effectively.

  I look at her family history. Raised in Minnesota. Her blond hair, blue eyes, and last name fairly scream of Scandinavian ancestry.

  School: Minnehaha Christian Academy. Her psychiatrist noted a moderately religious upbringing by a dentist father and real estate agent mother. Active in church youth group and a handful of local charities.

  I see the phrases “excessive guilt and self-blame” and “emotional self-flagellation” and think of how my own problems seem petty compared to what this girl has gone through. I never had someone die on my watch. I can’t even imagine how I’d feel if that had happened to me.

  My thoughts are interrupted by the low ringing of Vesper’s phone. He p
icks up and begins speaking to Frankel, and I hear him explain the situation once again from the beginning. I look at my clock. Forty-two minutes. If the feedback changes in the next eight or so minutes, it can’t be a coincidence. As to what it means . . .

  I glance over to where Vesper sits, watching the monitors and reading numbers into the phone. I want to say something. I really do. But I’m too intimidated. If this famous scientist hasn’t yet seen a pattern, who am I to point it out to him? There’s probably some really obvious explanation that he already knows, and I’ll look like a complete fool.

  I think of something that Zhu and Vesper were talking about earlier and type “brain waves” into Google. I find a table entitled “Brain Waves: Frequencies and Functions.” It lists five different categories of brain waves, organized into two sections: unconscious and conscious. I turn to a new page in my notebook.

  Unconscious (brain waves normally recorded during sleep)

  Delta (lowest form) = covers most basic instincts

  • Survival

  • Deep sleep

  • Coma

  Theta (next to lowest) = emotions

  • Drives

  • Feelings

  • Dreams

  Conscious

  Alpha

  • Awareness of the body

  Beta

  • Perception

  • Concentration

  • Mental activity

  Gamma

  • Extreme focus

  • Energy

  • Ecstasy

  Right after the earthquake, Vesper had said that the sleepers’ brain waves were mostly gamma and going off the charts. So they should have actually been conscious at that point—the moment where their limbs all flailed up in the air. Since then he has said a couple of times that the brain waves are mainly delta, which, seeing the subjects’ unresponsiveness, is why Zhu declared them comatose. But if they are having some theta waves, as Vesper said, maybe they are dreaming.

  In any case, the brain waves aren’t changing between the twenty- and fifty-minute periods. It’s just the eye movements and heart rates, as well as some of the other things they mentioned, like muscular tension. I’ll have to look back and see what else. So if everything except their brain waves suggests they’re dreaming, maybe there’s something wrong with the brain-wave sensors. Maybe the power outage reset something in the computer.