by Amy Plum
I begin to shut my notebook, and then I hear the beeping of the monitors decelerate. I look up. It’s been fifty-three minutes. That’s close enough. I pick up my pen to note the time and activity. And then I realize that the beeping hasn’t slowed on two of the monitors.
Subject seven’s feedback has never stabilized, staying at the heightened rate this whole time, so that’s not odd. But it sounds like this time another subject hasn’t stabilized either.
This gets the doctors’ attention. They hover around Vesper’s monitor for a moment, examining the readouts, and then walk down into the test area and head for Subject two: Fergus.
“He’s showing eye movement,” Vesper says, “and his heart rate is still elevated.”
He’s still dreaming, I think.
And, as if she read my mind, Zhu turns to Vesper with a curious expression. “Do you think they might actually be dreaming? You mentioned it before, but maybe I shot you down too fast.”
My guess was right, I think, feeling vindicated. But Vesper shakes his head.
“No. dreaming would be impossible with the delta brain waves. I agree with you that what we’re seeing is the aftereffects of the interrupted electrical current. Their bodies are obviously working through the shock that it induced.”
I feel like butting in. Like showing them the chart I made. But, like a coward, I stay silent and listen as they drop the topic and move on.
“Those aftereffects obviously affected subject three in a way her body couldn’t manage,” Zhu says with a frown. “What if that happens to one of the others?”
“Subject three’s heart might have already been weakened by her anorexia,” Vesper suggests. “We’ll know more after the autopsy.”
“Yes, well, subject seven isn’t in the best of health either,” Zhu says, glancing at the boy.
“His problem is in his brain, not his heart,” Vesper replies, joining her to stare at him. “I never thought I would see one of these cases. There are so few. But he got to you so late. Too late, I’m afraid.”
My curiosity is piqued. What could they be talking about? I decide to look at subject seven’s file next.
“I don’t want to take any more chances,” Zhu says, glancing back at Fergus, and then walking back to her station. She picks up her phone. “Yes, this is Zhu in Lab One. I would like six life-support systems delivered immediately, including oxygen and defibrillators.”
She gets off the phone and sighs. “By the way, Frankel agreed to a Skype session with us in a half hour. Hopefully, he’ll have some ideas.”
Zhu and Vesper take their seats and begin going over the events, detail by minuscule detail. Seeing that they are immersed in their conversation, I open the folder to subject seven’s file, but am distracted by a flashing icon on my computer screen. It’s a new message—from Hal.
Nothing really juicy to flag on most of the names you gave me. Only two of them had police files. The Fergus guy was picked up by the cops a few times, but those were incidents where he passed out or something. One minor car wreck, a few wipeouts including pedestrians on bicycles. Sounds like the guy is massively uncoordinated.
However, was able to get into the NYPD file for Sinclair Hartford, and man, someone could write a novel about this guy’s past. The stuff on his regular police file all clicks with Manhattan rich-kid stuff. Minor drug possession, breaking and entering, fights . . . Sounds like the type who knows Mommy and Daddy will bail him out. BUT . . . the locked file. That’s where things get interesting.
About three years ago, he was questioned about the suicide of one of his schoolmates. He had been the girl’s only friend, apparently, and the day after she died he turned in a suicide note she had given him for her parents “in case.” He was reprimanded for not bringing it to anyone’s attention in time to save her.
The year after that, he was present at a violent mugging, where another kid from his parents’ social club was stabbed to death. Sinclair got away with minor injuries.
And just last year, there was an incident where one of the teenage residents of his building got locked into one of the basement storage spaces and died. The dead kids’ parents said he had been hanging around with Sinclair recently. But there was no evidence linking him to the accident, and he had an alibi: he and his parents were out of town the weekend the boy got locked in.
Since nothing came of it, his parents raised a stink and had the judge seal the file in case of future prejudice.
I write back, asking for one last favor.
His response is immediate: Let me get this right. You want me to hack into this kid’s shrink’s computer?
I write him back saying I swear I’ll return the favor somehow.
His message back: Are you kidding? I haven’t had this much fun since Anonymous had me track Assange. This one’s on me!
CHAPTER 24
CATA
I LAND IN THE VOID, SPRAWLED FACEDOWN ON the ground, the impact knocking the breath out of me. I look up to see the others struggling to get up. George is already on her feet, her arm around Ant, who is shaking. “Where’s Fergus?” she asks.
For a second I don’t remember, and then, with horror, I see it again in slow motion, replaying in my mind. “He fell,” I say, my voice wavering.
“What?” George stares at me incredulously.
I push myself up and look around at the group. All eyes are on me. “He fell!” I say, and my eyes do that stinging thing that would mean tears if I hadn’t intentionally dried them up forever.
“What do you mean he fell?” Remi asks, looking like he’s about to burst into tears himself.
“We took the rope ladder together, and just as we were swinging out, that static monster from the other dreams showed up out of nowhere and pulled him off the rope.”
“Did you see them land?” Sinclair asks.
I shake my head. “The monster kind of wrapped around him, and Fergus couldn’t hold on. I saw them falling when I hit the Wall.”
“Shit,” says Sinclair.
“I wonder what that means,” George says. “I mean, he didn’t show up here and then disappear like BethAnn did.”
“Yeah, but you dragged BethAnn through the Wall,” Remi says. “She disappeared once she was in here. Fergus never even got through.”
No one wants to say what all of us are thinking. That Fergus, too, could be dead.
Finally, Remi breaks the silence. “I wonder if the nightmares keep going after we leave them, or if they just disappear. I mean, they’re obviously created in our minds. Do they continue playing without us, or do they disappear once we leave?”
“I’ve been thinking of the Dreamfall as just one place,” says George, “where all of the nightmares play like films, one starting where the other ends. Although I suppose each nightmare could have its own world.”
“In which case he would be stuck in the cathedral one,” I say. “But in your self-contained-nightmare-dimension scenario, the cathedral dream ends and another one starts. So maybe he’ll make it to the next nightmare?” As I say it, I realize how just how much this almost-stranger means to me. With what we’ve been through, I feel like Fergus is already a friend. He can’t just be . . . gone.
“That is, if he survived the fall, and those creepy living statues and red-eyed monks didn’t get him after that,” Sinclair says, giving voice to my fears.
Ant has pulled out his notebook and pen and is scribbling furiously, while still standing. “Hey, Ant,” Sinclair says. “You think you could do some of your magic again and conjure us some couches? It might be nice to actually relax for a while before we’re sucked into another nightmare.”
“It’s not magic,” Ant replies dryly. “It’s visualization while in a meditative state.” Everyone turns to stare at him.
“Excuse me?” Sinclair asks, raising an eyebrow.
“I learned to meditate,” Ant says. “To control my anxiety.” He looks worriedly at Sinclair and then taps six times on his leg.
“Looks l
ike that’s worked out really well for you,” Sinclair jokes, and then, at a sharp look from me, softens his voice and says, “Magic. Meditation. However it works, would you pretty please give it a try?”
Ant looks at him pointedly for a moment, and then, sitting down with his legs crossed, he closes his eyes and places his gloved palms carefully on his kneecaps. A moment later, a circle of six large cream-colored couches appears beside us. Ant opens his eyes and, for the first time, gives a small, pleased smile.
“No way!” Sinclair exclaims and, jumping onto the nearest couch, sprawls out and puts his hands behind his head. “I can’t even tell you guys how good this feels,” he moans in pleasure.
We take a couch each and spread out on them. I bask in the comfort of having something soft under my aching back, but can’t enjoy it for long. I keep thinking about Fergus and where he might be now. Probably dead. But maybe not. “I know everyone wants to relax,” I say finally. “But we’ve lost two people. We really need to figure out what we’re doing here,” I say finally. Groans come from around the circle.
George props herself up on an elbow and looks around at the rest of us. “What was it that Fergus was saying about sleep just before we got sucked into the last nightmare?”
“He was pointing out that we all seem to have problems with sleep,” Remi says. “He thought that was the one thing that joined us.”
“Fergus told me he has narcolepsy,” I add, shimmying up into a sitting position so I can see the others. “I have night terrors. And everyone else here has some sort of sleeping problem, right?”
Everyone nods.
“Does anyone take meds for it?” I venture.
Remi shakes his head. “I don’t like pills,” he says.
“Ambien,” Sinclair says.
“Meditation and exercise,” Ant says, and George says, “Same for me, more or less.”
“Zoloft,” I offer and shrug.
“What?” Sinclair says. “Were you thinking this might be a drug-induced communal hallucination?”
“Do you have a better idea?” I respond.
“What about my genius we-got-sucked-into-a-video-game hypothesis?” Sinclair says with a twitch of his lips.
“Cata’s right. Let’s be serious,” George urges. “We all have sleep problems. We’re all under twenty. What could have brought us all together and stuck us in this place?”
“Treatment,” Ant murmurs, and then sits up suddenly. “Treatment!”
“What?” Sinclair and I ask simultaneously.
“Treatment. I remember my doctor talking about a treatment. It was during my February appointment. Hey! I remember February now!”
“Congratulations,” Remi says dryly.
“No, when Fergus asked us before, the last thing I remembered was Christmas. I’m getting my memory back.”
“Temporary memory loss,” George chimes in. “It means we all suffered a traumatic event: blows to the head, seizures . . . What else causes temporary memory loss?”
“Electroconvulsive therapy.” As soon as I say it, the memories come flooding back.
“Oh my God,” Sinclair says, sitting up. “It’s that experimental treatment my doctor was pitching to my parents and me. A treatment for insomnia.”
“That’s it!” George says. “I remember my doctor telling us about it. I think it was going to happen in March.”
“I don’t remember having decided one way or the other because the whole thing seemed pretty extreme,” Sinclair says. “Although my parents were really pushing for it, so I wouldn’t be surprised if I gave in.”
George is snapping her fingers, head lowered, as if she’s trying to will the memories back. “It was a beta test. One person had done it before and it had worked.”
“Wasn’t it based on the electroconvulsive therapy they give for mental disorders?” I ask.
“Yes! And that’s known to produce temporary memory loss,” George says with a finality that means she’s convinced.
“We all went through the test,” I say.
“Something bad must have happened,” Remi adds.
“Unless this was supposed to be the result,” Sinclair responds. “Which I seriously doubt, seeing that two of our group have either died or disappeared. But who knows . . . Maybe fright therapy was a part of the plan.” He turns to me. “Fright therapy—my parents would have loved that. Always trying to scare the crap out of me with their empty threats.”
He follows this with a bitter smile, unlike the friendly ones he’s been giving me so far. It’s the first time he’s mentioned his parents, and I can’t help but wonder what could have happened with them to bring such a cold look to his eyes. And then I think of my own past. Enough evil can be packed into a few years of childhood to mess you up for the rest of your life.
“Okay, what do people recall?” George asks. “Does anyone actually remember doing the test?”
Everyone shakes their heads.
“So we’re still suffering memory loss from the actual event. Does anyone remember going to the hospital where it was happening?”
“I remember we were scheduled to attend a meeting one week before it happened. My aunt and I were planning on staying with friends of hers in Larkmont between the meeting and the treatment,” Remi says.
“I remember that there was supposed to be a meeting too,” I say. The others nod, urging me on. “A meeting with the doctors and the parents and the seven test subjects . . .” My voice wanes as something clicks. “Seven! There were supposed to be seven test subjects!”
Sinclair holds a hand up. “Me . . . you,” he says, pointing at me, “Ant, Remi, George, Fergus, and BethAnn. That’s seven.”
“But . . .” Ant begins, and then shuts up.
“But what?” Sinclair asks. “There are seven of us. We were all supposed to go through a scientific study in March to cure our insomnia. That’s got to be it!”
“Then what happened? Is this part of the experiment?” Remi asks.
“Can’t be,” Ant says. “It doesn’t make sense.”
“Why?” I ask, but he’s busy scribbling in his notebook.
“So what’s this mean?” Remi asks.
“Something got screwed up,” Sinclair responds. “There’s no way this was supposed to happen. From what I remember, the therapy was just supposed to last for six hours.”
“It was supposed to be five hours and fifty minutes,” counters George.
“Whatever,” Sinclair says, brushing off her correction with a shrug. “It already seems like we’ve been in here forever.”
“Maybe it’s one of those time-warp things, and we’ve only been here for a few seconds. And when we wake up it will have worked,” I venture.
“No, remember? Ant’s been counting,” George says, and turning to the boy asks, “How long do you think we’ve been here?”
Ant taps six times with his pen on his notebook, looks up at George, and then speaks in a voice so soft that we all have to lean in to hear him. “Before we all saw each other, we were in our own individual dreams for twenty minutes. Let’s count that as nightmare one. Since then there have been four more nightmares, and this is the fifth Void. At the end of this one, we will have been in here for a total of three hundred twenty minutes.”
“Okay, unless the whole thing is time-warped, or Ant’s pulse doesn’t count for shit,” Sinclair says, “we’ve been here for more than five hours. Which means if we make it through another nightmare and don’t wake up after that, we can be sure that the experiment has gone wrong.”
“Someone’s died. I assume that means it’s definitely gone wrong,” I say.
“We don’t know she died,” insists Remi. “She could have woken up on the other side.”
“Okay . . . how creepy is this?” I say. “Somewhere all of our bodies are lying in some lab, hooked up to who knows what kind of machines. That includes BethAnn and Fergus, who could be awake or . . .”
“Dead,” fills in Sinclair.
“O
ne more nightmare,” says George. “If we can make it through just one more, then it is possible that the test will be over and we’ll wake up.”
“I hope that happens,” Sinclair says, “because I want to tell those researchers how messed up their little experiment is. I’d rather never sleep again than have to go through just one of those fucked-up nightmares.”
“About the nightmares,” says George, “it’s pretty clear that each one comes from one of us, and they seem to be alternating. Although we still don’t know who the graveyard belonged to.” She looks inquisitively at Sinclair, but he shakes his head.
Ant says, “If I’ve had that dream before, I definitely don’t remember it.”
“Me neither,” George says automatically.
“Could the graveyard have been BethAnn’s?” Remi asks.
“Possibly,” George says, “if she was still somehow linked to us. She didn’t show up in it, though. I guess we can’t really know.”
“So if the nightmares are rotating through each of our subconscious, one by one, that means the next dream will be either Ant’s, George’s, or Sinclair’s,” I say.
“It did help us prepare in the cathedral when you recognized where we were,” George says to me. “So, Sinclair . . . what are your worst nightmares?”
Sinclair scratches his chin as if thinking, and then looks George in the eye. “I don’t remember my dreams.”
“None at all?”
“None.”
“Well, that’s . . . helpful,” she says, frowning. “Ant?”
“The dream I had before the first Void was the one where these invisible people take me to a cabin, tie me to a chair, blindfold me, and start pulling out all of my teeth one by one because I won’t tell them the answer.”
“I saw you there,” Sinclair said.
I nodded. That must have been Ant blindfolded in the creepy room I saw after my Flayed Man dream. “The answer to what?” I ask.
“That’s the thing,” Ant says. “I don’t know the question.”