The thought sends a creeped-out shiver raging through me. A shiver that soon becomes a convulsion. I shake all over as Grady seizes. I want out, and it seems as though my host wants to get rid of me too. But the more I want to untether myself, the more claustrophobic I feel. It’s like my whole self is caught in a Chinese finger trap, and the harder I pull against it, the tighter it gets.
My pulse—Grady’s pulse—is racing. Completely out of my control now, his chest and arms are flailing, and his legs, though seated, are definitely not steady. I feel his knees buckle and his chest lurch as his body pitches forward. I see his computer keyboard and the edge of the desk just before I hit them straight on with the top of his forehead.
Howl.
Shriek.
Retch.
I shoot backward, like I’ve been trapped in a Jell-O mold and have suddenly broken free. I land hard on my butt. My hands touch down on soft grass, and the lights from the carousel swim into focus. The carnival music starts up slowly, then resumes normal speed, like switching an old-school 7-inch vinyl album from 33 rpm to 45. I double over and collapse, sucking in air through my nose and pushing it out of my mouth, trying to regain control of my senses.
I feel a hand on my back, and I spin around to see Wes leaning over me. He pulls away, as if my movement has given him an electric shock. I push back to my knees. I’m on a grassy bank just beyond the perimeter of the carnival. Grady is nearby, lying on his back, blinking at the starless sky above.
I turn to Wes for answers, but before I can speak, I see them.
Three Burners headed right for us.
Chapter Nine
We run to the bumper cars.
Laughing children butt their neighbors’ vehicles over and over to everyone’s delight. They don’t seem to see us or our nightmare pursuers. As the kids scream joyfully, we jump onto the tarmac, weaving through cars barreling wildly into each other. I leap between two of them a split second before they can turn me into a pancake.
As I steal a quick glance over my shoulder to check how much distance we’ve put between us and the Burners, I’m distracted by a disturbing sight. One of the monsters approaches a family of three laughing away in their bumper car. As it gets closer, the laughter stops. The family—a mother, father, and little girl—sits frozen in their car, their faces blank. As the Burner shoves the car out of its way, the father goes flying. He hits the low fence surrounding the track and crumples to the ground. With no emotion, the mother and daughter pull themselves from the wreckage and walk away. Then the other parents and children who are not directly in the Burners’ path exit their cars and silently walk off too.
Without realizing it, I’ve slowed to a light jog. I can’t stop staring at the man in the corner. I know he isn’t real, that none of this is. But I don’t understand why no one is going to him. Why I’m not going to him. It isn’t until Wes hollers, “Split up,” that I force myself to turn away. Survive now, ask questions later. I have to get my head back into the game. I break into a sprint.
I veer toward the carousel as Wes runs for the carnival games. One Burner on my tail, two on his. I race around the perimeter of the ride, but like a satellite using the gravity of a moon, the Burner following me seems to pick up speed.
I jump the turnstile and leap onto the ride’s spinning platform. The Burner is too thick, mentally and physically, to navigate the entrance. I allow myself a moment to catch my breath as the monster spins out of sight.
The dozens of lightbulbs that line the tent top canopy make the carousel unforgivingly bright. Once on, there’s nowhere to hide. The piped-in organ music that’s a half note off-key, coupled with the rise and fall of garishly painted horses and the delighted squeals from the carousel riders, overwhelm my senses.
When the cheering and laughter suddenly stop, I know the Burner has finally forced his way through the turnstile. I duck behind a yellow mare as people silently jump from the ride, mindlessly stumbling into one another as they move in an amoebic mass toward the exit. From my hiding spot, I count the number of fence posts between the exit and the entrance, knowing that the difference between getting off and getting caught is one hundred percent in the details. With each rotation, I watch the Burner barrel his way through the mob until he reaches the spinning platform and gracelessly crashes onto it. He is five painted ponies away from me. As he rages against gravity in an effort to get to his feet, I let the exit pass for a final time and count down the fence posts.
Four.
Three.
Two—
I leap off, landing hard on the asphalt. I’ve skinned my knee, but the sting barely registers. I get to my feet, jump the turnstile. Without looking back, I run.
I run away from the carnival, toward the dark expanse of tall grass that surrounds the fairgrounds.
I can hide.
I’ll be safe.
Then I hear a howl from the game area. The Burner’s battle cry sets my nervous system into spasm, and I stop where I stand. “Wes,” I gasp, his name giving shape to my terrified breath. I pivot and loop around a corn dog vendor, gaining speed as I head once more into the breach.
By the time I reach the remnants of the beanbag toss, the area is deserted. The Burners have smashed their way through an entire row of game booths, leaving what looks like a natural disaster zone in their wake. I crouch low and move through the wreckage of splintered wood and decapitated Care Bears. A busted generator sparks at the far end of the aisle.
A particularly gnarly Burner with a jagged scar that crosses his face from left temple to right jowl is still rampaging through the hoop shot at the far end of the row, while his smaller but equally terrifying companion searches for Wes nearer to where I am. I catch sight of the smaller one’s clawed club arm and lose my breath. It’s the same monster that nearly shredded me on the train last night. Ducking behind the ruins of the roller bowler, I will myself not to shake.
The other one, now known in my psyche as Scarface, roars and shoulders his way through a half dozen basketball rims, tossing prizes and ticket stubs like confetti. When he comes up empty, I allow myself a moment of hope. Could Wes have escaped?
Just then, a pair of green eyes peers out from behind a wall of stuffed panda bears at the dime pitch. He is trapped between the raging Burners.
I can’t will away the shaking this time. I want to run. And for a moment, I think I might. But I don’t. I can’t. I won’t leave the boy who saved me last night. “Idiot,” I whisper to myself as I grab three bottles from the ring toss and walk into the open air.
“Hey, Tiny!” I yell at the smaller Burner with the club arm.
I throw a bottle.
It shatters beside the monster, who growls and turns.
Wes peeks out from the dime pitch.
Our eyes lock.
I stop shaking.
I throw a second milk bottle and then a third as Tiny charges in my direction. With the Burners’ focus on me, Wes makes his escape. He stumbles over a splintered plank but is up and running before the other monster, Scarface, can act.
“Funhouse,” I holler as I turn and run.
I race past the Gravitron and the Tilt-A-Whirl, jump over picnic benches, and skirt concession stands. I silently thank Coach for all those afternoons of wind sprints, because Tiny can’t keep up, and soon, I’ve lost him. But as I come around the corner by the Ferris wheel, I see that Wes isn’t having as much luck. Scarface is right behind him. I am too far away to help, and my heart leaps as the monster swipes at Wes, barely missing the back of his shirt. I’m certain the next grab will be a success, but then Wes slips between two moving cars on the Ferris wheel. The Burner can’t slow itself down enough to avoid the cars as they rotate directly into its path. The monster smashes into the ride and is leveled to the ground.
Wes and I reach the funhouse at the same time. His eyes blaze with excitement and fear and just
a little bit of crazy, and I smile, because I know they reflect my own. He reaches his hand out and tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear. His touch is electric.
God, I want to kiss him.
But a determined roar kills the moment, and Tiny emerges from behind the Tilt-A-Whirl.
We face the funhouse.
The façade is a series of comically disproportioned, grotesque caricatures. Curvaceous cartoon girls run from big-shoed clowns. Their trapped boyfriends pointlessly pound against mirages of themselves in an infinite maze of mirrors. Their flat-chested little sisters admire the illusion of double Ds in their warped reflections. And framing the doorway is the wide-open, sharp-toothed smile of a menacing clown.
Tiny’s lumbering footsteps grow louder.
We go through the fanged door, into a corridor of twisted mirrors.
See Sarah and Wes, long and lean, flying down
the hallway, light on their toes, nimble as Jack.
Until…
See Sarah and Wes, stumpy and fat, wading through
mud, slower than the tortoise, won’t ever catch the hare.
Our bodies take on the reality of our funhouse mirror reflections, speeding through the first set of mirrors, then slogging through the next. As our stunted figures push toward the finish line, I begin to doubt that our little legs will be able to sustain all this weight, feeling the heft of this illusion in every joint and every bone.
Then I hear an excited howl and look behind me at the herculean reflection of Tiny, charging toward us through the first set of mirrors at full speed. There’s a door ahead of us, and I push with everything I’ve got against the morass.
As Wes and I finally reach it and break free of our reflections, Tiny lets out a frustrated wail. He has encountered the second set of mirrors, caught in the mire, squat and slow. He reaches for us with stumpy T. rex arms, but it’s no use. He won’t catch us here.
As we stumble through the doorway—our bodies back in our control—I allow myself a sigh of relief.
We enter an empty room with a tiled floor and a plush red theatre curtain at the far wall. It looks innocuous enough, but my first careless step smacks me back to unreality. The tile drops out from under me, and I plummet down to a subfloor. Wes lunges to catch me, but the tile beneath him falls away too, and he is thrown to the ground. I pull myself up and begin to crawl toward him when a blast of compressed air shoots up and hits me in the face.
I cough to catch my breath until the air jet stops, then I grab Wes’s arm, and we crawl, over trap doors, air blasts, tilting, vibrating, and sticky floors, all the way to the red curtain on the other side.
Just as we reach our destination, Tiny enters the room, and he isn’t alone. Scarface has joined him, and he leaps at us. His stride covers way more ground than either of ours, and he is halfway across the room in an instant.
But the moving floor has a dramatic effect on the Burners’ already challenged coordination, felling both deformed giants in instantaneous and thunderous crashes to the ground. Tiny manages to crawl a few feet before he’s hit with a blast of compressed air. He howls in terror and rips at his face. We reach the red curtain and abandon our pursuers without looking back.
We push through a series of heavy felt curtains, each one thicker than the one before, until all light is locked out, and we are feeling our way through dense, choking black.
I am lost.
I am alone.
I am searching, feeling my way in the nightmare dark.
Until…
Wes’s hand finds mine. “I’m here,” he says. “We’re here.” And I feel less alone than I have in years. We connect in darkness and pull and push until the curtain parts, and we are blinded by white light.
My eyes adjust to the main attraction, our final trial before escape. The maze of mirrors.
“Don’t let go,” Wes says.
Never.
Hands clasped, we go inside.
Instantly, I realize we’ve made a mistake.
The ground beneath us moves, and the maze turns like it’s on a lazy Susan. It swirls and spins, changing the way toward the exit with every rotation. My stomach clenches. Sweat tickles my hairline. I can’t catch a breath, and I drop Wes’s hand to clutch my chest.
I spin around and head back where we came from. I’ll find another way to escape the Burners, because this claustrophobic rattrap is not it. I’m nearly there when the open entrance spins away and is replaced with a mirrored wall. I turn back to Wes, but he’s gone too. All I see is an infinity of Sarahs. I lean against my reflection and slide to the floor.
“Sarah,” Wes calls. He is coming for me. Our hands reach for each other, but instead of his warm, affirming grip, I hit glass.
A roar thunders in the chamber outside, and I know it’s just a matter of time before the Burner is in here with me. The mirage of Wes presses his hand against the glass, and his eyes lock on mine.
“Sarah, listen to me,” he says in a voice that demands my attention. “No matter what happens, you will be all right. Just keep breathing, even after you think you can’t. You will wake up in the morning.” As he vaporizes before my eyes, he shouts it again. “You will wake up in the morning!”
I reach for the echo of him, but it vanishes, replaced by a meaty, deformed claw that clamps around my wrist.
Scarface yanks me to my feet so my face is level with what’s left of his. Webbings of saliva stretch across the open hole that is his mouth as the rotting stench of his breath hits me like a wind machine. I try to turn away, but there’s nowhere else to look as the monster envelops me.
All my senses shut down.
Like someone hit the mute and pause buttons on me at the same time.
Air pushes out of my lungs.
I try to take a breath, but there’s no oxygen to inhale.
The weight on my chest is too great.
My eyes bulge until I’m sure they will burst from their sockets.
Every single muscle in my body tenses, and my skin prickles so hard, it burns.
Everything—
the fluorescent lights,
the mirrors,
the Burner,
Wes—
falls away until there is nothing left.
Maybe not even me.
I am lost in this obliterating embrace.
• • •
The first thing that returns is the steady beeping of the EEG machine. A perfume of antiseptic cleaner and rubbing alcohol burns the inside of my nose. My mouth tastes bitter and dry. My eyes are half-closed, but I make out gray grout around white tile that’s beginning to crack.
The door to my clinic room opens, and light footsteps tiptoe in. I turn to see who’s entered, but my head won’t move, and my eyes won’t fully open. I call out, but I can’t hear my own voice. The air around me shifts, and I’m overcome by the familiar clove scent of Josh Mowrey. I try to raise my hand, to gesture to him, to tell him I need his help, but my fingers lie still. I kick my feet, but they don’t so much as twitch. Even my eyes can’t blink as my lids remain frozen at half-mast.
Through my half sight, I catch a glimpse of Josh leaning over me, and for a second, I think maybe my hand did move, and he knows I’m locked in here, trapped inside my own body.
I think, Thank God for Josh, my friend, who’s going to help.
I think wrong.
Josh brings his face too close to mine. His smile turns predatory.
“You always smelled so good,” he whispers as he leans his face down, buries his nose in my hair, and takes a deep, full breath.
Chapter Ten
“Omigod, stop. Stop!” A girl hisses. “What if she wakes up?”
“I told you,” Josh says as he raises my arm by the limp wrist. “Dexid patients are total zombies.” He releases my limb, and the girl gasps. I not
e a distant, throbbing heaviness beside me as my arm lands on the bed. Though my hearing and sight seem intact, my body’s totally frozen.
“No. Way!” the girl says, then she cackles. I hadn’t recognized the whisper, but I’d know that evilly delighted laugh anywhere. Gigi.
“So I can do anything to her, and she’ll have no idea?” Gigi asks. A metaphorical shiver runs down my paralyzed spine.
“So long as we don’t leave any marks,” Josh advises. He presses a calloused finger beneath my chin and follows the curve of my jaw down my throat to the hollow of my collarbone, where he pauses and gently circles the exposed skin just above my chest.
I scream and thrash and punch and kick. But not a muscle moves. And not a single sound comes out.
“Ew, no! Perv,” Gigi says. She slaps his hand away from me. “I’ve seen that Tarantino movie, and it doesn’t end well for you.” For a stupid, blind moment, I thank the gods for Gigi’s presence. No matter what’s transpired between us, it’s somewhat comforting to know that she draws the line at sexual assault.
“We are not going to do anything to her,” she continues. “I, on the other hand…”
A cool sweat sweeps across my body. Without another word, Gigi goes to work. I feel the occasional draft as my blankets are rearranged or my nightgown billows. I hear the faux click of a cell phone camera more times than I can count, accompanied by the occasional flash. At first, Josh offers supportive commentary, “Nice one!” or “Aw yeah!” but Gigi never replies. She has a job to do, and he soon quiets.
After some time—two minutes, twenty, a billion?—Josh becomes antsy. “Hurry up, Gigi. My uncle’ll be back from his break soon. You’ve done enough.” Apparently, her revenge is even gratuitous for the would-be rapist.
“Have I done enough?” She sighs theatrically. “Maybe just one more thing. A keepsake.”
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