“Dad, over here!” I wave my arms up in the air, signaling for him.
But instead of coming toward us, he turns and runs in the direction of the cave’s entrance.
“Where is he going?” Josh asks.
Without answering him, I grab Josh’s hand and we race after my father, navigating between the icy stalagmites that continue to fall around us. We turn a corner, and there’s an earth-shattering crash as a giant icicle in the shape of a large spear breaks off from the ceiling, heading directly toward Josh. I charge at him, knocking him flat on his back and onto the ground, out of harm’s way. As the piercing ice fragments continue to fall, Josh flips me around, pinning me underneath him. I attempt to push him off me, but he holds my wrists together with one hand, using his other hand to reach for the emergency button on my wristband.
He’s trying to send me home.
But there’s no way I’m leaving my dad this time.
“No!” I yell, but he doesn’t listen or respond.
I knee him in the inner thigh and he releases me, allowing me to roll out from underneath him. I jump to my feet and Josh follows close behind; we weave around the falling icicles, miraculously making it the remaining hundred feet out of the cave unscathed, and slipping out of the entranceway just as the structure begins to implode. As the earth continues to revolt and shards of ice crystals fly through the air, Josh and I hit the ground, huddling together, waiting for the madness to stop.
Then, all of a sudden, it’s silent. The earth is no longer breaking apart. We appear to be safe, at least momentarily. The crystal cave is nothing more than a shredded pile of dark green ice.
“We need to go back now,” Josh says, his lips taut. “It’s too dangerous here. We have no idea what kind of damage this botched Escape is doing to us in real life.”
“I’m not leaving. Not until we find where my father went.”
I glance up at the night sky. The electric purple stars and the dark red moon are covered with a haze of gray, fuzzy clouds. And that’s not all. The pink snow is gone, replaced by a brown sludge. Not a great sign. We may no longer be in immediate danger, but the Escape still seems like it’s short-circuiting. Josh is right.
We have to hurry.
I glance up the side of the mountain and tilt my head. Over to the right, about half a mile above us, is a plateau. “If we get to that ledge up there, we’ll have a view of the mountainside,” I say. “Maybe we can spot him.”
Before Josh can protest, I grab the backpack I left outside the ice cave and clutch his hand, yanking him along, our feet tramping through the mud and toward a narrow path. The wind begins to pick up again, barreling over the mountaintop and carrying a rank odor.
We stop directly under the plateau. The side of the mountain is craggy rock. I take off my glove and lightly run my hand over the dark stone. It’s wet and slick and covered in some sort of algae-ridden slime. I look at Josh with concern. “You don’t have to do this. I can go alone.”
He takes my backpack and opens it, then tosses me a harness. Next he drops the ice tools by our mud-covered feet. “Shut up and climb.”
Before I finish closing the last snap of my harness, Josh has already dug his pickax into the side of the mountain. I swing, and when my pickax makes contact, brown grime splatters through the air. I dig my boot in, my arms above me, my leather-gloved hands tightly gripping the pickax.
Tier after tier, we scale what seems like miles. Unlike when we cheerfully descended the mountain, there is no happy banter between us as we climb. But there’s no more anger, either. Instead, we are devoid of anything other than determination to track down my father, both of us nervously anticipating the moment when the Escape might morph again. After a few minutes, I hear a grunt and crane my neck and see that Josh has made it to the plateau and is reaching down to help me up over the edge.
Our hands connect and he yanks me toward him, pulling me up and onto the soggy landing. I push to my feet, hands on my knees as I take a moment to catch my breath.
“You okay?” Josh asks.
“Yeah.” I nod, standing up straight as I look around. The plateau is about a hundred feet long and fifty feet wide, surrounded by a grouping of dead spruce trees with rotting branches and exposed roots that are covered in dingy, speckled scum. I spot one patch of cranberry-colored needles at the bottom of a nearby trunk. I walk over to it and crouch down to pick it up, but before I can, it fades to black and then disappears.
A sickening feeling rises from my stomach into my throat. I stand and yell through my cupped hands, “Dad!” My voice ricochets off the neighboring mountains and echoes into the cavern below us. “Dad, where are you?”
When there’s no response, I head toward another group of decaying spruces, and just as I’m about to touch a decrepit limb, the entire tree turns to white and dissolves into nothingness. Then something shatters inside me, and I feel like my lungs are being clawed to shreds.
“Josh?” I whisper, my breath barely coming out of my mouth. I can’t leave this Escape before I find my dad. I won’t. “Things are disappearing!”
“I know,” he replies, pointing toward the mountain range in the distance.
The dark horizon is rapidly vanishing before our eyes. It’s as if someone is erasing our entire world, starting at the corners and working their way inward.
“I think our destination is being reset,” Josh says, stunned. “It’s like when you clear any computer program. Unless it’s been saved, everything is destroyed.”
“Impossible.” I’m gasping for air, my heart sputtering and stalling. I turn around and watch with horror as dying trees disintegrate one after another. With each disappearance, it feels like a hole is being carved into my bones. Even the sky is getting eaten away by this vacuum, which engulfs everything in its path, creating a blank canvas all around us.
I have no idea what all of this means. It seems like every particle in my body is being severed by this bottomless feeling of dread. But are Josh and I in any real physical danger? Is this exactly what happened to Anthony before he slipped into a coma?
“Dad, please! Come back!” I scream so hard I’m surprised my voice box doesn’t rupture. Josh grabs my hand and squeezes hard.
My father isn’t here. Not anymore.
Nothing is. Nothing but a pure white emptiness that’s headed in our direction, threatening to wipe us out.
“Regan, we have to go,” he says.
I squeeze his hand back, and he knows I understand. So we let go of each other and press the emergency buttons on our wristbands, surrendering to the all-too-familiar brightness that will carry us back home.
TabTalk Message
From: Heywood, Joshua
To: Welch, Regan
11:14 p.m.
R u okay?
TabTalk Message
From: Welch, Regan
To: Heywood, Joshua
11:20 p.m.
Yes, I’m fine. On my way to see Patrick.
TabTalk Message
From: Heywood, Joshua
To: Welch, Regan
11:22 p.m.
He won’t listen. Not even 2 u.
TabTalk Message
From: Welch, Regan
To: Heywood, Joshua
11:25 p.m.
Yes he will. I won’t give him any choice.
TabTalk Message
From: Heywood, Joshua
To: Welch, Regan
11:26 p.m.
Want me 2 come?
TabTalk Message
From: Welch, Regan
To: Heywood, Josh
11:27 p.m.
No. You’ve done enough damage already.
TabTalk Message
From: Heywood, Joshua
To: Welch, Regan
11:27 p.m.
Guess I deserve that.
TabTalk Message
From: Heywood, Joshua
To: Welch, Regan
11:28 p.m.
Don’t u think u should hear me out
b4 u cut me loose?
TabTalk Message
From: Welch, Regan
To: Heywood, Josh
11:29 p.m.
Haven’t made up my mind. Until then, just let me be.
“Hey, is that David Welch’s daughter?” says one of the hundred reporters who are perched outside the entrance of Erebus Tower, a steel hotel and apartment complex so tall it rises above the oil-filled clouds, practically disappearing into the sky.
“No, I don’t think so,” replies another reporter. “That girl is way too old to be her.”
I duck my head and fight my way through the huge mob, which is at least twice the size of the one at Orexis. I pull up the hood of my jacket, thankful my O2 shield seems to be obscuring my identity. In the past few months, the media has left me alone and the sudden attention makes me feel vulnerable. I remember how Patrick was right by my side after my dad died, when the media scrutiny was at its worst, protecting me from all the interrogating questions and judgments. Making sure I was safe.
Now that Patrick himself is the target of the press’s latest scandal cycle, there’s nothing anyone can do to make these bloodhounds lose his scent. In fact, he can officially count me as one of the angry pack, especially after seeing my dad again and the horrifying vanishing act I just experienced in Elusion. Patrick has a lot to answer for, and tonight he’s going to tell me everything.
Or else there are going to be major consequences.
As I continue to push through the throng, I glance up at the building. At almost two hundred stories, it’s high enough that glass windows are allowed on the top five floors. Now that it’s stopped raining, the peak of the tower appears to glow with a beautiful gauzy light. Only the wealthiest tycoons in the area actually live at Erebus, and Patrick bought one of the units just a few weeks ago.
In a million years, I never would have thought that the first time I came here would be to take my best friend down.
The media have surrounded the building, and there’s a huge police presence. Stuck in the middle of the frenzy, I stand on my tiptoes and peek through the crowd enough to see that the officers are wearing protective helmets with built-in O2 shields, as if they’re afraid the mob might turn violent. They are hastily trying to construct a small path so that the wealthy clientele of Erebus Tower are able to enter and leave without being mauled.
I have to make it through there somehow.
I tug the strap of my bag away from my shoulder and shimmy it down my arm, which isn’t easy, since I’m pressed up against people at every turn. Then I move it to a small space in front of my knees and blindly feel through the stuff inside with my right hand. Once I locate my passcard, I wiggle enough so that I can reach my arm up and wave it around in the air, praying this hunch of mine will work.
“Let me in! I’m a resident!” I shout, hoping that one of the cops will hear me through my O2 speaker and let me through. “Please! I need to get inside!”
Luckily, someone does hear my squawking. A policeman waves a beer-bellied security guard forward, who blows a shrill whistle that makes everyone cover their ears.
“Step aside and let the young lady through!” the guard orders with a rather intimidating, deep voice.
There’s a slight shift within the group, and I’m able to slip through tiny gaps here and there until I reach the path the cops are clearing out. Once I manage to make it past them, the guard takes my card and holds it up against his handheld reader. After a short beat, the words ACCESS GRANTED, PENTHOUSE SUITE 1950AB appear on the screen, so he nods and says, “You’re good.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. I was hoping Patrick had given me a courtesy code for his apartment, but I wasn’t sure.
As the guard opens the electronic gate with the remote that’s built into his code reader, a young, clean-shaven bellman motions for me, his arm outstretched. I grasp on to his gloved hand and he pulls me inside the gleaming lobby. The backlit onyx ceiling soars above me, casting a soft glow on the beautifully handcrafted white marble pillars that line the room on the north and south sides. Even though it’s nearly midnight, impeccably dressed hotel guests are still milling about in the space, either strolling through the area with colorful cocktails in their hands or reclining on the black and ivory French provincialstyle sofas that are arranged around a classic gray château fireplace.
I take off my O2 shield and wander around the lobby, looking for the right elevator. None of the chatter really registers until I find my way to the private, cordoned-off elevator bank reserved for residents and their guests. I walk into an empty one with a middle-aged couple who appear to be returning from an elegant evening out, given his tuxedo and her burgundy floor-length sequined dress. I press the button for the top floor and stand behind them, waiting for the elevator.
“It’s a shame,” the woman says, continuing her conversation. “They found two more of those unidentified comatose kids in Miami.”
Two more victims?
My fingers tighten ever so slightly around the strap of my bag as my eyes focus blankly on the elevator door.
“And a girl in Detroit, too.”
I blink as a chill runs down my spine. Three more victims.
“Really? Where?”
“Merch Sector, I think. She had the same circular marks on her head.”
I was just in the Merch Sector. Could it have been one of the people who were with me in the café? Did they experience the same thing that happened to Josh and me in Elusion? Did their Escapes erase with them in it? As my stomach free-falls, I keep my eyes glued to the doors, trying not to appear like I’m eavesdropping.
“Do you believe what they’re saying? That Elusion is causing this somehow?”
“I don’t know. Should we stop using our Equips? Until they figure it all out?”
“Definitely. I enjoyed myself, and the kids certainly like it, but it’s not worth the risk.”
The elevator doors finally whisk open, and I walk in behind the couple. Once we’re inside and we’ve inserted our passcards into the slot, the doors slide closed and we begin to make our ascent. The couple isn’t talking about Elusion anymore—now they are on to more pressing matters, like their son’s lackluster grades and their daughter’s first class trip to Istanbul. When they step out on the 180th floor, I lean back against the elevator wall and close my eyes as I absorb what they said, hoping the solitude will help calm my nerves before I confront Patrick.
More kids in comas. Possibly all Elusion users.
A girl found here in Detroit.
My God, Patrick, what the hell is going on?
A second or two later, I’m on his floor. The walls in the hallway are a rich shade of navy blue, and hanging in a row is a collection of abstract animal paintings, creating a bizarre circus of sorts. At each end of the hall there are grand floor-to-ceiling windows, and since we’re up above the Florapetro clouds, the glass reflects a hazy view of the evening stars. As I walk toward the cold, industrial-metal door of Patrick’s apartment, I blow out a deep breath and then another, my resolve not wavering an inch.
I take out my passcard and hold it near the lockpad, which releases the automatic interior bolt on the door. When it slides open, I storm into the apartment, calling out Patrick’s name, my jaw clenched. But when I make eye contact with the person who is sitting on the boomerang-shaped copper couch, I’m so flustered for a minute I think I might have entered the wrong apartment.
“Zoe?” I ask.
She’s pulling on one of her knee-high boots, and her cowl-neck knit top is slipping off her shoulder a little. Her long hair is tousled and loose, and I can’t help but notice her makeup is smudged, especially under her eyes.
Am I interrupting something?
“Regan?” Her eyes widen, not with embarrassment, just surprise. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to intrude,” I say. “I just really need to talk to Patrick, and I couldn’t get ahold of him.”
“Yeah, he turned off hi
s tab and InstaComm after I came over. There have been all these harassing messages and calls; it’s such a mess.”
“Where is he?”
“Bedroom,” she says, pulling on her other boot and tipping her head to the hallway on her left. “He’s getting dressed.”
Getting dressed? Okay, I’m definitely interrupting something. It looks like when I didn’t immediately respond to Patrick’s invite, he got in touch with Zoe instead, and one thing led to another. I cross my arms in front of my chest, suddenly uncomfortable talking to her.
How . . . weird.
Zoe stands up and adjusts her shirt, then grabs her purse off the modular wood-paneled floor. She tucks her hair behind her ears, approaching me with a confident grin that I suppose would belong on any girl who’d just hooked up with one of the most eligible bachelors in the country. She also has this odd sparkle to her eyes, like she’s the proud owner of something and wants me to acknowledge that it’s hers and hers alone.
“You don’t have to leave,” I say.
“I’m just running down to the garage. Forgot my tab in my car.”
Damn. I doubt Patrick is going to be very forthcoming if he knows Zoe is going to be around. I guess I’m going to have to press him for information very hard and very fast.
“Oh. Okay. I guess I’ll see you in a few minutes.”
Zoe gives me a playful wink. “Great. Be right back.”
When I slip aside so that she can walk past me, she takes a few steps and then I touch her shoulder. “Wait,” I say.
“What’s wrong?”
“Is it true? Did they find a comatose girl in Detroit?”
Zoe nods her head solemnly. “Yes, satellite radio was broadcasting the news on my drive over here. Kelly Winslow. She’s a senior at some ritzy boarding school in the Heights Sector.”
I find myself sighing with relief—thank God it’s not Nora—but then a snap of guilt pops inside me at the thought of Kelly’s family, and Principal Caldwell, having to go through this heartbreak. I think about my father, all my theories regarding his fate. How can I still not have any answers?
Zoe leaves, and for a moment I stand still. I feel like I’m in a stranger’s house, somewhere I don’t belong. I knew Patrick’s old apartment so well, but nothing here looks familiar. The neutral gray tones. The sparse, modern furniture. The big black marble sculpture shaped like a large drop of Florapetro.
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