by Jo Schneider
A knock came at the door, causing Lys to jump. A moment later it opened. Genni stood outside wearing her uniform of green shirt and khaki shorts. “Ready?” she asked.
Lys nodded, taking a breath. She could feel the Need getting frisky—awakening from its own afternoon nap. Mr. Mason had assured her that the handcuffs would no longer be necessary, but so far, she didn’t agree.
Genni gestured for Lys to go ahead of her. They walked down the sterile, off-white hall to the stairs—the elevators in the middle of the building didn’t get used much according to Genni—and made their way back to the first floor.
As they descended, Lys risked a question. “How many people are here?”
“There are seven guests and ten or twelve people on staff,” Genni said. “But a few of the guests are moving tomorrow, so the number will go down.”
“How did you meet Mr. Mason?” Lys asked. She wondered how all of these people had gotten involved with Mr. Mason and his treatment facility. Lys really wanted to know if Genni had been addicted to Pop, but she didn’t think it would be polite to ask.
“It’s a long story,” Genni said. “Once you’re through your first few days maybe I’ll tell you about it.”
Lys didn’t get much more than that. She tried a few more questions, but Genni dodged them. It didn’t feel like the woman was trying to be overly secretive, but she didn’t seem terribly open either.
They moved past the front desk and into the other side of the building. Lys caught a glimpse of a large dining area to their right, but Genni kept going down the hall and through a different door.
A round table sat in the center of the square room. Seven or eight chairs surrounded the table, and Lys saw a little kitchen off to the side.
“There she is!” Brady’s bright voice said. “Why is it you’re always the last one to arrive?”
Lys focused on an appropriate response. “It’s a girl thing.”
Brady turned to the young man sitting next to him and grinned. “Told you she would be here. Nice patch, by the way.”
“Thanks,” Lys said, brushing at her eye with her fingers. She’d traded the bandages for a tie-dye patch her dad had given her. The doctors said she could start wearing it tomorrow, but she didn’t want to wait. At least no one laughed at her, although a grin stretched across Brady’s face.
Lys figured Brady was maybe fourteen. The new guy next to him had to be a year or two older than Lys—seventeen or eighteen. He had skin the color of ebony—darker than she had ever seen. His tall, lean figure sat with perfect posture, and he held his head with confidence. He nodded, and Lys remembered to avoid his gaze. He didn’t look nearly as paranoid as she felt, and she wondered if he was the guy who wanted to sing at the top of his lungs. The mental picture of this proper young man belting out opera almost made her laugh out loud.
Mr. Mason walked in from the kitchen with Mark in tow.
“Ah, Lys, good. Sit down and we’ll get started.”
She took the seat opposite the boys. Mark and Mr. Mason sat as well, but Genni left. Lys felt a bit outnumbered.
“Did you get some rest?” Mr. Mason asked.
Lys nodded. “A little.”
“I’m glad. Dinner should be out in a moment.” Mr. Mason paused. “I thought it might be nice for the three of you to get to know one another.”
Lys glanced up at the others. She couldn’t think of a more diverse group. Where the new guy seemed very proper, Brady looked to be totally at ease. Mark sat with one arm up on the chair next to him, and Mr. Mason watched them all expectantly. She wasn’t sure she wanted to share much about herself. She didn’t know who these people were. Mr. Mason she trusted, and maybe Mark because she knew him a little, but not the others.
“You’re an Auzie,” Brady said to Mark.
“That’s right,” he answered. “What part of England are you from?”
“Just north of London,” Brady said. “I lived out in the country until my mum and dad divorced a few years ago. Last summer I moved in with my mum so I could go to a better school.”
“You a rugby player?” Mark asked.
Brady shook his head. “Naw, my mum would never let me. You?”
Mark shrugged. “It’s been a long time.”
Brady sat forward. “So, what’s the craziest thing you’ve ever cooked? Kangaroo?”
Laughing, Mark shook his head. “I shouldn’t mention it at the table.”
Everyone chuckled, and the conversation stopped as dinner arrived. Two more counselors served them, setting platters of delicious-smelling food down on the table. Steam rose from the chicken and rice, and Lys’s stomach gave a rather vocal growl. Apple salad, beans, and bread were passed around, and Lys took a large portion. She ate with an appetite she hadn’t noticed in weeks, trying not to look like a pig.
If the committee for good manners needed a new poster boy, the newcomer could be their guy. He ate with ease, grace, and precision, not unlike the people in old Jane Austen movies Lys and her friends watched. He listened politely to the conversation that was going on around him and spoke easily when Mr. Mason asked him to introduce himself.
“My name is Kamau. My family is from Mozambique,” he said in a smooth, deep voice. “My father is the chief of our tribe. I have been going to university for a few months in Maputo Cidade.”
“Whoa, you’re in a tribe?” Brady interrupted.
Nodding once, Kamau said, “Yes, where I am from, the old traditions of our people still run very strong. My father has made it his goal to integrate technology and the outside world into our culture without disrespecting or destroying our traditions.”
“Do you have to squeeze water from plants to have stuff to drink?” Brady asked, leaning forward.
Kamau smiled, his face breaking from the polite mask. “Not normally, but I have done so.”
He must have felt her gaze on him, because Kamau looked right at her, and Lys had to turn her attention to his neck. She cleared her throat. “If your father is the chief of your tribe, does that make you his successor?”
“Yes.”
“So you’re like a prince?” Brady asked, drawing Kamau’s attention. “Wow, that’s cool.”
“More like the next in line to do the hardest job I could ever imagine.”
“Do you have any brothers and sisters?” Mark asked.
Kamau’s friendly manner cracked as his lips drew into a thin line. “I had a younger sister, but she is gone.”
Lys didn’t think gone meant gone away to school or on vacation.
“I’m sorry, mate,” Mark said.
“It was a long time ago.”
Mr. Mason turned the conversation. “Lys, you haven’t told us anything about yourself.”
Lys hardly heard him. Against her own better judgment, she was watching Kamau’s face, and the moment Mr. Mason turned his attention from him, Kamau’s whole countenance transformed from a polite young man into that of a predator.
Lys had been little, maybe six or seven years old, the first time she’d seen that expression. She was at the store with her mom, shopping for a present for her dad’s birthday. They’d walked up and down all the aisles, trying to find just the right thing. Lys’s mom hadn’t even noticed the man, but Lys had.
Tall, with scraggly hair, he followed them like a shadow. Lys was shy, so she looked away every time she saw the man watching her. But after he followed them for three or four aisles, Lys proved too slow and she met his eyes.
They were horrible. Angry, dark eyes that looked at Lys as if she were dinner, not a little girl. Lys started to cry. When her mother asked her what was wrong, Lys told her about the scary man.
Naturally, the scary man disappeared, and Lys never saw him again, but she’d seen the look since then. She saw it whenever they showed a cold-blooded killer on the news. Kamau’s eyes were the same, and they watched Mr. Mason with deadly interest. Lys’s idea that he might be the guy who felt the need to sing at the top of his lungs evaporated. What if h
e was the one who wanted to braid intestines together? What lay under that polite facade? Suddenly, Lys’s budding interest in him faltered.
“Lys?” Mr. Mason prompted.
“Oh!” Lys looked around, distracted from Kamau. What had Mr. Mason asked? “I, uh, I’m from California, but because of my dad’s job we’ve moved around a lot. It’s just me and my parents.” She paused. “I, I love art and movies and hanging out with my friends.” It sounded really stupid coming out like that—nothing like being the prince of a tribe.
Brady saved her. “What kind of art do you like? Do you draw or paint?”
“I like painting, but I’m better at drawing.”
“I have the greatest idea for a manga, but I can’t draw. You could teach me!”
A comic book? “Uh, sure.”
Brady’s attention span was about two seconds. “Can I have more chicken?”
“Have all you want,” Mark said, laughing as he passed the plate.
Brady looked at Lys’s plate. “Is that all you’re going to eat?”
She glanced down. “Yes?” It was more than she’d eaten at once in a long time.
“I don’t understand you light eaters. Personally, breakfast is my favorite meal of the day. Although I prefer tomatoes”—Brady pronounced it ta-mah-toes“—and beans to your American cold cereal.”
“That’s sick.” Lys made a face, imagining eating any sort of bean for breakfast. It must be a boy thing.
“What do you eat?” Brady asked Kamau. It was obvious the younger boy was dying to know more about this African tribe.
Kamau grinned, glancing at Lys. “I’d rather not say at the table.”
“Are you sure you don’t want any beans?” Brady asked Lys, raising the bowl.
“I’m good.” She held up a hand.
“What’s your story?” Brady asked Mark.
Mark finished chewing before he wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Mr. Mason here found me and helped me go through what you’re going through. That was a few years ago. I decided I wanted to stay on and help everyone else. We’re kind of a tight family here.”
“We’re lucky to have a lot of dedicated, resourceful people to help us,” Mr. Mason said.
Mark nodded. “You’re in good hands.”
The conversation paused. Lys felt like they were dancing around the proverbial elephant in the room—the question they were all thinking but no one wanted to ask. Knowing everyone’s names was nice, but she had bigger reasons for being here.
“So,” she said, turning to Mr. Mason. “You mentioned that we would start treatments tonight?”
Chapter 5
Genni smiled. “Are you ready?” How could Genni be so casual? The question reminded Lys of something her mother would ask her like, “Do you have your keys?” or, “Do we need milk?” Not, “I’m about to give you some ‘tonic’ that’s going to counteract the deadly drug in your system trying to kill you. It might be uncomfortable. You’re going to feel horrible for the next week or so, but trust me, you’ll live.” That’s not exactly the way Mr. Mason described it, but that was the gist.
“Sure,” Lys said aloud. “Why wait?”
The woman handed Lys a large glass of cloudy, white liquid. “You might want to sit down on the bed first,” she said.
“Will it affect me that fast?” Lys asked, eying the liquid with new suspicion.
“It does some people.”
Lys sat. She stared at the glass in her hand, wondering how something that looked like the dregs of a science experiment could cure her.
How bad could it be? She’d seen TV. Movies. Sure, people went through withdrawal all the time. Flu like symptoms, puking everywhere, looking like a bus just ran over you, and probably feeling that way, too. Lys swallowed. I can handle this, she told herself. She’d had the flu last year. She’d been hit in the face by more than one volleyball in her gym classes. Feeling like crap—she could take it.
Bringing the glass to her lips, Lys sniffed. No smell. Of course she couldn’t smell much anyway. As Mr. Mason had predicted, her other senses had started to dull over the past few days, with her sense of smell going the quickest. Lys could feel Genni watching her, waiting. So in one, daring chug, Lys tipped the glass back and drank.
It was the same liquid Ayden had given to her when she’d collapsed on the front stairs. At least it tasted the same—flat Sprite.
“Good job.” Genni took the glass. “You might want to lie down.”
Lys went to swing her legs up.
“Take your shoes off first.”
Wow, bossy. Lys kicked off her shoes and lay down. She didn’t feel any different. When Ayden gave her the drink it only took a few seconds to—
Lys gasped. Her intestines suddenly felt like they were being grabbed and wrung out, like someone squeezing the water from a towel. Her senses exploded. Whereas a moment before she hadn’t been able to smell anything, now she could smell everything. Mountain air, musty carpet, old people stench, antiseptic, and the woman’s body odor beside her, thinly disguised by deodorant. It all hit her like a hammer on an anvil. Lys felt herself gagging.
A roaring that put a rock concert to shame started in her ears. It got louder and louder, pulsing with new chords so dissonant that it hurt. Lys could hear herself screaming. Her insides burst into flames; her skin went cold like clammy ice. Dark lights blinked behind her closed eyes. Was this the end? Mr. Mason said if she didn’t get treatment fast enough that the drug would kill her. She wondered if she should have taken that option.
Black—a word she’d never really thought about. Black was dark; it usually represented evil, loneliness, or pain. Now Lys would forever associate black with fear. She’d never been afraid of the dark, but after spending so much time in a deep well she couldn’t penetrate with any of her senses, Lys changed her mind.
She didn’t know how long she stayed in the dark. It could have been an hour, but it felt more like eternity. Her life before this madness was gone, hidden away—hardly even aware of its own existence. When the light came, Lys wept with gratitude.
It shone through the black like a ray of hope after the worst day of her life. The blue light came toward her, and Lys thought it might be the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. It shot past her awareness, looped around her, and then flew off back to where it had come from. The light left behind a trail of spreading joy, eating the black away, leaving hope.
As the world appeared around her, Lys found herself on the front porch of her house. The Halloween decorations sat by the stairs—a few hay bales and a scarecrow. She reached out a hand and opened the door, walking inside. She took a breath, trying to inhale the sweet scent of home, but it didn’t work. She smelled nothing.
Lys glanced around. The pictures hung on the walls, and her mom’s purse sat on the edge of the table. However, the feeling of home that rushed over her each time she walked in the door didn’t come. Nothing came. The house felt more like an empty shell than the place she lived.
Lys didn’t want to be alone. So she went back outside, looking for her parents.
That’s when she noticed the yard. Her attention had been directed at the house before, but now that she looked around at everything else, she knew something was very wrong.
A gigantic hole filled the spot where the driveway should have been. Her father’s car sat smoldering, blown in half like in a movie. Lys panicked. She ran toward the car, hoping—praying—that her father was not inside. When she got to the driver’s side she stopped. Someone was in the front seat. Only two people drove this car. She swallowed and looked away.
This must be a dream. She closed her eyes, and then opened them again. Eyes? Two? Lys reached up a trembling hand to touch the right side of her face. There was no patch or bandage there. She let her eyelashes brush her fingers as she blinked. She had two eyes. Two good eyes—she could clearly see out of both. She had her eye back, but she’d lost her parents?
No, this couldn’t be. Her eye was ruined. The doc
tors said she could keep it, but she’d never see out of it again. This had to be a dream. She could control a dream. Lys closed her eyes and concentrated on waking up.
Nothing happened. She took a breath, not sure it would help, and tried again, filling her mind with thoughts of the real world. The light faded, and she felt herself being pulled back into the dark.
Lys sat up, gasping for breath, her sheets drenched in sweat. She immediately doubled over, dry-heaving into a bucket that resided next to her bed.
Was this the second or the third time she’d woken up? Lys didn’t know. She remembered Genni giving her more tonic, but she had no idea when that had been. Yesterday? Five minutes ago? Time meant nothing in the darkness, and since each time she closed her eyes, that’s where she ended up. She didn’t have any idea how many minutes, hours, or days had passed.
Lying back in the bed, Lys kept one hand on the lip of the bucket. She held it like a rescue rope. Sleep came for her again. The darkness crept in, and no matter how hard she tried, Lys was helpless to keep it at bay.
This time she didn’t start out trapped in the abyss. This time she recognized her surroundings immediately. She floated above Los Angeles; it was burning. The center of the city—all of the skyscrapers—smoldered. Like a giant torch, they lit the smoke-filled sky with an eerie glow.
Somehow, Lys was flying. For reasons she didn’t understand, she flew closer, drawn to the scene by the desire to know what had happened. Below her, the streets lay mostly deserted. The first person she saw was a little girl. Not more than five or six years old, the little girl stood in the middle of the street, surrounded by holes that looked like they had been punched into the roadway by a giant hammer.
When Lys moved closer, she could see that the little girl was giggling, but she couldn’t hear anything. To Lys’s surprise, the little girl bent over and tapped the ground with her hand, like packing sand. When she did so, the ground gave way as if a wrecking ball had hit it. The asphalt spider-webbed out for a dozen feet in every direction.