Ex-Purgatory: A Novel

by Peter Clines

  “If our view of the world has been altered,” said Freedom, “it’s possible we thought we were in a car when we were just walking along the road. Then we climbed into a wreck and found ourselves back in the real world.”

  St. George picked up one of the glass cubes. “And me going through the windshield?”

  “You can fly, sir,” said the captain. “Maybe you threw yourself.”

  “A solid hypothesis,” said Stealth. “Very similar to the one I had formed myself before you found Barry.”

  Barry blinked. “Me?”

  “If this was an illusion,” she said, “we could have crossed the city on foot. Barry could not have.”

  “Unless I was in my energy form,” he said. “Then it’s like George and the windshield. I could’ve been flying along, flitted into the cab, and turned human again.”

  “Except you were found clothed,” said Stealth. She looked at Freedom and Danielle. “And the car had suffered no heat damage from proximity to Zzzap.”

  “No,” agreed Danielle, “it didn’t.”

  “Maybe he changed a few yards away,” Freedom suggested. His lips twitched as he said it.

  “Which still does not explain the matter of his clothing,” Stealth said. “There is also the matter of food and water. Even if we had all avoided contact with ex-humans, which is unlikely, four months is sufficient time to starve to death. Yet none of us are hungry or show signs of malnourishment. What have we been eating for the past four months?”

  Danielle shuddered. “I don’t want to think about it.”

  Madelyn’s lips twisted. “Couldn’t Smith just make us believe we’ve been eating and drinking?”

  “He could,” agreed Stealth, “but that would not stop our bodies from suffering the effects of malnourishment and dehydration.”

  “Unless he’s keeping us from seeing those, too,” said St. George.

  “If we are going to accept that Smith has altered our perceptions in …”

  Stealth paused. A moment later Barry sat up in his office chair. “Son of a bitch,” he said. “We’re in the ship in a bottle.”

  Madelyn looked at him. “What?”

  “It’s a classic Next Generation episode,” explained Barry. “ ‘Ship in a Bottle.’ It’s one of the best ones they did. They filmed it here at the Mount. Picard and Data go into the holodeck and encounter the holographic Moriarty, but when they leave Moriarty walks out with them, even though he shouldn’t be able to survive outside.”

  “Barry,” sighed St. George, “not now.”

  “No, listen,” insisted Barry. “They spend most of the episode trying to figure out how he did it, because it should be impossible—it defies every bit of science they know—but it turns out the whole thing’s a trick. They never even left the holodeck. Moriarty created a holodeck program that made them think they’d left and were out walking around the ship.”

  They all stared at him for a moment. “Yes,” Stealth said. “I believe your analogy is accurate.”

  “What are you two talking about?” asked Danielle.

  “A lot of people thought the Wachowskis were doing the same thing with the second Matrix movie,” continued Barry. His eyes were wide and he tapped the desk with his fingertips. “See, after The Matrix Reloaded there were all these theories about why Neo could use his powers outside the Matrix because people were still thinking the Wachowskis knew what they were doing. And one of the ideas was that the Matrix we all knew was actually nestled inside a second Matrix. That way people would think they’d escaped but really they were still hooked into the pods.”

  “How is it that no matter what’s happening you can relate it to The Matrix?” asked St. George.

  “Because it’s the greatest movie ever made,” said Barry.

  “I’m lost,” said Freedom. “Are you saying … we were in pods?”

  Stealth shook her head. “We have based all of our assertions off that reality’s interactions with this one, but we have been doing so under the assumption this is the real world.”

  St. George got it. So did Madelyn. Danielle saw the look on their faces. “What?” she said. “I still have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “None of this is real, either,” said St. George, waving his arm at the office. “Smith’s still got us.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  “IT EXPLAINS EVERYTHING,” said Stealth. “There is no conflict of facts if this is another illusion. This is why none of us have been bitten, and also why elements of the other world are carrying over.”

  “Sounds like this world is kind of sloppy, then,” said Madelyn.

  “It’s not a world,” said Barry. “It’s a safety net. If we break through the main illusion, this one catches us and bounces us back.”

  St. George looked at him. “How do you figure?”

  “Think about it. You’re convinced the world’s normal and you start having these ‘hallucinations,’ right? I don’t know about you, but my first reaction was ‘Well, that can’t be real.’ ”

  “So everyone’s okay?” Danielle asked. “Gibbs, Makana, all the rest of them?”

  “It is best to assume everything we have encountered in this world is another perceptual illusion created by Agent Smith,” Stealth said.

  “And Cerberus is okay,” said Danielle. She almost smiled.

  “A question, if I may,” said Freedom.

  Stealth dipped her chin.

  “Are we all real?”

  They glanced at each other. “How do you mean?” asked Danielle.

  “How do we know that some of us aren’t just part of the illusion, too? I mean, for all we know one of us could be Smith telling us to see him as someone else.”

  “Like the Shadow,” Barry said. “Clouding our minds so we cannot see him.”

  St. George looked at the others. “Valid point. How do we prove we’re real?”

  Madelyn shook her head. “I’m real.”

  “I think I am, too,” said Freedom.

  “Maybe I’m the one who’s real and I’m just thinking you’re both thinking you’re real,” Barry said.

  “That’s just silly,” said Madelyn.

  Barry shook his head. “I have a really vivid imagination.”

  “Cogito ergo sum,” said Freedom.

  “Aptly put,” said Stealth, “but how can any of us prove to another that we are actually thinking beings and not just hallucinations?”

  “And,” Barry said, “another ‘Ship in a Bottle’ reference. You’re getting better at this, Captain.”

  Freedom managed a half smile. “Thank you, sir.”

  “I’ve got one for you,” said Danielle. She cocked her head toward the office door and the hallway. “Is she real? Christian?”

  They all glanced after the councilwoman. “Why?” asked Madelyn.

  “If she is part of the illusion,” said Stealth, “why is she the only living person in the Mount? If she is in the illusion, as we are, why has Smith isolated her?”

  “Because she has power,” said Freedom. “He attaches himself to people with power and influence and uses them as puppets. That’s how he stays out of the crosshairs.”

  “But then wouldn’t he need her … I don’t know, awake?” Barry asked. “Not trapped in the Matrix with us?”

  “Assuming she is real,” said Stealth, “and not an element of the illusion.”

  “If this is another level of the illusion,” said St. George, tapping on the table, “how do we get out of it?”

  “Can we get out of it?” asked Danielle. “When he plants these ideas, they’re pretty hard to shake.”

  “But not impossible,” Stealth said. “Several people have been able to create pathways around the blocks Smith creates.”

  “Like out at Krypton,” said St. George, “when I rescued you from the helicopter even though Smith told me I couldn’t beat him.”

  “Correct,” she said. “You were able to rationalize a situation which allowed you to act without violating t
he conditions he had imposed upon you.”

  “We were never able to do that before, though,” said Freedom. “He had most of us believing his lies for two years.”

  “Until we arrived at Project Krypton,” said Stealth, “none of you had reason to doubt the beliefs he created. Once we did, most of the Unbreakables resisted his imposed perceptions within a few days. The same may be happening here. Our minds are working around the imposed images and attempting to show us the real world.”

  “So, wait,” said Barry. “If we’ve already shaken off most of his voodoo, does that mean we’ve only been under for a few days?”

  “There is no way to be sure,” Stealth said.

  “So how do we get out of this?” asked Madelyn.

  “I’m still not entirely clear how we got out of the last one,” said Freedom. “Do we just have to … not believe in the world?”

  “How do you do that, though?” muttered Danielle. “It’s like the old ‘don’t think about pink elephants’ thing.”

  “I believe I have a possible solution,” said Stealth. She walked over to Freedom and gestured him down to her level. She cupped her hand by his ear and whispered for a few moments.

  Freedom glanced at her, stared across the room, and then nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “What?” said Danielle. “Are you going to share with all of us?”

  “Smith’s suggestions work in a manner similar to dream states,” said Stealth. “A simple idea is planted in either the conscious or subconscious, and the brain reworks memories to accommodate this idea.”

  “Okay,” said Barry. “That kind of makes sense.”

  “I believe there is a simple solution,” Stealth said. “There is a common sleep disorder known as a hypnagogic jerk. It is an involuntary muscle twitch. Some biologists believe it may be a holdover from our primate ancestors, similar to the Moro reflex in infants.” She looked at St. George. “I suggested it to you yesterday.”

  “You did?”

  She took a quick step back. St. George heard someone move behind him. He turned and Freedom slammed a football-sized fist into his head.

  It didn’t hurt, but he wasn’t ready for it and the force of the blow sent him reeling for a moment. Before he could shake his head clear Freedom had spun him around, grabbed his belt and one shoulder, and was forcing him across the room. The larger man took one step past St. George and lifted him up, the perfect position to—

  He flailed, tried to stop himself, but it was too late.

  Freedom hurled him at the window. St. George crashed through the blinds and felt part of the aluminum frame snap under his shoulder. All he could hear was the chime of broken glass and the rustle of the blinds tangled around him and the rush of wind in his ears.

  Four stories gave him just enough time to turn and see the pavement rush at him like a speeding truck. He clenched his shoulders, his back, everything he could think of. Something would make him fly, but he couldn’t think of it in the second before he—

  —woke up.

  St. George opened his eyes and took a few deep breaths. He stared up at the distant ceiling. He could see exposed beams and catwalks, all painted black, and a few different lighting fixtures. Most of them were banks of fluorescent tubes, but some big china-hat lights hung up there, too.

  His neck flared as he tried to sit up. There was a blanket between him and the concrete floor, but nothing else. His butt and elbows ached. His back and legs were sore.

  A spot on his back tingled, right between his shoulder blades. He focused on it and fanned the tingle like a weak flame. It grew across his body and out, pushing down on the floor. On the world.

  He rose into the air.

  He relaxed his concentration and his boots tapped the concrete. He looked down at himself. Boots, jeans, and a black motorcycle jacket to replace the one Cairax destroyed. He felt his head and found a thick mass of hair that needed a shower and was a month past needing a cut.

  His stomach grumbled. He was hungry. He rolled his abs and his stomach growled again. Hungry, but not starved. Maybe a little over a day without food? Two days, tops. He ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth, touched it to his lips, and guessed the same without water.

  He looked behind him and forgot food.

  Stealth, Barry, and the others were all unconscious. Each of them was sprawled on a blanket. Freedom stretched off the ends of his.

  St. George ran to Stealth. She was in full uniform, with her hood pushed back off her head. He grabbed her shoulders and she leaped off the floor into his arms. He was strong again. Very strong. He took a breath, remembered how to treat the fragile world, and lowered Stealth down to the blanket.

  She had a pulse, and he could feel her breath through her mask, but she wouldn’t wake up. He tapped her cheek, kissed her forehead and lips, and tugged at her mask. He knew from experience that unbuttoning his shirt in the same room could wake her up. Pulling at her mask should’ve provoked a much more extreme response. Most people would lose teeth.

  “Hey,” he said. His voice echoed in the empty space. He raised it to a shout. “Stealth! Karen! Wake up!”

  Nothing.

  He looked at the others. None of them stirred, either. Barry was wearing sweats, the kind of thing he wore just before or after a shift in the electric chair. Danielle was in street clothes, but he could see the collar of her Cerberus contact suit under her shirt. Freedom had his leather duster on over his Army uniform. Cesar and Madelyn were both in regular clothes. Her eyes were open and staring at the ceiling. It looked like they were dusty. St. George put two fingers on her pale neck and confirmed she didn’t have a pulse. She also wasn’t breathing.

  In her case, he took it as a good sign.

  They’d been set out in a wide circle, feet pointing outward, their heads toward the center. The placement seemed too deliberate to be an accident. There wasn’t anything connecting them, but all of their heads were within twenty or thirty inches of each other.

  Not our heads, St. George realized. Our brains. He’s got our minds close together.

  He looked around. He was pretty sure he was in one of the old studio stages on the Mount. They’d all been converted into living space when the Mount had first been set up, but most of them had been abandoned since the Big Wall went up and people had better housing options. They’d been stripped down and left empty shells, with most of the lumber going to the Big Wall.

  Empty shells no one ever went to.

  He gave his friends a last look and then lumbered to the door. His limbs were stiff. He forced his legs to take longer steps, made his arms swing higher.

  He pushed on the door. It was stuck. He hit the bar again, hard, and dented it. He heard something scrape, a bang, and a jingle of metal. The door swung open.

  The sunlight was blinding. He saw a few stick figures heading toward him, and a few blinks put blurry flesh on them. They stopped a few yards away.

  “Sir,” said one of them. It was a woman’s voice. “What were you doing in there?”

  One last blink turned the blur into First Sergeant Kennedy. One of Freedom’s soldiers from Project Krypton. She was still wearing her uniform, but she’d rolled the sleeves up in tight, military fashion. Makana stood next to her. Alive. A few steps behind them were some other guards St. George recognized.

  He looked over his shoulder. A huge, blue 32 was painted on the wall behind him. At his feet were a few broken links of chain and a twisted padlock. “What day is it?” he asked.

  Makana raised an eyebrow. “What?”

  “What day? How long have we been gone?”

  “We?” asked Kennedy. “Is the captain with you?”

  “We thought you were all off on a mission,” said Makana. “Have you just been sitting in there all this time?”

  “How long?” snapped St. George.

  Makana and Kennedy glanced at each other. “Maybe two days, sir,” the sergeant said. “You all left night before last.”

  “You said you
didn’t want to influence the election,” said Makana. “So you all went out on some scouting mission for a couple days, to check up on Legion or something.”

  “What election?”

  “The election for mayor,” Kennedy told him. After watching St. George’s expression, she added, “It was yesterday.”

  “Yesterday?” St. George shook his head. Dates and times were a jumble. He tried to put everything in order, to make sense of it, and had a sudden understanding of what life had to be like for Madelyn on a regular basis. He took a deep breath while his memories sorted themselves out. “Who said we went away?”

  Kennedy and Makana glanced at each other. “Well … you did,” said the dreadlocked man.

  “When? How?”

  Kennedy nodded in agreement. “You held a big meeting at the Melrose gate with four or five hundred of us. The captain, you, Stealth, Dr. Morris. You all said you were going to step away for three or four days.”

  St. George looked at Kennedy. “When did he get here?”

  “Sorry, sir?”

  “Agent Smith,” he said. “John Smith. When did he get here?”

  The first sergeant’s brow furrowed. “Agent Smith?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sir, we haven’t seen him since we left Project Krypton,” she said. “Last reports had him heading for Groom Lake.”

  St. George stared at her. “He’s not here?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You’re sure he’s not here?”

  Kennedy’s brows knotted for a minute, and then she scowled. She knew what he had done to her soldiers. And how he’d done it. “To the best of my knowledge,” she said, “Agent Smith has not been seen anywhere here at the Mount, sir.”

  He looked at her for a moment, and then at Makana. “Okay,” he said. “Wait here.”

  He staggered back into the stage. His legs were warming up, and his blood was flowing. He looked at the ring of his friends and made a decision.