The Echo Room

by Parker Peevyhouse

  Or maybe barely contained panic just takes a toll, he thought wryly.

  “A lot of parents who left their kids at Walling had cancer,” Bryn said. “Strange coincidence, right?”

  “Not exactly. If they weren’t sick, they wouldn’t have had to leave their kids there.”

  Bryn shrugged. “Anyway. Looks like we’re out of there now.”

  “It’s not that I’m not happy about that,” Rett said, looking around at the metal walls, “but this isn’t exactly better.”

  He took her silence as agreement.

  “Do you think they kicked us out?” he asked. For being too willing to swing poles at people’s heads? For being terrible at remembering bloody run-ins?

  She jerked back, as if struck with some sudden thought. “How old are you?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “Too young to graduate out.”

  “Yeah, but…” Could that be what had happened? “I requested to leave early. Because my mom is sick.” So I left Walling for good? And … I came here? “How old are you?”

  “Sixteen. But…” She clutched the backpack to her stomach. “My boyfriend’s eighteen. I asked to be allowed to graduate out early with him.”

  “So we both graduated out.” Rett let the idea hang in the air, waited to see if it sounded wrong. “But how did we get here? This isn’t exactly what I planned to do with my freedom.”

  Bryn gripped the pack harder. “Freedom’s a funny way to describe this situation.”

  “I’m supposed to find my mom. She’s been living in a workhouse,” Rett said. “One of those government places on the East Coast? They take people in out of guilt for not knowing how to stop the center of the country going to crap. ‘Sorry for your trouble, how’d you like to perform hard labor to earn medical treatment?’ Typical first-world stuff.” Crowded dormitories and bad food and long days on a manufacturing line. How much money had his mother saved there? Not enough. How much more would they need for her new round of treatment? Too much.

  “They’re closing all of the workhouses,” Bryn said, narrowing her eyes as if she suspected he were lying. “No more funding.”

  Rett tugged at the collar of his jumpsuit, even though it was already loose on him. “I know.”

  He looked around. At scuffed metal walls and a mess of dirty footprints on the floor. He felt ten years old again—shut in the box, no way out, Garrick sitting on the lid. Air so hot and stale, Rett could hardly breathe. He’d missed the meteor shower, missed his chance at a wish for his mother to get well …

  He slumped against the table, thinking about the pouches of water and longing to drink another one. There’s always something that can help, he told himself, but in that moment, he wasn’t sure he believed it.

  “I remember you now,” Bryn said in a low voice, and Rett jerked upright. She looked at him with dark fascination. “I remember … you’re the one who broke Garrick’s hand.”

  The blood drained from Rett’s head. “That wasn’t my fault.” But the words sounded unconvincing in his thin, defensive voice. “He … It wasn’t a fair fight.” That didn’t sound much better. Why couldn’t he explain it? Garrick’s bigger than me. Stronger. Dumber, too, so I had to use that to my advantage—had to hide a weapon in the yard, where he always came after me.

  He stayed quiet. Probably not a great idea to use the word weapon right now.

  Rett trained his gaze on the pack, avoiding Bryn’s stare. He suddenly resented her—she’d been unfair to him yet again.

  And worse, she’d found some hidden cache of guilt he hadn’t known he had.

  Why does it always turn out that way—why do I always have to hurt people to protect myself?

  Silence stretched between them, thick with tension. Bryn started pushing the devices back into the open backpack, probably planning to get away from him, to hide again. One of the pack’s straps was wound around her hand. Like it’s hers, Rett thought, annoyed.

  The thought unlocked a memory, something so startling he blurted it without thinking: “You’re the girl who steals.”

  Bryn’s chin snapped up. Her eyes flashed with anger or alarm.

  “I mean, from the staff,” Rett said. Impressive, really. How does she even manage it?

  Bryn glared at him. “And look at me, back to my old ways.” Then she went on loading the devices into the pack.

  One of the devices clattered to the floor, and Rett leaned to pick it up. Bryn lunged for it, too. In that moment, a small plastic case tumbled out of the pack and clattered onto the floor. Rett got to it first and opened it, one more obligatory investigation to undertake in a place that hadn’t yet turned up any answers.

  Inside was a block of foam with a cavity cut into it. Rett looked up at Bryn. She went rigid, her arm still extended toward the floor.

  The cavity was cut into the shape of a handgun.

  Rett eyed the backpack, his heart banging like a prisoner on the door of his sternum. He felt the room receding from him, as if he were floating away. He fought to stay grounded. “Is the gun in there, too?” He said it lightly, trying to make it sound almost like a joke.

  The blood drained from Bryn’s face.

  For a moment neither of them moved while Rett’s heart kept trying to break free of his chest. The strange floating feeling passed. Rett reached out and took the backpack from Bryn—snatched it, almost. She didn’t say anything. He carefully sorted through the contents: the electronic devices, the pouches of water, a stash of foil antiseptic packets.

  No gun.

  He breathed.

  “All right.” He handed the pack over. “Guess not.” He gave a strangled laugh.

  Bryn settled the pack in front of her like a shield. “The blood … on your jumpsuit earlier.”

  Rett’s skin went hot. “I didn’t shoot anybody.” I wouldn’t. I would never do that. “I don’t have a gun. There isn’t one.”

  She seemed to consider his words for a moment. Then she ran a hand over her head, a pained look on her face. She looked suddenly exhausted, like all her adrenaline had finally evaporated. Rett shared the feeling. “Okay, never mind,” she said. “I just want more water. If these pouches are all we have left…”

  “The sink and toilet in the other room are both dry,” Rett said. The thought made his stomach seize. Now that he knew they’d searched the whole place and found only a handful of water pouches, he was just about ready to give in to panic. “The shower in the changing room wouldn’t turn on. But I guess it wouldn’t hurt to try the shower in the other changing room.”

  Bryn pressed her eyes shut. The lines in her face smoothed, and Rett took it for relief. “Okay,” she said, opening her eyes. “Will you? I promise not to steal anything while you’re gone. Couch cushions and wall-mounted tables included.” She gave him a small smile that he didn’t know how to read.

  I guess thirst overrides suspicion? At least we’re working together now. The thought gave him new energy, if only a little. “So if I leave the dust with you, it’s still going to be here when I get back?” Look at me, joking like a pro in the face of dread and danger.

  “Promise.”

  He slid off the couch and went into the changing room accross from the one where he’d found the clean jumpsuit. Tried the shower. No luck. The plumbing must be switched off. They needed to find a way to turn it on. A knob or …

  He spun toward the doorway. That’s what the lever in the upper room is for. It turns on the plumbing.

  He shot out of the changing room, his mind on the ladder near where he’d left Bryn. He only made it a few steps. Just outside the narrow doorway, something cracked under the weight of his heel—a glow tube, leaking green goo on the floor. No longer glowing now that the lights were on.

  A thought tickled at the back of Rett’s mind. Glowing green …

  He leaned to pick up the fire extinguisher that still lay near the bolted door. Its shiny paint reflected the light. Something about it unsettled him but he couldn’t place it. He set it
down and continued on.

  Bryn no longer sat on the couch where he’d left her. And the wall to his left, the one he’d lifted to find the supply room full of cabinets, was closed again.

  She sent me off on an errand she knew was pointless and then closed herself away from me. His jaw tightened. He shouldn’t have said that thing about her stealing. Didn’t everyone at Walling steal? Didn’t they have to, just to get by? Practically everything he called his own was stolen from someone who’d stolen it from someone …

  Bryn’s voice floated through the wall, a quiet murmur Rett could hardly make out. He stepped closer to the striped metal. Was she talking to someone?

  No, she was reciting something, almost chanting.

  “One lonely lighthouse, two in a boat…” The words to the song he’d heard her singing earlier.

  “Bryn?”

  “Three gulls circle, four clouds float…”

  “Bryn, open the wall, will you? Please? I’m sorry for…” For everything. For being stuck here, for scaring you, for being just as afraid of you as you are of me. “The shower didn’t work, but I think I know how to turn on the water.”

  The singing stopped. Rett waited, but the wall didn’t budge.

  Frustration welled inside him. She was afraid of him, and there was no way he could convince her not to be. It was the blood on his other jumpsuit. If only he’d changed before she had first seen him. Then she might actually believe he didn’t want to hurt her, that he only wanted answers. They could work together.

  The song went through his head. One lonely lighthouse …

  An account of his misery—trapped, alone.

  Although if I’m listing complaints, waking up in a bloody jumpsuit goes right at the top. “One, bloody jumpsuit,” he said wryly. He lifted his face to the skylight and bathed in the blue glow from above. “Two, parched throat.”

  He went for the ladder set over the couch, singing absently, “One, bloody jumpsuit…” I think I’m losing it.

  At the top, he found the lever again. He heaved it up and heard that familiar clunk behind the wall. Did it work like a pump? Some hidden reserve of strength powered his effort to move the lever down and up and down again. Is it working? He stopped to lean against the wall and catch his breath.

  The bank of drawers at the far end of the room caught his eye. Something Bryn had said came back to him, something that had been bothering him this whole time: Did you look in the drawers?

  Did she look in the drawers? Did she find something?

  Realization hit him: That’s why she asked me—not because she wanted me to look. She was making sure I hadn’t looked.

  He slipped a hand into his pocket and found the glow tube he’d used to explore the power supply. An image flickered through his mind: the plastic case with the foam cut in the shape of a gun.

  His breathing sped up.

  He went to the bank of drawers, wielding the glow tube like an eerie wand. He grabbed a handle, yanked open a drawer—

  Empty.

  Why did he have a feeling there should be something in this drawer? Why did he hear the snick of it closing even before he pushed it shut?

  He tried a couple more. Empty and empty.

  Okay, so I was wrong, he thought. She isn’t hiding anything up here. She probably isn’t hiding anything but herself, and I can’t exactly blame her. I’d hide from a guy in a bloody jumpsuit, too.

  He turned back to the ladder, defeated again.

  And then stopped to gape at what was on the wall above it.

  His glow tube revealed markings above the lever he had pulled: a cloud and several water drops, outlined in silvery stuff that shone in the light like magic.

  Water. His throat felt choked with the dust that covered the floor, his hands. He’d been right about the lever—it must have turned on the water! With a start, he saw that he hadn’t pulled the lever down all the way. He yanked on it again, then leaned his full weight down on top of it. Something on the roof went clunk, and the lever slid to the bottom of its housing.

  Rett listened for the sound of water running somewhere but heard only his ragged, desperate breathing. Still, it must have worked. He’d go back down and try the showers.

  “Bryn, I think I did it,” he called as he climbed down the ladder. “I think I turned on the water.”

  He hadn’t expected an answer—but he also hadn’t expected to find the far wall open again. He ducked underneath it. The black devices were lined up on top of the supply cabinets, looking like strange mice trailing power-cord tails. He picked one up and jabbed at its buttons.

  Nothing. It needed more time to charge.

  “Bryn?” Where did she go?

  A light tapping answered him. A familiar sound, more welcome now than it had ever been in his whole life—

  Rett stood in the main room, gazing upward in longing. Rain fell on the skylight. It speckled the glass, a mesmerizing sight. “Bryn, it’s raining.” How nice it would be to open the skylight and feel the water on his face …

  A slap of footfalls in the hallway. Rett whirled around.

  “Bryn?” He crept down the empty hallway.

  The sight of the fire extinguisher lying on the floor, of the damaged bolt on the door, unsettled him. I’m missing something …

  He stopped. He’d heard that scrape of feet over dirty metal again, coming from the closet. Bryn.

  But he’d also seen something on the floor that he’d been ignoring: boot prints.

  Someone else was here.

  What happened to them?

  They couldn’t still be here. He and Bryn had searched the whole place. Hadn’t they?

  Still, he crept more cautiously toward the closet. It’s just Bryn. It’s Bryn.

  Why doesn’t that thought make me any less freaked out?

  The fire extinguisher caught his attention again, and the green liquid from the glow tube that he’d trailed out from the closet.

  He stood there trying to puzzle it out. Then, without warning—

  Bam bam bam. A sharp banging sounded on the other side of the heavy door, the sound of someone knocking.

  At the same moment, Bryn appeared in the closet doorway, the gun in her hand.

  Rett’s heart jolted and blackness swept over him.

  3

  4:38 A.M.

  Rett gasped in the cold air. He spun, taut with alarm. But he was alone on a barren slope under a starry sky, with only a solitary boulder interrupting the hilly landscape.

  But Bryn—the gun—

  She was nowhere in sight. He stood alone in a dark hollow. The ground rose on all sides, vacant and rocky. His mind reeled. He had just been inside and now he was out here, in the cold—

  Cold and quiet.

  He looked up—and caught his breath. The sky seemed so close, he swore he could hear the stars. The faint crackle of distant life.

  He felt ten years old again, lying in an open box, staring up at the night sky. Waiting to catch a glimpse of shooting stars so he could wish his mother well. So they could be together.

  A sound brought him back to the present: the scrape of shifting rocks. Of footfalls on gravel?

  He tried to think clearly but fear smothered all thought. At the top of the rise before him was a humped building: Scatter 3. Rett scrambled up the slope. He had to get inside. Before anything else, he had to get inside fast. There was something out here. His skin prickled with fear.

  At the edge of his vision, a dark shape scuttled.

  Get inside, Rett told himself.

  5:37 A.M.

  Someone is calling to me …

  Rett woke to the eerie sound of a distant voice. And to the ghost of a vanished dream, a nightmare about …

  But he couldn’t remember.

  He touched his fingers to his throbbing head. Someone gave me a good crack. One of these days I’m going to stop volunteering to be the smallest guy in my dorm.

  He looked around, his heart beating fast: scuffed metal walls tinged with b
lue morning light. Something familiar about this. The place felt disused, abandoned. But not empty—from somewhere close by came the sound of singing: “One lonely lighthouse, two in a boat…”

  Rett wished the lilting song brought him comfort, but it only unsettled him further. He could swear he knew the song, but from where? Something his mother had sung to him? He closed his eyes and saw his mother’s face floating over him like a second sun, still lined with sleep but glowing in the morning light, with happiness to be near him.

  But the song filling up the cold-metal place wasn’t from his childhood. He’d learned it more recently. One lonely lighthouse …

  For some reason, Rett pictured a tattered flag atop a lighthouse, like a scene from a dreamscape. Or the perfect detail for an apocalyptic comic. Did I draw something like that for Epidemic X? In his groggy state, he looked up, half expecting to see a flag flying over him. But there was only a skylight set into a metal roof. And high up on the wall, a chalky white line. What is that?

  The song started again, eerie, haunting. And again the image came to mind of a lighthouse topped by a flag.

  Except that it wasn’t a flag—it was a jumpsuit.

  What?

  Another set of words popped into Rett’s head: One, bloody jumpsuit.

  Rett looked down at his clothing, a white jumpsuit that wasn’t at all familiar. This isn’t mine … Why does it feel so stiff? He shifted, and recoiled in horror when he saw a red-brown stain covering his abdomen.

  Blood.

  He touched a trembling hand to the spot. It was mostly dry. He didn’t feel any pain. It’s not mine, at least. That was a new development—someone else’s blood on his clothes. He’d used the sight of his own blood as motivation to get better at hiding from the older boys. But someone else’s blood?

  How did this happen?

  The strange singing got louder, and Rett felt a stab of panic. How do I explain this? I don’t even know how I got here. I don’t know what happened.

  He shot to his feet. Too fast—he steadied himself against the wall while his head pounded and his stomach reeled.