Annex

by Rich Larson

  When they came to the front doors of the school, she shoved them open and stepped through. Rather than the street outside, there was an endless white plain, everything blank. It ached her eyes like fresh snow in sunlight. They hadn’t bothered to finish the level.

  “You can’t leave,” Stephen said, grating in her ear.

  “I have a sick note,” she said. “Piss off.” She took a tentative step and found invisible flooring supporting her. She walked out into the void, somehow feeling no vertigo.

  “You cannot leave, because there is nowhere to go,” Stephen said, not sounding like Stephen anymore.

  Violet kept walking, plunging into the blank space. She wondered if it was like the fog, if she would end up walking in place forever, but then everything flickered dark.

  Gel creeping down her throat, gagging her. Warm pressure on her skin. Floating, suspended, weightless. Everything black. She tried to force her eyes open, tried to—

  Violet blinked, back in the white space. She set off again, determined, pushing at the boundary. She knew it wasn’t real. If she knew it wasn’t real, she could make herself wake up, and maybe she could even get out. She tried to picture the reality. Tried to picture herself inside the pod.

  They were walking toward the theater, or at least Bo hoped they were. Gloom had crashed down in a part of the city he didn’t know well. Lots of newer houses, some empty lots. Bo figured so long as they were walking toward the city center, they would hit the ave. Whoever Gloom had seen foraging must have been on a bike, because it was turning out to be a long, long walk.

  Bo’s head was feeling better and he’d eaten again, finding a new shirt on the same detour. The gnawing feeling in his stomach was now nervousness, not hunger. He didn’t know what the Lost Boys would do when he showed up with Gloom. He didn’t know what Wyatt had told them.

  “Are you shorter?” Bo asked, looking over at his companion. He wanted something to fill the silence. Gloom’s steps didn’t make any sound, so it was more like walking with a shadow than a person. They’d only seen a few wasters out, and no othermothers, which was strange.

  “You look a little shorter,” he pressed. “Than before, on the ship.”

  “I lost many motes,” Gloom said dourly. “I am smaller.”

  “You can get them back when we get Lia and Violet,” Bo suggested.

  Gloom gave a resigned shrug. “Some of them. Maybe.”

  “Sorry I vanished that one,” Bo said, remembering back to the tank room, remembering Gloom’s shocked then angry face when the single mote disappeared.

  “It is very far away,” Gloom said. “I can barely feel it.”

  His baleful tone made Bo think he didn’t want to discuss it any further, but Bo’s curiosity was piqued and it was better than thinking about what might happen when they got to the theater.

  “What do you mean it’s far away?” he asked.

  “It is in another cluster of stars,” Gloom said. “It is where the other ships are waiting for the door to be opened.”

  Bo stopped walking. It was bizarre to think about, that he’d never really been vanishing things at all. He’d been sending them away to some other dimension, or some other galaxy, or something. The image popped into his head of the othermother he’d disappeared, now floating around somewhere in outer space, covered in ice, maybe with its skull exploded from the vacuum. He’d seen that on a movie, he was pretty sure. So, if he vanished a person …

  Bo winced.

  “But you can still feel it?” he asked, starting to walk again. “It’s still, you know, alive?”

  “You have a very narrow definition of alive and not alive,” Gloom said. “But yes. I can still feel it. Motes are always drawn to their own. Do you know quantum entanglement, Bo?”

  “No,” Bo said. He rubbed his head, feeling the prickle of growing hair. “If I can send things over there, why can’t they send the ships here already?” he asked, voicing the question that had been bubbling up in the back of his mind. “Don’t they have Parasites on the other side? Keys? Why fly the one ship here at all?”

  “There must be a key on this side to open the door,” Gloom said. He looked pained. “You understand,” he said slowly, “that it is not a door like the doors you have on your houses?”

  Bo snorted. “I figured, yeah.”

  “It is not wood,” Gloom said. “It does not have a doorknob.”

  “I know,” Bo said sourly. “It’s like a portal. Like a black hole, or something. Something with a lot of”—he paused—“physics shit,” he finished, thinking of how Violet would put it. They started down an alley that looked halfway familiar.

  “Yes,” Gloom said, with a serious nod. “Your key is tuned, but each time you send matter through the door, it seals shut immediately after. If they caught you, they would have put you into a machine. The machine would have amplified and sustained the energy of your key. The door would have been held open, and the ships on the other side would have come through.”

  “Maybe you should have sabotaged that machine,” Bo said, aiming a kick at an empty pop can.

  Gloom bristled, the motes of his shoulders jumping out and back in. “Are you a saboteur, Bo?” he asked. “Are you known among your people as a—”

  “Hey, look.” Bo had recognized the corner of an office building he knew was on the ave. “I know where we are,” he said. “We’ll be at the theater soon.” The momentary relief turned quickly back to nerves. He glanced over at Gloom. “Do you have to look like that?” he asked.

  “I do not have to look like anything,” Gloom said.

  They emerged from the alley, on a street Bo now realized was only a couple of blocks off the theater.

  “Creepy, I mean,” he clarified. “You look like a bogeyman.”

  Gloom’s face turned into a pantomime of confusion. “I thought this shape would be comforting to you,” he said. “Children are comforted by adults who appear taller and more capable than them.” He paused, then turned back into a seething shadow. “I could look like Violet, if you want.”

  Bo watched with a queasy fascination as the motes re-formed into a perfect replica of his friend, clad in the exact same clothes, standing with the exact same posture, hands in her pockets.

  “Or I could look like the sleeping girl,” Gloom said, as Violet’s face dissolved into a swirl of black motes. Lia’s face started to emerge, eyes shut like they’d been in the tank, and Bo felt his stomach drop.

  “No!” he said. “No. Don’t look like her.”

  Violet’s face reformed, looking quizzical. “Very well,” Gloom said. “Should I look like Violet? Is it better if your friends think that I am Violet?”

  Bo gave a pained shrug. “They’ll know it’s not her as soon as you talk,” he said. “You don’t sound anything like her. Just. Just look how you want.”

  Gloom turned back into his usual gaunt self, adjusting his black hat. “I suppose it is too late for disguises,” he said. “I think those two hosts have been watching us.” He pointed one spidery finger.

  Bo turned just in time to see a small blurred figure duck out from behind a rusting car and hurtle at his midsection.

  “Bo!” Gilly hollered. “You’re not dead, Bo!” Her skinny arms were wrapped so tightly around him he could barely pry her off. “He’s not dead, Bree!” she beamed, as Bree stepped out more cautiously from behind the SUV.

  “Hey, Gilly,” Bo said, grinning despite himself. “Hey, Bree.”

  It felt like he’d been gone a much longer time than he really had. So much had happened since they brought down the pod, since Violet ran out of the theater, since Wyatt tried to slice him open and they’d been carried off to the ship. He’d actually missed Gilly. He’d missed the other Lost Boys too.

  “Hey, Bo,” Bree said. She wasn’t smiling. Her eyes were fixed on Gloom. “Who’s this guy?”

  Gloom swept his hat off his head and gave a deep bow. “I am called Gloom,” he said.

  Bo could see down into the j
agged black crown of his skull and realized it was mostly hollow. He hoped Bree didn’t have the same view. She looked almost ready to grab Gilly and bolt.

  “He’s on our side,” Bo said. “He was a prisoner up on the ship. We freed him.”

  “Who’s we?” Bree asked, squinting at him. “Get over here, Gills.”

  “But it’s Bo,” Gilly said, still hanging onto his arm, swinging it back and forth, grinning wide.

  “He looks like Bo,” Bree said. “That thing looked like Violet a minute ago. Get over here, now.”

  Gilly’s grin slid off her face, and a second later her fingers slid off his arm. She scooted back over to where Bree was standing. She watched him now with her forehead creased, her lips pursed. Bo felt an ache in his chest. He hadn’t known what kind of welcome to expect, but he’d thought they’d at least know it was him.

  “It is me,” Bo croaked. “Come on, Bree. You shaved my head the morning we caught the pod.”

  “Second after me,” Gilly said quietly. Bree said nothing, but her frown deepened.

  “You’re cousins with Ferris,” Bo said desperately, looking to Gloom as if he could back him up. Gloom stared back blankly. “She tried to get out the fire door,” Bo said. “I told you. Remember?”

  “Wyatt says they’ve been in our heads,” Bree said, addressing Gilly, not him. “Maybe they did it again. Took Bo’s memories and put them in a fake.”

  Bo felt a flare of anger. “It’s me,” he snapped. “I didn’t jump off the ship and walk this whole way so you can be a …” He mustered up a cuss. “Be a fucking idiot,” he finished.

  Bree clapped her hands over Gilly’s ears, but did it with a hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth. “You get mad like Bo,” she admitted, as Gilly wrestled away. “You said you jumped off the ship?”

  “Yeah,” Bo said. He nodded over to Gloom. “Gloom made me a parachute.”

  “That’s cool,” Gilly blurted. “That’s cool, isn’t it, Bree?”

  “Yeah, that’s pretty cool,” Bree said grudgingly. “Alright. You better come talk with Wyatt.”

  Bo inhaled. Looked to Gloom. He’d already told him that Wyatt wasn’t to be trusted, no matter what he said. He’d told him that if Wyatt went for the knife, if he attacked Bo or anyone else, Gloom had full license to wrap him up and smother him.

  Even with all that, Bo could feel a slow, cold fear eating holes in him as the four of them set off toward the theater.

  24

  The blank white space turned to pebbly tarmac underneath her feet, and Violet nearly pitched over the edge of the theater roof before a hand steadied her from behind.

  “Easy, Vi.”

  She froze. It was Wyatt. Of course it was Wyatt. She turned around and saw him smiling his perfect smile, a little bleary from the drinking. The sweat-and-vodka smell of him, how close he was standing to her, his hand on her skin—all of it still sent a thrill down her spine just how it had in real life. She could feel herself flushing and hated it.

  “How drunk are you?” he asked, all caring and concerned, his brow slightly creased.

  “Shut up,” Violet said.

  Wyatt smirked, then leaned in and kissed her. It cut her at the knees. His fingers got knotted up in her hair and she was kissing him back, hard, thinking it might not be so bad to let the simulation run, to just let whatever happened happen.

  She yanked back. “You’re not real,” she said. “Not even in real life.”

  Wyatt wiped his mouth. “You’re really drunk, Vi,” he said, shaking his head, grinning. “Come on. Let’s sit down.”

  He eased down onto edge of the roof, swinging his legs. He patted the space beside him. Looked up at her innocently. She stared down at him and shook her head. Her legs were still trembling, but she was angry now, angry at him and at herself.

  “I can’t believe I thought I loved you,” she said. “Can’t believe I didn’t realize.”

  “You realized,” the simulated Wyatt said. “That’s why you loved me so much. I’m really, really messed up.”

  Violet remembered what the real Wyatt had said before, when she was standing over him with a blood-smeared brick. I’m your type. You’re only going to meet me over and over again. Maybe that was the hell they’d decided on: meeting Wyatt over and over again.

  “And I’m the best you’ll get,” Wyatt said, rolling his neck side to side. “Someone like you, you won’t really get a lot of choices, right? That’s life, Vi.” He smiled up at her. “Want me to fuck you now? Would that help you feel like a real girl?”

  Violet planted both hands in Wyatt’s back and pushed. He went over the edge laughing, the way he’d laughed when the escaping pod started up into the sky. She waited for the wet thud but it never came. Violet peered over the edge, blood still rushing in her ears, her heart still pounding. It was a white void again. No Wyatt, no anything.

  She closed her smarting eyes, trying to focus on the image of herself in the pod. She tried to feel like she was weightless. Maybe the free fall would help. With every nerve in her body shrieking against it, she let herself tip backward and plunge off the edge of the rooftop.

  Gilly had run ahead, so when they arrived at the theater the Lost Boys were standing outside on the street. Bo stared, uncertain. They were lined up like soldiers, hands at their sides, chins out, not speaking or moving their heads. Standing off the end of the line, perpendicular to the others, was Wyatt. Half his face was a mass of bruises. His lips peeled back off his teeth in a grin, but Bo knew now that was just as dangerous as a scowl.

  “Tell the man in black to stay where he is,” Wyatt said.

  Bo turned to Bree, but she was already sliding away, joining the file. He clenched his teeth. “You’re fast, Gloom,” he said under his breath. “Really fast.”

  “I am,” Gloom said. “Thank you. Is that the one with plans?”

  “You might have to move really fast in a second,” Bo muttered. “I don’t know what’s going on. What’ll happen.” He swallowed, glancing down at Wyatt again. “Just wait here for now, okay?”

  Gloom nodded. Bo wiped his sweating palms on his pants, then walked forward. What had Wyatt told them? He had a sudden image of them all leaping at him, frenzied, pulling blackjacks out of their sleeves and beating him down. Wyatt could make people believe anything. He could make them do what he wanted.

  But at the near end of the line, Alberto and Saif were almost wriggling from excitement, beaming at him as he approached. Gilly was trying her best to stand still and straight-faced, giving Alberto a nudge under the ribs. Bo realized he was mouthing his name. He grinned and mouthed Alberto back to him, then fixed his eyes on Wyatt again.

  Wyatt lifted his fist in the air. “Bo came back,” he said. “They couldn’t keep him away from his family. From us. Bo’s too strong. Bo’s too smart. Bo’s a Lost Boy. Bo!”

  “Bo!” the other kids shouted, like they’d done after he brought the pod down all those lifetimes ago. “Bo, Bo, Bo, Bo!”

  Bo felt confusion and relief at the same time, catching his breath in his chest. He looked back at Gloom and shook his head just slightly. Then the Lost Boys broke out of the line to surround him, hugging him, rubbing his stubbly head, pushing him. The ones who didn’t like to touch so much just hovered around the outside, grinning and laughing.

  Bo had the wild thought that maybe the brick had rattled Wyatt’s brain, made him lose memory. Maybe he didn’t remember what all had happened that night in the storage unit. Maybe he’d forgotten his mad plan to take Bo’s Parasite for himself. Maybe everything would be simple.

  Bo was wrapped in a bear hug and looking over Jon’s broad shoulder when he saw Wyatt’s face go cold and blank again. His steel-gray eyes locked onto Bo’s and he gave a slight, almost imperceptible shake of his head. Ice ran down Bo’s back.

  “Alright, alright, give us some space,” Wyatt said, suddenly jovial again. “He’ll tell us all about how he escaped tonight, right? We’ll have a little party for him.” His gaze f
licked to Gloom. “But for now, me and Bo and Bo’s prisoner are going to have a talk.”

  Bo nodded. Wyatt always had a plan. He was always scheming.

  Nothing was going to be simple.

  Violet landed on clean kitchen tiles. The impact was muted, like she’d fallen off a stool instead of off a rooftop. She sat up. Back to the perfect house, everything lit with sunshine, everything swept and tidy and lavender-smelling. She went to wipe the last of the tears off her face and found they were gone.

  Her not-mom stepped carefully over her, carrying a steaming pot over to the table. “Time to eat!” she called. “Hey! It’s on the table.”

  Violet heard a door open. She looked down the hallway and saw her dad, her not-dad, coming out of the bedroom, doing up the last button of his plaid red shirt. His dark hair was slicked back with no gray in it, still damp from the shower. He was whistling.

  She scooted backward as he passed through the kitchen, but his eyes never landed on her. He went to the cupboard, then the fridge, and started filling drinking glasses with water. Her not-mom came over to give him a peck on the cheek and show him something on her phone, something that was making her laugh. Violet watched, feeling a lump in her throat. They looked happy, the way she sometimes thought she remembered them. Or maybe she’d only ever imagined them that way.

  “Ivan!” her not-dad shouted, setting the glasses down on the table. There were three of them. “Get your ass up here!”

  The words sent a spike of fear through Violet’s body, but her not-dad wasn’t angry, and he wasn’t looking at her. Violet heard someone thumping up the stairs from the basement, then her breath caught in her chest. Slouching to the table, smiling ruefully, one earbud trailing from her ear—it was her, but it wasn’t. Taller, broader. There was a dusting of moustache over her lip. Her hair was cut short. Her face had no makeup, and it wasn’t smooth-skinned from the estrogen. Seemed heavier, more angular.