The Hunt for Dark Infinity

by James Dashner

  “That’s only half the problem I’m worried about,” Tick said. “What does Mistress Jane have to do with it? Why just me and her?”

  “Reckon you and that no-good tweety-bird’s all Chu cares about,” Sally said with a grumble. He spit again.

  Tick squeezed his fists at his side, then rubbed them against his temples. “I can’t do this,” he whispered. “I can’t go in there by myself.” His insides churned with panic, as if internal wires had been crossed, messing up his whole organ system. He felt like a sissy, but the truth of it weighed on him like the chilly air had finally frozen solid around him. I can’t do it, he thought. I can’t go in there without Paul and Sofia!

  “Ah, now,” Sally said. “Ain’t no time for that. You ain’t got nuttin’ but brave inside you, boy. Suck it on up, hear?” He held the shiny chrome cylinder out to Tick.

  Tick stared at it, not moving a muscle.

  Paul walked over and put his one good arm around Tick’s shoulders, wincing with the effort. He leaned over and spoke close in Tick’s ear. “You listen to me, bro. No way we’re gonna let anything happen to you. You’re the one with that transponder thingy in your ear—we’ll go back with Sally and keep an eye on every move you make. We won’t sleep, won’t eat, until we can wink back to get you.”

  Tick nodded, then looked at Sofia. She stepped forward and grabbed the silver rod from Sally, then lightly shoved it against Tick’s stomach.

  “Paul’s right,” she said, trying her best to throw compassion into her voice. “The three of us will wink back to Master George and watch you like a hawk. First sign of trouble and we’ll come help you.”

  Tick waited a few seconds, then finally took the cylinder from Sofia. It was cool to the touch and slippery in his sweaty hands. “I don’t think you should do that. Follow me or come after me, I mean.”

  “Why?” Paul asked.

  “Well, if Chu wants me alone—or . . . with Mistress Jane—then we better do things his way.”

  “For awhile, maybe,” Sofia said. She looked as if she might say more, but then closed her mouth.

  Tick looked at Sally and held up the silver rod. “What am I supposed to do with this anyway?”

  Sally grunted and rummaged through his leather pack again. “Ain’t no way ol’ George be lettin’ me tell ya.” He pulled out a wadded up piece of paper and handed it to Tick. “Read that, ain’t too hard no-how.”

  Tick unfolded the paper with shaking hands then read it out loud:

  Dear Master Atticus,

  You hold in your hands the antidote to Reginald Chu’s nanoplague, which is causing people all through the Realities to go insane. We believe the plague can be destroyed by injecting this silver rod and its contents into the mechanism that controls the virus-like nanoparticles. You need simply to smash the antidote against Chu’s device—Dark Infinity—and let Rutger’s brilliant engineering do the rest of the work.

  I need not tell you the incredible amount of danger you are about to undertake. I daresay, I almost feel tempted to abandon the whole thing. But alas, I think you’d agree that we have no choice. The fate of all the Realities may hang in the balance. Atticus, you must do this thing. You must do it, no matter the cost.

  Once we see sign of your success, we will come and rescue you. This, my good man, I swear to you.

  Your comrade in arms,

  Master George

  Tick held up the cylinder, studied it closely, ignoring his surge of panic. The odd object had no blemishes, no scratches, no smudges—it was perfectly smooth, perfectly shiny.

  “Piece of cake,” he muttered with a pitiful attempt at a laugh. “Waltz into Chu’s house and smash this against something. Piece of cake.”

  “Yeah, dude, piece of cake,” Paul said. Tick couldn’t help but wish he could trade places with Paul, broken arm and all.

  “You heard him,” Sofia said. “You heard Master George. We’ll be watching your every move, and we’ll come save you as soon as . . .” She trailed off, and Tick wished desperately that no one would say another word.

  “I’m going,” he said, pushing the fear away. Now or never. Just move. “I’m going right now. Sally, can I have that bag of yours?”

  Sally nodded, then handed over the leather satchel. Tick put the cylinder and the message from Master George inside, zipped it up, then slung it over his shoulder. “I’m going right now,” he said again.

  Without waiting for a response, Tick turned and walked up to the dilapidated wooden door. As he reached down and twisted the loose handle, the others spoke from behind him.

  “We’ll be watching you, dude,” Paul said.

  “You’ll be the only thing we care about until we’re back together,” Sofia blurted out.

  “You be tough chickens, now, ya hear?” Sally shouted.

  Tick pushed open the door and stepped inside. As he went through, a cold tingle shot down his back.

  Chapter

  35

  ~

  Beautiful Black Hair

  The room was completely dark but strangely warm. Tick pulled the door closed behind him, fighting to calm his breath, standing still in the blackness. The floor beneath him was solid, smooth; the air smelled like . . . flowers. Like an old lady’s perfume. He sniffed, then scratched his nose.

  “Hello?” he called out. Isn’t that what they always say in the movies when they walk into a haunted house? “Hello?” he repeated. His voice died as soon as it left his mouth, without even an echo.

  The entire room abruptly flared with lights; Tick’s hand shot up to shield his eyes.

  It came from everywhere at once: the walls, floor, and ceiling were made out of a rough material that glowed brightly. Tick turned around to see that the door had disappeared—and nothing looked anything like the inside of an old wooden shack.

  Chu had already winked him to a new place.

  The room was a perfect circle, thirty feet in diameter, bare of furniture except for several, almost invisible, clear plastic benches curving along the walls. That was it—no decorations, no signs, no light fixtures, nothing. Just glowing walls and invisible benches.

  “Heaven’s waiting room,” Tick whispered.

  “No, it’s not,” a soft voice said from his left.

  Tick spun in that direction, stumbling backward two steps. Ten feet from him stood a tall woman, close to the wall, dressed in a tightly fitted yellow dress. Long, silky black hair hung from her head and framed a pale but perfect face; her red lips pulled tightly into a grim smile. Brilliant green eyes stared through horn-rimmed glasses. Tick was certain he couldn’t have missed her before. She had appeared out of nowhere.

  “Who . . . who are you?” he asked.

  The woman ignored him, scanning the room around her with a disgusted look, as if it were full of snakes and lizards and frogs. “This place is about as far from heaven as you can get in the Realities.” Despite her apparent anger, her voice still gave Tick goosebumps, as if he listened to someone playing the harp.

  “Who are you?” he repeated. “Are you—”

  “Yes,” she replied, finally focusing her eyes on him. “I imagine you saw a message similar to mine. My name is Mistress Jane, as yours must be Atticus Higginbottom.”

  She walked over to him, her feet tap-tap-tapping as she did so. She stopped and held out a hand, which he took and shook quickly before letting go, a shudder of nausea trembling in his stomach. Master George’s most hated enemy stood inches from him.

  Tick cleared his throat. “I . . . I thought you were bald.” He didn’t know what else to say, what else to do.

  Mistress Jane smiled, though it was empty of humor or kindness. “Yes, I was bald for a very long time. So very long.” She stared past his shoulder as if remembering something sad from her past. “And it was quite . . . painful to grow it back so quickly. Painful, but sweet. That’s how the Chi’karda works in the Thirteenth, after all.”

  Tick swallowed, fidgeted on his feet. He was so lost and confused and scar
ed. His mind spun; his heart thumped.

  Mistress Jane caught his eyes again, then continued. “So many things have changed, boy. I’ve changed. Do you understand?”

  Tick couldn’t speak. He slowly shook his head.

  Jane nodded. “Yes, we have a lot to talk about. A lot.” She reached out and took his hand, squeezed it. “Reginald wanted me to kill you, you know? That was my task.”

  “Kill me?” Tick managed to say, almost a squeak.

  Jane’s eyes closed and opened in a long, drawn out blink. “Yes, I was supposed to kill you. And I could have, easily—I crashed your spintrain to make Chu think I was at least trying. But I knew you’d survive.” She paused. “But you and I are going to turn the tables, Atticus.”

  “What do you mean?” Tick pulled his hand away from hers.

  Jane paused again before answering. “As dangerous as you and that baboon George may think I am, Mr. Higginbottom, Reginald Chu is far, far worse. Far worse. And you and I are going to stop him. Forever.”

  ~

  Paul stared at the door for a full two minutes after it closed behind Tick, tempted to rip it back open and chase after his friend. But after all they’d been through—after all the things they’d seen Chu do to them—he knew the warning scrawled across the wood was for real.

  Finally, he looked away, turned his back to the building. A fresh burst of pain exploded up his arm and into his shoulders, making him cry out before he could stop himself. For the hundredth time that day, tears welled in his eyes.

  “Best be gettin’ on,” Sally grunted, glancing one last time at the door. “Better get that little sack of taters Rutger workin’ on dat nasty limb a’yorn.” His eyes fell to Paul’s swollen arm. “Dat don’t look so good.”

  The lumberjack started walking away, making a straight line toward an area that looked just like the miles of dull nothingness in every other direction. “Come on, rug rats!” he yelled over his shoulder.

  Sofia and Paul turned in unison to look at the door one last time.

  “Wonder what he’s doing now,” Paul said.

  Sofia touched Paul’s shoulder. “We’ll find him,” she whispered, barely audible. “Master George’ll help us find him.” She nodded, then ran off toward Sally.

  Paul followed; every step felt like a sledgehammer against his forearm. My only hope now is a tiny, fat dude named Rutger. Great.

  They probably walked half a mile before Sally stopped and turned to face the kids behind him. “Right chere seems ’bout right. Scoot yer buns on over here.”

  Paul cradled his arm tightly against his body and stepped as close to Sally as he could. Sofia pressed in from the right until they were all squished together in a small circle.

  “Great balls of turtle scat!” Sally bellowed. “You ain’t gotta get so close I can smell yer pits, now do ya!”

  Despite the pain, Paul snickered as he backed away a couple of steps. Sofia did the same, but her eyes kept flickering back to the wooden building.

  Sally reached into the pocket of his flannel shirt, digging for a few seconds before he pulled it back out again with nothing in his hand. “Ol’ George’ll be winkin’ us right directly.”

  “What did you just do?” Paul asked.

  Sally scrunched up his forehead like Paul had just asked him what the color green looked like. “Triggered the nanobobbamajig, boy, what else?”

  Before Paul could ask another question, he felt a quick chill flash across his shoulders and down his spine. The drab world around him vanished, replaced instantly by a room filled with leather couches and chairs, a warm fire crackling and spitting in a small brick fireplace. Master George stood in front of it, the Barrier Wand clasped in his hands and Muffintops the cat purring at his heels. Rutger perched on a floor pillow, leaning back against one of the sofas, his hands folded and resting on top of his huge belly.

  “Quickly,” Master George sputtered, throwing all greetings and formalities out the window. “Have a seat and tell us everything, and I mean everything!”

  “My arm,” Paul said, his voice breaking on the last word. “My arm,” he repeated. Now that help was so close, the pain seemed to intensify, flaring through his whole body as if more than one bone had been broken.

  Master George looked down and noticed the ballooned arm, the skin stretched taut, bruised and bulging. “My goodness, man! Your arm is hurt!”

  Paul said nothing, feebly attempting a smile.

  “Rutger,” Master George snapped. “Take Paul to the infirmary this instant. Then wink in Doctor Hillenstat from the Second and tell him to deaden the pain, set the bone, cast it—what have you. We’ll follow you and have our discussion there. Chop-chop!”

  Rutger rolled to his left, got stuck, then grunted as he tried rolling to his right. His body slipped off the pillow, his arms and legs flailing as he tried to find the leverage he needed to stand up. “Good grief, would someone give me a hand, please?”

  Mothball entered the room, wiping her hands on her shirt and chewing on something. “What’s this?” she asked. “There’s a ruddy bowling ball loose, there is! Someone snatch it up before it breaks a vase!”

  “Oh, go on and make jokes, then,” Rutger said, lying on the floor as his body rolled back and forth. “Poor Master Paul only has a severely broken arm—no big deal.”

  Mothball’s face melted into a frown as her eyes fell upon Paul’s injury. “Oh, dear, terribly sorry. Quite nasty that, by the looks of it.”

  “Yeah,” was all Paul managed to say. The room had started to pitch and spin in his vision.

  “All right, then,” Mothball said as she reached down and yanked Rutger to his feet with a big roar. “Get the lad the help he needs.”

  “Come on, Paul,” Rutger said, swiping at the dust on his round bottom.

  Paul nodded and followed him as he heard Master George speaking to the others.

  “Sofia, Sally—I need to know everything.”

  Chapter

  36

  ~

  The Tale of Mistress Jane

  Let’s have a seat,” Mistress Jane said. “I’m sure Reginald will be here shortly to rant and rave his frustration that we both made it here alive.”

  She grabbed Tick’s arm again, pulling him toward one of the impossibly clear benches lining the lighted walls. Once there, she let go and sat down, crossing her legs under the tight yellow material of her dress. She flicked her thick black hair across her shoulder then motioned for Tick to sit next to her.

  Tick wanted to run. No, he wanted to yell and scream at Jane for the terrible things she’d done, including killing one of Mothball’s closest friends, Annika. He wanted to rip her ridiculous glasses off, throw them on the ground, crush them with his shoe, then punch her right square between her flaming green eyes. He wanted to—

  “Sit down!” she shouted, her voice echoing through the room as though a chorus of Janes had called out the two words.

  Tick fell to the bench, his short burst of spirit crushed. He folded his hands in his lap, staring at the glowing floor below his feet.

  Jane took a deep breath. “I’m . . . I’m very sorry, Atticus. I should not have spoken to you like that. I apologize.”

  Tick closed his eyes for a few seconds, then opened them again. He realized suddenly that the woman sitting next to him was crazy. Crazy and dangerous.

  “Now,” Jane said. “There are a lot of things I need to tell you. I’m sure George has made you think I’m a monster, a cruel and heartless devil who cares nothing for the Realities or their people. Nothing could be further from the truth.”

  Tick looked up. “How can you say that? I saw Annika die—killed by those disgusting monsters you created! Then you tried to have them kill me!”

  Mistress Jane held up a finger to silence him. “I want you to be quiet. Do you understand this request?”

  “Why should I—”

  Jane flicked her finger. Something yanked Tick from the bench and threw him three feet into the air, spinning
his body in the middle of the room. He screamed, thrashing his arms and legs. He spun faster, the unseen force gripping him like invisible claws as it wheeled him about, pinching and battering him.

  “Stop it!” he yelled. “Put me down!”

  The force vanished in an instant, and he crashed to the floor, one leg bent awkwardly beneath his body. He cried out as he squirmed to the side and pulled it straight. Gasping for breath, he pushed himself to his knees and stared at Jane, his eyes on fire.

  “Why would you—”

  “Silence!” she screamed, cutting him off again as she stood up, her face flashing red. “You will come over here. You will sit. And you will listen. Do you understand?”

  Tick felt as if his old nemesis, Billy “The Goat” Cooper, had just sucker punched him in the stomach three times. Fighting tears, he slowly got to his feet and walked back to the bench. Without looking at Mistress Jane, swearing to himself he would never look her in the eyes again, he sat down.

  After a few seconds of silence, Jane sat as well, crossing her legs again.

  “Atticus,” she said, almost in a whisper, as if she hadn’t spent the last minute torturing him. “This . . . these are the things about me I don’t like. My temper, my impatience, my quickness to anger. I’ve tried very hard in recent weeks to better myself. To improve myself and be kinder to others.”

  Tick snorted with all the disgust he could muster. “Yeah, obviously.”

  Mistress Jane paused. “Think what you will. But know this—if Reginald had challenged me to kill you two months ago, perhaps even one month ago, your body would even now be rotting beneath several feet of earth. I have changed my ways as best I can, but my goal remains the same as it has always been—to save the Realities. I will never waver from it.”

  Tick clenched his hands together, still staring at the white floor. “I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”