by Shiloh White
“Do you have a death wish, ese?” Woodstock asked.
“What are you talking about?” Chug retaliated. “If you and I teamed up, we could've taken him no problem!
“If we went that route, we would've scared away our lead on the rest of the Agents.”
And Dart, I thought.
“Not to mention,” Woodstock continued, “we had no chance trying to fight with her standing right there."
Up to this point, I'd stayed quiet, watching them from what felt like a million miles away. And the reason for my silence was twofold.
First, I felt like to say anything would be intruding. After all, even though I was as freaked out as the guys, I still didn't know this Rodrigo kid. I hadn't known Woodstock, or scrawny Mikey, Alfonso, or even little Jamie until just tonight. And I probably never would have if Dart hadn't gotten taken as well. But this moment wasn't about Dart. It was about that young boy; that ex-Depression Agent being dragged through that gray ripple, which was my second reason for silence.
Plus, I was too scared out of my mind to think of anything to say at that moment. Each time I blinked, I could see those empty, glazed-over deep brown eyes of Rodrigo's staring up at me. I could feel them sprinkling shivers all over my body; leaving me to wonder just what that woman needed for her war—live bodies or corpses. And which was worse?
Finally, I steeled enough courage to say, “When you say her, you mean that other woman, right?"
Now, just for the record: under normal circumstances, if a crazy woman started spewing babble about kidnapping people and taking them to school or an academy or whatever, I would have been the first to instantly turn the other way. But if she had Dart and the other Agents, I couldn't stand to ignore her. So if Woodstock had any idea that could help solve the mystery in my head, I was up for it.
Woodstock sighed. “Yes, ‘that woman,’ if that's what you want to call her."
“Well then, who—or what—in the world is she?” I asked. “And where'd she run off to with Rodrigo and Dart?"
Woodstock walked over to the couch and plopped down on it. “She mentioned the place right before they left."
“So they're at the Academy, then?” Chug asked nonchalantly. Woodstock nodded again.
“What's the Academy?” I asked, just out of the loop once again.
“It's the Anchor Zone of Anxiety,” Woodstock explained, “and that woman is the Zone Holder there. Her name is The Headmistress."
“You talk like you know her,” I said. “You even recognized her voice. How much of a threat is she?"
“Who cares?” Chug said. “Dart's there, our gang is there, and Takao is there too. We have to go to the Academy.” Suddenly, Woodstock's eyes widened.
“We, uhh...” he stammered. “We can't go there. This is a Zone Holder, remember?. Her level of power rivals Damian's.”
As strong as Damian. That was a big enough twist to wake me up. Damian had used his power to get in my head and almost make me end it for myself.
“Okay,” Chug grumbled, “So we'll just avoid contact with them. A stealth mission will be our strategy—like a jailbreak from the outside...but if I see Takao, I get to punch him in the nose and bring him back with us.
“Nice plan, but what about when we step foot on the Zone and Lucy here triggers the alarm?” Woodstock asked.
“What alarm?” I asked. I put up my hands show I wasn't planning on triggering anything.
“The Headmistress has a security system like no other,” Woodstock explained. “The entire system flips out when anyone who's not a Depression Agent shows up. If you step foot inside, you'll be spotted immediately and give us away. Then we'll be taken to The Headmistress for execution...or worse."
“What's worse?” I asked slowly.
“It doesn't matter,” Chug interrupted. “And neither does the security system. We're getting in. ALL of us."
“Yo, genius,” Woodstock said, laced with sarcasm, “I just told you that—"
“And I'm telling you,” Chug said, “that I've got a way for Lucy to get in unnoticed."
“And just what is that?”
I leaned in, eager for the answer to that question too.
“While I was doing a mission for Mr. Reggie,” Chug said, beginning to pace back and forth alongside Woodstock's couch. “I found out about a cloak that can conceal anyone's presence.”
We all got real quiet for a moment. Woodstock exchanged a look with me that I was probably wearing on my face already: This sounds way too good to be true.
“I know you don't believe me,” Chug said. “And that's cool. But I've seen it in person. And if we get this thing, we'll have no trouble sneaking right past this stuffy old lady's alarms.”
“Okay,” Woodstock exhaled, getting off his couch. “So where is this thing?"
“That's the best part! It's right here in De Mentoria.”
“What part of De Mentoria?” I specified.
The ends of Chug's face turned up into a devious grin.
“The crazy part."
17. Homeless People Find Us…And They’re Zombies
As it turned out, the crazy part of town was called Jitter Alley. (What a name, right?)
After Chug filled in the Abandoned on happened, Woodstock left Mikey in charge, and we left the base.
Chug led us down the street, past Club Insanis and the hideout, further than I ever went the first time I was here.
The smell of the air changed into something damp and musty, like we were crawling through an old air vent. Every few steps, we passed another person who looked homeless. A bunch of them looked afraid too. A small handful of them—these were the ones that frightened me—acted genuinely crazy.
The atmosphere was different here too. It felt like wild and uncontrolled freedom back on Insanis street. But but down here...it felt like I couldn't take a step without being afraid someone would lose their mind over it. Chug tilted his head back at me and smiled.
“You know,” he said, “I feel a strange kinship to this side of town.”
I couldn't think of any way to respond, so I just stared at him like he was...
Well, like he was crazy.
Anyway, Jitter Alley.
Chug told Woodstock and I to wait on the sidewalk while he approached a man leaning against a building, counting to four over and over. In exchange for an old button with four holes, the man started saying he just saw the hooded guy headed that way about four hours ago. (I wasn't sure if it was four, or if that was as high as he counted anymore.)
After maybe thirty seconds of talking normal, he started to regress every other word back into a number until he was counting to four again.
Chug walked back at us looking a little glum.
“Poor guy,” he said. “He's actually from Topside. Ended up here after a lot of bad luck. Now he's...like that."
“How do you know all that?” Woodstock asked. His deep voice was so startling, I jumped a little. He was so quiet a second ago; I forgot he was standing right behind me.
Chug continued to lead us down the sidewalk. “He informed me. He's my informant. I give him things of four, and it's like his gateway back to reality. Although, that gateway doesn't last very long now. I used to be able to have a whole conversation with him."
What a shame, I thought. I wondered what bad luck was enough to go from Topside to out of your mind over buttons. Weirder still, however, was Chug's kindness to that old guy. The patience I saw in this young teenager was nothing like the rash and angry boy I saw in the alleyway just an hour ago.
Or wait, was it an hour ago? I reminded myself of the continuous factor of the Dust; my own personal mantra: time is different here. I mean, it felt like an hour. Instinctively, I reached for my phone, then I hesitated. My stomach then did a somersault. I wasn't sure if I wanted to know how much time passed. Then I reminded myself what was on the line if we ran out of time, and pulled out my phone.
✽✽✽
The clock read: 5:07am, Wednesday, January
10th.
“Holy crap,” I said, my eyes wide. I felt myself break into a cold sweat off of disbelief alone.
“What?” the boys said in unison.
“We need to get moving,” I explained. “We've spent twelve Topsider hours since we arrived at Mr. Reggie's. Where the heck is this Jitter Alley, anyway?"
“It's actually right in front of us,” Chug said. I looked up at my surroundings and saw they had changed.
“Oh,” I answered. “Great.”
At some point—probably while I was freaking out about the time—we'd turned off the sidewalk into another alley. This one was much worse than all the others I'd been in since my first time in De Mentoria. And for those of you who haven't been, it had the feel of an old backwater New York-ish town, complete with tall buildings and corner apartment complexes and as such, many many alleyways. I'd gotten the chance to travel a few, but this one took the cake.
As Chug led us down the corridor, the smell hit me first. Pungent air passed through the area, like something between the sour pop of freshly pressed grapes and the rancid mixed odors of vomit and smelly socks.
Next was our surroundings. The buildings on either side of this alleyway were on their last leg, literally. If you looked up about eight or nine stories, I estimated, then you'd see the walls of the two buildings had began to lean into one another, causing the stories below to have cracks traveling down them all the way to the base. It was definitely not the alley I would've chosen to crash for the night. And yet, that was the next part to take me by unpleasant surprise; despite the many safety hazards to the nose and rest of the body, there were no shortage of people in it.
Most of them were passed out, however. Some were even covered with bits of garbage and dust. If you looked closely, they were still breathing, which was the small realization that kept me sane. Perhaps those individuals were closer to comatose. Others still were hugging their legs in their own little corners, cowering in fear. A few wandered to and fro somewhere in-between, like they were either on a high or about to have a nervous breakdown. Thankfully, none of them paid us any attention.
Still, as we made our way down the alley, I felt like a portion of my sanity was torn away in the company of these people who had truly lost their minds.
At one point, this hunched-over stranger walked right past me calling out for “Jeffery.” He went over to a pile of broken appliances and started looking inside each one. With each one turning up empty, this guy got more distraught.
“That's actually his name.” Chug informed us. “He's lost his mind, or more accurately, a small bag of marbles. He can never hold on to them for long. Without them, he can't function. But if he's got them, he's actually the smartest guy down here."
“You think he's seen the guy with the cloak, then?” Woodstock asked.
“There's only one way to find out—let's fan out and find Jeffery's marbles.”
I did not enjoy looking for Jeffery's marbles.
During our hunt, I found two rats—one dead, the other eating the dead one (EW)—a pile of vomit, an old clump of hair, and underneath a half-chewed box, a note that said, “Not today, Shirley. Dr. Seuss is stirring. - Bob.”
After reading it, I just slid it back underneath the box. Knowing that note was only there as a result of lunacy to one's mind was too much for me to handle.
Luckily, we didn't spend too much time looking before Woodstock located the marbles:
“I found them, amigos,” he said, holding up a small pouch a little ways away from where I was searching. I could hear the marbles clacking against each other on the inside.
“Excellent,” Chug said. He took the bag from Woodstock and handed it to Jeffery. Jeffery took it with a grin.
“Thank you so much,” he said. Then his face wrenched into one of deep thought. “You know, I don't recognize you all."
“We're just passing through, Jeff,” Chug explained. “Looking for a hooded guy. Have you seen him?” Jeffery twitched at the words 'hooded guy'.
“I, uh, I, uh...” Jeffery kept twitching, starting to bite his fingernails.
“What's going on?” I whispered to Chug.
“I don't know. He doesn't usually do all this.” Chug answered.
“Somethin' tells me we oughta get moving, guys.” Woodstock added. Just a second after he suggested that, Jeffery's body arched backward, and he looked straight up. Then he unleashed this primal howling noise, one so eerie, I'd decided to believe that this man couldn't actually be human any longer. For a moment, nothing happened. There was a silence along the entire alleyway. Then, as if Jeffery's echo had come back, another howl came from then end of the alleyway. Then another, much closer to us. A few seconds later, every person in the alleyway was howling—and coming towards us, slowly but surely.
“Yeah, time to go,” Chug agreed. We booked it down the alleyway, and so did all the homeless people. Some of them had given up howling and gone to screaming.
About halfway down the alley, I noticed something up ahead that made my heart sink. I stopped running. “Guys, look!” I pointed in front of us, and Chug and Woodstock screeched to a halt when they saw it: more homeless crazies were coming from the other direction. I thought about pulling out my paint whip, but then I hesitated. These guys were just people. They didn't deserve to be knocked around. Besides that, I wasn't even sure if I could manage any knocking around, or if my Handle was still busted from my run-in with Stark.
“How do we get out of here?” I asked, seeds of panic growing quickly in my voice
“Uhh...” Chug wheeled around in an a three-sixty, looking at all of our surroundings. “Wait—there! There's a hole in the wall over there.” He pointed a few feet up ahead and to the left, just in front of the growing horde of lost-minded-people. Sure enough, there was a small portion of the brick foundation of the building that looked as if it had been bashed out.
No one wasted any time. We all ran for the opening as fast as our legs could carry us, just seconds left until the zombie-esque homeless group was on top of us.
18. We Should’ve Left The Homeless People Alone
We reached the hole just as the homeless people did, and Chug wasted no time. He slid through the hole with ease. Woodstock was next, but he had to shimmy his way through. Jeffery and his friends were on top of us now They reached out to grab me, but I kicked them back and dove into the hole, escaping the lunatics and their crazed screaming.
The hole opened wide into a basement. The second I dove through, I fell about a story's worth. Luckily, my fall was braced by two good-sized lumps of stuff. But when the lumps started to move, I realized I'd landed on the boys.
I quickly rolled off and rose to my feet. “Sorry, guys.”
Woodstock got up, and rolled his shoulder a little. Chug stood up next, spitting the dust out of his mouth.
“Could’ve warned us,” he said.
“Hey,” Woodstock said, “We're alive. Not sure I can say the same for them,” he gestured upward. I looked back up and saw clump of homeless people trying to reach through the hole. The only thing keeping them from falling in was that they were all trying to claw their way through at the same time.
“What happened to them?” I asked?
“It's not called Jitter Alley for nothing,” Chug said. “Those are where the extra-crazies hang out. We probably just disturbed them."
“Guys, get down!” Woodstock ordered. We ducked and crawled over to him, hiding behind some old boxes.
“What's goin' on, man?” Chug asked. Woodstock pointed across the room. I looked out and saw a bunch of materials and cloths. Some were draped along tall shelves. Others sat in clumps on the floor. Others still were hung over mannequins. I noticed quite a lot of mannequins in the room, actually. Totally not creepy.
In the center of the room, one mannequin was positioned over a small sewing table, wearing a hoodie. No, wait...mannequins didn't move. It was a real person.
“The hooded guy,” I whispered. “He's the one with the
cloak, isn't he?” Chug gazed across the room and saw him too.
“Yeah, that's the guy."
“How do you want to do this? You know, steal from a homeless guy?” Woodstock asked.
“Oh, stuff it,” Chug replied. “Follow my lead, and stay quiet.”
Chug rose up from the rubble and slowly closed the distance between us and him. As we got close, I realized he was using the table to work on the cloak while he wore it. When we were a few feet behind him, Chug cleared his throat.
The man leaped, almost knocking his supplies off the table. How did that scare him when the sound of three people falling into the room wasn't enough to get his attention?
“Whaddya want?!” he asked. He started grabbing the sewing kit off the table and a couple pieces of material and backing away from us slowly.
“What are you, uh, working on?” Chug asked. If he was trying to put the man at ease with some small talk, it was a really bad attempt.
“What'd you say?” I couldn't see his face underneath the hood, but his voice was like a ranch hand mixed with a crabby old soul singer. “Oh, who cares? I know you want the cloak,” the old man shouted, “and you ain't gettin' it!”
Straight and to the point. Oddly enough, I liked it better that way. We didn't have any more time to spend with counting or buttons or marbles or crazy people. This guy seemed to know right where his marbles where. Unfortunately, he didn't seem to be down for sharing.
“It's for a noble cause,” I offered as sweetly as I could manage. “And we'll bring it back after we're done."
“What'd you say? No more claws?” the old man asked. “Are you from the crazies outside?"
“A noble cause,” I said, raising my voice. The man nodded from under the cloak.
“There ain't any noble causes anymore,” he said.
Chug stepped forward, his silver pistol in hand, or rather, his hand morphing into a cloud of smoke around the gun. “You'd better give us the cloak. Playing nice is over,” he demanded.
The old man turned and sprinted toward a door on the other side of the room. Chug ran after him, but the old man stopped him by pushing over a stack of mannequins on his way out.