by Ben Oliver
Molly’s alive, my mind rejoices. She’s alive, she made it out of the vault and she’s still alive.
I’m aware that my thoughts sound a lot like Apple-Moth when the drone was so delighted that Malachai and I had survived the fall from the Arc. In spite of myself and in spite of the situation, this makes me smile.
The dead weight of Malachai feels as though it’s growing heavier with every step, but the fear of capture, of imprisonment, keeps me moving.
“Through here,” Molly, says, gritting her teeth with the effort of lifting the boy.
“We can’t go through there,” I whisper, staring at the gap that has been cut into the wire fence.
“Trust me, Luka,” she says, and ducks into the Red Zone.
I hesitate, knowing the destructive power of the radiation, knowing that even with my healing ability, I won’t survive long. But I trust my sister.
I follow, the muscles in my neck and shoulders tensing involuntarily as I enter the irradiated area.
“How deep are we going?” I ask, feeling the panic start to rise inside me.
“Slightly more than half a mile,” my sister replies.
“Half a mil— We can’t go half a mile into the Red Zone! Do you know what will happen? Our skin will melt off our bones!”
“No, it won’t,” she replies, the strain of carrying Malachai now showing on her face.
“The radiation, Molly, it’s active for another two hundred years.”
“It is,” she says, “but there’s no radiation for another half a mile.”
“What are you talking about?”
She stops and lowers Malachai to the ground behind the rusted and overgrown remains of what might once have been a car. “There is a thin band of radiation at the fence line,” she tells me, wiping sweat from her forehead. “We’ve already passed through it. From here until about half a mile in, the radiation levels are low enough that they won’t harm us.”
I let Malachai’s legs fall gently to the mossy ground. “I don’t understand.”
“I mean that a radioactive barrier was set up twelve years ago to convince the Alts that the Red Zones were still just as dangerous as they have always been. The actual radiation has receded since then to almost half a mile that way.” She points a finger into the thinning line of trees ahead of us. “That is how the Missing have been able to disappear without a trace.”
I look back to the fence and then forward into the woodland. “So, we’re safe?”
“They won’t go beyond the barrier because they believe—like you did—that their skin will begin to boil, and their eyes will pour out of their heads. They’ll send Mosquitoes in, but we don’t have to worry about them.”
I stare at my sister for a few seconds and then smile. “Fuck, Molly, it’s so good to see you.”
And, after a moment of vacancy, she smiles too. “You too, Luka.” She steps around Malachai and hugs me.
“How the hell did you get out of the vault?” I ask.
“I’ll tell you in Purgatory,” she says, and picks Malachai up once again.
“I’m sorry, what did you say?” I ask, but we’re moving again, and she doesn’t reply.
* * *
We carry Malachai though the overgrown trees and into an almost-perfectly-preserved town, a place that hasn’t been touched since the Third World War ended with a flurry of nuclear blasts. There are some of the earliest battery-powered electric cars from the 2040s, and even a few gas and diesel cars from earlier, odd metal streetlights that curve at the top to shine light down onto black pavement, quaint brick houses in old-fashioned shapes and styles, billboards with paper posters advertising satellite television packages and cell phones.
As we move slowly through the town, I can’t help but feel I’ve stepped back in time. I’m about to point out a rusting old motorcycle to Molly when I see that she is looking around, nervous, perhaps scared.
“Everything all right?” I ask.
“Just keep your eyes and ears open,” she says. “A lot of wild animals around here.”
And, as if her words have turned the volume up in this strange part of the world, I begin to hear the crunching of dried, scorched grass, the distant howls of creatures that sound as though they’re either in excruciating pain or a blind and insane rage.
We pick up the pace, moving between buildings with broken windows, through alleyways covered in brick dust and debris, across the motor court of what I imagine must have been some kind of car refueling station. We stop one more time to catch our breath, Malachai by this time beginning to moan as he regains consciousness.
Finally, we come to a three-story building with VRCADE written in angular neon tubes across the front. Molly lets go of Malachai’s arms, leaving me holding his legs in front of the elaborately decorated double doors.
“In here,” she says, pushing her way through and holding the doors open as I drag Malachai into the dark room beyond. I notice that the dreamy quality to her voice is starting to fade, just as it would if the effects of Ebb were wearing off.
I put down Malachai’s legs, stretch my back, then look around to find myself in a room full of corpses.
There are hundreds of pale and lifeless bodies in the rectangular room, male and female, standing upright in cylindrical glass chambers filled with liquid. The horrifying cadavers are lit by a blue-green glow. Their blank eyes gaze lifelessly out, seeing nothing at all. Their bodies are all gaunt, their skin almost translucent.
My heart lurches. I’ve done it. I didn’t even mean to, but I’ve found the Missing. And yet … this isn’t exactly the army we were hoping for …
Beside each chamber is a half-dismantled old cell phone from at least a hundred years ago, lines of code flickering on the screens, wires protruding and snaking to the cylinders. A single stream of tiny bubbles emits from the base of each tube—near the feet of the dead—and rises to the top.
I can hardly breathe, hardly comprehend the things I’m seeing.
“This way,” Molly says, moving toward the back of the room.
For a few seconds I can’t follow; I can only stare astounded at the dead that surround me. My eyes fall upon the skeletal face of a beautiful young girl who—despite the contortions of death—I recognize.
“Molly,” I say, stepping deeper into the room. “Molly, that’s Day.”
I can’t take my eyes off the face of my friend Day Cho, the girl who—along with her mother—saved my life when Tyco drugged me and was going to kill me. If Molly and Day are here, maybe Shion is too—and the other clones who were hiding out in the financial district.
“I know,” Molly says. “Hurry up, they’ll be sending drones.”
I almost remind her about Apple-Moth, but remember how low the drone’s battery was. Molly makes her way over to three empty chambers. I drag Malachai over to her slowly.
“Molly, what is this place?”
“Just help me, will you?” she snaps as she pulls Malachai’s stirring body toward one of the tubes.
“Will he be okay?” I ask, once again looking at the dead faces around me.
“He’ll be fine,” Molly says as we heave the boy into the tube, leaning him against the back so he’s half standing. “He’ll be dead, but he’ll be fine.”
Molly reaches up and presses a button on the inside of the chamber and the tube spins until it’s sealed shut.
“Dead?” I repeat as tendrils of icy mist snake up against the base of the glass, fogging it a little. Malachai’s head rolls as he begins to wake up. And then the two largest, longest needles I’ve ever seen in my life emerge at opposing angles from the base of the chamber, moving steadily, rapidly, until they pierce Malachai high up on the inside of both his legs.
I don’t breathe as I watch my friend die.
The blood is sucked out of his body, his skin turns a horrible shade of gray, and his cheeks suck in against the bones beneath his skin. The hollows where his eyes once were make his face look like a skull. Once he is complet
ely still and lifeless, the cylinder fills with liquid and a single stream of tiny bubbles rises relentlessly up.
“Molly … he’s—”
“Get in,” she interrupts, pointing to the chamber beside Malachai.
“I’m not getting into that thing,” I say.
“You have to, Luka.”
“But everyone in this room, everyone in these tubes, is dead.”
“I know. It’s the only way. No time to explain out here, Luka, I’ll explain everything in Purgatory.”
“Purgatory? Purgatory, Molly? This is—”
“Just get in the chamber. Please. If you’re not dead when the drones come, they’ll kill us all.”
And before I can point out how ridiculous that statement is, Molly climbs into the tube, presses a button above her head, and the chamber spins shut.
“Luka,” she says, banging on the glass, her eyes suddenly wide with realization, “once you’re in there, get out quickly. As soon as the Mosquitoes retreat, get out! There’s something wrong …”
But then the needles come and Molly dies.
I stand in the former arcade, surrounded by the dead and the darkness and the silence. All I can hear is my own panicked breath rasping in and out in short gasps.
“What the hell?” I whisper, feeling the dread building up in me. “What the hell, what the hell, what the fuck?”
Once you’re in there, get out quickly. There’s something wrong …
What was she trying to say? What was she trying to tell me?
I feel as if my heart is a misfiring engine in one of those ancient cars outside and my lungs are fishing nets, unable to hold the oxygen I need to live.
What do I do? I ask myself, feeling a panic attack embrace me, hold me, tighten its grip around me. What do I do? What do I do? Fuck, fuck, what do I do?
And two thoughts collide at once in my mind. The first is Dr. Ortega saying something about a scientist who came up with technology similar to this. The second memory is Kina telling me that she loves me.
She loves me, I think.
Kina loves me, and I left after promising I wouldn’t leave. I have to get back to her, I have to get back to her.
Once you’re in … get out quickly …
“Okay,” I breathe, “okay.”
My heart steadies back to its metrical rhythm, and I step into the chamber. Just before I press the button that will kill me, I remember Apple-Moth in my pocket. I take it out, see that its battery has dropped to zero, and run to place the little drone outside the door of the arcade, to soak up as much solar energy as it can.
As I reenter, a red light comes on over the door of the arcade and an old-fashioned tablet computer flickers on, the words MOSQUITOES APPROACHING flashing on the screen.
I move quickly to the death tube and climb inside.
I look up and see a small green button; I press it and the glass front spins shut.
The temperature drops dramatically, I feel my skin breaking out in goose bumps, I hear the mechanical sound of the approaching needles and I close my eyes. Just before the syringes pierce my skin, I remember Kina’s last words to me: You better not die.
And then I die.
* * *
There is nothing forever.
And then there is something.
Music; steady jazz. Sounds of conversation, of glass clinking against glass, of laughter.
“Sir, would you like a drink, sir?” a voice asks.
I’m standing in a very large hotel bar; only the second bar I’ve been in in my life after the night spent with Sam in the city.
I look around: a wooden dance floor leading to a slightly raised stage where a four-piece band in three-piece suits plays; old-fashioned booth seating filled with people in the most lavish and upmarket clothing. They drink and talk and laugh, and yet there’s something about them that is not quite right.
They’re animated, I think, and then I look down at my own hands.
The first thing I notice is the black sleeves of a suit jacket, and the white cuffs of the shirt underneath (fastened with gold cuff links), but as I focus on my hands, I see that they too are made up of millions of tiny pixels—the way animation or video game characters looked in the 2020s or ’30s.
“What is going on?” I whisper.
“Sir?” the posh voice asks me again.
I turn to face the bartender, a tall man with gray hair and dull eyes. He too is computer-generated.
“What?” I ask, still trying to figure out what is going on.
“A drink, sir, for you, sir?”
“Uh, yeah,” I reply, “sure. Whiskey. Why not?”
The barman scoops ice into a glass and pours a nameless brand of whiskey on top.
“Whiskey, sir,” he says, and places the drink on the bar.
I reach for it, wrap my fingers around the glass, and I don’t feel it. It’s as if there is nothing in my hand at all—in fact, it’s as if I don’t even have hands. And I realize at that moment that I can’t feel anything.
I raise the glass to my lips and try to drink, but I have no mouth and no way of swallowing, I’m just going through the motions, and yet when I put the drink down on the bar, it’s half empty.
“Welcome to Purgatory,” a lady in a flowing green dress says from beside me at the bar.
“Thank you,” I reply uncertainly.
“Don’t you just love this music?” she asks, her voice vacuous as she sways slightly.
“It’s fine, I guess.”
“It really grows on you.”
I’m about to ask exactly what this place is when Molly’s voice calls out, “Luka, over here.”
I look over to where Molly stands. She’s in a cool brown suit, trousers held up with suspenders, her hair tied back, dark glasses on her eyes.
“Molly,” I say, moving toward her, “you look awesome.”
“I know,” she replies, smiling. “Luka, it’s so good to see you.” She hugs me, but I feel nothing, no contact, no sensation of touch at all. “I’m sorry I didn’t say it out there, in the real world, but we had to get back before Happy followed us.”
“Yeah,” I say, “I get it. Hey, are we safe here?”
“Perfectly safe.”
“But you said something, just before you, well, died.”
“Did I?” she asks, genuine confusion on her face. “What did I say?”
I try to remember but I feel hazy. I feel a little like I did when Tyco stuck that Ebb patch on me. I try to focus on the memory; Molly stepped into the chamber, pressed the button, and said … but it won’t come.
“I can’t remember,” I tell her, and laugh, because it seems funny to me. Molly laughs too.
“Well, it probably wasn’t important.”
“Probably not,” I agree, and laugh again. “Hey, what is this place?”
“This is Purgatory.”
“Right, but what—”
I don’t have time to finish my sentence before Malachai comes running across the large dance floor toward me. I register that he’s wearing an open waistcoat with a white shirt beneath, an untied bow tie hanging casually from beneath the collar, before he throws a fist at my face.
“You pulled my fucking eyes out!” he screams.
The punch connects and I hit the floor, but I feel neither the impact of the fist or the fall.
“You told me to pull your eyes out!” I call up from the wooden floorboards, but already the memory of that awful event seems vague.
“I know!” Malachai replies indignantly. “Doesn’t change the fact that you did it.”
“Fair enough,” I say, getting to my feet.
“Damn,” Malachai mutters, “that was the most unsatisfying punch ever. I didn’t feel anything.”
“Yeah, apparently you don’t feel in this place.”
“Probably a good thing,” Malachai replies, “seeing as I just had my eyeballs yanked out of my head!”
“All right, I feel like this whole eyeball thing is turnin
g into a grudge really quickly,” I reply.
“Where are we, anyway?” Malachai asks, looking around. “And why do we look like twenty-first-century video game characters?”
“This place is called Purgatory,” I tell him.
“Jesus, could they pick a more ominous name?”
“Right?” I reply.
“So,” Malachai says, turning to Molly. “Who’s this?”
“This is Molly,” I say, “my sister.”
“No, that’s not Molly,” he says, pointing at my sister. “Molly is a clone. She’s all gaunt and gross. This girl is, like, normal-looking.”
“Thanks?” Molly replies.
“Hey, how can you see?” I ask. “I ripped out your eyes, remember?”
Malachai laughs. “Oh yeah, I remember that.”
“Okay,” Molly says, “you two are clearly adjusting to Purgatory—the high doesn’t last long.”
“High?” Malachai says, and then starts waving. “Hi!”
We both laugh at this for at least a minute.
“What … what … why are we high?” I manage to ask through gasps of laughter.
“I know, it doesn’t make sense!” Malachai roars. “We were just almost killed, Woods is dead, the world is ending, and we’re …” He can barely finish his sentence as he tries to force his laughter away. “We’re in some kind of terrible old video game!”
Molly sighs. “You’re experiencing cerebral hypoxia—oxygen starvation of the brain—it’ll take a little while to get past it.”
I try to get a grip, but the act of trying to sober up seems hilarious to me and I laugh again.
This goes on for ten minutes or so. The rest of the hotel guests seem unperturbed by our fits of explosive laughter, and eventually we calm down and regain our focus.
Molly leans against the bar, an eyebrow raised. “You done?”
“I think so,” I say, wiping the last tears from my eyes.
“Yeah,” Malachai agrees, “I think I’m good.”
“Good,” Molly says. “Follow me, I’ll show you around and explain. You’re going to love this place.” She walks toward the exit of the bar. Malachai and I follow. “The brains behind the whole project is a scientist called Dr. Price.”