The Leveller (13 page)

“HOW LONG HAVE WE BEEN HERE?” I SAY AS WE FOLLOW A PATH
through the island jungle. I am picking ripe berries from the foliage and tossing them to our monkey friends in the treetops. They squeal with pleasure as they take flying leaps from tree to tree.

“Three days,” Wyn says, glancing at me in concern.

He's worried about me, I can tell.

And honestly,
I'm
worried about me.

We don't talk about it but we both know.

I've changed.

I'm not me anymore.

I'm scared.

Scared of feeling pain again, the excruciating pain of the Black.

Scared to do anything at all that might make it return.

Scared to leave the island.

I even refuse to go into the sea now, afraid of its murky depths, afraid of losing myself in its darkness.

So we go for walks instead. We play catch with Larry and pick fruit with the monkeys. We catch our own fish from the island streams, grill it on the beach, and wash it down with guava juice. We don't remind each other that it's only virtual food and drink, that our real bodies are back home being pumped full of IV fluids to keep us alive. We don't remind ourselves that we're running out of time. We don't talk about our latest strategy, because we don't have one.

The fact is, the only plan I can think of is to go back to Havana, hope that Rico Suave shows up again, and pray that we can successfully ambush him this time. Oh, and then convince him to tell us more than Kora did. It is a lot to hope for.
Too much
to hope for. And besides, I don't want to go back to Havana. The Black is there.

“Tell me more about your childhood,” I say, trying to take my mind off our troubles. I like hearing Wyn talk about his life before his mom died, how she used to take him with her on her musical tours, about the adventures they had together in Paris and Rome and Buenos Aires. It all sounds so perfect, like a fairy tale.

“What more would you like to know?” asks Wyn, popping a berry into his mouth. “Pretty sure I've told you all the good
parts by now.”

“Did your mom sing you to sleep when you were little?” I ask. “My dad used to sing me Irish drinking songs every night. I'd usually fall asleep after a few rounds of ‘Nancy Whiskey' and a ‘Danny Boy' or two.” I belt out a few lines of “Nancy Whiskey” in my best Irish brogue and Wyn rewards me with a grin.

“Can't say my mom ever lulled me to sleep with pub songs,” he answers, “but she did read me nursery rhymes every night. She had a big illustrated
Mother Goose
book that she'd kept from her own childhood.”

“You mean like ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb' and ‘Itsy Bitsy Spider'? You must have fallen asleep instantly,” I tease.

Wyn gives me a little push and I return a light elbow. “It wasn't
that
boring,” he says. “Sometimes we'd have a contest and change the words, to see who could make the other laugh.”

“Give me an example,” I say. We've reached the homemade jungle swings Wyn made yesterday while I waded in the nearby stream with my fishing net.

“Well, pick a nursery rhyme and I'll make one up for you,” Wyn says as we start swinging.

“‘Little Miss Muffet,'” I order as I pump my legs beside him.

He quickly obliges. “Little Miss Bauer sat in her tower, eating a burger and fries. Along came a spider who sat down beside her and said, ‘I prefer zee french flies.'”

I shove his swing with my foot. “That's so bad it's almost
good.
Almost
.”

“And I suppose you spent your childhood engaged in much more sophisticated activities like studying Latin and practicing your posture?” he asks, shoving me back.

“Not even a little bit,” I answer, remembering ragtag summers spent running around the neighborhood with Chang and Moose. The memories make me smile.

“Then what
did
you do?” Wyn asks.

“I've told you about Chang and Moose, right? When we were really little, preschool even, Chang used to orchestrate these absurd games for the three of us to play. No matter how crazy they were, Moose and I would always go along with them, just to see what Chang would do next.”

“What kind of absurd games?” Wyn asks.

I think back thirteen years ago. “Well, so one rainy afternoon Chang makes an elaborate fort out of couch cushions and tells us it's a drive-through restaurant called Nacho Burger,” I begin. While I talk I start pushing myself in circles, twisting the ropes of my swing into a tight spiral. Wyn does the same with his. “So Moose and I pretend to drive through in our imaginary cars and we place our orders. Moose orders nachos. ‘We don't have any nachos,' Chang hollers at him. So then I come through and order a burger. ‘We don't have any burgers,' Chang hollers at me. ‘So what
do
you have?' Moose and I both ask, baffled. ‘Chicken!' he yells, like we're total idiots, then slams
the couch cushion window shut in a fury. Moose and I laughed the rest of the day . . . we still laugh about it sometimes. And for years we used to beg Chang to play Nacho Burger again.”

“So, how many Nacho Burger adventures did you have?” Wyn asks. Our swings are now wound all the way up to the top.

I shake my head. “Just the one. Chang was always on to something new, quickly bored by us lesser mortals. He's too smart for his own good, if you know what I mean. Always two steps ahead of everyone else.” I look up at our tightly wound swings. “Me, I'm much more easily amused.”

Wyn grins at me. “Ready?”

“Ready,” I say, and we both release our swings.

Wyn bellows and I shriek as the vines spin us around like wind-up toys. We're going so fast that by the time we unspin all the way, our swings dump us into a heap on the ground.

We stumble to our feet and stagger around like dizzy, punch-drunk sailors. I grab Wyn's arm for support and pull him off balance instead. We topple back down to the ground, laughing, but now Wyn is on top of me, and we find ourselves pinned to each other again, face-to-face. Our laughs die into smiles and neither one of us moves.

Wyn's face softens as he looks into my eyes.

“Wyn—” I start to say, because I know what's coming next. “I'm not sure we should—”

“Don't worry,” he whispers, tenderly brushing the hair away
from my face. “None of this is real, remember?”

And then he rises from the ground, pulling me to my feet.

There is something sad in his face.

Again, it's something I'm missing. I know it. Something I have forgotten.

More than before, I have the sense that it is something worth fighting for. Something that I want to get back. Something that matters in the real world, not just here in the MEEP.

I look across the water toward Havana.

It sits darkened in a shadow thrown by a passing cloud.

Wyn beckons me toward the treehouse. “Snack, rock star?”

And in that moment, the real world seems farther away than ever.

For a moment, I wonder if I can ever return. If I
should
ever return.

I walk away from the swings.

And walk away from that thought for another day.

I AM SLEEPING SO SWEETLY. SO DEEPLY, SO DREAMLESSLY. I DO NOT
want to wake up. I want to stay here forever, but someone is knocking on the door.

Go away
, I think.
I'm not here
.

I pull the blanket over my head.

The knocking continues. It is a soft knock, but insistent.

I try to ignore it, nestling inside my flannel cocoon. My blanket smells a little bit like fabric softener, a little bit like Hodee. It smells like home.

Home!

My eyes fly open.

I'm in my room. My room!

It's dark in here, but on the wall opposite me I see the
Pikachu nightlight that Chang and Moose gave me for my seventh birthday. My heart swells.

I am home, I am home, I am home.

The knocking starts again.

“Mom?” I call, sitting up in bed. “Dad?”

I am wearing my usual pajamas, a worn pair of yoga pants and an old Cubs T-shirt. I have never been so happy to see these clothes. I have never been so happy to see my parents.

But why don't they come in? There's no lock on my bedroom door.

I leap from my bed, cross the room, and fling the door open.

The hallway is empty.

And dark.

“Mom?” I yell, sweeping my hand along the wall for the light switch.

I flip it on.

Nothing.

I try again, flipping the switch up and down several times.

Still nothing.

“Dad?” I yell, running back to my nightstand to turn on the bedside lamp.

Click
click click
.

Nothing.

I rest my hand over my pounding heart, willing it to slow
down. I'm home. No need to panic. The power went out. That is all.

Bam!

The bedroom door slams shut behind me.

My heart is racing now, my breath coming out in ragged gasps.

“Mom! Dad!” I yell again, searching the nightstand, floor, bed, for my phone and its flashlight app. I can't find it anywhere.

I stare at the door. Who closed it? Hodee! Maybe Hodee nudged it shut. Maybe,
maybe
, I think—my mind searching wildly for an answer, for some reasonable explanation—maybe he was so excited by my return that he ran into the door and pushed it shut by mistake.

I yell Hodee's name and reach for the doorknob, but a competing voice in my head warns me to stop, tells me that I'm wrong, that this is absurd, that there
is
no reasonable explanation. I push it away and open the door.

“Hodee! Mom! Dad!” I call, stumbling through the dark hallway. “Where are you?”

Behind me my bedroom door slams shut again.

This time I scream.

I run to the end of the hallway to my parents' room. I turn the knob, but the door is locked. I pound on the door, yelling for my parents. I try the knob again.

The hallway grows darker.

I am crying now, sobbing.

I run through the hall trying every door.

The bathroom door.

Locked.

My mom's office.

Locked.

I hear a door slam downstairs.

A shudder rushes through me, raising every last hair on my body.

Who is in the house with me?

Why won't they answer?

I stand at the top of the stairwell, the sound of my own heart exploding inside my head. I clasp a hand over my mouth, trying to stifle the sobs. I need to be still, I need to listen. Who is down there?

I will my body to cooperate. I take deep breaths to slow my breathing. I wrap my arms around my rib cage to stop the shivering. I bite my lip to keep from screaming.

I listen.

There is only silence.

Maybe they've left.

Have they left?

And then I hear it.

A faint whisper.

“Nixy!”

The sound comes from behind me.

My stomach clenches in fear.

“Momma?” I murmur, slowly turning around.

There is no one there. Just a long, dark hallway.

I hear it again.

“Nixy!”

The voice is so quiet I can barely hear it, yet urgent and familiar at the same time. And it is coming from my bedroom. The door now stands ajar. Pikachu's dim light casts an eerie glow inside.

I slowly walk toward the room, then pause in the doorway.

“Nixy!”

The voice is coming from under the bed.

I taste blood and realize I have bitten through my lip.

“Momma?” I whimper, sinking to my knees.

Don't look, don't look, don't look
, my mind shrieks.

But I have to look.

I have to.

Haltingly, I lower myself to all fours, then bend my elbows. I lean my head down, eyes squeezed shut.

I start to open them when I feel someone's breath on my neck.

“Nixy!”

I open my mouth and scream instead.

I BOLT UPRIGHT.

I'm on the beach. A full moon casts its sparkling light over the sea. The waves roll in gently, thrumming their way across the sand.

I'm still in the MEEP.

Thank God. I was only dreaming.

I lie back down and cover my face with my hands, still shaken by the nightmare.

I want so badly to be home. But not
that
home.

I know the dream is my subconscious trying to tell me something, but what? The darkness, the locked rooms . . . surely they're some kind of metaphor for the Black and my lost memories . . . but holy hell, does my brain really need to torment me
like this? Haven't I been through enough already without my own brain cells turning against me?

That creepy voice whispering to me, stalking me. Who was it? I feel like I should know.

Maybe Wyn can help me figure it out. I lift my head and look around the beach. We often rest down here, and this isn't the first time I've woken to find him already up and pacing the shore. Or in the sea, treading water. Lost in thought, like me. Only I don't go in the water anymore.

I finally spot him, emerging from the waves several yards away. In the corner of my eye, I also spy a flicker, a shadow, in the treeline. A human-shaped shadow.

I'm not the only one watching Wyn.

I freeze, then carefully lower my head back down to the sand, my eyes glued to the shadow.

Wyn stops to shake the water off himself, then walks up the beach toward the tree line. The shadow crouches below the brush, hiding from Wyn.

Someone has breeched our island.

Someone who does not wish to be seen.

I quickly weigh my options. If I call out to Wyn, the stalker will no doubt run away or disappear. That just leaves one other choice.

I have to stalk the stalker.

I wait until Wyn disappears into the forest and the shadow
after him, before I dare move. Then I scramble up the beach, keeping my head low.

“Inventory!” I whisper into the MEEPosphere, then select my night-vision goggles and a laser gun.

I pause at the trailhead where they disappeared, which leads back to the treehouse. Good. I know this path well, which gives me an advantage over the stalker. I tuck myself behind a tree and peer through my goggles. Wyn walks the middle of the trail, clearly visible in the moonlight. The stalker remains several paces behind him, keeping in the shadows of the trees. Though I can't see his face, I can tell by his shape that he is tall and large and male.

I continue several paces behind, laser gun ready, waiting for my shot. If I can just manage to shoot the stalker in the leg, wound him enough to slow him down but not kill him, I might be able to catch him.

As we near the treehouse, a twig snaps under the stalker's foot. He dodges behind a tree as Wyn whips his head around.

“Nixy?” Wyn calls.

Damn.

I remain frozen behind my own tree.

For a moment, all I hear is the forest's usual nighttime hum.

Slowly, carefully, I peer out from my hiding place. Wyn has gone still, his eyes scanning the forest around him. Then he shrugs and continues to the treehouse.

As we arrive at the compound, I wait in the shadows, planning my next move. Wyn begins climbing the rope ladders to the rooftop platform. The stalker waits for him to ascend the first level, then follows him like a ninja.

Whoever he is, he's good.

I circle around the compound and quickly, quietly, scale the wooden planks of an adjacent tree. I cut across a rope bridge to a small perch among the highest treetops. From here I have a perfect view of the platform—I adjust my night-vision goggles—and a perfect shot.

I watch as Wyn's head finally appears through the platform's trapdoor. He picks up the remote, then reclines in the hammock.

Is he going to sleep?

I'm a little put out that he's left me alone on the beach—at least for all he knows—but I don't have time to get bent out of shape. A moment later the stalker's head pops through the opening.

Well, I'll be damned.

If it isn't Rico Suave.

Though I'd love to shoot the handsome right off his face, a laser gun to the head will surely kill him. Instead I bide my time and wait for him to finish climbing the ladder. When his full body finally emerges, I train my sights on his legs.

As I pull the trigger, Wyn shoots up from the hammock,
remote still in hand, and launches himself at Rico.

“No!” I yell, but it's too late to stop my gun. It fires straight at them as they fall to the floor, locked together like wrestlers.

“
Fy fæn
,” I mutter, trying to make out the jumble of limbs on the platform. Which one did I shoot?

“Rappelling gun!” I shout, then use it to Tarzan my way over to them.

As I swing onto the platform, Rico Suave gets to his knees.

Oh God.

That means . . .

Wyn lies on the floor, one hand pressed to his heart.

“Wyn!” I yell, but he's raising the remote at Rico. He doesn't see me.

“Attack,” he cries, pressing a button, then slumps lifeless to the floor.

A huge screech vibrates from the trees. Rico and I both look up as a horde of monkeys starts skittering across the treetops toward us.

Rico doesn't waste any time. In an impressive feat of gymnastics he hurtles himself back down the ladders. I take one glance at Wyn, but I know there's nothing I can do for him right now. I have to catch Rico.

We race back down the main trail, only this time Rico's the prey instead of Wyn. The monkeys and I chase after him, thrashing through the trees and brush. Several times I raise my
laser gun and pull the trigger, but Rico is too fast, too evasive, for me to land a shot.

Rico Suave's got skills.

When we emerge at the beach, the monkeys and I are still several paces behind him.

Rico picks up a last-minute burst of speed and heads for the water.

I can't let him get there.

I tear off my goggles, throw down my gun, and take a flying leap. I grab for him, wrapping both hands around his ankle.

We fall to the ground.

Only we hit water.

No.

The darkness swallows me.

Not this. Not this again.

Rico struggles inside my grip, thrashing his leg to release my hold.

Don't you dare let go
, I order myself.

But I am seized with terror.

The darkness consumes me.

I can't do it.

I can't.

I let go of Rico's leg and scramble to the surface.