The Secret Sea (17 page)

Other hands. Moira's? On his legs, pushing.

His head lolled back and he stared at the sky, which seemed to get closer until everything went black.

 

TWENTY-NINE

Zak woke up to the sensation that his arms and legs had been taken away. Not cut off or pulled off—there was no pain at his joints. It was as though they'd just disappeared, leaving a disconnected head and torso.

Reflexively, he lifted his right arm and was pleased to see it hover into view. It was numb, as were the rest of his limbs, but at least it was still there and under his command.

“—wouldn't even know where to start,” Moira said.

“Well, we don't have a choice,” Khalid said heatedly. “He's—hey, he's up.”

They crouched down by Zak. “How are you, man?”

Moira took his wrist and felt for his pulse.

Zak took a moment to orient himself. There was some kind of box around his head. When he craned his neck—which took great effort—he could tell that he was lying on his back, his head and shoulders sheltered by a whitish crate of some sort. Outside the crate was an alleyway. Regardless of the universe, all alleyways looked roughly the same, it appeared; this place would have looked right at home back in his own version of New York.

“Where are we?” he asked. Maybe they
were
home. Maybe he'd dreamed all of it.

“Not sure,” Moira said. “We had to move quickly. Once we got you out of the water, we ducked into a side street, then kept moving.”

“You carried me?”

Khalid shook his head. “You were sorta kinda conscious. We had to support you, but you stumbled along.”

Zak nodded and tried for a deep breath that he so achingly needed. It was impossible, his chest protesting even at a shallow one. “Trouble breathing,” he managed.

And then he remembered: his verapamil. How long since he'd taken it? They'd probably been giving it to him at the hospital, but who knew how long it had been since his last dose.

“Guys, I'm not good.” He knew his condition was bad, but saying so made it worse, and he had to stop not only to take a sip of breath but also to keep himself from panicking utterly. “Can't breathe right. Chest is tight.” He felt someone squeeze his hand, and for a vertiginous moment couldn't tell if it was right or left, Khalid or Moira.

“We'll figure this out,” Moira promised. “We're going to get help for you.”

It was Khalid squeezing the hand. Zak turned to look up at his best friend. “I feel really bad,” he said. Tears clustered in his eyes. Normally, he would be ashamed of crying in front of his friends—especially Khalid—but the fear and the compression in his chest drove the shame from him. “Don't leave me, okay?”

“Don't worry—Moira's gonna find medicine or a doctor or something. I'm not going anywhere.”

“You have to,” Moira said quietly. “You have to be the one to go.”

“No way.” Khalid thrust out his jaw. “Not a chance. You're the genius, Science Girl. You can find the right pills or the right doctor. My job is to stay with Zak.”

Moira produced her glasses from a pocket and stared at the blotchy, spotted lenses for a moment before surrendering and tucking them away again. “Look, every time someone in this world sees me, it gets dramatic. The cop. The gondolier. Maybe it's an Irish thing.”

“What are you talking about?” Khalid clearly wasn't interested in the conversation. He wanted Moira off on a medicine quest. Now.

But even in his semi-lucid condition, Zak caught on, dredging up yet another one of Dad's impromptu history lessons. He couldn't summon the strength to explain, but fortunately Moira went on:

“Once upon a time in this country, the Irish were practically slaves.”

Khalid's eyebrows shot up. “Seriously? Like, when? Like, back before the Civil War?”

Moira shrugged. Zak knew, though. He remembered his father telling him about the signs that read
IRISH NEED NOT APPLY
even as recently as a hundred years ago, a generation after the Civil War.

Khalid whistled.

Moira shrugged. “It's my stupid hair. Maybe in this universe, people in America still hate the Irish, and they saw my red hair and flipped out.”

“Well,
we
love you,” Khalid said.

“Gee, thanks. That's not going to help much, though. You have to be the one to go, Khalid. I can't run around out there without attracting attention. You can. Take the stun-gadget thingy, just in case.”

Zak nodded. “It's cool, man,” he said.

Khalid clearly didn't want to go, but he bobbed his head as though psyching himself up and smiled grimly. “Okay. If you say so. I'll be
right back
, you got it? Right back.”

“What was your medicine called?” Moira asked. “Do you remember?”

Did he remember? Of course he remembered. Taking his pill was a daily part of his life, as much a part of his routine as tying his shoes, pulling on his pants, or using a fork. There had been two names on the pill bottle: the brand name, Isoptin, and the generic name, verapamil. Zak gave both names and watched Khalid mouth them over and over again, memorizing them.

Just as Khalid hopped up to leave, though, he smacked his fist into his palm. “Wait. Wait a sec. What if it's a different name here?”

Zak groaned, but Moira touched his forehead, calming him. “They speak English here,” she pointed out, “so the language developed similarly. Most medicines have Latin roots. They probably use them here, too. Even if it's called something different here, a doctor should be able to figure out what we need based on the name. The people look like us, talk like us, live in a city like ours. Some things are inevitable—they'll have a medicine for Zak.”

She didn't say,
We don't have any other choice, anyway.
Because it was true, and there was no need to say it. Zak knew that his life depended on Khalid's being able to find the right medicine in an alien world. Soon.

“I believe in you, buddy,” he whispered. “One-double-oh.”

Khalid turned and sprinted away. Moira adjusted herself into a more comfortable sitting position and took one of Zak's hands in both of her own, resting them on his belly. “This is all going to work out,” she said very persuasively. “You're going to be fine.”

He didn't believe her. He closed his eyes and lied. “I know I will.”

There was no point in either of them telling the truth.

 

THIRTY

Khalid emerged from an alley onto the middle of a sparsely traveled block. There were more of those odd cars puttering by. Some of them were painted bright white and had signs on them that read
FOR HIRE
. He figured he'd spotted his first alternate-universe taxi. He almost put his hand up to have one pull over—“Take me to the nearest pharmacy!” he would bark to the cabbie in his very best action-hero voice.

But whatever money he had was waterlogged in his wallet. And probably not worth anything in this universe. He'd noticed the signs by the canal, advertising
UPTOWN GONDOLA!
for various amounts with the weird
symbol. His money would be no good here.

His clothes, still damp, clung to him uncomfortably. His shirt was pasted to his chest, and his underwear felt as though it had become a second skin. Two dunks in the water, and even on a warm night like this one, it would take a while to dry out. In the meantime, he was a wet, bedraggled kid standing on the sidewalk by himself, with no idea where to go but no time to dawdle.

Up and down the block seemed to be stores and restaurants, but nothing that looked like a drugstore. He would
kill
for a good old Duane Reade at this point. Maybe they didn't have them in this universe. Or maybe it was called Reade Duane. Or maybe …

Stop it. Stop it! Zak's—

He cut himself off. He didn't want to think the words
hurt
or
in trouble
or
in bad shape
, because he knew that those words were just ways for his brain to keep him from thinking the truth, the only word that really described the situation:
dying
.

Time was of the essence, and any forward movement had to be good. Standing around here wouldn't help Zak.

A sign told him he was on Fourth Street. The architecture was similar to that of his own world, except for the strange lighting on everything. He craned his neck to peer up at the facade of a building, feeling like a gawking tourist. In a way, he supposed he
was
a tourist, a visitor to a strange flavor of his own home. It was as though he'd left his apartment and come back later to find that someone had stolen a few things, left most of his stuff, and added some mysterious new belongings.

Eggs and oatmeal
, he reminded himself.
This is all about eggs and oatmeal
.

Bad move. The thought just made him hungry.

The buildings were striped at regular intervals with what he now realized were very flat, transparent pipes. They looked like oblong glass tubes, filled with something that glowed. It wasn't neon—it wasn't harsh and too bright. This substance gave off a gentle, warm light, and the overlapping fields of brightness gave nighttime the feel of a pleasant twilight.

He was surprised to recognize Father Fagan Park at an intersection, though the sign called it
DRENNAN-YOUNG PARK
. It was definitely Father Fagan Park, though—he knew it by sight. Weird. More alternate-universe strangeness.

If he was at Fagan Park, then that meant he had to have walked to Sixth Avenue. A street sign at the corner told him that he was, in fact, at Sixth, though the subtitle read
COLUMBIA AVENUE
. It should have said
AVENUE OF THE AMERICAS
.

He'd walked something like eight blocks from the Broadway Canal without seeing anything helpful. Maybe it was time to ask someone for directions to a doctor.

He stood on the corner of Charlton and Sixth, gnawing at his lower lip. He slipped his sunglasses on and felt a little better, a little cooler. He looked around for someone who seemed willing to help a lost kid.

And that was when he noticed something weird. Well,
another
something weird. Even though it was nighttime, it was August and still warm out. All the men he saw wore short-sleeved shirts or T-shirts. But all the women were covered practically from head to toe in long skirts, full-sleeved shirts, high collars. And hats. They all wore hats. Most of them carried small fans.

Even fashion was screwy over here.

He took a right onto Sixth and headed uptown. He actually knew SoHo and lower Manhattan better, but given that the island seemed to be missing a big chunk of itself down there, he figured there would be more opportunities for discovery if he headed north. He vaguely recalled that NYU had a campus not far from where he was. Maybe there was a medical center there.

He tried to pay more attention as he roamed up Sixth, but his energy was beginning to flag. It had been a long, exhausting day. Running from the police in two universes, being tossed into the water twice. He hadn't eaten since lunch, and it was long, long past dinnertime now. The excitement and adrenaline of the day were quickly ebbing, and even the mere eight blocks he'd walked since leaving Zak and Moira felt like a hundred miles. There were some street vendors out, and the smell of cooked lamb and roasted almonds and fresh sausage made his mouth water. He couldn't pay, not with the money in his pocket, but maybe he could
borrow
some food.…

A hot rush of shame blasted through him and rattled him awake. His parents would be mortified if they knew he'd even considered such a thing.

He trudged along, more tired and hungry and weak with each step. Even his reading comprehension began to suffer—he imagined strange signs in the windows and doors of the places he passed by, signs that made no sense:

N
♀

read one.

♂
NLY

read another.

Were there different
letters
in this universe? He dredged up a memory of some boring story Zak's dad had told once as he showed them an old piece of mail from a billion years ago. The
s
had been written as an
f
, so that the word
basket
looked like
bafket.
Khalid and Zak had nodded politely through Dr. Killian's mini-lecture and then spent the better part of the next day at school substituting
f
for
s
when they talked to anyone, which worked hilariously until they had to say
suck
, at which point their parents were e-mailed about their children's “inappropriate use of words.”

A million years ago, a caveman in this universe ordered pizza instead of sushi, and now their alphabet has twenty-eight letters.
He stifled a nervous giggle.