Etherworld (12 page)

“Your father is gone.” She attaches an IV to my arm and bites her lip. “I can't lose you, too. I won't.” As the liquid inside the bag begins to flow, she presses a button on a nearby panel and a keyboard lights up. She types in a code and then pulls out her tab from her pocket, examining it quickly. “I'm being paged. I'll be right back.”

The moment my mother steps out of the room, an image of a woman in a white lab coat appears on the InstaComm wall to my left. She's holding a tab in her hand and appears to be looking directly at me.

“Hello, Regan. I'm Dr. Randall. Can you tell me if your head is hurting and, if so, where?”

“My head is fine,” I say. I feel a warm, fuzzy sensation spreading through my limbs. I know it's coming from the IV draining into my arm, but as nice as it feels, I can't afford to give into the meds. “Please,” I say, stumbling over my words, the sedative taking effect. “I'm not crazy, Doctor. I just . . .”

I know better than to tell her the truth. If my own mother and best friend won't believe me, this stranger certainly will not. I have to switch tactics and convince her of my sanity. In other words, I have to do what I should've done the moment I saw my mom waiting for me with those two goons.

I have to lie.

“I think I'm just confused. It's probably the Aftershock. Maybe if I just went home and got some rest, I'd feel better.”

“Maybe,” the doctor says, with a patronizing smile. “But before we release you, we need to run a couple of tests, okay? We have to do some blood work and run a brain scan just to make sure everything checks out.”

“Can I come back for the tests another time?” I ask, trying to reason with her, but there's no point.

“This won't take long,” the doctor says, the smile still plastered on her face.

If I had to take a guess, I'd bet she's lying too.

My mom comes back into the room and immediately begins busying herself with the keyboard on the wall. A rush of resentment floods my mind as I watch her typing all sorts of background information on me. I was there for her when she needed me most. I took care of her when she couldn't take care of herself. I would've thought those months of dedication had earned her trust, but instead she believes the worst—that even though I was fully aware of the danger, I'd hijacked Elusion like an addict.

“As soon as she's resting comfortably,” the doctor says, looking at my mother, “you can take her down for the scans.” The screen goes dark.

My mother inserts another needle into my arm, but I can barely feel it as she withdraws a tube full of blood.

“You've always been such a strong, responsible girl,” my mom says, tears streaming down her cheeks. The top part of the wheelchair reclines, turning itself into a bed. She presses her passcard against the glass wall, and a drawer pops open. She pulls out a blanket and drapes it over me. “I think you were crying out to me for help last night, but I didn't realize it . . . until it was too late.”

Last night. She'd come home and found me working on the anagram, and begged me not to use Elusion.

“I know you're scared,” she says. “I know I let you down after your dad died. But you don't have to be afraid anymore. I'm going to take care of you. The way I should have been all along.”

It's the apology I've been waiting for. But as much as I appreciate the sentiment, my mom is completely misguided, and her mistake could have deadly consequences.

But I can no longer argue with her. I'm having trouble moving my mouth, and my head feels heavy, like it's weighted to the pillow.

“I love you so much,” she says, sitting on the edge of the chair that has become my bed. I notice her pallid skin, the circles under her eyes. “We're going to get through this, you and me together. I'm not going to disappoint you again.”

She presses her lips gently to my forehead.

I hate to upset her and cause her more pain, but I have no choice.

I'm going to break out of here.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

WHERE AM I?

I can't see, blind from protective contacts that scrape against my eyes like sand. I'm lying on something hard and stiff, my arms and legs restrained.

“Did you get the frontal scans?” I hear a deep, male voice ask.

“Let me check,” says another voice, a woman with a hint of an accent. A pause as I'm rotated around and lifted. “Hmm. Yep. Frontal lobe—temporal. It's clear. There's no bleeding, at least none that I can see. Where are we sending the results?”

I try to speak, to call out to them, but I can't. There are tubes in my nose and mouth, filling my lungs with air.

“I gave you the name. The doctor is in California. A specialist.”

“What's she in here for?” the tech asks. I know she's referring to me.

“Rapid-onset psychosis. At least that's what it says here. But I heard it might be due to Elusion.”

“You really believe that stuff? I think it's just rumors to drive vlog traffic. That's what the company is saying. And it's CIT approved. It seems like if it was that dangerous they'd take if off the market.”

“I don't know. I saw on the Net that another girl was found dead today. In LA, I think. And she had the same Equip marks as that Caldwell kid.”

Another dead girl?

I think about Claire, dissolving in front of my eyes, and a chill runs down my spine.

Please don't let them be talking about her.

Not Claire. No.

“I don't believe it,” the woman says. “I've been there a million times and nothing. And so has everyone I know. Never had a problem. I think this whole thing is going to blow over.”

“So what do you think is wrong with her?”

I know that by “her,” they mean me.

“Drugs, probably. Same as the rest of them. But this patient's mom works here. And she doesn't want to believe it. That's why we had to work her up.”

The machine flips over so that I'm facing the floor. I can feel the heat from the scan on the back of my head.

“Nice to have connections, huh?” one of them says, as the other cackles with laughter.

The machine stops, and I'm flipped on my back again. “That's it. Last scan. Think we can leave her alone in here so we can go start on the next one? I'd love to get out of here on time for once.”

“You think she'll be okay by herself?”

“Yeah. Looks like they gave her a megadose of alprazolam not too long ago. She should be out for a while. I'll call her mom to come and get her.”

There's a pause. I hear a click and then silence. I'm alone.

Alone and locked in a brain-scanning machine with tubes in my nose and throat, blinded from the contact lenses. Still, I can wiggle my body. And although my head is still foggy, my mind is coming back into focus. Enough so that I know I need to get out of here before they come back.

My fingers curl around the restraints. They're leather, unlike the metal ones that so firmly clamped me into the wheelchair. I adjust my shoulders so that I can move my hand ever so slightly. I feel the bottom of a metallic clip. I'm not locked in. These restraints weren't designed to prevent patients from escaping but to hold them in place while being scanned.

I pull my shoulders up one at a time until I can wrench an arm free. I swipe the contacts out of my eyes, but my vision is still blurry, my eyes sore. I grab the tubes attached to my nose and throat and gently slide them out.

The scanning machine isn't big enough for me to sit up straight, so I curl myself into a ball so I can get on my knees. I crawl toward the opening, peeking my head out to make sure I'm alone. I wince in the bright light and stick my head back in the tube. I wiggle myself around so that I'm sitting on the edge of the platform and swing my legs over the side, the industrial tiles dancing beneath my feet. I'm too dizzy to move. I blink several more times, my vision coming back into focus as it adjusts to the bright light of the room.

How long have I been here?

I'm dressed in a white T-shirt and blue drawstring pants. I have paper flip-flops on my feet.

As my brain comes out of its medicinal fog, images of my dad and Josh float through my mind. I have to help them.

Think, Regan.

I'm obviously in the radiology unit. It's only a few floors below the psych ward and thankfully it isn't heavily staffed. My mom is always complaining about how old the building is and how the security system is so crappy she doesn't feel safe. In fact, they just started a major renovation to upgrade the building a month ago.

But I'm still going to have to get down the elevator and stairs without the aid of a passcard or tab, both of which were in the pocket of my clothes. And I can hardly walk out the front door in an outfit that practically screams “mental patient.” How will I get through the lobby?

I look around the room until my eyes fix on the InstaComm panel on the wall. I wobble toward it and press the screen. It lights up, the hospital insignia flashing before allowing me access to the Net. It's almost three in the morning. I've been here for hours. Who knows how many Escapes the people in Etherworld have attacked and how much danger they've seen in that time?

I need to get help—someone who can pick me up and take me to Orexis.

Avery. While she still thinks my dad is responsible for what happened to Nora and is probably overjoyed that I've been committed, she has also probably revived Josh by now. Maybe together they could help me get out of here.

I tap into my TabTalk account. I have one new text, sent about forty-five minutes ago, but it's not from Avery. I sent her two messages and she hasn't responded to either one. Where the hell is she?

I click onto the message, telling myself that Avery is too busy helping Josh to get back to me, because I can't afford to believe anything else right now.

You okay?

It's from Zoe. The last time I saw her was at Patrick's house, the night we found out about the first Elusion victim, Anthony. It was no secret she was interested in Patrick, and they had obviously hooked up that night. But even though Zoe goes to my school and her dad is one of the biggest stockholders in Orexis, I don't know her that well. Would she help me? Even if she knew the guy she was dating had committed me?

Probably not.

But she texted me in the middle of the night to ask if I was okay. And I really don't have anyone else to turn to.

I'm at the hospital with my mom,
I write.
Could use a ride home. Can you pick me up?

I press Send, feeling a little bad for not really telling her what the situation is, but then I realize that if she's talked to Patrick in the last hour or two, chances are he's already told her what happened.

Within a few seconds, a reply flashes on the screen.

Can you make it to the freight entrance in 15?

Apparently, she knows. But why is she willing to risk her neck, coming out here to get me?

But I don't have time to guess the answer. All I have is fifteen minutes.

I'll be there.

I close out of the session and the hospital logo appears on the screen once more. I walk over to the door and stand behind it, taking a few seconds to figure out my next move. How can I get out of this room without a passcard? And how can I get out of the building dressed like a patient?

I hear voices outside the room. I duck behind a rolling cart as the door slides open and two janitorial workers head toward a supply closet.

I have to move.
Now.
Before the door closes behind them.

Sneaking out from behind the cart, I slink out, my paper slippers soundless. I'm in a hallway, a few feet away from a nurses' desk, where a solitary employee stands in front of an InstaComm. Several people—also hospital employees, from the look of their blue scrubs—are milling about, checking their tabs.

The elevator bank is at the opposite end of the hall from the room I just exited. To get there, I have to walk past at least ten other rooms. The doors are made of some kind of transparent faux-glass material, so I can see that some of the rooms have patients and lab techs inside.

Although the elevator is passcard enabled, someone is waiting for it: a woman wearing a lab coat. Maybe I can hitch a ride with her? I look around and notice that someone has left a MealFreeze container on the edge of the nurse's desk. Luckily, the man stationed there gets up to answer a page, so I walk over, grab it, and head toward the elevators. I figure I can act my way through this, and pretend to be an elective surgery patient who happened to wander onto the wrong floor.

The elevator doors open.

“Hold that elevator, please,” I call out politely. I glance over my shoulder and see that the nurse hasn't returned to his station. No one else seems to notice me either. Despite what I'm wearing, it's almost like I'm invisible.

I step inside, hoping the woman next to me won't notice my flip-flops or my hospital clothes and that I'll be able to walk right out of here. She looks up from her tab just long enough to swipe her passcard and activate the elevator.

“Floor?” she inquires.

There's a ding as the neighboring elevator opens. My mom steps out and heads right toward the nurses' desk, just a few feet away.

“Lobby,” I say, as quietly as I can, moving toward the back of the elevator.

But I'm not quiet enough. At the sound of my voice, my mom turns. Her eyes lock on mine, and I see her surprise. But before she can move, the elevator doors slam shut. My stomach dips as the elevator begins its rapid descent.

We speed downward, dropping almost fifty floors in a period of seconds before it catches itself and rolls to a stop. The woman steps off, still staring at her tab. I press the lit-up
L
, hoping the rest of my descent will be as easy.