Mindwalker (34 page)

My fingers curl inward, hiding in my palms. “I just—I have a lot of things I need to figure out. I don't know what's right or wrong. And I don't know what's going to happen after this is all over. I need time.”

Only the low hum of the engine breaks the silence as he stares straight ahead. Then he turns his head toward me and gives me a small, lopsided smile. There's a hint of sadness in his eyes. “Fair enough.”

That smile makes me ache. I want to give him more. I want to tell him that we can be together after this—if there even
is
an “after this.” But I just can't. I'm too confused.

The road's become bumpier. The car jolts and rattles along until we reach a fork. Thorn Road continues straight ahead while a nameless dirt road branches off to the east. It's little more than a deer path, too narrow for a car. We stop and get out. “This is it,” Steven says. “This road. It'll take us to St. Mary's. I'm sure of it.”

It's still early morning, but the clouds have grown so thick, it feels like twilight. I hug myself, shivering. I look down Thorn Road, which continues due north through the forest, toward the border. Then I look down the narrow, shadowy path that leads into the unknown. Into Steven's past. “You think it's all right to leave the car here?” I ask.

“Well, I doubt it'll get towed.”

I take the Gate out of the backseat and wrestle it into the backpack, along with the helmets. It's heavy, but not unmanageable. If we take turns carrying it, we should be fine.

He starts to walk, pine needles crunching underfoot. I follow. The path is so dark, it's like moving through a tunnel. The
car recedes behind us and vanishes, swallowed up by trees and underbrush.

Thunder growls in the distance. A few raindrops kiss the back of my neck, and I glance nervously at the sky. “Maybe this is a bad idea.”

Steven shakes his head. “I want to finish this.”

We keep walking. Steven starts to lag behind, puffing and wheezing. “Damn,” he says. “How are you in better shape than I am? You're supposed to be the egghead, aren't you?”

“I go to the gym. A healthy mind resides in a healthy body, that's what …” I trail off, the words
Father always said
dying in my throat. I feel reluctant to bring up Father right now. If Steven notices the slip, he doesn't say anything.

I quicken my pace.

Steven lets out a groan and presses a hand to his chest. “Slow down. My lungs are giving me grief.”

“If you took better care of yourself, this wouldn't be so difficult,” I can't resist pointing out.

“And if I had wings, I could fly there like a little birdie.” He stumbles over a root and curses. He walks into a spiderweb and picks it out of his hair, grimacing. “Nature is so overrated.”

Despite the knot in my stomach, a tiny smile tugs at my lips.

The wind has picked up, and the trees sway ominously, but the rain still holds off. I stop, staring ahead. “I think I see it.”

“Where?”

“There.” I point to a dim shape looming through the trees. As we draw nearer, the shape coalesces into a castle-like brick building with barred windows, surrounded by an
empty courtyard and a crumbling brick wall. A pair of iron gates hang from the wall by their hinges, rusted and creaking faintly in the wind, and a weed-choked path leads up to the main doors.

“Looks like the set of a horror movie,” Steven remarks.

“Well, it's an abandoned mental institution. Creepiness sort of goes with the territory.”

“Wonder if we'll meet any ghosts.”

“Maybe.” We've been taking turns wearing the backpack. I have it now, and its weight is comforting against my back. But a heavy, cold layer of dread has settled into my stomach like cement. “Ready?”

Steven gives me a strained smile. “No. But I already made up my mind. I'm going in there.”

I stretch out a hand to him. He takes it, and we wind our fingers together. His hand is warm. An anchor to cling to.

We walk through the gates, down the path toward St. Mary's. Bits of stone crunch underfoot. Over the years, the forest has climbed over the wall and into the courtyard, and a dense carpet of autumn-brown bushes covers everything. I try to imagine what the place might have looked like in its heyday. Maybe there were gardens. Maybe the patients worked out here, clad in shapeless white uniforms, picking tomatoes or apples, their movements hindered by the chains on their ankles. They still used chains in those days.

I think of the Typing system, the cameras, the constant, looming threat of reclassification. We still have chains, I realize—we all do. They're just less visible now.

Thunder rumbles fitfully in the distance as we approach the main doors. They are closed, but the wood is so ancient
and rotted it looks like it would crumble apart at a touch. A heavy, rusted iron padlock hangs from a chain. Steven kicks the lock, and it drops to the ground with a thud, like a piece of overripe fruit.

He pushes the doors, and they creak open, revealing a wide hall. Hazy gray sunlight, not quite bright enough to pierce the shadows, shines through holes in the ceiling. At the end of the hall, on a pedestal, stands a statue of a robed figure with its arms outstretched, lit by a beam from above.

I pull the two flashlights from my backpack and hand one to Steven. I flick mine on, and the bright yellow beam cuts through the gloom. “Ready?”

Steven turns on his own flashlight and nods. We walk forward. Dry leaves rustle under our feet, leaves that have found their way in through the gaps in the ceiling. When I look up, directing my flashlight into the rafters, I see crows nesting there. Startled, they caw and flap their wings. A few fly up through the gaps, into the charcoal sky. I sweep the beam across the wall to our left and over a row of doors. Some are shut, others hang half open. When I shine the light in the doors, I see only empty rooms: a few naked bed frames, nothing more.

“Well, it certainly looks deserted.” My voice sounds too loud and somehow profane in the deep, oppressive stillness.

Maybe there's nothing here, after all. Maybe this is a waste of time.

The crows peer down at me, and the wind howls faintly outside.

I consider myself a reasonable person, not given to flights of fancy or superstition. But I've always had a dim sense of things that lurk outside human comprehension. Sometimes,
intuition—that lightning-swift subconscious computer, honed through millions of years of evolution—can sniff out clues even when the greater picture remains beyond the mind's reach. And this place makes my intuition tingle and electricity dance beneath my skin. Something happened here; that much I'm sure of. Something terrible.

I realize Steven hasn't replied. He stands motionless, staring at the statue at the end of the hall. When my thumb brushes over his wrist, I feel his pulse drumming just below the surface, hard and fast. “Steven?”

He shakes his head, as if stirring himself from a trance, and exhales a shuddering breath. “So, are we going to do this or what?”

I dig around in my pocket, fish out the compact, and flip it open. The dragon pill rolls around inside. Steven plucks it out, but doesn't take it—just looks at it, his expression grim.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” I ask.

He curls a fist tight around the pill. “Don't start saying stuff like that,” he says. “I'll lose my nerve.” He flashes me a quick smile, though his complexion is wax-white.

I hesitate, looking up into his eyes. And I'm struck, again, by how very strong he is. The horrors he's endured would have shattered most people, yet he's still alive, still moving forward, facing the nightmares again and again. That's the thing most people don't understand about trauma—it doesn't stop after it's over. It lives on inside, day after day, year after year. The broken fragments of his mind are held together with sheer, stubborn willpower.

I reach up to touch his cheek. “No matter what happens, I'll be here.”

He closes his eyes briefly, as if savoring the touch, and lays his hand over mine. “Damned if I know why,” he says quietly. “You could do a lot better, you know.”

I wish I could find the words that will make him understand his own worth. Maybe I could show him. For a moment, I find myself leaning forward. It would be so easy.

“What are you thinking right now?” he asks, voice soft and husky.

I swallow, heart hammering. “That I want to kiss you. But I shouldn't. I mean—” I let out a weak laugh. “I just got done telling you that I need to wait and figure things out.”

He slides his fingers into my hair, and a warm shiver runs through me. He holds my head in place, searching my face, his gaze lingering on each feature. He leans down until I can feel the heat of his breath on my lips. Our eyes are so close together, I can't focus. I wait, holding my breath—and then he pulls back, slowly, as if it takes an effort. His hand drops away from my head.

I want to cry out in protest.

“As soon as you've figured things out,” he says, “let me know.”

The space between us suddenly feels much wider, and the warmth in my chest goes cold. I'm the one who wanted to wait, I remind myself. He's respecting my wishes. But it still feels like rejection.

“Well,” he says, “here goes nothing.” He tosses the pill into his mouth and swallows it.

There's no time to delay. The drug acts quickly; it's working its way into his bloodstream even now. I open the backpack and set the Gate's hard drive on the floor. He grabs his
helmet and shoves it on, buckling the strap under his chin. I pick up my own. The white plastic is cool, slick, and familiar beneath my fingertips. With shaking hands, I slide the helmet over my head, and the warm tingling washes across my scalp.

Steven sways on his feet. His dizziness hits me like an avalanche, making me stagger. The walls tilt and shimmer around me. The cawing of crows rings in my ears.

“Lie down.” It takes an effort to form the words.

He stretches out on the floor. His chest heaves, the movement so rapid it's almost a flutter. His eyes are wide and blank, fixed on the ceiling.

The walls start to melt around me. I close my eyes and focus on breathing until the dizziness recedes.
It's not real. It's not real.
When I open my eyes again, my vision is blurry but otherwise normal. “Steven, can you hear me?”

He groans. His body twitches and shivers. Sweat drips down his face and neck. Already, he's deep within the dream.

I lie down next to him, take his hand, and surrender. I have the sense that I'm falling upward. A chorus of voices swells in my ears, unearthly warbling wails, some high, some deep.

A dark hole opens in the air above me. It sucks me in like a hungry mouth.

I'm drifting through a misty sea filled with echoing, dimly sensed voices, a low murmur, more felt than heard, like a vibration in my bones. I don't know who I am or where I am.

There is at once something repulsive and deeply comforting about this place. There is no time here. Objects emerge from the mist—chairs, clocks, windows, bits and pieces of broken things. They appear and then vanish, swallowed by the haze. I see the statue from St. Mary's, but it's bigger than life, looming over me. A dark hole opens under it, and I'm falling—then racing toward a bright aperture, like a hole in storm clouds. There's a shining whiteness beyond, and I can hear voices, a boy's and a girl's. I can't make out what they're saying.

I float toward the voices, toward the whiteness. It grows, brightening, and engulfs me.

I'm walking through a hall, my heart tripping in my throat. A camera stares down from the ceiling like a dark eye.
I see my reflection in it as I sneak along the wall with Lizzie, clutching her hand. Her fingers are thin and warm, and our palms are sweaty, rubbing together. It should feel gross, but it doesn't.

She smiles at me, showing a chipped front tooth.

We turn the corner. She opens the door, and we slip inside. It's just a closet filled with bottles and mops, and there's a fake piney smell that makes my nose itch, but when we're huddled in here together, it's the best place in the world. Our secret place.

A tiny spark jumps in the dark, and I see Lizzie holding a stolen lighter in her skinny fingers. The flame dances in her eyes.

She's ten, two years older than me.

For a few minutes, we just sit quietly together in the dark, watching the flame. “What kind of animal would you be, if you could?” she whispers in my ear.

I lean my head against her shoulder, thinking. “Squirrel. Because I could climb and jump through the trees, and no one would catch me. What about you?”

“I'd be a tiger,” she says, “because no one messes with a tiger.”

I snuggle against her shoulder.

“All right, your turn,” she says. “Ask me a question.”

I think for a few seconds. “If you could go anywhere in the whole solar system, where would you go?”