Mindwalker (35 page)

“The sun,” she says.

“Wouldn't you burn up?”

“Not if I had a special suit. You?”

“Pluto.”

She tilts her head in a way that makes me smile. “How come?”

“I dunno. I just want to.” I hug my knees to my chest. “Do you think it gets lonely out there on its own?”

“Nah,” she says. “It has a moon.” She curls an arm around my shoulders. “Charon. Like the girl's name, only spelled differently. They're almost the same size.”

“Your turn,” I say.

For a minute, she doesn't answer. Her smile disappears. She folds her arms over her knees, still holding the lighter, and stares straight ahead, as if she can see through the closet door to another place. “What do you think is the worst thing that can happen to a person?”

Goose bumps prickle on my arms and legs. “To die?” I say timidly.

She shakes her head. “Dying is scary, but being dead isn't. Once you're dead, you don't hurt anymore. The worst thing is being alive but dead on the inside.” Her eyes go fuzzy and faraway, and I can see the orange glow reflected in them. “I saw that happen to Danny before he disappeared. He couldn't talk or move. They kept him locked in a room like that for weeks. I don't—” Her voice breaks. “I don't want that to happen to us.”

“I won't let it happen,” I say fiercely. “I'll protect you.”

She smiles. “I know.” But her eyes are sad. I don't think she really believes me. She ruffles my hair. “We'll get out of here someday.”

“You think so?”

“Sure. But just in case.” She leans in, cups one hand around
the back of my neck, and kisses me on the lips. She tastes like smoke and ocean and milk and rain. She pulls back and smiles, showing the chipped front tooth again. “That's for luck.”

My cheeks blaze. “When we get out of here, will you marry me?” I blurt out.

She starts to laugh, then stops when she sees the look on my face. “Yeah,” she says. “I will. Promise. But will you promise me something in return?”

I nod. I would promise her anything, anything at all. If she asked me to take her to the moon, I would find a way.

Her throat moves as she swallows. Her fingers get tighter on the green plastic lighter until it seems it will snap in half. “In case they
do
ever break one of us, like they broke Danny, we have to swear …”

Her words fade, and her face goes blurry.

I slide through a foggy dark place, through whispering voices and flickering lights.

When I come out the other side of the darkness, I'm sitting in the corner of a tiny white room. The lights are too bright. Even when I squeeze my eyes shut, I can still feel the lights stinging me through my eyelids. I swallow, and my throat prickles with thirst.

I can't move my arms. They're folded tightly across my chest, held in place by a dusty-smelling straitjacket.

The door opens, and a man steps in. His hair and coat are white, so he seems to glow as he stares at me with calm gray eyes. His left hand is bandaged. “Are you ready to come out?” he asks in his deep voice.

I turn my face away and don't answer.

He holds up his bandaged hand. “Biting me was very bad. Before I let you out, I need to know that you're going to behave yourself. I want to hear you say you're sorry.”

I look away. I'm
not
sorry. I hope it still hurts.

He sighs. “Why do you insist on making this harder for yourself? You know we only want to help you.”

Inside the straitjacket, I ball my hands into fists. “I know what's really happening. I know what you're doing. Lizzie told me.”

His mouth tightens. “Did I ever tell you what condition Lizzie was in when we found her back in the state home? She had barricaded herself in her room. She thought the adults there were trying to kill her, and she would attack anyone who attempted to force the door open, even if they only wanted to bring her food. She was so scared to leave her room that she was starving. When they left food outside the door, she wouldn't eat it because she was afraid it might be drugged. Her mind is sick. Can you understand why she needs help? Why you
all
need help?”

I don't answer.

I understand how Lizzie feels. And whether or not the things she believes are true, I think she's found a bigger truth: grown-ups can't be trusted. Even the ones who seem nice will lie to kids. They do what they want and then make up their own reasons about why it's okay, and there's no way to know what's real and what's fake, so it's better not to believe anything they say.

“Steven.” His voice grows firmer. “Tell me you understand.”

I glare at him. “Fuck you.”

He presses his lips together. His eyes are cold and empty as he shuts the door.

More time passes. I'm hungry and thirsty and I have to go to the bathroom. My arms hurt from being stuck inside the straitjacket for so long.

Finally, the door creaks open again. “Steven?” asks a low, gentle voice. “Can you hear me?”

I give a small nod.

The door opens fully, and a man is standing there, a man with a short beard and brown eyes. “How long have you been in here?” he asks softly.

“I don't know.” My voice comes out small and scratchy.

He shakes his head and mutters, “This is outrageous. I told Emmanuel not to do this again.” He walks in, crouches, and undoes the buckles of my jacket. I slide my arms free. My legs wobble as I try to stand. I stumble, and the man steadies me. I flinch away from the touch.

“I'm sorry about this,” he says. “You shouldn't have been locked in here.”

I don't look up. I don't trust him. He seems nicer than Dr. Swan, but he's still a White Coat, and that means he's my enemy. “I want to see Lizzie,” I whisper.

He makes a little choked sound. For a few seconds, he doesn't say anything. “She's not feeling well.”

“I want to see her.”

He rubs the sides of his nose and closes his eyes. “Steven—” His voice cracks. “Even if you see her, she won't be able to talk to you.”

My throat swells, and tears burn the corners of my eyes. I
hate this so much. I hate
them,
the White Coats, with their watching eyes and their long needles filled with sleep. I hate them for the bad dreams, for the burning in my head, for the twisting pains that blur my vision and make me throw up. I know they're doing it to me, even if I don't know how. I don't remember anything that came before this—these rooms and these halls—and I feel like they took it from me, somehow. There's nothing they can't take away. And now they're trying to take her away, too.

“I don't care,” I say. “I want to see my friend.”

He hangs his head. “All right.”

We go down a narrow, dimly lit hall. Our footsteps echo, and his shoes squeak on the tiles. We stop in front of a door, and he hesitates. Then, slowly, he opens it.

Lizzie's sitting up in bed, her back against a stack of pillows. Her left eye is covered in bandages, and a few red spots have soaked through. Her right eye is wide and blank, and drool runs from one corner of her mouth. “Lizzie?” I say in a small voice. She doesn't answer. She doesn't even look at me.

My chest squeezes tight, making it hard to breathe. “What did you do to her?”

“We didn't do this,” he says, and his voice sounds empty. “She injured herself. She believed we had put an implant in her head. She shoved a pencil through her own eye socket, trying to remove this implant. We did our best to repair the damage, but …”

I'm dizzy. I can't breathe. My chest hurts as I walk toward the bed in little shuffling footsteps, staring into Lizzie's single eye. “Lizzie?” I touch her hand where it rests, like a dead bird, on the bedsheets. “Lizzie.” No response. “Lizzie!” I shake her. She flops back and forth.

“Steven.” Big hands grip my arms and try to pull me back.

“Don't touch me!”
I scream, struggling.

Lizzie flops down to the bed, limp. Her eye stares at nothing.

“Please.” My vision goes watery. “Please don't go. I don't want to be alone.” Still, she doesn't move. Doesn't look at me.

I know then—Lizzie is gone, like the others. Before her, it was Katie. And before that, Danny, and Louie, and Shawna. They all stopped talking, stopped moving, and then they disappeared, like Lizzie will disappear now. I'm the last one.

It hurts to breathe. I shake and shake. I want to run away, but I can't.

I promised.

I close my eyes and breathe in. I make my head as empty as I can make it. The shaking in my hands stops.

When she first asked me to promise, I cried. I told her I couldn't do it. But she said,
Please.
She said,
You're the only one I can trust.
I sniffled, eyes and nose leaking, and I promised her. Lizzie never asked for anything else. I have to do this.

“Can I be alone with her?” I whisper.

He's quiet. His head hangs low, like he's sad. Like he knows how awful this is and he wishes it would stop. For a second, I almost feel bad for him.

Except he
could
stop this. Anytime he wanted, he could make it stop, he could let us go. But he never does. There's something that's more important to him than us, than me. My head burns, and suddenly, I'm angrier than I've ever been. Until just then, I wasn't sure that I could do it—that I could keep my promise. But now I know I can. It's the only way I can fight the White Coats. It's the only way I can set her free.

“Please,” I say, keeping my face down so he can't see my eyes.

“All right,” he says, very softly. “I'll wait outside the door.” He leaves the room.

I turn to Lizzie. Still, she doesn't move. Her eye is a little slit, her mouth half open. If I don't look too hard, I can pretend that she's just sleepy.

I sit on the edge of the bed. I stroke her hair and run my fingers through it. It's light brown, downy, like baby-bird feathers. “I couldn't protect you,” I whisper. “I said I would, but I couldn't.” I clutch her hand. She doesn't clutch back. “I'm sorry.” I kiss her cheek. Then I push her gently down to the bed and tuck her covers in. She stares at the ceiling as I wrap my hands around her throat.

I can't breathe.

I open my mouth and try to gasp, but there's a crushing pressure around my throat. Steven hovers over me, still wearing the helmet, his eyes wide and blank, his thumbs pressing into my trachea. Tears shine on his cheeks.

He doesn't see me. He's still in the memory, in the dream.

I can't
breathe.

Panic crackles through my nerves as I grab Steven's hands and try to pry them away, but they clench tighter, squeezing enough to bruise. His eyes stare straight through me as my vision starts to fade. I grit my teeth and grip Steven's hands harder. A gray fog swims across my eyes. There's a vacuum in my chest. My lungs are empty, aching, screaming for air.
Steven, it's me, it's Lain!
I think. But of course, he can't hear me. The connection is one-sided.
Let go!

He keeps squeezing.

This is it. I'm going to die here, now, in this hall.

With the last of my strength, I pull back one hand and slap him hard enough to knock his head to one side. His hand flies to his cheek, and he falls back.

Air rushes into my lungs, and I gasp, cradling my throat as my vision slowly clears. I curl up, gagging and coughing.

“Lain.” He sits on the floor, blinking, like someone waking from a deep sleep. “Lain, you …” His gaze focuses on me, and the color drains from his face.

My eyes water and my throat burns, but I manage a weak smile. “I'm all right.” My voice is hoarse.

He looks like he's about to be sick. “Did
I
do this?” he whispers.

I sit up, still gingerly holding my throat. “It doesn't matter now.” I rub the tender flesh. It will probably bruise. Breathing hurts, but I
can
breathe, which hopefully means there's no permanent damage.

“We—we have to get you to a doctor.”

I shake my head. “It's not bad. Just give me some water.” I point to the backpack lying nearby.

He rakes his hands through his hair. It stands on end, so he looks like he's just been electrocuted. His eyes are huge, his face death-white. “How can you act so calm about this?”

“Water,” I croak. “Now.”

He fumbles through the pack and hands me a water bottle. I sip, wincing at the flare of pain in my throat. I nearly died. Honestly, I probably
should
be panicking. But what good would that do, really?

Half of my consciousness is still in that place, surrounded by white walls and cameras. A dark haze clings to my mind, as if I've just awakened from a nightmare. Nothing feels quite
real. I don't want to think about what I saw in there, but the image of my father's face burns in my mind.
Focus on the moment.