Seven Wonders Book 1: The Colossus Rises (3 page)

“GEEEAHHH!” I
BOLTED
upward and immediately regretted it. The back of my head felt as if it had been blasted open, and I was afraid my brains would fall out.

I had been facedown. I’d lifted myself to a push-up position, on a bed with sheets soaked in sweat. I dropped back to the mattress instantly, letting out a moan.

What had they done to me?

Partied on the back of my head, that was obvious. I was afraid to move, even to think. I lay still, face buried in the damp pillow, catching my breath. Slowly, the pain began to subside. The stillness helped.

You’re okay. You lifted yourself too fast. Breathe in…breathe out
…

I tried to think positively. The last thing I remembered, Dr. Flood was rushing off to notify the OR. That meant I’d had an operation. Okay. This made sense. I wasn’t convulsing or dizzy or hallucinating anymore. No more wooziness. I had a voice. I could move and see. So the operation must have worked, and I was hurting because of the surgery. That had to be it. When Dad had had surgery on his back a year ago, he’d been in bed for two days. I would need to recover, that’s all. I had to look on the bright side.

Surgery, I realized, was a good excuse for missing a math test.

I took a deep breath. Had they cured whatever had happened to me?

In a few moments, I cautiously turned my head. I could see that they’d moved me to another part of the hospital. Dressed me in a set of pajama pants and a neat white polo shirt. It was quiet here, not like the first room. No beeps or voices or traffic noise. The room was dimly lit by a pre-morning glow. The walls seemed to be a peaceful bluish shade, maybe turquoise. The floor was polished wood.

“Hello?” My voice was hoarse and barely audible. I wondered where I was. How long I’d been out.

A breeze wafted over me, pungent and salty.

Salty?

I moved a little more until I could see the windows. They were open. A nearly full moon was fading overhead
into a shimmering, silvery sky. I’d seen that color only once before, on the day after Mom had died. Dad and I had stayed up all night and seen the sun rise.

It was warm out, but I’d been wearing a coat when I had my accident.

I thought back to what the doctor had said.
A highly rare set of symptoms
. Patients with rare conditions sometimes had to go to special hospitals with the right doctors and equipment. This seemed like California or Hawaii.

A closed door stood about ten feet away. Carefully I rolled over and sat up. The back of my head felt like an epic smackdown between John Henry and Thor. I sat for a long moment, took some deep breaths, and stood.

With tiny steps, I shuffled toward the door. I was fine as long as I didn’t move my head too much. Propping myself up on the doorjamb, I pushed the door open onto a long hallway.

It had a new-building smell, like sawdust and plastic. A carpet stretched down the corridor, past a few closed doors. At the end of it, a hospital orderly sat on a stool, snoring. His back was against the wall, his face drooped down into his chest. He had broad shoulders and sharp cheekbones. A flat cap was pulled down across his eyes, and he wore fatigues and thick boots. On his belt was a holstered pistol.

What kind of hospital
armed
its orderlies?

Waking him up seemed risky. I backed into the room.
I needed to call Dad. I wondered if he’d landed yet, and if he knew where I was. How long had I been unconscious? How much time had passed since I was in Indiana?

Slowly I worked my way over to the foot of the bed. There, on top of a steamer chest, someone had placed my backpack and my clothes, neatly folded. I reached around in the pockets of the folded jeans for my phone, but it was gone. It wasn’t in my backpack, either.

But Mom’s birthday mirror was.

I pulled it out. Her smile seemed to blast out of the photo, cutting through the darkness. Across the room, the bathroom door was open, and I could see my reflection in shades of gray. I wondered what exactly they’d done to the back of my head.

Taking the mirror into the bathroom, I turned on the light.

I barely recognized the kid in the big mirror over the sink. My face was ghostly pale, my head completely shaved. I noticed for the first time a monogram on the polo shirt—KI.

I turned and held the small mirror so I could see the back of my head in the larger one. The white hair had been shaved off with the rest. But someone had drawn a shape in black marker, from the top to the bottom of my head, outlining exactly where the upside-down V had been. Bandages had been placed at the bottom of each line, just above the neck.
I touched one and began to pull, but the pain was too sharp. There must have been stitches underneath. Incisions.

“What the—?” The mirror slipped from my hand and crashed to the counter. The mirror cracked instantly, as did the frame, one horizontal line down the center, separating the image of four-year-old me from still-alive Mom.

As I reached to pick it up, I heard a click behind me. I spun around to see a figure standing in the door. It was a guy about six feet tall. He slipped inside and shut the door behind him. “Hey,” he said. “You okay?”

I stepped toward the bed, barely feeling the pain now. “Fine, I guess,” I rasped. “Who are you?”

“Marco Ramsay.” He was wearing the same clothes as I was, but three or four sizes larger. His shoulders were wide, his feet enormous. He had high, chiseled cheekbones dotted with small patches of acne. Dark brown hair hung down to his brow, making his eyes seem to peer out of a cave. They darted toward the door as if he’d done something wrong. “Because I heard a noise from in here…” he said.

“I dropped a mirror, that’s all,” I said. “Um, I’m Jack.”

He nodded. “Yeah, I know. Anyway, that dude outside—you know, Conan? Special Ops, Sleep Division? He should have been in here to check on you, but it’s hard to wake him up. And if you do, he gets nasty. So I figured I’d check in myself. But it looks like you’re okay, so I guess
I’ll go…” He began to turn back to the door.

“Wait!” I said. “This guy, Conan? Since when do they allow guns in a hospital?”

Marco gave an uncomfortable shrug. “Maybe one of the patients is a terrorist?”

The door swung open again and two others scurried in, a skinny guy and a girl with dyed-pink hair and a mole on her left cheek. She was about my age and looked like someone you didn’t cross. The guy seemed maybe a little younger and was a curly-haired version of George, the little guy from my school who’d been bullied by Barry Reese. “This is what we’re doing? We’re going to be in deep doo-doo, Marco,” the little guy said.

“Fun’s over,” the girl added, her voice a tense whisper. “C’mon, back to the kennel, Big Foot.”

Marco laughed. “Oh, look who’s Little Miss Obedient!” he said, also in a strange, whispery voice.

“Why are you guys whispering?” I said. “And what are you talking about?
Kennel?
”

“That’s supposed to be a joke,” Marco said. “Aly is a one-person Comedy Central.”

“Time to go!” said the shorter guy, his voice about three times as loud as the others. As he pulled the door wide open, he gave a dramatic wave. “See you at breakfast!”

“Dude, you’ll wake Conan!” Marco snapped. “Last time we did that, he punctured my basketball.”

“
Will you guys at least tell me who you are and what we’re all doing here?
” I shouted.

From out in the hallway, Conan let out a snort and a mumble. Marco froze.

The little guy was halfway out the door. “I’m Cass Williams, and this is Aly Black. Look, don’t get the wrong impression. We love this place, really. You will, too. It’s awesome. They’ll tell you everything soon. But we’re not supposed to be here right now. That’s all.”

Aly nodded and scurried out the door. Marco backed out, too, shooting me a thumbs-up. “Seriously, dude. Best place in the world. Great breakfasts. All you can eat. We’re all happy here. Later.”

Before I could say another thing, they were gone.

For a moment I wanted to race after them, but I knew my head would explode with the effort. And I didn’t want to risk waking the guy with the gun.

Plus, that was about the creepiest conversation I’d had in my life. Who were these losers? This felt like one big prank. Some crazy reality TV show.
Postsurgical Punk’d
.

I sank onto the bed and pinched my right arm, just to be sure I wasn’t dreaming. No chance of falling back to sleep now. Morning light was beginning to filter in through the windows, and I could see the room more clearly. I noticed a flag on the wall to my right, with a symbol that matched the one on my shirt:

The initials weren’t familiar. I searched for a call button, some kind of signal for a nurse. Nothing. No button, no medicine cabinet, no rolling tables or IV drips or hanging televisions. There was nothing hospital-like about this place at all.

I tried to think back to what had happened at Belleville. Had anyone said anything about moving me?

I’d had dizziness. I’d fallen into the street. In the hospital, there was this expert and Dr. Flood. She was worried. Some chaplain was there to perform last rites and
that confused her…

But I never sent a request for a chaplain
…

The chaplain had grabbed my arm. I remembered him now. Huge face, bulbous nose.
Red Beard
. The same guy who’d passed my house only an hour earlier, barefooted and without a clerical collar. He had tied me to a table and injected me with something. He wasn’t a chaplain. He was helping Dr. Saark. But helping him do what?

I wanted desperately to contact Dad. Just one phone call. I turned toward the window. The sky was brightening in the rising sun. Carefully I stood up. The pain wasn’t quite as intense as it had been. I guessed it was the sudden movement that had really torpedoed me. I’d be fine if I slowed down.

I stepped toward the window and gazed out. Before me stretched a long, grassy lawn nearly the length of a football field, crisscrossed with paths. Surrounding the lawn were old-fashioned red brick buildings, most with tidy, white-shuttered windows. They seemed old, but some of them had sections with glass ceilings. If the lawn were a clock I’d be at the bottom, or six o’clock. To the left, about nine, was a grand, museum-like structure with pillars and wide stairs, kind of the centerpiece. At around two, tucked between the red brick buildings, was a sleek glass-and-steel structure that seemed out of place. The whole thing was peaceful looking, like a college campus plopped into the middle of a
jungle. Trees surrounded the compound like a thick green collar stretching in all directions as far as the eye could see. Except for the left side—west.

Way beyond the big museum building, a massive black rock mountain loomed darkly over everything. It thrust upward through the greenery like a clenched fist into the softening sky. It seemed almost fluid, changing its shape with the movement of the morning mists.

A murmur of distant voices made me look across the compound. A pair of men dressed in khaki uniforms emerged from the side of a distant building. “Hello?” I called out, but my voice was too weak to carry.

As they stepped into the dim light, I saw that both of them were carrying rifles. Big ones, with ammo.

I ducked away from the window. This was no hospital. I was in lockdown. Were these people coming for me? Already they’d kidnapped me, drilled holes in the back of my head, and stuck me in some sort of bizarre prep school with a bunch of brainwashed zombies. Why? And what were they going to do for an encore?

I made my way silently back across the room. The window on the other side had a much different view. It looked away from the campus. The only thing separating the building from the surrounding jungle was a scraggly clearing, about twenty yards of rocky soil. Beyond it was a thicket of trees. In the dawn light, the jungle looked dense
and almost black. But I could see a path leading into it, and that made my blood pump a little faster. Every path had a destination. Wherever this was—Hawaii, California, Mexico, South America—there had to be a road somewhere to a town or city. Stuff had been built here, which meant bricks and materials had been trucked in. If I could find a road and hitch a ride, I’d be able to locate a pay phone or use somebody’s cell. Call Dad. Contact the news media. Report this place.