The 13th Reality, Volume 2: The Hunt for Dark Infinity Page 16

  “What did you put in here?” he asked. They stood by the window overlooking the Grand Canyon, the early streams of sunrise reflecting off the sheer stone walls with a reddish glow. “Some bricks in case I need to build a house?”

  Mothball laughed. “Methinks you’ve a sense of humor after all, Sato.” She reached down and tousled the hair on Rutger’s head. “Almost as funny as this one, ’ere.”

  Rutger huffed. “He only seems funny because he’s the world’s biggest grouch. Anything slightly different pops out of his mouth, and everyone laughs like he’s Bojinkles the Clown.”

  “Who?” Sato asked.

  Rutger slapped his hands to his face. “Who? Who?” He stomped his right foot. “Don’t tell me you haven’t heard of Bojinkles! Oh, how he made me chuckle when I’d read him in the funny parcels as a kid . . .”

  His voice wandered off as he stared at something through the window, seemingly lost in childhood memories. Sato and Mothball exchanged a look, both of them stifling a laugh.

  Just then, George entered the room, his face flushed like he’d been running a race. He held a Barrier Wand in one hand, so sparkly and shiny it appeared brand-new.

  “Ah!” he said. “Looks like Master Sato is all set and ready to go.”

  George stepped in front of Sato, inspecting him like he was a soldier going off to war. Sato still felt confused inside, his mind and heart full of swirling, haunted images and feelings. He’d grown to trust George and the others, had grown to accept his role as a Realitant. He’d especially solidified his resolve to avenge the murder of his parents.

  And yet . . . for so many years, the man before him had represented all the terrible things in his life. George had been there that day. Why hadn’t he saved his parents?

  “Ready as I’ll ever be,” Sato said, momentarily closing his eyes to squeeze away his ill thoughts.

  “Splendid,” George said, taking a step back so he could look at the three of them. “Our dear friend Sally is off, too. He, er, didn’t want to say good-bye because of, er, well, you know—what we did to his hair to disguise him. The old chap’s surprisingly vain about his looks after all.”

  “Well, I do know how he feels,” Rutger said, smoothing his black hair.

  George turned to Sato, his face serious, squinting as if he couldn’t quite focus on Sato’s face. “Are you certain about this?”

  “I’m doing this for my parents.”

  George nodded absentmindedly. “Yes, yes, indeed. Your bravery would make them proud.”

  Sato fumed inside. He wanted to scream at the old man, blame him for their deaths. But he stayed silent, channeling his thoughts into the task at hand.

  “The needle and vials are in the outer pocket of your pack,” Rutger said. “They’re bubble-wrapped for protection, but please be careful. You have only a couple of extras.”

  George grunted, but Sato wasn’t sure what that meant. “We want you to get in and get out. You’ll be winking to the original Reality, the . . . host Reality where all of this nonsense began. It’s not one of the major branches, and it’s fragmenting as we speak. Still not sure of the event that was so powerful as to make them completely unstable.” He shook his head. “I need not remind you of the necessity of caution.”

  “In and out,” Sato said, staring at the wall in front of him. An old picture of Muffintops hung there, a close-up from when she was a kitten, licking something that looked suspiciously like George’s foot. “The first crazy person I meet. No problem.”

  Rutger cleared his throat. “It might not be that easy. Most people won’t let you walk up and stick a needle in them.”

  “’Specially the crazies,” Mothball added.

  “Then I’ll use the . . . thing you gave me.” Sato jerked his head toward the top of his backpack.

  “Only as a last resort,” George said, holding up a finger. “A last resort.”

  Sato shrugged. “Last resort. What does it matter—they’re all crazy.”

  “It matters because we’re trying to save them, find a cure,” George answered.

  “But it’s a fragmented Reality,” Sato countered. “Again, what does it matter?”

  George shook his head. “It’s not our place to determine the value of their lives, Master Sato. They’re people, just like you and me.”

  “Chances are one of ’em is you, actually,” Mothball said with a quick snort of a laugh. When no one responded, she continued, “His Alterant. Get it?”

  “Yes, Mothball, we got it,” Rutger muttered as he shot a look at Sato as if to say, just humor her. “Good one, very funny.”

  As for Sato, his head spun; it was impossible to wrap his rational mind around the confusing facts of how the multiverse functioned. “I’m ready. Wink me away.”

  George held up the Barrier Wand in both hands. “You’ll appear on the stone outcropping of a mountain; it’s soaked in Chi’karda, for reasons we don’t know. Return there when you’ve obtained the blood sample. Rutger will have his eyes glued to the command console and will wink you back the instant you’re ready. Your nanolocator is in good working condition.”

  “Okay,” Sato said, taking a deep breath as he reached out and clasped his hands around the bottom of the golden cylinder. Just do it before I change my mind.

  “Best of lu—” Mothball started to say, but she was cut off with the click of the Wand ignition button.

  Sato winked away.

  ~

  “Mmm, this rabbit food ain’t so bad,” Paul mumbled through a bite of fancy salad—walnuts and pears scattered over dark green leaves.

  They sat at a table in the hotel restaurant, the last gloomy glow of sunset painting the large windows a sleepy amber. They’d spent most of the day walking, making three complete trips around the main road that circled the town—aptly named Circle City. They saw nothing new—more buildings, more nicely-dressed people, more glittering fountains, more eerie opera music—as they discussed the riddle and the possible hidden meaning behind it between long bouts of silence.

  “This Reality must not have an Italy,” Sofia said. “Nothing on the menu even comes close to real food.”

  Tick nodded, too busy eating to say anything. He’d ordered something he couldn’t pronounce but which looked and tasted like pork chops, and he was loving every bite. Sofia, stubborn as usual, hadn’t even ordered yet, still staring at the menu like an impossible homework problem.

  “Just get the chicken stuff,” Paul said, wiping his mouth. “They eat chicken in Italy, don’t they?”

  “Well . . .” Sofia said, her eyes focusing on one item. “This one does have some kind of cheese on it.”

  “Really?” Paul said, leaning over to take a look at where her finger pointed. “Chicken and cheese. I’m getting that next time.”

  Tick quit listening to them, having noticed a strange man enter the restaurant, looking about as if he was lost. He was heavily built, head shaved bald, and dressed in a suit as fancy as any Tick had ever seen worn by Master George. The man’s eyes finally fell on Tick and his friends, and he started walking directly for them, stumbling twice in his polished new shoes.

  “Uh-oh,” Tick whispered. When Paul and Sofia looked at him, he nodded toward the stranger.

  “Who’s that guy?” Paul asked.

  Tick only shrugged.

  When the man reached their table, he bowed awkwardly. “Good . . . day,” he said very slowly, taking time to carefully pronounce each word. “I . . . welcome . . . you . . . to . . . our . . . city.”

  He bowed again, then turned to walk away. As he took his first step, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a slip of paper, and let it fall to the floor. It was such an obvious act that none of them called it to the man’s attention. He kept moving, continuing in his halting gait until he’d left the restaurant, never once turning around to look back.

  Paul practically jumped onto the floor to pick up the paper, then unfolded it on the table. Tick and Sofia scooted their chairs around to see the
message:

  DO NOT READ THIS ALOUD!

  I’m a friend of Master George.

  Meet me in Tick’s room at 9:00.

  Don’t say a word to me.

  We must communicate in writing.

  People are listening.

  ~

  The first thing Sato felt was frigid air, gusting in short bursts of wind that bit through his clothes, pricking his skin like dagger points. Feeling as if he’d just plunged into an icy lake, he gasped for air as he swung off his backpack and searched for the thick down coat within. As he pulled it out and stuffed his arms inside the soft, warm lining, he gaped at the place George had decided to send him.

  The highest reaches of an enormous mountain, blanketed in snow.

  He stood near the edge of a rocky outcropping which overlooked an infinite expanse of clouds, thin peaks of smaller mountains thrusting through the cottony layer here and there, black stone frosted in white. Above him, the sky was deep and dark and blue, like an ocean hanging impos-sibly over him. Realizing how high up he was, Sato stumbled backward, falling into the soft snow. The world seemed to sway around him.

  He scrambled up and turned his back to the cliff, brushing the snow off before the cold stuff melted and soaked through. To his left, a steep path led up the mountain, the barely visible steps of roughly cut stone glistening with ice. If that was the way he needed to go, it would be a treacherous journey. Other than a sparse bush and a few dead trees, he saw no sign of life anywhere—just endless rock and ice and snow.

  Sato took a few steps to the right, hoping to see a more reasonable trail he could follow, but the jutting slice of rock ended in a sheer, knife-edge cliff, as if a recent earthquake had sent a huge chunk of the mountain falling to its splitting, crumpled death far below.

  There was only one way to go.

  Securing his pack, he started up the ancient stairway. He placed his feet very carefully, bracing them against the small vertical slab of stone marking the next step. Just when he thought he had the hang of it, his left foot slid backward, throwing his whole body forward; his chest slammed into a jutting edge of rock. Holding back a cry of pain, he chastised himself and took more care, leaning forward to grip the stairs above him with his hands, as if he were climbing a ladder.

  The wind picked up, throwing spurts of snow into his face like cold, rough sand. The sun, though unhindered by clouds above him, failed to provide even a spark of warmth. He had to stop every few minutes to blow warm air into his cupped hands, rubbing them together to create friction. His ears and face grew numb. He looked up, hoping to see signs of life, a building, anything. Nothing.

  He kept going, step by frigid step.

  A half-hour went by. Sato started to worry that George had made a serious mistake, sent him to an abandoned nowhere by accident.

  “George,” he spoke aloud, though the wind seemed to snap his words out of the air and whisk them away. “If you can hear me through the nanolocator—what’s going on? I’m freezing to death!”

  Half-hoping he’d be winked away, Sato kept moving up the stairs.

  Forty or fifty steps later, he finally saw the end of the staircase—a place where the stone stopped and all was white, a wall of snow and ice reaching for the sky. His heart sank at the thought that he might’ve reached a dead end.

  Legs burning, limbs aching, skin frozen, he reached the uppermost step, which led out onto a small landing that faced a solid wall of dark granite, crystalline icicles hanging from the brief canopy of rock that protected it. In the middle of the wall was an iron door, ridges of rusty bolts lined around its outer edges. On the door was a sign, faded letters barely legible in the awful weather conditions.

  Sato took a few steps forward to read the sign, his eyes squinted. They widened when he realized what it said:

  End of the Road Insane Asylum

  Mountaintop Exit

  To Be Used for the Execution

  of Inmates Only

  Chapter

  25

  ~

  Cotton Ears

  No one said a word, their eyes glancing at the clock every few seconds. In eight minutes, it would be nine o’clock—when they expected the visitor.

  Tick sat on the bed, his back resting on a stack of pillows he’d pushed against the wall. In his mind, he’d been picturing the stranger who’d dropped off the note, trying to decide if they’d ever met. There was something vaguely familiar about him, but all Tick could remember was how strange the man acted, sounding out each word and looking about nervously.

  Three minutes to go.

  “What do you think—” Paul whispered, but Sofia punched him on the arm, then made a slashing gesture at her neck. Paul winced as he rubbed his shoulder.

  They’d been dying to talk about the note since dinner, but paranoia kept their mouths shut—except for the occasional slip up from Paul. The stranger’s message said people were listening, and now Tick couldn’t sneeze without wondering what the snoopers might think. If the note was even true in the first place.

  A barely discernible click sounded as the big hand on the old-fashioned clock struck nine. All three of them turned their heads toward the room’s door, as if expecting the stranger to walk in precisely on time. He didn’t.

  Several minutes went by with no sign of their visitor. Paul finally got out of his chair and paced the floor, shaking his head and mumbling something under his breath. He stopped at the desk and wrote a few words on the pad of paper provided by the hotel, then tore the piece off and showed it to Sofia. She shrugged, and then Paul brought it over to Tick.

  Don’t we seem suspicious sitting here and not saying anything?

  Tick nodded, but didn’t know what else they could do. If people were really spying on them, they’d certainly be alarmed at how silent their prey had become.

  I wish the guy would just hurry up and get here, Tick thought.

  Paul sat back down in his chair. A few more minutes passed. A shadow crossed over the small slit under the door, catching Tick’s attention out of the corner of his eye. He shifted on the bed and put his feet on the floor, leaning forward, expecting to hear a knock.

  Nothing.

  Tick exchanged questioning looks with Paul and Sofia, then got up and walked over to the door. It didn’t have a peephole, so Tick reached forward and slowly pushed down on the lever handle. A loud click filled the room like a clap of thunder; he squeezed his eyes shut, not even sure what he was afraid of.

  After a few seconds of silence, he jerked the door open and looked into the hallway, ready to slam it shut again at any sign of trouble.

  The stranger from the restaurant sat on the red-carpeted floor, his back against the opposite wall. He still wore the dark suit, his shoes so shiny that the hallway light reflected off them and into Tick’s eyes. As soon as he saw Tick, he put his right index finger to his lips—a reminder they weren’t supposed to talk.

  Feeling uneasy, but unsure what else they could do, Tick stepped back and opened the door wide, gesturing with a sweep of his arm that the stranger should come in. The large man—bald head and all—got to his feet and entered the room, giving a quick nod to Paul and Sofia. Tick closed the door as quietly as he could.

  The man sat on the bed, waving for the others to come and stand around him. As Tick and his friends obeyed, the stranger pulled out a photograph, a few pieces of paper, and a ballpoint pen. He’d already written one note and handed it to Tick along with the picture. In it, the man stood with Master George in front of the fireplace at the Grand Canyon Realitant complex, both of them with wide smiles; Muffintops perched on the mantle behind Master George’s right shoulder.

  The message was clear: they could trust the guy.

  Paul and Sofia crowded closer as they read the note together:

  Your nanolocators done been hijacked. And this hotel is bugged like a bugger.

  It’s not Master George winking you willy-nilly. Reginald Chu is behind everything.

  You MUST keep passing t
hat sucker’s tests.

  At first, Tick felt like he was reading Spanish or French or Chinese—the words didn’t click inside his brain. Such a monumental statement surely couldn’t be said in a quickly scribbled note. He looked at the stranger, knowing his face showed the confusion he felt.

  Master George’s friend rolled his eyes and wrote another message, hastily scratching the paper with the pen. Then he held it up for them to read:

  You’ve been under the control of Reginald Chu

  all along. He’s testing you. Not Master George.

  It’s Chu—it’s all been Chu.

  Something shuddered in Tick’s chest; the room swayed. Losing his balance, he stumbled backward, falling into the chair where Paul had been sitting earlier.

  Everything they’d just been through . . . the pain they’d felt in the forest, the riddles, the metaspides, the weird tunnel with its beast? All of it had been orchestrated by Reginald Chu? They’d suspected all along it wasn’t Master George, but Chu? The man Rutger called the most evil in the universe?

  “How—” Sofia said, then snapped her lips closed.

  Tick felt like he was watching from a distance, the room still spinning. He kept picturing Mr. Chu, his science teacher, appearing in the woods, filthy and acting crazy. Had that really been him? Or had it been Reginald Chu from the Fourth Reality? Were they Alterants of each other? Was it possible they were the same person?

  When Tick had been a small boy, he’d fallen off a ride at the water park, dozens of feet in the air. If he hadn’t landed on the pile of large rafting tubes, he would have smacked into the cement and been one dead kid. It had taken him weeks to get over that “too close for comfort” feeling.

  That was exactly how he felt now. To know they’d come so close to being killed by the metaspides and the tunnel monster scared him. What if they hadn’t figured out the name of the pub where they escaped by sitting in that chair? What if they’d left the red square in the glass tube? How would things have turned out if they’d known someone so sinister was behind it all?