Nightmare Academy Page 16

  The earth had been level enough to stand on, but suddenly, with only his feet to tell him, the level ground became a hill. He lost his balance and fell against a tree, but the tree didn't stop his fall. He rolled on the ground as if down a hill, until the ground or gravity or his tumbling senses changed again and he rolled back up the hill, unable to stop himself.

  The wind was rushing high above. Rushing. Rushing. Rushing.

  Bruised, dizzy, nauseated, he went limp, trying not to move, not to add any effort or energy to this tumbling universe around him. His body kept moving anyway, rolling, then crawling, then walking, forced to find earth beneath it or a handhold above, or even the next breath of air.

  The wind kept rushing, rushing, rushing.

  He clamped his eyes shut. The glare of the darkness hurt them, but he held them shut and tried to think, tried to find any sensible thought, real sensation, or unjumbled memory. Every nerve, every sense told him the earth had become a raging sea around him. He tried to shut it all out, tried to dig for a word, a thought, a memory.

  The Lord is my Shepherd, he thought, amazed that the words were still intact somewhere in his spinning, crazed head. I shall not want.

  He tried to speak the words out loud, but the wind carried them away before he could hear them.

  The wind rushing, rushing, rushing.

  He was falling again. He opened his eyes and saw tree branches whipping toward him. They slapped him, scratched him, lashed him. He tumbled, spun, crashing through them. He grabbed a limb; it tore loose from his hand. His body smacked into another, slowing his fall enough to grab on. His feet flew past him, and he was dangling in space—the sky below him, the ground above—feeling a new terror: There is no stopping when you fall into the sky.

  He was falling again.

  The Rec Center was in full swing, the lights flashing, the music pounding, the games gobbling KMs.

  Elisha kept the broom moving, constantly dodging the running, ambling, dancing, kicking feet, gathering up candy wrappers and pop cans that fell out of the dark like snowflakes. A few cans were tossed directly at her; some of the feet purposely kicked cans away from her broom so she had to go after them. Sprayed pop and spittle were soaking through her shirt. She kept moving, kept working, kept ducking danger—

  Everything stopped. The music growled down to silence, the video games went black, the lights went out, the girls screamed.

  The power was out. The room was in total darkness.

  Pandemonium. Hands groping, people yelling, girls screaming. From somewhere in all the noise and confusion, Alex was shouting, “Quiet, everybody! Quiet! It's okay!” He started calling for his crew, getting them to work on the problem.

  In a moment, everybody might quiet down and get reoriented. They might come up with a plan for dealing with the power outage.

  Right now, nobody knew what to do about anything and couldn't see six inches.

  Girl, it's now or never.

  Elisha remembered an exit only ten feet to her right. She dropped her broom and moved right, bumping one body in the dark, but making it to the wall. With just a few seconds of searching by touch, she found the door and slipped through it. She wasn't the only one.

  It was after dark, but with the stars and moon, not nearly as dark as inside the Rec Center. The power was out everywhere, the whole campus dark, but she was still in the open and visible, not safe. She ran toward the library, and could see two, maybe three other kids running at panic speed across the field. Rounding the corner of the library, she spotted a girl trying a door, whimpering when she couldn't open it, racing to another door, yanking it open, and ducking inside. Elisha almost ran into another girl—one of Warren's friends—running down the alley between the library and dorm D. The girl didn't even look at her, didn't even slow down, but ran straight into the woods, pushing, thrashing, disappearing into the undergrowth. Behind the dorms, the lid of a trash bin clanged shut right before a boy—it might have been Tom Cruise—knocked, whispered, and got some help climbing in from whoever had climbed in before him.

  Elisha kept running. She had one quick stop to make in her dorm room and then—

  She heard a scream from the woods and the growl of a huge animal, and that sound seemed to stir up more. From the thickly wooded hills all around the campus came the eerie, haunting echoes of animals in the night: the low growls of bears, the blood-chilling screech of cougars, the howls of wolves. The mountains had come alive, and the sounds seemed so close.

  She stole into dorm C and down the dark hallway, barely able to see the doors, counting them until she came to room 4. She made it inside, found the flashlight, this time on Mariah's bed, and dropped to the floor, shining the light and reaching up under her bed.

  Her radio was still where she'd hidden it, tucked among the bedsprings. She pulled it out, groped for the switch—

  She dropped it—

  It fell no more than a foot, hit the floor, and broke open. Metal washers scattered outward like mush from a dropped pumpkin. She grabbed the fallen radio case, and it was light, empty, just a thin half-shell of plastic.

  Her hands trembled. She couldn't fathom what she was seeing, couldn't bring herself to believe what it meant.

  Her radio had been gutted. Except for one battery still wired in to make the little red light come on—to fool her and Elijah into thinking the radio still worked—there was nothing inside the radio but metal washers and modeling clay.

  With the shock wrenching her insides, she fell back against the wall, sick and shaking, holding the remnants of the only contact she might have had with the outside world. Slowly, wretchedly, she began to realize that every time she thought she was sending a message, she'd only been talking to a dead little box crammed with clay and washers.

  Worse yet, they knew. Whenever, however those people in that big mansion did this, they had to know that she and her brother were not ordinary runaways. She and Elijah were never a secret to them. They knew all along.

  Her head sank, her hands went limp, the empty radio case clattered to the floor as a different kind of darkness invaded her, numbing her mind, constricting her soul. She'd been in danger before and knew what fear was. She'd been on her own before and knew what it was like to be alone, at least for a while. But fear and loneliness were nothing compared to this.

  Despair was trying to take her. Despair. Could anything be worse? Could there be any pit so deep, any trap so inescapable? As long as she had hope, she could handle fear and loneliness. But despair went straight for her hope, stealing it from her, leaving her with nothing but a blackened room, enemies all around, predators in the woods, nowhere to go, and no one to hear her cries for help except . . .

  “Oh Jesus,” she prayed, and by now she couldn't help but weep, “what am I going to do? What am I going to do? Help me.

  Please help me.”

  A miracle would have been so welcome, perhaps an angel to suddenly barge into the middle of this madness, offer some explanation that would make sense of it all, and carry her and her brother out of this nightmare and to safety, to Mom and Dad, to the ranch and home.

  But there was no angel, no miracle.

  She just had to cry, so she let go, abandoning herself to her sobbing, her hand over her mouth lest the sound of her anguish carry outside the room.

  “I found a phone.”

  “Sally,” came a voice.

  She held back a sob. Dear Jesus, no. Don't let them find me.

  The voice came nearer. “Sally. Are you in here?”

  It was Mariah. Friend or foe? What should she do? Lord Jesus—

  Too late. Mariah came into the room, stumbled over her, and then plopped down beside her on the floor, her back against the bed. Then she started crying. “It's all such a mess.”

  Elisha wiped her own tears and pulled in her sobs. “What is it, Mariah? What's gone wrong—I mean, besides everything?”

  “The big people up in the mansion have turned off all the electricity. They're trying t
o starve us out or freeze us out or something.”

  “Mariah . . .”

  “Joan.”

  Elisha was about to get mad. “Do we have to play that stupid game now?”

  “I'm not playing a game! That's my name!” She whimpered and sniffed as she said it, “I'm Joan Matheson. I live in Port Orchard, Washington, and I'm fifteen, and I ran away from home two weeks ago and I'm scared.”

  Elisha wasn't sure this was happening. Was she actually hearing someone telling the truth? “Joan, are you being honest with me?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then you do know about Jerry?”

  “He's your boyfriend and now he's up in the mansion.”

  “And what about Mr. Easley?”

  “He used to work here but he got fired.”

  “And what about the kid who was taken up to the mansion before Jerry and I got here? Did that really happen?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What was his name?”

  “He wanted us to call him Mick, but Alex called him Alvin.”

  “Tell me about Alex. Is that his real name?”

  “No. It's Harold.”

  “Joan . . .” Elisha's voice cracked. Her tears returned. “My name isn't Sally. It's Elisha. Elisha Springfield. I'm from Montana, and I'm scared, too.”

  “Some of the kids are hiding. Alex—well, Harold, but now he wants everybody to call him Alexander—he says we'll be all right if we do what he tells us, but . . . who says so? You saw what he did to Warren. He could do that to anybody—anybody he doesn't like, or anybody who says something, or maybe . . . what about the girls? What if Alex or Rory or some of those guys want to do something to one of us? Who's gonna stop 'em?”

  Elisha hadn't noticed yet, but the despair had left her. “We have to keep that from happening.”

  “How?”

  “We have to do whatever it takes. We have to think, and look, and pray, and let God show us what to do.”

  “I found a phone.”

  Elisha's next word stuck in her throat. It took a conscious decision to exhale and then bring in fresh air. “What did you say?”

  They hurried through the back door of the office building, past the tools, shovels, rakes, hammers.

  “I found it in the closet,” Joan whispered. “I was going to hide in there, but then I thought I should find you and tell you.”

  They hurried into the front office, their one flashlight guiding their way, and there it was, resting on the computer desk where Joan had left it.

  Elisha grabbed up the receiver and put it to her ear. The line was dead. “It isn't working.”

  Joan was nervously looking around the room and said nothing.

  Elisha traced the telephone's cord. “Well. It isn't even plugged in.”

  “Oh, yeah. I didn't think of that.”

  “Wait! Wait a minute!”

  Elisha ducked under the desk, shining the beam of her flashlight up and down the wall until she found what she'd seen there earlier: a phone jack. She plugged the phone line in, backed out from under the desk, and grabbed up the receiver.

  A dial tone.

  Elisha wanted to cry again, but that wouldn't help right now.

  She tapped out a number—her dad's cell phone—and waited.

  The line started ringing.

  Joan was nervous, drumming her fingers on the counter, looking down the hallway.

  Ring . . . ringgg . . .

  From the hall, a flashlight beam clicked on and began playing about the room. The beam caught Joan's face, her frightened eyes wide in the light.

  “She's here,” Joan said.

  Elisha heard a connection. “Hi, this is Nate Springfield,” came her dad's recorded voice. “I'm sorry I can't come to the phone right now . . .”

  The beam of light came into the room and hit Elisha in the eyes, blinding her. She raised her own light and shined it back.

  In quick flashes, in quaking light, like a ghostly, floating image hovering behind that tormenting beam, Alex's leering eyes looked back at her.

  “. . . but if you'll leave a message, I'll get back to you . . .”

  Another light clicked on behind Alex. She couldn't see the face, but it was somebody big.

  A third light clicked on near the front door. “Too cool.” The voice was Rory's.

  She searched with her light and found Alex's face once again. He was looking at Joan. “Good job.”

  No. What was happening?

  “Now you better get out of here,” said Alex, and Rory opened the front door.

  Joan hurried to leave. Elisha caught her face one last time in the beam of her light. Joan looked back, shaking her head feebly, her face a tangle of confusion. “I was afraid.”

  She ran out the door, and Rory closed it.

  In the telephone, Nate's voice mail beeped for the message.

  “You guys hold her,” said Alex.

  13

  SOMETHING TRUE,

  SOME ONE BLUE

  DAD —” EllSHA SAID, but Rory and the big shadow behind the flashlight were closing in on her.

  “That phone doesn't work!” Alex laughed.

  D The big shadow got to her first and grabbed her with one huge hand. Thankfully, the other hand was still holding a flashlight, so Elisha could move a little.

  She moved her knee in a lightning fast upkick, aiming for the center of this guy's existence. By the way he hollered and let go of her, she knew she'd connected. A blow to his throat with her flashlight sent him reeling backward.

  But Rory was right behind him. She leaped sideways, putting the desk between them. He missed his first grab, and she nailed the back of his head with the telephone receiver. She shined her flashlight on her left forearm. The numbers Elijah had given her were still there, written in blue ink in a safe place she wouldn't lose.

  Rory was coming around again. She could see his face in the bounced and reflected light now flying about the room. She whipped the phone receiver across his jaw and then kicked him in the chest. He stumbled backward.

  “Four seven!” she yelled into the phone.

  Alex grabbed her from behind, his big arm around her neck. She cried out, then automatically whipped her leg behind his and tripped him backward. They both went down, but when his back caught the corner of the empty filing cabinet he weakened enough for her to wriggle loose and bang his forehead with the butt of her flashlight.

  “One zero, one one—” she said, struggling to her feet in the dark.

  She leaped on top of the desk, taking the high ground, and from there, kicked Rory in the face. He staggered away, holding his nose and cursing. “Five five zero! And I love you!”

  Alex was coming at her from behind. The big shadow was back, coming at her from in front—she could see his silhouette against the window.

  She emptied her hands, ran along the desk, bounded off the copy machine, and dove right into the shadow's chest. He fell backward through the window, crashing the glass. She hung on to his shirt for all she was worth, tucked her head in, and rode him through, letting him take the beating and the cutting and the impact of the sidewalk outside the window as the shards of glass followed them, tinkling on the concrete.

  He wouldn't be getting up soon. She somersaulted onto the grass, got to her feet, and took off across the field.

  “One zero, one one—” she said,

  struggling to her feet in the dark.

  There was no question, no option, no choice, no doubt: She was going to reach the mansion, she was going to find her brother, they were going to get out of this place or die in the process.

  Elijah had fallen into the sky, but now mud, sand, and weeds surrounded him; thorns jabbed him like stinging nettles. He got to his feet, trying to escape the pain.

  His mind told him, insisted, that he was running, deliberately putting one foot in front of the other, even though the ground did not move under his feet, or turned when he did not, or inclined steeply upward though he saw no slope before him. E
ven when he closed his eyes, he could see. He yelled, cried out verses of Scripture, but he heard nothing. The pathway became a precipice and he tumbled headlong, falling through space. He was under water. He tried to swim; suddenly his groping arms were pulling him forward through hot, dry sand. The sky above was red like a sunset, the earth below an eye-buzzing purple—then green, then gray, then red as the sky turned green.

  Where he was, or why, or when, or how, he could not know. There were no days, no hours, no moments, no way of knowing, no chance for knowing how long he'd been here.

  Been where?

  No place, at no particular time.

  I am Elijah Springfield. His mouth formed the words, but the wind carried them away He once knew of a sister, a father and mother, a ranch where something, anything, could be known for sure.

  But those people, and that time, and that life were becoming . . . nothing. Non-things. A vacuum, like space.

  He groped desperately about in his mind for knowledge, something he could know, something true. But there was no knowledge, no thought, no reason. There was nothing here but terror, endlessly repeating cycles of it, layer upon layer of it, with more, more, more to come, in swirling, kaleidoscoping sounds, images, and sensations, pulsing, pounding, surging, throbbing like a swollen thumb.

  The only reality.

  Elisha ran to the corner of the wall where the wall met the forest—thick forest, with huge trees, prickly branches, clinging underbrush, and enclosing darkness. Penetrating that nether world seemed impossible, but her brother had been here. He'd been up this hill, he'd encountered a bear. There had to be a way.

  She pressed into the brush, groping with her hands, pushing against limbs and branches with her body, pressing on with nothing to lose. The mansion was built by people and lived in by people, and people needed roads, phone lines, transportation. Somewhere beyond these trees there had to be a real world. Elijah might have seen it, and she was going to find it.