Part 26 (2/2)
”We have to go!” he repeated, jerking me toward the exit.
Another ma.s.sive formation broke loose from the ceiling and crashed to the ground not far from us; I put up my hand to s.h.i.+eld my face as calcite shrapnel flew threw the air. The ground was shaking more violently with each pa.s.sing second, and I could hear the cavern groaning and fracturing all around us. The sound of fault lines splitting open was as loud as the crack of lightning overhead. If we stayed here any longer we would surely be crushed to death.
Over the din Tommy screamed, ”Jesse!”
We ran.
We got as far as the metal walkway before the ceiling of the great chamber began to collapse. The tunnel lights went out, but I pulled out Isaac's fetter as I ran and held it high. Its light was much dimmer than before; was it running out of energy? The thought of being trapped down here in the darkness while the cavern collapsed around us was too horrible to think about.
But the tunnel was more stable than the great chamber had been, and though the grate swayed beneath our feet like a rope bridge in a storm, the steel was flexible enough to remain intact. We ran as fast as we could, scrambling desperately over heaps of fallen rock whenever they blocked our path. At one point the rumbling of the earth around us quieted for a few seconds, and I felt a wave of relief. Then it started up again, twice as loudly as before.
Finally there were stairs in front of us-a long, narrow flight of them, carved into the native stone of the cavern. We climbed them as quickly as we could, falling to our hands and knees when the earth started shaking so badly that we couldn't stand upright any more, half-crawling and half-running to safety.
Just as we reached the top step, the shaking finally stopped. The rumbling faded, then was gone.
The earth was unnaturally still.
Breathless and bruised, we staggered through the half-demolished archway at the head of the stairs. The room beyond that looked like it had once been a tourist shop. Now it was just a big empty s.p.a.ce whose ceiling had collapsed. The floor was covered in gla.s.s from shattered windows, and empty shelving units had fallen across the main aisle. We picked our way carefully through the mess, heading toward the main door. My legs were shaking so badly I could hardly walk, and all the injuries I'd been ignoring now hurt with a vengeance. But that was a good sign. My body knew that it was safe now. It was allowed to feel pain.
The door to the outside world was solidly stuck in its frame. We had to climb out through a window. More gla.s.s cuts. I didn't care.
I grabbed Tommy and kissed him, and then I grabbed Devon and kissed him, and then I dropped to my knees and bent down and kissed the ground like you see people do in movies. It never looks real, but it is real, it's so real, because when your lips touch the earth, and the taste of your world is on your lips, that's when you know-really know, to the depths of your soul-that your nightmare is over at last.
We were home.
30.
MANa.s.sAS.
VIRGINIA.
THE HOUSES IN OUR NEIGHBORHOOD weren't all visible from the road. Some were tucked so far back into the forest that you practically had to go up to the front door to see them. A stranger driving down our street would probably not notice if any houses were missing. But to my eyes there was a gaping void at our address, impossible to overlook.
Devon's dad drove us into the driveway-which now was little more than a smooth black strip leading to a field of rain-soaked rubble-and parked.
He was the first person we'd contacted, once we finally got a driver on Route 340 to stop and lend us his cell phone. Which took longer than you'd expect. Maybe the sight of three teenagers standing half-dazed next to the highway, their clothing tattered and their faces speckled with blood, had scared people off. Kitty Genovese Syndrome: I-don't-want-to-get-involved. Or maybe they just thought we were a bunch of smart-a.s.s kids pulling a practical joke on pa.s.sing motorists. We did look like refugees from a Night of the Living Dead cast party, so you couldn't really blame them.
When we'd finally gotten Devon's dad on the phone he didn't ask us a lot of questions, just verified that we were in a safe place and made immediate arrangements to come get us. After that Tommy and I called Mom, but she didn't answer. I tried not to get too alarmed over that. Our house phone had been a land line, and there was probably nothing left of it now but a blob of melted plastic. Maybe in the chaos after the fire Mom hadn't been able to transfer the number to a new phone yet.
I hoped that was the reason she wasn't answering.
Doctor Tilford had wanted to tell the police we were back, but Tommy and I begged him to hold off a bit. I didn't want Mom to hear that kind of news from strangers. Reluctantly Devon's dad agreed, on condition we let him tend to our wounds while his receptionist called around to find out where Mom was. That sounded reasonable, so we went to his office to let him slather us with antiseptic, while she started searching.
It turned out that Mom was still sick-really sick-and a relative I barely knew had come to Mana.s.sas to help care for her. Since being released from the hospital she had spent most of her time wandering around the ruins of our house. Not doing anything in particular, just wandering. She told people that when we came back that's where we would go to find her, so that was where she needed to be. For as long as it took.
And now here we were at last. Standing in the place where someone from another world had once tried to kill me. It seemed a lifetime ago.
At first all I saw was rubble. Not because there was nothing else to see, but because the rubble was so compelling that I couldn't bring myself to look away from it. Here was my life, and Tommy's life, reduced to blackened timbers and rain-soaked ash. All my art. My computer. My diary. The dining room where we'd celebrated birthdays together, the kitchen where we'd gossiped over pizza, even the office where my birth certificate, with its tiny footprints, had been filed. Gone. Not until this moment had the magnitude of the loss really hit me.
Then Tommy screamed ”Mom!” and threw his car door open. Squinting against the sunlight, I could just make out the forms of two women standing at the far end of the yard, half-hidden by the shadow of a great oak tree. And yes, one of them was Mom. But how thin she looked, how frail! The other women was a robust Oktoberfest type, and when my mother swayed at the sight of Tommy and me, overcome by emotion, the other woman put a hand around her shoulder, steadying her.
Suddenly the tears I had fought so hard not to shed at Dr. Tilford's office began to fill my eyes. And this time I let them come, because there are times in a person's life when it's okay to cry, and this was one of them.
Tommy sprinted across the field of blackened timbers, his arms waving wildly as he ran toward Mom. Suddenly I realized what was about to happen . . . or not happen. My breath caught in my throat as I got out of the car, my heart pounding more loudly than it had when we'd fled through the Warrens.
Tommy ran into Mom with such force that the impact nearly knocked her off her feet. And then he hugged her. After a moment's surprise she hugged him back, her arms wrapped so tightly about him that all the Shadows in the universe couldn't have broken them apart. And then she was weeping, and he was weeping, and they were hugging each other so hard that my heart ached. So many years of fear and frustration and unexpressed affection were in that hug, it was overwhelming just to watch it.
For a moment I just stood there, letting Tommy be the star of the moment. He'd earned it.
Then Devon prodded me gently in the back. Out of the corner of my eye I could see that he was smiling. ”So now can we talk to the police?”
Wiping my eyes with my sleeve, I nodded. Then I began to pick my way across the field of rubble-a bit more carefully than Tommy had-to where my mother and my brother were hugging and weeping, to join in the reunion.
EPILOGUE.
MANa.s.sAS VIRGINIA.
CRYSTAL GATES EVERYWHERE. Razor-blade gla.s.s spines blocking my way in every direction. I have to smash through bunches of them to peer through each archway. Gate after gate after gate. Never finding the world I want. The world I need to see.
Calcite spines spattered red with blood mark the places I have already explored. A trail of crimson drops behind me sketches out fractal patterns on the ground. Connect the dots and it will lead you to other worlds . . . but not the right one. Never the right one.
”Rita!” I yell at the top of my lungs.
As if mere volume will change anything.
The ground beneath my feet isn't stable anymore or even solid. It's a sea of unchained energy, in which I somehow manage the fantasy of walking. Now that I understand what the black plain of my dreams represents, the walls of illusion that once protected me from its true nature are disintegrating. Each moment that I'm here I must struggle to impose my own mental order upon the place, or risk being swept away.
Rita!
I run to gate after gate after gate, smas.h.i.+ng my way through crystal barriers, seeking a world where my friend still lives. But are these dream-worlds real? Am I seeing events that really occurred somewhere, or are these only potential realities, twisted echoes of the real thing? The simple universe of my childhood, in which events progressed in clean linear order, has been shattered. How many worlds are really out there? Do my dreams allow me to peer into places that really exist, or am I just imagining them?
All I know is that if I can find a single universe in which Rita managed to survive the explosion, then I will know that her continued existence in my reality is possible. But I cannot find any sign of her.
Scenes from the Shadows' stronghold unfold before my eyes like the pages of some dark novel. I watch as an arrogant Shadowlord is blamed for our destruction of the Gate, and I hear him swear vengeance upon us as he is cast down from power. I watch as Greys a.s.sess the ruins of their Gate, and discuss how to bring all their stranded tourists home. I watch as Isaac attends the trial of the guard who was blamed for our escape, and I mourn the lack of remorse in his eyes.
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