What have they done to this creature?
And what does that mean for me?
The four Vetters gather around their firepit for a sip of whatever is in the pot on the coals. I catch a whiff of coffee. My mouth waters. Then one of them holds out a bag. Each man slips a hand in and withdraws a fist enclosing something small. At the same time, they all open their palms and reveal a rock.
James holds a red one. The rest hold black. He curses and tosses the rock back into the bag. “Save me some coffee.”
The other three grunt but look grim. James strides our way.
“What’s your name?” One of the men next to me asks in a low voice, daring to lift his head an inch. He doesn’t cower as much as the others.
It’s such a normal question I almost don’t answer. “Cain. Cain, uh . . . Cross.” I say my full name solely with the intent to remind myself I actually know it.
“Religious parents, huh?” he asks, not unkindly. What is this, small talk?
“Mom and brother.”
“Was your brother’s name Abel?” His attempt at a joke falls flat.
“Might as well have been,” I respond tersely.
“I’m Erik.” He reaches out an unsteady hand. “We’ve got to keep some level of humanity in this place, eh?”
The tension in my chest eases a bit. “I guess.” I give his hand a shake.
Something sparks, like an empty lighter. The brief light is unusually bright in the thick darkness and disappears so fast I can’t locate where the flash came from. Our hands? Behind Erik? Something else?
James is stock still, halfway between the fire and our cage cart. “Did you guys see that?” Fear thickens his voice.
“See what?” one of his buddies hollers, looking up from the fire.
“That flash.”
Erik pulls his hand back inside his coat, but not before I catch his trembling. Something has spooked him too. Should I be afraid? What did I miss?
“I didn’t see anything.” One Vetter goes back to his mug of coffee, but his eyes drift to the gladius near his feet.
“I think we need an entourage for this one,” James comments.
“No way, man. I already filled my quota for today. The Spores haven’t attacked for a couple weeks.”
“Meaning they’re overdue,” James grumbles.
“Isn’t this your last delivery today, James? You’re good after this. Get a week off, enjoy the Games.”
James stomps to a lone scraggly tree a few yards from their fire, where a ring of keys hangs on a nail. He tucks them into his belt. “The Emperor should give us nightbeasts for this.” Sweat clings to his hairline.
What sort of place is this that a little light would cause so much fear? I log away the new words—Spores and nightbeasts. I’ve never heard those terms in a dream parlor. At least I don’t think I have. I give Erik a side-eye, but he’s tucked himself into the cart corner and doesn’t seem any more in the know than I am.
James grabs the rope hanging from a crude bridle on the horse’s nose and gives a cluck. “Come on, you.”
Off we go, down a rickety dirt road, rutted by wheel paths. The Tunnels shrink away behind us, and no matter what lies ahead, I’m glad to leave them behind. While I’m thankful for the dim gray light, there’s a distinct lack of illumination. It’s like when the sun sets and there’s just enough light to find your front door, but not enough to keep the fringes of spooked nerves from tickling your mind.
If I were adding this shade to a sketch on my tablet, it’d be #7A7A7A. It’s nerdy that I know that. But I can’t help it when I see the mist. No sun. No evidence of where this dim gray glow originates.
A 7A sky.
We descend a hill toward a sea of fog. It rests like a blanket, and James hesitates for only a moment at the edge.
“Figures.” He then enters, withdrawing his sword with his free hand.
It’s unsettling seeing James on guard. Maybe this cage isn’t to keep me in but to keep something out. If James fears this place, the message is clear: I may be out of the Tunnel, but this Nightmare is far from safe.
And after Nole’s death, I now know that anything that happens in this place can be fatal—to both my mind and my physical body in the Real World.
Is that how Nole died? Did he make it out of the Tunnel and get killed by a Vetter? Another Anger? Something from the Nightmare?
The cart lurches, and I grab a bar to keep from slamming against the side. Then we break through the underbelly of the mist. It now hovers above us, threatening to drop and suffocate. It doesn’t look or act like a cloud, neither does it act like fog. Everything below it is darker. What gray glow exists in the half-night 7A sky barely penetrates the mist.
Yellow lights speckle the space before us, some mere pinpricks. Homes? Candles? Fireflies? Others blink. Eyes watching us, bodies hidden by shadow. None of the lights are warm.
James quickens his pace. It takes several tugs to get the horse to follow suit.
“How . . .” A man in the cage farthest from me licks his lips. “How long until we arrive?”
The sound of his voice feels all wrong in the eerie dim. An interruption of the sacred demand for fear. He shouldn’t have spoken. The tension coiling through James’s back and shoulders affirms it.
Something snaps from the darkness to our left—not a twig. More like the jaw of a creature readying for a meal. James’s head jerks toward the sound, then he smacks the horse on the rump. It surges forward in a trot. I and the other cage occupants topple onto our heads and elbows and backs. Bumps send us flying into each other.
