“This way.” Our centurion says, stopping outside a closed wooden door with a lock on the outside. Finally, he faces us with one hand on the hilt of his sword and the other hand still holding the chain to our leashes. “My name is Crixus. If you want to survive here, you’ll do what I say.”
Crixus. That can’t be his real name. It fits the theme too well. He’s accepted this place and it’s become part of him, which seems to be exactly what he’s after. All muscles, broad stature, and leather-strap sandals that wind up his calves. He looks as though he’s stepped off a production of Gladiator, still in costume, and forgot to drop the act.
“You’re noxiors now,” he says. “Our word for gladiators.”
My companions practically melt to the ground at the word. Crixus’s announcement doesn’t faze me. I’m not surprised. What did these other people think we were chained up for?
“The coliseum isn’t a prison. You’re here for your own protection. And I’m here to help you.”
I snort, and his gaze slides to me without a twitch of change in his expression. No annoyance. No sneering. His neutrality speaks its own language.
“You just called us gladiators,” I say. “We’re not idiots. We know what gladiators do. That’s not my idea of ‘protection.’”
“You’re here only until you earn your citizenship. You do that by proving you can survive the Arena.” He unlocks the door. “You’ll get more answers tomorrow. For now, sleep. Even here in Tenebra, it’s necessary to rebuild your strength.”
Sleep? What does he think we’re doing right now? And how does that work, sleeping inside a nightmare? Dream within a dream sort of thing? Can sleep in the Nightmare really rejuvenate me?
My three nervous companions pass tentatively through the doorway. He removes the shackle around their necks as they go, leaving the weight to pull against mine. I stand my ground, though I know there’s no leaving this place until my Sleep runs its course. I’d rather gather intel from Spartacus here than face the Spores weaponless again.
“Tenebra?” I ask.
“The name of our world.” Crixus allows a soldier of sorts to guide the other three captives past the door to wherever the preschool nap mats are. “The Nightmare.”
He’s trying to make it sound like something more livable than it is. I won’t adopt that language. This place killed my brother.
“I want an explanation.”
To his credit, he doesn’t shut me down but merely waits.
“This place is a dreamscape, isn’t it? Not an infection.”
“Or possibly both,” he says with a shrug. “Dreamscape gone wrong.” He steps forward to take the shackle off my neck. He smells strongly of blood, body odor, and some cloying undertone I can’t place—nor do I want to.
That stench is my future, I expect.
The chains drop to the ground. There’s no point in fighting him or trying to escape. I chose to enter this place knowing full well what it likely held.
“But you’re a real person, right?” I press, focusing on a dreamscape gone rogue rather than the shadows of dozens of sleeping bodies on the other side of the threshold. “You have a body in the Real World?”
“Yes.” It’s interesting how many notes of emotion can latch on to a single word. Crixus doesn’t sound happy about his real body. Does he wish it would disappear and he could simply exist here in the Nightmare?
“So how are we both in the same dreamscape? This shouldn’t be possible.” I grope for details that usually come easily to me. Why is this world confusing me so much? What are the rules I know? Something about the dream serum and having to take it at the same time.
Crixus nods toward the holding place. But I’m not done. I take in the bodies. Sleeping. Snoring. I don’t enter, but gesture toward the room.
“Is everyone here a real person?”
“There are no avatars,” Crixus says.
“Not even the Spores?” Those creatures who attacked us are real people? With disembodied swords?
“Not even them.”
“This shouldn’t be possible!” I exclaim. Programming a dreamscape for multiple entrants is complicated. Too many entrants and the whole thing would collapse. How can this place exist—staying stable under the occupancy of possibly thousands of people forced here against their own will?
“This is your future,” Crixus says. “Best get used to the idea.” His hand drops to the hilt of his sword—the same type James, the now-dead Vetter, wore. A gladius. “Get some rest.”
“I’m leaving this place.” I head into the dark room without breaking eye contact. “And it won’t be through that front gate.”
“There’s no leaving, Cain. You’re infected. No matter how many Sleeps you have left, you’ll be back, and you’ll wake up right here, on your dirty, unwashed cot. And I’ll be waiting for you.” He twitches a smile.
I’m not cowed. I’ll show him. He may have turned himself into some cosplay centurion and found a shiny sword, but I’m not giving up on the Real World yet. I won’t surrender.
He slams the door. A lock clicks.
I settle onto the first empty cot my feet hit. He was right. It’s dirty and unwashed, and it smells like ten other sweaty men. Or maybe that’s the room in general, which seems to be snoring from its very stones.
I won’t let this Nightmare beat me, no matter how intricate it is. I will figure out how it works . . .
And then I’ll tear it down.
For the first time, I resurface from the Nightmare with relaxed breathing instead of tight muscles. I’m back in The Fire Swamp. The Real World. Home.
My body rests in . . . awe? Determination? I can’t pinpoint the new feeling, but I know why it’s there . . .
The virus. There’s an entire world inside it.
