Dark Visions (63 page)

"All right. John and Paul, take her in. Joyce will handle the equipment."

Fight, Kaitlyn thought. That was different than screaming. As Mac and Renny reached for her, she ducked sideways and tried to run, throwing a mule kick as she went.

But they were ready for her. Mac wasn't going to be faked out again. He simply tackled her as if she'd been a two-hundred-pound quarterback, knocking her to the floor. Kaitlyn saw stars and had a horrible sense of not enough air. She'd had the breath knocked out of her.

There was a confused time, and then she realized she was sitting up being whacked on the back. She whooped in air. Then, before she could really get her bearings, she was being hauled to her feet.

Fighting was no good. She was helpless.

Then she heard a voice, thin, high, and frightened. To her astonishment, she realized it was Lydia.

"Please don't do it. Please don't-Father."

Lydia was standing in front of Mr. Z. Her pale hands were clenched together at waist level, not as if she were praying, but as if she were trying to hold her guts in.

"She can't fight you anymore, and you know it. You could just send her away. She'd never tell anyone about us; she'd just go away and be quiet and live. Wouldn't you, Kaitlyn?" Lydia turned huge green eyes on Kait. Her lips were white, but there was a fierceness in those eyes that Kaitlyn admired.

Good for you, Lydia, she thought. You finally stood up to him. You spoke out, even when nobody else would.

But someone else was speaking.

"Lydia has a point, Emmanuel," Joyce said in a low, carefully controlled voice. "I really don't know if we have to go this far. I'm not entirely comfortable with this."

Kaitlyn stared at her. Joyce's hair was sleek as seal fur, her tanned face was smooth. Yet Kaitlyn caught a sense of inner agitation almost as great as Lydia's.

Thank you, Joyce. I knew it couldn't all be an act. There's something good in you, deep down.

Kaitlyn glanced at the others.

Bri was shifting from foot to foot, scratching her blue-streaked head. Her face was flushed; she looked as if there were something she wanted to say. Renny was scowling, seeming angry but uncertain.

Only Jackal Mac and Frost still looked eager and enthusiastic. Frost's eyes were shining with an almost romantic fervor, and Jackal Mac was licking his lips with his pierced tongue.

"Anyone else?" Mr. Z asked in a voice of terrible quiet. Then he turned on Joyce. "It's lucky for you that I know you aren't serious. You've managed to overcome your discomfort in much more squeamish situations than this. And you will now, of course- because you wouldn't want to join her in that tank. Or visit the room downstairs overnight."

A sort of shudder passed over Joyce's face. Her aquamarine eyes seemed to unfocus.

"And the same goes for the rest of you," Mr. Zetes said. "Including you." He was looking at Lydia. He hadn't raised a fist; he hadn't even raised his voice. But Lydia flinched, and everyone else went still. His very presence cowed them all.

"Every one of you would go to jail for years if the police found out what you've been doing these last weeks," Mr. Zetes said, his face composed and satanic. "But the police will never have to deal with you.

Because I will, if you cross me. Your old classmates downstairs will help. There is nowhere you can go to get away from us, nowhere you can hide that we can't find you. The power of the crystal can reach out across the globe and swat you like a fly."

Silence and stillness. The psychics watched the floor. Not even Frost was smirking now.

"Now," Mr. Z said in a grating whisper, "does anyone still have any objections?"

Some people shook their heads. Lydia, her shoulders hunched miserably, was one of them. Others just stayed still and quiet, as if hoping Mr. Z wouldn't look at them.

"Gabriel?" Mr. Zetes said.

Kaitlyn looked up in surprise. She hadn't realized Gabriel had arrived; she'd barely noticed his absence before.

He was frowning, looking like somebody who's arrived at a party to find it had started an hour earlier without him. "What's going on?" he said. He repeated it to Kaitlyn silently, his narrowed eyes on the black-and-white bathing suit. What's going on? What did you do?

"A disciplinary matter," Mr. Zetes said. "I hope there won't be any more like it in the future."

Kaitlyn didn't wait for him to finish, but spoke to Gabriel over his words. None of your business. I despise you. She threw the full weight of her contempt at him like someone throwing beer cans and rocks and bricks. And then, because Rob had taught her how to hurt him, she added, Jailbird. You'd better do everything he says or he'll send for the police.

She hadn't realized how much she hated him before this moment. All the loathing that she somehow hadn't felt toward Renny or even Jackal Mac and Frost, she felt for him. All the anger and betrayal. If she'd been closer, she would have tried to spit on him.

Gabriel's face hardened. She felt him pull away, felt the ice of his shields. He didn't say another word.

"All right," Mr. Z said. "You boys take her in; then we'll all go into the city for dinner. I think this calls for another celebration."

There was no point in fighting any longer. Mac and Renny dragged Kaitlyn into the back lab. She stood motionless in their grip while Joyce forced a mouthpiece into her mouth. It was connected to an air hose like a scuba diver's.

Now Joyce was pulling gloves over her hands and forcing her into a canvas jacket like the ones the creatures downstairs were wearing. Kaitlyn's arms were crossed, useless. Weights were being attached to a belt around her waist, and to her ankles.

She heard a voice behind her: Mr. Zetes. "Goodbye, my dear. Pleasant dreams."

And then Joyce was sticking something in her ears. Some kind of earplugs. Suddenly Kaitlyn was deaf.

They were pushing her forward.

The isolation tank still looked like a Dumpster. A lopsided Dumpster with a hurricane door. The door was open and they were forcing her inside.

She couldn't help it; she was going into this thing. This thing that they were going to close on her, that they were going to bury her in alive.

As the dark metal walls rose around her and the water came up to meet her, Kaitlyn's nerve broke. She did scream. Or at least, she tried. But the thing in her mouth muffled it like a gag and the earplugs dulled the rest of the sound. There was only silence as water enveloped her. And darkness.

She twisted, trying to get on her back, to see the door. To see the light for one last instant. . .

But all she saw was a rapidly diminishing rectangle of white. Then the metal door clanged shut. It was the last sound she was to hear.

Right from the beginning, it was very bad.

Remembering Bri's words ("Sure, it's cool. Cosmic, man!"), she had hoped that the tank might be pleasant at first. Or at least bearable. But it wasn't. It was a death trap, and from the first instant Kaitlyn felt a screaming inside her that wouldn't stop.

Maybe the difference was that she knew she was in here for good. They weren't going to let her out in an hour or a few hours or a day. They were going to keep

her in here for as long as it took, until she was a thing, a drooling, vacant-eyed lump of flesh with no mind.

Her first thought was to try and beat the system. She would make her own noise; she would make herself feel. But even the loudest humming was dim and soon her throat grew sore. After a while she wasn't sure whether she was humming or not.

It was very difficult to kick with the weights on her legs, and when she did manage, she found the tank was lined with something like rubber inside. Between the drag of weights and water and the give of the rubber padding, she couldn't feel much of anything.

She couldn't pinch with her fingers, either, the gloves prevented that and dulled all sensation. Her arms were immobilized. She couldn't even chew her lips-the mouthpiece prevented it..

More, all these exertions tired her out. After trying everything she could think of, she was exhausted, unable to do anything but float inertly. The weights were gauged to keep her floating right in the middle of the water, away from the top and bottom of the tank, and the water temperature was gauged so that she had no sensation of hot or cold.

It was then that she began to realize the true horror of her situation.

It was dark. She couldn't see. She couldn't see anything.

And she couldn't hear. The silence was so deep, so profound, that she began to wonder if she really remembered what sound was.

In the endless dark silence, her body began to dissolve.

Once, when she'd just turned thirteen, she'd had a nightmare of a disembodied arm in her bed. She had half-woken one night to find that she'd been lying with

her arms pressed together under her body, and that one of them had gone to sleep. She could feel it with her other hand: a cool, unnaturally limp arm. In her not-awake state, it seemed as if someone had put a severed dead arm in her bed. Her own arm was foreign to her.

After that, all her nightmares were of the cool blue arm snuggling up to her chin and then dragging her under the bed.

Now Kaitlyn felt as if all her limbs had gone to sleep. At first it seemed that her body had gone dead, and then she realized she didn't have a body anymore. At least, there was no way to prove she did.

If there were arms and legs in the tank, they weren't hers. They were dead, unholy, other peoples' limbs, floating around her, ready to kill her.

After a while, even the sense that there were other peoples' limbs around her faded. There was nothing around her.

She had no sense of being trapped inside the little Dumpster tank. She had no sense of being anywhere.

She was alone in pure space, and around her was nowhere, nothingness, absence, emptiness.

The world had disappeared because she couldn't sense it. She'd never realized it before, but the world was her senses. She had never known anything but her internal map of it, made up from what she saw and heard. And now there was no sight, no sound, no map, no world. She couldn't keep hold of the conviction that there was a world outside-or that there was an outside.

Did the word outside have meaning? Could something be outside the universe?

Maybe there had never really been anything except her.

Could she really remember what the color "yellow" was? Or the feeling of "silk"?

No. It had all been a joke or a dream. Neither of those things existed. These ideas of "touch" or "taste" or "hearing"-she'd made them up to get away from the emptiness.

She had always been alone in the emptiness. Just her, just K-Who was she? For an instant there, she'd almost had a name, but now it was gone. She was nameless.

She didn't exist either.

There was no person thinking this. No "I" to make words about it.

There was no ... no ... no ...

A silent scream ripped outward. Then:

Kaitlyn!

Frost sat beside him during dinner-Mr. Z's orders, he was certain. She touched him every other minute, stoking his wrist, patting his shoulder. Again, he felt certain, on Mr. Z's orders.

They wanted to know if he would try and reach Kaitlyn with his mind.

But the restaurant in San Francisco was too far from the Institute. Kaitlyn was long out of range, as Joyce must have told Mr. Z. Gabriel didn't even try to stretch out his mind; instead he worked on convincing everyone that he didn't want to. That he hated Kaitlyn as much as Jackal Mac did.

He must have done a good job, because Lydia was looking at him with burning green hatred in her eyes-when her father's head was turned, of course.

She wasn't the only one who looked unhappy. Bri had eaten almost none of her dinner. Renny kept swallowing as if he felt sick. And Joyce was holding herself rigid and expressionless, her aquamarine eyes fixed on the candle in the center of the table.

The club they went to next was also far away from San Carlos-but not quite as far. Frost left his side to dance with Mac. As soon as she was gone, Gabriel slipped the piece of crystal he had palmed out of his pocket.

It should increase his range-but enough? He wasn't sure. The only time he'd managed a telepathic link over such a long distance was when he'd been in agonizing pain.

He had to try.

With Mr. Z smoking a cigar and smiling benevolently at the dancers on the floor, Gabriel clutched the tiny chip of crystal and sent out his mind.

But the frightening thing was that even when he felt he'd stretched out far enough, he couldn't feel Kaitlyn.

Her place in the web was filled with nothingness. Not even a wall, only blankness. Nobody nowhere.

Desperate, he kept calling her name.

There was a vision in her mind.

Whose mind? It didn't matter. Maybe there wasn't a mind at all, but only the vision.

A rose, full and blooming, with lush petals. The petals were a warm color that she had forgotten. At first it was a nice image, all those petals on one stem, separate but connected. It reminded her of something.

But then the vision went bad. The petals turned black, the color of the emptiness. The rose began to drip blood. It was hurt, mortally wounded. The petals began to fall. . . and on each there was a face, and the face was screaming.

Kaitlyn! Kaitlyn, can you hear me?

Petals falling, dripping. Like tears.

Kaitlyn! Oh God, please answer me. Please, Kaitlyn. Kaitlyn!

There was desperation in the voice. Whose voice? And who was it talking to?

I couldn't 't contact you before. He had Frost sitting by me, touching me. She would have known. But now I have them convinced I don't want to talk to you-oh, please, Kaitlyn; answer. It's Gabriel.