The Hunt for Dark Infinity (The 13th Reality #2) (22 page)

“Those don’t look like monkeys,” Tick whispered. When he’d heard the word
glowing,
he’d imagined his old skeleton Halloween decoration back home, which appeared as a whitish-yellowish blur in the darkness. But this light was much different. This light was bright and stark and reddish, and the creatures looked a lot bigger than monkeys. “They look more like . . . radioactive bears.”

“Yeah,” Paul whispered back. “Demon bears.”

“Why are you guys whispering?” Sofia said, so loud that both Tick and Paul quickly shushed her. “What? You think those things will come and eat us? I’m pretty sure the hotel would’ve gone out of business if their customers were routinely eaten by monkeys whenever they spoke louder than a whisper.”

“I don’t know,” Paul said, still in a low voice. “Just seems like you should whisper when spying on monstrous, glowing creatures. So be quiet.”

“Pansy,” Sofia muttered, returning to the window.

Paul reached over and elbowed Tick. “Did you teach her that word?”

“No.”

“She’s getting way too American—makes me uncomfortable.”

Sofia tsked. “I love it when you guys talk about me as if I can’t hear you.”

“What do you think those things are?” Tick asked, trying to steer the conversation in a different direction before Paul ended up getting punched again.

“I bet it has something to do with the ban on cars,” Sofia said. “Something really weird happened here. Maybe it affected the animals. Maybe they
are
radioactive.”

“Remind me not to go on a walk out there tomorrow after breakfast,” Paul said.

Tick let the curtain fall into place and leaned back against the bed. “That’s enough monkey-watching for me. Phillip’s bringing us that message from Mothball in just a few hours. We need some sleep.”

“How can you sleep with psycho-radioactive-gorilla-bears playing outside your window?” Paul asked, his nose seemingly glued to the glass.

“I think I’ll manage. Get out.”

Surprisingly, Sofia grumbled more than Paul did as Tick kicked them out of his room.

~

The next morning, Phillip didn’t pound the door nearly as hard as Paul had done just a few hours earlier. At first, the light tapping came in the form of a woodpecker in Tick’s dream, one where he sat in the backyard laughing while his dad jumped about trying to put out flames on the barbecue. It happened every time the man made hamburgers, which is why Tick always made sure he had a front-row seat.

A woodpecker had never been there, however, and even in his dream, Tick knew something was wrong. When it kept knocking and pecking and tapping, he somehow pulled himself out of sleep. With groggy eyes and cottonmouth, he got out of bed and stumbled to the door, sad that the dream had been interrupted.

Phillip wore the exact same clothes as he had yesterday, still rocking back and forth on his feet. He handed over a yellow envelope—one that looked very familiar to Tick, who snatched it without meaning to.

“Sorry,” he said. “Just eager to read it.”

“Are you finding your stay pleasant?” Phillip asked, no emotion or sincerity in his voice whatsoever.

“Yes, we really appreciate it,” Tick said, unable to take his eyes off the envelope, which bore no marking or writing. When he finally looked up, Phillip had already begun walking down the hall toward the stairs.

Thoughts of the odd man quickly evaporated as Tick hurried to knock on Paul’s door. It took three tries, but Paul finally answered, rubbing his eyes.

“Come on,” Tick urged, heading next door to Sofia’s room.

He’d just held up his hand to knock when the door flew open, Sofia waiting there—fully dressed in her newly provided clothes and looking surprisingly pretty. “Did you get the note?”

Tick held up the envelope.

“Then get in here and let’s open it,” she said, stepping aside and almost comically jerking her head toward the inside.

Tick entered and sat in the desk chair, with Paul looking over his right shoulder, Sofia his left. With slightly trembling hands, Tick opened the envelope and pulled out a piece of white cardstock paper. With the others following along, he read the typed words out loud:

This place is nice, but not quite heaven.

You must start on the hour of seven

Add six hours then take away three,

Then add ten more and do it with glee.

Let one week of time go by,

Sit and rest and eat and sigh.

Then twenty-two hours less three plus two,

At that time decide what to do.

It does not matter; I do not care.

Just make sure your feet find air.

“It’s easy,” Sofia said.

“Yeah, too easy,” Paul agreed. “Which means we’re in deep trouble.”

Tick shook his head. “It’ll be easy to figure out the time, but there’s nothing that tells us what to do
at
that time.”

“Yowza,” Paul said, then whistled. “You’re dead on. What are we supposed to do at five in the afternoon one week from tomorrow?”

Tick jerked his head around to look up at Paul. “You already figured it out?”

“I told you it was easy.” He slapped Tick on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, little dude, not everyone can be as brilliant as the Paulmeister.”

Sofia snorted. “I figured it out, too, Einstein.”

Tick quickly ran through the riddle in his head. Sure enough—5:00
pm
, one week from tomorrow.

“A whole week?” he said. “What are we supposed to do until then?”

“I’ll tell you what we do,” Paul said, flopping onto the small couch and sticking his feet up on the armrest. “What my grandpa calls a little R and R.”

Sofia walked over and slapped Paul’s feet to the floor, almost knocking his whole body off the couch.

“If you ever did that in my house, my butler would chop off one of your toes.” She sat next to him, ignoring his stuck-out tongue. “It does sound good to relax for awhile, but we’d better start thinking hard about what’s hidden in that message.”

“Yeah,” Tick said. “What happens if five o’clock rolls around and we don’t do what we’re supposed to?”

His only answer was a very long silence.

~

An Insane Mission

S
ato adjusted the straps on his backpack, pulling them tight so they wouldn’t rub blisters on his skin. It was heavy, Mothball and Rutger having gone overboard as usual to make sure he had everything he needed.

“What did you put in here?” he asked. They stood by the window overlooking the Grand Canyon, the early streams of sunrise reflecting off the sheer stone walls with a reddish glow. “Some bricks in case I need to build a house?”

Mothball laughed. “Methinks you’ve a sense of humor after all, Sato.” She reached down and tousled the hair on Rutger’s head. “Almost as funny as this one, ’ere.”

Rutger huffed. “He only seems funny because he’s the world’s biggest grouch. Anything slightly different pops out of his mouth, and everyone laughs like he’s Bojinkles the Clown.”

“Who?” Sato asked.

Rutger slapped his hands to his face. “Who?
Who?
” He stomped his right foot. “Don’t tell me you haven’t heard of Bojinkles! Oh, how he made me chuckle when I’d read him in the funny parcels as a kid . . .”

His voice wandered off as he stared at something through the window, seemingly lost in childhood memories. Sato and Mothball exchanged a look, both of them stifling a laugh.

Just then, George entered the room, his face flushed like he’d been running a race. He held a Barrier Wand in one hand, so sparkly and shiny it appeared brand-new.

“Ah!” he said. “Looks like Master Sato is all set and ready to go.”

George stepped in front of Sato, inspecting him like he was a soldier going off to war. Sato still felt confused inside, his mind and heart full of swirling, haunted images and feelings. He’d grown to trust George and the others, had grown to accept his role as a Realitant. He’d especially solidified his resolve to avenge the murder of his parents.

And yet . . . for so many years, the man before him had represented all the terrible things in his life. George had been there that day. Why hadn’t he saved his parents?

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Sato said, momentarily closing his eyes to squeeze away his ill thoughts.

“Splendid,” George said, taking a step back so he could look at the three of them. “Our dear friend Sally is off, too. He, er, didn’t want to say good-bye because of, er, well, you know—what we did to his hair to disguise him. The old chap’s surprisingly vain about his looks after all.”

“Well, I
do
know how he feels,” Rutger said, smoothing his black hair.

George turned to Sato, his face serious, squinting as if he couldn’t quite focus on Sato’s face. “Are you
certain
about this?”

“I’m doing this for my parents.”

George nodded absentmindedly. “Yes, yes, indeed. Your bravery would make them proud.”

Sato fumed inside. He wanted to scream at the old man, blame him for their deaths. But he stayed silent, channeling his thoughts into the task at hand.

“The needle and vials are in the outer pocket of your pack,” Rutger said. “They’re bubble-wrapped for protection, but please be careful. You have only a couple of extras.”

George grunted, but Sato wasn’t sure what that meant. “We want you to get in and get out. You’ll be winking to the original Reality, the . . .
host
Reality where all of this nonsense began. It’s not one of the major branches, and it’s fragmenting as we speak. Still not sure of the event that was so powerful as to make them completely unstable.” He shook his head. “I need not remind you of the necessity of caution.”

“In and out,” Sato said, staring at the wall in front of him. An old picture of Muffintops hung there, a close-up from when she was a kitten, licking something that looked suspiciously like George’s foot. “The first crazy person I meet. No problem.”

Rutger cleared his throat. “It might not be
that
easy. Most people won’t let you walk up and stick a needle in them.”

“’Specially the crazies,” Mothball added.

“Then I’ll use the . . . thing you gave me.” Sato jerked his head toward the top of his backpack.

“Only as a last resort,” George said, holding up a finger. “A last resort.”

Sato shrugged. “Last resort. What does it matter—they’re all crazy.”

“It matters because we’re trying to
save
them, find a cure,” George answered.

“But it’s a fragmented Reality,” Sato countered. “Again, what does it matter?”

George shook his head. “It’s not our place to determine the value of their lives, Master Sato. They’re people, just like you and me.”

“Chances are one of ’em
is
you, actually,” Mothball said with a quick snort of a laugh. When no one responded, she continued, “His Alterant. Get it?”

“Yes, Mothball, we got it,” Rutger muttered as he shot a look at Sato as if to say,
just humor her.
“Good one, very funny.”

As for Sato, his head spun; it was impossible to wrap his rational mind around the confusing facts of how the multiverse functioned. “I’m ready. Wink me away.”

George held up the Barrier Wand in both hands. “You’ll appear on the stone outcropping of a mountain; it’s soaked in Chi’karda, for reasons we don’t know. Return there when you’ve obtained the blood sample. Rutger will have his eyes glued to the command console and will wink you back the instant you’re ready. Your nanolocator is in good working condition.”

“Okay,” Sato said, taking a deep breath as he reached out and clasped his hands around the bottom of the golden cylinder.
Just do it before I change my mind.

“Best of lu—” Mothball started to say, but she was cut off with the click of the Wand ignition button.

Sato winked away.

~

“Mmm, this rabbit food ain’t so bad,” Paul mumbled through a bite of fancy salad—walnuts and pears scattered over dark green leaves.

They sat at a table in the hotel restaurant, the last gloomy glow of sunset painting the large windows a sleepy amber. They’d spent most of the day walking, making three complete trips around the main road that circled the town—aptly named Circle City. They saw nothing new—more buildings, more nicely-dressed people, more glittering fountains, more eerie opera music—as they discussed the riddle and the possible hidden meaning behind it between long bouts of silence.