The Hunt for Dark Infinity (The 13th Reality #2) (4 page)

On the twenty-second of August, please report to the nearest cemetery at your earliest convenience, whereupon I will wink you to headquarters straightaway, based upon your nanolocator reading.

Now I really must be going, as poor Rutger appears to have hung his malodorous socks in front of the cooler vent, creating quite a smell, I assure you. Wish me luck in finding a can of powerful air freshener.

Most sincerely,
Master George

P.S. Muffintops sends her warmest regards.

P.P.S. Please attach the Spinner to a blank wall and observe carefully to learn about entropy and fragmentation.

“Spinner?” Paul asked. “What’s he talking about?”

“The twenty-second? That’s only two days away,” Tick’s mom whispered, her voice not hiding the sudden dismay at the possibility of her son running off again.

Tick’s initial excitement at hearing from Master George quickly faded into a sickly pang in his gut. He had dreaded this moment in many ways, knowing he’d be summoned again, leaving his poor mom to worry about him. Even though she’d been convinced of the truth about the Realities, Tick knew that when the day actually came for him to leave again, she’d throw a fit.

Like any good mother.

“Mom . . .” Tick said, but no other words filled his mouth.

His dad reached over and squeezed Tick’s shoulder, then shook his head ever so slightly when they made eye contact.

“Honey,” Dad said, “let’s go for a drive and talk a bit. Lisa, Kayla, you come with us—we’ll get some ice cream.”

“But I want to hear—” Lisa protested, but Dad cut her off.

“Just come on. In the car. Let’s go.”

Tick didn’t completely understand what his dad was doing. He had insisted all summer that he believed in Tick and in his responsibilities as a Realitant, and that he would do whatever it took to support him and make sure nothing got in his way. But now, in the moment, Tick couldn’t believe his dad was going to leave them to discuss the message and its meaning alone.

He was treating Tick like an adult, and Tick wasn’t sure he liked that as much as he thought he would.

As his parents left for the garage, half-dragging Kayla and Lisa, Mom staring at the floor with dead eyes, Tick tried to push aside the swirling, conflicting emotions he felt about involving his family with the Realitant stuff. He wished he could somehow separate them into two different worlds, independent and unaware of the other. But he couldn’t. And he was a Realitant Second Class with people depending on him. He pulled out a chair and sat next to Sofia; Paul did the same.

“So, what do you think?” Paul asked.

Sofia threw her arms up. “What’s there to think? Instead of flying back to our homes, we’re going to the cemetery with Tick.”

“But my ticket is for tomorrow night,” Paul said. “Just because your parents don’t give a—”

He stopped, looking quickly at the floor. Tick groaned on the inside. The more they got to know Sofia, the more they realized her parents didn’t seem to care too much about what she did. This time they’d even let her come without her fancy butler, Frupey. But the verdict was still out as to
why
they didn’t care; Sofia refused to talk about it.

“Go home if you want,” she said with a sneer. “They have dead people in Florida, too, don’t they? Find a cemetery there.”

“Ah, man,” Paul said as he dropped his head into his hands with a groan. “You have no idea how hard it was to explain this stuff to my family. I don’t know if I can go through that again.”

“Fine. Then quit.”

“Oh, give me a break. I didn’t say squat about quitting.”

“It’s gonna be hard for all of us,” Tick interjected. “We just need to make them understand.”

“Easy for you to say,” Paul said. “I swear your dad is the single coolest person that’s ever breathed.”

“Maybe. But none of us can quit. Ever.”

Paul leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms in anger. “Dude, quit preachin’. Paul Rogers is not gonna quit. I was just saying, man, it’s gonna be killer telling my old lady I’m running off again.”

The full load of spaghetti in Tick’s stomach was starting to churn. “Our parents just have to trust us. That’s all there is to it.”

“Yeah,” Paul agreed in a murmur.

“Okay, you know what?” Sofia said, her voice laced with annoyance. “You guys are getting on my nerves. We just got a letter from Master George—which we’ve been waiting for all summer—and you both are sitting here moping like you just found out you have two hours to live.” She stood up and started walking toward the stairs. “Let’s go look at the tube again to see if we can figure out what M.G. meant by
Spinner.
”

When neither Tick nor Paul moved a muscle, Sofia turned and cleared her throat loudly. “Come on.” She paused. “I promise I’ll be nice.” Another pause. “Please.”

Paul looked at Tick, as surprised as if he’d just seen an extra arm bloom from Sofia’s shoulder. Tick shrugged.

“Now!” Sofia yelled.

Paul and Tick jumped from the table, stumbling over each other as they followed her up the stairs.

~

Sofia picked up the broken metal tube and started shaking the two pieces toward the floor of the hallway. A small object fell out of one end and clinked when it hit the carpet. Paul reached it first, holding the odd thing up for everyone to see.

“What
is
it?” he whispered as he studied it.

Tick took it from him to get a better look. It was a two-inch wide, red plastic suction cup. Attached to the back of the cup was a thin, silvery metal rod bent at a ninety-degree angle. The L-shaped rod was about the size of Tick’s index finger. Tick clasped the cup in one hand, then flicked the tip of the rod with his finger. The small rod spun so fast the metal became a circular blur of silver.

Sofia flicked the rod again, watching it twirl. “Spinner. Master George is
so
brilliant when he names things.”

“I wonder if it’s from Chu Industries,” Tick said. “Does it say that anywhere?”

Sofia stopped the spinning rod and looked closer. “I don’t see anything.”

“What do you think it does?” Paul asked.

Tick pointed back down the stairs. “Master George said to attach it to a blank wall—let’s try the one in the dining room.”

“Let’s go,” Sofia said, already on the move.

~

The Wretched Boy

T
he Spinner’s suction cup stuck to the middle of the wall with a simple push; the bent end of the “L” pointed toward the floor and swayed back and forth until it finally came to a rest.

“What now?” Tick asked.

“Spin it,” Paul said.

Sofia leaned forward and flicked the rod to make it spin, then stepped back. Without a word, the three of them quickly moved all the way to the other side of the room, pressing against the wall to watch. You couldn’t be too careful when it came to gadgets sent from Master George.

Strangely, the spinning metal rod didn’t slow at all, instead going so fast it appeared as a perfect circle of shimmering silver. A slight hum filled the room, like the soft sound of a ceiling fan. After several seconds, Tick’s eyes started to water as they tried to focus on something. Anything. Then the Spinner changed.

A red light flared from the tip of the metal rod, instantly creating a much larger circle that took up most of the wall, a hazy, flat disk of redness. Sofia gasped; Paul let out his usual, “Dude.” Tick could only stare.

“How’s it making a perfect circle?” Paul asked.

Sofia answered. “It must be shooting out some kind of scaled laser.”

“Ooh, like a light saber,” Paul said.

“But—” Tick stopped.

The red color faded from the projected, spinning disk, replaced by a large image of Master George, dressed in his dark suit, standing in front of a fireplace, staring out at them; he caressed Muffintops the cat in his arms. The picture quality was perfect—as good as any theater—it was just . . .
round.

“My fondest greetings to the three of you,” Master George said. The sound of his voice seemed to come from everywhere at once, though slightly warbled. Tick couldn’t help but wonder what kind of speaker could have such power and still be so small—they certainly hadn’t noticed anything when they studied the Spinner a few minutes earlier.

Master George held out a hand. “Don’t attempt to reply—I assure you it will be a waste of your breath. This is only a recording, you see. Quite nice, don’t you think? The Spinner comes in handy when you get a bit depressed and want to watch an old black-and-white. It’s one of my favorite things. Although, it’s a bit difficult to use when you’re in a forest—particularly when you’re being chased by wolves . . .”

Tick exchanged a look with Sofia, both of them trying to hold in a laugh.

“Oh, dear, I’ve already gone off on a tangent,” Master George said, clearing his throat and growing very serious. “My apologies. There is a
point,
you see, to my sending you this Spinner. I must show you footage of something very frightening—something you must see and prepare yourselves to study with the greatest vigor. I want you to remember two words—
entropy
and
fragmentation.
These two things serve as our greatest challenge when studying the Realities; they are also the source of much heartache.”

Master George paused, looking past the camera or whatever was recording him. “Rutger, please put
down
that pastry—get ready to cut to the footage you filmed in the fragmenting Reality.” Master George focused back on Tick and the others. “No wonder I constantly find sticky goo on my camera. Now, I want you to watch closely. We have no sound, as Rutger had to get in and out very quickly and almost ruined the film entirely. I will narrate as you observe.”

The image on the circular screen changed. All three of them sucked in a quick breath when they saw
Tick
huddled next to a tree, shivering, his terrified eyes darting back and forth, looking all around him.

Tick swallowed. He was filthy in the film, his clothes ripped to shreds. Wind tore at his shaggy hair, and his bare feet were covered with grime. Of course, it couldn’t be him—it had to be someone who just
looked
like him. It had to
be . . .

Master George’s narration cut off his thoughts. “Master Atticus, this trembling wretch is one of your Alterants—created last year when you made the choice to follow the Twelve Clues and solve my mystery. A branching reality was created in which you
didn’t
make that brave choice, and here you see the result.”

Tick felt like everything around him disappeared, his eyes riveted to the image of himself on the screen, his heart aching for the boy there.
How can that be me?
he thought.
Is it me? It can’t be me.
Confusion swirled in his mind like poisonous gas.

“This is a terrible thing,” Master George continued. “One of our goals as Realitants is to prevent this type of fragmenting event from happening. In a very twisted way, this boy
is
you, Atticus. He has your mind and heart, your goodness and courage. And he doesn’t deserve the fate that’s come upon him. Watch closely.”

The trees around the Alterant Tick started to shake; the brisk wind picked up even more, tearing at Tick’s pitiful, filthy clothes. There was no sound, but Tick saw the boy scream, hugging his arms around himself tighter. Above his head, the wood of the tree
vibrated,
then broke apart into a million tiny pieces, swept away by the wild wind. The other Tick screamed again, scooting away until he hit another tree. An instant later that one liquefied into a horrific brown goo, splashing all over the Alterant. Another scream, as if the tree burned him.

The real Tick watched in horror at what happened next.

The boy on the screen started to
dissolve.