The Leveller (8 page)
Authors: Julia Durango
SURPRISE IS ON MY SIDE, FORTUNATELY, BECAUSE WYN SALVADOR
isn't quite the pantywaist I just called him. I'm tall, but he's still got several inches of height on me, and seems pretty athletic.
I've got speed, though, and I know where to land a kick.
I kick
hard
.
The blow makes him drop the gun, which I snatch up and aim at his head this time.
“Your twisted game is over now,” I say, as he slumps back against the wall and contemplates me. “I suggest you activate your return frequency this minute before I shoot you back home.”
“Who are you?” he asks in a demanding tone, his face unreadable.
“Doesn't matter,” I say, waving the gun at him. “You're wanted home immediately. Your family's been worried sick about you while you run around in your playground like a little brat.”
His face changes now and I see anger in his brown eyes. He has the same chocolaty eyes as Mama Beti and Chucho. “What do you know about my family? Who sent you here?” he demands, straightening and taking a step forward.
“Your father hired me.” I sigh, exasperated by the time we're wasting. “And I'm ready to collect my paycheck, so let's move it, bad boy.”
Wyn stares at me in disbelief. “My father hired
you
? A teenage girl?” he asks.
It takes all of my self-control not to give Wyn Salvador another swift kick. I keep steady, but can't stop my mouth from tearing into him. “Yes, he
did
,
in fact, hire
me
, a
girl
. Nobody else could get through your creepy maze, you freak show, and believe me, you're making me sorry I ever tried. Next time you run away, maybe you should think about all the people you're hurting first. Like Mama Beti. She's been sitting by your bedside night and day, you know,
missing
you, not to mention your dad and all the guilt he feels from your suicide note, or whatever it was.”
As I yell, Wyn's face turns from anger to confusion. “They think I ran away?”
“Well, didn't you?”
Wyn doesn't answer my question. Instead he walks toward me, ignoring the gun, and grabs my shoulders. “Take me back right now. Show me how to go home.” His face is scary intense and he's making me nervous.
“Waitâwhat for?” Now I'm confused.
He lets out a frustrated grunt. “Show me how you got in.”
“I told you, I went through your damn maze.”
“I don't know what you're talking about. A maze? Where? How does it work? Can we go back through it?” he asks, his hands still gripping my shoulders, his face inches from mine.
The maze . . .
I remember that flame-eyed witch ripping through my skinâthe burn of her icy-cold fingers. If I have to feel that one more time, I . . .
I pull away from him. “No way. I am not going through that again. Look, just reverse whatever frequency you used to get here in the first place.”
“Don't you think I've tried that?” he asks, his dark eyes flashing at me. “I'm trapped here. I've been trying to escape for days. Somebody's keeping me imprisoned here and I don't know why. Now show me the maze. Please. I've tried everything else I can think of.”
I open my mouth, then close it again. So Wyn
wants
to go home?
The story of the wayward billionaire's son just got a little more interesting, but I decide to wait and ask for details once we get home. Right now we're on a tight schedule.
“What if I just shoot you?” I ask, waving the gun at him. “Maybe that will reset you back at the Landing.”
Wyn shakes his head impatiently and taps his temple with his forefinger like it's the barrel of a gun. “Tried it. Doesn't work. I just blank out for a minute, then wake up in exactly the same place I started. With a wicked headache.”
Whoa. I have never heard of anyone committing suicide in the MEEP before. And if the ordeal of the white witch was any indication, Wyn's actions caused him a not-inconsiderable amount of pain.
What he is saying begins to seep through my thick skull and into my cortex.
“You're really . . . you're
trapped
here?”
“That's what I've been trying to tell you, yes!”
My mind begins to race. Everything is different now.
“There must be another way out, something you haven't thought of,” I say, dropping the useless gun and looking through my inventory. “Let me think.”
“I'm telling you,
there's no other way
.” He stares at me and begins to speak very slowly, as if I'm a small child. “Someone has trapped me here. I have been trying to escape for days. Show. Me. The. Maze.”
I blow out my breath. “Fine, I'll show it to you, but we'll never make it through. I blew nearly all my ammo getting here, and I don't suppose you've got an unlimited supply either if you've been shooting yourself in the head.”
Wyn glares at me. “I don't usually bring weapons to the MEEP. The gun's all I have, plus a few rounds of ammo.”
I almost laugh. “Yeah, well I'm afraid that sharks and giant scorpions require a little more than a Colt .45.”
Wyn tilts his head in disbelief. “Sharks. And scorpions?”
“Oh, that's not the half of it. So cool your jets for a minute and let me think, okay?”
Wyn paces for a few seconds in frustration, then leans against the wall and slides down to a sitting position. He rubs a hand over his face. “So how were you planning to return yourself, if not by the maze?”
“Your father gave me an emergency code. It won't work for you because you've tampered with your ear trans.”
Wyn lifts his head. “I'm not the one who tampered with it.”
“Either way,” I say. “It won't work. It's not coded to your trans.”
“Why don't they just shut down the game for a few minutes?” asks Wyn. “If everyone is as worried about me as you say, why doesn't my father just turn off the MEEP?”
I snort. “I see your father has kept his dirty little secret from you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Apparently there's a pesky side effect.” I push some bright, feathery boas off a wooden table and hike myself onto the surface, sitting cross-legged. “Anybody playing the MEEP using nonregulation frequencies could suffer brain damage if the game is shut down.”
Wyn grimaces, though he does not look very surprised. “I wondered about that,” he says. “The brain's incredibly complex. . . . My father's people have done a lot of research but our neural paths are like an infinite universe.”
“Yeah, well, easy to say now, Einstein
.
Maybe your father and his
people
should have let players know about the dangers involved instead of treating us like guinea pigs.” I think of Chang and Moose, and wish they were here right now to help me figure this out.
“You don't know what you're talking about. My father's brain stem research has the potential to change the world,” Wyn says. “True innovation always involves a certain amount of risk.”
I get mad all over again. “Look, hotshot, you have no idea what I just went through. I've always loved the MEEP, as a
game . . .
but in one single day I've made two important discoveries. First, your father's âinnovation' has the potential to put peopleâpeople like
us
âin a coma. And second, it can be used to torture people. That maze would send most people into lifelong therapy.”
Wyn doesn't look convinced. “People get âkilled' in games all the time. That's one of the reasons they play, isn't it? For the thrill, the adrenaline rush. How is that maze any different?”
“Because I didn't get to
choose
any of it. Half the time I didn't know what was coming. Don't you understand? It's like your worst nightmare, only a billion times worse because it feels so real.”
“Still, it can't be that scary if you know it's a game,” Wyn says with a shrug. I want to punch him.
“Fine, let's go, then,” I say, hopping off the table.
Wyn gets to his feet. “Where to?”
“You want to go to the maze, I'll take you there. Be my guest,” I say. Before meeting Wyn I wouldn't have wished the maze on my worst enemy, but now I can't wait for him to give it a go. Wyn Salvador is just as arrogant as his father. Let him be the shark bait and see how he feels.
He follows me to the alley, a small grin on his face like he's just won the battle. He has no idea. I look around to get my bearings once we reach the intersection. The street is still busy with festive Meeple and glowing neon signs advertising beer and cigarettes.
“We need to get to the Floridita bar and your pal Chucho,” I say.
Wyn raises his eyebrows, then points left. “This way,” he says, and we begin to make our way down the busy street.
As I follow Wyn, I take a good look around at the world he created. I have to admit, it's the best custom MEEP I've ever been in, certainly much more extravagant and vast than anything I've ever made. The buildings we pass have all been meticulously detailed, with their shadowy colonnades, their weathered paint, the scrolled ironwork of outdoor hanging lamps, gates, and balconies. I glance through one of the ground-floor gates and see a garden courtyard tucked between two buildings, where a Meeple couple sits and holds hands among the white flower bushes. A breeze floats across my cheeks and I smell a salty-sweet combination of ocean and flowers.
“That's amazing,” I say, stopping to breathe in the delicious scent.
“Gardenias and Sea Breeze,” Wyn says, his tone a little friendlier now. “The aroma modules are my favorite things to experiment with lately. I installed a bakery last week just so I could try out Buttery Croissants and Cinnamon Apple Pie.”
“Can you taste them as well?” I ask, thinking of the delicious daiquiri.
Wyn nods. “It's not as good as eating the real thing. . . . The programmers are still playing around with texture, but it's a start.”
My previous anger has dissipated somewhat during our stroll, and now I'm almost tempted to ask if we can hit the bakery before we go back home. But I remember my mission and
pull myself together. My job is to get this guy home, not stop for pie.
“Look,” I begin, “I don't know how the maze works in reverse, whether you'll start with the banshee or the sharks, but regardless, you're going to need a rappelling gun. You can borrow mine, assuming you don't have one.”
I continue talking, telling him about each room of the maze and how to defeat the enemies within. The odds of him making it all the way through are a long shot, and I'm guessing he'll give up sooner rather than later once he sees what he's up against. But if he's that determined to try, I might as well let him give it a go. In the meantime, I can stay behind and try to think of another way out. “For the pterodactyls, you're going to need aâ”
Wyn takes me by the arm and stops me in my tracks. We've reached a busy intersection and as we wait for the lights to change, he turns and smiles at me. I'm still mad at him, but it's the first time I've seen him smileâreally smileâand I can't help it. My stomach does a little flip-flop. Wyn Salvador is . . . well, he's not hard on the eyes. Damn it.
“I still don't know your name,” he says softly.
“Nixy,” I say. “Nixy Bauer.”
“Thank you, Nixy, for coming to my rescue.” His brown eyes seem to sparkle at me and I feel my cheeks start to warm. I quickly look away from him, even though I know the blush I
feel inside won't show on my avatar. At least I don't think it will.
The light changes and we walk across the intersection, his hand still wrapped around my arm. “I'll wait for you at the bar with Chucho,” I say, trying to compose myself and steer the conversation back to practical matters. “I'm guessing that's where the maze will spit you out each time you die.”
Wyn shivers a bit at this, but when I look over at him, he grins. “Nixy Bauer. Oh ye of little faith.”
“Hey, nobody will be more pleased than me if you make it through in one try. The faster you get home, the faster I collect my paycheck.”
“How will you know I've made it back?” he asks.
I've already thought of that. “Tell your dad to activate my emergency code remotely. That should work.”
“And if it doesn't?”
I shrug. “Then I'll activate it myself after a few daiquiris with Chucho.”
Wyn laughs. “Sounds like a plan.”
We reach the Floridita and Wyn opens the door for me. I am beginning to enjoy his gentlemanly manners. Ernesto is still at the end of the bar, but is now completely engrossed by a gorgeous blonde. Wyn sees me looking and grins.
“Who's the dame with Hemingway?” I ask, waving to Chucho. “And why does the bartender look like your grandmother?”
“When we get back to the real world, I'll buy you a milk shake and tell you all about it,” he says.
“We'll see about that,” I say. I try to keep my face neutral, but a smile pops through anyway.
We take a minute to trade inventory items, then I lead him to the back of the bar.
“This is it,” I say, as we reach the door marked
DAMAS
. “Are you ready?”
Wyn glances at the sign and pretends to gasp. “The ladies' room? You're right, this
is
scary.”
“You have no idea,” I say, actually feeling sorry for what he's about to experience. “Good luâ” I begin, but before I can finish, he gives me a roguish wink and barrels through the bathroom door.
I CAN'T HELP IT. NOT EVEN TEN SECONDS HAVE PASSED AND I PEEK
through the door.
I'm expecting a room of white. Instead I see a ladies' restroom with Wyn standing in the middle of it, legs apart, rappelling gun in one hand, laser gun in the other. He sees me in the doorway.
“How long does it take?” he asks, his eyes scanning the bathroom. “Do I have to press a button or something? Flush a toilet?”
“No,” I say. “No, no, no, no, no.” I look around in disbelief. I don't know whether to be horrified or relieved. “It's gone.”
“What?” Wyn quits his “ready” stance and heads for the door. “Maybe you got it mixed up.”
“I don't think so,” I say testily, following him out. He opens the neighboring door that says
HOMBRES
and sticks his head in. “No sharks in there either?” I ask when he turns back around.
“Not unless they're in the sink.” He blows out a long breath and runs a hand through his hair. “No sharks. Now what?”
“There must be another way to get you back. Try your return frequency code again.”
“You know it doesn't work.”
“Try it anyway.”
He rolls his eyes, but dutifully recites the eleven-digit code loudly into the MEEPosphere. Nothing happens. “Satisfied?” he asks, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Wait a minute. How do you normally get to the Landing? Not through the restroom, I presume.”
Wyn shakes his head at me and lets out a frustrated sigh. “You're not listening, are you? They've blocked all exits, Nixy. There's no way out.”
“There must be,” I say. “Take me to your Landing portal.”
“Fine,” Wyn says. “Come on.”
We go back into the streets of Havana and walk for about five minutes before we turn down what looks like an older residential avenue. The two- and three-story buildings are all pressed together along the street, their balconies draped with flowers, the streetlights showing off their rainbow of colors. They look like a parade of frosted cakes with buttercream icing.
It's pretty here, even in the dark.
“Where are we?” I ask, as Wyn leads me inside one of the homes.
He doesn't answer. I continue to follow him through the front room of the dark house and up a wide staircase with a sleek wooden handrail. As we go up, he lights the electric sconces hung along the staircase wall, and I now see that the inside of the house is as pretty as the outside. The walls of the stairwell are painted a sea green and hung with dozens of framed portraits and landscapes. In the front room below I see small potted trees and urns of cut flowers sprinkled among the furniture, filling the house with color and more sweet smells. Wyn has been busy with the aroma modules here, too, I see.
We walk up two flights of steps until we get to the third floor, then enter the darkened room at the front of the house, the one facing the street. The balconied floor-to-ceiling windows stand open, letting in a cool breeze and the sounds of the city below. Wyn flicks on an overhead chandelier.
We're in a bedroom, obviously, given the white-painted four-poster bed that dominates the room. The rest of the furniture matches the bedâa dressing table, nightstand, wardrobeâall in white with dainty hand-painted orange floral designs decorating their corners. The pale yellow coverlet on the bed matches the walls, and little embroidered pillows sit in a tidy row across the top of the bed. A small white cast-iron
bistro table and chair sit on the balcony, which is laced with some kind of deep orange tropical flowers.
“So the portal is somewhere nearby, or are we just resting?” I ask, inspecting the photos and postcards tucked inside the frame of the dressing table's big oval mirror. The photos look like old movie star glamour shots, good-looking people from decades ago, their scrawled signatures across the bottom. The illustrated postcards say things like “Hello from Havana!” and feature smiling girls in flouncy dresses shaking maracas or holding up their skirts to show off long shapely legs. A hand mirror, a brush, and several little pots of makeup sit on the dressing table along with a few of those old glass perfume bottles with the attached spritzers.
In the mirror I can see Wyn standing rather awkwardly, his hands shoved in the front pockets of his jeans, a somewhat sheepish look on his face. That's when it dawns on me. This must be his girlfriend's room . . . his
virtual
girlfriend's room. Usually I would find this funny, but for some reason, I feel irritated. Really, really irritated.
“So . . . the portal?” I say, unable to keep the peevishness from my voice.
Wyn clears his throat. “It's through there,” he says quietly, pointing his thumb toward the wardrobe.
“You're kidding me, right?”
Wyn shakes his head.
Now I laugh, enjoying the embarrassed smile that plays across his lips.
“Your portal is through the wardrobe. Wow, you've created your own little Narnia,” I say, walking toward the large cupboard. “Does it come with a talking lion, too?” I pull open the wardrobe doors with both hands.
There's nothing there. And by nothing, I mean
really
nothing. No portal, no Landing, no fur coats leading to a snowy forest. Inside the wardrobe there's just . . .
Wait, is that . . . ?
“
Fy fæn
,” I say, closing the doors as quickly as I can. I step away from the wardrobe without taking my eyes off it.
There
was
nothing there. Less than nothing. Only a pulsing, roiling, cavernous void. Yet it seemed to want to reach out. It seemed . . .
alive.
I have never seen anything like it before. I didn't even believe it existed.
I glance at Wyn, but he doesn't need to say anything. Doesn't bother to explain. We both know exactly what I was staring into.
The Black.
No. I won't be scared. Because there's nothing to be afraid of. All those stories Chang tells about the Black are just that. Stories.
I think about opening the doors again. Just to prove to
myself it's no big deal, but I can't bring myself to do it. Frustration bubbles up inside me, a sudden surge of anger, and I try to push it back down.
“What?” Wyn asks.
“Where the hell did that come from?” I say.
“I told you. They took away the portal,” Wyn states. “There's no way out.”
“And by
they
, you mean . . . ?” I ask as I start shaking the wardrobe. Maybe it's just a glitch, some kind of malfunction. Maybe if I disrupt the code, the portal will snap back into place.
“I don't know, but someone's behind this, someone is deliberately trying to keep me from going home,” he says, running a hand through his hair again. “Wait, what are you doing?”
“What does it look like I'm doing?” I pull the heavy wardrobe away from the wall so I can examine the back of it. Nothing there. I pound on the wall where the wardrobe was, then give it a good strong kick.
“Stop that,” Wyn says, pulling on my arm. “You're ruining it.”
The pale yellow wall now has a hole in it the size of my foot. I peer through, but there's nothing but Black on the other side. I jerk away from it, and swear again.
“Come on, we're leaving,” Wyn says, pulling on my arm. I can tell he's upset that I'm messing with his girlfriend's prissy
little room. “Your mind is on overload right now; you don't know what you're doing.”
For some reason, his words just make me madder than ever. I yank my arm back. “I'm not done yet,” I say. I stand behind the wardrobe and lean into it.
“Stop!” Wyn yells at me, but it's too late. The wardrobe teeters for a moment, then crashes into the four-poster bed. Both pieces of furniture collapse and splinter.
“Pretty shoddy workmanship,” I quip to Wyn as I kick through the rubble.
“What the hell do you think you're doing?” Wyn asks me now, his eyes filled with anger, his voice rising.
“I'm trying to get us out of here, you spoiled brat,” I say, irritated by his bossiness.
I'm
still the one in charge.
I'm
the person his father hired to find a way out of here, and I'm determined to do so.
“Don't worry,” I continue, “I'm sure your virtual girlfriend won't mind a little redecorating.” With that, I pick up the cast-iron chair from the balcony and start swinging it into the walls. Smashing things feels good, for some reason, like I'm somehow getting back at the MEEP for what it's put me through today. I let loose with the chair and rip the entire room to shreds. For a final touch, I throw the chair straight at the dressing table. It shatters the vanity mirror and the photos and postcards disappear under a mound of broken glass.
Wyn has been yelling at me to stop this whole time, but I ignore him. It's just a stupid room, nothing he can't rebuild once I get us out of here. I start inspecting all the holes I've created, hoping one of them will lead to the portal.
Wyn's standing in the doorway, his fists clenched, his eyes blazing. “This is MY world, not yours. You have no right to destroy my creation.”
“I'll do whatever I want,” I say, the words shooting from my mouth like darts. “Your daddy's my boss, not you, remember?”
He looks furious now, but I don't care. It's like another Nixy has taken over my body, and I'm okay with that. The real Nixy can't handle any more.
“Just leave,” he says, his voice low and growly. “The only way you can help me is to go back and explain what's happened to my father.”
I turn around and examine another hole in the wall. Black. They're all filled with it. It undulates, shifts. I can sense it moving, more than see it. Its darkness is total and complete.
“All you're doing now is making it worse,” Wyn says. “Go home, Nixy.”
I kick another hole in the wall. “You know what? Fine. Inventory,” I say, blinking as the sidebar comes up in my mind. I open the file that has my emergency code listed. “I'll go back home and draw a map for your daddy and his minions so they can come and find you. And then you can bitch to them about
their
rescue methods.”
His face flashes something else now, something more sad
than angry, and he opens his mouth as if to say something.
And then there is a sound. Or rather, a
change
in the sound. A dampening of it, like my ears popping in an elevator.
I turn and see the wall behind me begin to fuzz and break into fractals, like static on a TV. The surface bends crazilyâthe image of it stretching, twisting. I watch as the Black pulses out of the hole I've made. It swallows the wall in great, large sections.
It's mesmerizing. I can do nothing but stand and stare at the wall as this presenceâthis
thing
âdevours it.
“Go,” Wyn says.
I blink at him. The Black moves onto the floor, oozing, turning the surface I'm standing on into . . . nothing.
“GO!” he barks. He grabs my shoulder and steers me toward the door. Outside the room, he closes the door behind us, and locks it tight with a key from his pocket.
“Wh-what?” I sputter. “How? Are weâ?”
Wyn presses his lips together. “I think it will stay contained inside the room,” he tells me. “It never did . . .
that
before.”
We stare at the wood frame. It holds fastâstable, solid.
Wyn turns to me. “I think . . . Nixy, I think you should go.”
I blow out a long breath. I feel like I can barely think, much less
save
anybody. “Look, maybe the programmers can find a way to create a new portal for you, once I explain the problem.”
He tries to smile at me, though he looks anything but happy. “Please tell my grandmother that I miss her and I'll be home as soon as I can.”
I feel a twinge of guilt thinking of Mama Beti. How disappointed she'll be when I return empty-handed. But it can't be helped. Wyn's right. There's no easy escape and I've done my best.
I found Wyn. Now someone else needs to get him the hell out of here.
I nod a quick good-bye, then recite the eleven-number code into the MEEPosphere, waiting for the familiar beeping sound to take me back to reality.
I wait a little longer. No beeps. I'm still in the hallway of Wyn's imagined Cuban town house, and Wyn is starting to look worried.
I blink and look up the code again. Maybe I mixed up the numbers. I recite them again, this time more loudly. “5-1-1-9-6-1-0-0-7-0-0.”
Nothing. Across from me I see Wyn's shoulders fall, his head drop. He raises his hands and massages his forehead with his fingertips.
I run down the stairs and out onto the cobbled street, yelling the numbers into the night sky. “5-1-1-9-6-1-0-0-7-0-0!”
Beside me a car honks.
A small group of Meeple hail a cab.
The code. It doesn't work.
I am trapped here . . . with Wyn.