James Patterson - The Gift

“That’s vile,” Byron remarks, picking up a lima bean from the dirty floor and examining it.

And it’s going to get a lot more vile down in this dungeon.

Wisty

I’M CLUTCHING A LIMB, or I guess I should say a dismembered arm. Drummer Boy No More’s. Then suddenly it’s pulsating and starts moving as if it’s a living thing, first caressing my face, then, like the traitorous soul it belonged to, clawing viciously at my eye…

I wake up screaming and with my head pounding. Even worse, Byron is leaning very close to my face. I can smell his dippy cologne. “Are you okay, Wisty? You’re as white as a sheet and you’re sweating like a soaker hose.”

They’ve clearly given Byron some sort of script that’s been diabolically designed to keep me on an emotional knife-edge between suicide and murder.

The dayless, lightless monotony down here also creates the ideal conditions for psychosis. We’ve already taken bets on who’ll succumb first. Byron’s been-I kid you not-counting beans (lima beans, that is), just like his deadbeat New Order dad. Whit’s been writing in his journal and searching for the Shadowland (and Celia, of course), and I’ve been self-inflicting pain in order to steel myself for the next visit from the torture brigade.

“Make him go away, Whit,” I grunt through my headache.

“Really, Wisty,” insists Byron. “I just want to help -”

“I don’t need help. I’m perfectly capable of being miserable on my own. Buzz off and do something useful for once in your life,” I mutter.

“Something useful?” he says. “Oh. I didn’t think you thought that I could.”

“Seriously, I’d be so incredibly psyched to be proven wrong right now.”

“Well, then. How about… I pick the lock on the door?”

Whit and I both look at him, trying to figure out if he’s joking. Then I remember: Byron has a subzero sense of humor.

In our exploration of this dank place, we’ve come across only three doors. And, of course, they’ve all been locked tight. We’ve checked, in the event that there’s some good-hearted, normal person hiding in the body of a grunting, surly school monitor. (Not.)

“I did it on one of the other doors-not the door we used to get in here,” Byron explains. “Then I put it back so we wouldn’t get in trouble.”

“A door is a door is a door,” I say, still aghast. “How’d you do it?”

“It wasn’t that hard. I used to be a Sector Leader’s Star of Honor, and as trainees we learn all kinds of skills that are helpful in a prison. So I found a piece of wire and I looped it into the tumbler and felt around, and then, you know, before too long, I’d got it.”

“When exactly did you do this?” I ask.

“When you guys were snoring so loud that I couldn’t sleep.”

“Let me get this straight,” says Whit. “You can pick the lock to a door that might be our escape route out of here, and you didn’t tell us?”

“Well, there’s something behind the door,” explains Byron.

“So? Like what? A monster?” Whit quips and makes a scary face.

“More like, umm…” Byron’s voice trails off.

“What?” I scream at him.

“Your parents.”

Whit

I KNOW YOU’RE ASKING yourself the same question I am. I’m sure Wisty is, too. Could there possibly be any reason not to tell us that our parents are in the room next door? If they really are?

“I… I think they’ll hurt you, Wisty,” Byron stutters. “They’re not safe anymore. Something’s happened to them.”

That’s all just total bull. Has to be. Byron is clearly the first of us to go psycho.

I put my arm around my sister, and she’s shaking with dread and fear. “Not safe? They’re our parents! ” Her voice is becoming shrill. “They’re not capable of hurting us. I swear, Byron, if it turns out you’re not lying and you can get us to them, I will kiss you over and over. And forgive you for every single awful thing you’ve ever done. Which is a lot.”

That makes it a no-brainer for the weasel. With a sigh, he starts toward the door, and we follow. Could Crossley really have been telling the truth?

“Swain, you’re not getting off that easy,” I call after him. “If you’re lying, I swear you’ll regret if for the rest of your days. And if you’re not lying, then explain why you think they’re dangerous!”

“I can’t explain it,” he says, and seems about as disturbed as we are. “Some things you just can’t explain. But it’s true.”

“Our parents are good people. They haven’t changed,” I tell him as we arrive at the door. “Just… do your thing, Byron.”

Byron’s trembling-in real or acted fear, I don’t know or care-but he nods and sticks his piece of wire into the keyhole and starts feeling around.

After a small eternity, we hear a click.

Whit

I GRAB THE HANDLE away from Byron and press down on the thumb latch. We’re greeted with another click, and then I slowly push open the creaky door.

Unlike the rest of this forsaken pit, the corridor ahead isn’t even dimly lit. It’s pitch-black.

“Can you see anything?” Wisty asks from behind me.

“Let your eyes adjust,” Byron suggests. He’s hanging back a little, clearly not thrilled that he suggested this little plan but complicit now. “You’ll see. I think.”

After a pause, my heart stops for a beat. There’s definitely something moving in the darkness ahead of us.

“Mom? Dad?” I call out tentatively.

Wisty takes my words to mean I think I’ve seen them, and she bolts out from behind me.

“Mom! Dad!” she cries.

I feel her flying by me in the dark. “Stay back! ” I shout, and with a lucky reach, I catch her by the sleeve of her jumpsuit. Just in the nick of time, too.

Because right then I hear the loudest, most terrifying growl.

Wisty’s breathless. “S’okay, Whit,” she whispers. “I’m good with dogs.”

“It’s not a dog.” Byron’s voice drifts in. “Trust me on that one.”

It’s the next voice I hear that sends my heart racing. Or skydiving.

“Whit? Wisty? Did I hear your voices?”

It’s our mother!

“Yes, Mom!” Wisty calls into the dark. “We’re here! Are you and Dad okay?” Wisty is struggling to get free of me, but I won’t let her go yet. This can’t be safe. Something’s very wrong.

Then our mother says, “Don’t come near us! Get away!”

I can feel it now. Something really bad’s going to happen.

Our mother and father don’t want us here.

Wisty

A FLICKERING COLD BLUISH LIGHT from I don’t know where suddenly illuminates the end of the hallway. It’s like a scene in a horror movie shot in monochrome.

My parents-gaunt, sunken-cheeked, listless-appear to be shackled to a far wall. My mother’s formerly thick and curly hair looks flat and matted with sweat. Her eyes are bulging as she stares, alarmed, into the darkness. She’s not seeing us, is she? I don’t think so.