D. MacHale - The Quillan Games

“Go!” shouted one of the guys.

The car lurched forward and I was once again moving. One of the guys pulled a cloth bag over my head. I tried to fight against it, but I was too weak.

“It’s all right,” a calming voice said. “You’re safe. This is just for security.”

Security. Right. Wherever we were going, they didn’t want me to know. I was too loopy to care anyway. I think I might have passed out. I can’t say for sure. We could have been driving for five minutes or five hours. It was all a blur to me. However long it took, we finally screeched to a stop. I didn’t move. I was dazed, but not afraid. These guys wanted me alive. Why else would they have pulled me out of the wreck?

“C’mon,” one of them said, and helped me out of the car. The urgency was gone, but they didn’t take the bag off my head. From the sound of things, we were inside. As we walked, I heard a metal door closing, so it must have been a garage. Without saying another word they led me quickly along, making a few turns and going down several flights of stairs. Wherever they were taking me, it was deep within the bowels of this building. Finally, they had me sit down on a hard chair, where somebody pulled the bag off my head.

I saw that I was in a small, dark room. It looked like a cell. I had seen enough of them to know. There was a bed and a chair, but no windows. Light came from a single overhead bulb. Facing me were three of the kidnappers. They looked pretty imposing with their black outfits and dark hoods. They stood there, legs apart, facing me.

I sat up straight, took a breath, and said, “Well, that was fun.”

The commando in the center reached up and pulled off his hood. All I could do was stare. It was a woman, but that’s not why I was shocked.

She said, “You are now officially part of the revival.”

It was Nevva Winter.

This is where I’m ending my journal. I’ve been stuck in this cell for nearly a day. I’m not sure if I’m a prisoner or not. Nobody is saying much. Nevva left, but promised to be back quickly to explain what is happening. I’m not going to hold my breath on that one after she left me dangling last time. Still, they’re treating me well. They even gave me this paper so I could write. The food isn’t as good as at the castle, and neither is my room, but I’ll take this any day over being back there and wondering when I’d have to compete in another game. It’s given me the chance to write this journal and think about all the things that Saint Dane said to me.

The thing is, I don’t know how much of it to believe. I get all that he told me about Blok and how Quillan is such a messed-up territory. I’ve seen plenty of evidence to know that what he said was the truth, or close to it. What’s bothering me more is the challenge he gave to me. I’m trying to get inside his head. Is this really all about him trying to destroy my confidence? Like I wrote to you before, I have to believe that for Saint Dane, a big part of controlling Halla is about beating the Travelers, and me. This may be a weird thing to say, but it feels like Saint Dane is not only trying to push each territory into chaos, but he’s also trying to convince me that Halla would be better off under his guidance. How twisted is that? Does he really think I’d buy that?

As much as I know that this is a battle for all of Halla, and it’s crucial that we Travelers fight it, part of me is tempted by his offer. I know, it would be idiotic for me to risk my life, but imagine how much stronger we Travelers could be if we understood the nature of our existence. Uncle Press knew, but he died before he could explain it to me. There are so many unanswered questions, and no one has any more answers than I do. Would we have a better chance against Saint Dane if we had a few of those answers? Is it worth risking my life for? Am I being selfish by not taking the chance?

I don’t know. My head hurts too much to come up with an answer. Hopefully by the time I write again, the way to go will be much clearer. Until then, I’ll sit and wait to find out why I’m sitting in a dark cell that smells like fish, in a deep basement, somewhere on a doomed territory.

It looks like my trip home is going to have to wait.

And so we go.

END OF JOURNAL # 25

Courtney had never read one of Bobby’s journals alone. It was a strange and not-too-pleasant experience. Whenever she read about the most recent twist in Bobby’s adventure, she always had Mark there to help her analyze it. She needed that sounding board. Mark and Courtney were polar opposites. Where Courtney was aggressive and emotional, and shot from the hip, Mark was thoughtful and cautious. Together, they were perfect. Going it alone was difficult for Courtney. It was like Adam without Eve, Lewis without Clark, Itchy without Scratchy. She needed Mark, if only to help her keep from hyperventilating as she learned about each new challenge that Bobby had to deal with. She wondered if Mark had had the same problem when she was away at school and he had to read Bobby’s journals from Zadaa on his own.

Mark. Where was Mark? She thought it was lame of him not to call and tell her he wouldn’t be coming over after he helped Andy Mitchell clean up his uncle’s flower shop. She figured it must have taken a lot longer than expected, but still. He should have called. If anything, it made Courtney feel less guilty about reading Bobby’s journals alone. She figured if Mark had a problem with that, she’d throw back could he expect her to wait a whole night before reading a new journal?

Mark and Andy’s plane to Orlando was leaving early in the morning. She knew there was no way he would come over before that to read the journal. He’d have to get there at four a.m. to have enough time to read the journal and then get to the airport. As much as Mark could do no wrong in the eyes of Courtney’s parents, it would be tough to explain why he was dropping by before dawn. Did Mark really think that Courtney would wait until he got back from Florida to read the journal? No way.

Courtney grabbed her cell phone and punched Mark’s number again. It went right to his message box. “It’s after midnight” she said curtly. “Where are you? I know you won’t come over because it’s so late and you’ve got an early flight, so I’m sorry but I’m going to read. There’s no way I can wait until you get back from Orlando. What can I say? I’m weak. Buh-bye.”

She felt only a little bit guilty about telling that fib. She was going to have to tell Mark she read the journal at some point. At least this way, she figured, it sounded as if she waited until the very last possible moment. She hoped Mark would understand and not be too upset with her.

It was late. It was a school night. She was tired. Courtney delicately inserted Bobby’s journal back into its envelope and placed it safely inside her desk drawer. She even locked it, not that her parents ever went in there. Still, she wanted to be safe. She knew there was no way Mark would call this late, so she turned off her phone, changed into her pajamas and T-shirt, and hopped into bed…

And lay there wide awake. For hours. Her body may have been exhausted, but her mind was racing. Her thoughts were full of challengers and video arcades and mechanical spiders and all the other images that Bobby if Nevva Winter was going to be able to help him. She also wondered if Quillan was indeed lost. As horrible as that would be, if it were true, Courtney wanted Bobby to leave that territory immediately and live to fight another day. Taking part in that Grand X in order to learn about the origin of the Travelers from Saint Dane wasn’t worth the risk. She wanted him home. Courtney feared for Quillan, but loved the idea of Bobby coming home. Now. She and Mark would tell him about what happened with Saint Dane, and how he took on the identity of a kid named Whitney Wilcox and nearly killed her. Saint Dane was on Second Earth and Courtney wanted Bobby there too.