James Dashner: The Hunt for Dark Infinity

Sato looked forward with a glazed expression, then left and right, as if searching for someone. Finally, he slowly lowered his gaze until he met Rutger’s eyes. “Oh, it’s you. Down there.”

“Very funny, very funny.” Rutger’s short, round body barely fit in the hallway. He took in a deep breath, inflating himself even larger than he’d been a second earlier. “At least it was funny the first hundred times. Come on. Our next visitor has arrived.”

Grumbling inside-no, screaming inside-Sato stepped into the hall, turned and closed the door, and then locked it. Without a word to Rutger, he walked toward the welcoming room at a brisk pace, knowing the poor little man could never keep up on his tiny legs.

When Rutger yelled, “Wait up!” from behind, the briefest hint of a smile flashed across Sato’s face before he swiped it away with his trademark scowl.

“Ah, Master Sato!” George said, his usual jovial self, when Sato entered the room. Even though it was August, large flames licked and spit at the air inside the stone fireplace, warming the room to an uncomfortable level. A couple of nice leather couches hugged the walls; an armchair was set at the perfect angle for someone to sit by the fire and read a book. But at the moment, the only other two people in the room were standing next to the small window that overlooked the canyon river far below.

George stood to the right of the window, dressed in his Tuesday Suit, which only varied from his Monday Suit in that it was a very dark blue instead of a very dark black. One of his hands was outstretched toward Sato, the other toward the stranger standing to the left of the window. “Sato, I would like you to meet a very dear friend of mine, Quinton Hallenhaffer.”

The man bowed his head in greeting, and Sato couldn’t believe the guy could take himself seriously. He wore a twisty turban on his head made up of no less than ten different colors, all of them bright and swirling in a whirlpool pattern so that it looked like Mr. Hallenhaffer had ribbons for hair and had been caught in a tornado. The rest of his clothes were no different-a loose robe with dozens of colors splashed about with no definite pattern, purple gloves, and red shoes that appeared to be made out of wood.

Sato gave a curt nod. “I’m ready for the debriefing.”

George’s face flushed redder than usual. “Er, yes, Sato-though I think we could show our guest a little more, er, courtesy…”

“Oh, it’s all right, George,” Quinton said, waving at the air as if to swat away gnats. He had a trilling, lilting voice, like he couldn’t decide whether to sing or talk. “The boy obviously means business, which is what we need in the new Realitants, don’t you think?”

“Yes, indeed,” George replied, giving the slightest frown of disapproval. “If Sato is anything, he is straight to the point.” George clapped his hands once. “Very well, then. I’ll leave you two alone. Quinton, please fill Sato in on any information you may have gathered since we last met. I have other things to attend to.”

After George left the room, Sato sat down on one of the couches, gesturing for Mr. Hallenhaffer to sit across from him on the other couch. Once settled, Sato asked the question he’d been asking first ever since the fourth such interview, when a common theme had become evident.

“Are people going insane in your Reality? Lots of people?”

Rutger was spouting off at the mouth before Mothball could say one word upon entering the kitchen. “I tell you, that boy is an insolent, inconsiderate, rude-”

“Calm yerself, little man,” Mothball muttered, grabbing the milk bottle from the fridge. “’Eard enough of yer gripin’ for one day, I ’ave. We all know he’s a bit rude, no need yappin’ off about it one second more.”

“A bit rude?” Rutger sat at the large table, munching on something that looked suspiciously like Mothball’s cheesecake leftovers from the night before. “A bit? That’s like saying you’re a bit tall.”

“Well, I am, now, ain’t I?” Mothball pulled out a chair and sat beside her oldest friend, pulling the plate away from him. “Pardon me, but I don’t quite remember givin’ ya the go ahead on eatin’ me hard-earned sweets.”

“Sorry,” Rutger said, head bowed in shame. “You know I get… kinda hungry sometimes.”

“Ya reckon so, do ya?” Mothball let out a laugh. “That there’s like saying Sato is a bit rude.”

“TouchZ,” Rutger muttered.

A long pause followed. Mothball had enjoyed seeing her fellow Realitants come to the Center over the last few days-many of them she hadn’t seen in years-though the reunions were somewhat bittersweet. The reason for the gathering was not a good thing. People going bonkers everywhere, Chi’karda getting loopy here and there. Something very strange was happening.

“Can’t wait to see Tick and the others again,” Rutger said.

Mothball couldn’t stop a huge smile from spreading across her face at the mention of the boy, Atticus. “I hear ya, there. Goin’ to give ’im a big ’ug, I will. Paul and Sofia, too.”

“I just wish it were under better circumstances.” Rutger sat back in his chair, hands resting on his round belly. “All this time we spent worrying about Mistress Jane and the Thirteenth, and then this comes along. Nasty stuff.”

Mothball thought back to several weeks earlier, when the first sign of the craziness showed up in the form of a madwoman running through the streets of downtown New York City in the Twelfth. The resident Realitant had witnessed it firsthand, and thought nothing of it until the woman started screaming, “I can’t get it out of my head! I can’t get it out of my head!” and then disappeared, winking away to some unknown destination. Thinking on it gave Mothball the creeps.

“’Tis gettin’ worse,” she said. “From what I ’ear, there’s a fragmented Reality that’s gone good and batty through and through, every last one of ’em. A literal madhouse.”

Rutger huffed. “I heard there’s a town in the Sixth where every last person is acting like a cat, crawling around, purring, fighting over milk. Can you imagine how disturbing that must be?”

Just then, Master George entered the kitchen, his golden Barrier Wand-its dials and switches set to who-knew-what-clasped in his right hand like a walking cane, and Muffintops right at his ankles. Mothball had the odd thought that she hoped the little tabby cat hadn’t heard the bit about the people-kitties in the Sixth. Could be quite traumatizing for the poor thing.

“Having a bit of a snack, are we?” Master George said as he joined them at the table. “I must admit, I’m quite hungry myself.” He looked around the kitchen as if some food might magically appear in front of him.

“Did you get the letter delivered to Tick okay?” Rutger asked.

Master George blushed, fidgeting with the Wand. “Why, er, yes, yes, it arrived just fine, I believe. Though I might have miscalculated a bit on the exact delivery location.”

“Miscalculated?” Mothball repeated.

“Why, er, well… I may have sent it a little… to the

… left, if you will.”

“The left?” Rutger asked.

Master George slammed his hand on the table. “Fine! I put the blasted thing right in the middle of their wall! And yes, I’m quite embarrassed.”

“Ya could’ve sliced someone’s ruddy head off,” Mothball said.

“I’m quite aware of that, thank you very much.” Master George looked angry, but it quickly flashed into a smile and a snicker. “I imagine it gave them a jolly good fright, don’t you?”

“I bet you did it on purpose,” Rutger said. “I know I would have.”

“But they got it?” Mothball asked.