Elusion(85)

“It’s a mountain,” I breathe, as it sprouts above us. Unlike the rest of our surroundings, this mountain looks real, brown and gray, like some of the pictures my dad showed me when he was designing Elusion.

The earth gives a final, violent jerk, as if spitting out the painful last remnants, and stops.

At its peak, carved into the block of granite, deep and distinctive, are the same numbers that were written on the girl’s hand, the same numbers that were written on the wall of the warehouse and in the sand the night I saw my dad.

5020.

“It’s Mount Monadnock,” I whisper as the numbers begin to glow. “It’s in New Hampshire—Emerson and Thoreau wrote about it.”

Josh comes to his feet, regaining his balance but cautiously, like he’s waiting for the ground to move again. When it doesn’t, he straightens, staring up at the numbers. “Are you sure?”

“Positive. My dad used to have a picture of this on his tab.” I forget all about my injured leg as I push myself up. The number, the mountain that he himself pointed out to me on his tab—is my father trying to send me a message?

“Dad!” I scream out, my voice echoing over the ruined prairie.

As I move toward the mountain, there’s another tremor—this time accompanied by a sharp electric current that flashes like the streak of a comet’s tail. I stumble forward and collide with Josh, my face against his chest.

I still don’t know what those numbers mean, nor do I understand why a mountain that my father loved has suddenly burst into the Escape, but there’s only one way to find out.

“We need to get to the firewall,” I say.





SEVENTEEN


WE’VE BEEN WALKING FOR WHAT FEELS like miles, but every couple of minutes, I jolt to a stop.

“Did you hear something?” I ask for the trillionth time.

“This?” Josh says, stepping on one of the crumbled stone reeds. “Just me.”

A prickle of disappointment crawls up the back of my neck. Ever since I saw that mountain with 5020 etched into the peak, I’ve been on alert for my dad’s tall figure or his dark hair—convinced he might materialize in a fraction of a second. But the only sound we’ve heard for what feels like hours is the ground crunching underneath our feet as we shuffle through a parched world like the living dead.

No howling wind, no booming thunder—nothing. It’s as if the earth has gone to sleep, leaving just the two of us, utterly and completely alone.

Yet I still hope.

I gaze up at the sky. Even though it’s barely visible through the haze, we’ve been using the A in the lockout message as a sort of North Star to guide us, assuming the words in the sky are stationary. But if they’re not, we’re screwed. We could be walking in circles for God knows how long.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Yeah, just checking our bearings. We’re still good.” I begin to walk, trying to ignore the pain shooting down my leg, but then I stumble a little and Josh reaches out to put his hand on my waist, his fingers dangling there when our eyes meet.

“Maybe we should rest for a couple minutes,” he suggests.

“No, I’m fine,” I say. “We should keep moving.”

“I know, but I can tell you’re hurting. We won’t be long, promise.”

I reluctantly nod in agreement, exhaling like I’ve been holding my breath for days. “Can I ask you something?”

“Anything,” he replies, with a bit of a grin.

“How do I know I don’t have nanopsychosis?” I try to hide the worry in my voice but I don’t think it’s working. “After reading that memo, I can’t help but wonder . . .”

“Is this because of what Patrick said before? About you sounding crazy?”

“I guess so.” The words my father said on the beach are replaying in my mind, haunting me. “The first time I saw my dad, he told me I wasn’t safe, Josh. He stared right at me when he said those words, and I swear, nothing about that felt like a hallucination.”

“I believe you, Regan. And you’re not sick,” he says. “You know, in the mountain Escape, I saw your father too. And I’ve been thinking about it some more, how he ran away from us instead of toward us. It was kind of like he knew we would follow him. Like he wanted us to get as far away from the firewall as possible.”

“So what are you saying?”

“If your dad is supposed to be some kind of false memory, or a vision or whatever, then why are his actions so logical? Why does what he said to you here, and what he’s done, make so much sense?”

“You don’t have to do that, Josh.”

“Do what?”

“Humor me.”

He pulls me into a warm hug. “Don’t you get it? I’m on your side about this.”

“Really?” I say, gripping his arms. “You think it could be possible that my dad is actually alive?”

“I do. And the good thing is, if he is, he’s not addicted,” he adds, stroking my hair gently. “The memo said nanopsychosis only affects kids our age, so the theory that he staged his own death because he was a junkie is out the window, right?”

When I glance up at him, he gives me a grin of encouragement, and it nearly melts me.