Refraction Read online

  After about ten minutes of silence, I finally speak my earlier theory aloud. “I think it’s the fog,” I tell Elliott, raising my voice to be heard above the storm outside.

  He glances at me. His features are just barely outlined by the dim light of the glowing gauges. “What about the fog?”

  “It has to be what’s enabling this …” I wave my hands in the general direction of his head, “mental voodoo. Think about it. There’s fog on the mainland but no fog on the island, and we can control stuff with our thoughts here but not there.”

  Elliott frowns, considering.

  I go on. “Mirrors produce Beings and fog. We’ve always assumed the fog was just there to, like, provide the appropriate murdery ambiance, but what if it’s supposed to be a tool in itself? I say the fog is what’s creating all these telepathic abilities.”

  Elliott is quiet for a moment. “The Beings are the aliens’ weapons, or at least that’s what we’ve always assumed,” he says slowly. “Does that mean the fog is supposed to be a weapon too?”

  “A torture device, more like,” I mutter.

  He hesitates. “You still worried about your … what, intrusive thoughts? That’s what you said earlier, right?”

  My first instinct is to get defensive. To say something flippant and snarky, or maybe turn the conversation back on him, bring up the scorpion he was terrified of or something. But the instinct fades after a second, and I decide to risk honesty.

  “Yeah,” I answer. “They’re these weird, out-of-the-blue thoughts that don’t feel like something you’d normally think. Like you’re standing at the edge of a road, minding your own business, and out of nowhere you picture yourself pushing the lady next to you in front of a semi truck and then you panic, wondering why you’d think that. Or in my case, you’re shopping at the corner store when you stop dead in the middle of reaching for a Twix because you suddenly get this awful, graphic mental image of your brother being murdered during a home invasion.”

  I’d dropped everything and run all the way home, panicked to the point of incoherence because the image had felt so real, and even though I knew it was just a thought, I also knew that if he did get murdered it would be my fault for not locking the door. That was the first time I started to realize something weird was going on in my head.

  “So intrusive thoughts are caused by OCD?” Elliott asks. He sounds intrigued, not judgy, which is encouraging.

  “Yeah,” I reply, then think better of it. “Well, actually, no. Almost everyone gets them, but non-OCD people tend to just shrug them off and forget about them. People with OCD freak out about them, try to figure out if they could really come true, whether they’re a bad person for having them, et cetera.” I shrug, but the gesture feels tight and uncomfortable. “I actually don’t get the intrusive-thought part of OCD nearly as bad as some people, though.”

  I remember one girl from my support group who had harm OCD—she was terrified she was “secretly evil” because of the violent intrusive thoughts she had. She refused to touch knives or anything that looked even vaguely like a weapon, and would tie herself in knots to avoid being left alone with her little sisters for fear she’d “go crazy” and hurt them.

  She wasn’t secretly evil, of course. Her OCD just focused her fears on what was most important to her: being a good person and the safety of her family. OCD is a bastard like that.

  “So what part of OCD do you get, then?” Elliott asks.

  My discomfort level rises a few more notches. But as hard as this is to talk about, in a strange way, it’s also kind of cathartic. There are so few people who understand me. For some reason, I want him to be one of them.

  “My obsessions are mostly about safety. Like, I think something along the lines of what if I left the door unlocked, then I think about all the catastrophic things that could happen if I did. Then I can’t focus on anything else until I do my compulsions to make sure I’ll be safe. And the more I give in to my compulsions, the stronger they get.”

  I notice that I’m talking about my OCD in present tense and grit my teeth. I used to give in to my compulsions, and they used to get stronger as a result. But I broke that cycle. Things aren’t that bad anymore.

  Except they are. How many doorways have I tapped in the last twenty-four hours? How many times did I check the dead bolt in the hideout?

  I shake my head. I’m better. I’m better. I refuse to backslide. This is just a hiccup, just a momentary fumble.

  “You know what the funny thing is?” I say to Elliott, my voice bitter with irony. “I think I’m as scared of my OCD getting bad again as I am of this damn fog making my fears actually come true. How messed up is that?”

  The car fills with silence. Outside, the wind howls. The road dips into a low spot, and the car forges a path through the small stream that’s formed there.

  Elliott doesn’t answer. He doesn’t give me some inane response like It’s all in your head—as if that should be calming rather than frustrating and terrifying—or It’s okay, everyone’s a little bit OCD, like the diagnosis is a personality quirk instead of a sometimes-debilitating mental disorder. Instead, he just stays quiet and gives me the chance to talk more, if I want to.

  I don’t. I’m done talking. I just want to be out of this goddamned place and safe with Ty already.

  After a while, Elliott speaks again. “About the fog. If you’re right about it being what enables the mind control, then I think it’s supposed to be a tool for the aliens, not a weapon to hurt us.”

  I glance at him. “What do you mean?”

  He’s staring into the storm, keeping his eyes on the road as he navigates. “The aliens probably mean to use it to make changes to the planet, wouldn’t you think? Build whatever passes for their homes, even create the right kind of atmosphere they need to breathe or whatever. You and me, we can only make small changes using our thoughts, but if the aliens invented the fog, I’m betting they know how to use it for much bigger stuff.” There’s a downed branch covering half the road ahead, and Elliott carefully slows down and steers around it. “You have to admit it would make for a pretty efficient takeover. Beings to kill the humans; fog to make the planet habitable for the aliens.”

  “So the fog is … terraforming Earth,” I conclude, dread lying like an iron weight in my gut.

  The car speeds back up—if you can apply the word “speed” to the turtle-crawl Elliott is keeping the Camaro at—after we pass the downed branch. “Right. And maybe we haven’t seen any actual aliens because they aren’t here yet,” he adds. “They could’ve sent the Shatter Ring ahead, let it do all the work, then when we’re all dead and the planet is covered in fog, they move in.”

  I stare out the window. A crack of lightning spears through the sky overhead. The fog refracts its light, making it sparkle like it’s magic instead of death. “So the only thing holding the aliens back are the cities that have somehow managed to resist the fog and the Beings,” I guess.

  Elliott cuts a glance at me. “The cities that have managed to resist the permanent fog and Beings,” he corrects, his tone sharp, reminding me that my wares have brought plenty of the temporary variety to Cisco Island.

  My shoulders tense up, but I ignore him. “You know, we could probably get a prime price for this information once we get to London,” I speculate instead. “The fog could be used to resupply the city, don’t you think? People could walk a little ways into it and think up an abandoned truck of canned food, or something.”

  It’s my favorite kind of plan, the type that uses one of my problems—the mind-control fog—to solve another. If I can sell intel this valuable to whoever’s running London I’ll be set for life. I won’t have to bother with black-market mirrors anymore. Not that Ty would approve of my present vocation anyway. Once we’re together again, he’ll likely go right back to looking out for me the way he always has, and his definition of looking out for me tends to include keeping me on the straight and narrow by force when necessary.

 
I smile at the thought, just a little. It’s been a long time since I let myself fantasize about what it would be like to have my family back. That’s what Ty and I have always been: our own family. Dad died when I was little, and Mom was barely present even before she left for good, but my brother and I always had each other.

  “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that your first thought is extortion,” Elliot says, jarring me out of my fantasy.

  “What?” I say, frowning at him. His hands are tight on the steering wheel, and the speedometer’s needle is ticking upwards of forty now. I can barely see out the rain-slicked windshield.

  “If the fog can be used to resupply cities, we can’t hold that information hostage for money. That wouldn’t be ethical.” His voice is flinty.

  I go stiff. “What did you think we were gonna do with it? Just hand it over without asking for anything in return?”

  I can practically hear him grinding his teeth. “We should give this information to the cities, and then after they have it, trust them to express their gratitude.”

  I laugh in disbelief. “Trust? Really, Ackermann? This could be our golden ticket! Look—when we land in London, there’s no way it’s not going to be a huge deal. We’ll be the first people to travel through the fog and actually make it anywhere. Sooner or later the folks in London are going to mention us in one of the transmissions they manage to get through to Singapore and to your mom, and then the London officials will find out we’re exiles. What do you think they’ll do then? Throw us a parade to ‘express their gratitude’?”

  “We could ask for asylum in exchange for the information,” Elliott says, his wording oddly careful. “Making a plea for refuge wouldn’t be unethical.”

  I ball up my fist. “I don’t want asylum. I want to be safe, and rich, and with my brother. That’s why I’ve spent the last thirteen months selling mirrors. Not so I can get locked up in a jail, trying to be grateful that at least they didn’t toss me back out into the fog!”

  “Look,” Elliott snaps, his voice suddenly loud, “London is—”

  Something gray in the road ahead catches the corner of my eye. I slam my hands on the dash and shout, “Look out!”

  Elliott hits the brakes. The car squeals and jitters sideways, hydroplaning, throwing me into the door. The rear of the Camaro swings around past the front until we’re moving backwards, then one of the tires catches on the water again and we complete the violent spin. There’s a horrible wailing of metal giving way and Elliott and I are both thrown forward. Our seat belts—thank God I actually wore mine this time—catch us. The jolt gives me instant whiplash.

  The Camaro stops. The engine sputters and cuts to silence. The headlights flicker. One dies, but the other stabilizes after a moment.

  I peel myself off the back of my seat with a muttered curse. I glance at Elliott—he’s fine—then peer through the now-spiderwebbed windshield to squint at the thing we’ve crashed into.

  Lying in the road is a massive tree.

  And in front of the tree, splayed unmoving on the asphalt, is a body.

  CHAPTER NINE

  RAIN SPLATTERS THROUGH MY BROKEN WINDOW, spraying over my shirt in spurts of wind. I unbuckle, grab my poncho from the backseat, pull it on. I glance again at the body: it’s a huddle of rotted flesh, white bone, and torn clothing, curled in on itself beneath the tree. Whoever it was, they’ve been dead a long time.

  Praying desperately, I reach over Elliott—he’s frozen, staring at the body, hands stiff on the wheel—and pull the starter wire out from the spot where I’d tucked it away. I touch it to the battery and ignition wires. Nothing. The engine doesn’t even turn over. We’re dead in the water. Literally.

  A blinding, biting, helpless sort of fury rises up in me. I punch the dash. We’re hours away from the airport, stranded in a hurricane that’s likely to get worse. We can’t go back to the hideout. It’s at least half an hour away by car, which means it’s just as unreachable as the airport by foot. But that’s not even the worst of it. I have no idea how strong the eye wall is or if it’s headed this way, but Elliott was right before about it potentially destroying the planes. Even if it doesn’t, a spin-off tornado could easily do the same damage. And I’m stuck here, unable to do anything. Unable, yet again, to get to the one person I’ve been trying to find for a year.

  I punch the dash again. What else could possibly go wrong? My brain obligingly spits out a highlight reel of the worst options: we get struck by lightning, get crushed by debris, stumble on a mirror that releases another Being. It’s a good thing Elliott is concentrating on keeping us safe, or my thoughts right now would get us killed in seconds.

  I glance over at him. He’s still in the same position as a moment ago: paralyzed, staring at the body in the road. I frown. Surely he’s seen a dead person before. He saw all those murdered cops at the boardwalk, at the very least. I can’t blame him for being a little shaken up—I remember how it felt to have my hands sticky with Ginger’s blood, after all—but right now we’ve got to focus on getting out of here.

  I give him a shove, try to shake him out of his paralysis. “Wake up, and imagine us …” I try to think of something that would be both reasonable and helpful, “a non-broken-down dump truck, maybe, or another hideout? Or better yet, just get the car to start again. Imagine the damage isn’t as bad as it looks from this angle.”

  He doesn’t respond. His face has gone white in the dim interior lights.

  My nerves fraying, I strive for patience. “Look,” I say, glancing from him to the road. “It’s just a body. Right? We knew we’d run across some eventually. All the mainlanders are dead.”

  Without responding, he unbuckles his seat belt. He pulls the latch to open the door, but the crash has stuck it shut. He kicks it open. Rain pours inside as he exits the car.

  “Ackermann!” I shout after him. No response. I curse and heave open my own door. The fog is soupy here, so thick I feel like I’m swimming when I walk toward the fallen tree. I hunch into myself, staying on my guard, but it’s hard to keep an eye out for lurking Beings with the storm buffeting me. “What are you doing? Get back in the car and do something to get us out of—”

  I stop. The hair on my arms and legs is suddenly standing straight up, clinging to the inside of my poncho. I barely have time to throw myself to the ground before—CRACK. Lightning erupts, turning the world white. Splinters of wood fly over me. The crash of thunder is so loud it rattles the inside of my head. An acrid, chemical sort of smell washes over me. Ozone. I army-crawl away; splinters of wood mean the lightning hit one of the pine trees lining the road, which means I’m probably about to get crushed by falling debris.

  I freeze. A horrific understanding washes over me. Struck by lightning; crushed by debris. My fears from a few minutes ago. They’re coming true. Because Elliott is no longer concentrating on our safety.

  Something cracks and groans above me. The lightning-struck tree, falling. I shove myself sideways just in time. Its long, thin trunk crashes against the back of the car, smashing its rear half.

  The dust settles. Elliott and I are trapped between the two downed trees, which shelter the spot where we’re standing so the wind isn’t quite so strong. The totaled car forms the third leg of the triangle. I stare at the freshly felled pine, its branches on one end and upended roots on the other disappearing into the fog.

  My first two fears came true. Lightning. Debris.

  The third fear was a mirror.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and clamp my hands over my head. My breathing is loud, uneven. Elliott’s safety measures aren’t working anymore. My thoughts are acting on the world, unfettered. I can’t look at anything. If I don’t look at anything, I won’t see the mirror, I won’t bring a Being. The only way I can stay safe is to keep my eyes closed.

  I laugh out loud. It sounds more like a rattling gasp. The familiarity of this response—huddling into myself, trying desperately to stay safe, not daring to look up for fear of what I might see—is ach
ingly familiar. This is how I used to deal with my OCD. Keep your head down, try not to think about what terrifies you. Try not to think about how the fear that it might come true is worse than actually having a Being right here in front of me. Because if I were facing a monster, I could run, I could hide.

  But I can never get away from myself.

  “Ackermann!” I shout over the wind and rain. “You’ve got to focus!” You’ve got to help me, I want to say, but I bite down hard on the words and they stay thrashing and unspoken in the back of my throat.

  There’s no answer. I stumble forward blindly. Fingers clamp around my arm. I go still. The hand is warm, but the grip is painfully tight.

  It could be Elliott. Or it could be something else.

  I keep my eyes shut. “Help me,” I say finally, the words trembling on the air, twisting like a fish caught on a line.

  The storm howls. The wind savages my poncho, the rain pelts my face.

  “He wasn’t a mainlander,” Elliott says at last, in a voice I can barely hear above the storm.

  The relief that it is Elliott who has ahold of me is so staggeringly great that it takes me a moment to register his tone. It’s flat and cold, and it makes me remember his expression when his mother exiled him: empty eyes, a face carved from steel and bone.

  I shake off the image, my eyes still squeezed tightly shut. “What are you talking about? I don’t—it doesn’t matter! You have to focus on—”

  “Open your eyes,” he says, still in that dead tone.

  I breathe. The air shudders into my lungs, flees back out. “I can’t.”

  “Open your eyes,” he repeats, “and look at what you’ve done.”

  His hand is still locked around my arm. It pulls me off-balance, drags me to my knees. I slip on the wet asphalt and catch myself on something that gives with a sick, wet crunch beneath my hand. I freeze.