Nil Unlocked Read online

  Dad’s shoulders drooped, and I knew I’d won.

  “Fine.” He sighed. “But you’ll stick with me at all times on the trip, okay? No wandering off, Skye.”

  “Deal.” I smiled. “So when do we leave?”

  CHAPTER

  7

  RIVES

  DAY 241, MID-AFTERNOON

  Chalk one up in the let’s-make-people-suffer category of Nil.

  Jason’s gritted teeth spoke volumes.

  We’d just finished eating. Actually, I’d just finished chowing down on three shrimp wraps, but Jason had barely touched his food.

  I pointed at his half-eaten wrap. “Your finger killing your appetite, bro?”

  “Yeah. I can’t believe I dropped a frickin’ rock on it.” He sighed. The circles under his eyes darkened in the afternoon shadows.

  “It happens.” I took a hard look at his finger and frowned. Angry flesh bulged between the tight white lines of Jillian’s homemade bandage. Luckily for Jason, his bone hadn’t broken the skin, but it obviously hurt like hell. “You’re off watch until I say otherwise,” I told him. “Try to get some sleep tonight, all right? Hit it early.”

  He nodded.

  Jason walked away, cradling his hand, shoulders stooped in exhaustion and pain. I sighed, knowing he needed rest to heal but cruelly aware that pain and sleep meshed as well as oil and water. He needed a painkiller that would knock him out.

  He needed Sabine’s deadsleep tea.

  It had helped Charley, maybe even made the difference for her. But so many what-ifs here were out of my control, binding my hands with invisible ties.

  What kind of Leader was I?

  One who’s fearless, I thought grimly.

  I strode back to my hut.

  Behind it, resting on a flat plank, three coconut shell cups sat waiting. By my count, the deadleaf seeds had been soaking in water for a week, the same time frame Sabine had mentioned once. No seeds had been fermenting when Talla had been hurt, and there hadn’t been time to soak them. No one knew a shortcut. No one knew Sabine’s secrets.

  Except me.

  I’d sat with her the day she’d mixed deadsleep tea for Charley. I’d watched Sabine’s every move and paid attention to her potion. I didn’t know a fermentation shortcut, but I knew the process from there.

  It was time to experiment.

  It was time to wrench this variable in our favor. If not for Jason, whose broken finger was minor by Nil injury standards, then for the next person who clung to life. I was done with watching people get hurt and die.

  I picked up the first cup. Using a clean piece of taro leaf, I carefully scooped out all seven seeds and dumped them on the ground like Sabine had done. The remaining water was tinged gold; it was the same translucent caramel shade I remembered. Possibly darker.

  Rivesssss …

  The afternoon breeze whispered like a ghost. It blew onshore, smelling like salt and sea and memories. I looked toward the field, where the inked boy had stood, where bleached coral crosses lined the field’s edge and marked island graves.

  Be fearlesssss …

  Careful not to spill the amber liquid, I carried the cup into my hut, where a small table, an empty cup, and a gourd of water waited.

  Recalling Sabine’s methodical steps, I cut the fermented liquid by half with clean water. I sniffed it. Bitter, but not unpleasant. I took a sip. Too sharp, too strong. I added more water and sipped again, twice. The flavor still tasted off. I added a dash more water and drank again. I frowned and took another drink, rolling the tea around on my tongue. The strength felt right—but the tea wasn’t.

  Something was missing.

  I drank another swallow, and a memory hit: fruit juice. Just before she’d given it to Charley, Sabine had mixed fruit juice into the tea, a blend of guava and redfruit juice. I’d assumed it was for flavor, to cut the bitterness, but maybe it was to cut the tea’s strength. Maybe it was to neutralize the acidic bite; maybe it was to keep the tea’s balance between life and death.

  Maybe it was important.

  I had this juice epiphany as I realized I couldn’t move. My legs and arms were dead weight masquerading as flesh and bone, sinew and muscle. They were attached to me, yet they weren’t; below my neck, I felt nothing. My eyelids dropped like blackout shades.

  Merde.

  The thought ended as I slammed into a wall of black; the black hit me, held me, turned me into stone. Inside my skull, blackness dripped through my brain, thick and heavy. No heat, no ice.

  No sensation at all.

  No me.

  CHAPTER

  8

  SKYE

  NOVEMBER 16, MID-AFTERNOON

  “Four weeks,” Dad said grudgingly. “We fly out on December eighteenth. Normally I’d be ecstatic to have you come with me, you know that, Skye. But I feel like I’m putting you in harm’s way. You’re still a kid.”

  “I’ll be eighteen in February, so technically I’m almost an adult.” I paused. “But more importantly, I’m a teenager, which—correct me if I’m wrong—are the only people allowed on the island, right? So did it ever occur to you I might just be your best hope of finding it?”

  Dad looked less thrilled by the minute.

  I changed the subject before he changed his mind. “Dad, say we find this island, Nil. Then what? Not to dash your dreams, but what’s the point? Is it just to prove that Uncle Scott was telling the truth?”

  “Confirmation of the island’s existence is part of it, certainly. The island’s existence goes against every scientific fiber of my being, and the scientist in me wants to confirm it for myself. But there’s more.” He paused. “I think that if I—we,” he quickly amended as I arched my eyebrows, “can find the island, then we can save the sanity and potentially even the lives of the kids who end up there. Once the island’s existence is acknowledged to the outside world, then the teens won’t suffer the stigma of disbelief. And we’ll also have the coordinates so all the teens there can be rescued.”

  I frowned. “One problem. Didn’t Uncle Scott say the only way to the island was a portal? So what’s the connection between these kids”—I tapped the articles of missing-and-then-found teens—“and this possibly-real mysterious island?” Now I tapped the special yellow tack out in nowhere.

  “I’m not sure,” Dad admitted. “I can’t help but think there might be another way onto the island, possibly a direct route, accessed by boat? Perhaps it’s so remote that it’s difficult to find? Perhaps something is protecting the island, such as a natural barrier? That part of the Pacific Ocean is enormous. We just need the coordinates, Skye. We’ll use the information from my guide, Charles, and the stars to guide us; Scott references specific constellations in his journal. And if we can find Nil, we can save all the kids. We’re the answer they’ve been waiting for.” The fanatical news-of-the-weird gleam was back.

  Something told me finding the island wouldn’t be as easy as Dad believed, and finding a way to save the kids would be even harder.

  Maybe even impossible.

  Otherwise wouldn’t it have already been done?

  “Maybe,” I said. Or maybe it’s the ultimate island pipe dream.

  I backed up, raising the journal like a shield. “I’m going to go read. Try to find something to help us.” And something to help me believe.

  “Good thinking.” Dad’s eyes shone, a sign he thought I was fully on board the crazy train with him. The truth was, I was on board with the idea of going along with my dad for a Micronesian excursion rather than being left behind over winter break. But as for the mysterious island of Nil and Dad’s pie-in-the-sky hope of not only finding this tiny island somewhere in the giant Pacific Ocean, but also rescuing the kids? I wasn’t on board with that train wreck at all. Not that I didn’t think it was noble and laudable and a lovely Christmas gift for everyone; I just didn’t think it was likely, or even possible. I thought Dad was setting himself up for mega disappointment.

  Still, a trip to the Pacifi
c Islands in December sure sounded nice.

  Weeks later I’d remember that thought. Nice wasn’t the right word at all.

  Risky.

  Surprising.

  Terrifying.

  Naïve.

  Deadly.

  Anything but nice.

  CHAPTER

  9

  SKYE

  NOVEMBER 16, EVENING

  I opened my uncle’s journal and picked up where I’d left off.

  Entry #4

  I know she told me to go north, but I sensed she went east.

  I walked up the beach, toward the spindly trees and scrub. Toward where I felt she’d be, knowing I was chasing a vision or a dream or possibly the only person stuck in this nightmare with me. Just past the scrub the island opened wide, a flat black rock field without end. Beautiful and stark and awesome and chilling, as sharp a contrast as an Ansel Adams photo.

  Stark black rock, pale blue sky. Crisp. Clear. Lifeless.

  Dangerous.

  Light flashed ahead, a wink on the black, and I froze; I thought of the glistening air I hit on Oak Street, wondering if this was Burning Air Hell Round Two.

  But this light didn’t rise. Didn’t move. I stepped closer and the light disappeared.

  Two more steps and I saw why. Three-foot-wide tunnels snaked through the black rock, full of water, reflecting the sun. No fish. No life. Just water, so clear I could see the rock bottom. I wondered if she’d led me here.

  I fell to my knees. Warm water, decently fresh to the taste. I drank until I couldn’t.

  I sat back, wiped my mouth, and watched the ripples from my hands fade. The surface became a mirror. A boy with spiky brown hair and sleepless eyes gazed back at me. It was the first time I saw myself on the island, and the last time I looked scared.

  Now I look fearless.

  I spent the rest of that afternoon puking my guts out. I never drank that water again.

  My name is Scott Bracken, and this is the truth.

  The next few entries described Uncle Scott’s search for food, another giraffe sighting, and his obsession with the mysterious girl who may or may not be an angel.

  The seventh entry was different. Meticulous sketches of constellations filled the pages. I recognized Orion immediately; for the others I relied on Uncle Scott’s identification. I guessed these were the sketches Dad would use to navigate toward the mysterious island.

  My turn first.

  I pulled up images on Google and tried to match the constellations Uncle Scott drew to the night sky over Polynesia and Micronesia. Beneath them sprawled open water.

  Nothing else.

  I wasn’t sure who was crazier, Uncle Scott or my dad.

  That night I dreamed of giraffes dancing on hot lava, and when I woke, I decided I might not be all that balanced either.

  And I still didn’t believe.

  CHAPTER

  10

  RIVES

  DAY 243, ALMOST DAWN

  I surfaced from the deepest sleep of my life.

  Around me, the air stretched black. Not the bottomless black I’d just woken from, but the rich black of a Nil night. The sky had a swipe of color, enough to hint that dawn would show. Waves crashed in steady rhythm. Otherwise, the island was still, like Nil recharged while we slept.

  Beside me, Jillian slumped in a chair, eyes closed. Dex’s sleeping form sprawled on the ground next to Jillian, their hands separated by a thin slash of air. Jason lay in Dex’s bunk, out cold.

  It felt like a deathwatch, only I was alive. More alive and rested than I’d felt in weeks.

  I swung my legs over the edge of my bed. Before my feet hit the ground, Jillian sat bolt upright, her eyes red and blinking.

  “Rives! You’re awake! Thank God.” Her eyes narrowed. “What were you thinking? You scared the crap out of us. We weren’t sure you’d wake up. Ever.” Exhaustion etched her face. “I found the deadsleep tea on your table. Only I wasn’t stupid enough to drink it.”

  “Jills, I didn’t mean to freak you out. I just—” I glanced at Jason, who was still asleep, his broken, bandaged finger propped on his chest. “We need Sabine’s tea.” My voice was flat. “When Talla needed it, we didn’t have it. Jason could’ve used it last night, and who knows how many people will need it in the future. And now I know how to make it.” I cocked a slight smile.

  Jillian’s face hardened. “Jason could’ve used a night of not worrying you were dead. Make that two nights. You’ve been asleep for almost three days.”

  “Three days? No way.” But the look on Jillian’s face told me she wasn’t kidding. No wonder my stomach felt like an empty pit. “Man, that tea is strong.”

  Jillian didn’t crack a smile.

  “Look. I’m sorry for worrying you, but I’m not sorry I tried it. I’d watched Sabine make it. I guess I drank more than I thought as I worked out the kinks. I forgot to add the juice.” I shrugged. “I know we need the tea, and I’ve been figuring out how to make it.”

  “By testing it on yourself?”

  “Better me than anyone else.”

  She shook her head. “Talla was bold, but she wasn’t reckless. Or stupid. And she wouldn’t want you to join her by the field.”

  “It was quite the cockup, Rives,” Dex said. I hadn’t realized he was awake. He sat up, bleary-eyed. One side of his hair was mashed flat against his head. “I found you facedown on the bed, breathing slowly, like each breath might be your last. Jillian’s the one who told me you bloody well poisoned yourself.” He rubbed his hair with both hands, making it all equally spiky, then pointed a long finger at me. “This island is dangerous enough without deadly home brews, mate. And the City needs you.”

  “Point taken. But now I know. More light breakfast blend, less espresso.” I grinned.

  Jillian scowled. “So much for your promise not to do anything stupid. Please don’t make a habit of self-experimentation, okay?”

  “I’ll try.”

  She shook her head, then yawned and peeled herself off the chair. “Since you’re back in the land of the living, I’m off to bed. See you in the morning.” She sighed. “Which is almost here.”

  I stood. “Take my bunk. I’ve slept enough.”

  Jillian didn’t argue. She climbed in and curled into a tight ball.

  Dex lay back down. “Glad you’re not dead, mate. You scared the piss out of us.” His eyes were already closed. “Been a long few days,” he mumbled.

  A long few days.

  Days I’d lost.

  Time I’d lost, gone forever.

  The urge to return to the Cove hit me full force, as undeniable as the need to breathe. No one carved an arrow unless it was meant to be followed.

  Outside my hut, Zane stood a stone’s throw away. His back to me, he studied the woods, holding a fresh rock-tipped spear. Ahmad’s weapon work, no question. Snatched from Southern California, Zane alternated between looking totally at home to looking completely out of place. Right now, casing the perimeter with a spear instead of a board, he was a fish out of water.

  I purposely stepped on a twig as I walked, loud enough to alert him to my presence but not wake the City.

  Zane spun. “Jesus!”

  “Nope. Just me.” I grinned.

  Zane pointed his spear at me. “Whoa, bro. You’re not a ghost, right? Word is you’re in an island coma.”

  “Boo.”

  Zane’s eyes widened.

  “Kidding.” I grinned again. “No ghost. No coma. I’m fine.”

  Zane’s stance relaxed. “Dude, you nearly gave me a coronary. No joke.”

  “Sorry.” It was my word of the morning, apparently. “Anyone else up?”

  “Just Macy.” He pointed toward the Wall, where Macy stood, stretching.

  “Morning, Rives.” She smiled warmly as I walked up. “Good to see you.” As in Oh yeah, you’re not dead.

  “Good to be seen,” I replied. As in yeah, still kicking it.

  “I knew you’d make it.” Her calm t
one was Macy confident.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. Your heart was in the right place. You did it for everyone except you.” Then she chuckled. “But also, Sabine told me once that deadsleep tea stops a person’s heart in ten minutes. Otherwise, it just knocks you out, like what happened to you. So I knew you’d be okay.”

  “Huh,” I said, absorbing Macy’s reveal. “I guess I beat the odds.”

  Another tidbit that would’ve been good to know. A flash of frustration made my fists clench. Why was everything here so tough to figure out? It was like everybody got a piece of the puzzle, but no one got it all.

  Until now, I thought fiercely. I’m going to add it up, put it together. I’m going to unlock Nil’s secrets if it kills me.

  It almost did, the wind whispered.

  Macy’s eyes flicked over my shoulder.

  “Looking for someone?” I glanced behind me, only seeing Zane.

  “Kiera,” Macy said. “We’re going to walk. She arrived the day you left with Thad,” she added.

  “Any other rookies?”

  “Just Alexei. His English is pretty rough but he’s doing okay. He’s from Georgia. Not Charley’s Georgia, but the Russian one.”

  “Georgia’s actually a former Soviet Republic,” I said absently.

  “Well hello, Mr. Geography!”

  I shrugged. “My dad covered a story there in 2008 when Georgia and Russia were on the brink of war.”

  Mental footage of Dad flanked by armored tanks and troops in flak jackets flooded my head, followed by images of bombed-out streets, children bloodied, soldiers blindfolded. For weeks I’d woken up screaming, terrified that my dad wouldn’t come back. But he had.

  Are my parents having nightmares about me? They had to be going through hell right now. One more tally mark in the cruel column of Nil.

  Foe, I thought. Because Nil sure as hell isn’t our friend.

  Maybe it’s neither, the waves whispered.