Nil Unlocked Page 6

  Maybe the arrow would point me to the answer.

  I squeezed Macy’s shoulder. “Have a good walk, Mace. Be safe.”

  The island sun rose quickly, shooting light the color of Nil’s lions through the trees. The Cove was a ghost town, like I’d hoped. No need to make small talk or dodge company. Fast strokes, a strong inhale, a clean dive, and I was there—behind the falls, cloaked in liquid cover.

  The opening hadn’t changed.

  I offered up a prayer for safety and eased into the cave.

  The tunnel absorbed dawn’s light as if starved for it. I counted my steps as I went, running the tips of my fingers across the tunnel walls. Rough, cool, moist. Familiar. The tunnel narrowed. My fingertips brushed the arrow; I didn’t stop.

  Fifteen steps later, I hit another arrow.

  An island blaze, I thought with satisfaction.

  Last year my dad and I had hiked part of the Camino de Santiago, starting outside Le Puy-en-Velay. Before we’d set a single foot on the trail, my dad had showed me photos of the red-and-white balises lining the route. Follow the blazes, he’d said. They mark our way.

  Why point the way to a dead end?

  You don’t, I thought. Not here. Here death was easy to find. You sure as hell didn’t need any help.

  I followed the arrow.

  Ten steps later, the tunnel widened. Now I could only touch one wall at a time. I slowed, tipping back and forth like a seesaw, checking both sides for carvings and openings, for anything man-made or important. Twice I doubled back and rechecked the walls until the tunnel forked.

  Using two hands, I ran my fingers in larger and larger circles over both sides in turn, unsure which way to go.

  No arrows. It felt like a test.

  I went left.

  Twelve steps later, my fingertips brushed a third arrow and I smiled. You passed, Rives.

  The tunnel curved left, then right. The darkness lifted. No arrows to guide my way; now I had light.

  I exited the cave tunnel and stepped into another world, a stunning Nil secret. An underground cavern, lined in black rock, with a three-meter-wide opening near the top where sunlight and water poured in equal parts, falling gently into a wide pool.

  To my left, the rock dropped steeply into the water; to my right, a two-meter-wide ledge ran the length of the cavern. Above the ledge, carvings coated the wall like island graffiti. Moons in all phases, stars shaping constellations, suns shooting out rays, and rows of waves and interlocking diamonds were everywhere, along with scattered fish, cats, and simple stick figures. Near the top the number sequence 3-2-1-4 ran like a title. One large diamond stood out from the rest: hanging mid-wall, dead center, it held a sun carving with an eye in its gut. Beside it, a vertical arrow shot toward the cave ceiling, with the letters N-I-L running vertically alongside it, with the N at the bottom and the L at the top.

  Now I knew what the shallow diamond carving at the entrance was missing. The N-I-L.

  On the ledge beneath the diamond, a rock knife lay beside a mango.

  A fresh mango.

  I whirled around, taking in the darkness at my back. The cave tunnel was too tight a squeeze for me to have passed someone without knowing it.

  Unless they took the other fork, I thought.

  I waited, watching the tunnel exit, expectant. No one appeared. By my mental count, at least ten silent minutes passed. No people, no surprises.

  I was definitely alone.

  But I didn’t feel alone.

  The air inside the cavern had a presence, a weight, a fluidity of time and people and energy and island mojo that I didn’t understand but deeply wanted to. Around me swirled silent ghosts and rituals and secrets I couldn’t see, but they were as tangible as the carvings on the cavern wall. The weight intensified, like answers hung in the air, pouring in with the falls, pouring into me, if I just listened.

  I closed my eyes, straining to hear Talla’s voice cut through the rush of water.

  Waiting.

  Searching.

  Wanting.

  The falls poured in, unbroken.

  I snapped open my eyes, breaking the mystique. How long had I stood there, listening for ghosts? Glancing around, I was relieved to find I was still alone.

  Moving away from the pool, I studied the carvings, noting the similarity among the images, yet uniqueness, too, suggesting many hands at work. Only one carving looked relatively recent: a moon, its rough edges dripping with something milky white. I sniffed it and gagged.

  Deadleaf juice, fresh enough to stink.

  I turned away, gulping fresh air. The pool’s glassy surface rippled and a head broke the surface, emerging crown first like a baby. The rest of the head followed, and shoulders drenched in ink. When the owner’s eyes caught mine, his widened in shock. And then he promptly disappeared.

  “Hey,” I shouted at the water. “Wait!”

  I jumped in. Deep water wrapped me tight, pushing me back even as it pulled me down. In the sliver of light, I caught one crisp glimpse of the kid swimming away, bubbles trailing in his wake.

  Got you, I thought.

  I followed, swimming fast, knowing that if he could hold his breath, so could I. Light faded. So did the kid’s form, and the bubble trail was tough to track in the dim light. I kicked hard, knowing I was seconds away from having to quit and turn back. My lungs burned like I’d swallowed fire.

  My hand hit rock. Lungs screaming, I frantically felt around with my hands. My right palm slipped through an opening. I felt the edges, gauging the width, and my fingers brushed the blaze: an arrow, pointing away from the cavern.

  Using both hands, I pulled myself through the opening and burst out into rough water with a light-filled ceiling. I dolphin-kicked to the surface. I’d cut it dangerously close.

  The boy was already stroking his way through the break. But my time on Nil had served me well. I closed the distance quickly, using the waves’ power to take me in.

  He strode up the white sand, his intricate tattoos gleaming in the morning light.

  “Hey!” I called. “Hold up!”

  He spun, his eyes narrowing when he saw me. “You should not be here,” he said flatly.

  “I didn’t ask to be,” I said, keeping my tone pleasant.

  We stood silent, each sizing the other up. He looked my age, maybe older. He had a fierceness, a thinly contained edge. His heritage was tough to place, like mine. If I had to guess, I’d peg him as Pacific Islander, a bit like me, but here, now, he looked like a Nil native.

  Which was something that did not exist.

  Then again, neither did this place.

  He pointed toward the cliff, the one harboring the secret cavern. “That place is sacred,” he said softly. “Do not go back. The Looking Glass pool is not for you.”

  “The Looking Glass pool? What is that, like the Fortress of Solitude?”

  “I do not know your fortress. It is yours. But the Looking Glass pool is not.” He stared at me and frowned. “Do not go back.” This time it sounded like a warning.

  “If it’s not for me, who’s it for?”

  “For those who do not need to ask.”

  He turned away and blended soundlessly into the trees without a backward glance.

  I wondered why he hadn’t joined the City, and how long he’d been on the island. And I wondered what he was doing in that cavern and how he knew it existed in the first place.

  To hell with his warning, I was definitely going back.

  CHAPTER

  11

  SKYE

  NOVEMBER 18, MID-MORNING

  Uncle Scott’s journal was addictive, like the guiltiest pleasure ever. I felt like a voyeur, but I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want to think of what that said about me.

  Entry #8

  For the third morning in a row, I woke to a full gourd of water.

  Maybe the girl was an angel after all. Or a genie.

  Maybe the island was full of magic. Black magic. Black sand, black nights.
Black air that pops out of nowhere.

  Let me back up.

  I woke up, found a full gourd, drained it, and sat on the beach, staring at the rising sun. I was operating in semi-shock; I just didn’t know it. I needed someone to slap me.

  So the island did.

  The sun licked the sand, making the brittle bits glint like black diamonds. I strolled up the beach aimlessly, thinking about how hungry I was and wondering what the hell I should do and what had happened to the giraffe. As if that mattered.

  I didn’t want to leave this beach. I knew it was because of her. It was stupid. I know that now.

  I was stupid.

  I was also hanging on by a thread, so cut me some slack.

  My stomach was turning on itself after six days of water. Oh yeah, and urine. Concentrated urine, so foul I’m gagging right now just thinking about it. Think on that, why don’t you? I dare you to drink your own piss for a few days, then switch to shotgunning water. NO FOOD. Yeah. How clear would your head be?

  The air in front of me wavered, like a warning. Then shimmering air popped at eye level and dropped into a perfect circle that thinned into a wall. All I could think was holy-shit-I-hit-this-air-once-and-it-burned-like-hell so I backed up and tripped. The swath of rippling air glittered like mercury glass, then instantly switched to flat black. Empty black. No light, no glistening, just a black hole hovering in midair. It scared the shit out of me, because the black air screamed life-sucking danger. All I knew about black holes were that they were very, very bad. Like sun-gone-supernova bad.

  Two seconds later a walrus fell out of the air. A fucking WALRUS. With tusks and wrinkled brown skin and whiskers just like out of Encyclopedia-fucking-Britannica. The black hole vanished.

  The walrus didn’t move, but I did.

  It was the slap I needed, more like a walrus kick in the ass. I didn’t know if walruses—Walrae? Walrus? What the hell is the plural of walrus?—were aggressive, but I didn’t want to find out.

  Go north, she’d said. Find others like you.

  I went north. Correction, I ran north, like an angry walrus was on my tail. With what little strength I had left, I ran. Away from the walrus. Away from the beach with the girl. Toward the best hope I had, which wasn’t much.

  I never saw the walrus again, but I know it was there.

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

  Entry #9

  I followed the coast, leaving the walrus behind, and as the black beach curved I slowed, my adrenaline rush gone. My feet dragged like cement blocks. The beach rounded into a series of massive rock arches, the most gorgeous island formation I’d ever seen. Black arches, as if carved by the hands of giants.

  Then my jaw dropped.

  Inside the largest one, a boy stood, running his hands over the rock. Tall, lean, light brown hair cut close to his scalp, fairly light skin and slightly sunburned shoulders, he wore a loincloth like me.

  HE WAS LIKE ME.

  “Hey!” I shouted. Or tried to shout. My voice cracked, like my lips. Like my tongue.

  That’s when I saw his spear. He turned, his expression fierce. I stopped. He hopped down from the rocks as agile as a monkey.

  I stood as still as the rock arches, ready to run. For all I knew he was a cannibal.

  Turned out he was a German.

  “Hello,” he said. He’d stopped about five feet away. “I’m Karl. Vat is your name?”

  “Scott.”

  He nodded. “How long haf you been here, Scott?”

  “Six days. I think.”

  He nodded again. Sharp brown eyes flicked over me a second time. He pointed his spear at my waist. “Vere did you get zee clothes?” He sounded suspicious.

  “A girl. She brought them to me.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “A girl.” He paused. “Vat vas her name?”

  “She didn’t tell me. She brought me clothes, and a gourd of water. She wore white clothes and had flowers in her hair.” I almost added she looked like an angel, but the last brain cell I had left told me to shut the hell up. “I never saw her again,” I added. Karl listened thoughtfully as I spoke. A second of awkward silence ticked by. Then I offered, “But I did see a giraffe. Twice. And I just saw a walrus fall out of the air.”

  Karl shook his head and sighed, his spear dropping. “Zis place. So shtrange.” He looked directly at me, his features relaxing into a smile. He spread his arms wide. “Scott,” he said grandly. “Velcome to zee island of Nil.”

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

  And there it was.

  Nil.

  Why Nil? I wondered. And why a walrus? Strange wasn’t the half of it. Of course I kept reading. People magazine had nothing on Uncle Scott’s journal.

  Entry #10

  I guess by Giraffe Land standards, I got lucky. Karl was a good guy. Smart, honest, and island-savvy. It turns out that he was the Leader of the City. And by City I mean a rock hut village, populated by a ragtag band of misfits, a global version of The Breakfast Club stuck on an island. You had the jocks, the intellectuals, the crybabies, the slackers, you name it. But after a few weeks I learned that people are more similar than you’d ever think. Most are good, especially when working toward a common goal of survival.

  Most.

  I kept waiting for the Professor and Mary Ann to show up with a coconut-crafted radio to get us the hell off the island or tell us we were all on a new, twisted version of Candid Camera, but it didn’t happen. No Professor, no Mary Ann. No adults. Only teenagers got tapped to join the island party, so the over-nineteen crowd was missing. Same for the elementary school set. We were one step above the Lord of the Flies crew.

  Barely.

  Because in this setting it didn’t take long for people’s true natures to show.

  But like I said, most were good.

  Everybody worked together to fish, hunt, and look out for each other, a classic division of labor. We worked in smooth teams to string nets, harvest pineapple, and keep the firepit going; we gave each other privacy at the Cove and collected wood on the way back; we made splints when Dustin broke his arm and we patrolled the City at night. A few days here and you’d see the City was an impressive cohesive unit of kids helping each other and surviving against the odds.

  That is, until noon.

  Noon was a free-for-all, a get-the-hell-out-of-my-way race for the finish. Because noon is when the gates come. Noon is when you can leave.

  And everyone wanted to leave.

  Karl delivered the bad news on my Day 6. I had 359 more days to catch a gate or my goose was cooked. Or in his words, “You haf 365 days to catch a gate or you vill die.” He accompanied that bomb with a very descriptive slicing motion across his throat. And when I asked for more details, Karl shrugged. His answer? “Zee island vill take you.” All I could think about was that scene in the Indiana Jones movie when the Germans opened the chest and all who looked at it were burned to a skeletal crisp. Maybe the island would do the same to me.

  I didn’t want to find out.

  Neither did anyone else.

  So we were all one big happy family until noon. Then people took on a feral, crazed look, eyeing the air, the ground, the trees. You could cut the tension in the air with a wooden machete. Then it would pass, and everyone would relax.

  But if a gate showed up? All bets were off. Everybody sprinted like a bat out of hell toward the gate. Like the winner would receive a million bucks. But here, the winner got the ultimate prize—a free ride home. Or at least we thought it was a ride home.

  Sometimes I wondered where the hell the outbound gates really went. Now I know. But I didn’t then. Everything was so unclear when I was there, and yet, other things were so brutally clear, there was no room left for gray. Life. Death. Gates. Running.

  That was it.

  The first outbound I saw flashed on my Day 15. That was the first time I saw someone—Bobby—shove someone else—Kiefer—out of the way to take a gate. I was shocked.
Horrified. Repulsed. The second time it happened—a gentle nudge with an elbow, complete with an “I’m sorry” look, just enough to give Pierre the edge over Sally—I was pissed. The third time? I decided it had to stop. Because the third time, Cathy missed the gate that she was so close to catching. Not because Kumar pushed her, nudged her, or cut her off, but because he simply beat her to the gate. He ran faster.

  He won. She lost.

  Simple and cruel. Black and white. The next day her time ran out.

  Cathy’s was the first funeral I attended but not the last. That was my Day 35, the day I fully understood the nature of the island. This wasn’t Ancient Rome, or the running of the bulls. We weren’t savages; we were better than that. And we needed a better shot.

  We needed a system. We needed structure.

  And we all needed to buy into it.

  The island had rules.

  It was time we had some of our own.

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

  I closed the journal. Nil sounded like an island of nightmares.

  What if someone had already tried to find Nil but never came back? Would we even have a clue? The answer was a firm hells no. Like the Bermuda Triangle, Giraffe Land had the ability to swallow people without a trace—like Cathy.

  For the first time, I wasn’t sure whether to hope we’d find Nil or pray that we never would.

  “Skye!” My dad’s voice rang with excitement. “I think I just found the break we need!”

  CHAPTER

  12

  RIVES

  DAY 243, LATE MORNING

  I’d broken my own rules.

  Look around. Watch your back. Pay attention.

  I hadn’t paid attention at all.

  I’d exited the cavern in an adrenaline rush, focused on catching the kid and not dying. In the dim underwater light, the black rock at the cliff base blended without break. No cracks, no gaps. No sign of a lava tube or exit.

  If I wanted a return trip to the secret cavern, it would have to be the way I came in the first place.

  Who are you? I thought, keeping an eye out for the kid as I strode through the trees, heading south. What do you know?