Clack. Again, louder this time, a pistol shot of sound. Clack. Clack. Something’s moving under the floor, behind the walls, all around us. Will’s eyes lock on mine.
I open my mouth to say something, but the noise is getting louder, deafening. The whole room shudders.
The walls are moving backward and apart. Behind them are more mirrors, and they’re moving, too, sliding one after another. An alarm goes off. A harsh, screaming siren.
I launch out of the chair. So does Will. Nothing stops. I whip around. Lights are flickering on, dull and fluorescent. The room definitely isn’t a cube anymore. I can see down a hallway now, double-glass walls, ribbed with cables and tubes of light. The three other walls have opened onto a maze of mirrors. A labyrinth, as far as the eye can see. Abruptly, the siren cuts out.
Nobody moves. Nobody breathes.
I hear footsteps. Coming toward us. Several people, boots pounding, and behind them the unmistakable click-click of stilettos.
I spin to the others. “They’re coming,” I whisper. “They’re coming!”
Hayden is still on the floor, spread-eagled, fast asleep. I go down on one knee, slap his jaw. Try to wake him up one last time.
He doesn’t move.
They’re almost here.
We drag Hayden five feet, drop him, and run. Into the maze of mirrored panels in a rustling, whispering group. The key-chain light’s weak beam is almost hidden inside the knot of legs and bodies. My heart is mashing painfully against my ribs.
Where do we go? Where-where-where?
Three panels in, we stop. Huddle. I look back over my shoulder. The mirrors are two-way. I can see what used to be the cube room, the chairs standing in the open now. Hayden, sprawled on the floor.
I click off the light just as Miss Sei emerges from between the mirrors.
She’s accompanied by four figures. Identical, tall, wearing black body suits and dark helmets, like motorcyclists or riot cops. The visors are dead black. Red lights thrum steadily along their jawlines, bright-dull-bright-dull, like gills opening and closing. They’re all carrying large cases.
We need to get out of here. In two seconds they’ll realize Hayden is the only one on the floor.
Two seconds are up.
Run!
But I’m rooted. So are the others. I watch Miss Sei scan the area. Her gaze rests on Hayden. And now the riot cop/motorcyclists are surrounding him and one of them is opening a case, drawing out some sort of black tubing, a wire-thin stretcher, what look like medical instruments in vacuum packaging. Miss Sei kneels next to Hayden. Lifts his head and strokes a thumb over his brow, almost tenderly.
With her other hand she reaches into the open case. For a second I think she’s going to help Hayden. Get him onto the stretcher, take him someplace safe––
She’s holding a nozzle. Long. Barbed. A silver needle extends from its tip like a stinger. Her mouth twitches into a smile. And now she drives the nozzle into the base of Hayden’s skull.
His eyes snap open. He starts choking, gurgling. His back arches. He raises his arms like he wants to shove Miss Sei away, but Miss Sei pulls a trigger on the nozzle and Hayden drops, flat on the floor like a ton of concrete. The helmeted figures descend. Medical tape snaps around Hayden’s wrists. Another injection, this time from a syringe. The nozzle, attached to the tube, stays in place. They’re lifting him, black gloves digging into his neck, his arms.
No. No, this is not happening. . . .
I clamp my hand to my mouth. Slowly, I turn to Lilly, Will, and Jules. I want them to tell me this is a joke, that Miss Sei didn’t just stab Hayden with a gas nozzle, that she didn’t just murder him. They stare back at me.
I look through the mirrors again. Hayden’s on the stretcher. His chest isn’t moving. His eyes are wide, glazed. Miss Sei is standing, wiping her hands on a white cloth.
They killed him. They killed Hayden and if we were still on the floor, if we’d taken a few more minutes to wake up, they would have killed us. They’re still going to kill us.
Miss Sei hands the cloth to one of the riot cops. “Find the others,” she says, and her voice is chillingly loud. “They’ll be slow on their feet.”
I haven’t cried in years, but I feel like I might now. There’s a pressure building behind my eyes, burning. We need to go, I mouth silently, but I’m still staring through the double mirror. We need to go!
The riot cops turn to scan the mirrors. One faces us. It can’t see us through the mirrors, can it? But it’s right there, blank visor pointed directly at me, and what if we’re visible in a reflection, what if that thing turns a quarter of an inch and sees us huddled here––