Lab 6 Read online

  The Tenth Oscillation, encompassing the nine dimensions within.

  WHICH INCLUDE …

  Parallel-time worlds, travel holes along the space-time continuum.

  Hurry…

  7

  “YOU WROTE THIS, DIDN’T you?” Sam said.

  Jamie peered over his shoulder at the scribble. “No way. Who’s Renin Hugges?”

  “Kevin Hughes,” Sam said.

  “So you do know a Kevin — and he’s related to you?”

  “No!”

  Sam leafed through the book. The first page was dated 9/28 — yesterday’s date.

  He tried to decipher what was under it:

  “What language is that?” Jamie asked.

  “My dad’s English,” Sam replied.

  “What’s it say?”

  “How should I know? Nobody can read his writing.”

  Sam flipped past the first page. The rest of the book was empty.

  “Maybe your dad’s real name is Kevin,” Jamie said. “And he never told you.”

  “That’s totally stupid.”

  “Or he’s leading a double life — ”

  “As a scientist who writes up his experiments in composition notebooks? That’s the same as his first life.”

  “Or maybe ‘Kevin Hughes’ isn’t your dad. It’s a long-lost cousin.”

  “And Dad’s doing an experiment on him?”

  Jamie thought for a moment. “Kevin’s not too bright. He’s embarrassed to go public. Your dad’s trying to give him some artificial intelligence.”

  Sam slapped his head in a mock aha! “And he’s locked in Lab 6 — crying for help! That’s who I heard.”

  “Sam, you may be on to something,” Jamie said.

  Stupid.

  Totally birdbrained.

  As bad as her brother.

  “It was a joke, Jamie — ”

  “Maybe you weren’t so whacked out as you thought,” Jamie said. “You really heard the voice.”

  “I didn’t. I had a migraine.”

  “You were shouting his name. You were shouting ‘Kevin.’ Somehow you knew his secret identity!”

  “Oh? And how would that be?”

  “I don’t know. People recover memories. Especially when they’re in pain.” Jamie pointed to the magazine in Sam’s pocket. “Look in there. One guy was abducted to a planet where he lived for eleven years with alien shepherds who wiped out his memory, and — ”

  “Great, Jamie. Very interesting. Can I go to bed now?”

  Jamie gave him a withering look. “Don’t forget your warm milk and cookies.”

  As she turned away, Sam dropped the composition notebook into his shirt and went inside.

  The house was still. Mr. and Mrs. Hughes were already upstairs.

  Please please not the tower room.

  No. They wouldn’t have. They were too tired. They didn’t usually go up there after work anyway. Just weekends and early mornings.

  Sam tiptoed to his room. He could hear his parents upstairs, getting ready for bed. If he went to the tower room now, they’d hear the old steps creaking.

  Closing his bedroom door, Sam carefully removed the notebook and hid it under his mattress. He jumped when he heard a door close, but it was the second-floor bathroom. He could hear his dad yawning from within.

  Sam went to wash up in his own bathroom. As he passed the kitchen, he caught a glimpse of the stove clock, glowing in the darkness — 11:17.

  His stomach gave a low growl. He realized he hadn’t eaten dinner. He was starving.

  He detoured to the fridge and pulled it open.

  Upstairs his dad was gargling now. To the tune of “If I Were a Rich Man.”

  Singing. As if nothing strange had happened tonight. Just another day at work.

  Had anything strange happened?

  What exactly had Sam seen?

  What had he heard?

  A voice calling for help.

  Mom and Dad running down the hallway.

  Then Sam had ducked behind the machine. He’d heard Mom and Dad talking to —

  To whom?

  The prisoner?

  Earlier, the idea had seemed to make so much sense.

  But with that headache, blue elephants tap-dancing through the hallways would have seemed possible.

  Think, Sam.

  What if someone at the lab had accidentally locked himself in — a young scientist, a researcher, a maintenance worker? The guy had heard Sam outside and cried for help. Mom and Dad heard the voice and unlocked the door.

  The strange conversation — all that stuff about silencing the guy and his being “too sensitive” — Sam could have heard it wrong. The voices had been muffled and distant.

  They were down the hall. In a room. Separated from me by fifteen yards and a thick wall.

  It also could have been a joke — his mom and dad pretending to be heavies, to tease the guy. They had that nerdy sense of humor.

  Okay, so they released him and went on with their business. Simple.

  But they hadn’t left with anyone. They had walked away together, alone.

  Or had they?

  Maybe not. Sam hadn’t seen them. He had been hiding behind the machine. He’d only heard them.

  There could have been three sets of footsteps. Mom, Dad, and the guy, off to resume work.

  With a sigh, Sam pulled out from the fridge a white cardboard container of Chinese leftovers. He put it on the table and opened it.

  Stir-fried chicken.

  With hair.

  Sam nearly gagged. The greenish-white mold made the chicken look like some bizarre science experiment.

  Typical.

  Food tended to sit unnoticed for weeks.

  Like everything else in the house.

  Sam tossed the food in the trash.

  What was so important that they had to stay so late all the time? Did it have to do with that notebook? What was that notebook all about anyway?

  Who is Kevin?

  “Sam?”

  His mom’s voice startled Sam. “Yeah?”

  “What’s up, sweetie?” she said, walking into the kitchen. “Insomnia?”

  “Yeah.” Sam managed a wan smile. “Headache. You know. No big deal.”

  “May have been caused by that fall.”

  “Fall?”

  “In gym? When you hurt your jaw?”

  “Oh, that fall.”

  Mrs. Hughes reached into the fridge and pulled out some milk.

  “Smell it first, okay?” Sam warned.

  “We bought this one yesterday.” As she poured a couple of glasses, she looked lost in thought. “So, when did the headache start, Sam?”

  “Uh … after school.”

  “Big one?”

  “I guess.”

  “This isn’t like you. You never have headaches anymore.” As Mom set the two milk glasses on the table, she had that you’re-not-telling-me-the-whole-story look on her face. “Sam, where did you go after school today?”

  He assembled a story quickly. “My jaw? It wasn’t a fall in gym. Bart and I got into this fight. I ran away. But he chased me all the way into the old industrial zone — ”

  “So you were near Turing-Douglas? And you didn’t come in to see us?”

  “Well, I — I was going to. But the door was locked. So … I hid from Bart … and then I left.”

  “But you were near the building — and that’s when you had this headache?”

  “Exactly!”

  “Like, hiding near one of the basement windows or something?”

  Sam gulped. “Yes.”

  His mom nodded slowly and sipped her milk. “Sam, do you remember when you were a kid, and you had these strange feelings at Turing-Douglas — back when we started working on the project?”

  Sam nodded. “I hated being there.”

  “You said you felt like someone else was inside you, and he wanted to get out.”

  “I was a kid, Mom — ”

  “Did
this headache feel like that?”

  “I guess.”

  What is she getting at?

  Something was up. Mom’s voice was edgy.

  “Mom? Is something wrong? Am I … allergic to something at Turing-Douglas?”

  “Allergic?”

  “Like … I don’t know, mutant germs or something?”

  “Turing-Douglas is not an epidemiology lab,” Mom said, getting up from the table. “No germ research, just computers. I’m sure it’s nothing serious. You just need sleep. And frankly, so do your father and I.”

  She put her glass in the sink and headed upstairs.

  Sam lasted a while longer, then went to his room.

  He tried not to think of the day’s events. He climbed into bed.

  The milk had had no effect. He was wired.

  He tried to count sheep. He tried to look at a spot on the wall until his eyes closed. When none of that worked, he tried the killer method: devising computer code in his sleep. The ultimate self-boredom technique.

  Click.

  His parents’ bedroom door opened.

  Sam’s body tensed.

  Dad was walking up to the tower room. Sam recognized the heaviness of the step, even though Dad was tiptoeing.

  The light.

  Had Jamie left it on?

  The notebook.

  It was still under Sam’s mattress.

  Sam broke into a sweat. What if Dad looked for the notebook and realized it wasn’t there?

  What if the Undelete utility’s exit screen was on? What if it hadn’t worked? What if some of Dad’s files were still missing?

  Did I get them all back?

  Sam hadn’t double-checked.

  Now he could hear thumping from upstairs.

  Dad was heading down again, walking toward Sam’s room.

  His hand turned the doorknob.

  Sam quickly shut his eyes, still lying on his back.

  He saw what happened and he’s coming to yell at me.

  Dad was making as little noise as possible, tiptoeing across the room. But not toward Sam.

  The closet door opened. Sam heard the sliding and clacking of wire hangers.

  Carefully he let his eyes open. Only to a slit.

  Dad was slipping back out through Sam’s door. He was holding a plaid flannel shirt that Sam hadn’t worn in months.

  On tiptoe, Dad headed down the hall.

  A moment of silence, and then the front door opened and closed.

  Sam slipped out of bed. Staying low, he moved to the window and peeked over.

  His dad was climbing into the car. Rushing. Shoving a briefcase inside. Suddenly he looked to Sam’s room.

  Sam ducked.

  A moment later, he heard the car roar off into the night.

  OUR MISSION IS …

  Where is he?

  We’ve lost him.

  8

  “HELLLLP ME …”

  The voice. Again.

  I’m back in time. Hiding in the stairwell. Bart is somewhere close by. Losing my trail.

  (YOU FELL ASLEEP. YOU’RE DREAMING. THIS IS NOT REAL.)

  I feel it again.

  The headache. The FEELING —

  Something’s inside me.

  Pushing. Trying to get out.

  GO. THERE’S NOT ENOUGH ROOM HERE.

  (Wake up, Sam. WAKE UP.)

  “He-e-e-elllllp!”

  The voice has moved.

  MOVED? HOW? WHERE?

  It’s not behind the basement window anymore.

  It’s outside.

  In the darkness.

  In the streets outside Turing-Douglas.

  I stand up. I have to follow it.

  I have to find out who it is.

  (NO!)

  My legs are weak. Loose and elastic.

  I hold on to the banister and somehow make it to the top of the stairwell.

  I don’t know WHY I want to follow the voice. I don’t know why I’m not running away (BECAUSE YOU’RE A FOOL), but I have to.

  The feeling is strengthening. I can barely put one foot in front of the other.

  “He-e-e-elllllp me …”

  The voice is beckoning me further into the alleyways (IT’S A TRAP), the buildings around me are swelling and contracting like big, dark jellyfish — and the eyes, the eyes are watching, piercing the darkness, but I follow the street maze and then I’m at the gate and suddenly I’m walking toward home.

  But the voice is still with me. I sense it.

  (TURN AWAY OR YOU’LL BE SORRY!)

  I realize my legs aren’t moving. They’re locked. I’m being pulled now. I’m floating, my entire body rigid and helpless.

  “WHO ARE YOU?”

  I’m shouting but somehow the words stay inside my head as I sail through the town … through my neighborhood …

  Then I’m in front of my house. And I suddenly turn up the walkway.

  The voice is calling from inside.

  “HE-E-E-ELLLLP!”

  It’s deafening.

  It’s beyond sound.

  It’s a total-body sensation. As if someone is twanging a taut string that runs from my head to my ankles.

  But I keep going. Because I can’t stop myself.

  I need to see who’s calling me. The voice has something to do with the feeling in my head. If I find who’s yelling, maybe the feeling will stop.

  I’m in the house now. Mom and Dad are nowhere to be seen. The shouting has saturated the air; it’s in the walls, making everything vibrate. And soon it’s in me, too, and now I’m calling for help — my voice joining the other — as I reach the bottom of the stairs.

  (NO)

  The voice is coming from this floor.

  From my room.

  (NO — STAY AWAY!)

  I can’t fight it. The sound itself is moving me — right to my door, making my hand reach out to the knob.

  I try to pull back but it’s no use. It is — he is — (I AM) calling and I can’t resist.

  I turn the knob.

  The door whooshes open and slams against the wall. Inside, the room is bathed in a harsh white light. A stranger sits at my desk, his back to me.

  I panic. Who is he? Is he the one? Is he shouting for help? I can’t tell. But I CAN see that he’s wearing my flannel shirt, the one that Dad took. At first I think it’s Bart — he’s found Dad, stolen his keys and my shirt, and broken into the house — but no, it’s not Bart, I can tell, it’s someone else, someone familiar, and I hover in the air, smothered and battered by the sound (HE-E-ELLLPPP!) as

  he

  starts

  to

  turn.

  I can’t close my eyes I see his profile and he IS yelling OR IS HE? no the sound is coming from ME now and it’s not “Help!” I’m not shouting for help anymore it’s a different word it’s a name (his name) it’s

  “KE-E-E-EVINNN!”

  And now he’s turned around fully.

  (STOP!)

  There’s no question now.

  I know who it is.

  I’ve known him all along.

  What is he doing?

  He’ll come back.

  Unless he’s caught.

  And then we’ll lose him forever.

  9

  SAM WAS JOLTED AWAKE.

  The harsh white light was gone, the room silent.

  Everything seemed wrapped in haze.

  WHO?

  Who was it?

  The vision was fading. Or was it?

  Sam tried to focus on the figure across the room. At his desk.

  He’s still there.

  He was standing now. Staring at Sam.

  Approaching.

  Sam scrambled to leave, but his feet were tangled in the bedsheets.

  A pair of hands grabbed him firmly.

  Mom’s hands. She was crouched at the side of his bed.

  “Sweetie, it’s okay,” she said. “You were dreaming.”

  Sam blinked. The room — and the figure — sh
arpened.

  Dad.

  It’s just Dad.

  Sam’s desk had been cleared off. On it was a laptop he’d never seen in the house before. It was attached on one side to a towering machine, on the other to a wrinkled, leatherlike object in his dad’s hands.

  “Are you okay, pal?” his father asked.

  Sam’s breathing was fast and painful. His throat felt raw, as if it had been scraped with a barbecue brush. “Yeah.”

  “Must have been a bad one,” his mom said.

  Sam nodded. “It … was so real.”

  “The brain can do that.”

  “Switches,” his dad said with a soft smile. “Remember, that’s all it is.”

  “What’s that?” Sam asked, nodding toward the thing in his dad’s hand.

  “Just a prototype,” he explained.

  “Of what?”

  Mr. Hughes began unfolding the object. It was concave, like a skullcap. Small electrodes protruded from the top, connected by wires to the machine.

  “Please put this on,” he said calmly. Sam fought back the words — Jamie’s words, the words in his fears and dreams (experiments … mutants … prisoners in lab rooms … brain tampering …)

  STOP.

  He breathed slowly, calming his still-panicked thoughts.

  They are my parents.

  “Why, Dad?” he asked.

  “It may make you feel better,” Mrs. Hughes said.

  “ ‘May’?”

  “Like I said, it’s a prototype,” Mr. Hughes replied. “It may do nothing. But it can’t possibly hurt.”

  “I feel fine now!”

  His mother leaned in and stroked the back of his head. “You were having that feeling, weren’t you? The one you sometimes get at Turing-Douglas?”

  “It was a dream, Mom. Really — ”

  “You were yelling out a name.” Mr. Hughes looked at him levelly. “Do you know what it was?”

  “Kevin …” Sam murmured.

  “Yes,” Mrs. Hughes said, almost under her breath.

  “Who is that, Mom? Why was the name on the — ?”

  You can’t mention the notebook!

  Sam cut himself off. The notebook was still under his bed.

  His dad was at the desk again. With a flick of a switch, he turned on the laptop. The screen glowed with four graphs, all flat.

  GRRRRONNNNG!

  The feeling rushed back.

  Like an injection of hot air into Sam’s head.

  “IT HURTS, DAD! DON’T DO THAT!” Sam pleaded.