The Quillan Games (19 page)

Courtney checked her watch. Mark had been gone for over five hours. How long did it take to clean up a couple of flowers? Another half hour went by. Still no Mark. Courtney couldn't take it anymore. She went into the kitchen and called his cell phone. All she got was Mark's message. As far as she knew, she was the only one who ever left a message on Mark's cell phone. Her message this time was short and to the point, “Where are you? It's after ten! Call me!”

Mark didn't call her. Ten turned into ten thirty and then eleven. Where was he? Could he have taken the night flight to Orlando after all?
No
, she thought,
he would have called
. This wasn't like Mark.

Finally, at eleven thirty, Courtney broke. She convinced herself that Mark wasn't coming back that night, and was angry
with him for not calling. In her mind that justified her taking a peek at Bobby's pages.

“I'm going upstairs, Dad,” she said. “There's a chance Mark Dimond might come by tonight; he was supposed to help me with calculus.”

“Tonight?” Mr. Chetwynde said with surprise. “Isn't it a little late to study on a school night?”

“Yeah, I don't think he'll come, but don't be surprised if he does. Mark is an odd one.”

Mr. Chetwynde would never question anything that Mark Dimond did. He had saved his daughter's life. Whatever Mark did was okay with him, no matter how odd.

“Good night, sweetheart,” Mr. Chetwynde called.

“G'night, Dad.”

Courtney hurried up the stairs, rushed into her bedroom, closed the door, and locked it. She stared at her pillow. She was torn between curiosity and guilt. Curiosity won. She jumped on her bed, jammed her hand under the pillow, and pulled out the envelope.

He'll understand,
Courtney thought.

From out of the envelope she pulled a thick stack of small gray pages. It was notepaper, with each sheet around five-by-seven inches. Each sheet was filled on both sides with Bobby's familiar handwriting. She was about to read when she noticed one more thing about the pages. Printed on the bottom right hand corner of each page, in small square letters, was a single word.

BLOK
.

“Blok,” she said to herself out loud. “I hope he's figured out what that means, because it's making me crazy.”

Courtney's head went to Quillan. She knew Mark would understand. It was time to read.

I
've been kidnapped. Again.

Abducted, captured, taken prisoner, whatever. I'm not really sure what to call it. All I know is, I was grabbed, tied up, driven somewhere, and thrown into a dank, wet cellar. It's cold in here. It smells like rotten fish.

At least there aren't any clowns.

What I don't know is, why. My kidnappers can't be looking for ransom. Who would pay it? They're not treating me badly, other than sticking me in this tuna-smelling dungeon. They gave me food, and even some blank paper when I asked for it. That's what I'm writing this journal on. I truly don't know how much danger I'm in. Nobody will tell me anything. All I know for sure is that I'm trapped in this cell. And that it stinks. The only thing I can do is wait, and write down all that's happened to me since I finished my last journal.

There is one more odd twist to this mess that I should mention. My kidnappers all wore dark masks, so I don't know who any of them are, except for one. One of my kidnappers is a Traveler. Yes, a Traveler. You'd think that would make me feel better, but after all that's happened on Quillan, it doesn't.
I don't mean to sound paranoid but, well, I'm paranoid. After you read about what's been going on, I think you'll understand why. That's the reason I want to write now. If things turn sour and these guys are looking to hurt me, I want a record of everything that led to my being here. But don't worry, if they try to hurt me, they're in for a big surprise. They picked on the wrong guy.

I finished my last journal a long time ago. I don't know how they measure time here on Quillan, but my internal Second Earth clock tells me it was at least a couple of weeks since I finished Journal #24. When last I wrote, I was in that circuslike room in the fairytale castle that belonged to Veego and LaBerge. Writing both those journals so close together really fried me. I suppose being chased, bitten, chased, chased, and shot in the back with a tranquilizer gun had a little to do with it too. I lay down on the floating platform bed that was in the center of that odd room and closed my eyes to get some rest. As exhausted as I was, I couldn't keep my eyes shut. My mind was racing in too many directions. I kept thinking about Challenger Yellow, and the Tato match, and why the challenger clothes were left for me at the flume, and the robot-spiders and . . . well, everything. It didn't help that there were hundreds of clown-doll eyes staring down at me either. I kept thinking that LaBerge had to be some kind of freak to decorate a room like a clown carnival. Okay, I was also thinking that these dolls were going to come to life and tickle me to death or something, but that's embarrassing to admit.

I told you how much I hate clowns, right?

After tossing around for I don't know how long, I gave up and paced the room. This had gone on long enough. I wanted to know what was in store for me. Was I a prisoner? Was I a guest? Who were Veego and LaBerge and what did they want
with me? The waiting and wondering were making me nuts! I was tired of playing it their way. I wanted answers. So I walked over to the door and was all set to bang on it and start screaming for that Fourteen guy to come get me, when I had a thought. I reached down and tried the doorknob. It was open! I had assumed that once I was put in that room that I was locked in. What an idiot. I could have left anytime I wanted. Oops. I felt stupid and curious at the same time. Why didn't they lock me in? Could I leave? Maybe I really was just a guest. With more questions now than before, I opened the door and stepped into the corridor.

I was surprised to see that a sign had been erected outside my door. It was a yellow card, about a foot square, with purple handwriting. It sat on a three-legged easel and was positioned so it would be seen as soon as I came out. How long had it been there? The sign read:
CHALLENGER RED GOT OUT OF BED.
Under the writing was an arrow that pointed to the right. Not knowing what else to do, I turned right and walked down the hallway. What kind of game were they playing? I walked to the end of the hallway to find another hallway that stretched out to either side. Dangling from a string that hung down from the ceiling was another sign. It read:
AND WENT TO TAKE A LOOK.
Beneath this writing was an arrow that pointed left. I followed the instructions and made the turn. This hallway stretched for almost as far as I could see. Man, the castle was huge! About twenty yards farther along, another yellow sign dangled from the ceiling. It read:
HE SAW A DOOR AND WENT TO EXPLORE.
The arrow here pointed left again. I turned to see that, sure enough, there was a double-wide door right there, with another sign on it. I had the feeling that I was getting near the end of this mysterious treasure hunt. As big as the door was, the writing on this sign was so small I couldn't see it from even a few steps away. I had to walk right up to the
door and lean in so close that my nose nearly touched it. In tiny letters the sign read:
AND PLAYED A GAME CALLED HOOK.

Hook
? I said to myself.
What's Hook?

Instantly the door spun open. Yes, I said “spun.” The door twisted on a center axis, like a revolving door. I was so surprised, I didn't have time to react and got swept inside. What kind of wicked fun house was this? I got thrown inside a room that was pitch dark. Limbo dark. My every sense went instantly on alert. I crouched down and closed my eyes, trying to feel if anyone or any
thing
was in there with me. I wasn't scared. I had been there before. It was like the ordeal that Loor and Alder put me through on Zadaa. I knew how to fight in the dark. Only back on Zadaa, it was for training. This was for real. I didn't move. Whatever was going to happen, I was ready.

I heard a bright chime sound. In the distance a white light appeared in the shape of a door. Because the room was so dark, I had no sense of depth and couldn't tell how far away it was. It could have been a small rectangle only a few feet away, or a large door on the far side of a long room. It seemed suspended in space, glowing brightly, beckoning me. I didn't move. There was way too much mystery between here and there. A moment later another chime sounded, and a lighted number appeared over the rectangle: 70. Huh?

There was another chime. I was relieved to see a series of spotlights kick on and illuminate the room. Some were in the ceiling, casting sharp patterns of light to the floor; others were in the floor, pointing straight up. There must have been a hundred lights shooting beams in both directions. The room was big. Really big. The ceiling must have been twenty feet high. It was a long, narrow space that I realized ran the same length of the hallway where my clown room was. I could now see that the rectangle with the number 70 above it was indeed
a door. I guessed it was fifty yards from me. Fifty long yards. As much as the spotlights gave me a sense of the room, they also created dark areas in between the brilliant light from their beams. Danger could be hiding in dark areas.

A bell rang. I jumped. Do you blame me? I looked at the number to see a countdown had begun: 70 . . . 69 . . . 68 . . . With each tick there was a little
blip
sound. Swell. There was a time limit. But for what? What was I supposed to do? Go for the door? What if I didn't go? What if the blipping number reached zero and I was still crouched on the floor next to the revolving door? What would happen to me? Would I have to go back into that clown room without supper? And if this was some kind of game, why was it called “Hook”?

The answer to that last question came a moment later, and it hurt.

I felt a sharp, stinging pain across my back and shoulders. A second later I was spun around like an unraveling yo-yo. The force came so fast and so hard I lost my balance and crashed down on my shoulder. I popped right up and spun around to see who had attacked me.

I was face-to-face with a dado. He stood with his legs apart over one of the up-facing spotlights. The bright light shining up on him from below made him look even more imposing. He was well over six feet tall, with wide shoulders and strong arms that looked ready to burst the seams of his sleeves. He wore the same dark uniform as the other dados I'd seen, but he didn't wear a helmet or a gun. His weapon was a six-foot-long curved stick with a ball on the end. I guessed that was the “Hook.” It looked semirigid, like it was made out of soft plastic. It wasn't as long as a whip, but he used it like one. I knew it had to be what he had slashed me with. It wasn't a lethal weapon, but if he knew how to use it, he could control me.

I had no doubt he knew how to use it.

More frightening than anything was his face. It was like a mask, with a big sharp jaw and eyes that had no life. He was bald, too. It was at that moment that I finally remembered where I had seen dados before. I'm not talking about the arcade, or the city street. I mean in the flume. Remember the floating images I described? One of those images was of tall muscular guys running. Dados. They looked imposing then, and even more so in person.

The number blipped down: 64 . . . 63 . . . 62 . . .

I jumped for the revolving door I had just come through. I didn't want to play this game, no matter what it was. I hit the door hard. It didn't budge. Why was I not surprised? If I wanted to get out of there, I was going to have to get past Franken-dado and run to the far side. Without a second more of hesitation, I sprinted for the rectangle of light. I figured if I was fast enough, I might catch this goon by surprise and beat him there before he hooked me again.

I was wrong. No sooner did I take off running, than the number blipped down to 60. The number over the door flashed red and a harsh horn sounded. That wasn't the problem. That was the warning. When the horn sounded, several silver cylinders the size of telephone poles drove down from the ceiling, slamming into the floor like demonic pile drivers. I barely missed getting crushed by one, as they hammered the floor so hard the vibration almost knocked me off my feet.

Yikes! This room was a minefield! The cylinders quickly retracted into the ceiling. I had no doubt they'd be back. Before I had the chance to think, I felt the stinging slap of the hook around my ankles. The dado pulled and I was on my butt, feet in the air. What kind of game was this? I didn't know the rules or have any way to defend myself. It was clear to me that my job was to get through that door on the far side
before the number ran down, and before I got crushed by a giant cylinder. It was the dado's job to stop me. . . . 57 . . . 56 . . . 55 . . .

I rolled to the side wall. I wasn't about to fight the dado. Though he had a weapon and outweighed me by a good fifty pounds, I was way more worried about the crushing cylinders. . . . 54 . . . 53 . . . 52 . . .

I rolled until I hit the wall, hoping that the cylinders were more toward the center of the room. My plan was to hug the wall as I made my way to the far side.

Bad plan . . . 51 . . . 50 . . .

The number flashed red, the horn sounded. But the cylinders didn't come crashing down. Instead another set shot up from the floor. I was directly on top of one. The cylinder lifted me into the air! I had to quickly roll off or it would have driven me through the ceiling. I hit the floor awkwardly and was lucky not to have broken or twisted anything. The silver cylinders continued up until they slammed into the ceiling, then quickly retracted. On the floor the dado was waiting for me. He whipped the hook around my neck and pulled hard, choking me. I pulled back, but that only made the hook pull tighter. In desperation I spun in the opposite direction and unwound myself. The cylinders had all retracted into the floor, and I lay there, gasping for breath. . . . 44 . . . 43 . . . 42 . . .