The Door Page 6

  The man tapped the clipboard against his meaty thigh. “You in some kind of trouble?”

  “I didn’t do anything wrong,” she said. “The Watchers just think I did, so now they’re —”

  “Okay!” The man held up his clipboard like a shield, as if Hannah were lunging at him with a knife rather than asking for help. “You’ll be just fine.” He backed away from her slowly. “The Watchers are your friends. They’re everybody’s friends.” Without another word he disappeared into the thicket of meters.

  Hannah chose a long row of elegant dials housed in brass fixtures and ran until she stumbled out onto a pink rooftop. The surface was oddly layered, as if several small houses had been plopped down and allowed to sink in. Lopsided peaks and valleys gave way to windows and doors cut into unlikely shapes. In a few places the roof crested and swirled and dripped like an overfrosted cake. Hannah slipped into a narrow ditch lined with tiny rectangular windows. The glass had been painted black. She turned and looked back the way she had come, tracing her escape route. Beyond the bristling spines of the meters, she could see a plume of smoke rising from some hidden building. She supposed that was her cell. She hadn’t traveled very far.

  Staying low, she jogged along the ditch until she came to an alcove that had once held a sort of roof garden. The window was dirty. The tile deck was crumbling. A single earthenware pot was full of brackish water, upon which floated a brittle canoe made from dry, flaking leaves.

  From this hiding spot, Hannah could hear voices. She peeked around the side of the alcove. There was a shallow crater where the roof sloped toward a round, stained-glass skylight. Suspended over the skylight was what appeared to be a cauldron. Neon wires connected a panel in the side of the cauldron to a bulky laptop computer perched on a table at the edge of the crater. An old, white-bearded man and an equally old woman were taking turns looking at the computer, studying the sky, and typing on the keyboard. At a different table, a man in a porkpie hat was reading from a monstrous book.

  “I’m telling you,” said the man in the hat, “the prophecy refers to a snowstorm. At least I think it does. Tell me what this line means to you: a white-blotched sky. White-blotched. That’s gotta be snow, right?”

  “Would you close the book and get over here, Remy?” said the woman. “Your section of the code is all we need.”

  Remy went to the computer, where he punched a few keys. “If this is a miserable failure, it’s not my fault,” he said. “Let the record show.”

  “Noted,” said the bearded man. “Now I suggest we stand back.”

  The cauldron overturned, spilling a river of molten glass onto the skylight. It sizzled as it pooled. Hannah knew she should be putting more distance between herself and the wreckage of her cell, but she was entranced. She craned her neck as far as she dared. The old woman was sitting at the computer now, while the men watched the glass.

  “Anything?” she asked, typing furiously.

  “Of course not,” Remy scoffed.

  “There!” yelled the bearded man, pointing. The glass was condensing, rivers of color piling up into an ecstatic swirl. It reminded Hannah of soft-serve ice cream.

  “It’s ideal,” said the woman.

  At the far edge of the roof, several figures approached. They were still very small, but Hannah could tell there was something wrong with their faces. Watchers. The woman at the computer saw them, too. She jumped up, pointing at the Watchers and shouting at her companions.

  “Run,” Hannah whispered.

  Instead, the two men began to hug and pat each other on the back as if they’d just won the lottery. The old woman couldn’t stop grinning.

  Four Watchers were distinguishable now, their faces overcast, painted with the lonely sky.

  The woman called out to them. “We humbly submit our glasswork and await your verdict.”

  The fresh glass bubbling onto the skylight had transformed into a pastoral scene: patches of lush greenery and waterfalls sprouting along the craggy sides of a glass mountain. It was beautiful, but Hannah couldn’t linger. She ducked back into the alcove in time to see three Watchers emerge from the row of brass gauges at the edge of the meter forest. They seemed to be in no hurry, just out for a pleasant stroll in pursuit of their fugitive. Their faces looked like ticking clocks. The sky swept in around them, slid along the rooftop and seeped like smoke into her alcove.

  Hannah made herself as small as possible behind the earthenware pot. The Watchers weren’t coming for the glassmakers; they were coming for her. And she was trapped. Without thinking too hard about what she was doing, Hannah tipped over the pot. Fetid water pooled at her feet. The leaf canoe beached itself against a tile. Hannah bear-hugged the pot, stood up, and hurled it at the window.

  She braced herself for broken glass. Instead, the window threw itself open with a frantic unshuttering, and the big pot sailed through the empty air to thunk against something inside. With a hand on the sill, Hannah vaulted in after it.

  As soon as Hannah’s feet hit the floor, the window slammed shut and latched itself, settling back into place with a grumpy shifting of its panes. Cheerful smiley-face curtains were tied back on either side. A thin appendage — a smooth glass cord — dangled like a tail from beneath the curtains. Her eyes followed it down along the wall, where it entered a fuse box.

  The long shadow of a Watcher crept into the alcove outside. Hannah closed the curtains and backed away from the window.

  “Nancy,” she whispered.

  She waited a moment. Nothing happened.

  “Albert. Belinda.”

  When they failed to appear, Hannah wondered if she’d accidentally left them behind. Why weren’t they speaking to her? Had she done something wrong?

  She dismissed that thought and turned her back on the window. It was time to keep moving. The room in which she’d landed was full of shelves and workbenches and tables. Shapeless trinkets and unfinished sculptures were crammed into every inch of space. Gossamer webs of glass connected the artwork (if that was what this stuff was supposed to be) to electrical outlets that lined the walls. She threaded her way carefully, stepping over the pot from the roof garden. Vines of sparkling emerald had already begun to claim it.

  Hannah moved as quickly as she dared, surrounded by such delicate clutter. It was like being in the Wayback Machine, the antique store down the block from the Carbine Pass library. You checked your backpack in at the desk and crept around the vases and candy dishes, holding your breath while old Mrs. What’s-her-face glared.

  Mrs. Shipley? Was that right?

  Hannah didn’t think so, but she couldn’t quite remember. How odd — she had been a regular visitor to the store. For once, Belinda didn’t chime in with the correct name.

  The path to the room’s only door took her past a workbench lined with computer monitors. Textured screen savers rippled across them. Underneath the bench, a nest of power cords glittered with fluttery reflections — hints of moths perched upside down where she couldn’t see them.

  Her heart quickened at the sight of a keyboard. If this place had some kind of network, maybe she could get a map of the city.

  The keyboard was completely unlabeled and contained about a hundred buttons. She selected one in the shape of a spiral and pressed it. The screen saver didn’t budge. Was the keyboard even plugged in? She tried a triangle-shaped button.

  Suddenly, the window unlatched itself. The fuse box sparked and crackled. A hand parted the curtains and reached into the room. Nearly tripping over a stray bundle of crystalline wires, Hannah ran to the door and threw it open. She stepped out into the hallway and slammed the door shut with such force that it rattled the wall.

  “Hey! You wanna fight that door, take it outside.”

  A boy was giving her a look of irritation. He was about her age. His oversized army jacket was unzipped and spattered with paint. Underneath was a striped sweater that hugged his scrawny chest like a bandage. His baggy chef’s pants were decorated with brightly colored
tropical birds.

  It was not a very reassuring outfit. Without a word, Hannah took off down the hall.

  “Outside’s actually the other way!” the boy called after her.

  Hannah sprinted around a corner and into an abrupt tangle of limbs.

  “Lemme go!” She lashed out, flailing against the strong hands that gripped her arms, holding her fast. A terrible hissing surrounded her, the unearthly harmony of a dozen voices at once. She bit down hard on a hairy-knuckled hand. The hissing grew more intense. She was trapped in a furious crush.

  “Shhh yourself, you cruddy ancient soul.” The boy was pushing her captors out of the way. He shoved a doughy arm aside in disgust. “Let her up, let her up, I got her.”

  The arms and legs didn’t belong to Watchers, they belonged to regular people — regular dead people, Hannah supposed. And they weren’t hissing, they were just shushing her. The boy pulled Hannah to her feet alongside the crowd, which was jostling for space against a railing.

  “You’re not one for special moments, I take it,” the boy said, gesturing to a little sliver of empty space.

  “I really have to …” Hannah’s eyes followed the boy’s hand to the scene beyond the railing. They were standing on a balcony that jutted out over the hollow interior of a four-story building. The ceiling was the underside of the crater she’d seen on the roof. Molten glass was bleeding down through the skylight, flowing to fill the center of the building, crystallizing into rocks and moss and trees and caves and waterfalls. Hannah could see that the interior was ringed with balconies, all crowded with spectators hungry for a glimpse of the remarkable work in progress. “… go.”

  Right before her eyes, a cliffside forest came to life with a crackle, like tinfoil being uncrumpled. Light from the rooftop trickled down into crevices between the rocks, where rivers brought shades of sky crashing down to the floor below. Hannah was overwhelmed by the strange beauty of it all.

  Then she saw the shadowy blurs gliding along a second-story balcony.

  “Watchers,” she said.

  The boy sighed. “I know.” He was absently flicking the bristles of a paintbrush sticking out of his pocket. “The glassworkers are going to be so proud of themselves for this, and we’ll have to hear about it for the next thousand darkdays or so.”

  Hannah didn’t stick around to ask the boy to explain what he’d just said. By the time he’d reached the word darkdays, she’d already put the crowd behind her. A few more steps and the balcony became a hallway with rows of doors on either side.

  The boy caught up to her. “Slippery, slippery!”

  “Leave me alone,” she said without slowing down.

  “How are things on the other side these days?”

  He knows who I am, she thought. Flustered, she turned to face him. “What are you talking about? Who are you?”

  “Hey, relax.” He put up his hands. “It’s pretty easy to tell that you just died. That’s all.”

  “I’m not dead!”

  The boy’s sly smile disappeared. “Right.” He took a deep breath, let it out. “I’m sorry to have to be the one to tell you this, but …”

  “Is there a back way out of here?”

  He shook his head gently. “Once you’re in the city, this is it.”

  “No, here here. I mean the building.”

  “Here here the building,” he said. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay for the Watchers’ verdict?”

  She picked up the pace, leaving him behind.

  “Okay, new girl!” he called after her. “Yes, there’s a way. If you come back, I’ll show you.”

  Hannah paused. The last boy she’d been friends with might have pushed her mother off the top of the lighthouse. But she decided that since this was an emergency, she would let this boy show her the way, then immediately head off on her own.

  “Fine,” she said, walking briskly back and putting her hands on her hips to show that she wasn’t going to be too friendly.

  He stepped in front of an unmarked door and held it open for her. When she didn’t move, he eyed her curiously. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah” — she swallowed a sudden lump in her throat — “but I’m not too good with stairs.”

  * * *

  Poised at the top of the winding staircase, she gripped the railing and steadied her wobbly legs. Just push off, she demanded of herself. Do it! But it was no use — her limbs would not obey. She peeked over the side of the railing, where a little rectangle of empty space gave her a line of sight all the way down to the bottom.

  It was just a plain old empty back staircase.

  The boy seemed wary of getting too close to her. “Do you need help?”

  “No,” she said. “I don’t need anything else. You can go back to whatever you were doing.”

  He didn’t budge.

  Hannah told herself that things were different in this place. Whatever rules governed her life on the other side of the door no longer applied. She rested a tentative toe on the next step, then planted her foot. An inferno failed to claim her — not even a spark. The temperature remained the same. Relieved, she brought her other foot down. Barely conscious of the boy beside her, matching her step for step, Hannah descended.

  * * *

  When they burst out onto the street, Hannah couldn’t stop herself from grinning in triumph. The boy regarded her curiously. There was a chill in the air. Pedestrians rushed past without giving Hannah a second look. They wore long coats with triangular lapels flipped up to cover their necks.

  Up and down the street, iron lamps flanked arched doorways, casting muted light that somehow added to the gloom. Apartment buildings seemed to lean forward, as if they’d been planted firmly into the ground at odd angles. Covered walkways painted with elaborate scrollwork connected upper stories. Squat two-seater cars crept past, their windows tinted, drivers and passengers mere hints of shadow.

  The boy turned up his own collar and zipped his army jacket. A patch on his sleeve displayed two paintbrushes crossed like the bones on a pirate flag. He spread out his arms.

  “Welcome to rush hour in Nusle Kruselskaya.” He produced a black knit hat from his pocket. “Here. You might want this.”

  “No, thanks,” Hannah said. She was mesmerized by the traffic. She watched the men and women shuffle along the cobblestone sidewalk. These people are all dead, she told herself. It didn’t seem possible. There they were, walking and talking — alone, in pairs, in huddled little groups. Here, a man carried a newspaper under his arm. There, a woman stopped, leaned against a wall, and examined the bottom of her shoe. Little hands threw open a window across the street, and a child’s face appeared. Where were the skeletons, zombies, ghosts, angels? Nothing Hannah had ever read at the library or seen on the Internet had prepared her for the sight of everyday citizens going about their business.

  “They’re dead,” she whispered. “Dead, dead, dead.”

  She scanned dozens of faces, her eyes darting all over the place. What were the odds that her mother was somewhere in this neighborhood? She tried not to think about it. There would be time enough later to figure out how to find her mother. For now, her priority was to melt into the crowd and disappear. She picked a direction and started walking.

  “You sure you want to go that way?” the boy asked.

  “Yes,” Hannah said, as if she’d visited this part of town a million times and was headed for her favorite sandwich place. The boy clomped after her.

  “So are you going to tell me your name?” he asked.

  Hannah tried to pick up the pace, but the foot traffic was surging against her. She was on the wrong sidewalk. Across the street, people were going her way. She tried to find a gap between the cars, or a crosswalk.

  “I’m Stefan,” he said.

  Hannah ignored him. She could still remember that warm, comfortable feeling when she’d allowed Kyle into her life. It had been so easy to let him be her friend. That was the last time she would make that particular mistake
.

  One of the covered walkways was just overhead. The shade of the underpass held a nighttime chill. Hannah snapped the top button of her flannel. She made a show of looking at the cars, trying to appear deep in thought, hoping Stefan would take the hint.

  “I know the Watchers are hard to get used to at first,” he said.

  Hannah emerged from the shade. Hypnotic music like nothing she’d ever heard drifted from a window, a chorus of wordless chanting, grim and insistent, with a single voice belting a clear soprano melody that weaved in and out. Up ahead, the sidewalk dipped, and the light of a gas lamp mingled with the face of a man coming over the hill. He tapped a cane against the cobblestones. The crowd parted to let him through, shrinking away from his face as it stole the lamplight.

  A Watcher.

  “There’s nothing for you to be afraid of,” Stefan said. “I promise.”

  On the roof the Watchers had trapped her so easily with a simple two-pronged attack. If she turned around, would there be another Watcher ambling toward her from the other direction?

  “You don’t understand,” she told the boy.

  She must have sounded genuinely scared — or at least desperate — because without another word Stefan walked into the street and darted between cars, dropping low and sweeping his paintbrush along the ground in one smooth motion as he crossed to the other side. Acrid smoke billowed up from the cement as if he’d opened a thermal fissure. Hannah tasted ash on her tongue and coughed. In seconds, she was alone inside a cloud. A hand appeared, then the sleeve of an army jacket. The hand snapped its fingers, then beckoned to her.

  Hannah refused to touch Stefan’s outstretched hand.

  “Just in case you can’t see,” he said, “this humble artist is offering to guide you. Better hurry.”

  The smoke began to clear; figures emerged, heads bent, mouths covered. The cars had stopped in a single-file traffic jam.

  “I can see fine,” she said, and Stefan whisked his hand away.

  “Then come on, new girl.”