Fear: A Gone Novel

ahead it was pearly gray. As always. As it had been since the coming of the FAYZ.
    But just above the waterline the barrier was not gray but black. The black shadow rose in an irregular pattern. Like a roller coaster’s curves.
    Quinn glanced away to see the sun just peeking over the mountains. The whole sea went from dark to light in a few swift minutes. He waited until the sunlight touched the water between him and the barrier.
    “It’s changed,” Quinn said.
    He pulled his shirt over his head and dropped it onto the bench. He fumbled in the locker for a face mask, spit into it, wiped the spit around with his fingers, slipped it on his head, and without another word dived off the side. The water was cold and instantly blew the last of the morning cobwebs out of his head.
    He swam gingerly to the barrier, careful not to touch it. Six feet down the barrier was black.
    Quinn surfaced, took a deep breath, and went down again. He wished he had fins; it wasn’t easy pushing his buoyant body downward. He reached maybe twenty feet before letting himself float back up.
    He climbed back into the boat with an assist from Jonas.
    “It’s like that all the way down as far as I can tell,” Quinn said.
    The four of them looked at one another.
    “So?” Elise asked. “We have work to do. The fish won’t catch themselves.”
    Quinn considered. He should tell someone. Caine? Albert? He didn’t really want to have to deal with either of them. And they had blue bats right under the boat just waiting to be caught.
    Either Caine or Albert might easily tear into him for sloughing off on work just to report something that might be meaningless.
    Not for the first time he wished it was still Sam he had to report to, not the other two. In fact, if there was anyone he really wished he could tell, it was Astrid. Too bad no one had seen her. She might well be dead. But Astrid was the only one who would look at this and actually try to figure out what it meant.
    “Okay, let’s get back to work,” Quinn said. “We’ll keep an eye on it, see if it changes by the end of the day.”

FOUR
50 H OURS
    FOR ALL OF his five years Pete Ellison had lived inside a twisted, distorted brain. No longer.
    He had destroyed his dying, diseased, fever-racked body.
    Poof.
    All gone.
    And now he was … where? He didn’t have a word for it. He had been freed from the brain that had made colors scream and turned every sound into a hammering cymbal.
    He drifted now in a silent, blissful place. No loud noises. No too-bright colors. No brain-frying complexity of overwrought sensation. No blond sister with her bright yellow hair and stabbing blue eyes.
    But the Darkness was still there.
    Still looking for him.
    Still whispering to him. Come to me. Come to me .
    Without the cacophony of his brain Pete could see the Darkness more clearly. It was a glowing blob at the bottom of a ball.
    Pete’s ball.
    That realization surprised him. But yes, now he remembered: such noise, people screaming, his own father in panic, all of it like hot lava poured into Pete’s skull.
    He had not understood what was happening, but he could see clearly the cause of all the panic. A green tendril had reached for and touched long glowing rods, caressed them with a greedy, hungry touch. And then that arm of the Darkness had reached for minds—weak, malleable minds—and demanded to be fed the energy that flowed from those rods.
    It would have meant a release of every sort of light, and everyone except the Darkness would have been burned up.
    Meltdown. That was the word for it. And it had already begun and it was too late to stop it by the time Pete’s father was rushing around and Pete was moaning and rocking.
    Too late to stop the reaction and the meltdown. By normal means.
    So Pete had made the ball.
    Had he known what he was doing? No. He looked back at it now with a feeling of wonder. It had been an impulse, a panic reaction.
    He had never meant a lot of things to happen that did happen.
    He was like that guy Astrid used to have in the stories she read to him. The one called God. The one who said, “Poof, make everything!”
    Pete’s world was full of pain and disease and sadness. But hadn’t the old world been that way, too?
    He no longer had his handheld game. He no longer had his body. He no longer had his old, miswired brain. He no longer balanced atop the sheet of glass.
    Pete missed his old game. It had been all he had.
    He floated in a sort of haze, a world of