I blink against the light and smoke wafting through the air. My eyes and ears take a while to adjust to the relentless assault of strobe lights and synthesized, blaring music. I stand off to the side, waiting for the world to make sense again.
Everywhere I look, people seem to throb in and out of existence. One second they’re there as if under a camera flash, the next they’re nothing but a shadow. My stomach flips and it takes a tremendous effort to breathe deeply, to stay and not run back outside.
“That thing is huge,” someone says.
I’m startled, a little surprised to see that Mr. Smooth is still here. I’d forgotten all about him already. His chin is pointing upward as he focuses on a rather large disco ball. It hangs and twirls fifty feet above the center of the building, sending glittery outbursts in all directions. The club seems to be designed around a large circular dance floor. Above it, on the second floor, there’s a balcony. It is also circular and allows full view of the revelers below. Small tables are arranged around the cylindrical middle. Further back there’s more, but it’s hard to see past the snug crowd.
“Retro cool,” Mr. Smooth says, lowering his eyes to mine.
“Um, thanks for your help, but I have to …” I hook my thumb in no particular direction.
He shrugs and gives me a regretful look.
“Be careful,” I say, feeling awful for helping him get into this hellhole.
“Sure.” He frowns as if that’s the dumbest thing I can say.
I take a few steps back, wave, then march in the opposite direction, hoping he gets home safely tonight.
Squeezing between the oppressive bodies of Eklyptors and humans alike, I make my way around the club, trying to spot a familiar face. All I see are strangers; though, strangers I quickly catalog in a species chart: homo sapiens who don’t make my head buzz on the left and worthless parasites on the right.
The DJ’s voice bursts through the club’s speakers, encouraging everyone to clap. He’s up on a stage at the front of the crowd—surrounded by multiple mixers, controllers, amplifiers—and wearing nothing but a pair of white pants and matching fedora hat. He must be some famous DJ to be in such a prominent position, though I don’t recognize him. His skin is dark and gleaming with sweat. From this distance and due to all the buzzing signals around me, I can’t tell whether he’s human or not. He seems to be having the time of his life, dancing and mixing music. The crowd is totally feeling him, shuffling, fist pumping, and even twerking to his beats.
I make my way up the stairs to the second level to get a better view. From here, the disco ball looks even bigger, like a toy for some giant princess with a taste for shiny things. It’s hideous. I make my way to the railing and wiggle my body between two human women, earning a dirty look from each of them. I ignore them and stare at the round dance floor below.
There are doers and there are … well … non-doers. Right now, the ones below are clearly the former, while we—up here—are content with just gawking. And it is a sight, a spectacle that sends icy tremors straight into my veins.
Below is a pit of sweltering bodies moving, sliding, grinding against each other. They’re prey and predator in a literal dance, a morbid ritual of doom and extinction. There’s wicked pleasure in the movements, in the sensual allure of a camouflaged hunter. Eklyptors tempt their victims with their stolen human camouflage and—unconscious of the danger—the helpless quarry takes the bait.
A shadow rises inside my mind, groping, ravenous for control of my senses. It swarms all at once but I start thought-jumping.
Glittering lights.
Blinking LEDs.
Server racks.
I shut my eyes. My hands grip the railing with white-knuckled strength. My chest pumps and I force myself to breathe purposefully and focus. My eyes want to roll to the back of my head. I shake myself, flex my neck, loosen my shoulders. To anyone on the outside it might look like a nervous tic, but it’s my defense mechanism, a way to tell myself that I’m here, that this is my body. The almost-ritual reminds me of President Helms, and how, in a video of one of his State of the Union Addresses, I learned he has acquired the same affectations.
As I blink my eyes open, feeling back in control, I see a familiar shape cutting across the dance floor below, forcing his path between the throng of bodies, making his way toward the back of the building. I try to see exactly where he’s headed but it’s impossible from up here. A pang of sadness hits me in the gut, twisting my insides into a tight knot. James doesn’t trust me enough to let me help, to let me fight against this evil. But it’s not his call, is it? I can fight just the same, because everyone should if we’re to survive.
I push past the crowd behind me, eliciting more dirty looks and some insults. The stairs leading downstairs are jam-packed in both directions. I try to get ahead but only manage to overtake a few drunken guys before a bouncer yells at me to slow down.
Grinding my teeth, I wait and descend the stairs at an infuriating rate. When I finally make it to the main floor, I follow James’s path, eyes flickering from face to face, but fail to spot him again.
I push further back, right of the stage from where the DJ enthralls the dancers, and try to see past the thick crowd and find a slick bar lined with backlit panels that give a cool blue glow. People sit in front of it, atop expensive leather barstools, ordering drinks. A staggering array of bottles adorn the illuminated back wall, looking like some modern piece of art, instead of what it really is: a foul collection of overpriced intoxicants meant to rob you of what little control you have over your life.
My gaze sweeps down to the other side of the bar and I notice an additional room at the end of it, marked with three large, gold letters: VIP. I make my way in that direction and stop a distance away from the entrance. Two cashew-eared bouncers stand at either side, looking as inaccessible as the door. I curse, guessing the crew must be in there since I haven’t been able to spot anyone out here and that was the direction James was headed.
I’m fidgeting restlessly, wondering what to do, when I spot my brother at the bar. My feet become lead blocks, and I just stand there, staring, as he talks to a middle-aged woman instead of the girl he was supposed to be meeting. His head leans into hers in an intimate way. His expression is almost feral, completely foreign to me, and I feel I’m looking at a different person to the guy who lives under my roof. The woman puts a hand on his shoulder and pats him. He nods, but looks frustrated as hell, as if whatever comfort she just offered him isn’t nearly enough. Her copper-colored hair hoods her eyes and half of her face, making it impossible to get a good look. All I can say is that she makes my head feel like it’s been invaded by yellow jackets.
Luke runs a hand through his blond hair and shifts in his seat, his whole body turning my way. I panic, whirl around and stare at the dance floor. There’s a sudden hiss and a jet of dry ice releases from above. It descends on the crowd like a macabre fog, enveloping everyone and turning their faces into bleached skeletons.
My heart hammers. I chance a glance over my shoulder, barely turning my face back to the bar. Luke and the woman aren’t there anymore. I look around, searching for a tall boy with beautiful blond hair. He’s nowhere in sight.
I curse myself. I should have questioned him, should have confronted him about his knowledge of sentient parasites. I should have assumed his mind was already ravaged rather than choose to believe he can fight the infection like me. Have I been wrong about him all along? Is that why James hasn’t responded to my messages and reassurances that Luke isn’t a spy? That must be it. James knows something I don’t know and it involves my brother.
Because he is a spy. God, he is.
But he can’t be.
He’s my twin brother. Max. Mom’s new pride and joy. His presence here means nothing.
The world tilts. Music pounds in my ears. I look around, hoping to find a friendly face, a big smile and assurances that everything will be okay.
Xave. I have to find him.
I walk toward the VIP room. One of the bouncers puts a hand up to halt me.
“Password?” he says.
I say the only thing I know, “Hailstone reign.”
“That won’t work over here. Please enjoy the rest of the club.” He smiles in a cold way that suggests he doesn’t expect me to enjoy anything but his foot on my ass. I’m opening my mouth to say something that will probably get me thrown out when the doors to the VIP room explode open and a crazed crowd bursts out, pushing, trampling, screaming at the top of their lungs; though, not loud enough to drown the strident cracks of gunshots.