Page 81 of Escaping Wonderland

There was another him, another Shadow, in the co-pilot’s seat, slumped back and dressed in a pale green hospital gown. The holes on the front of the gown—bullet holes—were ringed with glistening blood.

“I never made it out of the pod,” the other-him rasped without moving his mouth.

“No.” Shadow backed away. His foot slipped off the edge of the floor and he stumbled, landing on his backside partly on broken wood planks and partly on dirt. He swept his gaze around, only then realizing what should’ve been obvious from the start—the crash had torn both the building and the ship apart. He turned toward the rest of the craft as he regained his feet.

Dead soldiers were strewn everywhere. One row of transport seats had separated from the rest of the ship, and its passengers were scattered amidst the wreckage and debris.

The lieutenant lay closest to Shadow. He’d been impaled through the chest by a signpost, the sign for which was on the ground nearby. The hand-painted letters on the sign were still legible despite the blood spattered across them—Hatter’s Tea Party.

The lieutenant’s dark, lifeless eyes turned toward Shadow. The name plate on the human’s uniform said WINTERS, and Shadow recognized his face.

Edward Winters. The Hatter.

This is wrong, all wrong. The Hatter…he didn’t serve with me. I never knew him before… The lieutenant was someone else…

“Death is real,” the Hatter said in a dried-out whisper. “Death is in Wonderland, Wonderland is death.” His head turned with a slow, jerky motion to face Shadow fully. “You are dead.”

“No. This isn’t real. You’re not real.” Shadow hurried away from the Hatter and turned around.

He found himself suddenly surrounded by mist, the ship wreckage nowhere to be seen. He stepped forward. His foot landed in cold water. Dread lodged itself in his throat.

“I left this place. I woke up. I woke up.”

“Shadow…” Alice’s voice drifted to him, made ethereal by the fog.

He scanned his surroundings, searching for her among the indistinct trees, vines, and too-still water. His gaze stopped on a distant, shadowy figure—a figure in a short-skirted dress.

Shadow ran toward it, plunging into frigid, waist-deep water. The muddy bottom sucked at his feet. With each step, he sank a little deeper, his pace slowed a little more, and his heartbeat gained speed and volume.

“Shadow,” Alice called again; she sounded no clearer, seemed no closer.

He strained against the mud, sputtering and coughing when his head dipped below the surface, pushing himself harder and harder, willing himself toward Alice. But the muck only thickened and grabbed at him ravenously. His head went under again, and he couldn’t straighten enough to get it above the surface. He clawed at the bottom, dragging himself forward, and growled in anger and panic.

His claws dug into more solid ground. Lungs burning, he hauled himself forward and up a sharp incline until his headfinally emerged. Shadow sucked in a harsh breath; the air was like fire as it flowed into his lungs, but it was so sweet.

Shadow pulled himself onto land fully, tugging his legs out of the mud’s lingering grasp, and looked forward. Alice’s form was still obscured by the mist, but she was much closer, standing amidst a jumble of vines and gnarled branches. He staggered to his feet and hurried forward, catching himself with his hands when he stumbled; his legs felt so light now, after his war with the mud.

“Alice,” he called. “Alice, I’m here! I’m coming.”

She didn’t move, didn’t respond; he ran faster, heart pounding.

He pushed through the branches and vines, breaking and snapping them to clear a path, and ignored the way they scratched and clawed at his skin and clothing. He was close. He needed Alice—only she could ground him, only she could remind him of what was real.

Though she stood only a few feet away, her form remained indistinct, like a phantom in the mist.

“Alice!” Shadow extended his arm, reaching for her.

His fingers caught the fabric of her skirt, and the dress simply fell away to dangle his hand. Shadow’s heartbeat intensified, his chest constricted, and his throat tightened. The dress had been dangling from a cluster of branches with a vaguely humanoid shape.

“No, no, no,” he muttered, lifting the dress in both hands. There was a hole in its abdomen, surrounded by bloodstained cloth.

“Not real, not real, this isn’t real!”

“Yes, it is,” the king whispered from behind him. “And you’re dead.”

Shadow spun around, but instead of finding the king, he found…himself. He was looking into his own face, his owneyes. The other him grinned wickedly and thrust a knife into Shadow’s chest.

Shadow woke with a gasp and sat up, one hand pressed to his chest—where a hot, tingling sensation was slowly fading. His palms and feet were cold and clammy, his heart was racing, and tremors coursed along his limbs.

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