The Shipwreck: An Official Minecraft Novel Page 7

  She doesn’t see those guys from her school lingering by the vending machine or any of their usual spots, so she cuts through the empty playground on her way to the mailboxes.

  Oh. One of those guys is here. It’s the big broad-shouldered one who looks like he’s in high school, but Emily’s seen him at school. He was in eighth grade, just like she was, drifting through the corridors and grunting back at the teachers. Tank, Emily remembers. She remembers in seventh grade a guy called him Frankenstein because of the lurching way he happened to walk and an unfortunate sweater choice in the first week of school, and it stuck for a whole year. She always felt sorry for him, but he started hanging out with those guys in eighth grade, so they must have made up or something.

  Tank pulls an armful of paper towels out of some bushes, looking shifty as he makes his way to the play set.

  Emily keeps quiet, lurking in the shadows of the shrubberies. What is he doing?

  Tank sighs, picking something up off the ground and tossing it into the trash can. He glances around before ripping off a long roll of towel, then proceeds to wipe down the swing set chains.

  He does the same for all the swings, and then wipes down the monkey bars before throwing the paper towels away and slouching off to the North Tower.

  Emily steps out of the shrubberies and pads over to the trash can. Inside, on top of the other trash, is an empty plastic bottle of vegetable oil and the paper towels Tank had used.

  Weird.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  JAKE

  At first Jake thinks she’s somebody’s grandmother. She’s wearing a faded sweater set that could have been floral once upon a time and sitting on one of the benches in the outside play area, her eyes closed and her head tilted back. Her face is long and sad. She’s worrying something in her hands, a colorful frayed beanie. It looks clumsily knitted, nearly unraveled and topped with a pom-pom barely hanging on by a thread.

  Jake approaches her, a little hesitant. She looks sweet, and he wonders if he could make her smile. His nana used to get forgetful, going for walks to buy milk and not remembering what she was doing or why. She was the only grandparent he knew, and his memories of her are hazy, just brief glimpses of his parents smiling at each other, with Christmas lights reflected in his dad’s glasses, the crinkling of wrapping paper in the background. Mom and Dad held hands and Nana would pat him on the head, and it’s almost like another life. Jake didn’t know then, but it was after Nana died when everything started changing, too much, too fast. Mom got sick and then she was gone, too, and then Dad just—the job, the moves—

  He likes grandparents. Whoever’s grandma this is, they probably miss her.

  “Are you okay?” Jake asks, gently.

  The woman’s eyes snap open and they immediately focus on Jake. “What are you doing here?” she practically snarls. “The playground is closed after five.”

  The cold tone takes Jake by surprise. The sharp way her eyebrows draw together and how her whole face just goes tight like a teacher about to give him detention makes him feel defensive.

  Jake automatically responds like he does with strict teachers, by shrugging in a way he knows is annoying and snorting with amusement. “It’s like, only ten minutes after. Plus, it’s still bright. I think it’s okay. My dad knows I’m out here.”

  She glares at Jake, shuffling her coat around herself tighter. “Does he know you’re breaking the rules?”

  “Geez, it’s not a big deal.”

  The woman draws herself upright. “It most certainly is,” she huffs. “What unit do you live in?”

  “A-two-oh-four.”

  She tsks. “Right. You’re Nigel Thomas’s kid.” She gives Jake another glare. “Tell your father he still needs to sign the community guidelines agreement. And that there are fines for children in the playground after hours.”

  “Right,” Jake says, drawing out the word sarcastically. She gets up from the bench, doesn’t take the hand Jake offers, and toddles off, mumbling to herself.

  Wow. Guess she doesn’t want to be friends.

  * * *

  —

  The community center is quiet again, much to Jake’s relief. After a few days, he feels like he’s gotten to know the rhythms of the complex. In the morning there are a few waves of people leaving for work, adjusting their ties as they hustle to the bus stop at the end of the block, briskly walking down the stairs to the parking lot, with kids in tow for summer schools and camps, overladen with backpacks and soccer gear. In the afternoons when it starts to cool down, some younger kids will play in the courtyard, shrieking laughter on the swings or the jungle gym.

  Jake’s almost given up on the Wi-Fi. He could call the cable company himself, but he doesn’t want to risk going through the ever-growing pile on his dad’s desk to find the bills and information. Plus, Dad’s been weirdly cheerful, showing up every night and making dinner and asking Jake about his day. He doesn’t want to get into trouble for messing with Dad’s stuff, not when he’s in such a good mood.

  Jake doesn’t know how to explain that he’s found something. A mystery all his own, and he’s on the cusp of discovering something huge. He tells his dad he’s been walking to the local library and checking out comic books, which seems to distract him from the friend questions for now.

  But every day once it gets quiet, once the full force of the sun beams down on the harsh edges of the three towers, gleaming rays bouncing off every surface, growing hotter and hotter as the sun reaches its apex, Jake will steal downstairs. He knows to wait for when the clock slowly approaches eleven and the complex settles into empty echoes and groans, the occasional footfall, stairwell doors creaking closed.

  By then, muffled conversations from the courtyard die down. From the window, Jake can see if Shark and his goons are lingering by the vending machines; sometimes they’re waiting for Tank, and all of them disappear out the double doors, probably to cause trouble elsewhere. But Jake’s learned he can walk the perimeter of the inner balcony and go down a stairwell that leads right to the community center.

  To the computer lab. To his mystery.

  Jake’s managed to find the seaside village again, and he’s turned the biggest house into a home base of sorts. He’s taken an excessive number of screenshots, documenting all the anomalies and his questions. Now with decent armor and access to the brewing stand and enchanting table in the village, he can craft items that can help him uncover the mysteries of this server. He’ll need more Potions of Water Breathing before he can go back to the shipwreck, but he isn’t quite strong enough to brave the Nether for the nether wart he’ll need. Biding his time, Jake wanders near and far, trying to make sense of this world.

  He wishes there were a way to check the log to see if anyone’s been here since he last checked in. He’s left signs in the village, saying things like Who are you? Why did you build this? But there hasn’t been any response.

  Jake stands in the center of the gazebo, studying the riddle one more time.

  “Look to the sky,” he says to himself. “Ice cave.”

  To the east of the village is jungle, overgrown with bamboo and tall trees. To the north, plains; mountains rise to the west, and south is the ocean where Jake discovered the shipwreck.

  “I’ll be back,” Jake mutters at the sun winking in the distance.

  He climbs the mountain, figuring there must be something that he missed. He climbed it yesterday, throwing blocks of dirt so he could hop up the sheer cliffside, but at the top he found nothing but a snow-covered peak. There aren’t any caves anywhere on that mountain, not close enough to still see the village. It has to be within sight; why else would the riddle point him this way?

  Jake reaches the first stretch of ice and pauses. Wait a minute. He’s found plenty of caverns by just mining directly into the ground, going as deep as possible. What’s to stop him from axing righ
t into the mountain?

  The first patch of ice only yields stone beneath it, but the second reveals an expanse of darkness.

  “Woohoo! Take that, Riddle the Seventeenth!” Jake places a torch at the cave’s edge, making his way cautiously inside.

  Placing torches every few blocks to light his way, Jake is prepared to venture deep into the unknown, but finds the end of the cave after only a few minutes. He attempts to smash through the wall, to see if there’s something hidden inside, but his pickaxe breaks immediately.

  He turns back to the dead end of the cave, pacing back and forth. The icy wall won’t budge, and it’s not like there are shells anywhere on the floor—

  Wait.

  What if it’s about looking westward and then to the sky?

  Jake looks up.

  Embedded in the ceiling are paintings of shells and signs under them with a series of numbers. “Add the numbers,” Jake mutters. “Okay.”

  He gets 108, 5, and 1,072.

  Coordinates?

  Jake gasps. That must be it. He’s sure that he’s cracked it.

  Buzz buzz.

  Dad 6:02 P.M.

  Where are you?

  Dinner’s ready

  * * *

  —

  “What’s this?”

  “Chicken parmesan,” Dad says with a pleased grin. He pushes a plate toward Jake. A breaded and fried chicken cutlet, melted cheese oozing gently onto the noodles underneath, sits in the center, a pile of broccoli adding a pop of color to the plate. “And I roasted the broccoli, so I can proudly say it even tastes good.”

  Jake spears a floret of broccoli and chews it thoughtfully. It’s actually pretty nice, but he’s not going to comment on it. What would be next, a whole dinner made out of broccoli? He takes another bite, and then cuts himself a piece of the chicken. It’s juicy and savory, and Jake dips it into his noodles and sauce to get more of the flavor. “Are you like, taking a class or something?”

  “Watched a few YouTube videos. Did you know you can learn just about anything online?” Dad shakes his head, digging into his own plate.

  That makes three home-cooked meals this week, after Dad’s attempt at cauliflower rice and Tuesday’s tacos. The number of meals itself isn’t that unusual; Dad usually makes a bunch of dishes throughout the week when he has time. Jake will discover them in the fridge in various containers, Dad’s loopy handwriting labeling (and sometimes mislabeling) the contents. It never varies far from Dad’s staples of mashed potatoes or rice, boiled veggies, and a rotisserie chicken from the supermarket deli. Sometimes he’ll make chili or a cheesy casserole that’ll last for a while until Jake gets tired of eating it every day, but they have a routine with Dad’s odd hours. Jake is usually alone, left to assemble and eat whatever out of the random things in the fridge. He usually ends up eating cereal.

  He’s not quite sure what to make of Dad’s sudden interest in trying new things. Or the fact that Dad is actually home at night and not networking or whatever with the local design industry.

  Dad pushes some sort of outdoor goods catalog at him, the pages flipped open to a spread with some photogenic family sparkling and playing catch. “Looks like a cool sale! Check it out. Do you need a new glove? I think that old bat is probably still good. Where did we unpack all the baseball stuff? We could go play catch or something. What about a Dodgers game?”

  Jake’s heart gives a strange leaping lurch at each of Dad’s questions. He should be used to it, the grand ideas, the energy Dad has for hanging out and doing stuff together whenever they move. The logical side of him says he shouldn’t hope anymore, shouldn’t believe in it because it always ends up with him being disappointed. And yet there’s a part of him that wants all of these things, the time and the baseball games and everything Dad is proposing. “Sounds cool. When?” Jake can’t help the sarcastic bite to the question, but Dad usually doesn’t notice.

  “Hm. I can’t do this Saturday, but I’ll take a look at the schedule and tickets and such.”

  Jake’s stomach sinks. Right. He should have known. “Okay, whatever. Just let me know when you want to do stuff. ’Cause, you know. I’ve got stuff going on.” He’s itching to go back to the computer lab and see where those coordinates take him. How many more riddles would there be? And where do they lead?

  “You can’t say you’re too busy, you haven’t started school yet!” He laughs and ruffles Jake’s hair. “Did you make some new friends? Meet anyone in the building?”

  “I’ve met people,” Jake says, rolling his eyes. Technically he has. They don’t like him, but that won’t matter. He’s going to be moving away in a few months anyway and no one will remember. These little interactions won’t matter at all.

  “Have you been playing Minecraft?”

  “Well, yeah. It’s my favorite game.”

  “Thought you needed the Internet for that.”

  Jake shrugs. “I can play offline. I mean, I can’t connect to the epic project I was working on in the server I share with Danny, but I can still play.” He doesn’t mention the other server. It’s his mystery, and he doesn’t think his dad would appreciate or understand it. He does want Wi-Fi at some point, though. “Can we please get it fixed as soon as possible?”

  Dad nods. “Yeah, I’ll call the cable company again. Hey, are you still making buildings and things?” He chuckles at his own joke. “Take after your old man with the designing and the construction, huh? You know, if you ever want some pointers, I’d love to see what you’re working on.”

  “Uh…maybe.” Jake blanches at the idea of showing Dad any of his builds. Even if he’s asking to see, it feels weird, especially after last time.

  Jake remembers it clearly. He was eleven and he can still feel the plush blue carpet in the hallway of their Chicago apartment. It was the first move, after Mom died. They’d been there a few weeks already, not quite settled but Dad had jumped headfirst into the project. Jake had discovered Minecraft for the first time, finding solace in the bricks and the endless possibilities. He’d spend hours and hours after school playing, going on adventures and taking the time to build intricate worlds, replicas of places from history, real places he loved. He’d spent a week rebuilding their old house in Maryland, right down to the staircase and the ivy-covered brick chimney.

  He wasn’t sure if Dad would want to see that; after all, Dad had boxed up all the family photos and Mom’s things and they were gathering dust at Nana’s old house somewhere. They’d moved with very little, and Jake didn’t know how to talk to Dad. They didn’t have time, anyway; Dad had just gotten promoted and was taking on even more responsibility, and it was all very well and important and made Jake feel small and insignificant. Sometimes, when he was a kid, he’d go with Dad to the construction sites, and Dad would show him the blueprints and how everything would come together. They’d go get ice cream afterward; Dad always got a plain scoop of vanilla but would steal bites out of Jake’s rocky road. They’d walk around the city, Dad pointing out cool buildings and how design can change everything: the flow of people, how they interact with one another—adding a little curve could inspire conversation, turn strangers into friends.

  It was a stupid idea, trying to share his Minecraft build with Dad back then, Jake thinks now of his eleven-year-old self longing for times that would never come back. Everything had changed and he had been too naïve to understand it. Despite the Chicago cold, he still wanted that ice cream. Or that site visit. Or even just to talk. Jake hadn’t even known where Dad’s new project site was: He’d stumble out the door, all bundled up and cursing the weather. The snow in Chicago was nothing like it had been in Maryland, the constant storms and the way the apartment never got quite warm enough despite the soft-looking carpet and the fancy new heater. Maybe it was the space, the cold, hard lines of the furniture or the bareness of the walls.

  Jake had foun
d Dad’s blueprints and the mock-up photos for the project he was working on back then, an apartment complex. It was completely different from the big plazas and art museums and gardens Dad used to do: big open spaces with lots of meandering paths. “It’s all about the flow,” Dad would say, smiling at Mom as she would wander the expansive gardens.

  Jake built the whole complex in Creative, making it bigger and even adding a little park and a maze filled with roses, just like Dad used to do. He kept building, taking immense care in getting every detail right: the pastel color palette, the little cutouts on the balconies, the trees in the courtyard surrounding the fountain. He’d been most proud of the fountain, getting the water to flow just right, even replicating the sculpture in the center of it, some modern-looking curve that had taken forever to build. Circles aren’t really a thing in Minecraft, but Jake was really proud of the result.

  Jake remembers the careful way he’d brought his laptop into Dad’s office and turned it around for him to explore. “Hey, Dad, I made your current project in Minecraft.” He’d pushed the computer across the desk, nervous and hopeful all at once. It was snowing again, the sky outside an endless storm of gray-and-white flurries, but the sun was shining and maybe they could walk around like they used to. Dad was looking at his computer, nodding away with his earpiece in, like he was listening to music or something, so Jake didn’t know it wasn’t a good time.

  “Dad? Wanna see? I even added a rose garden.”

  “Not now, Jake, I’m on the phone,” Dad mouthed at him, waving him off.

  Jake adopted a bright smile. “Okay. Sure. You can look at it later! I’m almost done, and it’ll be like a 3-D model. Maybe you could use it to show your clients! Wouldn’t it be cool if they could walk through it like this?”