I stand at the stern and watch the projected Wall disappear into the blue misty horizon. The longer I stare, the more emotion flames inside as if a bellows pumps oxygen into it.
When I held that rifle and shot up the controls to the projected Wall, I was powerful. I freed us. The Council’s new “system” of getting rid of the Low Cities failed.
Maybe that was the whole reason we were sent to Antarctica—to start the change. In a weird way, the flying bullets and shattered screens were part of the process of bringing shalom.
I want to do it again. I want to get this Wall down for good. This freedom needs to continue . . . to be permanent. It’s time for the Wall to stop being a death sentence and for the Clocks to stop determining the value of our lives.
All these things are used to separate us from humanity, rightness, and shalom. I snap an emotigraph of the projection, to remind myself of this conviction.
“An hour for your thoughts?”
I tear my gaze from the blue horizon and face Solomon. “Ooh, they’re worth more than an hour.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “Really? Do tell.”
Should I? The passion is too strong to restrain, but something inside me doesn’t want to share my churning thoughts yet. Not until they settle. Not until I know this can be done.
“I’ll tell you soon, Solomon.”
When we reach land, then I’ll tell him that I’m going to destroy the Wall . . . both stone and projection. For good.
Destruction.
It is my calling.
I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life. I am the only one who can do this. God has provided me with everything—the connections, the passion, the purpose.
Mother was wrong. I’m not meant to just live. I’m meant to follow my passions, with God at the front.
I will tear down the Wall. Believers can cross over and find a place to worship God without the threat of Enforcers. Willow can come home. We will be reunited with Father and Tawny. The Council’s control will be broken.
Maybe this is why I survived and Reid died. Maybe this is why Jude died giving up his Clock information, and I was left behind. Maybe this is why I’ve always hated the Wall . . .
Because I was meant to destroy it.
30
We reach the west coast of the old United States and spot our first city. Buildings crawl out of the ocean onto the shore, like decayed crabs frozen in time. Windows are broken, frames bend like soggy sponges, and most roofs are caved. The base of each building is covered in crusty white stuff that looks almost like snow, but the weather’s too warm for snow.
The shore is lumpy and leads to brown hills with green shrubs. Similar-looking islands break up the ocean’s smoothness. More like hill peaks than isles.
We navigate past and I scan the shore for life. How will we know when to stop? Perhaps I’ll ask Frenchie what the map looks like on her screens. I enter the bridge stairwell–and that’s when I hear her screaming. Not panicked screaming, but angry commands. “We can’t turn eet on, ze Council will find us!”
“But we’ll sink if we hit—” A man’s voice, shouting.
“You fool! Get us away from ze shore.” She lets loose a string of angry French.
The ship jolts and I’m thrown against the railing. I tumble down the few stairs I’d climbed. A deep metal screech rips through my senses. A death cry from the hull.
We’ve run into something.
A young man hurtles down the stairs as I climb back to my feet. His wide eyes tell me all I need to know.
“Are we sinking? What did we hit?”
He runs by without a word. The exit is two flights down, so close, but I feel trapped. I picture water streaming into the stairwell and carrying me away until I get tangled amid the railing and drown.
Drown.
Drown like when Jude and I rode the flood down the Dregs.
“Calm down.” Pep talk over, I force myself upward toward the bridge. Frenchie directs the mayhem of frenzied sailors and flashing lights. She glances at me. “We are een trouble. Get everyone on deck.”
“What will you do?”
“Steer ze ship toward shore. Eet is best to sink within swimming distance.”
“Okay.” I sprint back down the stairwell. Am I imagining the ship tilting, filling with water? It feels heavier beneath my feet.
I’m going crazy.
The deck is already packed with people. “Get everyone on deck!”
“We’re here,” Cap drawls, standing beside Kaphtor.
I glance around. “Everyone?” He shrugs. I don’t know how much time we have, so I run downstairs toward the berths. “We’re sinking! Everyone on deck! We’re sinking! Everyone on deck!” Those word choices should do the job.
God, please don’t let anyone get trapped in this ship and drown.
I go to the galley. It’s empty, but for a few burlap sacks of potatoes rolling around on the ground. I scoop the loose potatoes into the sacks and tie the tops together, using my teeth and good hand. Then I sling the linked bags over my shoulder.
The ship lurches and the room tilts thirty degrees. I scream. Then I crawl, clawing my way back up the stairs and out on deck. Not an easy task with twenty pounds of potatoes and one hand.
I reach fresh air. People are jumping over board. Thankfully, the ship now sits so low in the water, they’re not dying from the fall. Kaphtor struggles to climb the railing, throwing a couple of shrink-wrapped life rafts into the water. He helps Cap over the edge, and they leap after the life rafts. Kaphtor pulls the cords so they inflate.
I toss the potatoes into the water and look for Mother or Solomon. Mother’s holding the rail and scanning the deck. My pack is slung over her shoulders.
“Mother!” I wave. “I’m here!” I run over as the ship tilts even more. “Where’s Solomon?”
She shakes her head and I look around, using her as an anchor.
“We have to jump, Parvin.”
“But where’s Solomon?”
“He’ll be fine. He’s an Enforcer.”
Then I see him, using a crowbar to break a lock on the container door holding the other Enforcers and Monster Voice. I hadn’t given a second thought to our prisoners.
“Parvin, come on.”
I can’t tear my eyes from Solomon. The shipping container has slid against the opposite railing and he’s pounding at the locked door with all he has. Any moment, the other containers are going to tumble on top of him.
Crush him.
“I’m right behind you, Mother. Go.”
She rolls her eyes. “You are determined to test my limits.” She jumps.
I release the rail and half-run, half-slide toward Solomon. The ship tilts even more and one stack of containers leans. Leans. The top one lifts onto its edge, poised over him.
“Solomon!”
His pounding breaks the lock. He throws one of the doors open, still crouching on the other one. The leaning container above his head shifts its balance.
“Look out!” I abandon caution, scramble up his container, and tackle him. We fly out, over the railing, separating mid air. The falling container clips my foot then follows us over the edge.
I land face-first in the water. It slaps me like a branch switch. I claw through the water, certain that the falling shipping container will land on top of us.
I hear the splash, feel the thrust of the wave. Another. Metal on metal. Water cuffing my ears. I thrash, holding my breath longer than lungs were meant to be held. I break the surface. Groaning machinery surrounds me.
Finally, my eyes open. The ship is fully on its side, sinking fast. I paddle backward, watching it dip below the surface, releasing its last bubbles of farewell. A hand grips mine.
Solomon. His dark blond hair is plastered to his forehead and he no longer holds the cro
wbar.
Then the cargo ship is gone. “Did you get them all out?”
He spits salt water from his mouth. “I think so.”
The chaos is epilogued by stillness. Two thousand of us float in the water, staring at the spot where the boat sank. Then, as if by silent agreement, we swim toward the shore. No alarm, no panic, no arguing.
Those who can’t swim or are still injured rest in the lifeboats while others pull them. The strong swimmers help the weak. Floating particles of ship are passed around and shared.
We are one.
Unified in survival.
It’s a terrifying, yet beautiful thing. The calm comes from each other, from our unity—not from the Clocks or remembered Numbers. For once, we’re not a population of second hands. We’re just swimmers. Survivors. Radicals.
And up ahead is our new home.
•••
It turns out we ran into an old skyscraper, only Cap called it a “seascraper” since it’s underwater. During our swim to shore, Solomon points out the city beneath our feet. I tread water for some time, trying to spot details.
Tall buildings stretch up to meet our sodden boots. Coral-coated blacktop roads wind between the buildings. Crooked light posts sport dark shells and crusted sea art. I don’t look for very long. Too many live things swim below us and my imagination threatens to get the best of me.
I’ve heard of sharks. Sting rays. Big squids that eat people. I want out of the ocean, despite the eerie beauty of a drowned city. But climbing onto shore is no easy task, as it isn’t a true shore at all. It’s a submerged town with no smooth beach, no clear exit point. I finally find an old road that leads out of the water.
The white crust on the shore buildings turns out to be salt. Cap touches some with his finger, licks it, then spits. A few other people do the same.
I find Mother wandering among the people with the two bags of potatoes over one shoulder and my pack over the other. She looks at me as I approach. “You couldn’t find more than this?”
I hold up my one hand. “I have my limitations.” I take my pack from her. It’s sodden and I think achingly of when I ruined Reid’s journal in the Dregs. Did I just ruin my Bible? “At least we’re starting our new trek on full stomachs.”
“With no blankets, water, or direction.”
I almost call her a pessimist, then I catch my own thoughts in a butterfly net and scold them. This is Mother. What am I thinking? She’s trying to prepare herself for the situation at hand. Besides, pessimism notwithstanding, she’s right.
Madame and Kaphtor drag a life raft ashore. Inside sit Cap and Gabbie, who holds Dusten’s wrapped body. I close my eyes and release a breath through my nose. I hadn’t even thought of Dusten. But someone did. I’m glad. The charred state of his body seems have a mummifying effect.
If possible, I want to bury him in Ivanhoe. I know it’s not the East side of the Wall, but it’s freedom and comfort. It’s good we have him—maybe Gabbie Kenard is onto something. I can film myself talking, with Dusten’s overridden Clock in the background. I want to show the people that his Numbers didn’t determine his death.
If they believe me, more people might rebel against the new Clock-matching.
A handful of Unity people turn to me now that we’re on shore. But others gather in groups as they did in Antarctica, forming their own plans. I’m about to call a meeting between the leaders of these groups—we need some form of unity in this wild land—when a voice hollers from above us.
“Oy, this is private property!”
Everyone hushes and scans the air. Atop the tallest building, balancing on a decayed two-by-four frame, are three men, somewhere around Father’s age. The middle one has dirty dreadlocks, a sleeveless shirt, and cut-off pants. He’s barefoot, with a couple fishing poles slung over his shoulder.
“Can’t you read?”
Silence.
“Are you all mute or something?”
People. People live here on this . . . private property. I almost laugh, it’s so absurd. “Of course we can read!” I shout.
“Then get off my land, you bottom-dwellers!”
Some of the people inch their way behind me, until I’m standing alone—the voice for the lost. I’m about to explain our predicament to this man, but hesitate. He’s defensive. If he doesn’t like people on his land, that means he’s had this problem before. “How many other people live here?”
“The town’s a mile that way.” He gestures behind him with his fishing pole. “And I’ve had enough scavenging wars to last a lifetime. So get outta here and don’t start no trouble.”
He doesn’t follow up with an “or else,” probably because there are hundreds of us and only one of him, not counting his two silent buddies. But it’s too soon for us to be making enemies.
Whispers drift from behind me and I catch someone saying, “There are people here. On this side. A whole town in the West!”
Oh, if only they knew. “We, uh . . . just swam to shore after our ship sank. Can you help us?”
Now it’s their turn to be silent. The man with dreads picks at his teeth with a finger. “You say your ship sank?”
I nod.
“What type o’ ship?”
“A cargo ship.”
He whispers something to the guy on his left, then asks, “Where?”
I point vaguely. “It hit a skyscraper.”
He cocks his head to the side, dreads swinging. “Where ya from? Are ya scavengers?”
I shake my head. “We’re not scavengers and we’re just passing through.” Someone in the group behind me mutters at this.
“I’ll help you out if you let my scubers scavenge the ship . . . and don’ mention it to anyone else.”
I can’t promise that the people behind me will keep quiet, but if that’s what it takes to keep us alive, then they can have the boat. I’m not going to ask what a scuber is. His eyes hold my gaze, earnest. He wants that ship. He wants it bad, but he’s trying to hide it.
I lift my chin, throw my shoulders back, and plant my hand on my hip. “We’ve got some terms.” I’ve been to Ivanhoe. I know how to play tough. “You’ll give us food and shelter for at least two days. Then you’ll provide passage to Ivanhoe or, if that’s not possible, information on how to get there.”
“That there’s a high price.” He spits off the edge of the building.
I jerk a thumb over my shoulder toward the ocean. “That there’s a big boat.”
He grins. “All righty. But I can transport only half of you to Ivanhoe. The rest will have to earn passage.”
I turn around to see what my people think. Rufus McTavish, Solomon, and the other people in leadership positions all nod.
“Deal.” We’ll work out the details later.
“Boys, go get your gear.” The other two men scramble down from the building and disappear. “So who are you, little one-handed seasnapper? You got a name?”
“Parvin Blackwater.” My name is an unyielding banner, staking my claim as the voice of the Radicals. For the first time, while among my people, I’m their leader. They stand behind me, I stand ahead with a staff of tenacity.
“Named after the blackwater, huh? That name’s fit for a sea leader. How’d you lose your hand?”
I continue his casual conversational tone, even though it takes an odd amount of willpower to mention it in front of my people. “Had a run-in with an albino clan near the Wall.”
His lips quirk to one side. “Is that when you earned your title, Blackwater?”
“I was born with it.” It’s never seemed special to me, but maybe because this man lives by the sea it means something more to him.
He raises an eyebrow. “Well, my name’s Chark.”
“Chark?”
“Like the giant sea predator.”
“I think ’e mean
s shark,” Frenchie says behind me. I wave for her to shush.
“Now get your soggy salt-hides over here and we’ll get you into town.” Chark walks to the edge of the building, where an old rope hangs down the corner.
He slides down it, strides to me, and gives my hand a firm, calloused shake. “Welcome to Lost Angel.”
31
I could never live in Lost Angel.
For one, it smells like fish. If I had a specie for every time I gagged, I’d be able to buy Skelley Chase’s head on a platter. Second, it’s not very . . . warm. By nightfall, the sea air turns cold and the houses are breezy. Most residences are recycled ruins.
I’m viewed as the leader of the Radicals, so Chark insists I stay in his main home. Solomon and Mother join me. Everyone else disperses, either into the houses covering Chark’s property or to stay with the other inhabitants of Lost Angel.
Monster Voice and the other Enforcers are brought to me. They’re weaponless, ragged, and half-starved despite my attempts to feed them cooked potatoes.
I study them for a moment. “You’re free to go.”
They don’t seem to like this idea, but I don’t care. There are people in our group who would rather see them punished. But they’ve been stripped of their old lives, that’s punishment enough.
I turn to Chark. “Can you make sure they get protected rest and food for two days?”
Chark nods and tells them where to go. As they turn to walk away, Monster Voice pauses beside me, his head hanging low. “Thank you.”
Then they’re gone.
The enormity of this salt-crusted city is barely dented by the handful of inhabitants. From what I can see, the population isn’t any larger than that of Unity Village, but unlike Unity, the city ruins of Lost Angel seem to go on forever.
A Time to Speak Page 32
