Darkness

by Sagine Jean

  “STOP!” Sydney screams violently, about to fling herself at Margo and Margo’s holier-than-thou demeanor. But Ruiz waves the gun in our faces again and she falls back.

  “Don’t deny the truth, Sydney. You’re simply not equipped to take care of him. Letting a boy with Asperger’s run through the subway alone? What kind of human being does that?”

  “What kind of human being waves a gun in front of a seven-year-old?” I spit back, but Ruiz just smiles. It’s like everything about this place is backwards and Sydney and I can barely find our footing.

  “Come on, Sydney,” Margo starts up again. “You know Sammy would be better off with us. I saw the way you acted at camp—like you knew what was best for Sammy, but do you? Can’t you see how much he suffers up there?”

  I turn and look at Sydney. Her mind is turning what Margo’s just said over and over again. It’s wrong—all of it. She can’t possibly believe any of what they said. But I can see her losing confidence. Her arm at my waist starts to go slack.

  “Hey, Margo. Shut the hell up.” Everyone turns to look at me, eyes wide. Even little Sammy with his hands covering his ears.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Let’s say you’re right, that he’s suffering up in the real world with the rest of us. He’d still never do well with you. You, a person who doesn’t know him. You, a person who doesn’t get that Sammy doesn’t like the pressure of eating at lunchtime and that he needs a Sammy Snack, not a can of beans.”

  Sydney’s eyes go wide as if she’s surprised that I remembered all that, but Margo’s entire face grows cold. She takes the gun from Ruiz’s hand and holds it steady in front of my face, pushing Sammy behind her.

  She stares at us coldly. “And to think, I gave you that map in my last attempt to be kind. I didn’t expect you to come here. You should have just taken it and left.” She turns to her husband. “Deal with them.” And Ruiz steps forward, holding two black blindfolds in his hands.

  “Gladly.” He smiles. “You guys want to go home—so I’ll take you home.”

  “We’re not leaving Sammy here with you maniacs,” Sydney says, but Ruiz blindfolds her first as Margo keeps the gun steadily aimed at me. I watch as he pulls out a length of rope to tie her hands behind her back. I have to stop this. I have to. Gun or no gun, if I let them lead us out of here, we’ll never find Sammy again. Sentencing him to live down here, with people who barely know him, is a death sentence within itself.

  So I dive toward Margo—moving in a burst of energy that she doesn’t see coming. I knock Sammy out of the way as I leap toward her, trying to make a clean dash for the gun. I knock her into a wall and slam her wrist against it. The gun clatters to the ground. Still she fights me, biting my ear hard and dashing for the gun when I howl in pain.

  But I knee her hard in the stomach and she doubles over, leaving the gun for me to pick up. Triumphant energy pulses through me as I regain my gun. I point it toward her, ready to grab Sammy and Sydney and run, when I hear a strangled cry.

  “Will,” Sydney says and I turn back to find Ruiz standing over her with a knife at her throat. “Don’t.”

  I WANT TOO MANY THINGS. TOO MANY THINGS to accept this as the end. There’s so much left to do, so much left to have. And yet Ruiz is pressing a knife to my throat as if none of that matters. As if my life doesn’t matter. Will’s watching me with eyes as wide as saucers and even Sammy, usually so oblivious to fear, is watching me and Ruiz with a look of distress on his tiny face.

  Maybe this is enough—all seventeen years I lived—enough for me to feel okay with giving it all up for Sammy. Well, maybe not okay, but satisfied nonetheless. As if the life that I’d dedicated to him has come full circle.

  Maybe Will’s right—maybe I should have focused on myself more. Maybe I should have made my mom make all the hard calls, forced her to take some responsibility. Maybe I should have made more friends and not have settled for a boyfriend I didn’t even really like. Maybe this isn’t my fault. Maybe the world turns on its axis no matter what happens to me here.

  “Sydney,” Sammy says, his voice deathly serious, gravely firm. “Don’t be scared.” But hearing his voice is making the fear break through me like a flood. It presses against all sides of my skull until I can’t even pretend to think straight.

  “Stay tough, Syd,” Sammy’s voice rings out through the darkness and I grab onto it like a tether. I have no regrets. I don’t regret being Sammy’s big sister. I don’t regret him being my world and I don’t regret coming down here to find him.

  But that doesn’t mean I’m going to take this lying down.

  I muster every bit of courage I have in me and push my arms out and back against Ruiz behind me, just like they teach you in self-defense class. And with a grunt, he falls backward. I rush toward Sammy without even thinking about it, my arms covering him and shielding him from whatever’s about to happen next.

  But there’s chaos all around and it’s hard keeping Sammy from seeing it all. Still, I hold him tight and don’t let go.

  Margo takes Will’s moment of distraction to pounce on his shoulders and reach for the gun, but he flings her off and keeps his gun steady. But Margo is the least dangerous situation. Not as dangerous as Ruiz, recovering on the ground from where I hit him, picking up his knife, and running toward Sammy and me. Instinctively, I shove Sammy behind me, ready for whatever Ruiz is going to do. I brace for a blow that never comes.

  Instead, all I hear is an explosion of sound, a ripple in the universe.

  I open my eyes and there’s blood covering Ruiz’s stomach and Will stands, arm extended, gun in hand.

  Another sound I wasn’t prepared for cuts through the murmur of Ruiz’s pain. Margo screams—loud and ear-piercing—running toward her husband. She gets to him, holds him against her face, and sobs. He’s not dead—but he’s hurt badly. I’m so grateful Sammy’s okay that it’s hard for me to even notice anything else.

  But Will. I notice Will. Standing next to a pile of untreated metal with soldier-like poise, his arm still extended, the gun still in his grip. I see his fingers tremble and I’m reminded of how young he is. This boy who saved our lives, this boy who risked everything to help me. With Sammy pressed behind me, I reach for him and drag my fingers over the arm not holding a gun.

  “Will,” I say. “It’s okay now. It’s all going to be okay.”

  Slowly he turns to me, hazel eyes bright in the dimness surrounding us. It’s hard not to notice how brave he is, how strong he stayed for both my and Sammy’s sake. His eyes soften and a single tear falls onto his cheek.

  “Sydney.”

  I grab his hand and squeeze and suddenly I feel better. I can’t tell who has lent whom strength.

  “Shh. I’m here.”

  He lowers the gun and carefully puts it back in his holster. And as soon as it’s back in place, I hug him and let his arms fall around both Sammy and me. It’s the most peaceful I’ve felt in God knows how long— even before we were trapped in this hellhole.

  Margo’s sobs and Ruiz’s grunts of pain break through the silence.

  “Leave!” she screams, and when we look back at her we find that her hands and face are covered in his blood. She looks like a horror movie come to life. “Leave now! And never come back. Do you hear me? Never come back, you hateful, hateful people!” The pain in her voice is palpable and, without another word, we do as she says. We leave, without any intention of ever coming back.

  MANHATTAN IS NOT THE SAME PLACE IT was when we left it. There are no rushing cars, no hurried pedestrians, no open storefronts and wide city streets. Instead there is water—seas and oceans of water.

  We’d managed to follow the map Margo had given us to the nearest exit, a manhole in the middle of Second Avenue, just a stone’s throw away from Bryant Park and Grand Central. And once we climbed through, we knew life would not be the same, even though the storm had passed and the city around us was now quiet and calm. Still, it is haunting, seeing a place that was once so vibran
t with life, empty and devoid of the people who made it whole.

  I look over at Sydney now, as we huddle together inside a cafe with broken doors and windows— empty of even a barista. I’ve just called for backup and at least the landline in this cafe is working, because without the police, Ruiz would be dead. He would ultimately be fine; the police would come and take him to the hospital, where they would put him back together.

  But would we be fine? Sydney and I—the rest of this newfound world?

  In the background, the wall-mounted TV plays CNN on a loop of carnage and disaster. Primped and pressed reporters stand in front of overturned cars and broken street signs in areas like the one we’re in now—completely evacuated, the residents in storm shelters scattered across the boroughs.

  “This storm . . . it wasn’t a joke,” Sydney says, her eyes taking in everything around us. It hadn’t been a joke. Hurricane Angelica had come with a vengeance, raging for two days before it ended, leaving only water and upheaval behind.

  Sydney stands and starts making two cups of coffee, Sammy stuck to her side like glue.

  “Should I warm up some of these muffins? I think the last thing we ate was rat.”

  I chuckle, a sad smile crossing my face. “I don’t have any money.”

  It’s her turn to smile; her laugh cuts through this dreary afternoon. “We don’t need money. Look at this place.”

  And I do. The storm has changed this city in ways we could have never imagined. According to what we’ve seen so far from the news, the danger has pretty much passed, but people have still been instructed to stay indoors until all the brackish water has been pumped out.

  Sydney and I had taken turns calling our mothers, and both were fine and had been inside for more than twenty-four hours, with police delivering emergency kits to residences all over the city. My parents hadn’t been in an evacuation zone, but Sydney’s mom was stuck at an aunt’s house in Rhinebeck. Other than that, they were fine—everything had moved on without us.

  Yet everything was different, not just because of this storm—but because we were different. I was different. Even as we spoke on the phone, I wanted to tell my mother everything I’d always wanted to say but never had the courage to. Things seemed easy now and almost small compared to everything else we’d been through. Like telling my mom that we were too good for this—that we didn’t have to live this way, in fear of my father, anymore.

  For now, it can wait. For now, I want to sit here and take in the scent of warm coffee and the sound of Sydney’s laugh as she jokes with her brother.

  “Did you know that hurricanes can breed mini ecosystems? Certain organisms just spring up and come alive.”

  “I didn’t, Sammy,” I say, reaching out to ruffle his hair, then hesitating. “Can I?” I ask. The little boy ponders seriously for a moment and Sydney tries to stifle a laugh.

  “Okay, but don’t mess it up.”

  I laugh, as if his dustand dirt-covered hair can get any messier. Sydney and I both reach over to muss up his hair and we smile when our fingers touch.

  We hear a ding and spring apart.

  “The muffins are ready.” She nods her head toward a tray in the toaster oven and moves to get it. “I’ll help,” I say and follow her toward the kitchenette, careful not to step on pieces of broken glass. But she pauses by the oven and takes a step toward me, the sun flittering through the dark hair that frames her face.

  She puts her hands on my forearms, tiptoeing until her nose is close to mine, the smell of muffins filling the air between us. I lean forward, fingers reaching to curve around her elbows.

  We stand together—curved, fitted—and I know that everything that has happened between us has happened for a reason—the storm, the rain, all the jagged pieces of us laid out in the darkness and brought to light. To be honest, without her I don’t know if I can deal with the brokenness of it all— with the wind and rain that destroyed our city and turned our lives into aftermath.

  Sydney leans into me and in that is power that I don’t yet have on my own. And when she finally kisses me, I breathe in her scent and realize that this is the first breath I’ve taken since the rain began.