Train jumping. I inwardly laugh. I can barely believe I did that myself. I dust myself off and smile tightly. Shifting in-between other passengers, I get bumped side to side against arms, elbows, and backs, until I squeeze through and grasp the steel pole in the center of the aisle as the tram lunges forward. I take in a deep breath and hold it a moment, trying to steady my heartbeat, and cast a silent prayer skyward that the official didn’t see me—that I won’t be fined.
The familiar smell of the tram assaults my nose. A distinct scent of body odor mixed with cleaning solvents lingers in the air. No matter how many times I ride the tram, I can’t get used to it.
I gaze out the window as we float above the treetops, the scenery a zipping blur as we race forward at amazing speed.
On this windy day, I’m reminded that fall is in full force. The copper, orange, and gold shades of the leaves dancing on the trees distort into a medley of color, swirling through the air and spinning on their branches as if holding on for dear life. I’m drawn to them, dazed, as the steady thrumming of the tram’s engine hypnotizes me. The sound whirs in my head until, within the pulsating rhythm, I hear a name rushing through my mind.
Thrum, thrum, thrum, Sophia, Sophia, Sophia.
It echoes in my head along with the high-pitched giggling of a little girl.
Gold and copper leaves, Sophia, giggling…
Something tugs my hand, and I blink my eyes, alert. Glancing down, I see a little girl with brown pigtails pulling at my hand. She giggles. “This is the last stop, miss,” she says and giggles again, revealing a set of teeth with the front two missing. Then she reaches for her mom’s hand and they rush out the door.
I notice that I’m the last one on the tram and, inhaling a deep breath, I follow behind them. Shaking my head to clear it, I make a mental note to ask Darian who Sophia is, and why he mentioned her to me as though I should know her. Then I dash down the escalator and head back outside.
I race the whole way to Lake Briar, remembering my way without too much trouble. It looks pretty in the fall under the canopy of colorful leaves, but I remember the days Darian and I spent here as kids. It was mostly in July or August and I miss the warmth of summer.
I tear through the forest, jumping fallen logs, skirting trees, and ducking branches, gasping for air. I curse myself for not destroying the painting the moment I finished it. I wouldn’t be about to meet up with an escaped convict and be at his mercy if I had.
When I finally skid down the sloping hill of grass to a halting stop, the lake spreads out before my feet. In the distance, looming mountains soar up and around it like a shelter. It’s beautiful.
And eerily quiet.
A crisp breeze rushes across the lake, whipping my hair away from my face. I tug my hood up with a shiver.
I twist around, searching for Darian, worrying he didn’t show—that it was just a game. I check my watch. I’m fifteen minutes late. Maybe he came, but I’m so late that he already left, his hot-head having gotten the best of him.
When I turn back around to face the water, Darian is there, a smirk plastered across his face. I startle and stumble backward, and he catches my elbow. “Smackers, you scared me, Darian!”
“You’re late,” he says, steadying me.
I tug my arm away. “And you’re a pain in the ass,” I blurt. I bend over, shocked at my own stupid mouth, and pant, holding my side to ease the cramp that’s worked its way there. It’s annoying that he thinks he’s controlling the situation—that he is controlling the situation.
“Running does the body good.” Darian chuckles and I roll my eyes. “And you’re cold,” he adds.
I don’t know if he means my demeanor or my temperature, but he points away from the lake. I follow his gaze to the denser part of the woods, past the treeline, then look back at him, eyebrows pinched together.
“Look, Darian. Just tell me what you want so I can get back home, okay?”
He ignores me and walks in the direction he pointed. “C’mon.” He jerks his chin upward. “You remember the Dungeon, don’t you?”
The Dungeon. His old tree house we hung out in as kids. I remember it, though I haven’t thought about it for a long time.
“The tree house?” I say. “Yeah, I remember.” It’s impossible to see from where we’re standing, but I know it used to be hidden in one of the trees farther into the forest. “What about it?”
“You look cold. We can talk in there.” He waves me forward and tramps through the fallen leaves and thick brush.
I’m not cold after all the running, but Mom always says if you cool down too quickly, you can get sick. I hop over a moss-covered rock and march behind him, somewhat annoyed, but admittedly a bit curious, too.
Darian walks on for at least five minutes, the forest growing increasingly dense as we go. Finally, he stops and taps on a thick oak. “Here it is.”
I notice the ladder first. It leans against the far side of the tree and appears to have held up well. I gaze up at the tree house above, nestled within thick branches. The trees surrounding it are so dense their leaves practically cover it like a canopy.
Darian moves to the other side of the tree, ducking under a low-hanging branch. “Ladies first.” He places a hand on the ladder and gives it a pat.
As I step in front of him, my shoulder brushes against his chest. “Am I the guinea pig, to make sure the wood isn’t rotted?” I place a foot on the lowest rung and press.
“Relax. I’ve already been up there a bunch of times. The ladder’s fine. My dad made sur—” He breaks off. I twist around to face him and notice genuine sadness creep over his face. I guess talking about his dad is a sore subject. He meets my gaze, then looks away. “Just go on up, okay? You’ll be fine, I promise.”
I remember his dad helping us lug the wood for the tree house all the way through the woods from the back of his pickup. He painstakingly laid every plank while we passed him nails, and Darian’s mother brought us drinks.
His dad’s cheery voice rings in my ears, part of a memory from the past. It’s like this, son, he said while holding Darian’s hand. Darian gripped a nail between his thumb and pointer finger on top of a piece of lumber, hammer in the other hand, tongue lolling to the side.
I shake my head to clear the memory away, and crawl up the ladder to the landing. My breath catches as my gaze settles on the door. A small piece of wood etched with the words, The Dungeon, is still nailed in place. Beneath it, two letter D’s are carved into the wood, both capital, cursive, and looping through each other. I run my fingers along the sign’s rough edges a moment, remembering the day Darian and I borrowed his dad’s carving knife and engraved our initials in place.
My stomach does a tumble. Even though the memories are good ones, they’re painful to relive, like opening an old wound.
Darian’s parents are dead—and Darian killed them. That’s what The Protectorate determined and it must be true. I can’t ignore the facts and I can’t risk being sucked in by fond memories.
I push through the door. Inside, the tree house is definitely smaller than I remember. It’s funny how that is. I take a seat on the navy blue futon against the wall, noting the chill from the gushing wind outside.
This must be where Darian plans to hide out. Although, he won’t be able to sleep without the Dreamscape, so he can’t stay here for long. Not to mention that the leaves will soon all drop from the trees, leaving his hideout less covered. Plus, with winter coming, it’ll be way too cold to stay here overnight anyway.
It’s obvious he’s been here lately. The floor is swept clean of debris, the broom and dustpan placed neatly in the corner, the futon is straightened. And, the most painfully obvious evidence: my painting is nailed in place on the wall above where I now sit.
I eye it, and cast him a disapproving look. “Seriously?”
“What?” he says, all innocent-like and shrugs. “I like it. Besides, I paid good money for that artwork.” A smirk plays on his full lips.
I notice a current newspaper beside me with the headline Jail Break written in bold letters beneath Darian’s mug shot. Just seeing it sends a shiver tip-toeing down my spine.
He seems to notice my unease and tosses it to the floor before sitting beside me. On the small futon, he’s awkwardly close. His knee presses against mine, and his peppermint and earthy scent envelops me.
“So?” I say after a long moment of uncomfortable silence. “You dragged me all the way out here for something. What do you want?” My words come out sounding harsher than I meant, and I’m so mixed up with what tone I should use or not use—how I should feel or act. “I-it’s just that I need to get home, you know?”
I don’t know why I care about hurting his feelings. Why I’m such a mess around him, my stomach free-falling and weaving like I’m on an endless roller coaster, why he makes me so edgy.
“Well…” he starts. He looks more serious than I’ve ever seen him. “I want you to know the truth.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, unsure of what could possibly come out of his mouth—what his truth is. Gathering my nerve, I say, “The truth about what? Your parents? You’ve already told me you didn’t kill them.” I cast my eyes away and glance out the window.
“But do you believe me?”
I take in a deep breath and slowly meet his waiting gaze. “No—yes—I don’t know.”
He raises a dark eyebrow and groans. “That was clear.” The wind blows, causing leaves and twigs to scatter over the rooftop and the two front windows to rattle. His words tumble on. “You remember when my dad used to bring us here?”
I nod.
He slowly nods back. “I could never kill him, you know. Either of them. They were everything to me.” He shifts on the futon to face me. “And I remember every little thing they did for me, all the good times, the fishing here at the lake, Christmases, holidays, and you know…just everyday life. They were the best. You know it, I know you do. And I want you to realize that not a day goes by that I don’t think about them…that I don’t want to avenge their deaths.”
I cough nervously. “Avenge their deaths? What are you trying to say?” I pause, wet my lips, and ask in a quieter voice, “Who do you think killed them?”
“I don’t think. I know who killed them,” he says, his voice growing harsh. “It was The Protectorate.”
I jump up, shocked, and face him. “Don’t say that!”
He denied killing his parents, and had claimed The Protectorate framed him, but I never thought he’d accuse them of actually doing it.
His words ring in my ears—words that go against everything I’ve been brought up to believe in, everything I know to be true—stinging like I’ve been struck with a whip.
Darian stays at the edge of the seat, his jaw working, one hand gripping the arm of the futon, and I can tell he’s trying to remain calm. “They did kill them, Rae.”
I inhale a deep breath and meet his level gaze. I look around frantically—so used to watching eyes and listening ears everywhere I go—expecting that someone, anyone, could and would turn us in for such Noncompliance. But only the whistling of the wind rattling the windows fills the silence. I remind myself that we’re in the wastelands, the miles of wilderness surrounding all of Tower. Nobody can live out here because there are no Dreamscape machines to allow sleep. And, other than the daily helicopter patrols, the wastelands are left to the solitude of the stars and the animals.
Nobody is here, except us, just like when we were kids and we’d spill our secrets to each other. Me mostly about hating Asher, and him about…feeling different. I’d forgotten about that—that he’s always felt this way.
I worry my lip between my teeth and look into his eyes. “But why? Why would The Protectorate kill your parents?”
Darian closes his eyes, opens them again, and sighs. “My dad, as you know, was a scientist at the Dreamscape lab. He found secret files on the computer there. He downloaded them onto a flash drive and brought it home to me. Rae, at first he thought the systems had a bug, a virus of some kind, but when I—well after seeing some suspicious crap on the flash drive…I hacked into TowerNet. It wasn’t easy, but I did it.”
“You what?” I blink in disbelief. I always knew Darian was extremely tech savvy, but a hacker? Breaking into The Protectorate’s grid is another story completely.
He shrugs and smirks, looking proud of himself. “I hacked in. I did it, okay? And I found out exactly what the Dreamscape machine does. My dad and I were going to go public with it all. Expose them for the manipulators they really are.” He pauses, grits his teeth, and watches me closely, as if looking for my reaction. I stay calm, observing, listening, and clenching my trembling hands behind my back. He snaps his jaw and, in a voice full of steel, says, “When they found out our plans, my dad took the blame, claiming he was the one who hacked in, and that I knew nothing about it. Still, they killed my parents and framed me for it.”
I jerk my head back. “Okay, so other than saying The Protectorate are murderers, are you implying the Dreamscape does something other than protect us? Other than keep what our ancestors described as ‘nightmares’ away? ’Cause you really can’t be saying that. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Actually, I am saying that. And do you really find it so much easier to believe that I’m a murderer than The Protectorate?” He shoves his hands in his pockets and tromps to the window. “And it makes total sense about the brainwashing Dreamscape if you’re Prime Minister Vega.” His voice is full of scorn. “It’s a tool, that’s all. Don’t you see how crazy it is to need machines in order to fall asleep?” He twists around to face me. “That they’ve altered our bodies from birth with damn sensors so that our basic need of sleep is at their mercy?”
I sit down again, my stomach rolling and twisting, and cast my eyes to the floor. “To protect us from nightmares,” I retort, dazed.
“To keep us in line,” he growls back.
I snap my gaze up to him. “Humph. If that’s true, then what happened to you?” I fold my arms over my chest.
“Think, Desiree. What does The Protectorate say about its success rate?”
I pause a moment, thinking. “It says they guarantee within a 99 percent accuracy rate that every citizen will feel like they are a valuable part of society,” I say, repeating the facts I’ve heard too many times to count.
“That’s right, and the one percent aren’t criminals, by the way. We’re just not brainwashed by the Dreamscape. Nobody knows why it doesn’t work on certain people. It’s like those viruses I guess. You know, the ones that kill so many people, yet some are immune?” He shrugs. “I guess I’m immune. I still need it to sleep, though. They make sure of that when we’re born.” He curls his lip in disdain. “But those words recited every night repeatedly in our dreams about The Protectorate being here to keep us safe and knowing what’s best for us—like they’re God or something—is complete bullshit. Add to that the subliminal messages about obedience and the flashing images of their logo followed by the words ‘peace’ and ‘compliance’—and, well, they have society in the palm of those hands that spread out at the beginning of every damn dream.”
I stare into his hard face, suddenly knowing that he believes every word of what he just said. And if any of it is true—though it can’t be, can it?—then it explains why he always felt so different. My stomach tightens involuntarily. I clear my throat and spin my pre-binding bracelet around my wrist. “I remember wondering if I was in that one percent not too long ago.” Darian’s gaze sharpens and he takes a step forward. I quickly shake my head. “Not about the brainwashing, just that maybe I was in the one percent not happy. Like there was something wrong with me,” I think out loud, remembering how I felt when I found out I’d be bound with Asher.
Darian perks up. He sits beside me again, and takes my hand in his. Something tingles inside me at his soft touch, but I pull back, place my hands on my lap. He may be a childhood friend, but he isn’t the Darian of my childhood. Too much
has changed since then. Crazy things like corruption and murder. “Think about it,” he says. “You can’t be bound with that asshole. He doesn’t deserve you. If The Protectorate has everything so right, they would have never set you up with him.” He runs a finger along my bracelet. “Rip it off, Desiree. It’s wrong.”
I tug my arm away and hang my head in my hands. “Just like that, right? Tear it off, and then what?” I look back at him. “Go where? Do what?” I widen my eyes in amazement. “Leave my parents and everything I’ve ever known?”
“There’s got to be more people—like me…” His eyes take on a faraway look. “In the one percent I mean. If I could find them, show them why, then maybe…”
“And do you think I’m in the one percent?” I ask him, still trying to piece together his theory.
He shakes his head. “Definitely not. No offense, but you’re one of the followers. Sheep, I call them.”
I bolt to my feet, anger buzzing though my veins. “Sheep?” I yell. “I’m not a sheep. Maybe I don’t want to have a nightmare. Is that so wrong? I’ve heard about how bad they are. And maybe I believe in The Protectorate. They’ve reduced crime and the spread of most diseases, and they have a whole system that figures out what career we’re best suited for. They make society flow better.”
“Riiight. Like I said, sheep. Listen to yourself. You sound like a talking pamphlet for The Protectorate. Look, I don’t mean any offense. It’s not your fault, so don’t take it personally. I know you’re programed that way. The whole damn society is.” He points a heavily muscled arm toward the painting. “Did The Protectorate choose for you to be an artist?”
“Nope,” I bite out, still annoyed over his sheep comment.
He raises a shoulder. “’Cause I think whoever created this painting, first of all has talent, and should’ve been chosen to be an artist, not whatever—”
“A nurse. I’m going to be a nurse,” I interrupt scornfully.
Darian grins, then laughs, a deep rumbling sound. “Noble and all, but you can’t even stand the sight of blood. Who are they kidding? You should be an artist. Anyway, where was I?” He pauses, and I watch as he rubs a thumb over his full bottom lip. Everything about him screams sexy, and I hate him for it. It’s true I don’t like the sight of blood, but I love helping people. The Protectorate got that part right. I’ll just have to keep trying to get over the blood thing and concentrate on the helping.
Awakening Page 7
