I push the rod away with a grunt, sit up, and cradle my side. He nods to a tray placed at the end of my bed with what looks like bread, butter, and a glass of water.
“Eat and wash up. I’ll be waiting outside your door.” He smiles at me without an ounce of kindness. “You’ve got visitors.”
Visitors. Excitement builds in my veins. Maybe my parents are here…or Coral…I’d be happy to see any friendly face right now.
But then, I wonder if it could be Laken. Would she apologize? Or would she tell me I need this. I don’t know how I feel about what Laken did. The sick part is, in some small way I understand her and what she did. We used to be the same—think the same. And I don’t believe Laken ever meant for me to end up in the Terrorscape. It’s probably what the official said—she thinks I need help. I have to hold on to that thought or else the pain of her betrayal will stab me deeper than any blade.
I quickly gulp back the water, realizing how thirsty I am, then stuff the bread into my mouth. It tastes stale, but I push it down anyway, knowing I’ll need my strength.
As I’m cleaning up in the sink, something dawns on me. Even though I feel a little rested, I didn’t have one dream while I slept—none that I can remember anyway.
It feels like such a void. All of my life I had the most beautiful dreams, later remembering every one in vivid detail. And now that they’re gone, it feels odd—off, somehow. Even though I’ll be released in six days—if Vega lets me—I only plan to go home to convince my parents to come with me. I wonder what it would be like to have my sensor removed…to see what real dreams feel like. Could they really be as good as the ones The Protectorate produces? And are real nightmares as disturbing as the ones in the Terrorscape?
Tucking my hair behind my ears, I head to the door. I take in a deep breath and shake my hands in a vain attempt to calm my nerves. Clearing my throat, I knock on the door.
Instantly, it swings open, and Richards smirks. “The bags under your eyes are very becoming, Desiree.”
I hate his pompous attitude and glare into his sullen green eyes, wishing I could claw them out. But as my gaze drops onto the Taser rod gripped in his left hand, I bite my lip instead.
He ushers me down a long, empty hallway, prodding me in the back every couple of seconds with the Taser rod, making me wince every time.
When we round the corner, he opens the first door on the right. He ticks his head for me to go inside. “You’ve got five minutes, Noncompliant.” He screws up his face like he smells something bad—like my being Noncompliant makes me lower than human.
For a moment I’m filled with shame. Everything I ever thought about the Noncompliant comes rushing into me like a freight train. But then I hold my head high, inhale deeply, and open the door. I refuse to give him the satisfaction of thinking he got to me.
I couldn’t have been prepared for what I see next. My parents are standing behind a thick pane of glass—their faces a mask of despair. Mom paces in small circles, biting down on her clenched hand.
Dad catches my gaze and rushes to the glass. He holds up a silver device and jerks his chin toward the shelf on my side of the glass. A matching device sits on the waist-high ledge. I push aside the metal chair, pick up the device, and click it on. It crackles, then falls silent.
“Desiree!” His voice booms through the device. “Are you okay?”
Mom rushes to the glass beside him, her face contorting into awkward angles as tears pour down her cheeks. She’s dressed in her prettiest white dress and my throat grows tight knowing that she dressed up to come see me.
“This is my fault,” she says. “We pushed you too hard…And we weren’t there to talk to you when you needed us.” Her shoulders shake as tears spill down her cheeks.
“No,” I say, my throat burning. “It’s not your fault. I-I…” Tears sting my eyes. “I found out things, Mom. Things that made me realize The Protectorate aren’t what they seem.”
She frowns and Dad shakes his head.
“Desiree…” he says as though I’m as fragile as an egg. “You’ve been hanging out with that boy again. He’s confused you, sweet face.”
“No, Dad.” I realize people could be listening and that maybe I should wait until I get home to say anything, but I have a strong feeling that Vega plans to implicate me in Darian’s parents’ murder. And if he does, I’ll never get home again. If I’m convicted of murder, visits will be banned. I don’t want my parents to think there’s something wrong with me, that I’m a horrible person, or mostly, that any of this is their fault. “It’s not your fault,” I say. “And it’s not because of anything Darian did either.”
I gnaw my thumbnail, then the words bubble up until I can’t hold them back anymore. “The Dreamscape—it manipulates people—brainwashes us.” I suck in a sharp breath when I see their shocked faces.
Maybe I’m blurting out all of this because I’m overwhelmed from lack of sleep. Or maybe I’m not myself after being attacked by a two-headed cobra and the undead…or maybe it’s just my intense need for the people I love most in the world to believe me.
“Don’t you see?” I say, my voice breaking. “Why should we need a machine to sleep?” My heart is pounding, racing in my ears. I can’t believe I’m finally telling them what I know to be true. A mixture of panic from trying to convince them, and guilt over disappointing them, engulfs me.
Mom and Dad look at each other, confused, then back at me. Mom presses her hand against the glass and I place mine on it too, covering hers.
“Desiree, honey,” she says. “We love you so much and we understand that you’ve been through a very hard time. You’re just confused right now—”
They’re not listening to me. “They give medication to make you forget things, Mom. I found it at the hospital. They gave it to a patient…and I overheard their conversation. They’re lying, Mom—Dad—about everything.” My words are tumbling out uncontrollably now, without thinking. “Please listen to me,” I beg.
“Stop it,” Mom demands. “You’re scaring me. What you’re saying makes no sense.”
I drag in a deep breath and feel my lip begin to quiver as I drop my gaze to the floor, feeling shattered. Pools of tears spill down my cheeks. I don’t think they’ll ever believe me. How could they? They’ve gone almost forty years fully believing in The Protectorate. How can I change their minds in five minutes?
“They took Sophia,” I croak out, desperate. Lifting my head, I meet my mother’s bloodshot, stunned gaze. I pound both of my palms against the glass in frustration. “Do you hear me? They took my little sister Sophia—your other daughter!” A heavy weight crushes my chest.
Silence stretches out for a few moments, shock and disbelief apparent on their faces. And then, the door behind my parents swings open, knocking against the back wall with a loud bang.
Richards bursts in in a whirl of black and gray, and everything becomes a blur.
A flash of a gun.
A blast. Then another.
Before I have a chance to register what’s going on, my parents collapse on the floor. I stumble back a step, horror ripping through me. My heartbeat accelerates.
“Mom…Dad?” My words are whispers, my voice stolen as shock rocks through me and our gazes meet. Realization dawns in their glassy, frightened eyes, hitting them all at once, and they know everything they’ve believed in their whole lives was a lie.
Mom opens her mouth like she’s trying to speak, but nothing comes out.
It’s too late.
Bright red blood soaks through my mother’s pretty white dress above her heart and, although a thick pane of glass separates us, I taste the blood’s strong metallic flavor on my tongue, smell it in the air until it drowns me. Tears flood my eyes. Fear consumes me.
The realization of what just happened hits me like a truck. My mouth hangs open in shock. I watch Richards as he moves toward me, my throat tight as if he reached through the glass and gripped cold, clammy fingers around my neck and squeezed.
<
br /> He laughs through the device, deep and throaty. It seems to echo off the walls around me, making me dizzy, nauseous. “Murderer,” he drawls. “It’s quite nasty how you stole a gun from an official and broke in here to kill your parents in such a hateful fury. You know what that means, don’t you? Lifetime in the Terrorscape for you.”
His words tear me from my shock and bring a new emotion bubbling to the surface: rage. “No!” I scream, smashing my palms against the glass—to do something other than watch my parents bleed out and die. “I’ll kill you!” I pick up the chair and hurl it at the glass, but it doesn’t shatter. The chair clatters against the solid glass and clangs to the floor.
Richards stalks out of the room without another word.
Sobs rack my body. Anger, horror, despair, and a million other emotions speed through me at lightning speed, zapping all my strength. I fall onto my knees, then drop to my side and roll into a ball like a ragdoll. I’m crying so hard that I can’t breathe. I can’t comprehend that my parents are gone—taken that way—like they were worthless.
It’s my fault. He killed my parents because I told them the truth. I wish I could take it back. I scream, my crying intensifying until I sound like a wounded animal. And right now I wish they’d kill me too because maybe it would be better to shrivel up and die then to exist in this world full of hatred, control, and deceit.
Murderers, Prime Minister Vega said.
I drag in air through a strangled gasp, realizing my parents never stood a chance. It was The Protectorate’s scheme all along. They weren’t going to accuse me of helping Darian kill his parents. Their idea was way more sinister. Since my capture, they must have developed a plan to kill my parents and frame me—just like they did to Darian.
It doesn’t comfort me, knowing that it wasn’t really my fault. My parents are still dead. The Protectorate never planned on releasing me, I already figured that. I just guessed wrong in how they’d rationalize keeping me in the Terrorscape to the citizens of Tower. There’s no better way to provoke anger and fear in people than by claims of a new murder.
But what I do know for sure is that, according to The Protectorate, Darian and I know too much. And instead of killing us, they plan to use us as examples for all of Tower, like lab rats.
Forever.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The rest of the day goes by in a blur. I was thrown into my room, where I stayed curled in a ball on the bed, drowning in tears. Some official brought me dinner—something that smelled like ripe roadkill. I pushed it away, my stomach a rumbling mess. I didn’t feel like eating anyway—not even if it was the best pizza in all of Tower.
By the time somebody comes to get me, my eyes are a stinging, blurry mess. The room and the official’s shadowy outline seem watery, the walls and his image melding into one big blob.
I don’t say anything when he pulls me up by the elbow. I hardly feel the pain in my rib at all. My head is too heavy to lift so I let it hang and watch my shuffling feet. I’m a walking mess of numbness.
When I enter the Terrorscape I hear Darian gasp, but I don’t look up. I can imagine my hair is a tangled mess and that he can tell I’ve been crying all day.
His cuffs rattle against the frame of his bed and I think I hear his whole stretcher move. “What did you do to her? You bastards will pay. Trust me when I tell you this,” he yells. “Desiree,” he says, in a softer tone as they strap me down to the stretcher beside him. “What happened?”
“Shut up, Sterling,” the official says before leaving the room. “Save your energy for your next escapade.” He laughs and the door closes with a soft whoosh before the sound of several locks click, sealing us in.
I vaguely hear Darian whispering to me, but it’s as though he’s miles away. Soon his voice fades and the newscaster’s breaks in. I catch snippets of words here and there. Double murders…shocking…life sentence.
Mostly I think of how last night I felt horrible that my parents were watching me from home and how it’s nothing compared to the overwhelming grief knowing they won’t be tonight—that they never will again.
The newscaster stops speaking. The hum of the Terrorscape sounds out and sleep overtakes me.
“Oomph!” The wind has been knocked out of me. I’m gasping for air when I realize that something has been dumped on me from above.
I open my eyes to look at what’s causing the writhing, squirming sensations all over my body. Bugs, beetles, earthworms, and cockroaches skitter across me, reaching the bare skin of my arms, my feet, and worse—my face.
With a shriek, I try to shake them off, but there are so many and because I’m tied down I can’t get them off me.
Bugs scuttle up my nose, worm between the crevices of my lips, and into my ears. I’m tossing my head side to side, spitting and spluttering.
I’m suffocating.
The sound of a jet plane roars through the room, then my cuffs release. I jump up, rubbing my arms frantically all over me, and shake my head, screaming.
Something touches my arms and I lurch backward with a yelp.
“Rae,” I hear Darian say. “It’s just me.”
I look at my body and see with great relief that the bugs are gone. Bright lights blink on and off in the room and I know the amphitheatre is setting up. Carnival music plays intermittently with the faint tinkling of an ice cream truck in the distance. And I swear I can smell hot dogs and cotton candy, but none of it makes sense. There’s nothing scary about carnivals and cotton candy. We have a few moments before the Terrorscape is in full mode so I figure it must be a glitch in the set-up.
Darian reaches out for me. I propel myself into his arms and lay my head against his chest. He smoothes my hair away from my face and kisses my forehead. I release a small sigh at the comfort of his lips.
“I heard what happened, sunshine,” he says. “Mr. Tate announced it on the news—well their version anyway. I’m so sorry. They’ll stop at nothing to maintain their control.” He pauses as I nuzzle my head farther into his chest, wishing I could burrow myself under his skin and stay there forever.
His shirt shields my eyes from the blinding sun. Although its rays warm my skin, I know it isn’t real. He smells vaguely of sweat and warmth, but even Darian’s sweat is comforting, safe.
“I’m going to do everything in my power to get revenge on The Protectorate for your parents—and mine.” His body stiffens, and he takes a deep breath. “But we can’t stay here, Rae…we need to move soon…I’m sorry,” he says again, as if it’s his fault. “C’mon. If your parents knew the truth about everything they’d want you to fight back, right?” He holds me back by the shoulders. His eyes look serious, but full of concern. He leans forward and kisses my lips—and although it’s quick, it’s gentle and sweet. “Don’t you give up on me…I need you.”
I nod. “Okay. Let’s do it.” I slip my hand into his as we begin moving. I’m not really sure where I’m going to get the strength to get through this, but I need to try. Of course my parents would want me to survive—to fight back. They were just asleep like most of the other citizens of Tower…oblivious and unaware. It wasn’t their fault, but there’s no way I’m going down without a fight. I rub my eyes, inhale deeply, and take in the surroundings.
“Where are we?” I ask, looking around in awe. A large old Ferris wheel soars into the sky, making creaking sounds as it rotates slowly. I tilt my head back and watch the revolving seats. The red paint is chipped, leaving rust spots in its place.
Beside the Ferris wheel spins a carousel of white horses, rising and falling in a big circle.
On our other side, a row of carnival games spreads out. I remember playing some of these games as a kid with my parents. There’s mini-bowling, whack-a-mole, darts, and many more games, but oddly, nobody is standing behind the counters and it seems like it’s only Darian and I in the otherwise deserted park.
I rush to one stall and look behind the counter at the stuffed animals. Even they look old and worn, left behind
as an afterthought. Some are missing eyes, others have stuffing falling out, and others are smeared with dirt.
I realize Darian is quiet—too quiet—so I turn and face him. His hands are on his hips as his eyes dart left to right. The carnival music changes and begins playing a tune at a slow, eerie speed. I recognize the song as the music that played from the old jack-in-the-box my grandparents handed down for me. It had belonged to their grandparents. I used to like the music it played, until it broke.
But here, when played in slow motion, the melody seems creepy.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, my heart picking up speed. “And what is this place?”
A muscle in his jaw twitches. “This is one of the worst sequences, Rae,” he says before slipping his hand into mine and pulling me close. He whispers in my ear. “I have to start looking for the entrance to the mother Syncro-Drifter. You need to hide and don’t come out until I come back for you. Let’s go—!” He tugs me into a running gait and quickly darts between two game stalls. After zigzagging through a couple more while keeping to the shadows, he lifts me up onto the counter of one of them.
“Okay, hide under here,” he instructs.
“Wait a second. I thought you told me I need to be interactive…and you’re scaring me. Besides, I’d rather come with you.”
“In this sequence I’m not sure I want you…involved,” he says. “But if it’s taking me too long, I’ll come back for you, I promise.” He sighs when he sees me shake my head. “You’ll be safer here.”
I fold my arms over my chest. “Hiding isn’t fighting back.”
He makes a noise that sounds like a growl and shakes his head. “All right, fine. I don’t have time to argue. Instead of hiding, look for a concealed staircase. You can start in the booths. But if you find it, call for me, okay?”
“Okay,” I say, thinking this will be like looking for a grain of salt in a bowl of sugar, but also knowing we don’t have a better option. I would rather go with Darian, but I know we have a greater chance of finding the hidden entrance this way.
Awakening Page 23
