Escaping Eleven (Eleven Trilogy)

by Jerri Chisholm

  It is my favorite room in the entire compound, even more than the Bowl. Means aren’t allowed up here on the Preme floor, just like Noms aren’t permitted on the Mean floors, but the rules are relaxed for the library. Our class frequented it as students, and me far more than that. Besides, if it weren’t for people like me, the entire place would be obscured by dust.

  I don’t understand why. The pictures and stories the old books hold of life aboveground, when it was safe, are mesmerizing. Maybe what happened to Jack first sparked my obsession with the world up there, but it has grown into more than that. Now I often spend hours there, doing nothing more than looking at the cities and the streets, drooling over the open and unending space.

  By comparison, there is nothing but dimly lit, dirty hallways down here. I suppose that isn’t true on the fifth floor. The lights are bright, the hallways sterile. And the walls aren’t concrete like they are downstairs; they aren’t covered in filth and graffiti. No, these are smooth and plastic and pristine. They glow white. Everything does.

  I breathe, and the sequence begins. Right, left, right, left, right, right, right, left. I take my first right. Ten paces, then left. A quick right. It is therapeutic and cathartic, this ritual of mine.

  Finally, I reach it…the door to the Oracle’s emergency exit.

  Normally an elevator would be used to reach the Oracle, one that runs from the fifth floor, but for some reason it is guarded too closely.

  I spent weeks trying to get past those guards, but to no avail. Then one day I overheard two of them talking, and I learned about this. A back staircase, it would seem, and the possibility was undeniably uplifting. It took many more weeks to locate the room, or at least what I think is the right room. It runs behind the elevator shaft, and it is locked under code, signs that my suspicions are correct.

  I run my fingers over its cool brushed metal. My heart hammers in my chest; I don’t know why. After thirty-five unsuccessful attempts to get through this door, there is nothing to be nervous or excited about.

  11000536, today’s code. I will repeat it again and again in my head until it is time for the next code: 11000537. The worst part is that, since the clock is ticking on my time here in Eleven, I can’t be certain I’ll ever crack it.

  But I suppose I should be grateful that I have an educated guess to work with. It’s more than most people have. Of course, most people don’t have years upon years of concerted effort deciphering Compound Eleven’s codes.

  It all started when I was a little girl, when I would help my mother work the food lines for the Noms. The same job I do now, alone. Each time I would watch the guards’ fingers hover over the keypad as they unlocked what they referred to as the “feeding dock” for us, and though most were discreet, as they are trained to be, there are a careless few in every crowd. And so with time I got a sense for the code, and I started experimenting when others weren’t watching.

  The first two digits were easy to see and easy to understand: 11. As in Compound Eleven. The next three are zeroes—fillers, I have come to believe. The next digit is the floor number. But the last digit, or digits—they link to the specific door. If a floor has twenty doors under passcode, each door will be assigned a number between one and twenty, and there is no rhyme or reason to this final assignment. Trial and error is the only name of the game.

  The second floor has only a handful of locked doors—little is valuable on my floor. So through repeated, varied attempts, I have figured out the code to each. I have made headway on the third floor, too. But the fifth floor is different. Valuable rooms abound. Labs are up here. The entire compound is controlled from this floor. The government rules from up here.

  I tap in today’s code. There could be a hundred locked doors on the fifth floor, maybe more. And so, at my current pace of trying a single code per day, it could be months before I crack it—months that I don’t have. Or I could be on the wrong track completely; the code could be altogether different here in Preme land.

  On my thinking goes, and so I barely notice when the door clicks quietly open in front of me.

  When I do notice, I freeze. If my heart was hammering when I was fleeing the guard downstairs or speaking with Daniel on the elevator, it is nothing to how it feels now. Blood rushes to my brain, and I must grasp at the wall for balance. I can’t remember feeling so lightheaded before.

  Deep breath, in and out. I reach an unsteady hand forward and pull open the door.

  It is just a room, a dark and unused room. But light from the hallway floods the small space, and with it I see a ladder built into the far wall.

  A ladder to the Oracle.

  Chapter Seven

  A guard could be by at any second, or even one of the Premes, so I step quickly inside and flip on the light, let the door close behind me. The thumping inside my chest is fast and pronounced… I got in.

  I got in.

  A glance around the room brings to mind the Mean floors, particularly my own: utilitarian, nothing more. No glowing plastic, no pristine shade of white. Just a stack of orange crates sitting in a concrete corner. And the ladder. I stare at it and breathe.

  Months and months and months of focused, concentrated effort have led me to this moment. It makes everything else feel inconsequential, even my plan to leave Eleven for another compound before jobs are chosen. For the first time in my life, I am going to see what it looks like aboveground. To that place where Jack was sent. To that place where there is too much space, too much light for me to comprehend. And as far as I know, I will be the only person of my generation to see it.

  The truth is, I should have been spending the past few months working on a plan—something definite—regarding how I will break free from my compound. How I will break into another. Which compound that should be. Instead, I have been consumed with this pet project, a burning, inexplicable desire to see the outside world displacing all reason.

  Suddenly, I sway with anticipation. Or maybe it’s nerves. Whatever it is, I give myself a shake; I grit my teeth.

  Be strong, Eve.

  I slap my right cheek, then my left. Better.

  One boot starts up the ladder, then the next. Up and up until the emergency exit is within my reach. There is no lock, nothing but a smooth sheet of plywood hinged at one end. I stare at it and frown. What if someone is inside the Oracle right now? Unlikely, I know that. It serves no function that I know of, not since they stopped using it as a novelty for children below.

  So a shaky hand shoots up—shoots up and strokes it, finds that it is rougher than it looks. With another breath, I gently push, push. Hinges creak, and I smile. It is opening—it is actually opening. I am almost inside the Oracle.

  I shove it all the way back, and there is a flash of light, one that makes my eyes squeeze shut, one that makes me fall backward. Down. I land hard on the floor with a thud, and the wind is knocked from my lungs. Excitement is replaced by pain radiating to all extremities, and I struggle to breathe.

  What’s worse is that when I open my eyes, I see nothing but blazing white. So I blink and I blink, and finally spots of black appear, and finally the spots of black pool into one large spot that opens to reveal the room around me.

  Okay. I am not hurt, not seriously, and other than seeing shots of electricity when I blink, my vision is fine. It had been blinding, though, whatever it was that made me fall. Surely it wasn’t the sun. If it was, I know why the field trips to the Oracle were canceled. They said it would happen. The earth would grow more and more barren; the sun would burn brighter and brighter. We are not safe from it even under a protective barrier.

  Do I dare venture up again?

  A silly question, one that makes me smirk. It isn’t just the months I’ve spent trying to get here. It’s the years I’ve spent poring over books that describe the world up there. It’s the heart-wrenching knowledge that my little brother took his last breaths t
here. I am tethered to it, even if I don’t want to be. Tethered, intrigued, repelled, and a jumble of a million other emotions.

  Stomach muscles draw me upright, and I start toward the ladder once more. But now I am more careful. Each step burns brighter than the last, and so I go slowly; I give my eyes time to adjust. Just as my head nears the emergency door, it happens again. This time I turn away and squeeze my eyes shut. This time I don’t let go of the ladder. Instead I climb another step, even as the inside of my eyelids burn red, even as I feel warmth pressed against my cheek.

  So it is the sun, a burning ball of fire indeed. I take a few moments to collect myself, then open my eyes a sliver.

  It isn’t so bad, so long as I turn away. With my heart pounding in my ears, my hands reach up and through the door, onto the gritty floor of the Oracle itself. Muscles spring into action, and I hoist myself up. I crouch above Compound Eleven.

  I crouch above Compound Eleven. It isn’t something I ever thought I would experience.

  My eyes are still squeezed into slits, and I am afraid to open them. I don’t know why. Perhaps it is fear of shooting white-hot pain through my retinas, but maybe it is more than that. Maybe I am afraid of seeing a red, grotesque plain littered with bones. Or maybe I am afraid that this quest won’t make me feel any closer to Jack. Or that there is nothing interesting to see up here in this curious, dirty, warm place. Maybe it is better to stay as I am, full of accomplishment at making it here, and, more importantly, full of hope that something more beautiful than compound life persists in the world.

  Lemon juice, Eve. The pain won’t be as bad this time. And so what if the Oracle is a disappointment? All of Eleven is a disappointment. What’s the difference?

  So I open them slowly, keeping them trained on the floor, where the light is dullest. I can tell without looking up that it is brighter here than anywhere in the entire compound, even the fifth floor. I have never in all my sixteen years had so much brightness filtering through my pupils. Perhaps they will burst.

  But after what feels like hours, my eyes adjust. I blink, and they open wide, still staring at the planks running below my boots.

  I take a deep breath and lift my gaze.

  …

  I haven’t moved in more than a minute, and I’m not sure my heart is pumping properly, I feel so faint. When I swallow, it feels like acid burning my throat.

  In front of me is a slanted wall made of nothing but a thick sheet of glass in the shape of a triangle. And through the glass is the most magnificent thing I have ever seen.

  When movement finally finds me, I inch forward, barely daring to breathe. Barely daring to blink. What if I do and all of it is gone? What if it’s a dream that I wake from? Never to return again…

  But the floor underfoot is true, and one step turns into several, and finally…finally the glass wall is in front of me, and I raise both hands—I reach out and touch it. My fingers draw back at its warmth, but then they relax into it. Not burning hot, no. Just warm. A special technology, I remember. One that protects us from the murderous heat out there.

  Out there. It might be dangerous out there. It might be killer and cruel. But it is poetry. It is artistry. It is grace.

  It is life like I have never known.

  There is no low-hanging ceiling. No broken lightbulbs. No unending concrete. There is no waste of red and no collection of bones.

  I stare through the glass at a cord of brown that clings to the Oracle just left of my fingertips. From it bursts flaps of vivid green. Like no green I have ever seen. It is electric, and it is alive. Beyond it is a solid-looking growth with haggard skin, one that has soldiered through the earth perfectly linear, one that bursts into a million different offshoots as it reaches for the sky. Olive circles coat it at all angles, shuddering constantly, swaying in imperfect, perfect rhythm.

  I have seen it before, in my books. It’s a tree. I am sure of it.

  Something black and violent bursts from behind it, and I jump, I swear, but then I see what it is and I smile, then laugh. I laugh for a long time as my eyes watch it go, as they find another, as they seek out even more. Birds. They must be birds. They can fly, and not many creatures can, according to my sixth-grade teacher. Insects can, but they are tiny, barely visible. Yes, those are birds.

  So much freedom, so much latitude, so much space. I close my eyes and picture myself flying with them, my belly skimming the green on the tree, the breeze pushing my hair back and filling my nose. Tickling my skin. But I know the sun would scald me and the heat would suffocate me, and it is a wonder that even the birds can survive.

  That scalding sun that shoved me down the stairs and filled my eyes with white-hot pain remains behind me, and I am careful to keep my gaze away from it. I have no need to look that way, not right now. Next time. There is enough to see here on this side of the Oracle. There is more to see than I could have ever imagined.

  I take a seat and push my palms into the glass. I watch the birds. I watch the circles of green sway and tick. I watch the colors mix and mingle and change with every movement.

  I thought it was better to be caged and alive.

  I thought wrong.

  Chapter Eight

  When I am sure the hallway is clear, I slip out the door and shut it firmly behind me. 11000536. That is the code. That is the only code I need to remember. My heart beats in my throat, but this time it isn’t with fear. It is with pure joy, and it feels foreign, it feels intoxicating.

  An hour or more must have passed with me sitting up there, doing nothing but staring at the brilliant world aboveground, warm but otherwise safe under the protective prism of glass known as the Oracle. I could have spent many more hours there, perfectly at peace, but I can’t be gone too long or the others will start to wonder. Maggie and Hunter know I wake early.

  I want to tell them, I do, but I know that I won’t. It is my secret—my beautiful, wondrous secret—and I smile to myself as I stream through the corridors toward the atrium. My secret to be shared with no one.

  “Eve?”

  I freeze at the sound of my name, then I laugh. I laugh because suddenly it sounds unfamiliar. Alien. Like I have met this Eve person before, but I don’t know her well.

  I am no longer in the Oracle, I remind myself; I am back in Compound Eleven, on the fifth floor where I don’t belong, where I’m not allowed. Eve is me, and the speaker is someone I recognize. Him. The Preeminate. The one from the fight. One I thought I would never lay eyes on again.

  I turn, vaguely hoping my face is disinterested, passive. Except I can barely contain my excitement. All I can think about is my secret, and I can only hope he doesn’t notice.

  His wide-set eyes stir as we face each other, but otherwise his face is even. He wears a plain black T-shirt and blue jeans, and the bruises on his face have all but disappeared. “You look different,” he finally says.

  I resist the urge to burst into laughter. If only he knew. I don’t simply look different, no. I am different. I can feel it in my veins.

  Of course, he is probably talking about my face—no longer swollen—or maybe it is my loose hair or my unsoiled clothes. It doesn’t matter which it is. Nothing matters, now that I have seen aboveground.

  He takes a step closer and squints like he is trying to see deep inside me. “What are you doing up here?”

  “Library,” I say automatically. “I was in the library. I go there sometimes, remember?” I shrug.

  “Library’s back that way.” He points behind me.

  “Yeah, well, I decided to stretch my legs.”

  He nods like he doesn’t quite believe me.

  “Writing a book?”

  “Your face looks better,” he says instead of answering. “I take it you’re feeling okay?”

  This time I can’t help the laughter that bubbles up in my throat. It tips through the air between us. I
am more okay than I have ever been. “Fine, thanks,” I mumble, fully aware of how crazed I must seem but unable to bring myself to care.

  He stares at me, and a crease forms between his brows. His flashing eyes are like X-rays, but even they can’t see my secret. I am sure of it.

  “Where were you?” He takes another step closer. Now there is only two feet of space between us, and that is strange because the hallways up here aren’t narrow. It is strange because it feels like there is something magnetic between our bodies, but I can’t tell if it is pulling us together or pushing us apart. All I know is that we are connected. Maybe fighting a person has that effect.

  I shake my head. “I told you. The library.”

  “Your face is flushed.”

  “So?”

  “So you’re lying.”

  I scowl. “Nobody asked you, Preme.”

  “My name’s Wren, by the way.”

  “Okay. Nobody asked you, Wren.”

  He shakes his head, but that gentle mouth of his hides a faint smile. Then he holds out a hand. “Nice to officially meet you, Eve.”

  I stare at it, at the smooth skin unblemished by ink. Premes aren’t subjected to such debasing markings. The last time I saw this hand up close was at the Bowl, and it was cocked. It was coming toward my face, and when it landed, my face exploded in pain. Except that it didn’t explode, because here I am, speaking with this strange boy, and before I know what I am doing, my hand extends forward.

  It feels small in his, my forearm unusually narrow. But instead of making me feel weak, it makes me feel strong. I can’t understand why.

  Only after I shake it do I notice the gun gripped in the other.

  “Shooting range,” he explains as his gaze follows mine.

  “What do you mean?” I take a step back. “Are you a guard or something?” Preeminates are never guards—such a position is beneath them. But that doesn’t mean they can’t be. He is a Preme; he can be whatever he likes.