I roll onto my stomach and swear loudly into my pillow.
Chapter Twelve
Later, I lean against the wall in the main corridor, near the elevator bank. The Lower Mean lobby, it is called, although there is nothing different or special about this slice of hallway. Certainly it’s nothing like the Preme atrium. Except it does have a sculpture.
Cast of bronze, I think it is supposed to be a tree. It looks nothing like the trees aboveground, though. It is rendered in jagged lines, has no grace, no movement. And every so often a body hangs from it, a victim of violence whose killers thought to place them on display, perhaps to send a message, or perhaps just for the fun of it…
All I know is that the sculpture is stained with blood and other bodily fluids, and every single time I glance at it, a feeling of nausea starts up in my stomach. How I hate Compound Eleven.
This is where I told him I would wait. Not that I expect him to show. Not really. Feeding the Noms is far from glamorous, far from interesting by any standard. But he wanted to see it, and so I hope he comes. That way we will be even. Square. He showed me how to shoot; I show him this slice of hell. And then we can go our own ways, never to see each other again. Perfect.
I tap my boot against the concrete floor as bodies swarm past, their voices washing over me like water, barely noticed. Some laugh, others bicker, kids shriek. A symphony of unwanted noise. The neon sign hanging opposite blinks quickly, and I look away. Normally it reads Mean 2, just like the one hanging across from my cell. Right now, the A is dead.
I check my watch. He has three minutes, and then I go, with or without him.
“Look who it is,” says a voice in my ear. “Oh, and will you look at that,” it continues as I glance sideways at him. Daniel. He slams a hand on the wall close to my head, and evil glints in his eye. “Landry, take a look, man. Eve is healing up nicely, wouldn’t you say?”
Daniel’s friend Landry shoves into position in front of me, and over his shoulder I see Zaar. I hate all three of them. Landry stands so close, I can smell meat on his breath, and it mixes with Daniel’s acidic soap so that I gag.
“Get away from me.”
Landry smiles, and then his eyes trickle slowly down my face in a way that makes my muscles tense up. Tales of sexual misdeeds follow him closely, not that the authorities care. In fact, Landry and Daniel are both keen on becoming guards—probably Zaar, too—something they all will likely accomplish, given their status as well-connected Upper Means. Perfect. How fair and how just life in Compound Eleven is.
“Don’t know, Dan,” says Landry slowly. He has short blond hair and still gray eyes. “There’s some bruising on her cheek, right there. Too bad. I like them fresh. Pristine.” He leans closer like he might kiss me, so I pull up my hand and smash the back of it against his face. Just a slap. A warning shot.
“Don’t stand so close,” I whisper, “or you’ll have bruising of your own. Understood?”
His face turns red, and I can’t tell if it is from my strike or from boiling anger. Probably both. But he contains himself. He rubs his cheek and exchanges a sly smile with his friend. “She’s got an awful lot of attitude for a Lower Mean, doesn’t she?” He crosses his arms, and I see that those gray eyes are icy. “Perhaps we ought to teach her a lesson. Come on, Eve. A little spanking, that’s all I’m thinking.”
I open my mouth, but Wren appears beside me, and words of rage freeze on my tongue.
Daniel’s spine straightens, and he smiles. “Look, Landry. Maybe we won’t have to teach her a lesson after all. This is the hero who put her in the nurse’s station, remember?”
Landry pulls a sad face as he stares at me. His eyes don’t move from mine. “Shame, though. It would be kind of fun.”
“Next time,” Daniel says to Wren, “do us all a favor and finish her off, okay? I can’t quite express my disappointment when I got word she pulled through.” He winks at me and sticks out a hand in Wren’s direction. “My name’s Daniel, by the way.”
Wren stares at him thoughtfully, eyes flashing. Then he turns to me, disregarding Daniel’s waiting hand. “Ready?”
I lean my body weight forward, off the wall. Probably Daniel is confused as to why the Preme and I are meeting. Probably he is angry about being rebuffed by Wren. But I don’t bother to look—I just elbow him out of the way so I can pass.
He turns around to shove me, but I am already gone.
“Hey, Eve!” he shouts through the crowd. I don’t turn, but I pause in my step. “Watch your back, okay? There’s this giant red X painted on it, and nobody seems to have given you the memo.”
I walk on, leading Wren silently through the crowded main corridor. It is the widest on the second floor but also the busiest. A red stripe lines the concrete walls, an artery, and the Lower Means are the blood cells that infuse it with life.
Only once we turn onto a quieter corridor does Wren speak. “Nice backhand you have. Is there a day that goes by when you’re not fighting or being shot at?”
“Guess not,” I say darkly.
“Who were those guys?”
“Does it matter?” I kick at a piece of garbage on the floor, my mood sour. Daniel’s comment about the giant red X plays again and again in my mind.
“It’s called making conversation,” he replies levelly. “Something you might want to work on.”
I eye him. “Let’s just get this over with.”
I turn down a corridor where most of the lightbulbs overhead are burned out. I hate this corridor. The ceiling is particularly low, dirtier and dingier than the rest of the second floor—and that is saying something, since it is dirty and dingy to begin with. I look at Wren out of the corner of my eye. His head almost touches the ceiling, but otherwise he looks relaxed. Surprisingly so. Most Premes would be unable to hide their disgust.
I stop in front of the steel door that leads to the feeding dock. “It’s right here,” I say. “The guard should be by any minute to unlock it.” Technically what I have said is true. I do have to wait for a guard to unlock it, since to do otherwise would be suspect. But I know the code.
We both lean against the wall—opposite sides—and I turn away from him, staring up the hall instead, waiting for the guard to appear. It is always a young female guard, not much older than myself. The junior guards get the boring jobs like unlocking doors for volunteers. Melissa is her name, and she has bright pink hair and a nose ring crafted from wire. She’s not bad, for a guard.
Never is she late, and so of course today will be the day.
Finally, the sounds of footsteps and whistling draw near, and it crosses my mind that perhaps it will be a different guard today. I stare up the hall and wait. A figure appears and turns in our direction, black clothed and combat ready. His frame looks familiar. And even from down here, I can see he has black beads instead of eyes.
“Shit.” I turn on the spot and swipe the elastic from my hair. Shit. It’s him. Of all the goddamn guards in this godforsaken compound, I get him. Him.
The asshole guard who shot at me. If he recognizes me, I’m dead.
Wren moves quickly toward me and wraps both arms around my head. “Shh,” he whispers in my ear before I can resist. He teases my loose hair with his hands as his forehead rests on mine. Inside my chest, my heart hammers uncontrollably, and every muscle spasms with anticipation. What if, what if, what if?
I don’t know what exactly Wren is doing, but I think he is trying to help me. It isn’t in my nature to accept help, but right now I am desperate.
“Here to feed the Denominators?” the guard asks once he nears. His voice sounds bored. He has two purple lines running under his eyes and a swollen nose. So I did break it—badly, by the looks of it. My eyes are trained on him through gaps in my hair, gaps in Wren’s arms. Him and his baton. Him and his gun.
“Yeah,” Wren replies heavily as he strokes my hair. I
get it; we look like lovers. And I am mostly hidden, wrapped in his long arms.
Except I can’t relax enough to make it convincing. Every cell in my body screams to break into a run, to get away from this man who would enjoy killing me. Every instinct is to flee or to fight, but that would be worse. I have to be brave, but the worst part is that the only thing I keep thinking is how good Wren smells. Like soap, but not like the soap I use or that Daniel uses. This is a masculine smell and a safe smell and one that makes my muscles unclench against their will.
The door squeaks open, and my heart leaps. Soon he will be gone.
But as he turns, my eye catches his.
“Do I know you?” he asks. Black beads blink. The lone bulb overhead flickers as if reminding me to think. Think. Don’t just act; don’t punch and run, then figure out how to pick up the pieces.
“No,” I say with as much attitude and angst as I can muster. Then I bury my face into Wren’s chest the way I have seen Maggie do with Kyle.
“Stand up for a second so I can have a look at you.”
“She said no, all right?”
My ear is pressed to Wren’s chest so that when he talks, I feel the vibration inside me.
I tense up at his words. Guards don’t like attitude—not that it tends to stop me from giving it to them. Probably all he has to say is that he is a Preme. Flash him the back of his unmarked hands. That ought to stop the guard from bothering us. When Wren opens his mouth again, this is what I expect him to say. Instead he says, “She’s having a rough week, okay? She’s been sick. Do you mind?”
Part of me cringes. It would be easier if he would just say who he is. What he is. But part of me likes that he isn’t, too.
“Whatever. Shut off the lights when you’re done,” the guard mutters. His footsteps are heavy as they echo into the distance, and with every step, I feel a weight lift from my shoulders. My breathing slows. I wait until I can no longer hear the echoes before I push back from Wren. His arms drop quickly.
I stare sideways, decidedly not at him. When I speak, it is barely audible. “Yeah, so…thanks. That was actually pretty decent of you.”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
I raise my chin an inch. “Well.”
“Well what?”
Now I do look at him, at his square jaw, wide-set eyes, the kind curve of his mouth. “Nothing. Listen, let’s get going, okay? They don’t like it when I’m late. Noms don’t exactly get a lot of food.” I start through the open door, but Wren’s arm shoots in front of me, blocking my path.
“Eve, come on.”
“What?”
“Aren’t you going to tell me what that was about? I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone move that fast. Nice disguise, by the way.” His gaze lingers on my hair, and then he shoves his hands into his pockets and shakes his head.
A small shudder of laughter bursts from my mouth. I didn’t even feel it well up in my stomach, but now it is all I can do to hold it in. He watches me laugh with his lips curled into a smile, and I feel like a lunatic, but I don’t stop.
When I finally do, I am lighter. “That was the guard who shot at me a couple of days ago,” I explain. “If he recognized me there… I don’t know. I’d probably be dead.”
“So I just saved your life?” A grin flashes across his face.
“Hardly,” I scoff. “If you hadn’t done that, I would have figured something else out.”
“No doubt.”
I look at him. Is he being sarcastic? Or does he really believe I am capable? It doesn’t matter, of course. But I feel something spreading inside my stomach that is warm and uncomfortable. Or rather, it is perfectly comfortable—pleasant, even, and that is what is so unsettling. Perhaps the stress of the situation and the relief I feel now is what is causing it. Or perhaps it is the Preme’s smell still lingering in my senses.
He clears his throat. “What?”
I have been staring. I walk quickly past him and through the door, down a flight of stairs. Get a grip, Eve.
At the foot of the stairs, a yellow bulb illuminates a small cubby—the feeding dock. A long table the width of the room is pushed against the far wall, and over it is a partition slid shut. The rest of the room is concrete and unremarkable. On top of the table sit silver food trays with a stack of brown paper next to them. Several bags of dinner rolls sit on top.
The kitchen staff bring it in before the feeding; it is my job to wrap up what’s inside and pass it out. Usually, the food reserved for the Noms is stale and unpalatable—surplus from the Mean cafeteria, table scraps from whatever is served on the Preme floor. Space in the compound’s artificial greenhouse is limited, and so fresh food is bestowed down here only once or twice per year. But still, what I pass through the partition is food. Still, it is sustenance.
I fumble for my elastic and draw my hair into a ponytail. They shake, my fingers. It must be from the guard. Surely it isn’t from Wren standing behind my shoulder. He is close enough that his chest is only inches from the back of my arm and I can feel his breaths, in and out. I shouldn’t care where he stands. In fact, I don’t.
Suddenly, his fingers run up and down my arm, near the bulge of my biceps. I tense up at his touch, my stomach muscles clenching so tightly that they pull me forward. I force myself to stand straight again. “Yes?” I ask. I try to make my voice sound relaxed and nonchalant. Instead it comes out as a squeak.
“Bruising is still pronounced,” he says quietly. “Will you fight again?”
“I’ve got another match in a couple days.” I glance down at my arm and see that it is stained purple. “Once those are gone, there will be plenty more to take their place, don’t worry.”
“Do you like it?”
“Fighting?”
“Yeah.”
I shrug. “I’m not complaining.”
“That’s different from liking something. Why do you do it, then? I know you said fighting is a way of life down here, but you’re not forced to fight in the Bowl.”
I grab a piece of brown paper and scoop in a half portion of lentils as I think about his question. “I read once that before civilization moved down here, parents used to sign their kids up for music lessons.” I look at him and shrug. “Well, it’s like that. I’ve just always done it.”
“You’ve just always done it,” he repeats.
I nod. “Grab some paper. A small scoop goes in the middle. Fold it like this.”
I demonstrate a couple of times, and he joins me.
“So your parents started you fighting early.”
“My father did. As soon as I was old enough. You have to be at least nine, or the League won’t allow it.”
“How decent of them,” he says drily. “Then what? I suppose you took to it?”
I snort. “Hardly.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that whenever I get punched in the stomach, hard enough to bring up vomit, I go back to that first match. Except back then, I vomited from fear.” I pause. “Don’t forget I was only nine years old.”
He is silent, his hands moving slowly over brown paper. His low voice is restrained when he finally speaks. “I punched you in the stomach.”
For a moment, my hands are still, and I stare at the food packet I hold in my palm. He did punch me in the stomach. Hard enough to bring up bile, hard enough to send my memories backward.
“Did you…?” he starts.
“Do you really want to know?”
“No.”
I resume preparing the food packets, and when he speaks again, his voice is harder than before and he has changed the subject. “So you never told me the full story with that guard. Surely they don’t shoot at Lower Means for target practice.”
I stiffen.
He must notice, because he quickly adds, “I was joking, Eve.”
“Yeah, well, easy to joke about when you don’t live down here.” My pile of food packets greatly outnumbers his; he is slow.
“Are you always like that?”
“Like what?”
“So defensive. So quick to evade a question. Talking with you is a bit like pulling teeth—no offense.”
I slam down the packet I am working on and turn to him. My arms cross as anger shoots through my chest. “You want to know why that guard was chasing me? Okay, Preeminate, let me tell you. A little boy—a Denominator who we’re about to give food to—stole some bread, and that guard caught him. He started bashing the kid’s skull in, so I said something, okay? Happy you asked?”
Wren stares at me, then his eyebrows dig together. “That’s it. You said something.”
“I told him to stop. That’s it.”
“And he chased you. He shot at you.”
“Welcome to life as a Lower Mean. Be grateful you were born on the top floor.” With that, I lean forward and slide open the partition. Heat has filled my face and my chest. He is a Preme. He is from an elite society that has never known hardship. He is from a society that handed Jack a death sentence. I want to hate him, I really do.
But when I see the hungry faces pooled in front of me with hands extended, my anger breaks. It isn’t fair that I complain about my station as a Lower Mean. It isn’t, because the people pushing for position in front of me, the ones whose ancestors had no money or assets to leverage into a spot on a Mean floor, have it much, much worse. For with the construction of the compound long complete, these people now serve little purpose to the Premes.
Unlike the Means, whose lifework is spent ensuring that the compound and its hierarchy endure, the Denominators are seen as expendable. They are treated as expendable—the elevator doesn’t even go to their floor. Like the fact that they are living, breathing human beings is completely meaningless. I’ve even heard whisperings from upstairs about how they could all be blown away and nobody would miss them. About how it would actually be a net benefit, with fewer mouths to feed… The total indifference, the inexcusable callousness—it makes me sick.
Escaping Eleven (Eleven Trilogy) Page 8
