Escaping Eleven (Eleven Trilogy)

by Jerri Chisholm

  …

  That afternoon, I and the others head upstairs to the fourth floor. The job tours are scheduled by the Upper Mean administrators, and so we go to collect forms, timetables. One tour I might actually sign up for is the one that will take me to the tunnels connecting Compound Eleven with other nearby compounds. Twelve is nearby—we share energy with Compound Twelve. Compound Ten is farther away, I have heard—hours by foot. The rest, I have no idea.

  The only tunnel job I would be eligible for as a Lower Mean is maintenance. Far from glamorous, but I am okay with that. Really, I just need to see where they run from and how they are guarded. Maybe one night at the end of “summer,” on the eve of the so-called job selections, I will venture through one of them myself.

  Or I could take the maintenance job, and then on my first day leave Compound Eleven forever under the cover of authority, greatly increasing my chances of survival. But I won’t be permitted in the tunnels until I’ve kneeled before the higher-ups and pledged to them my soul, until I’ve been branded with my family history of deviance. And maybe I could swallow my pride enough to bend a knee, but the thought of going the rest of my life with a reminder of what happened to Jack etched into my skin is too much to bear.

  I sigh. Right now, this tunnel scheme is the closest thing I have to a plan for escaping my life down here. Small fragments of hollow ideas.

  But I can’t let myself go down that hole. I need to believe that my hollow ideas will harden into concrete action. That not only will I bid Eleven goodbye—I will also find someplace better. And if I can’t have belief in that, if my hope is extinguished, I will shatter into a million pieces.

  My entire existence rests on eggshells.

  I nudge Hunter as we empty out of the elevator and onto the fourth floor with Maggie and Emerald close behind, an attempt at playfulness. I don’t want to think about the future, not right now, and I want him to feel better, too. I want him to forget about Anita. He gives me a shy smile, and the muscles lining my stomach relax, just as they always have when he smiles at me.

  It was smart of me to go today. Not just because I made things better with Hunter, and not just because I saw the compound’s massive storeroom. But also because the others have eased up on me. They think I am finally interested in finding a job. We can be ourselves again, at least on the surface. The secrets that divide us are pushed down deep.

  “Better hope you don’t run into Daniel up here, Eve,” Maggie says. “Kyle told me he’s super pissed about your fight with Zaar.”

  “Yeah, Hunter passed on the message. And I think what you mean,” I add as I punch her lightly on the arm, “is that you hope he doesn’t run into me.”

  She laughs. “Fair enough.”

  I am joking around, but I am also serious. It is bad enough I have to watch my back for the guard whose nose I broke; I don’t need to add another name to the list.

  “Speaking of Kyle, where is he?” I ask. “Still too cool to hang out with us?”

  “Hey, that isn’t fair. He’s just super busy, you know? He works all the time. We’ll see what that’s like soon enough.”

  “What does he do, exactly?” Hunter asks.

  “Construction management. He really likes it, but it’s a lot of responsibility. He says it’s one of the most important Upper Mean jobs available and that a lot of people depend on him performing day in and day out. So yeah, all that stress can get to him, you know?”

  I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

  Hunter clears his throat. “Sounds like interesting work. So, things going well between you two?”

  We had discussed it at length at the end of today’s tour and had agreed to tread lightly. The last thing we want is to lose her as a friend. Still, it is hard for me to be tactful. It is hard for me to keep my mouth closed when I think of what he is doing to her.

  “We’re getting pretty serious,” she says, then turns to him. “Hey, sorry to hear about you and Anita. Emerald told me this morning.”

  “Oh.” His voice sounds suddenly lackluster. “It’s not a—”

  “It’s freezing in here,” I interrupt. It’s a transparent attempt to change the subject, but I don’t stop. “Don’t you think? It’s the middle of summer aboveground, and it feels like we’re living in an ice cube.”

  Maggie pokes me. “That’s our Eve. Always keeping tabs on things up there.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing,” she says. “Just that you talk about it a lot.”

  “And look at a lot of weird old books,” Emerald adds. The lights are nicer up here—the bulbs are encased in covers that diffuse the light, and there are more of them than on the second floor. It falls gently on her brown skin and makes her eyes twinkle.

  “Can’t be working on my punches all the time like you,” I say as I nudge her.

  She flexes her arm, and it is big and strong like the rest of her. “I heard your kick’s more deadly, anyway.”

  I laugh.

  Hunter turns so that he walks backward, so that he faces me. “Too bad there aren’t any jobs studying the history of civilization. That’d be up your alley.”

  “Yeah, that or studying the burned-out sauna aboveground,” Maggie adds.

  “Hey, that stuff’s interesting,” I protest. I don’t bother to add that the “burned-out sauna” is actually the most beautiful thing I’ve ever laid eyes on.

  “Yeah, interesting to you.”

  “So? Are there job possibilities?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t think so. At least not that a Lower Mean can do. Some of the Premes study that sort of thing, but that’s it. Scientists, I think they’re called.”

  “What about maintenance teams for the solar panels?”

  “I think that’s all engineers. Upper Means and Premes.” What else is new.

  I kick at the floor. My friends are right—a job studying aboveground would be ideal for me. A job that involved being in the Oracle. A job that didn’t involve serving the people who took away my brother. One with no demeaning oaths or haunting tattoos. That sort of job might make me stay in Compound Eleven.

  Too bad I was born on the second floor, two floors beneath where we now walk.

  “Here, Eve.” Hunter holds out the color-blocked hoodie he had been wearing.

  “What’s this?”

  “You said you were cold.”

  I go to refuse, never one to readily accept help, but think better of it. “Thanks, Hunter. You’re the best.” I pull it on over my T-shirt, and though it is too big, it feels good. Like I am wrapped in his love. I smile and then reach over to him so we hold each other as we walk.

  It feels good to spend time with my friends, our conversation light, mood high. It tastes like a snippet of freedom. It makes me forget about Katz, makes me think for a fraction of a second that I could spend my life here.

  A group of young men walks past us. I wouldn’t notice them at all, except one stares at me, and it breaks my attention from my friends. Hunter’s arms pull me forward, but not before my eyes latch on to Wren’s. He walks with two others and his strong hands clench into fists as he stares at me. Gold eyes burn into mine with such intensity I stumble, my lips part, and I can feel his gaze in my ears like a buzzing.

  He looks like he did at the Bowl; he looks angry. He is angry. I can feel it from across the hall; I can see his eyes flashing as they drill into mine. And then the moment is broken as I am propelled forward and he passes me by, and my heart beats in my chest and in my throat and in a way I can’t quite understand.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I place my hand on the scanner, and it blinks red. Two flashes. Access denied. The plaque on the wall explains that only Commander Katz, the Leader of Compound Eleven, can open the Oracle’s door. Only his handprint will release me.

  Not his Deputy, not the Execu
tive Director, not the Deputy Directors or even the Department Heads. All levels of government are useless to me, except for the very top. Not that it makes any difference; to a Lower Mean, the entire government is nothing but meaningless titles and faceless names. Those with power don’t often step foot off the Preme floor—why would they? So even if they could help me, none of them would.

  I think about the Katz we are gifted with now, Zachary. Ever since Compound Eleven’s inception, one Katz or another has been the ruler—power has transferred blindly from father to son, father to son. Probably theirs was the wealthiest family all those years ago, or the most domineering. The most ruthless. Frankly, I don’t care about Zachary Katz’s pedigree or what his backstory is. I care only that of the thousands upon thousands of people below my boots, only he has the authority to release me.

  Not that it is much of a release—not really. I wouldn’t survive long outside, and so it would be a release to a certain death, just like what Jack must have endured.

  Still, as I stare out the glass walls of the Oracle at the swaying trees and the vast spaces, it is hard not to pine for it. Just to see what it feels like. Latitude, to run and scream and breathe in air that hasn’t been recycled through thousands upon thousands of other mouths. To feel something called a breeze against my cheek. To look up at nothing but a sky forever away instead of a gray ceiling a couple feet above.

  Funny how something that looks so beautiful can be so deadly. In every sense of the word, it seems like paradise. Like an oasis, one that is all mine. Oasis…paradise…

  I drum my fingers on my leg as the song comes slowly back to me, the one my mother used to sing to Jack and me before everything changed. It’s set to the same tune as the compound’s anthem, but instead of accusations, instead of a bellowing of anger against the planet that was once home, this is sung sweetly, intended to lull us peacefully to sleep…

  Children dearest hear me whisper, release the ticking clock

  Start forth in the darkness, behind the north night hawk

  Follow very closely, cross the ragged shards of rock

  Children dearest run your fastest, tick tock

  Children dearest hear me singing, release the ticking clock

  Til you reach the oasis, free you’re not to gawk

  Once you’re there forget your cares, slow your pace to walk

  Children dearest ignore the ever, tick tock

  Children dearest hear me shouting, release the ticking clock

  There the sun can’t reach you, green canopies do block

  Burbling streams to drink from, a field of hollyhock

  Children dearest find the eternal, tick tock

  Children dearest hear me roaring, release the ticking clock

  Relieve your pain, don’t be scared, smash apart the lock

  Drift to gentle paradise, it’s there that we shall talk

  Children dearest side by side, tick tock

  An oasis, somewhere out there, safe and free. How deeply I wish it were true…

  The sun isn’t shining as brightly today, though it is the middle of the afternoon, and so I can take in the scenery from all angles. Through the glass wall in front of me, I see a field with long grass that blows with the wind before giving way to a wide hill. At the base of a hill is a small outbuilding, about the same size as my cell, and on top of the hill sits row after row of solar panels, the ones that run the compound. Someplace beyond, far off in the distance, are dark and crusted mounds that reach toward the sky, their lines pointed and uneven, mesmerizing and menacing all at once.

  Next I shift my gaze to the peculiar room around me. In the middle is the elevator shaft, and behind it, the trapdoor. On the back of the elevator shaft hang binoculars, covered in a thick layer of dust. Underneath them and propped against the wall looks to be a first aid kit, but the lettering is so faded, the layer of grime so thick, that I can’t be sure. A compass lies next to it, smashed to pieces.

  Small details, interesting ones, yet all at once my attention returns to the Oracle’s door. So I stand in front of it, trying my hand again and again in the scanner, even though I know it is futile. Endless flashes of red. Denied, always. I am not the leader of Compound Eleven, and this is not a code that I can crack.

  My hands move along the seams of the door, and my fingers dig in, suddenly desperate to be nearer to the outside world. Just as futile.

  But maybe, maybe…

  I tick my fingernails against the glass, drag my palm noisily across it. Yes. A bullet might work. Just to test, to see what it feels like, out there.

  Too bad I have no gun of my own to give it a try.

  Exhaling, I move to a corner of the prism, where I crouch, then sit with my legs crossed. I have brought a field guide with me today, one I borrowed from the library. From my new vantage point, I am surrounded by nature, and with the guide splayed open in my lap, I can identify all that encompasses me. Those green discs that tick against the glass like music are leaves, and with some effort I am able to identify them as honeysuckle leaves. I smile to myself—tongue the word around my mouth.

  Then I flip to a different page. Roots. That is what I see bulging from the ground. From the dirt. When I spot a bird in the sky, one of the few creatures to have adapted to the heat, I turn to a section in the book devoted to various species, but the bird outside glides too high for me to identify.

  So I consider the sketches beneath my fingers—the songbirds, the eagles, the hawks—and I think again about that song, the one my mother used to sing. I think about the so-called oasis. Start forth in the darkness, behind the north night hawk. I touch the illustration of the hawk, then look beyond the hill where the solar panels sit, to the uneven lines mounding in the distance. Ragged lines. Follow very closely, cross the ragged shards of rock. I breathe deeply as I contemplate them, then flip through the guidebook until I know for certain. Yes, those ragged mounds way out there, they are rock—they must be. Hard, unyielding, even in the breeze. Next I flip to the back of the book, to the index.

  When I finally find what I’m looking for, I gasp. Burbling streams to drink from, a field of hollyhock. Hollyhock. Not a falsity at all. Instead it’s an enchanting flower, like a shallow bowl constructed purely of saturated pigment. In my head, I picture a whole field of them, and I see it. I see paradise.

  I turn back to the outside world, smiling now, slowly identifying more of what surrounds me. Time ticks on, but I don’t stop, not until my eyes grow impossibly heavy and I lie back on the floor, wrapped in warmth, and let sleep wash over me.

  I dream of the oasis, I wake to the sun’s soft glow, and everything becomes clear.

  I don’t simply want to go outside. I need to go outside. I need to escape these walls, even if I am escaping to a probable death. The other compounds I am not interested in. Deep down, I think I always suspected that. Now I can be certain of it. There is only one thing in life I desire.

  Freedom.

  Chapter Sixteen

  We sit at our usual spot in the cafeteria on the third floor. Hunter sits on the other side of the table, Emerald beside him, Maggie beside me. The others talk, but I can barely concentrate; all I can think about is my time in the Oracle yesterday afternoon. And about my decision. That I am going outside, aboveground, even though it will kill me.

  Once you’re there forget your cares, slow your pace to walk.

  Or maybe it won’t kill me. Because after the Oracle, I didn’t return to my cell, at least not right away. Instead I studied the sculpture of the Earth in the Preme atrium, then went to the library and located a threadbare topography atlas. And I discovered something. That those shards of rock way off in the distance sit directly north of here…just like the song suggests.

  That song, the one my mother used to sing to Jack and me, is crafted on the compound’s anthem. That means it came into existence after life moved down h
ere. So there must have been whisperings at one time, rumors, for such specifics to work their way into the lyrics. Whisperings that evidently have some grounding in reality…

  So maybe I can survive. Maybe the oasis does exist.

  And if it does, what if Jack made it there? If I can find a way up and out, I could make it there, too…we could live out our lives together, on our own terms—

  The thought makes me feel more hopeful, more alive, more content than anything the compound has ever offered me.

  I look around at the others, at their smiling faces. I can’t tell them about this latest development. No way. Maggie might be supportive, but she might not. And besides, she has enough to deal with right now. I glance once again at the new bruise on her forearm. With Hunter, on the other hand, there’s no question. He wouldn’t support my decision in a million years. And Emerald flat out wouldn’t let me go.

  I guess I should be flattered. I matter to them. I matter. Do I matter to myself?

  My fingertips graze the rips in my knuckles from the previous evening. Hours at the punching bag is the culprit, and I can barely lift my arms now to feed myself. Do I matter to myself? Would I be choosing probable death if I did?

  The scabs that are starting to form bulge under my index finger. There are no nerve endings in scabs.

  Do I matter to myself?

  Yes.

  I protect myself, and I nourish myself when I’d rather not, so yes. And I am not choosing death. I am choosing freedom. That is the crux of it.

  It is what I want more than anything else, and I owe it to myself to get it. Even though it may be short-lived. My decision is final; it is how to achieve it that needs sorting. A bullet will shatter the Oracle glass; it will allow me to step across the threshold, wave goodbye to Compound Eleven confinement, feel fresh air against my face. It will allow me to run north as fast as my legs will allow…hopefully into my brother’s arms in paradise. I drum my fingers on the table, grinning at the thought. All I need is a gun.

  A gun. There is no shortage of guns marching around down here under the stench of authority, gifting power to those they shouldn’t. How difficult would it be to take one?