Is it death I am not ready for, or merely death without freedom first?
It isn’t a question I can answer—not here.
And then, all of a sudden, that song starts up in my mind, the one my mother used to sing, playing at full volume. The last stanza thunders in my ears:
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
When everything is silent again, I know it in my bones. Maybe I knew it all along.
That famed oasis, paradise, the one I am chasing—it doesn’t exist. There is no north night hawk, no green canopy, no burbling stream—not in actuality. It is the afterlife my mother was singing about.
It is there where I will reunite with Jack, side by side in a field of hollyhock…
Those murmurs under my mother’s breath—always about a clock…it was the song. An act of self-care, maybe—a reminder of the gentle paradise awaiting her, where she, too, can finally reunite with her beloved boy…
A breath rattles my lungs. The afterlife. The afterlife. Jack is dead. He likely died within hours of being released aboveground. And I may be a survivor, but against that burning ball of fire known as the sun, I don’t stand a chance.
Fists cover my eyes, but they don’t stop the tears. Nothing could. I have been chasing an idea and nothing more, blinded by hope, clinging to a whim that offered much-needed solace at the expense of reason. I will never feel Jack’s delicate hands strung through mine, not until I bid goodbye to everything, to life—
And that’s just what I will do if I step foot outside, into the scorching outdoors.
I squeeze the sides of my face; I squeeze until it hurts. Not if. When—when I step foot outside. Because I may not have a shot at finding Jack in the flesh and blood—or paradise, for that matter—but I do have the opportunity to escape Eleven and experience true freedom, even if it is short-lived.
And that is still something I think I want. So I lift myself gingerly over tools until the trapdoor is directly above me. Carefully and with trembling fingers, I push.
Maybe it will be locked, maybe it won’t open, maybe I have come this far for naught.
But no.
It opens silently, and I am greeted by darkness and a musty smell that reminds me faintly of the first floor. I pull myself upright, into the building itself. The building that will see my last moments of Compound Eleven confinement.
My fingers are shaking, but this time it isn’t from fear or terror or whatever it was that saw me here. I don’t know what it is. Perhaps it’s excitement, but I don’t think it is so simple.
I reach into my boot, pull out my flashlight.
The first thing I see is that there are no windows. Next, I see that there is no locking mechanism on the door, just as Wren said. My fingertips brush the door handle. Nothing stands between where I am now and the sweltering world outside. A world I now know without a shadow of a doubt will kill me.
One wall is full of buttons and levers; the rest is empty. There is a lightbulb overhead, but I don’t bother looking for the light switch. Instead, I set the flashlight down on the plank floor so that the small space is illuminated, then lean my forehead against the door.
This is it. This is what it has all been about, what I have been working toward, what I have been dreaming of. Escaping Eleven. I can’t balk now; I just can’t. Even if I wanted to, what cruel punishment would await me below? I am a criminal now, known to authorities. And all thanks to my best friend.
No, I don’t have a choice. I have to go outside. I was going to kill a person to get here. This is what I wanted above all else, and even when I believed I actually had a chance of survival, I knew, too, there was a likelihood of death. So why does it feel so bittersweet?
I don’t think it’s the prospect of certain death doing it—not fully. I think I know the answer but I don’t want to admit it to myself. Because I used to be hardened and tough and self-sufficient, desperate to leave the cruel corridors of the compound at all costs. Then I fell in love.
Just do it, Eve. It’s like lemon juice: The first jolt is the worst. The heat will sting, it will take my breath away, but then it won’t hurt so much.
I look at my knuckles and think of my parents and realize that I was wrong not to say goodbye. I was wrong not to have one last moment with them that wasn’t a fight. Maybe they are worthy of my anger, maybe they aren’t, but regardless of it all—they are family. I breathe deeply and try to set the pang of regret aside. It isn’t a problem I can solve right now; it is too late. If I come back in another lifetime, I will be wiser.
Right now, all I can do is breathe.
Breathe, Eve.
I thump my head against the door, again and again, and after a while, my trepidations slowly give way, smacking into one another and down like a house of cards.
This is what I came for. This is what I want. When I open this door, I will be free.
So what if I am swallowed by unbearable heat—so what that I will never see my loved ones again? I will be free. I will die a happy girl because I will be free.
My shaking fingers graze the door handle, and then my palm grips it tightly. The muscles in my arm stand at attention, and I can feel them rippling under my skin, fatigued from the effort it took to reach this spot but still resilient. I stand up straighter and breathe. In. Out.
In.
Out.
This is it. I am going now. I am brave and strong and free. Finally, I am free.
Time for the lemon juice to spill. I am turning the door handle when something stirs behind me.
“Eve.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
I am frozen like ice that even the heat on the other side of the door can’t melt. I can’t move; I can barely breathe. But finally I let go of the handle.
I let go and turn and gaze into flashing eyes. Breathing hard, he steps forward; I am in his arms. Something warm spreads through my veins as he wraps me tightly in that clean, safe smell.
I didn’t think I would ever see him again.
His hands cradle my face, and he kisses me, and for a second I forget where we are, what I am about to do. For a second, everything feels right.
“I’m coming, too,” he breathes into my lungs.
My eyes open, and I push against his chest. The second is over.
“Don’t,” I hear my lips say. I don’t remember formulating the word; I don’t remember saying it. But I mutter it again and again.
“Eve,” he says loudly. “If you’re going outside, I’m coming with you.”
Already I am shaking my head. I step back and feel the door handle dig into my spine, then lift my eyes to his under the glow of the discarded flashlight. “No,” I say weakly. “I’m not letting you.”
“I’m not asking for permission.”
I take a deep breath and straighten my back. “But you have a life down there. A good one—one you don’t want to leave.”
He steps closer, but this time he doesn’t wrap his arms around me. He just stands there, and I feel small in his shadow. “I don’t want to be in Compound Eleven if you aren’t. Don’t you get it, Eve? Don’t you see? You’re the reason my life is good down there. It’s you. If you’re gone…” His gaze touches my collarbone, and he shakes his head.
Tears threaten to burst from my eyes. His words make me weak, but I force myself to be strong. “I can’t let you die for me. I’m sorry.” I squeeze out from his shadow and turn away from him, dragging in oxygen through hoarse, uneven breaths. “I just can’t.”
“I know you were willing to die for me down there, when we were running from the guard. I saw you turn around.”
“That was diffe
rent,” I start, but then I look into his eyes, and the sun blazes inside them so fiercely I can feel it against my skin.
“You made your decision to leave Compound Eleven, and now I have, too.”
The only thing that will stop him now is violence, and I have been trying for less violence in my life, not more. I smile at this thought—at its absurdity right now. Then my fingers lace through his, and he squeezes them.
“I read once that there’s no such thing as death,” I say.
“I remember. Only a change of worlds.”
I nod.
He gazes at me steadily. “Let’s go find a new world, then. Together.”
“On the count of three,” I say slowly.
“One.” He pulls our entwined hands to his mouth and kisses my fingers.
“Two”—I stand on my toes and kiss him lightly on the lips. I am not shaking anymore.
“Three.”
I turn the door handle and shove it open, and my boots go with it.
I gasp.
Chapter Forty
Beside me, Wren is still. But I can see how hard his features are out of my peripheral vision, under the light of the moon.
It isn’t the taste of freedom that has taken my breath away. It isn’t the feeling of fresh air rippling through my lungs. We glance at each other, and a slow smile spreads across my lips, then across his. We are side by side and hand in hand. And despite all we have heard, all we have been taught…a crisp, cool breeze sweeps my hair and tickles my skin.
END OF BOOK ONE
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Acknowledgments
I would like to thank my ever-reliable, always-helpful agent, Rachel Beck, and my incredibly talented editor, Stacy Abrams, for believing in this project and offering invaluable insight along the way. Without the pair of you, this book would literally not exist, so, thank you…THANK YOU!
I would also like to express my unending gratitude to everyone at Entangled Teen for their hard work, creativity, and patience. I am so honored, so blessed, to work with such an outstanding team.
And lastly, I would like to thank my friends and family for their love, support, and much-needed words of encouragement over the course of this journey. Thank you!
About the Author
Jerri Chisholm is a YA author, a distance runner, and a chocolate addict. Her childhood was spent largely in solitude with only her imagination and a pet parrot for company. Following that, she completed a master’s degree in public policy and then became a lawyer but ultimately decided to leave the profession to focus exclusively on the more imaginative and avian-friendly pursuit of writing. She lives with her husband and three children but, alas, no parrot.
jerrichisholm.com
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Escaping Eleven (Eleven Trilogy) Page 33
