Scattered Ash: A Young Adult Dystopian Novel (Wall of Fire Series Book 2)

by Melanie Tays

  “Vander,” I say, tentative.

  “Huh?”

  I’m not sure why I’m nervous to ask the question that keeps resurfacing, but I am. Still, talking will keep me alert, so I continue. “Why do you care so much about getting back into The City? I mean, it’s no paradise out here, but it’s not the nightmare we’ve always been led to believe, either. I know why I want back in. I have a sick brother who needs my help.” I don’t mention Eason simply because the mere thought of him twists at my insides in uncomfortable and confusing ways. “But you were determined to get back in from the moment we left, before you knew about Traeger or the poisoned food, or anything.”

  He stares off at nothing in particular for so long that I think he’s not going to answer, but then he shrugs, as though deciding that secrets can’t save him now. “It’s because of my brother,” he finally says.

  A memory flashes through my mind—a moment not long after we arrived. Vander telling me that I was just as annoying as his sister. Sister—not brother.

  “I thought you had a sister,” I say.

  “I do.”

  Another memory. The pregnant woman in the Justice Building—Shawny was her name. Terrance Enberg reminding her that the law only allows for two children per family.

  “How can you have a brother?” I ask, not sure if I’m understanding him correctly.

  “My sister is older than us. It was only possible because my dad is a doctor. He took care of my mom through the pregnancy… Then he delivered the babies at home.”

  “Blazes! Twins?”

  He nods. I get the feeling it isn’t easy for him to talk about this. This is the secret that he must have spent every moment of every day of his whole life protecting. He picks up a handful of small pebbles and tosses them one by one against a nearby tree as he begins to explain. “Thankfully, it turned out that we’re identical. We spent our whole lives carefully trading places throughout the day so we could both eat and go to school. We had to balance our calorie intake and exercise levels so we would both always look exactly the same.”

  I’m stunned, trying to take this in. But it’s not as hard to believe as it should be. In fact, some things actually make more sense in light of this revelation. “I’ve met him, haven’t I?” I guess.

  He nods.

  “Every time you were actually nice to me during the Burning, it wasn’t you at all, was it?”

  He gives a wry grin and raises one eyebrow. “He’s always been the nicer one,” he confirms. “Sorry you got stuck with me.”

  “And that’s why you were so upset the other day when I pointed out that your eyes tend to reflect your mood. I was right about your eyes changing, but it’s not your mood that did it. His eyes are actually lighter than yours, aren’t they?”

  He sighs. “That was the one thing that set us apart,” he admits. “I was born with a birthmark on my hand, but Dad had no trouble getting rid of that. Eye color is trickier, though. But everyone’s eyes look different depending on the lighting, and no one really seemed to give it much thought. But we were always afraid.”

  “Does Jessamine know?” I ask, considering how strange it would be to have a boyfriend who was actually two different people.

  He scowls. “No one was supposed to know. But yes, Van told her. It actually did make some things easier, to have someone else who knew. But it was a big risk.”

  “At least they’re still together now. It can’t all be bad,” I say, trying to find some happy speck in this sad tale.

  His face transforms, suddenly angry, and I recoil from the acid in his tone when he says, “You think so? Van is trapped in the most dangerous prison of all. Imagine a prison where your biggest threat is the discovery of your existence. Our intercuffs were linked—something my dad managed to arrange at great cost. It made it so that we could move around The City and access everything as though we were a single person—controlling which of the two would link to The City’s interface at any given time. But when my intercuff was deactivated, so was his, automatically. He won’t be able to get food. He can’t allow himself to be seen. Blazes! He can’t even open a door on his own.”

  It’s difficult to fathom how many implications this actually has. “How did you manage to move around The City and always keep one of you out of sight all these years?”

  “It was mostly thanks to the tunnels. They helped us get around and trade places without being seen. Sometimes one of us would be in there for hours until the other came to switch places.”

  I remember my two trips through the tunnels, how dark and dank and claustrophobic it felt—like crawling through a grave. I can’t imagine spending hours there on a regular basis. I wonder if you get used to it, but the look in Vander’s eyes tells me he never did.

  “My mom knew about the tunnels,” he goes on. “Her father was the mayor of the small town The City was constructed around—or rather, on top of.”

  “So it was Jessamine who gave me that map, wasn’t it?”

  His mouth tenses into a tight line. “That was a stupid move, but I’m sure it was her.”

  “She was just trying to protect you.”

  “She was protecting Van, but I suppose it’s the same thing in the end.”

  “So, are you both named Vander?”

  He rolls his eyes. “Kind of. Technically, I’m Vander, and he’s Van.” He shrugs as though it doesn’t matter, but something about his careful, nonchalant demeanor makes me think the distinction is incredibly important to him. And why wouldn’t it be, when three letters are all that make you unique—and no one can ever know it?

  “I’m so sorry.” The words sound so inadequate. “I can’t imagine how hard it must have been.”

  “You have no idea,” he says, but the animosity is gone. “Imagine that every minute of every day you’re half-pretending to be someone else. Pretending to recall conversations you weren’t a part of. Struggling to pass classes you only attended half of. We had a good system for who showed up at what times, but it didn’t always work. Sometimes, one of us would be stuck in hiding for days at a time. The rest of the family would sneak us food if they could, but it was maddening and terrifying, especially in the tunnels, waiting and wondering if anyone would ever come back for you, and knowing you couldn’t do anything about it. Of course, we always came for each other, but it was hard not to worry. At least if we were home in our bedroom with all the windows boarded up like a tomb, it wasn’t quite so scary.” He pauses. “Do you know what I want more than anything?”

  “What?” I can guess at dozens of things he might want—three meals a day, a name to himself, to never see the inside of a tunnel again.

  “To have a conversation with my brother—out in public where everyone can see. I want to talk about something other than a report of the day’s events so that the other can pretend to have been there. I’ve spent my whole life impersonating him, and he’s done the same for me. I don’t even know who he is. Honestly, I’m not even sure I know who I am—not really.” He’s staring off into the distance, and I’m wondering if he even remembers that I’m still here.

  In a world where I’ve had so little, I’ve at least always had my own identity. And no one questioned my right to exist. Those two things never felt like anything before, but to him, they would have been everything. That’s the dream that must have taunted him night after night while I lay awake pining for Eason, who I never expected to see again. Maybe we’ll both get our wishes in the end—or maybe neither of us will.

  “But you made it seventeen years and never got caught. That’s amazing,” I offer.

  “Yeah, well…” he mutters. “We thought we were pretty smart, but even though we didn’t do too badly on any of the trials of the Burning, here I am, in the Ash. So maybe we weren’t as clever as we thought. Something went wrong, that’s for sure.”

  I search for words to say, but anything I can think of just rings hollow. So I just sit there in silence with him, opting to not dishonor what he’s suffered by p
retending a few trite words can heal the scars he carries.

  The sickening thought occurs to me that if Vander is right, and their deception wasn’t as convincing as they’d always thought, then Van may already have been discovered. If the Enforcers are looking for him, how long could he evade them? I picture Van—the nicer, gentler twin—slinking through the tunnels and hiding from the Enforcers. Maybe he didn’t know to run and hide. Maybe the Enforcers stormed his home and found him locked away in his boarded-up bedroom.

  A broiling hatred flows through me. It doesn’t have to be this way. There’s no reason The City has to take away anyone’s right to live just because they happen to be conceived third in their family.

  But it’s not The City.

  It’s Traeger Sterling.

  Traeger and his insatiable drive for power—his insanity that drove him to believe he was being guided by the embers of the fire. The smoldering pain hidden behind the mask of Vander’s face is Traeger’s fault. I want Traeger to pay—for Whyle, for Eason, for both Vanders, for every person in the Ash. The list of his offenses could take days just to enumerate. Even death seems like a light sentence for such heavy crimes.

  “We’re going to save Van,” I finally say. I don’t know if it’s a promise I can keep—but I’ll die trying, if that’s what it takes.

  We lapse back into silence, both of us trapped in our own worries and fears that all demand the dissolution of the Safe Dome.

  After a few minutes, he clears his throat. He checks his watch and says, “We should probably make sure we’re ready when noon comes. Where’s the transmitter?”

  I carry it in my left pocket. I have to shift to get it free, and the effort is excruciating. The moss bandage is nearly soaked, so we’ll need to change that and probably tie it even tighter before we start moving again.

  I finally work the transmitter out of my pocket and use my shirt to clean away the blood coating it. I hope it hasn’t leaked into any crevices that could cause damage. I should have removed it sooner to check it. But as I wipe the silvery surface, it quickly becomes evident that blood is the least of our concerns.

  Chapter 16

  Vander rips the transmitter from my hands, examining the deep puncture just near the center where the device is already split in half. This hole wasn’t there earlier and doesn’t belong.

  “The knife must have hit it, but it looks like it might still work,” I say, unwilling to accept that the transmitter could be damaged beyond repair.

  Vander compresses it, trying to activate it. He has to force it. There is a metallic crunch as the two halves finally slide together, but they don’t meet quite right. No light and no sound accompany the action. He tries again to make the device connect and activate, but no matter how he presses, twists, or curses, there’s no sign of life from the device.

  “It’s dead!” Vander finally proclaims, defeated.

  I take the transmitter and try it myself, but there’s nothing magical about my touch, and my efforts are equally ineffectual.

  Even though I’m not the one who threw that knife, and I certainly didn’t want to get hit by it, I can’t help feeling like this is my fault. I have to find a way to fix this. We’re too close and have too much at stake to give up now. But neither of us knows anything about how to actually make this transmitter work.

  “We have to find help,” I say.

  “You want to go back?” Vander asks, incredulous. “Did you miss the part where hundreds of people were devoted to the single goal of killing the two of us?”

  “Not the farm. We need to find help out there,” I say, pointing in the opposite direction from where we came. “If we can find the people who were supposed to send the transmission, they can help us. Even if this transmitter won’t work, they can use it to find out what the correct signal frequency is and send the transmission from their own device.”

  His mouth twists to the side, eyebrows raised in skepticism.

  I honestly don’t know if this is possible, but what other choice do we have? “Look, we have to try,” I plead. “We need help—not just with the transmitter, but to fight against Traeger. Bretton was probably right—we aren’t prepared to face him alone. We can’t go back, and we can’t just live out here in the middle of nowhere forever and just abandon everyone in The City. Do you have a better plan?”

  “No,” he mutters. I watch resolve slowly creep across his face. Then he gets to his feet and reaches for my hand. “Let’s go hunt down some blazing Roamers.”

  We delay only long enough to rebind my wound as tightly as I can manage, and then we get moving. Every step throbs, but I grit my teeth and say nothing. It was just yesterday that I berated Bretton for betraying The City to save himself from pain. I won’t do that now. I’ve endured worse. This injury won’t stop me, though it does slow me, and there’s not much I can do about that.

  Soon, my toes start to tingle, which probably means the binding is too tight. At least blood has stopped leaking down the edge of my leg, so maybe I won’t bleed to death before we find help.

  Vander reaches a helping hand to me often, something he certainly didn’t do on our first tromp through the woods on the day we arrived. I keep assuring him that I’m fine, but I can tell from the looks he keeps throwing my way—lips drawn in a tight, downturned line—that I must not be very convincing.

  We amble along this way for another half hour before my injured leg begins intermittently giving out, and I have to stop and rest. The day is warm, but that doesn’t account for the thick layer of sweat pouring down my face and neck.

  “You look awful,” Vander says.

  “You’ve looked better yourself,” I reply dryly. But the truth is that, aside from a little dirt on his face and clothes, and tousled hair, he looks just as perfect as he did back in the Flame. In fact, he’s put on a little bit of weight since we got here—probably from having three full meals a day all to himself—and the change suits him.

  “I’m glad you’re here with me,” I mutter.

  He rolls his eyes. “I think you’re getting delirious.”

  He might be right. “We need to find something to eat soon,” I say. My mouth feels like it’s stuffed with cotton that keeps soaking up all the moisture, leaving me parched. Some of these trees must contain the sap that Kamella was draining the day we arrived, but we have no means of getting to it.

  “I wonder if there are any of those juicy berries that Kamella gave us around here?” he says. He starts looking and has almost passed out of sight when I hear something. He stops and turns to me. He hears it, too.

  “Is that…water?” I ask, wondering if I’m hallucinating the faint sound of flowing liquid. Just the thought of water is so tantalizing that I’m ready to crawl to its source if I have to.

  “Which way is it coming from?” he asks, turning his head from side to side.

  I drag myself to my feet and take a few steps in the direction of the sound, only to pause as it shifts behind me. The sound reverberates off the trees and seems to be coming from everywhere and nowhere all at once. It feels as though we’ve come full circle back to that first afternoon in the Ash—desperately searching for water.

  “I’ll go look for it and come back for you,” Vander offers.

  “No, I’m coming,” I protest. If there is water nearby, I’ll do anything to reach it as soon as possible.

  We make our best guess as to the direction and start moving. The whirring sound grows louder with each step we take, so we must be going in the right direction, and soon we break free of the trees. The ground here is just rocks and shrubs. I can see for miles, all the way to a mountain in the distance. There’s no water in sight, but the sound is everywhere. It’s a strange sound, not quite like flowing water, not quite like anything I’ve heard before.

  I look to the sky, wondering if this is what an approaching storm sounds like, but the sky is calm, with only a few scattered patches of gray clouds. A giant black bird soars toward us, and seems to carry the sound
on its wings. But there is something wrong with this bird. Its wings don’t flap. A different word works its way up through a swirl of memories—something I read in a book long ago.

  “Airplane!” I exclaim, pointing to the flying machine that’s almost directly above us now.

  Vander looks up, confused, still searching for water.

  I start waving my arms frantically and yelling. There are people in that machine. People who clearly have supplies and technology. Not Roamers to fear, but people who can help us.

  “Down here!” I yell.

  Almost immediately, Vander understands, and he joins in, jumping, waving, and yelling to call down their attention. The craft does not descend, but they drop something down to us, so they must have seen us.

  An instant later, the sky erupts into a cacophony of flame and smoke—reds, and oranges, and sinister grays. Before the descending fire can reach us, we take off running. The adrenaline carries me through. Even with my bad leg, I manage to keep up with Vander as we flee. It’s fast enough that when, suddenly, all my momentum is stalled in one jarring instant, I am thrown backward and slide across the ground. Dirt and rocks rub my skin raw everywhere they touch, but I hardly feel it.

  I sit up, disoriented, and find Vander on the ground next to me. He must have encountered the same obstacle that stalled me. I manage to roll over, trying to see what tripped us, but there’s nothing there. Carefully, we move forward again, and in the exact same place as before we are stopped again. It’s not a clumsy footfall that knocked us to the ground, but something much more sinister.

  My hands reach out slowly for the open space and are met with a barrier field.

  We are still captives of The City.

  I turn back to the sky and realize that the flames are held at bay far above our heads. The plane drops more explosives as it continues its flight over the Ash and The City, but none come close to the ground.